[Fraser vanishing for undetermined lengths wasn't exactly unusual. Nothing was unusual when it came to Fraser. What was odd was that he'd not even told Ray about it. No one quite seemed to know where he'd vanished to over the last few days and Ray... well, he could admit he was starting to get concerned at the lack of contact from what was meant to be his best buddy when he was usually the first person Benton told. It could have been something personal, something that didn't quite fit within the realms of the law and therefore something he wouldn't want to drag Ray into, but even so, Ray can admit he's hurt that he wasn't even informed of it all. Stupid Mountie.
Although trying to do his own bit of detective work regarding his partner's location between work and sleep, it's only the delivery of that postcard that kicks his ass fully into gear, going from no obvious leads to a name and an address and a damn obvious starting point. Welsh lets him have the time away, of course he does, this is about Fraser needing help, and within hours of getting his mail (it's a miracle he even checked it) he's packed and ready for the next flight to Vegas, quietly cursing his partner's stupidity the whole way.
Vegas is nothing like what he's used to. All bright and buzzing and constant excitement, a vast contrast to the dark and dingy streets of Chicago where every person looks like they might punch you if you so much as look at you wrong. There's plenty of that type here too, he quickly realises, but they're drowned out by the tourists and addicted locals, the former of which thrum with the excitement of a kid at Christmas and the latter sat around tables and slot machines like zombies, praying for a win to come their way. Ray doesn't like it. It's fake. Everything about Vegas feels fake, from the smiles of the staff to the tits on every woman he sees. And sure, he feels out of place amongst everyone from the run down addicts to the high rollers, but he still shows up in a suit in a vague attempt to fit in. Nothing fancy, and he still manages to make it look overly casual even with the addition of a tie, but that might be down to the slung open jacket or the ruffled collar or the unruly hair that still makes him look more like some punk band groupie than any high stakes gambler.
He doesn't waste time on his arrival. Doesn't even sleep before heading to the given address and snooping around. He casually questions staff and gets a little too friendly with some of the locals in an attempt for information, and doesn't even bother to move when some of the security keep watching him. He gambles very lightly and usually only when the stakes are in his favour or he can sit next to someone he thinks he might get some information, and he really really doesn't care how obvious he is because one of these fuckers knows where his partner is and he'll punch the information out of every single one of them if it means finding Fraser again.
Stanley's settled himself at a Blackjack table when he spots the entrance of what he assumes is one of the higher ups. He recognises that look well enough, the one that commanded respect from the staff and punters alike. Even with his attention on his own cards, mind barely on the game, he keeps a watch out for the guy, and, sure enough, witnessing him swing back into view and heading right this way. Stan's leg is already jittering idly, had been since the start of the game, and the gum chewing is enough to keep his jaw working rather than letting him run his mouth. It's all enough to keep his nerves in check, make him look like it's all part of his game rather than any display of nerves.
When that mob guy (boss? not sure) gets within ear shot, Ray tries to get in the first word, twisting towards him enough to make it obvious who he's addressing, his accent more than giving away his location for those that knew it.]
Oh hey, about time, I've been waitin' hours for a drink. Could I get a bourbon and soda, easy on the soda, they drowned my last one. Thanks, man.
[Smug, condescending, perhaps a little too much, but that's all part of his little game.]
no subject
Although trying to do his own bit of detective work regarding his partner's location between work and sleep, it's only the delivery of that postcard that kicks his ass fully into gear, going from no obvious leads to a name and an address and a damn obvious starting point. Welsh lets him have the time away, of course he does, this is about Fraser needing help, and within hours of getting his mail (it's a miracle he even checked it) he's packed and ready for the next flight to Vegas, quietly cursing his partner's stupidity the whole way.
Vegas is nothing like what he's used to. All bright and buzzing and constant excitement, a vast contrast to the dark and dingy streets of Chicago where every person looks like they might punch you if you so much as look at you wrong. There's plenty of that type here too, he quickly realises, but they're drowned out by the tourists and addicted locals, the former of which thrum with the excitement of a kid at Christmas and the latter sat around tables and slot machines like zombies, praying for a win to come their way. Ray doesn't like it. It's fake. Everything about Vegas feels fake, from the smiles of the staff to the tits on every woman he sees. And sure, he feels out of place amongst everyone from the run down addicts to the high rollers, but he still shows up in a suit in a vague attempt to fit in. Nothing fancy, and he still manages to make it look overly casual even with the addition of a tie, but that might be down to the slung open jacket or the ruffled collar or the unruly hair that still makes him look more like some punk band groupie than any high stakes gambler.
He doesn't waste time on his arrival. Doesn't even sleep before heading to the given address and snooping around. He casually questions staff and gets a little too friendly with some of the locals in an attempt for information, and doesn't even bother to move when some of the security keep watching him. He gambles very lightly and usually only when the stakes are in his favour or he can sit next to someone he thinks he might get some information, and he really really doesn't care how obvious he is because one of these fuckers knows where his partner is and he'll punch the information out of every single one of them if it means finding Fraser again.
Stanley's settled himself at a Blackjack table when he spots the entrance of what he assumes is one of the higher ups. He recognises that look well enough, the one that commanded respect from the staff and punters alike. Even with his attention on his own cards, mind barely on the game, he keeps a watch out for the guy, and, sure enough, witnessing him swing back into view and heading right this way. Stan's leg is already jittering idly, had been since the start of the game, and the gum chewing is enough to keep his jaw working rather than letting him run his mouth. It's all enough to keep his nerves in check, make him look like it's all part of his game rather than any display of nerves.
When that mob guy (boss? not sure) gets within ear shot, Ray tries to get in the first word, twisting towards him enough to make it obvious who he's addressing, his accent more than giving away his location for those that knew it.]
Oh hey, about time, I've been waitin' hours for a drink. Could I get a bourbon and soda, easy on the soda, they drowned my last one. Thanks, man.
[Smug, condescending, perhaps a little too much, but that's all part of his little game.]