Notes: Okay, it began when my esteemed Ray/Ray muse Alexa C. demanded Ray Vecchio as a top, Ray Kowalski naked, and a knife. Right, no problem. At first I thought I'd write a What It Is I See In You story, but that Ray Vecchio told me he didn't threaten people with lethal weapons anymore, and I thought I'd better drop it before he had to go back into therapy. Then I thought I'd write a companion piece to "Conjunction," but that Ray Vecchio said there was a reason he didn't top, and told me to take a hike. Then I thought about starting an AU story that I've been tossing around for a while, but it really needs more research before I'm ready to start it. At long last, it occurred to me that the Kowalski and Vecchio I really needed were the versions from a crossover I've been tinkering with for months now (along with Alexa herself, in fact). So it seems a little weird to start in the middle of the series, but let's just think of it as a preview or something. The setup for this scene, in a nutshell, is that our heroes are undercover on a narcotics bust in Oswald Correctional, Kowalski as a prisoner and Vecchio as a guard. I don't know how long they've been in at this point, but probably too long. The only other thing that matters is that, for plot reasons that don't need going into at this juncture, if this undercover operation fails, Fraser is going to suffer rather badly; take my word for it. Weapon of Choice by Hth Ray checked and double-checked the door lock while he was waiting for Kowalski. He wasn't pleased with himself; this new paranoid streak was a bad sign. You should do a thing *once,* then know that you did it right, and let it go. He was rattled, and he knew it. All fucking *Kowalski's* fault. As usual. But that's what he intended to fix, before it went too far this time. "What's up with you?" Kowalski asked as Ray let him into the office and set the lock carefully in place. "It's the middle of the morning." "Sorry to interrupt your routine," he apologized, without the slightest hint of real contrition. Kowalski crossed his arms over his chest; the color of his tattoo stood out more sharply than ever against his skin, pale from so long away from the sunlight. "So what do you want?" "Talk to you." In spite of his words, however, Ray moved forward, pressing Kowalski's back to the closed door. Kowalski's eyes widened as he took the hint; there was more than talk going on here. He grunted his surprise as Ray's hands closed around his head, thumbs behind his ears, and Ray's mouth closed over his. For a moment, Ray closed his eyes, and allowed himself to pretend that things weren't the way they were. Had they ever, just once, touched like this without it being about something else? A way to stave off pain, a way to blow off pressure, a way for Ray to get the upper hand or for Kowalski to divert his attention? Sometimes, alone in bed, Ray thought of Kowalski and let himself believe he was thinking of a lover. They had never been lovers -- just two men with occasionally intersecting agendas, who somehow found themselves disconcertingly vulnerable to each other's sexual advances. Today was just one more round, one more means to an end. He broke away from the kiss, secretly gratified by the way Kowalski gasped for breath. "Thought you were done with this?" Kowalski managed, his suspicious tone an odd contrast to the glitter of eagerness in his eyes. "You listen better when you're horny." Ray punctuated the comment with a hand running up the inside of Kowalski's thigh. "Why is that, Stanley?" "Dunno. Look, you got something to say to me or not?" Damn right he did. "Does this look familiar to you?" Kowalski looked at the makeshift knife in Ray's hand, and then back up to Ray's face, cold defiance replacing whatever warmth Ray had seen or imagined in his expression a moment ago. "Nope." Bastard. *Bastard* -- bad enough that he was putting their operation deeper in jeopardy with every day that he slid further down into his own cover. But that he would lie to his fucking partner, lie to the only man in the world who really had Kowalski's back anymore? Intolerable. Terrifying. "No? Funny, because I found it under your mattress during that last shakedown. So I thought it might be yours." "Nope." "Hm." Ray twisted it around between his fingers. "Well, then I'm sure you'll be as curious as I was about it. They call this -- the *real* cons call this a Gillette bayonet. It's pretty simple to make; it's just the blade from a disposable razor, wired onto a pen. Not the right choice of weapons for your typical asshole murdering thug, because it won't do much damage if you're too clumsy or too high to use it right. No, this is a *graceful* little guy. You don't stab with it; you slash. And if you want to do more than just scar up somebody's pretty face, you have to slash it...very precisely...right... across... the throat...." Kowalski stopped breathing for a moment when he laid the flat of the razor blade against his jugular, but he didn't flinch. He stood very still, letting Ray bore his eyes straight through his own, as Ray slowly turned the blade to the side and drew it whisper-light in a long crescent across Kowalski's throat. "Like that," he murmured. "It's the *thinking* drug dealer's weapon. Me, I'd have gone with something that causes a little more internal damage, but looking at this baby, I gotta say...it's a style choice. It makes a statement." "It's not mine." "The hell it's not yours. It's yours, and I know who gave it to you, and *why the fuck are you trying to play me, Kowalski?* I am on *your* side; you brought me *into* this operation! You thinking about killing somebody now -- is that how far it's gone? Would you commit murder for that slimy little Mick sonofabitch?" "Hey, you leave him out of this." It stung, somehow more than Ray would have expected, and he nudged Kowalski's chin up with the flat of the blade, exposing his throat. Kowalski was animal enough that the message there ought to come through loud and clear. Ray leaned closer and whispered into his ear, "We got some things to get clear between you and me, Stanley. You work for *me.* You take your orders from *me.* Those sweet nothings you put in O'Reilly's ear while he's fucking you -- those are lies. They're all lies. Your name is Stanley Kowalski, you're an undercover detective, and you're here to betray him. If you can't remember that, I can't use you." "My name," he ground out, "is *Ray* Kowalski, and I know what I'm doing, all right? If you weren't such a twisted, jealous fuck, you'd see that I'm the one down there doing all the goddamn work--" "All the work! You've got to be fucking kidding me! You'd be dead right now if it weren't for me!" "--and putting my life on the line. You're so full of shit, Vecchio. This isn't about your op; this is about you playing alpha dog with O'Reilly. What am I, your goddamn chew toy? Your *bitch?* Hey, just because fucking you is part of my cover doesn't make it real, either, so maybe you're the one who's forgetting why all this is going down." "That is such a load of shit, Kowalski. *Pretending* to fuck me is part of your cover; you were fucking me before you ever heard of Oz." "Once!" He seemed genuinely affronted that Ray would even bother to remember that night. "I realize it's a drop in the ocean for you," he said, knowing how nasty it sounded and not caring. "I'm sure it's hard for you to remember everyone who's ever had his dick in--" "*I am not! Fucking! O'Reilly!*" "*I don't believe you!*" Kowalski's strangled yelp of pain cleared the red haze of rage out of Ray's eyes, and he dropped the knife instantly and stepped away. Kowalski raised his hand to brush away the first welling jewel of blood from underneath his left eye, and he stared at it wonderingly on his finger. "Jesus. I'm sorry, Ray. I didn't see--" He brushed harder this time, with the back of his hand. "Yeah, well, go to hell, Vecchio. Just let me do my job." Ray took a deep breath. Right now he wanted nothing more than a little space, a chance to wind down and try to figure out where that crippling, insane moment of fury had come from, and what to do about it. He wanted, basically, to give them both a fucking break from this. The thought hit him with a strange and painful little pang of familiarity. He remembered this feeling of having your leg in the trap while the wolves circled closer, this desperate, mindless plea just to get *out,* just for an hour, a day, just to breathe one safe breath. This was what *undercover* meant. This was exactly why he'd never wanted to go back again. Too late for that, though. He'd agreed to it; he was here. And there would be no break, no peaceful moment, no chance to be himself again until it was all over. So do the job. Fix the problem, finish the job, and make this place what it deserves to be -- just another recurring nightmare, another piece of a best-forgotten past. He put his hands heavily on Kowalski's shoulders, willing his face to give away nothing. No pity. No regret. No...friendship. *Just let me do my job.* "What are you doing?" Kowalski asked, guardedly. "I'm not doing anything, but you are. You're sucking my cock." Kowalski snorted. "I'm not in the fucking mood." Lightly, he brushed away the still-trickling blood from high on Kowalski's cheekbone. "Yeah, but see, I don't care. Because sooner or later, this job is going to come down to you selling out one of us -- Ryan O'Reilly or me. And if I'm not convinced, one hundred percent grade-A sure the fuck *sure* that it's him you're going to be knifing in the back, then I'm going to yank you out of this prison and out of this op so fast that your lungs will collapse. I can't afford your goddamn *moods,* Kowalski, do you get that? None of us can. You *are* going to follow my orders, or I'll shut this whole thing down; I don't care at this point if it's because you know it's the right thing to do or because I have to train you like a dog, but I promise you, I will bring you to heel or I will pull the plug." "You can't -- you wouldn't. You know we can't leave Fraser--" "Fraser will live. He won't be happy about it, but he'll live. You, on the other hand, will be butchered with a fucking disposable razor if you blow this now." Didn't he understand? Was he really so passionate, so willful, that he couldn't open his eyes and see that of all of them, Kowalski was the one who would pay for any mistake any of them made? Didn't he fucking understand that Ray was only here at all because he didn't trust anyone else to hold Ray Kowalski's life in his hands? No one else would take it this far. No one else would bleed him, rape him, hold his best friend's life over his head; *no one else* had the balls to do whatever it took to get him out of here alive. No one else had the experience, the nerves of steel and the ruthless practicality...and no one else stood to lose as much, if it failed. No one cared about Stanley Raymond Kowalski the way Ray did. That was simple truth, and it was really fucking hilarious that, as long as it had taken Ray to figure that out, it seemed like it would take Kowalski even longer. One move, cautious and precise, an incision right where it needed to be. That was O'Reilly's style, O'Reilly's weapon of choice. Ray Vecchio wasn't all that different. They both knew how to draw blood -- once, all the stops pulled out, and then you'd never have to do it a second time. And Kowalski was really no match for either of them. It really is, Ray thought almost fondly as he watched Kowalski get slowly to his knees, all about which of us he chooses to throw in behind. Guilt and pleasure -- the two sensations rattled Ray badly with the force of their clash inside him as Kowalski unzipped the pants of his uniform and sucked Ray's semi-hard cock abruptly and completely into his mouth. "Yes," he gasped, as though he needed to drown out the voice of his mental *No.* Jesus fucking Christ -- Kowalski's mouth. Amazing that there could be anything that melted his sense of reason down faster or produced more smoke and fire in his gut than the touch of Kowalski's hands. He thought about taking insult at how fast and hard Kowalski was going at it; there was hardly a second for Ray to catch his breath, between total celibacy and the head of his dick knocking, heavy and rhythmic, at the back of Kowalski's throat. Was he trying to get it over with quickly? His fingers tightened in Kowalski's hair -- flat and softened, the industrial quantities of mousse he'd once used to make himself into a slightly loopy-looking hedgehog nothing but a distant memory here in Oz. Kowalski groaned, more a vibration than a sound, and it took all Ray's willpower to stay on his feet. Getting it over with quickly suddenly sounded like a fucking fantastic idea -- partially so he didn't humiliate himself by toppling over, and partially just because...when was the last time he'd been able to take something just because he wanted it, without having to consider hours and months of potential fallout? All that practice, though, all that iron control over his impulses, did prove pretty gratifying; it was Kowalski who showed the weakness, gasping for air and coughing on Ray's come as he pulled off, while Ray managed to stand there, looking fifty degrees cooler than he felt. Kowalski brushed his chin with the back of his hand, just like he had wiped at his own blood just a handful of endless minutes ago, but this time, he licked it up slowly, and the sight of his tongue moving over skin and through spunk could almost get Ray hard again. As his heartbeat slowed down to normal levels, guilt returned, hard enough to snap Ray's neck, it felt like. He looked down at Ray Kowalski, this sexy and fierce-eyed man who had once protected Vecchio's life, who had watched his best friend's back when no one else could keep up with him -- looked at him now, with swollen cocksucking lips and a smear of rust-colored blood on his cheek, a strange mix of betrayal and fascination on his expressive face -- and Ray hated himself. How many years of his life could he spend doing the wrong thing for the right reason, before he had to give up the happy little fiction of *acting?* How long before he was the man he talked himself into being? Mafia don or corrupt prison guard -- did it matter anymore? Did it matter whose sins he smothered under the weight of? *I'm not this man,* he told himself, neither convincing nor convinced anymore. *I'm doing this for my friend. I'm doing this to help.* He reached a hand down to help Kowalski to his feet. "You and I," he said, his voice coming out short and ragged, "we gotta be careful, here. No matter what we do...we can't afford to forget that no one will go to the wall for us in here but each other." "Yeah. Right." He gripped Kowalski by the shoulder. "I mean it, Ray. If you can trust me, trust me. If you can't...then just follow the goddamn script. Just believe that this op is going to go off my way, one way or another. Be my stand-up guy, or I end this. There's no door number three." Kowalski nodded, shortly. He wasn't happy, that was for damn sure, but at least now.... At least now, maybe he could accept that Ray was serious about this. That he was not going to be fucked with, not here and not like this. Ray brushed his unmarked cheek with his open palm. *It's all just a job,* he told himself, falling back on pure repetition. *When it's over, we'll just erase all of this and start from scratch -- all three of us.* For a moment, Vecchio was blindsided by the wide, sunlit world of possibilities. Hotels and hot tubs and good wine and doughnuts and Cubs games and God only knew what else; he'd make it all up to Kowalski, prove to him that all of this sick shit was part of Oz and part of the job he'd agreed to for Fraser and Kowalski's sake. Not part of him. Not him at all. Not yet.