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WIP Amnesty, Day 7
(Found it! And the thing about freight elevators wasn't really important, although if you have strong feelings about freight elevators, please, share.)
This is something that I still think had the potential to be really cool, if I had just gotten a brain transplant from someone good at writing tightly-plotted action-driven farce. *g*
It's a Due South/Hard Core Logo/Angel crossover, and it was going to require me to a) watch the first season of Angel all the way through, and b) make a lot of tricky characterizations work. Neither of which I had done when I sat down and banged out a string of setup scenes, so, you know, caveat lector and *facepalm* and all that.
Hard Core Logo movie spoilers behind the cut, if there's anyone left in this corner of the internet who hasn't seen it or been spoiled for it. The fourth scene has appeared previously at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ds_flashfiction as Take the Gun.
Who the Hell?
He kept his eyes on the glass. It was a nice glass - he had nice things, these days. He’d taken it from the cupboard, with the bottle of whisky that he’d bought and placed beside it, and he’d poured the drink with hands that very nearly didn’t shake.
His eyes watered, but he didn’t blink, his gaze firmly on the glass, on the liquid inside. He’d bought whisky because it went like this, in a glass, which meant that there was an added step involved - it was just a little bit harder than twisting a top or popping a tab, and he’d hoped, when he bought it, that that might be enough to slow him down, the next time he needed a drink.
He really, really needed the fucking drink. He placed his hands flat on the counter, one on either side of the glass, and looked neither to the right nor the left, not toward the floor or the ceiling, not in front of him or behind. He looked at the drink.
His mouth watered. He could smell the whisky. He hadn’t even capped the bottle again, and it blocked the other smell that clung to his nose. He tried to breathe through his mouth, to save smelling anything at all. Then he picked up his hand, and reached across the counter to the phone, picked it up and hit redial. He only ever called the one number; everybody else called him.
There wasn’t even a single ring before Nina’s voice was in his ear. “Billy?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Do you need to move, then?”
He kept his eyes on the drink. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Well, it’s three in the morning and you’re calling me, so I’d say it’s a definite. Where are you now?”
“Kitchen. At the counter.”
“Kay. Is it still there?” Nina always said ‘it,’ of course, because Nina knew perfectly well that hallucinations did not have gender. Billy slipped up a lot.
He looked around, then, and even risked closing his eyes, with the drink poured and Nina on the phone, but he - it - was gone. “No. No, it’s gone now.”
“Okay. Did you pour yourself a drink?”
He swallowed, hard. He’d met Nina when Ed gave up and put him in rehab; she understood about the needing, and - thanks to group sessions - the rest of it, better than anybody. “Yeah.”
“Drink it?” Nina had been on her third try when Billy met her. There was no judgement in her voice; she just needed to know. It was her job to know.
“No.” He needed it, though. He really fucking needed it. “Not yet.”
“Kay, cool. Why don’t you take your glass out to the stoop, then?” He closed the fingers of his left hand around the glass and stepped sideways along the counter. “I’ll come over, and phone the movers. Got a new place lined up already.”
He stopped, and fought the urge to look back, because if he looked at the kitchen floor, the space in front of the refrigerator, then it was all over. “Where is it? Not Hollywood, you know I don’t–-”
“I know, Billy, I know. It’s not Hollywood. It’s just a couple blocks away, on the other side of your party store. Fourth floor this time, with a pretty nice view off the balcony.” Nina’s voice walked him out to the stoop, and he sat down and set his drink on the concrete beside him. It was sort of chilly, and he thought about the sweatshirt he’d left in the bedroom. He’d liked that bedroom.
“I’m out,” he said quietly.
“Good. I’m about a block and a half away.”
Billy ducked his head. “Nina, how much do I pay you?”
“Exactly as much as your lawyer and I think you should, Bill. You can’t give me a raise every time I do my job.”
“Yeah, but–-”
“Come on, Tallent, you were there when we did up the contract, and I know we made you read it. Under ‘Personal assistance as required, including but not limited to,’ the very first thing we put in was ‘moving house on short notice’. Practically the first thing I ever heard you say was how you ended up in rehab in the first place.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, and then he hung up, because Nina had turned the corner and was coming down the street. She tucked her cell away in her jacket pocket, and pulled out a pack of smokes, offering Billy one as she sat down beside him. He accepted the cigarette gratefully; his were inside, in the kitchen. She handed him the lighter, and he lit up and handed it back. “Thanks, anyway.”
***
They mostly just ran their mouths on nights like this, and then he mostly just sat back and let them. He was there to listen, after all.
“You know who we never hear from anymore?”
The question was directed more or less to him, so he grunted inquisitively before he reached for his drink.
“Vecchio. He was a pain in the ass for years, and now, nothing. It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth. I talk to my boys in Chicago, they say he’s just running around with that fruit partner of his, giving out parking tickets or something. Don’t add up.”
He was busy drinking, so somebody else piped up.
“Probably means he’s up to something.”
Mutters and grunts of agreement, so he joined in.
“Nobody could ever get to him, though.”
“Well,” said another one, thoughtfully, “you know, he always worked alone before - no strings, no sons, no brothers. Nothing. Now, though.”
Another picked it up. “That fruit partner of his. He might know something, and even if he doesn’t... how long he been working with Vecchio now, two, three years? He dies, Vecchio oughta get the message loud and clear.”
How many deaths had been planned like this, idly, over a plate of biscotti, cigars smoldering and drinks in hand? Not this one. Not on his watch.
“You should leave the Mountie out of it,” he said, quietly, but they all broke off from talking about who they ought to send to torture and/or kill Benny. “They’re tenacious. You kill one, trust me, you have to deal with more. And they’re Canadian, they got no respect, they don’t know when to quit.”
One shrugged, another looked like he wondered why he knew anything about Mounties. Shit. “So they’re tenacious. We’re tenacious, and we don’t wear bright red coats everywhere we go - you study your history, Armando, you’ll know who wins when it comes to that.”
He could not let this get out of his hands. Not Benny.
“Look,” he said, after he took another sip, keeping his voice cool, indifferent, “you wanna kick a hornet’s nest, go ahead, nothing to me. But if you wanna get rid of Vecchio? Get rid of Vecchio.”
Dismissive look, and Christ, but did they all have to remind him of his old man? “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Why didn’t anyone ever think of that before?”
He shrugged, didn’t rise to the bait. He was cool, he was the Bookman, he could do any fucking thing he had to. “I’ll do it myself. Next time Vecchio steps foot outside Chicago, it’ll be taken care of.”
***
Flashes and blurs and blinding light, but this vision was strangely quiet, and slow, once he filtered out the signal from the noise. Just a blond guy, on his knees near a concrete highway divider. His face was bruised, his hair sticking straight up, his shirt was sort of torn and hanging off him, and when someone shoved at him and he moved his arms to keep his balance, the tattoo on his bicep was suddenly all he could see: CHAMPION, framed in red and black.
Then everything sped up: something was taken from the man, leaving him a vacant-eyed shell, unresisting, remaining on his knees as chaos erupted around him, and everything went blood-colored, and then everything went dark.
Doyle cautiously opened his eyes to see Angel crouching over him. He opened his mouth to speak, but before any sound came out, another vision appeared - not the usual kind, just a stocky guy’s head and shoulders protruding suddenly from Angel’s chest. He brushed his shaggy mohawk back from his burning dark eyes with a silver-ringed hand, then planted his pointing finger nearly on Doyle’s nose. “You help him,” he growled. “You ever see that movie, Ghost?”
Doyle nodded slightly, transfixed - he had, actually, Harry had liked it, but he suspected he might have agreed to anything this ferocious apparition said.
“Well I haven’t, because I’m not a fucking pussy, but that guy has got nothing on me, and I will make you wish you were dead if you don’t help Billy, you got me?”
Doyle nodded again, even though it made his head feel like it was going to come off, which might be a mercy - though if he were dead, this crazy bastard would probably just find it easier to harass him. He pushed his spectral finger right through Doyle’s nose, which gave him a slightly cold feeling and magnified his headache with a strange buzzing sensation, vibrating in his teeth. “I’ll be watching. You fucking help him or else.”
And then he was staring up at Angel’s worried face, and before the Champion could ask him what the hell he’d just seen, he rolled onto his side and vomited on the floor.
***
The lieutenant called them into his office, late in the afternoon on a Thursday, when Ray’s paper shuffling and Detective Dewey’s fidgeting were on the verge of devolving into a game of wastebin-basketball. Fraser pulled the door to, and Ray dropped into a chair with his usual sprawl, slowly straightening up as the lieutenant settled himself behind the desk with an unusually quiet and solemn air. Fraser cautiously took a seat beside Ray, and the lieutenant nodded approval before he shuffled some papers and cleared his throat.
“It’s the Feds, detective,” he said, dropping all attempt to refer to Ray by a surname. “Apparently the cover is getting shaky, and they want you out of sight - out of Chicago - for a little while.”
Fraser hazarded a glance at Ray, who folded his arms and sat up slightly straighter. “Yeah?” he said, in a flip tone that denied the palpable seriousness of the meeting, “Maybe I should go do that weekend in Vegas I been thinking about?”
Welsh frowned quellingly, and pulled out an envelope from the papers before him, pushing it across the desk toward Ray. “You’re going to Los Angeles, detective. Here’s your plane tickets, and hotel and rental car reservations. Feds are paying for everything, even threw in a nice per diem for you.”
Ray sat still a moment longer, then reached forward with one hand, moving only his arm, as though he wanted to involve as little of his body as possible in taking the envelope. He held it in his lap, and didn’t look at it.
“Now,” Welsh said, sitting back and looking from Ray to Fraser with a slightly less grim air, “they wanted you to just go quietly, thought it was safer if nobody knew where you went or even that you were out of town.” Ray snorted, and the lieutenant nodded approvingly. “But I figure, you go on a vacation, you want some company. So I talked to Inspector Thatcher, and we got things fixed up for the Constable here to tag along with you, and of course you guys will be free to mention the nice California vacation you’re going on, although you might want to leave out the part about who’s paying for it.” The lieutenant held out a slimmer envelope to Fraser, and he leaned forward to accept it immediately; it held airline tickets, departing for Los Angeles International from Chicago O’Hare on Friday, returning Sunday. Presumably, he would share hotel accommodations and the rental car with Ray. “Sorry, Constable, I’m afraid your government didn’t pony up a per diem.”
Fraser waved his hand. “It’s quite all right, Lieutenant.”
Welsh nodded agreeably. “I figured you’d be understanding. I did manage to arrange a little going away present for you. I talked to the commander, and Inspector Thatcher talked to Ottawa, and we managed to fix up all the paperwork.” He handed Fraser a considerably thicker folder, which he again accepted immediately.
Fraser flipped it open, to discover that the top sheet was a permit to carry a concealed firearm. Flipping through the sheets beneath, he determined that he had been granted this permission due to his newly-official status as a deputized member of the Chicago Police Department. “Sir?” he said, hesitantly, as Ray stole a look at the pages and then shifted back into his own seat, his expression inscrutable.
Judging by the assortment of faxed documents in the folder, it was clear a number of people had gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange the permit, and he understood that he was being sent along with Ray because he might be in danger, so a gun might well be useful. On the other hand, he’d been operating without one for years now, and even in Canada he’d rarely used his revolver - ingenuity, patience, the odd hunting knife, and the inestimable weapon that was an RCMP uniform among people who knew the difference between a Mountie and a Beefeater, those had been his standard armament. A gun seemed crude, to say nothing of unnecessarily dangerous, by comparison.
On the gripping hand, the fact that he was permitted to carry a weapon didn’t mean he was required to do so. “Thank you, sir,” he finally said, to his and Ray’s intent stares.
“Yeah,” Welsh muttered, with a significant glance in Ray’s direction, “Wear it in good health, Constable.”
Ray nodded a little, frowning first at Fraser, and then, when he tried to catch Ray’s eye, at the floor.
“You guys take the rest of the day, go home and pack. You’re flying out tomorrow afternoon. Feds had you booked on the red-eye tonight, but when we went to book Fraser’s seat we had to switch you to a later plane.”
Ray nodded again, apparently satisfied, and stood. “Come on, Fraser,” he said, very quietly, and Fraser followed him out of the office. He went to his desk, put a few things away, and picked up his coat. “All right, Fraser, pitter patter,” he said, a shade more loudly than necessary, to the room at large, “Let’s get out of here before Welsh changes his mind about our leave.”
“Leave?” Dewey repeated, incredulous. “Where you going?”
Ray grinned suddenly, so brightly that Fraser could almost believe he was excited about the trip. “Sunny California.” He shook out his parka, in preparation for the walk to the car, and smirked. “Come on Fraser, we gotta pack.”
Dewey smirked back, and the expression was significantly less attractive on his face than on Ray’s. “California, huh? You guys going to San Francisco to hang out with some of your pals? Maybe catching a connecter to Hawaii?”
Ray’s smile turned suddenly hard-edged, and his hand on his parka, out of everyone’s sight but Fraser’s, went white-knuckled. Fraser could easily read the taunt in Dewey’s voice, though he had no idea why a mere suggestion of destinations could insinuate so much. “We’re going to LA,” Ray snapped, “because it’s fucking cold in Chicago in November, and the Mountie may not know any better, but I wanna be warm sometime before the spring thaw.”
Dewey snorted knowingly, and Huey shook his head but kept his eyes down on his desk. Ray deliberately loosened his grip on his coat, but his fist clenched again as soon as he began to walk toward the door. Fraser, with a beckoning hand signal to Dief, followed him.
They were in the vestibule, Ray shrugging into his coat and glaring out at the uniformly bright grey sky, when Fraser said, carefully, “Ray, I’m not sure I understand–-”
Ray shot him a sharp look and stepped out into the parking lot, Dief dashing ahead through the snow, leaving Fraser nothing to do but follow. Ray said nothing until they were in the car, and then he settled into his seat with a sigh. When he spoke, he directed his words to the dashboard. “He was saying we’re gay, Fraser. San Francisco is the gay capital of America, and in Hawaii we could get married, it’s legal there. Dewey thinks it’s funny to say we’re boyfriends.”
Fraser stared out the window at the gray snow and the other cars, trying to work out the correct response to this pronouncement, and Ray added, almost meditatively, “Dumb fuck.”
Fraser looked over at him then; Ray was glaring at the steering wheel, keys in hand. He was starting to shiver, but didn’t start the car. “Ray, perhaps I should say something to him.”
Ray shook his head quickly, violently. “No, Fraser, you don’t say anything to guys like that, that just makes it worse.”
Fraser winced; Ray made that assertion in an uncomfortably certain tone. “Still, Ray, as a police officer - if your colleagues were to believe you to be homosexual, you might well face serious problems.”
Ray finally looked up from the steering wheel, meeting Fraser’s eyes for the first time since they’d been called into the Lieutenant’s office. “Look, Fraser, it doesn’t matter. They’ll think what they think, and I don’t care if the entire Chicago P.D. thinks I’m a fag, as long as I got you watching my back.”
Fraser was momentarily stricken speechless, and then he said, “Understood, Ray.”
Ray nodded, and turned to face forward again, starting the car and turning up the heater. “We’re gonna go back to my place,” he announced. “And we’re gonna eat some pizza, and we’re gonna watch a movie.” Ray made no sign of seeking confirmation of this plan, and Fraser remained quiet as Ray drove, using his cell phone to order a pizza.
“And I’m picking it up, Sandor, so you tell Tony if there’s no pineapple he’s gonna get it, right in the head.”
When they arrived at the apartment, Ray shooed Fraser into the living room with the pizza, and went to the refrigerator, coming to sit beside him with a beer in each hand. When he held one out to Fraser, he chose not to argue, accepting it and twisting off the cap to show good faith. Ray nodded, took a swig of his own beer, and went over to the shelf of cassettes, where he dug through the collection until he found what he was looking for. He tossed the cardboard sleeve on the coffee table as he set up the VCR to play, and Fraser picked it up.
It showed the face of a slightly battered action hero and a high-rise building in flames, but when Ray took his seat on the couch beside Fraser, it was with the grim implacability of a Depot instructor with an educational hygiene filmstrip. Fraser took a fortifying sip of his beer and settled in to watch.
Perhaps it was the way Ray did not relax, but continued to sit bolt upright, staring intently at the screen, his body language all but screaming at Fraser to pay attention, but it was hard not to connect his partner with the hero. From the moment he said he was a cop, and through the scenes of a disintegrating marriage, Fraser found himself equating the character McClane with Ray. He felt himself becoming emotionally invested in his heartache and the dangerous situation he inevitably found himself plunged into, even though he knew for a fact that the nature of American popular cinema was such that both would be happily resolved by the end of the film.
He was taken a little bit by surprise at the introduction of another character, one who did not equate to Ray or to Stella, an ally for McClane. A man who called McClane “partner” even though there was little he could do to help him, who supported him in every way he could even when his assistance was inadequate. He was mesmerized by the film then, utterly drawn in. When, near the end, McClane’s partner drew his gun, Fraser knew exactly why Ray had shown him the movie. Ray went on watching intently until McClane and his wife were safely in their car, and then turned to face Fraser, ignoring the romantic moment which was, perhaps, a painful reminder of the fact that his own marriage had not benefitted from the intervention of Hollywood screenwriters. He seemed to be searching for words, and Fraser said quietly, “I understand, Ray. I will pick up ammunition for my service weapon tomorrow morning. Do you think I’ll require a backup?”
Ray’s mouth went tight, but he nodded. “Something with a clip, we should be able to requisition a gun. I’ll get us range time in the morning, give you a call when I’ve got it sorted.”
Fraser nodded. “That sounds good, Ray.” He hesitated, and glanced at the screen, where the credits were rolling. “Ray,” he said, searching for a way to say what he needed to say.
But Ray already knew. Ray had chosen the film, had known what it would make Fraser see. “Understood, Fraser. Partners, right? Partners and friends.” Fraser could only nod, and Ray nodded firmly back. “Come on, then, I’ll drive you home.”
So what Billy saw was Joe's ghost, trying to warn him--but when Billy sees Joe, all he sees is Joe as he last saw him: dead on a sidewalk with his brains blown out. This is why Billy moves each time (and wound up in rehab when he was moving from hotel room to hotel room every day or more often, before Joe gave up on getting in touch for a while). For Joe's part, when he tries to look at Billy all he sees is Billy walking away. What we have here is a failure to communicate.
So: in Angel there is a demon, based in Vegas, who buys souls. He flies out to LA on the same flight as Armando, each of them after a tattooed blond with experimental hair. Billy sold his soul (but he sold it for Hard Core Logo and Jenifur, he sold it for the whole package, not this--but he didn't stipulate how long he got to keep both, so that's that) and the demon is coming to collect; Armando's coming to bump off his replacement to keep the heat off his partner. Angel, Doyle, and Cordelia are running around trying to protect some blond guy, but they aren't sure which. Wacky hijinks ensue (including: Fraser and Angel meeting up in a dark alley when they converge on the same damsel in distress; Joe showing up in Fraser and Ray's hotel room to stare at Ray, because it's almost like being able to see Billy's face again; Fraser siccing ghost!Bob on ghost!Joe; a Billy/RayK kiss; a mistaken Fraser/Billy kiss; and Fraser shooting Vecchio to keep him from doing something he'd only regret.)
In the end, they do get caught on the freeway by the demon and his gang, and though Ray is all for him and Billy continuing to obfuscate which one is which until someone thinks of something (or Angel shows up--damn daylight anyway), Billy tips Fraser a nod and steps forward, and Fraser catches Ray and holds him back. They shove Billy onto his knees and get ready to take his soul, and if you have Fraser's eyes you might see a glimmer, hard to distinguish in the bright light--if you're Billy maybe it seems like you're kneeling in a pool of blood--
And then Billy smiles, and then his face goes slack, vacant. The demon's taken his soul, and Nina demands to get it in writing that this ends their rights to anything from Mr. Tallent, while Billy slumps to the ground, cataonic, and Fraser and Ray hover over him. And once the demon is gone, Billy's eyes pop open and he smiles again.
The demon took Joe, who threw his soul between Billy's and danger in the end--letting Billy know, in the process, that it had been him who instigated half this mess--the whole Vecchio angle--to try to create enough confusion that some other poor bastard would get his soul sucked instead of Billy. Nobody messes with Billy on Joe Dick's watch, even if he did sell out more literally and completely than Joe could have imagined while he was alive.
They go back to Angel's, and Angel is able to offer them a procedure for freeing a trapped soul which entails being able to destroy the body--so Ray and Fraser go up to Canada to help Billy with a spot of grave-robbing and corpse-burning. (Ray: "Fraser, are you doing this just so you can set the guy who almost got Vecchio to kill me on fire?" Fraser: "..." Ray: "That's kind of sweet.")
And then they, um, all live happily ever after. Yes.
This is something that I still think had the potential to be really cool, if I had just gotten a brain transplant from someone good at writing tightly-plotted action-driven farce. *g*
It's a Due South/Hard Core Logo/Angel crossover, and it was going to require me to a) watch the first season of Angel all the way through, and b) make a lot of tricky characterizations work. Neither of which I had done when I sat down and banged out a string of setup scenes, so, you know, caveat lector and *facepalm* and all that.
Hard Core Logo movie spoilers behind the cut, if there's anyone left in this corner of the internet who hasn't seen it or been spoiled for it. The fourth scene has appeared previously at
ds_flashfiction as Take the Gun.Who the Hell?
He kept his eyes on the glass. It was a nice glass - he had nice things, these days. He’d taken it from the cupboard, with the bottle of whisky that he’d bought and placed beside it, and he’d poured the drink with hands that very nearly didn’t shake.
His eyes watered, but he didn’t blink, his gaze firmly on the glass, on the liquid inside. He’d bought whisky because it went like this, in a glass, which meant that there was an added step involved - it was just a little bit harder than twisting a top or popping a tab, and he’d hoped, when he bought it, that that might be enough to slow him down, the next time he needed a drink.
He really, really needed the fucking drink. He placed his hands flat on the counter, one on either side of the glass, and looked neither to the right nor the left, not toward the floor or the ceiling, not in front of him or behind. He looked at the drink.
His mouth watered. He could smell the whisky. He hadn’t even capped the bottle again, and it blocked the other smell that clung to his nose. He tried to breathe through his mouth, to save smelling anything at all. Then he picked up his hand, and reached across the counter to the phone, picked it up and hit redial. He only ever called the one number; everybody else called him.
There wasn’t even a single ring before Nina’s voice was in his ear. “Billy?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Do you need to move, then?”
He kept his eyes on the drink. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Well, it’s three in the morning and you’re calling me, so I’d say it’s a definite. Where are you now?”
“Kitchen. At the counter.”
“Kay. Is it still there?” Nina always said ‘it,’ of course, because Nina knew perfectly well that hallucinations did not have gender. Billy slipped up a lot.
He looked around, then, and even risked closing his eyes, with the drink poured and Nina on the phone, but he - it - was gone. “No. No, it’s gone now.”
“Okay. Did you pour yourself a drink?”
He swallowed, hard. He’d met Nina when Ed gave up and put him in rehab; she understood about the needing, and - thanks to group sessions - the rest of it, better than anybody. “Yeah.”
“Drink it?” Nina had been on her third try when Billy met her. There was no judgement in her voice; she just needed to know. It was her job to know.
“No.” He needed it, though. He really fucking needed it. “Not yet.”
“Kay, cool. Why don’t you take your glass out to the stoop, then?” He closed the fingers of his left hand around the glass and stepped sideways along the counter. “I’ll come over, and phone the movers. Got a new place lined up already.”
He stopped, and fought the urge to look back, because if he looked at the kitchen floor, the space in front of the refrigerator, then it was all over. “Where is it? Not Hollywood, you know I don’t–-”
“I know, Billy, I know. It’s not Hollywood. It’s just a couple blocks away, on the other side of your party store. Fourth floor this time, with a pretty nice view off the balcony.” Nina’s voice walked him out to the stoop, and he sat down and set his drink on the concrete beside him. It was sort of chilly, and he thought about the sweatshirt he’d left in the bedroom. He’d liked that bedroom.
“I’m out,” he said quietly.
“Good. I’m about a block and a half away.”
Billy ducked his head. “Nina, how much do I pay you?”
“Exactly as much as your lawyer and I think you should, Bill. You can’t give me a raise every time I do my job.”
“Yeah, but–-”
“Come on, Tallent, you were there when we did up the contract, and I know we made you read it. Under ‘Personal assistance as required, including but not limited to,’ the very first thing we put in was ‘moving house on short notice’. Practically the first thing I ever heard you say was how you ended up in rehab in the first place.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, and then he hung up, because Nina had turned the corner and was coming down the street. She tucked her cell away in her jacket pocket, and pulled out a pack of smokes, offering Billy one as she sat down beside him. He accepted the cigarette gratefully; his were inside, in the kitchen. She handed him the lighter, and he lit up and handed it back. “Thanks, anyway.”
***
They mostly just ran their mouths on nights like this, and then he mostly just sat back and let them. He was there to listen, after all.
“You know who we never hear from anymore?”
The question was directed more or less to him, so he grunted inquisitively before he reached for his drink.
“Vecchio. He was a pain in the ass for years, and now, nothing. It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth. I talk to my boys in Chicago, they say he’s just running around with that fruit partner of his, giving out parking tickets or something. Don’t add up.”
He was busy drinking, so somebody else piped up.
“Probably means he’s up to something.”
Mutters and grunts of agreement, so he joined in.
“Nobody could ever get to him, though.”
“Well,” said another one, thoughtfully, “you know, he always worked alone before - no strings, no sons, no brothers. Nothing. Now, though.”
Another picked it up. “That fruit partner of his. He might know something, and even if he doesn’t... how long he been working with Vecchio now, two, three years? He dies, Vecchio oughta get the message loud and clear.”
How many deaths had been planned like this, idly, over a plate of biscotti, cigars smoldering and drinks in hand? Not this one. Not on his watch.
“You should leave the Mountie out of it,” he said, quietly, but they all broke off from talking about who they ought to send to torture and/or kill Benny. “They’re tenacious. You kill one, trust me, you have to deal with more. And they’re Canadian, they got no respect, they don’t know when to quit.”
One shrugged, another looked like he wondered why he knew anything about Mounties. Shit. “So they’re tenacious. We’re tenacious, and we don’t wear bright red coats everywhere we go - you study your history, Armando, you’ll know who wins when it comes to that.”
He could not let this get out of his hands. Not Benny.
“Look,” he said, after he took another sip, keeping his voice cool, indifferent, “you wanna kick a hornet’s nest, go ahead, nothing to me. But if you wanna get rid of Vecchio? Get rid of Vecchio.”
Dismissive look, and Christ, but did they all have to remind him of his old man? “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Why didn’t anyone ever think of that before?”
He shrugged, didn’t rise to the bait. He was cool, he was the Bookman, he could do any fucking thing he had to. “I’ll do it myself. Next time Vecchio steps foot outside Chicago, it’ll be taken care of.”
***
Flashes and blurs and blinding light, but this vision was strangely quiet, and slow, once he filtered out the signal from the noise. Just a blond guy, on his knees near a concrete highway divider. His face was bruised, his hair sticking straight up, his shirt was sort of torn and hanging off him, and when someone shoved at him and he moved his arms to keep his balance, the tattoo on his bicep was suddenly all he could see: CHAMPION, framed in red and black.
Then everything sped up: something was taken from the man, leaving him a vacant-eyed shell, unresisting, remaining on his knees as chaos erupted around him, and everything went blood-colored, and then everything went dark.
Doyle cautiously opened his eyes to see Angel crouching over him. He opened his mouth to speak, but before any sound came out, another vision appeared - not the usual kind, just a stocky guy’s head and shoulders protruding suddenly from Angel’s chest. He brushed his shaggy mohawk back from his burning dark eyes with a silver-ringed hand, then planted his pointing finger nearly on Doyle’s nose. “You help him,” he growled. “You ever see that movie, Ghost?”
Doyle nodded slightly, transfixed - he had, actually, Harry had liked it, but he suspected he might have agreed to anything this ferocious apparition said.
“Well I haven’t, because I’m not a fucking pussy, but that guy has got nothing on me, and I will make you wish you were dead if you don’t help Billy, you got me?”
Doyle nodded again, even though it made his head feel like it was going to come off, which might be a mercy - though if he were dead, this crazy bastard would probably just find it easier to harass him. He pushed his spectral finger right through Doyle’s nose, which gave him a slightly cold feeling and magnified his headache with a strange buzzing sensation, vibrating in his teeth. “I’ll be watching. You fucking help him or else.”
And then he was staring up at Angel’s worried face, and before the Champion could ask him what the hell he’d just seen, he rolled onto his side and vomited on the floor.
***
The lieutenant called them into his office, late in the afternoon on a Thursday, when Ray’s paper shuffling and Detective Dewey’s fidgeting were on the verge of devolving into a game of wastebin-basketball. Fraser pulled the door to, and Ray dropped into a chair with his usual sprawl, slowly straightening up as the lieutenant settled himself behind the desk with an unusually quiet and solemn air. Fraser cautiously took a seat beside Ray, and the lieutenant nodded approval before he shuffled some papers and cleared his throat.
“It’s the Feds, detective,” he said, dropping all attempt to refer to Ray by a surname. “Apparently the cover is getting shaky, and they want you out of sight - out of Chicago - for a little while.”
Fraser hazarded a glance at Ray, who folded his arms and sat up slightly straighter. “Yeah?” he said, in a flip tone that denied the palpable seriousness of the meeting, “Maybe I should go do that weekend in Vegas I been thinking about?”
Welsh frowned quellingly, and pulled out an envelope from the papers before him, pushing it across the desk toward Ray. “You’re going to Los Angeles, detective. Here’s your plane tickets, and hotel and rental car reservations. Feds are paying for everything, even threw in a nice per diem for you.”
Ray sat still a moment longer, then reached forward with one hand, moving only his arm, as though he wanted to involve as little of his body as possible in taking the envelope. He held it in his lap, and didn’t look at it.
“Now,” Welsh said, sitting back and looking from Ray to Fraser with a slightly less grim air, “they wanted you to just go quietly, thought it was safer if nobody knew where you went or even that you were out of town.” Ray snorted, and the lieutenant nodded approvingly. “But I figure, you go on a vacation, you want some company. So I talked to Inspector Thatcher, and we got things fixed up for the Constable here to tag along with you, and of course you guys will be free to mention the nice California vacation you’re going on, although you might want to leave out the part about who’s paying for it.” The lieutenant held out a slimmer envelope to Fraser, and he leaned forward to accept it immediately; it held airline tickets, departing for Los Angeles International from Chicago O’Hare on Friday, returning Sunday. Presumably, he would share hotel accommodations and the rental car with Ray. “Sorry, Constable, I’m afraid your government didn’t pony up a per diem.”
Fraser waved his hand. “It’s quite all right, Lieutenant.”
Welsh nodded agreeably. “I figured you’d be understanding. I did manage to arrange a little going away present for you. I talked to the commander, and Inspector Thatcher talked to Ottawa, and we managed to fix up all the paperwork.” He handed Fraser a considerably thicker folder, which he again accepted immediately.
Fraser flipped it open, to discover that the top sheet was a permit to carry a concealed firearm. Flipping through the sheets beneath, he determined that he had been granted this permission due to his newly-official status as a deputized member of the Chicago Police Department. “Sir?” he said, hesitantly, as Ray stole a look at the pages and then shifted back into his own seat, his expression inscrutable.
Judging by the assortment of faxed documents in the folder, it was clear a number of people had gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange the permit, and he understood that he was being sent along with Ray because he might be in danger, so a gun might well be useful. On the other hand, he’d been operating without one for years now, and even in Canada he’d rarely used his revolver - ingenuity, patience, the odd hunting knife, and the inestimable weapon that was an RCMP uniform among people who knew the difference between a Mountie and a Beefeater, those had been his standard armament. A gun seemed crude, to say nothing of unnecessarily dangerous, by comparison.
On the gripping hand, the fact that he was permitted to carry a weapon didn’t mean he was required to do so. “Thank you, sir,” he finally said, to his and Ray’s intent stares.
“Yeah,” Welsh muttered, with a significant glance in Ray’s direction, “Wear it in good health, Constable.”
Ray nodded a little, frowning first at Fraser, and then, when he tried to catch Ray’s eye, at the floor.
“You guys take the rest of the day, go home and pack. You’re flying out tomorrow afternoon. Feds had you booked on the red-eye tonight, but when we went to book Fraser’s seat we had to switch you to a later plane.”
Ray nodded again, apparently satisfied, and stood. “Come on, Fraser,” he said, very quietly, and Fraser followed him out of the office. He went to his desk, put a few things away, and picked up his coat. “All right, Fraser, pitter patter,” he said, a shade more loudly than necessary, to the room at large, “Let’s get out of here before Welsh changes his mind about our leave.”
“Leave?” Dewey repeated, incredulous. “Where you going?”
Ray grinned suddenly, so brightly that Fraser could almost believe he was excited about the trip. “Sunny California.” He shook out his parka, in preparation for the walk to the car, and smirked. “Come on Fraser, we gotta pack.”
Dewey smirked back, and the expression was significantly less attractive on his face than on Ray’s. “California, huh? You guys going to San Francisco to hang out with some of your pals? Maybe catching a connecter to Hawaii?”
Ray’s smile turned suddenly hard-edged, and his hand on his parka, out of everyone’s sight but Fraser’s, went white-knuckled. Fraser could easily read the taunt in Dewey’s voice, though he had no idea why a mere suggestion of destinations could insinuate so much. “We’re going to LA,” Ray snapped, “because it’s fucking cold in Chicago in November, and the Mountie may not know any better, but I wanna be warm sometime before the spring thaw.”
Dewey snorted knowingly, and Huey shook his head but kept his eyes down on his desk. Ray deliberately loosened his grip on his coat, but his fist clenched again as soon as he began to walk toward the door. Fraser, with a beckoning hand signal to Dief, followed him.
They were in the vestibule, Ray shrugging into his coat and glaring out at the uniformly bright grey sky, when Fraser said, carefully, “Ray, I’m not sure I understand–-”
Ray shot him a sharp look and stepped out into the parking lot, Dief dashing ahead through the snow, leaving Fraser nothing to do but follow. Ray said nothing until they were in the car, and then he settled into his seat with a sigh. When he spoke, he directed his words to the dashboard. “He was saying we’re gay, Fraser. San Francisco is the gay capital of America, and in Hawaii we could get married, it’s legal there. Dewey thinks it’s funny to say we’re boyfriends.”
Fraser stared out the window at the gray snow and the other cars, trying to work out the correct response to this pronouncement, and Ray added, almost meditatively, “Dumb fuck.”
Fraser looked over at him then; Ray was glaring at the steering wheel, keys in hand. He was starting to shiver, but didn’t start the car. “Ray, perhaps I should say something to him.”
Ray shook his head quickly, violently. “No, Fraser, you don’t say anything to guys like that, that just makes it worse.”
Fraser winced; Ray made that assertion in an uncomfortably certain tone. “Still, Ray, as a police officer - if your colleagues were to believe you to be homosexual, you might well face serious problems.”
Ray finally looked up from the steering wheel, meeting Fraser’s eyes for the first time since they’d been called into the Lieutenant’s office. “Look, Fraser, it doesn’t matter. They’ll think what they think, and I don’t care if the entire Chicago P.D. thinks I’m a fag, as long as I got you watching my back.”
Fraser was momentarily stricken speechless, and then he said, “Understood, Ray.”
Ray nodded, and turned to face forward again, starting the car and turning up the heater. “We’re gonna go back to my place,” he announced. “And we’re gonna eat some pizza, and we’re gonna watch a movie.” Ray made no sign of seeking confirmation of this plan, and Fraser remained quiet as Ray drove, using his cell phone to order a pizza.
“And I’m picking it up, Sandor, so you tell Tony if there’s no pineapple he’s gonna get it, right in the head.”
When they arrived at the apartment, Ray shooed Fraser into the living room with the pizza, and went to the refrigerator, coming to sit beside him with a beer in each hand. When he held one out to Fraser, he chose not to argue, accepting it and twisting off the cap to show good faith. Ray nodded, took a swig of his own beer, and went over to the shelf of cassettes, where he dug through the collection until he found what he was looking for. He tossed the cardboard sleeve on the coffee table as he set up the VCR to play, and Fraser picked it up.
It showed the face of a slightly battered action hero and a high-rise building in flames, but when Ray took his seat on the couch beside Fraser, it was with the grim implacability of a Depot instructor with an educational hygiene filmstrip. Fraser took a fortifying sip of his beer and settled in to watch.
Perhaps it was the way Ray did not relax, but continued to sit bolt upright, staring intently at the screen, his body language all but screaming at Fraser to pay attention, but it was hard not to connect his partner with the hero. From the moment he said he was a cop, and through the scenes of a disintegrating marriage, Fraser found himself equating the character McClane with Ray. He felt himself becoming emotionally invested in his heartache and the dangerous situation he inevitably found himself plunged into, even though he knew for a fact that the nature of American popular cinema was such that both would be happily resolved by the end of the film.
He was taken a little bit by surprise at the introduction of another character, one who did not equate to Ray or to Stella, an ally for McClane. A man who called McClane “partner” even though there was little he could do to help him, who supported him in every way he could even when his assistance was inadequate. He was mesmerized by the film then, utterly drawn in. When, near the end, McClane’s partner drew his gun, Fraser knew exactly why Ray had shown him the movie. Ray went on watching intently until McClane and his wife were safely in their car, and then turned to face Fraser, ignoring the romantic moment which was, perhaps, a painful reminder of the fact that his own marriage had not benefitted from the intervention of Hollywood screenwriters. He seemed to be searching for words, and Fraser said quietly, “I understand, Ray. I will pick up ammunition for my service weapon tomorrow morning. Do you think I’ll require a backup?”
Ray’s mouth went tight, but he nodded. “Something with a clip, we should be able to requisition a gun. I’ll get us range time in the morning, give you a call when I’ve got it sorted.”
Fraser nodded. “That sounds good, Ray.” He hesitated, and glanced at the screen, where the credits were rolling. “Ray,” he said, searching for a way to say what he needed to say.
But Ray already knew. Ray had chosen the film, had known what it would make Fraser see. “Understood, Fraser. Partners, right? Partners and friends.” Fraser could only nod, and Ray nodded firmly back. “Come on, then, I’ll drive you home.”
So what Billy saw was Joe's ghost, trying to warn him--but when Billy sees Joe, all he sees is Joe as he last saw him: dead on a sidewalk with his brains blown out. This is why Billy moves each time (and wound up in rehab when he was moving from hotel room to hotel room every day or more often, before Joe gave up on getting in touch for a while). For Joe's part, when he tries to look at Billy all he sees is Billy walking away. What we have here is a failure to communicate.
So: in Angel there is a demon, based in Vegas, who buys souls. He flies out to LA on the same flight as Armando, each of them after a tattooed blond with experimental hair. Billy sold his soul (but he sold it for Hard Core Logo and Jenifur, he sold it for the whole package, not this--but he didn't stipulate how long he got to keep both, so that's that) and the demon is coming to collect; Armando's coming to bump off his replacement to keep the heat off his partner. Angel, Doyle, and Cordelia are running around trying to protect some blond guy, but they aren't sure which. Wacky hijinks ensue (including: Fraser and Angel meeting up in a dark alley when they converge on the same damsel in distress; Joe showing up in Fraser and Ray's hotel room to stare at Ray, because it's almost like being able to see Billy's face again; Fraser siccing ghost!Bob on ghost!Joe; a Billy/RayK kiss; a mistaken Fraser/Billy kiss; and Fraser shooting Vecchio to keep him from doing something he'd only regret.)
In the end, they do get caught on the freeway by the demon and his gang, and though Ray is all for him and Billy continuing to obfuscate which one is which until someone thinks of something (or Angel shows up--damn daylight anyway), Billy tips Fraser a nod and steps forward, and Fraser catches Ray and holds him back. They shove Billy onto his knees and get ready to take his soul, and if you have Fraser's eyes you might see a glimmer, hard to distinguish in the bright light--if you're Billy maybe it seems like you're kneeling in a pool of blood--
And then Billy smiles, and then his face goes slack, vacant. The demon's taken his soul, and Nina demands to get it in writing that this ends their rights to anything from Mr. Tallent, while Billy slumps to the ground, cataonic, and Fraser and Ray hover over him. And once the demon is gone, Billy's eyes pop open and he smiles again.
The demon took Joe, who threw his soul between Billy's and danger in the end--letting Billy know, in the process, that it had been him who instigated half this mess--the whole Vecchio angle--to try to create enough confusion that some other poor bastard would get his soul sucked instead of Billy. Nobody messes with Billy on Joe Dick's watch, even if he did sell out more literally and completely than Joe could have imagined while he was alive.
They go back to Angel's, and Angel is able to offer them a procedure for freeing a trapped soul which entails being able to destroy the body--so Ray and Fraser go up to Canada to help Billy with a spot of grave-robbing and corpse-burning. (Ray: "Fraser, are you doing this just so you can set the guy who almost got Vecchio to kill me on fire?" Fraser: "..." Ray: "That's kind of sweet.")
And then they, um, all live happily ever after. Yes.