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Rays halfway through an enthusiastic tussle with his thug of choice when he gets the wind knocked out of him. It’s enough for the guy he’d been getting the upper hand to push him aside and takes off running. Rays going to give it the old heave ho and get himself up and after the prep any second but just not this second it seems.
Fraser’s run off after his own chosen adversary so the second one’s on Ray. It’s not like Ray thinks Fraser will look down on him for losing the suspect, it’s just Fraser makes him want to do it because the idea of keeping up with the loon thrills him pleasantly.
Diefenbaker nuzzles at the side of his face and Ray notices he’s still staring at the warehouse roof, which is strange because he should be standing by now, at least going after Fraser to see if he needs backup (however unlikely).
“What do you want wolf?”
Dief breathes over his face and it is possibly the worst dog breath Ray has ever been subjected to. It’s repulsive. He’s been to crime scenes that smelt better, which is saying something. Whatever Dief’s been eating is three shades past dead and rotting. The effort of recoiling is beyond him so Ray tries to push the fur ball away ineffectively and suffers through it.
“I’m buying you a toothbrush.” Ray threatens, “and peppermint toothpaste.” Dief pulls back from his face and the sweet scent of fresh air is a blessing. Ray breathes languidly and takes some time to formulate his next threat because Dief is still very close but thinking is hard, “and I’ll make Fraser do it to.” His words slur. “I’ll tell him it’s an American custom. A police custom.” He adds with a thrill of vindication because he might be slurring, but Diefenbaker has backed up so that’s a win. Gotta count your wins. Especially when you’ve been stabbed… and shit he has been stabbed hasn’t he? He’s been down too long, his got classic blood loss signs. He’s on a warehouse floor, his partners off chasing a murderer down the streets of Chicago and all he’s got is a wolf for company.
He counts his breaths, loses count, tries again and can’t get past seven.
“Hey Dief, buddy,” he turns his head with great effort and finds the wolf laying on the ground beside him, head on its paws, “you think you could maybe get Fraser for me maybe?”
Dief whines high and low, and Ray’s eyes close because he’s pretty sure that’s an apologetic no.
He nearly falls asleep, he’s on the edge of it when he feels the press of teeth wrapped around the meat of his bare arm. He bully’s his eyes open and finds Dief looking back at him, jaw clamped lightly around his bicep. Dief whines louder and those teeth press into flesh.
“-you bite me-” he tries to warn, but the words come out like a puddle of syllables with no coherency. Dief tightens his jaw, and even loopy and losing consciousness Ray sees the streaks of his own blood slide down the outside of the wolfs bared teeth. He’s absolutely certain this will not help him in any way whatsoever and if he lives through the ordeal he’s never giving the dog any of his fries.
At that moment Ray hears Fraser returning, he hears the solid footsteps and the curious, “Ray? I’ve apprehended- What are you doing Diefenbaker?” The sudden sharpness in Frasers tone tells Ray that Fraser can see exactly what his stupid wolf is doing. Diefenbaker has let go of Ray’s arm but he hasn’t moved away, he’s bloody muzzled and sitting up prim and unrepentant.
“Rabies.” Ray grumbles and it’s weak and draws Frasers attention straight from his pet to Ray's prone figure.
“Ray?” His voice is overcautious, confused maybe, and Ray thinks Fraser’s going to be polite about this mess, rub his eyebrow and look bashful instead of doing something. But the next moment all pretence of civility goes out the window and Frasers down at his side pushing his shirt up from his stomach reciting facts as he encounters them.
“Five-inch blade. Serrated edge. Ray. Stomach wound. Likely long-term infection and septicaemia. Critical blood loss. Fuck. Ray just-” he looks furious, like the rage is too hard to hold in despite the way he’s so controlled in everything else. Ray feels flattered, feels his heart contract because Fraser’s so hard to get a read on but right here, like this, he knows that Fraser loves him- however that love comes it is valuable and sacred and Ray’s disappointed he won’t be able to play this out and find the end result because he wants to know. He wants fiercely, irreverently, determinedly, messily. He wants. But he’s pretty sure that even with Fraser here, he’s going to die. He’s sure of that right up until the moment Frasers hand skims the tiny nicks of skin on his arm where Diefenbaker bit him and all the tension seeps out of Frasers frame. He’s sure, until Fraser turns his attention away from his probably-dying partner looks at his dog like he hung the moon, squishes his face into Diefenbaker’s own and says, “Good. You did good.” And then on a sigh, “Thank you.” After that whiplash Ray is just confused.
Ray cradled his cup of coffee and stared at the contrite Mounty and his not-at-all contrite wolf with a mounting sense of concern.
So he’d caught his breath after a good long while, sat up even, managed to stand up with Fraser hovering at his side the whole time, even managed to stumble out of the warehouse without looking at the puddle of blood he’d left behind. Okay it made no sense, but this was the Fraser part of his life, maybe Fraser had put some Mounty herbs in his wounds or something. Who was he to judge these sorts of things?
He’d even made it out to the car, and back to the precinct, sat watching as Fraser explained everything and the wolf watched him like he was a kitten about to sneak off into mischief. If Diefenbaker’s eyes had left him at all he never saw it. He’d lifted up his shirt in the precinct to look at the wound, morbid curiosity and boredom winning out, and okay there’d been nothing, no wound or incision or anything remotely reflective of the amount of blood he’d left behind and the amount still clinging to his clothing. But that was… that was just odd, but apparently he didn’t need to go to the hospital. When he realised Fraser would have taken him to before taking his prisoner back to the precinct. So okay no hospital… because he wasn’t hurt, at all?
And now he was home and showered, and he’d done a through inspection and the only wound he had was a line of teeth marks around his bicep, which he was going to deal with, right after the two of them stopped looking like they expected him to faint.
“Alright,” he leans back against the counter, “which one of you is going to tell me what’s going on?”
Fraser rubs his eyebrow, and looks up past Ray’s shoulder. Ray braces himself for whatever shit storm this is going to be because even without a word of it he knows he isn’t going to like it.
“Diefenbaker bit you.”
“I noticed that,” he glares at the culprit, “but I don’t know the why and how’s of the rest of it. Like why am I here. That one seems like a good question. Do Canadian wolves have some sort of healing properties in their saliva?”
“You could say something like that.” Fraser encouragee, but his expression is pulled down into despair and Ray is getting very close to being done with this charade.
“Could I now Fraser, buddy? I just happen to know I could say just about anything, so why don’t you tell me something I don’t know.”
“Diefenbaker is a werewolf.”
Ray takes a moment to let that sink in, wiggles a finger in his ear and then frowns at the contrite pair. “A- werewolf?” he double checks.
“Well, a werewolf-wolf.” Which, from the tone of Fraser’s voice, is supposed to expand on the explanation.
Ray closes his eyes, begs the saints for patience and then tries again. “You’re gonna have to explain this to me, buddy. Because it’s not making any sense and I’m starting to think one of us got a few too many knocks on the head.”
Fraser has the audacity to roll his eyes, which makes Ray want to go over and shake him, but he refrains for now. “The concept of werewolves is common folk lore Ray, I’m sure you’ve read about them, or even seen a movie about them.”
“Sure. An American Werewolf in Canada.” He snips back just to be petty. It doesn’t ruffle his friend at all.
“Yes well,” Fraser touches the top of Diefenbaker’s head lightly, “Diefenbaker is what happens when a werewolf bites a wolf. Which is, coincidently, nothing much. Except for the ability to transfer the disease onto another and an increase in intelligence- on occasion.”
Something clicks in Ray’s head, something big, “Wait, are you trying to tell me I’m a werewolf now?” Which was so ridiculous that it should not have made him feel panic but panic he felt. Because really, why would Fraser lie? This wasn’t- Fraser just didn’t lie to him. Sometimes he bent the truth -- frequently he bent the truth -- but never maliciously and certainly not for a practical joke. “You think I’m going to become a werewolf.” He says a second time, and this felt more grounding, like a real-life likelihood, like something true that just had not yet come to pass.
Fraser does no more than nod, which feels incredibly damming for such a simple action.
He feels a surge of argument rise up in him, “Proof Fraser, I need proof.” Which is a perfectly reasonable request to make. What he doesn’t expect, despite how much the day was left of whacky, was for Fraser to grow two feet taller, a set of fangs, a muzzle, more hair than the dog sitting next to him, and an honest to god tail. It lasts as long as it takes Ray to blink three or four times and then it’s gone again.
“You’re a werewolf-wolf too.” Ray doesn’t even know where to begin.
“Just a werewolf, Ray.”
Ray looks at his coffee and back at his partner and the wolf then back down again. “I’m going to need something stronger.”