"We're missing something here," Ray said, running one hand over the back of his head and then forward over his late afternoon beard, not that there was much difference between the two. He looked over at his partner.

"You think?" Kowalski was in a pissy mood, had been all afternoon. He'd spent the morning getting deposed by new Assistant U.S. Attorney Kowalski; that was always guaranteed to leave him smiling--not that Ray didn’t sympathize with a certain reluctance to spend time in the company of the woman who had dumped them both. Then they spent the afternoon trailing two steps behind the gang knocking over storefronts in Chinatown, getting wet and getting nowhere. Now Kowalski was going through the crime scene photos for the umpteenth time, as if some clue was gonna miraculously appear if he looked at them often enough. Predictably, he found nothing and tossed them onto his coffee table, slumping back on the sofa with an exaggerated sigh.

"Yeah, I think," Ray said, not bothering to hide his irritation, leaning forward to collect the pictures, straightening them up and slipping them back into one of the folders, along with the well-thumbed witness statements and the incomprehensible coroner's report. It wasn't like he wasn't just as frustrated as Kowalski. Fucking prima donna Polack. "Excuse me for not licking some dirt and telling you where to go to arrest the bad guys."

He leaned back in Kowalski's dumpy, ugly chair, feeling irritated and antsy, then sat up again, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it on top of the folders. He loosened his tie, then pulled that off too, suddenly impatient with it as well.

Kowalski watched him, then started hauling his ass up off the sofa. "You want a beer?"

"Yeah." Ray tucked in his legs as Kowalski got between him and the coffee table, then stretched them out again as Kowalski headed toward the kitchen, out of view. "No--wait," he suddenly called out. Last thing he needed was one of Kowalski's fancy imported Canadian lagers. "Forget it. No beer." He could hear the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing, heard the hiss of the cap coming off the bottle.

"Water?" There was a pause, during which Ray imagined Kowalski with his head back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Coffee?"

"Yeah. Coffee." He pulled himself out of the depths of the chair. "I'll do it. Your coffee tastes like shit."

"Fuck off, Mr. Connoisseur." They passed on Ray's way into the kitchen. He poked around in Kowalski's refrigerator until he found a bag of beans he'd brought over weeks before, then rummaged around again until he found the grinder.

"Y'know," Kowalski called out from the living room as Ray filled it with beans, "I think we should go back and interview the--"

He pressed down on the lid, the harsh grating noise filling the apartment and cutting off Kowalski's words. Of course they needed to go back and interview the goddamn grandmother. Only this time they needed to figure out who the hell she was protecting and how to get her to give them up.

The smell of ground beans was getting stronger, and the pitch of the grinder had dropped to a steady, even hum. He eased up on the lid.

"--or maybe it's the grandson, who knows? Fuck this 'all for one and one for all' kinship bullshit. Don’t they wanna be good Americans--one for me and all for me?"

Ray filled the coffee maker with water, measured the grounds into the filter. "Yeah, damn Vietnamese. It's not like Polish Americans ever drew the wagons in a circle to protect their own." He felt rather than saw the single finger lifted in his direction as he closed the lid and flipped the switch. By the time he'd turned back to the living room, Kowalski was staring moodily at the label on his bottle.

"So we go back and interview Grandma," Ray said. Kowalski had ditched his holster and his sweatshirt, and was sitting there in his black t-shirt, arms pale and bare. "What else?"

Kowalski looked up at him. Shrugged. "We should go back to Mort, too, probably. Maybe he figured out what the green slime was."

"Mort first." Ray concentrated on rolling up his sleeves and then rested his arms on the counter, leaning into it. "Before I eat breakfast, preferably."

"Weenie." Kowalski took another swallow of beer, then looked over at him. "You hungry?"

And it was a sign of how tired Ray felt that he had to actually check in with his stomach before he could answer. "Yeah. Yeah, I could eat."

"Chinese or pizza?"

Ray made a face. "Neither. Jesus, Kowalski, don't you ever eat real food?"

"Hey, pizza satisfies all of the daily food groups," Kowalski ticked them off on his fingers. “You got your bread, dairy, meat, vegetables and fruit." Except Kowalski didn't look particularly eager for pizza either. "Besides, being Italian and all, don't you got to go to confession or something for making disparaging remarks about pizza?"

Ray snorted. "Real pizza, maybe. Delivery pizza? Forget about it." He thought for a minute. "What about a steak?"

Kowalski yawned. "What about it?"

"What about we go out someplace and sit at a table and get someone to cook us a steak or whatever? I could introduce you to this concept of 'real' food and you could bitch about something other than the case for a few hours." He glanced over his shoulder at the other counter, where the coffee maker was starting to make gurgling noises.

"That means going out again."

"Yeah, what, you some fragile flower that'll melt in the rain?" The finger again. Kowalski was comfortably predictable at times. Ray watched him study his beer bottle some more, toothpick migrating from one side of his mouth to the other. Kowalski's head was tilted forward to reveal the back of his neck and Ray could see where the brown was starting to grow in. There was a bit of grey, too, just a thin streak of it somewhere left of center.

Finally Kowalski shrugged, raised his arms above his head and stretched. Ray waited for him to spill to the beer but it didn't happen. "I don't know, Vecchio. It's pretty crappy out there."

"C'mon." Ray kept himself from staring any longer by starting to arrange the candy that was spilling out of the package all over the counter. Five reds, four blues, only two yellows--

"I got soup," Kowalski offered. Stopped. "I think."

"I don't want soup. I don't want soup, I don't want pizza, and I think if I have to look at another carton of Moo Goo Gai Pan, I'm gonna need therapy--"

A sudden grin from the cheap seats. "Not that you couldn't use--"

"I'm tired and I'm hungry and I want a steak." Ray put a little charm into his voice. "C'mon, my treat."

Kowalski's eyes narrowed but his voice was still carefully light. "I'm not your fucking girlfriend, Vecchio."  

"Did I say that you were? Did I say that?" Christ, Kowalski was a lot of fucking work sometimes. "I offered to buy my partner dinner. I think that's supposed to be a good thing, something I'm supposed to get brownie points for. I think the CPD manual probably even lists dinners as an okay exchange of favors between partners." Unlike--

Kowalski met his eyes, looked away. "Where do you wanna go?"

"Four Seasons?" He laughed when Kowalski looked back, eyes wide. "What? I don't care. Someplace where they cook a good steak. What about Phil's?"

"Phil's is always crowded. I'm too tired for crowded." Kowalski thought for a minute. "What about Eddie's?"

"Eddie's is fine. Eddie's is good." Ray felt some of the tension seep out of his shoulders. He came around the counter, walked close enough to stand over Kowalski. "You'll need to put on a shirt."

"Yeah." Big, deep breath from Kowalski. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm going."

"Here, c'mon." Ray reached out a hand, grabbed Kowalski's and held tight, tugging. Kowalski followed the pull, let himself be lifted up off the sofa, and as a result he was standing close, very close. Close enough to kiss.

Kowalski tried to pull his fingers away but Ray held on tight. "Vecchio--"

"Kowalski."

Kowalski tugged again. "C'mon, let go." And that would have been the smarter thing to do, really, but Ray couldn't make himself do it. Kowalski fell silent, staring at him. "Vecchio, I can't--"

"You can't what?" Ray asked quietly. This close, he could see the bruising under Kowalski's eyes, the half-healed cut from the week before, when he'd stopped a suspect with a head butt and cut the bridge of his nose on his sunglasses. Ray lifted his other hand to run a finger over it.

Kowalski flinched, every muscle tightening, like he was getting ready to take a punch. Ray went still, too, so that they were just standing there, sharing too little air, just watching each other. He hated the way Kowalski's eyes could get at times like this, brilliant, bright and terrible. Ray moved his hand again, carefully tracing the side of Kowalski's face, the edge of his mouth, and then he leaned forward slowly.

"Don't," Kowalski whispered, but he didn't move, didn't pull away again, although his fingers tightened around Ray's so hard that it hurt. Ray let his lips touch softly, lightly, barely a kiss. "Don't."

"Okay," Ray said softly, "okay, I won't," but he didn't stop. He leaned in again, rested his lips against Kowalski's and felt them move, twitch, heard the sudden quaver that filled his breathing. They didn't do this, him and Kowalski; they didn't kiss, never kissed. Oh, sometimes, maybe, he could get one in against Kowalski's throat, or the back of his neck, but Kowalski usually pulled away or turned his head, and mostly Ray didn't try.

Kowalski's eyes were still open and that terrible beauty was heating up, eyes so intense and focused on Ray. Ray dipped his head a third time and seized Kowalski's mouth, took possession of it, fit his lips to Kowalski’s and dove inside, where Kowalski’s tongue collided with his, slightly cool and tasting of beer. He could feel Kowalski’s moan slide down his throat and he rocked back violently when the full weight of Kowalski slammed into him, chest and hips and thighs. Kowalski's arm came up around his shoulder, holding on tight and Kowalski returned the kiss, kissing and biting.  When Kowalski tried to pull his fingers free again Ray let him go, twisting his own suddenly free hand into the back of Kowalski’s t-shirt, wrapping the thin cotton around his fist.

"Ray," he whispered, "Ray," filling Kowalski's mouth with his words, and he felt Kowalski shiver, could hear him swallowing huge gulps of air between savage kisses. "Ray, Ray, Ray--"

And then the shrill ring of Kowalski's telephone shattered the moment, so heavy with heat and feeling, and Kowalski tore his mouth away, stumbling back, putting his hand up and holding Ray at bay. Kowalski wasn't looking at him and Ray couldn't look away--two rings, three rings, four. The machine picked up, a surly Kowalski telling whoever it was to leave a message. A few seconds of silence, maybe the hint of someone breathing, and then the call was disconnected.

Wrong number.

Ray held his hand out. "Kowalski…"

"Don't." And Kowalski's hand was still up, still holding him back.

They stood there like that, Kowalski looking someplace over Ray's shoulder and Ray looking at him--at Kowalski's burning eyes and swollen, reddened lips--until finally Ray took a deep breath. Nodded. Stepped back and let his hand fall.

Kowalski folded in on himself then, arms across his chest and his shoulders slumping. He looked down, looked up, looked at Ray through unreadable eyes. Tipped his head back toward his bedroom. "I'll, uh, I still need a shirt," he said. It didn't sound like the question it was but he waited until Ray nodded before he turned and went into his bedroom.

And left Ray standing there, listening to Kowalski open and close his closet door. Finally Ray turned around, picked up his tie from the coffee table and put it around his neck again, tying a new knot. When Kowalski shouted a question from the bedroom about whether or not it was still raining, Ray’s voice sounded perfectly normal when he shouted back that it was down to a drizzle, and it still sounded normal when he agreed they should stop at the quick mart, for eggs, so there'd be something for them to eat for breakfast in the morning.

In the kitchen the coffee maker had stopped brewing. Ray pulled out the pot and took a mug from the drainer, filling it half full. On an impulse he dumped a half dozen of the candies into the cup and stirred. Steam rose off the surface and when he blew on it, he could see the brightness of the kitchen lights reflecting off the dark, smooth surface. He wrapped his fingers around the cup, leaning back against the counter, and took a sip. The coffee was hot, hot and sweet and bitter.

He burned his tongue.