enamored of fire-escapes, I went to Chicago,
an eventful trip...
I have forgotten my loves, and chiefly that one
...
I could not change it into history
and so remember it,
and I have lost what is always and everywhere
present, the scene of my selves, the occasion of these ruses.
— Frank O'Hara, In Memory of My Feelings
Last Week
Ray's really gotten the hang of this rural gig. He can sleep at nights, and he keeps busy during the days, wears himself out, aches everywhere and rubs out the knots with grunts of satisfaction.
He bitches about it, sure, but that's just because he doesn't think he knows what contentment *is*. "I'm not your goddamn wife, Fraser," he'll say, his voice scratching up into registers that make Dief whine and shove a paw over his muzzle. "I am *not* going to --"
And then he'll break off, because that isn't even what they were fighting about. Fraser will smile then, the one that's just in the corners of his mouth, deepening and flickering. After a beat or three, he'll sigh out an "of course, Ray" and Ray will have yells backing up inside his throat and his hands will work at his sides and he'll forget what he's pissed off about.
He's no housewife. He's a *gentleman farmer*, hold the gentle. And he doesn't really farm so much as take care of shit -- firewood, and the dogs, and the vegetable patch in the summer.
It's October now, though, the nights already cold -- though not *Territories* cold, that was beyond cold, down where the mercury refused to go -- just good cold. Brisk and bracing, burning his cheeks and twanging his nipples.
He kicks open the back door, not because his arms are full of firewood, though they are, but because that's just what he *does*. And as he steps inside the cabin-that-used-to-be-a-shack, he calls out in case Fraser didn't hear the door's bang. "Hey, Fraser, say what you want about --"
An old gray-haired guy is. Is in his house. Is standing at the fireplace, squinting at the jumble of stuff on the mantle. Ray's never seen him before.
"You're not Fraser," Ray says like a mo' before his brain catches up. "Fuck're you doing in my house?"
Not really intimidating, what with his arms clutching firewood and his mouth hanging open like this.
"I *am* Fraser," the old man says and grins. The way his face folds up is sort of familiar. "I'm just not *your* Fraser. Hello, Yank."
He says that like he knows Ray. "But --"
"Good to see you again." Old-Fraser taps his index finger against his nose. "Never thought I'd live to see the day I *said* that, but then again. I haven't. So there we are."
The logs clatter down onto the floor, and Fraser's gonna have a fit at all the pine needles and crusty leaves Ray tracked in, but all of that's *nothing* compared to the fact that some crazy old geezer is nattering on like he knows Ray, like he knows this place. Like he fucking *belongs* here.
And since it's taken Ray the last two years to get that feeling? He's not real happy seeing it happen instantaneously to someone else.
"Benton's in the kitchen with his mother," the old man says and waves his hand airily. "Some conversations, they're better had with a woman, if you know what I mean."
"No fucking clue," Ray says, edging toward the swingy-door to the kitchen, the one that reminds him of Old West saloons. He can just about reach the shotgun that hangs over the doorframe. Just about, if he stretches really hard. But the old guy clucks his tongue before Ray's even moved. Fraser's mom is *dead*. Really, long-time dead. Dead-dead.
"None of that, son, now. I daresay it wouldn't hurt me, but the last thing you want to do is blow a hole in that nice wall you and Benton plastered over last spring." He cocks his head at the wall in question. "Of course, I might have planed it a few more times, just to be sure, but --"
Ray just drops his head back and yells. "*Fraser*!"
Scrape of chairs from the kitchen, a bark from one of the pups, and *there's* Fraser, finally, striding out of the kitchen. In his black plaid shirt, jeans, and wool socks, he's the first normal thing Ray's seen in a fucking *age*.
Except there's a little woman following him, coppery-red hair curling around her face, and she's got Fraser's eyes. Same slate mysterious blue, kind, smiling at him, and now Ray's back to tense. Stopped in his tracks and vibrating.
"Fraser, there are, are --" He waves his arm, and he feels bad about yelling in front of the nice lady, but this is all too fucking weird to worry about manners.
"Ray." Fraser takes his arm but it takes forever to *feel* it. "Ray. Ray."
"Fraser, there's people here, and that's fine, I'm unhinged, but --"
"Ray." Low, private voice there, like they're alone. "We need to go to Chicago."
Ray slumps slightly. "We are going to Chicago. Next week for the princess's communion." His god-daughter, the most beautiful girl in the world, no contest. "You know that."
Is he the crazy one here? He feels sane. That's not good.
"Now, Ray," Fraser says. "We need to go *now*."
"But --" Old people, linking their arms now, smiling fondly over at the two of them. He drops his voice. "*Fraser*."
"My parents," Fraser says. "I'm sorry you couldn't meet them in more pleasant circumstances, but we really must be -- *hitting the road*, I believe."
"Jesus, Fraser, you'll see Vecchio next week, I got a bazillion things to do around here and you got work and --"
Fraser's shrugging on his pea coat and slipping into his boots, and he's some kind of octopus or Indian god, because he's *also* helping Ray on with his coat.
"I'll explain in the car. Mrs. MacLennan can look in on the pups. But, Ray." He grasps Ray by the shoulders and brings his face real close. Like for a kiss, or to taste revolting evidence. But he's just looking into Ray's eyes, his own eyes like the old lady's, deep but flat, like the water in the Beaufort Sea. "We must go."
Last Night
Ray gets home on time from work for once. He grabs dinner with the lunatics and Huey, and then he's home in time to kiss the babies goodnight, brush Isabella's hair, put Pietro in the bath. Even in time to eat pasta with gravy that didn't need to be reheated, though he's pretty full from the burgers earlier. Time to kick back and argue with Frannie over the game versus Lifetime, to rub Ma's shoulders and wash up all the dishes.
Fraser and Kowalski are still out when Ray finishes the dishes. They're probably staking out something that has nothing to do with the real problems all around the city, busting little old ladies for sharpening their knitting needles or chasing down fast-food clerks for not wishing the customers a good day.
Or, he thinks as he pads upstairs in sock feet, his hand heavy on the banister, they're fucking. Lunatics in love, and they're his best friends. Well, one's his best friend, the other one's just...*there*. Fucking his best friend.
But Ray's not fucking anyone these days, just working and playing man of the house and that's how he likes it. He's pretty sure that's how he likes this.
He should still be at his desk, but this case -- it's not going *anywhere*. It's building, sure, evidence and tips coming in like they never do, security cameras that actually work, fingerprints that are whole and unsmudged, but it's not going anywhere. It's the case that ate Chicago, the state of Illinois, the whole lower stretch of the Dominion of Canada and America, and he's just a cog. Just one detective in a fleet bigger than he count, and if he punches out early, no one's going to notice.
Except him and his goddamn Catholic conscience, apparently, because it's three forty-seven in the fucking *AM* and he's still awake. Lying flat on his back, sorting through statements and pictures in his mind, listening to the buzz of nothing and dark all around him.
He's trying to make sense of something that's got no sense anywhere near it.
The door downstairs creaks open -- the lovebird lunatics, returned at last -- and Ray turns on his side, folding the pillow over his ear.
That's when he sees her.
She's sitting on the edge of his bed, as if there's room between mattress and wall, her long legs gracefully folded, dark hair hanging in her face.
"Irene?" His voice is a croak, a whisper.
She looks at him, those wide green eyes that always caught him, and smiles tentatively. "Hello, Ray."
Somehow, the light shifts, though there is no light, and he can make out the black hole in her chest, the ghost of the bullet still spinning inside her body.
Ray tries to wet his lips, but his tongue is sandpaper. Irene smiles again; he hadn't noticed she'd stopped.
"What are you doing here?" he asks when he can whisper. "Irene, you're --"
"Dead, Ray," she says. "But I need to talk to you."
When they got here, a week early, sliding in on Ray's case, Fraser and Kowalski said ghosts were afoot. Ray took it to mean something like symbolism, like a metaphor for something else. These were mooks who'd traipse off to the North Pole to look for a hand; they mention ghosts, Ray tunes out.
Not that he doesn't believe in ghosts, it's just that he thought he was done with them. He hasn't seen his father since he went to Vegas; he figured that ghosts came with Benny. Went with him, too.
Seems he was kind of right.
"What is it?" he asks her.
Shaking her head, Irene's as beautiful as ever, sad eyes and gorgeous face, Madonna of Cosa Nostra. "I don't know much, but things are going wrong." She closes her eyes, the way people do when they're listening to their favorite music, then adds, "You need to get to Lincoln Park. She needs your help."
*Stella*, Ray thinks, though of course that's impossible. Stella's gone, has been gone for a long time now. Two years, five months.
"Tell me you'll go," Irene says. When she tries to touch him, all Ray feels is cold air.
Story of his life.
"Yeah," Ray says. Heavy-hearted, that's Raimundo, and he turns his palm under the chill pressure of Irene's ghostly hand. "I'll go."
This Morning
Nina stirs inside herself. Tadpoles in water, flickers of sensation, waking in the silence of sleep.
The first thing she knows is the taste of blood in her mouth. It's not at all like pennies; more like dirt and lead, but liquid. She's working her tongue free from the roof of her mouth when her eyes open.
A mantilla, enormous, intricate black lace, thrown over the face of the world.
She squints, blinks, and the pain starts up, more than aches shooting down her limbs and up her spine to explode inside her skull.
The mantilla resolves into greenery, tree branches shorn of leaves, the sky bright and blank beyond. Then her hearing kicks in, fallen leaves crunching behind her and her heart thrumming in her chest, then a voice.
"Miss? Miss?" It is a man's voice, and it's coming closer. "Miss, do you know anything about this?"
In the sludgy pain, through foul bloodtaste, she barely knows her own name. She manages to ask, "What?"
"*This*." He's more insistent now, a warm hand on her throbbing elbow pulling her up until she's sitting. The lacy trees swerve around her, the sky righting itself with a screech, and now she can see his face. Eyes almost as bright as the sky, long nose like some Flemish burgher, barely any hair. "You fall asleep next to a corpse and you don't *notice*?"
She braces herself on his white shirt -- silk, her palm tells her, good silk -- and finally her eyes open all the way. Something bloody, hardly even a corpse, next to him. Just limbs and an open throat, blood gone black in the morning light.
"Oh, God --" Her eyes close as the ground sways into focus and her stomach wrenches hard. "Not *again*."
*
Later, and someone got her a blanket to huddle in while she sits here on this park bench wishing she could be just about anywhere else in the world. Except she's so tired and she's run so far and the blanket is surprisingly soft against her chin. A big dog, Huskie or something, sits right beside her, paw on her knee, licking her cheek.
If only she could stop crying. Nina never cries, never has, but the tears have been coming, harsh and stinging, ever since the cop helped her stand up and she saw the dead thing assemble into a *body* from a jumble of arms and legs and screaming face. Open neck.
There were several EMTs, lots of cops in uniform, but the crowd has thinned out now to the guy who woke her up and just a couple others.
The cop's talking to another cop, a big man with secretive eyes set in an open, pale face. Handsome in that impersonal way that reminds her of making her own paper dolls by cutting out pictures from the newspaper.
"I do not believe she's involved in this, Ray," the big guy says, utterly calm.
As the dog woofs softly into her ear, Nina stares up at him through the fog of tears, wondering how he can be so sure when she doesn't even remember.
"Yeah? And you know that how, Benny? How would you know that? You know her? You her alibi?"
"Well, of course not, Ray. I was, as you well know, dining with you and Jack Huey last evening --"
"That what you call it? *Dining*?" The cop snorts and rubs the back of his hand over his mouth and nose. "Looked to me like Kowalski was having a one-person food fight and the rest of us, we were just collateral damage."
"Ray, please," the big guy -- Benny? -- says. He doesn't look like a Benny, too well-groomed and *smooth* for that. 'Benny' is a guy who lived down at the OTB, the one with dandruff on his front and half a 50-cent cigar clamped in the side of his mouth, the slob.
Then again, Angel had turned out to be pretty much the opposite of his name, so --.
The cops turn, in tandem, when Nina laughs, high and almost hysterical. Slapping her hand over her mouth, she shrugs an apology that can't *hope* to explain what's going on.
"Ma'am?" Benny asks, leaning over. Folding at the waist, just like a paper doll, and Nina blinks up at him. "Ma'am, do you think you can talk?"
"'course she can talk." This was a new guy, a little smaller than the other two, chewing on a toothpick and jerking his head back so his glasses slide up his nose as he strides up to the bench. "She can talk, she better talk, better tell us what the *fuck*'s going on or --" He bangs his fist into his palm and nods to himself.
The dog growls, low in its throat, and Nina pulls back.
"Or what, Ray?" Benny says.
She's sure he's talking to this blond guy with the glasses, but the original one, he's the one named Ray, and now he's pulling the blond guy back. "Yeah, Kowalski. Or what?"
Kowalski pushes Ray's hand off his shoulder and draws himself up. "Or else, *Vecchio*."
"I'm really cold," Nina says and the dog yips a couple times as if it's agreeing with her.
"Yes," Benny says. "Why don't we retire to the station? I'm sure we have some clothes that will fit you."
The two Rays shove each other with their shoulders, but they also nod in tandem.
"Think you'll want a lawyer?" the bald Ray asks her, helping her up, keeping the blanket secure around her shoulders. Nice of him, she thinks, then remembers there was a question.
"No lawyers," she says, her gut clenching at the very thought. "God, no. No lawyers."
They all nod, like they know what she's talking about.
*
In the underbrush, Diefenbaker can make out the hunched form of a massive animal. Coiled horns, short fur standing on end, and empty, shining eyes. He barks at it, swings his head around to check on the wolf-lady, and when he looks back, the fallen leaves are shifting, lifting away, the form fading. He whines a few times, but Benton ignores him, Vecchio's absorbed in the lady, and Kowalski just scratches his stomach absently.
Humans have the strangest priorities; he turns to lead the way to the patrol car.
*
"You've been here a week!" Vecchio says when Fraser produces clothes for Nina from the middle drawer of a filing cabinet. "What are these? Where'd they come from?"
"It's usually best not to ask. My motto - don't question," Kowalski says from his tipped-back chair. Vecchio pushes Kowalski's feet off his desk and he tips forward with a satisfying thump.
Vecchio's opening his mouth to remind *Stanley* that he learned the care, feeding, and toleration of Frasers long before any skinny punk arrived on the scene, but Fraser straightens up just then.
"Gentlemen, please," he says, eyeing them like they're the bad kids in the back row of class. "Ahh, Elaine. I wonder if you'd be so kind as to bring these items to the young woman in Room Three? Knock softly, however. Diefenbaker seems to be rather on edge."
A *week*, Vecchio thinks, the Mountie's only been back in the city from the wilds of Michigan, where the worst crime that might happen is maybe someone shoots something a week out of season, and he's acting like he never left. When Vecchio returned from Florida, it took him six months before he could even consider getting out of bed before eleven.
"Now," Fraser says, when Elaine's taken the armful of clothes, "I think it's safe to say that we have something of a conundrum before us."
"Nah," Kowalski says, leaning back in the chair, swinging one leg up on Vecchio's desk again, "I think *you've* got a conundrum. Me, I've got a lady murderer. Murderess. Homiciderella."
Vecchio doesn't want to agree with Kowalski. He really, truly, *deeply* does not want to do that.
All the same, Kowalski's basically right. Except for the part where Kowalski's not officially a cop any more.
"She's got blood on her," Vecchio says. "Your genius nose didn't catch that? Not even when we scratched it out from under her nails?"
"Speaking of noses -" Kowalski starts.
Vecchio slaps his arm. "Don't play cop, Kowalski, it embarrasses all of us."
"Wait just a minute -"
Fraser stands up, doing his parade-posture, all big shoulders and flat eyes. "I'll leave you two, then. I have a witness to question."
"A *suspect*, Fraser, she's a -" Kowalski closes his mouth as Benny turns on his heel. "Christ."
"He's really going gung-ho on this," Vecchio says, watching Fraser go. "Duck to water, you know? Maybe the simple country life ain't for him."
"Oh, it's for him," Kowalski says. "Don't you worry about that."
"Do I sound worried?"
Kowalski shrugs one shoulder and grins. "You sound like a jealous bitch, actually."
*Breathe*, Ray tells himself. *Breathe, Raimundo*. Sometimes, if he thinks in his Nona's voice, it helps.
Around them, the squad room buzzes and bustles. Huey's talking to Elaine, leaning over their shared desk, brow furrowed like that thinking sculpture; phones ring and heels click; and Vecchio breathes through his nose. After Stella died in LA, Frannie signed him up for grief-counseling; it was a joke, full of whiners and snot-nosed losers, but it did leave him with some techniques for calming himself.
He's run through the whole array of those techniques about four hundred times a day since Kowalski and Benny showed up.
"Asthma?" Kowalski asks when Vecchio opens his eyes. "Those cigars'll do it to you every time."
"Like your unfiltered Camels are a fresh sea breeze," Vecchio says, rising. "C'mon. Let's go interrogate the suspect."
"They're filtered!" Kowalski's worse than Dief, yipping and snuffling behind him down the hall. "Sometimes they're even lights."
*
Nina doesn't have any ID. She's dressed in a thermal undershirt as white as snow, wool pants cinched at the waist with staples, and the dog won't leave her side. She has to be careful - there was blood all over her, but it isn't as if she can say 'I'm a werewolf, sorry, that happens', and she certainly can't tell them this has happened before.
"I told you, I've got my passport in my apartment," she tells the bald Ray. Even though it's the big guy, Fraser, who seems the most willing to listen, the bald one's the nicest. Beautiful eyes, and maybe it's simply because of those eyes that she trusts him.
Or maybe because he woke her up. She's got a bad habit of trusting the ones who are there after she changes.
"And this passport, it's from where?" Vecchio asks.
"Here," she says. "Canada-America. You're not Immigration, are you?"
"Can't be too careful," the other Ray says. "Lotta Jesusland refugees, you've got to know that."
Nina nods. "I know, but - look me up."
"We have," Fraser says gently, leafing through the papers on the table. "Nina Ash, born December 1, 1979 in Irvine, Old California. Late of Los Angeles, via San Francisco, Spokane, Walla Walla, Edmonton, Minneapolis, and now Chicago."
Every city has its own immigration force. All those stamps in her old U.S. passport, ink crowding together. *What is your business here?*, they always ask, and Nina always replies, *Looking for my sister*.
Which is partly true; Jill and Amanda left the city when she gave them the tickets. They never arrived at their aunt's place in San Francisco.
The whole truth, of course, is nothing she could ever tell the cops. *Running away*.
"And in each city," Fraser continues, "We also find reports of mutilations, usually resulting in death, shortly before your departure."
Diefenbaker barks when Nina tips forward, head hitting the table. His paw snags in her sleeve and he butts his head against hers.
"Dief," Vecchio says, "That's enough. She's -"
"Diefenbaker," Fraser says, warning in his voice.
The dog whines a little. Nina sits up, shaking back her hair. "I didn't do it, I couldn't," she says. "But I just don't remember." Diefenbaker worms his head under her arm and gazes up at her, eyes as blue as winter skies. She smiles tightly. "Nice dog?"
"Half-wolf, actually," Kowalski says.
"Oh," Nina says. Well, that explains it.
In the way that it doesn't explain *anything*. But the wolf is warm and solid against her side, and she tightens her arm around what would be his shoulder.
"Miss Ash," Fraser says, leaning forward earnestly. "Is there any chance that you might be being...followed?"
The other two stare, not at her, but at the back of Fraser's head. The dark handsome one opens his mouth, then shuts it, while the blond twitchy one gets a look like he's passing a kidney stone.
Nina meets Fraser's eyes. This could be a trap, this could be them toying with her, going Sipowicz-and-the-nice-one on her, trying to get her to talk.
On the other hand, this could be her chance.
Rustling in the underbrush, tick-tapping steps on the sidewalk behind her, noises in the halls outside of whatever crappy room she's rented this time: Yes, she's being followed.
"Maybe," she says slowly. "But I don't know why anyone'd want anything from *me*."
One truth and a lie.
*
"We'll let her go," Fraser says. He holds up his hand, but that doesn't stop Vecchio.
"She's a suspect without ID! She's got blood all over and no story that makes *any* kind of sense and -"
"She ought to be in protective custody," Fraser continues, "but, considering your objections, I think a conditional release is possible."
"Benny -"
"I am the ranking officer."
"You've got no jurisdiction!"
Ray can't hide the grin when Fraser pulls rank on Vecchio. Okay, he doesn't even *bother* to hide it, because the scene is too beautiful not to be acknowledged.
"In fact, I do have jurisdiction here," Fraser says mildly. "Jurisdiction and au-"
"Mounties!" Vecchio throws his hands in the air; it makes Ray think of pizza dough. His grin gets wider, so wide his cheeks are starting to hurt.
"And authority," Fraser finishes. He cocks his head and adds, "Ray. We're all Mounties here."
Vecchio goes red, then white, and Ray's waiting for the green of nausea and the Italian flag, but he just turns on his heel (probably lifts) and stalks away.
"I'm not," Ray says when Fraser has fully sunk into the desk chair. Ray perches on the edge of the desk, turning a paper clip between his fingers.
"Mm?" Fraser doesn't look up, but that's his question-sound. His *calm* question-sound.
"A Mountie," Ray replies. "I'm not a Mountie."
"I'm well aware of that."
"Well, I'm not."
"No, Ray, you're not," Fraser says. He smiles tiredly and Ray has to sit on his hands to keep from cupping his cheeks. Fraser likes it when Ray does that, when he works his thumbs behind Fraser's ear, strokes away the tension.
"But you said."
Fraser presses his first two fingers against the bridge of his nose. "I said you were a Mountie?"
"Yeah, Fraser, you did."
"I find that hard to believe."
"Just now!" Ray slides off the desk, scraping his hands on the uneven varnish. "You said 'we're all Mounties here' and I was here, but I'm not a Mountie, and therefore, you -"
"I what?" Fraser sits forward. Suddenly - the man's solid as anything, but when he moves, he really moves, and Ray gets that familiar slide of hot tingles down his spine at the sight.
Ray opens and closes his mouth. "Um."
"Really, Ray -" Fraser starts, a little exasperated, but when he looks up, the skin around his eyes is still soft. Gentle, and it only gets tight there when he's really pissed off. So Ray takes a chance, goes with his gut, grabs Fraser's wrist and drags him into the nearest interrogation room.
"Ray?"
"Shut up," Ray says, kicking the door closed, and now he's got an armful of *Fraser*, all Fraser, damp wool and sharp, clean soap against his cheek and Ray kisses him hard. "Okay, say it."
"But -" Fraser's cheeks are pink, his lips a little swollen, but he looks stubborn. "You told me to shut up."
"Say. It."
"You're not a Mountie," Fraser says.
When he curls his hand around Ray's upper arm, tugging him closer, it makes Ray suspicious. Tilting up his chin, Ray says firmly, "No, I'm not."
Fraser's going to say something. Fraser is *fixing* to say something, because the guy can never leave well enough alone, and you'd think that Ray would've twigged onto that fact by now, but, no. He pushes and argues and Fraser *still* wins, every goddamn time.
"Technically, of course," Fraser's saying, and here it comes, and Ray wants to curl his hands into fists but instead he's sliding his palms up Fraser's arms, to the sides of his neck, and he's leaning in and if he does this right, then he can kiss before - "*Technically*, S. Raymond Kowalski is employed by the Chicago police force, administratively referred to as Zone A-IL. These circumstances would lead one to believe that you are a member of the Royal Canadian-American Mounted Police."
He had to go there. Fraser always has to win.
"*Fuck*," Ray mutters against Fraser's lips. He likes the kick of the vibration, so he does it again. "Fuck."
"Language, Ray."
"Fuck it," Ray says, tugging at Fraser's shirt-collar. Warm, taut skin slides past his fingertips. Fraser's tilting back his head, looking at him with stormy eyes, lids at half-mast. "Just - fuck it. Me."
"Later," Fraser says. "Just now, I'm at work." His mouth is doing do that secret-curve *thing* it does. He cups Ray's jaw, thumb swiping like a tease, a promise, *something*, over Ray's lower lip, and then he turns and he's gone.
Ray never should've let Vecchio take his old social-security number and payroll ID. Once Vecchio got the golden bullet, no *way* would he be allowed back on the force; he'd sunk every penny he had into that stupid bowling alley. Even Stella's life insurance, once it finally paid out, couldn't pay the force back.
But it wasn't like Ray, with the limp from a break in three places that Delmar set with whale sinew and half a ski pole, was up for returning to the force. The limp, plus the weirdness of Fraser and the Northern Lights, *plus* that weird-o rural contentment he started feeling, all that added up to un-cop Kowalski.
And he *likes* this state of noncopitude, except when it gets tossed back in his face.
Sure, the name-transfer had made Fraser happy. That was cool. It made Vecchio grudgingly grateful, which meant that he was uncomfortable and, even better, owed Ray several lifetimes' worth of favors, but - *Damn*.
He hurries after Fraser, half-hard in his jeans and twitchy all the way through.
Quitting time can't come soon enough.
*
So this is how it went down. Los Angeles exploded in May of 2004. The U.S. government blamed an newly emergent alliance among the Neo-Taliban, Peruvian Maoists, and ETA. *That* story's about as believable as the real culprit - who would prefer to imagine that a law firm really did open the gates of hell?
Who, besides Nina and a few other people she's heard of but never met, anyway.
The fall election went ahead as planned, though no one actually won. It was when Bush tried to extend martial law to other cities - Boston, San Francisco, New York, and Chicago - that the secessions started.
Jesusland is just a name. The shrunken U.S. is officially deemed the Homeland of Freedom, though they're still working on UN recognition. The northern border states and what was left of California amalgamated with Canada. In the interim, however, states and municipalities grabbed all the legislative power they could get their hands on, leaving a patchwork of independent substates. Like Ancient Greece, Nina thinks, except really messy.
It's all a mess. She shoves her passport into her front pocket, checks that the straps on her rucksack are secure, and glances around the room one more time.
One more escape.
She ought to be used to it by now. This is the first time, however, that anyone's even noticed her presence in a city -- all the more reason, she *knows*, down to her bones, to get going. The last time she lingered was LA, and look where that got her.
On the run.
So she checks the bureau drawers one more time and when the knock comes on the door, she's not even all that surprised.
"Just a few more questions," Vecchio says and smiles at her. Wide and bright, charming, his hand flat on the door. "May I?"
"Sure." Nina steps back, lets him follow her into the room.
"We could've done this over the phone, of course," he says, flipping open his little notebook and backing into the armchair she's never sat in. He glances up, his eyes narrow but friendly. "But --"
She could make this easy on him. Nod and smile back, maybe even smooth out her hair and say she's glad to see him. But she doesn't. She crosses her arms and lifts her chin. "But?"
"Well --" He glances around the room, his smile fading.
Nina turns and looks out the window.
"Going somewhere?" Ray asks, nudging the backpack on the floor with his foot.
Nina glances sharply at him, over her shoulder. The strong, clear November sun lights up her hair, the curve of her cheek and arch of her brow. The rest of her is shadowed, silhouetted against the single narrow window.
For a moment, Ray sees her in negative, then as a memory that socks him in the solar plexus, then, finally, as herself.
The negative, a frame of film like you don't get any more now that everything's digital, white where the dark should be and vice versa; he sees Frannie's self-taken headshots, the year he joined the force, when she wanted to be a model.
The memory is, of course, of Stella, her eyes narrowing against the glare off the sea as she shook her head and said, firmly and finally, "I'm taking the job, Ray. It's too good an offer to pass up."
And then just Nina, suspect and victim, both or neither. Beautiful woman, he knows that much.
"Hey," Ray says, surprised at how soft his voice sounds. Nina sits on the windowsill, arms wrapped around her waist, her face wrinkling up. "Hey, don't - are you crying?"
"No," she says and massages her lower back. "Cramp, sorry."
Maybe she's pregnant, or it's time for her monthly, but Ray doesn't think so. "When was the last time you ate?"
The smudges around her eyes, the knobbiness of her wristbones - Lord, even the tight twist to her waist, like there's nothing but skin over bone. She must be *starving*.
Nina pushes the hair out of her eyes. "Human food? Not sure. Awhile."
Ray lets that pass - best not to ask just what *human food* means - the poor girl's probably been eating kibble and cat-food mush. Instead, he offers her a steadying hand.
"Come have dinner," he says.
Her eyebrows knit briefly together, like one of the kids when they're up past their bedtime. "Are you asking me out?"
Ray rubs the back of his head. Sure, he wants to say, depends - do *you* want me to be asking you out?
But she's a victim, or a suspect, or something between the two, and, more importantly, he's not sure he even remembers how to flirt.
"To my house," he explains. "My sister makes a mean lasagne, and there's always enough for eighteen lumberjacks."
Smooth, Ray, real smooth. It's a wonder he ever got *laid*, let alone married. Twice.
*
Nina, it turns out, didn't have to make it easy on Ray; he's making it easy on her. Cupping her elbow, shouldering her rucksack, driving her across town. Inviting her to dinner.
Before she met Angel, Nina had never really noticed the importance of invitations. She didn't have any reason to, after all. Then, after they started getting together, all of a sudden it seemed like every place was a threshold.
Over the years since, she has held onto the habit he had of hesitating outside each door, waiting for the explicit invitation. Never assume you're welcome, that's what he taught her. But here, in Ray's car, and now his home, the invitations come so fast and furious that she can barely keep up. Come inside, take a seat, have a drink, how about some cheese and crackers, and on.
Someone else making it easier - the novelty of that keeps running in her head, counterpoint to the chatter and clang of silverware all around her.
At home, Ray Vecchio seems fully himself. Not that she knows him, but he seems so much looser, gentle with all the kids running around, somehow keeping up conversations with his sister, the two other cops, *and* Nina.
King of the castle, she thinks, watching him pour red wine with one hand and urge tiny pieces of cutlet at the baby squirming in the high chair next to him.
She's in wonderland, through the looking glass, sitting here at this crowded table. Gaping at a bald man who resembles a Renaissance bishop, even with the dishtowel thrown over his shoulder and hand smeared with pulped carrots, ignoring the unexpected closeness - bordering on cuddling - between the other two cops.
The dynamic among the cops has shifted all over again. In the park, they were three separate people, converging on her from different angles. Then, at the station, Fraser seemed to take charge while the Rays sniped at each other. But here, Vecchio is at the center, flanked by a sister and a baby while the other Ray and Fraser sit nearly entwined across from her. *Hey, it's the sustim! Or do you prefer vicpect?* Kowalski said when he saw her, then hushed at a glare from Vecchio.
Vecchio catches her eye when one of the little boys drops his salad plate, and she could swear he winks at her just before he leans over to comfort the poor kid.
"You don't like it?" Frannie asks her, tapping her fork on Nina's plate, leaning so close their shoulders touch. "I follow Ma's recipe, I really do -" The old lady at the other end of the table snorts and stabs at her food. "I *do*, but it comes out different every time. It's like that thing -" She swings around, curly hair brushing Nina's cheek, and points her fork at Fraser. He leans fractionally back in his chair and Nina wonders if they teach Mounties how to avoid death by cutlery. "That thing you were talking about once, remember, Frase? Schwimmer's dog, Shrinkwrap bunny..."
"Schrodinger's cat?" he asks politely.
"Anyway," Frannie says, and she swings back to Nina. "I'm sorry it's so inedible. If Ray had bothered to tell us he was bringing company, I'm sure -"
"Leave her alone, Frannie," Kowalski says. "She had seconds, didn't she?"
"It's great," Nina says when there's finally a pause. "Best lasagne I've ever had."
"Oh, now you're just lying!" Frannie hugs her with one arm. "That's so *sweet*."
Nina isn't sure, later, what her breaking point is. Maybe the next glass of vinegary yet sweet wine, maybe the argument the two Rays have about lake-effect snow: myth or reality?, maybe the little girl who presses up against her to show her the pictures she brought home from school.
Maybe it's all of that, the close, bright warmth of the crowded dining room, the way the little girl smells just like Amanda after a bath, too much heavy food, so many *people*.
Whatever it is, Nina becomes aware - first gradually, then in a sickening rush - that she is overheated and woozy. Feverish from the outside in, and her eyes feel like they are swimming in her head. Mumbling what she hopes is a polite excuse, hoping that *someone* hears it, she stands up and makes her way outside.
Out to the wide, sagging front porch. She grips the railing with both hands and takes deep, almost painful lungfuls of the cold air.
The wolf followed her out here, and now he sits next to her on the steps. He likes blondes, Fraser had told her in the car to the station, and Kowalski had turned and smirked at Vecchio, muttering about how Dief wasn't the only one.
Settling on the top step, Nina digs her fingers into Diefenbaker's fur and leans against him.
In each new city, every time she arrives, she thinks that she's come to the end. That she'll wake up from this ridiculous dream - half-nightmare, half-funhouse mirror - and find a place to settle. Stop hearing hooves, sleep through the night, not change unless there's a full moon.
Instead, her life just keeps getting stranger. Chicago is the strangest yet. Invited to a cop's house when she should be in jail, fed and talked to and thrust into the clamor of family life: she stopped looking for things to make sense a long time ago, but this is still incredible.
The porch creaks behind her, and here is that cop, dropping down onto the step below hers, handing her a mug.
"Tea. It's monkshood and -" Ray shrugs elegantly. "Hell if I know. Benny thought you'd like it."
"Thanks," she says, watching the steam curl up. She keeps both hands around the mug, absorbing its warmth.
"I'd watch out for reindeer droppings if I was you," he says, leaning back on one elbow, watching as she takes a sip.
The tea tastes spicy and delicious. She closes her eyes, feeling it warm her from within; the flavor is wild, like midnight prairies and forests out of the Brothers Grimm.
After a little while, Nina realizes that Ray is waiting for her to talk. She starts to apologize, just as he glances up at her and says, "-Angeles?"
"Sorry?" she asks.
Ray smiles, wide and kind, just the expression he wore while feeding the baby. "No, you first."
Nina glances down at the tea. The steam curves silver against the dark of the street, just as Ray's cheek does around his eyes.
She'd like to kiss him. He's handsome, and courtly, and generous and - she's lonely. She can't kiss someone just because it's been three years since she touched someone non-violently, because she's sick of running, because she's *grateful*.
"Really, I wasn't kidding," Ray says. "You go first."
"Oh. Oh, right," Nina says, her face heating up, the tea becoming even more interesting. "Sorry. I was just thinking about you and the kids. You're so good with them."
Ray grins, looking away and running his palm back and forth over the back of his head. She can hear the soft whisk-whisk of the motion and her own hands itch to try it.
"They're great," Ray says. "Love 'em like my own."
Nina leans forward, setting the mug aside. "They're not? Yours, I mean."
Too personal, she realizes, just as Ray winces and looks down. "Frannie's," he says lowly and knits his fingers together. "I'm not a dad. Just play one."
"I'm sorry," Nina says. In the chaos of introductions, she'd barely caught the childrens' names, let alone their relationship to Ray. "I shouldn't have -"
"It's all right." Ray finally looks back up at her, smiling a little as he rubs his hands vigorously over his knees. "Cold out here, huh?"
She's almost as grateful for the change of subject as she is for the meal itself. "Quiet, though. Nice."
"That it is," Ray says. He tilts his head slightly and suddenly it occurs to her that he hasn't looked away from her in several minutes. "You all right?"
She chooses to answer literally. "A little cold, but -" Shaking her head, she tries again. He's looking at her patiently, like he wants to listen, and thoughts of kissing that wide, flexible mouth won't leave her alone. "I'm sorry, about - about before. It's just been a long time since I was around a family. Little kids. Think I needed a breather."
"I hear you." Ray straightens up and shrugs off his sport coat, handing it to her. "Here. I'm Chicago born and raised. I can take a little cold."
"As opposed to the delicate Californian?" she asks, wrapping the jacket around her shoulders. The wool is as soft as Diefenbaker's fur, warm from Ray's body, scented just like him.
He raises his hands, grinning and shaking his head. "I didn't say that."
"Implied it, though."
"Plead the fifth," he says, then purses his lips. "Or the twelfth, I can never remember the Charter."
"You're forgiven." Nina slides down the step until she's beside Ray, landing with a thump. "Just watch it next time."
Ray's smile is constant, softening but not fading, as they draw closer together. He adjusts the collar of the jacket against her neck, then presses his hand there, fingers in her hair. Nina laughs a little when Dief growls softly, then sighs out a breath as Ray tilts into her. He smells like baby shampoo and basil, red wine and light cologne, and there are more lines around his eyes than she'd expected. Nina can almost feel the muscles in her shoulders and arms start to relax.
"Ah -" Ray ducks his head and she could kiss the crown of his skull, soft bristles catching the light, she's so close. Clearing his throat, he looks back up. "I haven't - it's been awhile since I -"
"Mmm. Me, too," Nina says, sliding her hand up his leg, coming to rest over his hand. Ray turns his palm up and their fingers lace together.
They're going to kiss, they both know they are. How could she have forgotten just how *good* this feels? All these soft, minute adjustments, learning the length of his fingers and warmth of his palm, the pattern of lines in his forehead, drawing closer. This long moment, she had completely forgotten about this moment, full of expectation and hesitancy, regarding each other, taking a deep breath.
Ray's eyelashes are long, ermine-dark, beautiful.
When she reaches across, stroking his eyebrow and lid with one finger, his arm tightens around her waist.
Kids have nothing on this, when you're both experienced and possibly scared out of your wits, but willing to nudge and inch a little closer, touch and learn, and hope.
"It's been way too long for me, actually," she says, and then tilts, slides, and she's kissing him.
And, oh, *God*, but she'd forgotten, this, too. The slick warmth of another mouth, lips curving against hers, the embrace that tightens and opens, how her nerves flare back into life, brightening in time with her speeding pulse. Ray kisses thoroughly, soft insistent tongue, whisper of stubble against her cheek and palm, warmth everywhere.
Strange is not the word for this.
Strange is inadequate for the consolation that spins out around them, through her body, into the kiss.
In this kiss, Nina passes beyond gratitude, well past loneliness, dipping into the sharp, jagged landscape of heat and want. That's a place she thought she'd left in ruins with the rest of LA.
But here it is, on a cold Chicago street, sheltered in a fine cashmere coat and a kiss that's not ending.
[tbc. eventually.]