by Speranza
Author's Note: For the DS-Flashfiction "Shakespeare" challenge. Thank you Terri and Justacat for beta and for encouraging me to post this.
"Shhh!" Ray hissed. He grabbed Fraser's arm and pointed to where light was puddling around the night desk at the end of the hall. Probably that was only Tom Schafter on duty--and Schafter was a laughing stock, good for nothing but dancing attendance on the big wigs at the station--but Ray wasn't gonna play fast and loose tonight. They were in one serious pickle, and the last thing he wanted was to have to explain himself to a blinking idiot like Officer Tom Schafter. There was too much at stake here.Fraser looked where Ray was pointing and nodded before silently following Ray to the bullpen's locker room. Ray tested the door and was grateful when the knob turned: the room was unlocked and empty. He and Fraser slipped inside, locked the door behind them, and instantly split up to search the lockers. This was no time to stand on ceremony, and even Fraser had put his sense of fair play aside and was searching people--cops!--without a warrant. But Fraser was worried enough to break rules, and looked like he hadn't slept in weeks.
Ray himself had slept not one wink in the week since his personnel file had vanished into thin air--his personal personnel file, not Ray Vecchio's. Welsh had been tongue-tied when he'd discovered it missing from his desk drawer, but that would be cold comfort for Vecchio. Those Vegas guys were the devil incarnate; if his cover was blown, Vecchio was dead as a doornail. Not to mention that Ray himself would be sent packing; Welsh would bid him good riddance and send him back to his old life, "but me no buts, Detective." Ray glanced at Fraser's worried face and wondered if Fraser would miss him the way he missed Vecchio--and for a second Ray felt a stab of olive-skinned, green-eyed jealousy. Ray squeezed his own blue eyes shut for a second, pushed his feelings aside, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.
The lockers were old and battered and had seen better days. Most of them were eyesores and smelled like the devil's own dirty underwear. Mainly they contained the expected things--gym clothes and extra sneakers, toiletries, shaving kits, pornography. Ray moved down the row; behind him, Fraser moved steadily in the other direction. As luck would have it, the next locker Ray tried wouldn't budge an inch.
"Gimme a hand with this, willya?" he asked, turning to Fraser.
Fraser took Ray's jimmy and tried it himself with no success. "Oh, for goodness' sake..." Fraser muttered darkly and returned a moment later with a crowbar he'd found in one of the opposite lockers. That made short work of the locker, which flew open and banged back against the metal door behind it.
"Shhh!" Ray hissed at the locker.
"What the...?" Fraser pulled a number of thick manila files off the locker's top shelf, flipped through them, then handed one to Ray. The ragged tab at the top read S. R. Kowalski.
"Whose locker is this?" Ray asked instantly. "Whoever this is, they're a thief, they're a traitor, they're a bloody-minded, stony-hearted villain--"
"That's by no means a foregone conclusion," Fraser interrupted. "We don't know why these files were stolen--"
"But whoever stole them is a thief, Fraser," Ray insisted. "And possibly worse. The more fool you if you think otherwise--and God help your pal Vecchio."
Fraser's face changed at the mention of Ray Vecchio; if he'd been acting more in sorrow than in anger up till now, anger was definitely in the ascendant.
"I'm glad you have an open mind, Fraser," Ray added, "but you know, there's such a thing as too much of a good thing." He glanced at the number painted above the locker--32. "Who's in locker 32?"
"It's Francesca." Fraser was looking through another of the stolen folders, his brows knitted.
"Francesca?" Ray repeated, stunned. "Why-- How-- Whose file is that?"
Fraser raised his eyes. "It's mine," he said, and Ray saw that he was turning pink with embarrassment. "And it's been...annotated."
Ray grabbed the folder from his hand and saw, written in the margins of Fraser's personnel file:
You are the cruellÌst he alive
If you will lead these graces to the grave
And leave the world no copy--Ray looked up, frowning. "What is this, poetry? This make any sense to you?"
"Mm." Fraser looked away. "It's Shakespeare. A message, I think--a message to me."
"Shakespeare, huh?" Ray flipped through the file, and saw other phrases scrawled here and there. Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing/ And like enough thou know'st thy estimate. Whatever. "You're saying Francesca stole your file on purpose and mine by accident?"
"Yes."
"To send you some kind of poetic message?" Ray's eyebrows were raised in disbelief. "My love is like a red, red rose or whatnot?"
"Yes," Fraser said, and looked away.
"Weird way to send a message," Ray said, frowning down at the next page: But if thou live, remember'd not to be/Die single, and thine image dies with thee. "This is pretty obscure stuff--nobody talks like this anymore."
Fraser stifled a smile. "Oh, you'd be surprised, Ray."
"Okay, if you say so." Ray shrugged and handed him the file. "But it's all Greek to me."
THE END
If you cannot understand my argument, and declare 'It's Greek to me', you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger, if your wish is father to the thought, if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort, or too much of a good thing, if you have seen better days or lived in a fool's paradise--why, be that as it may, the more fool you, for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare;...even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I was dead as a doornail, if you think I am a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinking idiot, then--by Jove! O Lord! Tut, tut! for goodness' sake! what the dickens! but me no buts!--it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare."
--Robert McCrum et al. The Story of English. New York, Viking Press, 1986.