"Everybody Knows (Except You)"
        by Katherine F.

"Everybody knows that I love you
And everybody knows that I need you
Everybody knows that I do
Except you. . ."
(The Divine Comedy, "Everybody Knows (Except You)")

Tom Dewey's Apartment

It was Friday night. Once Fridays had meant bars, and drinking, and
dancing, and flirting with strangers. Then work had come along, and
Fridays had started to mean more work; then came promotion, and they
had meant collapsing exhausted in front of the TV with beer and pizza.
Then came Jack. And Fridays started to mean evenings at Jack's place.
Then dinner at Jack's place. Then nights at Jack's place. Before he
knew where he was, he had a toothbrush there, and a spare pair of
briefs. It would have been bewildering if it hadn't been so. . .
comfortable.

By now, more than a year after they'd first started working together,
the equation of Fridays = Jack-time was so deeply entrenched that
those Fridays when they couldn't spend time together -- whatever the
reason -- had a twisted, unnatural feeling to them. If he wasn't at
Jack's place, or Jack at his place, or the two of them out together
somewhere, well, it wasn't really a Friday.

Tonight, however, was definitely a Friday. Had to be. Jack in the
kitchen, Miles Davis on the stereo -- Jack's choice, but Tom could
live with that -- the smell of pasta sauce pervading the apartment
. . .and a pile of leftover paperwork on the table, without which the
picture would have been more pleasant, but much less real. You could
take a cop out of the station, but you never took the station out of
the cop.

Well, most cops. There were some, now. . . like Vecchio. Kowalski.
*Ray*. There was always something setting him apart, even when he was
sitting at his desk -- something that said he wasn't a cop to the bone.
That Botrelle thing, for instance. Sure, he'd turned out to be right
in the end, and God knew Tom hated a crooked cop as much as the next
guy, but the way Ray had reacted had been weird, like there was
actually something wrong with wanting to see a cop-killer given
justice. . . and that was just the most recent incident. Ray was a
good cop, no, a *great* cop, but the way he acted sometimes made Tom
wonder just whose side he was on.

And then there was Fraser. And even though Fraser gave the impression
that he'd been born in uniform, he also gave the impression of
listening to a different beat than everyone else. Which was something
of an unfortunate metaphor, since, as Ray had pointed out, he had the
rhythm of a stick.

Ray and Fraser. Fraser and Ray. Impossible to think of one without
thinking of the other.

Tom got up and sauntered into the kitchen, where Jack was stirring the
pasta sauce with an air of intense concentration. "It'll be ready in a
minute," said Jack absently."Do you think they're ever going to figure
it out?"

"Do I think *who* is ever going to figure *what* out?"

"Ray and Fraser," said Tom, taking a beer from the fridge.

"What about Ray and - oh.""Exactly. 'Oh.' So what do you think?"

"I think that it's none of our business."

"Spoilsport." Tom grinned and dipped a finger in the sauce, dodging
back before Jack could slap him for it. Jack got weird when he was
near a stove, all defensive and territorial, even though, this being
Tom's apartment, it wasn't really his territory. It was one of Jack's
little idiosyncrasies, like always having to drive and keeping that
tuxedo that he never wore spotless and ready to be whipped out at a
moment's notice. Annoying and endearing in equal measure, much like
the man himself.

"I just don't see what good it does to speculate like that. Not that
they wouldn't make a cute couple," said Jack, drawing a strand of
fettucine from the pan and tossing it against the wall, which it
struck with a wet slapping sound.

"'Cute'?" Tom shook his head in disbelief. "Man, you have a talent for
understatement, did I ever tell you that? They would make a *perfect*
couple."

"They drive each other crazy."

"And yet not only do they work together like salt and French fries,
they spend almost all of their free time together. Remind you of anyone?"

Jack gave him the I'm-not-going-to-dignify-that-with-a-response look
and drained the pasta into a colander.

"I still think they'd be perfect for each other," Tom said over his
shoulder, wandering back into the living room as Jack poured the sauce
over the pasta. They never ate in the kitchen at Tom's place, since it
was too long and narrow for a proper kitchen table.

"Tom, haven't we already had this conversation?"

"Many, many times. But you know me. I never give up."

"What do you want to do, play matchmaker or something? We don't even
know if they're. . . that way inclined."

"We don't know for sure, but don't tell me you don't get the vibes --
from Ray, at least."

"'Vibes'? Jesus, Tom, you sound like some phone psychic."

"You know what I mean.""Maybe. But I repeat: what do you want to do
about it?"

"I don't know, I just. . . " Tom stared off into space, pensive. "We
could. . . you know. Give them a little nudge. A push in the right
direction. Be subtle about it, of course."

"You wouldn't know subtle if it bit you on the ass."

"Hey! I resent that! I can do subtle. . . "

"But apparently you choose not to."

"Your pasta's getting cold."For a few minutes, they ate in silence.
Then. . .

"I just think they'd both be a lot happier if they'd quit tiptoeing
around and get down to it." said Tom.

"How do you know they're not?"

"What do you. . . huh. I didn't think of that." A pause. "You think
they know about us?"

"Maybe."

"Hm." A pause. "Hey, I just had a freaky thought. What if, right now,
Ray and Fraser are having the exact same conversation about us?"

Jack gave him a patient look. "Tom?"

"What?"

"I think you think too much."

Tom smirked and stroked a finger up the side of Jack's face. "And I
think you have pasta sauce on your chin."

[end]