First Base

"So Welsh says it's up to us," Ray said, not that he was saying anything Kowalski didn't already know. "We say yes, we're partners. We say no, he puts us with someone else. No harm, no foul."

They were in the alley behind the station house—more cigarette butts but fewer condoms—and Kowalski was leaning up against the wall, smoking, the wet-not-quite-rain flattening his weird hair. Ray leaned against the wall across from him, trying not to think about what was getting all over his new shoes.

"I thought you were gonna give up those things, Stanley," Ray finally said, when Kowalski didn't answer.

Kowalski shrugged and took another drag. He tossed the rest of the cigarette away, blowing out the smoke through his nose as he folded his arms. "Don't call me Stanley. And I don't like you very much."

Ray chuffed out a laugh. "Wow, news flash. Hold the presses." He shook his head. "Look, I don't know if I like you either. We don't really know each other at all, if you think about it. We worked together for, what, ten minutes? Two years ago. You know what you read in my file and I—well, I don't know anything. But the way I see it, we don't have to be best buddies to be partners. We just have to make sure we both go home alive at the end of the day."

"Yeah." Kowalski looked like he was considering it, and then he straightened up in way that made Ray suspect he'd just rolled the dice in his head and decided to play whatever numbers came up. He wondered if that's the way Kowalski looked when he decided to go off with Fraser on that adventure. Or when he decided to come back.

"Okay." Kowalski pulled out his pack of cigarettes, lit another one. He nodded once, then jerked his head in the direction of the door. "Yeah, okay. We'll give it a try, anyway." He gave Ray a grin that had little humor in it. "What's the worst that can happen? We kill each other before the bad guys do, right?"

"Right." Ray held out his hand. "So, deal?"

"Deal."

"I got some rules, though," Ray said, as they started back into the building. "Number One, you don't smoke in the Riv. Number Two, dumpsters are your territory—"

Second Base

"Stanley, don't you dare…" Ray hissed but Kowalski said, "Take the left," and was off before Ray could call him a fucking fuckheaded crazy motherfucker—which, by the way, was language he never would have used three months ago, so that just showed you what hanging out with Kowalski did to a guy. But Kowalski was already gone so he took the left, dodging a couple of shots as he crossed the warehouse floor and slammed into the wall, trying to become one with the concrete block and wondering what all the rough edges were going to do to his cashmere jacket.

"This is the police, motherfuckers! Throw out your guns!" Kowalski yelled from someplace behind the stacked up drums of chemicals and Ray hoped that none of them, when mixed with bullets, would turn Kowalski into a super-sized order of fried cop.

"Fuck you, pigs!"

Kowalski laughed. "What is this, the sixties? What's next—hell, no, we won't go?"

Ray crept forward and around some more inventory. From here it looked like it was only three guys but it was dark and he couldn't be sure.

"You going down, cop. We are not surrendering shit to you."

"Jesus." Now Kowalski sounded disgusted. "I mean, what is it with the level of stupid with criminals these days? You are pinned down in warehouse, you stupid motherfucker. You got nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and half the Chicago P.D. is on its way over here with gumballs flashing. You cannot win this thing, you morons."

Gunfire strafed the ground right down the middle of the warehouse. "Eat shit, cop."

"Fuck this shit—There is a Hawks game on at six o'clock, boys, and I plan to be sucking up beer by then, so I suggest you quit this bullshit and lay down your guns before I have to come over there and kick you all in the—fuck!"

Things kinda went nuts then. Someone must've come up behind Kowalski and Ray heard two gunshots, and then another, and then there were too many to count. He yelled "Ray" once before he had his own ass to worry about, and he ducked and he swerved, and tried not to get distracted by whatever was happening on the other side of the building and the fact that Kowalski hadn't yelled back.

Then there were big lights and swat team guys with their vests and bazookas or whatever, and in no time at all there were six in custody, two of them bleeding, and all of them getting read their rights.

"I'm looking for Detective Kowalski," he said, to anyone who looked like they might know anything, and finally someone on the swat team pointed toward one of the ambulances. Ray was sure it was just the damn damp warehouse that made him feel so cold and he wasn't walking any faster than he usually did, damn it.

He found Kowalski sitting on the edge of the ambulance bed, wincing as an attendant wrapped his arm in gauze. He looked up when he heard Ray coming and grinned.

"Just a scratch," he said, before Ray could even open his mouth. "Doesn't even need stitches."

Ray nodded. "Get him a blanket," he said to the other attendant. "It's chilly out here."

"You called me Ray back there," Kowalski said. "I heard you."

"No, I didn't." Ray took the blanket and draped it over his goddamn skinny shoulders.

"Yeah, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"It was a mistake," Ray said, and he watched the shadow of something pass over Kowalski's face, and then Kowalski smiled again.

"There's an old Chicago tradition, Vecchio."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. The one who's not bleeding buys the beer."

"I don't remember that one."

"Well, it's a new old Chicago tradition."

Third Base

Ray was contemplating the Cubs' third straight loss and trying not to draw too many connections between that and his own love life (because it wasn't a loss if you didn't play, right? And what was the point of playing when the team's most valuable player was a missing Mountie who was faster, better, and stronger, with more hair) when he heard the knock.

"Excuse me, who are you and what have you done with the real Ray Kowalski?" he asked when he opened the door to find Kowalski standing there in a nice brown suit—with a tie even, not bad—and a six pack of Old Style tucked under one arm.

"Ha, ha. You gonna ask me in or what?"

"Or what," he said, but he left the door open behind him as he turned and walked into the kitchen. Kowalski followed him and took two beers out of the carton, twisting off the caps while Ray put the other four away. Kowalski passed him one of the bottles and Ray took a drink.

"So aren't you supposed to be on a date or something? I thought you had some 'karmic chi love thing' happening with Stacey in Forensics." Ray said.

Kowalski shrugged and smiled, and started a careful study of the spice rack. Like he'd know oregano if it jumped up and bit him. "I did. We wrapped it up early."

"What," Ray glanced at his watch, "at nine o'clock? Jesus, that's a new record, even for you. Seriously—I know you're not fit for company but you blew it two hours into the evening?"

"I—it wasn't working." Kowalski turned back to him and leaned against the counter. "I shouldn't have asked her out."

"Kowalski, you've been after her to go out with you for three weeks. Martinis, this, Crystal Ballroom, that. If I'd had to hear about this whole date thing one more time—"

"Yeah, well—I made a mistake, okay?" Kowalski set his bottle down and took off his jacket, tossing it over a chair. He loosened his tie and opened up a couple buttons at his neck.

"You made a mis—wait, are we talking about the same Stacey here? Five seven—and four of that legs? Blonde hair, blue eyes—"

"Look, this isn't about Stacey, okay? Stacey is a very nice girl—well, except for the part where she hates my guts now—but she's not—She's just not my type, okay?" Kowalski looked at him. "I want—something different."

Something different—ah. Thank you, Thomas Edison. "You thought if you went out with Stacey maybe you could forget who's really on your mind," Ray said quietly.

"Vecchio—"

"You thought she could help you forget Fraser."

"That's not—"

"Hey," Ray held up a hand, "I'm not throwing stones here or anything. Anyone can see the two of you were close and—" Hell, it only hurt a little bit, right? Ray took a deep breath. "I guess someone like Fraser comes along once in a lifetime and it's got to be hard—"

"Jesus." And Kowalski laughed, and shook his head. "You're an idiot, Vecchio."

"What?

"This isn't about Fraser either, you moron," Kowalski said.

And then Kowalski kissed him.

Home Run

Kowalski is pushy in bed, Kowalski is greedy in bed, and he has about forty million hands that seem to be everywhere at once, driving Ray crazy—

And it's the bottom of the ninth, and there's the wind-up and there's the pitch—

—and Kowalski is smiling, and laughing, smiling and laughing and rubbing up against Ray, and rolling them over until they're all twisted up in the sheets. It's almost too much to take all at one time—Ray can't keep track of it all, all of the smiles and the hands, and all that pleasure—god, he's drunk with pleasure—and he reaches up to wrap his arm around Kowalski's neck and pull his face down to kiss one of those smiles, kiss that mouth—

—and it's a hit to deep right, almost in the bleachers—

—that mouth that he can't believe, how soft and hot and wet it feels around his dick, sucking, and that Kowalski doesn't seem to care how fast, how hard, how deep Ray thrusts, he just takes it and takes it, deeper and deeper—

—and he's is on his way to third—

—and deeper, opening Ray up with his tongue and his fingers—

—and he misses the cut off man! He's on his way home!—

—and pushing inside.

And he scores!

Thank you to secret_garden for last minute beta. Special thanks to estrella30 for baseball beta (because all I know about baseball? Is that there are bats, balls, and bases. And spitting.) And thanks to everyone who chimed in on the beer discussion!