TEAM ANGST: Day 2, "9:30 to Yellowknife"
Title: 9:30 to Yellowknife
Author: aerye
Team: Angst
Prompt: "No, you never told me that before."
Pairing(s): Vecchio/Kowalski, Kowalski/Fraser
Length: 5200 words
Rating: R
Warnings: uh, angsty?
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to know who you really love.
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**
There's a vending machine in the corner. It doesn't dispense chips or sodas-it's filled with toys, stuffed animals and plastic trucks and airplanes, and little dolls with wide eyes. There's a crane inside, operated by a joystick, and you put in fifty cents for thirty seconds of "grab time." It's bright pink and orange, painted like a circus tent, and every two or three minutes it lights up and a creepy, cheery voice says "Come try your luck! Fun for all ages!"
Ray really, really wants to put a bullet through it.
Fraser
Ben
Fraser, I
Fraser,
I'm sorry. I messed this up. Again. I wouldn't blame you if you hated me for the rest of your life but I-I gotta fix this. I gotta-
Fuck, I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry.
Ray
The bus station is almost empty when he gets there, four in the fucking morning, eyes aching and gritty from the strain of driving in the dark and the snow. There's just the guy behind the ticket counter, reading a copy of Carguide, some janitor guy, who's pushing a stringy mop around the Formica floor, and two kids who can't be more than eighteen, huddled together in the corner. She's small and blonde, with a nose ring and jeans a size too small. He's big, First Nations, his dark hair long and his eyes tired. They look at him suspiciously when he comes in and he figures they're running away from something-disapproving parents or school or the law. The guy keeps a protective arm around her and they talk softly, in whispers, and hold hands.
Two different worlds. Ray wonders if they'll be able to make it.
It never occurred to him that first time, that things wouldn't work out between him and Fraser. He quit his job, packed up his apartment, and moved north with the blind confidence that happily ever after was only a citizenship application and a set of studier boots away.
But it was different than he'd imagined, almost from the start. Fraser was different up there, in ways he couldn't put his finger on. In Chicago, Fraser had been a freak, just like Ray, and it was them against the world, their own crazy duet. Up here, the world was full of freaks, and if there was a set of rules, everyone seemed to know them but Ray.
He tried. For a long time he tried. But then the winter set in and he felt more alone than ever, like he was trapped in one of those snowdrifts that caught people up, pulled them down and buried them, so that they wouldn't be found until the spring thaw. He dreamed that he was drowning in snow, drowning in the darkness, and Fraser stood there, oblivious, smiling down at Ray and tipping his hat and saying, "I'll be back in a week, Ray. Duty calls."
More often than not he woke from those dreams alone.
It starts to fill up about eight. There's supposed to be a nine-thirty bus to Yellowknife but it's running late and everyone's getting grumpy. The woman sitting next to him has been on her cell phone for the last hour and a half, alternatively yelling, crying, and swearing. "No. No, you didn't tell me that. No, you didn't say. No, you did not. You did not, you motherfucker. No, you never told me that before."
She has two kids with her, young kids, one not even out of diapers yet but old enough to go tottering around the bus station on his pudgy little legs, his dirty t-shirt sporting a smiling moose. He's got a soggy biscuit in his hand. He keeps coming up to Ray and putting his wet fingers on Ray's knees, trying to give Ray his half-chewed cookie, smiling this ridiculous smile that says he doesn't understand that his mother's marriage is breaking apart in the middle of a bus station.
The other kid is older by a few years, maybe six or seven, and apologizes softly every time he's not quick enough to stop his baby brother from leaving more wet fingerprints on Ray's trousers. He does understand. He watches his mother carefully and tries to keep his brother out of trouble, and his eyes are red from determined efforts not to cry.
Ray knows just how he feels.
The first time it happens they're both drunk. They've just finished a tough case, two weeks straight of sixteen hour days and they finally nailed the bastard, nailed him right to the wall, seven counts of murder and aggravated assault. They go back to Ray's place with a pizza and a twelve pack, and sometime after they finished off the pepperoni and pineapple ("This has gotta be blasphemy, Kowalski.") things get a bit blurry. Ray remembers toasting Vecchio, and Vecchio toasting him, and then next thing he knows Vecchio is between his knees and blowing him, Ray's dick in his mouth all the way down to his tonsils, and Ray's toes are curling in his boots as he comes. He remembers dragging Vecchio onto the sofa, on top of him, and begging Vecchio to fuck him, fuck him hard enough to make him forget, and coming again with Vecchio deep inside.
The next week is hell. Ray wakes up the morning after and Vecchio is gone, and five minutes after he gets to the station they're fighting, although when Welsh demands to know what the fight is about neither of them can really say. They circle each other like pit bulls, snarling and snapping for the next five days. On Friday, they bolt in opposite directions, and Ray spends the weekend doing laundry and washing dishes, and trying not to think about Vecchio or Fraser or how entirely fucked up his love life seems to be. Not that Vecchio is part of his love life or anything.
On Sunday night there's a knock on his door and he opens it to find Vecchio, jaw tight and eyes narrowed. "This is a mistake," he says, "I just know it."
Ray opens his mouth to ask him what the fuck he's talking about but Vecchio is through the door, pushing Ray up against the nearest wall. "Stupid fucking mistake," he says again and then he grabs Ray's face in both his hands and kisses him, licking his way into Ray's mouth. That time they make it to the bedroom and in the morning, Vecchio is still there when he wakes up.
After that, things calm down a bit. The sex is good. Vecchio is an okay guy, if a little uptight sometimes. And if he's still in love with Fraser, well, that ship sailed due north without him and there wasn't any point in lingering on that now, was there?
His cell phone vibrates in his hand again and he checks the caller id, even though he knows who it is. It rang once, about two hours after he got there and he didn't answer-he knows that's when Fraser got home from night patrol and found his note. After that it didn't ring for a while but Ray knows that's only because there isn't a decent satellite signal to be found between Norman Wells and here, and that Fraser was out the door the minute he got Ray's note, probably on the dog sled, since he had the truck.
About an hour ago it started ringing again, every fifteen minutes or so, regular as clockwork, and he turned the phone to vibrate to stop the irritated glances he was starting to get from the guys who were trying to grab some sleep before the bus to Yellowknife arrived. Fraser doesn't leave any voice messages.
Vecchio talks dirty in bed. "Yeah, yeah-fuck, yeah. Jesus, you're tight, tight fucking ass and fucking mouth and-" and Ray groans, shifting underneath him and lifting into the next thrust, slowly unraveling beneath the fevered touch of Vecchio's hands and fingers and mouth. It's as different from being with Fraser as different can be, and he's glad, glad that he can't forgot who he's with, whose dick is inside him.
One day he realizes he doesn't need the reminder and his hand freezes as he's jerking Vecchio off. Vecchio groans and hisses, "Quit fucking around, Kowalski," and then realizes Ray's not just teasing and asks, "What's wrong?" in breathy, ragged voice, putting a hand against Ray's cheek, holding his face up to see. Ray can't bear it. Can't bear what Vecchio might see, he's so twisted up inside, so he pushes Vecchio on his back and goes down on him, hard and fast, bringing him off before he can ask any questions.
He makes his own phone calls in between Fraser's. He doesn't want to think what the phone bill's going to look like when he gets it, what with long distance and international and out of the calling area whatever the fuck. Doesn't matter. He dials, and he leaves a message every fucking time, although the last few have been real simple.
Answer the fucking phone, Vecchio.
They bring home paperwork. Welsh is on their ass to clear up the backlog so Vecchio checks out a laptop and they bring it back to Ray's place. Vecchio's typing and Ray's dictating from notes, and every once in a while Vecchio contradicts him or adds something, and then they spend a couple of minutes fighting about who's right and who's the better cop, and half the time he wins and half the time Vecchio wins.
Ray's in the middle of summarizing the Checkers case, two female cat burglars and man, Ray would've worked that case for free, when Vecchio holds up a hand and says, "Stop."
"What?"
"Something wrong with the computer. It's freezing or something. Give me a sec."
So Ray leans back and takes a long draw off his beer and starts shredding one of the napkins that came with the take out. Vecchio's muttering under his breath and swearing at the computer, and Ray puts one of the strips of napkin in his mouth, wets it up and rolls it into a ball.
It hits Vecchio right in the middle of his forehead. He looks up, aggravated. "What the fuck, Kowalski?"
"What?" Ray grins.
"Fucking spastic asshole." He goes back to banging away at the keyboard.
The next spitball is bigger, wetter, but his aim is off and it just grazes Vecchio's ear. Vecchio glowers at him. "If I have to come over there you aren't going to like it."
"Yeah?" Ray raises an eyebrow. "That so?" He's getting hard.
Vecchio shakes his head. "Yeah, that's so. Don't fuck with me, Kowalski." He goes back to the computer.
The third spitball catches him right on the nose. Vecchio jerks back, and then his eyes heat up. He shoves the computer off his lap, onto the sofa, and then he's on top of Ray, shoving him back against his chair and straddling his lap. "I warned you," he says, dragging Ray's mouth up to his and shoving a hand down his pants. "It's a good thing I love you," he mutters against Ray's lips, licking and biting.
And Ray not even sure what the words are, the ones that are rising up in his throat like water rushing up out of the ground. He only knows that they're trapped before they reach his mouth, slamming into each other, one after the other, and he feels like they're strangling him.
He's hungry but he doesn't want to eat. He hasn't eaten since the day before, since he'd written the note and gone flying out the door, off in the trunk, shattering into a million pieces. He's been running on adrenaline and coffee, souring in his gut. Around six a.m. he had one of those egg and sausage sandwiches from the vending machine, and twenty minutes later he was in bathroom, down on his knees in a bathroom stall, vomiting, the sour smell of piss surrounding him. Since then he's stuck to the coffee. He rubs his hands over his face, feeling the bristles on his jaw against his palms, shaking and jittery. He tells himself it's just the caffeine.
His cell stops vibrating. He picks it up and makes another call.
It's the first time he's dreamed about Fraser in a long time. He's in the snowdrift again, falling, falling, and he can't get a footing, can't save himself. He yells for Fraser to come help him, to come find him, but he can't see him, can't hear him, and the more he struggles, the deeper he sinks into the snow. He doesn't want to die, he doesn't. He doesn't want to die, doesn't want to die, doesn't want to die-
"Hey. Hey," and he's suddenly awake, gasping for air, covered in sweat and shaking. Vecchio's wrapped around him, warm and tight, and alive, and he's whispering, "You're okay. It's okay. Just a dream."
He pulls Vecchio's head down and kisses him as if his life depended on it.
He's tired. He's answers the phone without thinking.
Ray?
Shit. "Fraser. Ben I-" He can hear the wind whipping the flaps on the sled, whistling through the air.
Ray, please. Just-wait until I get there. Don't-don't leave-"
"Fraser-"
Please, Ray. Just give me a chance to talk to you first.
"Ben." His voice breaks. "God, Ben, don't make me say it."
Ray, I love you.
"I can't-I have to go."
He ends the call.
"Look, I never lied to you about Fraser and me." He's stuffing a handful of socks into his bag. "I never pretended with you."
And it's the truth, goddamn it. It is. Vecchio knew he was in love with Fraser, knew from the very beginning, and maybe they'd never thought this was a possibility, him and Fraser getting back together, but it wasn't like Vecchio could say Ray'd ever promised him true love or for-fucking-ever. They were just-whatever they were. They hung out together. They had a good time. They fucked. Nobody ever said it was love.
("It's a good thing I love you…")
He doesn't have any reason to feel guilty.
"How long have you been-" Vecchio doesn't finish the sentence, looks away, and his mouth thins.
"A few weeks," he says, rolling up two pairs of jeans and shoving them in next to the socks. He stops packing. Sinks down to sit on the bed. "I didn't know things would work out this way." He looks up at Vecchio. "He doesn't know about you."
It hurts, seeing Vecchio shatter before his eyes as he puts a hand over his face, hiding it from Ray. "Not important enough to mention, I guess," he whispers.
He wants to be angry. He never promised Vecchio anything, he didn't, and if Fraser wants to try again, wants to see if they can make it work then goddamn it, he's going back. He's taking that chance. He's in love with Fraser, been in love with Fraser for so long he doesn't know how to be anything else. Doesn't want to be anything else, he thinks, and he wishes he didn't feel so much like he was trying to convince himself.
"Have you slept with him?" Vecchio asks, and his voice sounds wrecked, like someone reached in and wrapped a hand around his vocal cords.
Ray goes still. "Yeah," he finally says, getting up again and picking up a stack of shirts, pretending he doesn't see this hit Vecchio like another blow, rocking him on his feet. He wants this conversation over. He doesn't want to hurt Vecchio but why can't he just let go, why can't he just goddamn let go? They didn't make any promises, goddamn it, they didn't and he doesn't have any right to make Ray feel this way.
"And you think this time it's going to work?"
"He took a leave of absence." And doesn't that just prove it, prove something, that for once Fraser put the Mountie thing aside because of him? Doesn't that prove that it'll be different this time?"
"Last time you had a whole fucking adventure and that wasn't enough."
He clenches his jaw so tight it hurts. "This is none of your fucking business, Vecchio. It's between Fraser and me. I'm sorry you're hurt but-"
He can hear the sharp intake of air just before Vecchio's fist hits the wall. "Get out."
"Look, Vecchio-"
"Get out. Just get the fuck out, Kowalski. Take what you've got there and find the fucking door. Before I do something we both regret."
He takes his bag and leaves.
He's come to expect the ten rings and then the transfer to voice mail (Ray Vecchio. I'm not here, leave a message). When Vecchio answers after the first ring he's struck stupid and doesn't say a word. He can hear Vecchio breathing on the other end, low and quick-harsh-and he's just opening his mouth to speak when-
Stop fucking calling, Kowalski. I got nothing to say to you.
-and Vecchio hangs up on him.
"Fuck me," he's pleading, and his voice is wrecked, low and hoarse, and he can barely get the words out of his mouth, his throat is so tight. "Fuck me, god, fuck me," and Vecchio's whispering in his ear, soft and filthy, telling him how tight he is, how good he feels wrapped around Vecchio's dick. He's insane with need, arching up under Vecchio and begging him, shoving himself down on Vecchio's fingers and then his dick, dizzy with need and a something that fills him up with heat and light, making him giddy. "-fuck me, fuck me, fuck me-" and Vecchio leans over and whispers in his ear-
"It's a good thing I love you-" He comes, comes apart, shattering into pieces in Vecchio's arms, and-
-he's awake, staring up into the darkness, at the ceiling in the housing unit he shares with Fraser. He's breathing hard, slick with sweat, and so hard it hurts. He sits up, ignoring his dick, and rubs his hands over his face.
The clock says it's almost five but it's that time of year-it'll be dark for hours. Fraser was supposed to be home that night but he called and left a message that he would late. Ray checks his cell phone and sees there's another message: Fraser will be gone at least another day, maybe two.
Ray huddles down into the blankets, listens to the steam heat hissing along the pipes, and curls himself around his erection. He doesn't want to touch it, doesn't want to bring himself off, and he listens to Fraser's message again, just listening to the sound of his voice. Finally he deletes it, and then brings up his contact list, scrolling down the numbers. P-Q-R-S. T. U. Vecchio.
"Vecchio." Vecchio sounds groggy. Not surprising-it's still early morning there and he was probably still asleep. "Hello? Who the fuck is this?" A pause. He hears rustling and imagines Vecchio sitting up, checking the caller id. "Shit. Kowalski?" Another pause. "Ray?"
He closes his eyes and hangs up the phone. He lays awake for the next hour, not sure if he's hoping for a call back or not. But the phone doesn't ring and eventually he drifts into sleep again.
It's only later, after it's all over, that he realizes that the day he left Vecchio was the first day it snowed that winter.
He wants to make it work but everything seems out of key. He can see Fraser trying. Fraser turns down assignments to stay closer to home, agrees to move into town. He teaches Ray to curl, and even though Ray still thinks it's kind of a stupid game he learns, and plays on the team that Fraser joins.
Ray learns some new caribou recipes but Friday night is pizza and beer night. He learns a little Inuktitut, practices driving the dogsled, and helps Fraser make his own pemmican.
He fills out the paperwork for permanent resident status. Finds a job.
"Talk dirty to me," he breathes into Fraser's ear, as he strips Fraser out of his clothes, coat and boots and uniform.
"What?" Fraser looks confused.
"Talk dirty to me," he says again, pulling him down on the bed and rutting up against him. "Tell me how much you want me to fuck you."
Fraser lifts himself up on his arms and looks down at him, and Ray feels the heat leeched from his body, rush into his face. "Ray, you know I'm not comfortable-"
"Yeah." He shakes his head. "Yeah, sorry." He pulls Fraser down, kisses him, and Fraser kisses him back, and it's hard and urgent. He rolls them over, straddles Fraser and slides down onto his dick. He rides him until they both come and when he collapses on Fraser's chest, hot and sweaty and out of breath, he tells himself this is everything he needs.
The cell phone vibrates again.
Frannie writes to Fraser every month. Fraser always offers up the letter, like it's a way of proving that he's not afraid of the past, of Ray's thing with Vecchio. It was one of their first fights, when Ray finally told him about Vecchio, and Fraser's still carrying the guilt for his unknowing actions. "Would you like to read it?"
"Nah, you can give me the highlights as you go." He's washing the dishes and that helps, because it gives him something to do with his hands that isn't reaching in the direction of the letter.
"She's pregnant," Fraser says after a moment.
"Fucking again? Ma's gonna kill her. Still with the immaculate conception story?"
Fraser looks embarrassed. "Yes. Although you know, Ray, there are precedents-"
"That was a nice Jewish girl, Fraser. Not a nice Italian girl. And Ma would kill her anyway."
"Lieutenant Welsh accompanied her to the Policeman's Ball last month."
Ray grinned. "Lieu's carrying a torch, that's for sure."
"Francesca wore a bright red dress with black shoes. She wore her hair up."
Ray can hear the smile Fraser's hiding. "Stop the presses."
Fraser's quiet for several minutes. "That it? That's gotta be one of the shortest letters she's ever sent." He glances over at him.
There's a funny look on Fraser's face. He lifts his eyes to Ray's. "Ray has met someone."
"Yeah?" And so what if his gut does a flip-flop-that's normal, hearing stuff like that about an ex.
He knows Fraser is looking at him but he's cool, really, he is, he's happy for Vecchio actually, glad that he's met someone, glad he's not alone. It's a good thing.
Later that night, after they have sex and Fraser falls asleep, Ray gets up and reads the whole letter from front to back, tries to picture the buyer from Macy's who helped Vecchio pick up a tie "and the next thing she knew they were dating."
When he's finished he puts the letter away again carefully, and when he goes looking for it again, he can't find it. Seems Fraser threw it away.
The bus from Yellowknife arrives, two hours late. Snow and mechanical problems. People pile off the bus looking tired and cranky and stiff, dragging bags and packs and blankets and pillows off with them. Ray watches as friends and family greet some of them with smiles and big hugs. The less fortunate passengers just rub their hands over their eyes and trudge on out the door, off to wherever they're headed.
The girl behind the desk-she came on at eight, relieving the guy on night shift-punches some buttons on her phone and suddenly there's a hollow rasp as the PA system kicks in, and she announces that there are still mechanical difficulties with the bus, and that their departure will be delayed another thirty minutes. There are groans from around the room and Ray checks his watch. It's four and a half hours from Norman Wells. It's going to be close.
-not here, leave a message-
"Fuck you, Vecchio! Pick up goddamn phone or the next time I call it's gonna be to the house and I'll just leave the whole goddamn message with your mother!"
The station has signs posted everywhere, in English and in French.
This is a smoke-free environment.
Il s'agit d'un environnement sans fumée. Il s'agit d'un environnement sans fumée.
Greyhound is not responsible for lost or stolen property.
Greyhound n'est pas responsabilisé de propriéte perdu ou volé.
All passengers must check luggage at the desk.
Tous les passagers doivent transmettre leur bagage à la reception.
Ray's learned a little bit of French while he's been here. Purely in self-defense.
How much is it?
Ça coûte combien?
Where are the toilets?
Où sont les toilettes?
Help me please.
Aidez moi s’il vous plait.
I love you.
Je t'aime.
But there are some things he still doesn't know how to say.
I'm leaving you.
"Don't hang up, goddamn it!"
What the fuck is this, Kowalski? Stalking 101? What the fuck do you want?
"Another chance."
Silence.
What the fuck?
"I want another chance."
Sorry-Vecchio's recovering-we're all outta those.
"Vecchio-"
Look, I don't know what kind of crazy shit this is but I'm seeing someone.
"Is it serious?"
That's none of your goddamn business.
"Do you feel about her the same way you feel about me?"
Of course not. You, I hate your fucking guts. Her, I kinda like.
He doesn't say anything. There's a long silence on the other end of the phone and then-
Kowalski-I can't. I can't do this again. I won't go back to waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to decide you want Fraser back.
Ray closes his eyes. "It wouldn't be like that," he whispers.
Right. And explain to me why the fuck I should believe you?
And he's got nothing to say to that. If he was Vecchio he wouldn't believe him either. "Because I'm telling you."
Vecchio's laugh is bitter. Yeah. Well, as long as it's a source I can really trust.
"Because I love you, you fucking asshole."
The silence almost vibrates with anger.
"Fuck you, Kowalski. I'm hanging up."
Ray's hand tightens on the phone. "No, don't hang up, Vecchio! You listen to me." His voice breaks. "Goddamn you, listen to me. I'm coming back. You're going to have to deal with me sooner or later so it might as well be sooner. I'll sit on your goddamn doorstep and serenade you at four o'clock in the morning until you give me another chance. I screwed up and I know and I'm trying to make it better." He runs out of words. He hangs his head and closes his eyes. "I love you, goddamn it. You have to give me another chance."
There's another long silence.
Look, I can't talk about this right now. I got a guy in lock-up I gotta grill.
"Vecchio-"
Where are you?
"Bus station in Rae Lakes."
And Fraser?
He doesn't answer.
Yeah. Call me if you actually you get on the bus, Vecchio says, and hangs up before Ray can say anything.
He's getting on the bus when it happens. He thinks maybe he's made it, dodged the bullet, and he knows that makes him the lowest kind of coward but he's glad, and then he feels a shiver run down his spine and he knows he hasn't dodged the bullet at all, that's he been hit, gut shot. He doesn't think Fraser calls his name-Ray just knows somehow, knows that he's there and turns and sees him, just inside the doorway. He's still wearing the heavy, fur-lined boots and jacket he wears when he patrols on the sled, and above the collar his face is pale and set.
He looks at Ray, and Ray holds his breath. He doesn't know what he'll do if Fraser confronts him, gets angry with him, or asks him to stay. The guy behind him nudges him-he's holding up the line and people want to get on the bus. He steps aside, not taking his eyes off Fraser.
Fuck. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to say, except that he loves Fraser but he loves Vecchio more, and he just didn't know that until it was too late. He can feel his face twist up as he struggles not to lose it in the middle of a bus station in Rae Lakes, and then he sees it register on Fraser's face, everything that he doesn't know how to say, that this is really it, that it's the end, that it's over. And Fraser drops his head, staring down at his hat as he turns it in his hands in a gesture Ray's seen a hundred times before and god, this is awful, this hurts-but he can't not do it because he needs Vecchio. Like fucking air.
It feels like an eternity but when Fraser lifts his head he has himself under control. His face is calm, although it's still as pale as the snow outside, and he nods slowly at Ray and lifts one hand in a silent goodbye. Ray knows that this is the last time he'll ever see Fraser, knows he'll never hear from him or talk to him again and everything goes blurry for a second as his eyes start to burn, and he rubs the wetness away angrily with the palm of his hand. A small smile crosses Fraser's face, pained and bittersweet, and then he passes a hand over his eyes, as if suddenly blinded, and turns and walks away.
Ray climbs on the bus on legs that don't feel quite steady and collapses into the first empty seat he sees. The woman with the cell phone sits down across the aisle from him, and the older kid takes the seat next to him. He looks down at the kid and they exchange a small smile, the kind you give someone when the situation suddenly makes you more than a stranger, but less than an acquaintance, and then the kid goes back to watching his mother cry silently, and his little brother, who's snuggled in against her.
He wonders suddenly about the husband. About the guy at the other end of the line. About what he's feeling. What he did to break things up, why he did it. If it's worth all the pain he's causing.
Ray pulls out his cell. It only rings once before the call is picked up. "It's me," he says. "I'm on the bus. And unless it breaks down between here and Yellowknife, I'm arriving on the midnight flight at O'Hare."
He waits.
And holds his breath.
THIS POLL IS NOW CLOSED. ANY FURTHER VOTES WILL NOT BE COUNTED.
**
Poll Vote for this story
edit: please note that the first question's rating scale SHOULD read "How well does this story fit the team genre? Rate from 9 (totally fits) to 1 (not so much)." Apologies for any confusion.
Author: aerye
Team: Angst
Prompt: "No, you never told me that before."
Pairing(s): Vecchio/Kowalski, Kowalski/Fraser
Length: 5200 words
Rating: R
Warnings: uh, angsty?
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to know who you really love.
Once you've read the story, please take a moment to vote in the poll below. Ratings go from 1 (low) to 9 (high), so all you need to do is enter a single number in that range into each text entry box. You'll be able to see the Prompt and Team (Genre) information in the header above.
More details about the voting procedure can be found here.
**
There's a vending machine in the corner. It doesn't dispense chips or sodas-it's filled with toys, stuffed animals and plastic trucks and airplanes, and little dolls with wide eyes. There's a crane inside, operated by a joystick, and you put in fifty cents for thirty seconds of "grab time." It's bright pink and orange, painted like a circus tent, and every two or three minutes it lights up and a creepy, cheery voice says "Come try your luck! Fun for all ages!"
Ray really, really wants to put a bullet through it.
Fraser
Ben
Fraser, I
Fraser,
I'm sorry. I messed this up. Again. I wouldn't blame you if you hated me for the rest of your life but I-I gotta fix this. I gotta-
Fuck, I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry.
Ray
The bus station is almost empty when he gets there, four in the fucking morning, eyes aching and gritty from the strain of driving in the dark and the snow. There's just the guy behind the ticket counter, reading a copy of Carguide, some janitor guy, who's pushing a stringy mop around the Formica floor, and two kids who can't be more than eighteen, huddled together in the corner. She's small and blonde, with a nose ring and jeans a size too small. He's big, First Nations, his dark hair long and his eyes tired. They look at him suspiciously when he comes in and he figures they're running away from something-disapproving parents or school or the law. The guy keeps a protective arm around her and they talk softly, in whispers, and hold hands.
Two different worlds. Ray wonders if they'll be able to make it.
It never occurred to him that first time, that things wouldn't work out between him and Fraser. He quit his job, packed up his apartment, and moved north with the blind confidence that happily ever after was only a citizenship application and a set of studier boots away.
But it was different than he'd imagined, almost from the start. Fraser was different up there, in ways he couldn't put his finger on. In Chicago, Fraser had been a freak, just like Ray, and it was them against the world, their own crazy duet. Up here, the world was full of freaks, and if there was a set of rules, everyone seemed to know them but Ray.
He tried. For a long time he tried. But then the winter set in and he felt more alone than ever, like he was trapped in one of those snowdrifts that caught people up, pulled them down and buried them, so that they wouldn't be found until the spring thaw. He dreamed that he was drowning in snow, drowning in the darkness, and Fraser stood there, oblivious, smiling down at Ray and tipping his hat and saying, "I'll be back in a week, Ray. Duty calls."
More often than not he woke from those dreams alone.
It starts to fill up about eight. There's supposed to be a nine-thirty bus to Yellowknife but it's running late and everyone's getting grumpy. The woman sitting next to him has been on her cell phone for the last hour and a half, alternatively yelling, crying, and swearing. "No. No, you didn't tell me that. No, you didn't say. No, you did not. You did not, you motherfucker. No, you never told me that before."
She has two kids with her, young kids, one not even out of diapers yet but old enough to go tottering around the bus station on his pudgy little legs, his dirty t-shirt sporting a smiling moose. He's got a soggy biscuit in his hand. He keeps coming up to Ray and putting his wet fingers on Ray's knees, trying to give Ray his half-chewed cookie, smiling this ridiculous smile that says he doesn't understand that his mother's marriage is breaking apart in the middle of a bus station.
The other kid is older by a few years, maybe six or seven, and apologizes softly every time he's not quick enough to stop his baby brother from leaving more wet fingerprints on Ray's trousers. He does understand. He watches his mother carefully and tries to keep his brother out of trouble, and his eyes are red from determined efforts not to cry.
Ray knows just how he feels.
The first time it happens they're both drunk. They've just finished a tough case, two weeks straight of sixteen hour days and they finally nailed the bastard, nailed him right to the wall, seven counts of murder and aggravated assault. They go back to Ray's place with a pizza and a twelve pack, and sometime after they finished off the pepperoni and pineapple ("This has gotta be blasphemy, Kowalski.") things get a bit blurry. Ray remembers toasting Vecchio, and Vecchio toasting him, and then next thing he knows Vecchio is between his knees and blowing him, Ray's dick in his mouth all the way down to his tonsils, and Ray's toes are curling in his boots as he comes. He remembers dragging Vecchio onto the sofa, on top of him, and begging Vecchio to fuck him, fuck him hard enough to make him forget, and coming again with Vecchio deep inside.
The next week is hell. Ray wakes up the morning after and Vecchio is gone, and five minutes after he gets to the station they're fighting, although when Welsh demands to know what the fight is about neither of them can really say. They circle each other like pit bulls, snarling and snapping for the next five days. On Friday, they bolt in opposite directions, and Ray spends the weekend doing laundry and washing dishes, and trying not to think about Vecchio or Fraser or how entirely fucked up his love life seems to be. Not that Vecchio is part of his love life or anything.
On Sunday night there's a knock on his door and he opens it to find Vecchio, jaw tight and eyes narrowed. "This is a mistake," he says, "I just know it."
Ray opens his mouth to ask him what the fuck he's talking about but Vecchio is through the door, pushing Ray up against the nearest wall. "Stupid fucking mistake," he says again and then he grabs Ray's face in both his hands and kisses him, licking his way into Ray's mouth. That time they make it to the bedroom and in the morning, Vecchio is still there when he wakes up.
After that, things calm down a bit. The sex is good. Vecchio is an okay guy, if a little uptight sometimes. And if he's still in love with Fraser, well, that ship sailed due north without him and there wasn't any point in lingering on that now, was there?
His cell phone vibrates in his hand again and he checks the caller id, even though he knows who it is. It rang once, about two hours after he got there and he didn't answer-he knows that's when Fraser got home from night patrol and found his note. After that it didn't ring for a while but Ray knows that's only because there isn't a decent satellite signal to be found between Norman Wells and here, and that Fraser was out the door the minute he got Ray's note, probably on the dog sled, since he had the truck.
About an hour ago it started ringing again, every fifteen minutes or so, regular as clockwork, and he turned the phone to vibrate to stop the irritated glances he was starting to get from the guys who were trying to grab some sleep before the bus to Yellowknife arrived. Fraser doesn't leave any voice messages.
Vecchio talks dirty in bed. "Yeah, yeah-fuck, yeah. Jesus, you're tight, tight fucking ass and fucking mouth and-" and Ray groans, shifting underneath him and lifting into the next thrust, slowly unraveling beneath the fevered touch of Vecchio's hands and fingers and mouth. It's as different from being with Fraser as different can be, and he's glad, glad that he can't forgot who he's with, whose dick is inside him.
One day he realizes he doesn't need the reminder and his hand freezes as he's jerking Vecchio off. Vecchio groans and hisses, "Quit fucking around, Kowalski," and then realizes Ray's not just teasing and asks, "What's wrong?" in breathy, ragged voice, putting a hand against Ray's cheek, holding his face up to see. Ray can't bear it. Can't bear what Vecchio might see, he's so twisted up inside, so he pushes Vecchio on his back and goes down on him, hard and fast, bringing him off before he can ask any questions.
He makes his own phone calls in between Fraser's. He doesn't want to think what the phone bill's going to look like when he gets it, what with long distance and international and out of the calling area whatever the fuck. Doesn't matter. He dials, and he leaves a message every fucking time, although the last few have been real simple.
Answer the fucking phone, Vecchio.
They bring home paperwork. Welsh is on their ass to clear up the backlog so Vecchio checks out a laptop and they bring it back to Ray's place. Vecchio's typing and Ray's dictating from notes, and every once in a while Vecchio contradicts him or adds something, and then they spend a couple of minutes fighting about who's right and who's the better cop, and half the time he wins and half the time Vecchio wins.
Ray's in the middle of summarizing the Checkers case, two female cat burglars and man, Ray would've worked that case for free, when Vecchio holds up a hand and says, "Stop."
"What?"
"Something wrong with the computer. It's freezing or something. Give me a sec."
So Ray leans back and takes a long draw off his beer and starts shredding one of the napkins that came with the take out. Vecchio's muttering under his breath and swearing at the computer, and Ray puts one of the strips of napkin in his mouth, wets it up and rolls it into a ball.
It hits Vecchio right in the middle of his forehead. He looks up, aggravated. "What the fuck, Kowalski?"
"What?" Ray grins.
"Fucking spastic asshole." He goes back to banging away at the keyboard.
The next spitball is bigger, wetter, but his aim is off and it just grazes Vecchio's ear. Vecchio glowers at him. "If I have to come over there you aren't going to like it."
"Yeah?" Ray raises an eyebrow. "That so?" He's getting hard.
Vecchio shakes his head. "Yeah, that's so. Don't fuck with me, Kowalski." He goes back to the computer.
The third spitball catches him right on the nose. Vecchio jerks back, and then his eyes heat up. He shoves the computer off his lap, onto the sofa, and then he's on top of Ray, shoving him back against his chair and straddling his lap. "I warned you," he says, dragging Ray's mouth up to his and shoving a hand down his pants. "It's a good thing I love you," he mutters against Ray's lips, licking and biting.
And Ray not even sure what the words are, the ones that are rising up in his throat like water rushing up out of the ground. He only knows that they're trapped before they reach his mouth, slamming into each other, one after the other, and he feels like they're strangling him.
He's hungry but he doesn't want to eat. He hasn't eaten since the day before, since he'd written the note and gone flying out the door, off in the trunk, shattering into a million pieces. He's been running on adrenaline and coffee, souring in his gut. Around six a.m. he had one of those egg and sausage sandwiches from the vending machine, and twenty minutes later he was in bathroom, down on his knees in a bathroom stall, vomiting, the sour smell of piss surrounding him. Since then he's stuck to the coffee. He rubs his hands over his face, feeling the bristles on his jaw against his palms, shaking and jittery. He tells himself it's just the caffeine.
His cell stops vibrating. He picks it up and makes another call.
It's the first time he's dreamed about Fraser in a long time. He's in the snowdrift again, falling, falling, and he can't get a footing, can't save himself. He yells for Fraser to come help him, to come find him, but he can't see him, can't hear him, and the more he struggles, the deeper he sinks into the snow. He doesn't want to die, he doesn't. He doesn't want to die, doesn't want to die, doesn't want to die-
"Hey. Hey," and he's suddenly awake, gasping for air, covered in sweat and shaking. Vecchio's wrapped around him, warm and tight, and alive, and he's whispering, "You're okay. It's okay. Just a dream."
He pulls Vecchio's head down and kisses him as if his life depended on it.
He's tired. He's answers the phone without thinking.
Ray?
Shit. "Fraser. Ben I-" He can hear the wind whipping the flaps on the sled, whistling through the air.
Ray, please. Just-wait until I get there. Don't-don't leave-"
"Fraser-"
Please, Ray. Just give me a chance to talk to you first.
"Ben." His voice breaks. "God, Ben, don't make me say it."
Ray, I love you.
"I can't-I have to go."
He ends the call.
"Look, I never lied to you about Fraser and me." He's stuffing a handful of socks into his bag. "I never pretended with you."
And it's the truth, goddamn it. It is. Vecchio knew he was in love with Fraser, knew from the very beginning, and maybe they'd never thought this was a possibility, him and Fraser getting back together, but it wasn't like Vecchio could say Ray'd ever promised him true love or for-fucking-ever. They were just-whatever they were. They hung out together. They had a good time. They fucked. Nobody ever said it was love.
("It's a good thing I love you…")
He doesn't have any reason to feel guilty.
"How long have you been-" Vecchio doesn't finish the sentence, looks away, and his mouth thins.
"A few weeks," he says, rolling up two pairs of jeans and shoving them in next to the socks. He stops packing. Sinks down to sit on the bed. "I didn't know things would work out this way." He looks up at Vecchio. "He doesn't know about you."
It hurts, seeing Vecchio shatter before his eyes as he puts a hand over his face, hiding it from Ray. "Not important enough to mention, I guess," he whispers.
He wants to be angry. He never promised Vecchio anything, he didn't, and if Fraser wants to try again, wants to see if they can make it work then goddamn it, he's going back. He's taking that chance. He's in love with Fraser, been in love with Fraser for so long he doesn't know how to be anything else. Doesn't want to be anything else, he thinks, and he wishes he didn't feel so much like he was trying to convince himself.
"Have you slept with him?" Vecchio asks, and his voice sounds wrecked, like someone reached in and wrapped a hand around his vocal cords.
Ray goes still. "Yeah," he finally says, getting up again and picking up a stack of shirts, pretending he doesn't see this hit Vecchio like another blow, rocking him on his feet. He wants this conversation over. He doesn't want to hurt Vecchio but why can't he just let go, why can't he just goddamn let go? They didn't make any promises, goddamn it, they didn't and he doesn't have any right to make Ray feel this way.
"And you think this time it's going to work?"
"He took a leave of absence." And doesn't that just prove it, prove something, that for once Fraser put the Mountie thing aside because of him? Doesn't that prove that it'll be different this time?"
"Last time you had a whole fucking adventure and that wasn't enough."
He clenches his jaw so tight it hurts. "This is none of your fucking business, Vecchio. It's between Fraser and me. I'm sorry you're hurt but-"
He can hear the sharp intake of air just before Vecchio's fist hits the wall. "Get out."
"Look, Vecchio-"
"Get out. Just get the fuck out, Kowalski. Take what you've got there and find the fucking door. Before I do something we both regret."
He takes his bag and leaves.
He's come to expect the ten rings and then the transfer to voice mail (Ray Vecchio. I'm not here, leave a message). When Vecchio answers after the first ring he's struck stupid and doesn't say a word. He can hear Vecchio breathing on the other end, low and quick-harsh-and he's just opening his mouth to speak when-
Stop fucking calling, Kowalski. I got nothing to say to you.
-and Vecchio hangs up on him.
"Fuck me," he's pleading, and his voice is wrecked, low and hoarse, and he can barely get the words out of his mouth, his throat is so tight. "Fuck me, god, fuck me," and Vecchio's whispering in his ear, soft and filthy, telling him how tight he is, how good he feels wrapped around Vecchio's dick. He's insane with need, arching up under Vecchio and begging him, shoving himself down on Vecchio's fingers and then his dick, dizzy with need and a something that fills him up with heat and light, making him giddy. "-fuck me, fuck me, fuck me-" and Vecchio leans over and whispers in his ear-
"It's a good thing I love you-" He comes, comes apart, shattering into pieces in Vecchio's arms, and-
-he's awake, staring up into the darkness, at the ceiling in the housing unit he shares with Fraser. He's breathing hard, slick with sweat, and so hard it hurts. He sits up, ignoring his dick, and rubs his hands over his face.
The clock says it's almost five but it's that time of year-it'll be dark for hours. Fraser was supposed to be home that night but he called and left a message that he would late. Ray checks his cell phone and sees there's another message: Fraser will be gone at least another day, maybe two.
Ray huddles down into the blankets, listens to the steam heat hissing along the pipes, and curls himself around his erection. He doesn't want to touch it, doesn't want to bring himself off, and he listens to Fraser's message again, just listening to the sound of his voice. Finally he deletes it, and then brings up his contact list, scrolling down the numbers. P-Q-R-S. T. U. Vecchio.
"Vecchio." Vecchio sounds groggy. Not surprising-it's still early morning there and he was probably still asleep. "Hello? Who the fuck is this?" A pause. He hears rustling and imagines Vecchio sitting up, checking the caller id. "Shit. Kowalski?" Another pause. "Ray?"
He closes his eyes and hangs up the phone. He lays awake for the next hour, not sure if he's hoping for a call back or not. But the phone doesn't ring and eventually he drifts into sleep again.
It's only later, after it's all over, that he realizes that the day he left Vecchio was the first day it snowed that winter.
He wants to make it work but everything seems out of key. He can see Fraser trying. Fraser turns down assignments to stay closer to home, agrees to move into town. He teaches Ray to curl, and even though Ray still thinks it's kind of a stupid game he learns, and plays on the team that Fraser joins.
Ray learns some new caribou recipes but Friday night is pizza and beer night. He learns a little Inuktitut, practices driving the dogsled, and helps Fraser make his own pemmican.
He fills out the paperwork for permanent resident status. Finds a job.
"Talk dirty to me," he breathes into Fraser's ear, as he strips Fraser out of his clothes, coat and boots and uniform.
"What?" Fraser looks confused.
"Talk dirty to me," he says again, pulling him down on the bed and rutting up against him. "Tell me how much you want me to fuck you."
Fraser lifts himself up on his arms and looks down at him, and Ray feels the heat leeched from his body, rush into his face. "Ray, you know I'm not comfortable-"
"Yeah." He shakes his head. "Yeah, sorry." He pulls Fraser down, kisses him, and Fraser kisses him back, and it's hard and urgent. He rolls them over, straddles Fraser and slides down onto his dick. He rides him until they both come and when he collapses on Fraser's chest, hot and sweaty and out of breath, he tells himself this is everything he needs.
The cell phone vibrates again.
Frannie writes to Fraser every month. Fraser always offers up the letter, like it's a way of proving that he's not afraid of the past, of Ray's thing with Vecchio. It was one of their first fights, when Ray finally told him about Vecchio, and Fraser's still carrying the guilt for his unknowing actions. "Would you like to read it?"
"Nah, you can give me the highlights as you go." He's washing the dishes and that helps, because it gives him something to do with his hands that isn't reaching in the direction of the letter.
"She's pregnant," Fraser says after a moment.
"Fucking again? Ma's gonna kill her. Still with the immaculate conception story?"
Fraser looks embarrassed. "Yes. Although you know, Ray, there are precedents-"
"That was a nice Jewish girl, Fraser. Not a nice Italian girl. And Ma would kill her anyway."
"Lieutenant Welsh accompanied her to the Policeman's Ball last month."
Ray grinned. "Lieu's carrying a torch, that's for sure."
"Francesca wore a bright red dress with black shoes. She wore her hair up."
Ray can hear the smile Fraser's hiding. "Stop the presses."
Fraser's quiet for several minutes. "That it? That's gotta be one of the shortest letters she's ever sent." He glances over at him.
There's a funny look on Fraser's face. He lifts his eyes to Ray's. "Ray has met someone."
"Yeah?" And so what if his gut does a flip-flop-that's normal, hearing stuff like that about an ex.
He knows Fraser is looking at him but he's cool, really, he is, he's happy for Vecchio actually, glad that he's met someone, glad he's not alone. It's a good thing.
Later that night, after they have sex and Fraser falls asleep, Ray gets up and reads the whole letter from front to back, tries to picture the buyer from Macy's who helped Vecchio pick up a tie "and the next thing she knew they were dating."
When he's finished he puts the letter away again carefully, and when he goes looking for it again, he can't find it. Seems Fraser threw it away.
The bus from Yellowknife arrives, two hours late. Snow and mechanical problems. People pile off the bus looking tired and cranky and stiff, dragging bags and packs and blankets and pillows off with them. Ray watches as friends and family greet some of them with smiles and big hugs. The less fortunate passengers just rub their hands over their eyes and trudge on out the door, off to wherever they're headed.
The girl behind the desk-she came on at eight, relieving the guy on night shift-punches some buttons on her phone and suddenly there's a hollow rasp as the PA system kicks in, and she announces that there are still mechanical difficulties with the bus, and that their departure will be delayed another thirty minutes. There are groans from around the room and Ray checks his watch. It's four and a half hours from Norman Wells. It's going to be close.
-not here, leave a message-
"Fuck you, Vecchio! Pick up goddamn phone or the next time I call it's gonna be to the house and I'll just leave the whole goddamn message with your mother!"
The station has signs posted everywhere, in English and in French.
This is a smoke-free environment.
Il s'agit d'un environnement sans fumée. Il s'agit d'un environnement sans fumée.
Greyhound is not responsible for lost or stolen property.
Greyhound n'est pas responsabilisé de propriéte perdu ou volé.
All passengers must check luggage at the desk.
Tous les passagers doivent transmettre leur bagage à la reception.
Ray's learned a little bit of French while he's been here. Purely in self-defense.
How much is it?
Ça coûte combien?
Where are the toilets?
Où sont les toilettes?
Help me please.
Aidez moi s’il vous plait.
I love you.
Je t'aime.
But there are some things he still doesn't know how to say.
I'm leaving you.
"Don't hang up, goddamn it!"
What the fuck is this, Kowalski? Stalking 101? What the fuck do you want?
"Another chance."
Silence.
What the fuck?
"I want another chance."
Sorry-Vecchio's recovering-we're all outta those.
"Vecchio-"
Look, I don't know what kind of crazy shit this is but I'm seeing someone.
"Is it serious?"
That's none of your goddamn business.
"Do you feel about her the same way you feel about me?"
Of course not. You, I hate your fucking guts. Her, I kinda like.
He doesn't say anything. There's a long silence on the other end of the phone and then-
Kowalski-I can't. I can't do this again. I won't go back to waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to decide you want Fraser back.
Ray closes his eyes. "It wouldn't be like that," he whispers.
Right. And explain to me why the fuck I should believe you?
And he's got nothing to say to that. If he was Vecchio he wouldn't believe him either. "Because I'm telling you."
Vecchio's laugh is bitter. Yeah. Well, as long as it's a source I can really trust.
"Because I love you, you fucking asshole."
The silence almost vibrates with anger.
"Fuck you, Kowalski. I'm hanging up."
Ray's hand tightens on the phone. "No, don't hang up, Vecchio! You listen to me." His voice breaks. "Goddamn you, listen to me. I'm coming back. You're going to have to deal with me sooner or later so it might as well be sooner. I'll sit on your goddamn doorstep and serenade you at four o'clock in the morning until you give me another chance. I screwed up and I know and I'm trying to make it better." He runs out of words. He hangs his head and closes his eyes. "I love you, goddamn it. You have to give me another chance."
There's another long silence.
Look, I can't talk about this right now. I got a guy in lock-up I gotta grill.
"Vecchio-"
Where are you?
"Bus station in Rae Lakes."
And Fraser?
He doesn't answer.
Yeah. Call me if you actually you get on the bus, Vecchio says, and hangs up before Ray can say anything.
He's getting on the bus when it happens. He thinks maybe he's made it, dodged the bullet, and he knows that makes him the lowest kind of coward but he's glad, and then he feels a shiver run down his spine and he knows he hasn't dodged the bullet at all, that's he been hit, gut shot. He doesn't think Fraser calls his name-Ray just knows somehow, knows that he's there and turns and sees him, just inside the doorway. He's still wearing the heavy, fur-lined boots and jacket he wears when he patrols on the sled, and above the collar his face is pale and set.
He looks at Ray, and Ray holds his breath. He doesn't know what he'll do if Fraser confronts him, gets angry with him, or asks him to stay. The guy behind him nudges him-he's holding up the line and people want to get on the bus. He steps aside, not taking his eyes off Fraser.
Fuck. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to say, except that he loves Fraser but he loves Vecchio more, and he just didn't know that until it was too late. He can feel his face twist up as he struggles not to lose it in the middle of a bus station in Rae Lakes, and then he sees it register on Fraser's face, everything that he doesn't know how to say, that this is really it, that it's the end, that it's over. And Fraser drops his head, staring down at his hat as he turns it in his hands in a gesture Ray's seen a hundred times before and god, this is awful, this hurts-but he can't not do it because he needs Vecchio. Like fucking air.
It feels like an eternity but when Fraser lifts his head he has himself under control. His face is calm, although it's still as pale as the snow outside, and he nods slowly at Ray and lifts one hand in a silent goodbye. Ray knows that this is the last time he'll ever see Fraser, knows he'll never hear from him or talk to him again and everything goes blurry for a second as his eyes start to burn, and he rubs the wetness away angrily with the palm of his hand. A small smile crosses Fraser's face, pained and bittersweet, and then he passes a hand over his eyes, as if suddenly blinded, and turns and walks away.
Ray climbs on the bus on legs that don't feel quite steady and collapses into the first empty seat he sees. The woman with the cell phone sits down across the aisle from him, and the older kid takes the seat next to him. He looks down at the kid and they exchange a small smile, the kind you give someone when the situation suddenly makes you more than a stranger, but less than an acquaintance, and then the kid goes back to watching his mother cry silently, and his little brother, who's snuggled in against her.
He wonders suddenly about the husband. About the guy at the other end of the line. About what he's feeling. What he did to break things up, why he did it. If it's worth all the pain he's causing.
Ray pulls out his cell. It only rings once before the call is picked up. "It's me," he says. "I'm on the bus. And unless it breaks down between here and Yellowknife, I'm arriving on the midnight flight at O'Hare."
He waits.
And holds his breath.
THIS POLL IS NOW CLOSED. ANY FURTHER VOTES WILL NOT BE COUNTED.
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edit: please note that the first question's rating scale SHOULD read "How well does this story fit the team genre? Rate from 9 (totally fits) to 1 (not so much)." Apologies for any confusion.