It's been maybe 8 or 9 months since Ray came back to the Rez, back to Walter, when the Federal Bureau of Fucking Up Walter's Life rings them up, looking for their liaison. Ray's out running, a wasichu inclination that Walter, who runs exclusively when chased, has never understood.
The snide, stiff sounding sumbitch on the other end of the line asks (orders, more like) Crow Horse to "Have Mr. Lee-voy call us back ASAP." "
He's always thought people who spoke in acronyms were dickheads. Still, he figures Ray would probably get a stick up his ass over Walter not passing along a message from his other bosses, so when Ray finally gets back, t-shirt sticking to him like a second skin, sweat dripping off of his face and turning his pale hair a dark burnished gold, a wide grin splitting his face (because even though Ray can be wound kinda tight, he revels in being in his body, using it, pure physical sensation of burning muscles and blood pounding in his veins) Crow Horse… Well, truth be told, Crow Horse gets completely distracted by Ray's flushed face and loose-limbed sprawl. Ray only sprawls like that after a good run, after he's pounded his muscles into submission, or after Crow Horse has pounded him into submission.
But later, as they're sprawled all over each other, each jockying for the best position in front of Walter's fan and respite from the heat while Walter pelts Ray lazily with ice cubes, Walter remembers the call. "-Said to have you call 'Mackenzie' immediately. That a first name or a last name, you think?"
But Ray doesn't laugh- in fact, the soft, sleepy little smile that had made its home on his lips had disappeared, and the finger that had been twisting Crow Horse's hair around it had gone still.
"Mackenzie? You sure about that, Walter?" asks sharply, and his voice is low, far too serious for what's probably just a routine check in or something, but, then again, Ray's jumpy where the FBI's concerned these days. Crow Horse nods, brow furrowing. Ray's tongue dances against the back of his lip, then his jaw clenches, and Walter knows Ray's oral tics well enough now to see that he's pissed off and nervous and sick all in one.
Ray pushes himself up, slow and tired, like he's just aged 20 years, scooting to the edge of the bed, and stares at the wall blankly.
"Well?" Crow Horse is a perceptive man, but he's not a fucking mind reader. He rests a hand on one lightly freckled shoulder.
"Mac is- was- my…" Ray pauses, and Walter can see a muscle jumping in his jaw, "handler, I guess, would be the best word for it. When I went undercover."
"…And he ain't calling to have a chat about the wife and kids, eyah?"
Moonlight makes Ray's pale eyes even paler, and Walter knows the answer before he even moves. His mouth goes dry. Ray gets out of bed, socked feet padding lightly against the floorboards as he tugs on a discarded pair of boxers, and he leaves the room.
Walter listens to the low murmur of his voice through the door, his familiar baritone, and a knot grows in the pit of his stomach.
Three days later, Ray is gone.
The first couple of weeks are surreal. It's almost like Ray's disappeared off the face of the planet entirely, like he's died or something (and Crow Horse cuts that train of thought off immediately whenever it bubbles up, like a nasty infection, since it's all too real a possibility). Then he'll open up the closet and see Ray's too-expensive running shoes that he'd made fun of him for not two weeks ago, or Ray's towel still hanging on the rack in the bathroom 'cuz he hasn't gotten around to washing it yet, and his throat will tighten.
Walter's not some goddamn teenage schoolgirl. It's not so much the separation, or even the complete radio silence (although that's hard enough) as the fact that he doesn't even know when Ray will be able to come back home, when he'll be able to hear him laugh or bitch about Crow Horse's eating habits. It's not knowing what condition he'll be in when he gets there.
He feels like he's floating, his whole life turned upside down, and part of him resents Ray for having so enmeshed himself in Walter's life that he feels like this in the first place.
He snaps at the boys at the station more than usual, and they all just take it without comment, which pisses him off all the more, because at least an argument would take his mind off of things.
At five weeks, Crow Horse has a routine again.
He gets up before dawn to let Jimmy out, he goes to the station and doesn't leave until he's dead on his feet with exhaustion. He comes home and, sometimes, drinks a little too much. He watches the game, if it's on, and he goes to bed. He's stopped kicking Jimmy out of Ray's spot, because, truth be told, it's nice to have a warm body lying next to him again, even if it's furry and smells like dog. He writes letters to Ray in a fit of sentimentality, but they're never sent because Crow Horse obviously has no idea where to send them to.
Six weeks in, Walter breaks and goes to Grampa Reaches' under the guise of bringing the old man some groceries. He doesn't say anything when Walter shows up on his porch, just beckons him in, and Walter thinks his eyes look sad- Grampa just sits back down on his couch that might be older than Walter, and they watch I Love Lucy together on the TV that Ray brought with him when he came back to the rez.
He doesn't zone out, exactly, but the lyrical cadence of Grampa's Lakota wraps around him like a blanket, like home. Walter doesn't have to say that he's worried about Ray, that he misses him, that he feels like he's in flux without him. Then again, no one ever has to say anything to Grampa; Grampa already knows. "Buck up, kola," the old man says, never turning his eyes away from the flickering screen, "He comes from brave people. But he'll need you when he gets back, to ground him, bring him back to himself, remind him who he is and where he belongs."
The knot Walter's been carrying in his belly loosens, because Grampa says "when" not "if".
He knows Ray is competent, really, he does, but Walter is used to seeing the man with bed-head, padding around the house in a pair of pants and no socks because he isn't quite human before he's had a cup of coffee, nagging Walter about eating healthier and exercising more, like an old woman, not Mr. Big Deal FBI. Or he's needling him to let Ray use some of his savings to buy them a washing machine. Despite the conviction rate on the cases he's worked, despite the fact that Ray's never been made yet, according to his file, Crow Horse is scared as hell that Ray won't make it back to him.
Sometimes he wakes, sweat cold on his skin, a shout dying in his throat, the images of a broken and bloodied Ray still flashing behind his eyes.
It's a Wednesday night (or, technically, a Thursday morning), the middle of the seventh week, when Walter's phone rings.
He's on his feet and in the living room by the second trill, gripping the phone with a white-knuckled hand, and yanking it off the cradle.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Walter."
Ray's voice is raw and nervy, and Walter's never heard a sound so beautiful in his whole life. He sags to the couch, legs unable to hold him up anymore.
"Jesus Christ, Ray," He chokes out, and he can hear Ray breathing on the other end of the line, can hear the anonymous sounds of the city, fuzzy and without complete form, "God, it's good to hear you. How are you, kola?"
Ray doesn't say anything, and the moment is long, it seems to stretch out forever, until-
"I'm holding up. Miss you. How's Jimmy?"
The first real smile since Ray's departure spreads over Crow Horse's face, and he rambles for a good five minutes about Jimmy, about the drunk and disorderly he broke up, about the domestic at the Two Bulls place that turned out to be just a bout of loud sex, and then a thought strikes him hard-
"Is it safe to be callin' me, Ray? Deep cover, no contact, enit?"
He can hear the wry grin in Ray's voice. "It's fine. Calling from a pay phone on the other side of-" he stops short, and Walter can tell he's struggling not to give anything away, "Anyway, it's fine. Can't make a habit of it, but the benefits outweigh the risks."
Walter relaxes and tries not to hear the bitter, raw, exhausted edge of Ray's voice. They talk for an hour, and Walter falls asleep on the couch, phone pressed to his ear, listening to the even tempo of Ray's breathing.
Six weeks after the phone call, Walter's sitting on the couch, eating lukewarm chef boyardee out of a can because the microwave's on the fritz again when there's a knock on the door. It's almost hesitant, soft and rhythmic and familiar- Walter's on his feet like he's been spring loaded, knocking his dinner to the floor, and he yanks open the door-
And there's Ray. He's a good 25 pound thinner, his hair shaggy and dyed dark, face gone angular and a few new lines around his eyes, clad in uncharacteristically ripped jeans and a tight black t-shirt, and Walter doesn't even speak, he just pulls Ray into his arms and kisses that plush mouth deep, letting his body convey what he doesn't trust his voice enough to speak. Ray sags against him, and Walter takes his weight without even thinking about it, murmurs nonsense in his ear in a long stream of Lakota and English, the two languages melding together the same way Ray's body melds to his- unexpected and perfect.
When he finally lets go, Ray is smiling through his exhaustion, and some of the blankness has left his eyes. Crow Horse doesn't immediately notice the way Ray lingers, standing awkward like this isn't his house too, because he's finally home, and Walter finds himself touching him absently like he's not quite sure he's really there.
"Gonna have to fatten you up, kola," he murmurs against his ear, because the man is downright scrawny and it's even more obvious with Ray held against him, all wiry and taut like a bag of chicken bones.
Ray just burrows himself in Crow Horse's arms again, dipping his head to nuzzle against his neck, and all Walter can think is 'You're here, you're back, you're home'.
Ray sleeps fourteen hours straight that first night, sleeps heavy, sleeps gone, wrapped tight around Walter like an old habit.
Crow Horse calls in a sick day, because Ray needs to rest and he doesn't want to leave him, lest he disappear again, which he knows in his head won't happen, but his heart hasn't quite caught up yet. He just knows he doesn't want to be away from him, even for a few hours, because it's been too damn long and what if Ray needs him?
Grampa Reaches' words rise up, unbidden. 'He'll need you when he gets back, to ground him, bring him back to himself, remind him who he is and where he belongs.'
Walter takes one last look at the man curled up in his bed, the familiar planes of his face, relaxed and still in sleep, the muted gold rays of sunlight playing off of his too-pale skin, and Crow Horse notices with a sick pang the greenish-yellow of a half healed bruise around his right eye. His hand traces Ray's jaw, brief and light, then he rises, slow so as not to disturb Ray, and makes his way into the kitchen. Ray needs to eat, after all.
He makes a couple of omelets by rote, puts on the coffee. Over the crackling of browning bacon, he hears Ray shuffle into the room- Walter turns around with one last poke at the bacon, and watches his progress- he's wearing one of Walter's t-shirts, which makes something like pleased satisfaction bloom in Walter's gut. He rubs his eyes, wincing minutely as he's a little overzealous with the healing bruise, a jaw-popping yawn giving Walter an amusing view of the back of his throat, and drops into a chair across from Crow Horse, watching him silently.
"Omelet sound good?"
Ray nods, smiling a little, like he hadn't realized he was hungry until just now. "Sounds great, actually."
Crow Horse cooks and Ray watches, and the silence is both companionable and a little weird, because it seems like Ray hasn't quite figured out how he fits back into his own life yet.
"So, how'd ya get that shiner?" Walter's voice is even, and he doesn't look too close at Ray as he sets a heaping, steaming plate of eggs and bacon before him, sliding the coffee along with it. Ray tilts his head, thinking, and Crow Horse doesn't want to rush him, so he busies himself fixing his own plate. Ray doesn't speak until Walter's sitting down across from him, their socked toes touching under the small table. Finally he shrugs, nursing the mug to warm his hands.
"It was a drug ring. What we were investigating. Had some ties to organized crime. Had to get a sample back to Quantico, so I nicked some and made it obvious. Not a lot, maybe 80 bucks worth, enough for the boys to know something was missing and to give the lab something to work with." he says it casual, like he's talking about a routine traffic stop, and Walter's jaw drops.
"You stole drugs from the mafia, Ray? What the fuck?" his voice has gone up in pitch and it sounds horrified even to him, "Don't they kill people for that kinda shit?"
Ray just shrugs again. "Nah. They won't kill you over 80 bucks. Happens pretty often. They just, you know…" he trails off, tongue pushing against his cheek, "Make sure you know not to do it again." he snickers quietly at his own understatement, gallows humor. Walter stabs viciously at his omelet.
"Seems like a pretty big risk, kola."
Ray fiddles with his fork, then looks up, pinning Crow Horse with a laser-like focus that he's heard of but never seen from this angle. "A dealer who gets high off of his own stash is vulnerable. There's something to hold over his head. I had to give them something to... minimize the threat."
Crow Horse just looks at him. Ray finally takes a bite, chews slowly, swallows. "I'm good at my job, Walter." he says, firm, "Trust me."
Walter's expression softens, and he puts a hand on Ray's knee, under the table. "Shit, Ray. That's not what I meant, it's just…"
Ray's eyebrow quirks. "You still see me as the hothead with his knee in your back. The kid who didn't know his own people and presumed to come in here like the fucking cavalry without even wanting to know. The guy who didn't know about the tobacco and traded his Ray-Bans for a rock." Ray's eyes are shrewd, and there's not much bitterness in his voice- he sounds disconnected, like he's talking about someone else, and this side of him is weird.
Walter's mouth works for a second, silently, and then he deflates.
"Maybe. Sorry, Ray."
Ray inclines his head, slightly, and sips at his coffee. Crow Horse clears his throat. "Eat up, boy. I don't like you bony." Then he leans over and kisses him, relishing the taste of him, his Ray, finally fucking home again, and when he pulls back, Ray looks like a deer in the headlights, but he's smiling a real smile, and he looks almost like himself. He shoves piece of bacon into his mouth, quickly, and Walter grins.
Ray's gonna be just fine.