Work Text:
"Shit, that's a little stalkery," Ray says.
"Hmmmm?"
He drops the envelope on his desk, tosses the paper he pulled from it into my lap; it's a strip of three pictures from an automated photobooth, and all the station noise fades to a distant roar. Top and bottom shots, she's looking at Ray; center square, she's looking at me. Smiling.
"I mean, I told her my name--s'why I kept talking to her, after she started chatting me up at this bar, 'cause when I said 'Ray Vecchio' she said really, and I thought, shit, she knows him, so I kept talking trying to find out, but it was one of those 'You don't look Italian" reallies, no worries."
"None," I say. I'm trembling. He has not yet noticed. They're beautiful photos, really. Light and dark. Him pretending to be someone else. Her pretending to believe him. Pretending to be human.
"Told her I was a cop, but didn't tell her where, so she musta done some research, to send it here. Kinda creepy," he says.
"Yes." He blinks at me, doubtless thrown by my sudden terseness. My fingertips are going numb.
"We had some drinks," he says. "I was surprised she went for the photo thing--seemed kinda goofball for her. She was, I dunno, chilly."
"Glacial."
"Wouldn't go that far," he says, and narrows his eyes at me. "You okay?"
And I'm not, because that isn't far enough for her cold patience, waiting until I thought I was safe, thought I could perhaps touch someone again, almost deserved it, was nearly allowed to.
"She's an ice age," I say, and laugh, and it must sound wrong, because Ray is at my side, saying "Frase?" and touching my cheek, hand warm and rough and touching and impossibly far away.