Chances

by Jane Elliott

Life rarely turns out the way you expect it to. Homeless RayK AU. Fraser/RayK.

1. Chance Encounters

A/N: I fudged the series timelines to make this work. Also, this is my first attempt at posting a WIP here and (fair warning) I have no current timeline on when the series might be finished. On the plus side, the first four stories are finished and there's only one left to go! Big thanks to blackpapertiger, who beta'd the first four stories.

Chances 1: Chance Encounters

It was ironic, Fraser thought as he stared down the shaking gun barrel into the thief's bloodshot eyes, that having survived Harold Geiger, Victoria Metcalf, a plethora of corrupt Mounties, and deep winter in the Northwest Territories, he was going to die here, in a dirty convenience store in Chicago at the hands of a terrified teenager going through narcotics withdrawal. He wondered what Ray would have said about this, but of course if Ray were here to say anything then Fraser wouldn't be in this predicament. Ray would have done something: distracted the gunman or maybe disarmed him while Fraser provided the distraction. If nothing else, he would have called for backup on his cell phone, a convenience Fraser had always shunned.

However, Ray wasn't here. In point of fact, he was a thousand kilometers away in Las Vegas, pretending to be a mob boss, and his substitute -- Frankie Vecchio, Ray's cousin -- had taken a transfer to New York City a week before. All of which meant Fraser was alone, as he had been for most of his life until meeting Ray. On second thought, not so ironic. Men who lived alone usually died alone.

"You don't have to do this," Fraser told the boy. His voice came out stern and didactic despite his effort to sound comforting. Every day he grew more like his father.

As if that thought had conjured him -- which was, frankly, quite likely -- a familiar, highly irritating voice said, "You've gotten yourself into it this time, son."

Fraser closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. When he was under control, he focused his attention back on the thief. "Give me the gun and I swear that I will do everything I can to help you."

"I doubt he's capable of listening to reason," his father said. "This reminds me of the time that Buck Frobisher and I tracked George Murphy through the tundra after finding the specialized farming equipment in his barn. As he fled he was feeding his crop to a nearby caribou herd in the hopes of destroying the evidence. Of course, all we had to do was wait for the herd to--"

"There's nothing you can do to help me," the boy said, his voice high-pitched and thankfully loud enough to drown out Robert Fraser's words. The thief swallowed convulsively and swiped his sweaty face with the arm of his threadbare jacket. "I need a hit," he added miserably.

"I can't do that," Fraser said as gently as he could, doing his best to ignore his father's description of a herd of caribou under the influence of marijuana. "However, there are many fine programs for--"

"Rehab?" the boy said incredulously. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

The boy's hands were now trembling so badly that there was a distinct possibility that he would pull the trigger by accident. "Look out, son!" Robert shouted as the boy shuddered convulsively, his finger tightening on the trigger. Fraser's spine tightened painfully and he jumped to one side, knowing it was too late, knowing that even the rankest amateur couldn't miss at this range.

A grunt, then the gunshot, and a bag of pretzels exploded just over Fraser's shoulder. He hit the ground and rolled, coming back up onto his feet to see the gunman on the ground and disarmed, a thin man with lank, dirty, blond hair sitting on his back and holding the weapon out of reach of the boy's flailing arms. "Got any cuffs?" the man asked matter-of-factly, managing to pin one of the boy's arms with a knee and grabbing the other in his free hand.

Fraser blinked. "Well, no, not exactly," he said. "But I do have this." Stripping off his lanyard, he handed it to the man, who used it to efficiently tie the boy's hands behind his back.

Standing up, the man hauled the boy to his feet and passed him and the gun over to Fraser. "Here," he said. "The guy behind the counter's already called the cops. They should be here soon." He turned, obviously intending to leave.

"Wait," Fraser said. The man hesitated by the door. "You can't leave until the police come to get your statement."

The man snorted, shoved the doors open, and left.

Fraser swallowed a curse and turned to the man behind the counter. "Could you watch this boy for a few minutes?"

"Watch him?" the man repeated incredulously. Then his eyes narrowed and he grinned in a decidedly unpleasant manner. "Sure, I can watch him for you."

The boy squeaked and pushed closer to Fraser. Fraser frowned. "I will, of course, need your word that no harm will come to him."

"I'd never hurt a boy," the man said piously.

"No," the boy said desperately. "Don't leave me with him, please."

"I don't think you can trust him," Robert added, somewhat less than helpfully.

"I can see that, Dad," Fraser snapped.

The shop was suddenly very, very quiet. Fraser's face burned.

Fortunately the police arrived just a few minutes later. Unfortunately, by that point Fraser's savior had long since disappeared.

ooo

The next morning, Lieutenant Welsh called the consulate. He did so occasionally, following up on old cases or on minor matters related to Canada. Nothing that couldn't be gleaned from case files or the Internet. Fraser strongly suspected that Ray had asked Welsh to keep an eye on him and he had to admit that he was grateful for the calls; they made him feel less abandoned.

"I heard you had a small run-in yesterday," Welsh said in his gruff voice. Fraser knew that that voice made most men nervous; he found it oddly comforting. "You know, most people go their whole lives without getting involved in a robbery. You seem to collect them like some people collect baseball cards."

"Well, my luck always has been remarkably, ah...uncertain."

Welsh chuckled. "Truer words were never spoken, Constable."

Fraser cleared his throat, but he couldn't seem to stop the question. "Have you heard from Ray recently, sir?"

"Yeah," Welsh said, his voice gentle. "He's gotten settled in New York."

"And Frankie?" Fraser added, without much hope. It had only been a month, nowhere near long enough for Ray to have completed his assignment.

"Nothing," Welsh confirmed. "Sorry, Constable. He's never been very good at keeping in touch." Welsh shouldn't have added the last sentence; Fraser's connection with the real Frankie had been tenuous at best and it wouldn't make sense for him to be more concerned for a stranger than he had for Ray. Fraser didn't say anything, however. He appreciated the sentiment.

"Tell me more about this mysterious man who saved you," Welsh said before the silence could get too awkward.

Fraser clung to the lifeline. "Ah, well. He was five feet ten inches and approximately one hundred and thirty pounds with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and some minor scarring on his face. His clothing was threadbare and insufficient for the weather and the number of broken capillaries on his nose indicates that he is a heavy drinker. In fact, if it weren't for his manner, I would have concluded he was indigent."

"His manner?"

"Yes, sir. He disarmed and subdued the perpetrator quickly and effectively and his manner was far more confident than that of most civilians in a similar situation. I think there is a distinct possibility that he is or was a member of a military or police force. Yet, if that were the case, I can't see why he wouldn't have waited for the police to arrive. He did nothing wrong. The opposite, in fact."

There was a pause while Welsh considered the information. "This is interesting, Constable, very interesting. I think I might have an idea on who this mysterious man is."

Fraser's hand tightened convulsively around the handset. "Indeed, sir?"

"Indeed, Constable," Welsh said. "Let me look into this and get back to you with what I find."

"I would appreciate that very much."

"And I'll ask around about Frankie," Welsh added.

Fraser blinked rapidly and swallowed hard. "Thank you, sir," he said hoarsely.

They met several hours later at a bar a block from the Consulate, one of the few restaurants in town that Fraser still frequented. Welsh took in the plants and the all male crowd and raised his eyebrows at Fraser. "Come here often?"

"Ah," Fraser said. "They have excellent sandwiches," he added. Welsh looked amused, but Fraser couldn't tell if it was because he had noticed Fraser's deflection or because he had accepted it. "Shall we sit?" he added hastily.

They settled into a booth at the back and ordered beer (for Welsh), milk (for Fraser), and sandwiches before Welsh pulled out a folder. "Take a look at this, Constable," Welsh said, passing over a photograph.

Fraser took the picture by the corner and inspected it. It was of a young man, twenty-five at most, with clear blue eyes and wearing a neatly pressed uniform. The hair was covered up by a cap and the face was unscarred, but Fraser would never forget those eyes. "So he is a police officer."

"He was a police officer," Welsh corrected. "He's been off the force for a couple of years now." He took the picture back and passed over the folder. "You didn't get this from me," he warned.

Fraser nodded and started to read.

By the time he reached the end of the file, Welsh had finished his burger and fries and was eyeing Fraser's turkey on wheat. Fraser pushed his plate over, appetite gone. "Opinions are divided as to whether he did it," Welsh said, taking the plate. "I personally don't think he did and the Feds obviously don't, but everyone agrees his actions before it happened were way out of line. Kowalski was a good cop, but that doesn't make up for that kind of behavior."

Fraser licked his lip nervously, but didn't answer. It wasn't as if he, of anyone, had the right to condemn a man for being obsessed with a woman.

Finishing half of Fraser's sandwich, Welsh sat back with a satisfied sigh. "So, Constable," he said, looking at Fraser intently. "What do you plan to do with that file you didn't read?"

"I believe that should be obvious, sir," Fraser answered. "I'm going to find him."

ooo

Ray went straight from the botched robbery at the 7-11 to the nearest liquor store and used his cigarette money to buy a bottle of Jack. Rotgut was cheaper and got the job done at the end of the month when Ray was down to the last few bucks from his shitty pension check, but he'd just done something incredibly fucking stupid and now he needed to get drunk as fast as humanly possible. For that, he needed Jack.

Double-bagged bottle in hand, Ray hurried to his latest hideout, trying to ignore the sirens racing towards the convenience store. Towards the Mountie. Jesus fucking Christ, Ray had just saved the fucking Mountie. So much for keeping a low fucking profile. And it didn't take a genius to know what was going to happen next. The Mountie never gave up. Everyone knew that.

Ten minutes later he was pushing his way through a hole in the fence surrounding a school that had recently been shut down. He'd been at this place for a week now, taking advantage of the running water until it was shut off. Ray had plenty of experience with bureaucratic red tape -- he figured he had at least another few weeks before someone noticed that the school district was still paying a tiny water bill for a school that was no longer open. Of course, he wasn't the only one to find this place, but as usual faces turned away as he drew near, fear in their eyes. Ray had lost most of the last couple of years to drunken blackouts, but he had been a detective once and he didn't need anyone to tell him that something had happened, something bad. He just hoped that he hadn't killed anyone.

Glancing around to make sure that no one was watching him, Ray went to the thirteenth locker on the bottom row and opened it silently. It was different than the locker he'd used the night before, just like that one had been different than the one he'd used the night before that. No lock, because that would advertise that there was something worth stealing. Ray had had everything he owned stolen at one point or another, usually when he was too drunk to notice, but his current coat was the nicest he'd had since he'd lost the one that St-...that he'd gotten a few years before, and he wanted to keep it, at least until things warmed up.

Confident he was alone, Ray grabbed his blankets and the half-eaten bag of cookies he'd bought to celebrate surviving another month (and because, goddamn it, if there was one advantage to being alone, it was that there was no one to bitch at you about eating too much sugar), and retreated to the nurse's office. He'd been the first one to claim it and no one had tried to take over yet; there were some advantages to having a bad reputation. Ray certainly wasn't going to complain about sleeping on a bed.

Locking the door and pulling down the blind, Ray settled in with his bottle and his cookies. For once, however, his thoughts did not immediately turn to...her. Instead, he found himself pondering the question of the Mountie.

The Mountie. Ray unscrewed the bottle and took a slug. He'd heard rumors about the Mountie for years, ever since his last couple of months on the force, when the Mountie had first arrived and screwed Vecchio's already shitty reputation. Then It happened, and the subsequent IA investigation, and by the time Ray came out of an alcohol induced stupor two weeks later, lying behind a dumpster and stripped of anything of value, the rumors had changed, or maybe it was just because he was hearing them from the other side of the fence, because the Mountie was still gullible and impossible, but he was also honest and someone you could turn to for help.

Over the years, Ray had seen the Mountie several times -- the man seemed to enjoy riding on the roofs of cars and running along the roofs of buildings. Sort of an obsession for roofs, period, but maybe that was what turned his crank. That, or heights. Probably not that many skyscrapers in Nowheresville, Canada.

As many times as Ray had seen the Mountie, however, the Mountie had only seen Ray once. In the convenience store. Fuck. Ray brought the bottle to his lips and started drinking seriously. Fuck the hangover. Tonight Ray wanted oblivion.

ooo

Within twenty-four hours of the botched robbery, eight different people had asked Ray if he was a cop, and each time the question was asked in an increasingly hostile tone. Ray muttered inventive curses about nosey Mounties and considered getting out of town. Unfortunately he couldn't get very far on his available funds and, besides, he didn't have any form of ID. He wouldn't be able to access his pension, such as it was, if he left the vicinity of the branch that he had been banking at since before...well, since before.

Finally he did the only thing he could do. He went on the offensive.

It only took a few minutes to find out where the Mountie lived, and Ray found himself standing in front of 221 West Racine before he had even managed to come up with what to say. Not that that had ever stopped him before. Ray shrugged, jerked open the door and headed to the third floor, where he pounded on the door to 3J.

The moment the Mountie opened the door, Ray blurted out, "You have to stop."

"Stop what, Detective Kowalski?" the Mountie asked, sounding honestly confused.

Ray winced. "Don't call me that," he said flatly. "I'm not a detective no more."

"All right then. Mr. Kowalski."

Ray scowled. "That's my dad."

"Ah. Stanley, then?"

"Ray!" Ray snapped. "Call me Ray."

The Mountie abruptly paled. Ray frowned. Maybe the guy had low blood sugar or something.

In the subsequent silence Ray noticed that the Mountie wasn't wearing his uniform today. He was less intimidating in flannel and jeans, and some of Ray's belligerence faded away. "Hey," he said gruffly, once it was obvious the Mountie wasn't going to say anything. "You okay?"

"Yes," the Mountie said, sounding anything but. "I apologize for my behavior. You, ah, startled me."

"Right," Ray said dubiously. "Maybe you should sit down or something."

"I believe that would be a good idea." The Mountie went back into his apartment, and after a second Ray followed. As the Mountie sat down in one of the three chairs (two cheap folding chairs and one understuffed armchair) in the place, Ray looked around curiously.

It was bare. Very, very bare. A folding table between the two folding chairs, a narrow cot, and a tiny refrigerator and stove, both of which looked older than Ray. Plus a lamp. "You live here long?" Ray asked.

"Three years," the Mountie answered.

Ray shot a pointed glance around the room, but didn't make a remark. They weren't friends and, anyway, this was a business trip. "Look, you've got to stop trying to find me."

"I no longer need to look for you, Ray," the Mountie said in a highly patronizing voice. "You're here."

Ray's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, and I'm leaving. Have a nice life. Try to avoid getting shot."

He didn't even make it to the door before he felt a hand on his shoulder. Ray spun away and brought up his fists and the Mountie backed away, holding his hands up in placation. "I'm not going to hurt you, Ray," he said soothingly.

"Don't touch me," Ray snarled back, hoping his anger covered up the panic in his voice.

"I'm sorry," the Mountie answered, and it sounded like he meant it. Ray let his fists lower a fraction of an inch. "I won't do it again," he added.

"I know you won't, because you're not going to see me again, right?" the Mountie hesitated and Ray forcibly restrained his urge to kick him in the head. "Right?"

The Mountie sighed. "I'm sorry, Ray. I just don't think I can make that promise."

Ray's fists lifted again. "You come near me again and I'll kick you in the head."

And, for no good reason at all, the Mountie smiled. "Yes, I've heard that's one of your favorite aphorisms."

"Hey!" Ray shouted. "That's not an aphor-whatsit! I swear I'll kick you in the head." The Mountie didn't look convinced, so Ray added, "You don't believe me? I've done it before and I can do it again."

The Mountie frowned. "Ray, I'm not going to hurt you."

"Keep looking for me and you're going to get me killed," Ray said bitterly and this time he left fast enough that the Mountie didn't have a chance to stop him.

ooo

A knock woke Ray the next morning. He stared at the door in disbelief before carefully lifting the blinds up an inch to reveal a startling flash of red. Ray sighed. "Go away," he shouted through the door.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," the Mountie called back. "Not until I've had a chance to apologize."

Ray swore under his breath, unlocked and opened the door, jerked the Mountie in by his ridiculous red coat, and slammed the door shut again. "Okay, you're here. Apologize, or whatever it is you have to do, and get out."

The Mountie nodded sharply as his hands went behind his back and his spine straightened into parade rest. "Thank you, Ray. First of all, I must remedy an egregious lapse of etiquette. Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, at your service." He did a strange little bow with just his head, and then held out his hand.

Bemused, Ray shook it. "I know who you are, Fraser," he said dryly. "I found you, remember?"

"Indeed you did," Fraser said, sounding pleased for some reason. "However, I find that many people I've encountered on the street tend to refer to me as the Mountie, which is a little misleading as--"

"People you meet on the street," Ray said. "Is that a polite way of saying bums?"

Fraser flushed. "Ah, I would not use precisely that wording--"

"Which means yes." Ray rolled his eyes. "Relax, Fraser, it's not like I haven't noticed that I'm homeless."

Fraser looked around Ray's current shelter. "These accommodations seem comfortable," he offered.

"They're not bad," Ray answered. "I figure I got another day before they come through and roust everyone."

"Oh," Fraser said. He took off his hat and started turning it in his hands, looking uncomfortable. "I was thinking that perhaps you might consider staying with me for a while. If you wanted to."

Ray stared at him incredulously. "I'm not a stray dog, Fraser."

"I'm aware of that," Fraser snapped, surprising the hell out of Ray. He hadn't known that the Mountie could lose his temper. It was just for a second, however, and then Fraser was back to blustering. "In point of fact, I would not bring home a stray dog because Deifenbaker -- that's besides the point. I am making an offer of hospitality to you, Ray Kowalski, a human, and a good man who saved my life."

"Is that what this is about?" Ray asked. "'Cause, really, you shouldn't be thanking me for that. I've been kicking myself about it ever since it happened."

"Still," Fraser said stubbornly. "You did save me and, in many cultures, that would mean that my life is yours to do with as you wish."

Ray snorted out a laugh. "I wouldn't have taken you for a kung fu movie kind of guy," Ray said. Fraser looked confused. "You know, because the samurai always says that to the-- never mind. The point is, this isn't a fucking Chinese kung fu samurai movie. This is America. A guy saves your life, you give him a hundred bucks and go your separate ways."

Fraser blinked. "You want me to give you a hundred dollars?" he asked, reaching into the headband of his hat.

Ray rolled his eyes. "No, you freak. All I want is for you to leave me alone."

Fraser twisted his hat uncertainly.

"Fraser," Ray snapped. "I swear, there has to be some kind of etiquette rule for not staying after you've been asked to leave." He jerked the door open. "Out."

After another long hesitation, Fraser finally sighed and left.

ooo

Two days after Fraser's meeting with Ray, he received another call from Welsh. He hurried to the precinct, feeling a distinct sense of deja vu as he entered the bullpen for the first time in weeks. He nodded at Huey (who nodded back) and at Dewey (who didn't) and headed directly toward Lt. Welsh's office.

Welsh opened his door the moment Fraser knocked. "Not now," he said sounding more harried than usual. Over Welsh's shoulder, Fraser could see FBI Agents Deeter and Ford arguing with a lovely woman with short platinum blonde hair and extremely tight-fitting clothing. It sounded like they were discussing the theft of some very valuable gemstones.

"Of course, sir, I can see that you're busy." Fraser opened his mouth, then closed it again. Lt. Welsh really did look busy.

Welsh sighed. "What is it, Constable?"

"Well, sir, it's just that Ray has already been in police custody for some time now, and, while the holding cell's accommodations are perfectly adequate for--"

The shouting from Welsh's office suddenly tripled in volume. Welsh winced. "Tell you what, Fraser. Why don't you go down and keep Kowalski company while I take care of this little mess. I'll come down as soon as I can."

"Thank you, sir," Fraser said with considerable relief. Welsh waved him off distractedly. Fraser offered a polite nod to the two agents, who ignored him completely, and left.

Five minutes later, he was down in holding, searching the cells for Ray Kowalski.

"You son of a bitch!"

Ah, there he was, and clearly in a foul temper. "Now, Ray, there's no need for such lan--"

"You got me arrested!"

"I did not," Fraser answered, which was technically true. All Fraser had done was report the consumption of an illegal substance taking place on public school grounds, and it was not as if he had had any choice in the matter. The fact that the school was no longer open did not in any way impact the land's drug free zone status. Still, further debate on this subject would likely lead to some uncomfortable questions, so Fraser quickly changed the subject. "Lieutenant Welsh will be down shortly to release you."

Ray groaned. "You're trying to get me killed, aren't you?"

"Of course not, Ray," Fraser said, with some irritation. Then he noticed that the other prisoners were intently focused on Ray. "Oh, dear."

Ray's jaw dropped. "Oh, dear? Oh, dear? Fuck your 'dear', Fraser, and call the fucking guard!"

Fraser winced internally at Ray's language, but shouted for the guard. Welsh got there first, most likely because he was actually running, while the guard's gait could more accurately be described as a saunter. By the time Ray was safely outside the cell, blood had been spilled, surprisingly little of it coming from Ray. The man was probably hungover and undoubtedly undernourished, but he knew how to handle himself in a fight.

"Christ, Kowalski," Welsh said as the guard got the cell door shut. "I see you're still a troublemaker."

"Don't look at me," Ray said defensively. "The Mountie started it."

"Now that I can believe," Welsh said, shaking his head at Fraser. "Come on, let's get the ball rolling on your release paperwork."

Ray crossed his arms. "Is he coming along?" he asked, jerking his head at Fraser.

"You're being released into his custody," Welsh answered, before Fraser could say anything.

Ray glared at Fraser, then glanced at the cell full of hostile prisoners. "This sucks," he said flatly.

Welsh tried a smile; even Fraser had to admit it wasn't particularly comforting. "Don't worry," Welsh said. "He grows on you."

"I'll bet," Ray muttered, loudly enough for Fraser to hear him. "Like mold."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow and followed Ray and Lt. Welsh down the hall. The next few days were going to be...difficult, that was clear. On the bright side, at least they wouldn't be boring.

ooo

They stopped at the school on the way to Fraser's apartment and Ray found himself stuck with a big red shadow as he went to his latest locker to collect his stuff.

Which was gone.

Fuck.

Ray stared at the empty locker for a minute before slamming the door shut and proceeding to kick the shit out of it. He was just getting into a good groove, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard an increasingly insistent voice in his ear, "Ray, Ray, RAY!"

"What?" Ray shouted back, spinning away from Fraser's hand.

Fraser stood there with his hand raised for a moment, before dropping it to his side. "I'm sorry, Ray, but you really aren't adequately shod for your current activity and I was afraid you might injure yourself."

Ray glanced down at the ratty Converse sneakers he'd dug out of a dumpster on Main a few weeks before and spared a moment to once again bemoan the loss of the biker boots he'd worn in his previous life. He'd taken shit for them from his Lieu, but they'd been worth it for their steel toes. He could have kicked a locker all day in those beauties. As it was, his feet were aching and if the Mountie hadn't stopped him, Ray could easily have broken a toe. "Yeah, right," he answered gruffly. "Uh, thanks."

Fraser beamed, there was no other word for it. "You're most welcome, Ray."

Ray closed his eyes. There was no way a man should look so happy about being thanked, it just wasn't possible. "God, I need a drink."

"Ray," Fraser started to say in a highly disapproving tone, and Ray's eyes snapped open. Fuck that. He'd had enough of disapproving from...he'd just had enough.

"Look, Fraser, I appreciate everything you've done for me, but I think it's time we went our separate ways."

Fraser's face tightened for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Ray to wonder about it before Fraser's features smoothed out. "I'm sorry, Ray, but I'm afraid that's not possible."

Ray sighed. This was it, this right here, was why people did not get involved with the Mountie. "Why not?" he asked, trying for belligerent, but knowing that he probably just sounded tired. It'd been hours since his last drink, long, miserable hours, and right now the last thing he wanted to do was deal with a stubborn Canadian.

"Lieutenant Welsh remanded you into my custody until your hearing," Fraser said, his hands tucked neatly behind his back in textbook-perfect parade rest. "As you lack an address or any contact information, I'm afraid that it would be irresponsible of me not to see to your accommodations."

Oh, no. Ray did not like the sound of that. "And where, exactly, would these accommodations be?"

Fraser scratched his eyebrow. "Well, you'll be staying with me."

Ray could grow to hate this man, he really could. "I don't think so."

"Well, I'm very sorry, Ray, but I'm afraid that you don't have a choice."

"Fuck!" Ray shouted. He resumed kicking the shit out of the lockers. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

"Ray, I really wish you would moderate your language," Fraser said primly. "Profanity seldom, if ever, improves a situation."

Ray spun around and got up in the Mountie's face. "Fuck," he said, slowly and clearly.

Fraser winced, but didn't say anything.

Unfortunately, that wasn't nearly as satisfying as Ray had hoped, and suddenly he was out of anger and energy. "All right," he said. "Let's go to your place."

Fraser brightened noticeably. "Of course, Ray. We just have to stop by the consulate to pick up Diefenbaker."

"Diefenbaker?" Ray repeated, following Fraser down the hallway with an exaggerated sigh.

"My wolf. Well, not 'mine' precisely, as -- that's not important. Don't worry, though, he's friendly."

Ray wasn't worried; he'd heard about the wolf. At least someone in the apartment would have a bigger sweet tooth than Ray. "How far is it to the Consulate?"

"Just a few miles," Fraser said cheerfully.

Ray stopped. "A few?"

"No more than four," Fraser answered, as if that answer was even the slightest bit reasonable.

Ray stared. "Uh, Fraser, not to burst your bubble or anything, but I'm not going to make four miles. I'll be lucky if I manage one after trekking out here from the station."

"Well then, we can take a taxi," Fraser said.

"A taxi?" Ray repeated. He seemed to do that a lot around the Mountie. "You mean you had money for a taxi all this time and you didn't use it?"

"I thought you might enjoy a walk after being in a cell all day," Fraser answered, looking utterly sincere.

Ray gaped. "You're a freak, Fraser, you know that? A freak."

"Understood. Shall we?" Fraser gestured for Ray to take the lead down the hall.

Ray shook his head, but started walking. He'd been right earlier. This day was gonna suck.

ooo

Ray'd seen the apartment before, of course, but he'd kind of been distracted at the time and, anyway, he hadn't expected to be living in it any time soon. On second viewing it wasn't as bad as he had remembered. The two rooms were large (and made larger by a distinct shortage of furniture), and had hardwood floors and lots of windows. Not a bad place to dance, really, but Ray hadn't been dancing in years. Two very long, very painful years.

Ray had lived in worse. Much worse.

It occurred to Ray that he didn't see any doors aside from the front door. "Where's the john?"

"Just down the hall," Fraser said brightly. "Mr. Johnson just put in a shower, so we're now equipped with all of the modern conveniences."

"Down the hall?" Ray said. "You mean you gotta share?"

"Well, just with this floor."

Okay, so Ray'd lived in better places than this, too, but wasn't like he could run away. The Mountie would just find him again. "I gotta use the can," Ray announced, for lack of anything better to do. Maybe he'd get lucky and find a way to drown himself in the sink.

"Of course, Ray," Fraser said, stepping aside so Ray could get to the door.

Ray was halfway down the hall when he realized that the Mountie was following him. "You aren't coming in with me, are you?" Ray snapped.

"No, of course not," Fraser said. "I, er, I have to use the facilities as well."

Ray snorted. "You're a shitty liar, Fraser."

Fraser grimaced. "Understood."

In the end they compromised on Diefenbaker playing guard duty, and Ray did his business. The bathroom was a real pit and Ray found himself thinking longingly of the good old days when he had an entire school locker room to himself. The new shower was the nicest thing in the room, and it was the size of a narrow refrigerator and already starting to mildew around the edges. Ray sniffed it and decided to do his bathing in Fraser's kitchen sink.

Hm. Not a bad thought. If he couldn't get Fraser to let him leave, maybe Ray could get himself kicked out.

Ray was still working on the details of that plan when he stepped back into the apartment to find Fraser laying a nice-looking sleeping bag on the floor. He blinked. "Fraser, what are you doing?"

"Preparing the bedroll," Fraser answered, clambering to his feet far more gracefully than should be possible while wearing those boots. He'd taken off his tunic and his hat at some point, and he looked smaller in his suspenders. More human.

Ray shifted his eyes away. "It's not even nine," he pointed out.

"I know," Fraser said with a shrug. Damn, without the uniform he even acted more human. "I just didn't want to start dinner until you returned."

Dinner. Ray's stomach roiled. "I'm not really hungry."

Fraser frowned. "When was the last time you ate?"

Ray crossed his arms defensively. "Not that long ago." The Mountie didn't look convinced, so Ray lied, "Breakfast, okay. I had a big breakfast."

"That was hours ago," Fraser said stubbornly. "You need to eat, Ray."

Oh, hell. "Fine," Ray snapped. "But don't expect me to help."

Dinner turned out to be spaghetti and Ray wasn't sure how it happened, but somehow he ended up setting the table while Fraser fiddled around with pots on the foul-smelling stove. At least Ray hoped the smells were coming from the stove.

The food was...well, it was edible, as long as you didn't think about it too hard. "How is it?" Fraser asked after Ray had taken a couple of bites and he looked so hopeful that Ray sighed, gave up his plan to get himself kicked out, and lied through his teeth. "It's good, Fraser."

Fraser smiled and Ray's gut twisted. No matter how much alcohol ramped up his libido, it gave him limp dick, and he hadn't done much but drink for the last couple of years. Now, thanks to the Mountie, Ray was going through a stretch of enforced sobriety, and his cock was informing him in no uncertain terms that he wasn't cut out for celibacy.

Hm. Maybe there was another way to get himself kicked out. And even if Fraser was more flexible than anyone thought him to be and didn't immediately toss Ray out on his ass, Ray wouldn't mind having a chance to find out if he could pop a woody over a guy other than Steve McQueen. Hell, Ray was already halfway there, and all Fraser had done was smile at him.

With that in mind, Ray choked down a couple more bites of the mushy pasta, then put his plate down on the floor. Any protest Fraser might have made was overridden by the clatter of nails on the floor as the wolf jumped up and ran over to shove his face in the food. "Geez," Ray said. "Don't you feed him?"

"Diefenbaker's dietary needs are quite adequately met with his kibble," Fraser said sternly, staring at his wolf.

"Kibble? No wonder he begs for people food."

"Don't encourage him. I assure you he has no scruples about taking advantage of the kindness of strangers."

"We're not exactly strangers anymore," Ray pointed out.

For some reason the Mountie smiled real big at that. "That's true, Ray."

Ray's eyes narrowed, but Fraser looked perfectly sincere, so Ray put the strange happiness aside and went to the next step of Mission: Seduce the Mountie. "So, uh, I think I'm gonna hit the sack."

Fraser's smile dimmed a little. "Of course. I took the liberty of purchasing a few toiletries for you. They're in the bag next to the bed."

For a moment Ray didn't know whether to be outraged or touched by the gesture, and in the end he just nodded brusquely and shoved himself back from the table. The bag was sitting on the nightstand and contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, shampoo, shaving cream, a pack of disposable razors, and a comb. Ray swallowed a few times to try and get rid of the large lump in his throat, but his voice was still thin with emotion when he managed to say, "Thanks, Fraser. You, uh, you didn't hafta do this."

"It was my pleasure, Ray," Fraser said, and it sounded like he meant it.

Ray just nodded again and fled to the bathroom.

He stepped out again nearly an hour later, freshly shaved and scrubbed from head to toe. He'd forgotten to ask about towels before he'd gone in, so he was currently wearing the same clothes he'd worn every day for the last few weeks. The fact that they were now damp made them smell even worse. Maybe Fraser would let him borrow some sweats. Oh, who was he kidding? Fraser would love to let him borrow some sweats. Hell, the man would probably have an orgasm if Ray went so far as to ask for actual shoes. Ray'd never met a man more determined to be taken advantage of.

Ray was almost to the apartment door when he realized that Diefenbaker had apparently given up on playing guard dog, seeing as the mutt was nowhere in sight. He considered running away for half a second before reality sank in and he opened the door with a sigh.

Aside from the bedside lamp, the apartment was dark, and Ray tiptoed his way over to the bed. Which was, unfortunately, entire free of Mounties, though it did have a neatly folded pair of boxers and a tee shirt. Ray snagged the clothes and went into the kitchen to get dressed, dumping his own nasty rags in a distant corner near the window. Fraser's clothing was too big for Ray, of course, but they were clean and sweet-smelling. Ray tried not to think about the fact that the boxers were starched and ironed.

Still damp, but no longer dripping, Ray went back into the bedroom. As he suspected, he found Fraser stretched out on the fancy sleeping bag, wearing bright red thermal underwear and looking for all the world like he was already asleep. Ray smirked and murmured, "Fraser."

Fraser immediately bolted upright. "Yes, Ray?"

Ray crossed his arms and tried to look belligerent, which wasn't easy when you were talking to a guy in long johns. "What are you doing down there?" he hissed.

Fraser looked down at his bedroll and then back up. "Sleeping," he said tentatively. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Wow, you didn't get openings like that every day. "Yeah," Ray answered huskily. "You can get on the bed."

Fraser's eyes widened and Ray couldn't be sure cause of the dim light, but it certainly looked like Fraser's cheeks were red. "Oh, no, I couldn't," Fraser said. "You're the guest."

Ray blinked; he'd been so focused on getting into Fraser's pants (no, no, getting kicked out, that's why he was doing this. Really.), that it took a second for the meaning of Fraser's words to sink in. "Fraser, I'm not kicking you out of your own bed."

"Well, of course not, Ray. I'm offering it to you."

"Well I'm not taking it. Get on the bed."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes!"

"No."

"Fine!" Ray shouted, grabbing a handful of blankets and dragging them off of the bed and onto the floor.

"Ray?"

"What?" Ray snapped, snatching the pillow and tossing it onto the pile of bedding.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like, Fraser?" Ray flopped down on blankets and started twisting around, trying to find a comfortable position.

"It looks like you're sleeping on the floor," Fraser answered.

Ray grunted and punched his pillow.

"But, Ray, it's silly for both of us to sleep on the floor when there is a perfectly good bed."

"You're right," Ray said. "So why don't you stop talking and get into bed."

"Ray--"

"Look, Fraser, you can't out-stubborn me, so don't even try. The only way I'm sleeping in that bed is if you're sleeping there with me."

No denying it this time, Fraser's face was as red as a beet. "That, that doesn't sound very comfortable."

Ray thought about making a suggestive remark, but it was rapidly becoming obvious that as much as he'd sucked at seducing women, he sucked even more at seducing men. "Shut up, Fraser," he said instead. "Go to sleep."

There was an ominous pause that Ray was sure was the start of another argument, but when Fraser finally answered all he said was, "Good night, Ray."

Ray smiled, and it was only a little bitter. "Good night, Fraser."

ooo

The ruddy light of early dawn was brushing the ceiling when Fraser woke and he lay quietly for a minute, enjoying the vibrant colors and the exotic thrill of anticipation shivering through his bloodstream. He wasn't entirely sure what he was anticipating, but for now it was enough to feel that something good was going to happen today.

Then he turned over and saw the blond hair sticking out of the pile of blankets next to him and suddenly he remembered the origins of his unusually good mood. Stanley Raymond Kowalski, ex-cop, widower, and now Fraser's roommate. Fraser had never had a roommate; he was looking forward to the new experience.

Ray shifted slightly under his blankets and Fraser shook his head. Now was not the time for lollygagging. Rolling quickly out of bed, he began his chores.

By the time Fraser had bathed, dressed, put away his bedding, fed Diefenbaker, and run Ray's clothes down to the laundromat on the corner, the sun had fully cleared the horizon and the city had begun to awake en masse. Ray, however, continued to be oblivious to the world. Fraser frowned slightly at the bundle of blankets. Perhaps some tea would help wake him. Or, no. Coffee. No matter how strange it seemed to Fraser, Americans as a whole preferred coffee. He himself only drank it of necessity or to be polite.

Of course, Fraser didn't have coffee. Nor, when he checked his supplies, did he have cream or sugar, eggs, bread, or anything else perishable. He hadn't been eating well since coming to Chicago and finding Ray gone; most nights he was lucky if he animated himself enough to open a can of beans for dinner.

Well no more. Ray was clearly in need of nutritious food, and while oatmeal and beans were adequate sustenance for a healthy, well-nourished person, they were simply not acceptable for someone on the verge of starvation. Straightening his shoulders, Fraser nodded sharply to himself, grabbed his hat, and marched out the door.

An hour later he came back laden with groceries and Ray's now-clean, though apparently permanently stained, clothing. Ray himself was still buried in bed, and Fraser debated letting the man get the sleep he so obviously needed. Unfortunately, Fraser was expected at the consulate in a little over an hour, and he couldn't leave Ray alone. Not just yet. However, he was fairly sure he'd seen a cot in one of the new Consulate's closets. Perhaps Ray could take a nap there.

Plugging in his brand-new coffee maker, Fraser set about making a hearty breakfast with far more enthusiasm than usual. For the first time in weeks he was hungry. Starving, even. Strange.

ooo

Ray woke up covered in shadow, a warm hand gripping his shoulder and shaking him gently. He breathed in sharply and jerked back from the dark, hulking body that loomed overhead and then froze. Was that coffee? And bacon? What--

The body moved back a couple of steps and suddenly it was human-sized and red-colored. Fraser. "Ray, are you all right?"

Ray blinked a couple of times, then roughly rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, sorry." He sniffed again. "Is that coffee?" he asked hopefully.

Fraser brightened a little, though it couldn't quite cover up his worry. "Yes, I thought you might prefer that to tea."

Tea? Ick. "Good thinking, Fraser." Ray groaned and flopped over onto his stomach before shoving himself up onto his hands and knees. His head wasn't the only thing pounding this morning, and he knew if he looked he'd find himself covered with bruises. He wasn't bad in a ring, but there's not much you can do when it's seven to one and you're backed up against a cell door. Hopefully Welsh talked to the guards, because Ray's cover as a nobody was well and truly blown. If he got arrested again, he wouldn't live long enough for Fraser to bail him out.

Fuck. Fuckity-fuck fuck fuck.

Ray sighed and forced himself onto his feet. No point in bitching about it any more. He'd fucked up and now he was screwed, but at least there was coffee to drink and food on the table that looked somewhat appetizing. Which was a good thing, because for the first time in months, Ray was kinda hungry.

No chocolate for the coffee, of course, but Ray dumped in a mountain of sugar and half a cup of cream and it was heaven that only got better when he sat down to a plate of bacon and eggs and -- oh, god, Ray was in love -- pancakes. There was a bottle of real maple syrup on the table and Ray drenched his entire plate with the stuff before digging in.

He managed half of it before his stomach started protesting and as good as the food was he didn't want to throw it back up, so Ray reluctantly pushed the plate forward. "I'm stuffed," he announced. "Want the rest?"

Fraser looked askance at the lake of syrup dotted with islands of food. "Perhaps Diefenbaker?"

Ray grinned and set the plate on the floor, where it was immediately set upon by a ravenous wolf. Oh yeah. At least someone in this apartment had taste.

Fraser was still eating, so Ray tapped his fingers on the table, trying to ignore the fact that his food wasn't exactly settling down in his stomach and wondering what he was supposed to do now. Normally by this point in the day he was already either drinking or hunting down his next drink. No doubt Fraser would have something to say about that. Ray sighed, and focused on his tapping.

He was just starting to get into it when he caught Fraser eyeing him. Ray snatched his hands back and cleared his throat. "So, uh. I could take Dief for a walk, if you want." Belatedly he remembered the state of his clothes, but hell, the wolf wouldn't care, and they could only benefit from getting some air. Besides, Ray's muscles were starting to cramp up, probably from all the bruising, and they needed to be stretched a bit

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. "Thank you kindly for the offer, Ray, but I'm afraid we don't have the time. I am expected at the Consulate at nine."

Ray waited for Fraser to add something to make that sentence make sense, but the Mountie apparently thought he'd said all he had to. Fortunately, Ray had a flash of understanding. "Oh, okay. I get it."

Fraser frowned. "Get what?"

"You don't trust me with him," Ray answered, covering the hurt with a shrug. "I don't blame you. Hell, I wouldn't trust me with him either."

"But that's simply not true," Fraser said, sounding sincerely distressed.

Now it was Ray's turn to frown. "Well, then, what's the problem? I can drop him back off at the consulate if you've got to go right away."

Fraser nodded slowly. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding, Ray. You're coming to the consulate with me."

Ray repeated Fraser's last sentence numbly. He couldn't have heard that right. He couldn't have.

"Yes, Ray," Fraser answered. "Well, you and Diefenbaker. He gets into trouble when I leave him at home. As a matter of fact, the last time he managed to get himself arrested. It's an interesting story--"

"I'm not coming to work with you, Fraser." Ray crossed his arms stubbornly.

Fraser didn't cross his arms, but then he didn't have to: the mulish set of his jaw said it all. "I'm sure that, as a former officer of the law, you don't need me to explain what it means for you to have been released into my custody. You already know that it means that I am responsible for anything you do until your court date."

Ray's eyes narrowed. "You don't trust me," he accused, surprised at how much that hurt. After all, why should Fraser trust him?

And yet, it still stung when Fraser shot back, "As you've pointed out yourself, I just met you, and I did find you illegally occupying city property, so intoxicated that you were flirting with unconsciousness."

Ray flinched. "Low blow, Fraser. 'Specially for a Mountie."

Fraser's shoulder's drooped a fraction. "I'm very sorry, Ray."

Ray shrugged, tried to make it casual. "Why? It's the truth."

"Yes, but it's also true that you haven't tried to run away from me since you were released," Fraser answered, and Ray's lips twisted in something resembling a smirk, but he didn't say anything.

They were silent for a few minutes, Ray trying to ignore a freaking mountain of complaints from various parts of his body, until Fraser announced, "We have to leave now, or we'll be late."

Ray considered his borrowed tee-shirt and shorts before reluctantly looking over at the corner with his shitty clothes. Except the corner was empty. Ray's head snapped back around to look at Fraser. Had the smell been so bad the Mountie just threw the clothes away? "Fraser, where are my clothes?"

Fraser's eyebrows creased for just a moment before they smoothed out. "Ah, I forgot to mention that I took the liberty of laundering them, Ray. They're on the bed."

A strange lump in his chest, Ray went over to the bed. Sure enough, there on top of the perfectly made bed -- when had Fraser had time to do that? Ray had only been in the john for a couple of minutes -- were his clothes, neatly folded and clean-smelling. With a shaking hand, Ray lifted the shirt to his nose and breathed deeply. His eyes stung. It'd been a long time since he smelled anything that wonderful.

"I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to iron it," Fraser said from behind him, and Ray quickly lowered the shirt, feeling stupid.

"It's fine, Fraser. Greatness."

"Well, good," Fraser said, sounding confused. Ray didn't turn around to see, though; he wasn't quite ready to face the Mountie. "I'll let you get dressed," Fraser added after a second. "We should leave soon."

"Yeah, sure," Ray said, still clutching the shirt in a desperate grip. He waited till he heard retreating footsteps before reaching out for the rest of the clothes. His hands were still shaking, he noticed. Maybe it was a good thing he was off the booze for a while; apparently he was just a few drinks away from serious DTs.

ooo

As it turned out, the Canadian Consulate was on the other side of the freaking city, and they weren't even halfway there when Ray forced Fraser to flag down a cab. Not that he would have been up for a four mile walk in the best of condition, but the unaccustomed exercise was making the food roil even more in Ray's stomach and he was starting to regret having had such a big breakfast. It didn't help that he was still exhausted; he'd spent most of the night tossing and turning on the hard floor and it was only near dawn that he'd finally managed to fall asleep.

"I'm sorry," Fraser said for the eighth time as they pulled up in front of a brick building guarded by wrought iron gates. "My apartment is only a five minute walk from the old Consulate," he explained apologetically, completely ignoring Ray's rolling eyes.

"It's okay," Ray said, also for the eighth time, as Fraser let Diefenbaker out and paid the driver. "But, you know, you might think about getting a car."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow.

Ray's eyes narrowed. "Do you have a car?"

"Technically--"

"Don't give me 'technically', Fraser! Do you have a car?"

Fraser sighed. "Yes. But only temporarily." Ray stared at him until he explained, "It's Ray's."

"Ray Vecchio's?" Fraser nodded. "I thought you said he was in New York City." Fraser winced, and nodded again. "Why didn't he take it with him?"

"Ah," Fraser said. "I can't say." He turned and quickly entered the building. If it had been anyone but the Mountie, Ray would have thought he was running away.

Considering Ray could think of three good reasons not to bring a car to NYC just off the top of his head, he decided that Fraser really was running. The question was, why? What had gone on between him and Vecchio that made Fraser act like a freak any time someone said Vecchio's name?

Oh. Oh, shit. It couldn't be, and yet--

Ray turned over the idea in his head as Fraser dealt with a ditzy giant in a red uniform, and by the time he'd followed Fraser to his office, Ray had just about convinced himself. It would explain a lot, after all: he'd always heard that the Mountie and Vecchio were inseparable, and Fraser's behavior was a lot like a man who'd gotten dumped. He wasn't acting as badly as Ray had, of course, but then you had to be really fucked in the head to get as bad as Ray.

Ray was riding so high on his theory that he barely waited for Fraser to close the door before blurting out, "You were fucking him, weren't you?"

Fraser's eyes widened comically. "Turnbull?"

Ray frowned. "What? No! Vecchio. You were fucking Vecchio, weren't you?"

The eyes stayed wide, and Fraser flushed as red as his uniform. "No," he said in a strangled voice, before clearing his throat and trying again. "No. Ray Vecchio is my friend, my best friend, but we were not...intimate in that way."

"Hm," Ray said, eyeing the Mountie suspiciously, but he seemed to be telling the truth. "What's a Turnbull?" he asked abruptly, before things could get too awkward. "Some funky Canadian word for fucking?" Which, when you said the word a few times, kinda sounded like it made sense.

Ray hadn't thought it possible, but Fraser turned even redder. Goddamn, the man was nearly purple. "Turnbull is a coworker," Fraser said, sounding like he was choking. Hell, maybe he was, considering the way he was pulling on his collar. "He's the officer you met in the foyer."

Oh. Well, that hadn't made anything less awkward, and Ray was starting to feel even crappier than he had earlier: his hands were getting clammy, his headache was reaching migraine levels, and he kind of thought he should sit down before he fell down. Leaning heavily on Fraser's freakishly neat desk, Ray asked, "You got a couch around here or something? I think I need to lie down."

Fraser looked relieved at the change in subject. "I believe I can do better than a couch, Ray. There is a cot in the hall closet. If you would like to take a seat, I'll get it ready for you."

Ray thought about protesting that he could help, but honestly he wasn't sure if he could. It'd been a long time since he'd gotten sick -- a miracle, considering the way he'd lived for the last couple of years -- but it felt like he was coming down with the flu. Which was a shitty way to pay back Fraser for taking him in, but (Ray reminded himself firmly) he hadn't asked to be taken in and if Fraser got sick after taking Ray hostage then the Mountie could just lump it.

Except that when Fraser came back carrying a small cot and a pile of bedding, Ray kept his mouth covered and made sure the Mountie didn't get close enough to pick up any germs. Well, hell. The Mountie was a nice guy, even if he was bossy and self-righteous. He didn't deserve to get sick.

Ray's body apparently wasn't impressed by that reasoning, because his stomach lurched dangerously and he just managed to bend over in time to spew into Fraser's trash can. Fraser, who had just snapped a sheet out over the cot, dropped the bedding and spun around to grip Ray's shoulder, supporting him as he emptied his stomach and through the painful dry heaves that followed.

When Ray was absolutely sure he was done, he straightened carefully and wiped his sweaty face with the back of his hand, keeping his other arm curled protectively around his sore belly. "Sorry, Fraser," he rasped, leaning back against the desk as he was hit with a wave of dizziness. "I think I've got the flu." Though it'd never hit him so fast before.

"Hm," Fraser said, looking grim. "Do you think you'll be okay for a moment while I ready your bed?"

"Yeah, sure," Ray said, barely registering the words as he was hit with a nasty case of the shakes. Christ, he felt awful, way worse than the last time he had the flu.

He must have lost a few minutes then, because between one blink and another Fraser had made up the cot and was now holding Ray's arm, gently pushing him towards the bed. Ray stumbled along willingly and collapsed with a groan. When the blackness rose up, he sank under it gratefully.

ooo

Ray passed out a moment after Fraser got him into the cot, still wearing his coat and shoes, and in an inexcusable lapse rationality, Fraser spent nearly a minute dithering over whether or not he had the right to touch Ray before finally removing Ray's outer garments and tucking him under a blanket.

Once he had made Ray as comfortable as he could -- and still chastising himself for behaving like a child, or Turnbull -- Fraser dropped into his chair and considered his current situation.

Said situation did not look very promising and Fraser berated himself for not foreseeing this complication. The fact that relatively few alcoholics experienced withdrawal was no excuse; Ray's malnutrition and poor psychological health were both high risk factors that he should have taken under consideration.

However, blaming himself did not alter the fact that Ray was clearly caught in the throes of alcohol withdrawal, a potentially life-threatening condition. Unfortunately Ray was also undoubtedly uninsured and Fraser had seen first-hand how American hospitals treated patients who could not afford to pay. The prospect of Ray languishing for hours in an overcrowded emergency room was an appalling one, and there was no guarantee that it would accomplish anything other than to confirm what Fraser already knew.

Besides, there wasn't much left to be done at this point except to wait it out; unfortunately that was something that clearly could not happen at the consulate and the likelihood of finding a cab driver willing to transport Ray in his current condition was very small, which meant Fraser was in need of transportation. Which meant calling in a favor from a man who had already given Fraser so much support already.

Stifling a sigh, Fraser picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.

By the time Lieutenant Welsh arrived at the consulate two hours later, Fraser had made arrangements for a week of leave, with the option of an extension if necessary. Fraser had never asked for such open-ended leave before and Inspector Thatcher was very reluctant to acquiesce to the request, at least until Turnbull burst into the office to report that Ray was convulsing. After that, the Inspector was happy to agree to anything that removed Ray from consulate grounds.

Fortunately Ray had not been convulsing, though his shaking had increased to such a degree that Fraser could not blame Turnbull for the mistake. Fraser could only hope that Ray's symptoms did not progress to actual seizures, because then there would be no way to avoid a hospital visit.

The remainder of the time had been spent conducting internet research on alcohol withdrawal. There was a surprising amount of information available and Fraser was reassured to note that as long as Ray did not begin convulsing or turn violent, he could be safely cared for at home.

Between the Lieutenant, Turnbull, and Fraser himself, transferring Ray from the consulate to the car was not difficult. Welsh insisted on accompanying Fraser home and Turnbull tried to insist as well, but at this point the Inspector stepped in, for which Fraser was secretly grateful. The next few days were going to be difficult; having to deal with Turnbull would make them impossible.

By unspoken consensus, Welsh took over driving duties while Fraser watched over Ray from the passenger seat. "You got everything you need?" Welsh asked after several minutes of silence.

"I'm afraid not," Fraser answered, turning around to face forward and pulling a list out of the pouch on his belt. "I hate to ask you for another favor so soon, but--"

"Ask it," Welsh said bluntly. "Once a cop, always a cop, and Kowalski was one of the good guys."

Fraser smiled despite himself. Though Welsh had a tough reputation, the man had a truly kind heart. "Thank you, sir. I have a list here of items I'll need over the next few days. Of course I'll reimburse you for any--"

"Shut up, Constable," Welsh growled.

"Understood, sir."

Once Ray was settled in on Fraser's bed, the Lieutenant went out shopping and Fraser began preparations at home. Thanks to the supplies he had purchased that morning, he was better equipped to take care of an invalid than was his usual wont, but there was still quite a bit to do. He began by placing a basin next to the bed; the next few days were going to be devoted to feeding Ray as many liquids as possible and Fraser had no illusions about the state of Ray's stomach.

Then came the unpleasant task of stripping off Ray's sweat-soaked clothing. Fraser changed his own clothing first, being sure to pick his softest, most worn shirt and jeans. There was a good chance he would have to physically hold Ray over the next few days, and he didn't want to irritate Ray's increasingly sensitive skin.

Once Ray was stripped and tucked in under every blanket in the apartment, Fraser went to the kitchen to mix a rehydration solution of water, sugar, and salt, which would taste terrible but which was nearly as effective as the sports drinks that Lieutenant Welsh would be bringing. Fraser would save the sports drinks for when Ray was awake and better able to keep fluids down.

By the time Welsh walked in carrying several plastic bags, Fraser was in the middle of making a simple vegetable broth, which was considerably more nutritious than beef or chicken broth. The vegetables themselves would end up in Dief's bowl, though Fraser had little hope the recalcitrant animal would actually consent to eat such healthy foods.

"Where do you want them?" Welsh asked as Fraser hurried over to help.

"The table, please," Fraser asked, taking half of the bags and already beginning to search them as Welsh set the remainder down and went back to the car for a second load of supplies.

The first bag proved to be the most important, as it contained chewable vitamins and nutritional supplements. It also contained a small prescription bottle filled with tiny white tablets and a label identifying them as Diazepam. Ray Kowalski's name was also on the label. Fraser frowned. "Sir, what is this?" he asked when Welsh returned, this time carrying a single handful of bags.

"Valium," Welsh answered simply, dropping the bags on the floor, since the table was covered.

"But it's in Ray's name."

Welsh shrugged. "I've got a friend who's a doctor. I gave him a call. He said it's not safe for a long-term alcoholic to go cold turkey and wrote me a prescription for those."

"But he's never even seen Ray," Fraser pointed out, frowning.

Welsh didn't roll his eyes, but it looked like he wanted to. "Kowalski's been drunk for two years, Constable. I'd say that's the definition of a long-term alcoholic."

"I'm not disagreeing with that, sir, but surely it's not legal to prescribe medications without even--"

"Fraser?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Shut up."

Fraser sighed. "Understood."

Welsh glanced at the bed in the other room, but made no movement in that direction. "Is there anything else you need, Constable?"

"No, sir. I just want to thank--" Fraser's voice broke. Appalled, he cleared his throat before continuing, "Thank you for all of your help. You have greatly assisted Ray's chances for recovery."

"Anytime, Constable," Welsh said, clapping Fraser on the shoulder. "And I mean that."

There wasn't much to be said after that. The Lieutenant called a cab and took his leave. Fraser put away the new supplies and finished the broth. (As expected, Diefenbaker turned his nose up at the vegetables.)

Once the broth was stored away and apartment was back in order, Fraser dragged his armchair next to the bed, sat down, and began his vigil.

The next few days were difficult. Ray was rarely able to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time, and the sleep he did manage did not appear to be restful. He was also unable to keep down much of the broth or the hydration solution and his repeated regurgitation eventually resulted in a throat so sore that he could barely swallow. Finally Fraser put aside his scruples and gave Ray a dose of the Valium. The four hours of uninterrupted sleep that followed reconciled Fraser to the necessity of continuing to use the medicine, no matter how questionable the origins of the prescription.

Near the end of the second day, Ray woke up looking more alert than he had since the ordeal began and Fraser leaned forward eagerly as Ray glanced around the room, clearly looking for someone or some thing. Ray smiled wide as he caught sight of Fraser. "Stella," Ray breathed.

Fraser's forming smile died on his face. "Ray?"

"I'm right here, Stell," Ray answered, sounding happy and content. "Oh, baby, I missed you so much." And without any warning, Ray reached out, cupped the back of Fraser's neck, and pulled him into a kiss.

For a long moment, Fraser just sat there, stupefied. Before he regained full use of his facilities, Ray leaned back. "Oh, Stella, I--" Suddenly his eyes widened and he threw himself back in the bed. "No! NO!"

Fraser lurched out his chair, then froze, unsure of what he should do. Ray stared at him in horror for another second before closing his eyes and curling up into a fetal position on the bed, anguished sobs wracking the too-thin body. Unable to think of any way to help, Fraser just sat there and watched Ray cry himself to sleep.

When silence reigned once more, Fraser sat back in his seat and thought about what had just happened. Ray had kissed him. Ray had kissed him.

Of course, Ray had thought Fraser was his dead ex-wife.

Fraser sighed and delicately traced his lips with his fingers. They still tingled from the kiss.

ooo

Ray woke up feeling like shit. Not only were his joints aching and his head pounding, but he felt as tired as he'd been when he'd passed out in Fraser's office. Ray blamed that last bit on the nightmares; he'd had some pretty fucked-up dreams in his life, but last night took the cake. He wasn't sure which one freaked him out more: the one where he was kissing St... her and she suddenly turned into Fraser, or the one where Ray was watching her face as the skin blackened and flaked away, leaving a burning, grinning skull. He wasn't entirely sure where that last one came from, since they hadn't let him see her after the explosion. Hell, what he heard was there hadn't been enough left to identify her even through dental records; they'd had to use DNA from a hairbrush she'd left at Orsini's house.

That thought made the nausea rise up again and Ray gritted his teeth against the rising bile. Once he'd gotten his gag reflex under control, he frowned. He remembered waking up several times to throw up and Fraser had always been right there waiting with the bucket.

Confused -- but not worried, dammit, he wasn't worried about the Mountie -- Ray looked around the bare room and found Fraser sitting in the shitty armchair, head down, eyes closed, and snoring lightly. Ray scowled. Grown men shouldn't be that cute.

Not much he could do about that cuteness now, though, and right now he had more important things to worry about. Like finding a bathroom, because his bladder was about to burst.

He managed to get one foot out of bed and was just starting to debate his ability to actually stand up when Fraser's voice snapped out, "What do you think you're doing?"

Ray was so startled he fell right back down onto the crappy mattress. "What the fuck, Fraser! Are you trying to scare me to death?"

"Of course not, Ray," Fraser answered, sounding irritatingly calm. He rounded the mattress into Ray's line of sight. "I was simply worried that you might injure yourself by trying to move too quickly. You've been in and out of consciousness for four days."

Ray gaped at him. "Four days?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Jesus Christ, what kinda scary-mutant flu did I get?"

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. Ray hated it when he did that. "Actually, I don't believe you had a case of influenza, Ray. Rather you...that is...well..." Fraser took a deep breath and abruptly stood ram-rod straight, like someone had just shoved a poker up his ass. "Ray, based on your symptoms and history, I believe you were suffering from alcohol withdrawal."

Oh. Okay, that made more sense than a fast-acting, alien-mutant flu virus. Didn't explain why Fraser was being such a freak about it, though. "You okay, Fraser?" Ray asked doubtfully.

"Fine, Ray," Fraser answered relaxing just a little. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit."

"Ah. Well, I'm afraid that is to be expected. The worst is past, however, and now we can focus on increasing your body weight."

Ray groaned. "You've been talking to my mum, haven't you?"

"No, Ray." The best (worst?) part of it was, Fraser sounded totally serious.

"I was kidding," Ray growled. "Never mind. Listen, I gotta go to the john, so if you could just--" Ray finished the sentence by gesturing for Fraser to back off.

"I doubt you'll be able to make it to the facilities on your own," Fraser said. "However, I do have something you can use." He held up a plastic urinal just like the one Ray had had to use the last time he got shot.

"I don't think so," Ray said flatly.

"Ray--"

"No!" Ray crossed his arms. "You know you aren't going to win this one."

Fraser looked like he wanted to protest, but apparently even the Mountie could be taught. "All right, Ray. If you would feel more comfortable using the WC, then you should do so. But only if you accept my assistance."

Ray wanted to say no, he really did, but he really, really didn't want to fall flat on his face in front of Fraser. "Fine," he muttered. "Help me up."

The entire process was less awkward than it could have been, primarily because Fraser did his part entirely without embarrassment, as if he helped fucked-up alcoholics to the john every day. Then again, maybe he did. Ray couldn't imagine there being much else to do in Butt-Fuck, Canada besides getting shit-faced.

When they got back to the apartment, Fraser led Ray to the table instead of the bed. "I think you'll be able to keep solid food down now," Fraser said. "We'll start with easily digestible items."

Which proved to be applesauce, plain rice, a banana, dry toast, and a bottle of Gatorade. Ray eyed the meal with distaste. "I don't suppose you have any more pancakes left."

"Next time," Fraser promised.

Ray sighed and began to eat. He managed to finish the banana and applesauce, but only about half of the toast and barely touched the rice. He wasn't a big fan of the Gatorade, but considering the other option seemed to be the nasty sugar water shit that Fraser had been shoving down him earlier, Ray just made a face and emptied the bottle.

The entire time Ray was eating, Fraser sat in the opposite chair and watched, and when Ray pushed his chair away from the table, Fraser began to silently clear the dishes. "You always this quiet?" Ray asked.

Fraser looked startled. "No, not usually." He dumped the leftovers in Diefenbaker's bowl. Diefenbaker eyed the mess with distaste before settling down next to Ray's chair with a hopeful look.

Ray snorted. "Sorry, buddy, I ain't got any sugar on me."

Dief whuffed mournfully and rested his head on the floor.

"So what's with the mime routine?" Ray asked when it became apparent that Fraser wasn't planning on explaining any time soon.

"No reason," Fraser said stiffly.

Ray considered that, discarded it as bullshit, and thought about what Fraser must have been up to lately. "When was the last time you got any sleep?"

"I was asleep when you regained consciousness," Fraser said, sounding even more stiff. And, when Ray looked a little closer, he saw that Fraser was blushing, too.

Holy fuck, he was embarrassed. Embarrassed. For taking a nap after undoubtedly staying awake for four days. The man was a freak. And possibly deranged.

"Fraser, you need to get some sleep."

"I'm fine, Ray."

Liar, liar, pants on fire, Ray thought. Out loud, he said, "Come on, Fraser. If you don't sleep you'll get sick, too." He thought for a second, then added, "And then who would take care of me?"

"That's true, Ray. Perhaps I should get some rest."

Ray grinned at the way Fraser folded like a house of cards under emotional manipulation. The Mountie wouldn't last a minute in a marriage.

Though, come to think of it, sleep was starting to sound pretty damn good. Apparently Ray's body wasn't quite up to digesting baby food and staying awake at the same time. "Good idea," he said to Fraser. "I think I'll join you."

Fraser flushed. Again. Ray'd never met anyone who blushed as often as this guy. "Right," Fraser said. He cleared his throat. "I'll just..." And he fled to the other room.

Ray rolled his eyes and followed, feeling like an eighty-year-old man who had just run a marathon. God, what he wouldn't do for a drink right about now. Best painkiller in the world.

Of course, the Mountie didn't drink, and it wasn't like Ray was up to going to the nearest liquor store, even if he could bribe Diefenbaker to let him escape. Ray sighed. He couldn't honestly say that life on streets was better than this, but he definitely missed his independence.

In the bedroom, Ray found Fraser laying out the nice sleeping bag. Ray sighed again. "Come on, Fraser. Do we really have to have this argument all over again?"

Fraser did a little thing with his tongue and his lower lip that Ray hadn't seen before and which did dangerous things to Ray's libido. Maybe now wasn't the best time to be discussing sleeping arrangements, not while Ray was wearing nothing but a pair of Fraser's boxers (no longer starched or ironed after four days of tossing and turning). "Never mind," Ray said quickly. "We'll fight about it tomorrow."

Which was the right thing to say, for once, because Fraser's entire body slumped in relaxation. "Thank you, Ray."

"Yeah, yeah," Ray said, burrowing his way back into the rumpled sheets. At least Fraser hadn't tried to make the bed again. "Just get some sleep, Fraser."

"You too, Ray," Fraser said, making sheet-rustling noises as well. "Good night."

"'Night," Ray answered. He almost added, 'sleep tight and don't let the bed bugs bite', but fortunately for all he fell asleep before he had the chance.

ooo

This time when he woke up, Ray only felt half-dead, rather than all-the-way-dead, and he was able to climb to his feet and limp to the bathroom on his own. Fraser was still out like a light when Ray came back, which had to be some sorta miracle, but Ray wasn't about to complain. There were a few things he had to do, and it would be easier to do them without a fire-hydrant red shadow.

First step was the bank, where Ray took out half of his remaining funds for the month. After a moment's consideration, he took out another half of the remainder, which only left a hundred bucks or so to see him through till the next check came. It was a risk -- he would be thoroughly screwed if Fraser suddenly decided to kick him out, not that that would probably happen -- but Ray Kowalski paid his debts, even if they had been incurred while he was unconscious. Besides, he might, might be able to survive a couple of weeks without booze, but there was no way in hell he was living without chocolate, and now that he had a permanent address (even if it wasn't very permanent) there were a few things he could do that he hadn't been able to do while living on the streets. That might, if he played his cards right, keep him from having to go back to the streets. After all, as crappy as Fraser's apartment was, it was light years better than sleeping behind a dumpster and, well, hell. Ray probably didn't have a chance with the Mountie, no matter what, but he didn't even have a chance at trying if he was still living on the streets

From the bank, Ray went to the DMV, and spent a buck to get a copy of his driver's license. Fortunately it was still current, or it would've cost more and required a butt-load of paperwork.

After the DMV, Ray hopped on the El and went to the nearest big store, where he bought a packet of underwear, two shirts, a pair of jeans, a bag of socks, a monster-sized bag of M&M's, and a bag of mini-donuts for Dief. He spent twenty minutes browsing the shelves for something for Fraser, and finally settled on a large, plush bath sheet. Not exciting or anything, but Ray was pretty sure the threadbare bit of cloth he'd been using was Fraser's only towel and the man needed a spare. Besides, a tiny bit of Ray's mind got a kick out of sneaking a luxury in under Fraser's radar.

Ray emerged from the store with a handful of bags and considerably lighter pockets, and realized that he hadn't planned out this trip so good. He shrugged and headed back towards the El. Might as well see if Fraser was up and, anyway, Ray was feeling kind of tired. He'd planned on checking out the job center, but maybe he could take a nap first.

He was a block away from the apartment when he first smelled smoke, and a fire engine zoomed past a moment later. Frowning, Ray picked up the pace a little, smothering a wince as his joints loudly protested; he forgot the pain entirely when he turned the corner to see Fraser's apartment building going up in flames.

Heedless of the bags he still carried, Ray sprinted toward the inferno, screaming, "Fraser! Fraser!" at the top of his lungs. Christ, what had he done, the man had only known him a week and he was already Mountie toast, and how was Ray supposed to live with that, knowing that the man who had survived murderers, drug dealers, arsonists, the fucking tundra, and jumping off of a variety of multi-story buildings was dead now?

Ray had just cleared the ineffective police barrier when two arms, strong as steel, wrapped around his waist and a solid body did its best to knock his knees out from under him. Ray swung out wildly, hitting his captor with the plastic bags he was still holding, his hands fisted so tight that he'd lost all feeling in his fingers.

He was still swinging in a terrified fury when a voice cut through the haze, beating against his eardrums like a fucking metronome. "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray…"

Ray froze as he recognized the voice and he twisted around to stare at familiar blue eyes. "Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray," Fraser answered, sounding distinctly relieved.

Ray tried to drop the bags, realized his hands weren't responding, said "fuck it", and wrapped his arms around the Mountie, bags and all. "Jesus, Fraser," Ray said shakily. "I thought you were dead."

"I must confess to similar fears," Fraser answered in a husky voice and Ray was abruptly aware that Fraser was holding on just as tightly as Ray was. Ray cleared his throat and stepped back. Fraser let him go.

A half-second later, Diefenbaker jumped up and knocked Ray to the ground. Ray figured the wolf was probably mad that the knee-blow hadn't taken him down earlier. He finally managed to unkink his fingers enough to drop the bags and used his aching hands to fend the wolf off, but he didn't have much luck until Fraser jumped into the fray, and even then Dief had to be bodily dragged off. "I'm terribly sorry," Ray," Fraser said, still holding Dief. "He was really very worried."

Ray let out a sound that was supposed to be a laugh, but ended up disturbingly close to a sob. "It's okay, Fraser. Kinda nice to know someone cares."

"Ray," Fraser said, sounding appalled. "I hope you don't think--"

Ray waved at him to shut up. "Give me a hand up, will ya?"

Once they were both on their feet and Diefenbaker had been dragged away from the donuts he'd dug out of the plastic bags, they stood side by side, watching Fraser's home burn.

"Shit," Ray breathed as the roof collapsed. "Everything you had was in that apartment."

"Nonsense, Ray. Everything important has survived."

And maybe other people bought that shit, but Ray wasn't blind. He could see the loss and the pain written all over Fraser's face. "Bullshit. What did you lose?"

Fraser looked annoyed. "I assure you--"

Ray talked right over him. "Cause you can't tell me there's nothing you aren't gonna to miss in there."

Fraser looked confused. "Ah--"

"It's not just stuff!" Ray exploded. "Believe me, I've been there, and it's never just stuff." Ray turned away from Fraser's wide-eyed face and took a deep breath. "There were photo albums," he admitted softly. "I never cared about them before so I didn't think to go back for them, but now I wish..." He bit his lip and stared at his crappy shoes like they had the meaning of the universe written on them.

"My father's journals," Fraser said abruptly. Ray looked up, surprised. "Everything else can be replaced," Fraser added, trying to cover his obvious pain and doing a piss-poor job of it. "But my father's journals are lost forever."

Ray swallowed hard, but he couldn't get rid of the damn lump in his throat. "Sorry, Fraser."

"It's not your fault, Ray," Fraser answered.

Any protest Ray might have made died on his lips when Fraser suddenly jerked his head in the direction of the nearest squad car. A second later, the Mountie was running.

It took Ray a second to gather his things and follow, swearing under his breath the entire way.

Around the corner from the burning building, just on the other side from the fire trucks and police cars, sat a '71 green Riv. The color was hideous, but the car was in mint condition, and Ray had half a second to admire it before Fraser asked in a strained voice, "Ray, do you have a valid driver's license?"

"Yeah," Ray answered. "I just picked up--"

"You drive," Fraser cut in.

Holy shit. The Mountie had just interrupted him. Ray didn't know what was going on, but clearly it was really fucking serious. "Sure," he said, tossing the bags in the back and taking the keys from Fraser. As he slammed the door shut, he reached over into the back seat and grabbed the wolf by the chin. "No looking in the bags," he said firmly. Diefenbaker grumbled, but settled down in the seat.

Fraser pulled the door shut on the other side and Ray started the engine. "Where to?" he asked as Fraser buckled up like the good Mountie he was.

"2926 North Octavia Avenue," Fraser said, his voice still tight with straight. "And Ray? Please hurry."

Ray didn't have to be told twice and the car tires made a very satisfying squeal as he pulled out onto the street. God, it was even more beautiful to drive than he'd imagined and for a moment Ray just enjoyed the feel of having a few hundred horsepower at his fingertips.

Hell, he was starting to get hard. Considering the car, he figured he was allowed.

Fraser didn't share Ray's appreciation; he just held on to the door handle and stared straight ahead, his face so white Ray was afraid the guy was gonna pass out. "Everything okay?" he asked, just to break the tension.

"No," Fraser answered, and he didn't even blink when Ray blew through a red light.

Well, shit, Ray thought, and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

They were three blocks away when they saw the smoke and Ray started swearing under his breath. "That's Vecchio's house, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Fraser looked startled that Ray had figured that out, which was annoying.

"I was a cop, you know," Ray said sharply. "A detective."

"I know," Fraser answered and then they were at the house. "Stay here," he added as he pulled off his hat and shoved open the door.

Ray's whole body was aching and he was about ready to drop with exhaustion, but there was no way he was staying in the car just because some Mountie with an over-developed hero complex told him to, so he jumped out and followed Fraser to the house. A growl stopped him at the door, however, and he glared at Diefenbaker for a second before giving into the inevitable. "Probably no one home anyway," he muttered and started back to the car.

Of course, a minute later Fraser was shoving people out of windows, the freak. Ray tried to help them down and found himself buried under a pile of stunningly beautiful Italian sex-kitten wearing nothing more than a silk robe. His libido, which was already on a hair trigger thanks to being around Fraser all the time, kicked up a notch.

Then a fat guy in desperate need of a bath fell on top of both of them and Ray's libido decided to give it a rest.

By the time everyone was untangled, Fraser was standing at the front of the house with a large aquarium full of goldfish and sirens were blaring as fire trucks pulled up to the curb. The fire trucks were soon followed by EMTs and more cops than Ray was comfortable being around, so he retreated to the safety of Fraser's car to do a little thinking. Diefenbaker, in disgrace thanks to a snack of fresh fish, followed with a hanging head and settled into the back seat without protest. As soon as he was out of Fraser's line of sight, however, his head came up and he licked his lips smugly.

Ray just shook his head and dug his M&M's out of the back seat. Not as good as a bottle of Jack, but it'd have to do for now.

Now, where to start?

How about the fact that, now that everyone in town knew that Ray used to be a cop, he wasn't safe on the streets? Ray winced and pulverized a handful of candies between his teeth, trying to get some satisfaction out of the crunching sound of the candy shell breaking. He sighed. Definitely not as good as whisky.

Okay, so the streets were out. Shitty, but Ray wasn't going to waste a lot of time crying over not being homeless. The question was, what did he do next?

He had an ID now; he could leave Chicago. Of course, he only had enough money to make it to Iowa, and then he'd be right back where he started, only in Iowa. It would be pretty fucking stupid to leave Chicago just to be homeless somewhere else. Plus, you know, Iowa.

So, Chicago. But not on the streets. With maybe a couple of hundred bucks to his name and no friends to speak of. Well, unless you counted the Mountie.

Shit.

All right then, consider the Mountie. A day ago, Fraser lived in a dump in one of the worst sections of Chicago. Now (seeing as the car actually belonged to Vecchio) Fraser had even less than Ray did. Fucking moronic, that. No. What's the word? Ironic.

So the question here was, was Fraser living in the dump because it was a couple of blocks from the old Consulate, because it was all he could afford, or because he was a freak? Even taking that last one as a given, Ray thought it might have something to do with Fraser's funds. He was a Canadian working for Canada and technically working on Canadian soil. Ray was willing to bet he got paid in Canadian, and while Ray didn't know a lot about exchange rates, he knew when he and...when he went up north for his honeymoon that he got a lot more Canadian dollars than he'd forked over in American dollars. Which meant that Fraser had a lot less dollars in America than he would've in Canada.

Then there was the fact that the whole Racine area was currently being gentrified (the homeless were always the first to know which parts of town were being shined up, since the first step in cleaning up an area was to get rid of the transients). Fraser's apartment building was the last hold-out; Ray'd heard that some freak had talked at the city council for hours until they agreed to leave the building as is. Which, come to think about it, had probably been Fraser.

Anyway, what it all came down to was the fact that Fraser probably couldn't afford a place to stay in Chicago, at least not within walking distance of the new Consulate. Ray, of course, definitely couldn't afford a place to stay in Chicago. Hell, he probably couldn't afford to stay at the Y.

But if he and Fraser combined their income...

Ray scowled at the windshield and savagely crunched up another handful of candy. There had to be another option.

Except he still hadn't come up with one when Fraser came back to the car half an hour later.

"I'm sorry I was so long," Fraser said, sliding into the driver's seat. Ray handed over the keys silently. "I was hoping that an officer of my acquaintance would arrive on the scene, but it appears that the case has been assigned to a detective that I have not met before."

Ray raised his eyebrows. "What, the good old Mountie charm didn't work on him?"

Fraser frowned. "I don't know what you're referring to."

"Riiight." Ray rubbed his face, thought about bringing up what he'd been thinking about while sitting in the car, and ended up pushing it off again. "Look, whoever this asshole is, he's targeting you and Vecchio. Did you work on any arson cases together?"

Fraser looked thoughtful. "As a matter of fact, there was a painter with the rather improbable name of Zoltan Motherwell."

Which was how they ended up at the Evanston Institution for the Criminally Insane questioning a fat guy with bad facial hair. Fraser tried his polite thing, which didn't do a damn bit of good, before Ray took over. Ray tried to woo the guy with fire, and when that didn't work, he settled for good old intimidation. What was amazing, however, was the way Fraser played along, like they had practiced this thing for months, instead of playing it right off the cuff. Pity Ray wasn't still on the force. They'd have made one hell of a team.

A quick trip to Greta Garbo's apartment, where Ray got to show off some of the B&E skills he'd learned over the last couple of years, and then they were back to the consulate, where Fraser tackled a Swedish interior designer that Fraser's evil boss obviously had designs on, despite the fact that the designer was obviously gay. Oh, and Ray finally got to talk to Turnbull, which was kinda like being drunk, only less fun.

Then there was the car chase and the bomb in the car, and the Riv ended up at the bottom of Lake Michigan, along with everything Ray owned in the world. Maybe that's why Ray did something so incredibly fucking stupid as to step in front of a bullet that was headed for the Mountie.

Jesus, Ray thought as he slipped into the black. What a shitty, shitty day.

ooo

Frantic with worry, Fraser barely had the presence of mind to bind Garbo's hands together with his lanyard and confiscate her weapon before falling to his knees next to Ray.

"Ray?" he called loudly, his fingers already ripping Ray's threadbare shirt apart to assess his condition. The wound was higher than Fraser had feared, closer to the shoulder than the chest, and thankfully there was no sign of blood on Ray's lips, which meant the lungs were intact. Still, Ray was unconscious and bleeding heavily and his body had been under tremendous strain for a very long time. He needed be taken to a hospital immediately.

For one foolish instant, Fraser considered driving Ray himself, in Garbo's van. Fortunately sanity reasserted itself and after a quick search of the van he discovered a cell phone in the glove compartment. He ran back as he dialed, and as he reported the incident he pushed down on Ray's shoulder, doing his best to slow the bleeding as the location of the wound made a tourniquet an impossibility.

Though Fraser would have sworn that all of his attention was directed to Ray, his subconscious must have been focused on Garbo, because the phone was on the ground and the gun in his hand before he was even aware that she was trying to escape. "No," he said simply.

Her lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. "You don't use a gun, Mountie."

"Admittedly, I do not possess a permit to carry a weapon in this country," Fraser answered. "But make no mistake: I will shoot you before they arrest me."

That seemed to strike a chord with Ms. Garbo. She spewed forth a river of invectives as she knelt back down to the ground, but she did kneel, and at Fraser's curt command she stretched out flat on her stomach.

Thankfully they could already hear the sounds of approaching sirens. Fraser turned his attention back to Ray to see two blue eyes staring back at him blearily. "Ray!"

"Crazy Mountie," Ray murmured. He licked his chapped lips before adding, "Wanna be roomies?"

Fraser blinked. "Pardon me?"

But it was too late; Ray had already slipped back into unconsciousness.

ooo

Lieutenant Welsh caught up with Fraser in the hospital. Ray was still in surgery and Fraser was expending vast amounts of energy in forcing himself not to pace the halls. "Sir, I'm so glad you're here," Fraser said gratefully.

"Frankly, Constable, I'd rather be anywhere else," Welsh answered. "How's he doing?"

"Still in surgery. I understand, however, that his chances are high."

"Good, that's good." Welsh sat down. After a moment, Fraser followed suit. "I talked to the financial department," Welsh added. "They understand that Kowalski won't be able to pay for his treatment." Fraser bit his lip and nodded. "They also understand that the man is a hero," Welsh added pointedly. "They'll take good care of him."

Fraser sighed as some of the tension unraveled in his shoulders. "Thank you, sir. I admit that I had been feeling some trepidation."

"Well stop it. Kowalski will be fine." He cleared his throat. "What about you, Constable? Have you figured out what to do next?"

"Ah, no, sir. To be honest, I haven't thought of much of anything beyond Ray's current health."

"That doesn't surprise me," Welsh said. "I take it you'll be staying here tonight."

"Yes, sir."

Welsh nodded again and was silent for a minute, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "Fraser, I got a question to ask you, a personal one."

"You can ask anything of me," Fraser said. "I hope you know that."

"I do, I do." Welsh stared at him for another minute before asking abruptly, "Have you considered sharing an apartment with Kowalski?"

Fraser stared back. He would swear that that wasn't what the Lieutenant had intended to ask. "Ah, it's a possibility, yes. I would, of course, need to consult Ray first." He carefully did not mention Ray's words on the pier. Ray had been out of his mind in pain at the time, and even if he had been rational a discussion had been impossible under the circumstances. Fraser would not commit Ray to anything as permanent as a lease without obtaining Ray's blessing first.

"Fine, that's fine," Welsh said, before changing the subject. "How long's it been since you've eaten?"

Fraser floundered for a second, before admitting, "I don't remember, sir."

"Then it's been too long. I'll get us something to eat from the cafeteria. You stay here and wait for word about Kowalski."

Fraser didn't think he'd be able to eat, but he couldn't argue with Welsh's logic, so he simply nodded his acquiescence.

The Lieutenant had yet to return when a tall, slender man in hospital scrubs pushed his way into the waiting room. Fraser immediately stood up, clutching his hat in his hands. "Benton Fraser?" the man called.

Fraser hurried over. "Yes?"

The doctor eyed Fraser's uniform, but simply asked, "You're the one who brought in Ray Kowalski?"

"Yes, sir. How is he?"

"Out of the woods," the doctor answered. Fraser let out a sigh of relief. "We were able to remove the bullet and repair the damage without complications."

"Thank you," Fraser said, his shoulders slumping as the tension slowly leaked away. "When may I see him?"

"He's currently resting in recovery. The nurse'll let you know when you can see him."

"Thank you," Fraser repeated fervently. "Thank you so much."

With a bemused shake of his head, the doctor left. A few minutes later Welsh came in bearing a tray of sandwiches and Fraser suddenly realized that he was starving. He brought Welsh up to date on Ray's condition while working his way through the sandwiches with unseemly haste.

It was just over an hour before the nurse let them in to see Ray, and by the time Fraser entered the room his exhaustion was weighing on him as heavy as a lead blanket. It was to be expected, of course, since he'd had perhaps ten hours of sleep total in the last five days and he'd spend most of the previous twenty hours running on adrenaline, but he was still embarrassed at his weakness. It was a relief when Welsh offered the unconscious Ray his well wishes and left the room.

Alone with Ray, Fraser allowed himself to collapse into the chair next to the bed. Reaching out to touch Ray's forearm with the very tips of his fingers, Fraser dropped his head to rest against the mattress for a few moments. He was instantly asleep.

ooo

Ray woke up feeling groggy and kinda queasy, but still way the fuck better than that first day after withdrawal. Shit. Maybe it was time to kick the booze.

Even more surprising than waking up in a hospital with all body parts attached was finding a head full of shiny dark hair pressed against Ray's arm. The head was attached to a bright red uniform, which meant it was Fraser. Like anyone else had hair that shiny. Still, it was kinda weird to see Fraser zonked out like that. Apparently even the Mountie had limits.

That was okay. The guy needed sleep. Ray could just wait until he woke up to find out exactly what happened.

Though it'd be easier if there was a TV.

Or someone to talk to.

Or some music.

Damn, that hair was shiny. Looked kind of soft, too...

When Fraser did wake up, it was instantaneous. One minute conked out on the bed, the next sitting bolt upright, looking around the room in confusion. Unfortunately, Ray hadn't had time to remove his hand from Fraser's hair before Fraser sat up, which led to some yelling and pulled muscles and what looked like every nurse in the goddamn hospital. Then there were lectures on 'this is why we don't allow guests overnight' and 'if you're not careful you'll pop some stitches' and by this point a simple hangover was looking pretty damn good.

Finally, Fraser managed to get the room clear, which made him Ray's hero, despite the fact that that shiny, shiny hair was still looking perfect. "Thanks," Ray croaked. "They were making my head hurt."

"Of course, Ray." He sat back down next to the bed. "How're you feeling?"

"Like shit. You?"

"I'm fine," Fraser answered. "You're the one who was shot."

Ray groaned. "I was hoping that was a nightmare."

Fraser smiled, looking sad. "I'm afraid not."

"We get the bad guy?"

The smile grew more certain. "Yes, we did."

"Good," Ray said, his eyes starting to droop, despite the fact that he'd been awake for all of a minute. He forced them back open. "What about you? Where are you going to live now?"

"Well, actually, Ray," Fraser started, and Ray could tell he was gearing up for a lecture.

"Short version, Benton-buddy, before I pass out again."

"Ah, well, right." Fraser cleared his throat. "Would you--could you possibly consider--I mean--"

"Fraser!"

"--wouldyouliketoberoommates?" Fraser said, all in a rush, and now it looked like he was holding his breath.

Ray let out a relieved sigh. "Yeah, sure, Fraser. That sounds great."

And now that all the important things were taken care of, Ray let himself go back to sleep.

ooo

Fraser stared down at Ray's too-thin body, smiling fondly. He hadn't had the opportunity to watch many movies in his life, but he remembered Casablanca very well, and he couldn't help but think how perfectly that movie ended.

Reaching out, Fraser let his fingers run over the back of Ray's hand.

Beautiful friendship, indeed.