”I,” Fraser said, ”am a sulphur-crested cokatoo.”

 

“So,” Ray gasped, clutching his stomach. “You wanted to dress as a bird.”

 

“Yes, Ray.” Fraser lowered his head, bending low, and climbed into the passenger seat.

 

Ray hurried after, settling in behind the wheel, the familiar press of pedals under his feet a comfort.

 

“You must know, Ray, that exotic, heat craving birds are a rarity in the Arctic climate. Even though we have adequate heating, of course.” Fraser wiggled a little, Ray could see him as he adjusted the pillow cushioning his ass. “They have always been objects to strange dreams for people accustomed to … and ….”

 

Fuck! What to do? Tell Fraser how ridiculous he looked, hurt him beyond repairing? Risk that he would never talk to him again?

 

Or…pretend he was ill; he was dying; he had to go home like yesterday?

 

No. wouldn’t do. Better go, and give everyone who tried to burst Fraser’s bubble the look of death. Followed up with unmistakeable hand gestures. Ray felt his heart hammering, for how could he be everywhere at once, deflecting snide, fucked up comments and derogative glances?

 

“Ray. Ray?” Fraser waved one white-glowed hand in front of him. “Shouldn’t we be going? The lieutenant said seven o’clock.”

 

And why couldn’t he just leap forward in time, use some psychic force and suddenly, relievingly, it was midnight, the pumpkin was waiting, and he could return Fraser to his cot in the consulate. Sans one rubber boot. Or whatever.

 

Instead he drove to the precinct, and never, no fucking time, had the time it took getting there seemed shorter. Fraser, happily practising his chirps and his screech, jumped out of the car. Looking expectant, and fucking happy.

 

Ray was not happy. In fact, horrible images of scrawny, pale Polack kids, forced into a Superman costume, or a bear costume, kept popping up in his mind.

 

Trudging after Fraser up the stairs to the bullpen, watching Fraser preen and waggle his fake rump, was torture.

 

“Come on, squack—squack, Ray.” The rubber fingers waggled frantically on Fraser’s head. “I’m hungry. I want to play party games.”

 

The only party game Ray wanted to play was hide and seek, with his own closet as the hiding place.

 

Entering the bullpen was…quiet. The customary “the-punch-is-spiked-but-nobody-knows” sounds faded out before the door slammed shut behind them.

 

Fuck it to hell. Ray reached out to grip Fraser’s padded hip, intent on dragging him out into the hallway again.  He had no more than curled his hand into the soft wool, before pandemonium was loose.

 

“Fraser!” Trust Frannie to come scurrying. It almost made him forget to shoot his dagger-glance at the rest of the fuckers. But they were laughing, not snickering. Smiling, not baring their teeth. Ray felt faint with stupid relief. He needed something to strengthen his knees.

 

“I need a drink, Fraser.” He pushed Princess-Frannie away. “C’mon, let’s find the punch bowl.”

 

“Very prudent, Ray.” Fraser nodded sagely and stroked his fake fur. “I believe even foxes need to replenish their fluids now and then.”