Random, Pointless Snippets. Kowalski
by Te
thete1@earthlink.net
******

I've always hated getting my picture taken. Those school photographer 
guys, they always tried to be cute and make the flash a surprise. Hated 
that.

Sure, I know the theory -- surprise the little brats into looking like 
human beings -- but all I got out of it was twelve glossy photos of me 
flinching and squinting at the flash. And every last one of the ugly 
things went on my mum's mantel at some point. 

See, but what I hated most wasn't the result, it was the way the light 
stayed with you for such a long time afterward. You'd close your eyes, 
and all you'd see were these bright explosions of color for what felt 
like forever. 

I'm a city boy, born and bred, I got enough of light, you know it? 
Getting my picture taken was like handing over even more darkness for 
free. 

Sometimes I wondered if this was what blindness was really like, an 
endless, shifting wall of light that hounded you your whole life. 
That's what snow-blindness is, right? 

Probably not. Probably way more complicated than that in a way that 
would make me completely wrong. I don't care, though, I never plan to 
be snow-blind, so my own idea of it is plenty good enough for me. 

I'm all tense now, like I'm in the middle of another round with Fraser 
when all I'm doing is blueskying about nothin' to myself. That's gotta 
be the worst part of this, the way he's always with me. 

They have that in romance novels like it's a good thing, when all it 
really means is that you can get on your own last nerve in someone 
else's voice. This is something I coulda lived without, frankly. 

This is the stuff the brass didn't choose to share with me, and this 
is why you never take a gift from a stranger. Like my Dad always said, 
you never really know what's inside that box. 

Trojan Horse.

Yeah, I hear ya, Frase.

Sometimes I wish it was quieter inside here, like it used to be before 
it got so damned bright.

******

My internal clock wakes me at six a.m. precisely -- I've added the 
extra hour to compensate for Ray's different needs. My eyes are 
assaulted first by cold and white, and I must ruefully admit that 
morning on the side of a mountain is slightly more... strenuous than 
even I have become accustomed to. 

Ray is the first thing I see when I can finally focus. Ray, who is 
positively blue with cold. The same snowflakes and bits of ice that 
melted from my face pepper his own. He is only sleeping the sleep of 
the hypothermic, of course -- I can feel the steady throb of his 
femoral artery against my thigh -- but... there is something quite 
compelling about this image of him. Pale and still, his face softened 
into the pure relaxation given by a slowed metabolism. 

Resting there, preserved for my observation alone.

I am hard, and the knowledge that I will not be able to do anything 
about it right now makes me harder. 

Ray's sweet still mouth makes me ache.

Soon.

******

Every friggin' time Frase disappears into the Ice Queen's office I 
know I'm in for a wait. I don't like her, I don't like her style. 
Fraser assures me she's a competent officer, but all I've ever seen 
is a selfish bitch who alternates between pawing and insulting her 
subordinates.

I'll tell you one thing -- she sure as fuck makes me grateful I have 
Welsh. Watching Thatcher work makes me wanna crawl under Welsh's desk 
and express my gratitude the old-fashioned way. 

Then again, lots of things make me wanna do that -- I'm an 'all roads 
lead to blowing Welsh' kinda guy. Probably has to do with unresolved 
issues about my Dad or something, but whatever gets me through the 
night blah blah blah. 

I wanna go in that office and just hand her the riding crop she keeps 
for no rational reason in her second left desk drawer. I'll help Frase 
assume the position for her and then they can both get it out of their 
systems and we can *go*. Go go go. 

I always get antsy when I'm horny, but that's OK because it tends to 
make people want to pet me, soothe me, calm me down. I wonder if 
Turnbull's around. He'll tell me to think of the color yellow, I'll 
tell him 'sure, how 'bout you, me, the floor, and some fingerpaints?'

I'll even let the Queen watch. 

The door is still closed. Can't even eavesdrop because the walls are 
about 6 miles thick in this place. Real old-fashioned construction is 
a fucking pain in the ass for a detective. Still there. They've got 
issues, you know it? Real friggin' issues with emotions and crap like 
that.

Maybe after Thatcher's done with Frase, *she* can assume the position. 
And then they could both get some severe rugburn and...

Man, I *hate* getting turned on by people I don't like. Here I am with 
a perfectly good mad-on for those two for making me *wait* -- and he 
*knows* I hate waiting -- and now I have to picture them goin' at it 
on the floor like crazed weasels. This just isn't fair. 

It's betrayal, 's what it is. 

Take Dewey, for instance. Real little prick right there, right? Right. 
Smells funny, too. But have you seen the ass on him? I mean, have you? 
I'm willing to bet Huey makes him squeal like a pig on a regular basis.

Turnbull's from Canada, that counts as back-country. I wonder how he 
feels about city slickers with pretty mouths?

OK, so my mouth isn't pretty, but I bet he could make it pretty. Ohhh, 
yeah. And the things he'd get up to with that feather duster.... And 
then Thatcher could catch us at it and the riding crop would start 
flying and --

*Finally*. Fraser has escaped the clutches of the Ice Queen yet again.

But I bet he's got Canadian Delight on his breath. 

Lucky bastard. 

*