writing journal

threesunrises @ 2007-10-12T10:43:00

2007-10-12T15:43:55Z

ignazwisdom prompted "either Ray at the shooting range," and i've been sitting on this for over a week now because i forgot i wrote it. cough. (also, again, not entirely happy with it. sigh.)

Ray held the gun in both hands and looked at it. Brand new, shined within an inch of its life, clean as a whistle, a heavy weight in his palm. Nero had presented it to him as a welcome-home gift. He supposed it should have been comforting; a means of defense if his cover was blown, help him stay alive while he waited for the feds to swoop in and rescue him.

He shoved all those thoughts out of his head. It had been made crystal clear to Ray that if he were to be discovered, odds of his survival were not good. This gun, no matter how big, how clean, how intimidating it was right now, could only buy him a well-aimed punch and nine rounds' worth of time. Maybe a little more, if he had a spare clip.

Armando would keep this gun around for show. Not that he didn't know how to use it. He'd stick it in his waistband, settle his jacket over it, and no one would ever see it ninety-five percent of the time. He wouldn't shoot cops or feds, he wasn't stupid and he had people for that sort of thing. Only time anyone would ever see this gun was if someone disappointed him. Then some poor slob would be staring down the barrel. He'd never see it coming. And in a staring contest, Armando tended to win.

Ray set the orange earmuffs on his head and stood sideways at the counter. He slid his hand into the grip and lifted the gun. Aimed carefully. Fired three times.

The paper target floated toward him. Three quick shots, three neat holes in the head. Armando switched the safety on, stuck the gun in his waistband, and buried Ray a little deeper.

threesunrises @ 2007-09-21T02:28:00

2007-09-21T07:28:37Z

ifreet prompted ray/ray, "sharing space"

They bashed elbows in front of the coffeemaker most mornings. Vecchio's chilly feet sought out warm spots under the blankets and Ray usually kicked back. The couch creaked under territory wars during basketball games, the hamper overflowed with dirty clothes, smooth lines of tailored suits clashed with rough leather jackets and the jumble of shoes in the closet.

Ray couldn't help but sigh when Vecchio lugged an overly-full laundry basket down to the basement for the third time in two weeks. He really wanted to order in and kick back with a beer but instead he put himself to work loading the dishwasher. He knew if it wasn't running by the time Vecchio came back upstairs, there'd be hell to pay. Well, not really hell, just an evening's worth of slumped shoulders and disappointed glances and a guaranteed lack of sex. Ray always got twitchy when Vecchio went on his impulsive cleaning jags. It just wasn't natural. It wasn't like Ray was living in squalor or anything, but to hear Vecchio tell it, he might as well have been living in a damp, grimy cave in Outer Mongolia or something.

If Vecchio suddenly busted out the Windex and started in on the windows, then Ray would put his foot down. But until then, he'd just keep loading the dishwasher. And hanging up his wet towels. And not complain. Ray didn't really like to admit it, because it was pretty girly, but he preferred it when Vecchio was happy. And if being slightly less of a slob was what made Vecchio happy? Then that's what he'd do.

threesunrises @ 2007-06-13T07:18:00

2007-06-13T12:19:21Z

so since my webhosting is made of Satan, i'm gonna stick my podfic here so it'll have a public place to go. my journal's fine and all, but limited audience lalala. anyway.

and also since my webhosting is made of Satan, these are sendspace links and therefore temporary. if anything is unavailable, please comment and i'll re-up.

Summer, Fraser, G. text.

Desert, Vegas, PG13. text.

Routine, Ray/Ray, PG13. text.

threesunrises @ 2007-04-11T08:00:00

2007-04-11T13:01:26Z

they probably both want some rewrites, but.

July 13 1998

Hey Benny--

How's the frozen north? Still frozen? Sled running ok? Dief keeping the other dogs in line? Got enough food, or have you eaten Kowalski yet? Poor taste, yeah yeah. (Bet he does taste poorly.) (rimshot)

I'm actually writing for a reason. Firstly, to tell you I'm back in Chicago. Florida was... well, it was a mistake, let's leave it at that. At least until I see you again. Or you're within shouting distance of a phone.

Second, Julie (my therapist-- God, I have a freaking *therapist*) has me keeping this journal thing, and I guess it's been helping. Sometimes I can think things through without needing her, and sometimes it's good to have a place to rant and blow up about stuff and not hurt anyone with it. Because most of the time I'm terrified I'm gonna hurt someone with all the shit in my head that's not me... Right, so the reason I'm writing. Julie said I should think about you, maybe try to write about you some, and I did try. Which is when I realized I shouldn't be writing about you, I should be writing *to* you.

Please excuse the scribbles and mistakes and everything-- I write better when I'm not typing.

So the first thing. And this ate at me for the better part of two years-- I really regret the way I said goodbye to you. In that I didn't. "I might not be able to pick you up"? And you just said "I have legs, Ray, I can walk." God I suck. I'm sorry, Benny. You're my best friend in the world and you deserved a lot better than that. And I can hear your argument from here: the phone line wasn't secure, there wasn't much time, they didn't want me calling you in the first place, et freaking cetera-- save it, Benny. I know. And I don't care, you still deserved better. Especially from what I heard about your first day back. Can't believe everybody thought you just knew.

Second thing. Why did I go at all? Yeah, one-in-a-million chance to take down from the inside blah blah blah. I'm not an undercover cop. I mean, ok, I've had a little experience (but if you recall I wasn't very good at it). At least I wasn't an undercover cop *then*. Talk about on the job training, huh? But it shouldn't have been me. There's a hundred other guys better at undercover than me and obviously they wanted me because I look like the bastard. And the thing is, I could have said no. I could have said "screw you and the horse you rode in on, I don't gotta do jack for you" and showed them the door. But I didn't. I said yes. I said "sign me up, undercover looks great in your file." Guess I've never stopped being a glory hound, it's kind of pathetic. And they told me how they were gonna cover my cover, they said they were gonna get a guy who'd done undercover a bunch before so my life would be in good hands, don't worry, Mr. Langoustini, it's all taken care of (and yeah, the feds started calling me that almost immediately, creepiest thing ever. I never want to hear that name again).

I miss how it was. Because I've changed a lot, I can tell, I'm the not same guy anymore. Remember how I used to whine all the time? Had to get over that damn fast, seeing as how I very much wanted to go on living. And of course that isn't all of it. I talk different, I walk different, I drive different, I shoot a gun different... everything's different, only the guy I see in the mirror is the same and he might as well be *him,* not me. Sometimes Ma doesn't even recognize me. And sometimes I scare Frannie, and Maria's kids, and then I think about moving out. But I don't think I'd do so good alone.

I don't know if I'm making any sense. And who knows if you even need me to explain all this, or if you already get it in that weird mindreading way you have.

I guess I just miss you. And the way things were. I suppose it's wrong to think of Kowalski as some kind of interloper, I know he was just doing a job-- my job -- his job -- whatever -- but you know. It's stupid to feel *replaced* but hey, he did replace me, didn't he. It's stupid to be jealous. I know you'd tell me the same thing in so many words. Things happen how they happen and we have to do our best in the circumstances we're given. See, I know you. But I can't help feeling some big time regret about these last couple years. Not being here, not being around for you, losing two years of my life to... I don't even know what to call him. But you know what I'm talking about. I hope.

Guess I oughta wrap this up or else they'll charge me postage by weight. Give Dief a donut for me (or not, I don't suppose you have Krispy Kreme up there). And tell Kowalski I said hi. In the interests of sanity and all that. Family sends their love, Welsh says don't get yourself killed. Good advice.

Much love,

Ray

31 July 1998

Dear Ray,

The North is no longer very frozen. As such, the sled does not run at all, and Diefenbaker is becoming far too comfortable in the passenger seat of the truck. I'll pretend I didn't see those tasteless cracks about Ray Kowalski (though on second thought I'm sure you'll find my use of the word 'tasteless' amusing).

Ray, please feel free to call me at any time. I've enclosed my contact information in this envelope and I would be delighted to hear from you. My detachment is equipped with voicemail so even if I'm away I'll be sure to receive your message. It is good to know where you are, and I'm sorry things didn't work out for you in Florida. To be honest I am curious to know about your life, but I can be patient.

May I assume you are seeing a therapist to help you deal with the aftermath of your time undercover? If that is the case, I am pleased to hear it. The journal idea is a very good one and I'm glad you're making use of the exercise.

Ray. There's no need to apologize, not for any of it. I understand. There's nothing to be sorry for. The day I returned to Chicago after you had gone-- well, you would have laughed if you had seen me. It was like a joke that the whole world was in on, except for me. I was utterly confused. This isn't coming out right; in no way do I mean to make you feel guilty for what happened that day, there's no way you could have known. But really, Ray-- you would have laughed. In retrospect it was a perfect comedy of errors: mistaken identity, crossed wires, and all. (Though I do wish to apologize on Dief's behalf for the bubble-eyed goldfish. He had stomach cramps later, which he deserved for his unconscionable disregard for personal property. And your car. I am so sorry, Ray.)

As for your feeling like a different person... it's true, Ray, you have changed. I could tell you'd changed from the moment I saw you in the hotel. But I don't believe it's for the worse. You've gained a confidence you may not have had before. Or maybe you did have it, and your experience undercover served to strengthen it in you. It's a good thing, Ray. And if you feel you have changed for the worse, isn't that what the therapy is for? You may not want to use it, but I strongly suggest you do. It can't hurt.

I miss you as well. There wasn't a day that went by without my thinking of you, wondering how you were faring, wishing I could know for sure if you were safe. And I'm sure those feelings of replacement are normal. They were uncommon circumstances, and we all did what had to be done. You're right, Ray, you know me very well. And yes, I do know what you're talking about. I understand completely.

There are no Krispy Kremes in Tulita, but I have given Dief a cookie from the local bakery with regards from you. He enjoyed it immensely, but his manners continue to be deplorable. I was unable to pass on your greeting to Ray Kowalski as he departed for Chicago yesterday. I'm sure you'll see him at the 27th soon. Pass on my hellos to Lieutenant Welsh and your family.

Keep yourself safe and please don't hesitate to call.

Benton Fraser

also

for ds_aprilfools
due South - Ray/Ray - PG - 190 words

"I hate flying."

"I know."

[five minutes later]

"I hate flying."

"We haven't even taken off yet."

"So?"

"So at least quit bitching about flying until we're actually in the air."

[half an hour later]

"You gonna complain now?"

"I. Hate. Flying."

"No wonder your family always drives to Florida. You plus planes equals everyone on board has to be miserable."

"Shut up."

"Just get a drink and sleep the rest of the way. It's a long flight."

"I know that."

"What's so bad about flying anyway?"

"Nothing, just forget it."

"No, tell me."

[long pause]

"Makes my ears hurt."

"You hate flying because it makes your ears hurt?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Well, sort of, yeah. It's a valid reason to hate flying, at least."

"Thank you."

"Miss? Yeah, can I get a bunch of those little airplane scotches? Great. Thanks. Here, drink up."

"I really don't need these."

"They'll help you sleep through the flight. Just-- come on. You're very irritating like this."

"Aw, you just don't like seeing me sad."

"...maybe."

"Ha, I knew it."

"Shut up and drink."

"Kowalski, is that your hand?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Yeah."

threesunrises @ 2007-04-03T21:37:00

2007-04-04T02:37:56Z

for ds_aprilfools
Slings & Arrows - Kate - G - 142 words

They wanted her for Juliet. One run, just one single run as a last-minute Ophelia and they wanted her for Juliet. Frank had had to whack her on the back when Geoffrey had given her the news.

And then Jack had given her his news. A shoot in Hawaii. A relationship, a career. He wanted her to give up Juliet for-- for what? For real money. For her face in a feature film. For him.

And Kate had jumped into that airport-bound limo, blithely waving goodbye to Juliet. And Viola and Desdemona and Helena and Rosaline.

Now Kate sits in a tiny apartment in Los Angeles, waiting for her agent to call. She remembers reading Romeo And Juliet for the first time and being disappointed at how immature, how girlish, Juliet had been. And she realizes she has no room to complain.

threesunrises @ 2007-04-02T01:24:00

2007-04-02T06:25:29Z

for ds_aprilfools
Battlestar Galactica - Kara Thrace - PG - 213 words

Kara is flying. Her hands on the stick, the empty Dradis bleeping softly, the clear canopy and her flightsuit the only things keeping her from exploding in hard vacuum. The galaxy stretches out around her, a vast three hundred sixty degrees, and she's free. The cockpit is Starbuck's home. She is safe there. She closes her eyes and lets the Viper's subtle vibrations guide her.

The explosion takes her entirely by surprise.

Kara opens her eyes. The ceiling is lost in the dark, but the thin curtains glow white from the powerful searchlights in the towers outside.

The couch cushions dig into her back, so she sits up and slides her bare feet to the floor. Kara moves toward the windows to try and see any part of the pitiful little tent city she is supposed to call home. She stumbles and falls to the floor, face to face with the body of the Leoben she'd killed earlier.

Either way you'll be spending the night with me.

Kara draws her fist back, and just as suddenly drops it and lets her hand go slack. She wants to hit. She wants to fire her sidearm, she wants to punch, she wants weapons free. Kara wants to fight until she can't. And she still can.

threesunrises @ 2007-04-02T01:21:00

2007-04-02T06:21:31Z

01.	last thought.	02.	slow and steady.	03.	secret lives.	04.	full-contact sport.	05.	movie popcorn.
06.	necktie.	07.	caress.	08.	first meeting.	09.	jealousy.	10.	like a girl.
11.	video camera.	12.	off the map.	13.	bringing sexy back.	14.	down and dirty.	15.	milk chocolate.
16.	rock and roll.	17.	lonesome.	18.	play the part.	19.	vacation.	20.	helpless.
21.	a Canadian thing.	22.	behind my back.	23.	just in time.	24.	make me.	25.	proper preparation.
26.	Author's Choice.	27.	Author's Choice.	28.	Author's Choice.	29.	Author's Choice.	30.	Author's Choice.

threesunrises @ 2007-03-15T06:54:00

2007-03-15T11:54:34Z

Routine
Ray/Ray
840 words
PG13
for the Less Is More minichallenge

He's got his cell held a few inches from his ear as we come in the door and even I can hear Ma going on about why couldn't he have called sooner and how she made his very favorite for dinner tonight and she's amazed we haven't starved to death already and why does he insist on being such a disappointment to her. And yeah, I know Vecchio practically lives here now, but-- the way he toes his shoes off and hangs his jacket up and flops onto my couch (all while trying to placate his mother), he just acts like he's been here forever. Like he belongs here.

And isn't that exactly what I want? Gift horse, Kowalski. I take my boots off and kick them toward the wall. They land on their sides, next to his shoes.

I keep an eye on him from the kitchen while I order our usual from House Of Hunan. He's got his feet up on the coffee table-- bare. When did he get rid of his socks? He has good feet. Long and slim like the rest of him. Hairy toes, but yannow, guy. Nice ankles. He's a good dancer. Leads well. Follows well, too. No effort, just instinct. Fucking incredible turn on.

Mrs. Chen's shouting that it will be about twenty minutes brings me back to reality. Uh, oops. I thank her and crack open two bottles of Leinie's.

The tv is on now. The last inning or so (just to see exactly how badly the Cubs fuck it up), news at ten, the Simpsons, then bed. Best idea I've had all day. I drop down next to him, and he shoves his cell across the table with a foot to make room for my feet and the beer. "Food in twenty minutes."

"Great. I'm starving." He grabs a bottle and takes a mouthful. His tie hangs over the back of the couch where he tossed it and the two top buttons of his white dress shirt are undone, showing off his long neck and olive skin. Cuffs pushed up over lean forearms, brown bottle dangling from long fingers. God, the things I wanna do to him.

And then the buzzer goes downstairs. I must have been staring longer than I thought. Way longer. Right, food.

My face is flushed, I can feel it. Joey Chen smirks at me as I pay him. Shut the hell up, you little punk. See if I ever waive any of your parking tickets.

Vecchio's got chopsticks and more beer on the coffee table when I get back upstairs. "Let's go, come on, we haven't eaten since noon."

"Yeah, don't get your panties in a wad." I pull a container out and sniff it. "Sesame chicken. Yours." I hand him a container of rice too and he digs in. Guess he was starving.

In the middle of the news' obligatory family values feel-good story about some kid who, I dunno, collected box tops for school or something, Vecchio jumps up, swears loudly, and runs to the kitchen.

"What?"

"Shit!"

For Chrissake. I haul myself up and go see what his problem is. He's at the sink, shirt off, running it under cold water. I guess he dropped a piece of chicken; he never was too good with chopsticks.

"Here, let me do that. Go find something to wear." He hands the stained and dripping shirt to me with a little "thank-you" smile, and wanders back into the bedroom.

Cold water does the trick, and the sticky stain is gone in a few minutes. I hang his shirt up with a hanger on the shower curtain rod because he'll bitch if I just hang it over the rod like a normal person.

I hear the Simpsons theme starting up, so I go back out to the living room.

Where Vecchio is sitting.

On the couch.

In my Bulls t-shirt.

Jesus.

It's really old, so it kind of clings to the curves of his shoulders and chest, and the neckline is all stretched out of whack so I can see a little bit of chest hair, and-- fuck. He's wearing my Bulls shirt. My favorite shirt. The shirt he always whines about, the shirt I was convinced he'd burn if he ever got his hands on it.

I swallow. "Vecchio."

"Yeah?"

"You're wearing my shirt."

"Is that a problem?"

"I-- You hate that shirt."

"It was clean."

"Oh."

I sit down next to him. I can't quit looking at the faded black cotton lying on his upper arm, and how the "BULLS" logo is a little warped from years of stretching it with a shoulder holster, and I touch his shoulder before I even think about it. The fabric's soft from a million washings, and his skin is soft underneath it. I might actually be losing my mind.

"Kowalski."

I jerk my hand away. "What?"

"Eat your Chinese." But he smiles at me and it's full of a thousand promises.

I eat my Chinese.

threesunrises @ 2006-12-17T07:18:00

2006-12-17T13:18:59Z

I dropped in on Kowalski again the other night. I wasn't particularly frustrated or angry or anything, just sort of... lonely, if I'm being honest. Which is sort of the point here. Right. Honesty. Lonely and discontent and... it's hard to describe. I was at home, and suddenly there was nowhere I wanted to be *less* than there. And I thought about where I actually did want to be, and apparently that was Kowalski's place.

It wasn't that late, only nine something, so I drove over. He didn't sound irritated or anything when he buzzed me in, but he didn't sound real surprised it was me either. So I knocked on the door and he opened it right away and immediately shoved a bottle of beer in my hand. This is the sort of gesture I appreciate. He said hi and let me in. His place is never gonna get features in Better Homes And Gardens, but God, right then it looked like the best place in the world. He had all the lights on and there was Chinese delivery scattered all over the coffee table and Bob Dylan on the stereo, and it just felt *good,* like Christmas at your mom's or something.

And Kowalski's pulling my coat off and sitting me down on the couch with my beer and offering me some Chinese-- he said "we were just having dinner" and before I can say "who?" I notice his turtle, right on the coffee table, chomping on a huge piece of lettuce. It's actually sort of cute. So he grabs another pair of chopsticks and he sits down next to me and it's just real comfortable. Nice. Companionable and all that stuff, like having a buddy. And I've missed that. I could never have had that in Vegas. Lots of slimy bastards wanted to get cozy with Armando, but he didn't have friends. He had soldiers and employees. Last time I had a real friend was Benny. Best friend I ever had. Til now, I guess. Not to take away from Benny or anything. But it's one of those "you don't know what you got til it's gone" deals. And if you're lucky enough to get it back, you better hang on with both hands and be appreciative as hell.

Not that Kowalski is easy work or anything. But he's sort of familiar territory, if that makes sense. Sometimes with Benny I didn't know which freaking way was up, but I know what I'm doing with Kowalski. I get how to handle him, I get why he does stupid shit, I know how he'll react to stuff. But then he'll totally throw me for a loop. I suppose that's what keeps it interesting.

And we're hanging out, dripping peanut sauce onto back issues of Ring World, listening to Bob wish that for just one time we could stand inside his shoes, and it's good, you know, it's just *good.* So of course one of us has to fuck it up. This time it's me. I actually asked him why he left Canada. Left Fraser. And I don't know why I did, it just seemed like we were doing pretty well, and neither of us had tried to hit the other yet, and I, in my infinite wisdom, just had to go and change that. Because yeah, he almost popped me one. Like I said, Kowalski's difficult. But please, like I wouldn't have seen that coming. So I pushed his fist aside and he punched the back of the couch, and he just looked like a miserable teenager, all the piss and vinegar knocked right out of him. I wasn't mad at him. I wanted to hit people (mostly Feebs) when I left Benny too.

So he mumbled an apology and I told him it was okay, and he looked me in the face and said he didn't want to talk about that. Just yet. And that's fine. That is absolutely fine. There's a lot of shit I don't want to share just yet either. And we just finished off the Chinese, and Turtle finished the lettuce, and we watched the news and the Simpsons, and I fell asleep on his couch again. So... yeah. It's still good.

threesunrises @ 2006-09-20T08:05:00

2006-09-20T13:05:59Z

August 7 1998

Julie keeps trying to get me to talk about "what it was like" in Vegas. That is the last fucking thing I want to be telling her about. I'll talk to her about work, about home, about Stella, all that crap, but I just-- I know it's her job and she's trained to deal with mental trauma and all that stuff, but I just do not want to talk about it. Not with her. Because how could she get it? Honestly? How could she possibly understand what it's like to expect a bullet in your skull every time you turn your back? Or what it's like to pull every string, haul out every trick you know to keep some dumb kid who's in over his head from getting himself killed? Or having to pull the trigger on that dumb kid yourself because he fucked up anyway and that didn't go over well with the Iguana Family? Fine, I will tell you "what it was like." It was like my own personal piece of hell. It was like living in a fucked up alternate reality where I took Frank Zuko's place and just kept climbing the ladder. It was like having to bury myself under six feet of cold-blooded killer, leaving a little marker -- "here lies Ray Vecchio" -- and hoping I could still find myself three months or three years later.

I know, it's stupid, I should be talking to her about it because that's what she's there for, that's what the CPD is paying her to do, but I just fucking can't. And I have no good reason why. I mean, it's not like I'm the only guy to ever have done serious undercover work, it's not like no one else would *get it.* But Julie wouldn't. She'd just look at me sympathetically and nod like she understands and make a little note on her pad. Screw that. And who else am I supposed to discuss this with, Kowalski? My ass.

threesunrises @ 2006-08-16T08:02:00

2006-08-16T13:02:04Z

finally got the dates worked out! so proud of myself.

October 4 1998

Had my last session with Julie today. She says I'm good. Fit to be seen in public, safe for ages under three, etc. Seriously, she thinks I'm ok. Mentally stable. No longer two people. A fully functional member of society. I suppose I am.

She made a particular point of making sure I knew I could come back and get more counseling if I felt I needed it. Procedure and all that. I only need to say the word to Welsh and he'll arrange everything. Not that I would. Not that I wanted any part of this pseudoscience crap in the first place.

Needed, probably. Wanted, no freaking way.

And I guess this journaling thing isn't so bad. Might even keep doing it. And I suppose it's good to look at those entries I made in the beginning and see my quote-unquote progress. (Damn psychobabble.) I'm a lot less jealous than I was. Certainly not about to put out a hit on Dewey (no matter how much he deserves it). Family life's a little better-- Frannie tends to keep me in line. I still think about signing the deed over to Ma and finding my own place, but she'd have my head. Which just means she loves me, so that's ok.

And Kowalski, well. I have a new Riv. She's mint and beautiful. So that's ok too. Definitely ok.

Opinion of partner: somewhat revised. He still seems to know exactly how to push my buttons (yeah, all my buttons) and drive me insane, but at least it's mutual. And neither of us have said anything about it, but since that letter he got we haven't even mentioned Fraser. And not a single word about Stella ever. I guess there are a couple things we just Will Not Discuss. That's fine. Of course, it occurs to me that Kowalski probably needs a therapist just as much as I do. Not that he ever would, even if Welsh and the chief and God all told him to.

threesunrises @ 2006-08-15T09:41:00

2006-08-15T14:41:45Z

more headcase: two of 'em.

Right. It's either him or me. Only one can make it out alive. Because one of us is gonna kill the other one and that's just the way it has to be.

Welsh partnered me and punk ass Kowalski a few days ago. Isn't the universe supposed to explode or something when shit like this happens? Either that or my head's gonna. Brains everywhere. Big mess. Welsh's fault, he can clean it up.

So how it went down. Welsh calls me into his office, says he's been low on detectives lately. I've noticed that too, sir, says I. He says he's sick of me pulling the lone wolf act though, so he's partnering me up. With who, I ask. Kowalski, he says. Who has been slouching around the station with a bug up his ass ever since Welsh was kind enough to take him back. The vein in my forehead throbs. My hand twitches a tiny bit and I know it's going for the gun that until some months ago, was almost always a presence in my waistband. I can't control it; I give Welsh a stare like I used to stare at Jimmy and Leo when they were being particularly stupid. Welsh stares right back at me. He's unmoved. Time to change tactics. I tell him I don't need a partner, I work just fine without a partner, I'm perfectly happy without a partner. And he gets in my face and says his detectives back each other up. At this point it's pretty obvious that the conversation (such as it was) is over and I'm stuck with the juvenile delinquent and that's final.

Fine then, I can handle this with my usual grace and aplomb, right? So I'm heading over to Kowalski's desk to do the bigger man thing, shake his hand, act like this doesn't bug me, but he's already standing over by my desk. I've been utterly upstaged. And the squad room's packed so everybody and their grandmother is getting a load of this. Kowalski heads over to me and sticks his hand out because that's what you do, but he's looking kind of wary, like he's not sure what's gonna happen or what I'm gonna do. Like I might kick his skinny ass all the way to Waukegan. (Which I could do, by the way.) But no, I behave, I take his hand and shake it hard and fast-- neither of us are in the mood for a pissing contest. He says something like "heard we're partners now" and I say something like "you heard right" and at least he's got the right idea about the whole debacle because he says "what the hell was Welsh thinking?" and I just shrug. And he's got this look on his face like he knows I'm the alpha wolf in this situation. I'm the alpha, he's the beta. Not that that's anything particularly different for him. Fraser's an alpha. So's Stella.

So before he can do anything totally dumbassed like drag me out for lunch, I push past him to my desk and bury myself in paperwork. I figure we can start in on all this partners bullshit the next day.

The next day comes and I get in nice and early, thinking I'll beat pretty much everyone there except the night crew who ought to be clearing out about then. But no, there's freaking Kowalski with his feet up on his desk, making a pen do the thing where it looks like it's made of rubber when you shake your hand right. What is he, seven? But he stops when he sees me and I roll my eyes. Can't imagine that's some sort of example of how this is gonna work out or anything. He smirks at me and asks what's on the docket for the day. And I am sorely tempted to snap at him. "You stay outta my face and I'll get some actual work done." But instead I grab a file from my desk and drop it onto his. He opens it and reads the scanty info we have on some little old lady who got knifed for her purse, and then he asks me where I want to start. After I congratulate myself for hiding my inital surprise, I explain how I'd done some neighborhood canvassing already and I had a list of people I wanted to revisit.

And we get on that. Go knock on doors, ask questions, write people's bullshit answers down, and productivity-wise, the morning goes as well as can be expected. And somewhere in the back of my head I knew he was good at his job but it sort of hit me again. He's a good cop. He knows what he's doing. Which, at the time, only pissed me off more. So by the time we get back to the station around two, I'm completely fed up with his 'hunches' and his 'good detective work' and I'm about ready to pop him one. And Kowalski's on his freaking best behavior, isn't he.

Look, I know I'm being an asshole. (Really, I know.) But I just. Can't make myself like the guy. Oh, that reminds me. Huey pulled me aside earlier today and gave me a great piece of advice. "You don't have to like him, you just have to work with him." Of course, he went on to describe just exactly how good a guy Kowalski is and why I should give him a chance but I got the hell out of there before he could really get into it. What, it was lunchtime.

And within the last day or so, I can tell I'm starting to grate on him just as much as he's grating on me. I call him punk, he calls me label queen. I call him classless pugilist, he calls me fuckin' knowitall and then presumably goes off to look up 'pugilist'. Or punch a wall, whatever.

We can't agree on which way to take the case. I want to keep talking to people-- there are plenty of teens in that neighborhood who I bet know more than they're saying-- but Kowalski's a hundred percent hell-bent dead certain that it was the guy who we brought in this morning for questioning. Uneducated, early thirties, out on parole. Christ. At least he hasn't started on the racial profiling yet. He just knows that this guy's our guy. Even though he has no record of violent crimes and looked horrified when we suggested the idea of breaking his parole. Kowalski keeps saying he can tell when someone's lying. Shouldn't he be able to tell when they're not? Because that seems kind of beyond him.

I am now positive that working with him is the most frustrating experience of my life. (Or at least in the top three. Benny was up there.)

Talked to Julie about it in our last session. She said, in so many words, to suck on it. It's good for me or some crap to have to "be part of a team" again. As far as I'm concerned, my team sucks and we'll never make it to the playoffs.

OK, so the Kowalski thing. It's been a month or so since Welsh threw us together and yes, ok, FINE, it's gotten easier and he's not so bad. I freely admit it, ok? He was wrong about the paroled guy, so that didn't hurt, plus he was cool about following my lead when my finely honed detective instincts kicked in. This is not to say we haven't had our differences, and I still want to strangle him pretty much all the time, but it's a working partnership. Even though he dresses like a homeless guy.

We actually spent an evening in each others' company a couple nights ago. I think he got a letter from Fraser or Stella or his Great Aunt Myrtle or something, but whatever the hell it was, it had him stomping around the station like he was gonna go down to lockup and use some poor bastard for a heavy bag. Whatever he got in the mail, that's none of my business, but avoiding police brutality suits is, so I kept an eye on him. (And of course it was a 'catch up on paperwork' day, so he wasn't exactly Mister Sunshine to being with.) So after a day of making sure Kowalski didn't beat anyone to death, apparently I thought it'd be a great idea to buy him a beer and spend more time with him than necessary.

And it wasn't so bad, really. Bought him a Heineken which he chugged after sneering at the 'import', and then bought him another. Wasn't so stupid as to bring up a) the letter or b) any of its possible senders. We talked shop a little, and why does it always surprise me that he's good at his job? It's because he does nothing to make himself look good. Literally and figuratively. Like I said, he dresses like he's St. Vinnie's favorite customer, and he tends to downplay any sort of credit he gets on the job. I mean, the other day he had a hunch. Can I just say, good fucking hunch. Said hunch pretty much handed us our scumbag jewel thief (what a cliche anyway) with a gift tag that said 'to the CPD, love Kowalski's messed up brain.' And of course Welsh wanted to know how we'd done it. So I tried to explain how my partner may be short a few synapses but he's not completely hopeless, but Kowalski cuts me off and puts the whole thing down to solid teamwork. And gives me the Glare Of Death in case I dare argue with him. What the hell? If Welsh wanted to say "good detective" and give me a cookie, I'd be fine with that.

I think he's getting used to the whole working together thing too. We have a mutual dislike of Dewey so it's always amusing to insult him. Came up with a good one a few days ago [come up with a good one. it'll take a while.] and i'm pretty sure he hurt himself trying not to bust up laughing. He has a good smile. If he made a freaking token effort, he might not be getting shot down all the time.

Anyway. A few more beers on both our parts, and then he digs into his back pocket and hands me the letter. Turns out I was right, it's from Fraser. What a surprise. I look at the envelope for a minute-- Fraser's spiky writing that doesn't really fit with him, the properly Canadian stamps, the Tulita postmark, the ragged edge at the top where Kowalski just ripped it-- and I give it back to him. Kowalski looks at me weird and says "you can read it." I push it into his hand and tell him it's none of my business. And it's not. Anything Fraser and Kowalski tell each other, if they want me to know they can just tell me. Kowalski looks at me. And looks some more. Stuffs the envelope in his pocket again, finishes off his beer, and barely audibly says "ok." And he just looks so damn wrecked and sort of defeated that I ask him if he's ok. Not that I really care. But you know, he's my partner, so. And of course he nods because you're always ok, even when you're not ok you are ok, because the day a Chicago cop admits weakness is the day musk ox migrate to Ecuador by way of Moscow.

So I'm still keeping an eye on him. Apparently I'm not the only one Fraser managed to fuck with. (And I know he didn't mean to, but shit happens, you know? That's a subject for a whole different entry and I'm freaking tired.)

oh right, and the thing i'm going to hell for.

"What are you lookin' at, you got your own script, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"So what do you want?"

"Just looking."

"Why?"

Callum shrugs. Leans further over David's shoulder. "The hair suits you."

"Yes, thank you for rubbing it in."

"I mean it. It looks good on you. Sexy."

David blinks. "Are you high?"

"Not that I'm aware of." Callum drags his eyes over David's scalp.

David feels his groin tighten. Yeah, Callum Keith Rennie is one of the most attractive men David has ever seen (ever), but does that mean he has to get all hot and bothered over him?

Yes, apparently.

"Look, do you need something?" Covering up arousal with antagonism. Talk about method acting.

"Nah. Not really. Just." Callum sits down next to David, arm to arm, thigh to thigh. Practically on his freaking lap for Godsake. And turns on this thousand-watt grin. "Bet Paul'd have fucking kittens if we screwed."

Which isn't exactly what David was expecting, conversation-wise, so he's understandably thrown. "What, do you fuck someone on every set?"

"Just the pretty ones."

"So everyone then."

Callum snorts a laugh, which is far hotter than it should be. Same as everything else about him, David thinks. "No. Not everyone."

"Paul?" David has to know. Callum smirks. "I'll take that as a yes." Callum says nothing, does nothing to confirm or deny David's assumption. Instead, he curves his body inward towards David, and the smirk smooths out into a real nice smile. His eyes are downcast, and David is fairly sure he's never seen prettier eyelashes.

Or that could just be his dick talking. It certainly doesn't complain when Callum's hand creeps up to rest on the back of his neck. Warm. Long, long fingers. He can't suppress a shiver.

"Kittens, huh?"

"Definitely."

threesunrises @ 2006-08-13T13:37:00

2006-08-13T18:37:57Z

woke up with this in my head. not complaining (too much).

itty bitty ray/ray almost-kinda pr0n, probably has nothing to do with the big damn epic thing.

Kowalski slides into bed next to me. I blink and check the clock. Quarter to seven still. A little early for him lately, and I say so.

"Complaining?" He asks the back of my neck.

"No."

"Good." His arm comes around to hug my chest, and he plasters himself up against my back.

"Got me right where you want me," I say through a yawn.

"Not quite."

"Hm?"

"If you were right where I wanted you, you'd be between my legs with your cock up my ass."

So I flip him over and he grins and I fuck him. Far be it from me to disappoint the man. Especially after a hard d-- night's work.

He flops back, totally relaxed and boneless, half-asleep already. "Shift work sucks."

"Yeah. You're lucky I like doing it in the morning."

"Morning my ass."

And then he really is out. I kiss his cheek and get up to start coffee.

threesunrises @ 2006-08-10T10:00:00

2006-08-10T15:00:55Z

continued from the last bit.

"Christ. Okay, what'd you see?"

"I saw a girl being mugged."

"At gunpoint? Knifepoint?"

"I didn't see a weapon. It was dark."

"Describe the 'assailant'."

"It was dark."

"I said describe the assailant, not the lighting conditions."

"..."

"Waste of fucking time..."

"I didn't get a good look, okay?"

"Tall? Short? Skinny? Fat? Do I gotta hold your freakin' hand?"

"Ray--"

"Shut up, Fraser. You, talk now."

"Tall. About as tall as the red guy."

"Keep going."

"Kinda big, but not huge, not like a biker type or anything."

"Hair? Skin? Any-freaking-thing else?"

"No."

"Think real hard."

"He had a hat, like a wool cap or something so I didn't see his hair. And I didn't see his face, I swear."

"What did you see."

"Dark clothes. Jeans, boots, maybe a leather jacket. The hat. ...the back of his neck-- he was a white guy. Real pale, stood out, you know?"

"And you didn't mention it before because why?"

"...didn't think of it."

"What was he doing to her?"

"He took her backpack. And threw it away down the alley. He shoved her against the brick wall and backhanded her. He grabbed of her hands and she screamed again-- he might've broken her fingers or something. Uh. Doesn't really seem like a mugging, really."

"Gee, give the girl a medal."

"You think he was after her? Just wanted it to look like a mugging?"

"It doesn't matter what I think, it only matters what you saw. A girl died and you were the only witness, you get that?"

"Yes."

"Whatever. Anything else at all. Did you see anyone else? Were there any lights like someone might have seen?"

"Maybe. There-- um, it was between two apartment buildings, and there were maybe a few lights on, so, but I didn't see anyone else."

"Which way did the guy go?"

"I don't know, I ran to call 911 before he left."

"Fine. Okay, looks like we're done here--"

"A tattoo. On his neck."

"Of what."

"Couldn't see it real good. It was dark. But it looked like-- like a fish or something."

"Hallelujah, something to go on."

threesunrises @ 2006-08-08T07:51:00

2006-08-08T12:51:19Z

didn't get very far before i got interrupted at work.

"O-kay, we're gonna try this again. Where were you when you heard the victim scream?"

"I told you already, I was around the corner."

"And you heard the scream...?"

"Yeah...?"

"And you did what?"

"I looked around the corner."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why'd you look? Why didn't you run? This ain't Podunk, Iowa, this is Chicago."

"I looked because..."

"Yeah, because, I don't got all day."

"Because I was curious?"

"You were curious. My ass. Try again."

"I don't know why I looked! I just went to look."

"Christ. Okay, what'd you see?"

"I saw a girl being mugged."

"At gunpoint? Knifepoint?"

"I didn't see a weapon. It was dark."

"Describe the 'assailant'."

threesunrises @ 2006-08-06T07:41:00

2006-08-06T12:41:11Z

"What do you think, Ray?"

"What do you mean, what do I think?"

"About the witness, Ray."

"Well yeah but-- what, you don't got it all figured out already?"

"Of course not, Ray, and I would be highly appreciative of any insight you may have."

"'Highly appreciative,' yeah, I bet."

"Ray."

"Fine. I think she was a lying sack and doesn't know her skinny ass from a hole in the ground, let alone what the guy looked like."

"Ray, she was the only person to see what happened."

"Yeah, as far as we know!"

"She said she didn't see anyone except the victim and the assailant."

"But she sure as hell couldn't describe 'the assailant,' and what, she saw a mugging? Most muggings don't end up in Major Crimes, Fraser! Most muggers wave a knife around, take what they want, and run like hell. Most muggers do not hang around and shoot people's heads off afterwards! Do you see why I am frustrated with our witness, Fraser?"

"Yes, of course."

"Okay then."

"What do you plan to do with her?"

"Who?"

"The witness."

"Oh. Uh. Well, we gotta let her go, she can't help us any."

"I disagree, Ray."

"Oh, you do, do you."

"Yes, I do. I believe she knows more than she's telling us."

threesunrises @ 2006-07-26T08:15:00

2006-07-26T13:15:09Z

started its life as this back in february.

Vecchio goes out one night. He feels shitty, feels angry and helpless, feels too much like Armando to be around his family, so he leaves his gun and his badge in the locked bureau in his room and drives north. He finds a stretch of empty county highway in the middle of nowhere and gets most of the way to Rockford before he realizes that he's being an idiot. Vecchio's a cop, isn't he? And how do cops deal with their shit? By getting good and wasted, that's how.

So he drives back to town and finds some moldy shithole that's about as far from Vegas as you can get. He plants his ass on a stool and proceeds to drink steadily and in great volume. It isn't long before Vecchio is completely trashed.

The bartender cuts him off. "Let me call you a cab, man."

"Here, hang on, I got a number somewhere." Vecchio pats himself down for his wallet, nearly toppling to the floor in the process. "Here, here we go." He hands the bartender a coffee-stained scrap of paper with a phone number scrawled on it in pencil.

The bartender reaches for the phone and calls this number. He doesn't recognize it as the number for any of Chicago's major taxi companies, and is therefore unsurprised when a sleep-tinged voice greets him with "Kowalski." He is slightly caught off guard though; the bartender had been expecting maybe a wife or a girlfriend, not a guy.

He describes Vecchio: "Yeah, I got a guy here-- skinny, mostly bald, spendy threads, drunk as a skunk--" The voice on the other end cuts him off with a loud groan of obvious displeasure. "So you know him then."

"Yeah, I know him. What's the address?"

The bartender gives the dive's location and is answered with a click. Approximately twenty minutes later, a guy in sweates with some very respectable bedhead slams into the bar. Vecchio executes a double take in drunken slow motion, and then glares at the bartender. "How the fuck did you manage to call *him?*"

"You gave me a number, I called it, he answered, he came."

"Christ."

Kowalski lifts an eyebrow, suddenly finding the situation far more humorous than he did twenty minutes ago. "Come on, lightweight, time to go." He puts an arm around Vecchio's waist and pulls him from the barstool.

"So are you guys...?"

"Partners." Kowalski pauses, then glares at the bartender. "Cops. We're *cops,* Jesus."

Kowalski bundles Vecchio into the GTO, limbs flopping and dead weight and Kowalski really doesn't need him to pass out before they even get moving. He rolls the windows down, hoping the cool night air will wake Vecchio up, sober him up even a little, because he is a mess. He's slouched so far in the seat he might as well be lying down; his snappy suit is wrinkled and sweaty and therefore looking as bad as it possibly can; his head leans against the door, bouncing on it with every bump and pothole; and he is utterly silent. Not passed out, in fact, just silent.

That is what worries Kowalski more than anything else, because the vast majority of the time you can't shut the guy up. So hell if he's going to take Vecchio back home like this, he thinks. He'll get shit from Ma, and Frannie just had another rat that cries all the time, and Maria's preggers again, and he's bound to have the mother of all hangovers. It's Kowalski's apartment, no question. (Kowalski doesn't see how Vecchio still lives at home, he's a grown man, maybe it's an Italian thing, who the hell knows.)

"What we doing here?" Vecchio is relaxed and fluid, and Kowalski doesn't bother answering him, just drags him bodily from the car and up the stairs and dumps him on the couch.

"You gonna puke?" Vecchio shrugs as well as he can in his inebriated state and awkward position on the couch. "Fine. You gotta puke, do me a favor and at least make it as far as the sink." Kowalski brings Vecchio a glass of water, makes him drink all of it, then gets a pillow and a couple blankets for the couch. "You good? 'Course not. Okay, are you comfy at least?" Another shrug. "Ungrateful bastard. I should have called Dewey." Still no reaction. "Fine. Go to sleep." And Kowalski stomps off to his no-longer-warm bed. He is asleep in moments.

Vecchio toes his shoes off and stretches out on the couch and doesn't so much fall asleep as pass out.

The bright weekend sun wakes Vecchio long before it wakes Kowalski due to the total lack of window coverings in the living room. Vecchio sits up and takes a moment to realize exactly how drunk he got the night before and what exactly transpired, which reminds him why he is on Kowalski's couch at 12:00 12:00 12:00 in the morning, according to the VCR. Kowalski does not strike Vecchio as the type to reset the VCR clock after the power goes out, but Vecchio rolls his eyes on principle anyway.

He regrets this action immediately, so he wobbles into the bathroom where he pisses like a racehorse. That dealt with, Vecchio opens the medicine cabinet. He has no intention of actually snooping in his partner's bathroom, but he is in desperate need of aspirin.

The cabinet is surprisingly empty: a twisted and mangled tube of toothpaste, a long-expired prescription of codeine (which Vecchio blames Kowalski not at all for keeping), a lonely condom packet, and praise Mary and all the saints, ibuprofen. Vecchio gulps two pills dry and wonders where Kowalski keeps all his girly hair shit. In his room, probably. *Why does he have to look so pretty all the damn time, anyway?* Vecchio knows the thought is uncharitable-- Kowalski had been a good guy to him the night before. He could have just hung up and gone back to sleep, but he drove out and carted Vecchio's drunk ass back to his place and let Vecchio crash on his couch. Good guy.

Vecchio wanders out to the kitchen and pokes through the cabinets. The least he can do is start coffee. He does so, going as far as setting a box of Smarties on the counter that he finds while searching for filters. The fridge is pretty bare, but Kowalski has eggs that are still good, and he has cheese (the mold can be cut off, it's fine), and he has plenty of seasonings. Good.

Kowalski shuffles out of his room at the scent of coffee. His eyes are not quite open and his hair, if possible, is even more interesting than it was the night before. Ratty sweatpants hang indecently from spare hips and he has apparently forgotten to put on a shirt. Vecchio thanks any available deity for the presence of the sweatpants. Kowalski gropes for a coffee cup and sticks it directly under the drip until it's full, dumps six Smarties in, and drinks like his life depends upon it. Which it might; Vecchio has not yet come to a conclusion regarding that facet of Kowalski's personality.

Kowalski removes his nose from the mug and sniffs. "Eggs?"

"Yeah. How do you like them?"

"Uh. Scrambled. 'Sfine. ...What are you doing?"

"Making eggs." Vecchio raises an eyebrow.

"You're hungover. You gotta be."

"Yeah. You have no hangover food whatsoever. Found ibuprofen."

"Oh. Okay."

There is silence as Vecchio shreds the cheese and scrambles the eggs and Kowalski waits for more coffee to appear.

"Why you making eggs anyway?"

"...thanks for coming and dragging my sorry ass out of there last night." This is technically not an answer to Kowalski's question, but Vecchio feels Kowalski's actions warrant acknowledgement, preferably before Kowalski wakes up fully and it becomes more of a Thing in Vecchio's mind.

"Oh. Okay."

Good enough.

Kowalski pounces on a second cup with a speed Vecchio had thought unattainable to someone in Kowalski's waking-sleep state. He serves up the eggs on the atrocious holstein dishes. "For a hungover guy, you cook real good." Kowalski talks with his mouth full. Vecchio just nods and downs a glass of water in ten seconds.

After his third cup, Kowalski is coherent and perceptive enough to recall details from the previous night and to instigate a line of questioning. "So what were you doing out there last night?" Vecchio knows that 'drinking' is the wrong answer and will not be accepted, so he doesn't even try to be a smartass. He simply cuts to the chase.

"Armando shit. Couldn't be at home." Kowalski just nods, encouraging him to continue but demanding nothing. So Vecchio continues. "Drove a long way into nowhere before coming back and getting drunk."

"Good thing you did it in that order. You don't need to lose another Riv."

"Yeah, just found this one." Vecchio grins a little. "Nice to know you got your priorities straight."

Kowalski makes Vecchio sit at the table while he cleans up. "You cooked, I clean, it's fair." There is more silence as Kowalski puts away the eggs and cheese, rinses the dishes, starts the dishwasher going. He fixes a fourth cup of coffee and sits down again, across from Vecchio.

"Okay, here's the thing. No, just shut up and listen. I know you're done with all the therapy they made you do and they gave you a clean bill of health and you get to wear the little sticker that says 'sane,' I get that, okay? But then shit like last night happens. And I bet it's happened more than once, and I bet it'll happen again, and when it does-- are you listening to me? When it does, I want you to do something." Kowalski pauses long enoug for Vecchio to nod once. "I want you to come to me, okay? I can handle it. I was you for a year plus, I can handle you. Plus they told me what to do if you ever freak out bad. So. I mean... you can't go out and be a danger to others. And yourself. So you come to me. And we'll deal with it. Okay?"

Kowalski looks slightly sheepish, holding the coffee cup half in front of his face. Vecchio wants to respond with something offhand and sarcastic, but what actually comes out is "Okay, Kowalski."

"...Ray."

"Okay, Ray."

threesunrises @ 2006-07-25T07:55:00

2006-07-25T12:55:49Z

Caught myself thinking about Stella today. In an over-it sort of way, but still. Four months on a beach with her wasn't quite enough to wipe out a year plus of shitty classified memories. Though I feel like it should have been. Honestly, what more could I possibly want? Little bungalow up the road from the beach, beautiful smart lady in the chair next to me, margaritas, and ok, it suddenly sounds like a freaking Jimmy Buffet song, but screw that, it was great. While it lasted. At least we both had the sense to admit it when we were beat.

And I feel bad about it-- the time we spent there. It wasn't quite real, you know? Idyllic and all that crap. The real-est parts were the nightmares. Because if anything is gonna give you nightmares, a year with the mob will do it. And I put Stella through that. The first month was the worst. I'd wake up and not know where I was, and I'd grab for my gun and all that shit. I hit her once. Felt fucking terrible about it. Apologized for days. Of course it was an accident, but God. And of course she forgave me... I don't hit women. I never have except for then. I'm not Pop. I still feel sick about it. God knows I hit plenty of Armando's guys in Vegas, but I never hit a woman.

Even aside from the nightmares, that was the time it really hit me that I wasn't the guy I remembered being. Undercover changed me completely and I didn't notice while it was happening. In Florida I couldn't look in the mirror without seeing Armando. Seeing Benny in that hotel out of nowhere helped-- reminded me that I was still in there somewhere-- but I suppose, mental-health-wise, running off to the tropics wasn't the greatest move. Because yeah, Stella was beautiful, Stella was classy, Stella was intelligent and articulate and patient and fantastic, but Stella was new. And Florida was new. I thought a fresh start would be the best thing, but there was nothing there to remind me of the guy I was a year and change ago. Stella was Chicago, sure, but she's no Vecchio. And she's no Benton Fraser either. I thought I loved her. And if you think you love someone, then you do love them. And I'm not saying she was bad for me. But the whole Florida thing was... not a great idea.

threesunrises @ 2006-07-23T08:45:00

2006-07-23T13:45:56Z

i so hate not having a scanner. and having to draw stuff with the line tool. brushes used here not mine. but nice and doodle-y.

threesunrises @ 2006-05-04T22:36:00

2006-05-05T03:36:53Z

Last Night ficlet for c_regalis, since she re-uploaded some BSG vids for me and was so very generous with her time.

It's taken the two or three days since the announcement for Craig to clean out his kitchen and strip the butt-ugly wallpaper down. The walls are silver and shiny now, thanks to a rusting pot of paint and an afternoon (or at least that's what the clock said) of hard work.

He hunts down every writing utensil and office supply he has in his apartment and dumps them all on the counter. Pens, pencils, colored chalk, crayons, white-out, nail polish, acrylic paints, a black Sharpie, and a pot of black ink as an afterthought.

Finally, Craig retrieves his dirty magazines and the notebook from his room. He rips out the good pages from the magazines to cut up later and tosses the rest in the trash.

He opens the notebook. The repository of almost every sexual fantasy Craig Zwiller has ever had since he found out what dicks and pussies were for.

The List starts off pretty straighforward: Blowjob. Hey, a fantasy's a fantasy, even if you are only fourteen, right? Craig takes a black crayon and writes 'BLOWJOB' on the splashboard above the sink in harsh capitals. Then comes the inventory of hot girls in his high school classes. Donna Woods, Sandi Clug, Jane Rogers, Mrs. Shaw (okay, not a girl, still hot), Lisa Lavorato-- oh yeah. Lea Carlton. Mrs. Carlton. Madame Carlton. She deserves her own fucking wall. Craig finds a brush and black paint. He fills in the narrow wall by the door. When it's dry, he'll write the names.

It goes pretty quickly after that. He has 'TYPE' written on red, with said types underneath: redhead, blond, black woman, asian, voluptuous, overweight. He writes 'agnostic' over the door, if only because he is curious whether she'll moan "oh god" when she comes or not. He paints another black patch for the essay he wrote on sadomasochism when he was twenty-six. Craig paints the word 'KISSING' somewhat elaborately (red and black chicken-scratch letters on white) but leaves it at that-- he can't think of anything to say about it that won't sound too girly.

The sun says it's one in the afternoon but Craig's watch tells him it's 4:27 a.m. when he draws three red stripes under 'MRS. CARLTON' (again). Craig drops the chalk onto the counter and picks up a small kitchen knife. He flips the notebook to the last page with writing and reads it, opens a drawer, and removes the contents. Craig gouges the name 'PATRICK WHEELER' none too carefully into the cheap particle board with the knife, dumps everything back into the drawer, and goes to bed.

threesunrises @ 2006-04-22T05:46:00

2006-04-22T10:46:25Z

generally what it's gonna look like. is it hard to read? does it need to be bigger? does it take forever to load? tell me how it works.

threesunrises @ 2006-04-12T07:54:00

2006-04-12T12:54:21Z

I'm kind of surprised, actually. Apart from being: on my guard, pretty nervous, and seriously concerned about my partner's mental state, I mean. He actually came. He said he would, but he actually did. Hence my surprise. I'd just turned the tv off and I heard someone trying to buzz in. Usually it's just the kid downstairs who forgot his key, but then someone was banging on my door, and it's Vecchio. Looking more angry than anything else.

So I let him in, and here we are, on my couch, beers on the coffee table, and he just ain't talking. Not that I know what to say to him. Some moral support I am.

"Got anything better than beer?"

I certainly do, so I get up and get the mostly-full bottle of single malt from inside the crockpot, and pull down a couple mismatched glasses. Pour and set of in front of him. He knocks it back immediately. "Not bad. Another."

"Do your own, man."

He gives me a dirty look, but pours his own shot. More like two and a half shots. Which he tips right down his throat. Jesus. So much for keeping up. On second thought maybe I should stay (mostly) sober tonight.

And maybe straight booze will loosen him up a little. I'd bet the Goat there's all kinds of stuff he's not talking about. And he's all clammed up like Fraser on a bad day. Except for the drinking.

He has a few more and sets down his glass. I finish my first and turn to look at him. "So..."

"What?"

"Fuck, I don't know, why'd you come here?"

"Why do you think?" I can just hear the 'idiot' he mentally tags onto the end there.

"To drink my booze and enjoy the numerous benefits of partnership?" Yeah, sarcasm, piss him off, great idea.

"Yeah, Stanley, that's it exactly."

Okay, so I may have deserved that, but "Fuck you."

This little sneer crawls onto his face. Gotta be a Langoustini thing. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Stanley?"

"Fucking stop calling me that," I mutter. Don't answer that question. This isn't about you.

"You like doing guys in the ass, Stanley? Or maybe you like them to do you."

Yes, I do very much want to punch him. Very hard, in his ginormous stupid nose. He's still sneering. Like he was when I first saw him in that hotel room, all full of himself and looking down said huge nose at the guy tagging along after the Mountie.

I contain myself because the last damn thing that needs to happen is for us to start punching each other. So I glare at him and stomp into the bathroom and sit down on the toilet. The lid and tank are freezing, which feels good. Okay, fuck. Gotta get ahold of myself. That's not really Vecchio out in my living room. I know Vecchio, he's not casually cruel like that. The guy sitting on my couch is a dead bastard that Vecchio hasn't let go of yet. So fuck him, I want my partner back.

That thought makes me feel better. I splash cold water on my face, dry off, and head back out there. Hey, for all I know, he left while I was cooling off. But no, there's his fuzzy head, barely poking above the back of the couch. Slouching, huh? He'll wrinkle himself, dear dear. Whatever. I walk over and face him. Not looking so arrogant now, are we? Still angry though. Scowling. There's the guy I know. "So what the hell, Vecchio?" Yeah, I feel for him, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna let those comments of his slide.

He just shakes his head, obviously on the way from 'angry' to 'drunk and miserable.' And that's okay, I don't expect an apology (or anything particularly coherent, really) out of him right now anyway. At least I got acknowledged.

I flop down next to him again. He sits up and puts his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. That can't be good.

And suddenly I flash on me and Fraser sitting in the GOT outside Beth Botrelle's house and me just losing it completely. Only it's not me losing it this time. I remember what Fraser did then, and so with extreme caution, I put a hand on Vecchio's back. He doesn't move. Or do anything, actually. Well, better that than losing an eye for it. But you know, back then I wished that Fraser'd done a little more than just a hand. I mean, if there was ever a time when a guy could've used a hug. Or something. So do I dare? What do I got to lose, really? I maybe put my arm around Vecchio's shoulders. And maybe he heaves this sigh, says something that his hands muffle but sounds a lot like "shit", and maybe he leans against me, maybe just a little.

It's the weirdest fucking thing, me and him. We've learned to mostly get along at the station, and we're a good partnership. By now I think Welsh'd be worried if we weren't at each others' throats at least once a week. And-- I dunno, I guess we have a thing. Which pretty much consists of "occasionally I want to kill you and sometimes you want to kill me but we'll have it out and then go for a beer." It's weird. But not. You know? I mean, I like to think he trusts me, at least to some extent. He showed up here tonight, didn't he? And we back each other up on the job. And sometimes I even get to partake of lasagna night at Ma's. I don't know. The thing-- I don't know if it qualifies as complicated, but it's definitely weird. But not.

Hey, the creature awakens. I shouldn't make fun. Vecchio lifts his head up and I snatch my arm back real quick. His face is all blotchy and he looks like hell.

"Kowalski."

Erk. "Yeah?"

Big gusty sigh. "Sorry."

I feel like laughing. "Was that hard to say?"

"Yes, asshole." I actually do laugh. "Fuck off, I just--"

"I know. And what, were you gonna take all this out on Maria? Shut up."

He actually shuts up. Ha.

I gather empty beer bottles and the now-mostly-empty whiskey bottle and head to the kitchen. Vecchio grabs the glasses and makes to follow. "Siddown." He sits. Call the pope, it's a night of miracles.

Dump everything in the sink and go back to the bedroom, leaving Pathetic Bastard on the couch. "You're not going back home tonight, all right?" Not that I expect a response or anything. Grab what I came for and go back out. "Catch."

The t-shirt and ancient sweatpants land in Vecchio's lap. He raises an eyebrow at them. "Hey, just be glad they're clean. Go change, I'll fix the couch for you." And he goes. I can't get used to this.

But the amusement wears off pretty fast because I'm fucking worried about him. I know, he's officially done with his therapy and if he wanted more he only has to say and they have to give it to him, it's procedure. But he won't. He'll never want it because he's too damn proud to ask for help. Even when he needs it. Which he does. And I can't say a word because you don't do that to your partner, it's like betrayal somehow. If he tells the world he's fine, then he is and I have to back him up.

Of course, I can give him shit to his face all I want.

I drop a pillow on the couch just as he emerges from the bathroom. He probably hasn't worn non-silken pjs for... heh, his entire adult life. And my ratty old clothes on him look like if Fraser put on a hula skirt or something. Totally incon-- incra-- wrong. Vecchio doesn't seem to mind though. Or he's past minding, probably. He looks beat. So maybe not the best time to give him crap. Plus since he came for, what, booze and cop-type support, such as it is. It can wait.

Vecchio looks like he's gonna say something, but I guess he nixes that idea because he just nods at me and drops onto the couch again. There's a lot you can say wth a nod, and I think Vecchio managed to cram a dictionary into that one.

So I nod back and head off to bed. But when I shut the light off, I can't quite make myself close the door.

-------

There's a crash and an unholy yell at god-knows-when in the morning, and the Louisville Slugger is right under the bed where it always is. It's good to have a system.

I crawl out of bed as quiet as I can and stick my head around the half-open door. Everything's all dark and I can barely make out that hey, coffee table's knocked over. And Vecchio's making noises in his sleep like he's a wild animal in a corner. Shit. No one told me there were gonna be nightmares.

Looks like he kicked out and hit the table, and now he's all tangled up in the blankets. Well, wake him up, Kowalski.

I put my hand on his shoulder and shake. "Hey--" His fist flies out of nowhere and connects with my cheekbone. Ow. It throws me backward and I narrowly save myself from becoming one with the damn coffee table. But Vecchio's in way worse shape than me-- his eyes are open and he's shoving at the blankets and looking all around like he doesn't know what the hell's going on. And he probably doesn't. But he's caught sight of me now, and okay, looking slightly less crazy, sitting up, these are all good signs. I pick myself up and plop down beside him. What a freaking night.

Next thing I know, ow again, and we're both flinching away from each other because he went and touched the pretty bruise forming on my face. "Goddammit Vecchio, do you gotta touch everything all the time?" I know he's Italian but Christ. Vecchio's gotta touch stuff like Fraser's gotta lick stuff.

I guess he's not quite all there yet because he's looking at me like he kicked my puppy or something and this stream of apologies flows forth-- for the punch, for being an asshole earlier, for monopolizing my alcohol, for pretty much everything up to and including Italian fascism, and tonight has just been intolerably weird and I cannot take it anymore.

"Vecchio, shut up."

"But--"

"No, I am very serious here. Untangle yourself and shut up."

I go out to the kitchen again and dig in the freezer. Peas, perfect. Glass of water for him, frozen veggies for my face. He's free of the blanket monster so I give him the water and sit down again. Getting my money's worth outta the couch tonight, that's for sure. God I'm exhausted. It's like having a kid or something, I swear.

"Okay, tell you what. I feel like death and you probably feel worse, and we both got sick days to burn, so we're doing that tomorrow." I look at the VCR clock. Still blinking 12:00, dammit. "Today. Whatever."

He gives me one of his many and varied 'Kowalski you're a dumbass' looks. "Doing what?"

"Calling. In. Sick. Okay?" I'm pretty sure the bag of peas hid the eyeroll.

"...right, okay." Really had to twist his arm.

"So... you wanna go back to sleep?" Could I sound more like a mother hen? He's gonna snap at me, finally. I wince.

But he just shakes his head. "Don't think I could. Or even if I did, it'd just be more of that." Like he has to explain what 'that' is.

And I gotta ask. "You do that a lot?"

He shrugs. "I dunno, what's 'a lot'? Maybe once every couple weeks or so. Used to be worse. Scared Stella."

Fuck, I didn't even think of that. I bet it used to be worse. He saw, and I'm sure was responsible for, all kinds of bad shit in Vegas. Not even mob guys would blame him for having nightmares. Not that I'm gonna say that.

So I just nod, like I'll ever really get it. "Right... so... what d'you wanna do then?"

"Don't put yourself out, Kowalski, I'll just watch tv or something. Go back to bed."

"No, it's okay." I don't move from my spot.

"Whatever." Maybe I'm just imagining that particular smirk he gets when he's pleased.

"Whatever." I flip on the tv. Recap of last night's game on WGN. Cubbies lost, shocker. We both start yelling at a play that was flubbed seven hours ago. So that's fine then.

threesunrises @ 2006-03-13T08:36:00

2006-03-13T14:36:44Z

[note: i'm probably gonna change all these dates around, because i gotta figure out a timeline. this is just for now.]

11 April 1998

It's been about a month since Benny blew my cover. A month since I said fare thee well, Armando, here's your hat, what's your hurry, don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out. Et cetera. And he's still. Fucking. There. In the back of my head, tsk-ing at the choices I make, laughing at the lies I have to tell, offering to have people who piss me off whacked, "but oh wait, I ain't real anymore, am I, cop?" Fucker. I want him out of my head. I can't trust myself when he's going on in my ear, making me listen. I have to listen, I have no choice about that. And sometimes I want to listen. Sometimes I'll think word can't have gotten around this fast that Armando's in the ground, and I could make a call, you know, and Dewey would shut the fuck up real fast, Welsh would stop nagging at me to get a partner, Frannie would-- and that's where I get scared. Frannie. My sister. My pregnant sister. Am I still that much of a monster that I'd even consider that? No. No I am fucking not. But Welsh and Dewey? I mean, yeah, I'm sure everyone at the station's thought about offing Dewey at some point or other, but I respect my lieutenant. Harding Welsh is... he's my lieutenant. He's a good man. But I'd consider having him killed. I have contemplated it seriously. It's almost second nature for me-- someone's pissing you off, boss? Just say the word. And then I snap out of it. Literally, it feels like someone punches me in the head and I'm reeling, wondering WHAT THE HELL AM I THINKING. And I shouldn't joke about Dewey either. Just... fuck. Why won't he go away? Thank God I don't actually see him like I used to see Pop. I'd probably have to eat my gun. And then everyone would say "oh what a shame, couldn't cope, unfortunate loss of a valuable talent" blah blah shut up. Just another cop who couldn't hack it. Well I can fucking hack it, all right? Just fucking watch me.

-------

26 May 1998

I don't know where Frannie gets her news, but according to her, Kowalski's back in Chicago. She's been looking after his turtle (honestly, what grown man has a turtle?) which is nice of her, and more than he deserves. And now he's back. According to Frannie.

So... what? Should I be feeling something about this? Let's trot out my emotional vocabulary. Do I feel... threatened? Hell no. This is my town, the 2-7 is my territory, he can go back to whatever precinct spawned him. Am I angry? Not unless he tries to be me again, and why would he? I'm certainly not enthusiastic about the idea, but better to have him here than making it with Benny up on the tundra. Aha. Still jealous, I see. Well, you try being me and see how damn generous you feel.

It's not like I wanna make it with Benny, no thanks. But...God, it's just little kid envy-- he was my friend first! I gotta get over that.

And maybe it's good that Kowalski's back. Guess that means that something didn't work out between them. Not that I'd wish Benny ill, the guy deserves all the happiness in the world and then some. And if the skinny punk is what makes him happy... well then. But apparently not.

This is getting me nowhere.

threesunrises @ 2006-03-12T09:19:00

2006-03-12T15:19:04Z

29 April 1998

They're making me keep a journal now, so I can "track my mental progress" or some shit like that. "They" being the small army of city-employed shrinks (ok, there's only one) that I see twice a week. And the thing about shrinks? You fear them, oh yeah. I'm terrified of mine. I'd rather get stuck in a Mexican standoff with Capone and Dillinger than not do what Julie tells me. Yes, I'm scared of a little brunette named Julie. But I swear to God she knows things. It's creepy. Anyway.

(What the hell does that say about my "mental progress"? Christ.)

So, ok, Florida. Honestly, Ray, what the fuck was that. I don't know. It was like-- I met her, and she was-- well, she was right up there with Ange and Irene, and I have got to stop being such a sucker for the intelligent and beautiful ones. I mean, I had more brainless showgirls than I knew what to do with-- smart women are hard to come by in Vegas. Not that Langoustini would've had anything to do with them. Anyway. Stella. First of all, how weird is it to take off with the ex-wife of the guy who was you? (I just reread that and all mob shit aside, no wonder I'm seeing Julie.) And the bowling alley? I don't even know what the hell that was. Coughed up the bullet and the next thing to come out of my mouth was "wanna get hitched, go to Florida, and open a bowling alley?" We hardly knew each other, how was she supposed to know I was half-delirious? Codeine, you know? I mean honestly, a bowling alley? Ms. Gold Coast Girl and Mr. Better-Than-His-Roots? What the hell were we thinking. Not much, obviously. At least we realized that in time to get the marriage annulled.

But Stella. Benny told me once that Kowalski would give her a definite article-- The Stella. And yeah, she is. She's all... I don't want to put her on a pedestal, but it's hard not to. She was the best thing I'd seen in over a year, she was real and she was willing and she was there and I guess that was the problem. First good thing that comes along and I grab it and I fuck it up and lose it, big surprise.

Fuck, I don't want to talk about this anymore.

-------

8 May 1998

So Julie and I talked about Stella. She seems to think it's good that I realize it was a dumb mistake. I guess it was sort of a rebound life thing-- I'd just gotten out of a shitty situation and I latched onto the first good thing I saw. And you know rebound relationships, they don't last. So that's ok, I guess. Doesn't mean I didn't love her. I did. I do. Multiply that by most of a lifetime and I might have an idea of how Kowalski feels. Huh, look at that, sympathy for that guy. Apparently miracles do happen.

Anyway. Julie wants me to think about Benny. I don't know about what in particular, other than I miss him like hell. I mean, he waltzes in, blows my perfect cover with one freaking word, and long story short I land in the hospital and it's just like old times. Except for Kowalski. Seriously, he was the best they could do? They couldn't at least have gotten an Italian guy? Or even Greek or something-- fuck's sake, he's blond. It's like-- I get carted off to the desert and just like that, some guy who doesn't even look like me is slotted into my spot and everyone thinks he's me. Lost more than a year of my life to that bastard Armando, and this guy comes in and steals my name, my family, my job, my partner. God it stings. And ok, I realise that Kowalski was just covering my cover, he wasn't plotting against me backstage or anything, and my return displaced him, but fair's fucking fair. Especially about Benny. Do I sound jealous? Yeah, well, you bet I am. I come back and find that Benny, my friend, Benton Fraser, Constable, RCMP, is partnered with some punk with stupid hair and shitty clothes (if you can call them that) (and ok, his car's gorgeous but that changes nothing because he blew up my baby), and the worst part, you wanna know the worst part? I saw them work together. And they're a team, a duo, they work, you know? And when I heard about all the other cases they worked-- Lady Shoes (I'd have loved to have tangled with her in Vegas), the pirates (only Benny could find pirates in Chicago), Internal Affairs and the heroin (punk saved my ass, I admit it, ok?), Warfield (just thank God it wasn't Zuko or it'd be Kowalski's ass in the sling)... I heard about all that and all I could think was "that should have been me." It should have been me here with Benny this whole time, should've been us being partners and working those cases together and having Sunday dinners at home. Did I say I was jealous? Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's life. Even if it was yours to begin with. And it's not like I can tell Benny all this. I know exactly what he'd say. "Ray, you're being very unfair. Ray Kowalski is a highly skilled and gifted officer of the law, not to mention my friend." And though it pains me to admit it, I know that's true. Kowalski's a good cop. It'd be so much easier if he was crooked or dirty so I could hate him, but if he was, Benny would never have worked with him. And he's not just on the up and up, he's a good cop. He's got an amazing shot (when he's wearing those horrific glasses), he can put two and two together, and he's got a good instinct. So apparently this just makes me fourteen different shades of green. And pathetic to boot.

And now they're up in the armpit of the frozen north, doing God knows what. And I gotta wonder. About them. You know. How they 'work so well together.' I know, it isn't my place to speculate, but hey, I'm a detective. I speculate wildly for a living. They just seem awfully close for partners. Unless you're using an alternate definition of 'partners'. And seriously. Benny's about as straight as a... well, as something really bendy. And if I looked like Kowalski, I'd take whatever I could get. And they go up there and they stay there, and what's a guy supposed to think?

So I was supposed to write about Benny. And most of this is about Kowalski. Got some issues there, self?

Oh yeah-- Julie got mad at me for typing the other entry. She says actually writing things out is therapeutic or something. It's quieter, that's for sure. And it's easier to write what I'm thinking instead of worrying about where the Q is. But I have a cramp in my hand now.

threesunrises @ 2006-03-07T08:45:00

2006-03-07T14:45:26Z

pg for language, written at work last night in a flash of uninformed inspiration.
disclaimer: i know fuck all about smoking. which makes you look like an idiot when you work at a grocery store.

So I guess it's, like, fitting or something that all this is happening in spring. Restarting, renewing, all that re- stuff. Kinda makes sense in a "ha-ha Kowalski life hates you" ironic sort of way.

I have to quit smoking.

For this new cover. Guy doesn't smoke, so now neither do I. I've done it before-- not for real like this, just for when I got married, and around Stella's parents. But that was just kind of quitting. This is... this is really, for good, cold freaking turkey quitting. As in, I quit, I'm taking my gum and my toothpicks and going home.

There's about five or six smokes left in the pack. I shake one out and just hold it for a minute. It smells nice, feels familiar, all that good stuff.

I know, cancer stick, filthy habit, stain my teeth and fingers, trust me, I've heard it all. It's bad for me but I keep doing it and it's really hard to stop. Maybe that's why they call it an addiction, you think?

My first cigarette was probably... eighth grade, over by the abandoned tracks with Dan Winnicki. Dan had stolen a pack off his sister who was in college then. He brought them out to the tracks, intending to wow me with his impression of James Dean, but it turned out he'd forgotten to swipe a lighter too. So I laughed at him and pulled out a box of matches I had, and we lit up. They were the girliest cigarettes in the world-- menthol lights or some shit-- but of course we coughed and hacked like they were cigars. Oh yeah, we were tough guys.

So I'm trying to figure out how to hold the damn thing and tap the ash off one-handed, and Dan reaches out and takes my glasses right off my face. And I look at him like 'the fuck?' and he says, "Now you look bad-ass," so I take another puff and manage to hold it for a couple seconds before turning red and coughing up another lung. And he laughs at me and gives my glasses back. And we spend the rest of the day wasting Janice Winnicki's cigarettes and pretending we were cool. The glasses have pretty much stayed off since then.

And that memory's just dredging up a whole bunch of other ones-- when my parents found out and grounded me for two weeks; Stella's first cigarette (she never liked the menthol lights, whatta girl); Jimmy Banducci teaching me to blow smoke rings; sharing my last smoke with my partner after my first arrest (some minor had pot, fucking figures); bumming a couple to a homeless guy a few weeks ago and him thanking me in Portuguese or something.

Well, nicotine, it's been a good run, but I guess that's it for you and me.

I open the window to the fire escape and climb outside. It's April, still early enough to be chilly at night, and here I am in a damn t-shirt sitting on the metal grating. Fuck it. Can't get Vecchio's apartment all smelly, can I now.

Light up. First drag's always the best. Blow it out through my nose. That took a while to learn how to do. It hurt at first, but eventually you kill off enough nerve cells or something, I have no idea.

I try to smoke it slow, take my time, but it's down to the filter before I even realize. Damn. I flick the butt over the railing and go back inside. It's freaking freezing out here.

The pack is still lying on the kitchen counter. I shove it in a drawer. Can't make myself just toss perfectly good cigarettes. From what I hear about this guy I'll be partnered with, I'll need 'em.

There. That's it. New me. New name, new precinct, new partner, no smoking. Think I'm in withdrawal already.