Date: Thursday, January 27, 2000 4:21 PM

From: gearbox@earthling.net

Okay, all right. This is what happens when I'd rather writeabout Our Boys than about a really big studly droolworthy laser cutting a tumor out of a woman's brain.

Rather obviously inspired by the "Click, Boom,Spark" story.

Talking about Victoria

Gearbox

Ray put down the binoculars, again, and walked across theunlit room to the boombox, to start the CD playing. Again. Butwhen the first chords played, he switched off the CD and put on apopular FM music station. Again.

Across the nearly empty room, Fraser turned away, repressinghis irritation. Stakeouts were, by nature, long and boring. Theyrequired persistence and patience, and while his partner could beremarkably persistent, patience had never been his forte. Ofcourse Ray was going to fidget. And really, the Mountie remindedhimself, he had no grounds to complain -- he could leave at anytime. Welsh had assigned Huey to the stakeout as well. It was acold winter twilight, and their shift wasn't over for another twohours.

Huey had apparently had enough of Ray's fidgeting as well."Hey! Turn that crap off. We're three relatively intelligentguys, we should be able to come up with something to talk about,something to keep us awake."

Ray turned down the volume to a whisper, but didn't turn theradio off. "Like what? We've talked out every sports team inthe Midwest. Including the colleges, the high school girlsbasketball finals, and Dewey's rotisserie league. "I knowwhere you think the best donuts in town come from, I've told youwhere the best pizza place is. And if we ever need pemmican,Fraser's told us where he gets his supply. "I don't think Ican stand any more office gossip. "We already know that Idon't want to talk about country music, you don't want to talkabout sculpture, and neither of us wants to talk about 18thCentury French literature with Fraser. "So what do you wantto talk about?"

"My niece just got engaged to the boy next door. Theyhated each other all through school, now they're getting married.How about first love? "

Both Ray and Fraser turned away from the detective.

"What? What'd I say?"

Ray turned back, "My first love was Stella. Saw her, fellin love, got married, got divorced. Not much to talk about."He wandered over to the window, looked out it, in vaguely thedirection of the suspect's apartment building. "How aboutyou, Frase? Who was your first love?"

Fraser cleared his throat. "Victoria Metcalf."

The name sounded to Ray like a rifle being racked. Dangerous.

"Oh," said Huey, as though that explainedeverything.

Ray turned, in surprise. "Oh? Oh what?"

Fraser touched his eyebrow and avoided Ray's eyes. "She.She was. . ." He trailed off.

Huey took pity on Fraser. Either that, or he couldn't resisttelling the lurid tale himself. "She robbed a bank, framedFraser and Vecchio for a murder, and shot Diefenbaker."

"She shot Dief?"

Fraser nodded.

"Geeze. I've had bad dates, but. . . sounds like yerbetter off without her." As an attempt at humor, it fellflat.

Now it was Fraser's turn to stare out a window. His voice wasodd, almost but not quite as if he was suppressing a laugh,"Maybe I was. I was better without her. Before her."

Ray looked to Huey for explanation. But the black detective just shook his head and stood, "I'm going to take a walkaround back of that building, check the rear door." He leftquietly.

"Fraser?" Ray asked. He crossed the room, laid ahand on his friend's shoulder, and leaned against the windowframe.

In the dim light, he couldn't tell if those were tears inFraser's eyes. It was. . . unthinkable for Fraser to be in pain.Ray said, "It's okay, Fraser."

The other man shook his head. They both looked down to theempty street, but Ray left his hand where it was.

"No, I know," Ray rambled. "Been there. It'llalways hurt, but. . . it don't mean you'll never fall in loveagain. You'll find someone, and the hurt will fade a little. Itwon't be in yer face all the time."

Fraser looked at him then. "There's a great deal Ihaven't told you."

"Yeah, s'okay. We got time. You'll find someone else,someday. Hey, it could be someone you already know, just, likeHuey's niece, maybe there's love just waiting, cocked and ready,just hasn't been triggered yet."

"Has that happened for you, Ray?"

"Naw. Least not the pulling-the-trigger part. I'm stillkinda cleaning up after the whole thing with Stella, kinda likecleaning my gun after we take a dive into the Lake. . ." Raycut his eyes sideways to Fraser's face, a quick glimpse, thenaway, back to the safety of the street.

Fraser looked. . . thoughtful. Contempt- no, contemplative.

Ray went on, "Although there's only so long a guy wantsto, uh, polish his own gun, y'know? I dunno, maybe I am ready tofall in love again. How can ya tell until it happens?"

"I imagine," Fraser replied, slowly, as thoughfeeling his way through a minefield, "that one could perhapssee the potential for a successful romantic relationship in apre- existing relationship. One, I imagine, that has demonstratedmutual trust and respect and caring. . ."

Fraser was watching him now, had turned away from the windowto face Ray. In a moment, in just a moment, Ray would turn andthey'd be nose to nose. But for just one moment more, Ray facedthe street and pretended that all his attention wasn't focused onhis partner. His partner who was leaning towards him, who smelledof warm wool and leather and soap, whose tongue flicked out,wetting his lower lip.

Fraser's voice was low, almost sultry, in a way Ray'd neverheard before. He said, "But, to continue your metaphor,assuming such a . . . loaded . . . relationship exists, whathappens when one actually pulls the trigger?"

"That's easy, Frase." Ray grinned and turned awayfrom the window, into Fraser's space. "Bang!"

And then he kissed him.

END

*** Writing is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and anamusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master,then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you areabout to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monsterand fling him to the public. -- Winston Churchill ***