GASOLINE by Lori Goldman 4/9/2000

"This thing beneath my ribs will beat me to the ground." -- Jann Arden "Gasoline"

Disclaimer: The characters and concept of 'due South' belong to Alliance Entertainment. No copyright infringement is intended.

Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski

Spoilers: SB, SiB, BH, Asylum, PS, DGR, and opening tag dialogue from MotB

Archive: Hexwood. Anywhere else, please ask first.

Notes and Thanks: This is a continuation of a story previously archived on Hexwood called "Complicated Shadows". Since I am not a straight man, except in the comedic sense, what follows is my best attempt to delineate what Ray Kowalski might be thinking as he realizes his feelings for Fraser go somewhat deeper than friendship.

Thanks to Dail for the books and both Dail and Maygra for lots of encouragement. Thanks to Anne Zook, Betty Burch and Crysothemis for encouragement and beta reading, and thanks to all of them for infinite patience in answering multiple variations on the question "You're sure this doesn't suck?" Thanks to LaT and Kellie for the reminder that substance takes time.

Soundtrack: "Gasoline" (Jann Arden/Living Under June); "The Messenger (Daniel Lanois/For the Beauty of Wynona); "Walk this World" (Heather Nova/Oyster); "Goin' Out of My Head" & "Salt In My Wounds" (Dr. John & Shemekia Copeland/Three to Tango); "The Rest (Will Take Care of Itself)" (Webb Wilder/Doo Dad).

Comments and critique may be sent to: lgoldman@home.com

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The turtle and wolf. Natural enemies.

My brain and my heart. Same thing.

Being a turtle has just got to be easier.

I'm trying it now. My arms are crossed on my desk and my forehead is resting on 'em. I'm hoping that the stacks of files on my desk will double as a shell. Plus, it puts me smack up against this puddle of freshly spilled whiteout. I'm thinkin' maybe I can inhale enough of the fumes I'll believe I'm the turtle and all my troubles will be over.

Nope. All it's doin' is making me nauseous. Although...this close, it's white. I mean, really white. It's not all gunky and gray like it gets the moment it touches my reports. It's white like...like new snow. Betcha the snow's this white in Canada.

Oh, wait. Back the truck up. You do not need to be thinkin' about anything Canadian, Ray.

Any more than you have been, that is.

"Ray." Forget thinking about it. He's here; and from the sound of it, he's been trying to yank my brain back from its trip to Pluto for a couple minutes now.

"Huh? What?" Head comes flyin' off my arms; unfortunately, there's a piece of paper stuck to my face. Yanking it off gives me the chance to prepare myself, calm down a little, and hope when I look up, Fraser's been magically spirited away to somewhere - anywhere else where I don't have to look up at him and have all these damn thoughts bodyslam me to the floor again. Ray Kowalski: Mental Pro Wrestler. Don't ask about my win/loss record.

"Ray."

Guess the spirits are busy today. "Fraser. What's up?" Oh, that sounds good. Cool, calm...

"Lieutenant Welsh has been trying to get your attention for several minutes now," Fraser tells me and a look over at Welsh's office confirms it. The lieutenant's standin' in the doorway, arms crossed and glowering at me like a perp he might be grilling down in Room One. That can't be good.

"Would those be Canadian minutes?" You're on a roll here, Kowalski.

He kind of tilts his head and looks me over. "A minute is sixty seconds regardless of whether it occurs in Chicago or Canada, Ray," he says. He looks over at Welsh and then back at me with what I could swear is a little smile on his face.

While I've been thinking/not thinking about Fraser, I've apparently been unintentionally amusing as well. Maybe I should add another line: Ray Kowalski, Mental Pro Wrestler and Joke of the Day.

"Although I believe enough minutes had elapsed that Lieutenant Welsh did suggest the use of an incendiary device placed under your chair to get your attention."

Translation: Go light a fire under his ass, Constable. I'm getting good at Canadian-speak.

"Detective." Welsh. Degree of bellow is about a seven-point-five and requires immediate movement, so up I go and fall in behind Fraser on the way to Welsh's office. He's...purposeful, moves forward like he only sees his destination; but I know that ain't the truth. He sees the destination, yeah, but he notices other stuff that most people wouldn't ever see if you put it right in front of 'em. It's one of the reasons I like having him as a partner even though it drives me nuts since half the time I don't even understand where he's going until he gets there.

Now, on the other hand, I can figure out exactly where Welsh is going. He's figuring out the quickest way to verbally kick me in the ass. He doesn't mean anything by it; it's just his preferred method at times and he's pretty much the best boss I've ever worked under, so I don't give him half as much attitude as I might. Instead, I just ease my way in behind Fraser and stand in front of Welsh's desk.

"Are you feeling well, Detective?" Welsh asks, sounding all concerned as he sits down in his chair.

"Fine, sir."

"Good. I'd hate to think you might have expired and nobody noticed rather than you just using the taxpayers' money to catch up on your beauty sleep."

Direct hit. Ouch. He waits a minute, but I'm not sayin' a word. He eyes Fraser and me for a moment and then gets on with what he's called us in for.

"I've been on the phone with the FBI," Welsh says. "Seems a couple of their most wanted have managed to win themselves an impromptu vacation from Club Fed."

"What's that got to do with us?" Fraser elbows me. Yeah, patience is a virtue. I don't have it, he knows it and Welsh gives me one of those looks that tells me it might be a good idea to consider cultivating some.

"What it has to do with us," he says, " is that one of them has ties in Chicago and they think he might be headed here - with or without company. They ran a list of his known associates and I want you and Fraser to run them down."

"Fraser?" Was that me that squeaked? Damn. I had the setup all cranked out. I was just gonna stay here and hide behind stacks of paper. Now I've got to sit next to him in the car and keep my mouth from spilling anything my brain has come up with. I can't say anything about...those thoughts. Normal. Have to keep up normal conversation. Maybe I should just make a checklist.

Wait...I'm gonna make a checklist? Oh God, it's terminal.

"Detective? Is there a problem?"

"No, sir," I answer, managing to snap myself back to the real world. No problem, except I'm starting to wonder about my feelings towards my partner. Now both Welsh and Fraser are looking at me like I've just sprouted an extra arm or something. "Just...I was really getting a good start on that back paperwork and...." Oh yeah, Kowalski. That's believable.

"Vecchio, the idea of you doing paperwork on any kind of willing basis is so intriguing that I'm going to call Ripley's Believe it or Not - while you're out running down these leads," Welsh growls. "Get moving."

"Yes, sir." Shove another one in the loss column.

So now we're in the car, waiting for a stoplight, so we can try and find this guy and my mind's half on this case and half on the Mountie in the seat next to me. The hot fudge breath flowing by my ear is courtesy of the wolf. I think he snuck the chocolate donuts from Dewey's desk. Gonna have to watch that. A little chocolate breath is one thing; Eau de Sick Wolf is another.

Why are these lights so damn slow? I keep checking out of the corner of my eye: light, Fraser, light, Fraser. Dief once, but that's because he was trying to anticipate the light before me. Might be deaf, but he's got good timing. I'm checking again when I think I see Fraser glance over at me, so, real casual, I slide my hand up and start rubbing the back of my neck like I've got a pinched nerve or something and my bent elbow blocks out his face. I'm rubbing so hard that it's a wonder I don't smell smoke.

I can't do this. I can not do this. After that thing with Stella and Orsini, I felt good. I felt like things were in their place. Fraser and I had this duet thing goin' and I'd found my own rhythm. I wasn't "RayandStella" anymore; I was just Ray. Huh. Sounds kinda Twilight Zone-like; but not any of those ones with the spacemen who go to another planet and end up being exhibits in the alien zoo or the one where the girl kept having all the operations so she'd look like the Pig People who thought she was so ugly. Never could understand that one. She was a good looking girl. Good episode, though. Or the one with all the people trapped in the room and it turned out they were dolls in a Toys for Tots kind of thing. Yeah, that was a good one, too-

"Ray."

"What?" Snap my head around and get a face full of wolf snout. "Dief." Push him away and look at Fraser. Thank God for sunglasses or I'm sure he'd take one look at my eyes right now and I'd be toast. "What?"

"Were you planning on accelerating soon?"

"Fraser, you're the one who keeps sayin' I need to stop at red lights. You quoted me all those stast...stat...things about traffic accidents."

"Yes, I did; and I commend you for your efforts, Ray. However, I feel compelled to point out that the light is now green." He twists in his seat. "And that the people behind us have been rather vociferously registering their displeasure."

Now I hear the honking. Is he smiling again? Never mind. "Oh." I jam my foot on the gas and skid across the intersection just as the light goes yellow. "Don't say a word."

"Not at all, Ray." There is a smile. I can't see it, but I can hear it. Would he think it was funny if I told him what I'd been thinking about? What I'd, hell, been tearing my full-bodied and bushy hair out about? He'd probably look at me, say "thank you kindly" and hightail it back to the Consulate. Or would he? I mean, the guy licks things like dead people's shoes. Would he really be all that grossed out if I told him about that dream where....

Y'know, the problem with being inside your own skin is that you end up taking you wherever you go. They shoulda made a Twilight Zone about that.

Hour and a half later and we're no closer to finding this guy or to me getting out of this car. Went to his last known address which, of course, he hasn't lived in for months and, considering the 50 Haitians now living in two rooms, I doubt he's been back. Now we're trolling the bars in the neighborhood and flashing this guy's picture. Doubtful we'll get a bite, but as Fraser would say, we must 'exhaust all possible avenues'.

Stop it, Ray.

Of course, nobody in the bar has seen this guy even though we flash his picture around at each table and over at the pool tables as well. These guys down here, they're practiced; just give it that quick flick of the eyes and shake your head. If you really know nothing, then you haven't involved yourself. If you do, you've hopefully just made yourself sound as dumb as the guy next to you who really don't know nothing..

I've had enough for now so I've called a halt to go find some lunch. There's a little Mom and Pop place back up towards the station that makes a killer pastrami sandwich, so we're heading back up there and it's quiet in the car. Too quiet. Not normal quiet. Usually, we'd be bouncing ideas off each other or just talking, but the usual juice doesn't seem to be happening. Fraser's kind of staring out the window and I'm rabidly checking traffic lights. Okay.

"So, Fraser, ever see The Twilight Zone?"

"That would have required television, Ray."

Oh, yeah. Librarians. Yukon Territories. Before I can change the subject, though, he's talking again. Doesn't even particularly matter what he's saying; it just feels right to be hearing his voice. The sound of it...it's like it's on some frequency that my whole body hears.

"If I recall correctly, however, it was an anthology series hosted and written, for the most part, by Rod Serling," Fraser says.

"Yeah! He had all these stories about things that had no explanation. Just weird stuff happening."

"Everything has an explanation. Even the Twilight Zone."

I take a quick look at him. He's serious. "C'mon, Fraser," I tell him. "Everything? Not everything can be explained. That's impossible." What I been thinkin'...feelin'...that can't be explained - or if it can, I don't wanna know. "Look at all the stuff in the world; there's ghosts and UFO's, for example."

Uh-oh. I can see Fraser out of the corner of my eye and he's getting into that lecture mode. He's half-turned in his seat, looking right at me, and not even scanning for traffic lights. His whole attention is focused on this conversation, on me, which usually is good. I like it 'cause I know it means he's paying attention to me, but today I feel like if he looks at me too much, he's gonna see right through me. "And I suppose you're going to tell me that you can explain all that stuff? What? Were you kidnapped by aliens and they, uh, gave you all their secrets?" Can you explain what's happening to me?

"Perhaps I should be asking you," he says with this little...lilt in his voice. "You were the one abducted by aliens at the age of ten."

"That was under hypnosis, Fraser," I protest. "Under that...that...voodoo hocus pocus mind control mumbo jumbo. You can't believe anything anyone tells you then."

"Well, actually-"

"No! Nope, I don't want to hear it!' Why is he lilting? What does that mean? Mounties don't lilt. Well, okay, maybe Turnbull might, but Fraser? Nah. Fraser's like Valium; calming and soothing. He can talk cats outta trees, walk into a closed-in area and confront a mob guy and tell him his gun is empty, soothe the savage Thatcher with a few well-chosen words...sometimes. He doesn't lilt; he hardly ever even raises his voice. I mean, Fraser's the original Dudley Do-Right.

Ray, take a note: do not put "do" and "Fraser" in the same sentence ever again.

There's silence in the car again and it's my fault. "You really think there's an explanation for everything?" I ask as we pull into the parking lot. My way of an apology. It's not fair that I cut him off like that. He doesn't know what I'm thinking about and, hopefully, he never will.

He gets out of the car and waits for Dief to get out, too, before looking at me over the hood. "Yes, Ray, I do, but more in the manner of Mr. Serling. There is always an explanation; it just might not be the one you expected. Sometimes, all that is required is simply tossing out any pre-conceived notions and allowing new thoughts or ideas to take their place."

The rest of the day was a total bust. We exhausted all the leads on our first guy to the point that even Dief looked wilted. Not Fraser, though. My jacket's got wrinkles in it from the shoulders to my hips and I think the line of the seatbelt is permanently marked across my chest, but Fraser still looked like he just stepped out of the pages of Mountie Monthly or somethin'.

When we stopped back at the Consulate, he asked if I wanted to get dinner, but I told him I really wanted to get back and rip through some of this paperwork on my desk - put my shell back on, I guess. He looked at me for a moment, kinda regarding me like he was measuring...weighing what I said for what it meant. Then he simply told me goodnight and that he'd see me in the morning. He's gotta know there's something in the wind. I mean, it's a running gag around here that my paperwork is three months behind on a good year. So, Fraser doesn't believe me, Welsh doesn't believe me, and I don't believe me. It's a tri...tri...triumphant of disbelief.

And I haven't even looked at my desk. I'm back in my turtle position and my mind keeps going back to what Fraser said this afternoon about explanations. Do I want an explanation? And what if I don't like it? Do I have to take it or can I look for a new one?

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be a job, just a simple undercover job. I would be in; I would be out. In. Out. In. Out. Inout. Inout. Inoutinoutinout...which sounds kinda like Inuit which is the proper word for Eskimo, Fraser says.

Dammit! OK, being the turtle is obviously a bust, so maybe some exercise. I jump up outta my chair and start walking through the empty squad room and head for the break room. A soda would be good. As I walk, I can hear the hard thud that my boots make against the old linoleum and cement and feel the impact up through my knees. Once in the break room, I jam a couple quarters in the machine, snatch the can from the dispenser and go sit on the table to open it. Couple gulps and I set it beside me and just stare back at the open door I just walked through. As I do, it becomes apparent to me. There's a line of small black half-moons of polish from my boots that probably stretches clear back to my desk. It's a complete Point A to Point B map of someone digging their heels in.

So, what now? I've never, ever had thought one about anything like this. Fraser shows up and everything changes. It's not like it's just 'cause he's a guy, I don't think. Not that I'd know or anything. Never felt this way about my last partner, or any other partner for that matter. I mean, Fraser's obviously a guy, but it's not just that. It's like he's a brother. Not biologic or nothin', but there's this sense that I know him. It's like we reunited instead of just met for the first time when he walked in here.

But...the other stuff? The dream I had about me and Fraser...interacting that verb I don't want to use? I woke up all sweaty and shaky and it wasn't 'cause we'd been playing Charades. It started before that, though; back when that bounty hunter, Janet, was here. Right when he got disappointed in me 'cause I wouldn't break ranks to help her out.

Oh, he said it was fine, said he understood; I know that. It was how he said it. He might have understood, but it didn't mean he liked it. It meant that, in his Mountie-like view of the world, I should have helped. Someone needed help and I'm a cop. What was I supposed to do? I was juggling the needs of my fellow police officers with the needs of this bounty hunter and tossing in the needs of my friend.

I never could juggle even though I used to try it sometimes. Always got too fixed on that one ball spinning up and down, watchin' it move and feeling it smack into my palm. I'd get so set on it that I'd forget about the other balls until they came crashing down around me 'cause I'd lost my focus. Kept my concentration on one part of the picture instead of how it all fit together.

If I had kept the entire picture in my mind, I mighta seen it before. Then again, we were all so busy running around looking for Dwayne that it didn't click. She fell into this total groove with Fraser, but she and I kept snapping at each other, little digs here and there. Told myself at the time it was because she couldn't see the big picture, couldn't understand that I could not break ranks on this pay thing.

After she left with the dweeb back to Montana, Fraser had such a...a lost look on his face that I took him out to dinner to try and cheer him up; but that look still stayed there. Stayed there for a couple days, and every time I saw it, I wanted to punch something. I still didn't twig to it, though, until about two weeks later when I asked him if he'd heard from her.

He said that, yeah, he had and that she was back in Whitefish and fixing up the guesthouse for the dweeb...and that look took over his face again, and I could just feel the anger rushing through me. But it wasn't 'cause I was jealous that he had grabbed her attention.

I was jealous because she had grabbed his in a way I hadn't, couldn't. I was jealous 'cause all I could see was that Fraser missed her; he was thinking about her. Not me. I wanted to know that he would have had the same look on his face if I had gone away, that he would miss me, want after me that much.

Talk about tipping your world over on its axis? Try stomping it to pieces and then morbidly sifting through the debris 'cause that's what happened to me.

Now I'm back to trying to figure out what the hell I do with it, so I stretch out on the table and look up at the acoustic tiles in the ceiling. Maybe I can stare 'em into the handwriting on the wall or something like that.

Note that I'm so much further along than when I started.

Next thing I know there's bright lights and Dewey's ugly mug is right in mine. "Vecchio!"

"What?" Where the hell am I, and why the hell is Dewey breathing in my face? He's got my arm and is yanking me up, and I realize I musta slept all night on the table in the breakroom. Yeah, that's suave and de-boner. That's traveling under the radar, Kowalski. How many other people you know sleep on their break room tables? "What?"

"Kuzma!" Dewey's babbling on and I'm trying to follow using what's left of my brain to follow when it finally registers. They've finally got a line on Kuzma, that cop-killing son of a bitch who knocked over the bank a couple weeks ago.

"Gimme a second!" I bolt over to the desk and grab my jacket and I'm back before he knows it. "Let's go."

Well, I suppose the saving grace is my ear hurts too much to concentrate long on anything. I lost the fart knocker when he made like Mike Tyson. Welsh tried to get Dewey to take me to the hospital. I told him I'd knock him into next week if he even drove me by the place, so now I've got some field dressing on it, and after a day with a dead guy, I don't smell so good, either. Fraser wanted to have dinner so here we are at a hole-in-the-wall Chinese place where, as usual, he's charmed the socks off the owners by ordering in Chinese, and now he's watching me. Granted, me with chopsticks can be entertaining, but I don't think that's it. Fraser has that...considering look on his face again.

I never knew how loud silence could be. Especially when nobody's saying anything.

Up to me to start things off, I guess. "I was thinking, Fraser...."

"About what, Ray?"

"You know how in the Consulate back when they were gonna extradite me and I wanted to do something? Wanted to get out and go look for anything to clear me and you and Dief wouldn't let me?" I can see him thinking about it and he smiles. Just a little smile that sends a jolt right through me and I find I'm smiling back. "So, um, anyway, you said I was your partner...and your friend."

Fraser's nodding. It's like I've got his total attention and I like that. I like the way it's, like, just the two of us in a small booth and he's leanin' forward so he can hear me and we're talking in these low, intimatin' tones. It's special.

"Yes, and you are. You don't doubt that, do you?"

"No. No. Not at all." Get that out quick. I mean, I may be a little raw in places still, bit tender to the touch, but I don't think I suck or nothing. "I was just thinking about today and, well, I was wondering if you'd do the same for me - like you did for Vecchio."

"I did, Ray," he says, looking a little puzzled. "In the Consulate when they wanted you arrested for the murder of Andreas Volpe."

"I know, I know. Don't think I don't appreciate it, but...." How to say this? I want that smile back. "Um...along with us being partners and friends and all, you...um...you woulda done the same for me, right? Bucked the system and all?" That's as close as I can get to saying it: would you have done the same thing for me that you did for Vecchio? Do I mean that much to you?

"Well, we did essentially 'buck the system', Ray," he tells me.

"No, no we didn't." I'm correcting him because it wasn't a 'yes'. It's not a yes; it's not clear-cut proof. "You worked the system. You used the fact I was in Canadian territory to hold them off, but you did it all legally." If I talk fast enough, maybe I can bury everything I'm feeling under an avalanche of words. Of course, I'd have to know exactly what I'm feeling; but I want that yes. I need that yes.

"So you want to know if I would circumvent the letter of the law for you? If I would delay?" he asks.

God, that is so it and yet so not it that I don't know what to answer. "It...it goes along with that friendship thing," I try and explain and toss my chopsticks down on my plate. "That, you know, bonding thing. Duet."

"How so?"

He's leaning forward, plate pushed aside and watching me, weighing my words again. "Well, it was just sudden. There Rankin was and then you were off and running and dragging me into it-"

"I do realize there was a conflict for you in your desire to perform your duties as a Chicago police officer and in your...desire to be my friend," Fraser says. He's really eyeballin' me now. "I appreciate what you did, that you trusted me enough to follow my instincts."

"You didn't give me any choice!" The words are out before I can take them back and he sits back like I've just hauled off and punched him. "As soon as you knew that it was Vecchio who mighta done the guy, you were off and running to prove his innocence." He starts to speak, but I don't let him. "I understand his cover is important, that there's this bond there that you and I probably don't have since, y'know, he was around first and all and I'm just borrowing the name, but dammit, Fraser, you didn't even ask what I wanted to do. You just made the plan and pulled me into it."

"Did you not want to help Ray Vecchio?" He's Mountie as Still Life now. Not a move, not even a twitch.

What do I say? No, I didn't want to help because it just reminded me that there was someone who got to be with you before me? No, because I want to know that you think I'm as much a part of your life as you've somehow become a part of mine? Yes, if it means you take care of me like you did in the Consulate? Yes, if it means you touch me like you did today in Room One when you put your hand over mine and then left it there? "That's not the point." Lame, Ray. Very lame.

"Then enlighten me as to what the point is. Please." He's not sarcastic far as I can tell - and I'm good at that since that's usually my department. "What did you want, Ray? What do you want?"

You. But I can't say that. I can barely even think it.

"Nothin'. Never mind. Forget it. I get the picture." So there we sit. My skin is hot like something inside me is trying to burn its way out. I can't look up because I know Fraser's going to just be staring at me, so I grab a chopstick and stab at the mess on my plate. It hits a mushroom that goes spinning off my plate to land on the floor. The only way it could be any more of an apt metaphorical for my day would be if it landed in the toilet.

"Ray, I don't understand-"

"No, Fraser, you don't." How can I expect you to when I don't, either, and I can't even get up the guts to try and explain it to you? I'm so afraid of losing you and that fear might have just made me lose you altogether. Suddenly, I'm just wrung out and all I want is to go home and shut off my brain. "Look, it's late. I'm tired and we don't seem to be communicatin'. Let's just call it a night, okay?" Besides, I really want to go home and just pound some more nails into my coffin.

The look he gives me is... he's weighing what I've said again. It looks like he's about to say something, but he stops short and just gives me a little nod. "Very well."

"Great. Greatness." The only thing better would be a nuclear blast. Cockroaches don't have to worry about inappropriate feelings for their partners; they just have to find the Twinkies.

Home. No nuclear blast. No Twinkies. Just me.

Hoo-freakin'-ray.

I know Fraser didn't "make" me help him. I did it 'cause I wanted to; I made that choice. It was just a convenient smokescreen to keep everything else back; but no matter how much I don't want to think about it, I have to. My mind is not gonna shut up until I figure something out, some kind of answer I can live with, and to do that I have to say the words.

Gay. Bisexual.

Oh, man. Rod, where are you, guy? Get your black and white ass over here and let me know this is going to end in thirty minutes with a neat, pithy little lesson, okay? Rod?

Damn.

How? I mean...hell, I was married for a long time and I loved Stella. Loved sex with her and never even thought about a guy in that way. Now Fraser comes along and I'm thinking about...that? It's just Fraser, though. Nobody else. It's the things he is and the things he does that first drew me to him as a friend, and now...now I don't know what's going to come of that.

First off, I don't have a clue how he feels or even if he feels anything like that. I don't know anything about him from before except from Vecchio's files. Even if he did...could, that's only one hurdle. There's still everything else to deal with. Let's face it; I'm sincerely doubting that my parents are going to be thrilled with this idea, not to mention the fact that I work in a paramilitary organization which, according to years of tradition, takes a rather dim view of a guy saying, "Y'know, partner. I think I have feelings for you."

Oh, say it, Ray. I think I might...be in love. With another man. I can think it, but it doesn't take away the fact that my palms are sweaty and my stomach is doing backflips one after the other. If it wasn't for the fact I'm already sitting down, I think my knees would be giving way with the idea of saying those words to Fraser.

And let's not even get into what the world at large can do with that statement. I'm a cop. I've seen evidence of the world's view on gay or...what's the other word?...bisexual men or women. Even the people who seem to want to be "understanding" or "positive" about it still feel like it's...I don't know...their right to ask questions that, normally, don't get asked of people. I remember asking some of them when I'd hear about someone I knew who'd come out or whatever. You ask how their parents feel about it like you assume you've got a right to peek into their family dynamite. Nobody asked Stella and me those questions; they just assumed our folks were happy.

It's like there was this right you supposedly have to ask intrusive questions about someone if they're gay like you're some visitor to an exotic land and the other person is your tour guide. It's like how knowing someone that's pregnant supposedly gives you the right to touch their stomach like they're suddenly the Happy Buddha or something. It's a hell of an invasion of privacy whatever way you look at it; and if I go through with this, it means that people are gonna feel like they've got the right to share their opinion with me whether I want it or not. I think I can guarantee that, in the station, some of those opinions are going to be ones I definitely do not want.

But it's not their opinions that I'm the most afraid of; it's Fraser's. What will he think if and when I tell him this and do I want to know if it means possibly losing the best friend I've ever had?

I need to tell him if only for my own sense of honesty and the fact that we are friends as well as partners.

I don't think I'm going to be getting much sleep tonight.

Yep, I was right. I feel like that faded one dollar bill you find wadded up and crammed down in the corner of your pocket after doing the wash, and Fraser's here looking Mountie-fresh. Now that Kuzma's gone and we've successfully managed to weasel our way out of explaining exactly how we came across that dead body, it's back to the fugitive hunt and back to close quarters in the car. At least Dief didn't get Dewey's jelly donut this morning. Grape Wolf is not my favorite smell, but considering the source, anything would beat Bacon and Fish Detective.

It's early so I'm sucking down coffee, scalding my tongue, and driving while Fraser looks out the window at what passes for scenery in Chicago. Heh, and they said I couldn't multitask. We've got another lead so Welsh dumped our asses out of the station almost as soon as we got there.

"Listen, Fraser...." My voice sounds loud. "I need to say something. What I said last night about you making me help you? I didn't really mean it; I'm sorry. I just...I've just had a lot on my mind and things came out wrong." Whew. There's this rush that just shoots through me when I get that out. Makes my legs feel weak. I wait a minute and then chance looking over at him and he's looking back and kind of smiling.

"Thank you, Ray," he says as he twists in the seat to kind of face me a little more. "I have to admit I was wondering...well, you seem rather preoccupied lately. Is it something you'd care to discuss?"

That's it. That's my opening. The breath I take to prep myself sounds shaky and I can feel my hands start to shake just a bit. "You ever...um....you ever thought about love, Fraser?"

"Many times, Ray. But there are different types of love, you know. Would you care to be a bit more specific?"

The coffee in my stomach is now battery acid. "How about...love of your fellow man?"

"So this would be a brotherly love or a philanthropic type of urge?"

Urge. "Not...exactly."

"Well, there are many ways love of your fellow man has been expressed," Fraser says and it looks like he's just warming up. "Some believe that, biblically, the story of Jonathan and David illustrates a well-rounded relationship between both men. Greek myth is fairly full of more carnal representations such as Jupiter and Ganymede; and Apollo and Hyacinthus. English literature is also replete with its own examples. Christopher Marlowe, for instance. Shakespeare also wrote several plays where gender is confused, leading one person to suppose one thing and another person to suppose something else."

Right. I think I followed that. I know he enjoys giving out information and, a lot of times, I like hearing it; it's just so much sometimes that you kind of lose the thread. But I think he's wrong on something. "Wasn't it Apollo and Athena?" I ask. "They were like married or something, weren't they? So how's this Hiawatha person fit into it?"

"Hyacinthus," he immediately corrects. "Athena was Apollo's sister - not that a relationship of that degree necessarily precluded anything in those days - but Apollo..."

Okay. Whoa. Love you like a brother, Fraser, but enough's enough. "You always correct stuff. Pronunciation and things. Do you always gotta do that?"

"I merely like to ensure that the actual nuts and bolts of the matter is being spoken of correctly. Wouldn't you agree that's important?"

"Well, yeah, it's important to be correct. Sure. But you do it all the time; and with the little stuff, too. It doesn't really matter if his name is Hiawatha or Hya...Hya...Hi-how-are-ya or Fred."

"So I shouldn't correct you?"

As I open my mouth to answer, the cell phone rings, so I grab it and flip it open. "Vecchio." Frannie. The ex-girlfriend we talked to day before yesterday works at a Mexican restaurant downtown and says the guy we're looking for is there asking for money. "Thanks." Dump the phone on the seat and look for the quickest way to make a left turn. "Looks like our guy may be at the Coyote Bar."

"The Coyote's a little upscale Mexican restaurant," I explain to Fraser on the way there. "The great thing about is it's got this drink called the Coyote Ugly margarita; the bad thing is it's small, tiny and poorly lit with an enclosed patio that you gotta get into by a small gate about as high as my calf. I guess somebody thought it was artistic."

"If we enter using the front door, he'll spot us and have a head start," Fraser replies. "Our eyes won't have adjusted yet."

"That's why we're goin' in through the kitchen."

Inside the kitchen, after we get done being assaulted by the scents of lard and chiles so sharp they make my eyes water, we're taken by a waitress to the swinging door that separates the kitchen from the restaurant. I peer through and see our guy sitting at a table, alone, and looking kind of antsy. "That's him," I point out to Fraser. "The one in the corner by where the gate opens."

"Hmmm. Yes. And the plan?"

"We need to wait for backup. Don't know if he's armed or not." I turn to look for the waitress to ask her if she's seen anything like a weapon and verify that the gate is the only patio entrance. It takes a couple minutes to get some answers from her and by the time I turn around, Fraser's gone.

"Fraser? Fraser?" OK, he can't just have disappeared in a mound of frijoles, so where'd he go? A quick glance back out at my guy on the patio makes my mouth drop open; Fraser's out there and he's standing next to the guy. What the hell is he doing? I told him we wait for backup!

Wonderful. Now I'm his backup. I sidle out the door and move around the wall of the restaurant, trying to get as close to the patio as I can. First I have to get around a bunch of mariachis intent on their version of "It's a Small World." Then I have to deal with a smart-ass waiter.

"Do you have a reservation, sir?"

"Yeah. Lots of 'em." I open my coat enough for him to see my badge. "Scram." He does and I'm just close enough to catch Fraser holding a freaking conversation with our very own Dr. Kimble. Except Dr. Kimble wasn't really guilty...

Not now, Ray.

"What are you?" the guy snarls. "Some kind of waiter?"

"No, sir," Fraser says. "I'm Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I first-"

Forget it. He doesn't even get that far. The guy hears the word "police" and he's up and moving.

He throws a plate of food at Fraser and I've got my gun out, but so does he; and before I can identify myself, he's fired off a shot that's shattered the light above my head and started a chorus of screams. I'm diving for cover and yelling for Fraser and everyone else to do the same.

Something crashes and I look up enough to see the guy leaping over the gate toward the kitchen as plates and glasses tumble to the floor. I yell at him to freeze, but he gets off another shot and then runs into the kitchen while I'm busily avoiding having any part of my body air-conditioned.

"Ray?"

"Fraser! The kitchen!" I see a flash of red and relief shoots through me that he's up and moving even as we're both busting ass to the kitchen door. We slam through it and everyone starts pointing towards the open door that leads out to the street and we head for it so fast that we nearly fall onto the asphalt; but there's nothing. Street's empty.

"Shit!" A full three-sixty doesn't make it any better. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" I'm yelling as I put my gun away. I don't care.

"I was attempting to apprehend our suspect."

"How? By taking his order?" I'm literally spinning in circles. Walk three paces one way, wheel around and then walk back. It's all I can do to keep from hitting something. "You changed the plan without telling me!"

"Well, technically, it wasn't a plan, Ray."

That calm, rational thing is beginning to shred my last nerve. "I told you we wait for backup! Does this not sound like a plan? What the hell made you do that?"

He coughs and rubs a thumb over his eyebrow. "In perusing his arrest record, I noted that he was primarily the driver during the bank robberies. Since his is ordinarily the non-confrontational position, I decided there would be a reasonable chance he would be unarmed."

"Non-con...non-con..." I'm so wound I can't even get the word out. "Non-confrontational? Non-*confrontational*? Did his target practice strike you as non-confrontational?"

"Well, no..."

"He coulda killed you! Does that strike you as non-confrontational? He coulda shot you and killed you and I would never of been able to tell you-" Shut up, Ray. He's a Mountie; he's Canadian. Of course, it's normal for him to confront people unarmed and expect them to see reason. Never mind that he deliberately put himself in harm's way. Never mind that he might have been shot and everything I've been feeling, everything I've been wanting to say....

"Tell me what?" Fraser's looking at me. "Does this have to do with what you were talking about in the car?"

Telling him now seems like the easiest thing in the world now that I can't speak. I can't say a friggin' word. But I have to; I have to do something. Now or never. No guts, no glory.

I suppose that explains why I grab him by his Sam Browne and kiss him. Not a big kiss, not even a long one, but still a kiss. In the moment before my brain goes haywire as it registers what I'm actually doing, I'm surprised how soft his lips are and how hard his chest feels against mine. Then my brain goes numb and I let him go and step back, seeking some clue that he somehow magically understands. He's looking back at me, his mouth's kinda open; but he doesn't look mad. Not fair. I'm terrified. I can't believe what I just did. I can't look at him. I can't even stand next to him.

But before I can make some excuse and hightail it back inside, Huey and Dewey come running through the door followed by a couple uniforms. "What the hell happened in there?"

There is a special place in Hell reserved for people with timing like this.

"We got here and it was him." I'm explaining fast; short version only. "Fraser tried to apprehend him." No need to go into great detail on that. "Guy pulled a gun. We chased him, but we lost him by the time we made it out here." And I just kissed my partner. "You call it in. We'll start taking witness statements. I didn't get a chance to talk to the ex-girlfriend before any of this started."

I have to get away from Fraser, so I shoulder in between everyone to get back into the kitchen and zero in on the girlfriend. We go through any contact he'd had with her, when he showed up, what he said and any place he might have gone to. By the time I'm done, Huey and Dewey have long since finished and they're waiting by the door along with Fraser. I've avoided looking at him as much as possible while we've been working 'cause each time I do, there's this stabbing feeling that just cuts through me and I feel like I can't breathe. What did I do? Why did I leave? What the hell is he gonna do? I've blown it. I've just blown the best thing I had going because I gave into something I shoulda just kept to myself.

"Welsh says to pack it in and head back to the station," Huey lets me know, adding yet another voice to the one already yelling at me inside my head. "We'll meet you there."

"Yeah. Great. Fine." I'd really rather be run over by the car than ride in it right now, but I can work with that. Fraser and I climb in and the seatbelt feels like a noose. I turn the radio on loud - like "avoid conversation" type of loud - and we drive.

What was I thinking? I just put everything on the line: my friendship with Fraser, my job. If Fraser goes to Welsh and says that he's not gonna be able to work with me, does that mean they'll pull me from the 2-7 and try to make some other guy Vecchio? What happens then? Should I apologize? Maybe...maybe all these feelings, they're just...maybe I misinterpreted.