Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah. As usual the boys (Boys? Hell, these are men!) & all things due South belong to Alliance/Atlantis not me. Don't sue me for playing in your sandbox, please. Rated NC-17 for graphic m/m sex. Requires strong suspension of disbelief and the ability to invoke magical realism at will. No psychiatrists were harmed (or even consulted) in the writing of this story, though a psychologist may have been slightly maimed.
Thanks to a whole raft of folks: AuKestrel, Betty, Beth, Denise, Journey, Judi, Kass, LaT, and Otsoko who have given me invaluable advice, enthusiasm, support, and beta commentary on this long (Goddess, has it really been over a year?) strange trip. Thanks for not laughing at me-- too much. Special thanks to my sweat-lodge consultant, Richard Hartnett. ;-D
Soundtrack: Three Doors Down: Kryptonite. Five For Fighting: Superman. Barenaked Ladies: When I Fall. Madeline Peyroux (and of course Edith Piaf, first): La Vie En Rose. Jann Arden: "Blood Red Cherry," Hanging By a Thread, Gasoline, I Would Die For You, Never Give Up On Me. Dougie MacLean: Turning, Feel So Near, and Broken Wings. Bonnie Tyler: It's a Heartache. Peter Kater & R. Carlos Nakai: Stating Intention, Flight Song, Becoming Human. Coyote Oldman: NGC2997, Mars Lasar: Kuyu Ancestors, Merymere Falls Trail. Lifehouse: "No Name Face" (yeah, the whole darned thing, and thanks to Laura Kaye for turning me on to this CD).
--Kellie
In darkness we do what we can
In daylight we're oblivion
Our hearts so raw and clear
Are turning away, turning away from here
--Dougie Maclean
Turning
© 2001 Kellie Matthews
The boy ignores the loud voices outside the cabin, and chooses a colored pencil carefully, selecting just the right shade of red, drawing with it equally carefully, trying to copy the flower in the gardening book as closely as possible for his six-year-old fingers. He's pleased with the result. It even looks like a rose. Mostly. He's never seen one so he's not entirely sure. Not this kind of rose anyway. He's seen the wild kind with their five petals and star-shaped yellow centers; which bloom, then fade, and swell to create the rounded rosehip berries to be collected for winter teas. But the fat, ruffled, domesticated rose doesn't grow anywhere he's yet lived, so he's had to rely on books for that.
He chooses a new pencil, blue, because it's a nice contrast to the red, and prints his 'To' and 'From' neatly above and below the flower, then puts away the pencils and gets down from his chair, carrying his picture with him as he goes to find its intended recipient. He wonders, finally, why the grown-ups outside the cabin are being so loud. He hasn't been paying attention because he's been concentrating on his drawing, but now he realizes that both his parents sound . . . upset. His father is angry. The other man sounds angry too. His mother sounds. . . he doesn't know what to call it, he's never heard that sound in her voice before. It scares him. He puts his hand on the door latch and pushes down, opening the door just as a deafening sound roars out.
He drops his picture and puts his hands over his ears. When he opens his eyes from his involuntary flinch, he looks outside and sees . . . . a man, a familiar man, he's been here before. He's carrying a shotgun, running fast toward a dogsled not far away. His father is kneeling in the snow. In the . . . red . . . snow? His mother is lying on the snow beside his father, in the same red snow, and there's red snow melted all over her parka, staining her favorite blue scarf. Her sweet, homely features are distorted in pain, her breath is a bubbling whimper, and a thin runnel of colored water trails from her mouth. She looks past his father to where he stands on the step. Her blue eyes are full of tears and she lifts a hand, fingers outstretched toward him. He takes a step forward.
The scene shifts. He sits at a table, no longer in a cabin, though; no longer a child, but a man in borrowed finery. He looks into a gleaming metal tray, sees a familiar, beloved face reflected in the tray's surface from the skylight. Instead of the reassurance he expects to feel, he feels fear. He wants to shout, to warn Ray not to do it, that he could be hurt, but he can't, he has to play the scene as written. A moment later there is shouting, and gunfire, and glass shards raining all around him as Ray comes feet-first through the skylight and drops into the middle of chaos. He tries to make his way to Ray's side, to get him out of harm's way, but he's too late, Ray is on his feet, and suddenly a rose blooms, red, on his chest, and he staggers, looking at Ben, pain in his eyes, red on his mouth. He lifts a hand, long fingers outstretched toward him. . . .
I sit up; heart pounding, drenched in sweat despite the cool temperature of the room and the fact that my blankets are lying on the floor beside the cot rather than on it as they should be. Diefenbaker lifts his head and whines a question. Ignoring him, I scrub my hands over my face, shuddering. How many times do I have to have this dream? How many times do I have to wake like this, terrified, trembling, aching? Why do I keep dreaming this, the same, over and over?
It makes no sense. My mother died of natural causes. Ray survived his impulsive leap through the skylight with only minor cuts and bruises. There is no reason why I should keep dreaming about my mother dying in such a horrible fashion, but that doesn't change the fact that I've had this dream, off and on, for as long as I can remember. More recently it has become an almost nightly occurrence, and acquired the even more disturbing epilogue of Ray-- dying.
I can't think about that. Can't. I stand up and cross the room to the window, looking out at the filthy snow which barely reflects back any light from the gibbous moon above. I hate this place. Back home this much moonlight on snow would make the night nearly bright as day, and the aurora would light the sky in hypnotic pulses and trance me to a dreamless sleep. Not here, though. Here the only thing that pulses is the constant sound of traffic, and the heartbeat of my own loneliness. Not that the last would be different elsewhere. That's the one constant in my life.
It's also what keeps me here in this place I hate, past sense, past wisdom, because as much as I hate the place, I don't hate its people. These strange, loud, prickly people who have made room for me in their lives in ways no others ever have before. To them, my many strangenesses are no stranger in degree than their own, just in type. Their grudging acceptance of me helps mitigate my loneliness much of the time, although sometimes it only makes things worse, makes me more aware of how much I don't have in my life. Still, I. . . like these people. In fact, in one case it is more than like. Much more. Frighteningly more.
A shiver shakes me, though I'm not cold. I'm rarely cold here. Chicago doesn't know the meaning of 'cold.' No, that shiver had nothing to do with temperature, and everything to do with terror. I do not, cannot, feel this way. It's too dangerous. The last time. . . no. I don't want to think about that, but the thoughts come anyway, and I know, I can see, and feel that even that had not felt like. . . this. That's what makes me so afraid. This is so much more. I can only vaguely recall ever feeling anything even close to this before, and those feelings are accompanied by such a wrenching sense of helplessness and loss, the feeling that something infinitely precious has been torn from me. I can't stand to feel that again.
Every time I care for someone, I lose them. That's what I fear now. Loss. Losing something-- no, I must be honest with myself, not something, but someone who means the world to me. Intellectually I am fairly sure the dreams don't really have so much to do with my mother, as with the fear of loss her death represents to my subconscious, which is apparently frozen somewhere in a six-year-old's pain. They do, however, have to do with Ray. And consciously I can't face that, which is why I'm dreaming.
I know fear can be faced and overcome. I've done so on more than one occasion. But how to face this one? How to overcome it, when to all outward appearances the cause of the fear has already been faced and overcome? That is, as Shakespeare said, the rub. Outward appearances leave a great deal of uncertainty, since one can never really know what another person is thinking. One can guess, one can even ask, but never know for certain for any answer can be wrong, or a lie.
I have nothing concrete to work from, just a feeling, a sense that I am losing him. To all outward appearances, since we both declined our respective transfers Ray and I have reestablished a our working relationship, have even reestablished our previous friendship, seemingly even stronger than before. But sometimes, with increasing frequency, I find myself feeling as if there were a barrier between us, keeping us apart. As if an invisible force field from that exceedingly loud film Ray recently took me to has been slipped between us, transparent, but unmistakably a barrier.
Often, of late, and especially since Quinn's visit, I sometimes look up to find Ray watching me with a strange, thoughtful, almost distant expression on his face. The few times I've been able to bring myself to ask if anything is amiss, he has just laughed it off, but I know there is something, I can feel it, unspoken, but unmistakable, eroding the fragile structure of our harmony. And that, I know with utter certainty, I cannot bear. It is weak and even petty to think of myself this way, as well as egotistical, I know, but sometimes it seems as if all the weight of the world's need for hope rests squarely on my shoulders, and the only thing that makes that endurable is. . . Ray.
Most of the time I can bear the weight, bear the responsibility of finding good where so little exists, but I can't do it alone. Not any more. Overly dramatic or not, I sometimes feel that if I lose Ray again that will be proof that there's no hope in this world, and it will kill me. I know that. In my less rational moments, I imagine myself battling demons that are only kept at bay by the spark of hope that is Ray, and without it, without him, I will lose the battle and give in to them, satisfy their dark desires with my own flesh.
If it comes down to that, I'll try to be considerate, it would be inexcusable to leave bad memories for anyone else to have to cope with. I pray to a God in whom I don't really believe that such a step won't become necessary, because in some ways I'm a coward. Even more, I pray it won't be necessary because I don't want to lose Ray.
I move from the window with a revoltingly Heathcliffian sigh (and detesting Wuthering Heights makes it that much worse), and sit down on the edge of my cot, staring at my bare feet, elbows on my thighs, hands dangling laxly between my knees. Tired. I am so tired of being alone. The days are bearable because I'm with Ray much of the time, and that keeps the loneliness in check, but at night, here, alone, I feel it deeply, viscerally. I'm thirty-six years old, and have been alone most of my life. I probably always will be. The thought depresses me unutterably.
There are so many ways of being alone, too. Alone in mind, alone in spirit, alone in body. That's something else I feel far too strongly, at times. It's been easier since Victoria, because I can use her to remind myself of just how terrible consequences can be, but even so there have been times that the hunger for touch has become so strong that I've actually thought of hiring one of the men or women who make the street corners their marketplace, but fortunately or not the urge rarely lasts longer than it takes me to remember the hopeless blankness in their eyes.
I don't want that. I want communion. I want companionship. I want the bright, sparking life I see in Ray's eyes, the sweetness of his rare, open smiles, and . . . Oh, God. There it is. I've been dancing around it all night, and not letting myself think it, and now I have, and I know it's all downhill from here. I know how it will end, how it always ends, with the loneliness of my own touch. Alone. As always. As if to contradict me, Diefenbaker nudges one of my hands and I look at him and smile a little.
"Yes, you're right. I do have you, and I do appreciate that, though I may not always show it in the way that you might deem appropriate. You know that doughnuts really aren't good for you."
I lean back with another disturbingly theatrical sigh, and close my eyes, trying to will myself back to sleep, because tired of being alone is not the only kind of tired I am. The increasing frequency of these dreams -- nightmares really -- have left me physically tired as well, worn to the bone. In fact I've been surprised that no one has yet commented on the strain in my face, the dark circles beneath my eyes.
I think Ray has noticed. He's been more than usually solicitous of me, and several times he's looked at me and I've seen him draw breath as if to ask, then stop himself. I'm not sure why he stops himself, but I am grateful for it, because I can't talk about this with him, can't explain it. He's too smart, too sharp, and he knows me far too well. I push that thought away and steady my breathing, slow and deep, trying to relax as much as possible. Breathe in slowly. Release, slowly. Breathe in slowly. Release slowly. Exhaustion rises around me, warm, comfortable, like a blanket. Sleep.
A slight rattling sound and a welcoming whine from Diefenbaker make me tense as I realize I'm no longer alone, then I relax momentarily as I stare at the intruder silhouetted in the doorway against the hallway light. I know who it is even though his face is in shadow. I know him by his scent, and even if I didn't recognize that, his hair alone would identify him to me.
Fear threads through me. Not another dream of Ray dying. Not one set here, in my only safe place. Please. Not again. Then the scrabble of claws and the bump of a furry tail against my knee makes me jump, and I realize it is no dream this time. Dief's joyful greeting reinforces that as Ray leans down and tries to hush him.
"Sssh, shhhhhh! Stupid wolf, don't wake him up!" Ray whispers, stroking Dief's head soothingly..
"Ray?" I ask, surprised.
Ray straightens and steps forward a little, and I can finally see his face. He looks diffident, and . . . odd, his normally bright eyes shadowed, worried.
"Yeah, Frase. Sorry I woke you. I didn't mean to. I . . . uh. . . let myself in."
He holds up a credit card with a sheepish smile, and I remember that I meant to change the locks the last time this happened. I wonder briefly why I haven't yet. It's been quite some time since Ray demonstrated how easily the locks here can be slipped. Perhaps this is why, actually. Perhaps a part of me has hoped this would happen again. No, no perhaps. I know that's it. I clear my throat, trying to sound normal. "It's quite all right, Ray, I wasn't actually asleep. Is something wrong?"
It's so easy to fall into my normal pattern, formality and solicitude my shields against the world. I'm genuinely concerned, though, because Ray doesn't normally come to visit in the dead of night. Or. . . does he? I wonder suddenly– Ray said he hadn't meant to wake me. Why not, if he's here? Why wouldn't he wake me? An odd feeling goes through me at the thought that Ray might sometimes come here at night and watch me sleep. I'm not entirely sure if what I feel is anger or arousal or some strange combination of both, but whichever it is, it's disturbing on many levels.
"No, nothing's . . ." Ray begins, then he stops himself, shaking his head. "Oh, hell. I guess people don't usually show up on your doorstep at two a.m. when there's nothing wrong, hunh?" Ray smiles a little, clearly embarrassed. "It's stupid, Fraser, really. I was just. . . I had a . . . well, I guess it was a dream. You were in that coffin again at the funeral home, only this time it was for real. No more toy soldier. You were dead. And it was so fu. . . er . . . darned real, that I couldn't shake it, couldn't shake the feeling. I kept trying to talk to you, to reach you, but you were . . . and I couldn't . . . Christ. I had to come see, make sure . . . ."
He looks away suddenly, rubs the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and I see that his hand is shaking. I'm on my feet instantly, reaching out, putting a hand on his arm.
"I'm fine, Ray, see? Fine."
We're standing close now, very close, but Ray doesn't seem to mind. He just looks at me steadily, his brow furrowed. "Yeah, now you are. But you. . . damn it, Fraser, you're always doing crazy stuff. Jumping out of buildings, walking up to guys with guns, taking toad-poison. . . I looked that stuff up on the Internet, Fraser, it could have killed you. So could that damned casket, Jesus, airtight. That was close. Not to mention trying to reason with mobsters. And it all scares the crap out of me really. Sometimes it's like. . . I don't know. . . ." He shakes his head in frustration, ". . . like you want to get killed."
I let go of Ray's arm as if it were hot, and turn away so I don't have to face those searching eyes. There is a moment of silence, heavy and uncomfortable, then Ray speaks again.
"Shit. Fraser. Benton Fraser. Shit. No." I feel Ray's hand on my shoulder, pulling me around with almost painful force, then gentle fingers under my chin turn and lift my face until I meet his gaze again. "You want that?" Ray asked, eyes wide and shocked. "You want that?"
I unfocus my eyes, unable to bear his horrified blue-gold gaze. I take a breath, try to answer as honestly as I can without admitting the worst. "It's not that I want it, Ray, not as such. It's just that sometimes I think . . . I wouldn't mind."
Ray stares, draws in a ragged breath. "Why? Jesus, why?"
"I . . . ." I can't bring myself to say it. It sounds so self-pitying, so stupid, when I try to put it out in the open. I shake my head, shrug.
"You have to have a reason. I know you, you have a reason for everything. You've been acting funny ever since Warfield had you beat up, and now I find out this? You talk to me, now, Benton Fraser. You tell me. Don't you dare shut me out." Ray shakes me by the shoulders a little, his voice a hard, harsh growl. "You tell me. Because I swear to you I will lock us both in this room until you do. However long it takes."
A little flare of anger stirs in me, compels me to point out the ridiculousness of that idea. "Ray, the door locks from this side. It would be impossible to lock us in here unless you were telekinetic, or had an accomplice on the other side."
"I've got a gun," Ray says simply. "And I know how to use it."
I can't help but smile at that. "If I wanted to die, wouldn't that be playing into my hands?"
Ray grins back, ferally, his eyes narrowed and hard. "Nobody says I have to kill you, Fraser. I can just. . . wing you a little."
He looks. . . serious. I don't see the light in his gaze that would tell me he's joking. Looking into his steady, somber gaze I hope fervently that he has his glasses with him. My mouth is suddenly a little dry, and I swallow, trying to coax moisture back into it. The intensity in Ray's eyes is. . . disconcerting, the ferocity of his reaction even more so.
"I . . . we. . . could we sit?"
I hate the stammer in my voice, it shames me, but Ray simply nods. I sit back down on the edge of my cot. To my surprise he doesn't take the desk chair across from me, instead he sits down on the cot, right next to me. So close that I can feel his thigh alongside my own, and am forcibly reminded that I am wearing nothing but thermal underwear. I feel intensely vulnerable, so much so that I stare at the floor, at a loss for what to say or do next. Ray shifts a little; he is, after all, constitutionally unable to be still for more than thirty seconds.
"Well, I'm waiting," Ray announces.
He deserves an answer but I have none that I can speak. I try a diversion instead. It's a tactic that rarely works with him, but for some reason I keep attempting it. "Why should it matter, Ray?"
Out of the corner of my eye I see Ray's jaw drop, then his mouth snaps shut in a thin line. He makes a couple of abortive stabs at speech, and finally manages it. "Because you're my friend, Fraser, that's why, and that's what friends do. They . . . care. I care. A lot. What else would make me drag my sorry ass out of bed at two in the friggin' morning to come check up on you because of a damned dream? But I guess you don't care, hunh? Guess I just thought you did. Guess it was all just a show, for you, pretend, that I was your partner, and your friend. So much for that honesty thing."
Ray's voice starts out hard and harsh, nearly belligerent, but by the time he finishes it's hollow and thin, and when I steal a glance at him I find that he too is gazing at the floor, his expression taut and unhappy. Pain lances through me, sharp, and clean as a knife. Pain from causing pain. Endless circles. I can ease his, at least. "Of course not, Ray!" I say firmly. "I meant every word."
Ray gazes at me speculatively at that, and I can almost see some sort of plan taking shape in his mind, but Ray's thoughts are often hard to follow, so I'm not prepared for his next words.
"So, friends don't talk to each other up in the Northwest Areas? They just keep it all inside, they just bottle it up and pretend nothing's wrong? Guess it's more polite that way, nobody gets their feelings in a twist. But you know something, Fraser, you're not in the Northwest Areas . . . ."
"Territories," I correct automatically.
"Whatever. You're not there now. You're here, in America."
"Actually, at the moment we're in Canada, Ray."
Ray picks up my pillow and holds it up threateningly. "Fraser, if you don't shut up I swear I will gag you with your pillow case."
Knowing Ray rarely makes idle threats, I decide discretion is the better part of valor, and refrain from further replies. Ray waits a moment, glaring, then apparently decides I've complied and puts the pillow down. "Good. Okay. Now, wherever the hell we are, you're with me, and you're my friend, and friends talk about things, so talk, damn it!"
I glance at the pillow, eyebrows lifted questioningly. Ray shakes his head and smiles wanly at me, rolling his eyes. "Only if you get all smart-mouthed on me again. Fraser, please. Talk to me. I want to help. I want to be here for you, like you're always there for me. Always. Jesus, Fraser . . . ."
Ray huffs out a breath, clearly frustrated, then to my utter shock he reaches over and pulls me into his arms. I can't move. I can only sit, stone-still, wrapped in those long arms. Ray's embrace is hard and fierce, taut with the energy that always seems to flow under his skin, an aurora unto himself.
That pulse seems to leach into me as the moment goes on, and I want to return the embrace. More, I want to turn his face to mine, to taste his mouth, the curve of cheek, the rasp of stubbled jaw. No. No, I can't. I gather strength to push him away, but before I can Ray turns his face toward the side of my neck and rests there for a moment, and my strength deserts me again. The feel of Ray's breath against my skin sends strange shivers through me.
A moment later I feel something crawl down my neck, ticklish, like an insect, but it's winter and most insect life is dead or dormant so that makes no sense. Puzzled, I reach up with one hand, put my fingers against the side of my throat, feel them slide on wetness there. I lift my fingers to my mouth, taste . . . salt. Salt. Stunned by that discovery I shift a little on the cot, turning in toward Ray, daring to slide my own arms around him as I wanted to, but no longer driven to do more than hold him. We sit like that for a long time, wordlessly, until Ray drags in a deep, shuddering breath, and pulls back a little, avoiding my gaze as he wipes his eyes, a flush of embarrassment washing across his sharp cheekbones.
"Sorry. I'm sorry. Last thing you need when you're down is someone else sogging all over you."
"I do. It is," I say, my voice a rough whisper, because I can't trust it not to break.
Ray looks at me then, frowning, confused. "You do what? It is what?"
"I do need it, it is what I need." Still rough, still whispering.
Ray continues to stare at me for a moment, then he shakes his head, a hint of a smile lurking on his mouth. "Yeah?"
"Yes," I manage. "It's. . . I can't do that. Do it for me."
For a moment Ray looks at me as if he is pretty sure my elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor, then I can see the understanding come into his eyes, and he swallows hard, and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I get that. Okay."
I look at my hands, feeling guilty for causing him so much concern. I never meant to. I didn't understand that he truly cared. I'm not used to people. . . feeling. . . for me. To most I am an object, not a person. I should have known he would never see me so. He's my friend, and I must remember that, treat him as such. I'm just not used to having one. "I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I didn't mean to worry you, I never meant to, I just didn't know you felt . . . so strongly." I look up from my apology in time to see Ray blush again, looking away from me just as I manage to look at him.
"Yeah, well, I do, okay? Just didn't . . . I mean, it's not . . . normal, I know that. Didn't want to freak you out. Should have known you'd be okay with it. Nothing fazes you. Freaks me the hell out, but doesn't faze you."
I frown, a little confused myself now. "There's nothing abnormal in caring about someone, Ray. I fail to see why having such feelings for me should cause you to 'freak out.'"
Ray looks surprised, and that 'I'm talking to a lunatic' look creeps over his face for a moment, then disappears behind another blush. He spends a moment composing himself before replying, though it still comes out hesitantly. "Um, well, because. . . you're a guy. And I'm a guy. And we're cops."
Ah. I understand now. I understand because I wrestle with the same problem myself, though in greater degree, I think. "I realize that American men are not encouraged to show emotions," I say, gently. "Frankly, neither was I. My father and my grandparents, were taciturn in the extreme. And granted, we are officers of the law, an occupation wherein the open expression of emotion is somewhat out of the norm. That said, though, I see nothing wrong with us caring about one another."
Ray stares at me and his eyebrows look as if they are trying to locate his hairline. "You don't? You. . . Jesus. Fraser, are you telling me. . . you feel. . . are you saying you. . . like me, too?"
The question cuts like a knife. Clearly my previous attempts at reassurance have been less than convincing. That isn't fair to Ray. It's not his fault that I am. . . the way I am. I feel badly that Ray should have to ask that after all this time. I had hoped he knew I cared. I've assured Ray twice before this that we are friends, thought we were past this uncertainty, but apparently I'm incapable of showing enough simple affection to be convincing. Something else I have to atone for now, taking away the surety that he is liked for who he is. I put my hand on Ray's shoulder lightly, look in his changeable, doubt-filled eyes. "Yes, Ray. I like you very much."
I thought I'd seen all of Ray's smiles. I was wrong. This is a new one. This one almost . . . hurts. . . almost makes me close my eyes against its brilliance. The pain of it transmutes quickly to a warm frisson of desire that makes me clench my fists against it. Thankfully, sadly, it's gone far too quickly, replaced by an almost-shy lowering of startlingly long eyelashes, and a quick look away.
"Whoa. I . . . um." He clears his throat. "Okay. Cool. But, um, that's not what we're supposed to be talking about, Fraser. One thing at a time. We have to deal with bad before good, right? So, you gonna tell me why you're sitting here thinking stuff like that, and how long you've been thinking stuff like that, and why you haven't ever said you sometimes think stuff like that and asked for some help with it?"
It takes me a moment to puzzle through that, but when I get it, it removes the last lingering inappropriate response to Ray's smile. I sigh. "I try not to think about it. It's self-indulgent."
"So? You never indulge yourself, Fraser, and since not thinking about it isn't working worth a damn, maybe you ought to think about it. And talk about it. And do something about it. Spill."
Can I do this? I owe it to Ray. I can't just drop a bombshell like that and expect that Ray will let it go. Ray does care about me. I know that. Perhaps the distance I thought I had sensed between us is simply a figment of my imagination, like that image of my mother in my dreams. I stare at my hands some more, think hard, and compose a careful reply. "I . . . sometimes it just seems so . . . hard, Ray."
"Life?" Ray asks, and at my nod, he let out a long sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, it does sometimes, doesn't it? And we get to see the worst of it, day in, day out. But you always seem to be above that, Fraser. Like it doesn't touch you. Not where it counts."
"I try not to let it," I acknowledge, then I too sigh. "But it does. I'm not above it at all, and sometimes it seems as if the end of the tunnel is a very long way away."
Ray's gaze snap up to my face, worried. "End of the tunnel? What tunnel?"
I'm puzzled by his reaction. "The light at the end of the tunnel, you know. It's just a metaphor."
"Oh. Oh that." Ray looks relieved. "I thought you meant that tunnel they talk about that people see when they die. Yeah. But Fraser, there's light all around, really. You know that. You made me see that. People are lights. Even when they're not all good, there's usually some good in them. Some people are more light than others. I know I'm not much, but you . . . you're. . . you've been . . . God, sorry, sap, but when the Beth Botrelle thing happened, you were my light, Fraser. You lit my way out of the dark like one of those Twentieth-Century-Fox lights."
I smile at that, I can't help it. "I'm glad I was able to be of assistance, Ray."
Ray rolls his eyes, but the expression somehow looks more affectionate than exasperated. "Yeah. Assistance. So, what can I assist you with, Fraser? I'm more like one of those flashlights they use on The X-Files than a searchlight, but what light I got, it's yours."
It's strange, I know, very strange, to react to his statement by bursting into tears like a child, but that is what I do. It's as if there was a hard, tight ball inside me, and those words just crack it open and let the pain come flooding out, washing through me in bitter, agonizing waves. I try to pull in, pull back, to hide myself away, but Ray will have none of it. I am held, and rocked, and soothed with gentle strokes on my back, my hair, until the sobs fade, leaving me wrung out and silent. At that point Ray pats my shoulder and gets up and leaves the room.
For a moment I fear my hysteria has exceeded even Ray's tolerance for freakishness and driven him away, so I'm ridiculously grateful when he returns moments later with a roll of toilet tissue from which he tears a strip, which he places in my hand. I'm not quite sure what I am supposed to do with it until Ray tears off a second strip and mops his eyes, then blows his nose. Ah. I imitate him, though my handkerchief would be more ecological. I don't want to slight Ray's offer of comfort.
It strikes me suddenly that it's a shame that Stella had not wanted children, because Ray would have made a good father. I feel a momentary pang of disloyal guilt at the realization that I wish my own father could have expressed his emotions so generously. Ray tosses his used tissue into the wastebasket and resumes his place on the cot beside me. After a moment he speaks again.
"Fraser, get up for a sec, okay?"
I comply without questioning why, and Ray shifts to sit with his back against the wall, his legs stretched out, spread as widely as the narrow cot allows. He pats the cot between his legs. "Okay, sit here. Lean on me."
"Ray. . . ." I begin to protest, embarrassed that he thinks I still need to be held, but Ray holds up a hand, silencing me.
"Just do it, okay?"
Unable to summon the spine to argue, I nod and take my place there, though I can't quite bring myself to lean. Ray has other plans, though. He reaches out, winds his arms around my chest, and pulls me back, refusing to allow me even that distance. The position isn't comfortable. The angle is wrong, and I'm too tense to really relax. Ray sighs and shifts again, pulling and pushing at me until I'm half-turned toward him, and then he pulls me in again, my cheek against his shoulder, his hand in my hair, stroking wordlessly. It's comfortable now. No doubt Ray's years of marriage have taught him how to share a small space comfortably with another person. I have no such training.
"Okay?" Ray asks after a moment.
I nod, embarrassed, but unwilling to move, unwilling to give this up just yet. If this is all I can have, I'll take it. It's more closeness than I've had in longer than I care to remember. And at least Ray won't hurt me, not like . . . others. Ray is quiet for a few moments, then he speaks again.
"Funny, most times you won't shut up to save your life, but now that I want you to talk, Dief's got your tongue."
Dief makes a sound, as if confirming Ray's comment, and we both chuckle a little.
"Ray." My voice sounds strained, hoarse. "I'm sorry. I'm not good at this."
"Who is?" Ray asks ruefully. "Women maybe. Not guys. It's okay."
"You seem quite good at it," I say, hoping he didn't notice how wistful I sound.
Ray laughs softly. "That's cause I'm not the one falling apart for once. Jeez. I didn't even know you could fall apart. Shatter my illusions there, Fraser."
I tense. Just as I feared. I push away, or try to, fighting Ray's arms. He's stronger than he looks. "Ray, please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . ."
"Fraser, chill." Ray says firmly. "It was a joke, okay? What the hell was that all about? Like you're not allowed to have a bad day now and then?"
"No," I say, then regret it a moment later when Ray tips his head to look at my face.
"No? You're not?"
I shake my head. "No. I. . . can't."
"Why not?"
"It's not in my nature."
"Oh, bullshit, Fraser. Tell me another one. Why not?"
"You said it yourself, Ray. It shatters people's illusions," I say attempting to deflect his curiosity.
"So? Boy, saying that a lot tonight. So? Maybe it'll do them good, shake things up a little. Make 'em see the real you."
I sigh, and shake my head again. "Ray, no one wants to know the real me."
There's a long silence, then Ray speaks quietly. "I do."
I look at him in puzzlement. "Why?"
Ray looks back at me, frowning. "Because I like you. I like you a lot. You're my best friend. You're. . . um. . . " he clears his throat. "You're very important to me, Fraser. Friend and partner. Okay? I'm sure lots of people want to know the real you." He smiles. "Frannie, for one."
I shake my head. "Francesca least of all, I suspect. She wants a version of me that never existed. Most people do."
Ray thinks about that, nods. "Hm. Don't know about most people, but yeah, you're probably right about Frannie. What makes you think most people want that, though?"
"Experience," I say quietly.
Ray sighs. I can feel his breath stir my hair faintly. "You got some bad experiences. It's not all other people though, Fraser, I mean, I'm not saying it's all your fault because it's not, but it takes two, you know. Part of it's that. . . armor . . . you wear."
I frown, puzzled, and look up. "Armor?"
"Yeah. Armor. It's red, and it's cloth, but it's armor. And that's on top of the other armor. Six inches thick and I used to think the only thing that could get through it is kryptonite. Not that I blame you. Letting things through hurts. I know that. But something got through, hunh? Talk to me, Fraser. Tell me why you're up at all hours, thinking about taking the easy way out."
I concentrate on the question, trying not to think about what else he said, knowing he's right, and not wanting to know it. I can't tell him all of it. I don't think I even know all of it, and I'm absolutely certain he would not want to know all of it. But. . . part of it I can admit. Part of it's safe, and will probably be enough to satisfy him, because I know he's as tenacious as a terrier when he gets something into his head and I have to give him something or he will be here all night, and I'll probably break if that happens.
"It's not easy," I feel compelled to point out. "If it were, I wouldn't be here now."
He sighs. "Yeah, I know. Been there a time or two. I shouldn't have put it that way. Come on, Fraser. Talk to me." He smiles a little, with an odd edge of wistfulness. "I'm glowing as hard as I can, here."
Yes. Yes he is. And that's what keeps me going. "I have recurring dreams," I admit finally.
"Dreams?" he asks, puzzled.
I nod.
"Like, bad dreams? Nightmares?"
I nod again.
"About?"
I start to speak and my voice breaks. Appalled, I try to cover it with a cough but he's staring at me with narrowed eyes, and I know the attempt is useless. "My mother," I say, and my voice sounds like someone else's. Deeper. Rougher. Shot through with the pain I never let myself express.
"Your mum?" he echoes questioningly.
I've always been intrigued by the fact that he often calls his mother 'mum' rather than the more traditionally American 'mom.' Oddly, I often do the opposite. As if we sometimes trade dialects for that one word. Strange. It binds us, somehow.
"Dreaming about your mum is a nightmare?" he asks, puzzled.
"I've been dreaming about. . . . her death."
His eyes meet mine, dark with sympathy and understanding now. "Oh, man. Fraser, I'm sorry. That had to be hard for you. More than hard. I mean, you were just a little guy. I know how I'd've felt, losing my mum. Jeez, even now that would really suck, and I'm a grown up."
I find myself nodding. "Yes, Ray, it did indeed, as you say, suck."
He nods back, and one of his hands moves to rest on my shoulder, warmly, comfortingly, his thumb moving gently in an absent, circling motion. "You, um, want to talk about it? You've never said how she died."
I don't want to talk about it. I do want to talk about it. "That's the strange thing, Ray. I don't seem to remember."
He thinks about that. "Well, you were only six, right? Guess it's not that strange that you'd forget."
"No. I suppose not. Though it seems odd to me that neither my grandparents nor my father mentioned it at some point after I was old enough to remember."
"Well, 'scuse me for saying it, but your family doesn't seem to have been real big on communication, if you know what I mean. Doesn't seem so odd to me, when you take that into consideration."
He has a point. My father only began talking to me on a regular basis long after he was dead. My grandparents were good, strong, sturdy people of high intelligence, practical to the point of obsession, generally good-humored, but with strong opinions about what was and was not proper. A discussion of their daughter-in-law's death long after the fact would not have been something they considered useful.
"She died pretty young," he muses. "Car accident maybe?"
I shake my head. "No. I don't think it was an accident. It must have been an illness. The most common diseases which claim women in their prime are heart disease and cancer, but neither of those seems right."
"You remember anything at all, any clue to go on?"
I shudder, nodding. "Yes. One thing." It's in the dream, every time. That sound.
"And it is?"
"I have a memory, very vivid, of hearing her breathing in a wet, labored way. As if she were breathing through water."
Ray frowns at that. "Like maybe she drowned?"
"It was full winter when she died. It would have been virtually impossible to find a body of water large enough to drown in that wasn't solid. And I know it happened at the cabin, so it seems unlikely."
"Hmmm." He thinks some more, looks up, snapping his fingers. "What about pneumonia? I had that once, when I got shot. Felt like I was drowning."
Pneumonia. I think about that, and nod slowly. "It's possible. In an isolated environment, untreated pneumonia is often fatal. It makes sense."
"What happens in your dream? Is it always the same?"
"Yes, well, for all intents and purposes," I prevaricate. He doesn't need to know about the last part.
"And?" he prompts.
I breathe deeply. Swallow hard. "She dies in the snow outside the cabin, felled by a shotgun blast." There. I've said it. I'm not sure how, but I did it. I swallow back the nausea that saying it brings to my throat. He startles; I can feel it in his body against mine. His hand tightens on my shoulder, his other hand comes up to cup the back of my head and hold me against him in a startlingly intimate gesture.
"Jesus Christ, Ben! No wonder you're feeling like crap. God!"
Ben? He's never called me that before. Never. Occasionally he'll call me Benton. Never Ben. I don't say anything, afraid if I call his attention to the fact, he won't do it again. As soon as I think it, I feel guilty for putting my own desires so high. I try to pull away and he won't let me, holding me in place with gentle but firm pressure. After a moment I stop trying, and let him have his way. It seems less intimate than struggling.
"How long you been having this dream?" he asks after a little while.
Oh, Ray. There's a reason you're a good detective. I sigh. "A long time."
"A long time?" he repeats.
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Since I was a child."
He's quiet for a bit. "You . . . never said anything before," he says finally.
There's something odd about his voice. Something that makes me think of him in the GTO, watching his ex-wife walk away; of another time, and his voice as he spoke of being responsible for a woman's death. I pull back a little so I can look into his face, and I find him staring across the room at nothing, his clear gaze distant and unseeing, tension around his mouth. I've hurt him. I don't know how, but I know I have.
"Ray, I . . . ." I begin to apologize.
His gaze sharpens, he's seeing me now, and he shakes his head. "It's okay, Fraser. I just wish you could . . . ." He stops. Sighs. "But I know you can't, so it's okay," he finishes.
I have no idea what it is that he wishes I could do, but it astonishes me that he can say it's all right that I hurt him. "Ray, it's not okay."
His gaze pins me, too close, too knowing. "What? That you don't know how to have a friend? That you can be the best friend I ever had, but you won't let me be one back? No, it's not okay. It sucks. It really sucks. But I know it's not your fault, so I can't be mad about it. I just have to keep showing you and hope it sinks in. How long has it been since you got a good night's sleep?"
I'm confused, tired. "I . . . I don't remember."
He shakes his head. "I should've figured. Go to sleep, Fraser. We can talk more when you're rested. I can't expect you to make sense right now. Things'll be better when you've slept."
Still confused, I nod, and try to get up so he can go home. He doesn't release me.
"I said go to sleep," he says quietly.
It takes me several seconds to realize he has no intention of leaving. The realization shakes me, and I'm so out of control I can feel tears well up. I try to remember the last time someone held me as I slept. Realize it was a woman who got up after I fell asleep to clean every trace of her presence from my apartment. His touch is much sweeter than hers. And I am tired. So tired. I close my eyes.
* * *
He's gone when my internal alarm wakes me at five. He's smart enough to know that since my bedroom is also my office it would cause speculation for him to be found in 'bed' with me, even fully clothed as he had been. I can't believe I slept through him leaving. Nor can I believe I had no more nightmares. They always come back. But not last night. He stood sentry and refused to allow them into my sleep.
Though I feel a little better after several hours of uninterrupted sleep there's still a heaviness inside me. I think back over the last few things we said last night, and that heaviness deepens. My chronic reserve and uncommunicative nature distresses him, and it's unfair when he offers so much of himself. I wish I knew what it is about me that makes it so hard for me to accept what others offer. What had he said? That I don't know how to have a friend? He's right. I don't. Because I have no experience with intimacy of any sort that has not left me bruised and bloody. And that's what put me in that armor he says I wear.
Ray has no armor. He flings himself naked into every battle like some ancient Celt, his hair stiffened with lime, his body marked with woad. . . I can't help but smile as I realize how appropriate that simile really is, between his hair, his tattoo, and his fierce, fierce spirit. They would have loved him. I, on the other hand, have no idea how to remove the armor that's rusted rigid, leaving me stuck in place like the Tin Man in the Oz books. An all too apt simile as well, since like him, I also appear to need a heart.
No. No, that's certainly untrue. If I had no heart, it couldn't break, and mine is so shattered that I can't manage to convince a good man, a friend, that I care about him. His actions last night only compound the ache I feel when I think of losing him. He couldn't know, of course. He was only being kind. A friend. A good friend. While I can't even seem to show him that I consider him such. Probably because I'm afraid that if I do, I will eventually let it slip that what I feel for him is so much more than that. Friendship is the least of it.
I shy from the word I know I want to use, and skip over it to need, instead. A much safer word, even though it too makes me confront things I wish I could pretend didn't exist. I want him in my arms, I want to taste his mouth, I want him naked and sweating and moaning beneath me in a splay of lust and need. And what shakes me is that I suspect even if I did tell him that, he would still want to be my friend. That he wouldn't turn away from me. He's not like anyone I've ever known. He doesn't judge me. Everyone else does, but not Ray.
It's strange that I can know he doesn't and would not judge me, yet still feel that somehow he's slipping away from me. It's as if I'm dangling off the edge of a cliff and he's trying to keep me from falling, but gravity is steadily eroding our grip and one can't fight a force of nature. I feel a sudden need to hear his voice, to have him assure me that we are still friends, as if last night wasn't assurance enough. I almost reach for the phone to call him, but then I remember the hour, and stop myself. If I know him he's home trying to make up for the sleep he lost here with me and I don't want to disturb him a moment earlier than his alarm will no doubt do on its own. I'll see him at the 27th, on his own time.
I spend a moment smiling fatuously at the thought of him sprawled out on his rumpled bed, probably still dressed, probably snoring, then I shake my head and get up to prepare for the day. I have work. He has work. We'll meet later to discuss our cases, as usual, and I will try hard to let him see how much he means to me, without letting him see how much he means to me. A balancing act I'm not certain I can manage, but know I must at least try.
* * *
My daily routine serves to occupy my mind-- I have little time to think of anything but the duties assigned to me by Inspector Thatcher. I manage to finish them all by three and head for the station feeling a combination of trepidation and anticipation. After last night I'm not sure how Ray will receive me, but when I walk in he looks up and his face lights up, as always, perhaps even more than usual, actually. The relief I feel is acute. Dief greets him with his normal disgraceful abandon, and is rewarded with something out of a drawer. I frown as he crunches whatever it was, and am about to make a comment when Ray opens the drawer further and shows me the box residing within, and I close my mouth on the rebuke. I lift my eyebrows instead.
"I wasn't aware you enjoyed snacking on dog biscuits, Ray," I say in my mildest tone.
He snorts. "Oh yeah. They're great for those days you don't have time to brush your teeth."
"Ah," I respond cryptically, as if I believed him. I see a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth and feel pleased to have put it there.
He starts to ask me something, then looks around and motions me to follow him into the break-room. I do so without reservation. Well, without many, that is. The fact that he wants privacy is a little worrisome. He pours two cups of coffee, as usual, one for each of us though he knows I don't drink coffee. It's a little game he plays. One of these days I may drink a cup, just to see his face when I do. The room is empty, save for us, and he sits down at one of the tables. I take a place across from him, holding the warm cup between my palms. He studies me carefully, and I school my face to a neutral, pleasant expression.
"So, you better today?" he asks quietly.
I nod. "Yes, much."
His eyes narrow a little. "No more bad dreams and . . . stuff?"
"No, I'm fine. I slept well, thank you." That sounds so insufficient that I attempt more, though it's difficult for me. "I . . . I'm very glad you came by last night. And I'm glad you stayed."
He smiles at that, and his gaze falls momentarily only to rise again, holding mine. "Good, that's really good. I'm glad too." He takes a deep breath and his expression goes serious again. "Okay, now, you gonna talk to me next time you get messed up, or do I have to play like I'm a fortune-teller and figure it out on my own? Cause if that's the case, I need to get me a crystal ball."
"I . . . I'll try, Ray. But really, I'm fine. It was just a momentary aberration."
"Aberration. Jesus." He sips his coffee, sighs a little, then glances around as if to assure himself of our privacy before he lifts those shrewd, luminous eyes to meet my gaze. "So, uh . . . what do we do now?"
I'm a little puzzled by him asking me that. Usually he decides the priority of our cases. I think back over the cases I've been assisting him with, and offer one. "Well, I suppose the Coolbaugh case might be our best bet. We have some good leads there."
He cocks his head to one side a bit like Diefenbaker does sometimes when he's puzzled by some particularly baffling human behavior. "No, Fraser, I meant . . . ."
He falls silent mid-sentence, studies me for a moment, and it's strange, but it seems as if a slight shadow steals some of the light from his gaze. Finally he shakes his head, smiles oddly, and shrugs.
"Aaah, never mind. It doesn't matter. Okay, the Coolbaugh case. I think we need to hit the pawnshops, see if any of the goods have turned up. I don't think we're dealing with a pro, just a gifted amateur."
I agree with him, and the discussion turns to work-related matters, and he resists my attempts to steer the conversation back to his question. I have the feeling that I missed something important.
* * *
One forty-six am. Another gasping, panting, sweat-drenched wake up, heart pounding and nausea threatening. I'm still muzzy with sleep and I reach for the phone without really thinking, hit the autodial, and then realize what I'm doing and hang up before it rings through and wakes Ray up. There's really no reason to have two of us awake at this hour. Dief whines and eyes me narrowly, upset by my disquiet, and probably by the fear-scent in my sweat. Taking a fresh pair of sweatpants with me, I go upstairs and take a shower, letting the water run as hot as I can to try and burn the turmoil out of my brain, but all it does it make me lethargic so I finish up and head downstairs to make myself a cup of tea and get some work done. If I'm going to be up at this hour I may as well try to get something useful accomplished.
It's a measure of my poor physical and mental state that I'm all the way to the landing before it sinks into my brain that there's someone standing at the foot of the stairs. For an instant I feel the rush of adrenalin as my startle reflexes kick in, then I realize who it is, and for the second night in a row my tension eases even though my pulse is still racing. I'm annoyed that he's here again in the middle of the night, though, and even more annoyed with myself for being so irrationally relieved to see him.
"Would you like me to have a key made for you? I wouldn't want you to risk damaging your credit," I snap acidly.
He laughs softly. "It's expired. I only use it for nefarious purposes. Besides, the Ice Queen would have a cow. What's up?"
"Apparently you are."
"You too. You called me, what's up? Another dream?"
"I didn't . . . ." I begin, but stop. I did. But I hung up before it connected, so how could he know that?
He smiles. "Sometimes the circuit doesn't close as fast as you think. And I have caller ID," he says, solving the mystery.
I swear sometimes he can read my mind. It's an extremely disconcerting experience. "Ah." I say, ducking my head, smoothing an eyebrow for a moment to gather my thoughts. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
"It's okay, I don't mind. You, um, wanna talk?"
"There's nothing to talk about, Ray, it was just a bad dream. I was more than half asleep when I picked up the phone."
"Okay. You want to not-talk, then? We can do that, like last night. I can just hang out. Wake you up if it looks like you're going down again."
"Ray, I'm fine," I snap, unable to bear his solicitude, his nearness, not when I'm so friable. The thought of 'just hanging out' like last night is far too attractive, but I won't allow myself to use him that way. I brush past him and head for my office. "I was just going to get some work done as long as I'm up."
I'm somewhat surprised when he doesn't argue. I'm pulling my sweatshirt out of the closet when Diefenbaker comes to the office doorway and glares at me, then turns with a soft growl and leaves again just as I hear the front door close. I quickly step out into the hallway, and find myself alone save for an angry wolf who's sitting staring at the door with his back ostentatiously turned to me.
Ridiculously I feel tears sting my eyes and blink them back, rebuking myself for them. It's my own fault he left. If I'd been a hair more pleasant he wouldn't have gone. Dief turns his head to glare at me again, then suddenly swivels back to stare at the door, ears cocked forward alertly as it opens, and Ray steps inside again, carrying a . . . pillow? We stare at each other for a moment, him a little pugnaciously, then as he studies me his expression softens.
"Okay. I know you're not used to having anybody poking around in your life, but you're stuck with me and I'm not going to let you push me out, so you better get used to it. Now. Back to bed. You're not working. I'm not letting you work for at least three more hours."
I sigh and shake my head, trying to hold my temper. I know he's just trying to help. "You don't understand. I know I won't get back to sleep, so I might as well make use of the time productively."
"And you don't understand that I'm not going to let you do that. You got back to sleep last night, you can do it again tonight."
"I feel compelled to point out that the circumstances were rather unusual last night."
"Yeah, but that's the thing about experiments. It's like that cold fusion deal. . . it's no good unless you can repeat the results, right?"
Now where did he get that little piece of trivia? It's extremely annoying that he's right, at least about scientific theory and method. Before I can think of a suitable reply, he grins.
"Ha! Gotcha. Back to bed, Fraser. I won't make you share this time. I figured you wouldn't have an extra pillow so I brought my own, but if you can find me a blanket that'd be good."
There's something about his air of utter certainty that compels me toward the closet in my office to get my other Hudson Bay blanket, and only after I've taken it from the shelf does it occur to me to wonder where he plans to sleep if not on my cot. By then he's followed me and he takes the blanket out of my hands and lays it out on the floor next to my cot. I stare at him in utter amazement until he lifts his eyebrows.
"What?"
"You're sleeping on the floor?" I ask, allowing my incredulity to color my tone.
"Yeah." He grins. "You never got me my 'tuck in on the floor' badge, figured I needed to prove I could still do it." He points at my cot and assumes a severe expression. "You. Bed. Now," he orders.
"Really, Ray, are you always so domineering toward the people you sleep with?" I ask crossly before it strikes me that he could take that in a way I hadn't intended. Which of course, he proceeds to do.
His eyebrows go up and he grins cheekily. "That would be telling, now, wouldn't it, Fraser?" he says with a wink. "If you really want to know the answer to that one you'll have to ask the Stella."
From the amount of heat I feel in my face I'm guessing I must be as red as my thermals, but I manage a retort nonetheless. "From what I've observed of Assistant States Attorney Kowalski, I would have guessed the reverse."
He stares at me in what appears to be stunned amazement, jaw slack for a moment, then he chuckles. "Oh, bad, bad Mountie. I gotta hang out with you more often when you're sleep deprived." He laughs again, shaking his head. "That was definitely a score. Now get your baggy butt on the bed, cot, whatever."
"My butt is not. . . ." I begin to protest, offended, then what he meant sinks in and my face heats again. "Ah. You were referring to my attire."
This time he howls out loud, laughing so long he sounds like an asthmatic having an attack, and holding his stomach as he shakes his head and manages to gasp out. "Jesus God. No, Fraser, your ass is definitely not baggy. Believe me, I am well aware of that fact. Get in bed, sweet-cheeks."
He points, snickering, and with as much dignity I can scrape together I take my place on the cot, trying not to think about the fact that he's noticed my posterior. Or the fact that I am apparently a little vain about said anatomy. He stretches out on the floor beside me, still wearing his camel-colored wool topcoat. Since he's wearing jeans and a t-shirt beneath it, I assume he's planning to use it in lieu of covers. Putting his hands behind his head, he stares at the ceiling.
"Okay, tell me a story."
"All right. Who are you?" I demand, staring down at him. "Sleeping on the floor, asking for Inuit stories? I can only conclude that you are not the real Ray Kowalski."
He smiles, a sweet, open expression, startlingly so. "Nah, I'm me. And I never said Inuit stories. I want a Benton Fraser story. About when you were a little boy. Something nice, a good memory. One that has your mom in it."
For a moment I can't breathe. My whole body goes still, tense. Then involuntary reflexes take over and my chest moves, air fills my lungs. A good memory of my mother. God. What do I have left of her? I close my eyes, try to become a child, just for a moment. There.
"She. . . she always smelled good. I think it was . . . Chanel, maybe? Or, no, Shalimar. That's it. A rich, warm scent. Dad gave her a bottle when I was born, or, well, some months afterward but as soon as he could arrange to have it sent. She once told me that. She used it every day, just a drop. Said it was her one luxury."
"Bet there wasn't much of that, up there."
"No, very little. It's a harsh existence, but she seemed to thrive on it."
"What else you remember?"
I close my eyes again. That seems to help, to block out the present just a bit. "I remember when she held me, sometimes her hair would touch my face. It was soft. It tickled. Sometimes I helped her brush it."
"That sounds nice. I can see that in my head. Bet you were a pretty serious kid."
"Yes. I'm afraid I was."
"I was a brat," he offers, grinning. "Pure hell on wheels. Drove my folks nuts. Tell me something else."
It's coming easier now. "She sang, a lot. I thought she sounded like an angel."
"She probably did. You got that from her, hunh?"
I startle at that and look down at him, waiting for him to take back the compliment. He doesn't. He just holds my gaze with his. I feel myself flush a little. "I. . . ah . . . ."
He smiles. "It's okay. Don't spoil it. What'd she like to sing the most?"
It's funny, but suddenly I can hear her, in my head. "La Vie en Rose."
He frowns a little, shakes his head. "Don't know it."
"You probably do. You just don't realize it."
"Sing it then."
Extremely self conscious, I assay the first few bars, and suddenly his face lights in recognition. He knows it. I'd thought he would. Very few people are completely unfamiliar with it. I stop singing then, and he frowns.
"Why'd you stop?"
"You recognized it, didn't you?"
"Yeah, but that didn't mean you had to quit. I liked it."
"It's not really in my range," I temporize, not at all comfortable with the idea of singing a torch song to my partner.
"Oh."
He looks disappointed, but I can't bring myself to assuage that disappointment.
"So, she teach you French?"
"Yes, she did."
"Cool. Mom tried to teach me a little Polish, but I forgot most of it. Your mom sounds like she was nice."
"She was," I say, hearing the wistful tone in my voice and for once not being embarrassed by it. "I wish . . ." I stop, as another voice from the past surfaces 'There's no point in wishing, now, is there Benton?' I hear my grandmother's words, probably meant to be comforting, but in reality very harsh to a young boy who had lost his mother.
"You wish you'd had her longer, right?" Ray asks, bringing me back to the present.
I nod. There's no need for words. He reaches up, catches my hand and squeezes it. For a brief moment I'm tempted to move to the floor and join him there, but I suppose if he wanted to be that close he would have done as he did the other night and joined me on the cot, so I don't. We sit in silence.
The boy sits at a table, drawing a rose, with colored pencils. Behind him his mother is singing her favorite song as she works in the kitchen. The smell of chocolate in the air betrays what sort of cake she's baking, and the boy's mouth waters with anticipation. he finishes his drawing, and turns to her, holding it out. She smiles, and puts out her hand for it. Only when he looks down, it's not her hand any more. Instead of small and delicate, it's a larger hand, a man's hand, with long, narrow, elegant fingers. And his own hand is not a child's now, but a also a man's hand-- strong, and capable. The drawing is no longer a drawing, either, it's a rose, a real one, blood-red and lush. His fingers tighten on the stem in surprise, and the thorns bite, stinging. His partner looks at him in concern and takes the rose from his hand, then slowly leans forward to . . . .
I startle awake yet again, breathless yet again, heart racing, but this time not from fear. The touch of a dream-lover's kiss lingers on my mouth as I hear the door to my office close. I sit up instantly. Ray is gone. My spare blanket has been neatly folded and placed on the desk. I untangle myself from my own blanket and get out of the cot, but by then he's gone, the front door closing behind him as well, and I can't very well dash outside to call him back wearing nothing but sweat-pants. It would be extremely unseemly. Besides, I have no good reason to do so.
Reluctantly I turn from the door and head back to my office. Dief follows, grumbling softly. Without thinking I touch my fingertips to my lips, wondering at how real that dream-kiss felt, at how I can almost taste it. Ridiculous. After sleeping for several hours the last thing Ray would taste like is chocolate. I glance at the clock and am startled to see it's only a quarter of six. That's very early for Ray to be awake, especially on a Saturday, though most likely he couldn't sleep well on the floor. It amazes me that he stayed this long. It amazes me that he stayed at all.
Two nights. He's given me two nights, trying to ease my pain at his own expense. Why? I don't understand that. He's a man who likes comfort and sleep and needs a certain amount of evening peace to offset the daily rigors of law-enforcement that he has to deal with. But he gave that up for me, twice in a row. No one has ever done such a thing for me, none of my other . . . friends. It makes it clear just how much he cares for me, and that warms my icy heart, even if our relationship can't be quite what I would like for it to be.
Still, even a good friend can't be expected to keep this up indefinitely. I can't let him lose any more sleep for my sake. Tonight, no matter how bad the dreams are, I won't call him. I must just deal with them on my own. Although, that last dream hadn't been bad. I smile, closing my eyes, glad Ray asked me to think of something positive. As I get out fresh clothing for the day I find myself singing the song I'd remembered, the one that she'd also sung in my dream.
Des yeux qui font baisser les miens
Un rir' qui se perd sur sa bouche
Voila le portrait sans retouche
De l'homme auquel j'appartiens
I have to smile a little at how ridiculous I was last night, not wanting to keep singing with Ray present. He doesn't speak French, and even if he did know the language, I was merely singing my mother's favorite song. He would never have known that I find the lyrics far too apt. I do wish to belong to him, though. A vain wish, as most of mine have proven over the years. But his eyes do at times seem to kiss mine, and laughter does lose itself on his mouth, and I feel my heart-beat far too acutely in his presence. I start the next verse, thinking of the rose in my dream, of the way the thorns pierced my fingers, and suddenly I'm seeing bloody snow and an outstretched hand, and a shudder runs through me, horror silencing me like a gag. No. No. Stop it. Stop thinking about it.
I stand for a moment in my office, feeling claustrophobic, feeling a pressing need to go somewhere, anywhere, to just get . . . outside. I need it. Not to just walk the city streets or haunt the manicured expanse of a public park, but to be somewhere that I can pretend isn't within a stone's throw of another person. I need to smell the sharp scent of evergreen, breathe air that's not thick with petrochemicals. I want to be cold. I want to be . . . home.
I shake my head. I have to stop thinking of the north as my home. It hasn't been that for quite some time now, and is highly unlikely to be so again in the foreseeable future. Unfortunately that's easier said than done, and my recent dreams have only exacerbated my longing for a different place. I'm racking my brain trying to think where to go when Dief whines at me and I nod. "Yes. Indeed. That's a very good idea."
There's a wildlife preserve not too far to the northeast of us, out near the airport. I dress warmly, gather my equipment, and we head out. We've walked about a third of the way when a semi rumbles to a stop beside us and the driver, an older man with a weathered face and kind eyes, leans across to open the passenger door.
"Where're you headed?" he asks, looking curiously at Diefenbaker.
"Out near the airport."
He nods. "I'm heading that way to pick up a load. Want a ride?"
Dief makes an eager noise, and I look at him quellingly. "We've barely covered seven miles, I don't want to hear any more about it." I turn back to the trucker with a rueful smile. "I'm sorry, he's quite rude, but if you don't mind having both of us, I'd appreciate that."
"Don't mind at all. Come on up."
I nod. "Thank you kindly."
He shifts back over to his side of the cab as we get in. "Nice looking dog."
"Wolf actually. Well, half," I amend as he looks at Dief more closely. "At least I think so."
"Could be. Arctic, right, not gray?"
I'm surprised, and look at him more closely. "Yes, actually."
He grins. "Thought so. Used to work the rigs up on the Beaufort. Saw quite a few like him. You from up north?"
I nod. "Yes, I am."
"Funny, I thought that when I saw you two, but didn't figure I was right. You miss it?"
I wonder if my feelings are that obvious, until he continues, musingly.
"I do, sometimes. Never thought I would when I was up there freezing my ass off, but I do. There's just something about it . . . ." his voice trails off.
"Yes. Something," I agree fervently.
We ride in a companionable silence for some miles, and I have him drop me off where the river goes under the highway. There's a gravel access road there and Dief and I walk down it for a ways until we reach the small lake it verges. The water is well frozen, perfect for our purposes. A stack of small crates lies scattered near the roadside and I frown at the litter, then realize they will actually come in rather handy. I take two of them out onto the ice, not sure, really, why. It's not as though I need two places to sit, but for some reason it feels right. I cut a small hole in the ice, assemble my rod, and settle down to fish.
Dief plays for a while along the shore, chasing something, or quite possibly nothing. Its almost a Zen sort of state, one which allows me to just . . . not think. It's not a state I'm familiar with, but it's welcome, and I sit so for a long time, just being, just existing. At some point Dief comes back and lies on the ice near me, watching the water intently. His intensity tricks me into looking down, but there's nothing to see but a hole in the ice and the line dangling into dark water. When I look up again my father is sitting across from me. Ah. That's why the second box.
He looks at me. I stare back, somewhat annoyed to see him. His timing is generally execrable, and this appearance is no different. He's not been around for weeks now, as my dreams have tried to take control of my life. So typical, disappearing when I need him most. He's the only one-- well, besides Ray that is-- that I can talk to about the dreams. Doubtless he won't see fit to give me any advice that might actually prove helpful. He's quite good at either telling me what I already know, or suggesting ridiculously inappropriate courses of action. Come to think of it, perhaps his absence has actually been for the best.
"Son," he says finally.
"Dad." I acknowledge.
He looks at me uncomfortably. I realize suddenly that we both know something strange is happening. Finally he clears his throat.
"Pleasant here. Well, for a place in the city, that is. Reminds me a bit of home."1
I nod. "Yes. A bit." I suppose he'll eventually get around to the reason for his appearance.
"Not as cold, though," he says. "More like fall."
I nod again. "The first day the frost takes and there's a sheen of ice on the dugout."
"When you feel the wind from the north bringing the snow," he says, his inflection holding a hint of the same wistful tone I hear in my own voice.
"And out on horseback there's a slanting of light from the east," I say, his words deepening the nostalgic ache inside me.
He nods, sighs. "Oh, I miss it, son, I miss it terribly."
"Yes, so do I." What can it hurt to admit that? He is, after all, my father, and he said it first. As I study him I realize he seems. . . strange. Well, he's always strange, but right now he seems stranger. "You all right?" I hear myself asking, which is kind of a silly thing to ask because, well, he's . . . dead. He can't be all right.
He looks unsettled. "I don't know. You know life is odd enough but death, son, Lord God, they don't even give you a road map! Everything comes under scrutiny."
Scrutiny from whom, I wonder, even as I ask a completely different question. "What brought this on?"
He shakes his head, looks at me again. "I don't know, something in the air. There's something stirring there, you feel it?"
Oh yes. I feel it. I've been feeling it for quite some time now. It's strange, because I've had the dreams for years without ever feeling compelled to ask him about them, but they've become so much more intense of late. Perhaps he'll know something that will give me some peace. "Yeah." I pause, continue. "You know I've had. . . I've had some very odd dreams. . . ." I let my sentence trail off, prompting him.
"About your mother?" he asks me.
I try to hide my surprise. "Yes. You?"
He shrugs. "Well, I'm dead, I don't dream, so I don't know what this sensation is that I've got. Although it's very similar to when Walter Singlefoot laced my tea with kinnikinnik and then seemed to turn into a twelve foot alligator before my very eyes." He stands, looks around, almost pacing. "I don't know, it feels as though your mother's very close."
To me too, Dad, I think. But then she's never been far from my dreams. Or should I say my nightmares? It's terrible to have a nightmare be the primary image you carry of your mother. Before I can answer him, though, I become aware that we're not alone.
"Fraser, I hope for your sake you're talking to a fish."
Ray's voice startles me, but at the same time it just feels. . . right, that he's here. I look up and smile, welcoming him. My father, on the other hand, looks less than pleased, in fact almost frustrated as I indicate the second crate. "Hey, Ray. Have a seat, I'll rig you up a line."
He sits, looks at me oddly. "Catch anything?"
"No, but you know, ice-fishing takes patience."
A slight smile curves his mouth. "Yeah, well, you're going to need a lot of that, 'cause there ain't no fish in here."
I look at him and see he's got that 'I know something you don't know' look he gets sometimes. He'll be disappointed if I don't ask. "How do you know that?"
"'Cause it's a city reservoir. Drinking water. No fish."
I'm a bit puzzled, I'd thought this was a wildlife preserve, but perhaps fish aren't considered wildlife here. It's a little disappointing, but then, I hadn't really come out here to fish. "Oh."
He studies me for a moment. "You okay?"
We both know he's not just talking about now. This question is part of last night's conversation too.
"Yeah, yeah, just. . . er. . ." I stop myself, hesitant to admit this to him, it sounds so self-absorbed.
"What?" he prompts.
"I'm homesick, Ray." It slips past my guard, and lies between us on the snow like a fresh-caught fish. I wait for him to get upset, but he doesn't. Dad looks a little disgusted, but Ray just nods, sagely, as if he'd known I was going to say that. Perhaps he had. He knows me better than I realized. The last two days-- and nights-- are proof enough of that. It occurs to me suddenly to wonder how on earth he found me here. I open my mouth to ask him, when I suddenly realize there's tension on my line. "Wait a minute . . . ."
After being told there's no fish here, it seems ironic that I appear to have found one. I wrestle with it for a few moments, it's much larger than one would expect to find in a body of water this size. Suspiciously so. Even before Ray reaches down and comes up with a boot-- with a foot still encased in it and clearly attached to the rest of a body-- I have a bad feeling about things. As it turns out I'm more than right. But at least we've removed a source of contamination from Chicago's water supply.
* * *
The next few days hold shock after shock for me. The discovery that Holloway Muldoon is alive, and my father's strange, almost obsessive compulsion that we bring him to justice. Granted, my father has always been obsessive about justice but there is something about his behavior now that leads me to wonder if the dead can go 'off the deep end' as the saying goes. Of course, I'm sure many people think I am, as Ray would say, unhinged. He says it affectionately, letting me know when my behavior is off the American standard, but unlike most people, he has no expectation of changing me. No, as always, Ray simply accepts me as I am, unhinged freak that I am.
Strangely, those same shocks also bring me to the realization that much as I've thought about it, I don't really want to die. I suppose nearly being roasted alive and blown to pieces will do that to you. Actually, what it did was make me realize that dying would deprive me of my partnership with Ray, and I don't want to give that up. I know from experience that something of us continues after death, and I don't want to face the thought of existing for some unknowable time without his companionship. It's a weakness in me, one my father would chide me for, I'm sure, if I spoke of it. So I don't.
Ray has continued to spend his time with me. Not only during our working hours, but at night, at the consulate, he's there, just keeping me company, his presence keeping the dream-demons at bay. Funny, I once gave him a dreamcatcher to tangle up his nightmares, now he's become mine. He sleeps on the floor beside my cot, refusing anything but a blanket, though I know he can't be comfortable there. I feel guilty, but not guilty enough to reject his presence. At times I wish my cot were wider, because I might be able to talk him into sharing it, but it's not and perhaps that's just as well, for I find that his presence while I sleep has an unexpected effect on me. Well, perhaps unexpected is the wrong word. It's not really surprising that my feelings for Ray should manifest in physical responses, given his proximity.
At least these dreams are pleasant. . . if frustrating, since apparently my subconscious mind retains enough of a grip on caution that so far I've not actually reached orgasm while he's still in the room. Fortunately he gets up and quietly leaves very early in the morning, giving me a little time to myself during which I can ease that frustration. There's an edge of guilt to that exercise that steals some of the relief, though. It feels wrong to fantasize about him in that way, as though I'm taking something from him without asking.
This morning is no exception to our new routine. He leaves, and I. . . take care of things, then get up and ready myself to face the day. The Muldoon case is confusing and complicated, those complications worsened by the interference of the FBI, our lack of official standing, and then the stunning discovery that Muldoon is apparently smuggling nerve gas. Ray's reaction to that discovery is strange, and I fear I treat his fears as ridiculous, dismissing them as panic, and even being a little short with him as I explain that his symptoms are psychosomatic. Ray is not, as a rule, given to panicking, though, and that thought keeps picking at me. Finally as I look at his face after the incident, see the dark circles under his eyes and the lines of tension and exhaustion graven in his face, I understand.
He's pushing himself, doing it for me. His overreaction was based in the simple fact that he's too tired to think clearly. I feel more guilt. I can't continue to let him push himself for me. I must stop taking from him. I can stand on my own feet. I must. It's not fair for me to always take, and to never give back. I know he wouldn't see it that way, but he's a generous soul. I know I don't give him half what he gives me. That night when Ray pulls into a space in front of the consulate to park and follow me inside, I clear my throat and stare straight ahead as I speak. "Thank you for the ride, Ray, I'll see you tomorrow."
There's a short silence, and I can't bring myself to look at him. Finally he speaks.
"You . . . um . . . you okay on your own?" he asks.
"Perfectly fine, Ray. I do appreciate your assistance but I believe I can deal with things on my own now. You go on home and get a good night's rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
I finally manage to look at him, find him staring at me with narrowed eyes, the way he usually regards a suspect he thinks is guilty. Of course, I am, so I flush, but somehow manage to maintain eye contact and school my face into a mask of blandness, and in the dim light he probably can't see my blush. He looks at me for a long moment longer, and a host of emotions flashes through his too-revealing gaze, pain, disappointment, sadness. I hold my course. I can't continue to use him as I have. Can't allow him to let me use him. That's not, as he would say, 'buddies.' Finally he nods, shifting his gaze to look straight ahead through the windshield.
"That's how you want it, okay. I'll see you at work tomorrow," he says,
"I'll meet you at the twenty-seventh at eight, sharp."
He nods, unspeaking, and Dief and I get out of the car. He pulls away with his customary squeal of tires, and I watch his taillights until they disappear around a distant corner. Dief gives me a disgusted look and turns his back on me. Even though I know it's for the best, a part of me feels convinced that I've just made a terrible, terrible
mistake.
* * *
It takes us much of the day to track down our suspect, even with the fortuitous lead of the identifying heel imprint. The interrogation of Mr. Blake leads us, circularly, back to The Hotel California, and there I receive yet another shock, this time the pleasant one of seeing Ray Vecchio again. Of course, that pleasure is tempered by my own horror at realizing that I've managed to put him, and Ray Kowalski, both at grave risk. I've always taken pride in my intellect, and the old adage about pride going before a fall echoes through my head as I sit on that couch and watch with amazed admiration as Ray, both of them, try to bluff their way out of the predicament in which I've put them.
When it appears that my old friend is succeeding in his bid to regain Muldoon's confidence, I realize with a sinking heart that the most probable outcome is that Ray and I will die here, preserving Ray Vecchio's cover. I suppose that's preferable to all three of us dying, though I'm not sure Ray Vecchio will feel that way after being instrumental in our deaths. There's a hardness in his eyes now, though, that was never there when I knew him. I wonder what terrible things he's had to do since he went undercover, and how they've marked him. It seems the question is answered when he coldly marches us into the bathroom and lifts his gun, its silenced barrel unwavering. Instinctively I start to step in front of Ray, only to find myself pushed backward as Ray interposes himself between the weapon and me. This is the second time he's done that for me. This time I know he's not wearing a vest.
"Ray, no," I whisper. He doesn't look at me, only at Ray Vecchio. Or more accurately, I suspect, Armando Langoustini.
"So. Make sure they only check me. Fraser can play dead. He has this trance thing he can do," Ray says.
His words make no sense to me, but I see Ray Vecchio's eyes widen, then narrow. "Are you nuts?" he hisses.
Ray shrugs. "Most likely. Go on. And clean up that bastard Muldoon or I'll fucking come back and haunt you," he says, his chin lifted belligerently.
"I'm working on it," Ray Vecchio says with a grim smile. "Don't worry."
It finally hits me, what Ray is suggesting. Sudden nausea nearly overwhelms me as I stare at him, aghast, trying to find words. No, I have the words, they echo in my head, but can't pass my paralyzed throat. 'No. No, if anyone should die for this, it's me. Don't leave me behind!'
Before I can move, or speak, Ray-Armando's expression changes, I see some inner struggle reflected in his face, and suddenly he reaches up to grab the stack of towels from their holder and drops them to the floor. Wordlessly he lifts his gun and dispatches two quiet shots into the stack. The towels muffle the sounds the bullets make as they flatten on the concrete which underlies the linoleum. Still unspeaking, he holsters his weapon, picks up a razor from the counter and calmly makes a small cut on his forearm, then dabs some of the blood onto his face before wrapping a handkerchief around the cut and pulling his sleeve down over it. I feel like I'm in some strange dream, I don't understand, nothing is under control, everything is sliding through my fingers. He looks from me to Ray, his eyes unreadable, and then he nods at the door.
"Be ready."
With those words he exits the room. Feeling completely bewildered, I look at Ray, whose normally golden skin is ashen. "I don't . . . you . . . he . . . ." I stammer.
He seems to shake himself. "He said be ready, Fraser. They'll be coming in to 'clean up' any second now. You take the first one, I'll get the second. Damn, the Feds are gonna be really pissed."
His color is returning, his words deal only with the future, not with what just happened. I don't understand. I don't understand any of it. But then the doorknob turns, and I've no more time to think.
* * *
Out of control doesn't begin to describe the next few hours. My emotions are like a feather in a windstorm, blown this way and that by each new circumstance. Elation and joy at seeing Ray Vecchio again, shame at my own part in the fiasco that ruined over a year's worth of careful undercover work, alarm over Ray's actions, and dismay at the way my two friends are behaving toward one another. My initial assumption that they would like each another seems to be so much wishful thinking. I don't understand how two people whom I like so much can fail to like one another.
Worse, somewhere in the confusion of the night I lose track of Ray, and finally end up getting a ride back to the consulate with Francesca Vecchio, who is so overjoyed to have her brother restored, whole, to the bosom of his family that she doesn't even throw herself at me. I'm not at all happy that I didn't get a chance to talk to Ray about what he tried to do back in that hotel room. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. He's a fine one to chide me for recklessly endangering my life, when he outright offers his in exchange for mine. How dare he do that? I resolve to speak to him about it as soon as I can, and in that state of turmoil I go to bed.
His mother, lying on bloody snow, her breath coming in short, pained gasps, his father's voice, crying out in desperation, hands red to the wrists as he tries to stop the bleeding. The sound of dogs barking, growing more distant. His gaze is drawn again to the red snow, and when he looks up again he's in an alley, a familiar one, the one where they found the nerve-gas canisters. A few feet away Ray is standing in a pool of blood. No, not blood. Red, like blood, but the wind stirs the surface, lifting bits of it like crimson confetti, and he realizes the pool is made up of old roses, curling, wilting. Behind him he hears the screech of tires, the rushing roar of a flamethrower. He crouches, for a moment he thinks 'this is it, the end,' but the tongue of fire bypasses him to lick at the dying flowers and . . . Ray. The flowers catch fire like last season's grass and in a moment there's nothing left there but ashes. Ray is gone. He turns, trying to find Ray. People don't just vanish in a fire, he must be here, he was here a moment ago, he didn't pass by him, and there is only one exit to the alley, and that's behind him. Yet Ray is gone, as if he too were consumed by the flames. He doesn't understand. He calls his name, hoping he'll respond . . . .
"Ray!"
The sound of my own voice wakes me. Dief has his head lifted, is staring at me. God. Not again. This dream was different, though. Not the same dream. Better in some ways. Worse in others. What's wrong with me? Why am I dreaming these terrible, terrible things? I get up and go to the bathroom, splash my face with cold water, and try to dissect the symbolism of the dream.
Part of it was familiar, the part with my mother, though this time my father's presence seemed more vivid. Perhaps it's just my subconscious' way of assimilating the way I felt when she died, that she had been wrenched violently from my life, leaving a wound where she had been. But then Ray-- why roses? My face heats. Oh, I know why roses. Leave it to me to have an obvious subconscious. And they're dying because they must. I have to stop thinking of him that way. But why had Ray disappeared as well? Is it a premonition, or simply a reflection of the fear I felt as he tried to offer his life for mine today? Probably the latter.
I wonder if a psychiatrist could make sense of my dreams. Or perhaps a shaman. I think about calling my old friend and nemesis, Eric, but I don't think he'd be happy to be woken at this hour. I resolve that when I can find a moment to spare at a reasonable hour, I will ask him for help. I can't keep this up. And I can't ask Ray to come here every night and metaphorically hold my hand just because my subconscious is an ungodly mess.
* * *
The next day begins badly. My friends sniping at one another, my loyalties divided as never before. Everyone seems to assume that I should by default be working with Ray Vecchio again, even though my heart tells me otherwise. It's not that I don't like Ray Vecchio. He's one of my closest friends. Nearly my brother. At one time he was my only friend. But he's . . . different. Cooler. More confident. More controlled. He doesn't need me. Not that Ray Kowalski does, either, I don't flatter myself so, but at least he seems to want my presence while Ray Vecchio seems, suddenly, to merely tolerate it. There's an edge to his voice when he talks to me, fondness tempered with the sort of exasperated annoyance reserved for a less-than-bright younger sibling.
It leaves a slightly bitter taste in my mouth to realize that perhaps he always sounded that way, and I just never realized it. I also never realized before just how grating the name "Benny" can be. I have no idea why it annoys me now, although as I think on it, it may have something to do with that 'less-than-bright younger sibling' feeling again. And, if I'm honest, it may also have something to do with Ray's derogatory snort when he heard Ray Vecchio call me that. It's strange that it never occurred to me how . . . infantilizing that name is.
That aside, I feel Ray 's gaze on me continually, it seems, and catch him watching me whenever I look up, as if his attention can't wander far. Though when he realizes I'm looking he always looks away. When he is paired with the Inspector to wait for the meet at the mall parking lot, I send him a sympathetic glance, I know he's not all that fond of her. That earns me a wry smile, the first I've had from him since we knocked at the door to room 2409 of the Hotel California. That makes me feel better, though the fact that there has still been no time to talk to him about what happened yesterday is maddening. I have to make sure he never does such a thing again.
Ray Vecchio's voice pulls my attention back to the man sitting beside me.
"You know Benny," he says conversationally, "the desert's okay, and Nero does have a great buttermilk, but this is the stuff I miss."
I feel a little glow of warmth. Perhaps I was wrong about how he feels? Perhaps he did miss me? "Like old times, eh?"
"Yeah." Ray says, smiling a little. "You remember that time you locked us in that vault?"
"And the water kept rising until we . . . we almost drowned?" I ask sheepishly.
"Yeah." His mouth twists a little, and he looks at me with that exasperated fondness in his eyes again. "You know what I just said about missing all this?"
"Uh hunh."
"Forget I ever said it," he says, his eyes twinkling.
I smile a little in response to his amusement, and nod. "Understood."
Before a new conversational foray occurs to either of us, we see Muldoon arrive. I hear Ray take a deep breath.
"Wish me luck," he says, opening the car door.
I shake my head, smiling. "You don't need it." He doesn't. At one time he would have, but that time is clearly gone. He'll do fine.
There's a squeal of tires as a collection of FBI and BATF agents appear on the scene, their arrival triggering an eruption of gunfire. Law-enforcement officers from multiple jurisdictions began to take up the fight from their various concealed locations as Muldoon's men attempt to keep others from following him as he flees into a stairwell. Ray Vecchio calls for me to follow, and I find myself in the stairwell with a group comprised of Inspector Thatcher, and both Rays.
There's more gunfire, and the miscreants split up. After a moment we follow, and somehow we end up splitting by nationality, myself and the Inspector in one party following Muldoon, Ray and Ray in the other, following his men. It occurs to me as Muldoon turns and fires at us that this was perhaps not the wisest pairing, since neither the Inspector nor I carry a gun; unfortunately it's too late to alter it.
We emerge, not onto a rooftop as I assumed, but into some sort of indoor amusement park filled, to my dismay, with families and children. A veritable sea of potential hostages. Muldoon rushes up to a small Ferris wheel and grabs a man, throwing him out of the gondola and to the ground. A young boy, still in the gondola, begins to cry for his father and my heart is in my throat as I anticipate the worst, but apparently Muldoon isn't thinking clearly, because instead of using him as a hostage he merely grabs the child and pitches him at his father, who, to my relief, catches him.
The ride starts to move, taking Muldoon higher, and I wonder why he chose to do that, it's certainly not an escape route. It seems a mad thing to do. The Inspector and I climb into another gondola, and I call out to Muldoon to give himself up, and that's when my nightmares begin to turn into reality. He looks at me with a condescending smile, and holds up the nerve gas device.
"I still have this, Benton."
His voice, my name, the situation . . . something . . . I don't know. A fear strong enough to be called panic seems to spread through me. I feel like a child again. I try to shake it off. "You recognize me?" I ask
His smile broadens mockingly. "Something clicked in that hotel room. Made me think of your father. And you know he didn't get me and I don't believe you will either."
My father. He's counting on me to finish this for him, to bring Muldoon in. I push down the fear. "You know I'll never give up." I say resolutely, trying to keep my voice steady, my face unrevealing, even though horror is rising in me like an ice-blocked river overflowing its banks.
He must sense the fear in me, smell it in the air like an animal would, because his smile goes feral, and when he speaks his voice is sharp as a knife. "Well that would make two members of your family that I've killed then."
Two? What does he mean, two? Gerrard killed my . . . . I shake my head as an image flashes into my mind-- red on white. The imagined sound of labored breathing overwhelms me for a moment, and I hear him laugh. Or do I? Is that just in my head?
"Oh, your father didn't tell you?" he asks conversationally. "That's negligent parenting, that is! Your father wanted to arrest me but I had this shotgun-- an ugly affair passed down from an uncle. . . ."
There are images coming faster now, no matter how much I try to stop them, try to concentrate on the here, the now, the real, not my dreams. Drawing a rose. Voices arguing. A shotgun blast.
"Your mother was a pretty woman, Benton," Muldoon says warmly, almost eagerly. "But when I shot her, she dropped like a big ol' sack of potatoes."
I wonder why the grown-ups outside the cabin are being so loud. I haven't been paying attention because I've been concentrating on the drawing I'm making for mom, but now I realize that my dad sounds . . . upset, and angry. That doesn't happen very much, and it makes me feel scared. The other man sounds angry too. Mom sounds. . . she sounds angry, too, and afraid. Very afraid. That scares me even more than the anger in Dad's voice. I put my hand on the door latch and push down, opening the door, stepping out onto the porch.
A deafening sound roars out and movement catches my eye. Mom, falling. My father's friend, Mr. Muldoon, running toward a dogsled, a shotgun in his hands. Dad drops to his knees beside Mom and he's crying, he's screaming. "Caroline, no, oh dear God, Caroline, no!" The snow is red all around her, there's blood all over her parka, her face is twisted in pain, her breath makes a bubbling sound as she struggles to breathe through the liquid filling her lungs, blood trails from her mouth in widening streams. She looks past Dad, sees me, and she looks so . . . so sad. Her eyes are full of tears and she lifts a hand, fingers outstretched toward me, her mouth moving. "Love you, Ben. . . ."
It's all I can do to not to collapse as my nightmare rewrites itself into reality. Oh God. I knew this. I saw this. I remember this. It's not a dream, it's real, it's a memory. Some part of me has known this all along. Why didn't I remember? My grandparents, my father, how could they let me forget? Why wouldn't they have told me, at least once I was old enough to understand what I'd seen. What else have I forgotten? What other lies have I told myself? Muldoon is speaking again, and I force myself to hear him. No more hiding, no more forgetting.
" . . . sixty seconds, you've got sixty seconds, and then the nerve gas blows."
Dear lord, no. I will not lose anyone else to this madman. I refuse. I will stop this. I must stop this. Even if, as he planned, it means I must let him escape. I force myself to focus, and somehow, I do it, or rather, we do it, the Inspector and I. I'm vaguely aware of hearing more gunfire as we work frantically to defuse the device, and I hear someone call out: "Officer down!" but I can't spare a moment to see who it is, I can only pray that it's not my Ray, because I don't want to kneel beside him and scream out his name as my father did for my mother so long ago. And because if he's dead, then there is no point to finishing this task, and . . . no. I must not allow that thought to take hold.
We work well together, Meg Thatcher and I and within moments the device is no longer an immediate threat. I expect it will be disposed of by a government HazMat team now. The words 'officer down' haunt me as I force myself to climb down from the Ferris wheel's scaffolding and plant my feet firmly on the ground before I dare look around. There are small groups of paramedics working in four places around the mall, and I start toward the closest.
I'm intensely relieved to spot Ray standing near them, looking whole and well, if somewhat concerned. He's wearing his glasses, the ones I find quite ridiculously attractive. Their presence indicates to me that he must have been firing his weapon, and knowing his accuracy, with glasses, I assume at least some of the men being ministered to owe their wounds to him. He looks up as I start toward him, and his expression stops me dead in my tracks. He dodges around milling officers and is by my side quickly and I know something must be seriously wrong as he steers me over to a bench and practically pushes me down onto it.
"Fraser, c'mere, sit down, okay? You all right? You look like shit."
"Why, thank you, Ray," I say drily. "That's very kind of you."
He smiles a little. "Hey, just being honest. Look, I heard what that bastard said, we all did. Did he . . . did he really? Did he kill your mum?"
I close my eyes and swallow hard as the tears I refused to cry a few moments earlier threaten again, and I manage a nod. "Yes," I say, my voice a whisper. "Yes, he did."
His hand settles on my shoulder, warm and firm, stroking in a circle, a familiar, welcome weight. "I'm sorry, Fraser. Really sorry."
He sounds sincere. I know he's sincere. But I also know he's trying to distract me. I open my eyes and look into his. "Who is the officer down, Ray?"
He flinches, his gaze dropping. "It's Vecchio. Took one in the chest."
I'm on my feet instantly, and he grabs the back of my Sam Browne and hauls me back down again. "Sit down, Fraser. You can't help. They're doing their job, you'll just be in the way."
I snarl something at him, I don't know what, and yank myself free of his hand, feeling the leather diagonal snap in the process, not caring. I just need to get to my friend, to see him, in case it's the last time. I push through to the still figure, hear one of the paramedics order me back, but I can't comply. My knees fail me and I go down at his side, barely feeling the shock as my knees hit the concrete. Blood all over his chest, blood at his mouth. His eyes are open, their green depths pain-filled, but lucid.
He sees me, and holds out a hand as he struggles for breath. Oh God. I reach out, take his hand. It's cold, terribly cold. His body is pulling resources in, he's going into shock. He's dying. What is it about me that brings pain and death to those I love? It's like an invisible cloud around me, dark and stifling. My mother. My father. Now the man I consider my brother. He squeezes my hand, smiles a little.
"Even-Steven, Benny," he manages to whisper weakly.
His hand goes lax in mine, his eyes drift closed. I look frantically at the paramedic beside me. "Is he . . . ?"
She shakes her head, her smile a flash of white in a dark face, her dark eyes sympathetic. "No, no, it's the drugs, they just kicked in. He'll be out for a while. He's gonna be okay, I've seen guys hit lots worse who made it. Don't you worry, Red. Just let us do our jobs, okay? We're gonna take him to Cook County, you can come and check on him in a bit."
I nod, but I don't dare feel relief yet. They don't know about this, about me. She gently tugs Ray's hand from mine, recalling me to the present. Their jobs. Yes. Of course. I scramble back out of the way and watch as they lift Ray onto a gurney and wheel him out of sight. I scrub my hands through my hair, rub my eyes, and belatedly look around for Ray. I don't see him at first, but then I finally spot him over near the exit, talking to a uniformed officer, his arms crossed tightly, his body language informed by some inner pain.
I take a step toward him, wanting to help him as he's helped me, but then I stop. No. If I show that I care, if I let the universe know how much he means to me, it will take him. I can't let that happen. I have to protect him, from me, from this curse I seem to carry. I'm even more convinced I need to speak to Eric. Maybe he knows how to dissipate this darkness from around me so it can't hurt anyone else I love.
Deliberately I turn away from Ray's need, and go to find the Inspector, sure she'll have some task to distract me from my own pain. Unfortunately, for once it seems her sentimentality is showing. Instead of giving me work to do, she gently suggests that I should go to the hospital to await word on Ray Vecchio's condition. When I try to demur, saying I have no transportation, she sighs and shakes her head, and marches me across the mall, directly to the one place I don't want to be. To Ray.
"Detective Ve. . ." she begins, then stops as she realizes that she's no longer addressing Ray Vecchio. "What is your name, anyway?" she asks impatiently.
Ray finishes his sentence to the uniformed officer and turns, exhibiting none of the irritation I would expect from him on being rudely interrupted. "Kowalski," he says quietly, putting out a hand and shaking the Inspector's hand. "Ray Kowalski. Nice to meet you."
She nods curtly. "Likewise, I'm sure. Now, can you see that Constable Fraser gets a ride to the hospital so he can ascertain Detective Vecchio's condition? As you know they've been separated for some time, and he's understandably anxious about his well being."
Ray looks obliquely at me, then back at her. "Understandably," he echoes, his voice carefully uninflected. "Yeah, sure. I'll give him a ride over. The Lieutenant wants me there to report back anyhow. C'mon Fraser. Pit . . . let's go."
He heads for the parking lot at a lope. I follow, and as we reach his car I attempt to apologize. "I'm sorry about the Inspector's rather high-handed request, Ray. If you'd rather not give me a ride, I'm sure I can find my own way there. My feet, after all, are perfectly functional."
He finishes unlocking his door and glares across the car at me. "Fraser, you lose what's left of your mind? Why the hell wouldn't I want to give you a ride, for God's sake? I'm going there anyway, it would be stupid for you to walk all the way to Cook County General just because you got some kind of bug up your . . . well, it would just be stupid. So get in the car."
I get in the car, as does he. We've driven perhaps half a mile when we have to stop for a traffic signal and Ray looks over at me.
"So, the dream you been having. It wasn't a dream, was it?"
"Well, it was a dream, but it was a dream based in a memory, apparently."
He nods. "Guess that explains it. And you've been dreaming it because some part of your brain put together Muldoon with your mom's death, even if you couldn't remember it outright."
I nod, slowly, and don't mention that I began having the dream regularly quite some time before we realized Muldoon was in Chicago. "So it seems."
The light changes and he spends a few moments getting the car up to speed, then glances at me again. "How can you just sit there, all . . . calm?"
"How else should I be?"
This time his glance at me is incredulous. "Mad, Fraser. You should feel mad."
I look at Ray, startled. "Mad?"
"You know. Mad. Pissed. Angry."
"Why should I feel mad when I'm not angry about anything?"
He looks at me briefly, then drives in silence for long enough that I begin to grow uncomfortable, but he doesn't look upset. Just. . . thoughtful.
"Because you've got to be," he says, finally, then he shakes his head and shoots a quick glance at me. "So you have to be mad, but maybe you just don't know it. You know, after Stella left me, I was pretty bad off, a real mess. Thinking things you just really don't want to think, just like you've been doing lately." he says pointedly.
"Hell, I even went to the department shrink a couple of times. What helped me was when he told me that depression is inside-out anger. That didn't make a lot of sense to me at first, but I finally got it. When I was so down I couldn't see up, I was really mad as hell at Stella but I didn't think I had a right to be so I couldn't let it come out. I kept it all inside and it turned into sad instead. And you're not going to tell me you haven't felt that way. I know you have. I was there, 'bought the t-shirt,' even."
"No, I won't deny that," I say evenly. "However, while I understand the psychological underpinnings of your argument, I really don't feel it applicable to my situation," I say, the formality in my voice desperately trying to mask my gut-wrenching fear. I don't want him to understand. I don't want his empathy, I need for him to push me away, because I'm not sure I can back off on my own. "I really have nothing to be angry about."
He flicks a quick, narrow-eyed glance at me before returning his attention to the road. "No?" he asks after a moment. "You're not mad that your mom got killed right in front of you when you were just a little kid? That you had to see it? That your dad and your grandparents and hell, even Frobisher all just let you forget about it and pretended it never happened?"
I open my mouth to protest that but he holds up his hand, forestalling me.
"I'm not done. I mean, Christ, Fraser, in the last few weeks you've found out your dad was out making you a half-sister instead of home being your dad, discovered your mom was murdered, had your best friend shot, and that's not even half of it! You're not mad that your dad got murdered, and you managed to solve the case only to get exiled to some crappy posting in another fucking country with a boss who thinks you're only good for laundry and sentry detail and you have to sleep in your office? You're not mad that Vecchio took off on you without a single word? You're not mad that you had to get the crap beat out of you before we'd help you take on Warfield? Because if all that's true, then I'm calling the Pope and putting you on the list for the next available sainthood opening."
He's right. Of course he's right. But I can't say that. Can't admit that. I've no right to be angry. "Honestly Ray," I say in my most annoyingly condescending voice. "Those are just the vagaries of life, or put in the succinct fashion of a bumper sticker I've seen quite a bit of late, 'shit happens.'"
He makes a sound, an explosive, frustrated growl, and hits the steering wheel with both hands. "Fine. Fine, just fine. Forget it."
The rest of the drive occurs without conversation, the silence between us tense and painful. He's upset about more, I think, than my refusal to open up, and as much as I want to reach out to him, find out what's bothering him and offer whatever solace I can, I know I shouldn't, because it's too dangerous for him to continue to be my friend. An uneasy twenty minutes later he pulls up to the main doors of the hospital and nods at them. "Out," he says succinctly.
"I thought you were. . . ."
"I am, but I gotta park like halfway to Detroit and I figured you'd want to get in there sometime today. Go on." He attempts a smile that doesn't make it to his eyes, and nods again at the hospital entrance. "Get goin'. Go see how he's doing."
"Thank you kindly, Ray."
"No thanks necessary, Fraser. Just go on."
I nod and open my door, stepping out. When he pulls away it's not with his usual rubber-laying acceleration, I assume out of deference to the fact that we are, after all, at an hospital. I go inside and ask at the desk where to find Ray, and am directed to a waiting area where I find Francesca Vecchio pacing worriedly, her eyes and nose red from crying, a wadded tissue clutched in one hand. She sees me, and launches herself at me. I catch her, expecting she wants to be comforted, but to my surprise she hits me in the shoulder, hard enough to make it ache just a little, then does it again. The third time she raises a fist I catch her wrist, gently.
"Francesca?" I ask, trying to break through to her, to get her to listen.
"How could you let this happen?" she wails, collapsing against me. "How could you let him get shot? He's not supposed to get shot! You're supposed to protect him!"
I flinch from the painful truth of her words. "I'm sorry, Francesca. I know I should have. I failed him, failed you, your mother . . . and I'm sorry. Is there any word on his condition?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing yet. God, Fraser, I'm so scared. I mean, all the time he was off in Vegas I was thinking about it, that he could die out there, and we might never know. But he was back, he was home, he was supposed to be safe now!"
Her voice breaks on the last word, and she starts crying again. She doesn't mean to twist the knife, I know, but it hurts nonetheless. I pat her back awkwardly and wonder what comfort I can possibly offer. She seems content to lean and cry into my uniform, which I find odd, because surely the damp wool must be uncomfortable against her face, but I haven't the heart to push her aside. She has been a good friend, her romantic inclinations notwithstanding, and I'll stand by her, though I'm not sure why in God's name she wants me to.
Ray comes in, sees me holding Francesca, and a strange, faintly bitter smile curves his mouth. He shakes his head and pantomimes lifting a cup to his lips, raising his eyebrows. I nod, and point at Francesca as well. He nods back, and disappears down the hall. He returns a few minutes later with three steaming cups on a small tray. Two coffees, one tea. His consideration makes my throat ache with suppressed tears. God. I'm . . . losing it. I feel like I'm balancing on the edge of a crevasse, trying not to fall in. Maybe Ray's teasing comments about my unhinged-ness are closer to the mark than I've wanted to think. I did pass that psychological test not long ago, but that was before. . . before all of this.
Ray slouches on the waiting room couch with his coffee. Francesca thanks him for hers and starts to pace again. I find myself beside the couch, clutching my tea, instinctively moving to sit next to Ray. I catch myself just before I do so, and retreat to an uncomfortable straight-backed chair across the room. He watches me as I do it, that same peculiar smile on his lips again, then turns his attention to his coffee and closes me out, his body turned slightly away from mine, his surprisingly long eyelashes hiding his eyes.
Time drags on. An hour. Two. Still no word from the surgeons. I have nothing to do but sit and think about how I've failed my friends. Ray Vecchio. Francesca. Ray. God. Ray. As I sit there across the room from him I realize suddenly what's upsetting him. Always sensitive, he's picked up on my resolve. He knows I'm closing him out. He's hurting. No, that's not right. He's not hurting all on his own. I'm doing it to him.
I hurt him. No. I am hurting him. It's an ongoing state, not a single event. I can see it in his eyes, their normal brilliance dulled to ash, and I can see it in his body, the way he draws in on himself, his usual expansiveness leashed and bound. I didn't mean to hurt him, I don't. . . do I?
Or am I guilty of wanting to hurt someone else as I've been hurt? Of directing my anger not toward the people who hurt me, but at the one who helped me pick up the scattered, shattered pieces that were left of me after Ray Vecchio's abrupt departure from my life? I have to acknowledge that it could well be true. Not that I meant to, but it is the inevitable result of ignoring and sublimating my feelings. It seems I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. If I act on my feelings I end up hurting the people I care about, and if I don't act on them I achieve the same result.
Finally, some four and a quarter hours of silent tension later, a surgical nurse tells us that Ray's been assigned a room, and tells us the number. We head down the hall to find it, and are met there by Ray's surgeon, a woman who takes Francesca into Ray's room to talk with her. I watch her go, worried. A few moments later the surgeon leaves again, but Francesca is still in the room, which worries me even more.
"It's okay, Fraser," Ray says from where he's taken up a stand at the window, looking out into a parking lot. "If it was bad news, he wouldn't have a room. They don't give dead people hospital rooms. Relax."
Even when I don't deserve it, he tries to help me. People say I'm a good man, but next to Ray I'm not even close. I'm stubborn and arrogant and cold. Well, he's stubborn and belligerent, but he's never cold. Not even now when I deserve it. "Thank you, Ray," I say quietly. "It's good of you to wait here with us."
He shrugs. "Got nothing else to do. Job's kinda . . . over now. They don't need anybody to be Ray Vecchio anymore, since the real deal's back where he belongs." He gives me that smile of his that's more of a wince, and sighs. "Guess I'll be looking for a new gig now."
I stare at him, shocked. Somehow in all the events of the past couple of days, it never occurred to me that he wouldn't remain at the 27th, but I suppose he's right. With Ray back, there really is no place for him there any more. "Ray. . . I . . . ."
Before I can complete my sentence, Francesca is stepping out of Ray's room, looking upset, but not so much as before. She looks at me, her gaze teary.
"They don't really know whether-- I mean it's still... it's still... in him. You can go in and see him if you want, but he's still out."
I think of how she tried to talk to me earlier about her feelings toward me, asked me for such a small thing, a confirmation that at least we have friendship between us, and realize I've hurt her as much as I'm hurting Ray. And that's wrong. I take a deep breath, and go to stand before her. "Francesca, I've been thinking about what you said about our. . . er. . . and I, ah. . . I know I don't often say. . . um. . . I mean I'm not particularly skilled at expressing. . . ." God, I'm making a muddle of things, as usual.
Sensing my distress, Ray sighs and shakes his head in exasperation. "Frannie, he likes you," he translates succinctly.
He always knows what I mean, even when I barely know it myself. The thought of not having that is . . . hard. I miss the rest of their conversation as I steel myself to enter Ray Vecchio's room and see a more physical manifestation of the pain that seems to dog my heels. He's pale and still, and I watch him sleep for a few moments, quiet, not wanting to disturb him, and feeling guilty relief that he appears to be in better shape than four hours of surgery and an unextracted bullet would seem to warrant.
Finally I turn to leave, only to find my father, missing for the past few days, suddenly present. I hope his presence here isn't a presentment of doom. But no, his attention isn't on Ray, it's on me, and there's guilt in his gaze. As well there should be.
"So you found out, son?" he asks.
I nod curtly. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He sighs, his expression full of regret. "It seems misguided now, but you were so young at the time, just a young boy. I was full of rage-- I didn't want to pass that to you. I wanted to protect you."
I stare at him, appalled, not believing what I'm hearing. "He killed my mother. I would have done the same."
My father shakes his head sadly. "I hope not Ben, I hope you never get a chance to find out."
"Still talking to yourself, Benny?"
His voice is weak, but I've never been happier to hear that name. I turn to the bed instantly. "Ray!"
"It's just a flesh wound," he says with a trace of a smile. "God, I've been waiting all my life to say that. It's not as much fun as I thought it would be." He sighs, looks around the room. "Just like old times, eh?"
I nod, remembering how many times we've been here before. "Unhappily, yes."
I look at Ray, my old friend, as he lies in the hospital bed, see the apology in his gaze, and suddenly I understand. He didn't mean to hurt me either, but like me, he knows he did, and the bullet in his body is his way of atoning. I look inside myself for forgiveness, aware this time, that he did indeed hurt me and I was indeed angry about it. In the grand cosmic scheme of things, it all probably balances out. After all, I was going with Victoria.
God. Sometimes I am the most amazing fool. They say that isolation can drive the sanest man mad, and not only am I not sure my mental state was stable to begin with, I've had more than my share of that. It wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that I am, as they say, a few bricks short of a load. But for the first time I find that the forgiveness is actually there within me.
I look at him. He sees it on my face, I suppose, because I haven't said a word but he starts to smile and I smile back, and there is a sense of healing there. I know now that whatever else happens, we will always be friends. That brings me back to myself, and I wonder if I can be forgiven as well. I draw breath to tell him I have to leave, when he speaks again.
"Do you Mounties still always get your man?"
Startled, I stare at him, shaken by the question, and more so by the almost . . . intimate. . . tone in which he asks it. Can he possibly mean. . . no, of course not, he must mean Muldoon. He's not responsible for how my mind interprets that question right now. But his tone . . . . I