Date: Friday, February 11, 2000 1:21PM

From: LaToot@aol.com

I'm ... writing and I can't shut up.Sue me.

== Notes: This was the result of oneof many DS-centric conversations I've had with the Most WondrousAudra, as well as my own curiosity about a certain choice RayKowalski made.

Disclaimers, et al.: They belong toAlliance and I feel nothing but a deep and abiding envy over thatfact. Rated R for an occasional bad word and some implied sexualactivity. If neither turn your crank, walk on.

Thanks to Audra for both the readthrough and the suggestions. I promised Kasha a birthday story,so this one is for her.

Feedback is craved and will beslurped with gusto at LaToot@aol.com.

==

Foresight

by LaT February 2000

The worst thing about it, Raythinks, is the cold. He believes it is unfair for it to be coldoutside on the day of a funeral. When someone dies the peopleleft behind are already cold and miserable inside, and it seemsto Ray that adding frigid air to the mix proves Depeche Mode wasright about God's sick sense of humor.

It had been raining at first, inaddition to the cold. As they filed out of the church, the rainstarted slowly, lightly, the drops of it so small they were justmist, and then it really started to pour. Heavy, *beating* drops,the kind that actually hurt when they fell if you weren't coveredup, if you weren't wearing enough to protect yourself from thesharp little pelts of wet.

Stella hates the rain, and Ray knowsthat if she had come with him it would have been one more layerof misery. At the moment, their marriage was already wrapped inso many of those that another really would just *crush* him,crush her and maybe even suffocate them both.

He shakes himself. There is no roomfor his melodrama today. Surrounded by genuine despair andsadness, Ray thinks it's almost selfish to wallow in the messhe's managed to make with Stella. He has no reason, yet, to trulymourn, and he reminds himself that he is at the funeral ofanother cop, always one of the saddest things in the world. It'sovercast now, grey and so *cold*, and the cop was young and diedin one of the worst possible ways.

Ray can't help but wonder what itwould be like if it was him laid out today, body so badly damagedthere is no choice but for the coffin lid to be closed. Wouldthere be as many people, or would it be just him and Stella andhis parents? His father, grim and vaguely smug, even in hisgrief. His mother, simply *keening*. Inconsolable.

And Stella. What would Stella be, hewonders? Would she be still, with tears falling in a steady yeteven line, or would the howling of her grief be added to hismother's? Ray knows the amount of tears shed for a loss is not aperfect measure of how much what is lost was loved, but he hopesthat his death would make Stella actually *weep*.

He reminds himself *again* that thisday is not about him and realizes with a start that it's alreadytime for the coffin to be moved. To be placed over that gaping,lonely hole, and he straightens along with everyone else to attention. Ray *is* sad, but he is not grieving because you canreally only grieve for the ones you love, and he didn't even*know* Louis Gardino. He is here out of respect and a sense ofprofessional brotherhood, and he knows that thisnot-quite-grieving sadness unites him with many of the otherattendees. He turns his head, prepares himself to salute andsomething just seems ... odd about the coffin. Something a littlequeer, but it's not actually the coffin itself so much as theflash of ... color ... alongside it.

Color seems out of place on a daylike this one. Color always seems out of place at funerals, and Ray believes that people wear black when someone dies becausethere's no *reason* for anything to be bright. He blinks once,twice, thinks maybe he should put on his glasses but no, he's notimagining it. That is definitely ... red. And it's not the red onthe flag, either. It's a bright red. Vivid red. A red so ...alive … it really is just in the wrong damn *place* becausethis is a *funeral*, for God's sakes. Someone died, somewheresomeone else is dying. They're *all* dying really, but he stillcan't stop his eyes from tracking the red.

His gaze moves up a pair of red-cladarms and over a red-clad chest and looking at the whole thingstraight on, amidst the blues and the greys and the *dull*,actually *hurts* his eyes. But they keep tracking, moving righton up and up and up and ...

Ray has to crane his neck a littlebecause of the hat. It sits on the head of the man in the colorthat's too bright, alive and hurting to be *in place* here. Andit has the widest fucking brim he's ever seen on something thatisn't a sombrero.

So, he tilts his own head forwardand narrows his eyes because the squinting does help, but then,*then*, pallbearer number 4 does something slightly miraculous.He lifts his head. Ray can see the man clearly, as clearly as onewith eyesight as blurry as his could be expected to, and it'sjust ... he's just ... Ray actually coughs because outside ofStella at 13, he's sure he's never seen anything quite socompletely *beautiful* as this man, carrying a coffin, andwearing the wrong color for a day of sorrow.

Ray leans forward so much he almostbrushes his cheek against the shoulder of the officer in front ofhim. He wants to get a better look and pulls out his glasses,puts them on and *wham*, with corrected vision, the guy's evenmore beautiful than he was blurred and unaccountably Ray feelsthis … *ache.* He *does* brush the shoulder of the man infront of him then mumbles his apology and takes a small stepback. Small enough to respect the boundaries of personal space,but not so small that he can no longer see.

This is a face Ray could watch foras long as he's allowed to, although he's not really sure what itis that holds him. It could be the eyes, which, even in sadnesshave a solemn and bright calm. Maybe it's the mouth, he thinks,because even from a distance he can see the lushness of it, notso much full as ... inviting, intriguing. The kind of mouth thatmight not laugh easily, but when it does, does so wholly.Completely.

Ray shakes himself *hard*, tellshimself it's time to get a fucking *grip* because he's at afuneral. He's supposed to be reverent and sad and thinking of theman they're mourning, not the man who helps shoulder a nowpermanent and unforgiving weight. Ray knows enough of himself,however, to understand that he will ask questions later becausehe's always thought finding brightness in the middle of bleaknessto be something of a gift. It's only proper to give thanks.

o0o

Weeks later and Ray is impressed atthe truthfulness of the adage "you learn something new everyday." He has, he *is* learning something new. Every day.Like the fact that Chicago has a Canadian Consulate and LouisGardino's pallbearer works there. Like the fact that the samepallbearer is friends with a cop who works in the 27th District,and said pall bearer spends a goodly portion of the time he's notdoing whatever it is he does at the Consulate working cases forthe 27th.

Ray doesn't know what the pallbearerdoes at the Consulate because he hasn't yet gotten that far inhis new process of learning. It has only been a few days sinceRay learned about the Canadian Consulate at all, and he has toldhimself every day since then that there is no earthly reason forhim to *go* there. Just like he tells himself there's no reasonto visit the 2-7, and no reason to use his scanner to listen forcalls that would get routed to that district because there arecalls to answer in his own.

He could do it so easily, though,and that's what makes listening to himself so very difficult todo. He could turn the scanner on and listen to the street names-- he knows now which ones belong to that district as surely ashe knows which ones belong to his -- and maybe take his ownlittle ride. Unofficial drive-by and he wouldn't get involved,wouldn't move in on the turf at all. Just watch from the car tosee if that red and the man the red is wrapped around are asbright and alive in the middle of urban squalor as they weresurrounded by mourning and a dull, grey sky.

He doesn't take the ride. Managesnot to for *weeks,* as a matter of fact, until one day it's justtoo slow and too dull and too quiet at work, and too raw, toobleak, too quiet at *home*, and he's just not ready to be alonefor the rest of the day.

As he leaves, Ray tells himself he*isn't* going to try and find the Canadian Consulate, that all hereally needs is fresh air. But the small part of his brain thatnever completely lets him talk shit to himself whispers"liar," even as he tucks the address and a map underhis arm, even as he curls his fingers around the binoculars he'dsigned out of the equipment room the day after Louis Gardino waslaid in the ground

Traffic moves too quickly at 3 p.m.in downtown Chicago for Ray to make the car crawl down the streetthe way he wants to, but a turn of the proper corner reveals thered and he just *knows* that he's going to *park*. It's late inthe business day so Ray has his choice of spots, and picks onethat's not directly across from the building but still provides agood line of sight.

Against the clean marble of thestairs the red is still bright. Ray decides that there will nevercome a time when that particular shade doesn't seem *alive*. Hewaits before putting on his glasses to see if the right person isstanding guard. It seems to Ray that he is *steeling* himself forsomething. He wonders if the sudden wave of fear he feels comesfrom knowing that if he does this, if he permits himself to starehis fill now, it simply will not be enough.

He closes his eyes and takes severaldeep breaths, tells himself it's not too late, that he can startthe car again and go and then he'll be safe. For several clear,sharp seconds, Ray thinks that this is what he wants. To be safeand home and away from this strange and insistent *pull*. To behome where he can try and forget that he now *knows* where andhow to find the man.

Ray opens his eyes and puts on hisglasses. Home is no safer than here and when he realizes this, heturns his head and prepares to look until he simply can't anymore. His glasses are almost enough to make out the face but notquite and he doesn't even feel that his hands are shaking untilhe raises the binoculars to his eyes.

And he's there. Louis Gardino'ssolemn and beautiful pallbearer, standing at attention, damn nearstatue perfect. Ray is pleased he chose a less conspicuous spotto park because they would have essentially been face-to-face ifhe'd given into himself the way he really wanted to do. Fromwhere he sits Ray can see but not be seen. He can take in thestrong line of the jaw, the elegant angle of the cheekbones, thepromising redness of the mouth, until he is glutted and sated andcertain he could see that face in his sleep.

The man's *stillness* mesmerizesRay. He is sure the only movement made is the blinking of thewide eyes, and he wishes he could get closer so he could tellwhat color they were. Minutes pass before Ray realizes that hehimself isn't doing any of the usual fidgeting that wouldaccompany sitting at length in a parked car, and he marvels thata person can sit still in solidarity with another.

His professional training is toogood for Ray to not notice what the front of the building lookslike, or the fact that the man is wearing the dumbest lookingpants he has ever seen, but again and again he comes back to theface. So beautiful and *still*, so calm and even, and it seems toRay that if he tries hard enough, he can impose any expression hewants to on those near-perfect features.

Thinking this is what undoes him.Before he can even stop himself, tell himself it's wrong in many,many ways, he imagines that face sweating and convulsed withpleasure, and that mouth moaning his name. He has to clamp onehand down on his suddenly unruly dick, and force himself to lookto sharply and quickly away.

The ruthlessness of his imaginationstartles Ray into movement. He drops the binoculars and startsthe car even as he judges himself a sick, twisted fuck. He makesit home in record time and promises himself it's not going tohappen again.

And it doesn't.

For several weeks.

o0o

Ray's desk has been a nightmare fortwo solid months and he is certain the last full meal he ate wasthe night before he signed his divorce papers. Sleep is anillusory thing and while he hasn't yet managed to make everyonein Vice as miserable as he is, he's come close.

Only dancing seems to give him somepeace. Dancing and his visits to the Canadian Consulate, althoughpeace isn't quite the word for the latter. "Peace"isn't the right word at all for the sweet, hot *itch* he feelseach week, sitting outside, looking at that face, imagining itsuffused with every degree and gradation of pleasure he can thinkof. Ray has the sense to wait until he gets home to jerk off, andit's always, *always* good, but there is a part of him that isdeeply afraid a day will come when it is no longer enough.

He sits at his desk, swirling thecontents of what *has* to be the day's seventh or eighth cup ofcoffee when he's summoned to the L-T's office. Ray knows he'sbeen in a bad way lately, but he's kept it out of his work. Atleast, he thinks he has.

The L-T doesn't look happy and Raygets himself ready to be chewed a new one when a heavy folder isdropped into his lap and the Lieu just shuts the door. It takesRay a second to register the presence of the other person in theroom. Enough years of being a cop and seasons of watching 'TheX-Files' make it easy to peg the guy as a Fed. Ray's not introuble; he gets that much inside the first five minutes, andeven though he tries he can't quite stop the blush he feels whenL-T says something like 'one of my best men.'

Forty-five minutes later and the Fedfinally nods at the file after he and the Lieu have explained theassignment. They tell Ray he has time, although not much, todecide. Too fast, too much and the effects of way more coffeethan he really needed and it all kicks in at once. Ray thinkshe'll take however much time they give him until his randomflipping through the file knocks loose two pictures.

The first is of the man he willreplace if he chooses to do so. The other is of the man he'llwork with if he chooses to do so and it is seeing the second thatmakes Ray feel as though he can no longer breathe.

The tingle that shimmies along thelength of his spine is as wondrous and familiar as the angles andplanes of the face gazing back at him. Ray almost laughs out loudwhen he realizes the photo was taken during guard duty, at anangle that could have been his own, but from a distance much,much closer than he ever permitted himself.

Long-range lens, probably, the copin him says, but the man in him only cares about the eyes. Smokeblue and *deep*, alert and alive, and Ray likes the idea oflooking into them up close. Again, he hears the Lieutenant tellhim he has some time and he nods, not looking up or away from thephoto in his hand.

Ray already knows he's going to say'yes.'

== Additional Notes: The DepecheMode song Ray thinks of in the first paragraph is a blackly comicnumber called "Blasphemous Rumours," the chorus ofwhich goes as follows: "I don't want to start anyblasphemous rumours/but I think that God has a sick sense ofhumour/and when I die, I expect to find him laughing …"

===

Back to MRKS Archive