Shrapnel
by Sasscat Bu-to-y
Ray crept into the attic on hands and knees, resisting the urge to cough as dust swirled around him. The bag slung around his neck dragged on the floor. He fumbled with the flashlight he'd tied to the top of it, and finally disentangled them from each other. He shone the flashlight around the low space and whispered, "Thatcher?"
There was no reply, and he felt his heart rate shoot up. They couldn't have found her, not in here. Even the landlady never came up here; it was too small, too dusty, too full of junk to even be used as storage. "Thatcher?" he hissed urgently. "Where are you? Meg!"
Still no answer, but as his flashlight swept the attic he realised he couldn't see her hiker pad. He crawled to a row of junk - crumbly suitcases and yellow, silverfish-chewed newspapers - and peered behind it.
There she was, small and asleep. Air breathed out of him in relief; they hadn't taken her away from him. He kept the flashlight away from her face, unwilling to disturb her, and didn't quite work up the guts to brush his fingers over her cheek. Dusty sacrilege. Careful not to wake her, he opened the bag he'd brought and rummaged inside it. Soup thermos. More batteries for her flashlight. This morning's paper. Tupperware meat and vegetables. He put them all on the floor beside her.
"Good night," he whispered, like she could hear him. "I'll come back tomorrow." He quietly switched off his flashlight, slung his bag back around his neck, and crawled out the way he'd come.
That was in the first month.
--
Even further back - years, decades, centuries ago - she'd been the Ice Queen. He'd seen her only at official functions, or on that wooden boat with crazy Sergeant Whatshername, or the most common of all, the Consulate.
Behind closed doors, voices low and intense. Ray'd knocked and the voices had instantly frozen; Fraser had come to open the door and looked slightly surprised. "Ray! Ah... the Inspector and I were just..."
"Discussing Consulate business," Thatcher had said shortly. Then she'd just stood there and looked at him, waiting, an invisible wall in the doorway between him and her-and-Fraser.
"Right," Ray'd said, knowing that he'd missed something important. "I just... I came by to see if Fraser wanted to get something to eat with me." He'd looked at Fraser hopefully.
"I don't think that would be wise," Fraser had said, from his side of the doorway. "Perhaps another night."
"We have a lot to discuss," Thatcher'd said softly.
"Oh. Okay." Ray had shrugged a little, unsettledly, and backed away.
Later he found out that Thatcher had jittered anxiously 'til Fraser had closed the door, that she'd asked, "Can we trust him? He might be a plant," and Fraser had shook his head firmly.
"He's my partner, and my friend. I trust him implicitly."
"But the circumstances of his arrival..."
It was a little farfetched, the whole Vecchio/mob thing. He could see how she might worry. At least, he could later. Hindsight was 20/20.
--
Here-and-now, he turns his music on - CD; radio sucks at the moment - and dances while Diefenbaker hides in the bedroom. Instead of thinking about Stella he worries about Thatcher, hidden in his attic. If someone finds her, finds out he's keeping her there... like the pet puppy he'd had as a kid, hidden in his closet for almost a week before his dad found it and went ballistic. He got to keep the puppy, though. Not like this time. This was real, this was deadly dangerous. You couldn't just keep people hidden in closets and attics.
He suddenly remembers how he'd been found out about the puppy. It whined, scratched at the closet door, thinking Dad was Ray bringing food. What will happen if Thatcher tries to leave?
She won't leave, she isn't supposed to still be in the country. But Ray can't help obsessing over this new worry. He can see it in his mind's eye: her wanting sunlight, escaping into the street below, someone seeing her, catching him-- He isn't going to jail. No way.
Ray turns the music off, suddenly not in the mood. His thoughts are too dark, these days. He hasn't been caught yet, has he? It's fine, it's going to be fine. What else is he supposed to do, huh? Stop doing it? 'Oh, yeah, I've been keeping Thatcher locked up in my attic, but I'm ready to stop now. You won't hold it against me, will ya?'
Right.
He pulls his t-shirt off and kicks off his shoes. It's late, dark, and he has to get up early tomorrow. There's Thatcher to take care of, and Dief, as well as his usual routine. He loosens his belt and flops onto his bed, too tired to bother finishing getting undressed. It's gonna be okay. She's in the attic, no one knows about her, she isn't gonna go wandering around outside where they'll both get in trouble. He takes a deep breath, gives Dief one last scratch behind the ears, and tells himself to stop worrying and go to sleep.
--
She will behave, of course. But it won't be easy on her; she'll show that in little ways whether she means to or not. Eventually she'll stop him halfway across her attic, shine a flashlight at his eyes.
"Aah," Ray will exclaim, shielding his eyes with a hand. "That's bright."
"Move your hand," she'll whisper. "Please."
He'll drop it, not understanding why, and squint towards the flashlight. "Why-- what--?"
The light will linger on his face a moment longer before she'll switch the flashlight off. "It's dark," Meg will whisper.
That'll be true, at least. He'll crawl in the direction of her voice, about to ask what she means, but she'll say it for herself.
"I can't-- always remember what you look like."
Ray will pause uncomfortably. "Oh." He won't know what to say; he'll have no idea what it must be like for her, being stuck up here. It'll be like being in prison, he'll imagine, so that'll make him the evil jailer guy.
"Did you get it?" she'll whisper anxiously.
"Uh... yeah, yeah, I got it." He'll pull the photo out of his pocket and watch Meg snatch it greedily. She'll handle it like gold leaf, expensive and fragile, devouring it with her eyes in the flashlightlight. Ray won't be able to help feeling like a clumsy voyeur. He'll realise, now, why she'll have really asked for it. No dumb crush on the Mountie; all she'll want is to remember what Fraser looks like. He'll look away and pretend it's the sharp attic dust bringing tears to his eyes.
If only Fraser hadn't gone. Breathing dust, Ray will lay all the blame squarely on Fraser; somehow they'd've found a better way to handle all this if Fraser were still in the country.
--
Back in the years/decades/centuries past, he remembered scattered pieces of time. Always at the Consulate, focal point. Everything had started there, every time he'd heard something new on the radio he'd gone there and Fraser had explained it. That was why he'd gone there that not-quite-last time.
He'd stood in the doorway and stared at all the cardboard boxes.
"Detective," Thatcher had said impatiently. "Can I help you?" She'd been carrying something, he remembers, a stack of papers that she'd shielded from his eyes.
"Uh, looking for Fraser."
"Constable Fraser's on the phone," she'd said tersely. "With Ottawa."
"Oh." He'd stood there, feeling useless, and watched her pack her papers into a spare box. Someone had taken the portrait of the Queen down from the wall. "Are you moving the Consulate again or something?"
She'd looked up at him, glanced at the box she was kneeling beside, looked back at him as if deciding he could be trusted. "We've been recalled."
He'd felt the floor slipping away beneath his feet. "You're leaving?" Fraser was leaving. He'd shaken his head slightly, making it not true.
"It will... probably just be temporary." She'd fiddled with the top sheet of paper in the box. "It's just for show, really. Diplomatic protest."
"Yeah." Ray had run out of things to say. They couldn't leave, they just-- In the whole mess, he'd always depended on Fraser to make it better, to explain how it sounded a lot worse than it really was. He'd gone outside and sat on the steps, in the sun.
--
The sun shining on Ray's eyes was what finally woke him up, one day in that first month. He glanced at his alarm clock, saw 0:35 blinking sheepishly at him and swore loud enough to make Diefenbaker whine. Power cut, so his alarm hadn't gone off, so it was... he looked at his watch and cringed. No time to visit Thatcher; he was gonna be late for work as it was. He showered and dressed in record time. Breakfast he skipped, which was probably only fair since he wasn't going up to give Thatcher any. He hoped she hadn't used those tins of fruit yet.
At the precinct were a lot of maroons talking shit about Canada. Like they knew anything. Ray resisted pulling his gun on the lot of them; the world had gone crazy a long time ago, no reason to blame these idiots.
Then there was work to do, his assignment for the day: anonymous tip that someone was gonna try sabotaging the Rush Street bomb shelters. Ray was supposed to meet his temporary partner there in less than half an hour. He sighed, coaxed Dief away from his desk, and headed off again.
Dief sniffed out some psychotic Fundamentalist Christian loaded down with plastic explosives just in time for Ray to cut away for lunch. He double-parked in front of his apartment building, raided his fridge and headed up to the attic.
"Thatcher," he whispered, ducking his head to crawl under one of the low beams. "You awake?"
"Ray?" She crawled out from behind a stack of boxes, shining her flashlight carefully below his eyes so as not to dazzle him. "Where the hell have you been?" she whispered.
"Power cut, I woke up late." He pulled his bag from around his neck and pushed it towards her as a peace offering. "Brought you lunch."
She held her flashlight in her teeth, going through the bag with both hands. "I thought--" she started, voice muffled by talking round the flashlight.
Ray watched her unpacking the supplies he'd brought. More bottled water, food, a crossword book. "Thought what?" he asked curiously.
He could tell by the movement of the flashlight that she was looking up at him. She took it out of her mouth and admitted, "I thought... you might have forgotten about me. It's silly, I know, but--"
"No," he said quietly, horrified. "No. I promise. Sometimes I can't come right away, but I'll always be back."
"I know." The popping sound of her opening the tupperware container. While she munched on her sandwiches Ray headed for the junk she'd been sleeping behind the night before.
"I guess it must suck being stuck up here," he said in a low voice, collecting the empty containers she'd stacked there.
"Pretty much," she said. "It's better than being in a POW camp."
"Yeah." He fingered the thermos, then turned to look at her. "How you going with that newspaper?"
She took a moment to swallow before answering. "I haven't read much, just some of the articles on the war. I've been trying to conserve my batteries."
"Good idea." He glanced at the glowing hands on his watch. "I'd better get going."
"Wait," she whispered desperately. "Can't you stay a little longer?"
"I can't, I have to get back to work." He packed last night's empties in his bag and slung it around his neck. "I'm sorry, I'm really... I can't stay here, they'll look for me."
She looked down in the darkness, switching off her flashlight. "I know. You'll come back."
"As soon as I can," he promised intensely. As soon as he could.
--
In the future, once the war gets more serious, he'll look back on that first month and be amazed at his naivete, how much he thought he'd be able to get away with. Well, getting away with it will be the easy part; what's hard will be the practicalities. Clothes, hygiene. Food. He'll get thin and bony, starving himself to be able to bring her enough of his rations.
She'll notice, of course. "Ray," she'll say helplessly, tracing his ribs under his t-shirt. "Ray..."
"I'm fine," he'll whisper. "What about you, you got enough? I can get more..."
"No," she'll say quickly, sounding appalled.
Despite his self-sacrificing instincts, Ray will be relieved. He won't be able to help feeling that if he gets any thinner, he'll dissolve away under her fingers.
"I love you," Meg will whisper, propping herself up on one elbow as if that much time spent in there will have adjusted her eyes to the pitch darkness, as if she'll be able to look down and see his face.
"You need me," he'll correct, as always.
For the first time Meg will shake her head and straddle his waist. "No, Ray, I love you," she'll insist, dropping a light kiss on his lips.
He'll catch his breath slightly, not quite able to believe that this has finally moved past their desperate need for each other. "I love you," he'll whisper, pulling her down to hug her tightly. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
That evening, for the first time in a long while, they won't sleep together. They'll merely lie there, holding each other, whispering into each other's necks, until it will be time for Ray to leave again for the bright outside wartime world.
--
Here-and-now, Ray has no idea what lies ahead. As far as he's concerned America and Canada are going to bomb each other for a while, then admit the whole idea was dumb and kiss and make up. Although he does recognise the seriousness of it enough to wish that he could keep Thatcher in a less important city than Chicago. It could be worse, it could be New York City or DC. But Chicago's still pretty high up there, *and* it's near the Canadian border.
Maybe Fraser suspects Thatcher's still here, alive. Maybe he's got some high-up job in the Canadian military, and he's somehow protecting Chicago. Ray acknowledges the impossibility of the thought even as he clings to it.
Still, it can't go on forever. Can it?
Every day when he goes to work, there's one fear in his mind; there's talk about the draft, about able-bodied men being picked up off the street. He has a vague idea that his screwy eyes might protect him, but it's the not knowing that kills him inside. What if he gets drafted, who's gonna look after Thatcher then?
Or worse, what if he gets injured or killed - his job never was a safe one, and now's even worse - and Thatcher's left in the attic to starve? If he gets drafted he could tell someone she's there, maybe Welsh or... someone, there has to be someone he can trust. Maybe Frannie.
Idly he wonders how 'Armando Langoustini' is doing right now, and if there's anyone who this war is *good* for.
--
The way the Canadians had disappeared had been like being in high school again, one student at a time slipping out while the teacher wasn't looking. Fraser had been the last to go, getting on an aeroplane with a suitcase of documents Thatcher hadn't been willing to trust to the US Postal Service. She'd actually thought the FBI or CIA might have opened up the boxes and taken copies of everything. The scary part was that Ray hadn't been entirely sure they wouldn't.
So, a couple of weeks after they'd been recalled, Thatcher had been the only one left, closing up the Consulate and getting last minute information about the political climate in Chicago. Huey and Dewey'd reckoned she was a Canadian spy; Ray hadn't thought there was anything worth spying in Chicago.
After the first few bomb threats, there'd been a permanent police presence at the Consulate. Ray had been the only one Thatcher trusted to help her finish up the packing. That had been when she'd told him about how she'd thought the government might have swapped him for the real Ray Vecchio just so he could spy on the Consulate. But Fraser had trusted him. And for some insane reason - her words - she had let herself trust Fraser.
"You won't regret it," Ray had told her.
That had been the beginning of it, him owing her. She'd trusted him, and here-and-now she trusts him to keep her safe, keep her hidden.
The day of the last bomb threat they'd been pulling down curtains. Ray had still been able to remember the day they first met; he'd touched the curtain draped over her arm and said quietly, "Nice outfit."
"What?" Thatcher had looked bewildered for a moment, then miraculously she'd remembered it too, and even smiled some. "It's been a pleasure knowing you, Detective."
"Likewise," Ray had said, and then the fax had clunked and printed off the last threat. It had detailed how the bombers had gotten past the previous night's security, too detailed for Ray to have taken it anything but seriously.
Scouring the Consulate, Thatcher by his side, he'd suddenly remembered doing this with Fraser way back on that very first day. And on a hunch he'd told her, "Check for perfume."
"*Perfume*?" she'd said incredulously.
"Yeah, the trigger, the... accelerant. It's a hunch." He'd put his glasses on and frowned around the stairway.
It was a hunch that hadn't panned out, although he bet he would've impressed her if it had. Instead she'd found the bomb, tucked under a loose floorboard, red numbers slowly ticking down. Ray had taken one look at the complicated mess of wires, and the tiny amount of numbers left, and had pushed her out of the room. "Go, go, go, go, go!"
Running. They'd run wildly for the door; ludicrously she'd still been holding a curtain. They'd burst through the doors, she'd let go of the curtain and Ray had grabbed it out of thin air, had pushed her to the ground and covered her with the curtain and his body as the Consulate had exploded behind them.
His glasses had broken when they hit the ground. Bits of Consulate had landed around them, on him; nothing big, luckily. In the turmoil afterwards, Thatcher had disappeared; Ray'd picked up the clue and said he didn't know if she got out. He'd wondered where she was, where she could go.
Canada had probably been told she was dead.
--
Here-and-now again, Ray watches TV and hears how the Canadians are likely to surrender soon. Yeah, right. And especially not if they're all anything like Fraser up there. More likely America's gonna have to surrender.
Has that ever happened, in history? Fraser would know, Fraser would probably be delighted to tell him in detail about The Time America Surrendered. Maybe Thatcher knows. He shakes his head at that thought; he and Thatcher don't talk about the war. They talk about reading about the war, about hearing about it, but talking about the actual *war*... That's not allowed, it's taboo.
Dief growls at the TV's latest comment about Canada, making Ray laugh. "Yer a real patriot, ain'tcha, Dief?"
Dief gives Ray a look that probably means he just wants the war to be over so he can have jelly doughnuts again.
"I know the feeling," Ray sighs. "You know, I used to think I'd be happy seeing the Ice Queen locked up where she can't bitch at Fraser. Careful what you wish for, huh?"
Dief barks, meaning he agrees but still wishes for jelly doughnuts.
Ray laughs a little, again, and rubs behind Dief's ears. "Sorry about your rations," he whispers. "But we can't let her starve. We both gotta do without a little. It'll get better soon."
Dief whines and licks his face sympathetically. It's kinda gross and kinda sweet at the same time. Ray pushes Dief down and rubs his stomach vigorously, grinning as Dief's tail thumps on the floor in pure hedonistic pleasure. It's moments like this that keep him sane.
--
Eventually he and Meg will let the pressure of their secret liaisons get to them. One day as Ray's getting ready to leave Meg will whisper, "Stay."
"I can't... It's too dangerous," Ray will protest.
"Please." She'll kiss him desperately, lonesomely.
He'll kiss back, catching her jaw in his hands, framing her face in his fingers. It will deepen, turn hungrier, but always carry the same desperate wartime overtones. Their tongues will meet, mimic the duel between their two countries, and one of them will moan lightly.
Meg will touch his t-shirt, pull it up so she can lightly stroke his skin. Purring, leaning into her touch, Ray will move a hand to the back of her head, the other down to her waist. But he'll pull himself away reluctantly and whisper, "Wait. We can't. I don't... don't have..."
Meg will drop her head with an ever-so-slight sigh and a growl of frustration. For several seconds the only sounds will be their mutual breathing.
"I could... get some," Ray'll offer. "In case... I mean, if we want to..."
"If we want," Meg will echo.
"We don't have to use them," Ray will agree. It will be dark, too dark to see each other's face, dark enough to feel each other's longing tight like harp strings.
"I have to go," he'll finally say.
She'll be silent until he's almost reached the trapdoor, then she'll whisper urgently, "Come back soon."
"I promise," he'll whisper, and lift up the trapdoor, and vanish into the mop closet on the sixth floor below.
--
He measured the first month from the day he finally found her after the explosion at the Consulate. Not that he really *found* her; she made her way, somehow, to his apartment. By then it was already bad enough that he knew he couldn't tell anyone she was still in the country.
"What are we going to do?" Thatcher asked, curled up anxiously in one of his chairs. "I was supposed to be back in Ottawa long before it got this bad."
"I don't know." Ray was a little shellshocked; he wasn't sure, but he felt kinda like he'd assumed she'd hitchhiked to the border or something. Finding her here, still in Chicago, in his *apartment* even... "I don't know. What if we-- Can't you just say you got stuck here? Can't we get them to deport you or something?"
Thatcher shook her head. "Your friends at the precinct thought I was a spy. After the way I disappeared no one will have any reason to think otherwise."
"Aw, that's just Huey and Dewey spouting off," Ray protested, but at the same time had visions of Feds arriving in a black van to take her away. He didn't dare ask if she *had* been spying.
"Have you ever read Anne Frank?" he said quietly.
Thatcher looked up at him in alarm and disbelief. "You're planning to hide me for the entire duration of the war?"
Ray shook his head hard and violently. "Only if we can't think of anything else. There's got to be something else."
They'd been at O'Hare. Ray had wandered around looking for Fraser; had finally spotted him, not by the bright red serge he hadn't been wearing anyway, but by Dief.
As he'd gotten closer he'd heard Fraser talking intently to the wolf. "I wish you could too," he'd been saying. "But you know it's too dangerous. I couldn't live with myself if--"
Dief had barked, looking at Ray, and Fraser'd turned around. "Ray," he'd said, his smile a little strained. "I'm glad you could make it."
"Of course I was gonna come," Ray had said. "What's dangerous?" He'd thought the reason he'd be looking after Dief was that otherwise Fraser and Thatcher would have been back before Dief was cleared to get into Canada.
Fraser had looked at Dief, who'd looked for all the world like he was shrugging as he lay down on the airport floor. "Nothing," Fraser had finally said.
"If it was nothing--" Ray'd started, but then Thatcher had arrived.
"Constable," she'd said crisply. "Everything's ready?"
Fraser had nodded. "All the arrangements have been made. I'll be waiting for you in Ottawa."
"I'll be there within a week," Thatcher had promised.
"What's dangerous?" Ray had repeated.
Thatcher had looked at each of them. "Fraser, don't you think it's time you stopped--"
"You're quite right, sir," Fraser had interrupted. "Perhaps we should start with this morning's fax."
Then Ray had really felt like he was missing something. "What fax? I don't... What fax?"
Thatcher had glanced at the ground briefly, then squared her shoulders. "This morning the Consulate received a threatening fax," she'd admitted, glaring at Fraser. "Given the... climate, it's hardly something to worry about--"
"You got threatened?" Ray had said incredulously. "You shoulda called me! That's why we have cops, you know, so we can do something about that kind of thing."
The boarding call had come through, and Fraser had shifted uncomfortably. "I should..."
"Get that," Ray'd anticipated. "See you soon, right?"
Fraser had opened his mouth then closed it awkwardly, settling instead for a curt nod. "Inspector," he'd given her a nod too. Then he'd crouched and taken hold of Dief's face to say sternly, "Now, you behave for Ray."
Dief had whined and licked his face sadly.
Unexpectedly, Fraser had given Ray a tight hug. "You've been a good friend, Ray," he'd said sincerely. "Take care."
Ray had tried to laugh it off, made uneasy by the inexplicable display. "Hey, it's not that bad, is it?" he'd joked, then had stared between Fraser and Thatcher as a new thought hit him. "Is it?"
Fraser had looked at his boss for several seconds, then shaken his head. "No. No, it-- it's going to be fine."
Ray had pretended to be reassured as they'd watched Fraser leave.
--
He'll come back with condoms in his pocket, feeling awkward about having them but at the same time really wanting to use them. She'll seem to feel the awkwardness too, taking the bag from him in unusual silence, slowly unpacking each smuggled gift. It will either be his imagination or she'll be embarrassed about her actions the last time he'll have come.
Inside, he'll ream himself out for worrying about his own stupid desires when she's stuck in this little box of an attic. "I brought you more batteries," he'll say in a fast high voice, trying to fill the silence. "Amberly on the second floor has this black market--"
"Black market?" she'll interrupt. "Ray, what did you have to do to get these?"
He'll be silent for too long. This early he'll still have skin on his bones, but he'll still be reluctant to tell her how much of his food ration will be going towards supplies for her. Besides, he'll rationalise it, he still has freedom, still gets to see the sunlight. His sacrifices, he'll tell himself, are small ones.
He will feel bad for Dief, though.
"Ray," Meg will sigh, "you didn't have to do this--"
"It's okay, she has heaps of them," he'll say quickly. "We always used to hassle her about being prepared for a tornado or a flood or a w--"
War. Ray will stop, uncomfortably, and look in the direction of his lap, dimly lit by the flashlight she'll still be aiming at the bag. "It's okay," he'll repeat.
This early Meg won't push it. "Thank you," she'll give in, flashing the flashlight up so she can aim right when she leans over to kiss his cheek.
"My pleasure," Ray will say quietly, thinking this would be a really bad time to ask for sex. Stupid one-track brain. He'll try to chase it out of its rut, feeling guilty.
Luckily Meg will make things easy for him. "Ray," she'll breathe, still leaning close, "last time, when we... I mean, you said you'd get..."
"Protection," he'll finish when it's obvious she won't be going to. "In case we... wanted..." He'll hope she wants it.
"Do you?" she'll whisper. "Want to?"
No, he won't be able to answer that. "Do *you*?" he'll ask. "I don't want you to think you have to... do anything, just 'cause I'm doing all this for you."
"Like you could make me," she'll shoot back. "I don't want you to think it's one more thing you have to do to keep me happy."
He'll smile at that, in the darkness, and shake his head. "No," he'll whisper. "I want to. I want you."
She'll let out a little sigh at that. "Me too," she'll say, not a whisper but a low, intense voice that'll wake his groin up right away.
They'll kiss, like last time, desperate and sweet, sugar-water and gunpowder rolled together. Idly Ray will note that he should get Meg some sugar, and then he'll happily let himself be distracted by her hands on him. They'll have both been starved of this, for far too long.
Kissing, leaning forwards, this will feel so right and so eerily strange... Cut off from the wartime world, he'll keep leaning forward until he's lying on top of her, still kissing. They'll gently shed their clothes like they're disarming grenades, each touch soft and skittish.
"Ray," Meg will recite between kisses, "Ray, Ray."
"Shh," he'll cover her lips to quell the sudden irrational fear that someone might hear them. Besides, he'll think, kissing's better than talking anyway.
She'll be nothing like he'll have imagined - and lately, he'll have imagined it a lot. But in his mind it will always have been perfect, romantic... clean. This will be grittier, clumsier, rolling-around-in-the-dust with a woman who won't have showered in god knows how long. And Ray won't care, because it will be *real*.
Not much foreplay, just impatient whispers and her hands guiding him into her. Ray will be breathing hard, the dust bitter in the back of his throat, Meg unbelievably soft and warm under his touch. Except where she'll be wet and hot, which'll be even better. He'll thrust into her, set up a rhythm, lick the light skin where her neck meets her ear.
It'll feel good, feel good, feel great, and he'll spare a snatch of thought to worry it'll be over too soon, she'll still be frustrated... and then, incredibly, she'll clench hard around him with a soft keen not unlike the sound that comes out of Dief's throat when he's scratching miserably at the door. He'll gasp in a big eddy of dust, managing maybe all of two more thrusts before he's making a pretty similar sound himself.
This is how surreal his life will have become.
--
Here-and-now, Ray washes tupperware containers while Dief eats dinner. "You think Fraser's okay?" he asks, trying not to burn his hands in the hot dishwater.
Dief manages to give an affirmative 'wuff' without even pausing in his meal. Ray shakes his hands vigorously before plunging them back into the steaming water.
"It must be good to be a wolf," he muses. "You don't worry about the future, do you? Live in the moment. And you've had moments without Fraser before."
Diefenbaker gives his bowl one last sweeping lick, and barks again before getting up to tug on Ray's jeans.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Ray protests, but by now he's pretty much gotten used to wolf slobber on his clothes. "Dief, I'm doing the dishes. Can't it wait?"
Dief growls impatiently and goes to wait by the door. With a sigh Ray wipes his hands and grabs his keys. "This better be good," he warns Dief.
A bit later he's revised his opinion to, 'this better be close'. He has no idea where Dief's taking him but he's no Nanook of the North; anything more than a few blocks and he wants his car.
Finally they reach the place; it's a florist's, small and bright. Dief snuffles at a bunch of yellow flowers. Dandelions, they look like, although Ray has a feeling that's probably not quite right.
"That's... sweet, Dief, but--" Dief looks up at him then away impatiently and he realises, "They're not for me, are they?"
Of course not. *He's* not the one locked up in a dusty little attic. Ray shakes his head and drops down to crouching. "What are you trying to tell me, Dief?" he asks quietly. "It could be worse?"
Dief gives a wolfy smile and licks his face enthusiastically, so he can't be far wrong. Ray pushes him away, laughing, then gives him a rough hug. "Okay, pal, flowers it is." He picks up the bright not-dandelions and heads further into the shop to pay for them.
--
Thatcher was trying to talk, and Ray was trying to figure out if this would be at all feasible. "At first I wasn't sure what to do," she was saying, "but my gut told me that going back to the Consulate would be a bad move, tactically speaking."
"Yeah, having a building explode on top of ya can do that to a person," Ray said absently, flashing his flashlight around the attic. She was going to get *really* bored in here. Well, he had a good supply of books he could lend her.
"Well, that too, but as you may recall, the public attitude toward Canadians was getting pretty touchy."
Ray turned to glance at her. "What, it's not touchy *now*?"
Thatcher gave him a scathing look. "We're at war, Detective, that's a different matter entirely."
"Hm," Ray agreed, turning back to his study of the attic. Candles, maybe; all he had were funny shaped decorative ones, but Amberly must have a million or so she could spare. He opened a cardboard box near him and smiled as he saw the blankets inside. The landlady probably didn't even remember they were in here. "You were talking about where you went...?"
"Right." He got the sense she was nodding decisively. "Well, after I left my apartment I went to my friend Nancy's-- What?" she added as he turned to stare at her.
"It's just... you have *friends*," Ray said in disbelief.
She glared at him and said sarcastically, "Strangely, yes."
He hadn't meant it like that. Ray shook his head quickly, then switched to a nod halfway through. "No, I mean, I know that. Of course you have friends. It's just that I never really thought about it before; y'know, you and... having a life outside of the Consulate."
"Oh. All right." Mollified, Thatcher continued, "Well, naturally she was only too glad to help me out. She cleaned up my wounds - you know, you could have saved my life a little more gently."
"Oh, well, I'll try and remember that for next time," Ray retorted.
She smiled briefly, and Ray turned back to the woollen blankets. "As I was saying, Nancy cleaned up my wounds, and her husband cleared out a room for me. They went to a lot of trouble," she commented, almost sounding sad.
Ray frowned slightly. "That's bad?"
"No... no, of course not. I was grateful for all the help they could give me. But eventually I overheard them talking; Nancy was... worried about risking her daughter."
Yeah, that could be bad. Angry mobs finding out there was a Canadian there, or maybe Nancy and Mr Nancy getting arrested if this was after the war started for real. "So you took off?" He looked over his shoulder and saw her nod.
"Obviously I couldn't stay, not while they had a child to consider. So I gathered my things, left a note thanking them for their hospitality, and left."
"Then you came to me."
"Well, not right away," Thatcher said. "I had other things to take care of."
Ray frowned slightly and again resisted the urge to ask her if Huey and Dewey had been right about their wild rumours. But even the idea of Canada *having* spies sounded dumb.
He turned around and shone his flashlight at her instead of the boxes. This was hopeless. He was going to be visiting a lot, which meant going through the mop closet a lot, which meant he was going to need some good reasons to be up on the sixth floor so much. "Navy blankets or beige?"
--
Here-and-now Ray has other worries on his mind. Like if his apartment building is even still *standing*. It is, when he gets to it, and he runs inside and up to the sixth floor without even caring whether he locked his car or not. Dief chases at his heels, whining unhappily.
"Shut up," Ray snaps down at him, nerves frayed by long hours of worrying. "Keep watch, okay?" He ducks into the mop closet and pushes open the trapdoor, pulling himself up faster than he's ever managed before. "Thatcher? Meg? You there?"
"No, Ray, I caught a plane for Canada two hours ago," she whispers sarcastically.
Ray crawls towards the sound of her voice. "Are you okay?"
"Scared out of my skull, but on balance I think I managed fairly well. Wh--" She stops short as they both hear a wolfish 'wuff' and a scrabbling sound.
With a sigh Ray goes back to the trapdoor and helps Dief jump up. "Stupid wolf," he mutters, and then very clearly tells Dief, "I told you to keep watch."
"There's no light," Thatcher points out.
"So?"
"How is he supposed to read your lips?"
"He's not," Ray answers, heading back over to her, Dief following. Should've stopped by the apartment to grab a flashlight. "If you talk real clearly and space your words, he can figure out what you're saying. He just pretends he can't."
"Oh." Thatcher sounds closer. "Was he all right today? The sirens must have frightened him terribly."
Dief doesn't make any indignant noises, so Ray guesses the wolf hasn't been able to decipher her fast whisper. "Not too bad; he still came along when I told him and stuff. When we got to the shelter he kinda lay there with his ears flat. Poor fella." He rubs Dief's stomach as a poor reward.
"Shelter," Thatcher repeats softly. "So it was..."
Ray nods, closing his eyes. Not that it gets any darker. "The Canadians started bombing us today."
There's a moment of silence, long enough that it confuses him when Thatcher finally speaks. "*I'm* a Canadian," she reminds him.
Oh. Right. "I know," Ray says lamely. "I know that." He just... kinda forgets about it sometimes. "Um. I should get your dinner."
'Dinner' Dief definitely hears, because he rolls back onto his stomach and pants happily.
"Don't take long," Thatcher whispers.
"I'll try." He heads for the trapdoor, Dief trotting ahead, and reminds himself over and over: she's a Canadian.
--
"You're not a Canadian," he'll tell her fiercely, when he finally gives in and agrees to take her outside. Not just down to his apartment, helping her to walk again after so long on hands and knees, but *outside*. "You're an American, okay? You think like an American, you act like an American, you talk like an American, and most importantly you don't get us arrested like an American."
"I get the picture," she'll whisper defensively.
"And don't whisper."
"I'm sorry--" She'll stop her whisper short and shake her head. "I'm sorry," she'll say, in a voice cracking from disuse. "I'm used to it."
"I know," Ray will say quietly, feeling bad for snapping at her. But he'll be worried, too; so many things could go wrong. He just won't be able to keep her in that attic of hers all the time. "How are your eyes?"
"A little better." But she'll still be squinting at the bright - to her - light in his apartment.
"Uh..." Thinking hard, Ray will rummage in a drawer and find a pair of sunglasses for her. "Try these."
"Thank--" Whispering again. She'll sigh and clear her throat. "Thank you." Her voice will still sound like a sick frog.
"Okay. Okay." Ray will take a deep breath, feeling bad about this whole idea. But he won't be able to think of anything he's forgotten, any new objections, so outside they'll go.
He'll treat her to lunch in a cafe, traffic grinding loudly by. Her hair will be pulled back in a short ponytail with a rubber band; with that and the dark glasses she'll look like something out of a spy catalogue.
Then the unthinkable will happen. Ray won't have really been paying attention to the other people in the cafe, but something will tug at his mind and when he turns to look he'll feel his heart stop. "Shit," he'll whisper, the word catching slightly in his throat.
"What?" Meg will ask, slipping back into whispers herself for a moment, and then it will be too late, Dewey will be at their table, and Ray won't be able to breathe.
"Hey, Ray, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" Dewey will say, with one of his most sexist charming smiles.
Ray will sit there for half a second, not quite believing their luck. Well, Dewey never saw her that much before the war, and he won't be expecting to run into a Canadian *now*. Still... "This is Nancy," Ray will manage, picking a Meg-related name at random. "From, uh, Waukegan."
"Tom Dewey." He'll offer his hand to Meg, who'll sit there, frozen.
"She's, um, shy," Ray will say quickly.
"Oh." Dewey will drop his hand and then brighten again, turning to Ray. "Vecchio, you sly dog, you didn't tell me you had a girlfriend." He'll slap him on the back cheerfully. "Where've you been keeping her, your closet?"
Ray will fight back an insane urge to giggle - stress, probably. "Um, attic actually," he'll say weakly. "Hey, not that I'm not honoured by your company, but can you give us some privacy?"
"No problem." He'll give Meg a friendly nod - still not recognising her! "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Nancy."
"Bye," she'll whisper in a choked burst, looking like a squirrel just before you turn it into roadkill.
"Oh-kay," Dewey will remark, raising his eyebrows at Ray briefly before leaving.
"Are you okay?" Ray will ask anxiously, 'cause it's about the only way he'll be able to think of to keep from fainting in giddy relief.
Meg will sort of shudder herself back into reality. "I don't like people," she'll whisper plaintively. "Ray, can we go home?"
Staring at her in a kind of hollow dread, Ray will slowly nod. "Sure. Of course." All the fuss she'll have made about wanting to go outside, and it turns out she won't have been able to handle it. Noise, light, people-- What's going to happen when the war ends?
But they won't have gotten caught. Ray will make himself fixate on that thought; he'll have smuggled her out of the building, and they won't have gotten caught.
--
They were nearly caught in the first month. Ray was still figuring out some of the logistics - right then, it was washing her clothes. Weird enough looking at all that sexy underwear and remembering it belonged to the keep-your-hands-off Ice Queen, but then Elliott caught him with it in the basement laundry.
"Lace?" Elliott asked, looking into Ray's basket.
Ray panicked. "It's, uh, mine." Then realised how bad that sounded. "I mean, not *mine*, it's... my cousin, she's... her washing machine's-she doesn't have one."
Elliott looked at him, then back at the treacherous women's clothing. "She can't find a laundromat?"
"It, uh, burned down." Burned as good as Ray's cheeks were burning. The whole story was lame and he knew it.
"Right." Elliott edged away from him slightly. "This, um, cousin of yours, she'd... find me attractive?" Jesus, he was all but shuddering.
"No," Ray said firmly, deciding to go with it. Hell, there wasn't a better explanation. "She's into women."
Elliott looked surprised. "But she dresses like a woman."
"Only sometimes."
Elliott looked down at Ray's hamper. "That's a lot of washing for 'sometimes'."
Okay, now he'd had enough. Ray stepped forward aggressively. "Yeah, well, she changes clothes a lot. Is it really worth a mouthful of broken teeth? 'Cause that's what you're gonna get."
"I'd snap your spine like a toothpick," Elliott scoffed.
"Tough guy," Ray sneered, remembering why he didn't hang out with Elliott even though the guy was from just across the hall.
"One of us has to be."
Ray felt like growling. This stupid war was pissing him off and he was ready to take it out on Elliott's face. He pulled his fist back and was about to let loose when a living lightning bolt of fur and teeth jumped between them, snarling.
"Back off, Dief," Ray snapped impatiently. "I can handle it."
"Oh, the fag's got a new housepet," Elliott said. How very observant. How very clever. How very not lame.
"He's a wolf," Ray said coolly, and Dief bared his fangs to prove it.
"Oh," Elliott told the fangs.
"And I'm not a fag." Ray put a hand on Dief's neck, pretending he could stop the wolf if Dief really decided to take a piece out of Elliott.
"Okay," Elliott told the fangs.
"And if that rumour happens to get started, I *will* let Dief at you." Dief obligingly snarled again.
"No problem," Elliott told the fangs.
"Good." Ray stuffed Thatcher's clothes into the bag he'd brought them down in and slung it over his shoulder. "See you round, I hope *not*." He gestured sharply for Dief to follow him, and stalked angrily out of the laundry.
Halfway back up to his apartment, he punched the wall hard. Then gasped and shook his hand in pain. "I wanted to fight him," he complained to Dief.
Dief kept trotting along the hall, then turned and looked at him impatiently.
"I wanted to fight him," Ray repeated, but started walking again. "Didn't need you to protect me. Jesus, you're as bad as Fr..." He trailed off mid-name, made himself stop thinking about people in Canada. "Forget it."
Dief barked in acknowledgement and trotted along at Ray's heels.
--
When Fraser had still been around, it had been just one more of those things Ray'd taken for granted. Like the fact that jokes about Canadians had sometimes actually been friendly.
They had been at a bar one evening, not long after the Consulate staff had been officially recalled. Fraser had been out of uniform, which he'd seemed to be doing more and more outside the Consulate lately. And he'd been talking funny.
Ray hadn't realised how much he'd gotten used to the Canadian versions of things until Fraser had said 'schedule' the right way. "What-- what-what was that?" he'd interrupted
Fraser had looked up at him, confused. "What was what?"
"That... 'schedule'. You're talking American."
"Oh." Fraser had looked down again - way down; he'd practically bowed his head over the bar. "Lieutenant Welsh suggested it. Inspector Thatcher agreed."
He'd said 'lieutenant' right, too. Ray had given him a suspicious look. "How come?"
"There was a... minor incident," Fraser had admitted, still carefully studying the bar.
"A minor incident." Ray had struggled to figure out what that meant in Fraser-speak. "You got... what? Names called atcha? Attacked?"
Fraser'd run his thumb along the wood-polish. Finally he'd said softly, "Yeah. I was, ah... assaulted not far from the Consulate. There's something of an air of hostility towards Canadians at the moment."
"You think I don't know that?" Ray had demanded. "Jesus, Frase, why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to worry." Fraser had finally looked back up at him. "Ray, I'm all right. It's fine, we just... we just have to leave the country for a few weeks, let things cool down. It'll be fine."
"'We' meaning Canadians." Ray had stared at him for several seconds. "Listen to yourself!" he'd exclaimed, pushing himself up. "Leave the country, what is that? What is that? C'mon, you work here, you shouldn't have to run off with your tail between your legs just 'cause some idiots--"
"Ray! Ray." Fraser had grabbed his gesturing arms, pulling him back down. "You have to keep your voice down. We'll be kicked out of the bar."
Ray had shaken his head with a laugh. "People yell in here all the time, Fraser; it's a *bar*. You think we're gonna get kicked out for *yelling*?"
Fraser had nodded over at the thin, bald barkeep. "I think the bartender would be happy to have any excuse to remove a Canadian from his premises."
Fraser being cynical, that was just... just not right. Ray had given his head a little shake, not liking what was happening to his world. "C'mon, we come here all the time, he wouldn't--"
"Ray, we've been here for half an hour and he has yet to ask us if we want anything to drink." Fraser had looked at him a moment longer, driving the message in, then gotten up and walked away.
Goddammit. Ray had pushed himself away from the bar and hurried after him. When he'd caught up he realised he hadn't had anything to say. "So you don't wanna get kicked out, and the next minute you leave anyway? Love that logic, Fraser."
"I didn't feel like staying." Fraser had shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, staring at the sidewalk until they'd reached the car. "Ray, would you take me home?" he'd asked softly.
Ray had snorted at the idea of that bare office being home to anything. "You mean the Consulate."
Fraser had paused, one hand on the roof of the car, the other holding the door handle. "I'm a Canadian in an American city. The Consulate is my home."
Ray hadn't answered that - how could he? He'd gotten into the car and driven Fraser to the Consulate and gone home and turned his music up good and loud. Maybe, he'd thought to himself, it was a good thing that Fraser was leaving. Just for a few weeks, just for things to calm down. No one should have to live like that.
She shouldn't have to live like this. Ray will think that every time he crawls into Meg's attic, and this time will be no exception. But at least this time he'll be doing something about it.
"Meg," he'll whisper, flashing his flashlight around awkwardly. "Meg. Where are you?"
There she'll be, lying near the far wall, and when the flashlight beam lands on her she'll flinch and scurry behind a trunk like some kind of wild animal. Ray will wonder briefly if she's been living too long with the mice, then turn back to the trapdoor and give his guest a helping hand.
"I brought you a visitor, Meg." He'll let the flashlight hover near the trunk - not right on it, but close enough so he'll be able to dimly see her head looking over the top of it.
"A visitor?" she'll whisper hoarsely.
"Yeah." Ray will swallow hard, hating this, hating what the war is doing to her. "You up for one?"
"Yes..." The faint outline of her head will duck back down and the trunk will open. "Yesyesyes. Just a moment..."
It'll be like Meg has to cram a whole day's worth of talking into the few short visits she'll get that day. Her conversations will grow to be nervously fast, fidgety, like a captive squirrel.
Ray will wait patiently, flicking his flashlight off to save the batteries. He'll figure that by now Meg will know her way around in the dark. And she will; not long later she'll close the trunk and turn her own flashlight on. "Hello?" she'll whisper, shining it around the floor until she finds the visitor.
"It's Frannie," Ray will offer, heart pounding anxiously. "You know, my sister. I mean, Vecchio's sister..."
"Francesca," Meg will whisper - full name, so she must recognise her. At least a little.
He won't be able to see Meg, so Ray will glance at Frannie instead. Frannie who'll be staring in Meg's direction, Frannie who'll be looking like she's about to say something dumb like, 'She's not entirely sane, is she?' Ray will kick her lightly. Lock Frannie in an attic for this long and see how *she* holds up.
"Yes," he'll whisper firmly. "Francesca. I wasn't sure if I could--" trust anyone else. Um. He'll grimace slightly and try to figure out what to say.
"Have you really been in here for the whole war?" Frannie'll ask, looking appalled. Ray will wince and gesture for her to keep it down to whispers.
"Yes. Whole war. The whole war." The light on Frannie's beat uniform will shake a little, and Meg will abruptly turn the flashlight off, plunging her attic into darkness. "Ray, can you go away?"
He'll freeze, not quite sure he'll have heard that right. "Uh, come again?" During this whole time she'll never have asked him to leave, not once, not even when they'll have fought.
"Leave," Meg will whisper, oddly jittery. "Leave us. I need, I need... don't know the word..."
"Privacy?" Frannie will suggest, remembering to whisper this time.
"Yeah. Privacy. Just two. Just two of us."
With a sinking feeling, Ray will think he understands. She won't be used to having more than one visitor. She'll have been afraid to push herself since that disastrous trip outside. He'll drop his head slightly, miserably, and whisper, "Sure. I'll, um... Well, I can't hang around on the sixth floor, it'd look weird. So I'll be down in my apartment. Frannie, remember to listen before you come out. And remember to whisper."
"Okay," Frannie will whisper, but not as impatiently as it should be.
Right. Well... Ray will hesitate a moment longer, then lower himself down the trapdoor, closing it after him. He'll spend a couple of moments listening at the door of the mop closet, then let himself out and go downstairs.
As he heads into his apartment, he'll try not to worry that he's losing her.
--
"And we've got, uh, some lasagna..." Ray pulled another tupperware container out of his bag. "Some fruit."
"It's still warm," Thatcher said in delight, prodding the lasagna.
Ray couldn't help grinning at the expression on her face. "Yeah, well, I figured Fraser would kill me if I fed you cold leftovers the whole time you're up here."
"It's not Fraser you should be afraid of," she said, pretending to be mysterious. "I have resources at my disposal you couldn't even imagine."
Ray flashed his flashlight around the attic. "Oh yeah, love that army of rats. I'm shakin' in my boots."
She stared at him. "There are *rats* here?"
"Nah..." Ray grinned evilly. "They're too big to be rats."
"You're a laugh-riot." Thatcher hunted for the cutlery he'd brought her and started in on the lasagna. "Mm. Thish ish good."
"Thanks," Ray said with a smile.
She swallowed and looked up at him. "You made it?"
"No, I buy all my meals from the restaurant down the road. Of course I made it."
She made a slight 'huh' and looked at the lasagna with new eyes. "Live and learn."
Oh, he hoped so. "Hell of a way to bond," he remarked.
Thatcher glanced at the loose floorboards for a moment, then forced a smile. "I never said we were bonding."
"Oh, well, my mistake. I'll write to the President right now and tell him to call off the war so I can get rid of you."
"Ask him for the security codes for the Pentagon while you're at it," Thatcher said, getting another forkful of lasagna. "Might as well do something useful while I'm stuck here."
Ray grinned. "Don't tell Huey you said that; I'll never hear the end of it."
She finished chewing and gave one of her polite smiles. "Well, if you promise not to bring him up here, I promise not to tell him." Glancing around, she added, "And something to liven this place up a bit."
"Yeah, I'll just drop by the mall and ask for a Canadian flag." He suddenly thought of something. "Hey, there's probably some rubble from the Consulate around somewhere. I mean, bits of paintings and stuff."
She gave him a sceptical look. "Do you think you could get hold of any of it?"
He shrugged and smiled brightly. "Probably not."
Thatcher rolled her eyes and returned to her lasagna.
--
After the bomb, Ray had wandered around in a daze. Someone had actually tried to blow up the Consulate. He hadn't been able to wrap his head around that. Sure, Canadians could be annoying as hell sometimes, but who would want to kill them?
But Thatcher had been okay. As far as he'd known. He'd begun to worry when she still hadn't turned up after a few days. Maybe she hadn't made her way back to Canada, maybe she'd been kidnapped or worse by whoever had planted the bomb. He hadn't known whether he should tell anyone, or if he should trust Thatcher to take care of herself. He'd let himself worry, at least, and do a little discreet investigating on his own.
It had been as though she'd vanished into thin air. Nothing in the news about an RCMP officer being held for ransom. He'd held tightly to that thought. No ransom. She must have made it back north. She must have.
And in the meantime, he'd had stuff to worry about in Chicago. Frannie had been looking more zoned out than usual that day, so he'd cornered her in the lunchroom to make sure she was okay.
"I got in," she'd said, getting them a cup of coffee each. She'd been getting pretty good at sympathetic waitressing around the bullpen lately.
"Oh," Ray had said, blowing on his coffee a bit to cool it. And then he'd looked up at her with a frown. "Huh?"
She'd sat down across from him. It had been a funny hour; they'd been the only two in the lunchroom. "The police academy. I was on the waiting list, remember? I got in."
"Wow," Ray'd commented, remembering how hard he'd had to work to get in. "Congratulations! ...Or not," he'd added as she slowly stirred her coffee.
She'd stared into her cup for several seconds, quieter than any Frannie Ray had remembered. Finally she'd said, "I just... I didn't expect... I mean, why did it have to be *now*? Fraser's gone, and--"
"Waitaminute," Ray had interrupted suspiciously. "The whole reason you applied to the Academy wasn't just about Fraser, was it?" It had never occurred to him before; just seemed too *big* a thing to do just to impress someone. But it *had* been Frannie they were talking about...
"What? God, no!" The surprise in her voice had reassured him. "But I did think that, you know, he'd at least be *around*..."
"You thought he'd always be around," he'd said softly. He'd known, because he'd thought the same thing himself.
"Yeah."
They'd sat in silence for a few moments, then Ray had said, "He'll be back."
"But what if he's not?" Frannie had asked.
That hadn't borne thinking about. "Then we make new friends. It's not the end of the world," he'd snapped, sharper than he'd intended. Probably because it had felt like it *would* be the end of the world. "Think about why you wanted to be a cop. If your reasons still fit, then go for it."
Frannie had nodded, with a tired smile. "I know. Thanks, Ray."
"Any time," he'd muttered, wondering again about Thatcher. It had seemed more and more likely that she'd escaped to Canada. Be just like her, too, to take off without saying goodbye. He'd tapped his fingers absently on the table as Frannie kissed him on the forehead and left with her coffee.
--
It's Huey's last day, and the farewell speeches are beginning to grate on Ray's nerves. If he hears one more well-wishing order to 'go out and get those Canuck bastards' there's going to be a whole little war right here in the station. At the end of his own good luck wishes he can't resist adding, "Try not to kill anyone we know."
The awkward silence makes him grin savagely. So easy to be anti-Canadian until you remember Fraser, Turnbull, other friends along the road. But Frannie in her new cop uniform is glaring at him - Jesus; *Frannie* of all people! He rolls his eyes and heads off to the lunchroom in a huff.
It's not that he wants Huey to get killed - although the minute that army uniform goes on it's a distinct possibility - but he doesn't want any Canadians to get killed either. Except maybe the ones in charge of the bombs. This whole war just sucks. Whose fault was it? No one knows, and it's beginning to seriously bother him. Well, no, that's not true. Everyone knows. Mom, mom, the Canadians started it. And the Canadians probably all think the Americans started it. Maybe Australian spies snuck over and started it.
"You're becoming quite the public speaker, Detective."
Great. Ray sighs slightly, braces himself and turns around. "Lieutenant, I know I was outta line--"
"No you weren't," Welsh says irritably. He's leaning on the doorframe, arm perfectly placed to scratch the side of his head at the same time as it supports him. "All things considered, you've been the model of restraint. Anyone else in your position would be chained to his desk singing Kumbayah already."
Oh. "So..." Ray shrugs a little. "What did you...?"
"How are you doing?"
Doing. Ha. He has a *Canadian* hidden in his attic. This is about five hundred and three steps up from Playboys under the bed. "I miss Fraser," he not-quite-lies, looking away. What is that, lie of omission? He's telling the truth, but not the important truth.
"Yeah." Welsh nods knowingly. "Don't tell him I said this, but I suppose I miss having him around here myself."
"I don't even know if he's still alive."
"After all the two of you have been through down here, you expect a tiny little war to take him out? I had more faith in you than that, Detective."
Ray manages a small laugh. It's true, he realises, the thought warming him inside. Welsh does have faith in him. Maybe enough so that Ray could risk telling the other truth, the big one. He takes a breath.
Not noticing, Welsh continues, "Besides, he's safer where he is now."
Ray stops saying what he was about to say. "What do you mean?"
"Well, Chicago." Welsh moves off from the doorframe so he can gesture around with both hands. "America. This isn't the place for him right now, for any Canadians. You know that."
"Yeah," Ray says, and folds his big truth back inside himself like summer clothes.
Welsh clears his throat. "It had, ah, occurred to me that both you and Detective Dewey are now partnerless--"
Ray isn't too slow to see where this is going. "Oh, you have got to be *kidding*," he says in disbelief. Wasn't a cop's job to *lower* the crime rate? Occupational homicide, happens every day.
"Mm, well, keep it in mind," Welsh says mildly, and heads back to Huey's farewell.
Great. This is just great. Fraser's trapped across the border, Ray has a Canadian hidden in his attic, and now Welsh wants to partner him with Dewey. Fucking perfect.
His whole life seems to be falling apart lately. Hasn't heard from his folks in weeks. And the root of it, he's pretty sure, is this whole stupid war. It's like the fake ghost ship thing with Fraser; two halves of a duet, parts of a whole, working at cross-purposes. Never works. And he gets the feeling that everything that's broken around him is never going to be fixed until North America stops trying to tear itself in two.
Maybe someone will figure out how to make a bomb for putting things back together again.
--
FINIS
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