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A Partner Called Ray
for Primrose
Author's Notes: Malnpudl is, without a doubt, one of the best betas in the world. I love her dearly and thank her for her usual spectacular beta.
“...Ray. Ray. Ray.” Ray blinked then looked up one side of the street and down the other. It was almost as if he’d never seen the houses before, though of course that was absurd. Aside from the fact that we’d been here a week earlier, he’d grown up on this street, just a few houses north of where we stood. “Ray. Ray!”
It was never particularly easy to regain Ray’s attention once it wandered elsewhere, but for some reason, I had an especially difficult time of it just then. When he at last turned to face me, he seemed startled by my appearance, judging by the way he examined my uniform. I wondered briefly if my lanyard was askew and adjusted it subtly.
“Ray, while I understand that you aren’t personally fond of Mrs. Buchalski — and given her penchant for misusing kitchenware, I can hardly blame you — she has made it abundantly clear that you’re the only officer she trusts at the moment.”
“I am?”
He was atypically vague, and I wondered exactly what Assistant State’s Attorney Kowalski had said to him before we left the precinct. Despite Ray’s abstraction, however, it was none of my business, so I simply treated his response as a straightforward request for confirmation.
“You are,” I told him, perhaps a touch too firmly. A moment later, when he still hadn’t moved to her front step, I clasped his shoulder and turned him toward the building. He glanced at me, confused. I spoke gently. “Ray, her signature.”
“What?”
I allowed myself a small sigh and tapped the folder in Ray’s hand. “You need to get her signature on the witness statement. ASA Kowalski needs the paperwork back this afternoon, remember?”
He drew in breath to answer, but before he spoke, he jumped slightly and looked over my shoulder with an expression of warm relief on his face. I looked back, expecting to see someone of Ray’s acquaintance approaching, but except for my father lurking near the front passenger fender of the Gran Turismo Omologato, we were alone on the street.
Ray said, “I’ll.”
I looked at him again and asked, “You’ll what?”
He again seemed surprised to see me and muttered, “I’ll just, uh, go get Mrs. Buchalski’s signature.”
“Fine.” I paused, and then I added, “I’ll wait for you here.”
Ray nodded and glanced to his left before heading up the steps to Mrs. Buchalski’s home. I heard him say, “That was fast. I just got here.”
However, before I could ask what was fast, my father came to stand next to me.
“Dad.” I felt no need to say anything beyond that. All of our conversations of late had devolved to little more than bickering, and I had no desire for another fruitless go-round with him.
“Son.” I glanced down at him. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he rocked slightly from heel to toe. “I see they’ve given you a new partner again. What happened to the other one?”
“What are you talking about?” Dad’s flights of fancy didn’t happen very often, but when they did, they could be a bit exasperating.
“The other fellow. You know — the one before him.” Dad looked at me expectantly.
I frowned at him, because he was being deliberately obtuse for some as yet to be determined reason. “We’ve talked about this before.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“Yes, we have! He’s in —” Dismayed by my near lapse, I glanced around to confirm no one was nearby then lowered my voice to finish, “He’s in Las Vegas. Remember?”
Dad shook his head. “No, no, no, Son. Not the first one. The second one. What happened to him? Have to say I rather liked the man. I thought he was good for you, especially after that nasty business up north.”
“Dad!” I didn’t know whether to be appalled over the fact that my father seemed to think I needed a keeper or the fact that my father had gone mad at some point. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You just saw Ray go into Mrs. Buchalski’s home.”
“I don’t know who that was, but I can tell you he wasn’t the second one.”
He said it with such calm assurance that I very nearly went up the steps myself to demand that Ray present himself for my father’s benefit. The only thing that stopped me was the memory of Mrs. Buchalski’s rather heavy frying pan. She kept it on the table just inside her front door and was quite adept at wielding it. It had been four days since I introduced myself to her, and my left shoulder still ached from the encounter. The consulate’s on-call physician had assured me just that morning that the numbness and bruising would fade. Eventually.
“Yes, he was.”
Over the years, I’ve found that when dealing with those who are suffering from a lapse of mental or emotional stability, it helps if one keeps a calm and even tone. I hoped that would be the case with my father, because I certainly couldn’t depend on him to find a reputable mental health specialist in the afterlife. Granted, he’s spoken of painting scenic landscapes alongside Sigmund Freud, but I’ve long suspected such name-dropping was Dad’s way of — well — of getting my sheep, so to speak.
“No, Son, he wasn’t.”
The argument began to lose any resemblance to adult discourse from that point and no doubt would have wandered into the realm of the farcical had Ray not finally emerged from Mrs. Buchalski’s home five minutes later. He didn’t appear to be in any distress, so presumably, she had simply signed off on her statement without resorting to physical violence to emphasize her displeasure with the state of Chicago’s older neighborhoods. I turned to my father to point out that Ray was, in fact, Ray, but Dad had already disappeared.
A few moments later, I had cause to wonder if maybe Dad had seen something I hadn’t, because Ray tossed me the keys to his car and said, “Why don’t you drive us back to the station, Benton?”
“I? I’m to drive back to the twenty-seventh district?” I believe my jaw may have dropped a few millimeters at that point, and not simply because Ray was willing to let me drive his car once again. To the best of my recollection, Ray — neither Ray — had ever once called me Benton without a tone of mockery in his voice.
Ray — and I began to doubt that he was Ray — shrugged and said, “Sure. Why not?” before climbing into the passenger seat of the car.
For a moment, I stood there, wondering if I had somehow been transported to an alternate universe, and then I shook off the fanciful notion. Ray could be eccentric at times, and perhaps the combination of ASA Kowalski’s earlier comments as well as our visit to his former neighborhood had led to Ray’s current behavior. That explanation certainly made more sense than my father’s claim that Ray wasn’t actually Ray, and it was enough to motivate me to get behind the wheel of the car.
Three blocks later, I again had cause to question if Ray was really Ray when I realized he hadn’t criticized my driving. There were a number of drivers behind me, all of whom were honking and shouting out suggestions as to where I could, well, shove various items, yet all Ray did was give me a bemused look and suggest I pull over for a few minutes.
“To let them pass,” he said.
I did so, and once the road was clear again, Ray said, “You like to drive the speed limit, don’t you?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Ray glanced in the back seat, and I followed his gaze, half expecting to see Dad sitting there. He wasn’t, though, and neither was Diefenbaker, who, after hearing we would be visiting Mrs. Buchalski today, had decided to remain with Turnbull at the consulate. I hadn’t argued the point. Mrs. Buchalski’s aging Persian cat was as forthright in his opinions about half-wolves as Mrs. Buchalski was about life in her neighborhood. I comforted myself with the knowledge that the scratch on Diefenbaker’s nose was healing nicely.
“Okay,” Ray said, his voice unexpectedly mild and warm. “I don’t think that works very well in Chicago, do you?”
“Well, no.” I gave him a sharp look and added, “But it should.”
“You’re right,” he said. “It should. But it doesn’t.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
We stared at each other for a moment, then said in near unison: “Why don’t I drive?” and “Why don’t you drive?”
~*~*~
Dad showed up an hour after our return to the station, and by that time, I was certain once more that Ray was, in fact, himself. So it didn’t bother me overly much when Dad said, “Figure out where your partner is, yet?”
“He’s in Interrogation Room One,” I said, not looking up from the report I was helping to assemble. In going over the facts of the case, I was reminded that Mrs. Buchalski’s reaction to me the prior week was perfectly understandable. After all, the miscreants, dressed as Mounties, had worn Pierre Trudeau masks while they plastered cars, homes and domestic animals with the homey red maple leaf of my country’s flag. Honestly, it was enough to put anyone off Canada for the remainder of their life.
A few minutes later, Dad returned to say, “That’s still not him, Son.”
“Yes, it is.” I knew it was, because shortly after our return, Ray caught up with ASA Kowalski and stuttered his way through an invitation to dinner later on. It was painful to watch, and not because of any hopes I myself might have in Ray’s direction. I simply didn’t like to see anyone repeatedly and pointlessly bash his head against a brick wall, and Ray was no exception. In any case, ASA Kowalski reacted predictably, and Ray looked despondent as she left, her footsteps as crisp and precise as Ray’s practice shots on the gun range.
My father snapped, “No, it isn’t!”
I let out a heavy sigh, startling Francesca as she walked past. “Are you okay, Frase?”
“Yes, I am, thank you.” As always, her concern for my well-being was quite heartening.
I gathered the paperwork for the case of the “Dismounted Mounties” — Ray’s choice of appellation, not mine — and stood up, saying, “I need to speak with Ray about our case.”
She frowned slightly. “Yeah, you talk to him, okay?”
I blinked. “Francesca?”
“It’s just —” She glanced around before lowering her voice. “It’s just that I walked by there a few minutes ago, and he was arguing with himself.”
“Arguing? With himself?”
“Yeah. Complete with arm gestures and everything.” She bit down on her lower lip. “I’m worried about him. Stella was kind of mean when she shot him down earlier, you know?”
I did, indeed, know. “I’ll talk to him.”
A few minutes later, I stood in the hall outside Interrogation Room One, looking through the window. Ray was most assuredly having an argument with himself, and it didn’t look as though he were winning.
“I don’t know who that is, Son, but it’s not the blond fellow you’ve been riding with over the last few months.” He stretched up to look through the window himself, and I gave way. Ridiculous, I know, but it was habit. “Do you know the man he’s talking to in there?”
“He’s talking to himself.” I would have said more, but just then, Detective Dewey passed by, giving me an odd look. I smiled at him, and he continued on.
“No he isn’t. He’s talking to an older chap — a snappy dresser, though I have to admit that I never would have considered the possibility that purple and lime green could be combined in quite that way.”
I looked through the window again. “Ray’s alone in there.”
“That’s not Ray, and he’s not alone.” Dad popped into the room — literally — and pointed at the space Ray was talking to. “He’s right here,” he said, if my lip reading was accurate. Then Dad held up his hand and said, “About yay high and smoking a cigar.” Dad shifted his gaze and said, “Smoking isn’t allowed in here.”
I began to think my father had gone a bit insane when he argued with the same patch of air Ray was. Or rather, had been, because Ray stopped speaking as soon as Dad started. It seemed as good a time as any to check on him, so I entered the room.
“Ray?”
He looked at me, apparently puzzled by my appearance. “Benton? What are you still doing here?”
I held up the case file and said, “Just finishing up the paperwork.”
“Oh.”
“Ray —” I stopped, uncertain how to proceed, then decided to rely on the strength of our friendship to see us through what promised to be a difficult conversation. “About your conversation with ASA Kowalski —”
“That didn’t work out very well, did it?”
Relieved that he wasn’t defensive, I approached the table and put the file down before moving closer to Ray. “It didn’t. And frankly, I’m a bit confused.”
“You are?” He tilted his head, and a look of — hope? interest? — flashed in his eyes.
“Well. Yes. You told me not two weeks ago that you were finally ready to move on and start dating new people.”
Off to the side, I heard Dad say, “Well of course he isn’t Ray Vecchio! The real Ray Vecchio is in Las Vegas.”
A moment later, Ray looked sharply in Dad’s direction and muttered, “I’m not Vecchio?”
Oh dear. It was worse than I thought. Not only was Ray now capable of seeing my father, he had also lost all sense of who he really was.
Speaking as gently as I could, I said, “No, Ray, you aren’t.” He looked at me expectantly, and I continued, “You’re Detective First Class Stanley Raymond Kowalski, currently undercover as Detective First Class Raymond Vecchio, both of the Chicago Police Department.”
Understanding dawned at once, but he again looked toward Dad. After another moment, I heard Dad exclaim, “What? Absolutely not. I forbid it! ... I? ... I’ll have you know that I’m Benton’s father, Sergeant Robert Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. ... Well of course I’m dead. Have been for years. Tell him, Benton.”
I stared at Dad, and then I stared at Ray, whose evident confusion was no doubt echoed on my face. We both started to speak, and then Ray overrode me, saying, “Perhaps you and I should go back to my place.”
“I think that might be best.”
~*~*~
Ray’s apartment was an island of sanity. We’d had another conversation in the parking lot about driving there, and in the end, we both decided to leave his car where it was and take a taxi to his home. I wasn’t entirely certain of Ray’s motivation, but my own was driven by a persistent concern that Ray wasn’t yet fully in touch with the reality of his life. That being the case, there was no guarantee that he would be able to find his way to his building, let alone to his secret parking spot.
I was just locking the door behind me when I distinctly heard him say, “I’ll go away.”
“Ray, don’t!” I said, turning quickly.
“What? No, that’s not —” He sighed. “I’m not going anywhere. Just — come over here, okay?”
“Don’t do it, Son,” my father warned. He added darkly, “That man — his name is Sam, if you’re interested — has designs on your virtue.”
Obviously, the hole in Dad’s bag of marbles had opened precipitously wide at some point in the last few hours, but dealing with his break from reality would have to wait. Ray, after all, was still very much alive and so took precedence.
I met Ray halfway across the room and stopped, waiting.
He looked at me for quite a long time then raised his hand. I jerked slightly as he caressed my cheek and had to make an effort not to lean into the unexpected contact.
“Ray?” My voice was a hoarse whisper and gave away far more than I would have preferred.
“This might not work,” he said, leaning closer. “But I think it will. Just — Benton?”
“Yes, Ray?” He was close enough that our breath mingled, and I could all but feel his words touching my lips.
“May I —”
Between one breath and the next, his lips touched mine, and the world suddenly shifted into a new direction. Slow and gentle, he teased me with his kiss, tilting my head just so to improve the angle of our connection. I leaned into the warmth of his body, scarcely noticing when my right hand slid around his waist to hold him closer. I’m not sure how long we stood there before I felt a marvelous tangle of bright energy run between us, sparking down my spine and then back up again. Every moment of intense longing I’d ever felt for Ray coalesced into a sensuous heat which pooled —
“I wonder where that Sam fellow went,” Dad said, and I broke off our kiss to glare at him. He was, as usual, unrepentant, saying only, “I can’t say that I approve of fraternization between partners, and that Al fellow agrees with me, by the way, but if the Yank makes you happy —” Dad shrugged his shoulders. “Just be sure to use condoms, Son. No sense taking chances.”
My face must have been at least as red as my jacket when he disappeared. I would have choked off an explanation to Ray and left immediately if he hadn’t said, in a low, urgent voice, “Fraser? Were we just kissing?”
I looked at him and couldn’t decide if he was angry or hopeful. “Yes, Ray. We were.”
After a moment, he asked, “Why?”
“I’m not sure. You started it.”
“I did?”
“You did.”
“Huh. Best idea I ever had,” he said, pulling me in for another long, gentle kiss.
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