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Ray didn't actually know that Jim Bertucci had been dating Frannie until after they broke up. Frannie avoided that whole area of the bullpen and made pointed comments about men who weren't worth a cup of coffee, and Bertucci leaned against the wall near Ray's desk and shrugged. "Third date rule, you know?"
"Third date rule?" Not like he'd had three dates with anyone except for Stella. And after Stella there had been Fraser, and you couldn't really call that dating. But now he was on the market again, and apparently there were new rules, rules he'd never heard of. Bertucci clearly knew them, anyway. He was maybe twenty-eight, with dark curly hair and a mustache that feathered down over his upper lip, which the women in the station seemed to really go for. Including Frannie.
"If they don't put out by the third date, they're not worth it."
"Huh," said Ray. Over Bertucci's shoulder he could see Vecchio approaching, looking stormy, so he said: "So Frannie's not worth it?"
"A man's got to get laid. Anyway, these Catholic girls, they're all messed up about sex. Probably shouldn't have asked her out in the first place."
"You're damn right about that," said Vecchio, grabbing onto Bertucci's shirt with one hand and hauling him upright. "Stay away from my sister."
"Oh, he's going to," said Ray helpfully. "On account of Frannie won't put out. Third date rule."
"Third date rule doesn't apply to my sister, asshole," Vecchio told Bertucci, punctuating his statement with his fist.
It was kind of fun to watch Vecchio tearing into someone who wasn't him, for a change. Although it had been a while since the two of them had had a knock-down drag-out; Welsh had shown a sadistic streak by assigning them as partners, and after the subject of Stella had been exhausted - which actually didn't take all that long, on account of her having kicked both of them out - they mostly got along okay.
They didn't talk about Fraser, and that was fine with Ray.
After Steen and McCormick had wrestled Vecchio and Bertucci apart, and Welsh had poked his head out of his office to announce, "There will be no fisticuffs in my station, gentlemen, thank you very much," Ray meandered over to Vecchio's desk and sat on the corner.
"Never thought I'd miss Huey and Dewey."
Vecchio shook his head. "Are they getting younger and stupider around here, or is it just me?"
"It ain't just you."
"Bertucci's an asshole."
"No kidding. Frannie deserves better," said Ray. Vecchio glared at him, and he held up his hands. "Yeah, yeah, better than me, too. Don't worry. I think of her as a sister - considering I was her brother for a while."
"Good," said Vecchio. He fiddled with one of his pens for a moment, then looked up at Ray. "So since you're an honorary member of the family, you want to come over for dinner tonight? Ma's making lasagna, and there's always twice as much as we can eat."
Ray hesitated before answering, because yeah, they were partners, and they got along okay during working hours, but that was it. Vecchio wasn't Fraser. At the end of the day they said hasta la vista and headed their separate ways.
But he didn't have anyone to go home to other than his turtle, and there wasn't really much in the fridge, and lasagna sounded pretty good, all things considered, so he said yes.
It turned out to be a decent time: Mrs. Vecchio welcomed him like he really was part of the family, and Frannie treated him the same, which meant that she yelled at him about as much as she yelled at Tony or Maria. And Vecchio - Vecchio sat next to him, and they talked about stuff that wasn't work, or Stella, or Fraser.
It was kind of nice. Like maybe Vecchio was seeing him as someone other than his ex-wife's ex-husband, and his ex-partner's…ex-partner. Someone other than just the guy he worked with. And after a couple of helpings of lasagna and a couple of glasses of red wine, Ray thought that maybe he could see Vecchio as someone other than all that stuff, too. Maybe that's why Vecchio had asked him over. Asked him out.
So that was number one, Ray figured.
Sometimes, being a cop was boring, all paperwork and phone calls. But sometimes the day stretched out like it was printed on a rubber band, one end tied to too damn early in the morning and the other stretching out of sight, and you were hyped up from a car chase, or running after a suspect, or, like now, sneaking around a warehouse that was supposed to be full of women's shoes but instead contained crates of C-4 explosive. By the time the Nelson brothers had been carted off to jail, it was nearly ten.
Ray was tapping his fingers on the table, on his thigh, on anything, and finally Vecchio grabbed him by the wrist. "Quit that."
Vecchio's fingers were long and strong, warm and olive-tan against Ray's paler skin, and Ray stared, fascinated. When they'd been partners, Fraser had casually touched him all the time - put his hand on Ray's shoulder, clasped his hand, rested his fingers against his arm - but Ray couldn't think of any other time that Vecchio had actually touched him. He tilted his hand fractionally, letting the metal strands of his bracelet slide down against Vecchio's hand.
"Okay," said Ray, but as soon as Vecchio had freed his wrist, his fingers were jittering again. Vecchio just looked at him and raised an eyebrow, and for a moment Ray thought he might reach out, touch his hand again, but instead he turned his head pointedly away and sighed.
The lockup sergeant came back with the paperwork, and they both initialed where they were supposed to initial and signed where they were supposed to sign. "Come on," said Vecchio. "I'll buy you a drink. Celebrate our bust." He clapped Ray on the shoulder as they walked out, those long fingers lingering for a moment as they slid across the fabric of Ray's shirt.
Vecchio's eyes sparkled in the dim light of the bar, and he gestured constantly as he talked. Every once in a while his hand landed on Ray's arm, and when he leaned close - which he did frequently - Ray smelled the spice of his aftershave cutting through the smoky air. Yeah, he didn't have a lot of hair, but he wasn't bad-looking, decided Ray. And he seemed to like Ray okay.
After all, he'd asked him out again. So this was number two.
The Cubs had lost, which both of them had figured was what was going to happen. But it had been a good time, sitting in the stands drinking and yelling at the umpires, so Ray thanked Vecchio for asking him along when he'd been given the tickets by a friend who couldn't use them.
"No skin off my nose," Vecchio said. Ray was tempted to say something else about his nose, but kept silent. Because Vecchio had invited Ray to the game, and he had driven, which meant that he'd had to deal with traffic and parking and all that crap. And because this was number three.
So when they pulled up in front of Ray's building, Ray said, "You want to come up for a drink?"
"You got anything other than Old Style?"
"I got Johnnie Walker," said Ray, because that was what Vecchio had been drinking when they'd gone out last week after busting the Nelson brothers, and holy shit, that stuff had been expensive, but he figured it might be a nice gesture, something Vecchio would appreciate. And sure enough, Vecchio's eyes glinted just a little, and he pulled into a parking space and followed Ray up to his apartment.
It was good to sit on the couch, drinking and talking. The news was on loud enough that they could hear it if they wanted to pay attention, but not so loud that it got in the way of their conversation, which was mostly about how badly Johnson had fucked up in the third inning.
Ray was only three-quarters through his beer when Vecchio hit the bottom of his glass, but that was okay. He carefully placed his bottle on the coffee table and looked at Vecchio.
Vecchio looked back at him.
"It's okay with me," Ray said.
Vecchio shrugged. "All right." But he still didn't move, so Ray moved instead, sliding across the sofa cushions until he was right up against Vecchio's uncreased trousers. Grabbing Vecchio's shoulders, he tilted his head - so he'd miss the nose - and kissed him.
Vecchio leapt to his feet, pushing him away hard enough that Ray fell against the coffee table, spilling the rest of his beer across a stack of magazines and old mail. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Third date rule," said Ray, picking himself up. He tried for a cocky grin to hide the sinking feeling in his gut. "This is our third date. Like I said, it's okay with me."
"Like hell it is! Is that what you thought we were doing? Dating?"
Vecchio's expression mingled annoyance and amusement, which made Ray want to get in his face, because damn right, he'd thought they were dating. "Dinner with your family. Drinks after work. The Cubs game, which sucked, but that wasn't your fault." He ticked them off on his fingers, one, two, three.
Vecchio started pacing in tiny, agitated circles. "You're not my type."
"Yeah," said Ray slowly. "I'm getting that." So much for being able to read the signals.
"I didn't think I was your type."
"I have a lot of types." Stella and Fraser, and two more opposite types could not be imagined. Hell, Vecchio almost seemed to be centered between them. Stella had been Vecchio's type. He'd thought Fraser might have been, too.
They stared at each other for a few seconds. Finally Vecchio snorted. "I can't believe you thought we were dating," he said, scooping his jacket from the arm of the chair where he'd left it. "Thanks for the drink. See you tomorrow."
When he'd gone, Ray mopped up the spilled beer, then poured another two fingers of the Johnnie Walker into the glass Vecchio had used. He'd fucked that one up but good. Shit, how was he going to manage working with Vecchio now? Going in to the station, pretending nothing had happened? Fuck. Maybe he should quit. Maybe he should run away to Canada. Maybe he'd call in sick, and then there was the weekend - that would give him three days.
Maybe he should just get drunk. He took a sip of the whiskey; he'd forgotten how sour the stuff tasted, like something that had been left out overnight. You'd think for this much money it would taste decent. But it was alcohol, anyway, and he guessed he'd better get used to the taste, considering that he'd be drinking the rest of it by himself.
By Monday, okay, he could do it. He could walk into the station, he could look Vecchio in the eye. If Vecchio had a problem with that, it was his problem, not Ray's. He could do it.
Vecchio did not have a problem. When Ray walked in, striding fast to cover the butterflies in his stomach, Vecchio tilted his head, beckoned him over, and handed him some papers. "Possible witnesses in the Maxwell case. You get to call N through Z."
Ray craned his head to see what was on Vecchio's desk. "How come you took A through M?"
"Because I was here on Friday," said Vecchio, and he picked up the handset of the phone and started dialing.
"Yeah, okay," said Ray. He went back to his own desk to start calling N through Z.
So things were, apparently, back to normal. Vecchio didn't say anything about what had happened in Ray's apartment, and Ray was sure as hell not going to mention it. It was nine to five and nothing else again, and in between the only thing they talked about was the Maxwell case. They found a couple of witnesses, and did the interviews, and got the artist to draw up a composite, and got Frannie to fax it around the city, and by the end of the week they were sidling down the hallway of the tenement where their suspect lived, Vecchio out front with his gun and Ray watching behind them with his.
Vecchio announced them, then kicked the door open when there was no response. As they stepped into the living room, Ray caught a flash of color outside the window. "Fire escape."
Vecchio was already sprinting for the window, so Ray ran back to the hall, down the stairs, out the door, and around the side of the building in time to see Vecchio drop from the fire escape, landing awkwardly in the alley just as a green Dodge Dart aimed for him. Ray yelled a warning, then threw himself hard at Vecchio, pushing him out of the way, scraping across the asphalt of the alley as the car gunned by them.
For a moment Ray lay there next to Vecchio, listening to the blood pounding in his ears and the quickly receding rumble of the car. Then Vecchio slowly hauled himself upright and glanced over at Ray.
"What do you think you are, a Mountie?"
"You're the one who jumped off the damn fire escape." It came out more tartly than he'd intended. Yeah, he wasn't Fraser, would never be Fraser, but he didn't need Vecchio rubbing it in.
"We ain't neither of us Fraser, are we," said Vecchio, his voice soft. Ray glanced up sharply, but Vecchio was looking at Ray's arm and shaking his head. "Jesus, that's got to hurt."
It did hurt, but Ray wasn't going to say that. Experimentally he flexed his right arm; his sleeve hung in bloodstained tatters, and his skin felt like it had been worked over with a meat tenderizer. He took Vecchio's outstretched hand with his left and let himself get pulled to his feet. "I'm okay. I'm fine."
Vecchio shook his head again. "Look, you should get home, wash the glass and shit out of your arm."
"We got to get after them," he said, jerking his chin in the direction the car had gone. Vecchio was still holding his hand, and Ray found himself reluctant to let go.
"Nah, I got the plate," said Vecchio, finally dropping his hand. "We can call it in from the car."
"Yeah, okay." Ray felt weirdly numb, the way he always did when the heart-pounding part was over. Vecchio was right, he should clean out the deep scrapes on his arm. All kinds of crap in the alley.
He slid into the passenger seat of the unmarked, let his head fall back onto the headrest, and closed his eyes. He didn't open them again until they were in front of his building. When he started to get out of the car, Vecchio touched his left wrist lightly, stopping him. "There's not enough day left to worry about going back in to the station."
"Got to get my car," Ray pointed out. Vecchio's fingers felt hot on his wrist. He wondered what Vecchio would do if he curled his hand up, curled his own fingers around Vecchio's fingers, but even as the thought formed, Vecchio pulled away.
"Tell you what. You clean up your arm and get some rest. I'll come back at six and we can pick up your car and get some dinner, okay?"
"Okay," said Ray.
When six o'clock rolled around, Ray was feeling a lot better. He'd stuck his arm under the shower, gritting his teeth as the water needled into the already painful wound, but after two gentle go-rounds with soap it looked pink and clean and had stopped hurting quite so much. After showering the rest of himself and drying off, he wrapped his arm with antibiotic ointment and a gauze sling. Not Fraser's weirdo goop, but it would probably work okay.
He figured he could use the "medicinal purposes" excuse, so he poured himself a little whiskey; after a moment's thought, he left the bottle on the counter. Maybe Vecchio would want some too.
Ray had only taken a few swallows when the knock came. He put down the glass and went to open the door. There stood Vecchio - and he was holding a bunch of flowers the size of a Buick.
"What's that for?" said Ray. He stared suspiciously at the flowers.
"A gentleman always brings flowers on the first date," said Vecchio, looking slightly embarrassed. He thrust the bouquet into Ray's hands. "Just be glad I didn't get you a corsage."
audio version (mp3, 3.7MB, 16 minutes long - please rightclick and save)
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http://hieroglyfics.net/tdr.htm | written October 2006 by Isis