![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
ignazwisdom.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionForgive me, fandom, for I have sinned. It's been ... *cough* three years since my last confession. And whoa, that's a long time, so I'm nervous about this. Let me know if I screwed anything up.
The First Day
by Ignaz Wisdom
Okay, so maybe Ray's always been a little bit bent. Wasn't like it fucking mattered -- he'd gotten over it, he'd had a girl -- more than one girl, even, if you counted the times when they were "taking a break" before they got engaged, and the two or three (or two) dates he'd had since the divorce. Stella: she had always been there for him, even when she was making him sleep on the couch, even when she was throwing him out on his ass, because as long as he had Stella in his life, he was safe. She was like a great big safety net, rock solid proof that Ray Kowalski was, in no uncertain terms, straight. There was no need for awkward questions with The Stella in his life. Married. Monogamous. With her, Ray was resolutely Stellasexual, and that was all that mattered.
Except that all of a sudden he had no girl, no wife, and was looking down the ugly barrel of forty -- and hello, midlife crisis, right on time. So when the transfer to the 2-7 came across his desk, he was all but chomping at the bit to get at 'er. New precinct, new people, same name, and apparently there was a lifetime supply of genuine Italian pasta in it, too.
They told him he had to be this guy, Vecchio. Gave him the files and he read through 'em, and yeah, Vecchio seemed like a generally stand-up guy, someone whose name he wouldn't mind wearing for a few months. They briefed him on the family, the wardrobe, the ex, the car (oh, god, yes -- the car!). There's something about a partner from Canada that he doesn't really listen to, and then he's ready, he wants it -- sign it, dot it, put it in a box marked done -- and he starts at the 2-7 the next week.
Which is fine, which is great -- Welsh is good, the other cops are good, even Frannie's pretty good -- and mostly he gets left alone to deal with some of Vecchio's backlogged paperwork, which sucks, but he could maybe use the downtime. He's just starting to pick up some cases, nothing too weird, when the bullpen door opens, and in the middle of the crowd and the chaos there's something big -- and very, very red.
Canadian, they'd said. Mountie, they'd said. He didn't have much to go on for Mounties -- his cultural reference point was Dudley Do-Right, so he basically latched onto "red uniform," "horse," and "goofy looking." What they did not say -- what they most definitely, absolutely, positively did not say -- was that when Benton Fraser walked into his line of vision for the first time, he would look like Mr. January in some "Hotties of the Frozen Tundra" calendar. No warning whatsoever. So after the split-second double-(triple-)take, in which he finally got what people meant when they talked about hearts skipping a beat, he was out of the chair, in action, moving moving moving, giving the big red centerfold a quick and friendly half-hug-half-shoulder-pat -- see, we're old buddies, you and me -- and then latching onto the very first woman he saw walking by.
He was babbling, barely stringing coherent sentences together, because while his mouth went into overdrive, his brain was stalled at big, red, gorgeous -- oh yeah, and straight, straight, straight. Ray hoped that whatever crap he was spewing was getting lost in what he'd already come to understand as the usual chaos of the station. He wasn't sure Fraser was buying it, though, 'cause he was looking at Ray sort of funny -- but while they didn't mention gorgeous, he was fairly sure he remembered them putting a lot of emphasis on weird, so he just shook it off. And the next thing he knew, there were fires and bullets and a wolf making intimate with his ear, so really, he didn't have much time to worry about it.
Later he went home and thought about it, and wondered if there was maybe someone in the brass who knew what he was up to and decided to pull a fast one on him -- but nah, no way. Wasn't like he had "I'm questioning my seriously shaky sexuality" tattooed on his forehead. There probably weren't too many guys in the Chicago PD lookin' to transfer when Vecchio had to cut out. Besides -- his name was Ray.
The First Day
by Ignaz Wisdom
Okay, so maybe Ray's always been a little bit bent. Wasn't like it fucking mattered -- he'd gotten over it, he'd had a girl -- more than one girl, even, if you counted the times when they were "taking a break" before they got engaged, and the two or three (or two) dates he'd had since the divorce. Stella: she had always been there for him, even when she was making him sleep on the couch, even when she was throwing him out on his ass, because as long as he had Stella in his life, he was safe. She was like a great big safety net, rock solid proof that Ray Kowalski was, in no uncertain terms, straight. There was no need for awkward questions with The Stella in his life. Married. Monogamous. With her, Ray was resolutely Stellasexual, and that was all that mattered.
Except that all of a sudden he had no girl, no wife, and was looking down the ugly barrel of forty -- and hello, midlife crisis, right on time. So when the transfer to the 2-7 came across his desk, he was all but chomping at the bit to get at 'er. New precinct, new people, same name, and apparently there was a lifetime supply of genuine Italian pasta in it, too.
They told him he had to be this guy, Vecchio. Gave him the files and he read through 'em, and yeah, Vecchio seemed like a generally stand-up guy, someone whose name he wouldn't mind wearing for a few months. They briefed him on the family, the wardrobe, the ex, the car (oh, god, yes -- the car!). There's something about a partner from Canada that he doesn't really listen to, and then he's ready, he wants it -- sign it, dot it, put it in a box marked done -- and he starts at the 2-7 the next week.
Which is fine, which is great -- Welsh is good, the other cops are good, even Frannie's pretty good -- and mostly he gets left alone to deal with some of Vecchio's backlogged paperwork, which sucks, but he could maybe use the downtime. He's just starting to pick up some cases, nothing too weird, when the bullpen door opens, and in the middle of the crowd and the chaos there's something big -- and very, very red.
Canadian, they'd said. Mountie, they'd said. He didn't have much to go on for Mounties -- his cultural reference point was Dudley Do-Right, so he basically latched onto "red uniform," "horse," and "goofy looking." What they did not say -- what they most definitely, absolutely, positively did not say -- was that when Benton Fraser walked into his line of vision for the first time, he would look like Mr. January in some "Hotties of the Frozen Tundra" calendar. No warning whatsoever. So after the split-second double-(triple-)take, in which he finally got what people meant when they talked about hearts skipping a beat, he was out of the chair, in action, moving moving moving, giving the big red centerfold a quick and friendly half-hug-half-shoulder-pat -- see, we're old buddies, you and me -- and then latching onto the very first woman he saw walking by.
He was babbling, barely stringing coherent sentences together, because while his mouth went into overdrive, his brain was stalled at big, red, gorgeous -- oh yeah, and straight, straight, straight. Ray hoped that whatever crap he was spewing was getting lost in what he'd already come to understand as the usual chaos of the station. He wasn't sure Fraser was buying it, though, 'cause he was looking at Ray sort of funny -- but while they didn't mention gorgeous, he was fairly sure he remembered them putting a lot of emphasis on weird, so he just shook it off. And the next thing he knew, there were fires and bullets and a wolf making intimate with his ear, so really, he didn't have much time to worry about it.
Later he went home and thought about it, and wondered if there was maybe someone in the brass who knew what he was up to and decided to pull a fast one on him -- but nah, no way. Wasn't like he had "I'm questioning my seriously shaky sexuality" tattooed on his forehead. There probably weren't too many guys in the Chicago PD lookin' to transfer when Vecchio had to cut out. Besides -- his name was Ray.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}