(no subject)
Here's the thing. I was trying really hard to get the ds_flashfiction Inuit Story Challenge done, and it was really rough going because I hadn't written in so long. So of course I had to come up with this complex story structure -- and I never come up with needlessly complex story structures -- where I need to remember how to write not only Fraser and Ray, but everybody else at the 2-7 as well. Obviously, my brilliance leaves something to be desired.
So, I missed the deadline by a mile, but I still have fic! So I figured I'd post it.
6600 words. F/K, first time.
[Disclaimer: I don't own anybody here. I'm just fooling around for fun. Please don't sue me?]
Telephone
Most of the time, Fraser finds Ray's company rather pleasant, and on occasion even delightful. Currently, however, he's proving quite tiresome. "Ray, I do wish you wouldn't obsess over such trivial matters."
"Trivial?" Ray says around a mouthful of hamburger. "Are you kidding me? I'm just trying to make sure my partner's healthy and happy. I think that's pretty serious, anyway."
"And that's very thoughtful of you, but -- "
"And whether or not you admit it, part of being healthy and happy is getting laid regular."
Fraser feels the back of his neck grow hot and a little damp underneath his collar. "Ray, please," he hisses, all too aware that they're in a public place. What if the waitress is just slightly more curious than the average bystander? What if that little girl on the other side of the window pane has precociously developed the ability to lip-read? "Anyone could--"
Ray sighs. "Look, Fraser, I'm just asking if you're seeing anybody, okay? Tell me you're seeing somebody." He slips Dief a gravy-slathered french fry under the table; Dief, the traitor, whuffles happily and drools adoringly on Ray's knee.
"Well, I -- I mean, I don't -- " Fraser's not sure what he's supposed to say. If he could say everything he wanted to, it would be very simple: he would explain that, when intelligent entities engaged in pursuit of a thing, they generally did not continue to do so if they were consistently disappointed. But this would, of course, invite Ray to ask exactly what disappointment Fraser was referring to. And then Fraser would have to elaborate about Victoria, and Janet, and Ray himself, and that is not a situation he has any desire to be in.
He looks up into Ray's attentive gaze -- and notices an odd movement just past his right ear.
He follows it, and finds that its source is a darkly clad man on the sidewalk outside. He is moving not with a steady, business-like pace, or with a leisurely stride, but with the jerky, calculated movements of a man who's plotting a course as he's walking. In other words, he is either consulting a map as he walks, or following someone.
He is not looking at a map.
"What?" Ray says abruptly, perhaps noticing Fraser's change in demeanor. "What did you see?"
"Probably nothing," Fraser replies absently, watching the man. He follows his line of sight, allows for a sensible following distance -- and there. A woman, fair hair coiled into an enormous bun on top of her head, is walking down the road. She seems completely oblivious, and ahead of her is a dark alleyway --
Fraser shoots to his feet, dropping his fork with a clatter. "Stop that man," Fraser tells Ray in a low voice, and dashes out the door with Dief at his heels.
After all his time in Chicago, he still has not perfected the art of weaving through crowds without apologizing to every pedestrian he collides with, and so it takes him nearly half a minute to catch up to the woman. Still, he knows Ray is behind him, and will stop the suspicious individual in short order.
"Miss," he gasps, suddenly finding the distinctive golden hair right in front of him. "Miss, a moment, please -- "
He manages to clasp her shoulder with one hand, but she jerks out of his grasp and whirls to face him with one fluid movement. "What on -- oh." Her expression morphs almost immediately from irritable to amiable. Rather more than amiable, in fact. "I don't believe we've met," she says silkily, extending a hand. "You're -- a Mountie, isn't that right?"
It's about then that the smell hits him: sickly sweet, chemical, flowery, and strong enough to send him reeling back a step. Dief sneezes twice, and retreats behind Fraser's calves. "Ah -- ah, yes. My name is Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and I couldn't help but notice that you were being followed by -- "
"Fraser, you are one lucky bastard," Ray breaks in, coming through the crowd with the suspicious man in tow. "'Stop that man', my ass -- there's gotta be fifty guys out here. Just lucky I saw who you were lookin' -- uh, hi." His eyes shift between Fraser and the woman. "Uh, Stanley Kowalski, CPD, division 27. And you are..."
"Maribel Cowell," she replies smoothly, smiling, but her eyes stay on Fraser. Oh, dear.
"Ah, Ms. Cowell -- "
"Mrs."
Fraser coughs. Oh, dear. "Mrs. Cowell, do you know this man?"
Ray jerks the man forward helpfully, despite his protests, so she can see his face. She peers closely, then pulls back and shakes her head. "Can't say as I do, sorry. Any reason I should?"
Fraser nods. "He was following you."
"With a gun," Ray adds, holding it up for her to see.
Mrs. Cowell puts a hand to her throat, swallowing hard. "I -- I can't imagine why -- "
"Not to worry," Ray says, grinning humorlessly. "That's what they got guys like me for." He fists his hands in the man's collar and shoves him up against the convenient wall of a nearby bank.
"Hey, what're you -- "
"Gimme a name."
The man holds up his hands, laughing nervously. "Look, it's Zachary Taylor, but this is crazy talk -- the lady doesn't even know me, you'll never get a charge to stick."
"Oh yeah? If that gun ain't legit, mister, you'll be surprised how much that charge'll stick. 'Specially considering the special circumstances you were usin' it in." The mirth melts off of Mr. Taylor's face. "So? You wanna tell us what you think you're doing, or should we bring you down to the station and grill the snot outta you there?"
Mr. Taylor sighs. "Lay off, all right? The lady's been running around behind her husband's back. He just paid me to scare her a little, wave a gun in her face."
Mrs. Cowell inhales sharply and takes a step toward the man. "How dare you! What I do behind closed doors is not in any way your business, understand? And my husband doesn't know half what he thinks he does -- "
"Can it, lady," Mr. Taylor says tiredly. "Mr. Cowell knows everything. There's no point in denying it anymore."
Mrs. Cowell's jaw is set, and her cheeks are bright red with indignation; she makes a sudden move towards Mr. Taylor, but Ray blocks her deftly.
"This's queer," he mutters, eyes narrowing at Mrs. Cowell. "You'd both better come down to the station with me."
In the station, Mrs. Cowel clings to Fraser's side, spouting a veritable font of information that he has no desire to hear. He glances surreptitiously about for Ray, hoping frantically that Ray will find some way to extricate him from this trying situation. But Ray is already leading Mr. Taylor into interrogation room two, and Dief -- after looking doubtfully between the two of them -- bolts through the door just before Ray closes it.
Fraser grits his teeth, and tries to breathe as shallowly as possible.
"It's not that I'm the sort of woman who cheats on her husband," Mrs. Cowell's telling him earnestly.
"Oh, of course not."
"You can see that, can't you?"
"Ah, well, I -- "
"No, of course you can't. But I'm telling you now, Constable Fraser, I'm not. I swear I'm not."
"I believe you," Fraser lies, bracing for the overwhelming urge to contradict himself and tell her the truth. The first ten seconds, he's found, are the hardest to bear.
Luckily, she doesn't give him a chance to rescind his claim. "It's just that -- well, ever since we got married, Richard's been...indifferent to me, you know? Like it was the chase he was interested in, and not me at all."
"I'm sure that's not how he feels."
"Oh, that's just because you haven't met him," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "I mean, just look at this whole mess. Just three days ago we were barely speaking to each other over dinner, and now as soon as he gets an inkling of an affair, he's sent a man after me with a gun. Just, imagine what that must have cost!"
"Forgive me for saying so, Mrs. Cowell -- "
"Please, call me Maribel."
"Ah. Maribel." Fraser clears his throat uncomfortably. "As I was saying, I don't believe most people would consider that a healthy or even reasonable basis for a marriage."
Mrs. Cowell sighs and looks down at her feet. "Yes, well, it's not a healthy or reasonable marriage, is it?" She toys with a ring absently -- her wedding band, Fraser realizes. "And nothing really even happened with Harry, is the thing. We had dinner, and we had a rather, um, prolonged goodnight kiss. That's all. Because you see, Harry's an idiot, and I could never -- you know -- with an idiot.
"You, on the other hand...you're not an idiot."
Fraser flushes painfully at the sudden change of tack, and swallows hard. "I, ah, I'm glad you think so." Lord, even the tip of his nose is burning.
She laughs lightly, which helps the situation not a bit. "See? Not an idiot at all. You know, after we're done with all this, if you wanted to buy me a drink..."
Just then, Ray explodes out of the interrogation room, for all the world like an edgy, spiky-haired knight in shining armor. Fraser heaves a great inward sigh of relief, and turns to see what Ray wants, but Ray ignores him completely and makes a beeline for Mrs. Cowell. "'Scuze me, ma'am, but if I could ask you a couple of questions, that'd be -- "
"Oh, of course, Detective." She gathers up her purse cooperatively, and stands up. "Where do you want me?"
"Right down the hall, third room on the right," Ray says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. He seems completely professional, but Fraser can sense an undercurrent of energy belying his politeness. What could possibly have happened in the last three minutes? "I'll be right down." He turns to watch her go, nearly vibrating with excitement. As soon as she closes the door behind her, Fraser whips around to Fraser and says, "Fraser. We got Zachary frikkin' Taylor in there."
Fraser blinks. "Ah, yes, Ray. I was aware of that."
Ray stares at him, then throws his hands up in the air. "No, not -- shit, you don't even know who he is. Taylor's, like, this pet assassin that a couple of guys keep around to take out people they don't like."
"Which guys?"
"Not guys -- lawyers, law partners. Cowell, Hutchins, and Drake."
At this, Fraser hears a long, low whistle from the entrance to the bullpen; Detective Dewey appears to have returned from his lunch break. "You're kidding. You mean, the Cowell, Hutchins, and Drake?"
"Shut up, Dewey," Ray snaps. Fraser thinks it's excessively rude of him, but Dewey seems to have gotten used to this behavior by now, and merely shrugs. "See, here's what I figure: Mrs. Cowell's been seeing other guys, Cowell gets out of his head with jealousy and bam, hotline to the best guy with a gun he knows. My thought is, we get the wife to testify against him, we can put that crazy bastard away for years. Also," he adds as an afterthought, "my salary'll probably go through the roof."
"So wait," Dewey begins incredulously. "The guy put a hit on his wife 'cause he thought she was cheating on him? I mean, I knew he was crazy, but not that crazy."
Ray snorts. "Yeah, and get this: the only reason we got the guy was because Fraser thought the chick was hot and needed rescuing."
"Ray! I didn't -- " but Ray just winks at him and strolls jauntily down the hallway. Indignant, Fraser moves to go haring after him.
"They probably do things different where you're from," Dewey muses pensively, and this is so out of the ordinary that Fraser stops short.
"Where I'm from?"
"Yeah, the Eskimos I mean. They probably got a story for this kind of thing, something that says cheating's just another part of life, right?"
Frowning, Fraser wonders how Dewey had ever gotten that impression of Inuit society. "Ah, well, not exactly. I recall one Inuit legend in which a man stuffed his wife with vermin for being unfaithful to him, thus killing her -- "
"Christ."
" -- though I must admit that I personally wouldn't prescribe that as an advisable course of action." Fraser turns to leave again, but Dewey stops him again.
"So, what happened to the guy? Didn't he get arrested, or whatever they do up there?"
"No, actually. He remarried to a fox, who was able to take the shape of a young woman by removing her pelt. Though eventually she left him when a friend of his rudely brought attention to the musk-like odor she had brought into their home, and when she wouldn't return to him, he burned her alive and then committed suicide."
Dewey's eyes have gone wide. "Damn. Those Inuit tell pretty fucked up stories, huh."
"They can, yes." Fraser waits a moment to see if Dewey has anything else to contribute, but he seems to have been stunned into silence. "Ah, if you don't mind, I really ought to be -- "
"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Uh, have fun with the fox."
Fraser opens his mouth to protest, realizes that the attempt is probably futile, and hurries off to at least prove to Ray that he's not even slightly interested in Mrs. Cowell.
Frannie's in the middle of pulling files on Cowell, Hutchins, Drake and Taylor -- the whole station's gone into a tizzy about the guy Fraser and Ray brought in -- when Dewey walks in and says, "I did it, sucker! Fifty bucks!"
Frannie nearly drops the file she's holding. "You're kidding. You got Lisa to go out with you?" Lisa Howard, in accounting, is completely out of Dewey's league, and Dewey's been making eyes at her for months. "I coulda sworn she had better taste."
"Nah, nah, not that -- though I'm gonna do it one of these days, don't you worry." Dewey turns a triumphant grin on Huey. "No, I'm talking to you. Cough it up."
"No way you got a new story out of Fraser," Huey says disbelievingly.
"Oh, but I did."
"Are you sure it's not the one with the caribou on the mountain? Because I know how your memory is -- "
"You're a laugh riot," Dewey mutters darkly. "Come on, Jack, give me some credit."
Huey swivels his chair around to face him, folding his arms across his chest, and Frannie rolls her eyes. They always get like this about losing bets. Typical men. "All right, I'll give you some credit -- how do I know you're not making it up?"
Snickering, Dewey shakes his head. "'Cause you can't make up stuff this good. Listen." Dewey hops up onto the edge of his desk. "I was talking to Fraser and Ray about the Cowells, you know, how could a guy put a hit on his wife, that kind of thing -- "
"Yeah, yeah, get to the point, man."
"I'm getting there, all right? So all I gotta do is mention Eskimos, and the guy's off like a shot."
Finally finding the file on Taylor, Frannie turns to grab the pile of files that she's already got stacked on her desk -- but then she hesitates. It can't hurt to listen to one of Fraser's stories, can it? And he doesn't even have to know, and Welsh is busy right now anyway. "So what's the story?" she asks, leaning against the file cabinet casually.
"Yeah, just try analyzing this metaphor. There's this guy, right, and his wife cheats on him, so he kills her, because he's psychotic. Then a couple years later, this other girl comes along, only she's a fox -- I mean, actually a fox, like woof-woof -- "
"Foxes don't say 'woof'," Frannie sneers. "They're not dogs."
"Fine, then what do they say?"
"I don't know, but not woof."
"Never mind," Huey breaks in. "Keep telling the story -- my money's on the line, here."
"Right, right, so anyway, this girl shows up, only then the guy's buddy makes fun of the way she smells, so she runs away and won't come back."
"She smells?" Frannie repeats, wrinkling up her nose.
"Yeah, well, I guess foxes can't keep the best hygiene. Anyway, he gets so mad at her for leaving him, he burns her alive." Dewey grins proudly. "So whaddaya make of that?"
Huey frowns. "That's not the end of the story, is it? I mean, what happens to him after that?"
"I dunno, he lives alone 'til the end of his days. Not important. The important thing is, what's the moral? What's it mean?"
Huey shrugs. "Maybe...you've got to pick friends with a little tact?"
"Maybe. I could've sworn it was about the chicks, though."
Frannie starts to think it over in earnest as they start coming up with stupider and stupider ideas. Sure, if a guy like them had told the story, they might have guessed it. But Fraser's different. He's intelligent and educated and sensitive, and so there's got to be something really important buried in here -- and then it hits her. "I got it!" she crows triumphantly.
Dewey stops mid-sentence to raise an eyebrow at her. "Oh really."
She ignores that. "Get this: the fox isn't really a fox. I mean, whoever heard of a fox that could turn into a person? I haven't. So that means that the fox is really a woman in a fox skin. And she was so amazing that not only did she win his heart even after the trauma of getting cheated on, but he couldn't even bring himself to find somebody else after her. She's the woman to end all women. In other words," she concludes, flourishing victoriously with the file on Taylor, "Fraser likes women in fur coats."
Huey and Dewey stare at her blankly. "Uh, Frannie, why don't you leave the detecting to the detectives," Huey suggests finally.
"Why? What's wrong with it?" She puts her hands on her hips and glares at them. "You know, I took a poetry class last semester -- "
"Yeah, well, this isn't poetry. It's folklore," Dewey tells her, like all of a sudden he some kind of expert.
"Besides," Huey adds, "why would he give Dewey a hint about his type? I'm pretty sure that he doesn't want Dewey setting him up with anybody."
Frannie rolls her eyes and picks up the rest of the files on her desk. "Whatever," she mutters, and heads over to Welsh's office. She doesn't have to put up with them; she'll just show them how wrong they are.
Welsh has grown pretty accustomed to finding strange things in his bullpen. Drag queens, clowns, elves, Mounties. Deaf half-wolves. At eight thirty in the morning, he's got so he doesn't even notice them anymore -- just barrels blindly through, tries to avoid running into anything, and takes refuge in the relative safety of his office.
This is probably why he doesn't notice Francesca until about eight thirty-five, when she brings him his morning cup of coffee. "Ms. Vecchio," he starts slowly, feeling the formidable beast of acid reflux stirring. "Have you received a recent pay raise that I don't know about?"
Fraser stares at him blankly for a moment, then looks down at herself and lets out a startled hiccup of a laugh. "Oh, you mean this," she says, smoothing the magnificent fur coat that had drawn his attention. "No, I borrowed it from Maria. Tony bought it for her when he -- well, never mind."
Welsh reaches for his coffee and settles back into his chair. "And why, might I ask, are you wearing a fur coat indoors in the middle of April?"
"I -- well, it's Chicago! It's cold in April!" Frannie braces her hands on her hips indignantly. "And -- and, well, I'm kind of doing an experiment."
"Oh?" Welsh sips his coffee cautiously. "You know, I don't usually like my employees engaging in scientific endeavors in my police station. I had this terrible experience, in my youth, with a test tube and a propane torch -- "
"Oh, no no no, sir, it's nothing like that! It's, uh, a psychological experiment. On people."
"On people?"
"Um, well, one person."
"And that would be..."
"Fraser, sir."
Oh, well, of course. He sighs heavily; however much the good Constable has done to aid the efforts of this police station, Welsh isn't so sure that he hasn't undone it all by flustering every female he's come in contact with. It's impressive, but it's also damn irritating. "Francesca..."
She waves her hands at him frantically, apparently trying to fend off his disapproval. "No, see, you don't get it -- it's all Dewey's fault!"
This, he has to hear. He raises his eyebrows and motions for her to continue.
"See, Dewey was talking to Fraser about the Cowell case, and Fraser told him this story, where this guy had this wife, only she was cheating on him, so he killed her, but then he met this other girl in a fox skin, and she was perfect except she smelled a little, but he didn't care because they were in love, you know, only then his stupid friend made fun of how she smelled and she was so embarrassed that she ran away, and when she didn't come back the guy killed her too, which was a mistake because she was the perfect woman, and he lived alone all his life after that." Francesca takes a huge gulp of air, adjusts the fur coat on her shoulders, and watches him expectantly.
Welsh has to take a moment to process all that, but even when he does, he's just as lost as he was before, and just a little closer to getting an ulcer from the indirect exposure to the constable's storytelling abilities. "So how is this all Dewey's fault again?"
"Well, I realized that Fraser was, albeit inadvertently, alerting us of his preference for women in fur coats. Obviously. But Dewey didn't believe me, so I've got to prove I wa right. It's very important for the group dynamic, sir," she says seriously.
Feeling a little out of his depth, Welsh scrubs a hand across his face. "So really, this is all part of a professional endeavor to become a better civilian aide."
She spreads her hands and smiles just a little too broadly. "Entirely professional, sir. I have no interest in, uh, Constable Fraser." She titters nervously, and clasps her hands in front of her stomach like she's praying.
Welsh studies her for a few long minutes, drinking his coffee and watching her over the rim of his cup. She squirms a little under the scrutiny, and eventually he decides to put her out of her misery. "All right, fine," he mutters, leaning forward to start sorting through all the papers he has to deal with. "Just -- make sure it doesn't interfere with the Cowell case, all right? This is important," but she's already beaming at him and scrambling to let herself out.
"Thank you -- thank you, sir, you won't regret it." And then she's gone. Welsh shakes his head and lets out a chuckle. Who's he kidding? The whole thing was bullshit, and he knows it -- but part of him's curious to see how Red's going to react, and that's not too much to ask for.
"Ray! Where's Fraser?"
Ray blinks stupidly at Frannie's face, which just put itself between him and Welsh's office for no obvious reason. She looks happy to see him, and she's wearing -- whoa, boy. "Uh, Frannie, get outta my way, I got work to do."
"Is he at the Consulate? Can you call him?" Jeez, but she's just not letting it go today.
"No, I can't," he says, brushing past her, "because I've gotta get my warrant and clear this with Welsh and then go pick him up so we can bust Cowell before the guy twigs, do you mind?" He shoves his way through Welsh's door, and just barely catches Frannie saying, "You have got to be kidding me," before the door clicks shut.
Welsh looks up at him, surprised, probably because usually people knock before barging in on him. "Uh, sorry, sir, just Frannie was following me and I -- what's with her, anyway?"
Welsh sighs and shakes his head. "You sure you want to know?"
Ray debates that for a moment, then nods. Even if Frannie's got no chance with Fraser, Ray's still got to keep tabs on her, because -- well, just because. Doesn't matter why.
Welsh drops his pen and gives Ray a look that's probably supposed to be amused. Difficult to tell. "Seems Fraser told Dewey one of those Inuit stories he's so fond of, where this one guy kills his wife because she's unfaithful to him, then takes up with this fox who can turn into a woman even though she's kind of musky." Ray blinks at this, but doesn't say anything. "Then a friend of his makes fun of the way she smells, and she runs away. He gets mad and kills her. Real tragic."
Ray rubs at the back of his head, still confused, though that's really not a surprise. "Yeah, well, those Inuit stories can get pretty dark."
"No kidding."
"Still, what's Frannie care? And what's it got to do with the coat?"
"Ah, well," Welsh starts, steepling his fingers on his chest, which Ray knows is a sure sign that Welsh thinks Frannie's nuts, "our Ms. Vecchio has decided that hidden in this seemingly worthless story is a gem of knowledge: that Constable Fraser has a fondness for women in fur coats."
Ray's mind suddenly goes completely blank. He stares at Welsh, trying to think of something, anything to say, but the only thing that seems to fit in his head is Oh God, Frannie's gonna get Fraser. Frannie's gonna get Fraser instead of me 'cause he likes chicks in fur and I ain't got any of that.
Then, of course, he remembers that this is Frannie that they're talking about. If Fraser's safe from anybody, it's Frannie. "Uh, that Frannie's got some screws loose, doesn't she," he offers lamely, because Welsh is looking at him like he might be a head case and never thought to tell anybody. "Anyway, I was just stoppin' by because I figured you'd want to know when I headed out to the Cowells', so, uh, here I am."
Welsh nods once, completely serious again. "Take back-up with you. Be careful, and good luck."
"Thanks, sir," Ray says, and lets himself out. Frannie says something to him when he walks past her desk, but he doesn't hear it; he's too wrapped up in his own head.
So, okay, maybe Fraser's Inuit stories usually don't got a point. That doesn't mean this one doesn't -- since when do the Inuit write stories about handling women, anyway, or anything even remotely useful? And what are the chances that Fraser's gonna start telling stories like that right after he meets Mrs. I-Talk-Like-A-Canadian-And Still-Have-Great-Legs Cowell? That can't be a coincidence.
He shoves his car key in the lock, pulls the door open, and starts the car. If he hadn't driven this route five hundred times before, he'd probably crash into something, because he can't stop thinking about that fucking story. It's gotta be about the girl. Frannie's got it wrong; Fraser's never gonna go for the needless slaughter of animals.
Musk, though...what was it Fraser said about Luanne? Musk-like animal awareness? And if Luanne was hot, which she was, even if she didn't pay her taxes and couldn't forgive a simple mistake, then maybe Fraser's not blind, and "musk" is some kind of secret Canadian code word for "attractive". Or, hell, maybe Fraser doesn't even look, he just sniffs. Which means that Fraser can probably smell the old tobacco in all Ray's shirts, and the cheap aftershave he uses, and maybe even that stuffy-apartment smell that Ray can never get to go away. And no way can that compete with Maribel Cowell, who's all flowers and linen and nice, girly smells.
So, he lost. Not exactly a surprise -- hell, he'd been pushing Fraser onto Mrs. Cowell with everything he had, because he was too fucking afraid to just say something. Still, that doesn't mean he has to like it.
With a start, he realizes that he's about to miss the turn into the Consulate's parking lot, so he slams on the brakes and veers across the road with a screech. Fraser's standing outside the building, watching Dief sniff around the tulip beds, and he gives Ray an odd look when he pulls up.
"Ray, are you quite all right?" Fraser asks, coaxing Dief into the backseat.
"I'm fine, Fraser. Get in already -- we got a job to do."
Ray doesn't speak much on the drive back to the Consulate, which suits Fraser well enough. He's -- shaken, he has to admit. Though he'd known what was going to happen, and hadn't been especially bothered by it earlier, he can't erase Mrs. Cowell's face from his memory.
She'd been framed in an upstairs window of their massive house, watching raptly as her husband fought the police officers and swore and tried vainly to get back inside the house, most likely so that he could strike her. And though she'd said, herself, that her marriage was neither healthy nor reasonable, that the greatest attention he'd paid to her lately was to send an assassin after her, that she'd been driven to seek the affection of other men -- still, despite all these things, actually seeing her husband in the grips of blind rage seemed to have driven her into a state of numb shock. She'd been so still that her face might have been sculpted from ice, or stone, something brittle enough to crack. No, it was more than that -- she'd looked lost, as though she'd been plucked up from the world she lived in and dropped into some strange alternate dimension.
Fraser imagines, now, what Mrs. Cowell had bitterly called "the chase". A time when the two of them had spent time together, talked together, perhaps even convinced themselves that they loved one another. For all Mrs. Cowell's dismissive behavior, surely it had cost her something to lose that, and it was this that had wrought that expression on her face. Even the most twisted relationships, he knows, can have its good moments.
"I saw you lookin' at her."
Fraser turns his head, startled. "I suppose I was, yes," he admits. "She had -- well, a most striking expression on her face."
Ray doesn't make any immediate reply to this; his jaw flexes as he works at the gum wedged between his teeth, and for a moment Fraser forgets not to stare. "welsh told me about that story you told Dewey," Ray says finally, and Fraser frowns at the non-sequitur. "Fox-women and musk, huh? Pretty, uh, racy."
"I beg to differ. The man in question was a psychotic serial murderer who likely engaged in domestic abuse, as well."
"Uh, yeah. Right." Ray snaps his gum. "You know, Fraser, Maribel can change her perfume. Just, you know, go to the store, buy something else. Easy."
Fraser's starting to get whiplash from Ray's constant change of topic. This isn't, all in all, an entirely unfamiliar experience. "Oh, I'm well aware. Though it is interesting that many people seem to commit to a certain scent for years, even decades -- "
"See, that's the thing, Fraser, commitment," Ray cuts in, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "That is not the kind of woman you're gonna get anything like commitment from. She couldn't even commit to her husband; what makes you think a girl like that's gonna commit to a perfume?"
"Ah." The light begins to dawn. "Ray, I thought you wanted me to pursue Mrs. Cowell."
"Admit you thought she was attractive, yeah, sure. Pursue, no. That's just stupid, Fraser; people like her are only good for a one-night stand, and you're just not that kind of guy." Ray brakes a little more suddenly than he really needs to, and Fraser peers at him carefully.
"Ray, I can't begin to imagine how I can prove this to you, but I really have no interest in Mrs. Cowell." His tone of voice must have drawn Ray's attention, because Ray glances over at him quickly before executing a bizarre series of cutoffs in the intersection. "And as for her perfume, well, I wish she'd get rid of it entirely. It's rather overwhelming; neither Dief nor I can breathe freely around her without risking suffocation," Fraser finishes irritably, finally realizing just how much that perfume has been irking him over the past two days.
Ray stops at a traffic light and takes advantage of the lull in action to stare at Fraser openly. "So, you mean, this whole time -- "
"Not in the slightest."
"Oh."
Ray doesn't say anything more for the rest of the car ride, and though Fraser tries valiantly not to feel awkward, he doesn't entirely succeed. It's only, he tells himself, because Ray's embarrassed at having read me so inaccurately. That's all. But he seems more distracted than embarrassed; he's thinking about something very intently, and Fraser hasn't a clue what it is, and that's more unnerving than he'd like to admit.
When Ray brings the car to a somewhat rocky stop in front of the Consulate, though, Fraser doesn't confront him. He just says, "Thank you for the ride, Ray," before letting Dief out of the back seat and walking up to the Consulate. Whatever Ray's worried about, he'll talk about it eventually.
"Uh, Fraser?"
Fraser turns to find Ray clambering out of his car hurriedly. "What is it?"
"You wanna go for dinner with me?" Ray blurts out, and then flushes bright red. "I mean, not -- not like usual, but -- fuck, I hate this part." He looks at Fraser for -- support, words, something, but whatever it is, he doesn't get it. Fraser can only stare. "I was gonna ask you before this whole mess," he explains finally, gesturing expansively at the Consulate, the sidewalk, and the car. "I told myself, I'm gonna make sure Fraser's not interested in anybody else, and then I'm gonna suck it up and ask him. Only I was so chickenshit I decided you were interested in the first chick that hit on you, just so I wouldn't have to do it, and that was stupid of me, so I'm sorry, but I'm asking you now. So. Um. You wanna go to dinner with me?"
Fraser's tongue seems to have been glued to the top of his mouth. He unsticks it, runs his tongue over his dry lips. "Er. Yes?"
Ray nods once, slowly, his whole body seeming to absorb the undulation. "Uh, great. So, Saturday maybe? Anywhere you want, we can pick the place later if you want, doesn't matter."
There's cotton in Fraser's brain, and it's getting in the way of all of his useful abilities, like forming complete original sentences that accurately reflect his mental state. "Saturday sounds lovely, Ray. I'll see you then."
Ray bobs his head up and down again agreeably enough, and so Fraser decides that he is now supposed to open the door and resume his regular evening routine, which had not previously involved being propositioned by Ray Kowalski. So he lets Dief in ahead of him, shuts the door behind him -- and immediately finds himself pinned to the wall by his own terror, completely unable to move. "My God, Dief," he whispers. "What the hell does he expect me to do?"
Dief, rather unhelpfully, merely sits back on his haunches and watches Fraser with mild, detached interest, for all the world as though he expects Fraser to present him with some sort of performance entertainment.
Ray watches Fraser's back disappear inside the Consulate, then slowly collapses in a boneless heap against the Goat. God, the only way that could've gone worse was if Fraser had actually looked disgusted and said no -- though he's not even sure if Fraser knows what he's just said yes to, the way he's acting.
Ray stiffens suddenly, reviewing everything he just said, then groans and starts to bang his head in the roof of his car. God, of all the times to get tongue-tied -- Fraser probably thinks he's completely insane, getting his feathers all ruffled about grabbing dinner two whole days from now. He didn't even explain the bit where he likes guys. He didn't even ask if Fraser likes guys, and since he probably doesn't, he probably didn't think anything about Ray stuttering and rambling and giving himself a stroke in the middle of a sidewalk.
There's nothing to do about it now, though, so Ray yanks the car door open and practically falls inside, he's shaking so bad from the adrenaline hangover. Three tries to get the key in the ignition, and he figures that he probably shouldn't be driving like this. So he folds his arms across the steering wheel and buries his face in them, just in case he starts crying, which he sometimes does when he's stressed and lonely and worried that he just fucked up the best thing he had in this fucking stupid undercover life --
There's a tap on his window. Great. Just what he needs, the Ice Queen coming to tell him that he's double parked, like he doesn't know that, thank you very much -- but when he lifts his head, Fraser's standing there. Ray just looks at him for two or three seconds, then starts to roll down his window, not sure what he's going to say: "Hey, Fraser, sorry, did I ever mention I got a twin brother? Gay as a fucking maypole, and you're just his type. Sorry about that."
Luckily, he doesn't have to come up with anything, 'cause about as soon as there's enough space for Fraser to get his hands in, he's grabbing Ray's collar and pulling him up out of his seat for a long, sweet kiss that knocks all the air out of his lungs.
Ray gasps when Fraser pulls back, blood rushing through his ears. "Fraser -- "
"Ray, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be -- " but what exactly Fraser didn't mean to be, Ray's got no clue, because Fraser's kissing him again like he can't stop, and that's just fine with Ray --
Wait. No. Stop. "Fraser," Ray rasps, pushing Fraser back a step. "We can't -- not here. Thatcher -- "
Miraculously, Fraser actually gets it. "Then I suggest we go somewhere else," he says, totally coherent, if a little breathless, and rounds the side of the car in record time. Ray, for his part, works on getting the car started. Three tries to get the key into the ignition, only this time it's because he's trying so hard not to laugh.
"What?" Fraser demands. "What?"
Ray shakes his head, and a crazed giggle escapes his throat. "I was just thinking, you know -- so much for taking it slow."
--fin
Note: The Inuit stories in question are The Fox Wife and The Faithless Wife. They're basically the same story, but one of them has a bunch more drama than the other for some reason.
So, I missed the deadline by a mile, but I still have fic! So I figured I'd post it.
6600 words. F/K, first time.
[Disclaimer: I don't own anybody here. I'm just fooling around for fun. Please don't sue me?]
Telephone
Most of the time, Fraser finds Ray's company rather pleasant, and on occasion even delightful. Currently, however, he's proving quite tiresome. "Ray, I do wish you wouldn't obsess over such trivial matters."
"Trivial?" Ray says around a mouthful of hamburger. "Are you kidding me? I'm just trying to make sure my partner's healthy and happy. I think that's pretty serious, anyway."
"And that's very thoughtful of you, but -- "
"And whether or not you admit it, part of being healthy and happy is getting laid regular."
Fraser feels the back of his neck grow hot and a little damp underneath his collar. "Ray, please," he hisses, all too aware that they're in a public place. What if the waitress is just slightly more curious than the average bystander? What if that little girl on the other side of the window pane has precociously developed the ability to lip-read? "Anyone could--"
Ray sighs. "Look, Fraser, I'm just asking if you're seeing anybody, okay? Tell me you're seeing somebody." He slips Dief a gravy-slathered french fry under the table; Dief, the traitor, whuffles happily and drools adoringly on Ray's knee.
"Well, I -- I mean, I don't -- " Fraser's not sure what he's supposed to say. If he could say everything he wanted to, it would be very simple: he would explain that, when intelligent entities engaged in pursuit of a thing, they generally did not continue to do so if they were consistently disappointed. But this would, of course, invite Ray to ask exactly what disappointment Fraser was referring to. And then Fraser would have to elaborate about Victoria, and Janet, and Ray himself, and that is not a situation he has any desire to be in.
He looks up into Ray's attentive gaze -- and notices an odd movement just past his right ear.
He follows it, and finds that its source is a darkly clad man on the sidewalk outside. He is moving not with a steady, business-like pace, or with a leisurely stride, but with the jerky, calculated movements of a man who's plotting a course as he's walking. In other words, he is either consulting a map as he walks, or following someone.
He is not looking at a map.
"What?" Ray says abruptly, perhaps noticing Fraser's change in demeanor. "What did you see?"
"Probably nothing," Fraser replies absently, watching the man. He follows his line of sight, allows for a sensible following distance -- and there. A woman, fair hair coiled into an enormous bun on top of her head, is walking down the road. She seems completely oblivious, and ahead of her is a dark alleyway --
Fraser shoots to his feet, dropping his fork with a clatter. "Stop that man," Fraser tells Ray in a low voice, and dashes out the door with Dief at his heels.
After all his time in Chicago, he still has not perfected the art of weaving through crowds without apologizing to every pedestrian he collides with, and so it takes him nearly half a minute to catch up to the woman. Still, he knows Ray is behind him, and will stop the suspicious individual in short order.
"Miss," he gasps, suddenly finding the distinctive golden hair right in front of him. "Miss, a moment, please -- "
He manages to clasp her shoulder with one hand, but she jerks out of his grasp and whirls to face him with one fluid movement. "What on -- oh." Her expression morphs almost immediately from irritable to amiable. Rather more than amiable, in fact. "I don't believe we've met," she says silkily, extending a hand. "You're -- a Mountie, isn't that right?"
It's about then that the smell hits him: sickly sweet, chemical, flowery, and strong enough to send him reeling back a step. Dief sneezes twice, and retreats behind Fraser's calves. "Ah -- ah, yes. My name is Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and I couldn't help but notice that you were being followed by -- "
"Fraser, you are one lucky bastard," Ray breaks in, coming through the crowd with the suspicious man in tow. "'Stop that man', my ass -- there's gotta be fifty guys out here. Just lucky I saw who you were lookin' -- uh, hi." His eyes shift between Fraser and the woman. "Uh, Stanley Kowalski, CPD, division 27. And you are..."
"Maribel Cowell," she replies smoothly, smiling, but her eyes stay on Fraser. Oh, dear.
"Ah, Ms. Cowell -- "
"Mrs."
Fraser coughs. Oh, dear. "Mrs. Cowell, do you know this man?"
Ray jerks the man forward helpfully, despite his protests, so she can see his face. She peers closely, then pulls back and shakes her head. "Can't say as I do, sorry. Any reason I should?"
Fraser nods. "He was following you."
"With a gun," Ray adds, holding it up for her to see.
Mrs. Cowell puts a hand to her throat, swallowing hard. "I -- I can't imagine why -- "
"Not to worry," Ray says, grinning humorlessly. "That's what they got guys like me for." He fists his hands in the man's collar and shoves him up against the convenient wall of a nearby bank.
"Hey, what're you -- "
"Gimme a name."
The man holds up his hands, laughing nervously. "Look, it's Zachary Taylor, but this is crazy talk -- the lady doesn't even know me, you'll never get a charge to stick."
"Oh yeah? If that gun ain't legit, mister, you'll be surprised how much that charge'll stick. 'Specially considering the special circumstances you were usin' it in." The mirth melts off of Mr. Taylor's face. "So? You wanna tell us what you think you're doing, or should we bring you down to the station and grill the snot outta you there?"
Mr. Taylor sighs. "Lay off, all right? The lady's been running around behind her husband's back. He just paid me to scare her a little, wave a gun in her face."
Mrs. Cowell inhales sharply and takes a step toward the man. "How dare you! What I do behind closed doors is not in any way your business, understand? And my husband doesn't know half what he thinks he does -- "
"Can it, lady," Mr. Taylor says tiredly. "Mr. Cowell knows everything. There's no point in denying it anymore."
Mrs. Cowell's jaw is set, and her cheeks are bright red with indignation; she makes a sudden move towards Mr. Taylor, but Ray blocks her deftly.
"This's queer," he mutters, eyes narrowing at Mrs. Cowell. "You'd both better come down to the station with me."
In the station, Mrs. Cowel clings to Fraser's side, spouting a veritable font of information that he has no desire to hear. He glances surreptitiously about for Ray, hoping frantically that Ray will find some way to extricate him from this trying situation. But Ray is already leading Mr. Taylor into interrogation room two, and Dief -- after looking doubtfully between the two of them -- bolts through the door just before Ray closes it.
Fraser grits his teeth, and tries to breathe as shallowly as possible.
"It's not that I'm the sort of woman who cheats on her husband," Mrs. Cowell's telling him earnestly.
"Oh, of course not."
"You can see that, can't you?"
"Ah, well, I -- "
"No, of course you can't. But I'm telling you now, Constable Fraser, I'm not. I swear I'm not."
"I believe you," Fraser lies, bracing for the overwhelming urge to contradict himself and tell her the truth. The first ten seconds, he's found, are the hardest to bear.
Luckily, she doesn't give him a chance to rescind his claim. "It's just that -- well, ever since we got married, Richard's been...indifferent to me, you know? Like it was the chase he was interested in, and not me at all."
"I'm sure that's not how he feels."
"Oh, that's just because you haven't met him," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "I mean, just look at this whole mess. Just three days ago we were barely speaking to each other over dinner, and now as soon as he gets an inkling of an affair, he's sent a man after me with a gun. Just, imagine what that must have cost!"
"Forgive me for saying so, Mrs. Cowell -- "
"Please, call me Maribel."
"Ah. Maribel." Fraser clears his throat uncomfortably. "As I was saying, I don't believe most people would consider that a healthy or even reasonable basis for a marriage."
Mrs. Cowell sighs and looks down at her feet. "Yes, well, it's not a healthy or reasonable marriage, is it?" She toys with a ring absently -- her wedding band, Fraser realizes. "And nothing really even happened with Harry, is the thing. We had dinner, and we had a rather, um, prolonged goodnight kiss. That's all. Because you see, Harry's an idiot, and I could never -- you know -- with an idiot.
"You, on the other hand...you're not an idiot."
Fraser flushes painfully at the sudden change of tack, and swallows hard. "I, ah, I'm glad you think so." Lord, even the tip of his nose is burning.
She laughs lightly, which helps the situation not a bit. "See? Not an idiot at all. You know, after we're done with all this, if you wanted to buy me a drink..."
Just then, Ray explodes out of the interrogation room, for all the world like an edgy, spiky-haired knight in shining armor. Fraser heaves a great inward sigh of relief, and turns to see what Ray wants, but Ray ignores him completely and makes a beeline for Mrs. Cowell. "'Scuze me, ma'am, but if I could ask you a couple of questions, that'd be -- "
"Oh, of course, Detective." She gathers up her purse cooperatively, and stands up. "Where do you want me?"
"Right down the hall, third room on the right," Ray says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. He seems completely professional, but Fraser can sense an undercurrent of energy belying his politeness. What could possibly have happened in the last three minutes? "I'll be right down." He turns to watch her go, nearly vibrating with excitement. As soon as she closes the door behind her, Fraser whips around to Fraser and says, "Fraser. We got Zachary frikkin' Taylor in there."
Fraser blinks. "Ah, yes, Ray. I was aware of that."
Ray stares at him, then throws his hands up in the air. "No, not -- shit, you don't even know who he is. Taylor's, like, this pet assassin that a couple of guys keep around to take out people they don't like."
"Which guys?"
"Not guys -- lawyers, law partners. Cowell, Hutchins, and Drake."
At this, Fraser hears a long, low whistle from the entrance to the bullpen; Detective Dewey appears to have returned from his lunch break. "You're kidding. You mean, the Cowell, Hutchins, and Drake?"
"Shut up, Dewey," Ray snaps. Fraser thinks it's excessively rude of him, but Dewey seems to have gotten used to this behavior by now, and merely shrugs. "See, here's what I figure: Mrs. Cowell's been seeing other guys, Cowell gets out of his head with jealousy and bam, hotline to the best guy with a gun he knows. My thought is, we get the wife to testify against him, we can put that crazy bastard away for years. Also," he adds as an afterthought, "my salary'll probably go through the roof."
"So wait," Dewey begins incredulously. "The guy put a hit on his wife 'cause he thought she was cheating on him? I mean, I knew he was crazy, but not that crazy."
Ray snorts. "Yeah, and get this: the only reason we got the guy was because Fraser thought the chick was hot and needed rescuing."
"Ray! I didn't -- " but Ray just winks at him and strolls jauntily down the hallway. Indignant, Fraser moves to go haring after him.
"They probably do things different where you're from," Dewey muses pensively, and this is so out of the ordinary that Fraser stops short.
"Where I'm from?"
"Yeah, the Eskimos I mean. They probably got a story for this kind of thing, something that says cheating's just another part of life, right?"
Frowning, Fraser wonders how Dewey had ever gotten that impression of Inuit society. "Ah, well, not exactly. I recall one Inuit legend in which a man stuffed his wife with vermin for being unfaithful to him, thus killing her -- "
"Christ."
" -- though I must admit that I personally wouldn't prescribe that as an advisable course of action." Fraser turns to leave again, but Dewey stops him again.
"So, what happened to the guy? Didn't he get arrested, or whatever they do up there?"
"No, actually. He remarried to a fox, who was able to take the shape of a young woman by removing her pelt. Though eventually she left him when a friend of his rudely brought attention to the musk-like odor she had brought into their home, and when she wouldn't return to him, he burned her alive and then committed suicide."
Dewey's eyes have gone wide. "Damn. Those Inuit tell pretty fucked up stories, huh."
"They can, yes." Fraser waits a moment to see if Dewey has anything else to contribute, but he seems to have been stunned into silence. "Ah, if you don't mind, I really ought to be -- "
"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Uh, have fun with the fox."
Fraser opens his mouth to protest, realizes that the attempt is probably futile, and hurries off to at least prove to Ray that he's not even slightly interested in Mrs. Cowell.
Frannie's in the middle of pulling files on Cowell, Hutchins, Drake and Taylor -- the whole station's gone into a tizzy about the guy Fraser and Ray brought in -- when Dewey walks in and says, "I did it, sucker! Fifty bucks!"
Frannie nearly drops the file she's holding. "You're kidding. You got Lisa to go out with you?" Lisa Howard, in accounting, is completely out of Dewey's league, and Dewey's been making eyes at her for months. "I coulda sworn she had better taste."
"Nah, nah, not that -- though I'm gonna do it one of these days, don't you worry." Dewey turns a triumphant grin on Huey. "No, I'm talking to you. Cough it up."
"No way you got a new story out of Fraser," Huey says disbelievingly.
"Oh, but I did."
"Are you sure it's not the one with the caribou on the mountain? Because I know how your memory is -- "
"You're a laugh riot," Dewey mutters darkly. "Come on, Jack, give me some credit."
Huey swivels his chair around to face him, folding his arms across his chest, and Frannie rolls her eyes. They always get like this about losing bets. Typical men. "All right, I'll give you some credit -- how do I know you're not making it up?"
Snickering, Dewey shakes his head. "'Cause you can't make up stuff this good. Listen." Dewey hops up onto the edge of his desk. "I was talking to Fraser and Ray about the Cowells, you know, how could a guy put a hit on his wife, that kind of thing -- "
"Yeah, yeah, get to the point, man."
"I'm getting there, all right? So all I gotta do is mention Eskimos, and the guy's off like a shot."
Finally finding the file on Taylor, Frannie turns to grab the pile of files that she's already got stacked on her desk -- but then she hesitates. It can't hurt to listen to one of Fraser's stories, can it? And he doesn't even have to know, and Welsh is busy right now anyway. "So what's the story?" she asks, leaning against the file cabinet casually.
"Yeah, just try analyzing this metaphor. There's this guy, right, and his wife cheats on him, so he kills her, because he's psychotic. Then a couple years later, this other girl comes along, only she's a fox -- I mean, actually a fox, like woof-woof -- "
"Foxes don't say 'woof'," Frannie sneers. "They're not dogs."
"Fine, then what do they say?"
"I don't know, but not woof."
"Never mind," Huey breaks in. "Keep telling the story -- my money's on the line, here."
"Right, right, so anyway, this girl shows up, only then the guy's buddy makes fun of the way she smells, so she runs away and won't come back."
"She smells?" Frannie repeats, wrinkling up her nose.
"Yeah, well, I guess foxes can't keep the best hygiene. Anyway, he gets so mad at her for leaving him, he burns her alive." Dewey grins proudly. "So whaddaya make of that?"
Huey frowns. "That's not the end of the story, is it? I mean, what happens to him after that?"
"I dunno, he lives alone 'til the end of his days. Not important. The important thing is, what's the moral? What's it mean?"
Huey shrugs. "Maybe...you've got to pick friends with a little tact?"
"Maybe. I could've sworn it was about the chicks, though."
Frannie starts to think it over in earnest as they start coming up with stupider and stupider ideas. Sure, if a guy like them had told the story, they might have guessed it. But Fraser's different. He's intelligent and educated and sensitive, and so there's got to be something really important buried in here -- and then it hits her. "I got it!" she crows triumphantly.
Dewey stops mid-sentence to raise an eyebrow at her. "Oh really."
She ignores that. "Get this: the fox isn't really a fox. I mean, whoever heard of a fox that could turn into a person? I haven't. So that means that the fox is really a woman in a fox skin. And she was so amazing that not only did she win his heart even after the trauma of getting cheated on, but he couldn't even bring himself to find somebody else after her. She's the woman to end all women. In other words," she concludes, flourishing victoriously with the file on Taylor, "Fraser likes women in fur coats."
Huey and Dewey stare at her blankly. "Uh, Frannie, why don't you leave the detecting to the detectives," Huey suggests finally.
"Why? What's wrong with it?" She puts her hands on her hips and glares at them. "You know, I took a poetry class last semester -- "
"Yeah, well, this isn't poetry. It's folklore," Dewey tells her, like all of a sudden he some kind of expert.
"Besides," Huey adds, "why would he give Dewey a hint about his type? I'm pretty sure that he doesn't want Dewey setting him up with anybody."
Frannie rolls her eyes and picks up the rest of the files on her desk. "Whatever," she mutters, and heads over to Welsh's office. She doesn't have to put up with them; she'll just show them how wrong they are.
Welsh has grown pretty accustomed to finding strange things in his bullpen. Drag queens, clowns, elves, Mounties. Deaf half-wolves. At eight thirty in the morning, he's got so he doesn't even notice them anymore -- just barrels blindly through, tries to avoid running into anything, and takes refuge in the relative safety of his office.
This is probably why he doesn't notice Francesca until about eight thirty-five, when she brings him his morning cup of coffee. "Ms. Vecchio," he starts slowly, feeling the formidable beast of acid reflux stirring. "Have you received a recent pay raise that I don't know about?"
Fraser stares at him blankly for a moment, then looks down at herself and lets out a startled hiccup of a laugh. "Oh, you mean this," she says, smoothing the magnificent fur coat that had drawn his attention. "No, I borrowed it from Maria. Tony bought it for her when he -- well, never mind."
Welsh reaches for his coffee and settles back into his chair. "And why, might I ask, are you wearing a fur coat indoors in the middle of April?"
"I -- well, it's Chicago! It's cold in April!" Frannie braces her hands on her hips indignantly. "And -- and, well, I'm kind of doing an experiment."
"Oh?" Welsh sips his coffee cautiously. "You know, I don't usually like my employees engaging in scientific endeavors in my police station. I had this terrible experience, in my youth, with a test tube and a propane torch -- "
"Oh, no no no, sir, it's nothing like that! It's, uh, a psychological experiment. On people."
"On people?"
"Um, well, one person."
"And that would be..."
"Fraser, sir."
Oh, well, of course. He sighs heavily; however much the good Constable has done to aid the efforts of this police station, Welsh isn't so sure that he hasn't undone it all by flustering every female he's come in contact with. It's impressive, but it's also damn irritating. "Francesca..."
She waves her hands at him frantically, apparently trying to fend off his disapproval. "No, see, you don't get it -- it's all Dewey's fault!"
This, he has to hear. He raises his eyebrows and motions for her to continue.
"See, Dewey was talking to Fraser about the Cowell case, and Fraser told him this story, where this guy had this wife, only she was cheating on him, so he killed her, but then he met this other girl in a fox skin, and she was perfect except she smelled a little, but he didn't care because they were in love, you know, only then his stupid friend made fun of how she smelled and she was so embarrassed that she ran away, and when she didn't come back the guy killed her too, which was a mistake because she was the perfect woman, and he lived alone all his life after that." Francesca takes a huge gulp of air, adjusts the fur coat on her shoulders, and watches him expectantly.
Welsh has to take a moment to process all that, but even when he does, he's just as lost as he was before, and just a little closer to getting an ulcer from the indirect exposure to the constable's storytelling abilities. "So how is this all Dewey's fault again?"
"Well, I realized that Fraser was, albeit inadvertently, alerting us of his preference for women in fur coats. Obviously. But Dewey didn't believe me, so I've got to prove I wa right. It's very important for the group dynamic, sir," she says seriously.
Feeling a little out of his depth, Welsh scrubs a hand across his face. "So really, this is all part of a professional endeavor to become a better civilian aide."
She spreads her hands and smiles just a little too broadly. "Entirely professional, sir. I have no interest in, uh, Constable Fraser." She titters nervously, and clasps her hands in front of her stomach like she's praying.
Welsh studies her for a few long minutes, drinking his coffee and watching her over the rim of his cup. She squirms a little under the scrutiny, and eventually he decides to put her out of her misery. "All right, fine," he mutters, leaning forward to start sorting through all the papers he has to deal with. "Just -- make sure it doesn't interfere with the Cowell case, all right? This is important," but she's already beaming at him and scrambling to let herself out.
"Thank you -- thank you, sir, you won't regret it." And then she's gone. Welsh shakes his head and lets out a chuckle. Who's he kidding? The whole thing was bullshit, and he knows it -- but part of him's curious to see how Red's going to react, and that's not too much to ask for.
"Ray! Where's Fraser?"
Ray blinks stupidly at Frannie's face, which just put itself between him and Welsh's office for no obvious reason. She looks happy to see him, and she's wearing -- whoa, boy. "Uh, Frannie, get outta my way, I got work to do."
"Is he at the Consulate? Can you call him?" Jeez, but she's just not letting it go today.
"No, I can't," he says, brushing past her, "because I've gotta get my warrant and clear this with Welsh and then go pick him up so we can bust Cowell before the guy twigs, do you mind?" He shoves his way through Welsh's door, and just barely catches Frannie saying, "You have got to be kidding me," before the door clicks shut.
Welsh looks up at him, surprised, probably because usually people knock before barging in on him. "Uh, sorry, sir, just Frannie was following me and I -- what's with her, anyway?"
Welsh sighs and shakes his head. "You sure you want to know?"
Ray debates that for a moment, then nods. Even if Frannie's got no chance with Fraser, Ray's still got to keep tabs on her, because -- well, just because. Doesn't matter why.
Welsh drops his pen and gives Ray a look that's probably supposed to be amused. Difficult to tell. "Seems Fraser told Dewey one of those Inuit stories he's so fond of, where this one guy kills his wife because she's unfaithful to him, then takes up with this fox who can turn into a woman even though she's kind of musky." Ray blinks at this, but doesn't say anything. "Then a friend of his makes fun of the way she smells, and she runs away. He gets mad and kills her. Real tragic."
Ray rubs at the back of his head, still confused, though that's really not a surprise. "Yeah, well, those Inuit stories can get pretty dark."
"No kidding."
"Still, what's Frannie care? And what's it got to do with the coat?"
"Ah, well," Welsh starts, steepling his fingers on his chest, which Ray knows is a sure sign that Welsh thinks Frannie's nuts, "our Ms. Vecchio has decided that hidden in this seemingly worthless story is a gem of knowledge: that Constable Fraser has a fondness for women in fur coats."
Ray's mind suddenly goes completely blank. He stares at Welsh, trying to think of something, anything to say, but the only thing that seems to fit in his head is Oh God, Frannie's gonna get Fraser. Frannie's gonna get Fraser instead of me 'cause he likes chicks in fur and I ain't got any of that.
Then, of course, he remembers that this is Frannie that they're talking about. If Fraser's safe from anybody, it's Frannie. "Uh, that Frannie's got some screws loose, doesn't she," he offers lamely, because Welsh is looking at him like he might be a head case and never thought to tell anybody. "Anyway, I was just stoppin' by because I figured you'd want to know when I headed out to the Cowells', so, uh, here I am."
Welsh nods once, completely serious again. "Take back-up with you. Be careful, and good luck."
"Thanks, sir," Ray says, and lets himself out. Frannie says something to him when he walks past her desk, but he doesn't hear it; he's too wrapped up in his own head.
So, okay, maybe Fraser's Inuit stories usually don't got a point. That doesn't mean this one doesn't -- since when do the Inuit write stories about handling women, anyway, or anything even remotely useful? And what are the chances that Fraser's gonna start telling stories like that right after he meets Mrs. I-Talk-Like-A-Canadian-And Still-Have-Great-Legs Cowell? That can't be a coincidence.
He shoves his car key in the lock, pulls the door open, and starts the car. If he hadn't driven this route five hundred times before, he'd probably crash into something, because he can't stop thinking about that fucking story. It's gotta be about the girl. Frannie's got it wrong; Fraser's never gonna go for the needless slaughter of animals.
Musk, though...what was it Fraser said about Luanne? Musk-like animal awareness? And if Luanne was hot, which she was, even if she didn't pay her taxes and couldn't forgive a simple mistake, then maybe Fraser's not blind, and "musk" is some kind of secret Canadian code word for "attractive". Or, hell, maybe Fraser doesn't even look, he just sniffs. Which means that Fraser can probably smell the old tobacco in all Ray's shirts, and the cheap aftershave he uses, and maybe even that stuffy-apartment smell that Ray can never get to go away. And no way can that compete with Maribel Cowell, who's all flowers and linen and nice, girly smells.
So, he lost. Not exactly a surprise -- hell, he'd been pushing Fraser onto Mrs. Cowell with everything he had, because he was too fucking afraid to just say something. Still, that doesn't mean he has to like it.
With a start, he realizes that he's about to miss the turn into the Consulate's parking lot, so he slams on the brakes and veers across the road with a screech. Fraser's standing outside the building, watching Dief sniff around the tulip beds, and he gives Ray an odd look when he pulls up.
"Ray, are you quite all right?" Fraser asks, coaxing Dief into the backseat.
"I'm fine, Fraser. Get in already -- we got a job to do."
Ray doesn't speak much on the drive back to the Consulate, which suits Fraser well enough. He's -- shaken, he has to admit. Though he'd known what was going to happen, and hadn't been especially bothered by it earlier, he can't erase Mrs. Cowell's face from his memory.
She'd been framed in an upstairs window of their massive house, watching raptly as her husband fought the police officers and swore and tried vainly to get back inside the house, most likely so that he could strike her. And though she'd said, herself, that her marriage was neither healthy nor reasonable, that the greatest attention he'd paid to her lately was to send an assassin after her, that she'd been driven to seek the affection of other men -- still, despite all these things, actually seeing her husband in the grips of blind rage seemed to have driven her into a state of numb shock. She'd been so still that her face might have been sculpted from ice, or stone, something brittle enough to crack. No, it was more than that -- she'd looked lost, as though she'd been plucked up from the world she lived in and dropped into some strange alternate dimension.
Fraser imagines, now, what Mrs. Cowell had bitterly called "the chase". A time when the two of them had spent time together, talked together, perhaps even convinced themselves that they loved one another. For all Mrs. Cowell's dismissive behavior, surely it had cost her something to lose that, and it was this that had wrought that expression on her face. Even the most twisted relationships, he knows, can have its good moments.
"I saw you lookin' at her."
Fraser turns his head, startled. "I suppose I was, yes," he admits. "She had -- well, a most striking expression on her face."
Ray doesn't make any immediate reply to this; his jaw flexes as he works at the gum wedged between his teeth, and for a moment Fraser forgets not to stare. "welsh told me about that story you told Dewey," Ray says finally, and Fraser frowns at the non-sequitur. "Fox-women and musk, huh? Pretty, uh, racy."
"I beg to differ. The man in question was a psychotic serial murderer who likely engaged in domestic abuse, as well."
"Uh, yeah. Right." Ray snaps his gum. "You know, Fraser, Maribel can change her perfume. Just, you know, go to the store, buy something else. Easy."
Fraser's starting to get whiplash from Ray's constant change of topic. This isn't, all in all, an entirely unfamiliar experience. "Oh, I'm well aware. Though it is interesting that many people seem to commit to a certain scent for years, even decades -- "
"See, that's the thing, Fraser, commitment," Ray cuts in, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "That is not the kind of woman you're gonna get anything like commitment from. She couldn't even commit to her husband; what makes you think a girl like that's gonna commit to a perfume?"
"Ah." The light begins to dawn. "Ray, I thought you wanted me to pursue Mrs. Cowell."
"Admit you thought she was attractive, yeah, sure. Pursue, no. That's just stupid, Fraser; people like her are only good for a one-night stand, and you're just not that kind of guy." Ray brakes a little more suddenly than he really needs to, and Fraser peers at him carefully.
"Ray, I can't begin to imagine how I can prove this to you, but I really have no interest in Mrs. Cowell." His tone of voice must have drawn Ray's attention, because Ray glances over at him quickly before executing a bizarre series of cutoffs in the intersection. "And as for her perfume, well, I wish she'd get rid of it entirely. It's rather overwhelming; neither Dief nor I can breathe freely around her without risking suffocation," Fraser finishes irritably, finally realizing just how much that perfume has been irking him over the past two days.
Ray stops at a traffic light and takes advantage of the lull in action to stare at Fraser openly. "So, you mean, this whole time -- "
"Not in the slightest."
"Oh."
Ray doesn't say anything more for the rest of the car ride, and though Fraser tries valiantly not to feel awkward, he doesn't entirely succeed. It's only, he tells himself, because Ray's embarrassed at having read me so inaccurately. That's all. But he seems more distracted than embarrassed; he's thinking about something very intently, and Fraser hasn't a clue what it is, and that's more unnerving than he'd like to admit.
When Ray brings the car to a somewhat rocky stop in front of the Consulate, though, Fraser doesn't confront him. He just says, "Thank you for the ride, Ray," before letting Dief out of the back seat and walking up to the Consulate. Whatever Ray's worried about, he'll talk about it eventually.
"Uh, Fraser?"
Fraser turns to find Ray clambering out of his car hurriedly. "What is it?"
"You wanna go for dinner with me?" Ray blurts out, and then flushes bright red. "I mean, not -- not like usual, but -- fuck, I hate this part." He looks at Fraser for -- support, words, something, but whatever it is, he doesn't get it. Fraser can only stare. "I was gonna ask you before this whole mess," he explains finally, gesturing expansively at the Consulate, the sidewalk, and the car. "I told myself, I'm gonna make sure Fraser's not interested in anybody else, and then I'm gonna suck it up and ask him. Only I was so chickenshit I decided you were interested in the first chick that hit on you, just so I wouldn't have to do it, and that was stupid of me, so I'm sorry, but I'm asking you now. So. Um. You wanna go to dinner with me?"
Fraser's tongue seems to have been glued to the top of his mouth. He unsticks it, runs his tongue over his dry lips. "Er. Yes?"
Ray nods once, slowly, his whole body seeming to absorb the undulation. "Uh, great. So, Saturday maybe? Anywhere you want, we can pick the place later if you want, doesn't matter."
There's cotton in Fraser's brain, and it's getting in the way of all of his useful abilities, like forming complete original sentences that accurately reflect his mental state. "Saturday sounds lovely, Ray. I'll see you then."
Ray bobs his head up and down again agreeably enough, and so Fraser decides that he is now supposed to open the door and resume his regular evening routine, which had not previously involved being propositioned by Ray Kowalski. So he lets Dief in ahead of him, shuts the door behind him -- and immediately finds himself pinned to the wall by his own terror, completely unable to move. "My God, Dief," he whispers. "What the hell does he expect me to do?"
Dief, rather unhelpfully, merely sits back on his haunches and watches Fraser with mild, detached interest, for all the world as though he expects Fraser to present him with some sort of performance entertainment.
Ray watches Fraser's back disappear inside the Consulate, then slowly collapses in a boneless heap against the Goat. God, the only way that could've gone worse was if Fraser had actually looked disgusted and said no -- though he's not even sure if Fraser knows what he's just said yes to, the way he's acting.
Ray stiffens suddenly, reviewing everything he just said, then groans and starts to bang his head in the roof of his car. God, of all the times to get tongue-tied -- Fraser probably thinks he's completely insane, getting his feathers all ruffled about grabbing dinner two whole days from now. He didn't even explain the bit where he likes guys. He didn't even ask if Fraser likes guys, and since he probably doesn't, he probably didn't think anything about Ray stuttering and rambling and giving himself a stroke in the middle of a sidewalk.
There's nothing to do about it now, though, so Ray yanks the car door open and practically falls inside, he's shaking so bad from the adrenaline hangover. Three tries to get the key in the ignition, and he figures that he probably shouldn't be driving like this. So he folds his arms across the steering wheel and buries his face in them, just in case he starts crying, which he sometimes does when he's stressed and lonely and worried that he just fucked up the best thing he had in this fucking stupid undercover life --
There's a tap on his window. Great. Just what he needs, the Ice Queen coming to tell him that he's double parked, like he doesn't know that, thank you very much -- but when he lifts his head, Fraser's standing there. Ray just looks at him for two or three seconds, then starts to roll down his window, not sure what he's going to say: "Hey, Fraser, sorry, did I ever mention I got a twin brother? Gay as a fucking maypole, and you're just his type. Sorry about that."
Luckily, he doesn't have to come up with anything, 'cause about as soon as there's enough space for Fraser to get his hands in, he's grabbing Ray's collar and pulling him up out of his seat for a long, sweet kiss that knocks all the air out of his lungs.
Ray gasps when Fraser pulls back, blood rushing through his ears. "Fraser -- "
"Ray, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be -- " but what exactly Fraser didn't mean to be, Ray's got no clue, because Fraser's kissing him again like he can't stop, and that's just fine with Ray --
Wait. No. Stop. "Fraser," Ray rasps, pushing Fraser back a step. "We can't -- not here. Thatcher -- "
Miraculously, Fraser actually gets it. "Then I suggest we go somewhere else," he says, totally coherent, if a little breathless, and rounds the side of the car in record time. Ray, for his part, works on getting the car started. Three tries to get the key into the ignition, only this time it's because he's trying so hard not to laugh.
"What?" Fraser demands. "What?"
Ray shakes his head, and a crazed giggle escapes his throat. "I was just thinking, you know -- so much for taking it slow."
--fin
Note: The Inuit stories in question are The Fox Wife and The Faithless Wife. They're basically the same story, but one of them has a bunch more drama than the other for some reason.