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[katallison.livejournal.com]

Well, I'm way the hell over the word limit, but at least I beat the deadline. Maybe I'm getting the hang of this writing-faster thing. (Hah.) This one is dedicated to the proposition that The World Needs More Welsh.


So after the big scandal was over and the papers had finally found something else to run besides pictures of dirty cops and statements from their lieutenant (Hassler, that dumbfuck) disavowing any knowledge--when everyone was sick of the whole thing and just trying to get back to business as usual--that was when Staff Services decided to haul in a management consultant. "Implementing proactive solutions for organizational deficiencies at the divisional level" was the party line. It was window dressing, Welsh knew it just like everyone else knew it; but he also knew that their windows had been smudged, and this kind of bullshit was part of the price of the clean-up.

Ms. Voss was a crisp little woman in a cherry-red suit, with a haircut that probably came from one of those Lincoln Park salons where it's a hundred bucks a snip. She'd charged around the station house, jabbering about "empowering leadership styles" and "leveraging a dynamic communication atmosphere of trust and excellence." Welsh had trudged along in her wake, not that he didn't have a million other better things to do but he didn't have much choice in the matter, and he nodded and showed his teeth at polite intervals.

Huey had given her the nod-and-teeth when directly addressed, but, being a smart cop, had stayed at his desk, bent industriously over his files and watching her out of the corners of his eyes. Dewey, being a general dumbass, had glued himself to her side, babbling and nodding like a fucking bobblehead doll and doing everything but humping her leg. Kowalski, being smarter than the two of them put together, had discovered a pressing need to head over to the Consulate and liaise about something (the potstickers at Asia Palace, was Welsh's guess) and had lit out of there so fast the air crackled behind him.

When Ms. Voss had gotten to his office, she'd shot it a dirty look and said, "Well! Those blinds must go, I can tell you that right now."

"Ma'am?" Welsh said, giving her the teeth.

She strode over and jerked on the cord, pulling the blinds all the way up to the top, sending out a scatter of dust. "Increasing alignment with your staff, using all possible nonverbal cues to convey the 'I'm here for you' message--that's our goal. A good manager can't afford to be cut off from his staff like this, Lieutenant. You need to be visible to your team, not a remote intimidating presence."

"An excellent idea," Dewey said earnestly. "I have often felt kinda cut off from the Lieu. Intimidated sometimes, even."

Welsh gave him a look that intimidated him right out of the office, and Ms. Voss said, "I'll pass along a directive to your maintenance staff to have these removed."

So when everyone showed up the next morning, the windows of his office were bare and empty, and everyone stood and stared at them for a while. Then Frannie had rounded up some Windex and a huge wad of paper towels and cleaned the glass until it gleamed. Huey had shaken his head and said nothing. Dewey had said, "Hey Lieu, looks good, huh?" Kowalski, when he finally rolled in, had stared at the vacant windows and said, "What the hell?"

"Team cohesion, my friend," Dewey said smugly. "Building a climate of trust. Motivating excellence."

Kowalski didn't even glance at him. "The fuck is this about? Like it's gonna motivate me to be staring at your face all day?"

"Feeling's mutual, detective," Welsh said. "Which is why I'd suggest you accompany me in a mission of restoration."

They trooped down to the storage lockers, him and Kowalski and Huey, and hauled the blinds back up the stairs and into his office and rehung them, cursing and fanning dust out of their eyes. Dewey watched, with the expression of a man who'd put the rent money on the wrong nag. Frannie said, "Lieutenant, really, if you want a window treatment, those blinds are so institutional, now there's a Linens 'n' Things down on Clark, and they have some very nice chintz drapes on sale, a kind of cabbage rose pattern--"

"Miss Vecchio--"

"The pink would give your office a lovely glow, and you know, sir, I read an article about the psychology of color--"

"Miss Vecchio, you are correct about one thing, the blinds are institutional, and surprisingly enough, this place is an institution. Now if my ears don't deceive me, there are two phone lines ringing, so perhaps you could abandon the color psychology and get back to your job?"

She put her chin up and stalked out, and, alone at last, he settled himself in his chair, and tipped it back, stretching contentedly. Then just when he was starting to relax, the door opened again, and a big hat loomed in the opening.

"Ah, Lieutenant! I see that your office has been returned to the status quo ante bellum."

He sighed. "We are back to normal, Constable, if that's what you're saying. For whatever value of normal pertains in this place."

"Indeed." Fraser stepped inside and pivoted, head angled. "If you'll excuse me--" He stepped over and tweaked the cord on one set of blinds until they hung so straight you could lay a level on them. "Ah, there we go." Turning back, he clasped his hands behind his back. "Though it's not my place to say so, I do judge this a preferable arrangement, on the whole."

"You're not big on creating the positive imagery of collaboration?"

"Well, though I'm all in favor of changes that will promote organizational efficiency, and I'm sure the consultant meant well ..." Fraser paused a moment, and then went on. "I've found civilians seldom have any real understanding of leadership. Of what it entails."

"Tell me," Welsh said in a heartfelt voice.

Fraser apparently took him at his word. "The fact is, as you know, sir, that to lead men--and women too, of course--in conditions of risk and peril is rather different from motivating a cadre of salespeople to higher profits. It demands collegiality, but it also inevitably brings with it--a certain degree of isolation, I suppose. Apartness."

"Yeah." Welsh figured that Fraser understood about apartness better than most. "You gotta maintain your authority."

"That, of course, and also ... well, for example ..." He seemed to be searching for words, and Welsh resigned himself to hearing something about Eskimos. "Comrades in arms, on a battlefield, can share a sort of--well, a camaraderie, from which their commander is inevitably excluded. One can't afford to form close emotional bonds with those whom one has to send into danger."

That surprised him a little. "Yeah. Guess you got a point there."

Fraser took his hat off, examined it. "You have, in fact, experienced the loss of men under your command." Settled the hat back on his head. "To be--overly attached, in such circumstances, could--well, it could impair your ability to carry out your duty."

He nodded, and they were silent together for a moment. Memories there that didn't need airing.

"Leadership," Welsh mused. Then he looked up at Fraser. "You ever thought about it? For yourself, I mean?" Fraser looked back at him, face neutral. "Because, y'know, Thatcher isn't going to hang her hat at the Consulate for the rest of her days. Lady's a blue flamer, she's got bigger plans. You could move up there."

Fraser shook his head. "I really hadn't thought of such a thing."

"You've got the chops," Welsh said. It wasn't something he said lightly. "I mean, I always figured you'd head back north soon enough, but if your plans included sticking around here ..."

Fraser turned away from him, and with one finger lifted a slat of blind, opening up a sliver of view into the bullpen. "I have no ambition to lead, I'm afraid. The compensations for my staying in Chicago are--of a different nature."

He seemed to be pretty absorbed in something out there. Welsh came up behind him, looking over his shoulder. Not much going on--just Frannie, with a little bottle sitting on a stack of files, touching up her nail polish, and Kowalski, boots up on his desk, talking on the phone, one arm flung out, laughing. Welsh was fairly sure it wasn't Frannie's manicure that was holding Fraser's attention.

Then Fraser dropped his hand, and the slat rattled back into place, blanking out his view. "Well," Fraser said, "I suppose I should return to my work."

"Yeah." Welsh stepped back. "Tell Ray if he doesn't get something moving with the Novoa case, I might actually make him go to those team-building seminars."

Fraser turned, poker-faced. "You have an excellent grasp on motivational psychology, sir, if I may say so." He started for the door, and then paused, hand on the knob. "In fact, your gift for the many elements of leadership is something I admire all the more for not sharing it." Then he stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

Welsh stared after him, but all he could see was the barred wall of the blinds. He could hear voices--Kowalski yelling something, agitating, and the steady rumble of Fraser's reply, and then Dief clamoring and something--a wastebasket?--getting knocked over. Who knew what the hell was going on out there. He walked back to his desk, resettled himself, and bent back to his paperwork, with a sigh.

Comments

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Aww, Ces--as always, you are much too kind, and I blush.

(And I'll have you know, missy, that that was a *perfectly innocuous* finger. My goodness, the things you slash writers get in your heads. I am certain the Lieutenant would allow no double entendres in his office; that in fact, his attitude would be very similar to that of Harold Ross: "Sex is, by god, an incident! And I'm not having it in my office!")

But I blither. Because, overcome and all. I'm *so* jazzed you liked it.