Disclaimer: While Chicago and its denizens depicted herein are not mine, I do lay claim to parts of Canada.

Notes: A million thanks to my betas, Neci Ouida and Tradescant, for all of their hard work.

Parings - for the series - Fraser/RayK, RayV/Stella, mention of RayK/Stella, RayK/OMC

Feedback - generates good karma and keeps those angry elves with the sharp teeth far, far away. livejournal.com/users/redkisskate

"A vigilante arsonist, Detective?"

Ray Vecchio tries not to sigh as Welsh gives him the fish eye for what has to be the two thousandth time since he first met Mr. Thank-You-Kindly in a holding cell. They’ve only been on the case for two days, so you’d think that Welsh could somehow find it in his heart to be a little happier about the fact that he and Fraser have cracked it wide opened and arrested the bad guy. But no, just like always, they’re standing in the Lieu’s rat trap office with Welsh scowling at them from behind his desk, like he’s St. Peter and the pair of them are sinners trying to weasel their way past the pearly gates.

"Uh, yes sir. I first heard about the situation when Fraser told me that he’d received a visit at his apartment from a transient named Donny Baker. It seems that somebody had been leaving threats graffitied in places where the homeless usually hang out. "Judgment is coming." "You will burn for your crimes." That kind of thing. I thought at first that it was just some crackpot letting off steam, but Fraser was sure that this guy was for real, so we began an investigation."

Ray can see that the fact that this is another one of those "unofficial" cases that Fraser loves to pull out of his hat is not making the Lieu any happier, but it’s not like they don’t all know the drill. Fraser uses his Mountie powers to find a crime, most likely involving orphans, polar bears and a one-eyed man from Kalamazoo. Fraser then drags Ray into investigating said crime, which will always include Ray seeing the interior of at least one dumpster or sewer tunnel. Yadda, yadda, yadda, there’s some sort of stupid chase with the perps ducking into a car wash or a ice cream factory and after a shoot out that involves Ray and a big red guy with no gun against hundreds of gangsters armed with automatics, they make the collar. The criminals go to jail, Ray takes another shower and Fraser can sleep at night, knowing that truth, justice and the Canadian way has triumphed once again. Really, Welsh should be used to it all by now. But there’s no sign of a smile cracking the Lieu’s stone face and each question he asks has it’s own weight behind it, like he’s trying to hammer home for once and for all the fact that he thinks Ray is an idiot.

"And just how was Countable Fraser able to say with such certainty that this person’s threats were, in fact, for real?"

It’s Fraser’s cue, but Ray can’t hear a peep from his friend and partner. He waits a minute, but there’s nothing from the Mountie behind him, so he stumbles through an incoherent explanation involving the perp’s handwriting, the size of his A’s, the average amount of sunlight you can expect this time of year and caribou. Welsh is frowning more and more with every word he manages to get out and Fraser is as silent as the tomb. As soon as he mumbles his way to a stop, Ray turns around, halfway expecting to see that Fraser has somehow skipped out without him or the Lieutenant noticing.

Fraser is just standing there with a far away look in his eye, absolutely oblivious to what is going on right in front of him. Which is something he never is, even if he’s just spent eight straight hours playing mannequin in front of the consulate. It’s a sight so unexplainable and down right wrong, that it takes Ray a second to locate his voice.

"Fraser!"

He jumps like he was just electrocuted and quickly focuses on Ray. Being Fraser, he’s too innately honest to play it like he was paying attention all along, but Ray knows he wishes he could.

"I‘m sorry, did you have a question?"

You bet he has a question. Hell, he has dozens of them, but Welsh beats him to the punch.

"Constable, is everything all right?"

"Oh, yes sir. Nothing could be better. Why?"

"It’s just that you seem a little distracted."

Fraser looks guilty which, is a giant tip off that somehow, somewhere, there‘s an enormous problem that he has no intention of talking about. What could it be? He’d been normal, or normal for Fraser at least, when they had arrested Charlie Henderson this morning.

"I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again."

Welsh doesn’t seem happy with Fraser’s answer, but his next question is all business.

"What about the arms sale Fraser reports interrupting?"

Keeping Fraser in his sights, Ray tries to get his mind back on the case.

"From Fraser’s description, we know at least one of the guys involved in the deal was Patrick Riker. He’s got ties to the Lombardo family from way back and a list of priors that took the printer ten minuets to spit out. According to my sources, he’s skipped town after last night but he’s expected back at the end of the month. Which is when, sir, I was hoping you would authorize a stakeout at his place."

Welsh grunts and keeps his eyes on Fraser, which Ray hopes means yes.

"You’re sure Constable, that there is nothing wrong. Nothing at all?"

"Absolutely. Although, thank you for your concern,."

For the rest of the meeting, Ray’s sure that no one is paying attention to what’s being said. Instead, he’s busy watching Fraser right along with Welsh while Fraser tries his best to pretend that he wasn‘t just caught starring in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Finally, it’s over and with one last glare in their direction, the Lieutenant gives them permission to leave. As soon as they clear Welsh’s office, he grabs Fraser by the arm and drags him into the supply closet. The wolf doesn’t even try to follow, which Ray knows is significant even if he doesn’t know what it means.

Impatiently, he grabs the cord that turns on the light and gives it a pull, illuminating the small space with the light from a naked forty-watt. The cord dances between them until Ray bats the it out of the way, looking for clues anywhere he can because he knows that Fraser would prefer to bust a lung rather than just coming out and telling him what’s going on. The one weapon he’s got against the guy is that Fraser can’t stand the silent treatment and sure enough after a few seconds Fraser is the first to speak.

"Well, Lieutenant Welsh certainly seems satisfied with our case against Mr. Henderson."

"Forget Welsh. The question is why are you acting so weird? What’s the matter, are you sick? Did you hit your head harder than usual last night? "

"Ray, I’m fine."

Oh, it’s absolutely disgusting how Fraser seems to believe that Ray will take him at his word and let it go, just because Fraser has given the shocking news that he is "fine".

"No, Fraser, you are not. You love it when the Lieutenant calls us into his office about a case. It makes you happy in some sort of sick, Canadian way, to go over every disgusting thing you licked and sniffed while you explain how we fingered the bad guy. It puts a spring in your step, a song in your heart and a twinkle in your eye to make us suffer like that . So the fact that you obviously weren’t paying attention to word one in there is causing an alarm with great big blinking lights and a loud whoop whoop noise to go off inside my head."

Fraser just stands there with that stupid, uncomprehending look on his face that he usually uses to infuriate mafia goombahs, FBI agents and Thatcher. Clearly, he is just minutes away from reciting his rank, name and serial number and nothing else, so Ray is forced to bring out the big guns. He points the finger of doom straight at his best friend and utters his accusation.

"You were daydreaming!"

"I certainly was not!"

Fraser’s face matches his uniform and he won’t meet Ray’s eyes, all signs that he’s resorted to outright lying. Ray hasn’t spent thirty seven years as his mother’s son for nothing, so this time he keeps quiet and adds the Vecchio stare to the mix. It’s guaranteed to break a person’s will and fill him with the guilty impulse to do something, anything that will please God, make the other person stop looking at them, in five minutes or less. In Fraser’s case it takes about thirty seconds to work.

"All right. It’s possible that I might be suffering a slight headache from my activities last night."

"Uh huh. And?"

"The case might remind me of a similar case I read about in my father’s journal, the details of which I am having difficulty bringing to mind."

"And?"

"It’s within the realm of probability that Inspector Thatcher is not happy with the performance of my duties earlier today."

"Yeah. And?"

"Oh, for pity’s sake Ray, would you stop saying that!"

"No and you want to know why? Because there is something going on that you are not telling me. That means that sooner or later I’m going to end up playing catch up and ruining another suit, while you confront the mob or notice that our pilot is really a hijacker or hey, I know, jump out of a burning building."

Fraser looks indignant but it’s not like he can pretend that each and every one of the things Ray’s just mentioned hasn’t happened. More than once.

"It’s nothing like that."

"Well then, why don’t you tell what it is like so I can have a clear picture?"

Fraser drops his statute impression and actually begins to fidget. The uniform doesn’t give him much leeway but he’s definitely shifting from side to side as he looks down, avoiding Ray’s eyes. Fraser has never given ground like this before and shock sets up shop in his stomach, dropping the temperature of the closet by at least ten degrees.

When Fraser raises his head again he’s more vulnerable than Ray’s seen him in years and Ray has to bites back the impulse to tell Fraser to stop it. He suddenly doesn’t want to know any more, he just wants Fraser to go back to normal and stop acting like whatever it is that’s bothering him could bring about the end of the world.

Fraser opens his mouth but before he can say anything, the door, thank God, swings open to reveal Elaine. It takes a conscious effort to hide his relief.

"Do you mind? We’re trying to have a private conversation in here."

There‘s a smirk on her pretty face that tells him for all that she’s paying attention to his protest he might as well be blowing hot air and then she says the words that changes his life forever.

"That’s nice, but ADA Palmer wants to have a private conversation with you out here."

"ADA Palmer? Stella Palmer? Is looking for me?"

"Yes, but if you want me to tell her you’re too busy hiding in a closet to talk to her..."

"No! No, tell her we’ll be right out."

Elaine looks like she has she‘s still got plenty to say, so he shuts the door before she can ask any more stupid questions.

"Fraser, this is it. This is the sign I’ve been looking for. Stella Palmer wants to talk to me."

Ray’s head is empty of everything but this one fact and he feels dazzled, as if someone has just snapped a picture and his eyes are still adjusting to the flash. Stella Palmer is it. The woman he is meant to be with. The woman who should be Mrs. Raymond Vecchio. For the six months he’s done everything but handsprings down the hall to get her attention and all he’s ever got in return was the cold shoulder. Which just proves that some women have to be wooed, you have to show them that you’re not going to waste their time with a fling when they’re looking for a commitment. Unfortunately, wooing Stella Palmer means impressing her and he’s never been able to find a way to do that. All of his best lines have gotten him nothing but polite indifference and his one attempt to ask her out had turned into a disaster of awkward pauses that he feels it’s best not to dwell on.

But now, she’s come looking for him and Ray believes deep in his bones that this is his chance.

"Ray, I’m sure she just wants to speak to you about a case."

"Oh yeah? Fraser, she only deals with juvenile offenders. Have we arrested any underage suspects lately?"

"Well, no."

"Uh huh. Come on."

She’s standing beside his desk, somehow looking breathtakingly beautiful in the light from the station’s crappy fluorescents. Instead of her usual look of professional interest, there’s a tentative smile on her face, which Ray knows is just one more sign that their relationship is about to change.

"Detective Vecchio, I wanted to speak with you. And you too, Constable Fraser."

Ok, so she’s looking for both of them. Maybe she’s afraid that if she gets him alone their mutual attraction might overwhelm their common sense.

"I just wanted to thank you for your actions last night. The man you rescued is an old friend and I don’t have many of them to spare."

There’s a pause before she says "old friend" that lets him know there’s a story there and anyway "friend"? What the hell does that mean? He’s so distracted by the introduction of another guy into the equation that he almost misses Fraser’s reply.

"You certainly don’t need to thank me. Any officer of the law would have done the same."

Usually Fraser is gracious as hell when someone says thank you, but Fraser’s words to Stella are stiff and formal, like she’s turned into the queen right before his eyes. It causes Stella’s face to lose it’s vulnerability, but before she can retreat into her usual mask of polite distance, Ray finds himself talking.

"Well, you can thank me if you want. How about you say thanks by letting me take you out to dinner tonight?"

It’s not the smoothest pick up line Ray’s ever managed, but hey, he managed to get it out without stumbling or stuttering. All in all, he’s pretty proud of himself.

For a second, Stella looks like she’s going to say no, but Ray tries to look charming without seeming pathetic and something about her seems to soften.

"Oh, why not? I’ll be off the clock around seven tonight. Does that work for you?"

"Are you serious? I mean, sure, that’ll be great."

"Ok, I suppose I’ll see you then."

"You bet."

He keeps his eyes on her until she disappears around a corner. Then his legs give out and he collapses in his chair.

"Fraser did you hear that? She said yes."

"That’s wonderful, Ray."

It takes a second, but Ray realizes that he’s not the only one who was tracking her exit. But Fraser’s not looking like a guy watching a gorgeous woman leave the room. Instead, he’s got that little line between his eyes that means he’s putting together two and two in his head and finding something that doesn‘t add up. And speaking of things that don’t add up, Fraser, the guy with perfect manners, has just been down right curt with Stella.

"Hey, what was with that whole you don’t need to thank me business?"

"I was just trying to say that one doesn't require gratitude to do one’s duty."

"Whatever."

Ray knows there’s more to the story than that, but it’s clear that Fraser doesn’t want to talk about it and really who cares? If he pushes Fraser, he’ll just become all rational and logical about what just happened and Ray doesn’t want to hear it. That stuff doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is come this evening he is going to be eating dinner with Stella Palmer and it’s going to be the start of something wonderful.
 

He spends the rest of the afternoon alternating between floating in a blissful haze, replaying over and over again in his head the exact moment the woman of his dreams agreed to go out with him on an actual date, and worrying about that guy, Stella’s old friend.

Fraser disappears for a while to help Huey deal with a perp who is angrily shouting in French, so Ray uses the time to corner Elaine and ask a favor. When she finally remembers that her job title includes the word "aide", as in aiding the police when she’s asked to do something, he drifts back to his desk intending to finish the paperwork on the Henderson arrest. He tries to stay focused on the filling in each little space on the arrest form, but his mind won’t shut up about the word "friend".

Friend just means friend right? But how good a friend? What if friend is somehow short for boyfriend? Maybe they have an understanding. Maybe they are in love. Maybe they are planning on getting married.

He’s halfway to convincing himself that Stella and her "friend" are the modern day equivalent to Romeo and Juliet when a small sharp pain blooms right above his ear. It takes a few seconds, but belatedly he realizes someone has just nailed his head with a paper cup.

"Hey, what‘s the idea?"

He looks up to see Elaine scowling down at him with Fraser peering over her shoulder, frowning at his distraction.

"I’ve got your report. You know, the report that you told me was so important that I should drop everything I’m doing and run immediately? The report that you said was so vital to your investigation that any delay could mean the suspect walks? The report...."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I remember. Thank you Elaine"

His heartfelt gratitude earns him another scowl, which just goes to show how most girls today don’t appreciate good manners.

"You’re just lucky I wasn’t doing anything really important, otherwise it would be Christmas before I got around to doing you your favor."

Elaine turns so fast Ray’s amazed she doesn’t have whiplash and the tone of her voice warms from artic right up to tropical.

"Of course, if it was you who needed a favor Fraser, I would be more than happy to help out."

Fraser starts up the routine of ahems and ahs that is his usually response when an attractive woman gets a little too friendly.

"Ah, well that’s very kind of you. I’ll certainly keep that in mind."

It’s tempting to wait and see what excuse Fraser will use this time to escape, but he is the guy’s best friend. Nobly, Ray intercedes before the situation can get anymore awkward.

"We’re all sure that you’re very helpful Elaine, but some of us have work to do. If you don’t mind."

Elaine glares in his direction and then marches off. He makes a mental note to bring her flowers or chocolate in the morning. Given the fact that she’s only one of three people in the department who actually understands their computer system, it doesn’t pay to stay on her bad side.

Fraser shoots him a look of profound gratitude which causes Ray to smile. Over the years, Ray’s developed quite a few theories on why Fraser’s so determined to turn down every woman who propositions him, but he’s also come to accept the fact that Fraser’s never going to give a straight answer on the subject.

"Did you ask Elaine to run a vehicle registration search for Patrick Riker?"

"No, this is a background check on Stella’s so called friend. Hey, check out this name, Stanley Raymond Kowalski. Oh yeah, now there’s a guy with issues."

"Ray!"

"What? I’m a cop and I’m investigating a suspicious character. I mean, why was he hanging around that warehouse in the first place?"

"I’m sure he explained his reasons in his statement."

"Oh yeah? Here’s what he told the uniforms last night. "A friend asked me to help her track down her runaway kid and I thought I could find him here." Uh huh, tell me that’s not suspicious. If the mother is so worried, how come she hasn’t filed a missing persons? And he works down at the Franklin center. Jesus, Dell Franklin. Now there’s a guy who knew how to get on a cop’s bad side."

"What do you mean?"

"He was this lawyer, not with the DA, but that didn't stop him from volunteering his time to represent every lowlife that had some song and dance about being mistreated while under arrest. He was a real bleeding heart and he had some sort of vendetta against the police. It all blew up in his face when he tried to get a seventeen-year-old cop killer off on a mistrial. Taylor Robbins was guilty, Fraser. I knew it, my fellow offices knew it, the jury knew it and Franklin sure as hell knew it."

"What happened?"

"Somehow the media got the idea that the prosecution’s only witness hadn’t identified Robbins until a couple of cops had helped along his testimony. Three guess who fed them that idea. It ended up almost costing a couple of detectives their careers and Taylor Robbins got his mistrial. But he died two months later in a drug bust. Autopsy showed that he ended up with at least six different bullets in him, but since there were plenty of witnesses who saw Robbins fire first, it was all swept under the rug. Dell Franklin had a heart attack that very day and died right after. Some of the guys here at the station thought it might have been an attack of conscience that turned fatal."

Fraser doesn’t say anything, but he has that just tasted a lemon look on his face that indicates he disapproves of Ray’s cynicism and frankly, Ray’s glad it‘s there. On the job he’s seen enough guys who let their experiences turn into them into twisted, bitter shells of their former selves that he knows he doesn’t want to go that route himself. Fraser though, has been exposed to just about every horrible thing one person can do to another and somehow has managed to keep intact his belief that what they do means something to somebody. Sure, there’s been a time or two when the guy was knocked down,. After the whole Victoria thing, Ray had been afraid, deep in his gut afraid like only kids are suppose to be when they hear a sound that could be something under the bed, that he wouldn’t get up again. Wouldn’t be Fraser anymore. But he did, just like he’s done every time since. Ray would never, under any circumstances tell the guy this, but actually he depends on Fraser to be his usual, Norman Rockwell inspired self. It gives him hope that he can somehow make it to retirement and still resemble a halfway decent human being.

"Anyway, let’s see what else Stanley has been up to. There’s a couple of domestic calls listed a few years back, but nobody pressed any charges and... Hey, give that back!"

Fraser has the folder and is holding it out of reach above his head, looking like he’s giving seriously consideration to starting a game of keep away.

"This hardly an appropriate use of our time. Also, I’m afraid if you continue to investigate Mr. Kowalski, I will not be able to help. I am having dinner with the man tonight so I would have a clear conflict of interest."

Well, that takes care of the chance of finding any real dirt on Kowalski. With one really large exception, Fraser’s instincts about people are usually dead on. If Fraser thinks the guy’s ok to eat with, it’s doubtful that Ray’s going to discover that good old Stanley has a secret past as a war criminal or anything else that could be useful in keeping him away from Stella.

"So he’s buying the guy who saved his life dinner, huh? Dammit, that’s classy. He’s a classy guy. I hate that."

"Actually..."

"Vecchio! Get in here"

Welsh’s bellow echoes in the bullpen and it heralds the last free moment they have for the rest of the day. Welsh drops a robbery on the east side in their laps, so he and Fraser spend the end of their shift trying and failing to track down a witness.

It’s only after he’s dropped him off for the night, that Ray realizes he never got the bottom of Fraser’s little moment in Welsh’s office. But it couldn’t have been anything too serious, right? Yeah, he was probably just overreacting. Even though Fraser likes to act like he’s invulnerable, the guy’s still human and he did just survive a jump out of a burning building. That kind of thing could throw anyone off their game for a moment or two. Reassured, Ray pushes aside any thought of Fraser’s strange behavior and focuses instead on his upcoming dinner with destiny. Stella Palmer doesn’t stand a chance.

Ray is staggering toward the kitchen, the word coffee rattling through his head louder than a crowd cheer at a Bulls game, when some sorry bastard starts pounding on his front door. His caffeine deprived body tries to take over and march his ass straight to the kitchen but the knocking is steady and regular like his mystery guest could keep at it all day. The rhythm is off just enough that he can’t predict when the next beat is going to happen and around knock number six his irritation wins out over his craving for the dark stuff. He stomps through the living room, glad that there’s no one around to see him behaving with all of the finesse of a five year old, and rounds the corner with more speed than skill, rebounding off the wall. Now he’s actually hurting as opposed to being sore and still so sleep stupid that he can’t think straight. Greatness. Really can anything make this morning suck more than it actually does?

I-ain’t-got-no-rhythm boy is still doing his thing when Ray reaches the door and doesn’t stop even when the jerk can clearly hear that Ray’s fumbling with the locks. He opens the door with as much force as his sore muscles can managed and glares out at the guy on his porch.

And hey, his question about the morning is answered. Because standing right there while his partner waits on the steps, is Detective Joseph Faix.

"Good morning, Mr. Kowalski. You‘re looking well for a man who almost died in a blaze twelve hours ago."

"Yeah, I hear smoke‘s good for your complexion. Is there something I can do for you Detective Faix?"

"You remember Detective Salvino, don‘t you? We’ve both been assigned to do follow up on the arson case last night and I thought, seeing how he was there and all, why not go and ask our good friend Ray what he knows about it. So, Ray, you got time for a few questions?"

Detective Faix’s smile is as wide and sincere as a crocodile's while his partner doesn’t bother to put on a happy face. Course he can’t remember Salvino ever smiling, or talking for that matter. Usually he just hung around in the back ground, letting his partner ask all the questions while he meditated, counted sheep or whatever it was he did to pass the time.

Since there’s no chance of him getting away with saying no, Ray grunts and steps back, intent on leading them back to the kitchen. It’s his opinion that if he has to face police questioning in his own home, then it can sure as hell happen while he drinks his coffee, but being the true blue assholes that they are, the detectives don’t follow him right away. Instead they take their time, peering into rooms and then up the stairs, like they’re expecting to see that Ray’s used counterfeit bills for wallpaper. Walking through his house, they look more mismatched than ever, with Faix short, round and blond and Salvino tall, skinny and sallow.

"Quite a place you‘ve got here. Built around 1920, right?"

"Give the man a gold star."

"Nah, I don’t know much about houses, just what I can pick up from watching Bob Villa. You must know a lot though. It looks like you’re in the middle of some remodeling."

Faix’s looking pointedly at the mess he’s made of the living room. Ok, so the place looks a little like that guy from the Shining has somehow gotten in and started hammering at the walls; it will be a cold day in hell before Ray volunteers any information to a total waste of a space like Faix.

"What can I say, this whole house is just one big do-it-yourself project waiting to happen. Do you think we could do this in the kitchen? I need to put some coffee on."

"Sure, my grandmother used to say you should never stand between a man and his morning cup of joe."

Ray could do without anymore of Grandma Faix’s homegrown wisdom but he has more important matters on his mind. As soon as his feet hit linoleum, he makes a beeline for the machine and sets it up. For a moment, he considers saving time and just chewing the grounds but before he can give into the temptation, there’s a gurgling sound and the pot begins to fill. He snags some M&M’s, pours a cup and turns to find the detectives making themselves comfortable. Salvino’s taken up a position right by the window while Faix has grabbed a chair and is sitting at the table. Both of them seem caught up in the view, but as soon as Ray takes a seat Faix turns and starts again with the questions.

"Must be nice living out here in all this nature. Great scenery, not a lot of smog, no worries about having neighbors just one thin wall away from you. Not like us schlubs who live in the city, right Sal?"

Salvino says nothing, but Faix continues on without a hitch.

"But if you don’t mind me saying, this place seems a bit out of the way for someone who works in downtown Chicago."

Since the guy just drove out here he knows same as Ray that the commute is only twenty-five minutes. But now that his brain is coming on line, Ray realizes that the question is just one more move in the fishing expedition that Faix’s been running since Ray answered his door.

"Well what do you know, it turns out that I do mind, so can we just stick to business here? You said you had some questions about the fire?"

"Just wondered if after a good night’s sleep, you remember anything that could help us identify the arsonist."

"Like I said in my statement, I never saw the guy. "

"Yeah, that’s what you said. Well, we were in the neighborhood, so I thought there‘s no harm in checking. Come on, Sal, we can stop off at that pancake house you like before we head back to the station."

"Wait, that’s it?"

Ray trails after the detectives as they make their way back to the front door, feeling like he’s just been made the punch line of some joke, but he can’t see who’s suppose to be laughing.

"I told you before, this is just a routine follow up."

They’re out the door and on the front porch when Faix stops for one more question.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot to ask. How are things at the Center? "

"Why, are you planning on making a donation?"

"So money’s still tight?"

Ray scowls and tries to remember what belting a cop will get you. If Faix is threatening Rachael or the kids, he can sure as fuck do it through some missing teeth.

"How the hell is that any of your business?"

Faix doesn’t even seem to notice that Ray’s got his fists clenched and he’s practically bouncing on his toes with the urge to teach both detectives some manners.

"Buck up, Ray. I have a feeling things are going to be changing for you and the Center any day now. Just be sure you remember who your friends are."

Yeah, these guys and him, they’re best buds all right.

"Is this where you reveal that you’re really the Amazing Kreskin in disguise?"

Ray rates another one of those creepy smiles from Faix, but he doesn’t get an answer. Instead Faix and Salvino start down the stairs, hunched in their overcoats to fight off the wind. Encased in black from head to toe, they look like a pair of bad omens walking across his lawn and Ray quickly shuts the door against the sight of them.

What the hell was that all about? He spends a few moments panicking, convinced that Faix somehow knows about Dwayne. They could have intercepted the train this morning and the kid could be in police custody right this minute. Could have, but if they did, why is Faix giving advice and asking about his commute instead of dragging him to the station for questioning? Any way he looks at it, it doesn’t make sense. Arresting Dwayne means they’ve gone to a lot of trouble for a small time drug collar and if nothing else, he knows that Faix is ambitious. No way would he waste his time with Dwayne unless there was some big pay off in the end. Which means that Faix’s little visit probably has nothing to do with last night’s fun and games and everything to do with that warning he gave about things at the Center changing.

Ray’s pacing through his house, running his hands through his hair and waving his arms about, trying to pull answers out of the air when the phone rings, scaring the life right out of him. Is the whole freaking world together on some vast conspiracy to give him a heart attack?

Ray picks up the phone and growls into the receiver.

"What?’

"Ray?"

Oh shit, it’s Stella.

It’s been five weeks and three days since the last time they spoke and even then they hadn’t really had what you might call a conversation. Instead they had just sat in Stella‘s favorite restaurant, Ray wedged into their booth with all of the grace of a crash test dummy, and talked about the weather. Twenty four years of friendship, four months of being lovers and the only thing they could think to say to each other was that it looked the day might turn to rain.

"Ray, are you there?"

"Hey, Stella. How are things?"

"Jesus Ray, I’m fine, it‘s you I‘m worried about. I spoke to Rachael this morning and she told me what happened. Are you alright?"

"Yeah you know me, always landing on my feet."

"Right, I guess I forgot."

There’s a pause and now would be a perfect time to tell her about Dwayne and Faix and the gorgeous guy with a screw loose who he met last night and might have fallen for, but his throat is locked up tight. It’s not like he could really tell her any of those things anyway. She’s been his best friend for most of his life, but right now that asshole Faix is less of a stranger to him than Stella. Finally, he gets his voice back and thinks of something to say.

"So, you called Rachael?"

"I wanted to tell her that I won’t be coming to the anniversary party. I thought I would save her the trouble of trying to find a way not to invite me."

"Come on Stella, it‘s not like that. Rachael just has problems thinking straight this time of year. You have just as much right to be there as she does."

"Well, she’s not the one who doubted her precious brother. She’s not the one whom Dell accused of putting her own career ahead of what‘s best for her client. She wasn’t the one who was proven right and then had to live with it. But I guess you know all about that last one, don’t you Ray?"

The venom in Stella’s voice takes all the air from the room and Ray slumps against the wall. How does it always come to this, Stella so filled with anger and Ray so sorry for it all? There’s nothing he can say that he hasn’t said a thousand times before and none of his apologies have ever made that much of a difference anyway. The bottom line is that he screwed up and his screw up hurt Stella. He doesn’t have the right to try and defend himself, so all he can do is stay silent and take it. After a moment, she regains her control and Ray fights back the urge to protest. He can’t help thinking that if maybe she got it all out, just yell at him the way she’s been wanting to, they could finally move past this thing and be friends again.

"I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I should go."

"No Stella, wait."

"Yes?"

"It’s just that I miss you, you know?"

"Ray...I miss you to, but I can’t do this right now. It‘s just too much."

"Yeah."

"But I’m glad you’re not hurt. Keep landing on your feet, ok?"

"Sure, me and cats, we have this bond."

"Good-bye."

Ray lets the dial tone buzz in his ear as he stays where he is, too knotted up with regret to even think of moving. The thing is, he knew right from the start that he was making a mistake, but he had been so messed up with Nick’s death and Stella had been so sweet and so willing to give it a try that he didn’t say no. No, I don’t want this. No, I don’t love you like that. No, you and me could never work out the way you think, because you’re just like him, wanting me to be something that I’m not.

And maybe if he wasn’t such a freak, he could have been happy with Stella. He could have been normal for once and then his dad might have stopped pretending that he never had a son named Ray and his mother might have finally had a chance to go ahead with the wedding she’s been planning for him and Stella since they were in high school. But Ray and normal are two things that have never gone together and there‘s no use in pretending any thing different..

Ray runs his hands through is hair and scrubs his face, trying to knock his thoughts off track before he can get caught up in a loop of if onlys and might have beens. He could spend the rest of his life standing right, listening to the dial tone and wishing he was still connected with Stella, and it wouldn’t change a thing. Brooding about the past is getting him nowhere and whatever Faix‘s detour into the land of the cryptic might mean, there‘s no way he can crack the code before at least taking a shower. Ray finds his cup, finishes off his coffee and then heads to the bathroom, thinking about the detectives‘ visit, thinking about the Center, thinking about whether or not Frankie ever cleaned up the mess in the garage. Thinking about anything so that he doesn’t have to think that the fact that he and Stella are over for good.
 

He’s undressing, his mind still chasing it’s own tail, when he catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. His body looks like one of those patchwork dolls his Mom used to make for extra money when he was a kid. He’s covered in bruises that mark his skin with every shade of purple and blue known to man, but it’s the bruise curving around his left bicep that gets his attention. It’s shape isn’t all that clear but he knows what caused it and everything about this morning fades to black as he goes back in time. Back to being trapped in that building and seconds away from what anyone could tell you was a sure death. Back to staring at Benton Fraser and knowing that there’s no way he’s going to find the courage to jump off that ledge if he doesn’t make that other leap first.

Going for that kiss had to be either the easiest or the hardest thing he’s ever done.

Easy, because all he had to do was take a step and the whole thing fell into place. Benton welcoming him in, like he knew as well as Ray that this thing between them would be incredible. That the heat between them would burn brighter than the fire that was creeping up the stairs.

Hard, because taking that first step would have never happened if he hadn’t believed that he was going to die.

The odds were against them even surviving the fall, so who knew that Ray would hit the water and almost immediately be pulled to the surface in an iron grip that refused to let him go? That the Mountie’s fingers would curve around Ray’s arm, leaving a bruise behind like he was marking Ray, giving proof to anyone who cared to look that he‘d kept his promise. That he’d found a way to rescued them both and swim to shore, collapsing just in time to miss the arrival of the fire trucks and some guy who would not stop yelling about plane crashes and meat lockers.

Ray matches his hand to the bruise and feels himself respond, his breath picking up pace and growing ragged while a flush creeps up his chest. His cock begins to show interest, but he doesn’t try to touch it. Instead, he keeps his grip tight around his arm and shuts his eyes, pretending that Benton is here, watching him being naked and week with need for that hand to be everywhere at once.

A stranger standing there, so close that Ray can almost feel the scratchy wool from that uniform against his skin, holding on as he looks at Ray. Seeing everything as Ray’s hips jerk and twist, as his cock grows red and desperate, as his nipples start to ache in the empty air.

The wall at his back is the only thing keeping Ray upright and he can’t shut up. A constant stream of please, oh god, please escaping his lips, and the thought of the Mountie listening to him beg and still not moving, makes him just that much more crazy with desire.

Hours, years, centuries later, he can’t take it anymore and finally touches his cock. The feel of skin meeting skin is sharp enough to hurt and it‘s so easy to image that the hand holding him, encouraging him to thrust, is not his at all. It takes just a couple of strokes and he goes off like a rocket. It starts at the bottom of his feet and just rolls through him with unstoppable force, leaving him wrecked with pleasure and collapsed on the floor.

When Ray finally comes back to his senses, it takes two tries before he can persuade his body to stay upright and even then it takes the counter to keep him from going right back down. Thanks to his weak knees, he’s face to face with himself in the bathroom mirror and it’s not a pretty sight. He needs a hot shower and about three quarts more coffee before he can start to look human, but for some reason he can’t stop his reflection from wearing the world’s most idiotic grin. It’s at least half a mile wide and it makes him look so fucking hopeful that Ray is tempted to punch himself in the face just to get rid of it. Why can’t he just do the casual thing for once? Tonight’s just a date with someone he barely knows, but his gut is telling him that he’s fallen hard for the guy and Nick’s voice is echoing in his head, asking why does he always have to be so intense? So needy? Why the hell can’t Ray be happy with what he’s got and stop pushing for more?

And isn’t his life already screwed up enough? There’s a million different things he should be worrying about, right now: Faix is playing some game and Ray doesn’t have a clue one on what his angle could be. Rachael is running herself ragged trying to keep everything together when it‘s pretty clear they‘re going to have to let some of the staff go or go under themselves. And who knows if Terrence or Dwayne’s buddies will have the sense to keep their mouths shut when Tommy starts coming around and asking questions? He doesn’t have any time to give to a guy who owns a wolf and acts like he’s watch a little too much Underdog as a kid. Especially since the guy seems to be hot sex on two legs and capable of inspiring another fucked up obsession that will end up ruining Ray’s life. Again.

If he was smart, he would forget about the kiss. Pull a no show at the restaurant and if the Mountie cares enough to track him down, he’ll have plenty of excuses waiting.

Yeah, if he was smart.

Ray lurches away from the mirror and heads toward the shower, not wanting to see one more second of that goddamn smile.

The walk from his apartment to Lee’s Wok takes approximately twenty eight minutes. A ride by cab, depending on what street is taken and the amount of traffic encountered, would shorten that time to an estimated sixteen minutes. If, however, while on foot, he leaves the establish route behind and travels by alleyway and the occasional rooftop, he could shave seven or so minutes from his journey. Of course he would then run the risk of arriving at the restaurant somewhat worse for wear, which might mistakenly convey the impression to his companion that he does not fully understand the implication of their dinner engagement.. An impression that could not be further from the truth. Understanding is not the problem, rather it’s the lack of practical knowledge that he fears will lead the night into disaster.

Benton rests his head against the window and peers out, almost hoping to spot a situation that needs his intervention. His own sense of honor prevents him from even entertaining the idea of not appearing at the agreed upon time simply because he is feeling a bit anxious of the night‘s outcome. However, it would hardly be his fault if criminal activities made it impossible for him to attend dinner.

A mugging, a robbery, an illegal use of a dead animal. Really, any crime at all would do.

In spite of his shameful wish, the alleyway remains empty and all he can hear is the drone of cars mixing with the everyday chatter of passersby on the street. Life going on around him, filled with people who presumably have long since mastered the ability to interact in a social setting with those they find attractive.

Benton turns his back both on the window and the direction of his thoughts. Unfortunately, the sight of his kitchen does not inspire him any more than the view outside.

As he sees it, the problem is one of context. From the 1942 edition of Miss Pamela Johnson’s Etiquette Book for Young Gentlemen, he has a workable, if slightly outdated, idea of what is expected of a man when he asks a young woman to dinner. From his childhood memories and his interactions with Ray Vecchio, he has a comfortable grasp on how one is to behave while on an outing with one’s friend. But to conflate the two ideas, to have romantic aspirations while at dinner with another man. Well, this is entirely new territory.

The last thing he desires is to appear foolish or naive in the eyes of Ray Kowalski and yet there is no use denying that he has absolutely no experience in this matter. Should he bring chocolate? Flowers? A bottle of wine? A wrist corsage? Should he be the one to open the door? Or will doors be opened for him instead?

Then there is the matter of his appearance. After careful deliberation, Benton has decided against any uniform and in favor of what his father had always termed civilian dress. But is this the correct choice? Perhaps he is dressed a bit too casually for what Ray might see as a formal occasion. Despite the unconventional nature of the participants, Benton knows that one is expected to appear at events such as this looking one’s best in hopes of attracting the admiration of one’s companion. Will Ray find him attractive, dressed as he is in a leather jacket and jeans? Would the red serge of his uniform render him more desirable?

For a moment, the weight of his ignorance bores down upon him. He will fail some test, miss some cue and then all that he does not know will be displayed in cruel detail to the very person he hopes to impress. He closes his eyes in despair and imagined scenes of humiliation chase him into the darkness. His heart falters and his courage gutters like a candle flame.

No. Stop. This attitude is not helpful.

There is no benefit in allowing himself to become disheartened by matters outside of his control. He is a Mountie. He has been trained to succeed in the face of extreme adversity. He has confronted and captured his father’s killer. He has hunted down a hardened criminal while temporarily blinded and accompanied by a partner completely untrained in outdoor survival. For heaven’s sake, he has survived extreme conditions that would kill other men by spending the night in the carcass of a caribou. By keeping his wits sharp and his faculties alert, surely he can successfully navigate this evening’s unknown perils.

Benton takes a deep breath and purposely expels any lingering tension. All a man needs to succeed in any venture he undertakes is a clear mind, a commitment to bravery and his will focused completely on the goal.

So, back to the matter at hand. The choice is clearly between walking the conventional route and engaging the services of a taxi.

Although, he has yet to factor in what his time would be if he took a horse drawn carriage.

"Hello, son."

"Dad!"

For the second time that day, Benton finds himself startled out of deep thought and he opens his eyes to see his father, beaming and cheerful, standing only a few feet away.

"If you don’t mind, now is not a good time..."

Benton’s voice trails off as soon as he fully takes in the sight of his father’s attire. His mind refuses to make sense of what’s before him and after several seconds of frantic readjustment, he can almost feel his thought process grind to a halt, leaving him incapable of anything but stating the blindingly obvious.

"You’re out of uniform."

"Yes, that’s right."

"You’re wearing shorts. And what I believe is know as a Hawaiian shirt"

"Ah, is that what it’s called? I knew it had an island in the name."

"It’s... bright blue with large red flowers. And I don’t think that parrot is in any way anatomically correct."

"Son, you have to make allowances for the artist’s vision."

"Allowances. For the artist of your shirt. Dad, why are you dressed like a color-blinded passenger on the Love Boat?"

"The what?"

Benton signs and tries to master his impatience. In his heart, he blames Turnbull for his father‘s confusion and regrets once again that Inspector Thatcher allows the Consulate a television. For months now, Turnbull has been strangely fixated on the show in question and insists to viewing it without fail during their lunch hour. It is thanks to this obsession that Benton is now overly familiar with the antics of Captain Stubing and his rather undisciplined crew and really, he should have known better than to reveal this familiarity to his father. Benton makes a mental not to never allow himself such a reference in front of his partner and soldiers on with his inquiry.

"It’s a television show. Please answer the question"

"Well, you know how I always said that as long as there‘s breath in my body and I can walk upright, I‘d never retire?"

"Yes?"

"I’m afraid one out of two just doesn’t cut it, son. It’s a hell of a thing to find out, but apparently the RCMP doesn’t have a non corporal division."

"Ah."

"So here I am, retired in spite of myself. Put out to pasture just like every other old has-been. Too feeble to patrol, too aged to track down even the most inept criminal, too intangible to serve my country."

"Dad, they’re retired, you’re dead. There is a difference."

"Is there? I have to say, don’t see it. No, I need to face this head on. I am no longer an active officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I need to embrace my new status as a civilian. Besides, this is a good thing. I’ll admit after my death, I failed to adjust to my new circumstances. You had hopes that I would take a more active role in your life and I disappointed you. Don’t try to deny it son, I know it’s true. Yes, I gave you the occasional bit of advice, but the habits of a lifetime are hard to break. I allowed myself to believe that I was still on duty, still capable of patrolling the territories and enforcing the law. However it has become clear to me that, whatever you would like to call it, I am retired and now there is nothing to distract me from advising you as a father should. My sole remaining duty is to help you benefit from my years of experience."

"Oh God."

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Dad. I’m glad you are coming to terms with your ..ah... literal retirement."

"Well, it’s a foolish man who refuses to swim when the ship he’s on is sinking. Oh, that was good. Do you have a pencil? You‘ll want to write that one down."

"I’m sure I’ll remember it."

With his father’s shirt threatening to inspire a headache of truly epic proportions, Benton resists the urge to sigh yet again. Lately, when it has become apparent that in order to fulfill their duties as officers of the law they must risk their lives and possibly their apparel, Ray Vecchio has fallen into the habit of turning to Benton and mournfully demanding, "Why is this my life?"

It is a question that has no answer and the fact that Ray would spend so much time in pointless speculation usually leaves Benton feeling irritated to no end. However, as his father speaks, he finds himself suddenly in perfect sympathy with his partner and regrets his impatience at what he now sees as an inquiry into the truly profound. Why indeed, is this his life? He tries to share the question with Diefenbaker, but the wolf, obviously still sulking from Benton’s refusal to allow him to attend the night‘s scheduled events, only sniffs and looks away.

"Be careful son, only the man who makes the mistake of believing that he has nothing left to learn, relies on his memories alone. Ha! Another bit of wisdom. You really do need a pencil and a notebook. Why isn’t now a good time?"

"What?"

"You said right now isn’t a good time. Are you on a new case? This might be a perfect time to start off our new partnership, I could help you interrogate the suspect. I have to say that I’m concerned you still haven’t learned to look for the three signs that show a man is prevaricating."

At his father’s question, Benton leaves the world of abstract metaphysical inquiry behind to launch into a full-scale panic. Oh, no. This simply can not be happening. For the sake of Benton’s sanity, his father can not have anything at all to do with his plans for the evening. Clearly now is the time for him to call upon all of his cunning and guile and persuade his father that there is nothing, nothing at all, scheduled for the night that requires his attention.

"Well, you see... That is...um...."

Unfortunately, Benton’s mind is still occupied by appalling image of his father appearing at the restaurant, and God help him, giving him interrogation advice, so his cunning and guile are nowhere to be found. Oh Lord, surely Ray will see him break out into a seizure of twitches and mumbled words and decided that he is having dinner with a mad man. Their evening will be cut short and Benton will never see the man again. Although of course, his partner is now dating someone who has a close, if somewhat unclear, connection to Ray. No doubt this will lead to a chance meeting in a hallway of the station and a horrifically awkward exchange, during which time Benton will smile and do his best to hide his despondency. Ray will avoid meeting his eye and excuse himself as soon as possible, leaving Benton with the knowledge that he is doomed to eventually die alone and be found wrapped in cabbage leaves.

"No, no, you‘ve got it all wrong. Only the most unseasoned and callow criminal betrays his guilt by stuttering and refusing to meet his interrogator's eye. No doubt the suspect in your case will be much more cunning. The first sign to look for when a man is not revealing everything he knows is..."

"Dad! There is no case. Or rather there are several new cases but in one I believe we’ll find that the store’s owner is guilty of attempting to defraud his insurance company and in the other, the suspect isn’t expected back in town for another two weeks."

"Oh. Well then, this might be the perfect time for me to show you how to bring down a charging wild boar using nothing but two sticks and a metal cup. Did I ever tell you about the time Buck and I ..."

"I’m afraid I have plans for the evening."

Somewhere his grandmother is shaking her head at his rude interruption, but Benton knows that if he is forced to listen to one more minute of what promises to be a very long story about his father, Buck Frobisher and a wild boar, he might very well go barking mad. Leave it to his father to choose the worst possible day to have some sort of mid-death crisis.

"Plans? What could be more important than learning how to survive in the wilderness from your father?"

"Actually, I’ve know how to survive in the wilderness for quite some time now and my plans involve dinner. At a restaurant. With someone I’ve invited. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll just be going."

Benton knows better than to hope that this will be enough information to satisfy his father but he prepares to leave anyway. Perhaps there is a way to lose his father’s ghost out on the street. Would a quick walk through one of the more crowded department stores confuse him enough that Benton might escape unnoticed?

"You’ve invited someone to dinner? Well done, son. I have to say that I was afraid that business two years ago might have turned you off the fairer sex altogether."

Almost in reach of the door, his father’s last few words freezes Benton in his tracks. Diefenbaker, who has been observing from his favorite spot underneath the bed, issues a series of short, muffled barks, telling Benton that he finds the whole conversation highly amusing. Avoiding his father’s gaze, Benton glares down at the wolf, letting him know that his mirth is both inappropriate and unappreciated.

"Won’t you at least tell me her name? Is it that Thatcher woman? Haven’t I always said that she has her eye on you? "

Reluctantly, Benton raises his head to look at his father. How he wishes that his and his father’s circumstances were reversed. What he would give at this moment, to be the ghost and able to disappear at will.

"No, it’s not Inspector Thatcher."

"Ah, so it’s your partner’s sister, is it? She’s a bit on the flighty side but I expect marriage and children will settle her down nicely. You could certainly do worse, son."

"No, Dad. It’s not Francesca either. I‘m having dinner with a man. His name is Ray Kowalski."

"A man?"

"Yes."

"And is this..?"

"Yes."

"And you are..?"

"Yes"

"Hmm.."

Benton watches his father, lost in thought, absently take a seat on the couch Ray Vecchio insist he purchase last year. Trepidation, shame, relief, and anticipation for events to come all war within him, turning the room first hot, then cold. He feels trapped and yet cannot shake the conviction that even the slightest movement on his part will bring about disaster. It is foolish to place so much importance on one man’s opinion, a man whose legacy is forever tied to his son’s disappointment, and yet finds himself bracing for his father’s judgment.

Finally his father stirs from his repose and meets Benton’s eyes with a frown.

"I have to say son, this comes a bit of a surprise. What about all those girls who were around when you were younger?"

His father’s words only serves to prove yet again how hopelessly distant he has always been to the realities of Benton’s life. Benton firmly clamps down on the impulse to laugh at the absurdity of the question.

A succession of young women from his grandmother’s carefully arranged and chaperoned afternoon teas parade though his mind. He had been a quite, bookish boy, more conversant in Mallory’s Camelot or Kipling’s India than in any topic of interest to an adolescent girl. Each tea had been an agony of faltering conversation on his part and impatience on the part of his guest.

"I’m afraid they were far more interested in the American magazines that accompanied the library on it’s rounds than in me."

Once again, his words leave his father silent and in deep rumination. Standing before him and waiting, Benton begins to feel impatience. For heaven’s sake, can’t the man just disapprove of the whole thing and be done? His paralysis lifted, Benton crosses his arms and wonders at the hour. He suspects that traveling by cab will soon be his only option, but given the time of day should he suggest the driver take Denver avenue or Jefferson street?

"Humph. Well, I don’t understand it. However if this is what makes you happy, I’m glad for it."

Distracted from his calculations, Benton can only look at his father in disbelief. He’s glad for it? Has he somehow failed to understand that Benton will be having a romantic encounter this very night with another man?

Belatedly, Benton realizes that he has just asked that very question out loud. His father looks taken aback while the soft bark from the direction of his bed tells Benton that Diefenbaker continues to find humans very entertaining. His father’s reply almost seems offended.

"Well, it’s not like the concept is completely foreign. After all Big Moose Johnson and Bill Weatherby were like that and they were our neighbors for years. In fact, Big Moose gave your mother a recipe for the most delicious apple pie I’ve ever tasted. It was so good that when Caroline made it for your Uncle Tiberius, he vowed never to eat any other desert because he was sure nothing could surpass the of that taste of that pie."

"Big Moose and Bill Weatherby? Really?"

"Oh, yes. And for that matter, Joyce Simon and Flora Page. Why do you think the judge refused that Simon woman’s attempt to challenge Joyce’s will when it left everything to Flora? It was because everyone knew Joyce and Flora had been all but married for over twenty years."

"Huh. I had no idea."

Benton takes a seat beside his father and attempts to take in this new view of those he had always thought to be staunch and, to be honest, rather staid pillars of the community. Could this be what Quinn was referring to when he would say that Big Moose "fished on the other side of the stream" and "skied up the down slope"? Benton had always assumed that he had simply meant that Big Moose was not very athletically inclined.

"Son?"

"Hmmm?"

"Shouldn’t you be leaving soon for your date?"

"What? Oh, hell."

Benton scrambles from the couch and takes a frantic look at the small clock resting on the trunk that serves as his nightstand. Thank God, he has just enough time if he takes a cab.

Hat, hat, where is his hat? His father waves a hand to attract his attention and then points at the kitchen table, where his hat is sitting in plain sight. Benton snatches it from the table and is out of the apartment and six feet down the hall when courtesy and caution finally catch up. Quickly, he retraces his steps and returns to his apartment.

His father is still seated on the couch, frowning down at his shirt. When Benton enters, he seems inclined to seek some sort of opinion on his new attire, but Benton overrides him before the question can be asked.

"Dad, you’re not going to pop up or anything while we’re at the restaurant, are you?"

"Son, give me more credit than that. I wouldn’t dream of disrupting you meal."

His father’s face is the very picture of injured innocence and reluctantly, Benton decides to take him at his word.

"Ah, well then. Goodnight."

"Have a good time, son."

Benton once more takes his exit, but as he leaves he can hear his father’s voice continue.

"Bare in mind though, I still expect grandchildren."

Outside his apartment, Benton leans against the closed door and knocks his head several times into the wood. His father is the most aggravating man in all creation and nothing will ever change that.

He stays there a moment longer, feeling the empty air all around him and a building’s ledge once more beneath his feet

Then he turns, straightens his spine, puts on his hat and starts down the hall.