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

How many languages do I speak? Two. Three. Two. The third one is a little tricky to define. I was born with English and Italian as you all know already, those of you who actually know me. If you don't, why the hell are you wasting time reading this? It's not interesting in the slightest.

Anyway, English and Italian*. The latter was spoken in the house when I was a kid for the most part, I'd say, which really screwed me up when I first went to school and all the adults spoke nothing but English. There were - still are - a fair few Italian kids in the neighborhood though, so that helped. Uh, then as I grew older English became my first language, much to my Ma's disappointment. She wanted me to keep a hold of my heritage or something but I kept telling her I wasn't gonna get a job in the CPD if I turned up at the interview wearing red, green and white and speaking in tongues. You shoulda seen how thrilled she was when I told her Ange was Italian-American too. Man, she musta thanked the Virgin Mary a thousand times that day.

Now uh, I only really speak English. Italian is kept to the house and while I am still fluent it's just too much effort most of the time. When you're sat at the dinner table and everyone is bickering the only way I'm guaranteed to get a word in edge ways is if I speak English.

The third language I can't really speak, I mean I can sometimes, but mostly I can just understand it. Which is a feat all by itself. And it's Freak Speak. Mostly Canadian stuff, Mounties, stuff like that. Took me a long while to learn it but I think I'm pretty good now.

Judging by my latest conversation with Asher, I better start studying Talos-talk before I completely sink. So ask me again in a while and hopefully the answer will be four.

* Though it's always really good with the ladies, if you learn one or two sentences in other languages. Like uh, Spanish. French. The language of looooove. Y'know? Great way to impress them, trust me.

Over the past couple of years I've slooowly grown to hate the word doubt. It's not even spelt as you say it, that should be enough of a warning to users to steer clear. The sentiment is fine unless you're Asher, I got no problem with it. It's just the word. The look of it, with its fat b next to the t. You should never see a b next to a t, it's just not natural. It looks like an English word, they're big fans of the ou, right? Yeah, and I bet they say it "doot" too. Dowt. I could live with that spelling. I doubt it. I misbelieve it. I distrust it. Nobody likes not to be trusted, you big doubters.

Bet your names are all Thomas too.

I also want the word old to just up and disappear. Maybe that'll stop the kids next door from yelling out "Mister Old" whenever they see me. It's Vecchio. Just because you picked up an Italian-English dictionary does not mean I've changed my name! I'm not old! I'm not Mister Old! I'm Mister Vecchio.

[ooc: It’s written backwards and ends with Fraser walking into the holding cell on that first day. So page 57 is going to be a long way after that event ‘cause it all leads back to the Mountie! So starts with The Stella Years, then The Undercover Years, then The Fraser Years.]

Sometimes Ray catches himself in the mirror; stops and watches his face, looks down but can still feel a pair of eyes staring back, boring into him.

Rests his hands on the ceramic basin, listens to the kids banging around his house, the baby crying, Tony moaning to Maria that he didn’t clean his back molars just right.

Closes his eyes, imagines golden taps, smooth black marble, water so clear it was like showering in diamonds.

Gee’s playing with Barbies again. Ray lathers his chin, his mouth, up to his ears; looks back to the mirror, lathers some more.

Dead man’s eyes.

Frannie bangs on the door. Ray ignores her, picks up his razor. The reflection doesn’t move. He squints at it, he can see the differences. Slightly smaller nose, duller eyes, thinner mouth. Drags the blade down his cheek, leaves a clear olive line to his jaw. Starts on his upper lip.

Rinses the razor, the cream runs down the drain. Blinks. Palm bleeds, red rivulets swept away with the rush of diamonds; runs the heel of his hand under the water, it comes away clean, free of blood. Blinks. The shaving cream is white again.

“Ray! You better be out of there in five seconds or I’m com…”

Ray ignores her. Cleans up his face, fingers rub over smooth skin.

Only he can still see the mustache.

What does respect mean to you?


After the forty-third mile Ray pulled over and shut off the engine, the radio following soon after. Not that he had anything against Aretha Franklin per se; she had it right after all, spot on: R-E-S-P-E-C-T or the highway. Easy equation. Though Ray had never been one for math. No, he turned the knob with such vigor not because he’d grown a sudden disliking for soul music, heaven forbid, but because he was reminded just how hard an equation it was. Every chorus socked it to him and always just below the belt for that painful added extra.

The need for respect ran through his veins thicker than blood itself. Being Italian was only half of it; having the parents that he had, the other. The one thing his Pop had strived so hard to gain from everybody was the one thing Ray never gave him in his later years and that killed him far more than the car crash ever did. Ray didn’t like to think of himself as being anything like his father but he’d already inherited his receding hairline so why not his desperate need for respect too? One bad gene deserved another.

His Ma had been worse. Forty-two years of marriage and she had still thought being respected meant her husband coming home drunk only five nights out of seven. The thing about Ray’s Pop was that he did respect her, he just had an obscure way of showing it; damn near unnoticeable if Ray didn’t squint really hard. Ornaments were his tell. Little presents he’d buy for her when he had the cash in his pocket and wasn’t due to hit the pool table for another few hours. By the time Ray was sixteen every available surface in the living room was taken up by miniature ceramic teapots, mismatching bits here and there, figurines, angels, faux-china dolls. It had spread to the bedrooms and the kitchen by the time he hit twenty-five. Three years later and his Pop was no more, and all that remained were the reminders. His Ma got comfort from them, surrounded herself with them at first; deep down she’d loved him senseless. All Ray saw was cheap crap, ways to buy his Ma over. It amazed him how she had stuck by him all this time, though he knew why she had, was thankful that she had.

But he knew teapots and angels weren’t enough for him. He’d grown up thinking respect is what he gave people. His Pop, Frankie, girls like Annie McGray (before the Ricky Stangles basement incident); that only families like the Zuko’s deserved it. He’d learned pretty slow, when Frank had humiliated him in front of Irene yet again, that respect didn’t have to be all give give give. That was the first time he’d punched his so-called ‘friend’ in the face. It wasn’t the last.

Since then it had been high on his list of must haves. He’d never had that much of a problem with it personally. Professionally, it came with the occupation. He could deal with it, most days, as long as he was in control of it when the badge came off. Irene, Angie, Stella, they had all demanded as much respect as Ray had and he’d given it freely, received it just as well. He even respected Canadians, and that was saying something.

Knowing he wasn’t respected though, that was the killer. It made him angry like nothing in the world. What confused him though, the equation that he just could not get his head around, was why he continued to show respect to some people when it was quite clear he would never get it in return. The expectation that he couldn’t quench pissed him off more; it was always there now, in-built since he’d thrown that first punch and it had landed squarely on Frankie’s jaw. But now he couldn’t hit, no matter how much he wanted to. He didn’t have the first sensible clue as to why he put up with it, but he did, and it was then that he realized it wasn’t his Pop he should have feared becoming; it was his Ma. And maybe a little respect really was too much to ask for.

What is with these questions? It’s like a 24-7 interrogation and yet people still insist on answering them. Who do I want to get drunk? Do I look like I’m fifteen years old? I don’t get it. I’m a cop, I ask people these sorts of things all the time, I don’t want to have to come home and answer ones myself. As Kowalski says far too often, it’s stupid.

Kowalski. There. Now I’d get him drunk, sure. What was the question? Why? We’re partners, that good enough a reason? That’s all you’re getting.

What would you do. Wait, that’s the question? What would I do? Why would I tell you? I don’t even know you.

Now it sounds like I’m not telling you ‘cause I’m hiding something. I really hate this game.

Turnbull.

I’ve seen him drunk already. Wasn’t a very pretty sight back then. I left him to do the puking thing on his own and haven’t seen it since, thank God.

Fraser. I wouldn’t get him drunk. I used to want to, no denying that, but those reasons for wanting to just aren’t there so much anymore. So he can have water when we’re out, doesn’t bother me. He just looks like the world’s healthiest male and those do not exist in Chicago.

Shawn Spencer. What would I do? Hope he gets real loose-lipped when he’s tipping the scales and spills that he’s a con. I may or may not take my tape recorder with me.

Dewey. For the fun of it.

Asher. Definitely Asher. The whys are a long list there and I’m just not in a very giving mood tonight. What would I do? None of your business.

My Ma, if I didn’t think it’d kill her. It’d be like a practise run, as long as she didn’t remember things I’d said the next morning.

Welsh. I could get him to sign a contract, giving me and Kowalski the best cases for the next sixth months. Suck it up, Duck Boys.

Kowalski. Have I said him already? Asher.

Stella. Plead the fifth.

Now go away.

Two words. Advanced. Weaponry.

This time I plan on finally making it to the sunshine state without a pathological liar and the most annoying man in the world on my back. Sure, the down side is I actually have to sit through a lecture with old gray-haired guys waving guns around but the rest of the time, it’ll be fun in the sun. Long as it’s not the rainy season. Had enough of those monsoons to last me a lifetime.



Another two words. Frannie’s. Graduation.

It’s weird but I still can’t get my head round the fact that my baby sister is going to be a cop. Why in the whole big crazy as hell world would she want to be one? I guess reasons don’t matter. Fact is, in less that a week, she’s gonna be a police officer. In less than a fortnight, she’ll be working at the 2-7, if Welsh’s heart is strong enough. Oh God. Working with Frannie. Only person that’ll probably satisfy is our Ma. I’m looking forward to the ceremony though. The speech from the Director less so. Bet it’s the same guy who was at mine. Of course, Frannie won’t know that since she went to see Donny Osmond at the Beacon instead of coming to the Academy for my graduation.


June 21st.

No reason… 

Ray couldn’t stand being in bed any longer. Five entire days and nights he’d spent, hot and feverish and stuffy, sweating like a Puerto Rican pig under the blankets. His death bed, though practically new now with fresh sheets, newly-bought hypoallergenic pillow (Ray was quite excited about that) and dry-cleaned covers, was still not the most enticing of places to be. He’d had his laptop to pass the time, spent hours re-watching the best basketball games in history, daydreamed about marrying a supermodel and owning a yacht. When he was stronger, he played catch with himself against the opposite wall, until the ball ricocheted off a picture frame, knocked it to the ground and took the ball with it. Ray was too tired (lazy) to get out of bed to pick it up.

 


ooc: Quotes from Buffy the Vampire Slayer- Season One, like um, episode 6 or something? Or 3... Anyway, they're not included in the word count! Which is above 150 so I didn't actually bother to do one... x_x

Whilst I really have no DESIRE to answer this question because contrary to pretty much all popular belief, guys don’t just want to talk about SEX all the time, I’m gonna DO IT anyway. Not because I’m bored or anything, but to prove to Asher you that I am smarter than a fifth grader.

So. Let’s see.

Seduction

Duct.
No.
Coined.
Induce.
Ion.
Die.
Tied.
Stud.
Don.
Den.
Din.
Cut.
Nut.

No, that’s not cheating. Adding the ‘s’ on the end of words, now that’d be cheating.

Sit.
Tide.
Tune.
Tine.
Sect.
Nude.
Cue.
Dice.
Nice.
Unite.

Y’know, this isn’t as easy as it looks. And now I am bored. So uh, hey, I’m just gonna leave it there and if any of you think you wanna try and beat my score of twenty three or something, then go ahead, I’m all ears. No ‘s’ though. You come back here with a list full of plurals and I’m gonna have to disqualify you. Ladies and gentlemen, I offer you this challenge.

Note.

Twenty four.