Rating: PG
Baseball Ain't All It's Cracked Up To Be
Sasscat
"Don't be like that."
Fraser spared a glance at his friend in the back seat via the rearview mirror. "Don't be like what, Ray?"
"All moody. It's none of your business, anyway."
Fraser shared a bewildered look with Welsh. "What's none of my business?"
"There you go, there, you see? You just can't let it go."
"Forget it, Constable," Welsh advised. "There's no talking to him when he's like this."
Fraser was inclined to agree. Ray had been making very little sense since they'd left Willison this morning. Leftenant Welsh had wanted to depart last night, but Ray had disappeared - presumably to celebrate his game-winning home run with the rest of the local baseball team.
"Right, forget it," Ray echoed. "Because it's none of your business. We're consenting adults, and it's not like you *know* her--"
Fraser, Welsh and Diefenbaker all paused to stare at him.
"You want to elaborate on that, Detective?" Welsh asked.
"No," Ray said indignantly. "Like I said, it's none of Fraser's business. Why should I feel guilty? I don't. I don't feel guilty. I got nothing to be guilty *about*."
"Well, of course not," Fraser said. *What* was Ray talking about?
There was a pause, then Ray burst forth, "All right, I slept with her! Beat it out of me, why doncha."
Fraser longed to spare another glance towards the back seat, but there was far too much traffic on the road this close to Chicago. "Slept with who?"
"Quit playing games, Fraser; you know who. Toni Lake."
Fraser was even more bewildered than before. Who was Toni Lake and why should sleeping with her make Ray feel guilty?
"Is there something going on here that I don't know about?" Welsh asked, addressing no one in particular.
Ray sighed. "She's a reporter. She came to do a followup story about me winning the game, and... She, uh, looks kinda like Thatcher." He paused. "Well, exactly like Thatcher."
"Thatcher?" Welsh repeated incredulously. "You slept with *Thatcher*?"
"*No*, I did not sleep with Thatcher!" Ray shifted uncomfortably. "Just the good twin."
Fraser didn't know what to think. Ray... Inspector Thatcher... Well, *not* Inspector Thatcher, but clearly close enough in Ray's mind to cause him a certain amount of discomfort. Which only begged the question of what was going through his mind when they... Oh dear, that was not something Fraser ought to be thinking about. Ray was right, it was none of his business. Even if the images conjured up in Fraser's mind were... He cleared his throat and studied the road intently.
"I knew it," Ray said miserably. "I *knew* it was a bad idea! You hate me. You hate me and you wanna know what the hell I was thinking. Well, say what you gotta say. I can take it." He sniffed, apparently bracing himself for an onslaught.
"I don't hate you, Ray--"
"Then why won't you look at me?"
"Because I'm driving," Fraser said patiently.
"Oh."
"As I was saying, Ray, I don't hate you. Far from it, in fact. Of course, Inspector Thatcher is another matter." He didn't want to think about how she might react.
"Thatcher?" Ray looked alarmed. "You're not gonna tell her, are you?"
"Oh, no." Fraser waited for Ray to relax, then said, "You are."
"What? No. No way, Fraser, no way in hell. Tell me you're kidding me here; you are kidding me here, right? Fraser?"
Fraser carefully suppressed a smile at the desperation in his partner's voice. "You'll feel better."
"I won't feel better, because I'll be dead."
"Oh, well, if you want to prevent a homicide... I wasn't aware that Inspector Thatcher took that great an interest in your personal life," Fraser said innocently.
Ray struggled to argue against that. "Well-- No, but-- But when she's *in* it--"
"I thought it was the good twin, Detective," Welsh said, smiling a little sadistically.
"I'm never going to live this down, am I?"
Fraser and Welsh shook their heads in unison. Diefenbaker panted, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth in a wolfish laugh. Ray groaned softly. "But she was so *hot*," he wailed, more to himself than his tormentors.
"I can imagine," Fraser commented before he could stop himself. He really ought to be doing his best *not* to imagine. Bad enough he spent so much time thinking about the few stolen moments he'd had with the Inspector, and the places those stolen moments could have led. Adding Ray into those images seemed too much like taking advantage of his friend. Even if he and the Inspector made such a dazzling aesthetic contrast, and-- enough.
"She's got good legs," Welsh mused, and Fraser shot him an incredulous look before remembering to keep his eyes on the road.
Welsh looked at him and back at Ray, who was evidently giving him a similar look. "Well, she does," he said defensively.
There was a soft, melodramatic sigh from the back seat. "That's a fact," Ray said dreamily. "I wonder if she has much business in Chicago..."
"I take it we're not talking about Inspector Thatcher anymore," Fraser said dryly.
Ray groaned again.
** **** **
Fraser was seated at the front desk of the Consulate, doing paperwork and carefully not listening to the argument raging in the Inspector's office. It would be impolite to eavesdrop; this was a matter between Ray and Inspector Thatcher, certainly no business of his own, and in any case the sheer volume of their voices made it difficult to distinguish individual words.
Not that he was trying. Of course not. He was diligently sharpening pencils and measuring them against each other.
The Inspector's door flew open with a bang. Fraser sighed, bending down to retrieve a handful of dropped pencils.
"How could you not *know*?" Inspector Thatcher demanded, following Ray out.
He whirled to face her. "Well, maybe if someone had *told* me--"
"I'd have thought it was obvious! If I'd realised all Americans were such morons I'd never--"
Fraser straightened up just in time to see Ray's hand flying to strike the Inspector. The pencils scattered over the floor again as Fraser sprang forward, but Inspector Thatcher simply grabbed Ray's wrist and pulled, twisting it around and up behind his back.
"Owowowowow!" Ray strugged futilely. "Fraser, tell your psychotic bitch of a boss to let me go!"
Fraser stared at them, wondering how a simple mission to brief the Inspector on the actions of her Wisconsin counterpart could have gone so wrong. "What--?"
"*She* was--" Ray yelped as Inspector Thatcher jerked on the arm behind his back. "Nothing, now let me go!"
"Are you planning to try to hit me again?"
"Noo," he whimpered. "I was just mad, I swear." He was virtually begging, and seemed to realise it because he suddenly put on a weak smile. "You know, this is no way to treat the guy who-- Ow! I get it!"
She finally released him and he backed rapidly away, rubbing his arm. "You're a bitch."
"You're a moron," she retorted. "I think it's time for you to leave."
"Wait." Ray looked at her with something akin to trepidation. "Where do we... go from here?"
"Go?" the Inspector repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, you know, like for coffee or--" His grin wilted under the strength of her glare. "You know what I mean."
"I do," she acknowledged, "and we're not going anywhere. As far as I'm concerned the entire thing never happened."
Ray pressed his lips together. "Fine," he snapped, and stalked out of the Consulate.
Inspector Thatcher gave Fraser a slightly guilty glance. "Your friend's an idiot," she commented, and headed back into her office.
Fraser blinked. That had been a thoroughly odd conversation. If he didn't know better he'd have thought--
//She looks kinda like Thatcher. Well, exactly like Thatcher.//
//How could you not *know*?//
//This is no way to treat the guy who--//
Fraser shook himself hard, banishing those thoughts from his head. It was a *ridiculous* idea. Mind-boggingly so. She would never... Ray would realise... They didn't even *like* each other! They hadn't...
Oh dear Lord.
** **** **
_The End_
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