[fic: what else would you have me be? Mike Sweeney/Ray Kowalski, rated MA]

[inathunderstorm]

Title: what else would you have me be?
Author: sionnain
Fandom: Due South/Durham County crossover (setting is ambiguous, it's sometime after Season 1; written prior to Season 2, so we'll say AU)
Pairing: Ray Kowalski/Mike Sweeney (background Fraser/Vecchio, a touch of unrequited Fraser/Kowalski)
Rating: MA
Warnings: Kink, specifically S&M. Nothing graphic, though there is a kink element to Mike and Ray's relationship, so I'm mentioning it. Also, there is biting. And angst. :D?
Spoilers: Season 1 of Durham County.
Word Count: 10,700
Summary: Ray and Mike go to Toronto to visit Mike's daughter, Sadie. Ray thinks a lot about baggage; the kind we carry and the kind we leave behind.

AN: This started out life intending to be a porntastic one-shot, because Mike Sweeney/Ray Kowalski is hot like breathing, okay? Instead, it got a plot and I threw in some clever (ha, ha) formatting with tenses, and, well, here it is. ::hands:: You can read this if you don't know Durham County, though it might spoil you for the first season if you're planning on watching.

Title/quote is from the Lucero song by the same name.

My utmost thanks to Waltzforanight for beta'ing this monstrosity. It was actually going to be a porny one-shot *for her*, and then instead I gave her 10K+ to beta. She's pretty awesome, is all I'm saying. Any remaining mistakes are most assuredly my own.



what else would you have me be?

and i'd take you out at night/buy you cigarettes and whiskey drinks
always end up in some fight/ain't that the way good love has gotta be?

Ray's waiting by the gate, slouched low in the seat, hands folded across his stomach. He's tired, and the bright light filtering through the wide, uncovered windows is hurting his eyes. His sunglasses are in his bag at his feet. It's a good bag, sturdy-he bought it at an outpost in Canada, before he and Fraser's trip to find the Hand of Franklin a few years ago. It's a little beat up now, even though he's used it in far more airports and trains than dogsleds or snowshoes-but still serviceable.

If he were in the mood for metaphors, there'd be one in there somewhere. But he's not in the mood.

Ray looks down and thinks about reaching in and finding his sunglasses. He doesn't move, just looks back at the little screen above the door and squints, sees his destination--Toronto--in thick, bold red letters, the departure time printed above it in blue.

Going back to Canada, Ray thinks at the bag, and kicks it once for good measure.

* * *

Mike comes back with a couple of cups of coffee and a scowl, the set of his shoulders tense. There's a vicious look in his eyes that makes Ray both nervous and turned on. Mike'd left Ray at the gate to take a call on his cell, and by the look of him, it hadn't gone well.

There's only one person Mike fights with on the phone anymore. He and Audrey's phone calls are tense but not angry; Mike told him once if they'd had the passion to be angry, they'd still be married. Ray'd remembered those last few months with Stella and thought that wasn't true, but then he remembered Fraser taking him back to the airport in the Middle of Nowhere Canada, silence loud in the cab of the truck, and thought maybe it was.

It has to be Sadie. That kid can rile Mike up like nothing else. Ray doesn't have kids so it doesn't know if that's how it is for all parents everywhere or if it's just Mike and Sadie. All he knows is Sadie is Mike in girl-form, the same temper that goes from icy cold to sudden burning hot in seconds, all that anger like the fucking world is against her.

“Kiddo still mad?” Ray asks Mike, glancing up at him. Mike's fingers tighten on the coffee cups and he shoves one at Ray.

“Kid's always mad,” Mike says, voice tight. “Here's your fucking coffee.”

There is a couple across from them, young, maybe early twenties. They are curled towards each other, holding hands, staring at each other like there's no one else in the world. For them, there probably isn't. Ray wants to tell them that's not going to last, that no matter how you try to shove the world out it always comes back in. There's always someone prettier, someone better, hovering just on the outskirts of that little happy bubble you've made for yourselves. Sometimes it's not someone at all, sometimes it's just life, and there's fuck-all you can do about it except sign the divorce papers and move on.

Ray takes his coffee and spares the poor kids his lecture, because some things you gotta figure out on your own. Some of the coffee spills over the top and lands on his hand. It burns-Ray hisses out a breath through his teeth-and when he glances up at Mike again, Mike's staring at him like he wants to bend Ray backwards over the row of uncomfortable chairs and fuck him senseless. Ray shifts the coffee to his left hand and raises his right, licking at the small circle of burned skin on his wrist. He holds Mike's gaze the entire time. For a minute, they're staring at each other like there's nothing else in the whole world, so fuck, maybe his lectures don't mean a goddamned thing.

“Sorry,” Ray says, and he's not sure if he's apologizing for Sadie or for teasing Mike in public, even though probably no one would ever realize that's what Ray just did, unless the kids across from them are a lot kinkier than they look. Then again, a couple of forty-something cops--one bald with eyes like a fucking hawk, one spiky-haired blond with a ratty t-shirt and motorcycle boots--they probably don't look very kinky, either.

Mike shrugs. “She'll be all right.” He doesn't sound sure.

“Sure,” Ray says, and he doesn't, either. He grins at Mike, sharp and slow. “She's just like you. You turned out okay.”

To his surprise, Mike smiles. It takes the edge off the dangerous coldness of his expression, and something hot flares in his eyes. He rummages in his pocket and pulls out a packet of candy. “Here's your Smarties.”

“M&Ms,” Ray mutters, grabbing at them, uncapping his coffee and opening the packet of candy to dump some inside. “We're not in Canada yet. Sit the fuck down, you're too tall and it's making me fucking nervous.”

Mike reaches out, casual-like, and rubs his fingers over the back of Ray's neck. His fingers tighten briefly, just past the point of comfort, and Ray's entire body floods with heat. He can feel the burn flare up on his hand, can feel every-fucking-thing, every nerve in his body fire-lit at the touch.

“I like making you nervous,” Mike says, voice low, and drops his hand. Then he laughs. “Good job, Kowalski.”

Ray's spilled half his candy on his lap instead of in his coffee. He curses and picks them up, one brightly-colored piece of candy at a time, as Mike takes his seat next to him. They have twenty minutes until they're supposed to board.

“She gonna be there?” Ray asks, re-capping the coffee and taking a sip. It's too hot, but he welcomes the slight burn against his tongue, on the inside of his cheeks. He's stopped being surprised about the weird shit he's into after the first time with Mike.

“Yeah. She'll be there.” Mike tilts his head back, closes his eyes. “She doesn't really hate you, you know. It's just me she's mad at."

“Yeah, I know.” Ray says, grinning a little. “Just you and the rest of the world.”

“She gets that from me,” Mike says, deadpan, but Ray can see the slight curve of his smile. It's tired but genuine. “I just meant, don't take it personally.”

Ray laughs. “I'd say that I don't, but I take everything personally. We're a fucking bad pair, Sweeney.”

“That we are, Kowalski. That we are.” Mike holds his fist out, and Ray fistbumps it solemnly, and then drops his back into his lap.

The couple across the way is staring at them. Ray stares back until they look away.

* * *

The thing with Mike started soon after they met, when the Durham police force sent him to Chicago to help Ray chase down a serial killer. Mike had been on the case up there, and he'd ended up catching a copycat killer. He'd come to Chicago, newly-divorced and mad at the world and everyone in it, gunning to prove himself.

Ray had been in Chicago, working at the 2-7, all wound-tight and simmering anger for reasons he kept ignoring in favor of cheap whiskey and meaningless one-night-stands. Ray'd wanted to hit Mike the first day they met, and the feeling had apparently been mutual. Ray had really been clueless about why he'd been so determined to start a fucking fight with the guy, because yeah, Ray was a twitchy bastard but he wasn't usually violent for no reason.

And then, they'd been working late and frustrated at their lack of progress, they'd ended up bitching at each other and Ray had thrown a punch. Mike had backed him up against a wall and Ray had felt that slow burn of anger flare up into something hot and bright, something he hadn't felt since he got that call from Fraser about him and Vecchio getting married up there in Canada. And Ray had hated how he'd felt then and he hated Mike fucking Sweeney making him feel that way again, and the next thing he'd known, Mike's mouth was on his and he was hurting Ray and Ray was hard and aching and wanting it so fucking bad he couldn't breathe.

Never mind Ray had always thought he was straight, or that Mike always pissed him off. Mike wanted to hurt someone and Ray wanted someone to hurt him, and that seemed to be just enough to get them into bed.

They fucked before they ever really even liked each other; late nights in Mike's hotel room, case files and beer cans littering the small table, sheets a tangled, sweaty mess on the bed. Ray had a lot of fond memories of that hotel; long, hot showers that hurt his bruised skin, driving too fast with the windows down as he headed home on empty streets, the sun breaking pale over the dim gray Chicago dawn.

That hadn't been that long ago, those quiet drives with Springsteen on the stereo, running all the lights on his way home. And Ray had thought, okay, this is a brand-new thing, but don't get used to it because when this case is over, Mike will go back to Canada. It will be over, finished, one (really fucking weird) chapter of Ray's life that he'll pull out and look at later and go what the fuck was I thinking? People always left Ray for some reason or the other, usually because Ray wasn't the person they wanted him to be. His dad wanted him to be a doctor or a lawyer or a business executive, anything but a cop. Ray had never really figured out what Stella wanted him to be, other than not-him. Fraser wanted Ray Vecchio, the real one, both as a partner and as a lover. And Mike-Mike would want to see his kids, Mike missed Canadian beer, Mike thought American hockey players were pussies.

Except they solved the case, and Mike didn't go home. And after the dust from the case settled and their guy was behind bars looking at six consecutive life sentences, Mike was still there. And Ray almost didn't know how to deal with that, and he didn't know if he could do it again, watch someone stay for awhile and then leave him for not being what they wanted him to be.

Except that Ray was, apparently, exactly what Mike wanted. Which didn't really make much sense, but Ray wasn't going to argue about it.

Three days after Mike moved in-which Ray was still not entirely sure how that happened, exactly-Ray called Fraser.

* * *

Their flight gets delayed, first twenty minutes, then twenty more. Ray's finishes his coffee, drinks even the cold dregs at the bottom, too sweet from the melted chocolate. Mike's got his eyes closed, leaning back, looking relaxed. Which means he's not really asleep, because Ray knows what it takes to relax Mike, and they'd get arrested for doing that in public.

“You're not fooling me,” Ray tells him, putting his coffee cup at his feet. He's jittery and he needs some food, the caffeine and the sugar on his empty stomach is making him more restless than usual and slightly nauseous.

Mike, predictably, doesn't answer. The woman at the kiosk comes on and says in an apologetic voice that their plane is being delayed an hour due to weather. Ray stands up, he's got too much energy to sit still any longer.

“I'm gonna go for a walk,” Ray says, and heads off down the terminal. Mike knows Ray well enough to know Ray will be back. As he walks down the concourse he thinks about this trip they're taking, to see Sadie. Mike's been tense about it since he set up a month ago, because it's all Audrey wanted in the divorce, for Mike and the kids to “have a good relationship”, as if that was possible after all the shit that went down before Mike left Durham. Maddie still doesn't really want to see him, still blames him for her parents' divorce. Mike's been to Durham to see her a few times, but Ray's never gone with him.

Audrey won't let Maddie come to Chicago.

Dealing with Sadie-Ray thinks she's a trip, every inch her father's daughter. Same hawklike gaze, same sharp mind. She'd bought “Kowalski's my partner in Chicago” for approximately four seconds before she'd figured out what the score was. She doesn't so much seem pissed off that Ray's a guy as much as she just seems pissed off in general.

Sadie's eventually going to need to find some way of working through all that anger so she doesn't grow up bitter and pissed at the world. Ray asked Mike once if he'd be okay with her using the same coping skills Mike used. Mike had just stared at him, then shrugged. “As long as whoever she's with, they're agreeable. I don't want to have to get her ass out of jail,” was all he'd said, before telling Ray to stop thinking about his kid like that.

Mike is a little less angry these days. Ray's not sure if that's him, exactly-they don't talk about this shit, they just do their thing and it's like it is and it's fine, it works. Mike puts up with Ray's twitchiness and cigarettes, and Ray puts up with Mike's weird Canadian beer and Canadian sports teams, and they have bourbon and Canadian whisky-with-no-e in the cabinet, and hey, that's good enough for Ray.

There are times when Mike laughs and there's no edge to it, and Ray can even get him to dance on occasion. A few times they've been out and picked up a girl; they all have a good time and Mike doesn't leave with her in the morning or get her number or anything, so that's okay. Ray's used to people leaving, and he keeps waiting for Mike to join the ranks of People Who Leave Ray, but Mike doesn't. Ray wakes up and Mike's still there, every morning, and if he's not there when Ray falls asleep-well, he shows up sometime during the night, and that's okay, too.

* * *

Mike was there while Ray made the call to Fraser in Canada, watching the baseball game on mute. Afterwards Mike fixed him with a look and said, “Okay?” and Ray said, “Yeah,” and they'd watched Aliens and Ray had been a little manic and wound up and ended up straddling Mike on the couch, saying c'mon, please, until Mike gave him what he needed to calm down.

A couple days later, Mike went outside on the balcony and called Audrey. They talked for a long time, and when he hung up, Mike smoked two of Ray's cigarettes and poured himself a pretty serious glass of Crown. Ray didn't ask if Mike was okay after he came back inside, they just went to bed early (as in, three o'clock in the afternoon) and Ray had bruises on his back for a week that hurt whenever he sat down and distracted the hell out of him at work.

Ray's only ever talked to Audrey on the phone--by accident, when she's called for Mike--but she's never been anything but polite to him. Sure, it was the kind of polite that's just on the edge of chilly, but Ray supposed he couldn't really blame her. He tried to imagine her with Mike, what their life together was like before she'd gotten cancer and before Mike's partner had been killed, but he couldn't. It was too hard to picture Mike before any of that. It was the same with him-Ray Kowalski before Stella, before Fraser, was no one Mike Sweeney had ever met.

When Mike talked about his life, he talked about Durham. Ray had a weird desire to visit the place, though he's never mentioned it. It was the same hesitation he had about suggesting they go visit Fraser and Vecchio, even though of course, Fraser has invited them. It's almost like he doesn't want the people they are now to meet the people they used to be, or something.

Besides, whenever Ray thought about Mike Sweeney and Benton Fraser in the same room, he had to go lie down.

* * *

Ray walks down the terminal, towards a little shop that just says News. There's a lot of Cubs merchandise, generic Chicago stuff. Ray sees a little bear with a pennant that says I love Chicago! and buys it for Sadie on a whim.

He walks further and finds a sandwich shop with a short line, selling over-priced sandwiches with limp lettuce and wilted tomatoes. He buys a couple and some chips, gets a large bottle of water (this feast is more than the souvenir bear, practically more than the plane tickets) and heads back to the gate.

Mike's awake, staring straight ahead. Ray feels sorry for the poor bastard who is across the room and in his direct line of sight-Mike's not really looking at them, but they won't know that. Ray sits down and shoves a sandwich at him. “Here.”

Mike takes the sandwich, unwraps it, takes a disinterested bite. He makes a face. "This is terrible."

"Yeah." Ray leans back, looks over at the couple. They're-oh, Jesus, they're rubbing noses. He catches Mike's gaze--Mike rolls his eyes, and Ray grins and snorts out a laugh. He uncaps the water and takes a long drink before handing it over. He finishes half his sandwich before he gives up, and he and Mike split the chips. Airport food sucks.

They're called to board the plane about ten minutes later. Mike and Ray stand next to each other, waiting to go through the checkpoint onto the beltway. The young couple are in front of them, arms wound around each other's waist.

Mike leans down a little and says, “If we have sit by them, I might throw up. Just so you know.”

“Thanks for the warning, that's buddies.” Ray pulls out his boarding pass from his Sports Illustrated magazine, handing it over to the gate attendant.

Their seats are in the exit row, which sucks for the view but means they have more leg room. Ray sits by the window, snaps his seatbelt and leans his head back against the seat. Flying used to make him nervous until he took that trip with Fraser to Canada. Now, as long as the plane trip doesn't end with him jumping out onto an ice field, Ray figures he's doing okay. He mostly just sleeps, or listens to music, or gets annoyed with the fucking impossible crossword in the in-flight magazine.

They don't have a third person in their row, and the flight's not long enough for an in-flight movie. Mike didn't bring anything along with him; no book, no MP3 player, nothing to do but think. Which, fine for him, but Ray can't imagine that's any fun.

“You want my magazine when I'm done?” Ray asks him, ignoring the spiel from the flight attendants about safety procedures. He kind of feels bad that no one listens to them, but if the plane is going down, he doesn't think he'll be remembering the correct way to turn his seat into a raft or whatever it is they're trying to demonstrate.

“No. All they got in there is crap American sports, the hockey coverage sucks.”

“That's cause Canadian sports suck,” Ray says, flipping the page.

“You suck.”

“Your mom sucks,” Ray answers automatically.

Mike hits him upside the head. “Don't talk shit about my mom, Kowalski.”

Ray rubs the back of his head. “You're gonna get bored, you know. It's a long flight. Even you can't brood that long without a break, Sweeney.”

Mike shakes his head. “No, I'm not going to get bored,” he says quietly, slouching low in his seat. He's trying to look benign, harmless. He can't pull it off if his eyes are open. Which they are, and looking at Ray, and Ray suddenly has a pretty good idea how Mike's going to amuse himself because fuck, he knows that look.

After they take off, Mike's hand falls to the side, lying warm against Ray's thigh. Mike shifts like he's trying to find a comfortable position in which to fall asleep, but his fingers tighten on Ray's thigh enough that it hurts. Ray sucks in a breath, looks out of the window, tries not to moan or do anything that's going to cause anyone to look at him. Getting hurt for fun is a freaky enough hobby, he doesn't need to add getting watched while doing it to the list.

“Hey,” Mike says, and his voice is low, insistent. “Look at me, Kowalski.”

Mike very rarely calls him Ray.

* * *

When Mike first told him about what happened with Ray Prager, they were lying in Mike's hotel bed, the covers twisted around them like ropes, Ray's body thrumming with pain and sex and the weird, quiet calm in his head. Ray had tried a lot of shit to make his brain shut up, from casual sex to liquor, and nothing had ever worked quite like the Mike Sweeney method.

Mike was lying on his back, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting over his eyes. He had bites on his chest--Ray gave back as good as he got, because Mike liked that, too-and then he started talking.

“I said I shot him, but it wasn't me. It was Sadie. I didn't even know she had a gun. My kid shot a guy, Kowalski. A guy who wanted to rape her.”

Ray knew just a little about what went down in Durham, Welsh had given him the file when he'd told Ray that Mike would be coming to Chicago. Some pretty bad shit-murder, cover-ups, sounded like a made-for-tv-movie. Ray knew Mike had been charged with killing someone, but it'd turned out to be the guy who'd set him up.

A guy who happened to be named Ray.

Mike told him the story that night, in a flat, emotionless voice. About Nathalie, and Audrey, about Sadie and Claire. And Ray, he never shut up, not usually, but he'd laid there and listened to Mike and didn't have the first fucking clue what to say.

When he was finished, Mike took his arm away from his face, turned his head to look at Ray. “So. Now you know.”

“Yeah.” The light from the bright neon sign in the parking filtered in through the gap in the curtains, a sick pink glow that made Mike's eyes look red.

“That's it? Yeah? Kowalski, you're never this fucking quiet.”

Ray had just shrugged. He didn't know what Mike wanted him to say. Did the story freak him the fuck out? Yes. Was he pretty aware by now Mike had a goddamn temper? Definitely, yes. Did he get that Mike got off hurting him? One-hundred percent oh, God, yes. Did he think Mike could kill someone? Sure, in the right circumstances. Did he think for a second Mike would have killed a woman he was in a relationship--however fucked up--with? No fucking way. “Now I get why you always call me Kowalski. Guess you got a problem with guys named Ray.”

Mike just stared at him, disbelieving, like he was torn between laughing and socking Ray in the stomach. “Goddamn, Kowalski.”

Ray laughed. He couldn't help it. He'd been Fraser's wrong Ray, and now it looked like he was Mike's, too. Fuck, maybe he'd just start going by Stanley.

Mike leaned over, grabbed his chin. “I can call you Ray. You're not him. I know that. You got that? I know that.” There was something dark lurking in his eyes.

Ray just nodded, as best he could with Mike's fucking fingers shackling his chin. “Yeah. I got it. Okay? I got it.” Ray lifted his hand, touched his fingers to Mike's wrist, and Mike's fingers eased off the pressure and then let him go.

* * *

The airplane ride is torture.

It's also a hell of a lot more entertaining than the magazine or the crossword puzzle, that's for sure.

Mike is very good at this; he knows all Ray's buttons and he pushes every single one on the flight to Toronto. He knows exactly where the bruises are on Ray's stomach, his rib cage, on the inside of his thigh. Ray remembers getting those bruises, remembers fisting the sheets and bucking up, moaning, the pain rushing through him and settling warm and hot in the pit of his stomach.

The way Mike looks when he does it, hurts Ray-fuck, it turns Mike's crank so hard, gets him so hot, all that intensity focused right on Ray. He gets this look on his face like this is all he wants to do in the world, ever, and Ray loves that, he fucking loves it.

It's not like that right now-Mike is just pushing his fingers against Ray's bruises, watching Ray, murmuring low under his breath. “Fuck, you look so hot when I hurt you, did you know that?” And Ray is flushed and hard and dying for it there in the seat next to Mike, trapped, unable to look away or get up or get off or anything, and goddamn if that isn't a turn on, too.

“You want we should go to the bathroom?” Ray asks him, slouched as low in the seat as he can get before he's actually sitting on the floor. “Want me to suck you off?”

Mike sucks in a sharp breath, which is really fucking gratifying. “Yeah, fuck. You got a nice mouth, Kowalski. Anyone ever turns you down when you offer that, you let me know so I can tell them what a fucking idiot they are.”

Ray's head is resting on the headrest-he rolls his neck to the side and fixes Mike with a look. “Probably not gonna go around making random offers, Sweeney, but thanks.”

“You just gay for me, that it?” Mike asks, and fuck, fuck, his fingers find the bite mark on Ray's side and oh God, it feels so good.

Ray chokes out a laugh. Sure, he'd never even thought he was anything but straight until he met Mike, but you didn't just turn gay 'cause a hot, angry sadistic Canadian shoved you around and bit the shit out of your neck. And sometimes when they were in the mood for a little variety, it wasn't just girls they took home, so it wasn't just Mike that did it for Ray. “Guess so. Fuck, you're such a bastard.”

Mike leans over like he's going to pull the shade over the small window. “That's why you like me,” he whispers, and his breath against Ray's ear makes his whole body shudder.

“It sure as hell ain't because of your crappy taste in sports teams,” Ray manages, because he can't help himself.

Mike responds by digging his fingers in Ray's side; not hurting this time, but tickling. Ray hides his sudden wild laugh in a cough, drawing into himself as if he's trying to fold up on the seat, because pain is one thing, apparently he's fine with that, but tickling? Tickling is low.

Mike laughs at him, and doesn't bother to hide it.

“Changed my mind. You want to get off, go take care of it yourself,” Ray mutters, leaning back and glaring at Mike. People are giving them weird looks, probably since Ray just coughed enough to make it sound like he had the plague or something, great.

“Kowalski, you're gonna get me off, and you're gonna like it,” Mike tells him, thumb rubbing soothingly over Ray's bite on his side. “But not while we're on plane. I might let you when we get there.”

Ray checks his watch. They still have an hour and twenty minutes of flying time left.

He's very likely going to die.

* * *
A few months after Mike moved in, Ray asked him how he knew.

“How I knew what?” Mike asked, peering at the pan on the stove. Mike was a pretty good cook-a lot better than Ray-because he'd had to learn when Audrey was sick. He liked doing it, said it relaxed him after work. Which was fine with Ray, because as it turned out, you really could get sick of pizza, who knew.

“You know.” Ray was sitting on the counter in the kitchen, barefoot, drinking a beer. He waved his hand, vaguely indicating the room, the two of them. Mike was cooking dinner in suit pants, barefoot, and an unbuttoned blue dress shirt with no tie. There were times Ray sometimes wondered how he ever missed that he was into guys, because Jesus.

Lucky for him, he'd figured it out eventually.

“Kowalski, I know a lot of stuff. You want specific answers, you're gonna have to give me specific questions.” Mike fixed him with that piecing look, the one Ray was pretty sure had made the Chicago Internal Affairs department hire him after they broke the Bykovsky case. Put Mike Sweeney in a room with a dirty cop and wait ten minutes, twenty tops. The guy'd rat out his own Ma by the time Mike got through with him, and he wouldn't really even have to yell. Ray'd seen Mike get perps to talk just by staring at them.

Ray wasn't a dirty cop or a perp, though, and he was pretty used to the Sweeney Stare by now, enough not to get immediately intimidated. The thing was, he and Mike didn't talk about this shit. They just were, and sometimes Ray was afraid if he asked too many questions then he was going to ruin this whole thing. Stella always used to say Ray liked to talk as much as a girl, and that he was about four times as emotional as one. Ray never wanted to admit she was right, but she probably was.

“Uh...let's go with the two obvious ones. One, that I was into guys, and two, that I'd let you-you know.”

Mike stirred whatever he was fixing in the saucepan, and then walked over to where Ray was perched on the counter. He leaned forward, slow and insistent, and said in that gravelly voice that often made Ray forget his first name, “Let me what, huh?”

Ray leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Mike's. “Hurt me."

Mike pulled back, but his eyes were a little glassy. “The first, I didn't, you just pissed me off and I figured if you were a homophobic jackass you'd leave me alone if I came on to you.”

“Ha,” Ray said, pointing two fingers at Mike. “That was your first mistake, I don't leave anyone alone, even people I don't like. Especially people I don't like.”

“Yeah, believe me, I got that. And you just did stuff. You know.” Mike shrugged. “Looked down around me a lot, like you couldn't look me in the eyes--”

“Well, you've got the creepiest stare in the fucking Northern hemisphere, Sweeney, you ain't noticed everyone does that around you?”

Mike smiled at that, looking pleased, because he was a weirdo. “Okay, fine. You were twitchy. Jittery. 'Course, I didn't know you well enough to know you were like that all the time,” he said, exasperated. “And maybe I didn't know. Maybe I was as surprised as you that you liked it. Maybe I just wanted to hurt you because you're fucking annoying, Kowalski.”

That certainly wasn't out of the question, but Ray didn't really think that was it. Mike sometimes thought he was some kind of monster for wanting the things he wanted, despite the fact Ray was very enthusiastic about liking those things. Mike could beat himself up more than anyone Ray had ever met, save maybe a certain Canadian Mountie he happened to know.

“I didn't really know, either, you know,” Mike said a few minutes later, not looking at Ray. “I just knew I was pissed off and wanted to hurt someone. And you were hot. And into it. There we go, the history of Ray and Mike in seven words or less. You want another beer?”

Ray grinned, cocking his head. "Yeah, 'course. And what do you mean, were hot? You're saying I'm not hot now?"

"Right now? Right now you're mostly annoying.” Mike handed him a beer, pointed to the cabinet above Ray's head. “Hand me the fucking oregano, and if you give me sage instead, I am going to kick your ass because I know you can read when you try real hard."

Ray handed him the basil.

* * *

By the time they land in Toronto, Ray's entire body is primed and ready to go.

Mike spends the flight either tormenting him, or ignoring him until Ray thinks he's done and gets himself under control, only to have Mike start all over again. Ray practically shoves people out of his way when they get off the plane, heading for somewhere they can go, because Jesus fucking Christ, he wants to get off, now now now.

They end up in one of those family bathrooms, the roomy kind with a lock. Ray's on his knees the second Mike has the door shut, fingers shaking, undoing the buttons on Mike's pants. He's got Mike's cock in his mouth in record time and fuck, he loves this, never gets tired of it, loves the way Mike tangles his fingers in Ray's hair and fucks his mouth hard and deep, making him take it.

Ray tilts his chin down and Mike's got his fingers so tight in Ray's hair that it makes his eyes sting, and Mike thrusts in hard and Ray chokes just a little and Mike's cock hits the back of his mouth, and that's it. Mike comes with a soft guttural moan and Ray swallows him down, leaning back on his haunches and wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. He grins up at Mike, sloppy and pleased with himself.

“Get the fuck up here,” Mike says, tugging on Ray's arm. Ray gets up, a little slow because, okay, he's maybe too old for this kind of thing, and Mike turns him and shoves Ray face-first towards the wall. Ray knows this routine, knows it well, and braces himself against the wall with his palms flat against the slick surface, waiting for what he knows comes next. And God, he's panting for it, he wants it so bad.

Mike moves behind him, still breathing hard, sliding a hand around his stomach and reaching down to unbutton Ray's jeans. Ray moans, wanting it, his cock so hard he thinks he might come the second Mike touches him. Which he draws out, the bastard, mouthing at Ray's neck and murmuring, “You want it, Kowalski?”, until Ray is practically begging him, pushing his hips forward and moaning yeah, Christ, please under his breath.

Mike gets a hand around him and the fingers of his other hand unerringly find the bruise on his side, and he bites Ray through his t-shirt and shoves him forward a little, and it's too much after all the teasing. Ray comes so hard he nearly falls down, head thrown back, completely lost.

When he manages to blink himself back into awareness, he realizes he's got his face pressed against the wall and he's panting, sticky, but goddamn, he feels good. He turns around when he hears water running-Mike's wet a paper towel and is holding it out to him, face solemn, looking completely serious.

This cracks Ray up for some reason-maybe it's because he just came his brains out, maybe it's because Mike is still such a fucking Canadian despite being one scary-ass motherfucker--and he grabs the paper towel, cleaning himself up and shaking his head, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You're so weird,” Mike tells him, running a hand over his head, but he looks a lot less tense than he had earlier; some of the lines around his eyes have eased, and there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Ray, for his part, just shrugs and grins, tossing the paper towel in the wastebasket. Ray gets in Mike's space, pushes him against the door and kisses him.

Mike kisses him back, hands warm on Ray's shoulders, tongue slick in Ray's mouth. They stand like that for a little while, kissing slow and easy, and then Mike gently pushes him back. He smiles that slow, bright smile of his, the one Ray rarely sees but really fucking likes. “You're such a slut, Kowalski. Look at yourself.” Mike jerks his chin towards the mirror.

Ray turns his head and glances at the mirror. His jeans are unbuttoned and his shirt is rucked up a little, his hair is sticking up six ways to Sunday and his mouth is wet, a little swollen. His face is flushed, his eyes a little unfocused and dazed. He pulls his shirt down, finishes buttoning his jeans, and splashes his face with water. His hair is a lost cause, but that's nothing new.

Mike, of course, looks totally cool and calm when he opens the door. There is a woman waiting, holding a toddler by the hand, looking harried and anxious. Her eyes go wide when she sees Ray and Mike leaving the bathroom.

Ray ducks his head, hiding a grin. Mike doesn't do a damn thing but nod and keep walking.

* * *
When they get to ­the hotel, Sadie is already there. Her and Mike make it about ten seconds before they end up in a fight-the usual, Sadie yelling, Mike yelling back. Sadie's pissed about something having to do with Maddie. Ray knows Mike's frustrated at the situation with his kids, especially Maddie, but he knows Mike wants Maddie to grow up normal in a way that is way too late for Sadie.

Ray's pretty sure Mike thinks he's saving Maddie years of (even more) therapy by staying out of her life. Ray's tried to tell him that was stupid-he know exactly what that shit with his dad to him-but Mike doesn't want to listen to it. He's got a martyr complex the size of the lake they call Michigan, and there's only so much Ray can do to keep him from drowning in it.

Ray goes outside and lets Mike and Sadie have at it. He stands outside on the small hotel balcony, smoking, shivering a little beneath his jacket. It's colder in Toronto than it is in Chicago.

The door opens and Sadie comes out. She glares at him, but Ray expects nothing less so he just keeps smoking. “I brought you a present.”

“Yeah? What? A dorky souvenir bear with a t-shirt that says I love Chicago?”

Mike hates that his kid wants to be a cop. Ray, however, thinks it's fantastic. Kid's got great instincts. “You got it.”

Sadie makes an appropriately teen-aged sound of disgust. “Can I have a smoke?”

Ray looks at her. “That wouldn't be very step-fatherly of me, would it?”

“Oh, fuck off, Ray,” she says, with all the disdain she can muster. Given her genes, it's quite a lot. But he's used to Mike, and she's got a long way to go before she's anywhere near as scary as her dad.

Ray hands her a smoke without comment, along with his lighter. She fumbles with it for a few seconds, still with that determined look, struggling to get the lighter working in the wind. Ray leans over and deftly plucks the small red Bic out of her fingertips, then leans forward and cups his hand and gets the flame going so she can light it.

She coughs when she inhales, scowls like that's making her lose cool points, then leans against the building and tries to look like she knows what she's doing. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Ray takes a drag, feeling the smoke in his lungs. He needs to quit, he's got a job that involves chasing people. He hadn't started smoking until after he got back from Canada with Fraser and found out Vecchio had run off to Florida with his ex-wife. He was already smoking when he found out Vecchio had run off to Canada with his ex-partner, so he just started smoking more.

“Are you gonna tell me to be nice to my dad?”

Ray looks at her, takes in the tilt of her chin, the firm set of her jaw. She is so much like Mike, it's almost uncanny. “Would it work if I did?”

“No.” Sadie takes another defiant drag, coughs, then darts a quick look at him. “He's an asshole.”

Ray can't actually argue with that, so he doesn't try.

“You know, the fact you're a guy actually earns him some points. With me. My mom's freaking out, but whatever.” Sadie is looking the cigarette without actually smoking it. “Why aren't you saying that? That I should be nice to him, I mean. Don't you want me to? You're his boyfriend.”

Ray tilts his head up, watching the ribbons of smoke from his cigarette and Sadie's as they join together and drift upward towards the sky. Ray has never, ever used the word boyfriend, not even in his head, in relation to Mike. Mike is...Mike. They live together. He's too old for words like boyfriend, anyway. “Look, kid--”

“My name is Sadie,” she snaps.

“Sadie,” he amends, nodding. They're sharing a smoke, that's a first-name thing. “You and your dad...you got stuff to get over. Not my place to make you do it faster. You'll get over it when you get over it.”

Sadie considers this. “I shot someone. Did he tell you? It's the Thing We Don't Talk About,” she intones, taking a puff-he wouldn't call it a drag-of the cigarette. She blows the smoke theatrically.

“He told me, sure.”

Sadie nods. She looks at Ray. “Do you like your dad?”

Ray's taken off guard for a moment, and he doesn't know what to say. He talked to his pop last week on the phone. His dad asked about the car, about the weather, about Ray's pension plan. His parents think Mike is his roommate. “Sure. I didn't always, though.”

“Why?” Sadie rubs her hands on her arms, shivering. She's not wearing a jacket. Ray shrugs out of his, drapes the warn leather around her shoulders. She tenses the second he touches her, but that Ray definitely doesn't take personally. He knows what happened to her with that bastard Prager. And being so much like Mike, an aversion to casual touching seems to run in the family anyway.

“My dad stopped talking to me because he didn't want me to be a cop. Wanted me to go to college, but I dropped out after a year and went to the Academy.” Ray finishes his smoke and grinds it out beneath the heel of his boot. “He got over it, but it took a while.”

“How long?” She sounds like she's interrogating him. Her eyes aren't as piercing as Mike's, not yet, but she's going to give him a run for his money some day.

“Fifteen years,” Ray tells her, and her eyes widen.

“Damn.” Sadie looks at him, bites her lip. “My dad doesn't want me to be a cop, either.”

“I know,” Ray says, because he does know that. “You'll just do it anyway, if you want it enough.”

She nods, looking determined. “Yeah. I do. Does he know that? About your dad?”

Ray nods. “Yeah, he does.”

“Then maybe you should tell him to be nice to me,” she says smugly.

She's kind of got a point. “Maybe I will.”

They stand there in silence until Mike opens the door. “Sadie, put that goddamned cigarette out. Is there some reason you're wearing Kowalski's jacket?”

“We're going steady,” Sadie says, flicking her cigarette over the balcony half-finished-teenagers, they have no idea how much shit costs--and shrugs out of Ray's jacket, handing it over. “Thanks, Ray,” she says, and goes back inside.

Mike just looks at him. “What the fuck was that?”

“You should be nicer to her,” Ray says, completely deadpan, draping his jacket over his arms.

“What?”

“Told her I'd tell you.” Ray can't help it, he laughs and moves in closer, kissing him before Mike can stop him. “She called me your boyfriend.”

“I'm gonna call her grounded and beat your ass if you keep giving my daughter cigarettes, what the fuck is the matter with you?” Mike pushes at him, seeking his space, which Ray sometimes lets him have and sometimes he doesn't. This time, Ray gives it to him. "Is this your idea of bonding?"

"Nah. That was when we talked about how our asshole dads didn't want us to be cops." Ray leans against the cold glass, grinning.

Mike scowls, running a hand over his face. "I'm not gonna stop talking to her, Jesus, Kowalski. Besides, she's just a kid, she could change her mind."

"She's not going to change her mind," Ray says dryly, shaking his head. "Sadie--she's you with breasts, Mike."

"Kowalski? Don't ever say breasts and my kid's name in the same sentence again." Mike shoves his hands in his pockets and stares up at the sky, grey clouds hanging low and threatening to rain. "She'd be good, though." He sounds proud. "You know? She really would. Got a sharp mind."

"Yeah. I know."

They stand there for a few minutes, quiet, and then it starts to rain.

* * *

They go to dinner, and no one yells, and it's not comfortable by a long shot but it could be a lot worse. That night Mike wants Ray to fuck him in the shower, and doesn't say a word through the whole thing that isn't harder and fuck, yeah, but that's fine with Ray. Ray fucks him, fucks him hard, and Mike takes it and it's good, it's always so fucking good.

When they're in bed, Ray says quietly, "My pop disowning me, it fucked me up, you know."

Mike doesn't answer, but Ray knows he's listening, so he keeps talking. "'Cause then...you know, I figure I gotta be whatever people want so they don't leave me. You don't want to make her think that. Sadie."

"Trust me, Kowalski. I've already fucked that kid up so bad, it'd be a blessing if I just got the hell out of her life and let her salvage the rest of it without me around."

"No," Ray says, surprising himself at how fierce he sounds. "No, it fucking wouldn't. Every fucking guy she meets, you know, she's gonna--it's gonna be you they gotta measure up to, in her head, and you really don't want to do that to her."

"Yeah? You a shrink, now, Kowalski? Is that what happened to you?" Mike leans over, his breath warm on Ray's face. "Do I remind you of your dad?"

Ray barks out a laugh before he can stop himself. "Fuck, no. But...I mean, when your dad disowns you 'cause you picked a job they don't like? Yeah, I'm not gonna lie, that kind of fucks you up."

"Yeah, but Kowalski, I hate to point this out--"

"No, you don't," Ray sighs, wishing he'd just kept his mouth shut.

Mike snorts. "Your dad came around, didn't he? He comes to visit, to force you to put air fresheners in the GTO that smell like shit. At least, that better be why I had to move all my shit in that tiny-ass closet in the guest room when they came over last month, because if you two are still not talking then I am not doing that again."

"Yeah, and is that what you want? Sadie lying to you about people who are important in her life? Look, Sweeney, she's your kid--"

"Oh, yeah? Thanks for fucking noticing, I thought maybe you forgot and that's why you gave her fucking cigarettes, you dumbass motherfucker, I could arrest you for that."

Ray ignores him. "But I'm just saying, I did the my dad disowned me for my career choice program and got the t-shirt and I don't fucking recommend it, okay? Ask Stella sometime how it fucked me up, I think she's got a list with bullet points. Of just that, I mean. She's got a lot of lists."

"Next time she calls, I'll ask. We can compare. I got some lists of my own."

"You do that, and I'll fucking bet you do. You want I should compare lists with Audrey?"

Mike snorts. "Believe me, I'm pretty sure your list's got nothing on hers."

That's probably true. Mike did some dumbass shit, Ray can't deny that.

They're quiet, and Ray turns on his side, closing his eyes, listening to the rain outside and trying to sleep.

"So, I'm important in your life?"

"Sweeney, I swear to fucking Christ, if you laugh at me you can move your stuff in that guest room closet permanently." God, why is Ray like this? Other guys don't have these fucking conversations, even guys that are doing other guys, Ray's pretty sure. He'll have to ask Fraser next time he calls. And Mike, Jesus, he never talks about this kind of thing, he hates it.

"Come on, Ray," Mike says, laughing, and Ray's still irritated so he doesn't notice that Mike's used his first name. "You sound like a fucking self-help book."

"You're about to sound like a fucking soprano when I kick you in the--ow, stop that, you motherfucker, I'm--" Ray's breath ends up catching as Mike leans down and nips sharp at the skin of his upper arm and ow ow ow, that hurts. He kicks out, half-heartedly at best, more petulant than anything. "You live with me, that's all I'm saying. Sure, you probably just moved in so you didn't have to pay rent someplace in case you wanted to wake up one morning and take off."

"Oh, Christ, that is not why I moved in with you." Mike pauses. "Although rent in Chicago is a fucking racket, you're right about that."

"Yeah, then why'd you do it? I don't even remember you asking if I wanted you to move in with me," Ray fires back, and Jesus, why are they having this conversation now? This is stupid, this can't go anywhere good. He doesn't need undying declarations of love. He had that before, and look where it fucking got him. He just wants someone to fucking be there, wants someone who isn't going to leave, and that's what he's got. So far, so good.

Mike's quiet for so long, Ray thinks he might have fallen asleep. Good, maybe he'll wake up tomorrow and think Ray's sudden emotional outburst was a dream or something. Unlikely, but Ray can hope, can't he?

"Kowalski, I hate shit like this. You know that."

Fuck. He's not asleep after all. Ray watches the headlights from a car throw patterns on the wall across from the bed. "Yeah. I know."

"And get this through your thick skull so we don't have to do it again, because I'd rather pull out my eyelashes one by one, or rip my balls off, or--"

"I get it, fucking Christ."

Mike takes a deep breath, and his voice sounds pained. "I get up in the morning, and I look in the mirror, and the first thing I think about is not how much I fucking scare myself. Okay? And you don't ever--you don't ever look afraid. Of me. All right? Now can I please fucking go to sleep?"

Ray smiles, and something settles warm in his stomach, but he can't help himself, he can't. "So, what you're saying is, I'm important in your life."

Mike lets out an inventive string of curses and throws back the covers. "I'm going to sleep on the fucking couch."

"I was just trying to prove how you don't scare me," Ray says, laughing, and okay, maybe he's being an ass because he's relieved, but whatever. "You want I should tell you why I'm glad you moved in with me?"

"No, save it for your goddamned diary. You can read it out loud at your next sleepover."

"Ha, ha." Ray pushes himself up, noticing Mike has thrown the covers off but he's not actually left the bed. "You're a better cook than I am."

"Maddie was a better cook than you with the E-Z Bake Oven when she was three, Kowalski."

Ray rises up to his knees, kneels behind him and slides his hands warm up Mike's back. Mike's muscles are tense, but he leans back a little into the touch. "You got like, a thousand ties. I can steal them for when I gotta go to court."

"That's why they end up with stains on them. Fucking mystery solved."

"Good job, detective." Ray leans down, kisses the side of Mike's neck. "I like the way you suck my cock."

"I hope you have good memories, then, because I'm never doing it again."

Ray grins and bites Mike's shoulder. "I don't think you mean that."

Mike looks over his shoulder back at him, and it's too dark to make out his expression. "I don't say things I don't mean, Ray."

Ray pauses, nods, and then tugs Mike to lay back down. "Yeah," he says, yawning. "I know." Ray's quiet for a few seconds, and then he says sleepily, "But you didn't mean that about sucking my cock. Right?"

And Mike, because he's an ass, doesn't answer.

* * *
When Ray called Fraser, he had no idea what to say.

Not about Vecchio. No, it was pretty obvious when they got to that hotel room chasing after Muldoon that Fraser had some kind of feelings for the guy. And really, Ray did want Fraser to be happy, as much as Ray missed him, and if Vecchio was what he needed to be happy, then good for him. Good for them both. Stella had told him her split with Vecchio was totally amicable and completely mutual, and Ray really had no reason to hate the guy as long as he didn't hurt anyone Ray cared about.

It was just that knowing he was attracted to men, Ray had started to think maybe the reason he'd been so pissed off about Fraser and Vecchio hightailing to Canada and getting married was jealousy, that maybe he'd had feelings for Fraser all along and never realized it.

(“Oh, you fucking think?” Mike had said when Ray mentioned that, rolling his eyes. “Jesus Christ, how are you such a good detective and yet, such an utterly clueless moron? I fucking figured that out after about two weeks.” Fucking Mike.)

And that kind of sucked, because Ray had no idea what might have happened if he'd just clued into the whole thing a little earlier. Though things had worked out for the best, because-well, try as he might, he could not imagine Benton Fraser doing the things Mike did to him in bed. Besides, Mike liked beer and rock music, and he liked Ray's car and he went in halvsies on the Playstation. Not to mention, Ray would take Leafs games over curling any day of the week, thank you very fucking kindly.

It did made him feel like shit, though, because it meant Ray couldn't keep being so angry at Fraser for leaving. Ray had been so ready to chalk that up to people always fucking leave me that he didn't stop to think maybe it wasn't about him at all, or that maybe he could have done something productive instead of being pissed off all the time at the unfairness of his life. Maybe he could have tried talking to his dad instead of going fifteen years without trying to mend fences, for instance. And God knew he went a little crazy when Stella left him; he still got vaguely embarrassed when he thought about how he'd acted those first few months after their divorce. He could have done a lot of stuff differently about that. He and Stella were just now getting to be friends (she liked Mike, which shouldn't be surprising but kind of was), and they could have done that earlier if Ray would have just calmed the fuck down.

And Fraser--well, Ray had been in a bad headspace back when they'd been partners, and he hadn't known what he wanted or really who he was, and he'd been pretending to be someone else the whole time and that sure as fuck didn't help him figure it out. If Fraser had been interested, Ray probably wouldn't have noticed anyway, as fucked up as he'd been. And instead of thinking hey, someone else who left me because I'm not good enough maybe the better thing to think would have been maybe Fraser deserves to be happy and it's not about me at all.

The thing was, Ray didn't know how to say any of this. If he'd had feelings for Fraser he didn't have them now (beyond friendship, which he was worried he'd fucked all to hell by not talking to the guy for so long), and Ray didn't want to make Fraser--or Vecchio--uncomfortable, and this was all in the past anyway.

"Ray! It's so good to hear from you!" Fraser's voice, warm on the end of the line, and Ray wanted to kick himself for being so stupid and shoving Fraser away all this time.

"Hey, Benton-buddy. How's it going?"

They talked about easy things for a few minutes, about Dief and Vecchio ("Tell him I can send him a case of Old Style if he's sick of bark tea") and their jobs, and Ray caught Fraser up on the gossip from around the department, even though Frannie probably kept Vecchio in the loop. Still, it got them both back on an even keel, and Ray found himself laughing at Fraser's uniquely Fraser-like stories (crazy and improbable and sounding a lot like Vecchio maybe needed a sympathy card), and really glad he'd called.

That was, until Fraser said, "So, Ray, what is new in your life? You're still working, of course, but is there anything else?" and then he realized he was clueless how to explain that oh, yeah, something was new, all right.

"Yeah," Ray said, pacing, eyes flickering over to where Mike was sitting, engrossed in the baseball game despite the lack of sound. "I'm--living with someone."

"Oh, yes. Francesca mentioned you had a roommate. Your partner from the serial killer case?"

Right, of course, Frannie would have told him about that. Mike wasn't working at the 2-7 anymore--after they'd arrested Bykovski, Mike had taken the job in IA--but she'd met him plenty of times. And Ray could take the out, could go back to building his friendship with Fraser without explaining that no, Mike wasn't his roommate. Mike wouldn't give a shit, and it might be a thousand times easier.

Which, of course, was not how Ray Kowalski did anything, ever.

"Yeah, Mike. Mike Sweeney. He's in Internal Affairs, now. And he's not--he's not my roommate, Fraser." Ray took a deep breath. "He's...he lives with me. You know. We're, um. Together."

There was silence on the other end of the line. "Ah. I see," Fraser said, and then, "Well, I'm--perhaps it would not be incorrect to say I am surprised, Ray, as I always assumed--that is, my impression was that you were interested in women--"

"Believe me, Fraser. The entire time you knew me, that was my impression, too. I'm--well, you know. Not getting any younger and so I guess all I can do is get wiser, right?"

Mike snorted on the couch. "Good luck with that, Kowalski."

Ray picked up a magazine and chucked it at his head.

Fraser didn't say anything for a long time. "Well, you know, I am someone who believes we find the right person regardless of our preconceived notions of sexual attraction--it has never made sense to me to limit love based on gender. I am glad you have come to realize this, Ray, because I--I was very worried about you, and I do hope you're happy?"

Ray was quiet for a little while, turning this over in his head. "Yeah, Fraser. I'm happy," he said, and realized it was the truth.

* * *

Before they leave Toronto, Ray goes into a luggage shop and buys himself a nice, new bag. For some reason, he woke up that morning convinced he'd needed a new one, and Mike had just shrugged and pointed out a store next to the hotel for him to pick one out. The new bag is black with a lot of pockets, room for a compass and a water bottle and a freaking jet plane, probably, Jesus--who needs this kind of gear in Toronto? For what? To climb the fucking CN Tower?

Sadie meets them for breakfast. She seems a little less angry, and her and Mike hug for a long time before she gets in her taxi. Ray can't hear what Mike's saying, but he's holding Sadie's face in between his hands, staring down at her intently, and she's nodding. She smiles and Mike smiles back. To Ray's surprise, Sadie comes over to him and regards him solemnly, like she's waiting for him to say something, do something.

What he does is hand her the bag, the old one, the one he'd bought in Canada on his trip with Fraser.

She looks at it, confused. "What's this? Is there another bear in there? Because I'm kind of too old for bears, Ray, maybe you didn't notice."

"You can give the bear to Maddie," he says, grinning a little. "And it's a bag, just what it looks like. I got it in Canada, way up in the Northern Pass. It's really sturdy. Got this new one, see, so I thought you might like it." Sadie looks kind of confused, and Ray doesn't blame her. This doesn't even really make sense to him. All he knows is, he's done with being angry, but he doesn't think she is. Maybe she needs something to carry her burdens, symbo-whatever-ly, kind of like he did. Maybe he just doesn't want to carry the old bag home on the plane. Who knows. It just seems like the right thing to do, and hey, cops always gotta listen to their instincts, right?

"You're giving me a beat-up old bag? Wow, Ray. Thanks," she says, but she shakes it out and looks at it. "S'kinda cool, I guess," she offers, but she looks kind of pleased anyway. She surprises him by leaning in and hugging him. She's a small girl, Sadie, probably weighs a buck ten soaking wet. Ray hugs her almost carefully, like she might break.

Before he lets her go, he leans down and whispers, "Be nice to your dad," and she makes a sound and shoves at him, giving him an exasperated look as she pulls away, laughing a little despite herself. Ray just shrugs and grins at her, and she shakes her head and waves at them before getting into her cab.

Mike and Ray stand side by side, watching her go. Mike's got that look on his face, the slight frown that makes him look scary to people who don't know him very well, and Ray puts a careful hand on his shoulder before asking, "Hey, you okay?"

Mike turns to look at him. He doesn't shrug Ray's hand off, and his frown fades somewhat. "No, not really. But I think I will be."

Ray nods and drops his hand. He picks up his bag, shoulders it, and waits for their cab.