Chapter Text
Toronto's a lot different from Baltimore. Bigger, yeah, but cleaner. And it's not that it's whiter, exactly--there are plenty of brown faces, but with more shades than most of my home-town. It's got more of an international feel, I guess.
Well, it is in a different nation.
The architecture's different, and the accents, of course, although I hear lots of them, not just the flat Canadian vowels. The money's colorful, and I've gotten to like Loonies and Twonies. I watch hockey in my small apartment, and I don't even miss basketball--not much, anyway.
I've been here a couple years now, but it still doesn't feel like home.
I'm working at a bar downtown. I no longer look up every time the door opens and expect to see familiar faces--Lewis, Falsone, Howard. The clientele here isn't much like what we had at the Waterfront. We've got yuppies and tourists, mostly, the rush after a game or at 5 on Fridays. I just pour their drinks and take their money, no time to talk, and no interest, really.
I'm alone here, away from everyone and everything I knew back in Maryland, nothing familiar but pouring the drinks. I imagine they could find me if they really looked, but so far no one's bothered. Lewis wouldn't arrest me, not right after finding out about Gee, and after finding out about Gee, I decided maybe I wasn't ready to go to prison after all.
So I packed up my car and I left, drove northwest, not knowing where I was heading until I got to Buffalo and it hit me just how far I might be running. I was sure they'd stop me at the border and it would be all over. They didn't, though, so I kept going, up and around Lake Ontario, until I stopped to visit the CN tower on a whim. I got thirsty, saw a help wanted sign in a bar, a place where they were desperate enough to pay me under the table until I could get my paperwork, and here I still am. I have distant cousins in Mississauga who sponsored me, or I would've been kicked out of the country by now.
Of course, no amount of Canadian relatives would have helped if Maryland had made any attempt to extradite me.
I talk to my mom every once in awhile, let her know I'm still breathing, but that's it, no contact with anyone else--no real friends here, either. Usually I know that's for the best, but sometimes I get lonely. Good thing about Toronto is, there are a lot of places to meet people, a lot of gay bars, and no one in any of them knows me, knows I used to be a cop.
I'm walking out one night after my shift at the bar, looking forward to a few days off, maybe another trip to that place over by the St. Lawrence Market, when I hear something coming from an alley down the street. I go to check it out, and there are four guys surrounding a woman, and it doesn't look like she's too happy about it. I move a little closer, looking at the angles, escape routes, wishing not for my gun but maybe the nightstick I carried on patrol almost twenty years ago.
Just as I'm about to make my move, this white blur of a dog runs by me and jumps one of them. Figuring this is as good a moment as any, I move out of the shadows.
The dog is trying to bring one of them down, but he's not having too much luck. One of his buddies pulls out a knife, and I move.
"Put that down!" I say, hoping the authority in my voice will convince them--I still sound like a police, after all. There's someone behind me. I can hear him, and I catch a quick reflection of glasses and a shock of blond hair in a car window. He nods briefly, looking past me.
"I'd do as this gentleman advises, if I were you." There's another man dropping to the ground from the wall at the back of the alley. He's wearing a hat like a trooper, but he's in civvies.
"Fuck you!" the guy with the knife says, gesturing at the dog. "Call him off or he's dead!"
"I'm afraid I can't do that," the guy in the hat says, moving forward slowly. "Diefenbaker is very chivalrous; he won't stop until he's sure that young woman is safe. Besides, he's deaf." He runs his finger down his nose, and the man behind me runs forward at the same time the guy in the hat throws something that disarms the perp.
"Police, freeze!" the guy shouts, and I have to bite back a laugh, because, seriously, who actually says that, but then I'm off and running, because between the dog and the hat guy and the guy who said "freeze," they've got three of the four perps handled, but the fourth is headed for the hills.
I run him down pretty quickly, shove him on the ground, and only then remember that I haven't carried cuffs for years. I search him for weapons and find another knife, so I hold that on him and march him on back. He doesn't put up too much of a fuss, fortunately.
When I get back to the alley, the guy with the hat is using some twine as make-shift cuffs, so I push my perp over in that direction. The blond guy who yelled freeze is pulling out his cell phone, so I go over to the woman to see if she's okay. She's a little shaken up, but apparently they hadn't done much more than threaten her before the dog and the rest of us showed up.
The blond guy comes over a minute later. "Hey, you okay?" he asks the woman, tilting his head to study her. The dog is riding herd on the perps, but we keep half an eye on them anyway.
"I'm fine, thanks to you folks," she says gratefully.
He shrugs. "Just doing our civic duty. Cops are on the way, so you just sit tight--they're gonna want a statement."
"You mean you're not a cop?" she asks. "I thought--"
"Nah, I'm just a mechanic on vacation," he says with a brilliant smile. Jesus. The guy in the hat is handsome, but this guy is something else. "That one over there, he's a cop, RCMP, but he's on vacation too."
"While you're currently a mechanic, Ray, you were an officer of the law for years," the guy with the hat corrects him gently. "And so are you, if I'm not mistaken," he says, looking at me.
I shake my head. "What? No, no, I'm not a cop. Well, I used to be, but not anymore. Tim Bayliss."
He shakes my hand firmly. "Benton Fraser. Thank you kindly for your assistance."
"Where were you a cop?" the other guy asks. "'cause you've got some good moves there. Oh, sorry, Ray Kowalski. From Chicago, but lately from Yellowknife."
Another firm handshake. "Nice to meet you, Ray. I, uh, I'm from Baltimore."
"Baltimore, huh?" Kowalski says with a laugh. "You gotta love this, Frase, we got two ex-cops from America and a Mountie on vacation, keeping Toronto safe for the masses."
"Don't forget the deaf dog," I add, smiling.
"Wolf, actually," Fraser says. "Well, half wolf. The local authorities are on their way?" he asks Kowalski.
"I'm surprised you can't hear 'em coming," Kowalski affirms. "Fraser here has bat ears," he tells me, giving me another heart-stopping smile.
"Well, in my defense, there is a fair amount of background noise in this city, although it is by no means as loud as Chicago," he answers, looking at Kowalski, "but I do believe they've just made the turn onto Yonge Street, so they should be here momentarily."
"Hey, you! Do not move!" Kowalski yells at one of the perps. The guy did look like he was thinking about making a run for it, but he settles right down after Kowalski gives him the eye fuck.
I know why I'm in Toronto, but why is a Chicago cop living in Yellowknife with a Mountie? Let it go. I'm not a detective any more, and it's none of my business. Besides, there's a squad car approaching.
I've been in assorted government buildings off and on, of course, filled out various paperwork that allowed me to stay in this country, but I still feel a twinge of nervousness when I have to wait for the uniform to open the back door of the car and let me out. It's a little disconcerting walking into a police station again, even one as different from Baltimore CID as this one is. Still, once I sit down at a detective's desk and tell him what I used to do, he shakes my hand again and offers me some bad squad room coffee, yells to his partner, "This one used to be a detective, stateside," and I relax a little, answer his questions, ask him a few myself.
It turns out these scumbags have been doing this for months. Up until tonight, they've always succeeded in getting away, and most of the victims have been too drunk to give a good description, so now that they've caught 'em, they want to nail their asses to the wall. Sounds good to me, so I give a full and complete statement and promise to be available if and when it goes to court. I remind myself that Lewis refused to arrest me three years ago. I have nothing to fear by testifying in a Canadian courtroom. It's not as if they're going to ask me anything I can't answer.
By the time I get out of there, it's almost 5. I've had the usual summer run of nightmares lately, so I'm beat. Unfortunately, the police station, unlike the bar, is not in walking distance of my apartment. I think about asking for a ride from one of the officers downstairs, but they're just coming off shift and looking pretty beat themselves, so I figure I'll just call a taxi.
That's when I realize my cell must have fallen out of my pocket when I was chasing that asswipe down the alley.
I'm standing in front of the station, about to go back in to use the phone, when Fraser, Kowalski, and the wolf walk out. Fraser tips his hat to me, and Kowalski slaps my shoulder.
"Hey, the guys in there said you told 'em you weren't just a cop, you used to be a detective; that true?" he asks, squinting up at me under the streetlight.
I nod. "Yeah, I was. Homicide, eight years."
"Homicide, huh," he says, a note of respect in his voice. "Well, I don't know how they did things in Baltimore, but in Chicago it's tradition to celebrate a bust with some food. Fraser and me were just about to get some grub, if you want to join us. Officer McHarg there--" he nods his head at a patrolman leaning against his car "--tells us there's a diner just around the corner."
"Of course, we realize you may prefer going home and getting some sleep," Fraser says, looking at me closely, "but the invitation is sincere, I assure you."
"No, no, that sounds great," I say.
"Good, that's settled, then," Fraser says, then pulls something out of his pocket. "And before I forget, one of the officers picked this up at the scene. I thought at first it was mine, since it's the same model, but Ray reminded me I left mine at, uh, in Yellowknife." He flicks a finger at an eyebrow, then hands me a cell phone--mine. "I believe this is yours?"
"Yeah, yeah, it is. That's great; I thought I'd lost it in that alley," I say, taking it from him.
"Come on already," Kowalski says, "You know if we don't get Dief his share of donuts in the next few minutes there's gonna be hell to pay."
I start laughing, and the two of them turn and stare at me. "No, no, I'm sorry," I say.
"You don't know the half of it," Kowalski mutters. "You pay and you pay and you pay, right, Frase?"
"Indeed, Ray," Fraser says.
Kowalski heads off to the right, and I start to follow him, but Fraser and the wolf--Dief--stand there, and Fraser shakes his head.
"Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray!"
"What?" Kowalski barks.
"I believe you'll find our rental car this way," Fraser answers, pointing to the left.
Kowalski turns, glares at Fraser and Dief, and follows them, gesturing for me to follow as well.
"I thought this place was just around the corner," I venture to Kowalski's angry back.
"That's just a figure of speech, apparently," Fraser says, crooking his head over his shoulder. "Of course, two miles is really nothing more than a refreshing stroll--"
"Fraser."
"Understood, Ray."
"I hereby apologize for my freak of a partner and anything else he might say or do that might lead you to believe he's unhinged," Kowalski says. "Of course, he is unhinged. And a freak," he adds, smiling at Fraser's back.
"Ah, here we are, then," Fraser announces with some relief.
"You're shotgun, Bayliss," Kowalski says. "Those legs, you don't need to be stuck in the back of this econobox with Dief."
"I spent years driving around in a Chevy Cavalier," I tell him. "I think I can handle two miles in the back seat of a Hyundai with a wolf."
"Jesus, you get hazard pay? Anyone riding in a Cavalier deserves hazard pay." Kowalski looks at Fraser. "I still can't believe you rented this fucking piece of crap, Frase."
"The Mustang would hardly have been convenient, Ray. Where would Dief sit? This car has much more room, and better gas mileage as well."
"Yeah, like we're doing a lot of driving."
"We will be, Ray."
"Yeah, I know," Kowalski says, shaking his shoulders out. "I miss the Goat."
"I know, Ray," Fraser says softly, almost tenderly. Yeah, these two are partners, all right, partners in every sense. I look at them, hiding my envy. "I'm sorry we had to leave it in Chicago, but, as you know, it's just not a practical vehicle for Yellowknife."
"Yeah, Benton, know that too," Kowalski sighs. "You know classic cars, Bayliss?"
"No, not really," I confess.
"Because the 1967 Pontiac GTO, that is a classic. Come on, pitter patter," he adds, opening the back door and gesturing for Dief to jump in. I move to get in after, but Kowalski raises a hand. "Shotgun. Did I not say Bayliss gets shotgun, Fraser?"
"You did indeed," Fraser answers, moving past me to get in the car.
I succumb to the inevitable and ride shotgun, smiling at the thought of Frank ever referring to anything so undignified. I wonder what it would have been like to have Ray Kowalski as a partner.
The minute I sit down, Dief is nosing my ear inquisitively. I turn and give him a couple pats, and he licks my hand happily.
"Don't encourage him," Ray says. "Before you know it, you'll be promising him donuts, hotdogs, pizza, you name it." I ignore Ray and give Dief another pat, and Fraser meets my eyes, the corner of his mouth raised just a touch. I smile back.
The diner's no Daily Grind, but there are quite a few occupied tables, even at 5 in the morning, and the smells are good. The waitress gives me a look when I ask for egg whites on a Kaiser roll, cooked away from the bacon and sausage, and so does Ray.
"You'd be well-served to consider such a sandwich yourself, although I'm not sure you're suited to a vegetarian diet," Fraser tells him. "Your cholesterol is over 200."
Ray gives me a "can you believe this guy" look and orders the special. "I thought you wanted me packing on the pounds, Frase. You tell me every fall I need to bulk up for the winter, and now you're saying I can't eat regular food?" I try not to stare as he takes out a package of Smarties and dumps several into his coffee cup.
"I admit it's difficult to reach a balance between necessary caloric intake and lower saturated fats, but I believe if you apply yourself, you can eat a good mixture of complex carbohydrates and lean meats--"
"Hey, I asked them to cook the bacon well-done," Ray says with a smirk, but Fraser just raises an eyebrow and keeps talking.
"With of course a good portion of fruits and vegetables--"
"I'm going to put jam on my toast, whole wheat toast, Fraser, and aren't potatoes a vegetable, because they were, last time I checked--"
"Green leafy vegetables, and jam hardly constitutes a serving of fruit--"
"All right, all right, I'll order some orange juice, will that satisfy you?"
"Orange juice does contain anti-oxidants, and with all the coffee you drink, you could use some protection from free radicals--"
"I thought we'd finally gotten all the radicals locked up, Frase, or have some of the Sons of the Confederacy gotten paroled?"
I can't help it, I start laughing, missing half of Fraser's explanation of cellular damage and DNA repair mechanisms. Ray's peering at me curiously when I get back under control.
"I'm sorry," I say, taking a breath.
"Hey, it's okay," Ray says, smiling. "Fraser's unhinged, and I'm a bit of a freak."
"No, it's not that," I say, "although I think you're both a little unhinged--in a good way, of course," I add with a smile. "It's just that I thought Frank--that's my old partner--and I had an interesting way of communicating, but I think you two have us beat."
"Ray and I do have our own unique duet," Fraser says, looking at him. "He's without a doubt the best partner I've ever had."
"Red ships and green ships," Ray agrees with a smile, and Fraser nods.
"Indeed."
The food arrives, saving me from responding to that obviously private exchange. Ray digs into his eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, toast, and pancakes with gusto, sneaking bits and pieces to Dief every few bites. I'd probably be willing to sneak a few pieces to him myself, but Dief appears to have about as much interest in my food as Ray does.
He's not interested in Fraser's oatmeal, either. Fraser eats it with butter and salt, only starting on his fruit once he's finished scraping the bowl. From the way he savors the melons and the grapes, I figure living way up north isn't new to him--he's probably not used to getting fresh fruit whenever he wants it.
"So you guys are living up in Yellowknife?" I ask through a bite of my sandwich. They didn't do as good a job as the Grind, but it's still a mighty fine sandwich.
"Yeah, Fraser's posted up there," Ray mumbles, his own mouth full. Fraser hasn't said a word since he started methodically eating, although you can tell he's really enjoying that honeydew.
"Wow. I mean, this is the furthest north I've ever lived. I can't imagine what it must be like up there in the Yukon."
"Northwest Territories," Ray corrects, receiving a private smile from Fraser. "Yeah, Yellowknife's not that bad. A regular metropolis compared to some, right, Frase? Not like Inuvik, or Tuktoyaktuk."
"Indeed, Ray," Fraser says, having finished his fruit, "although I seem to remember you found the facilities in Inuvik somewhat pleasing as well."
"Any place that had hot showers and a real bed was going to be paradise after three months in a tent in the frozen wastelands," Ray answers, grinning, "and don't try to tell this guy Bayliss you felt any different, Benton. I was there."
Fraser looks like he's about to answer, but then he stills, looking up towards the cashier. Ray takes one look at his face and fumbles in his pocket for a pair of glasses. He tilts his head at me, and I glance quickly over my shoulder.
It's a robbery, or so it looks, but judging from the anger in the kid's eyes who's holding a gun to the waitress, I'd say there's more to it than that. There are three of them, all armed with guns or knives, but it's the kid who's obviously the problem. Looking at him, I can't help but think of the kids who shot up that fast food place, the case when Frank had his stroke. I don't like this.
"Back-up," Ray mouths silently, and I slowly take out my cell phone and dial 911, hoping we're far enough from the counter that my voice won't be audible, or that the kid's too focused on whatever's got him going to notice what the three guys in the back booth are doing. While I'm describing the situation, very quietly, to the dispatch operator, Ray and Fraser are arguing silently with meaningful looks and subtle gestures. Before I know it, they've slid out of the booth and moved towards the kids. As far as I know, neither one of them is armed, so I wonder what the hell they expect to accomplish, but I figure I might find something to do that'll help, so I leave the cell on in my front pocket and slide after them.
And I'm not clear how we do it, but somehow, between Ray's unorthodox negotiating techniques, Fraser's apparent belief that all that's necessary is for him to tell them to drop their weapons, Dief's charm, and my own reflexes when one of them tries to bolt, we've got the waitress rescued and all three kids under control before the actual Toronto police arrive.
Unfortunately, once we make it back outside, we discover someone's stolen Ray and Fraser's rental car. Ray's furious, and even Fraser seems bothered. Me, I'm just wondering why the biggest crime wave in Toronto history seems to be following these two around. Or maybe it's just me.
"Hey, guys, it's just a rental car," I say, trying to lighten things up. "You got the insurance, right?"
"You think this is about that piece of shit?" Ray explodes. "I do not give a flying fuck about the car!"
"Our flight arrived late, and we were on our way to the hotel when we ran into that situation last night," Fraser explains, looking tense, running his thumb over his eyebrow. "Our bags were in the trunk."
"Our bags, yeah, with my suit, my good suit, and I don't have to look like the Style Pig or anything, but I do need to look good, and let's not forget the Uniform, Fraser, it's not like those grow on trees, maybe we could get you a new one of those piss ugly blue versions, or even the brown, and it's not that I don't like the brown, you know I like the brown, but it's got to be the serge, Fraser, the dress serge, and we've got to have it by 5 tomorrow or there'll be hell to pay."
Throughout this entire speech, Fraser's been trying to get Ray's attention, keeps saying his name, but it appears there's no stopping Ray Kowalski if he wants to say something, not until he's done, and you've got to admire that kind of persistence.
"I know, Ray," Fraser says when Ray finally winds down, "but I don't think the situation is quite that dire. We're in a major metropolitan area--we can easily find you a new suit in the next 36 hours, and even have it tailored properly."
"You gonna tell me we can find a perfectly tailored RCMP Corporal's dress uniform, complete with the marksman's patch and the pumpkin pants and the boots?" Ray asks fiercely.
"Well, no, I imagine that would be much more difficult," Fraser says, holding up his hand to forestall another tirade, "but I believe the simple expedient of calling Maggie will take care of that problem."
"Calling Maggie. Calling your sister," Ray says, obviously still flummoxed; I think the two of them have forgotten I'm even standing there.
"Yes. She'll be stopping in Yellowknife anyway; she can go by the cabin and pick up my spare uniform."
"And the boots, do not forget the boots."
"Yes, well, as you know, I have a spare of those in the hall closet. As soon as it gets a little later in the day, I'll call her."
"So, this must be some big ceremony you're going to," I say, and they both turn and stare at me; Fraser turns bright red, and Kowalski's looking pissed again for some reason. "Are you being promoted or something, Fraser?"
"Ah, no, that is to say, it is an important ceremony, clearly, but it's not a promotion, although it is a transition--"
"Fraser."
"Ray and I, we decided, well, that it would be expedient, it would be practical, what with his citizenship application--"
"Fraser."
"Which isn't to say this is strictly a practical decision for us; far from it, really; we are quite serious about the commitment involved--"
"Benton," Ray says, putting a hand on his arm, and I'm so fascinated by the way the same process works in reverse that I almost miss what he says next. "We're getting married tomorrow," he tells me, the challenge in his voice unmistakable.
"You're getting married?"
"We're getting married," Fraser confirms, and there's a challenge in his voice now too.
"You're getting--hey, you're getting married! You're getting married tomorrow? That's great! Congratulations, congratulations, you're getting married, that's wonderful!" I say, shaking their hands, slapping them on their shoulders, smiling, and they both relax and smile themselves, until Kowalski starts scowling again.
"Ray, what's wrong?" Fraser asks.
"The rings, Fraser, that's what's wrong! We may be able to get me a suit and you a uniform, but what about the rings?"
"I have them right here," Fraser says, taking off his hat and pointing at the hatband. "They were never in our luggage, Ray; I've had them all along."
"Okay, good," Ray says, shoulders sagging in relief. "Greatness. Rings, a plan for clothes, now how about we hop a ride with one of these officers here and make more statements before we go crash at our hotel, because God knows we can't spend more than four hours in a major metropolitan area without all hell breaking loose. Bayliss, if you're smart you'll get very far away from us before the terrorists and the pirates and the submarines start showing up. And if this guy tells you to look at the turtles, do not believe him."
"What?" I remember hearing some rumor a few years ago about a stolen Russian sub up in the Northwest Territories, with some sort of connection to an American terrorist group; I suppose it's possible these two were somehow involved, but it always sounded so crazy that I thought it was an urban legend.
"Ray," Fraser says, giving him a look.
"Never mind," Ray says. "Shit, we're going to have to get another rental car. Can we get something decent this time, Fraser? It's embarrassing driving around in a Hyundai."
"It's entirely possible we'll recover the car without incident, Ray. Let's take this one step at a time. For now, we need to head back to the station and make our statements--they're waiting for us," he adds, gesturing at the uniforms who've gathered around at a respectful distance.
I hide another smile and get into a patrol car for the trip back to the station. I don't see Ray and Fraser again, just go right to the same desk where I sat a few hours ago, get interviewed by the same detective who took my statement the first time. He's obviously tired; I've moved beyond tired to a buzzed exhaustion that's made even more familiar by being in a squad room. Just looking at the dark circles under the detective's eyes makes mine burn with fatigue. By the time I get a uniform to drop me at my apartment, it's after 8. Thankful I have the next couple nights off from bartending, I close the blinds and fall asleep.
I'm up and down throughout the day and night, until the phone startles me awake the next morning around 9.
"Hello?"
"Bayliss, is that you?" I don't recognize the voice, although the accent's American.
"Yeah, yeah, who's this?"
"Ray Kowalski, from the other night. Sorry if I woke you--Fraser insisted we call early, I tried to tell him it'd be better to wait, but it's tough arguing with the Mountie."
"No, that's okay. What's up?"
"You got plans for this evening?"
"Not really, no--why?"
"Thought we'd invite you to the wedding. If you'd like to come--we figure anyone who's helped us with two separate takedowns in less than six hours deserves an invite. Ceremony's at 5, in Unionville, the town square, if you know where that is; reception after at a restaurant there in town called Livingwater."
"Really? You're sure you want to invite me? I mean, you barely know me," I babble.
"Hey, it's like I said--you work a couple crime scenes with us, you've earned yourself an invitation. You know your way to Unionville? It's up in Markham."
"I can find it. Did you manage to get a suit, and Fraser's spare uniform?"
"Did better than that," he laughs. "Got our stuff back. Car was a little worse for wear, but that was fine with me, you know?"
"Right, right, you wanted something with some class."
"Got it, too--my dad drove the Goat up, so we'll be driving that the next week. Fraser knew about it all along, never said a word."
"That's great, Ray. And thanks for the invitation--I'll be there."
"Greatness. Listen, I gotta go--we'll see you later."
I stare at the phone in my hand for a couple seconds, then put it down and go back to sleep.
Unionville's a little hard to get to, it turns out--have to get on the Don Valley Parkway, and that's never fun, especially at rush hour, which is of course starts at about 2:30. The Beltway has nothing on the 401 and the 404.
I left in plenty of time, though, and eventually I find the town square and then a place to park that isn't too far away. It's a beautiful summer evening, not a cloud in the sky, and the town square is more like what you'd expect in small town New England than a suburb of Toronto. There's even a gazebo, which appears to be set up for the ceremony.
I walk over to the people gathered around, about 40 or 50 of them. I'm glad I put on my best suit, because most of them are dressed to the nines. A dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in a low-cut blue dress sees me and comes over.
"Well, hello there," she says flirtatiously, "and who would you be?"
"Tim Bayliss," I say, shaking her hand.
"Nice to meet you, Tim; I'm Francesca Vecchio, Ray's sister."
"I didn't know Ray had a sister." Maybe they were both adopted, because she doesn't look anything like him.
"He didn't tell you about me? I'm going to have to talk to him about that--Ray! Ray, get over here!" she shouts, pulling me with her towards the gazebo.
"Well, the thing is, I only just met him the other night--"
"Ray!" she yells again.
"What?" answers a guy from the gazebo, and, okay, there must be more than one Ray, because he's bald and looks like he could be Francesca's brother. The woman he's with, now, she could be related to Kowalski, although her blue eyes don't have the same warmth as his.
"What is it now, Frannie?" the bald guy asks. "And if you're still upset they didn't ask Maria to be a flower girl, I told you already, you have to be able to walk to be a flower girl, and what that child does is crawl."
"I know that, Ray," she says with wounded dignity. "What I do not know is how you could meet someone like Tim here and not mention me," she adds, practically winking and nudging, and I have to bite back a laugh because I want to hear how he responds.
"Well, seeing as I never saw this jamoke before in my life, I think you can let me off the hook," he tells her, then turns to me and offers his hand. "Ray Vecchio, the original Ray Vecchio, nice to meet you, and let me guess, you've met Benny and Stanley, never even heard of Fraser's first partner, am I right?"
"Yeah, yeah, you're right. Wait--Stanley?" I knew I was going into this blind, but this is getting ridiculous.
"Ray's given name is Stanley Raymond Kowalski," the blonde next to him says, reaching out her own hand. "Stella Vecchio, nice to meet you."
"Wow, no wonder he goes by Ray," I say, shaking her hand. "Tim Bayliss. Stella, huh? Let me guess--you're his sister, right?"
Vecchio chokes, and Stella gets a little icier. "No, I'm his ex-wife," she says.
"Oh," I say, at a loss. "Listen, the thing is, I just met Fraser and Ray the other night, so, you know, this is all a little confusing."
"You don't know the half of it," Vecchio mutters. "Listen, I gotta go perform best man duties. Nice to meet you, Tim. Frannie, behave yourself. See you in a bit, babe." He kisses Stella on the cheek and walks off.
I'm quickly introduced to multiple Vecchios, a few scattered Kowalskis, Ray and Ray's former Lieutenant, several Mounties, including Fraser's sister, a couple Native Canadians, some Chicago detectives, and someone I recognize, although we've never met before.
"Mark and Frase grew up together," Frannie tells me. She hasn't let go of my arm this whole time.
"Nice to meet you, Tim," he says, shaking my hand firmly and smiling warmly. He's even taller than that guy Turnbull was, and it's nice that there's someone here who can meet my eyes without looking up. Especially someone even better looking than Ray Kowalski.
"Likewise," I say, holding onto his hand a little longer than I should. He doesn't seem to mind. "Listen, I never saw you play, but, hey, it's not every day that you meet a legend. I never used to follow hockey much as a kid, but it's growing on me, living up here, and you can't follow hockey without knowing who Mark Smithbauer is." I manage to stop babbling after all that. I might not have known who he is if they hadn't had a feature on him on one of the sports channels recently. He's even more handsome in person. I finally let go of his hand.
He looks down. "Who I used to be, maybe. Now I'm just a car salesman." He looks up again, meeting my eyes. "You live here in town?"
"Yeah, yeah, I do. Met Fraser and Ray just the other night."
"Wait, are you the guy Ben was talking about, the guy who was in the alley, and again at the diner?"
"Yeah, that was me." It's my turn to look down, a little embarrassed.
"Ben said you were 'a good man to have at your side in a crisis,' which is pretty high praise, coming from him," he says, grinning.
I laugh. "He said that, huh? I didn't really do much--it was mostly him and Ray. It's like they read each other's minds."
"Yeah, they make a great team," he says, still smiling, and I can't help smiling back, feeling flushed with more than just the late summer heat.
"Guys. Guys! Come on, the ceremony's about to start, you can talk about sports later," Frannie says, pulling me with her once again. I look over my shoulder at Mark, and he smiles again in commiseration.
Maybe this is going to be more fun than I thought. Jesus, there are a lot of hot men here--hot women, too, but it's the men who have my attention. Ray, Fraser, Mark--even Ray Vecchio has great eyes and a great smile. But Mark's the only one like me, here without a date--and he didn't seem too pleased to see Frannie, either.
No, who am I kidding? Mark Smithbauer, former NHL star, does not go for men. No way, no how. I shake my head and find my seat.
The ceremony's officiated by a Native Canadian--First Nations, I guess they call them up here. Ray looks--well, Ray looks amazing, I can admit that in my own thoughts, even if he is getting married. The blue pinstripes suit him.
Fraser's in the traditional Mountie uniform, as are a few of his colleagues, a scattering of bright red throughout the crowd. I flash on Frank in dress blues on the stationhouse steps, saluting Crossetti's funeral procession, and suppress a shudder, reminding myself that dress uniforms aren't just for funerals. Obviously, or there wouldn't be so many of them here, although the Chicago cops have all opted for suits and ties. I can't blame them, since I doubt the Chicago dress uniform is any better than Baltimore's--Frank carried it off, gloves and all, but on most folks it's just hot and uncomfortable and not that attractive. The RCMP dress reds--what did Ray call it, the serge?--they're something else, though, and Fraser looks like he was born to wear them.
Mark's sitting on the other side of the aisle. I glance at him off and on throughout the ceremony. I catch him looking back at me a couple times, too--he smiles at me each time, then turns back to the front.
Although complex, and half in another language, the ceremony goes by pretty quickly, and soon it's time for the reception. The food is excellent, but my enjoyment of it is a little diminished by Frannie's nonstop flirtation. She's got a knack for finding me every time I'm about to talk to Mark--and I think he's noticed it too, from some of the rueful looks I've caught him giving me. Every once in a while her brother or Ray or someone else will come by and take her away for a few minutes, but she always comes back.
I get away from her again, for a moment, and I sit down next to Mark and strike up a conversation, trying not to sound as uneducated about hockey as I really am. We seem to hit it off pretty well--the conversation is warm and comfortable, and I have to keep reminding myself not to take his friendliness for anything other than that. I'm trying to just relax and enjoy myself when Fraser and Ray come up to our table.
"Having a good time, Tim?" Ray asks.
"Yeah, I am," I answer. "Thanks for the invitation, and congratulations, again."
"Thank you kindly," Fraser says, "we're glad you could make it. And you, too, Mark--it's good to see you."
"Good to see you, too, Ben," Mark says, squeezing his shoulder. "Make sure you take good care of my friend, Kowalski."
"You don't need to worry about that, Smithbauer," Ray answers.
"Just remember, he was mine first," Mark says, smirking. What?
"He may have been yours first, but he'll be mine last," Ray says, laughing. "You lost your chance, Mark."
"Ray, Mark, this is hardly seemly," Fraser says, red-faced, but they both just laugh at him. Then Ray winks at me and pulls Fraser back into the party.
I stare at Mark.
"What?" he asks, staring back at me. "What's the matter, Tim?"
"Nothing," I say.
"Nothing, eh?" he says, frowning a little.
"Okay, it's just--you and Fraser? You used to--you and Fraser?"
"Yeah, Ben and me were together awhile, back when we were in high school," he says, frowning.
"You're gay?" I ask, feeling like an idiot.
"Yeah, I'm gay," he says, a little pissed. "You got a problem with that?"
"No, no, no, not at all," I say, smiling at him, risking a hand on his shoulder. He looks at me, a question in his eyes, and I'm about to answer it when Frannie shows up again.
Mark gives me a sympathetic smile as I'm pulled off to another table as Frannie tells me, "You have to mingle, Tim, that's what you do at parties, you can't always talk to the same person, don't you know that?"
Before I know it I'm looking at pictures of her daughter Maria. I have to admit Maria is cute, but I still take every opportunity I can to glance at Mark. Every time I do, he's looking back at me.
I bring Frannie back after a few minutes, telling her I'm sure Mark will want to see pictures of the baby, since she's so adorable. She frowns a little but plays along. I sit down next to Mark, with Frannie on the other side of me, and Mark and I ooh and ah over the pictures, but all I'm really aware of is the press of his thigh against mine, the brush of his fingers as he takes the pictures from my hand, the way the corner of his lip crooks up when I say something meant for him rather than Frannie.
Eventually Ray Vecchio shows up. "Frannie, come on," he says, "Ma wants the family together for a picture."
"Give me a minute," she says.
"Now, Frannie, come on," he says. "First a family portrait, and then the wedding party, and you know how many pictures Ma will want, so we might as well get started, or you'll never get back to the hotel to kiss Maria good night."
"All right, all right, I'm coming, bro," she says, giving me one last eyelash batting before getting up.
"She's really gunning for you," Mark says, grinning. "You've got to admire that kind of dedication."
"I wish she'd just take a hint," I mutter, then take a sip of my drink.
"She's a beautiful woman," he says, the question back in his voice.
"Yeah, she is," I say, "but she's not my type." Although she should be--dark hair and eyes, smoldering sensuality just beneath the surface--she certainly has a lot in common with the women I've been most attracted to in the past. I shrug, then meet Mark's eyes again, feeling nervous, because I still can't be sure I'm reading his signals right--I may have been good in the box, but I've never been sure of myself when it came to gauging attractions, especially where other men were concerned.
What the fuck--what's the worst thing that could happen? I already know he's gay, so it's not like he's going to punch me, right? "The thing is," I stutter, "see, I'm not strictly heterosexual myself. I like women, don't get me wrong--but I like men, too."
"You like men?" he says, meeting my eyes in an honest appraisal and, if I'm not mistaken, definite interest.
"I like men." Feeling bold, I lean in and say it right into his ear. "I, uh, I like you."
He swallows audibly. "You do, eh?"
"I do."
He smiles at me slowly, warmly, and I feel it headed right to my groin. A second later I feel his hand move from his side to my thigh. He looks at me, eyebrow raised, and I smile, give a little nod, and shift a little in my seat, giving him more access.
"Okay, here's what I'm thinking," he says quietly, moving even closer. "We stay here a little longer, just long enough to be polite, and then you're coming home with me. How's that sound to you?"
Now it's my turn to swallow. "That sounds good. That sounds great, Mark." I smile back at him, hoping he can see just how much I'm liking that hand on my thigh. I think he can tell, because his fingers start making little circles, moving just a little higher with each circle.
"What sounds so great?" Frannie asks, sitting down on my other side. Jesus, that was quick. I'm thankful the table and tablecloth block her view of Mark's hand and my body's response.
"What?"
"Jeez, are you deaf or something? You said to Mark, 'that sounds great, Mark.' So what sounds so great?"
"We were talking about going to some Leafs games, once the season starts again," Mark says smoothly, his hand inching even higher, until I have to bite back a moan as his fingers lightly trace the outline of my cock, then move away.
"What kind of a name for a sports team is the Leafs? What, they're going to fall on you and smother you? Yeah, like that's really threatening."
"It's, ah, it's the Maple Leafs, actually," I say, striving for a normal tone of voice. Fortunately, Mark's hand is back in his own lap, for the moment at least. "You know, like on the Canadian flag?"
"That's stupid, too--you think we've got any teams named the Stripes in America?"
I think about mentioning the Patriots, or the Dallas Stars, but I'm saved by a voice calling out, "Yo, Sis, get over here!"
I look up, confused, because it's Ray Kowalski who's gesturing to Frannie.
"Hold your ponies, bro, I'll be there in a minute," she shouts back. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," she says, giving my arm one last squeeze, "I'll be back as soon as I can."
Fraser comes over to the table then, and I ask him why Frannie's calling Ray her brother. That leads into a lengthy explanation involving the killers of his father, undercover operations, mob bosses, pirates, several shootouts, and, eventually, the Russian sub again. By the end of it, I'm even more confused, and seriously doubting the sanity of the leadership of the Chicago Police. I thought the bosses in Baltimore were messed up, but they never pulled anything like this shit.
"Right, right, so after all that, you and Ray went off on this adventure, on dogsled, to find the Hand of Franklin?" I ask. Ray comes over and sits down next to Fraser.
"Don't get him started on that, Tim, or we'll never leave," Mark says, his hand once again on my thigh. "You want to hear about their adventure, ask them tomorrow, eh?"
"Tomorrow?"
"I'm sorry, Ray forgot to tell you when he called this morning," Fraser says. "Tomorrow at noon, at the Unionville House Restaurant, we're having one last get-together before Ray and I leave for the rest of our vacation."
"You mean your honeymoon?" I ask, smiling.
Fraser, predictably, runs his thumb along his eyebrow. "Well, yes, that is traditionally what the vacation taken by a newly married couple is called, so I suppose your term is more accurate," he says.
"Yeah, it's our honeymoon," Ray says, his hand on Fraser's shoulder, "and everyone's seeing us off this time, unlike the last time, when it was just Frobisher. And this time we're going someplace warm, with room service, because I got enough of tents and ice on our adventure."
"In any case, Tim, Ray and I would be pleased if you could join us tomorrow as well, if you don't have any plans," Fraser finishes.
"Not until I have to be at work, which isn't until 3, so, yeah, I'll be there, if you're sure--"
"Told you, Bayliss, you help us out with a couple takedowns, you're in our club for life. Besides, we don't know anyone else in town besides Smithbauer, so you'll bring a little local color," Ray says.
"I'm from Baltimore, Ray, not Toronto," I say, smiling.
"Yeah, whatever, as long as you'll be there tomorrow."
"I'll be there tomorrow."
"Greatness. Come on, Fraser, I think the Style Pig's trying to give us another toast. Maybe if he keeps practicing, he'll actually sound happy for us, what do you think?"
"Ray."
"Your best man is trying to get our attention, is that better?" Ray asks as they walk back to their table.
Finally the toasts are done, not a moment too soon, since Mark's hand has been busy again. I've tried to return the favor, but he's sitting enough in the open to make things a little too obvious. I'm half convinced Ray knows what's going on--neither of us are sporting major wood, but you can tell if you look closely. Which I do, as often as possible, and every time Mark catches me looking, he smiles.
"Time to go," he says, leaning towards me, warm breath against my ear. "I'll meet you outside, eh?"
"Count on it," I tell him. "Just give me a minute."
It takes a little longer than that, since Frannie sees Mark leave and makes a beeline for his vacated seat. Fortunately, Ray comes over and rescues me, making me certain he's figured out what's going on. He gives me a wink when I finally extricate myself from Frannie's hand on my arm and head outside.
I take a deep breath of the cool night air in the parking lot, holding my suit coat strategically in front of me, because not even Frannie could wilt my erection completely, not when all I could think of was feeling Mark's hand on me without anything between us. I look around the cars until I see him next to a truck towards the back of the lot.
"I thought you were never coming out of there," he says as I approach him.
"So did I," I say, moving right up against him, putting one hand on his hip, the other along his fly, feeling his cock twitch against my fingers. "Do you have any idea the kind of torture you've been putting me through the past hour?"
Then I lean in and kiss him, no longer caring if anyone sees us.
His lips are warm, moist, and welcoming, and his arms go around me immediately, one around my shoulder, one low, just above my ass. He leans back against the truck, pulling me with him, and it's so good, so much better than it's been in years, better than any of the anonymous blow-jobs I've indulged in here and there, better than the men and women I tried to date my last year in Baltimore, after the shooting, when my whole life was falling apart.
But I'm not going to think about that, because his tongue is in my mouth, and his hand is on my ass, and the feel of his erection against mine is enough to make me moan.
He pulls away just enough to say, "Enough of this shit, Tim--come home with me, eh? Now."
"Now sounds good." I reluctantly back away. "Please tell me you live close."
He laughs. "I live a couple miles from here. That close enough?"
"It'll do."
I follow him to his condo, pulling my jeep behind his truck in the driveway, then get out and walk into the garage, walk right up behind him as he's opening the door.
I don't touch him, though. I don't touch him until we're inside, until I've followed him past the kitchen and the living room into the bedroom, until we're standing in front of the bed. He reaches out his hand, and I'm reaching out mine, and we touch each other's face gently, and then we're kissing again, and this time our hands are busy with ties and buttons and zippers, and all the while our mouths are together, until we have to pull apart again to shed the ties and the shirts and the shoes and pants and all of it, socks and boxers too, and then we're on the bed and kissing again, shock of warm skin against mine, the silky heat of his cock in the hollow of my hip, and he rolls on top of me, and everything lines up perfectly, just perfectly, because he's just like me, same size, same build, and our chests are together, and our lips, and our feet, our knees next to each other, and, oh yes, our cocks, together, and he moves just enough to make room for my hand and I jerk us off together and hear his grunt in my ear as he comes, and then I come, and it's hot and sticky and so fucking good.
I hate to move, but it's not going to get any easier if I wait any longer. I haven't spent the night with anyone in years, and much as I'd like to stay in this bed with this man, I'm not sure it's a good idea. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's a bad one, because if I stay tonight, I'm sure to want more. So after a few minutes I stretch and sit up, looking around for my clothes.
Mark reaches out and puts his hand on my back. "Stay," he says, running his fingers down my spine, then touching my scar so gently I barely feel it.
"I'd like to," I say, trying not to lean back into his caress, "but I should head back. Besides, don't you think they're going to notice if I show up tomorrow morning wearing the same suit?"
"Would you care if they did?" he asks quietly.
"No, not really," I answer just as quietly, not daring to turn and meet his gaze.
"You can wear something of mine, eh?" he offers.
I turn towards him. "Wear something--yeah, yeah, you're right, I can wear something of yours," I say, smiling in spite of myself.
"Okay then," he says, "come back here, yeah?"
I get back into bed, and I can't stop grinning.
"What's so funny?" he asks.
"Oh, nothing, it's just--I had this conversation once with Frank--that's my old partner, my old cop partner, I mean. Anyway, right when I was first thinking--right before my first date with another guy, Frank and I, we had this conversation, and I was talking to him about how I thought it must be easier for gay guys in some ways, like, they could wear each other's clothes."
He looks at my completely goofy grin and laughs. "'You're unhinged, Bayliss,'" he says, imitating Ray's Chicago accent.
"'Understood,'" I reply, laughing myself.
He pulls me closer, and I move in for a quick kiss, then a longer one. When we break apart, I ask, "You think Ray and Fraser will make it?"
"Yeah," he answers slowly. "Yeah, I think they might."
"Yeah, me too," I say.
He kisses me again. It's too soon for anything else, but it still feels wonderful. "Let's get some sleep, eh?" he says. I smile and close my eyes.
Epilogue
I wake up one morning in Mark's bed and think with amazement, it's been nearly three months. We've gone from the end of summer into the crisp northern autumn, spending most nights together, either at his place or mine, and it's hard to remember what it was like before I met him. I can no longer imagine life without him, and I wonder if he knows what I've only just realized myself--I'm in love with him.
I have a late shift that night at the bar, but he shows up near the end of it and waits for me to close up. I drive back to his place, park in his garage, in the space he's cleared out for my jeep, and follow him inside once again, as I do most nights.
"I thought you had an early meeting," I murmur as I unbutton his shirt.
"You're worth a little missed sleep," he says, running his hands under my sweatshirt and easing it over my head.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," he answers, and shrugging off his shirt and while I unbuckle his belt and open his fly. He's getting hard already, and so am I, but we take our time, ignoring the late hour in favor of a slow exploration of each other's bodies. By the time he finally eases into me, I'm lost in sensation, unaware of anything beyond this bed; these sounds and scents and feelings; our bodies, moving together. It's more intense than anything I've experienced before, and it seems to last forever while still ending far too soon.
Later, as I'm just about to fall asleep, his arms around me, he asks if I'm still awake.
"Mmm, not quite," I murmur.
"Move in with me," he says quietly.
I open my eyes and look at him.
"I'm serious," he says. "I'm sick of this back and forth shit. Move in already."
"The bar's a hell of a commute," I say.
"One you make half the week already," he points out. "So quit that job, find a new one. There are bars in Markham."
I nod slowly. "Yeah, there are."
"I'd offer you a job at the dealership if I thought you'd take it."
I smile. "Nah, I'll stick to bartending. Car sales is too much like running interrogations."
He laughs. "That's how I know you'd be good at it, eh?" He runs his hand along my collarbone, and I close my eyes for a second.
"You really want to live with me?" I ask. "I don't eat meat, remember?"
"So? I hog the covers," he teases, but his expression is warm, accepting.
"I have nightmares," I blurt out.
"They're better when you sleep with me," he says with quiet confidence, and I wonder how he knows. But it's true, they are better when I'm with him.
We're quiet for a moment, just the soft pressure of his warm hand on my chest, moving in gentle circles.
"So, what do you think?" he says.
"You really want to know?" I ask, my heart thudding in my chest.
"Yeah," he says softly, watching me closely.
"I love you."
He smiles. "I love you, too, Tim--why else would I want you to move in?"
"Oh, I figured it was for the sex," I say, relieved and ecstatically happy.
He laughs again, then replaces his fingers with his lips. "That's part of it, too," he says after a few soft kisses. "God, you're so fucking hot."
"So are you," I murmur, my fingers in his hair.
"So you'll move in?" he asks again between kisses, working his way down my chest, one hand moving to cup my balls.
"Yes," I tell him, already wanting him again. "God, yes."
END