Soundtrack: Leonard Cohen (This Waltz, Take This Longing, Field Commander Cohen, The Stranger Song, Light as the Breeze, Is This What You Wanted, Always, Anthem, The Partisan, Chelsea Hotel #2, The Window, Why Don't You Try), Elvis Costello (Beyond Belief, Green Shirt, Pills and Soap, Indoor Fireworks, I Want You, Brilliant Mistake, High Fidelity, Watching the Detectives), Rancid (Olympia, WA, Ruby Soho, Vanilla Sex, Roots Radicals, Time Bomb), Pansy Division (C.S.F., Bill & Ted's Homosexual Adventure), Cheb Mami (Baida, Qalby), others as it continues, I'm sure.

•••

The cacophony of an active precinct swirled in agitated eddies as detectives shouted across the room, their voices straining to be heard over the harsh ring of telephones and the grumbles of their latest collars. Aging plaster walls creaked under the weight of tired bodies, overflowing file drawers and the seething disquiet of too many people in one place. Taken as a whole, the precinct had a way of ruining good humor, rotting away at happiness and contentment like mildew on canvas. Two men seemed impervious to the decay and disintegration around them, however. A wiry, blonde vagabond and his Royal Canadian Mounted Companion strolled through the chaos, slicing gracefully through the waters of angry despair that sloshed at their souls.

"Vecchio!"

Ray stopped mid-stride, his fluid retreat halted by the only voice with that power. "What?" He growled, turning slightly to glare at the Lieutenant. An early, damp morning had churned its way into a long day, and an even longer night lay before him. Talking to Welsh was number eleven on his ten-worst-things-to-end-the-day-on list, right behind looking into the mirror and seeing himself.

"You finish your paperwork?" Welsh asked, ignoring the way Francesca giggled maliciously as Ray rolled his eyes to the heavens and cursed under his breath. A pointed glare had the woman moving back to her desk, grumbling about bad coffee and some sort of payback. The rest of the precinct wisely chose to remain focused on their own petty melodramas, knowing that coming face to face with Ray was far less pleasant than their own complaints.

"Most of it, ok? I'll get the rest on Monday," He replied testily. Behind him, Fraser shifted from foot to foot, obviously doing everything he could to not chide Ray about his work. Ray wondered idly if Fraser kept a copy of every law enforcement agency in the world's rules and regulations--just as bathroom reading. The image of the formal, serious Mountie, dressed in red serge and with jodhpurs rucked around his ankles as he leafed through the CPD handbook... well, Ray was very glad he already had his sunglasses on. Before the Lieutenant could reprimand him in front of the entire squad room, Ray turned on his heel and stormed outside. As always, Fraser was right with him every step of the way. Dying sunlight lit the city on fire, orange streaks rushing through a slight layer of smog.

"Ray," Fraser began, his voice slightly chastising, "Surely you realize that the Leftenant only wishes to spare you the inconvenience of tardy paperwork." From the way Ray flinched, Fraser knew that commenting on his friend's earlier behavior had been a mistake. True, the day hadn't been placid, but surely it hadn't been that bad...

"Yeah," Ray spat. "Just like he only wants to keep me from getting away from this rat hole. Or like how he only wants to make my life a living hell." The disgruntled detective waved a hand towards the passenger side, roughly motioning Fraser towards it. The Mountie escorted Diefenbaker into the back seat before taking up his speech once more, though this time with far less vigor.

"If I may be so forward..." Fraser paused for a moment while Ray pulled out into traffic. "Is something wrong, Ray? You have been rather tense all day." He couldn't help noticing how Ray had been short and churlish towards the three witnesses they'd interviewed that day. Their current case was a rash of assaults at a nearby nursing home. The last attack had left one patient in the hospital, with a punctured lung and a severe concussion. Throughout the interviews, Ray had verbally abused the witnesses, coming very close to accusing them of the crimes.

Ray pursed his lips and dodged through traffic, knowing that his erratic driving would silence Fraser for a few minutes. Even if the Mountie did talk, it would be to mention how dangerously he was behaving. Guilt clawed at Ray's conscience, but he shoved it back down with the churning stomach acid and general dyspepsia that had overtaken him recently.

Crowded city streets flew by in a blur of grey noise, marked randomly by the irregular blotches of street people and traffic lights. Fraser's nose twitched at the acrid tang of automobile exhaust, mildew, and moist air that seeped into his consciousness on an unwelcome waft of refrigerated air. He wished that he could convince Ray to turn the air conditioner off, but knew that it wouldn't happen. Chicagoans didn't have much appreciation for the heat of their city, even though Midwest winters could gain a respectable level of frigidity upon occasion.

By the time they reached the Consulate, Fraser had given up on Ray talking to him. Whatever had gotten the detective into such a knot had also sewn those usually talkative lips shut. "Thank you kindly, Ray. I did not intend to offend you by asking after your well-being. Diefenbaker, drop Ray's shoe. I am quite sure he would rather you not destroy it." Perhaps a restful night would bring some of Ray's characteristic brightness back.

Diefenbaker dropped the shoe with a whine and crouched in the floorboard, waiting for Fraser to let him out. "You didn't," Ray murmured, leaning his head on the steering wheel. "Sorry for snappin', Fraser." A long moment passed, and finally Fraser reached for the door handle. As he was getting out, Ray continued. "I ran into Stella this morning."

Fraser schooled his countenance, letting a small measure of silence fall between them. "I see." Diefenbaker jumped out onto the sidewalk and went over to greet Constable Turnbull, wisely choosing to ignore the palpable tension radiating from his human acquaintances. "And her appearance caused your...unease?" Stella did have a way of grinding away at what little control Ray possessed, but Fraser had been under the impression that Ray was getting over her.

Ray shrugged. "She had some choice words for me, ok?" Another beat passed. "I'll see you tomorrow, Frase."

"And I, you," Fraser murmured, closing the door. As Ray drove away, Fraser frowned thoughtfully. Perhaps he'd overestimated Ray's recovery. While it was unfortunate, knowing that Stella was still bothering Ray did provide Fraser with useful information. Each piece of the Ray Kowalski puzzle helped him in understanding the man's mercurial personality.

"Good evening," Turnbull said as he followed Fraser into the Consulate. "I believe Inspector Thatcher left a sheaf of papers for your perusal. They are located on your desk."

"Thank you, Constable," Fraser replied absently to the retreating man. Diefenbaker led him into their humble abode, where Fraser busied himself feeding the half-wolf while Turnbull gathered his belongings and left for home. Soon the Consulate was empty but for the soft echoes of papers being shuffled from one stack to another. Nightfall found no one to listen as the building's sole occupants took comfort in their solitude.

•••

Ray resisted the urge to glance back at Fraser, instead keeping his eyes on traffic. Not giving in to temptation took most of his remaining energy, though. Once he'd made the turn away from the Consulate, he slowed down and carefully finished the drive home. There was no use in risking his life, not when he had no one to scare. Not that he liked scaring Fraser, but knowing what buttons to push was useful...even though manipulating Fraser left him feeling slimy.

If only Fraser would have a bad day, so he wouldn't feel so bad about being an asshole. Unfortunately, the Mountie had bad days about once a decade. It wasn't fair, Ray decided, to always be that perfect. It was maddening--although obviously not enough to mitigate Ray's irrational frustration. Maybe if the uniform got dirty...

The landlady had something to say about water and gas lines, but Ray was too busy yawning as he checked his mail and trudged up the stairs. It'd been a long day--starting out with Stella railing at him about how he'd screwed up yet another case. Something about treating a suspect a little too roughly, or maybe leaning too hard. Whatever. Ray knew the case and knew that he'd treated the guy--a small-time dealer--with kid gloves. It was more likely that she'd stumbled on something he couldn't control and now the case was lost. And when things go wrong, who's the easiest scapegoat? The ex, that's who. Then the lieu had handed him the day's only case. To Ray, it had been just another assault--maybe a serial assault case, maybe some employees of the nursing home rolling the patients, maybe something else. Unfortunately, Fraser hadn't been able to take it so impersonally. The change had been palpable; Fraser's back straightened (though Ray hadn't thought it possible), his eyes hardened, and all of a sudden, he was being dragged to the Goat. For Fraser's sake, he'd interviewed every single employee. Of course, the damned Mountie just had to be upset by the way he'd done those interviews, but tough cookies. Ray was Ray was Ray. Except when he wasn't, of course.

As soon as his apartment door shut behind him, Ray's lethargy fell away. It was after seven and he was late, so he had only a few minutes to get ready and leave once again. A shower was a must, though, because the stench of nursing home stuck to him like glue. The scrape of turtle beak against glass was the only sound in the apartment as Ray fed his roommate on the way to the bathroom.

Stripping down and showering wasn't just about not smelling bad, though. With every step, a bit of Ray fell away. Gone were the tattered shirt and jeans. Much to his dismay, spiky hair flattened under hot water. A razor took care of a day's worth of stubble. Nice, clean clothes, pressed neatly. When he was finished, the man reflected in his bathroom mirror was most definitely not Raymond Kowalski.

That was the point. Masks were fascinating things. No matter how well they were applied, regardless of the strength of the adhesive, there was always a way to remove them. The key was in knowing how to get your fingers underneath the edges before peeling back. His own masks were carefully applied, so those edges were hidden to prying eyes. Fraser certainly hadn't seen one yet. With any luck, the Mountie never would.

He left the building at a brisk pace, bypassing Kowalski's GTO in favor of an anonymous grey Ford Taurus he kept in a nearby garage. There were so many like it in Chicago that he'd almost lost it a time or two in large parking lots. Traffic was lighter than he'd predicted, so when he arrived at his location, no one was there. Waiting was something he was good at, however. Long years of practice resulted in Ray being able to stay relaxed yet aware of his surroundings. It would've been nice to daydream a little. A bit of naked Fraser behind the eyelids, some silent words whispered in his ears and maybe he wouldn't feel so bad about being an asshole today. Letting his mind wander, though, was a sure way to get himself killed. So for now, dreams of a certain Mountie would just have to wait.

It was far better to catalogue his surroundings whilst recounting the information he'd brought along. Dingy motel in front of him, sandwich shop behind. Across the street was a bank, much the worse for wear. A row of Dumpsters lined the grassy barrier between the sandwich shop and the motel parking lot, and a few healthy-looking rats were crouched underneath them, preparing to feast on the day's spoiled meat and overripe vegetables. Rats to catch a rat, he thought humorlessly.

The sound of another car pulling up alongside him signaled that his contacts had arrived. He gave the others a few minutes to get inside, and then followed. The meeting place was in a proletarian chain motel, known more for its cheap prices than its comfort. In the room were two men and a woman, all standing around a small table covered in papers.

"Brian Malveau?" He asked casually, nodding towards the older of the two men.

"Adrian Tucker?"

He smiled. "Right in one."

"This is Eric Szasz and Linda Fletcher," The elder man stated, knowing that Adrian had been informed of his team's identity.

"How was your flight?" Adrian asked, closing the door behind him. The hum and buzz of evening streets was immediately muted, its cacophony drowned out by a noisy hotel room air conditioner.

"Aside from three screaming children and an airsick, pregnant lady? Fine," The younger man replied, moving aside to give Adrian room at the table.

"I certainly don't miss flying," Adrian murmured. "Ok, here's what I've got for you so far: Singer's niece Tamara is in town, staying with a couple of friends from University. Her uncle's bodyguards are never more than ten meters away, except for when she's actually inside the apartment. The only time you'll be able to access her is when she goes shopping--which is pretty much every day."

"Where?" Linda inquired, drawing up a map on the laptop she'd retrieved from a bag. The foursome scrolled through various maps and store descriptions, searching for likely places to acquire their target. After an hour, Eric retreated to the room's diminutive coffee pot and made everyone a cup of tea.

"Here," Adrian said, pointing on the screen with his cup. "She gets a facial every Saturday, Monday and Thursday. After that, she either tries on clothes or sifts through the local jewelry stores."

"Which is more likely, the spa or the shops?" Eric asked quietly. "We have to be able to get her alone for at least half an hour." He knew the jewelry stores were out; they didn't mind sacrificing their patrons' privacy for their own security.

Adrian frowned. "The spa. There's no real security there, just a cardboard cop at the main entrance. You could probably corner her during the facial--she sometimes spends a few minutes in the sauna."

Brian nodded slowly. "This Thursday is early enough. Adrian, you'll need to procure us some custodial uniforms. Linda, find out when her appointment is."

"Thursday," Adrian echoed. "You've got my number, eh? Call if you need anything. I'll drop the uniforms off tomorrow night."

"Thank you kindly," Eric said as Adrian slipped out the door.

Adrian drove back home, taking mental notes of all he had to do. The spa needed to be cased out again, just to be sure nothing important had changed. A set of uniforms could be gotten at the same time, provided there were any on site. If not, he'd have to get them at their laundry contractor. Worst case scenario, he'd have to simulate them. The team couldn't just walk in wearing street clothes, and it was his job to make sure all the materials were in place.

And, of course, he had to create a day-long diversion for himself...and Fraser. That wouldn't be too hard--all he had to do was slack off on paperwork for the next few days. Then, when Thursday came around, Fraser would have to stay at the Consulate. After all, what good was liaising when all he could to was staple papers and check boxes? Adrian knew he was courting another long, drawn-out lecture from Fraser about the importance of doing his job well, but he didn't mind. Much.

Fraser.

•••

"I told you it was nothing."

Frazer quirked one eyebrow. "When, exactly, did you tell me that the patients were being assaulted by each other?"

Adrian rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on! The nurses and orderlies didn't know nothing, remember? But when we left, I told you it was an inside job."

"You said you had a hunch that someone was lying," Fraser corrected. "And I fail to recall you interviewing any patients." Actually, he'd interviewed the patients and had found out nothing whatsoever. Adrian discovered the truth when he'd gotten the forensics results Tuesday evening. This morning, he'd dropped the resulting bombshell in Fraser's lap--the blood spattered over three of the residents hadn't been their own--and had been laced with a cocktail of heart medication.

Adrian snorted. "You're just a sore loser, Frase."

Fraser made to protest when Adrian's phone rang. "Vecchio." A scowl rolled over Adrian's face. "It's for you." Fraser took the phone, only to hear Inspector Thatcher on the other line.

By the time Fraser finished, he'd promised his superior that he would, in fact, spend the rest of the week redoing all the filing in the Consulate. Apparently it was time that the past few decades of paper files came into the computer age. He looked down to find Ray digging through his desk.

"Ah, Ray?"

"Yeah?" Adrian called out from inside a drawer.

"Duty calls. I must return to the Consulate for the remainder of the week," He said, not quite able to mask the regret in his voice.

"Ouch! Damn," Adrian cursed as he hit his head sitting up. "What? The Ice Queen throw some stupid shit at you?"

"Language, Ray," Fraser cautioned.

Adrian snorted. "I've got to catch up on paperwork anyway," He muttered, glaring at a stack of the stuff. "Come on, I'll give you a lift."

Fraser and Diefenbaker were grateful for the offer, since the rain outside was heavy enough to form rivers through the streets. "You two gonna be ok?" Adrian asked as he glanced at the Consulate. "I mean, I know you Mounties, be prepared and all, but..."

"I believe that is the Boy Scouts," Fraser murmured. "And yes, we'll be fine. Thank you, Ray."

"Anytime, Frase," Adrian called out as he drove back to the precinct and his mountain of paperwork. He figured that if he moved the piles around a little, Welsh would think that he was actually working on the plethora of red tape and bureaucracy in action that was police documentation. Once the operation was finished, he'd spend the weekend actually catching up.

Sure enough, after another hour at his desk, Adrian was able to slip away. It was only two o'clock, which left enough time for him to pick up the uniforms he needed. As luck would have it, the spa Tamara favored used the largest commercial laundry in the city. Once in the laundry's parking lot, he pulled out some conveniently non-Vecchio identification and headed inside. The rest was a piece of cake, though Adrian wasn't sure just what he was going to do with three dozen white linen tablecloths. For now, they'd go into his closet along with the other crap he'd collected through the years.

When Adrian got home, he found a message from Fraser on his answering machine. The Mountie had called to make sure that Ray knew he'd not be back at the 27th for at least two weeks. The project Thatcher had dumped on him was a monster. Adrian listened to the message five times, trying like the very devil to hear some affection in Fraser's voice. He was desperate for something beyond hollow courtesy to glimmer in that well-modulated voice.