Adrian listened disinterestedly as Lieutenant Welsh filled him in on his latest case. For the most part, it was a fairly standard B & E--young punks taking advantage of little old ladies. This particular old lady, however, had friends in high places and as a result, Ray was being ordered to investigate the loss of her garden gnomes and bibelots. This was just the kind of case that Fraser wet his pants over; helping those who cannot help themselves. Adrian much preferred to find those who helped themselves to other people's property and help them right over a bridge, but who really cared what Adrian wanted?

"Vecchio?"

The somewhat aggravated tone of Welsh's voice told Adrian that the meeting was over, so he gathered up what information the Lieutenant had for him and exited, figuring he had a good hour before he needed to fetch SuperMountie and hit the streets, trolling for crackheads trying to hock plaster garden décor.

"Hey, Ray!" Francesca called out, waving her hands as though her voice wasn't enough to garner her pseudo-brother's attention.

"Yeah?" Adrian growled, piling the new information on top of old stuff on his desk. A waft of sticky-sweet perfume foreshadowed Francesca's arrival at his side, making Adrian's eyes water.

"So... Is Fraser helping you out today?"

Adrian let his eyes roll upwards, silently begging the heavens' forgiveness for wanting to murder this woman. "Maybe, and I'll be sure to let him know you're still panting after him. Go back to work, Frannie. I don't have time for this shit."

Francesca was still stomping her feet when Adrian walked out of the precinct.

Another day of Fraser. This case didn't really require Fraser's special liaising skills, but Adrian wanted to see the man again. Yeah, he wanted to be around Fraser, in the same way a neurotic picked at sores and bit already torn-up fingernails. Compulsion. Wake up, go to work, stand in Fraser's aura, go home, jack off, hate yourself. Wash, rinse, repeat. *sigh*

•••

"Good afternoon, Ray," Fraser said, voice mellifluous in the midday haze. Diefenbaker cocked his head to one side in greeting, tail swinging lazily like a flag in a spring breeze. SuperMountie's casual presence outside the Consulate indicated that either there was absolutely nothing to do inside or, more likely, there was someone well worth doing inside of it and the Ice Queen didn't want Fraser around to witness the action. The thought of Inspector Thatcher stalking prey in the Consulate made Adrian nauseous. Fraser had to sleep there, damn it. He had the sudden urge to buy Fraser a bottle of Lysol.

"Yeah, you too, Frase. Come on, Welsh gave us one hot case today. A real nail biter," Adrian replied, opening the passenger side door so that Dief could jump in the back and curl up on the towel he'd put back there for the half-wolf. Once Fraser was safely buckled in, Adrian pulled back into traffic and fought his way into place. Lunch hour just sucked sometimes.

"So..." Fraser began, carefully holding his Stetson, "what are the details of this case, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

Adrian snickered. "Garden gnomes." He could practically feel Fraser frowning.

"Garden gnomes? As in the diminutive, mythical creatures that inhabit traditional English gardens?" Fraser inquired, "Or perhaps you're referring to the plastic, plaster or wooden statuary often utilized in the decoration of front and back yards in many urban and suburban neighborhoods?"

Adrian let himself laugh at Fraser's question. "I'm going with the plaster kind, Frase. Coz you know, if it was the first thing you said, the Feds would be all over it in a heartbeat. We wouldn't get within ten miles of this case."

"Oh?" Fraser murmured. "They take a vested interest in protecting the safety and freedom of the denizens of Faerie?"

"Nah," Adrian said, shaking his head. "They're kinda possessive of abduction cases, and unless our thieves killed the gnomes before crossing state lines, it'd be their case."

Fraser frowned gravely. "Then it would behoove us to locate the gnomes and apprehend the culprits as soon as possible, just on the off chance that they are of the mischief-causing variety and not made of plaster."

"Just what I was thinking," Adrian replied, his voice equally serious.

"I gather that there is a...political aspect to your receipt of this assignment?" Fraser asked carefully.

"If you're trying to ask if the old lady's got pull, she does. Wanted nothing but the best to get her 'dollies' back, and see those 'horrid thugs' brought to justice," Adrian confirmed. "And you and me, buddy, we're the men for the job. Chicago's finest gnome locators and bringers-to-justice of all people thuggish and horrid." Adrian paused for a moment, thinking. "I swear, Fraser, sometimes I feel like one of those coppers on TV." <i>Shut up, Adrian. Just shut up. Stop talking. You're gonna start using big words. Bad Adrian. Bad.</i>

Fraser turned to look at Adrian. "Which ones, Ray? The ones on Cops? Or Law & Order?"

Adrian grimaced. "Nah, the old ones--they walked funny, wore those stupid hats and had sticks. Were always fallin' down..."

"The Keystone Cops?" Fraser offered. "You're anything but hapless, Ray," He chided, knowing that sometimes Ray's self-esteem was not what it should be.

"Not that," Adrian said, "The whole 'here for your entertainment' bit. Like I should be in a costume, doing stupid slapstick to make people laugh. I mean, we're chasing down gnome thieves? Even at what they pay me, it'd be cheaper all around to just replace the gnomes."

"Perhaps the gnomes hold great sentimental value," Fraser cautioned Ray.

Adrian snorted. Right. Sentimental value.

The rest of the drive to Adrian's first contact was comfortably silent; Adrian forced himself to focus on hectic Chicago traffic and Fraser enjoyed Ray's apparently improved mood. They weren't back to their usual level of camaraderie, but this was a significant improvement over their last few outings, where Fraser found himself tiptoeing around Ray's prickly temper. Perhaps Ray had gotten over whatever was bothering him.

Fraser was content to let Ray question the elderly newspaper guy, knowing that the detective knew what to ask the man to get to what they wanted to know. As it turned out there had been a rash of petty thefts in the area, and the locals all thought it was due to senior-year pranks by local high school students. Fraser could tell by Ray's expression that the idea wasn't far from the detective's own suspicions--that the gnome-theft was nothing more than a bit of mischief gone farther than an old lady wanted it to.

"He certainly didn't seem worried about the recent spate of thievery," Fraser noted as they returned to Adrian's car.

Ray shrugged elegantly. "Why should he? Half the time, the kids end up returning the stuff eventually. Yeah, it's wrong to steal other people's stuff, but they're freaking garden gnomes."

Fraser nodded, understanding Ray if not completely agreeing with him. Theft was theft, and should be taken seriously. At the same time, however, this was obviously a not a case requiring the attentions of someone like Ray, and it bristled Fraser a little that someone would demand his friend's time be spent so frivolously.

"Wanna grab something to eat?" Adrian asked, noticing that it was now well past five. How had the afternoon passed so quickly? He hadn't realized how long he'd been talking to Walter about the neighborhood.

"That would be nice," Fraser murmured, resolutely ignoring Diefenbaker's plaintive whining. He most certainly would not ask Ray if they could have Chinese tonight. No, Ray could choose for himself what their dinner would be, and no one needed a half-wolf's opinion. Bossy wolf.

Adrian wondered why he tortured himself. Being love's bitch was a thankless job.

•••

It's late; Adrian can feel all the good people of Chicago tucked in bed, sheets smoothed over good-person legs and better-person stomachs, right up to perfect-person chins. Fraser's amongst them, no doubt. Of course, he's probably buried under some scratchy wool blanket, but that's another thing entirely. Fraser's masochistic, self-flagellating tendencies do not detract from his inner goodness, in Adrian's opinion.

But Adrian has already told himself that he wouldn't dwell on Fraser tonight. After all, the guilt that came after snapping and biting at the Mountie was surely enough; why should he layer a creamy coating of self-pity on top of it?

Because self-pity and guilt-over-Fraser combined had all the intoxicating loveliness of chocolate, dark and bitter on his tongue.

He'd even made his peace offerings today--casual conversation and comfort food. There was the off-chance he'd gone too far, had let his upbringing show. Once or twice he might've come across as the slightest bit polished, refined, intelligent even.

Adrian's apartment was dark, the fuzzy light from streetlamps and the frosty glint of a beer bottle not enough to illuminate dank corners and blank walls. The beer was American--Ray didn't drink the good stuff, ever, and Adrian knew he was taking a big chance with the Smarties.

But damn, he could use a decent beer.

Slender, scarred fingers caressed the bottle, letting condensation drip coldly onto the floor. No matter how hard he gripped, the glass seemed to ignore him. Ever lower it slipped, until finally only the twisted rim of the glass remained. Tough, blunt fingertips froze as the glass teetered, swung, and at last broke free, tumbling to the floor with a hollow thump. The bottle was empty, though, leaving no tell-tale stains on the grungy surface.

Just like Fraser.

Adrian watched the bottle roll on the floor, absurdly sure that it was actually running from him and not just obeying inertia, gravity, and a few other laws of physics he wasn't supposed to know now that he lived in Chicago.

It was like watching Fraser leave him every night, slipping through paralyzed hands and back into their mutual homeland. Adrian couldn't keep Fraser with him, regardless of the level of exertion or the strength of his will.

Maybe, though, it was because Adrian was so used to letting go, of everyone and everything, that his hands had simply forgotten how to hold on. At the moment he couldn't have kept a grip on his own soul just to save his life. If he tried, it would probably roll away into the shadows, or Canada, or maybe some dark Chicago alley.

Just like Fraser.

And how sick was it that he desperately wanted his phone to ring--not his landline, not the cell phone he carried to the precinct, but his *other* phone. It only rang when he had work to do. Real work, not this cockamamie, let's save the streets of Chicago from their gutter-cousins job. Come on, phone. Ring. Gimme something to do, someone to kill, some secret to steal or at least a fucking idiot to shadow for a few days. Come on, Canada. Distract me, I'm begging you.

I need something to look at besides the Mountie's ass. Something to think about besides his mouth and his damned sense of honor.

Adrian really needed to get away from the city. Go north, soak himself in a little bit of home for a week or so.

Maybe it was time to have another conversation with his contact. Turnbull would be honest with him, would tell him that going to Canada, even for a week, was too out of character for Ray and that it just wasn't feasible. Not possible. Besides, the United States was a veritable cornucopia of travel destinations.

All of them full of Yanks.

Of course, a select few of those destinations were on the border. *The* border. The one he could just slip across for a few hours. Get some Smarties that hadn't sat on a dingy store shelf for six months.

And then, there in an anonymous hotel room as far from Chicago as his cop's salary could take him, he'd lay back against the wall. He wouldn't be thinking about the dark stains on the carpet, or whether the maid service had changed out the bedspread, or if there was gum stuck under the desk and in the closet.

He'd think about Fraser. About how damned nice it would be to be lying on the bed with Fraser, talking about something utterly Canadian. He wouldn't sound like some Chicago throwback idiot, and Fraser could drop the patronizing tone for five fucking minutes.

Maybe he was asking too much. He had a feeling that everyone got Fraser's patronizing act, at least occasionally. Maybe that was why he was still a Constable. Adrian just wished that maybe, maybe... Maybe if Fraser knew who he was, he'd open up and act like himself and not the automaton he kept shoving in everyone's faces.

With a resigned sigh, Adrian pushed off the wall and made his way to bed. A push and a shove cleaned all the dirty clothes onto the floor, clearing the way for one tired, overworked body to take hold of the sheets and slide deeply underneath them.

And when Adrian lost his grip on them, it didn't matter. After all, he was in the right place and so were they and when they fell they landed just where they should have been all along.

•••

When Adrian arrived at the Consulate to pick up Fraser the following afternoon, the Constable was standing stoically out front, looking every bit the Canadian version of a Beefeater. Or something like that... Privately, Adrian thought it was incredibly stupid to make any of the Consular staff stand at attention outside the building, but he didn't make up the rules, cockamamie though they were. Cockamamie. Nice word, one he'd picked up in Chicago, from a former neighbor. Nice old lady. Made good tea. Earl Grey, no sugar. Strong enough to tan him from the inside out.

"Hey, Frase!" Adrian called out cheerfully. "We got leads on that B & E-- four witnesses to interview."

Fraser barely acknowledged the presence of his partner, so Adrian shrugged and moved to enter the Consulate. Both the movement and the resulting waft of coffee aroma puzzled Fraser; Ray usually stayed outside to complain about the Inspector's frivolous but well-meaning policies. As for the coffee, everyone at the Consulate preferred tea.

Adrian was met at the door by Turnbull, who was bearing a cup of steaming coffee. "Please, do have a cup," He whispered, pushing the mug into Adrian's hands. At the agent's frown, the Mountie explained. "A rather important Albertan stopped by, and he wanted coffee. I don't know how to make one cup of the stuff," He whispered, grimacing.

"Gotcha," Adrian whispered back, smirking. The smirk twisted into a grimace as he considered his coffee. "Got any Smarties?"

"I believe there are some in my desk," Turnbull replied, just as the phone rang. "Do help yourself."

Adrian fetched some candy while Turnbull answered the phone--yet another lost Canadian needing directions and a replacement passport. Inside the candy box was, as Adrian had suspected there would be, a note. Another situation needed his attention. Such 'situations' seemed to be coming up more frequently of late, as compared to previous years. Not that Adrian was complaining. Just the night before, he'd been begging for such a distraction. He spared a thought for his current quasi-partner, Fraser. Maybe it was him. The Mountie truly was a trouble magnet. Too bad he couldn't work on Adrian's *other* cases...

Since he couldn't be seen reading the note out in public, Adrian retreated to the bathroom. He locked the door and set the coffee on the counter, taking a seat on the toilet himself. The note was brief; some sort of mid-level information dealer was using Canadians to ferry illegally obtained state secrets around the globe and, of course, Chicago was the best place to put a stop to it. For some reason, not included in the note, Oh Canada didn't want to notify the United States or utilize its many resources. It probably meant that the US was using the dealer. Or had some sort of reason for keeping him in business. Either way, Adrian was supposed to stop him. At least he wasn't putting up with spoiled brats this time.

A low murmur of voices outside let Adrian know that Fraser was off guard duty. He quickly flushed the toilet and washed his hands, watching the note dissolve in warm water as it was supposed to do. When he emerged, Fraser was waiting--impatiently, no less. "What?" Adrian asked, sipping his now-drinkable coffee.

"I believe you mentioned witnesses?" Fraser reminded him, casting a furtive glance towards Inspector Thatcher's office.

Doesn't want to see Thatcher... Adrian thought as he gulped down the rest of his coffee. "Alright, fine, let's hit it."