You know what I like about Canadians? They're real easy to elbow out of the way.

Dewey. Hawks v Leafs rematch this Wednesday. Interested?

Ray wipes the steamy bathroom mirror with the heel of his hand, clearing a small corner of it so he can see his reflection. He checks himself over, rubs the towel against his chest one last time and sniffs himself for good measure.

Clean and soapy. Just the way he likes it.

Underwear, turtle-neck, slacks, in that order. Watch, wallet, car keys...no car keys. Shoes. Coffee to stay awake. Jacket.

Aaaaand... he's forgotten something. He runs through the list again, casting a quick glance at his watch. Whooo, nineteen minutes and counting.

One minute until Dewey would arrive. Watch, wallet, underwear, jeez, he's hungry. Dewey and-

"Ahh," Ray takes the stairs two at a time and barrels his way back into the bathroom.

Cologne.

Now he's ready...

"Jack!"

Ray jogs to catch up with his colleague, pats him on the shoulder as he falls into step with him. "Where's that lovely partner of yours?" He grins, picking at a thread of invisible lint on Huey's suit jacket and blowing it off his forefinger.

Jack furrows his brow and looks Ray up and down as if he's grown an extra head. Or two.

"Shut the hell up!" Ray shoves the perp in the chest and the guy falls back a few steps, the first real look of fright on his face since he'd been cuffed earlier in the day. He'd been in Ray's face for the last two hours, mouthing off, and Ray's just about had enough of it.

"You wanna carry on talkin'?" Now Ray's up close and personal, pushing him again, palms open and flat. The crim hits the bars of the holding cell hard, the clang of metal on metal reverberating off the walls, drowning out his grunt of pain.

Ray's seeing red. Everywhere. It's not even this jerk who's making him see it. He's just the icing on the cake. The icing and the cherry. He's just the unlucky bastard who happens to be in the firing line.

"'Cause I swear to you," he steps towards the the guy, who's pressing himself up against the bars and grabs him by tightly by the collar. "If you don't shut up, I'm gonna make you," he hisses, before tugging him forward and sending him sprawling on the make-shift bed.

Ray stares hard at him, trying to control his breathing, his eyes daring the jerk to say something. Part of him wants him to, so he's got a reason to beat the crap out of the guy. Even in the precinct. But he doesn't. He simply pants, returns Ray's glare and brushes himself off, sitting upright on the cot.

So Ray turns away, rubs the back of his neck and walks out of the cell.

The guy smirks, cocky attitude back in place and reclines, hands behind his head.

"Pig."

Ray doesn't even register the word, doesn't even register that he's moving until he's back with his hands on the creep and is hauling him up and slamming him into the wall. The guy shouts out, right in Ray's ear, so he does it again, sickly satisfied by the thunk of head against painted brick.