These Words Are Haunting (Me) -Part Two

Back to the room.

Darkness. It was night outside, rain pattering against the pane, street lights reflected in the glass. The room was familiar, a warped reminder of almost two months spent in one similar, and Fraser's surroundings slipped around his shoulders as comfortable as an old coat. He suspected his exact room, with that dark streak across the ceiling, the perfect view of the aerobics centre, lay a corridor down, but this was close enough. Too many hours spent counting the minutes, but never quite sure for what.

*Ray was right when he said these chairs were uncomfortable.*

Fraser shifted in an attempt to relieve the pain from his back, but with little success. An echo, a reminder of past mistakes. Giving up, he leant forward, scooting his chair across tiles so he could lay his hand gently on his friend's arm.

"Three times, Ray," he said, sadly. Silence mocked him, and he drew a deep breath, burying himself in darkness. "You shouldn't have."

The first. Chinatown. They were barely friends, let alone partners, but one hand in the small of his back, thrown through a window by a force of incredible heat, hitting the floor below, and all that changed.

*This was a mistake.*

*Yes.*

Ray, I didn't mean that! I wanted to tell you, but I never realised how you blamed yourself for the explosion, when it was my fault. My fault we were there, my fault you were dragged into the whole mess, in Chinatown. And now.

The second time. This hospital.

He frowned. Was it only just down the corridor where Ray fell? No. Several floors up, and across, another wing. Memory blurred, he found he'd forgotten certain details, like just how much it hurt climbing those stairs, how much of a lecture he had received from Jill afterwards, rather unfairly.

*It wasn't your fault.*

*Not every woman with long dark hair tries to shoot her lover.*

She stares at me, her eyes dark, her hair . . . she looks so much like Victoria it hurts. She's going to fire. Her finger is tightening around the trigger, skin pale. Part of me knows my duty, and the rest of me . . . doesn't care. So I turn. On autopilot, one arm out, I move around, turn my back on her, protecting the other intern.

I'm not sure which happened first, and when I think back, perhaps the two events occurred simultaneously. There was a shot. Then something, somebody hits me, a heavy, warm body against mine, and the younger man is pulling away, and I'm falling. I catch a whiff of expensive cologne before I'm overwhelmed by bleach, the cold floor beneath me, and I'm entangled in the folds of exquisite Italian tailoring. My back screams at me when I hit the ground, and for a moment the world threatens to fall in on itself, but then I'm pulling myself up, out from under the weight above me. And I know.

I turn, and you're flat on the floor, above me, I turn and roll out from beneath you then take your arm, push you gently onto your back. You don't say anything, stunned, and I can see the blood from the exit wound on the front of your chest, just on your shoulder, your left shoulder. Everything happens so slowly. I'm holding you in my arms, lifting you from the floor, and then I *know.*

I turn my head, and watch Dr. Carter being dragged away by Detectives Huey and Gardino. And then I realise, she's not Victoria, she's a stranger, I don't know her, though I've made the same mistakes, trusting she wouldn't shoot, knowing that she was capable, and uncaring. And it doesn't matter. She's not Victoria, I don't even know her, and she's being pulled away, shocked at what's she's done. Victoria is gone, taken away on a train and it doesn't matter, all that's important is right here. Then I turn back, and you're looking up at me with wide eyes, and I take your arm and pull you closer, assure you that I'm here. Feels like the first time in a long while.

I will recover from Victoria, though she did 'get me good.' But you're hurt, and that's all that matters.

*Even Stevens.*

*Even Stevens? Nobody says even stevens anymore.*

*Oh. Why?*

*It's juvenile.*

Jill's pulling me away, gently, so you can be tended to. She's got an arm around my waist, and for the first time I realise just how much climbing up those stairs took, but the physical weakness doesn't frighten me anymore. You're being lifted up onto a gurney, and I break away long enough to stand over you. Your fingers are touching your wound, and I'm trying to work out what you're thinking, anything from that this repays the debt you think you owe me, or whether you've realised I've ruined another one of your jackets.

Jill pulls me away, there's that arm around my waist again, but suddenly she's more than the professional, or a stranger fascinated by the goings on in the room opposite. She's a friend.

I made a mistake, trying to go with Victoria. My life is here, in Chicago, at the Consulate, at the station house. My life just stepped in front of a bullet to save me. Why, Ray? Out of guilt? It wasn't your fault you shot me, it wasn't your fault you had to leave Chicago. Because you feel you owe me something? Ray, you have no idea.

An echo.

"It wasn't your fault, Ray."

The lights in the windows opposite shed shadows upon the floor, distorted the shapes into hulking monsters, that scared young children, the bogeyman from under the bed. Fraser closed his eyes, longing for his father's advice, regretting his loss.

Opened his eyes, watched his friend as though in sleep, noted the lines around his eyes, the new shadows.

"You lost weight in Vegas, Ray."

Stopped.

The third time.

Why didn't I recognise you earlier? I catch sight of you in the hotel, those familiar shoulders, slim build. I should have realised. But I never expected to see you in Chicago.

You open the door and in that one moment . . .

"Stan's a good man, Ray." Ducked his head, briefly. "But you're . . . Stan is my friend, my partner. But you're . . . family."

*It's good to see you, Ray.*

*It's good to see you too, Benny.*

Muldoon killed my mother. I'm hanging from a ferris wheel trying to disarm a bomb with Inspector Thatcher's aid so perhaps I'm excused from hearing the gunshots.

But I see you fall.

*Just like old times, huh.*

*Unhappily so.*

*Do you Mounties still get your man?*

A cold draught escaped through the door to the corridor, pooled around his shoulders and back. Fraser shivered, drawing his hand back from his friend to wrap his arms around himself, a futile effort to ward off a chill red serge failed to.

Quietly: "Ray?"

No response. As though he expected one.

Rain against the window, a flicker of lights outside, two silhouettes cast against the wall. Unable to stand the silence, Fraser pushed himself sharply out of the chair, breath hitching in his throat. Hands fumbled at the handle, before he pressed down and he stumbled through the open door into the cold corridor.

His hands pressed flat against the dry paint of the wall, feet slightly apart, leaning forward, head down, struggling to breathe.

*1, 2, 3, 4 . . .*

Fingers spread against murky green, shoulders hunched, uncomfortable, weight thrown forward.

*I'm not sure I can do this . . .*

"Constable Fraser?"

He straightened abruptly, nails pressing into his palm.

*Control yourself. Mustn't let anyone see.*

A petite woman stood at the end of the corridor, dark hair mussed by rain. Water followed in rivulets down the folds of her coat, collecting in a puddle at her feet. She had sad eyes, raised them to meet his as he approached.

"Mrs, ah -"

Fraser stopped, confused by the correct title. He had only seen Ray's ex-wife once, and never to talk to, and found himself suddenly unsure of how to begin.

Thankfully, the woman recognised his discomfort. "Angela. And yes, it's still Vecchio." She paused, used the moment to look him up and down, assess the uniform. "It is Constable Fraser, isn't it?"

"Ah, yes. Of the RCMP."

"Maria told me about you." One pale hand shifted restlessly on the leather strap of her bag, slung over her right shoulder. "You're Ray's partner."

"Yes ma'am."

"I heard about Ray. I think Maria thought I . . . well, she still sees me as one of the family." She gave a facial shrug. "There was a message for me when I got home. I, um, it's okay for me to be here?"

Fraser blinked, surprised at the question. "Yes. I, ah, I think Ray would be fine with it."

A flicker of a smile. Fraser glanced behind him, at the door left ajar.

"Would you like to -"

"If that's alright. I won't be long."

He hesitated before passing, her damp shoulder brushing against the sleeve of his jacket. A fleeting touch, the warmth of a strong, loving woman, a reminder of familiar hurt. Fraser turned his head, but caught only a glimpse of brown hair. He waited to see her settle into a chair, saw her lean forward and take her ex-husband's hand, perhaps the only other person still living who knew Ray Vecchio as well as he did.

Then dutiful respect and inhibition pulled his gaze away, and he returned to Kowalski with thoughts of personal loss and reflections in her eyes.

*

"Hey."

Her voice sounded scratched. The shadow behind her moved away, and Angela Vecchio was left alone, trying to warm her husband's hand with her own.

Some things never end.

"Maria called me." A small silence, her fingers rubbing rhythmically across his skin. She gave a quiet, sad laugh. "Funny. I was always so afraid of that phonecall, I used to have nightmares about it, when you were late home, when I heard something on the news . . . But I always thought I would be the first they'd call. But from the looks of things . . ." her free hand rose to brush his cheek, "you're not alone anymore, Ray."

I remember the first time I knew it was over.

Okay. Maybe not over but . . . I knew there was a problem. But I was so tired, too tired, of trying to solve it one handed. There's only so long you can go on pretending everything is fine and it was then I realised maybe the denial had gone on too long.

I'd been waiting for him to come home for almost three hours. I can't blame him for that. I phoned the station, left messages with the desk sergeant, a sweet guy called Phil. Told him to call me, to come straight home. He must never have got them because he finishes at six and then at half past I get this message.

I ran for the machine. I'd got impatient waiting for him to arrive home so I started washing up, was in the middle of scrubbing out left over lasagna when the phone rang. My hands are covered in soapy water and I can't find the towel and when I run into the living room, dripping everywhere, I hear the machine switch on. He tells me he's been invited out to a bar with some of the other street cops from his precinct, he'll be back by nine to give me some good news but he promised the guys he'd spend time with them first.

I can't blame him for that. I don't. I guess he never got my message, and I can't expect him to be psychic. But I wanted him to come home on time, to the dinner that's going cold on the table, to the small white box sitting next to the bathroom sink. I want to throw my arms about his neck as soon as he comes in through the door, feel the soft folds of his thick Chicago PD jacket around me, feel his strength encircle me, tell me how wonderful everything will be.

Except he's not here.

I eat my half of the dinner and put the rest on a plate to be reheated when he comes home. I wipe down the kitchen surfaces, resist from phoning my mother or girlfriends, he has to be the first to know, crash down on the couch and try and distract myself with mindless television.

I'm halfway through a repeat of ER I'm not really aware of when I hear his key at the door.

Something changes. Suddenly all my thoughts of how I wanted this moment to be go up in smoke, and I just stand, wait for the door to open and for his slim frame to appear.

"Angie." He gives me the sweetest smile you've ever seen, and in that instant I allow myself to believe that this is it, this is what will bring us together again, like I remember it. "You feeling okay? Michael was asking about you."

"I'm fine, Ray." What is it that stops me from hugging him? "Actually, I'm more than fine."

"Yeah? That's great, because I've got some news." He's been drinking. Not much, he doesn't after growing up under his father but I think socially he has maybe one or two, just to be friendly. But he's loose-limbed, wraps one arm around my waist, pulling me towards the couch.

Gently, but determinedly, I push him away, take one of his hands in my own. His long fingers wrap around mine as though we were meant to fit, physically, emotionally. But not spiritually. Isn't that what Oprah always goes on about?

"Ray, I have to tell you something first."

"No, wait Ange, I gotta -"

"Please, Ray! Let me go first?" I look at him, look into those huge brown eyes, the ones I can lose myself in. But not now. I burst out, breathless: "I'm pregnant."

The look in his face is so far from the one I wanted it hurts, physically. A mix of shock and horror. "You're sure?"

"Yes." His grip has been lost so I step back, pick up the small plastic object I left on the coffee table, all ready for this moment. "See?" I wave the little stick at him, feeling foolish. "Pink."

"I . . ." He hesitates, stares at the pregnancy kit like it's something alien, like he expects it to come up and bite him on the ass. "That's, uh . . ." He seems to pull himself together, and gives me a smile that doesn't quite feel genuine. "That's great."

Then why do I want to curl up into a corner and cry?

"I, uh . . ." Another pause, then he rummages in his pocket, pulls out his shield. Except there's something different about it, it's shinier, and he doesn't need to say anything for me to realise what it is. "I got promoted. You're looking at Detective Vecchio now."

He's worked for this for god knows how long. All his career, and maybe before that. I'm a cop, I know how these things work, everyone wants to get off the streets, but with Ray it's like his passion. He works overtime, pulls double shifts, always going into situations because he thinks it's finally going to earn him the promotion he needs to prove himself.

For a while, when we were engaged and then for six months after, things were good. I mean really good, he would come home early, surprise me with flowers, cook meals for me, and we'd talk about having kids together, what we'd call them, how many, boys or girls. His eyes would light up, and he'd hold me, my head resting against his shoulder as he stroked my hair. In the end though, it didn't last. I couldn't make him happy, not like he wanted. Ray never liked showing his feelings, admitting to them even less. He was always trying to prove himself, for him, for his father. I barely knew Ray before his father died, but even after it's like he's trying to convince his dad that he was better than him, that he was worthy. Stupid, really, because Ray hated his father.

"That's great." My voice sounds dry, but I must manage some sort of sincerity because he smiles, kisses me.

So Ray worked. I was always happy to be a street cop, figured I'd give it up once there were children involved. But Ray never thought like that. He worked so hard trying to get his gold shield that days would go by and I wouldn't see him. He'd come in late, kiss me on the cheek as he got into bed, and when I got up the following morning to head out he'd still be asleep, head resting on the crook of his arm.

He pulls back to look at me. "You okay?"

"Mm." I give another smile. "I guess I'm just feeling a bit sick still."

"We can't have that." He pushes me gently onto the sofa, then pulls the throw and tucks it around me, leaning down again to kiss me on the forehead. "Better?"

"Thanks."

He takes a seat beside me, stroking my cheek. "Everything's going to be great. We'll have more money coming in, we can get loads of baby stuff, maybe move to a bigger place, get one of those cribs, lacey . . ."

Too late, Ray. The test was wrong, it was a false alarm, but that isn't the point. You were so disappointed when the doctor gave us the news, and for a while we tried to have another, to have that little pink strip again. But you had your badge, and you had to work harder than ever to keep it. I got over the flu, and everything else, and went back to work. When did we realise it was over, Ray, was it when I started seeing my mother more than my husband? You moved back to your family house, transferred to another precinct, whilst I stayed at work for another year before giving it up completely.

It was that disappointment. It was the initial look on your face. It was the job. Put it down to any number of things.

I do love you. Somedays I can wake up and for that brief moment, before I roll over and find the bed cold and empty, I can pretend you're still lying beside me, cologne and shampoo.

Amicable divorce. On paper, filed away, along with several old shirts you never collected, the ones I sleep in at night, an ancient stack of car magazines I can't bear to throw out and a box full of photographs I took down from the mantelpiece.

I wonder whether, if I lose you now, it will hurt any more than it already does.

*

Francesca's hands formed a twisted cats cradle in her lap, fingers entangled around each other. She stared dully at her perfectly painted fingernails, eyes dry and scratchy from too many tears.

"I'm fine, Stan."

A repetition for the fourth time. Kowalski continued to pace, Caterpillars crossing the same patch of tiles beneath Francesca's eyes.

"You know, if you want to go home -"

She couldn't bring herself to make it number five.

"Yeah." He sank down onto the bench beside her, empathy furrowing his brow. "I guess you don't want to leave. Sorry I keep asking, but, well, me and hospitals are like, y'know, unmixy. Jeez, I hate these places." Blue eyes dropped to the polystyrene carcass empty on the floor. "The coffee sucks. I could go get us some expresso -"

Silence.

"No, it's okay, I'm not going to leave." Kowalski hung his head, ruffling blonde spikes with his fingers. "Wonder how long Fraser will be. Wonder if he'll eat anything. He left most of that sandwich I got him." Dark eyes and white fur rubbed friction against his pants. "I guess somebody enjoyed it, huh Dief."

The wolf whined softly, nudging Kowalski's dangling hand with a wet nose. Reaching out, the blonde submitted to canine persuasion and started to massage his companion's head.

"Yeah, I know." Without a pause in his hand's attention, Kowalski turned his head to watch his semi-sister closely. Chestnut coils fell damp around her neck, a dark wet streak slicing her baby blue shirt, beneath a thin leather jacket of questionable authenticity. A gold cross hung, visible, down to the hint of cleavage, oddly familiar.

A realisation, startled. "You're freezing."

Tired: "Stan -"

"You're shivering." His shoulders shrugged, slipping out of the knee-length suede affair Dewey had made him a surprise present of. A memory of an ex-flame, he'd said, and one dry-cleaning bill later and the coat was billowing around Kowalski's thighs.

Francesca made no noise as he pulled the heavy cloth up to her neck, covering her shoulders and arms, but she inched closer to him on the bench, lay her head against his skinny frame. Her hair brushed his chin fleetingly. Shifting marginally, Kowalski slipped his left arm around her back, and she snuggled deeper into his hold, eyes closed, voice barely a murmur.

"Sorry."

"S'okay. We're family, right?"

The weight against his shoulder moved up and down fractionally in assent.

"I'll tell you if he wakes up."

Another shift of weight, barely noticeable. A moment later and she was asleep, her breath warming a small patch against his chest.

*Family.*

Francesca was his sister. She could never be anything else, although in that very first moment, before she'd opened her mouth and introduced him to the full wrath of Italian American emotion, Kowalski had thought that perhaps this assignment wouldn't be so bad. Not if his sister was that cute.

The game was over but the bond remained, with Francesca, with the rest of the Vecchios. He didn't know Maria or Tony particularly well, and it was only now that he could distinguish between his multiple nieces and nephews, but Mrs Vecchio had welcomed him into her house as one of her own.

Not her house. Vecchio's. It was under his name.

An irrational, bitter twist of envy rose in his stomach. Kowalski closed his eyes, tried to run from the feeling. Two months since Vecchio's return and he still had, what would his mother call it? Green eyes.

Jealous of his family. Jealous of his job. Jealous of the partner he had in Fraser, jealous of the lengths he seemed willing to go through for him, had already been through.

Like this.

Chasing Muldoon and his goons through a miniature amusement centre, splashing through water, fumbling for my glasses. Fraser gone, up on some Ferris wheel and god knows why, my attention caught by a heavy set man running for the fire door . . .

I never see Muldoon pull the trigger. I see his back departing from the scene, but everyone's panicking, I'm turning on my heel and I'm afraid that this is it, Fraser is lost, and it would be my fault, because I've finally been shown up as the screw-up I really am. The Vecchio name is a mask, and with it this confidence and heroics, but now the curtain's risen and I'm about to be revealed as the fumbling extra. And Fraser's trust will shatter.

So certain am I in my fear that it takes a moment for the figure on the floor to strike a note of recognition.

*Vecchio.*

How did Fraser reach you first? The place is strangely silent, the yells of Welsh and Thatcher dimmed by the rushing sound in my ears, an entire tidal wave fighting its way out of my head. Fraser is bent over you, a splash of colour in that stupid uniform, and he's saying words I'm too far away to hear.

I don't think my brain's working. I can't think, it's painful, and everything until now is fuzzy. But I'm by Fraser's side, my hands on his shoulders, pulling him away from you so the paramedics can help. He's resisting, and I almost yank him off his feet. His eyes are glazed and unfocused, and he's so pale I think for a moment I can see through him.

I know why, too.

*Jeez, Fraser. A year and no word, and then he suddenly falls back into Chicago and within hours he's . . .*

A short, dark haired woman clutching a bag to her chest suddenly appeared through the doors to Recovery. She stopped in her path to the outside, her gaze resting on the Kowalski and his slumbering cargo.

"Francesca?"

Kowalski's head tilted slightly, enabling him to gently nudge his sister, but the dark haired woman put out a hand to stop him.

"Wait, it's, ah, it's okay. Don't wake her." Her figure lingered, right shoulder leaning to the door behind, the left holding her back. Kowalski watched her, continually puzzled, one hand absently brushing Francesca's hair.

"I, uh, do I know you?"

The auburn bob shook in the negative. "No, we've never met." Small feet crossed tiles and she put out a hand, withdrawn when she realised both his hands were occupied. "I'm Angela. Angela Vecchio."

Kowalski blinked, fingers halting in their attention to Francesa's curls. "Oh." He floundered. In the initial briefing before his undercover assignment as Ray Vecchio began, Stan had been informed of his counterpart's ex, but equally assured that history would not be resurrected.

*Vecchio's not spoken to her in months. She's friends with the family, but she doesn't need to know who you are.*

"Stan Kowalski" he said, accompanying the offer with a tilt of his head. "I, um, I'm Ray's partner." His lips shaped unfamiliar words, but the sentiment felt true for the first time since the hotel door opened. "Uh, if you want to speak to a doctor or something -"

"No, thank you." Her eyes flew to the door and then back, accompanied by a nervous, half-hearted smile. "I spoke to Constable Fraser before. Maria said she would call me if anything happened."

He nodded, but the conversation was not yet over. The woman, Angela, hung back from her exit, her head rising slightly to catch Kowalski's eyes, absorb them into dark hazel.

"I'm glad Ray has friends here."

Then low heels cut back over a thin hallway mat, and the double glass doors closed across her departing back.

Kowalski closed his eyes, measuring his breaths as his heartbeat quickened.

*Guilty conscience.*

"Stan?"

He shot up, almost dislodging Francesca from his shoulder. "Frase?"

"I brought you something to eat."

He held out a cellophane package as an offering, but despite the growl from his stomach Kowalski shook his head.

"Actually, I was gonna go back and, uh, see how he's doing. If that's okay. I mean, if you want to go in there -"

He was looking for a way out but Fraser, regardless of his ignorance, sensed Kowalski shouldn't have one.

"No, that's okay."

"Yeah, so, could you kinda help me -" Kowalski dipped his head towardds Francesca. Comprehending, Fraser took the seat on the other side of the Italian woman, and gently Kowalski manoeuvred her from his shoulder onto one clad in a crinkled white shirt, serge long since abandoned. She stirred at the movement, murmured inaudibly, then wriggled sleepily into a new position curled up against Fraser's chest. Fraser, showing none of his youthful inhibitions, lay his arm around her shoulders, enclosing her in warmth.

"'Kay. Thanks." Kowalski put the offered sandwich to one side, then glanced back at Fraser. "You're sure -"

"Yes, Stan."

"Okay."

Taking a deep breath he hoped passed Fraser unnoticed, Kowalski headed for the abandoned corridor.

*

*This is stupid. This shouldn't be causing me all this. Just walk in there, say your piece, then get out. Right?*

The answer was sneaking up on him. He'd known the reason for a while, but it took the words of a stranger before Kowalski finally acknowledged it as the truth.

*I hate the guy. That isn't friendship. Right?*

Guilt itched horribly. Hand reached out for the door, hesitated, felt the cold metal handle against his fingers.

*Stupid stupid stupid . . .*

Nausea rose, then ebbed away like the tide. He waited for the next wave to pass before pressing down, letting the door swing open. Stepped inside.

"Vecchio?"

The Italian awakes, stirring slowly. I recognise the signs, the register of pain, the adjustment to the bed and the wires and the dark. Eyes open, dulled by drugs, his right hand twitches for a touch that isn't there. Lips part, a mist as he tries to speak.

Then I reassure him that everything's okay, go get Fraser, and then I can forget about ever having to do this. Vecchio is okay, and I don't have to worry about the guilt. Would that make it easier?

The click of the door falling shut hit Kowalski like a blow to the knees. He fell, caught by a plastic chair. Pressing his face into his hands, he took a shaky breath, forced his head up to study the still form in the bed.

"Shit."

The curse no longer held any meaning, and further repetitions dried at the back of his throat. Kowalski rubbed at the back of his hand, trying to choose the words, to fathom his feelings.

Guilt? Oh yeah, that was there, big time, a familiar friend, accompanying him on many long dark nights. Jealousy, sure, ever since that damn hotel door had opened he'd been guilty of that particular vice. Anger - deep, simmering, for all that he had been given and then lost. Concern? Maybe. For a fellow cop, sure, for Francesca's brother, yup, for Fraser's partner, definitely.

There it was. Glimmering, he dove for it, snatched a tendril before it could escape from him yet again. Surfaced, he brought it out into to the light, studied the feeling with abstraction.

Fear? What the hell is *that* doing here?

The thing glared back at him, ugly.

"Crap."

Kowalski raised his head, stared at the pale face against paler sheets. Demanded, angry: "You happy now, Vecchio? Now you've messed my head up worse than Fraser's?"

That's not fair.

The voice mocked him, an imaginary conversation with one duddly-do-right Mountie.

No? Have you seen yourself out there? Never seen you look so bad, Fraser. Not even in that first hospital trip after Muldoon, though I guess you were a bit preoccupied. And I want to help you, but you won't let me - or he won't.

Vecchio.

My partner.

My friend.

"Dammit, Vecchio!" Kowalski rose, started to pace, unable to watch the bed any longer, unable to leave. "It'd be easier if I could just hate you. God knows, I want to. Y'know, you don't do much to endear yourself to a guy, and afterall it was me who saved your neck down here whilst you went up the career ladder in Vegas!"

Be reasonable, Stan. Ray didn't choose to leave for Las Vegas, he was ordered to. He didn't know about you. He didn't know how long it would last.

"It was my life, Fraser." Quietly. "Mine."

Still is, Stan. But you don't have to pretend to be someone else anymore.

Silence. Kowalski found himself by the window, watching the distant lights of rooms beyond. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper.

"Y'know, this was supposed to be a fresh start. I mean, that's what I told myself anyway, when I took this stupid job. Stella and me had broken up, the job - uh, well, my captain didn't exactly like me, and I'd pretty much given up all of my friends after I got married, so . . ."

It arrived on my desk this morning, but I couldn't bring myself to slit it open. The envelope, complete with little seal of official approval.

Divorce papers.

The station house is empty, most people have gone home for the night, to their wives, girlfriends, kids. I haven't even got a dog, not since the one I had as a kid got run down by a delivery van. Couldn't even keep a stupid dog. I'm taking bets on how long it will last before the turtle does a runner.

The lights are low, all the computers are switched off, even mine. Unfinished paperwork on the desk, the third cup of coffee since the official end of the shift sits atop, congealing. There's a few loose smarties, and chocolate crunches beneath my hands, smears brown on a witness statement.

I can't open them. I can't. If I do, then it's over, officially, no going back, no last minute counselling sessions, phantom pregnancy, or angry make-up sex is going to stitch this one back together. I open the envelope and it's all gonna come crashing down, my marriage, my whole life, lie about me in little accusing shards.

Til death do you part. We parted, now what's holding up the death?

A cold breeze brushed Kowalski's shoulders, made him shiver.

"It wasn't anything like I imagined. It wasn't a fresh start, I just ended up with a load of someone else's emotional baggage to go with my own. I mean, nobody told me about Fraser. Nobody said, oh, by the way, you're gonna be unofficially partnered with the *most* annoying man in history whose gonna use every opportunity to get the both of you killed!"

A pause, catch his breath.

"Fraser thought I was the best cop, he read my file, saw how many commendations and all that crap I had. Guess he needed his sights adjusting. None of that stuff matters, not in the end. It didn't stop Stella from leaving." Watched the reflection of the man in the bed. "Guess you know that though, right?"

A street lamp flickered, twisting shadows.

"Fraser was the first person I trusted not to leave." Anger again, bitter, a vile taste in his mouth. "When that hotel door opened I thought, this is it, you're back and Fraser's gonna leave and I'm all on my own again. I could have dealt with that, y'know, I knew it wasn't permanent, knew that in the end the job would end and I'd go back to being alone. I've done it before, I can deal."

"Except he didn't leave."

Hands dug into pockets, suddenly cold. Electronic hums echoed mockingly.

"I like you, Vecchio. Didn't want to. You're a good cop, a good partner. Fraser seems to think the sun shines out your - uh, well, maybe he thinks that about most people. You gotta know, I never wanted -"

Cut off. Fear rose its ugly head again, laced around his throat, closed in. Kowalski turned, slowly, facing the bed and its occupant.

"I never wanted you to die."

To a cold concrete floor you fall, hands at your chest. You're making a horrible sound, I never want to hear it again, choking and gasping, and your eyes are wide and looking up at me as though I can help, I can't, dammit, I don't know what to do, and you reach out and grab my sleeve with one hand and god it's so tight it hurts . . . .

And I don't know what to do.

I hate that fear. Every cop has to go through it at some stage, whether it's some injured criminal or innocent victim, or a fellow cop. But I . . .

"Dammit, you have to be okay." Kowalski's fist clenched and unclenched, frustrated. "I mean, for Fraser's sake, for Franny's. And, hell . . . for me too. You're my partner."

Silence. He sank back into the chair, running his fingers through his hair. Guilt welled within him, threatened to engulf.

"I should have done something, y'know? I should have seen those guys coming, should have stopped them from . . ." Broke off. "How was I supposed to know? I mean, the docs said, they said it was unpredictable! You should never have come back to work! You don't just get a gunshot wound like that and then be okay! But you had to come back, like you were shoving my face in it, had to come back and I thought great, you take my job, you take Fraser, except, except . . ."

He bit his lip, dug nails into his palm. "Except you didn't. I mean, sure, we argue, a lot, but you didn't take anything. Guess it pissed you off, huh, thought you could come back from Vegas and everything would be the same? Except I'm here, this new guy who pisses you off constantly but instead of pulling the rug out from under him you let him partner you. And that just pisses me off! Had to make sure I owe you *everything*. And I couldn't even stop you from ending up here . . ."

Floundered, words lost, grabbed on to the only phrase he could. The familiar: "Crap."

Hair was ruffled yet again. "I guess I should say thanks, huh. I mean, I bet if you'd asked Welsh they would have transferred my ass back to my old precinct, but you didn't. Don't know why. God, if I'd been you, I would have made sure, y'know? Taken everything back. But you didn't."

Head dropped, words muffled. "Maybe I should have left. Honourable thing to do."

Fraser, I'm leaving.

Fraser, Vecchio's back, the job is over, the precinct has enough detectives.

Fraser, it's over, I can go home.

Frase . . .

Fraser, I'm lying.

"Shoulda left. Shouldn't be here now, right? I mean, you've got your family, you've got Fraser, you've even got your ex. And me and you, we're not even friends, right? I've got no reason to be here, no right. But, goddammit, I owe you! You have to take even that!"

Stopped. Laced his fingers, pressed his palms together. Voice soft.

"You can't leave me with all of this. I couldn't take your place before, so don't up and leave and expect me to do it now. I'm crap with responsibility. Besides, even if I deal with Fraser and Franny and your family and the job . . . who's going to deal with me?"

This time the silence lasted a day, a night, and a day. The room blurred, until he felt more alone and bereft of anything since that day in the hotel. Skin paled as he pressed his hands together, vainly tried to force overwhelming fear back inside . . .

Dammit, I feel like I'm drowning and you're the only one who can save me . . .

A movement caught his eye. An electronic beep, quickening, dancing green across black. Kowalski raised his head, noticing the dim early morning glow for the first time.

Been here all night. Seems like longer. A lifetime.

"Ray?"

*

God, I never knew anything could hurt so much. Worse than getting shot for the first time, just jumping instinctively, knowing what was going to happen, knowing that it was worth it. I can't remember much of what happened after that, not falling to the ground, or Benny rushing over to me, any of that. Now, now all I can think of is how much it hurts, how I'm struggling to take every breath, and I can hear Benny's voice and he's saying my name, and I can feel his hand against mine . . .

The next thing I know is there's all these bright lights and siren sounds and a paramedic's bending over me, and I've got this breathing mask strapped to my face. I guess I must be in an ambulance, but I guess I don't really notice, I'm just trying to keep breathing, even though it really hurts. And I start to hallucinate at one point, because suddenly there's this old guy stood over me, a Mountie of all things, the top of his hat brushing the ceiling, and he's looking down at me and I know that right then and there I must have gone crazy. And then there was darkness.

They'll tell me later that was when my heart stopped. Okay, it was only for a second, but when they tell me all I can think of was how Benny would react if he knew.

And now I'm waking up in the hospital room. It's really dark, and I'm glad, but it makes it hard to see anything. It takes an effort to open my eyes, and when I turn my head it's like I've used up all of my energy in that single action and then I'm spent.

Kowalski is sat on the chair beside the bed. What am I saying, sat, he's scrunched up tight, looks really uncomfortable. He's talking to me, soft, and I can't hear the words, but the sound of his voice is really relaxing. Stupid. First time I think I could ever be relaxed around this guy. How does Benny put up with it?

"Ray."

He's finally noticed I'm awake. There's this look of relief on his face . . . I can't describe it. But there's guilt in there. I want to tell him to stop worrying, that it wasn't his fault, because I know that's what he's thinking. But it's all I can do to keep my eyes open.

"Okay, um, you just lie still, I'll go get a nurse, or something, and Fraser is with Franny, been here all the time, looks like hell - uh, well, I'll just go get him."

He's floundering, words tumbling over each other and I really want to tell him to relax, but my throat still hurts from whatever machine they've had me on. Mouthing at him and feeling horribly frustrated. He pushes himself out of the chair, about to head for the door, then stops, looks back.

"S'good to see you awake, Vecchio."

I make my best attempt at a smile, mouth at him: "You called me Ray."

"Yeah, well . . ." Kowalski shuffles his feet. "Don't let it go to your head."

Turns to leave for the second time, and I manage to find my voice, barely audible to my own ears but it draws him back. "Thanks, Stan."

He gives me the biggest, widest, stupidest grin I've ever seen, then darts out of the door.

Moron.

Okay, so, maybe that's harsh . . .

I want to close my eyes, go to sleep, but I can't, not until I've seen him. And no doubt Franny's here somewhere, and maybe Ma . . . how long have I been out, anyway?

I know one thing though. Lying there, in the middle of that alley, Fraser trying to help me, I thought I was going to die. And I knew I didn't want to, knew I couldn't. And I know leaving Chicago was the biggest mistake I could have ever made. Things have never been the same since Victoria, and then I go to Vegas, and I never got to say goodbye, and in that alley . . . I'm not going to make the same mistake again.

Too many people out here I like too much to leave.

Mind you, not sure what Kowalski was doing here . . .

How long *have* I been out?

*

"Ray."

Morning.

I can't describe . . .

I'm not used to being on this side of the glass, out in the waiting room, hoping for that look, fearing the other.

When Stan appeared I thought . . .

"Ray?"

Hazel eyes, shining in a growing light. "Hey Benny."

Fraser lowered his voice to match the Italian's whisper, took a seat by the bed. "I'm glad you're awake." Laid his hand, gently, over his friend's.

"Mmm. Guess I was wrong."

"Wrong?"

A tired smile. "'Bout this being only a flesh wound."

He looked down. "Unfortunately."

"Yeah." He closed his eyes for a moment. "About Kowalski."

"He asked to be here."

"Relax, Benny. Kowalski . . . he's alright."

Fraser's turn to smile. "I knew you two would get on." Pause. "I think he felt guilty."

"You should tell him not to. Wasn't his fault."

"Perhaps you should be the one to tell him."

"Maybe."

Fraser rubbed his hand across his eyes. Ray caught the look, and a pained look crossed his features.

"What is it?"

"I . . ." Hesitated. "When Stan came to get me, I thought, when I first saw him, that is, I was afraid . . ."

Another small smile. "I'm not about to do that. A year was enough."

Confused: "Ray?"

"You know. Just . . . being Armando. I did the whole dying thing back then."

Fraser ducked his head. "I'm sorry, Ray."

"Yeah. Me too. I shouldn't have brought it up." He closed his eyes again, this time for longer.

"You should get some rest." He made a move as if to leave.

"Don't."

He hesitated, then turned back. Settled into the chair.

"Course, he'll have to change his dress sense."

He blinked. "Who?"

"Kowalski."

He closed his eyes again, smile settling on his face.

End