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Elaine Besbriss was a damn fine cop. She’d graduated the Academy with an arrest already under her belt and her career trajectory had only excelled from there. She’d yet to make full detective, but that was due more to politics and personnel than any lack of ability. One day she was going to put Kowalski’s closed case file to shame. Hell, one day she was going to put FRASER’S file to shame. A girl could dream, right? And it was because she was so determined to be the best damn detective the Chicago PD had ever seen that the issue of Francesca Vecchio was driving her stark raving insane. That was a little unfair, actually. It wasn’t Frannie who was driving her insane; it was Kowalski. Or more specifically, Francesca’s weird predilections when it came to the manic blonde detective. To put it bluntly: Francesca was the only one who called him Stan. Literally no one else called him that. Kowalski’s parents called him Ray. Fraser called him Ray. The cops down at the 27 called him Ray. The staff at the Canadian Consulate called him Ray. The muckity-mucks in City Hall who spent an inordinate amount of time screaming about him over the phone to Welsh called him Ray. Hell, even the rest of the Vecchio family still called him Ray, even though the subterfuge that had first brought him into their lives – a blond, blue-eyed Polack in a sea of olive-skinned, brown-eyed Italianos – had long since ended. To the rest of the known universe, his name was Ray Kowalski. But Francesca always called him Stan. “How the hell am I supposed to know, Elaine?” Huey argued one afternoon when Elaine had posed the question to him about why their perky civilian aid always used Kowalski’s given name instead of his preferred middle name. “That woman wouldn’t know a thesaurus from a tyrannosaurus. I’ve given up trying to figure out why she says half the things she does.” “But it’s weird, right?” Elaine pressed. “I mean, she used to call him Ray, back when he was pretending to be Vecchio. And now it’s all Stan, all the time.” “If you’re so interested, why don’t you just ask her?” Huey shrugged and pulled another untouched case file towards himself across the coffee-stained blotter on his desk. Ask her. Just walk over to Francesca’s desk and ask, all casual-like, ’So, Francesca, I’m just wondering – why do you always call Detective Kowalski Stan instead of Ray?’ Well, she was a cop, right? Weren’t cops supposed to question suspects? Okay, so Frannie wasn’t a suspect. It’s not like the other woman had done anything wrong . It was just… odd. And odd was irksome. So that evening Elaine cornered her friend as she was heading out the door. Serendipitously, Kowalski was right on her heels. Perfect. Two birds with one stone! “Francesca, can I ask you a quick question?” Elaine asked as she stepped in the diminutive Italian’s path. Frannie gave her a bright smile as she fluffed her hair out from under the collar of her magenta coat. “Of course, Elaine. What’s up?” “Well, it’s about Ray.” “My brother?” “NO.” Elaine sighed and glanced over Frannie’s shoulder at the blonde detective back in the squadroom as he pulled on his black leather jacket and laughed at something Dewey had said. “I mean Detective Kowalski.” Francesca furrowed her brow and glanced over her shoulder at the man in question before looking back to Elaine. “Who, Stan? What about him?” “That! What you just said!” Elaine pointed wildly at the other woman. “You always call him Stan! Frannie, literally no one else calls him Stan. Even your mom calls him Raimundo. You’re the only person I know who calls him Stan. And not just sometimes, either. ALL THE TIME. I know it’s stupid, but I just have to know why? It’s been driving me nuts.” Francesca snorted. “Seriously, Elaine?” “Yes! Please, before I hand in my badge for being Chicago’s shittiest detective.” “Who’s a shitty detective?” Speak of the devil. Kowalski jogged to a halt next to the two women. “You ready to go, Frannie? Ma told me I had ta get you home early for dinner cuz Cousin Ferdinand and his wife and all their rugrats are comin’ over.” “Yeah, I’m good. Lemme just finish up with Elaine.” “Well don’t take too long, kay? I’m gonna go start the car. It’s cold as balls out there and I don’t wanna be waiting for twenty minutes while you talk about manicures and pedicures and shit.” “Women don’t just talk about manicures and pedicures and shit, Stan!” Frannie snapped as Kowalski slithered past her and jogged down the steps to the station door. “Five minutes!” he called over his shoulder.“Jerk,” Frannie grumbled before turning her attention back to Elaine. “You really want to know why I call him Stan?” Elaine held out her hands palms up in the other woman’s direction. “Please.” Frannie’s sour expression morphed into a fiendish grin and she motioned for Elaine to come closer. Elaine obliged, getting close enough for her friend to whisper in her ear. “Because, Elaine,” the other woman imparted dryly, “between trying to keep quiet so my mom doesn’t ask why the bed keeps squeaking, and trying to get the laundry done so my sister doesn’t ask why I’ve got some guy’s briefs mixed in with my nighties, and trying to keep my brother-in-law from mentioning how often he’s got to ask Kowalski to move his car so Tony can get to work in the morning, honest to God, the last thing I want to worry about is moaning my brother’s name while we’re having sex. It’s a total turn off. Just ask Stan.” Elaine blinked. “…Oh.” “Yeah.” Frannie shuddered, then patted her friend on the shoulder. “We good? Great. Prego.” Fluffing her hair again she pranced away, just as the precinct’s doors reopened to reveal and red-eared, stamping Kowalski. “Dammit, Frannie, I said five minutes,” he griped, blowing on his hands to warm them. “The hell are you doing in here? Holding a séance?” “Hold your hearses, Stan, sheesh.” “It’s hold your horses, Frannie.” “Horses, hearses. Whatever. God, you’re so judgmental.” She hooked her arm through Kowalski’s and glanced over her shoulder to wave to Elaine. “See you tomorrow!” Elaine waved feebly in return as the duo disappeared out into the cold Chicago evening. So Francesca and Kowalski were… a thing. Elaine made a mental note to ask Fraser for some lessons on observation, since clearly she was never going to make ace detective without some serious extra credit, then grabbed her coat and went to get herself a nice, stiff drink. As she headed for the parking lot, she started wondering what the pair of them got up to when they went to Kowalski’s apartment and didn’t have to worry about Ma Vecchio commenting on the bedsprings. Actually, on second thought, she really didn’t want to know.