Cheat (Cheating Challenge on ds-flashfiction)
Pairings: Vecchio/Fraser; Kowalski/Fraser; Vecchio/Stella
Rating: R
Size: about 5900 words
Summary: When Fraser and Vecchio meet again in that hotel room in COTW part 1, Vecchio is not happy.
Cheat
1. Time to get my life back
“Ray!”
He’s obviously very pleased to see me. It seems to have slipped his mind completely that he’s a cop.
I would have been glad to see him too, if the current situation wasn’t so dangerous, if the idea of seeing him again hadn’t got me sick every single time out of the zillion I thought about it in the past eighteen months, and if he hadn’t brought company. Blond haired, blue-eyed company. Possessive, envious looking company. Company that I do not like and that doesn’t like me right back. With a vengeance.
I don’t have the time to think about it any further. It’s not supposed to bother me. I am Armando Languistini from the Iguana family, South West branch, and I came here to meet Holloway Muldoon to arrange for some lucrative business.
It was a very carefully arranged meet. It took me eighteen months and a change of identity to plan it. Not that I didn’t welcome the gig. Losing myself seemed the thing I needed most, eighteen months ago. Not being there to pick up Fraser when he came back from his vacation up North-completely ceasing to be Ray Vecchio-seemed my ticket out of trouble. I grabbed it with both hands and fled.
And now he’s here, blowing my cover and offering to “explain” things to Muldoon.
It’s not a good idea. Envious Guy seems to agree. “Fraser, not now,” he says.
Muldoon’s intrigued by the name. This is not good.
I divert attention by demanding to know Envious Guy’s name, and he has the nerve to start a fucking word game. I believe I already said that I don’t like him.
I point my gun at him. It would do a lot for my rep if I pulled the trigger. In eighteen months time, I haven’t killed or ordered to kill. I resorted to verbal assault and my non-killing hasn’t raised suspicion among my staff, not to a level that’s dangerous to my health at least, but it earned me the nickname “The Pacifist” which obviously isn’t a compliment for a mobster.
“What’s it gonna be, funny guy?” I hiss at E.G.
He shows me his badge. It tells me that he is “Ray Vecchio, Chicago P.D.”.
Muldoon is not amused. He thinks that bringing cops to a meet isn’t a gentleman’s way of doing business. He’s suspicious about the set up. And he is still very much intrigued by Fraser. Dangerously intrigued.
I have to act quickly, and I shift my gun to the Mountie. It’s frightening how many things can go through a man’s mind in mere fractions of seconds, because I’m sure my, “Dead guy, get up,” comes out natural enough for a mobster, in timing and tone, and yet before I say them at least four thoughts have occurred to me. One about the beauty of his eyes. One about my transparency; the mixture of self-disgust, longing and anger I’m feeling must be clearly visible to him. A third thought is about the absurdity of the second because, yeah, sure Fraser has an IQ of a 180 when it comes to solving cases, but as far as people’s feelings about him are concerned he’s completely oblivious. Then there’s the thought about the gun thing. Training my gun on Fraser has me thinking about my other “gun”. (If Freud was in this room, I’d strangle him with my bare hands.) The fit of my pants is the way it should be (thank God), but it’s embarrassing enough that I need even a nanosecond to have a mental check on this.
When Fraser stands from the couch, he almost touches my gun (the real one). I curse Freud, and God (or whoever it is that invented erections if He didn’t do it) and I will the blood away from my crotch.
Fraser isn’t afraid of my mobster act. He’s willing to go along with whatever plan I have. The look in his eyes makes me sick-not of him, but of myself. I don’t need this feeling-not ever, but certainly not now, while Muldoon is watching my every move.
I take a step back. “The bathroom,” I say to Fraser. The message is meant for Envious Guy too, but I’m sure he doesn’t need any encouragement. I’ve seen his stares at Fraser. He’d follow the Mountie wherever he went, as a good puppy would do its owner.
The three of us make a silent deal in the bathroom. I nod at a towel and fire two shots into it, while Fraser and his puppy fall to the ground. Then I get back to Muldoon, who informs me that he’s still in the game and suggests that we meet again at nine, at the back up location.
He leaves, and I order my staff to clean up the bodies in the bathroom. There’s a little fight before Fraser and E.G. emerge.
Envious Guy is envious, all right. Well, that makes two of us. I may be the real Ray Vecchio and I may have the oldest rights, but E.G. has assets that may outweigh mine. He doesn’t seem mixed up about what he wants. He’s afraid of losing it, sure, but I don’t think he has any reason.
Fraser is clearly pleased to see me, but he isn’t confused about it. There’s no reason to assume that he has missed me more than he thought he would. From the look of things, he’s very much aware of E.G.’s presence in the room, and he isn’t secretly wishing the guy away. Fraser isn’t about to tell me he loves me (and thank God for that).
“It’s good to see you, Ray,” he says, after I have delivered a rant about him having blown my cover.
His words take me off guard. They sound so bloody sincere. I don’t know what to say or where to look.
I go over to hug him. After all, that’s what I would have done if I met him after eighteen months and didn’t have this very unwelcome revelation just before we said goodbye. I’m careful to keep my crotch away from his. There’s nothing there that could betray me, but there might be if we touched (blood runs so goddamn fast).
“It’s good to see you too, Benny,” I say. I imagine that I’m hugging a tree.
Envious Guy mutters, “Awe, that’s cute.” He’s clearly not happy to witness this little scene.
I ignore him. It feels good to tune him out and besides, ignoring E.G. would be the natural thing to do under the circumstances-ignoring him and talking to Fraser. I know I’m up to it. I’ve just hugged the Mountie; I can talk to him.
However, the only thing that springs to mind is a sort of friendly replay of the rant I delivered a minute ago.
I turn to E.G. who has been watching Fraser and me like a kid that isn’t allowed to play with the others. Taken aback is only part of his mood, though. He’s doesn’t strike me as a guy who gives up easily.
We talk fashion. It’s more of a woman thing to do, of course, but it’s very effective in degrading a person. I compare E.G. to a bag lady, he calls me a style pig in return. It’s clear to me that he’s upset, but not beaten. I decide that it’s time to inform him about something important. I do it slowly, so I can be certain that he understands. I tell him that my staff, now lying on the floor in the bathroom and sleeping like logs, will be allowed one phone call each once they regained consciousness and have been taken to the station. They’re going to call Vegas and when they do, Armando Languistini will be history.
“Time to get my life back,” I say. (Preferably the one I had four years ago-before I met Fraser.)
“But that’s my life,” E.G. protests.
“I’m afraid it is,” I say tersely. Like I said before, I don’t like him and I know he doesn’t like me.
Fraser is grinning broadly. He pats us both on the shoulder. “I knew you two would hit it off,” he says.
2. You got Fraser
It’s good to see Welsh again. He acts reassuringly normal, like nothing has changed. Like I just handed in a case report yesterday, or something. It’s comforting.
It’s hard to have Fraser in your life and not have him at the center of it. Frannie knows that. When we enter the precinct, she’s actually more pleased to see Fraser than to greet me, her long lost brother.
Thatcher knows it too. She may put a little more effort in hiding them than my sister does, but you can’t fool me that the hots she has for her “second in command” are any less feverish than Frannie’s.
It’s abundantly clear that Envious Guy knows. I fucking know it myself. Welsh isn’t tainted by this affliction though, and it’s comforting to know that it is possible to not have Fraser at the center of your life and still be reasonably happy.
The lieu’s eyes are on me while I’m doing a briefing about Muldoon for the people assembled in the office. Fraser listens quietly. E.G. is giving me glares like he resents it that the stage is mine now, and more importantly of course, that I have his partner’s undivided attention.
The plan had been that Armando Languistini would broker the deal between Muldoon and the buyer of the chemical weaponry he had on offer, and that the FBI would nail Muldoon and his unknown buyer in the process. Said scheme is now in jeopardy.
All eyes are on Fraser. It’s strangely satisfying to see him be the object of joint disapproval just for once.
“The meet with Muldoon is set for nine. My cover should hold until then,” I say to no one in particular. I’m a cop and besides, I don’t really hate Fraser. I wish I did, but I don’t.
Welsh gets busy assigning people to their tasks. He doesn’t get me one, so I leave the office after the rest of them, with E.G. on my heels. Welsh calls me back and I turn, and so does E.G. I guess he’s still not used to not being me anymore.
Welsh mutters something about confusion and decides that I can be Ray Vecchio because I was Ray Vecchio to start with. This is true, of course.
“And, uh, who am I?” E.G. asks. Awe, is he a confused little puppy or what?
Welsh generously offers him to be Stanley Kowalski. And he’s serious about it. Apparently, E.G.’s dad had a big thing for Marlon Brando.
I walk over to Welsh’s desk and Stanley leaves the office. I’d say that the score is Vecchio one, Kowalski nil.
My conversation with the lieutenant is mostly about damage control for tonight’s gig. Once more it strikes me how reassuring it is to listen to Welsh’s sloppy articulation. With each droned phrase I feel myself slip into Ray Vecchio mode more.
I am Ray Vecchio who wants his life back-because no one else is entitled to it. I am Ray Vecchio who gloats in Stanley’s Kowalski’s misery-because men are competitive bastards, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Besides, there are worse things than being competitive over Fraser. And that’s my shield. If I don’t like Kowalski and he doesn’t like me, it’s because of Fraser. Anyone with half a brain would guess that much and find it a satisfactory and very straightforward explanation. (I mean, there’s nothing queer about it, is there? We’re talking Fraser here.)
When my talk with Welsh is over, I reacquaint my desk. Kowalski comes up, demanding to know what I am doing.
I wonder aloud how he can work in the mess I’m currently holding. He says the piles of crap I left all over the place have nothing on his mess. I respond that my piles of crap were organized. He says so is his mess.
“Why don’t you just organize it some place else?” I suggest.
He’s volatile. I’m not surprised.
“Is that good?” he says, when he has swept the papers off my desk.
I ask him if he has a problem, and he explains. Fast. Maybe, just maybe he doesn’t like the way I’m sashaying around trying to take over everything.
Maybe. Or he’s just afraid of losing Fraser.
I don’t think there’s been a Big Talk between Kowalski and the Mountie yet. If there was, Kowalski wouldn’t be so insecure. You can say a lot about Fraser-and isn’t that everybody’s hobby?-but he’s loyal to the bone. And I hate to admit it, but Kowalski’s the exception that confirms the rule about blonds; the word game was a clever thing. If Fraser and him were “together” Kowalski would act differently; he’d probably try to make me dizzy by doing little victory dances or something.
I get a sick feeling in my gut. It’s sick to be jealous over something I don’t want. Something I know for absolutely sure I don’t want to want. But I don’t want Kowalski-or any other male, but especially Kowalski-to have Fraser either. I don’t want Fraser to be gay. If Fraser is straight then there is a way for me out of this mess. Somehow.
But there is this man. Stanley Kowalski. He wants Fraser, and I know, I just know with all the certainty that speaks from a sick gut, that with a little patience, persistence, and pizzazz (God, the sickness has even crept into my vocabulary) which I’m sure he can muster, he will get what he wants. It’s not a question of “if” but “when.”
And the answer is, not yet.
“This is my desk, it’s my life, now get over it,” I say.
He makes no attempt to follow the order. Instead, he attacks me. Man, he really must have it bad for the Mountie.
Frannie breaks us apart before any real harm can be done on either side, and tells us to go back to work. If it wasn’t for my sister, civilian aid F. Vecchio, no one would ever work at this station, obviously.
Kowalski turns to pick up the papers. He looks dejected and I take pity. I have no idea why, but I do.
I mumble an intro to an apology, but he waves it away. He says he knew I’d come back some day. He just didn’t think it would be so soon.
I wouldn’t call it soon myself. It’s been eighteen fucking months. It’s the length of the undercover gig that causes his current misery, I’m sure. If it had been shorter, then he wouldn’t have had the time to fall in love with Fraser, to get used to being with the Mountie, and to build dreams about a future together.
I can’t say this, of course. I resort to metaphor. “I know. It feels as though you died and you didn’t get everything done. That’s how I felt when I walked out of here.” It is. It doesn’t matter that it was suicide, so to speak.
He seems to appreciate my effort, and puts in his fifty cents. “How’s Vegas been?”
“Undercover is lonely.”
He nods as if he understands. I don’t think he does. I mean, how can he?
“You got Fraser.”
It’s a fact. I’m not exactly fine with it, but I will be. I’ve already made up my mind that I do not, not, want Fraser myself, and that decision is final.
Kowalski looks at me, and for a moment I think he knows what I’m thinking. Then he gives me a happy smile, like a kid who just got a balloon. Apparently, he just needed a reminder.
I grin back at him.
I’m not sure how big a hypocrite I am exactly.
3. It’s just a flesh wound
At a quarter past eight, three police units are off to the meet that Armando Languistini has with Muldoon. Welsh assigned everybody to the cars, and Kowalski wasn’t pleased with the result. He’s driving behind Fraser and me, with Thatcher on the passenger’s seat. I’m sure he’s pining, and hating me with renewed energy.
I’m not exactly comfortable myself. Being so close to Fraser in the car makes it difficult not to remember when I first realized I’d fallen in love. It was a shock on many levels. First, there was a gay thing, of course. I wasn’t gay. I never had any suspicious interest in guys before, and I didn’t want to start now. Then there was the partner thing. Falling in love with a colleague is not uncommon, but when you are a cop, it’s a dangerous thing to do (even apart from the gay thing). It can affect your judgment and lead to fatal mistakes.
Finally, it wasn’t love at first sight.
I’m the kind of guy that either wants somebody at the first blink or not at all, but that’s not how it happened with Fraser. The first time I met Fraser I hated him at first sight. He’d just blown my cover (it’s kind of a habit of his, now that I come to think of it). He was so righteous, and he looked so goddamned clean. And beautiful. Yeah, I noticed it even then, but how could I have missed it? No one can miss a thing like that.
I was jealous because of all the female attention he got and that he didn’t seem to want. Most of the time we ended up doing things his way, which really annoyed me. He was weird, he was licking stuff, but in spite of it all, he grew on me. And yet I didn’t see it coming.
It finally kicked in when he lost his personality. He fell of a car he was chasing and lost his memory. Not only that, he lost his Fraserness as well. He became just your average, rather rude, amnesic guy. I freaked. I thought he was gone forever. (Temporary memory loss I had heard of, but momentary loss of personality never.) I was wrong, thank God, but Fraser not being Fraser anymore made me realize just how important he was to me.
I was more relieved about the return of him than of that of his memory. When he told me the license plate number of the car he had been chasing I said I could kiss him. It was just a figure of speech, but his reply, “I thought we were just friends, Ray,” was offered without any hint of shock or disgust, and absolutely, totally Fraser. It made me realize that part of me, a very specific part at the lower region of my body, wouldn’t mind at all if we were more than friends.
I freaked out, of course, but I managed to say that we were indeed just friends. I called Elaine to give her the license plate number, Fraser and I booked Whatsisname and his harem, and I put quite some effort in acting sort of normal for a couple of weeks, until Fraser went on vacation to Canada and I got the chance to go to Vegas and become Armando Languistini.
Now I’m back and we’re sitting here in the car, like nothing has changed. But everything changed. It will never be the same again.
I mutter something about having missed this stuff. In my own ears, I sound pretty convincing.
Hell, if I’d ever get tired of being a cop, I could take up acting.
“Like old times, aye?” Fraser says. He doesn’t sound convinced. It’s Kowalski, of course. (I’m not that bad an actor. You can’t do undercover if you can’t act.). And it stings. I don’t want Fraser, but it hurts that he doesn’t want me. Just how pathetic is that?
We arrive at the location where Muldoon and Languistini will meet. I step out of the car, but when the party is about to begin the Feds turn up. Muldoon’s pretty ticked off by it. We all play “gunfire” for a while. Eventually, Muldoon runs inside the building and I follow him, but he’s too quick for me.
Inside it’s rather dark and there are many corridors. In one of them, I find Fraser and Kowalski. When I ask where Muldoon and his goons have gone, Stanley shrieks and swings around to pull his gun on me.
“Jumpy,” I grin. Then I hear Thatcher’s voice behind me, saying something about the place being creepy. The Dragon Lady startles me. Vecchio two, Kowalski one, I’m afraid.
Turning around a corner, we find the goons. They shoot at us, and we respond in like kind. Well, Stanley mainly. He’s a trigger-happy guy, but it doesn’t get him anywhere. The goons escape. They run upstairs. We follow them, Kowalski in front.
He holds the door the goons have just used. “They split up. We’ll take these guys,” he says to me.
“Muldoon’s this way, sir,” Fraser says, ushering Thatcher to follow him further upstairs.
Apparently, the guys are not as inseparable as I thought. It shouldn’t be such a relief. I have other priorities now, dammit.
We’re shot at again. Kowalski’s aim is worse than a rookie’s. It’s his glasses, he explains. He can’t find them but they must be somewhere in his jacket.
Jesus. Maybe he’s a true blonde after all.
The goons lead us to an indoor fair. Kowalski finds his glasses. They were stuck in the lining of his coat. When he puts them on, his aiming gets significantly better. Maybe even better than mine is. (At a time like this, I’m only glad.)
I spot Muldoon. He’s pointing a gun at the Ferris Wheel, or at two Mounties hanging upside down from it, to be more precise. There’s no time to think about what the hell they are doing. Muldoon is aiming at Fraser, goddammit. I pull my gun, but the bastard sees me and shoots first. He has good aim.
There’s a long train of thoughts before I pass out.
I once shot Fraser to save him from a disastrous decision about a woman. (She was pure evil, the Metcalf bitch, but what does Fraser know about women?) Now I am being shot for saving him. There’s something very right about that, somehow. Also, I’m glad that I saved the Mountie from a bullet, and not Kowalski. I’m the hero. If I die, it’ll be for love. How very romantic.
***
I don’t die. My sister seems to think I will, or that I have already gone. She’s crying at the side of my hospital bed as I regain consciousness. This morning she gave me some pretty dirty looks because Kowalski picked up a fight with me-that’s right, he started it-and accused me of having had testosterone shots in the Mob. Now she’s sobbing like she’s sitting next to the coffin of a very dearly beloved. That’s sisters, I suppose. I tell her everything will be all right, ‘cause that’s what brothers do.
She smiles a little and leaves, and I drift off to sleep again, apparently. When I open my eyes, Fraser is in the room.
Seeing him standing there causes a strange mixture of emotions inside me. I could blame it on my shoulder, but that wouldn’t be fair.
There’s pride and relief that I saved his life. There’s a longing I never felt so strongly before. (I’m weak. I lost a lot of blood. Blame it on the shoulder after all.) I must hold it in check, of course. Allowing myself to want Fraser would only hurt more, because I know I can’t have him, even if I could be at peace with myself for wanting him. Which I don’t think I can. Or want.
That doesn’t mean knowing I’ll never have him doesn’t hurt. Knowing the guy who will have him eventually gives me just as much hell as my shoulder in fact.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” I tell Fraser.
He nods. He’s concerned. Those eyes resting on me, they make my mouth go dry.
“You’d better go now,” I say, and of course, I get an “Understood” in return.
There are voices outside my room. Kowalski’s here too. Why? Did he come to hold Fraser’s hand? Wasn’t I the one who was shot?
I try to hear some words. When I shift, my shoulder seems to be set on fire. It’s just a flesh wound, I remind myself. It’ll heal. I will heal. All I have to do is reinvent myself.
4. The real Ray Vecchio
I’m discharged from the hospital pretty soon. The doctors didn’t remove the bullet, afraid an operation would cause nerve damage, but they’ve assured me that in due time I’ll be able to use my right arm almost as well as I could before.
Muldoon drove a golden bullet into me, so to speak. The world’s my oyster now. I can retire, get full pension, and do anything I want.
Right now, I want to get Muldoon.
People are pleased to see me at the precinct, but not really surprised. There’s a guy in room 2 who might know something. Welsh thinks it would be a good idea if I had a talk with him.
The answer to my first question-has he ever heard of the Iguana family?-is affirmative. The one to the second-how about Armando Languistini?-ditto. The guy elaborates on this a little. In his line of work, the Bookman is a guy people tend to look up to. Probably because he’d kill a person for a parking spot.
It’s nice to know that I deliver credible threats. And it’s really funny what people like this guy think a Pacifist is capable of.
When asked, he declares that in his opinion any guy who got on the wrong side of Armando Languistini is pretty stupid. I show him my ID. He turns pale. He can’t give me the name of Muldoon’s buyer, but he comes up with a code.
It takes a while before I crack it. I have difficulty focusing on the matter at hand, because I haven’t seen Fraser or Kowalski at the precinct since I arrived, and it turns out that they have “gone”. For the moment, it is assumed that they are “not here” in the cause of duty, but they might as well be dead. (Or maybe they have eloped. Oh Jesus, Ray, stop nagging yourself.)
When I finally break the code, it’s because of my sister. To say that she likes to meddle with detective work would be the understatement of the year. Detectives Huey and Dewey, and Lieutenant Welsh and I have juggled “one seven F O C seven six” for quite a while when Frannie states that we must be on the wrong track. Then it hits me. Track. Train. The Bolt brothers. Francis and Randal. Hobbies: bombings and train derailments. Known to lead a group of mainly cousins called “Fathers of Confederation”. Named themselves after the political leaders from the British North American colonies who discussed confederation during the War of Independence that started in 1776. One seven F O C seven six. Bingo.
Only, the Bolt brothers are both doing life in the Federal Pen.
I suggest we run down all their visitors. It appears there was one visitor in the last month. For Randal. Cyrus Bolt, cousin on his father’s side, and mad militia leader. He’s booked, although we have very little on him. His lawyer will get him out in no time.
She does. It’s only a matter of hours before he’s free to go again. We’ll follow his every move, though.
The State’s Attorney who brought Bolt’s release order is a very beautiful woman. Her name is Stella Kowalski.
It’s not a coincidence. It can’t be. But I keep my cool and I say, “Ray Vecchio. The real Ray Vecchio.”
We hit it off. Waiting for news about Fraser and Kowalski, we have long talks together.
She appears very worried about Stanley-whose full name is Stanley Raymond Kowalski by the way, and who officially renamed himself Ray at the age of seven-and I’m the understanding friend. It isn’t difficult; I’m pretty hung up about Fraser myself, I know worry.
The divorce was Stella’s idea, but she seems a little mixed up about it. Maybe it’s just that the bond between ex-spouses can never be truly broken (I’d be just as worried as I am now if it was Ange instead of Fraser) or maybe she now realizes that she regrets the separation, and hates the fact that there’s a Mountie in her way, keeping her from getting Stanley back.
Because there’s no doubt in my mind that that is the case. Fraser might not know it yet, but if he did, and if he was here, he’d tell Stella something like, “Attorney Kowalski, sir,” (or “mam”; or whatever title would suit the Mountie rules of politeness best) “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid your ex-husband’s affections are now otherwise engaged. Moreover-and I realize that it may not please you to hear this-he is spoken for. By…ah…by me. I’m genuinely sorry for your loss.” It’s just a guess, of course, but this could be Fraser’s words.
And I don’t mind. I really don’t. I never wanted Fraser. I dreaded seeing him again, because I knew what I would feel (I may be a homophobe, but I’m not stupid), but I never wanted to want him. Wanting Fraser wasn’t-isn’t-part of the real Ray Vecchio.
Meeting Kowalski was a shock. I had put so much effort in not wanting Fraser that I’d completely overlooked the fact that what I did or didn’t want might not even be relevant. That Fraser might not want me. The second I saw Stanley I knew that I’d missed something painfully crucial.
Stella and I are in the same boat, and we have to let go. We’re fighting a lost battle if we don’t. We must stick together and build new lives for ourselves.
Having sex seems a good start.
It’s awkward. I slept with countless women in the name of Armando Languistini. He might have been a Pacifist, but he sure as hell was a lady-killer. I needed to build him a rep. He didn’t have a wife or girlfriend (and he wasn’t gay). It’s amazing how an aura of evil attracts a certain type of woman. Armando had more “je ne sais quoi” in the eighteen months he existed than I had in my entire life.
I learnt to view sex as a purely mechanical thing, and behave accordingly. I discovered that anger and contempt provide a great sex drive. It was a frightening realization, but I told myself that this was Armando Languistini, not Ray Vecchio.
Thinking of the one-night stands Armando had doesn’t work with Stella. She’s not the type of woman who’d fall for Armando Languistini. Just the opposite, if they ever met, she’d made sure he got life.
This isn’t working. Stella notices there’s something wrong. “Ray?”
She never called me Ray in that tone before. Suddenly, I can perform. I thrive on the thrill of knowing that I’m fucking somebody else’s wife, even if she is actually his ex-wife.
We learn that Fraser and Kowalski have busted Holloway Muldoon and Cyrus Bolt, Muldoon’s buyer, and that they are both safe. Welsh tells us they’re not coming back for a while (“if ever” he doesn’t say). They are going on some search together.
“What search?” I ask. “Whose idea was it?”
Welsh gives me a look and says slowly, “Fraser’s, I believe. I didn’t understand completely about the search. Kowalski can get quite incomprehensible when he’s excited about something…” He sighs, and for a moment I fear that he’s going to muse some about how much Kowalski baffles him at times. He’s not. “Apparently, there’s a legend about a hand,” he says. “The Hand of Franklin if I heard correctly. They’re going to look for it.”
Are they now? Lucky Kowalski. Going on a search for the Hand of Franklin with Fraser-the search for Each Other’s Dicks, more like. This sounds very much like a honeymoon to me. I knew it would happen, but now that it does, it’s still a shock.
“Will you marry me?” I ask Stella when we’re alone.
She nods. “Yeah, marriage is the closest thing to getting out of this mess, isn’t it?”
“We could move. To Florida or something.”
“As far away from Canada as possible without emigrating,” Stella says deadpan. “We could even open a bowling alley.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” she assures me. “Although not necessarily about the bowling alley.”
The wedding ceremony is unremarkable. It’s just Stella and me, and the reverend. The wedding night I’ll never forget.
It starts bad. I’m inside Stella, but I can’t keep hard. The idea of sleeping with somebody else’s wife isn’t working anymore-she’s my wife now, and the notion doesn’t arouse me.
Stella doesn’t have a problem. She’s not the one who has to have the erection, but more importantly, she knows what she needs to enjoy this. I’m aware that she isn’t fucking me when she’s fucking me; she’s fucking her ex.
I don’t care. We aren’t lovers in the true sense of the word (we don’t love each other) we’re friends with benefits. I don’t mind Stella using her imagination; I envy her for allowing herself the luxury. (Besides, she saves us both the embarrassment of calling out the wrong name when she comes.)
I have nothing to stir my desire. I taught myself not to think of Fraser in a sexual way-to any extent, under any circumstances-and it has become a skill I master perfectly.
I did have dreams at night in Vegas. Inevitable, wet, delightful dreams that left me feeling miserable, dirty and very much disgusted in the morning. But I don’t have them very often anymore.
I have gone soft inside Stella. “Ray, please, focus,” she says irritated, like it’s not the first time. She doesn’t even open her eyes. It isn’t me. I wasn’t impotent with her before.
It’s Kowalski. Stanley. Ray. Fraser’s blond puppy. His partner. His lover.
Something snaps. All self-control I ever had is gone. I’m instantly hard again. Hot waves of something roll over me. It’s like a high, and I know that this is an addiction as severe as that to heroin. It is completely wrong, but I’m an instant junkie and I don’t care.
I’m flying. Oh, God, this is wonderful.
“Wow,” Stella smiles in post-coital bliss when I’ve landed again. “What was that?” She looks closely at me, and her blissful expression changes. “On second thoughts, I believe I don’t want to know,” she says.
I feel guilty. I do. But not too much. There’s self-disgust as well, but again, not too much. It felt so incredibly good. Better than any dream I ever had about Fraser. And besides, this might work. Stella cheats on me with her ex-husband, and I do the same to her.
END
Rating: R
Size: about 5900 words
Summary: When Fraser and Vecchio meet again in that hotel room in COTW part 1, Vecchio is not happy.
Cheat
1. Time to get my life back
“Ray!”
He’s obviously very pleased to see me. It seems to have slipped his mind completely that he’s a cop.
I would have been glad to see him too, if the current situation wasn’t so dangerous, if the idea of seeing him again hadn’t got me sick every single time out of the zillion I thought about it in the past eighteen months, and if he hadn’t brought company. Blond haired, blue-eyed company. Possessive, envious looking company. Company that I do not like and that doesn’t like me right back. With a vengeance.
I don’t have the time to think about it any further. It’s not supposed to bother me. I am Armando Languistini from the Iguana family, South West branch, and I came here to meet Holloway Muldoon to arrange for some lucrative business.
It was a very carefully arranged meet. It took me eighteen months and a change of identity to plan it. Not that I didn’t welcome the gig. Losing myself seemed the thing I needed most, eighteen months ago. Not being there to pick up Fraser when he came back from his vacation up North-completely ceasing to be Ray Vecchio-seemed my ticket out of trouble. I grabbed it with both hands and fled.
And now he’s here, blowing my cover and offering to “explain” things to Muldoon.
It’s not a good idea. Envious Guy seems to agree. “Fraser, not now,” he says.
Muldoon’s intrigued by the name. This is not good.
I divert attention by demanding to know Envious Guy’s name, and he has the nerve to start a fucking word game. I believe I already said that I don’t like him.
I point my gun at him. It would do a lot for my rep if I pulled the trigger. In eighteen months time, I haven’t killed or ordered to kill. I resorted to verbal assault and my non-killing hasn’t raised suspicion among my staff, not to a level that’s dangerous to my health at least, but it earned me the nickname “The Pacifist” which obviously isn’t a compliment for a mobster.
“What’s it gonna be, funny guy?” I hiss at E.G.
He shows me his badge. It tells me that he is “Ray Vecchio, Chicago P.D.”.
Muldoon is not amused. He thinks that bringing cops to a meet isn’t a gentleman’s way of doing business. He’s suspicious about the set up. And he is still very much intrigued by Fraser. Dangerously intrigued.
I have to act quickly, and I shift my gun to the Mountie. It’s frightening how many things can go through a man’s mind in mere fractions of seconds, because I’m sure my, “Dead guy, get up,” comes out natural enough for a mobster, in timing and tone, and yet before I say them at least four thoughts have occurred to me. One about the beauty of his eyes. One about my transparency; the mixture of self-disgust, longing and anger I’m feeling must be clearly visible to him. A third thought is about the absurdity of the second because, yeah, sure Fraser has an IQ of a 180 when it comes to solving cases, but as far as people’s feelings about him are concerned he’s completely oblivious. Then there’s the thought about the gun thing. Training my gun on Fraser has me thinking about my other “gun”. (If Freud was in this room, I’d strangle him with my bare hands.) The fit of my pants is the way it should be (thank God), but it’s embarrassing enough that I need even a nanosecond to have a mental check on this.
When Fraser stands from the couch, he almost touches my gun (the real one). I curse Freud, and God (or whoever it is that invented erections if He didn’t do it) and I will the blood away from my crotch.
Fraser isn’t afraid of my mobster act. He’s willing to go along with whatever plan I have. The look in his eyes makes me sick-not of him, but of myself. I don’t need this feeling-not ever, but certainly not now, while Muldoon is watching my every move.
I take a step back. “The bathroom,” I say to Fraser. The message is meant for Envious Guy too, but I’m sure he doesn’t need any encouragement. I’ve seen his stares at Fraser. He’d follow the Mountie wherever he went, as a good puppy would do its owner.
The three of us make a silent deal in the bathroom. I nod at a towel and fire two shots into it, while Fraser and his puppy fall to the ground. Then I get back to Muldoon, who informs me that he’s still in the game and suggests that we meet again at nine, at the back up location.
He leaves, and I order my staff to clean up the bodies in the bathroom. There’s a little fight before Fraser and E.G. emerge.
Envious Guy is envious, all right. Well, that makes two of us. I may be the real Ray Vecchio and I may have the oldest rights, but E.G. has assets that may outweigh mine. He doesn’t seem mixed up about what he wants. He’s afraid of losing it, sure, but I don’t think he has any reason.
Fraser is clearly pleased to see me, but he isn’t confused about it. There’s no reason to assume that he has missed me more than he thought he would. From the look of things, he’s very much aware of E.G.’s presence in the room, and he isn’t secretly wishing the guy away. Fraser isn’t about to tell me he loves me (and thank God for that).
“It’s good to see you, Ray,” he says, after I have delivered a rant about him having blown my cover.
His words take me off guard. They sound so bloody sincere. I don’t know what to say or where to look.
I go over to hug him. After all, that’s what I would have done if I met him after eighteen months and didn’t have this very unwelcome revelation just before we said goodbye. I’m careful to keep my crotch away from his. There’s nothing there that could betray me, but there might be if we touched (blood runs so goddamn fast).
“It’s good to see you too, Benny,” I say. I imagine that I’m hugging a tree.
Envious Guy mutters, “Awe, that’s cute.” He’s clearly not happy to witness this little scene.
I ignore him. It feels good to tune him out and besides, ignoring E.G. would be the natural thing to do under the circumstances-ignoring him and talking to Fraser. I know I’m up to it. I’ve just hugged the Mountie; I can talk to him.
However, the only thing that springs to mind is a sort of friendly replay of the rant I delivered a minute ago.
I turn to E.G. who has been watching Fraser and me like a kid that isn’t allowed to play with the others. Taken aback is only part of his mood, though. He’s doesn’t strike me as a guy who gives up easily.
We talk fashion. It’s more of a woman thing to do, of course, but it’s very effective in degrading a person. I compare E.G. to a bag lady, he calls me a style pig in return. It’s clear to me that he’s upset, but not beaten. I decide that it’s time to inform him about something important. I do it slowly, so I can be certain that he understands. I tell him that my staff, now lying on the floor in the bathroom and sleeping like logs, will be allowed one phone call each once they regained consciousness and have been taken to the station. They’re going to call Vegas and when they do, Armando Languistini will be history.
“Time to get my life back,” I say. (Preferably the one I had four years ago-before I met Fraser.)
“But that’s my life,” E.G. protests.
“I’m afraid it is,” I say tersely. Like I said before, I don’t like him and I know he doesn’t like me.
Fraser is grinning broadly. He pats us both on the shoulder. “I knew you two would hit it off,” he says.
2. You got Fraser
It’s good to see Welsh again. He acts reassuringly normal, like nothing has changed. Like I just handed in a case report yesterday, or something. It’s comforting.
It’s hard to have Fraser in your life and not have him at the center of it. Frannie knows that. When we enter the precinct, she’s actually more pleased to see Fraser than to greet me, her long lost brother.
Thatcher knows it too. She may put a little more effort in hiding them than my sister does, but you can’t fool me that the hots she has for her “second in command” are any less feverish than Frannie’s.
It’s abundantly clear that Envious Guy knows. I fucking know it myself. Welsh isn’t tainted by this affliction though, and it’s comforting to know that it is possible to not have Fraser at the center of your life and still be reasonably happy.
The lieu’s eyes are on me while I’m doing a briefing about Muldoon for the people assembled in the office. Fraser listens quietly. E.G. is giving me glares like he resents it that the stage is mine now, and more importantly of course, that I have his partner’s undivided attention.
The plan had been that Armando Languistini would broker the deal between Muldoon and the buyer of the chemical weaponry he had on offer, and that the FBI would nail Muldoon and his unknown buyer in the process. Said scheme is now in jeopardy.
All eyes are on Fraser. It’s strangely satisfying to see him be the object of joint disapproval just for once.
“The meet with Muldoon is set for nine. My cover should hold until then,” I say to no one in particular. I’m a cop and besides, I don’t really hate Fraser. I wish I did, but I don’t.
Welsh gets busy assigning people to their tasks. He doesn’t get me one, so I leave the office after the rest of them, with E.G. on my heels. Welsh calls me back and I turn, and so does E.G. I guess he’s still not used to not being me anymore.
Welsh mutters something about confusion and decides that I can be Ray Vecchio because I was Ray Vecchio to start with. This is true, of course.
“And, uh, who am I?” E.G. asks. Awe, is he a confused little puppy or what?
Welsh generously offers him to be Stanley Kowalski. And he’s serious about it. Apparently, E.G.’s dad had a big thing for Marlon Brando.
I walk over to Welsh’s desk and Stanley leaves the office. I’d say that the score is Vecchio one, Kowalski nil.
My conversation with the lieutenant is mostly about damage control for tonight’s gig. Once more it strikes me how reassuring it is to listen to Welsh’s sloppy articulation. With each droned phrase I feel myself slip into Ray Vecchio mode more.
I am Ray Vecchio who wants his life back-because no one else is entitled to it. I am Ray Vecchio who gloats in Stanley’s Kowalski’s misery-because men are competitive bastards, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Besides, there are worse things than being competitive over Fraser. And that’s my shield. If I don’t like Kowalski and he doesn’t like me, it’s because of Fraser. Anyone with half a brain would guess that much and find it a satisfactory and very straightforward explanation. (I mean, there’s nothing queer about it, is there? We’re talking Fraser here.)
When my talk with Welsh is over, I reacquaint my desk. Kowalski comes up, demanding to know what I am doing.
I wonder aloud how he can work in the mess I’m currently holding. He says the piles of crap I left all over the place have nothing on his mess. I respond that my piles of crap were organized. He says so is his mess.
“Why don’t you just organize it some place else?” I suggest.
He’s volatile. I’m not surprised.
“Is that good?” he says, when he has swept the papers off my desk.
I ask him if he has a problem, and he explains. Fast. Maybe, just maybe he doesn’t like the way I’m sashaying around trying to take over everything.
Maybe. Or he’s just afraid of losing Fraser.
I don’t think there’s been a Big Talk between Kowalski and the Mountie yet. If there was, Kowalski wouldn’t be so insecure. You can say a lot about Fraser-and isn’t that everybody’s hobby?-but he’s loyal to the bone. And I hate to admit it, but Kowalski’s the exception that confirms the rule about blonds; the word game was a clever thing. If Fraser and him were “together” Kowalski would act differently; he’d probably try to make me dizzy by doing little victory dances or something.
I get a sick feeling in my gut. It’s sick to be jealous over something I don’t want. Something I know for absolutely sure I don’t want to want. But I don’t want Kowalski-or any other male, but especially Kowalski-to have Fraser either. I don’t want Fraser to be gay. If Fraser is straight then there is a way for me out of this mess. Somehow.
But there is this man. Stanley Kowalski. He wants Fraser, and I know, I just know with all the certainty that speaks from a sick gut, that with a little patience, persistence, and pizzazz (God, the sickness has even crept into my vocabulary) which I’m sure he can muster, he will get what he wants. It’s not a question of “if” but “when.”
And the answer is, not yet.
“This is my desk, it’s my life, now get over it,” I say.
He makes no attempt to follow the order. Instead, he attacks me. Man, he really must have it bad for the Mountie.
Frannie breaks us apart before any real harm can be done on either side, and tells us to go back to work. If it wasn’t for my sister, civilian aid F. Vecchio, no one would ever work at this station, obviously.
Kowalski turns to pick up the papers. He looks dejected and I take pity. I have no idea why, but I do.
I mumble an intro to an apology, but he waves it away. He says he knew I’d come back some day. He just didn’t think it would be so soon.
I wouldn’t call it soon myself. It’s been eighteen fucking months. It’s the length of the undercover gig that causes his current misery, I’m sure. If it had been shorter, then he wouldn’t have had the time to fall in love with Fraser, to get used to being with the Mountie, and to build dreams about a future together.
I can’t say this, of course. I resort to metaphor. “I know. It feels as though you died and you didn’t get everything done. That’s how I felt when I walked out of here.” It is. It doesn’t matter that it was suicide, so to speak.
He seems to appreciate my effort, and puts in his fifty cents. “How’s Vegas been?”
“Undercover is lonely.”
He nods as if he understands. I don’t think he does. I mean, how can he?
“You got Fraser.”
It’s a fact. I’m not exactly fine with it, but I will be. I’ve already made up my mind that I do not, not, want Fraser myself, and that decision is final.
Kowalski looks at me, and for a moment I think he knows what I’m thinking. Then he gives me a happy smile, like a kid who just got a balloon. Apparently, he just needed a reminder.
I grin back at him.
I’m not sure how big a hypocrite I am exactly.
3. It’s just a flesh wound
At a quarter past eight, three police units are off to the meet that Armando Languistini has with Muldoon. Welsh assigned everybody to the cars, and Kowalski wasn’t pleased with the result. He’s driving behind Fraser and me, with Thatcher on the passenger’s seat. I’m sure he’s pining, and hating me with renewed energy.
I’m not exactly comfortable myself. Being so close to Fraser in the car makes it difficult not to remember when I first realized I’d fallen in love. It was a shock on many levels. First, there was a gay thing, of course. I wasn’t gay. I never had any suspicious interest in guys before, and I didn’t want to start now. Then there was the partner thing. Falling in love with a colleague is not uncommon, but when you are a cop, it’s a dangerous thing to do (even apart from the gay thing). It can affect your judgment and lead to fatal mistakes.
Finally, it wasn’t love at first sight.
I’m the kind of guy that either wants somebody at the first blink or not at all, but that’s not how it happened with Fraser. The first time I met Fraser I hated him at first sight. He’d just blown my cover (it’s kind of a habit of his, now that I come to think of it). He was so righteous, and he looked so goddamned clean. And beautiful. Yeah, I noticed it even then, but how could I have missed it? No one can miss a thing like that.
I was jealous because of all the female attention he got and that he didn’t seem to want. Most of the time we ended up doing things his way, which really annoyed me. He was weird, he was licking stuff, but in spite of it all, he grew on me. And yet I didn’t see it coming.
It finally kicked in when he lost his personality. He fell of a car he was chasing and lost his memory. Not only that, he lost his Fraserness as well. He became just your average, rather rude, amnesic guy. I freaked. I thought he was gone forever. (Temporary memory loss I had heard of, but momentary loss of personality never.) I was wrong, thank God, but Fraser not being Fraser anymore made me realize just how important he was to me.
I was more relieved about the return of him than of that of his memory. When he told me the license plate number of the car he had been chasing I said I could kiss him. It was just a figure of speech, but his reply, “I thought we were just friends, Ray,” was offered without any hint of shock or disgust, and absolutely, totally Fraser. It made me realize that part of me, a very specific part at the lower region of my body, wouldn’t mind at all if we were more than friends.
I freaked out, of course, but I managed to say that we were indeed just friends. I called Elaine to give her the license plate number, Fraser and I booked Whatsisname and his harem, and I put quite some effort in acting sort of normal for a couple of weeks, until Fraser went on vacation to Canada and I got the chance to go to Vegas and become Armando Languistini.
Now I’m back and we’re sitting here in the car, like nothing has changed. But everything changed. It will never be the same again.
I mutter something about having missed this stuff. In my own ears, I sound pretty convincing.
Hell, if I’d ever get tired of being a cop, I could take up acting.
“Like old times, aye?” Fraser says. He doesn’t sound convinced. It’s Kowalski, of course. (I’m not that bad an actor. You can’t do undercover if you can’t act.). And it stings. I don’t want Fraser, but it hurts that he doesn’t want me. Just how pathetic is that?
We arrive at the location where Muldoon and Languistini will meet. I step out of the car, but when the party is about to begin the Feds turn up. Muldoon’s pretty ticked off by it. We all play “gunfire” for a while. Eventually, Muldoon runs inside the building and I follow him, but he’s too quick for me.
Inside it’s rather dark and there are many corridors. In one of them, I find Fraser and Kowalski. When I ask where Muldoon and his goons have gone, Stanley shrieks and swings around to pull his gun on me.
“Jumpy,” I grin. Then I hear Thatcher’s voice behind me, saying something about the place being creepy. The Dragon Lady startles me. Vecchio two, Kowalski one, I’m afraid.
Turning around a corner, we find the goons. They shoot at us, and we respond in like kind. Well, Stanley mainly. He’s a trigger-happy guy, but it doesn’t get him anywhere. The goons escape. They run upstairs. We follow them, Kowalski in front.
He holds the door the goons have just used. “They split up. We’ll take these guys,” he says to me.
“Muldoon’s this way, sir,” Fraser says, ushering Thatcher to follow him further upstairs.
Apparently, the guys are not as inseparable as I thought. It shouldn’t be such a relief. I have other priorities now, dammit.
We’re shot at again. Kowalski’s aim is worse than a rookie’s. It’s his glasses, he explains. He can’t find them but they must be somewhere in his jacket.
Jesus. Maybe he’s a true blonde after all.
The goons lead us to an indoor fair. Kowalski finds his glasses. They were stuck in the lining of his coat. When he puts them on, his aiming gets significantly better. Maybe even better than mine is. (At a time like this, I’m only glad.)
I spot Muldoon. He’s pointing a gun at the Ferris Wheel, or at two Mounties hanging upside down from it, to be more precise. There’s no time to think about what the hell they are doing. Muldoon is aiming at Fraser, goddammit. I pull my gun, but the bastard sees me and shoots first. He has good aim.
There’s a long train of thoughts before I pass out.
I once shot Fraser to save him from a disastrous decision about a woman. (She was pure evil, the Metcalf bitch, but what does Fraser know about women?) Now I am being shot for saving him. There’s something very right about that, somehow. Also, I’m glad that I saved the Mountie from a bullet, and not Kowalski. I’m the hero. If I die, it’ll be for love. How very romantic.
***
I don’t die. My sister seems to think I will, or that I have already gone. She’s crying at the side of my hospital bed as I regain consciousness. This morning she gave me some pretty dirty looks because Kowalski picked up a fight with me-that’s right, he started it-and accused me of having had testosterone shots in the Mob. Now she’s sobbing like she’s sitting next to the coffin of a very dearly beloved. That’s sisters, I suppose. I tell her everything will be all right, ‘cause that’s what brothers do.
She smiles a little and leaves, and I drift off to sleep again, apparently. When I open my eyes, Fraser is in the room.
Seeing him standing there causes a strange mixture of emotions inside me. I could blame it on my shoulder, but that wouldn’t be fair.
There’s pride and relief that I saved his life. There’s a longing I never felt so strongly before. (I’m weak. I lost a lot of blood. Blame it on the shoulder after all.) I must hold it in check, of course. Allowing myself to want Fraser would only hurt more, because I know I can’t have him, even if I could be at peace with myself for wanting him. Which I don’t think I can. Or want.
That doesn’t mean knowing I’ll never have him doesn’t hurt. Knowing the guy who will have him eventually gives me just as much hell as my shoulder in fact.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” I tell Fraser.
He nods. He’s concerned. Those eyes resting on me, they make my mouth go dry.
“You’d better go now,” I say, and of course, I get an “Understood” in return.
There are voices outside my room. Kowalski’s here too. Why? Did he come to hold Fraser’s hand? Wasn’t I the one who was shot?
I try to hear some words. When I shift, my shoulder seems to be set on fire. It’s just a flesh wound, I remind myself. It’ll heal. I will heal. All I have to do is reinvent myself.
4. The real Ray Vecchio
I’m discharged from the hospital pretty soon. The doctors didn’t remove the bullet, afraid an operation would cause nerve damage, but they’ve assured me that in due time I’ll be able to use my right arm almost as well as I could before.
Muldoon drove a golden bullet into me, so to speak. The world’s my oyster now. I can retire, get full pension, and do anything I want.
Right now, I want to get Muldoon.
People are pleased to see me at the precinct, but not really surprised. There’s a guy in room 2 who might know something. Welsh thinks it would be a good idea if I had a talk with him.
The answer to my first question-has he ever heard of the Iguana family?-is affirmative. The one to the second-how about Armando Languistini?-ditto. The guy elaborates on this a little. In his line of work, the Bookman is a guy people tend to look up to. Probably because he’d kill a person for a parking spot.
It’s nice to know that I deliver credible threats. And it’s really funny what people like this guy think a Pacifist is capable of.
When asked, he declares that in his opinion any guy who got on the wrong side of Armando Languistini is pretty stupid. I show him my ID. He turns pale. He can’t give me the name of Muldoon’s buyer, but he comes up with a code.
It takes a while before I crack it. I have difficulty focusing on the matter at hand, because I haven’t seen Fraser or Kowalski at the precinct since I arrived, and it turns out that they have “gone”. For the moment, it is assumed that they are “not here” in the cause of duty, but they might as well be dead. (Or maybe they have eloped. Oh Jesus, Ray, stop nagging yourself.)
When I finally break the code, it’s because of my sister. To say that she likes to meddle with detective work would be the understatement of the year. Detectives Huey and Dewey, and Lieutenant Welsh and I have juggled “one seven F O C seven six” for quite a while when Frannie states that we must be on the wrong track. Then it hits me. Track. Train. The Bolt brothers. Francis and Randal. Hobbies: bombings and train derailments. Known to lead a group of mainly cousins called “Fathers of Confederation”. Named themselves after the political leaders from the British North American colonies who discussed confederation during the War of Independence that started in 1776. One seven F O C seven six. Bingo.
Only, the Bolt brothers are both doing life in the Federal Pen.
I suggest we run down all their visitors. It appears there was one visitor in the last month. For Randal. Cyrus Bolt, cousin on his father’s side, and mad militia leader. He’s booked, although we have very little on him. His lawyer will get him out in no time.
She does. It’s only a matter of hours before he’s free to go again. We’ll follow his every move, though.
The State’s Attorney who brought Bolt’s release order is a very beautiful woman. Her name is Stella Kowalski.
It’s not a coincidence. It can’t be. But I keep my cool and I say, “Ray Vecchio. The real Ray Vecchio.”
We hit it off. Waiting for news about Fraser and Kowalski, we have long talks together.
She appears very worried about Stanley-whose full name is Stanley Raymond Kowalski by the way, and who officially renamed himself Ray at the age of seven-and I’m the understanding friend. It isn’t difficult; I’m pretty hung up about Fraser myself, I know worry.
The divorce was Stella’s idea, but she seems a little mixed up about it. Maybe it’s just that the bond between ex-spouses can never be truly broken (I’d be just as worried as I am now if it was Ange instead of Fraser) or maybe she now realizes that she regrets the separation, and hates the fact that there’s a Mountie in her way, keeping her from getting Stanley back.
Because there’s no doubt in my mind that that is the case. Fraser might not know it yet, but if he did, and if he was here, he’d tell Stella something like, “Attorney Kowalski, sir,” (or “mam”; or whatever title would suit the Mountie rules of politeness best) “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid your ex-husband’s affections are now otherwise engaged. Moreover-and I realize that it may not please you to hear this-he is spoken for. By…ah…by me. I’m genuinely sorry for your loss.” It’s just a guess, of course, but this could be Fraser’s words.
And I don’t mind. I really don’t. I never wanted Fraser. I dreaded seeing him again, because I knew what I would feel (I may be a homophobe, but I’m not stupid), but I never wanted to want him. Wanting Fraser wasn’t-isn’t-part of the real Ray Vecchio.
Meeting Kowalski was a shock. I had put so much effort in not wanting Fraser that I’d completely overlooked the fact that what I did or didn’t want might not even be relevant. That Fraser might not want me. The second I saw Stanley I knew that I’d missed something painfully crucial.
Stella and I are in the same boat, and we have to let go. We’re fighting a lost battle if we don’t. We must stick together and build new lives for ourselves.
Having sex seems a good start.
It’s awkward. I slept with countless women in the name of Armando Languistini. He might have been a Pacifist, but he sure as hell was a lady-killer. I needed to build him a rep. He didn’t have a wife or girlfriend (and he wasn’t gay). It’s amazing how an aura of evil attracts a certain type of woman. Armando had more “je ne sais quoi” in the eighteen months he existed than I had in my entire life.
I learnt to view sex as a purely mechanical thing, and behave accordingly. I discovered that anger and contempt provide a great sex drive. It was a frightening realization, but I told myself that this was Armando Languistini, not Ray Vecchio.
Thinking of the one-night stands Armando had doesn’t work with Stella. She’s not the type of woman who’d fall for Armando Languistini. Just the opposite, if they ever met, she’d made sure he got life.
This isn’t working. Stella notices there’s something wrong. “Ray?”
She never called me Ray in that tone before. Suddenly, I can perform. I thrive on the thrill of knowing that I’m fucking somebody else’s wife, even if she is actually his ex-wife.
We learn that Fraser and Kowalski have busted Holloway Muldoon and Cyrus Bolt, Muldoon’s buyer, and that they are both safe. Welsh tells us they’re not coming back for a while (“if ever” he doesn’t say). They are going on some search together.
“What search?” I ask. “Whose idea was it?”
Welsh gives me a look and says slowly, “Fraser’s, I believe. I didn’t understand completely about the search. Kowalski can get quite incomprehensible when he’s excited about something…” He sighs, and for a moment I fear that he’s going to muse some about how much Kowalski baffles him at times. He’s not. “Apparently, there’s a legend about a hand,” he says. “The Hand of Franklin if I heard correctly. They’re going to look for it.”
Are they now? Lucky Kowalski. Going on a search for the Hand of Franklin with Fraser-the search for Each Other’s Dicks, more like. This sounds very much like a honeymoon to me. I knew it would happen, but now that it does, it’s still a shock.
“Will you marry me?” I ask Stella when we’re alone.
She nods. “Yeah, marriage is the closest thing to getting out of this mess, isn’t it?”
“We could move. To Florida or something.”
“As far away from Canada as possible without emigrating,” Stella says deadpan. “We could even open a bowling alley.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” she assures me. “Although not necessarily about the bowling alley.”
The wedding ceremony is unremarkable. It’s just Stella and me, and the reverend. The wedding night I’ll never forget.
It starts bad. I’m inside Stella, but I can’t keep hard. The idea of sleeping with somebody else’s wife isn’t working anymore-she’s my wife now, and the notion doesn’t arouse me.
Stella doesn’t have a problem. She’s not the one who has to have the erection, but more importantly, she knows what she needs to enjoy this. I’m aware that she isn’t fucking me when she’s fucking me; she’s fucking her ex.
I don’t care. We aren’t lovers in the true sense of the word (we don’t love each other) we’re friends with benefits. I don’t mind Stella using her imagination; I envy her for allowing herself the luxury. (Besides, she saves us both the embarrassment of calling out the wrong name when she comes.)
I have nothing to stir my desire. I taught myself not to think of Fraser in a sexual way-to any extent, under any circumstances-and it has become a skill I master perfectly.
I did have dreams at night in Vegas. Inevitable, wet, delightful dreams that left me feeling miserable, dirty and very much disgusted in the morning. But I don’t have them very often anymore.
I have gone soft inside Stella. “Ray, please, focus,” she says irritated, like it’s not the first time. She doesn’t even open her eyes. It isn’t me. I wasn’t impotent with her before.
It’s Kowalski. Stanley. Ray. Fraser’s blond puppy. His partner. His lover.
Something snaps. All self-control I ever had is gone. I’m instantly hard again. Hot waves of something roll over me. It’s like a high, and I know that this is an addiction as severe as that to heroin. It is completely wrong, but I’m an instant junkie and I don’t care.
I’m flying. Oh, God, this is wonderful.
“Wow,” Stella smiles in post-coital bliss when I’ve landed again. “What was that?” She looks closely at me, and her blissful expression changes. “On second thoughts, I believe I don’t want to know,” she says.
I feel guilty. I do. But not too much. There’s self-disgust as well, but again, not too much. It felt so incredibly good. Better than any dream I ever had about Fraser. And besides, this might work. Stella cheats on me with her ex-husband, and I do the same to her.
END