Fic: "Take it a Little Bit Further", due South, Ray/Ray, Rated Adult.
Title: Take it a Little Bit Further
Author: sionnain
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Ray/Ray (Kowalski/Vecchio)
Rating: Adult
Word Count: Around 8K
Summary: Ray Kowalski's version of romance involves shouting and throwing his fists around. Surprisingly, Vecchio seems to appreciate it.
AN: My first Ray/Ray fic! ::flails around:: I owe a million thanks to Meresy for making this story much better than it was when I sent it to her, and for being very patient and helpful like whoa. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own. The song title is from the song Lake Fever by the Tragically Hip. For Spuffyduds, because I like writing people porn, what?
Take it a Little Bit Further
Romance, to one Stanley Raymond Kowalski, usually did nothing but make him feel really, really stupid. It was one more thing that went on his growing list of Things I Avoid So I Don't Look Dumb In Public like playing Trivial Pursuit, or golf that wasn't putt-putt.
Back in his younger days, when he'd been hot and heavy after Stella, "romance" had consisted of some weird combination of hard-ons and awkwardness in the GTO that had somehow, surprisingly, ended in marriage. Which then ended not-so-surprisingly in divorce, because hot-and-heavy turned into the Academy and police work, and it was real hard to be romantic when all you wanted to do was sleep after chasing guys down alleys and being shot at all the time. After Stella (A.S., Ray thought of it, like B.C. or A.D.), he felt as awkward as teenager again, without the necking or the GTO to make it bearable. He was pretty sure he was just going to have to give up and get one of those Russian brides in the mail or something, because the thought of doing it all over again was fucking exhausting.
He never would have thought of getting in fights as romantic, not in a million years, but that's how it all started with Vecchio.
He'd say he never thought "it" could be anything with a guy, but that wouldn't be exactly true--Ray had hopes in Canada, but Benton Fraser, for all his survival skills and useless trivia about muskrats and prairie dogs and whatever else, was as bad with romance as Ray had been with snowshoes. It lead to a lot of cold nights--now with thirty-percent more awkwardness!--and Ray second guessing himself and looking for clues, but trying to read Fraser was sometimes as easy as reading fucking War and Peace in Russian.
But what could he do, it was Fraser and weirdness was part of the deal, so Ray had hugged him goodbye at the airport and headed back to Chicago with fond memories and a strong, burning desire for a cheeseburger and fries (mooseburgers were not quite the same, no matter what Fraser tried to tell him). If there was some regret at what might have been, well, Ray could always cure that with a few six-packs of Old Style and denial, which had gotten him through After Stella, so it should get him through After Fraser, too, right?
He'd been doing okay--not great, but okay--at work, solving cases and chasing leads and teasing Frannie about her latest pregnancy when Vecchio showed back up. It was actually not a surprise--Fraser had told him about it in a letter, because he actually still sent letters instead of using the phone like a civilized person (Ray had some crazy image of Fraser writing letters with a quill made out of bald eagle feathers on caribou skin or something), saying As you might be aware, Ray, Ray Vecchio will soon be returning to Chicago after his visit to Florida. I do hope the two of you will fondly recall the last time you had the pleasure of each others acquaintance and enjoy your time together.
Fraser had apparently gone brain-dead from the cold in Canada, because the "last time you had the pleasure of each others acquaintance" had involved a psychotic Canadian murderous bastard (and who knew Canada even had those?) who'd killed Fraser's mom, and Vecchio getting shot, and Ray nearly dying of hypothermia while lying in a hammock strapped to the side of a mountain.
Ray read the part about Vecchio's visit to Florida and snorted, because leave it to Fraser to call it a visit instead of saying when Vecchio is done fucking your ex-wife. Ray wondered if somewhere in the stifling heat of the Florida summer (and who the hell left Chicago for Florida, anyway?) Ray Vecchio was reading a letter about Kowalski's return to Chicago after his visit to Canada that really meant, after failing to fuck the Mountie, and that just made Ray go outside and smoke three cigarettes and seriously contemplate kicking the wall just because it was there.
He was outside smoking, in fact, when Vecchio walked out of the station a few days later, saying, "Don't you know smoking kills, Kowalski?" Vecchio wasn't a wall, but he was a bastard, and Ray liked kicking those, too. After thinking about his options for point three seconds, Ray lunged at him, which took Vecchio by surprise. (Really, Ray couldn't blame the guy, most people's "welcome back!" parties didn't include a Polish cop with a half-finished cigarette and a closed fist coming at their smug, sneering face.) Both of them landed in Welsh's office after a brief tussle that ended in bruising and a lot of swearing, but it made Ray feel a little better.
"I don't even know what to say to you," Welsh said, and Ray--clothes rumpled and his head ringing (Vecchio got over his surprise real quick and hadn't pulled his punches)--just shrugged and didn't look up. He stared at the ground, equally enraged by the site of Vecchio's probably-thousand-dollar-shiny-shoes as he was by the fact his cigarettes had been crushed when Vecchio had thrown him to the ground. "Just work it out. Or get out. Got it?"
Ray's last partner had transferred to Naperville a few weeks before, so of course Welsh decided to partner them up because he was obviously some sort of sadistic dictator, like Stalin but without the mustache. Had Stalin had a mustache? It didn't matter. What did matter was that Ray was suddenly staring across the desk at Vecchio's ugly mug, and it was only okay because said ugly mug had a split lip.
Of course, it was kind of hard for Ray to really enjoy that particular sight, what with the poor vision and the black eye. But he felt smug enough to say, "Pass me the DeCipio file," in a voice that was kind of polite, and Vecchio did without a word--but that was probably because he couldn't talk around the towel he had pressed to his lip to stop the bleeding.
It was the little things.
* * *
The second time they threw down it was over Stella, which was probably to be expected, and maybe the only time it was ever really necessary. At least, according to Vecchio. Ray thought he had a lot of necessary reasons to hit things; Stella; Fraser being a clueless, repressed bastard; the Cubs' bullpen; traffic; people who didn't change the coffee filters; Vecchio; the vending machine; Vecchio; being out of cigarettes; Wednesdays--you name it.
They'd just finished arresting the same small-time drug dealer for the third time in as many weeks, and Vecchio said, "I don't think that idiot's gonna make it to the big-time, he can't even run errands for his Ma without ending up in jail."
Ray shrugged, bouncing up and down as he finished his cigarette. He found it hard to stand still after all the adrenaline, even more so than on regular days when he wasn't chasing anyone, and smoking gave him something to do. They'd taken Vecchio's car, some crappy Mercury (which Kowalski privately snickered over at least once a week--and by "privately" he meant "out loud to Vecchio's face") and Vecchio wouldn't let him smoke in it. Ray thought that was a dumb rule because the interior was cloth, and who the hell cared about that?
"If we're really lucky, maybe someone'll shoot him."
"Oh, that's nice, Stanley," Vecchio said, rolling his eyes.
"Oh, sorry. I guess I'm supposed to want him to, what, join the fucking Peace Corps?" Ray took a drag off his cigarette, and blew smoke right at Vecchio's face because it was sort of expected. "You want me to be a softie with heart of gold, that it? Think you got me confused with Fraser there, pal."
Vecchio snorted. "Believe me, Kowalski; I don't ever confuse you with Fraser."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Ray threw his cigarette down, grounding it out with the heel of his boot so hard it almost disappeared into the concrete. Smoking hadn't calmed him down at all. He flexed his fingers and thought about smoking another, but Vecchio would probably make him walk if he did that and it was a long way back to the 2-7.
"Nothing. Just get in the car." Vecchio sounded tired, suddenly, tired in a way that Ray knew pretty well, and that pissed him off more because, damn it, he wasn't supposed to relate to Vecchio of all people. Relating was for chicks, or maybe Fraser.
If he couldn't have another smoke he might as well punch something, so Ray shoved Vecchio hard and said, "Don't tell me what to do," like he was five years old and Vecchio had stolen his favorite toy, which, he kind of had, hadn't he? Vecchio just took the blow and moved away towards the car, and Ray snapped, "Is that why Stella liked you? Because you just rolled over and took it?"
He was annoyed that Vecchio wasn't fighting back like he was supposed to, like a man, wasn't giving Kowalski something to do with his pent-up energy and lingering anger. "You like being her lapdog, that it?"
"No, she liked me because I wasn't an ADD Polack with no style and no brain," Vecchio snapped back, turning to face him. "I think she liked the fact I could carry on intelligent conversations without having to stop and look things up in a dictionary."
Vecchio was expecting Ray's punch this time, and maybe it was the mob-boss thing or maybe it was just Vecchio, but he leaned to the side in time and Ray's punch missed entirely.
Fuck.
"Idiot," Vecchio panted, shoving back at Kowalski. “Or, you know, maybe she was also afraid you were gonna go off all half-cocked like you're doing right now if she didn't pass the fucking salt in time, God, you are seriously off-balance, Kowalski, you know that, don't you?"
Ray was finding it hard to breathe, thinking about those last few days with Stella, all the things he'd fucked up by never being whatever it was people wanted him to be. "Yeah," he snarled, and then punched Vecchio in the gut, hard, and stood there, bouncing on his feet, hands up to cover his head, feeling crazy while Vecchio doubled over in pain.
Vecchio straightened up, but he didn't go at Ray like he was expecting, didn't punch him back or shove or yell or anything. Vecchio just gave Ray a strange look and said, "Get in the car, Kowalski." It was the Bookman's voice, low and dangerous, the kind of voice you couldn't argue with.
Ray was still standing on the street with his fists raised, but he turned away and jerked open the door to the car without a word. Ray stared out of the window, his hands shaking, knee bouncing up and down as Vecchio drove them back to the station.
* * *
Their next fight happened when they tried to interrogate a worthless piece of crap criminal, and discovered something unfortunate.
The fact of the matter was that, in their first few weeks as partners, they'd had a run of good luck. Subjects caught in the act, small-timers with no connections to anyone important, confessions, smart criminals who took plea bargains without much convincing. It wasn't until they both went in to interrogate a subject--all angry voices and accusatory shouts--that they realized they had a little problem with their style.
"Excuse us for a minute," Vecchio sneered at the man in the chair, stalking towards the door.
"Yeah, we'll be right back, loser," Ray snarled and stomped towards the door, slamming it behind him for good measure.
Vecchio grabbed his arm and pulled him into an empty interrogation room, practically flinging Ray away once he'd shut the door (quietly, Benton Fraser style). "What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded, arms crossed over one of his million-dollar suits.
"In-ter-ro-gating the criminal," Ray sing-songed, annoyed. He'd had a good groove going in there and Vecchio ruined it, because Vecchio ruined a lot of things, and Ray was seriously considering getting him a t-shirt that just said Ruiner on it for Christmas.
"Look, Kowalski, we can't do Bad Cop, Bad Cop. You know that doesn't work."
"Only because you suck," Ray said, kicking his heels against the leg of the table just because he knew it was annoying. There was a new list he kept in his head called Things That Piss Vecchio Off, and Ray's favorite part of the day was adding to that list as often as he could. Kick boot heels against metal things, check.
Vecchio rounded on him, standing too close, his hands flat on the table and leaning in towards Ray. Something happened to his eyes--they went flat, dead and cold, and he said in a menacing voice made all the more frightening for its quietness, "I am better at it than you can ever hope to be, Kowalski." For a second, maybe just one second--a second that he would never admit to anyone, anywhere, even under threat of torture--Ray believed him.
"You never used to be, I hear," Ray said, because apparently he had a death wish. "Not before Vegas." But that wasn't really true, was it, because Ray was Vecchio and Ray had a talent for doing Bad Cop, it was Oscar-worthy, everyone always said so. They never would have let him do it if Vecchio himself hadn't been able to pull it off. Besides, Vecchio had been Fraser's partner and no one could out-nice-cop Fraser, because Fraser wasn't actually pretending.
"I wasn't a lot of things before Vegas."
Ray looked at Vecchio's still-dead eyes, and had a rare moment of knowing when to shut the fuck up. "Okay. Then we do Bad Cop, Crazy Cop."
"Which one of us is crazy?" Vecchio asked, and he almost sounded normal. Almost. He was also standing too fucking close to Ray, and it was hot in here, and why the fuck wouldn't Vecchio move away and let him up?
"Me, obviously," Ray answered with a shrug, and then flashed Vecchio a grin. "Your crazy ain't obvious enough, Vecchio. Me, now, I'm in your face crazy. ADD Polack with a temper, remember?" Vecchio looked like he was going to say something, but Ray said hurriedly, "Let me the fuck up, would you? That guy's lawyer'll be here in ten, let's just do this."
Vecchio blinked and stepped back, and Ray was pretending he'd not asked Vecchio for permission to move like he was Vecchio's bitch, and Vecchio was pretending he hadn't just turned into Armando Langoustini for a second. Good, okay, pretending was better than relating.
Vecchio was eyeing him like maybe Ray was on to something. "Bad Cop and Crazy Cop? You think that'll really work?"
"Sure. I mean, who would have thought Bad Cop and Repressed Mountie would've worked? But it did, like, nine times outta ten, yeah? And when it didn't you could always send Fraser out for coffee and beat the guy with a chair while he was gone."
Vecchio opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but then he just said, "Point, Kowalski," with a smile, and Ray smiled back.
They went into the room, and Vecchio went all cold and I killed a man in Reno, just to watch him die, and Ray yelled and waved his arms and did a lot of threatening physical violence while Vecchio pretended to look bored, and they had a signed statement in twenty minutes flat. Welsh looked shocked, and then pleased, and then barked something out about them needing to get their paperwork done and please, let it be legible this time.
"You want to go get a beer?" Vecchio asked him later in the parking lot, hands in his pockets, looking a lot less Bad Cop and more like the overdressed Italian with a bald head and a big nose that Ray was used to.
Ray paused for a second, thinking, about Fraser and Stella and things he hadn't done. "Sure, why not?" Ray fished his keys out of his jacket pocket, promptly dropped them, picked them up, and then nearly tripped as he turned to the car.
"Smooth, Stanley. I thought you were a dancer?"
"Fuck off, Vecchio," Ray said, but it was almost cheerful. "I'm tired. It makes me clumsy. Get in, and try not to piss with excitement over how much better my car is than yours. It'd ruin the interior, which if 'you'll notice, isn't fake." He drove the GTO and tried not to get twitchy about Vecchio appraising the car as they drove without actually saying anything--he was poking around and looking at things and making weird sounds that didn't mean anything, what the fuck? But asking Ray not to be twitchy was like asking the sun not to rise in the morning, and he was just about to tell Vecchio, "if you want to check out the owner's manual, it's in the fucking glove compartment," when Vecchio surprised him by saying something that had nothing to do with Ray's sweet ride.
"Good job. With the suspect, today."
It sounded grudging, like Vecchio just had to admit Ray's dick was bigger or something, not that Vecchio had ever seen it or anything to know for sure. "Yeah, thanks," Ray said, coming to a stop at the light and looking over at Vecchio. "You, too," he said, because really, they had been a pretty good team. "God, remember doing that with Fraser? When he'd just say, 'Please, Mr. Suspect, maybe you should think about why car bombs are a detriment not only to the personal safety of the driver, but to the pride of the automobile workers who developed and built what you are so recklessly destroying.'" Ray was pretty proud of himself for that attempt at Fraser-speak and hoped he'd used all those words right.
Vecchio laughed. "Oh, Jesus, yeah. I never did get how that worked for him. Like, you could tell he put up with our tried-and-true American methods because maybe we'd never heard of 'just ask nicely for a confession' as an interrogation technique."
Ray grinned at that. "Ha! Yeah, you know, it makes me wonder about Canada--like, are their police stations just filled with sorry-ass criminals standing in line to confess? 'Thank you kindly for putting me in jail, officer.'"
"A lot of Benny's little idiosyncrasies made me wonder about Canada," Vecchio said, laughing, and Ray didn't ask him to define "idiosyncrasies" because he didn't want to look like an idiot, and because he could figure out pretty much what it meant. Before Ray could add anything, Vecchio said quietly, "I'm sorry I said that, Kowalski."
"About Canada? Don't worry, Vecchio, I'm right there with you."
"No, I mean--what I said to you when we...the thing about Stella, and me. And you."
"About me being a dumb Polack with ADD?"
"Well, not really--you are Polish and you have the attention span of a flea, and sometimes, yeah, your mental faculties do leave a lot to be desired, Stanley--"
"Is this an apology, or are you trying to make me kick you in the head?" Ray asked, glaring.
"But what I meant," Vecchio continued, just a little louder, "was that I'm sorry I said Stella was afraid of you. That's not...she never said that."
Usually, out talking him wasn't an option because Ray would just talk louder, but this time, Ray stared straight ahead, fingers tapping against the wheel. He could have told Vecchio that was something he'd worried about, too--that he'd do something colossally stupid out of anger at Stella's leaving him, and that this girl who knew him better than anyone might actually think he'd hurt her.
And maybe he would have said it, maybe to Fraser, or even to Vecchio if Ray were drunk, but they were still sitting in the GTO and there was no liquor and Fraser was up in Canada being...Canadian...and so Ray just said, "Okay," and left it at that. Vecchio nodded and they didn't talk again until Ray parallel parked the car outside the bar.
Inside, they had a few beers and talked about sports, and work, and only got in two fights, ("You're not really a fucking Rangers fan are you, Vecchio? Jesus, I bet you even liked Wayne Fucking Gretzky, that pussy--" and "What do you mean you think the GTO's low-end torque is better than the Riv, are you on crack, Kowalski?") but no one threw a punch, and when Ray took Vecchio home he said, "Say hi to your mom, Vecchio," and Vecchio flipped him off on the way up the stairs without looking back, and Ray laughed as he pulled away.
And their fights continued because they were them--but half the time they ended in laughing, and the other half they ended in Vecchio swearing in Italian or Ray making a rude gesture and stomping off for a smoke. That was all right, there wasn't any hitting beyond Ray's tendency to fling rubber bands at Vecchio across the desk when Ray was bored with paperwork. They solved cases, and Vecchio did a good impression of "Crazy Cop Kowalski" with the arm-waving and the shouting at the bar one night that had everyone, even Ray, laughing. Ray was even entertaining the idea of getting Vecchio a Christmas present that wasn't a t-shirt that said Ruiner.
Maybe a bumper sticker for the Mercury that said, My other car is in Lake Michigan.
Ray even went over to Vecchio's for dinner one night, played with the kids and ate lasagna, just like he used to do back in the day when he was Vecchio, and okay, maybe Vecchio wasn't Fraser but Ray wasn't jumping out of airplanes and landing in twenty thousand feet of ice, so, there was that. And Vecchio liked cars, and sports, even if he drank pansy-ass beer that had labels with artwork on them.
Things might have stayed that way, with Ray calling Vecchio Don Corleone and making fun of his ties, and Vecchio making snide remarks about Ray's eating habits and his fondness for t-shirts beneath his (ratty, according to Vecchio, fucking awesome, according to Ray) sport coats, except that one night, Ray made an off-handed invite to Vecchio to watch the game at his place and have a few beers. They were both off work the next day, having just wrapped up a grueling rape-murder case that had left images burned in Ray's brain he'd rather not think about ever again. Vecchio had seen the same photos, had been in the room with the perp who was all kinds of batshit crazy (so much so that Ray didn't even try Crazy Cop, because there was really no point in trying to out-crazy the homicidally insane), so Vecchio would probably get that hockey was the best way to forget the really awful things one person could do to another. In hockey everything boiled down to scoring goals, high-sticking penalties and off-sides infractions, and all fights ended with a trip to the box instead of the morgue. Ray figured it'd be okay, they'd watch the game, have a couple of beers, and he'd be able to sleep when the game was over and Vecchio went home.
Except that there was one more fight they had to have, apparently.
* * *
It started off simple enough. Vecchio was surprised to see Ray's apartment wasn't a disaster--"I just figured nothing could stay on a shelf with you around"--and Vecchio was glad Ray had ordered pizza with only half pineapple, because fruit on pizza was an affront to God, man, and America. They had some beers, Ray drinking Old Style and Vecchio drinking a Sam Adams--he'd brought that with him, Ray's hospitality had limits--and they settled down to watch the game.
And then, during intermission after the second period, with the 'Hawks down a goal to the St. Louis Blues, Vecchio made some remark about Fraser, something innocent, like, "If Fraser were here, we'd have to watch curling, and I still don't get the point of that sport at all. Of course, he'd have solved the case in twenty minutes instead of two weeks by licking the bottom of someone's shoe."
There was something about the way he said it that made Ray ignore what Vecchio was actually saying and react in a normal way--laughing and telling Vecchio not to call curling an actual sport while under his roof--and made him hear instead I really wish you weren't my partner, you're not good enough for me.
Ray was on his feet in a second, grabbing Vecchio's shirt and hauling him off the sofa. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he snarled, pushing Vecchio back towards the wall with several quick, angry shoves. Vecchio outweighed Ray by twenty pounds or so, and he was taller by a couple of inches, but Ray had wiry strength and adrenaline on his side, as well as Vecchio's shock at being hauled off a sofa during a Chevy commercial.
"What the fuck is your problem, Kowalski? Should I have let you go postal on that psycho's ass today, would that have helped?" Vecchio was looking at him like he was crazy, and that somehow made it all worse.
Vecchio sounded tired instead of angry, and then he said, "I really fucking thought you got this out of your system," and it was the whole disappointed tone that made Ray lose it. He shoved Vecchio against the wall, and it was only Vecchio's quick reflexes that kept Ray's fist from punching his face and sent Ray's hand into the wall as Vecchio jerked away.
Vecchio said something, but Ray couldn't hear it, couldn't do anything but stand there, enraged and unsure why exactly he was trying to pummel his partner, his fingers still curled around Vecchio's collar so tight his knuckles had turned white. His other hand didn't hurt from punching the wall, but it would soon enough. Ray knew all about that, how the things he did in the heat of the moment only hurt later, when you had time to really think about them and remember exactly what it was you'd done and feel stupid about it.
So with that in mind, he yanked Vecchio closer and kissed him. Worry about it later, his fucking motto, should've got that as a tattoo. Ray was probably going to end up with bruised knuckles and broken ribs once Vecchio got done with him, and a transfer request on his desk Monday morning, but he didn't care. He kept at it, channeling all that anger into what he was doing, and he didn't realize he was shaking and he didn't realize Vecchio was kissing him back--
Wait.
Ray pulled back, eyes wide. He'd done this before with guys, but it'd been a while. Stella used to think it was hot and she liked to watch, though it been years since they'd done anything like that because of she had important people to impress, and they couldn't keep shit together with just the two of them so hook-ups with random guys were a really, really bad idea. Which this probably was, too. But Ray knew that look on Vecchio's face; pupils wide, breathing hard, mouth open--fuck, did he know that look. "What the hell?"
"You--" Vecchio shook his head, obviously having trouble talking. "God, how does anyone keep up with you?" He shoved Ray away, not very hard, and Ray moved back and let him go, shock replacing his anger entirely (but not, in point of fact, the raging hard-on he suddenly realized he had).
"Hockey game and a beer one minute, trying to pulverize my face the next, and then you're kissing me? You need some medication stat, Stanley."
Ray just stared at him, still breathing hard. Vecchio wasn't punching him, or trying to beat him up, or even acting surprised that Ray had--that maybe he--
Huh.
Ray was beginning to feel the pain in his hand. His body was tensed up, ready to fuck or fight, and he had to get Vecchio out of his apartment before he tried either of those things. "Look. You can go. I'm--it won't--I'm just tired. And, you know, I'm crazy," he said, laughing harshly. "Fucked up," he said, pointing his finger at his head and making a whirling motion. "Crazy Cop Kowalski, that's me." He did a psychotic little jig to illustrate, then pantomimed a gun with his fingers and made a clicking sound while winking. If that didn't make him look crazy, he wasn't sure what would.
Vecchio, however, was still watching him quietly. Ray's hand started hurting and he noticed his knuckles were beginning to swell. He put his hand up to his mouth and sucked on the torn skin, trying to figure out what to do next, if Vecchio was going to make a big deal about this. A lot of cops did, which was why Ray never said anything, and hey, it was easy for people to think you didn't like guys too when you were married to a girl. His tongue touched his knuckles and then he stopped, because Vecchio was watching Ray with a hungry look.
Ray turned his hand and sucked on his fingers instead of his knuckles, pulled them slowly out of his mouth, his eyes never leaving Vecchio's face. Vecchio inhaled sharply and Ray felt a momentary rush of triumph followed by a suspicion he'd never really thought about.
"So, hey...you and Fraser?" Because that would just be ironic, wouldn't it, Vecchio getting his ex-wife and his ex-partner, too?
"No," Vecchio said, shaking his head slightly. "Benny was--is--my best friend. That's it." He was still watching Ray's hand, though, and that made Ray really confused. They were standing a little ways away from each other, but the air was charged, electric. There was just no way that Ray was the object of Vecchio's interest if Fraser wasn't (had Vecchio ever seen Fraser?), but then again, maybe Vecchio just had some weird hand-sucking-fetish and it wasn't about Ray at all. "You want to know why I came back from Florida, Kowalski?"
Ray dropped his hand, because he was starting to feel stupid sucking on his fingers, but he didn't miss the slight disappointed look on Vecchio's face when he stopped. "Sure. Okay. Why?" He almost said Because Stella wised up and dumped your ass, but maybe it wouldn't kill him not to be a dick for five minutes.
Maybe.
"Before Vegas, I was a good guy. Happy-go-fucking-lucky, help a guy out if he needed it, you know the type." At Ray's slight nod, Vecchio continued. "A fucking joke half the time, y'know? Not in any mean way, like that idiot Dewey, it was just that no one ever really took me seriously. And then, just 'cause I'm a dead ringer for some asshole mobster in Vegas, I got sent undercover. And Langoustini, he was nobody's joke. He had power and people listened to him, and he was a terrible motherfucker, but people respected him anyway, even though he'd cut your fucking face off soon as look at you," Vecchio said, sounding somewhere between disgusted and confused and oddly proud. "And that was still me, Kowalski. It was an act, sure, but it had to come from somewhere."
Ray just nodded, because he knew all about that; the way your identity became slowly confused as time wore on, when you started answering to a name that wasn't yours because you really thought that's who you were. Sometimes Ray still looked up, out of instinct, when someone said "Hey, Vecchio!" at the 2-7, and it took him a minute to realize they weren't talking to him.
"Then I come back here and I'm supposed to be Vecchio, the same guy I was before I left, but I'm not. I couldn't turn it off, not all the way, and part of that sick fuck Langoustini was still there, and I'd go to these parties with Stella in Florida--because bowling was fine for a few weeks and then she got a job with a law firm and then she met some people, and you know how that story goes."
And yeah, Ray all about that; disapproving looks and "Are you really wearing that, Ray?" (though Ray couldn't imagine that being a problem with Vecchio). And how you were left lying in bed at night wondering when the other shoe was going to drop, wondering when Stella would figure out she'd be better off without you.
"All those fucking people and there I was, smiling and shaking hands and I felt like I was him again, and what the hell, maybe that's what Stella wanted, I don't know. But it ended and I figured, hey, Chicago, the 2-7---I'll go back there, I was always me there, I was always Vecchio. Except when you were." He smiled briefly, thought it didn't reach his eyes at all. "So I go back, and goddamn it all, they looked like they were afraid of me--cops I'd worked with right out of the Academy, my own fucking sister. I walked in, and everyone looked at me like I was that fucker Langousitini, like if they said the wrong thing I'd whack them just to make a point."
Ray was staring at him, thinking. There had been too much going on when Vecchio had first shown up, back when they'd been trailing Muldoon, for Ray to notice the way anyone treated Vecchio (who'd really seemed to dislike him), and really, Ray wasn't the kind of guy to notice that kind of thing anyway. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, so he just waited, because Vecchio was pacing now and obviously wasn't done talking.
"I was in there for fifteen fucking minutes and I didn't even know who I was again," Vecchio muttered darkly. "And so I walked back outside, thinking fuck this, maybe Florida wasn't so bad after all, and there you were, and you tried to kill me because I said something about your smoking--"
"That wasn't why, idiot," Ray muttered, but he was starting to think there was something important here, but he'd had a lot of beer and made a pass at his partner and fuck if he was able to put it all together without a diagram and maybe some kind of explanatory pamphlet.
"Yeah, I know that." Vecchio walked over to him, and Ray didn't move, just stood his ground and waited to see what would happen next. "And you kept on pushing and fighting and you never once looked at me like you thought I was gonna whack you. In fact, you looked at me like you were gonna whack me, and what can I say--that was refreshing, as much as I really, really wanted to deck you for being such an asshole all day, every day. At least you didn't treat me like the Bookman. You just treated me like shit."
Kowalski blinked at him, slow and dumb, like an owl on drugs. "What? Vecchio, are you telling me that you were just kissing me because I don't treat you like the scary mobster that you actually really aren't?"
"Yes, Stanley," Vecchio said again, rolling his eyes, and Ray narrowed his and poked Vecchio in the chest.
"But you don't--you aren't into--I'm not Fraser," Ray said, almost desperately, because Christ, Vecchio smelled good and had nice eyes, and that stupid suit did look really, really good on him, but Ray was tired of having the hots for guys who didn't like guys or didn't like him, or whatever the fuck had been going on with Fraser. "I'm me. Ray Kowalski, I can't see without my glasses, that you make fun of all the time--"
"I just don't see why you couldn't at least try contacts, is all--"
"--I told you, I got issues with touching my own eyes, okay? I annoy the fuck out of you all the time--" Ray paused briefly, waiting for Vecchio to argue, but of course he didn't. "And in case you missed it, I keep trying to hit you even when I invite you over to watch the game, which is really fucking rude of me, you know." Ray was bouncing on his heels, ticking things off his fingers as he ran down the List of Reasons Why Ray Kowalski Is A Bad Idea. "Oh, and don't bother to lie, Mr. Fancy Suits-and why the hell did you wear that over to watch the game, anyway?--you hate the way I dress--"
"God, yes, what are you, fifteen and still shopping at the boy's section in Sears?" Vecchio said, and Ray jabbed him again and maybe this time he left his hand there, right against Vecchio's chest, and maybe it slid down to rest lightly on his belt, fingers resting just so on the smooth warm leather.
"I just don't get it," Ray said gruffly, fingers curling around Vecchio's belt a little. "This is stupid, you don't even like me. And how the hell could you want this with me if you didn't want it with Fraser? You ever seen him, Vecchio?"
"You want a hearts and roses moment, here, Kowalski?" Vecchio cocked his head, and he was smiling, and it wasn't a smile Ray had ever seen; warm and slow, and it did things to him, and goddamn it, was it some fucking rule Ray had to lust after all his partners, even the ones he really wanted to smack in the face for being a prick?
Vecchio was still grinning at him. "Want me to pass you a note in homeroom and ask you to the dance?"
"I'm not going dancing with you until you learn not to embarrass me," Ray muttered, and then hooked his fingers in Vecchio's belt for real and yanked him closer. His cock swelled again in his jeans, pressing uncomfortably against the fabric. That was okay because he was close enough to Vecchio to note he wasn't the only one with that problem, even though Kowalski sort of figured those thousand-dollar pants of Vecchio's were probably a lot nicer to a guy's hard-on than his 501's.
"So, what you're saying is, you don't hate me because I'm a dick to you, and because I don't care you actually called yourself Armando in public with a straight face, and that you actually want to fuck me because of it?"
"Good job, Stanley. You didn't even need a chart." Vecchio's voice was amused but a little breathless, maybe a little nervous. He put his hands on Ray's shoulders, almost tentatively, as if he didn't know what to do with his hands. Ray would be happy to offer suggestions. He pulled Vecchio closer again, leaning forward, giving Vecchio time to move away if he wanted.
He didn't.
"I don't hate you 'cause you're Langoustini," Ray muttered against Vecchio's warm mouth, "I hate you 'cause you're an asshole."
"Thanks, Kowalski," Vecchio said, and Ray could feel him smile when he went to kiss him again. That was very good, hot and urgent and Vecchio's body was hard and Ray suddenly wanted something to press against so he pushed Vecchio back again towards the wall--nicely, this time--and put his thigh between Vecchio's legs and that was very good, and right when Ray decided to take off Vecchio's shirt and suggest they move somewhere else, Vecchio said, "So, you and Fraser?"
Ray pulled way, his hips still pressed tight against Vecchio's, and said bluntly, "You have the worst timing in the history of ever. What the fuck?" he asked suspiciously. "Don't you remember how annoying it is when chicks do this, start asking these kinds of questions in the middle of things?"
“You just did it a minute ago, idiot.” Vecchio reached up and put his fingers on Ray's mouth, and said "Shhh," in a way that shouldn't be sexy but kind of was.
Apparently, Ray's type across genders was impossible and kind of bossy, so Ray just sucked on Vecchio's fingers. He was kind of smug when he saw how it took Vecchio a few seconds to make himself talk.
"Like I said, Benny is my best friend. I don't want--he's--that is, I--God, fuck, Kowalski," Vecchio moaned, and Ray grinned like a shark and tongued Vecchio's fingers with renewed vigor. "So?" Vecchio asked, panting.
Ray released Vecchio's fingers from his mouth and pressed against him again, harder, shifting so that he made Vecchio gasp, which was a pretty good sound and he wanted to hear more of it. Definitely wanted to hear that more than he wanted to have this conversation, which was awkward even without Vecchio's cock hard against his hip.
"No." And because Ray just knew Vecchio was going to ask, "Why?", he went ahead and answered. “I could never tell if he was into guys at all. Or, fuck, maybe I just couldn't tell if he was into me. Or maybe he just never pissed me off enough, Vecchio, can we stop talking now and get on with this? Save the talking about our feelings for, I don't know, never?" Kowalski winced when he realized that came out as way more of a whine than he meant it to.
Vecchio actually laughed. "Sure, Kowalski." His hands were on Ray's hips now, moving, and oh, that was right, that was good, this was much better than talking. They kept kissing until Ray couldn't breathe and he put his mouth on Vecchio's neck, his hand going down and unfastening Vecchio's pants, pulling his zipper down and sliding inside his boxers, wrapping his fingers around Vecchio's cock. Vecchio made a sound, a low sort of growl, and Ray jerked him off while he rubbed himself against Vecchio's thigh. Vecchio's fingers were tightening on his hips and he was saying things like, God, yes--yes- and making other noises that didn't end up in actual words, and Ray was moving, pushing his hips faster while he jerked Vecchio's cock hard and sure, rubbing the tip with his thumb, finding a rhythm.
He kept it up until he could tell Vecchio was close, then he growled, "Come on," roughly, and Vecchio shuddered and gasped and came all over Ray's hand. Ray was close and he was thinking about taking Vecchio's hand and putting it in his jeans or at the very least on his cock through his jeans, but he wasn't sure he could stop what he was doing long enough to actually manage that. And it turned out not to matter anyway, because Vecchio suddenly grabbed Ray by the hair and then leaned down and bit him on the neck, hard enough to make Ray jerk and groan and come with one last, frantic push of his hips. He stayed pressed against Vecchio for a moment and then pulled back, and he'd be embarrassed that he'd just come while he was still dressed, for fuck's sake, but he was too fucked-out to care.
He was mildly worried that he might have a post-sex Vecchio freak-out to deal with, but Vecchio just reached out and ran his fingers through Ray's hair, which was actually kind of nice. "Is that how you get it to look like that?" he asked, and Ray snorted and pulled away, his hand sticky and his jeans wet, feeling like a million bucks.
"Ha, ha." Ray smiled, slow and easy, and said, "Hey, I'm gonna clean up." Vecchio, of course, looked flushed and a little rumpled but still pretty put together, like he hadn't just gotten a hand job against a wall. Ray, on the other hand, knew he looked messy and like he had, but Vecchio's eyes were hot as he looked at him, so, maybe it wasn't a problem, maybe Ray made frantic wall sex a fashion statement or something.
When Ray came back out into the living room, Vecchio was back on the couch, shouting at the Hawks' terrible fucking defense as he absolutely should, drinking another beer. There was an Old Style on the table, unopened, and Ray thought he could probably get used to this--hot sex and sports and beer, hey, what's not to like about that? He sat next to Vecchio and opened his beer, putting his bare feet on the table, settling back against the cushions.
At the commercial, Vecchio turned to him and said, "So, was that just a one-time--I mean, were you--" and Ray groaned and hit Vecchio on the back of the head.
"Don't be a girl, Vecchio," Ray snorted, and Vecchio hit him in the back of the head for that, but he did look kind of worried, so Ray leaned over and kissed him, which involved climbing half on Vecchio's lap because that was just how he did things.
"God, Kowalski, do you ever run out of energy?" Vecchio asked with a laugh when Ray pulled away--the game was coming back on, and the Hawks had tied it, making Ray think idly that perhaps wall-sex was some kind of good luck charm for the Hawks and maybe they should do this every game, and would it work for the Cubs, too?--but Vecchio looked relaxed, sleepy-eyed and languid.
"Eventually. I'll show you after the game's over." Ray returned to his seat, picking up his beer again. "Just one thing, Vecchio," he said, forcing himself to give his partner a very serious look. "If we're going to do this, I got one rule. Just one. You ready?"
Vecchio raised an eyebrow--of course he could do that--and said, "Yeah, what is it?" in a cocky-ass way that suggested he'd think about it, and Ray kind of hated how that was sort of a turn-on.
"You have got to get a better car. I mean, I know you can't ever find anything--not even a Riv--that would approach the sheer awesomeness of the GTO, but if you think you're gonna take me out somewhere in a fucking Mercury Cougar, forget it. That is not buddies. Got it?"
Vecchio shook his head, and if he rolled his eyes, he had the good sense to do it where Ray couldn't see. "Yeah, Kowalski. I got it." Ray was pretty sure he heard Vecchio call him something in Italian that probably meant idiot, but he let that go.
"Good," Ray said simply. "Now shut up. The game's on."
Author: sionnain
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Ray/Ray (Kowalski/Vecchio)
Rating: Adult
Word Count: Around 8K
Summary: Ray Kowalski's version of romance involves shouting and throwing his fists around. Surprisingly, Vecchio seems to appreciate it.
AN: My first Ray/Ray fic! ::flails around:: I owe a million thanks to Meresy for making this story much better than it was when I sent it to her, and for being very patient and helpful like whoa. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own. The song title is from the song Lake Fever by the Tragically Hip. For Spuffyduds, because I like writing people porn, what?
Take it a Little Bit Further
Romance, to one Stanley Raymond Kowalski, usually did nothing but make him feel really, really stupid. It was one more thing that went on his growing list of Things I Avoid So I Don't Look Dumb In Public like playing Trivial Pursuit, or golf that wasn't putt-putt.
Back in his younger days, when he'd been hot and heavy after Stella, "romance" had consisted of some weird combination of hard-ons and awkwardness in the GTO that had somehow, surprisingly, ended in marriage. Which then ended not-so-surprisingly in divorce, because hot-and-heavy turned into the Academy and police work, and it was real hard to be romantic when all you wanted to do was sleep after chasing guys down alleys and being shot at all the time. After Stella (A.S., Ray thought of it, like B.C. or A.D.), he felt as awkward as teenager again, without the necking or the GTO to make it bearable. He was pretty sure he was just going to have to give up and get one of those Russian brides in the mail or something, because the thought of doing it all over again was fucking exhausting.
He never would have thought of getting in fights as romantic, not in a million years, but that's how it all started with Vecchio.
He'd say he never thought "it" could be anything with a guy, but that wouldn't be exactly true--Ray had hopes in Canada, but Benton Fraser, for all his survival skills and useless trivia about muskrats and prairie dogs and whatever else, was as bad with romance as Ray had been with snowshoes. It lead to a lot of cold nights--now with thirty-percent more awkwardness!--and Ray second guessing himself and looking for clues, but trying to read Fraser was sometimes as easy as reading fucking War and Peace in Russian.
But what could he do, it was Fraser and weirdness was part of the deal, so Ray had hugged him goodbye at the airport and headed back to Chicago with fond memories and a strong, burning desire for a cheeseburger and fries (mooseburgers were not quite the same, no matter what Fraser tried to tell him). If there was some regret at what might have been, well, Ray could always cure that with a few six-packs of Old Style and denial, which had gotten him through After Stella, so it should get him through After Fraser, too, right?
He'd been doing okay--not great, but okay--at work, solving cases and chasing leads and teasing Frannie about her latest pregnancy when Vecchio showed back up. It was actually not a surprise--Fraser had told him about it in a letter, because he actually still sent letters instead of using the phone like a civilized person (Ray had some crazy image of Fraser writing letters with a quill made out of bald eagle feathers on caribou skin or something), saying As you might be aware, Ray, Ray Vecchio will soon be returning to Chicago after his visit to Florida. I do hope the two of you will fondly recall the last time you had the pleasure of each others acquaintance and enjoy your time together.
Fraser had apparently gone brain-dead from the cold in Canada, because the "last time you had the pleasure of each others acquaintance" had involved a psychotic Canadian murderous bastard (and who knew Canada even had those?) who'd killed Fraser's mom, and Vecchio getting shot, and Ray nearly dying of hypothermia while lying in a hammock strapped to the side of a mountain.
Ray read the part about Vecchio's visit to Florida and snorted, because leave it to Fraser to call it a visit instead of saying when Vecchio is done fucking your ex-wife. Ray wondered if somewhere in the stifling heat of the Florida summer (and who the hell left Chicago for Florida, anyway?) Ray Vecchio was reading a letter about Kowalski's return to Chicago after his visit to Canada that really meant, after failing to fuck the Mountie, and that just made Ray go outside and smoke three cigarettes and seriously contemplate kicking the wall just because it was there.
He was outside smoking, in fact, when Vecchio walked out of the station a few days later, saying, "Don't you know smoking kills, Kowalski?" Vecchio wasn't a wall, but he was a bastard, and Ray liked kicking those, too. After thinking about his options for point three seconds, Ray lunged at him, which took Vecchio by surprise. (Really, Ray couldn't blame the guy, most people's "welcome back!" parties didn't include a Polish cop with a half-finished cigarette and a closed fist coming at their smug, sneering face.) Both of them landed in Welsh's office after a brief tussle that ended in bruising and a lot of swearing, but it made Ray feel a little better.
"I don't even know what to say to you," Welsh said, and Ray--clothes rumpled and his head ringing (Vecchio got over his surprise real quick and hadn't pulled his punches)--just shrugged and didn't look up. He stared at the ground, equally enraged by the site of Vecchio's probably-thousand-dollar-shiny-shoes as he was by the fact his cigarettes had been crushed when Vecchio had thrown him to the ground. "Just work it out. Or get out. Got it?"
Ray's last partner had transferred to Naperville a few weeks before, so of course Welsh decided to partner them up because he was obviously some sort of sadistic dictator, like Stalin but without the mustache. Had Stalin had a mustache? It didn't matter. What did matter was that Ray was suddenly staring across the desk at Vecchio's ugly mug, and it was only okay because said ugly mug had a split lip.
Of course, it was kind of hard for Ray to really enjoy that particular sight, what with the poor vision and the black eye. But he felt smug enough to say, "Pass me the DeCipio file," in a voice that was kind of polite, and Vecchio did without a word--but that was probably because he couldn't talk around the towel he had pressed to his lip to stop the bleeding.
It was the little things.
* * *
The second time they threw down it was over Stella, which was probably to be expected, and maybe the only time it was ever really necessary. At least, according to Vecchio. Ray thought he had a lot of necessary reasons to hit things; Stella; Fraser being a clueless, repressed bastard; the Cubs' bullpen; traffic; people who didn't change the coffee filters; Vecchio; the vending machine; Vecchio; being out of cigarettes; Wednesdays--you name it.
They'd just finished arresting the same small-time drug dealer for the third time in as many weeks, and Vecchio said, "I don't think that idiot's gonna make it to the big-time, he can't even run errands for his Ma without ending up in jail."
Ray shrugged, bouncing up and down as he finished his cigarette. He found it hard to stand still after all the adrenaline, even more so than on regular days when he wasn't chasing anyone, and smoking gave him something to do. They'd taken Vecchio's car, some crappy Mercury (which Kowalski privately snickered over at least once a week--and by "privately" he meant "out loud to Vecchio's face") and Vecchio wouldn't let him smoke in it. Ray thought that was a dumb rule because the interior was cloth, and who the hell cared about that?
"If we're really lucky, maybe someone'll shoot him."
"Oh, that's nice, Stanley," Vecchio said, rolling his eyes.
"Oh, sorry. I guess I'm supposed to want him to, what, join the fucking Peace Corps?" Ray took a drag off his cigarette, and blew smoke right at Vecchio's face because it was sort of expected. "You want me to be a softie with heart of gold, that it? Think you got me confused with Fraser there, pal."
Vecchio snorted. "Believe me, Kowalski; I don't ever confuse you with Fraser."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Ray threw his cigarette down, grounding it out with the heel of his boot so hard it almost disappeared into the concrete. Smoking hadn't calmed him down at all. He flexed his fingers and thought about smoking another, but Vecchio would probably make him walk if he did that and it was a long way back to the 2-7.
"Nothing. Just get in the car." Vecchio sounded tired, suddenly, tired in a way that Ray knew pretty well, and that pissed him off more because, damn it, he wasn't supposed to relate to Vecchio of all people. Relating was for chicks, or maybe Fraser.
If he couldn't have another smoke he might as well punch something, so Ray shoved Vecchio hard and said, "Don't tell me what to do," like he was five years old and Vecchio had stolen his favorite toy, which, he kind of had, hadn't he? Vecchio just took the blow and moved away towards the car, and Ray snapped, "Is that why Stella liked you? Because you just rolled over and took it?"
He was annoyed that Vecchio wasn't fighting back like he was supposed to, like a man, wasn't giving Kowalski something to do with his pent-up energy and lingering anger. "You like being her lapdog, that it?"
"No, she liked me because I wasn't an ADD Polack with no style and no brain," Vecchio snapped back, turning to face him. "I think she liked the fact I could carry on intelligent conversations without having to stop and look things up in a dictionary."
Vecchio was expecting Ray's punch this time, and maybe it was the mob-boss thing or maybe it was just Vecchio, but he leaned to the side in time and Ray's punch missed entirely.
Fuck.
"Idiot," Vecchio panted, shoving back at Kowalski. “Or, you know, maybe she was also afraid you were gonna go off all half-cocked like you're doing right now if she didn't pass the fucking salt in time, God, you are seriously off-balance, Kowalski, you know that, don't you?"
Ray was finding it hard to breathe, thinking about those last few days with Stella, all the things he'd fucked up by never being whatever it was people wanted him to be. "Yeah," he snarled, and then punched Vecchio in the gut, hard, and stood there, bouncing on his feet, hands up to cover his head, feeling crazy while Vecchio doubled over in pain.
Vecchio straightened up, but he didn't go at Ray like he was expecting, didn't punch him back or shove or yell or anything. Vecchio just gave Ray a strange look and said, "Get in the car, Kowalski." It was the Bookman's voice, low and dangerous, the kind of voice you couldn't argue with.
Ray was still standing on the street with his fists raised, but he turned away and jerked open the door to the car without a word. Ray stared out of the window, his hands shaking, knee bouncing up and down as Vecchio drove them back to the station.
* * *
Their next fight happened when they tried to interrogate a worthless piece of crap criminal, and discovered something unfortunate.
The fact of the matter was that, in their first few weeks as partners, they'd had a run of good luck. Subjects caught in the act, small-timers with no connections to anyone important, confessions, smart criminals who took plea bargains without much convincing. It wasn't until they both went in to interrogate a subject--all angry voices and accusatory shouts--that they realized they had a little problem with their style.
"Excuse us for a minute," Vecchio sneered at the man in the chair, stalking towards the door.
"Yeah, we'll be right back, loser," Ray snarled and stomped towards the door, slamming it behind him for good measure.
Vecchio grabbed his arm and pulled him into an empty interrogation room, practically flinging Ray away once he'd shut the door (quietly, Benton Fraser style). "What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded, arms crossed over one of his million-dollar suits.
"In-ter-ro-gating the criminal," Ray sing-songed, annoyed. He'd had a good groove going in there and Vecchio ruined it, because Vecchio ruined a lot of things, and Ray was seriously considering getting him a t-shirt that just said Ruiner on it for Christmas.
"Look, Kowalski, we can't do Bad Cop, Bad Cop. You know that doesn't work."
"Only because you suck," Ray said, kicking his heels against the leg of the table just because he knew it was annoying. There was a new list he kept in his head called Things That Piss Vecchio Off, and Ray's favorite part of the day was adding to that list as often as he could. Kick boot heels against metal things, check.
Vecchio rounded on him, standing too close, his hands flat on the table and leaning in towards Ray. Something happened to his eyes--they went flat, dead and cold, and he said in a menacing voice made all the more frightening for its quietness, "I am better at it than you can ever hope to be, Kowalski." For a second, maybe just one second--a second that he would never admit to anyone, anywhere, even under threat of torture--Ray believed him.
"You never used to be, I hear," Ray said, because apparently he had a death wish. "Not before Vegas." But that wasn't really true, was it, because Ray was Vecchio and Ray had a talent for doing Bad Cop, it was Oscar-worthy, everyone always said so. They never would have let him do it if Vecchio himself hadn't been able to pull it off. Besides, Vecchio had been Fraser's partner and no one could out-nice-cop Fraser, because Fraser wasn't actually pretending.
"I wasn't a lot of things before Vegas."
Ray looked at Vecchio's still-dead eyes, and had a rare moment of knowing when to shut the fuck up. "Okay. Then we do Bad Cop, Crazy Cop."
"Which one of us is crazy?" Vecchio asked, and he almost sounded normal. Almost. He was also standing too fucking close to Ray, and it was hot in here, and why the fuck wouldn't Vecchio move away and let him up?
"Me, obviously," Ray answered with a shrug, and then flashed Vecchio a grin. "Your crazy ain't obvious enough, Vecchio. Me, now, I'm in your face crazy. ADD Polack with a temper, remember?" Vecchio looked like he was going to say something, but Ray said hurriedly, "Let me the fuck up, would you? That guy's lawyer'll be here in ten, let's just do this."
Vecchio blinked and stepped back, and Ray was pretending he'd not asked Vecchio for permission to move like he was Vecchio's bitch, and Vecchio was pretending he hadn't just turned into Armando Langoustini for a second. Good, okay, pretending was better than relating.
Vecchio was eyeing him like maybe Ray was on to something. "Bad Cop and Crazy Cop? You think that'll really work?"
"Sure. I mean, who would have thought Bad Cop and Repressed Mountie would've worked? But it did, like, nine times outta ten, yeah? And when it didn't you could always send Fraser out for coffee and beat the guy with a chair while he was gone."
Vecchio opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but then he just said, "Point, Kowalski," with a smile, and Ray smiled back.
They went into the room, and Vecchio went all cold and I killed a man in Reno, just to watch him die, and Ray yelled and waved his arms and did a lot of threatening physical violence while Vecchio pretended to look bored, and they had a signed statement in twenty minutes flat. Welsh looked shocked, and then pleased, and then barked something out about them needing to get their paperwork done and please, let it be legible this time.
"You want to go get a beer?" Vecchio asked him later in the parking lot, hands in his pockets, looking a lot less Bad Cop and more like the overdressed Italian with a bald head and a big nose that Ray was used to.
Ray paused for a second, thinking, about Fraser and Stella and things he hadn't done. "Sure, why not?" Ray fished his keys out of his jacket pocket, promptly dropped them, picked them up, and then nearly tripped as he turned to the car.
"Smooth, Stanley. I thought you were a dancer?"
"Fuck off, Vecchio," Ray said, but it was almost cheerful. "I'm tired. It makes me clumsy. Get in, and try not to piss with excitement over how much better my car is than yours. It'd ruin the interior, which if 'you'll notice, isn't fake." He drove the GTO and tried not to get twitchy about Vecchio appraising the car as they drove without actually saying anything--he was poking around and looking at things and making weird sounds that didn't mean anything, what the fuck? But asking Ray not to be twitchy was like asking the sun not to rise in the morning, and he was just about to tell Vecchio, "if you want to check out the owner's manual, it's in the fucking glove compartment," when Vecchio surprised him by saying something that had nothing to do with Ray's sweet ride.
"Good job. With the suspect, today."
It sounded grudging, like Vecchio just had to admit Ray's dick was bigger or something, not that Vecchio had ever seen it or anything to know for sure. "Yeah, thanks," Ray said, coming to a stop at the light and looking over at Vecchio. "You, too," he said, because really, they had been a pretty good team. "God, remember doing that with Fraser? When he'd just say, 'Please, Mr. Suspect, maybe you should think about why car bombs are a detriment not only to the personal safety of the driver, but to the pride of the automobile workers who developed and built what you are so recklessly destroying.'" Ray was pretty proud of himself for that attempt at Fraser-speak and hoped he'd used all those words right.
Vecchio laughed. "Oh, Jesus, yeah. I never did get how that worked for him. Like, you could tell he put up with our tried-and-true American methods because maybe we'd never heard of 'just ask nicely for a confession' as an interrogation technique."
Ray grinned at that. "Ha! Yeah, you know, it makes me wonder about Canada--like, are their police stations just filled with sorry-ass criminals standing in line to confess? 'Thank you kindly for putting me in jail, officer.'"
"A lot of Benny's little idiosyncrasies made me wonder about Canada," Vecchio said, laughing, and Ray didn't ask him to define "idiosyncrasies" because he didn't want to look like an idiot, and because he could figure out pretty much what it meant. Before Ray could add anything, Vecchio said quietly, "I'm sorry I said that, Kowalski."
"About Canada? Don't worry, Vecchio, I'm right there with you."
"No, I mean--what I said to you when we...the thing about Stella, and me. And you."
"About me being a dumb Polack with ADD?"
"Well, not really--you are Polish and you have the attention span of a flea, and sometimes, yeah, your mental faculties do leave a lot to be desired, Stanley--"
"Is this an apology, or are you trying to make me kick you in the head?" Ray asked, glaring.
"But what I meant," Vecchio continued, just a little louder, "was that I'm sorry I said Stella was afraid of you. That's not...she never said that."
Usually, out talking him wasn't an option because Ray would just talk louder, but this time, Ray stared straight ahead, fingers tapping against the wheel. He could have told Vecchio that was something he'd worried about, too--that he'd do something colossally stupid out of anger at Stella's leaving him, and that this girl who knew him better than anyone might actually think he'd hurt her.
And maybe he would have said it, maybe to Fraser, or even to Vecchio if Ray were drunk, but they were still sitting in the GTO and there was no liquor and Fraser was up in Canada being...Canadian...and so Ray just said, "Okay," and left it at that. Vecchio nodded and they didn't talk again until Ray parallel parked the car outside the bar.
Inside, they had a few beers and talked about sports, and work, and only got in two fights, ("You're not really a fucking Rangers fan are you, Vecchio? Jesus, I bet you even liked Wayne Fucking Gretzky, that pussy--" and "What do you mean you think the GTO's low-end torque is better than the Riv, are you on crack, Kowalski?") but no one threw a punch, and when Ray took Vecchio home he said, "Say hi to your mom, Vecchio," and Vecchio flipped him off on the way up the stairs without looking back, and Ray laughed as he pulled away.
And their fights continued because they were them--but half the time they ended in laughing, and the other half they ended in Vecchio swearing in Italian or Ray making a rude gesture and stomping off for a smoke. That was all right, there wasn't any hitting beyond Ray's tendency to fling rubber bands at Vecchio across the desk when Ray was bored with paperwork. They solved cases, and Vecchio did a good impression of "Crazy Cop Kowalski" with the arm-waving and the shouting at the bar one night that had everyone, even Ray, laughing. Ray was even entertaining the idea of getting Vecchio a Christmas present that wasn't a t-shirt that said Ruiner.
Maybe a bumper sticker for the Mercury that said, My other car is in Lake Michigan.
Ray even went over to Vecchio's for dinner one night, played with the kids and ate lasagna, just like he used to do back in the day when he was Vecchio, and okay, maybe Vecchio wasn't Fraser but Ray wasn't jumping out of airplanes and landing in twenty thousand feet of ice, so, there was that. And Vecchio liked cars, and sports, even if he drank pansy-ass beer that had labels with artwork on them.
Things might have stayed that way, with Ray calling Vecchio Don Corleone and making fun of his ties, and Vecchio making snide remarks about Ray's eating habits and his fondness for t-shirts beneath his (ratty, according to Vecchio, fucking awesome, according to Ray) sport coats, except that one night, Ray made an off-handed invite to Vecchio to watch the game at his place and have a few beers. They were both off work the next day, having just wrapped up a grueling rape-murder case that had left images burned in Ray's brain he'd rather not think about ever again. Vecchio had seen the same photos, had been in the room with the perp who was all kinds of batshit crazy (so much so that Ray didn't even try Crazy Cop, because there was really no point in trying to out-crazy the homicidally insane), so Vecchio would probably get that hockey was the best way to forget the really awful things one person could do to another. In hockey everything boiled down to scoring goals, high-sticking penalties and off-sides infractions, and all fights ended with a trip to the box instead of the morgue. Ray figured it'd be okay, they'd watch the game, have a couple of beers, and he'd be able to sleep when the game was over and Vecchio went home.
Except that there was one more fight they had to have, apparently.
* * *
It started off simple enough. Vecchio was surprised to see Ray's apartment wasn't a disaster--"I just figured nothing could stay on a shelf with you around"--and Vecchio was glad Ray had ordered pizza with only half pineapple, because fruit on pizza was an affront to God, man, and America. They had some beers, Ray drinking Old Style and Vecchio drinking a Sam Adams--he'd brought that with him, Ray's hospitality had limits--and they settled down to watch the game.
And then, during intermission after the second period, with the 'Hawks down a goal to the St. Louis Blues, Vecchio made some remark about Fraser, something innocent, like, "If Fraser were here, we'd have to watch curling, and I still don't get the point of that sport at all. Of course, he'd have solved the case in twenty minutes instead of two weeks by licking the bottom of someone's shoe."
There was something about the way he said it that made Ray ignore what Vecchio was actually saying and react in a normal way--laughing and telling Vecchio not to call curling an actual sport while under his roof--and made him hear instead I really wish you weren't my partner, you're not good enough for me.
Ray was on his feet in a second, grabbing Vecchio's shirt and hauling him off the sofa. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he snarled, pushing Vecchio back towards the wall with several quick, angry shoves. Vecchio outweighed Ray by twenty pounds or so, and he was taller by a couple of inches, but Ray had wiry strength and adrenaline on his side, as well as Vecchio's shock at being hauled off a sofa during a Chevy commercial.
"What the fuck is your problem, Kowalski? Should I have let you go postal on that psycho's ass today, would that have helped?" Vecchio was looking at him like he was crazy, and that somehow made it all worse.
Vecchio sounded tired instead of angry, and then he said, "I really fucking thought you got this out of your system," and it was the whole disappointed tone that made Ray lose it. He shoved Vecchio against the wall, and it was only Vecchio's quick reflexes that kept Ray's fist from punching his face and sent Ray's hand into the wall as Vecchio jerked away.
Vecchio said something, but Ray couldn't hear it, couldn't do anything but stand there, enraged and unsure why exactly he was trying to pummel his partner, his fingers still curled around Vecchio's collar so tight his knuckles had turned white. His other hand didn't hurt from punching the wall, but it would soon enough. Ray knew all about that, how the things he did in the heat of the moment only hurt later, when you had time to really think about them and remember exactly what it was you'd done and feel stupid about it.
So with that in mind, he yanked Vecchio closer and kissed him. Worry about it later, his fucking motto, should've got that as a tattoo. Ray was probably going to end up with bruised knuckles and broken ribs once Vecchio got done with him, and a transfer request on his desk Monday morning, but he didn't care. He kept at it, channeling all that anger into what he was doing, and he didn't realize he was shaking and he didn't realize Vecchio was kissing him back--
Wait.
Ray pulled back, eyes wide. He'd done this before with guys, but it'd been a while. Stella used to think it was hot and she liked to watch, though it been years since they'd done anything like that because of she had important people to impress, and they couldn't keep shit together with just the two of them so hook-ups with random guys were a really, really bad idea. Which this probably was, too. But Ray knew that look on Vecchio's face; pupils wide, breathing hard, mouth open--fuck, did he know that look. "What the hell?"
"You--" Vecchio shook his head, obviously having trouble talking. "God, how does anyone keep up with you?" He shoved Ray away, not very hard, and Ray moved back and let him go, shock replacing his anger entirely (but not, in point of fact, the raging hard-on he suddenly realized he had).
"Hockey game and a beer one minute, trying to pulverize my face the next, and then you're kissing me? You need some medication stat, Stanley."
Ray just stared at him, still breathing hard. Vecchio wasn't punching him, or trying to beat him up, or even acting surprised that Ray had--that maybe he--
Huh.
Ray was beginning to feel the pain in his hand. His body was tensed up, ready to fuck or fight, and he had to get Vecchio out of his apartment before he tried either of those things. "Look. You can go. I'm--it won't--I'm just tired. And, you know, I'm crazy," he said, laughing harshly. "Fucked up," he said, pointing his finger at his head and making a whirling motion. "Crazy Cop Kowalski, that's me." He did a psychotic little jig to illustrate, then pantomimed a gun with his fingers and made a clicking sound while winking. If that didn't make him look crazy, he wasn't sure what would.
Vecchio, however, was still watching him quietly. Ray's hand started hurting and he noticed his knuckles were beginning to swell. He put his hand up to his mouth and sucked on the torn skin, trying to figure out what to do next, if Vecchio was going to make a big deal about this. A lot of cops did, which was why Ray never said anything, and hey, it was easy for people to think you didn't like guys too when you were married to a girl. His tongue touched his knuckles and then he stopped, because Vecchio was watching Ray with a hungry look.
Ray turned his hand and sucked on his fingers instead of his knuckles, pulled them slowly out of his mouth, his eyes never leaving Vecchio's face. Vecchio inhaled sharply and Ray felt a momentary rush of triumph followed by a suspicion he'd never really thought about.
"So, hey...you and Fraser?" Because that would just be ironic, wouldn't it, Vecchio getting his ex-wife and his ex-partner, too?
"No," Vecchio said, shaking his head slightly. "Benny was--is--my best friend. That's it." He was still watching Ray's hand, though, and that made Ray really confused. They were standing a little ways away from each other, but the air was charged, electric. There was just no way that Ray was the object of Vecchio's interest if Fraser wasn't (had Vecchio ever seen Fraser?), but then again, maybe Vecchio just had some weird hand-sucking-fetish and it wasn't about Ray at all. "You want to know why I came back from Florida, Kowalski?"
Ray dropped his hand, because he was starting to feel stupid sucking on his fingers, but he didn't miss the slight disappointed look on Vecchio's face when he stopped. "Sure. Okay. Why?" He almost said Because Stella wised up and dumped your ass, but maybe it wouldn't kill him not to be a dick for five minutes.
Maybe.
"Before Vegas, I was a good guy. Happy-go-fucking-lucky, help a guy out if he needed it, you know the type." At Ray's slight nod, Vecchio continued. "A fucking joke half the time, y'know? Not in any mean way, like that idiot Dewey, it was just that no one ever really took me seriously. And then, just 'cause I'm a dead ringer for some asshole mobster in Vegas, I got sent undercover. And Langoustini, he was nobody's joke. He had power and people listened to him, and he was a terrible motherfucker, but people respected him anyway, even though he'd cut your fucking face off soon as look at you," Vecchio said, sounding somewhere between disgusted and confused and oddly proud. "And that was still me, Kowalski. It was an act, sure, but it had to come from somewhere."
Ray just nodded, because he knew all about that; the way your identity became slowly confused as time wore on, when you started answering to a name that wasn't yours because you really thought that's who you were. Sometimes Ray still looked up, out of instinct, when someone said "Hey, Vecchio!" at the 2-7, and it took him a minute to realize they weren't talking to him.
"Then I come back here and I'm supposed to be Vecchio, the same guy I was before I left, but I'm not. I couldn't turn it off, not all the way, and part of that sick fuck Langoustini was still there, and I'd go to these parties with Stella in Florida--because bowling was fine for a few weeks and then she got a job with a law firm and then she met some people, and you know how that story goes."
And yeah, Ray all about that; disapproving looks and "Are you really wearing that, Ray?" (though Ray couldn't imagine that being a problem with Vecchio). And how you were left lying in bed at night wondering when the other shoe was going to drop, wondering when Stella would figure out she'd be better off without you.
"All those fucking people and there I was, smiling and shaking hands and I felt like I was him again, and what the hell, maybe that's what Stella wanted, I don't know. But it ended and I figured, hey, Chicago, the 2-7---I'll go back there, I was always me there, I was always Vecchio. Except when you were." He smiled briefly, thought it didn't reach his eyes at all. "So I go back, and goddamn it all, they looked like they were afraid of me--cops I'd worked with right out of the Academy, my own fucking sister. I walked in, and everyone looked at me like I was that fucker Langousitini, like if they said the wrong thing I'd whack them just to make a point."
Ray was staring at him, thinking. There had been too much going on when Vecchio had first shown up, back when they'd been trailing Muldoon, for Ray to notice the way anyone treated Vecchio (who'd really seemed to dislike him), and really, Ray wasn't the kind of guy to notice that kind of thing anyway. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, so he just waited, because Vecchio was pacing now and obviously wasn't done talking.
"I was in there for fifteen fucking minutes and I didn't even know who I was again," Vecchio muttered darkly. "And so I walked back outside, thinking fuck this, maybe Florida wasn't so bad after all, and there you were, and you tried to kill me because I said something about your smoking--"
"That wasn't why, idiot," Ray muttered, but he was starting to think there was something important here, but he'd had a lot of beer and made a pass at his partner and fuck if he was able to put it all together without a diagram and maybe some kind of explanatory pamphlet.
"Yeah, I know that." Vecchio walked over to him, and Ray didn't move, just stood his ground and waited to see what would happen next. "And you kept on pushing and fighting and you never once looked at me like you thought I was gonna whack you. In fact, you looked at me like you were gonna whack me, and what can I say--that was refreshing, as much as I really, really wanted to deck you for being such an asshole all day, every day. At least you didn't treat me like the Bookman. You just treated me like shit."
Kowalski blinked at him, slow and dumb, like an owl on drugs. "What? Vecchio, are you telling me that you were just kissing me because I don't treat you like the scary mobster that you actually really aren't?"
"Yes, Stanley," Vecchio said again, rolling his eyes, and Ray narrowed his and poked Vecchio in the chest.
"But you don't--you aren't into--I'm not Fraser," Ray said, almost desperately, because Christ, Vecchio smelled good and had nice eyes, and that stupid suit did look really, really good on him, but Ray was tired of having the hots for guys who didn't like guys or didn't like him, or whatever the fuck had been going on with Fraser. "I'm me. Ray Kowalski, I can't see without my glasses, that you make fun of all the time--"
"I just don't see why you couldn't at least try contacts, is all--"
"--I told you, I got issues with touching my own eyes, okay? I annoy the fuck out of you all the time--" Ray paused briefly, waiting for Vecchio to argue, but of course he didn't. "And in case you missed it, I keep trying to hit you even when I invite you over to watch the game, which is really fucking rude of me, you know." Ray was bouncing on his heels, ticking things off his fingers as he ran down the List of Reasons Why Ray Kowalski Is A Bad Idea. "Oh, and don't bother to lie, Mr. Fancy Suits-and why the hell did you wear that over to watch the game, anyway?--you hate the way I dress--"
"God, yes, what are you, fifteen and still shopping at the boy's section in Sears?" Vecchio said, and Ray jabbed him again and maybe this time he left his hand there, right against Vecchio's chest, and maybe it slid down to rest lightly on his belt, fingers resting just so on the smooth warm leather.
"I just don't get it," Ray said gruffly, fingers curling around Vecchio's belt a little. "This is stupid, you don't even like me. And how the hell could you want this with me if you didn't want it with Fraser? You ever seen him, Vecchio?"
"You want a hearts and roses moment, here, Kowalski?" Vecchio cocked his head, and he was smiling, and it wasn't a smile Ray had ever seen; warm and slow, and it did things to him, and goddamn it, was it some fucking rule Ray had to lust after all his partners, even the ones he really wanted to smack in the face for being a prick?
Vecchio was still grinning at him. "Want me to pass you a note in homeroom and ask you to the dance?"
"I'm not going dancing with you until you learn not to embarrass me," Ray muttered, and then hooked his fingers in Vecchio's belt for real and yanked him closer. His cock swelled again in his jeans, pressing uncomfortably against the fabric. That was okay because he was close enough to Vecchio to note he wasn't the only one with that problem, even though Kowalski sort of figured those thousand-dollar pants of Vecchio's were probably a lot nicer to a guy's hard-on than his 501's.
"So, what you're saying is, you don't hate me because I'm a dick to you, and because I don't care you actually called yourself Armando in public with a straight face, and that you actually want to fuck me because of it?"
"Good job, Stanley. You didn't even need a chart." Vecchio's voice was amused but a little breathless, maybe a little nervous. He put his hands on Ray's shoulders, almost tentatively, as if he didn't know what to do with his hands. Ray would be happy to offer suggestions. He pulled Vecchio closer again, leaning forward, giving Vecchio time to move away if he wanted.
He didn't.
"I don't hate you 'cause you're Langoustini," Ray muttered against Vecchio's warm mouth, "I hate you 'cause you're an asshole."
"Thanks, Kowalski," Vecchio said, and Ray could feel him smile when he went to kiss him again. That was very good, hot and urgent and Vecchio's body was hard and Ray suddenly wanted something to press against so he pushed Vecchio back again towards the wall--nicely, this time--and put his thigh between Vecchio's legs and that was very good, and right when Ray decided to take off Vecchio's shirt and suggest they move somewhere else, Vecchio said, "So, you and Fraser?"
Ray pulled way, his hips still pressed tight against Vecchio's, and said bluntly, "You have the worst timing in the history of ever. What the fuck?" he asked suspiciously. "Don't you remember how annoying it is when chicks do this, start asking these kinds of questions in the middle of things?"
“You just did it a minute ago, idiot.” Vecchio reached up and put his fingers on Ray's mouth, and said "Shhh," in a way that shouldn't be sexy but kind of was.
Apparently, Ray's type across genders was impossible and kind of bossy, so Ray just sucked on Vecchio's fingers. He was kind of smug when he saw how it took Vecchio a few seconds to make himself talk.
"Like I said, Benny is my best friend. I don't want--he's--that is, I--God, fuck, Kowalski," Vecchio moaned, and Ray grinned like a shark and tongued Vecchio's fingers with renewed vigor. "So?" Vecchio asked, panting.
Ray released Vecchio's fingers from his mouth and pressed against him again, harder, shifting so that he made Vecchio gasp, which was a pretty good sound and he wanted to hear more of it. Definitely wanted to hear that more than he wanted to have this conversation, which was awkward even without Vecchio's cock hard against his hip.
"No." And because Ray just knew Vecchio was going to ask, "Why?", he went ahead and answered. “I could never tell if he was into guys at all. Or, fuck, maybe I just couldn't tell if he was into me. Or maybe he just never pissed me off enough, Vecchio, can we stop talking now and get on with this? Save the talking about our feelings for, I don't know, never?" Kowalski winced when he realized that came out as way more of a whine than he meant it to.
Vecchio actually laughed. "Sure, Kowalski." His hands were on Ray's hips now, moving, and oh, that was right, that was good, this was much better than talking. They kept kissing until Ray couldn't breathe and he put his mouth on Vecchio's neck, his hand going down and unfastening Vecchio's pants, pulling his zipper down and sliding inside his boxers, wrapping his fingers around Vecchio's cock. Vecchio made a sound, a low sort of growl, and Ray jerked him off while he rubbed himself against Vecchio's thigh. Vecchio's fingers were tightening on his hips and he was saying things like, God, yes--yes- and making other noises that didn't end up in actual words, and Ray was moving, pushing his hips faster while he jerked Vecchio's cock hard and sure, rubbing the tip with his thumb, finding a rhythm.
He kept it up until he could tell Vecchio was close, then he growled, "Come on," roughly, and Vecchio shuddered and gasped and came all over Ray's hand. Ray was close and he was thinking about taking Vecchio's hand and putting it in his jeans or at the very least on his cock through his jeans, but he wasn't sure he could stop what he was doing long enough to actually manage that. And it turned out not to matter anyway, because Vecchio suddenly grabbed Ray by the hair and then leaned down and bit him on the neck, hard enough to make Ray jerk and groan and come with one last, frantic push of his hips. He stayed pressed against Vecchio for a moment and then pulled back, and he'd be embarrassed that he'd just come while he was still dressed, for fuck's sake, but he was too fucked-out to care.
He was mildly worried that he might have a post-sex Vecchio freak-out to deal with, but Vecchio just reached out and ran his fingers through Ray's hair, which was actually kind of nice. "Is that how you get it to look like that?" he asked, and Ray snorted and pulled away, his hand sticky and his jeans wet, feeling like a million bucks.
"Ha, ha." Ray smiled, slow and easy, and said, "Hey, I'm gonna clean up." Vecchio, of course, looked flushed and a little rumpled but still pretty put together, like he hadn't just gotten a hand job against a wall. Ray, on the other hand, knew he looked messy and like he had, but Vecchio's eyes were hot as he looked at him, so, maybe it wasn't a problem, maybe Ray made frantic wall sex a fashion statement or something.
When Ray came back out into the living room, Vecchio was back on the couch, shouting at the Hawks' terrible fucking defense as he absolutely should, drinking another beer. There was an Old Style on the table, unopened, and Ray thought he could probably get used to this--hot sex and sports and beer, hey, what's not to like about that? He sat next to Vecchio and opened his beer, putting his bare feet on the table, settling back against the cushions.
At the commercial, Vecchio turned to him and said, "So, was that just a one-time--I mean, were you--" and Ray groaned and hit Vecchio on the back of the head.
"Don't be a girl, Vecchio," Ray snorted, and Vecchio hit him in the back of the head for that, but he did look kind of worried, so Ray leaned over and kissed him, which involved climbing half on Vecchio's lap because that was just how he did things.
"God, Kowalski, do you ever run out of energy?" Vecchio asked with a laugh when Ray pulled away--the game was coming back on, and the Hawks had tied it, making Ray think idly that perhaps wall-sex was some kind of good luck charm for the Hawks and maybe they should do this every game, and would it work for the Cubs, too?--but Vecchio looked relaxed, sleepy-eyed and languid.
"Eventually. I'll show you after the game's over." Ray returned to his seat, picking up his beer again. "Just one thing, Vecchio," he said, forcing himself to give his partner a very serious look. "If we're going to do this, I got one rule. Just one. You ready?"
Vecchio raised an eyebrow--of course he could do that--and said, "Yeah, what is it?" in a cocky-ass way that suggested he'd think about it, and Ray kind of hated how that was sort of a turn-on.
"You have got to get a better car. I mean, I know you can't ever find anything--not even a Riv--that would approach the sheer awesomeness of the GTO, but if you think you're gonna take me out somewhere in a fucking Mercury Cougar, forget it. That is not buddies. Got it?"
Vecchio shook his head, and if he rolled his eyes, he had the good sense to do it where Ray couldn't see. "Yeah, Kowalski. I got it." Ray was pretty sure he heard Vecchio call him something in Italian that probably meant idiot, but he let that go.
"Good," Ray said simply. "Now shut up. The game's on."