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Um. As usual, last-minute, over the word limit, high-speed, un-beta'd. Gen, post-Vegas Vecchio.

BAGGAGE

Schilling, that FBI Agent in Charge? Was one sick, twisted fuck. That was the only conclusion Vecchio could reach, because apparently in the course of packing in the Iguana family, all their operations and honchos and goons, Schilling had somehow found time to also pack up all of Armando Langoustini's personal effects and ship them to Chicago, to the 27th, to Detective Raymond Vecchio, parcel post, COD.

Vecchio had been out when they arrived, but when he got back they were sitting piled up next to his desk, a whole trolleyful of cardboard boxes. The two on top had been opened up, doubtless by Dewey and Huey, who were pawing through them like a pair of idiot children who couldn't keep their hands out of the cookie jar.

"The hell are you clowns up to?" Stuff was strewn all over his desk, his chair, his filing cabinet--suits, cashmere sweaters, a familiar pair of gleaming alligator shoes next to his beat-up phone.

Dewey shot him a grin. "Hey, Vecchio. Looks like Christmas came early for you, huh?" He pulled out a silk shirt, patterned in orchid and charcoal, and held it up with a whistle. "Ooh-la-la."

Frannie, perched on a nearby desk, shook her head, lips pursed. "Not your colors, bro. You're more of an autumn, which means you ought to wear--"

"Shut up." He grabbed the shirt out of Dewey's hands, and gave him a shove backward for good measure. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Dewey staggered, catching himself on a filing cabinet, and glared. "Me? What the hell's your problem?"

"Settle down, Vecchio, we were just--" He spun around to find Huey standing at his shoulder, holding a jewelry box flipped open. Stickpins, a dozen of them, diamond and pearl and opal, stickpins his fingers had slipped through fine silk neckties many times. Huey was still talking, but he wasn't listening, he smacked the box out of Huey's hands, Frannie gave a little yip, and then the room was silent, except for the sound of metal tinkling and skittering on the floor.

"Morons." He didn't yell; he didn't do that so much any more, he'd learned how effective it was when he just talked quiet and hard instead. "I'm surrounded by fucking brainless imbeciles." It would've been more effective, of course, if he could keep his voice from shaking. "This shit? Belonged to a guy who's dead. You show some respect, got it?"

They said nothing, staring at him, and after a moment Frannie slid off the desk and crouched, gathering up the glittering jewelry from the floor.

"Detective. Can I see you in here?" It was Welsh's voice, from behind him, and he waved it off without turning around.

"Pack all this stuff back up. Nicely. And get it the hell out of here. You understand me?" He was suddenly aware that he was still clutching the silk shirt in his hand, and he flung it violently towards Huey, who caught it and began folding it up, without a word.

"Hey, Ray? Take it easy, OK?" Frannie was looking up at him from the floor, and she was talking to him in that tone of voice he didn't hear often anymore, that she didn't use with anyone else, the one that went way back to those nights when Pop had had a few and she'd sneak into his bedroom with an ice bag for his split lip.

But that had all been a long, long time ago. "I'm fine," he told her, casually. "I'm aces." She stared up at him, uneasy, clutching Armando's gems in her hands. The voice whispered to him You could get those reset, you know. Earrings, maybe a pendant or two ... they'd look good on her. She's a nice-looking woman, your sister. He shook it off, bent to pick up the velvet box and handed it to her. "Put those away, OK? And get 'em out of here."

"Uh--so, what do you want us to do with it, Ray?" Huey settled the shirt in an open box, smoothing it.

"I don't care. Give it to Goodwill. Ship it to the Little Sisters of the fucking Poor." He started toward Welsh, who was standing in the doorway of his office, arms crossed.

But he stopped again at the sound of Dewey's voice behind him. "I dunno, Vecchio." He turned, slowly. Dewey was giving him a look, setting his shoulders, angling his chin. "This is nice stuff here, seems like a shame to hand it out to a bunch of derelicts." There was a sneer in his voice, and he reached over, picked up a fawn linen sportcoat, held it against his own body, assessingly. "Sharp. I think I could pull this off. Don't you wanna--y'know, share the wealth? With your pals?"

Four strides, and he was right up in Dewey's face, shoving the jacket aside, gripping Dewey tight by his cheap polyester necktie. "You think you could pull it off, huh? Pal?" He ignored Huey's hand on his elbow, the voice in his ear, the other voice cackling in his head. "You think this stuff would fit you?"

Dewey was gasping, lips pulled back from teeth. "Tell you what I think, I think you're maybe not the big man any more, Vecchio, whaddaya say to that?"

Huey was still jabbering at him, but overriding that was Welsh's voice. "Detective! In here, now!"

He let go of Dewey's tie, wiped his hand off on Dewey's shirt. Took a step back, and looked him up and down. "You know what I say? Armando Langoustini woulda had you for breakfast."

Then he turned and strode into Welsh's office, and stood unmoving as Welsh shut the door, came around his desk and settled into his chair with a sigh.

"Have a seat, Vecchio."

"Thank you, sir, I'd rather stand."

Welsh looked at him without expression. Then he reached for a slip of paper, scribbled on it, handed it over to Vecchio, who gave it a glance. Dr. Marian Harpole, and a phone number. "I want you to give her a call, set up an appointment."

"Lieutenant--" He slapped the paper down on the desk. "I cleared my last physical. Passed the treadmill, passed the firearms test. I'm through with the doctors."

"She's not that kind of a doctor."

"What're you trying to say?" He didn't move, under Welsh's level stare, but he could feel his fingers curling in tight, his nails digging into his palm.

"You got baggage, Detective. And I don't mean that stuff out there." Welsh jerked his head toward the squadroom.

"Baggage. What, you a shrink all of a sudden? You gonna write a self-help book next?" It was no way to talk to the Lieu, he knew that, and he coughed, trying to get his own voice back. But Welsh didn't look fazed an inch, just kept on talking, looking at him.

"You got baggage, and you better get it unpacked and out of here. Because I'm not going to have it in my division."

You gonna let him talk to you like that? "Lieutenant, you got a problem with how I'm doing my job?" He tried to make it sound reasonable, conciliatory. "Hey, I'm clearing my cases, right? I got a clean desk out there, I'm making good arrests--"

"And I'm keeping IA off your back." Welsh leaned forward, setting his elbows on the desk. "They took Ruiz straight from the holding pen to the hospital, you know that? You're tuning your perps a little too sharp, Detective."

"He resisted, what can I tell you?" But he had to drop his eyes, focus on the front of the desk, dark scarred wood. "He was giving me shit."

He heard the creak and thump as Welsh swivelled his chair, stood. "Make the call. That's an order."

"Yeah?" There was muttering in his head, his heart was thudding, his stomach was boiling, he couldn't stop the words that pushed up and out. "You think you get to tell me what to do? You think you're the big man around here?"

Suddenly Welsh was right in front of him, staring down at him. "Yeah, Detective. In fact, that's exactly what I think." And holy shit, the man was big, he'd forgotten ... inches taller than him, heavy meaty shoulders and sleeves rolled up ... You could take him, though. He's soft. You're not soft.

He took a step back, shoved his fists in his pockets, and spent a minute breathing. Then he raised his chin and nodded. "Yeah. Gotcha. OK, Lieu."

Welsh reached back and swiped the slip of paper off the desk, stuffed it in his shirt pocket. "I'll keep it out of your file and away from the captain. None of his business. But you need to do this, Vecchio."

He nodded again, not wanting to say anything else at all, and turned for the door. He had his hand on the knob when Welsh said, "Oh, by the way--the COD on those boxes? Came to a hundred fifty-five bucks. I covered it."

"Aw, hell, sir--" He slapped his pockets. "I don't got it on me, lemme just go get my checkbook and I'll write you a--"

"Nah. Don't worry." Welsh was back in his chair, settling down behind his desk. "I figure--I'll get it back out of you at the poker table."

Poker, huh? I know a thing or two about poker. He swallowed, and then shot Welsh a grin, one that he hoped looked like him. "You got it."

"After you talk to Ms. Harpole."

Vecchio sketched a salute, pushed the door open, blew out a breath, and walked into the squadroom which, for once, seemed to be entirely deserted. The boxes were gone, and his desk stood bare in the fluorescent glow.

As he walked toward it, he felt something skitter under his shoe, and he stopped to look. A glittering shard of ice, on the dingy linoleum. A diamond stickpin. He started to bend down toward it; and then he paused, straightened, and kicked it as hard as he could, into a dim dusty corner of the room.
_____________

NOTES: This is weird; I almost never do author's notes, but this is as close as I've ever come to posting a WIP, and I feel odd about it. It was originally going to be a different story entirely--the scene *after* this one, after Vecchio's made the phone call. Which may still get written; in fact, I have a nervous feeling there's a whole lot more that may eventually get written. Gack. (Vecchio, I do not *need* this aggravation...)

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Delightful. Absolutely delightful. Oh, how I've longed to see this particular baggage addressed. Can't wait for more!

Thanks so much, Laura! And yeah, I hope there will be more, though it'll need to cook for a while, just as the other long thing is needing. (And you mentioned willingness to beta stuff--believe me, I'd send you more if there was any, but it's temporarily bogged down in the primordial ooze, alas.)

Kat -- good god, this is fantastic.

Sharp. Tight. Good.

(Also? Truly lovely icon you've got there. Suits the story to a T, really.)

::beaming:: Coolness! I'm so glad you like it, Kass, and thanks very much! (And yeah, isn't that picture great? I just happened across it, while nosing through my "potential future iconage" downloads folder, and slapped it right into Photoshop.)

I enjoyed this a whole lot, I really hope you do find your way clear to writing 'a whole lot more' of this eventually.

Oh, so do I. *g* There's just a lot of possibilities in post-Vegas Vecchio, and I want to take some time and explore them at length. (In that hypothetical future interlude when I, how you say, "have time.")

Thanks very much--I'm so glad you liked it!

Oooh, baby, that was good. I do love how you write Vecchio, especially post-Armando Vecchio. Mmm, mmm, good.

Yeah, the guy hurts so good, doesn't he? *g* Thanks a million, Deb, I'm delighted that you liked it!

So layered and so dangerous and so goddamned intriguing, as if he's been possessed-- those shady semi-incestuous thoughts about Frannie, the way he goes around sizing people up and finding them weak and wanting... Damn. This Ray is a switchblade, on the knife's edge, and he's spending all his time trying to keep himself folded... Kat, how can I love you even more??

::loving you up:: Your comments tend to be better than my stories, you know? And I hold you at least partly responsible, missy, for getting Vecchio into my head in the first place, so there! I shall write more of this, and you can feel all to blame and stuff. Heh.

The intensity, the parallel voice in his head...so good, so right on, so completely what I imagine the reality would be after an undercover gig of that magnitude. Excellent, excellent!

Thanks so much, Shay! I'm really fascinated by all the possibilities that "Armando Vecchio" presents--this guy who's kind of lost himself--and I'm just jazzed to know that other people feel it jibes for them.

You say Vecchio, but what rocked me in this story was Welsh.

Suddenly Welsh was right in front of him, staring down at him. "Yeah, Detective. In fact, that's exactly what I think." And holy shit, the man was big, he'd forgotten ... inches taller than him, heavy meaty shoulders and sleeves rolled up ....

Loved it.

Yay! And it's true, I have a hard time keeping Welsh out of stories. He is indeed (per your icon) a Badass.

Thanks!

that was fantastic! There's definitely some more depths to be mined, that's for sure. I highly support the more you mentioned in your notes. I'd love to see what you pull out of Vecchio's head.

oh, and the Armando voice in Vecchio's head saying 'your sister's a fine looking woman' completely creeped me out. This is part of what I wanted to find when I wrote Courtesy Call. I'm extremely envious.

Mmm. So glad to know this worked for you! (I'm sure I probably absorbed some of this from you.) And yeah, Vecchio + Armando = considerable creepiness.

[shows kat her goosebumps]

Heee! I goosebumped fox! (Thanks so much for letting me know--I'm all revved!)

Oh wow! Now I have this image of Vecchio running round Vegas with Armando's ghost at his shoulder. Good luck with the exorcism!

*g* With dS, I keep coming back to what my friend Taz once said, that at heart it's a ghost story. And, really? By the end of CotW the one character who's still really got some major ghosts to deal with is Vecchio. More and more all the time I really want to write the exorcism story of which you speak (if I've got the chops for it!)

Excellent, spot-on Vecchio voice. I loved the intensity -- and look forward to that next part!

Thank you! It's a big relief to hear that the Vecchio voice worked for you--I'm still feeling my way into the guy, and he's more complicated here by being Vecchio-mixed-up-with-Armando. I too hope I can get the next part pulled together!

::applauds::

::bows:: Thank you!

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Yes, yes, and yes, to everything you say in your first paragraph. With the addition that I think the whole thing would cut into places where Vecchio already had some scar tissue (given his whole history with the Zuko family, his own father, etc.).

Thanks so much for the vote of confidence, btw! Man, I really want to write that story, if I can pull it off...

Damn. Just...damn. I love Vecchio as a character and I really wish there were more gen stories like this, crawling inside his after CotW.

Damn good job.

Thank you so much! And yes, Vecchio's fascinating, especially to me in the glimpses we see of him in CotW--the way he talks and carries himself when he's doing the briefing? He's a different guy there, no question. I'm kind of surprised there aren't more stories about that guy. *g*

Really fantastic, Kat. Not only the oh-so-painful sense of Vecchio's connection to his former life (and to the dead man into whose shoes he stepped...he's very protective of Armando, isn't he?), but also this:

"Aw, hell, sir--" He slapped his pockets. "I don't got it on me, lemme just go get my checkbook and I'll write you a--"

...which makes it so clear that our RayV is still in there somewhere, despite his time in Vegas.

And Welsh. Mmmm. Lucky, lucky Vecchio to have that man as his lieutenant.

I'm so glad you liked it, Beth! Very pleased that the sense of Vecchio's dual/conflicting connections came through.

I really want to spend more time looking at RayV and Armando, duking it out in some kind of a deathmatch his head. (And yeah, Welsh standing in his fighter's corner with the towel and the smelling salts. *g*)

Thanks again!

That is one skin that isn't going to be shed easily...

Everything in this one was so spot on! I will add my voice to those requesting (most humbly) that you continue. It is amazingly well-done.

Thanks so much! I'm really delighted to know it worked for you, and yeah, I do want to push the story a bit further--hope I can do it justice!

Sustaining the pressure from the very beginning, line after line, eventually my manometer cracks right here:

Vecchio sketched a salute, pushed the door open, blew out a breath, and walked into the squadroom which, for once, seemed to be entirely deserted. The boxes were gone, and his desk stood bare in the fluorescent glow.

When Ray opens the door and walks straight outside, only to realize that he doesn't get to return to his crowded and clamorous world, that somehow, somewhere he has crossed an unknown borderline, the silent aloneness suddenly breaks wide and swallows him whole.

And the final appearance of that glittery diamond. It's kind of like, after a long, exhaustive exorcising ritual, when the sigh of relief half outta your lips, one imprint of a hand emerges right before your eyes, on the wall, with claws.

It takes a skillful hand to slice through the familiar surroundings and reveal the alien flesh inside. And here you did it, as usual, with such startling accuracy.

Wow. See, this is why I totally, totally love getting feedback from readers, because they are so much smarter about what I'm doing than I am. E.g., the bit you quote is something I just whammed out quickly--I wasn't even sure why I needed the squadroom to be deserted, just that that was how it came out, and the stickpin on the floor kind of showed up in mid-flurry of typing and I went ahead and stuck it in (so to speak). And now, reading your wonderful comments, I'm thinking, "Whoa, *that's* what was happening there? Woo-hoo!"

Thank you, thank you, thank you. There are times when a reader can make me like a story more than I did to begin with, by understanding stuff about it that I didn't, and this is one of those times. God, I love the fanfiction community... ::happyglow::

He heard the creak and thump as Welsh swivelled his chair, stood.

I don't know why the above sentence struck me so much. Perhaps because I love scene-setting bits myself and amongst all the other good stuff you do them with such finesse, I am just so envious.

Everybody else's comments cover any other words of appreciation I could come up with so I'll just say, Thank you!

Thank *you*! And this brings me an extra glow, because I feel like the scene-setting and the sensory detailing is not something I'm naturally good at (compared to, say, Resonant, if I want to depress myself by comparisons *g*)--I have to put my back into it. I'm totally stoked you liked this--thanks again, so much!

I'm a little late to the party, but Kat, this was really good. I think you got post-Armando Vecchio down pat. Gotta love fanfiction to fill in all the blanks.

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more please?

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vecchio vecchio vecchio

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sliced through.

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