Part One
This story is a sequel to Through A Glass, Darkly
But the angels won't have it...
-- Melissa Etheridge
He stood alone in the shadows. He didn't mind the darkness; it was familiar, almost comforting. He'd been there for most of his life, one way or another. And as for being alone -- everyone was. One way or another.
He didn't speak. He just watched. He'd been well paid to wait for them there, and he had his orders.
Even if he didn't like them much.
Elyssa hesitated out on the darkened floor of the old warehouse where she'd been taken. It was a gloomy place, cavernous, shadowed and empty except for a few objects whose setup was almost theatrical in its stark simplicity: a small, battered wooden table flanked by two chairs, lit only by a low-hanging lamp. The table was bare except for a small black metallic shape that she recognized instantly, even at a distance. She froze as the truth came to her in a rush: this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment kidnapping, committed because the opportunity had presented itself, as she'd first thought. It was what her kidnapper had planned all along. She and Fraser hadn't been toyed with at random; each incident of harassment had been part of a theme, a scenario that had led inexorably to this: she and her kidnapper alone together in this forsaken place with only that thing between them.
This wasn't a hideout so much as a stage.
"Get going!"
She was shoved forward abruptly. Elyssa could sense a growing excitement in the rough hand at her back, as if, having carefully arranged all the props and gathered the cast, her captor was now impatient for the last act of their grim play to begin. As they moved toward the table and her uncertain fate, her fear intensified. In an effort to control it, to understand what was about to happen, she tried to trace the steps that had brought her here, to identify the moment the shadow had begun to fall over her and Benton.
She thought it had started two months ago at his apartment, when she'd had her nightmare...
She remembered that early spring day had begun perfectly: a picture postcard blue sky dotted with fat, puffy white clouds arched benevolently over the wakening city. A California kind of morning, with mild breezes and birds singing, the kind of morning that made you feel anything was possible, even in Chicago.
And the day lived up to its early promise. That day, she got a new job as a salesperson at a local art gallery, Hallen's. Its owner, Thomas Hallen, even promised to take a look at some slides of her work and see if he'd consider giving her a show, or at least displaying some of her work for sale.
Jubilant, she called Benny at work on his lunch hour. It meant so much to her to get her career going again, after what had happened; and if she hadn't met him, she didn't know if she would have. So she wanted him to be the first to hear her good news.
"That's wonderful!" he said. "I'm proud of you. Let's have dinner out tonight, to celebrate."
He asked her to meet him at seven at Spiaggia's, an elegant Italian restaurant. When she arrived, she was surprised to find both Benton and Ray Vecchio there waiting for her in the foyer. They made a handsome picture, she thought; Ben's scarlet uniform contrasted nicely with Ray's expensive, navy blue suit. "Hey, Raymondo!" she cried, hugging him happily. "Benny didn't tell me you were coming."
Ray grinned. "Only because I threatened him with torture," he teased. "You know how he is, he wanted to tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But I wanted to surprise you."
"Well, I'm glad you did. It's good to see you," she laughed, still hugging him.
"You too. God, I swear, you get better lookin' every time I see you, Ryan," he smiled. "You are one lucky Mountie, Benny!"
Ben smiled at both of them. "I'm very aware of that, Ray." Then he cleared his throat, shifting a little on his feet as he tapped his friend's shoulder. "Ahem...would you mind?"
"Oh. Sorry." Suddenly realizing he was monopolizing Fraser's girlfriend, Ray let her go hastily.
Fraser stepped forward eagerly, and swept her up in his usual gentle embrace. "Hi, sweetheart!" Elyssa smiled. When she let him go, Ben sprung his own little surprise, pulling a big spray of pink roses out from behind his back.
"Ray and I thought we should all celebrate your good luck together," he said, with a trace of shyness that she'd always found endearing. "So the roses are from me, and dinner is from him."
She kissed him, touched and pleased by their affectionate gestures. "Thank you both!" she smiled. "You guys are the best. But you didn't have to do this, Ray."
"Please! It's not like I get to take famous artists out to dinner every night," he said, downplaying his generous gesture, as usual. Just then, his name was called, and as the hostess led them to their table, he smiled as he glanced around, taking in the stylish ambience of the restaurant.
"Hey, Benny! Didn't I tell ya' this is a great place?"
Ben smiled at him as the waiter pulled out a chair for her. "It's very elegant," he agreed, pleased.
Ray rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Siddown, bambinos, and let's eat! Wait until you taste their risotto, Elyssa! It's to die for."
As they took their chairs, Benton asked the waiter, "Before we order, can you bring us a bottle of your best champagne, please?"
She looked at him in surprise, because he usually didn't drink. He took her hand and kissed it. "This is a special night," he said softly, smiling. She squeezed his hand, touched by the thoughtful gesture, and even more by the warmth in his eyes.
When the waiter came back with the champagne and their menus, Ray assumed his best look of wide-eyed innocence. "Betcha' didn't know you had a celebrity in the house tonight, didja'?" he teased, looking pointedly at Elyssa.
She laughed at the waiter's polite look of confusion. "He's just putting you on. I'm really not famous," she reassured him.
"Maybe not yet," Ben smiled at her as the waiter bent to pour their first sparkling glasses of bubbly. "But you will be."
Ray grinned, and lifted his glass in an unexpected toast. "I'll drink to that! To Elyssa Ryan, the next famous artist in Chicago!"
It was the first of many toasts that night. During the course of a long, wonderful dinner, they celebrated her good fortune, her and Ben's happiness, Ray's recent success at catching a thief responsible for a string of commercial robberies...
"By the way," Ben asked casually, "how is your big murder case going, Ray?"
Ray's face darkened instantly, his eyes dropping moodily to his plate. The answer was obviously not good, and they'd been having such a good time, Elyssa didn't want to spoil it by upsetting him. So she changed the subject hastily.
"Now Benny," she chided gently. "No tales of murder and mayhem tonight, okay? This is supposed to be a celebration,"
"You're absolutely right," he said, so quickly that she knew he'd caught Ray's downcast expression, too. He lifted his champagne glass again, his blue eyes thanking her silently for floating their conversation into happier waters. "So I'd like to make another toast: to Elyssa. May your new job help you achieve your goals as an artist."
"Here, here!" They all clinked their glasses together.
"Hey, I got one! How's about one to friendship?" Ray smiled at each of them in turn, his black mood vanished. "As in, a guy couldn't have better ones than you."
Another group clink. Then, as they all sipped their champagne, Elyssa thought of another. "Here's a little Irish toast to all of us: may all roads rise up to meet us, and may our friendship last forever!"
Ray grinned. "I'll drink to that."
Ben smiled tenderly at her. "I couldn't have said it better."
The toasts went on and on. The more the champagne flowed, the more everything began to seem cause for celebration. They finished their first bottle, and started on a second. At one point, they even lifted their glasses to Benny's boss, in a laughing salute Ray dreamed up: "Long may the Dragon Lady breathe fire!"
They lingered at their table for several hours, laughing and talking. After capping the meal off with a delicious dessert, they walked back to their cars, a little high on champagne and camaraderie. Benny carried her roses, and Ray fell into step beside her with a smile. Elyssa linked arms with both of them, safe and secure with the two men she loved best in the world.
Ray went home after that, but Elyssa leaned over and kissed Ben after they'd gotten into her car, so happy her eyes were shining. "I don't really feel like going home yet," she said, not wanting the champagne glow to fade so quickly. "Can we just drive around for awhile?"
"Whatever the lady wants," Ben smiled. She leaned her head on his shoulder as they drove away. "Where to?" he asked.
She slipped her arms around his free arm and stroked him gently. "You choose," she said.
"All right." He headed out of downtown, towards Lake Michigan. It was an amazingly mild spring night, and they drove down Lakeshore Boulevard for awhile, admiring the silvery moonlight on the water. Then Benny turned idly down Grand Avenue, and they parked her car and got out to walk for awhile along Navy Pier, past the whirling, multi-colored lights of the carousels and Ferris wheels, to the sculptural art exhibits along the southern concourse.
"I don't like modern art that much, but moonlight does something for these sculptures, don't you think?" Elyssa asked, as they strolled hand-in-hand by the large, metallic works of art. "It gives them a whole new magic..."
"And you," Benny said softly, as a breeze stirred her long hair. "You're even more beautiful by moonlight, if that's possible."
She took him in her arms and kissed him, wanting to make him feel the sweetness he gave her so freely. He tasted delicious, of champagne and strawberries; and when the kiss ended, they were both a little breathless.
He looked down at her with a slight smile. "Would it be all right if we went home now?" he asked, his eyes hungry, impatient for intimacy that wasn't possible out in public.
She drew away from him a little, until she was only holding onto him by his fingertips. "Oh, I don't know..." She let go of him and took a step away, pretending to consider the idea. Then she shot him a wicked smile. "I'll tell you what, Ben Fraser," she teased, moving further backwards. "You can take me home if you can catch me!"
She took off running along the lakeside walkway, laughing as she went, and Ben sprinted after her. Since she wasn't really trying to outrun him, and his legs were longer, he caught her in less than a minute. Pinning her against the railing, he kissed her as they both laughed. "I win!" he exulted.
"Awww-- I let you," she grinned, a little breathless.
"Ha!" he snickered, smugly triumphant. "That's what they all say..."
"They?" she echoed archly. "Do you have lots of other girlfriends then, Ben?"
He smiled wickedly at her, his eyes dancing. "Thousands."
"Oh, really?" She raised an eyebrow as he pulled her closer, the tender warmth in his eyes belying his words. "Think you're hot stuff, huh?" she laughed, poking his chest. "Don Juan of the RCMP?"
"Something like that," he grinned, his arms tightening around her until she could feel the rapid beating of his heart, even through his coat.
All at once, as he looked down at her, his laughter faded away, and he reached out and smoothed a windblown lock of hair off her cheek very gently. "What is it?" she asked, curious at his sudden silence.
He looked down and swallowed hard, the way he always did when he had to say something emotional. "You know I'm only teasing you, don't you?" he asked earnestly. "About those other women, I mean. There's no one else in my life but you."
Elyssa was so touched that for a second, she couldn't reply. Ben seemed to take her silence for disbelief, for he hurried to add, "Well, actually, there are other people in my life: Ray, for instance, and Inspector Thatcher and Diefenbaker and Mr. Mustafi and--"
She laid a finger on his lips, to forestall a detailed listing of every acquaintance he'd made since he came to Chicago, touched by the fact that he'd included Diefenbaker as one of his friends, though he wasn't human. "It's okay, Ben, I know what you mean."
"But what I'm trying to say is, you're more important to me than anyone else. I just realized...I've never been so happy," he said. When his clear blue eyes lifted to hers again, a wondering smile touched the corners of his mouth, as if he couldn't quite believe how lucky he was. "I love you so, Elyssa."
She caught her breath. She saw it clearly, as if it were shining from him: that gentle, sunny sweetness that was the essence of him, rare as gold in the cynical modern world. Magical, like a glimpse of a unicorn dancing through Chicago's darkened streets. His innocence had somehow persisted in spite of all the blows life had dealt him, survived even the violence of his profession. It was why she'd first fallen in love with him.
My sweet Benny. she thought, remembering all the other reasons she'd found for loving him since. She'd never met a man as honest, as kind, as gentle and honorable as he. Before she'd met him, she hadn't thought they existed. Reaching up, she took his face in gentle hands, and kissed him tenderly. "Me too," she breathed against his lips. "I love you too." They stood holding each other for a long, quiet time, not wanting to move, not needing to speak.
Then she smiled up at him. "Take me home now, Ben."
So he did. He took her back to his apartment and made long, slow, tender love to her. And as she drifted off to sleep in his arms afterwards, she knew it had been one of the happiest nights of her life; and she knew why. She wondered if her life had ever been as good before as it was with him, and doubted it.
Afterwards, she couldn't decide if it was because of the unaccustomed champagne she'd drunk, or if she'd just been overwrought with emotion from the eventful day; but for whatever reason, that night after she and Ben went to sleep in his bed, her old nightmare returned with a vengeance.
She moaned in protest as its black, clinging nets closed around her. Against her will, it pulled her to another time, another city: to an apartment that had once been her home. Now, it was a place where only nightmares could drag her.
Bad dream... She stiffened as the walls of her old apartment formed around her again. The shadows in that place touched nerves, set off automatic physical responses in her: racing heartbeat, gasping breaths that were too shallow. Fear and frustration shot adrenalin through her system as the familiar, frightful scenario began to unfold in her mind. It was always the same, though knowing what would happen didn't lessen her terror. Dr. Elden had tried to help her with that, to teach her to recognize her body's warning signals and shut them down so she could stop the dreams and the horror they unleashed, but she'd rarely been able to do it. Tonight, it was impossible. She writhed in bed, bit her lip in her sleep, trying to wake, to escape the overwhelming memories--but they swept her up relentlessly.
I was in bed, fast asleep. I heard a noise in the other room...
The noise became loud banging that escalated into savage blows to her front door. She sat up, her heart hammering painfully as she realized it was being kicked in. Fear rose in her, a black tide that made her tremble. But she forced herself to move, to run into her kitchen to call 911.
Two men -- their faces blurred, freakish under nylon masks -- erupted into her apartment once the door's locks gave under their assault.
"No!" she cried out in horrified disbelief, dialing frantically, with fingers that shook. But they caught her before she could finish. One of them grabbed her, while the other ripped the phone off the wall. She screamed and tried to fight them off, but self defense was impossible. She was outnumbered, outweighed and unarmed. They pinned her to her counter and slapped her until her head rang. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt, so hard she thought it would beat its way out of her body... Then they forced her down onto the floor.
"God, help me!" she screamed in total terror. "Somebody, please help!"
He didn't answer. No one did.
The two men just laughed. "Scream all you want, bitch," one of them sneered. "No one's gonna help you. No one cares!"
And no one had. Though her apartment walls were thin and she screamed wildly, no one came to help as they began to hit her. She soon gave up struggling and screaming, and desperately devoted her energies to trying to shield herself from their blows. But that proved as hopeless as her earlier struggles. One of them held her, while the other beat and kicked her mercilessly...
The pain soared, became unbearable, beyond thought. She went limp, heard her bones cracking as they tore at her clothes. She'd long since stopped calling for help. She couldn't even protest any more. Her mouth had filled with blood so she couldn't speak, could only moan.
I'm going to die--
And then they made her wish she had.
Benton Fraser sat up in bed, his heart pounding, as hoarse screams cut the night.
God in heaven!
It was a woman dinning terror into his ear in the darkness, and she was close, so close her screams froze his blood. Diefenbaker growled close by, probably as scared as he was. He reached out blindly for the lamp, groping awkwardly. His celebratory overindulgence in champagne and Italian food earlier had made his sleep far heavier than usual. He felt weary, clumsy and far too groggy to deal with this cacophany. He couldn't seem to wake up, but he had to stop those terrible shrieks.
So he reached out with his left arm to brace himself as he grabbed desperately for his bedside lamp with the right -- and his left hand inadvertently closed over someone else's shoulder in the blackness. He felt soft hair under his fingers...
The screaming woman! She must be right beside me--
He hadn't known the woman was in his bed; and it was a toss-up as to who was more startled by their inadvertent contact, her or him. She sobbed with fear and pulled away from him frantically. He let her go, grateful that at least for the moment, her screams had stopped. Confused and disoriented by years of sleeping alone, he wondered groggily, Who the hell is with me?
Suddenly, a spark of awareness arced through his sleep-fogged brain. Memory returned. He knew who'd been beside him, and who had screamed.
"Elyssa!"
Still groping for the lamp with one hand, he reached out with the other to find her. Too late. The mattress tilted a little, then there was a loud thump as something hit the floor. Diefenbaker yelped sharply. What the--?
His fumbling fingers found the light and switched it on at last. Its yellow glow revealed an empty bed beside him. Elyssa lay on the floor by his wolf, panting, her eyes wide, her hair tangled around a face that had gone bone white. Diefenbaker sat a few feet away from her, his ice-blue eyes focused on her anxiously.
She must've had a nightmare, rolled off the bed and fallen onto Dief--
And he knew what that nightmare must've been. Even as his brain awakened and began to reason at last, his body reacted with instincts of its own. He was out of bed and on the floor next to her in a heartbeat, reaching for her. "It's okay, love. I'm here..."
But when he tried to touch her, she moaned and tore away from him. Her reaction stunned him, hurt like a fist to his gut. The pain intensified when he realized that she'd scrambled out of bed because wakening to find him beside her had frightened her as much as her nightmare. Maybe more.
He felt cold, as rejected as if she'd poured ice water over his head. After the wonderful time they'd just had together earlier, the closeness they'd shared, her sudden repulsion was almost brutal by contrast. How could she act like this? How could she be frightened of him, when she knew how much he loved her?--
Then he remembered his own sleepy startlement at finding someone else in bed with him when he woke, and realized that it must've been much worse for her, jerking awake from a nightmare about her rape to find that a man had grabbed her in the darkness. No wonder she scrambled out of my bed! I should probably be glad she didn't hit me. His feelings of rejection eased, he spoke soothingly to her. "Elyssa, it's okay," he said quietly, not trying to touch her. "You just had a bad dream. It's all right now."
Her nightmare had finally begun to lose its grip on her. She stopped gasping for air, and her green eyes lost their wildness. As he watched, the last wisps of dark panic faded away from them entirely. Reality returned, and she recognized him. But that didn't bring the relief he expected. Her eyes filled with embarrassment, and pain so raw that when she pressed a fist to her mouth, he wasn't sure if she was stifling tears, or a scream. For a moment, she wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth mutely, like a child trying to give itself comfort where none could be found.
He stared at her, stunned into silence. He'd known it was still hard for her, even after all this time, but he'd had no idea it was this bad.
After a time, she took her hand away from her mouth, but didn't meet his eyes. "Sorry I woke you, Ben," she whispered at last, her voice thinner than he'd ever heard it. She reached out shakily to touch Diefenbaker, who was licking his bruised leg. He saw her wince as she realized she'd landed on him when she fell out of bed. "Sorry, boy." Dief whined softly, pushing his nose into her hand, as if to say he knew it was just an accident.
After apologizing to them both, Elyssa said nothing else. She just put her arms around Diefenbaker's neck, laid her cheek on his mane and petted him gently, her eyes unseeing. Not a word about the horror she'd been reliving, not one complaint. Nothing.
His heart contracted painfully. He hadn't wanted the apology; he'd needed her to talk to him about what had just happened. He wanted her arms around his neck, not Diefenbaker's. But her rape was something she didn't discuss. After telling him it had happened in her apartment in Springfield, and that she'd had numerous broken bones from the savage beating that accompanied it, she'd never talked about it again; and though he'd longed to ease her pain, he'd never pressed for further details. He hadn't dared to invade her silence, thinking she needed it to heal.
Now that he knew better, he felt awkward, uncertain, groping blindly for light in a different kind of darkness. He wondered guiltily if she'd avoided the subject because she thought he couldn't handle it. After all, he'd been drunk when she'd first told him, and become violently ill. Maybe she'd just assumed he wouldn't fare any better with it when he was sober, that it was better not to mention it again. If that were true, he had to correct that impression. "I'm the one who's sorry, Elyssa," he said gently. "I'm so sorry they hurt you like that, love."
He'd learned those words from her. He'd never forgotten how she'd eased his pain with them when he'd told her about the scars Victoria had left on his heart. They'd become part of his love for her, and he used them deliberately now, to try and reach her. But she didn't move, didn't even blink. For a minute, he wasn't even sure she'd heard him.
Then tears began to fall, soundless and bitter, and she reached out for him blindly. "Benny," she husked.
She was ice cold. He took her in his arms there on the floor and held her tightly while she cried, giving what comfort he could with his hands, warming her with his body, telling her that she wasn't alone, not even in this. But pain filled him as she wept.
She never told me, he thought, stricken. No wonder she doesn't always want to spend the night with me! She said she just needs time to herself occasionally, because she's lived alone so long...But this was the real reason. She didn't want me to see this, didn't want me to know she still has nightmares that wake her screaming...
She cried so hard her sobs shook his body. He held her tightly, wondering bleakly how this was possible. He loved her with all his heart, was closer to her than he'd ever been to anyone in his life. She filled the emptiness inside him that he'd never dared show to anyone, filled it completely, in a way Victoria never had; for he trusted Elyssa implicitly.
But she's keeping secrets from me, a scared voice whispered in his head. Just like Victoria did...
He rejected that thought, knew it was an unfair comparison. Victoria had schemed against him; Elyssa had only withheld personal information from him. Still, the knowledge of her deception hurt. He'd thought he knew her intimately, thought they shared everything. Why hadn't he sensed the continued depth of her pain? How had he missed it? Worse, why had she hidden it from him? She'd promised she would never deliberately hurt him, but he'd just discovered that inadvertent blows could be painful, too; that silence could be as devastating as a curse. Catholics had a name for such things: "sins of omission." Discovering that she'd hidden the extent of her trauma from him punched a tiny hole in his soul, through which a chill wind blew.
He wanted to believe she hadn't told him about her nightmares for the same reason she'd delayed telling him about her rape; because she'd wanted to spare him pain. But he couldn't be sure. Maybe she'd kept silent because she simply didn't want to share that part of herself with him. He wasn't sure if she'd stayed silent about it because she loved him too much, or not enough.
He loved her desperately, so much that he'd been longing to ask her a question for some time. He would've asked her tonight, had been sorely tempted while they'd walked by the lake; but he'd held back because he hadn't wanted to crowd her. Though she often told him she loved him, he'd taken her insistence on spending a few nights each week alone as a signal that she wasn't ready to commit to anything with him, and he hadn't wanted to scare her off. He realized now that he would have to wait longer still. Though he was fairly sure now that her nights alone had more to do with hiding her pain than with keeping their relationship on a casual basis, the fact that she hadn't told him the truth about it troubled him. He couldn't ask her his question while her terror lay between them, while she insisted on keeping part of herself separate from him.
"Shhh," he whispered, rocking her in his arms as her tears fell cold on his bare chest. "It'll be all right," he said, needing to believe that, too.
Finally, he managed to comfort her. She quieted in his embrace and once her sobs stilled, he took her back to bed. But she never spoke of her nightmare, not even then. Not one word.
He lay stroking her hair in the darkness, as if to reassure himself that she wouldn't flinch from his touch any more. Finally, when she seemed calm and relaxed, he said softly, "It's okay if you want to talk about it, Elyssa. I don't mind."
She trembled, a little involuntary shiver that she couldn't hide. "No." Her voice was soft but final.
He almost ached with disappointment, but he didn't let it show. He kept moving his hands gently over her, not wanting to let her know how hurt he was. They lay silently for awhile, until he couldn't bear it anymore. Then he said, "This bed is too small. I'll have to get a bigger one." As if she'd ended up on the floor, wild-eyed and shaking, because his bed wasn't large enough. Or as if words could bridge the gap he felt between them, that he hadn't known existed until tonight.
"It's all right," she whispered, her arms around his waist, her head on his shoulder. "I like this bed. I like being close to you. I love you, Benny."
He knew she was trying to reassure him, but it didn't work.
If you love me, then why didn't you tell me the truth?
Long after she fell asleep in his arms, warm and safe and protected, he lay awake in the darkness, feeling alone in his too-small bed, cold with doubts he couldn't voice.
Keeping secrets.
Elyssa woke before the sun the next morning. While Ben slept, she put on the robe she kept in his closet and let herself out of his apartment silently. She wanted, needed to take a shower, but didn't want to wake him. After the way she'd jolted him out of sleep with her screams last night, he deserved a little extra shuteye, she thought with a wince as she hurried down the hallway.
Back in her own apartment, she took a long, steamingly hot shower, trying to purge every bit of last night's ugly nightmare from her body. But even as the water streamed over her, she thought bitterly how impossible that was. She still had the scars, inside and out, from what they'd done to her.
It was odd...Benny, the ardent lover who frequently kissed her all over, had never mentioned the little white lines of old pain that laced across her upper arms, the side of her neck, her nose, her collarbone and her right thigh. Benton Fraser, the policeman who noticed everything down to the smallest detail, who could usually tell her within seconds what kind of perfume a woman wore, or what kind of food a man had just eaten from their scent, had never said a word about them. And she hadn't questioned his selective blindness; had, in fact, been grateful for it. She'd always found his perceptiveness admirable, almost uncanny, but she'd managed to convince herself somehow that it wouldn't work on her.
Then one morning she'd wakened just after dawn to find him tracing her scars ever so gently. At first, groggy with sleep, she'd smiled as he touched her, thinking he was caressing her idly. Then she'd frozen, too terrified to move, as she realized the pattern of his touch wasn't random at all, that he was tracing the map of her rape on her skin. Idiot! she'd cursed herself, feeling trapped, frantic. How could you think he wouldn't see? Though his hands were achingly tender, their intimate explorations made her want to jerk away from him, to cover herself, to scream, Don't do that! Don't!
But she'd lain still, not even opening her eyes, because fear was what fueled her rage: fear that he'd think her scars ugly, or worse, ask her for details about how she got them. But when she'd finally summoned up the courage to lift her eyes to his, she'd been shocked to find his blue eyes not gentle, as she'd expected, but darkly intense. "I just love you so, Elyssa," he'd whispered. It wasn't so much a statement as a confession of deep need; and she suddenly understood that he hadn't been noting her flaws. He'd been touching her because he loved her so much he couldn't keep from doing it. He'd been memorizing every inch of her with his hands, scars and all, because they were part of her--part of the woman he loved. Those simple words turned what he'd done into a kind of worship, rather than the cataloguing of sins that she'd feared.
"I love you too, Ben," she'd said, realizing she'd never loved him as much as she did in that moment. Needing to touch him just as much, and for all the same reasons, she'd taken him in her arms again. And when she did, her hand passed over a large indentation in his back, at the base of his spine, a welted scar from a bullet that had almost claimed his life a year ago. Though her touch had been light, she'd pulled her hand away, oversensitive at that moment on the subject of old scars.
But he hadn't minded. Had, in fact, pulled her hand to his chest, placed it where another scar marred the smooth perfection of his skin. "You see?" he'd whispered, not letting go of her. "We all have them. All of us."
Warmed by his understanding, she'd held him for hours, until the sun rose over his windowsill to light their bed. He hadn't made love to her, but he'd moved his hands over her endlessly, until she forgot the white lines on her skin. He'd never traced them like that again, and to this day, he'd never asked her about them, either.
She thought she was glad about that. She didn't want to talk about them. She'd hoped--no, prayed -- that she'd left the worst of her rape trauma behind when she quit her sessions with Dr. Elden and left Springfield. Painful though they'd been, those visits to a psychologist had helped her begin to recover; but after she moved, she didn't want to start them over with someone else. So despite the fact that Dr. Elden had given her the names of three of her trusted colleagues to contact in Chicago, Elyssa hadn't done so.
The idea of starting over with another doctor had seemed undesirable, in more ways than one. Spelling out the horrifying details of her rape to Dr. Elden had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done; confiding them a second time to a new therapist seemed more than she could bear. Her strong sense of independence had also contributed to her reluctance to renew therapy. She wanted to progress on her own, without professional help; and since she'd started painting well again, and her fear of men had eased enough so that she'd started a new relationship, she was convinced that she was doing well, and that her initial therapy had been enough.
Though she also knew she couldn't take all the credit for her improvement; Benny and Ray had both played a role in it. She'd learned to trust again because of them.
And she'd learned to love because of Benny. He'd opened her heart that had been tightly closed, given her love so far beyond any she'd ever known that her other lovers had faded to mere wisps of memory in his shadow. He'd made her feel safe.
Still... her rape remained the one blot on Elyssa's newly happy horizon. Even her happiness with Ben couldn't make her memories of it vanish. Her nightmares about it didn't come as often anymore, sometimes only once a week, but they were still unbearably intense, and they still left her shaking, exhausted and filled with remembered grief and fear when they ended.
When her relationship with Ben first began, she'd hoped desperately that she wouldn't have them at all when she was with him. But she'd hedged her bets by spending a few nights every week sleeping alone at her apartment, just in case. Benny hadn't liked that much; he'd wanted to be with her all the time. But she'd convinced him that she needed some time to herself, and he'd reluctantly agreed.
The strategy had worked for awhile. Because he made her feel safe, her nightmares had decreased in frequency since she'd known him, and they seldom happened when she was with him. The few times they had happened in his bed, she'd somehow managed to pull herself out of them, to wake before she became so terrified that she started to scream. So Benny hadn't known they still plagued her. But now, after six months of happiness with him, just when she was beginning to think that her life was on an even keel at last, she'd had a full-blown, shrieking whopper of a nightmare in his bed; and it frightened her on several levels.
I thought I'd be safe with him... But it seemed she wasn't safe anywhere, not even with her guardian angel Mountie. The monsters that lived in her subconscious could rise and overwhelm her anytime, anywhere.
Even worse, now that her secret was out, the pain it caused wasn't just hers anymore. What had it done to Benny, waking to find he was in bed with a crazed, screaming woman who didn't even know him? She let the hot water run over her face, beat on her until her skin flushed with the heat, but she couldn't blot out the memory of how she'd scrambled out of his bed when he'd touched her, then flinched in terror when he'd reached out to comfort her.
He won't understand why I didn't tell him about my nightmares. He'll think I don't want him! That I don't love him...
The very thought made her feel ill. Men liked to think they were strong, and with Benny, that wasn't an illusion. He was as capable and protective as they came. How had it made him feel, knowing he couldn't protect her from herself? From the horrors that lurked in her own head, waiting to ambush her when she least expected it?
He'll think I'm crazy, she thought over and over, until her tears mingled with the shower's spray.
Crazy...
When Elyssa came back to his apartment, Fraser was up and dressed. He'd finished feeding Diefenbaker and almost finished cooking their breakfast, too. Thanks to Elyssa's expert tutelage, his culinary skills had vastly improved. He could now fry a decent omelette, mushrooms and all. This morning, wanting to do something special for her, he'd thrown caution to the winds and added some leftover ham and green onions to the mixture, browned some toast, and even used the juicer she'd given him to squeeze some fresh orange juice. A veritable feast, he thought wryly, comparing it to some of the messes he'd concocted for himself in the past.
Though somehow, he doubted that Elyssa would be in the mood to appreciate it.
"Hi, love." As he fussed over the eggs, she put her arms around him from behind and hugged him warmly. Her hair was still a little damp at the ends, her skin warm and fragrant with the lemon-scented bath soap she used. But he hadn't deduced that she'd showered from the physical evidence of it -- he already knew she'd taken one. As soon as he'd opened his eyes and discovered she'd left his bed, he'd been so worried that he'd gone to her apartment to check on her. He'd put his ear to her door and listened intently, until he'd heard the sound of running water and knew that she was okay, that she'd just gone home to shower so as not to wake him.
He'd gone back to his place without letting her know he'd come looking for her. He knew that she'd resent it, feel that he was treating her like a child.
Something told him not to mention it now, either. Her eyes looked fragile, bruised, and something moved in their depths that her shower hadn't been able to warm. He turned in her embrace and kissed her lightly, carefully. She was wearing a trim, navy blue skirt and jacket that somehow made her eyes look even greener. Despite her state of mind, she looked lovely, and he smiled appreciatively. "Hello, beautiful."
For a second, moved by a deep, primitive, protective instinct, he considered asking her the important question that had been hovering on the tip of his tongue for months now. But he held back a second longer, waiting to see how she'd respond. He didn't want to voice it frivolously, needed to gauge her mood first.
It was a moment before she answered him, and when she did, her smile was faint, distant. "Thanks. Do you like the suit? It's new," she said.
His heart sank. She was just making conversation. Though she was with him physically, her mind was a million miles away, behind protective walls she'd constructed long before they met. When she withdrew internally like that, he could speak to her, but he could never touch her heart. His question died in his throat. This isn't the right time, he told himself, like he had a hundred times before. He tried not to wonder if there would ever be a right time.
"The suit's nice, but what I really like is you in it," he smiled, trying to look cheerful, to keep the conversation on the safe, mundane level she evidently needed. Moved to tenderness by the battered look in her eyes, he kissed her very gently. "You hungry, love? I made breakfast for you."
For a moment, her eyes filled with sudden, unexpected tears, as if his thoughtfulness had breached her hiding place against her will, and forced her out into the open. He held his breath, waiting for her to speak of her fear, to let him in and thereby diminish it...
Instead, she shook her head and looked away from him. "No. I think I'll skip breakfast."
He set his jaw. Another invisible battle lost, another foray that ended in failure. He tried not to look disappointed, or even surprised. He knew somehow that if he pushed her, forced the issue, she would leave him. He had to wait, to be patient, as he'd waited for her to come to him when they first met. But somehow, being so close to her made such waiting even harder. Love had made him greedy; he didn't want just some of her, or even the best of her. He wanted it all: light and dark, laughter and terror, tenderness and anger -- everything she was.
But hearts are given, not taken. He didn't know everything about women, but he knew that much about love.
So he forced his mind back to practicality, to smaller, more reachable goals. Right now, he wanted her to eat. She usually didn't eat much even at the best of times, and this morning was hardly that. But he was prepared for just such a refusal. "You can't not eat," he said swiftly. When she raised an amused eyebrow, he pointed a finger toward the pan of eggs and glasses of juice he'd prepared, and solemnly quoted something she'd told him her mother used to say. " 'Think of the starving children in India who would love to have this!' " She laughed, as he'd hoped she would.
"Come on, sit down," he wheedled, pressing his advantage. "Ray says my eggs still 'suck'," he deadpanned, as he turned to flip them deftly onto a plate. "I want to know what you think."
She grinned mischievously as she settled delicately into a chair by his table. "About Ray, or about your 'sucky' cooking?" she teased.
He blinked as he put a plate of eggs in front of her, his pride a little wounded. "Am I really still that bad?"
Her smile changed from teasing to tender in an instant. "You," she said softly, "are the best thing that ever happened to me, Ben Fraser." Tears glittered in her eyes, and he was both touched and a little worried by her declaration. It meant everything to him to hear her put her love for him into words like that. But her tears were clear evidence that her feelings were still raw, still so close to the surface that they were hard for her to control.
"And you to me, love." He bent and kissed the top of her head very gently. She was so slender, so delicate that a wave of protectiveness filled him. He couldn't stop worrying about what had happened last night. He knew it was dangerous to bring it up now, while she was still upset, but he had to. He just couldn't let this go, couldn't live with the knowledge that she was in so much pain without trying to help her.
But he decided to wait for an opening, for the right moment to bring it up. So he sat down next to her with a plate of his own. "Bon appetit," he smiled casually as he picked up his fork. He took a bite, tried not to stare as she picked halfheartedly at hers, not even tasting it. When she caught him watching, she lifted her fork to her mouth and took a bite, to please him.
"Well?'
She chewed for a moment, making him wait. Then finally, a smile spread over her face. "Well, I have to say, Ben, you know I've been cooking for years, and these eggs..."
He raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
"Mmm, it's hard to find the right words," she teased, drawing it out. "These eggs, they definitely--"
"Yes?" he prompted, playing along.
She pursed her lips as if searching for just the right word to describe them. "It you want my honest opinion, I'd have to say they..."
"What? They what? " he demanded with mock impatience.
"They definitely do not suck!" she burst out at last, giggling.
He laughed with her, glad to see her happy for a moment, feeling her unspoken tension ease. "High praise indeed," he teased back.
"Mmm. Really, Benny, this is wonderful," she smiled. "You're becoming a great cook. Thank you." She took another bite, then sipped at her orange juice while he watched approvingly. They were small bites and sips, but he didn't complain. He'd take what he could get on this uncertain morning.
He waited until she put her fork down again before he finally put into words what they'd both been careful not to mention. Clearing his dry throat, he said, "About last night--"
Elyssa pushed her chair back abruptly and gathered up her plate and silverware, her face tight and still. "I'm sorry about that." She passed him heading into the kitchen with the dishes. He reached out for her, then thought better of it. Her whole body had gone taut, her face strained as he'd never seen it since the first day he'd met her, when she'd been so scared of him and Ray that she'd almost panicked when they reached out to help her. That was a mistake he didn't want to repeat.
"There's no need to apologize," he said quietly, picking up his own dish and silverware and following her into his kitchen. "Everyone has bad dreams now and then." He put the dishes down, but she was busy rinsing hers off, and didn't look at him. He cleared his throat. "I just wondered if you wanted to talk about it..."
She shook her head tightly. "Not particularly."
Frustrated, he tried again. "But I think it might--"
"What is this, an inquisition?" she exploded suddenly, throwing the rubber scrubber she'd held into the dishwater with a splash. "Do you want all the dirty details, Ben? Do you wanna know how many times they hit me? What filthy things they said? How many bones they broke? Is that it? " Her normally gentle eyes were suddenly wide with rage. He'd never seen her like that before, had never imagined she would lash out at him like that; and it hurt.
"No, of course not!" he stammered defensively. Taken by surprise by her burst of anger, by her accusation that he was prying out of some sort of sick curiosity, he found himself stupidly tongue-tied, unable to refute it.
Do you wanna know how many bones they broke?
If you only knew, he thought. Though he'd dealt with violence all his working life, the idea of it touching her, of anyone hurting her, was unbearable to him. But he was beginning to think he'd done the wrong thing by never questioning her about her rape before; and to question his motives for avoiding it. He suddenly wondered if he'd really done it entirely out of consideration for her, or if a small, selfish part of him had actually been afraid to hear the details of her ordeal.
As she stared at him, he wracked his brain for a way to salvage the situation, for the right words to calm her down. None came to him. Instead, her uncharacteristically harsh outburst brought back a sudden, vivid flash of memory...
He was in the hospital pool with Jill Kennedy, his physical therapist, after he'd been shot. As she guided him through the aquatic exercises designed to help him recover from the bullet wound in his back, she tried gently to get him to talk about his emotional wounds as well. "You know, that thing we're not talking about," she called it, teasing him a little.
He didn't thank her for her light touch, or her efforts to help him. Instead, he let her have it with both barrels: "You're a fine physical therapist, and I have no doubt you're a very fine, caring and decent person. And while I appreciate that, I'd appreciate it a whole lot more if you'd confine your comments to matters concerning my physical well-being, and leave my personal life to me!"
He'd almost shouted at her. He hadn't, but he'd wanted to; and for him, that tirade had been unprecedented, a stunning loss of control that shamed him. But he remembered the inner pain that had prompted it. Jill's questions had been motivated by genuine concern, but the slightest touch on the gaping wounds inside him had been agonizing then. He'd felt raw, exposed, like he'd been flayed; hence his uncharacteristic explosion.
He suspected Elyssa's anger sprang from the same source.
Jill Kennedy had been wise (and kind) enough not to retaliate, that day at the pool. So he took a page from her book, and didn't respond further to Elyssa's bitter words. Nor did he try to offer comfort. Though he longed to touch her, he knew she'd probably just rebuff him, and he didn't want to give her more to regret later. He just watched silently as she bent her head and began to scrub with unnecessary vigor at an already clean dish. Finally, she paused and turned her head to meet his eyes. "It happens sometimes," she said, her voice washed as carefully clean as the plate she held. "That's all."
It wasn't exactly an apology, but it was probably as close to one as she could manage at the moment; and he nodded. After six months of sharing a bed, he knew her well, but this was a part of herself she'd never shared with him, uncharted territory that had already been seared by men. He was afraid to scar it further by asking any more clumsy questions. So though he now knew they couldn't avoid the subject of her rape any longer, he didn't ask her why she hadn't told him how deeply she was still troubled by it, and the nightmares it caused. He didn't want to make her feel any more defensive than he already had. He chose his words carefully, spoke gently. "How often does it happen?"
"I have to go," she said flatly, cutting him off. "I have to get to work." She put down the dish scrubber and moved past him toward his door, her face pale and set.
He grimaced. Even that question, it seemed, had been too much. He didn't try to stop her, but he couldn't let her go without a word, either. It felt too much like she was running away from him--or from herself. "It's all right if you don't want to talk to me about it, Elyssa," he said quietly. "But I want to help you, and I'm not sure how. I think you should talk to someone."
She froze, her shoulders tight as a drawn wire. "Someone?" she repeated, stung. "Who do you mean?"
He drew a deep breath, and risked it. "A doctor, perhaps."
"Oh, I've done that," she said, her words sour as raw lemon. "Dr. Elden said I had classic PTSD."
She flung the words at him bitterly, no doubt guessing he wouldn't know what the medical term meant. She was right; he had no idea what PTSD stood for. Still, even the little information she'd let slip was precious to him. She'd never told him she'd seen a therapist before, though he'd wondered about it--nor had he known her diagnosis. He stored the term, and her doctor's name, away in his memory for future reference. He also knew that, reluctant though her admission had been, she wouldn't have made it if she hadn't trusted him; and that was at least a place to start. He moved towards her in spite of himself. "Elyssa--"
"Don't worry. It's not the same thing as being crazy," she said bitterly. "Not quite."
She reached for his doorknob, but he slipped in front of her, barring her exit. He'd gone too far, pushed too hard, and he regretted it. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry..." He reached down to touch her, bent to kiss her, but she turned her head so that his lips just brushed her cheek. Not pushing him away precisely, but not welcoming him either.
"So am I," she whispered.
He didn't know if she meant she was sorry it had happened, or that he'd tried to ask her about it. Maybe both. He realized suddenly, painfully, that this was their first fight. Though it had probably been inevitable, he wished vainly that it had been about something else. Anything else.
She brushed past him without another word, and this time, he had to let her go.
Elyssa was a little nervous when she got to Hallen's gallery that day. It was her first day at work, and her unaccustomed fight with Benny had unsettled her, so she was a little on edge. But after Mr. Hallen showed her their opening procedures, she forced herself to concentrate on learning her new duties and the art gallery's daily routine, and dealing with the customers who came in to browse. In the bustle, she managed--almost--to forget about their earlier argument.
Except, of course, for the fact that she couldn't really think about anything else all day.
God, did I really yell at him?
But she knew she had, and she knew why. Why she'd felt such a sickening surge of rage that she'd said those terrible things, tried to wound him. It was bad enough he'd found out about her nightmares--coming to on his floor afterwards had been so humiliating that she'd hardly been able to look at him.
But what had followed the next morning was almost worse. Still raw from the debacle the night before, she'd needed more than anything to be by herself, to try to regain her equilibrium. But she'd gone back to his apartment anyway, because she'd known he'd worry if she didn't; and what was her reward? He'd tried to pry into her dreams, into the dark ugliness at the core of her soul, that she didn't ever want him to see. Then when she'd refused to let him, he'd acted like he had to take charge of her, like she was stupid and helpless and he knew just what to do. Like he's some kind of expert on rape or something! she thought, seething.
Deep inside, the voice of reason whispered that she was being overly critical and wildly defensive. Benny was only trying to help, because he knows you're hurting and it scares him...
But defensiveness had become such a way of life for her that she'd only begun to give it up when she'd met him; because of him, and the way he'd made her feel safe for the first time since her rape. So when he'd said she needed to see a doctor (translation: psychiatrist), old habits returned, fear reared its nasty head, and every wall she'd spent the last six months tearing down between them had sprung up again, stronger than ever. She'd felt like he'd yanked the rug out from under her feet. Out from under her new life, from what she'd thought was their new life together. He'd divided them into two camps, him on the sane side and her on the loony one, and for a moment, she'd almost hated him.
Bad enough that she'd feared he'd think she was crazy; a thousand, a million times worse to hear him say it.
So when he'd called her later on, she'd pleaded that she was too busy to talk. But the disappointment she heard in his gentle voice tugged at her. She'd relented enough to tell him she'd talk to him later, then spent the afternoon waiting anxiously for him to call again. She alternated between resenting herself for being as dependent as he'd assumed she was, and him for not understanding how much she needed to hear his voice again, despite her earlier anger.
By five o'clock, she was beginning to wonder if he wasn't right to doubt her sanity. She must be crazy, because despite their argument, she wanted Ben so much she could hardly think straight.
Mr. Hallen came in when she was in the back room gathering up her purse. "Great first day," he said, with a smile. "How do you like the job so far?"
"It's great," she said, meaning it. Selling art in a gallery--just being around good art--was much more satisfying for her than working in an art supply store had been. Still, when Hallen smiled down at her she unconsciously backed up a little. He was standing a bit too close to her, and she realized he'd done it several times that day. But she supposed she was just going to have to get used to that. Hallen had no way of knowing about her past, and besides, her days of being ultra wary of men were over now.
She'd decided she had to cut Ben some slack, too. Granted, he'd unknowingly rubbed salt in a very deep wound with his mention of therapy, but he'd done it out of love and concern, and she knew it. She owed him an apology for accusing him of prying, and there was no time like tonight to start on it. She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the door.
"Good night, Mr. Hallen."
"Good night, Ellie."
She turned, a bit surprised by his use of a nickname, her first day on the job. "I'm sorry, but it's Elyssa," she said politely. "My name is Elyssa."
He eyed her for a moment, then his smile returned. "Sure," he said easily. "Good night."
Then she was out the door and heading for her car, her new job--and her new employer--entirely forgotten as she planned how she was going to surprise Benny.
Fraser groaned when he came back to his desk. He'd been hoping he could leave on time tonight. He'd been thinking about Elyssa all day, and as a result, had driven himself half mad with worry, and with wanting her. He'd called her twice, but hadn't been able to talk to her. She'd been too busy at work that morning to chat; and she'd been out to lunch when he'd tried again later on.
He'd tried not to read anything into that, but he longed to get home all the same. He'd done some research on Elyssa's condition at the Harold Washington Library Center on his lunch hour, and what he'd learned troubled him.
He began by looking up PTSD in a psychiatric dictionary, and learned that it was the acronym for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Further research in another psychiatric reference book had yielded its definition: "the development of characteristic symptoms following a psychologically distressing event that is outside the range of usual human experience. Its cause is usually experienced with intense fear, terror and helplessness."
Fear, terror and helplessness; all of the things he'd seen on Elyssa's face last night. All the things I felt when Ray shot me, and I knew I'd lost Victoria...
He'd paused for a moment, shivering as he suddenly realized the words he was reading didn't just apply to Elyssa. They'd both had dark nights of the soul that had left them battered and reeling.
Maybe I had PTSD without even knowing what it was. Only I had Ray and Diefenbaker at my side all the time, from the moment I first woke up after surgery--even my Dad came. They all helped me get over it. I was never alone; but Elyssa had no one to help her. Maybe that's part of the reason why I recovered on my own, but she had to see a therapist...
Shaken by his discoveries, he stubbornly read further. But the information became even grimmer: "The characteristic symptoms involve re-experiencing the traumatic event, avoidance of stimuli associated with it, or numbing of general responsiveness and increased arousal..."
Suddenly, certain things made sense to him. Elyssa had told him that her previous boyfriend had left her after the rape because she couldn't stand to have him touch her, and her friends had drifted away as well. But she hadn't cared much, because she'd lost interest in almost everything afterwards, even her painting. He remembered, too, how wary she'd been when he'd first met her, how his very touch had turned her white with fear. Apparently, all of that had been a severe but not uncommon reaction to what she'd been through.
He wished suddenly that he'd done this research months ago, when he and Elyssa had first become lovers. He'd consulted a social worker then, on how to approach her physically without scaring her, but he hadn't known to ask her about resulting nightmares, because Elyssa hadn't told him she was suffering from them.
The book explained Elyssa's feelings and behavior with eerie precision. Some of the information in it he'd already figured out on his own, but some of it was like a revelation. It was odd that clinical, dispassionate words in a reference book could open a door into the soul of the woman he loved, into the tormenting darkness inside her that she refused to let him see, but he wanted one so desperately that he would've read tea leaves or Tarot cards if he thought it would help.
At least this book was a step up from that.
He read on, spellbound. "The disorder is apparently more severe and longer lasting when the stressor is of human design."
Which applied to Elyssa's rape, he thought. If you could call the men who'd done it 'human'...And it makes sense that a person would get over a natural disaster sooner than a horror perpetrated on them by someone else. Acts of God are easier to accept than human evil...
"There can be dissociative states, lasting from a few seconds to several hours, in which components of the event are relived, and the person behaves as though experiencing the event at that moment."
So when she'd pushed him away last night, she'd been more than merely frightened; she'd been reliving her brutal rape, and so totally disoriented that she'd probably been in fear for her life. He was glad that, though he hadn't fully understood what was happening to her, he still hadn't insisted on touching her, after she'd flinched from him. If he hadn't waited for her to wake fully and come back to reality, she might've fought him tooth and nail. He'd have to be careful to remember that if it ever happened again...
He scanned the page further, eager for more information: "The person commonly makes deliberate efforts to avoid thoughts or feelings about the traumatic event."
Just like I avoided talking about Victoria with anyone but Ray after she left...
"Many sufferers report changes in aggression. In mild cases this may take the form of irritability, with fears of losing control."
Remembering his harsh words to Jill Kennedy, and Elyssa's to him that morning, he felt a sudden sense of awe at the odd parallels in their lives; not just their similarly traumatic experiences, but in their responses to them as well.
Is this why fate brought us together? Because no man would've been able to understand what Elyssa's going through better than I can?
La Forza del Destina...It was a question he'd never considered before. But he quickly decided that if it was true, if Elyssa moving in down the hall from him was more than the coincidence it had seemed, then so be it. She'd once called him her guardian angel; and if destiny had chosen him for that role, he was more than willing to take it on. He didn't just want to protect her, he needed to, with an urgency that went right to the bottom of his soul.
So it didn't matter if he was just a man who'd fallen in love by chance, or if fate, destiny, or a higher power had brought them together. What counted was keeping her and keeping her safe. So despite the chill he felt, he kept on reading.
"Sufferers may reexperience symptoms after a latency period of months or years following the trauma, especially if avoidance symptoms have been present during this period."
He shook his head. It was almost as if the more victims of PTSD tried to deny what had happened to them, the more fiercely their memories would resurface. He now saw that Elyssa had definitely been trying to avoid thinking about her rape since he'd known her. She'd only mentioned it to him once, she wasn't seeing a therapist anymore, and she'd even hidden the fact of her nightmares from him.
Maybe that's why they're still coming back with such force -- because she's been trying so hard to forget that she's bottled it all up inside her.
That insight was grim enough; but the next sentence he read scared him more than anything he'd seen on her condition so far: "Phobic avoidance of situations or activities resembling or symbolizing the original trauma may interfere with interpersonal relation-ships... Emotional liability, depression, and guilt may result in self-defeating behavior or suicidal actions."
Suicide!
The word cut through him like an Arctic wind, freezing his bones.
He tried to reassure himself that, unlike the rest of the information, that didn't apply to her. Elyssa was too stable for that, too happy.
But was she really? He knew she loved him, that she'd found happiness in their relationship just as he had, but he also remembered the way she'd cried in his arms after her nightmare. Her sobs had been deep, shattering, so hard that they'd almost choked her. Yet despite the obvious force of the emotions connected with them, she'd successfully hidden her nightmares from him, probably for months; and now that he'd found out, she still refused to talk about them.
Since she refused to share the depth of her pain with him, he had no way of knowing if it was potentially lethal.
He hadn't bothered to copy the information he'd read about Elyssa's condition before leaving the library. There was no need to--it was burned into his brain. The things he'd learned about her mental state hadn't just increased his desire to talk to her, they'd made his determination to help her imperative. He needed to tell her that everything would be all right, that they'd work through this together somehow. He had to let her know that he didn't care if she never told him the details of her rape, that he hadn't meant to pry, he'd just wanted to ease her pain. And if she didn't want to see a psychiatrist about it either, that was her choice, and he would respect it.
But he hoped she wouldn't make that choice. Sometimes, having someone you trusted to talk to was the only way to cleanse the soul, to heal emotional wounds that would fester otherwise, as Elyssa's seemed to be doing. He knew that from experience. If he hadn't had Ray to confide in after Victoria left him, he was almost certain his grief would've killed him. So if Elyssa wouldn't or couldn't talk to him, he very much wanted her to find someone else to confide in about it.
He couldn't understand why she refused to share her grief with him when they loved each other, but for now, he had to accept even that, because he loved her far too much to let her go. He would do anything to keep her. It was that simple.
But he couldn't rush off to be with her tonight. At least, not yet. Inspector Thatcher had neatly foiled his plans by depositing a list of a hundred names and a stack of Consular invitations and envelopes for an upcoming formal reception on his desk, with a note requesting that he address them before he went home tonight, and put them in the mail so they'd go out first thing tomorrow, thank you kindly.
Well...She hadn't exactly put it that way, nor did he feel particularly kindly towards her, especially since he'd seen her leaving early herself, on the arm of a tall blonde whom he suspected must be her date for the evening. He swore silently to himself, then glanced at his clock. He still had an hour left before he was officially off duty. Spurred on by thoughts of Elyssa, he sat down and picked up his pen.
Maybe if I write very fast...
Nearly ninety minutes later, when the Consulate had emptied and grown quiet and he was down to the second to the last envelope in his stack, he was startled by a knock on his opened office door. When he glanced up in surprise, he didn't see anyone there at first. Then Diefenbaker loped eagerly into his office, lifting his muzzle in an open bid for affection. His heart beat fast as he bent to pet him, because he knew who must've brought him here...
"Hey, Mountie man!" a soft, clear voice called sweetly from outside his door.
"Elyssa!" He was on his feet in an instant. She doesn't sound angry. Maybe she's forgiven me...
She peeked around the door, her long hair dangling over her shoulder, an impish grin on her face. "You were late, so we brought you dinner," she smiled, dangling a large paper bag from which wafted faint, delicious scents of fresh bread, chicken and garlic.
A peace offering, he realized.
Thank God! He'd been half afraid she would shut him out after their disagreement, refuse to speak to him as she had once before. But it seemed she was as sorry as he about the way things had gone between them that morning, and wanted to make up. He let out a deep breath he felt like he'd been holding all day.
His heart turned over and began beating dangerously fast, as it did every time he saw her. He was always struck by how beautiful she was; and humbled, too. Even after six months with her, it was still hard to believe that this sexy, stunning woman loved him, wanted him, needed him. It almost scared him sometimes, how great his need for her was: as boundless as space, as deep as breathing. He fell silent for a second, as he often did when he first saw her, overwhelmed by his feelings, by the reality of having her here after wanting her so much all day.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he said at last, taking refuge from the depth of his passion in mundanity. He pointed to the stack of work on his desk. "Something came up at the last minute..."
"It's okay."
He gathered up the invitations hastily. "I just have to run these out to the mailbox, and then--"
"Sure. But hurry back," she smiled, lifting the bag she held. "I made this for you. Dief tasted it, and he says it's good."
"I'll be right back," he promised, almost sprinting for the mailbox in his eagerness to return to her.
Relief and renewed hope filled him as he dropped the invitations in the post office box. He'd been really worried all day that he'd made a serious mistake with her, maybe even one that would make her quit their relationship. But the fact that she'd cooked dinner and brought it to him despite their earlier argument hinted that she was committed to their relationship now, that she wouldn't leave him at the first sign of trouble; and that bouyed his spirit.
He hadn't always been so lucky with women. His memory contrasted Elyssa's sweetness, her forgiveness with another woman's cruelty and hatred. He saw a black rose in his mind's eye, felt slender fists striking his chest as Victoria cried, How could you do that to me? How could you do it?
Once, the mere thought of Victoria could shake him. Now, he shrugged her memory off. It's just that PTSD thing again, he thought. Grimly amused by his new insight into his own scars, he ran back up the steps of the Consulate and inside. Rounding the corner of the hallway leading to his office at top speed, he almost crashed into a slight young janitor who was heading down the hallway, mop and bucket in hand, to begin his work. But he was in such a hurry to get back to Elyssa that he didn't even glance at the man, just streaked past him with a murmured, "Sorry."
He came back into his office and lost himself in Elyssa's welcoming smile, used it to banish the ghost from his past. He was boundlessly grateful for her, for this second chance at love. Or maybe it was really his first. Ray said Victoria had never really loved him at all, or she couldn't have done the things she did...And the longer he was with Elyssa, the more he'd come to believe that was true.
"Thanks for making me dinner," he said. "I appreciate it."
Elyssa smiled almost shyly. "You're welcome, Ben."
He noticed she was wearing a soft green sweater the same color as her eyes, and he moved towards her slowly, an answering smile curving his lips. "You look ravishing," he said, meaning it, wanting to draw out the moment like a sweet kind of torture.
Elyssa saw the hunger in his eyes instantly. "Interesting choice of words, Mr. Mountie," she teased, lowering her voice so it sounded a bit breathy. His heart beat faster, as she'd meant it to. He came closer, his eyes riveted on her.
"Is that what you have in mind? Ravishment, I mean?"
That she could even joke about that was a measure of her trust in him. Her gentle teasing sent a surge of pride through him: pride in her strength, in the way she'd kept her sense of humor despite the horror she'd been through; in the way she'd learned to delight in making love again, after what those men had done to her. He shook his head, moving closer to her slowly. He desperately wanted to kiss her, but he drew the moment out, wanting to savor the hunger he felt for her even more.
"No ma'am," he said with a straight face. "I believe that's against the law. I was thinking of something a lot less violent, and more pleasurable..."
"Something that requires mutual participation?" she breathed, in a seductive purr.
"That was my hope," he grinned, so close now that he could almost touch her.
"I see." The bag of food on his desk forgotten, he reached out to take her in his arms, but she pulled away at the last instant. "Hey, hey--not so fast!" she chided, teasing. "What if I don't want to play?" She danced away from him lightly, impishly heading back towards his open door.
"Then I'll just have to convince you," he breathed, intent on it.
Laughing breathlessly, she turned and tried to dart out into the hallway, but he'd anticipated that. He leapt forward, catching her before she got to the door. "Gotcha'!" he laughed, bending his head to take the kiss he'd been dreaming about all day. But to his surprise, she suddenly grabbed his arms, turned him around and backed him up against the wall. Pressing her body into his from head to toe, she gripped his uniform jacket tightly.
"I think maybe I've got you, Constable Fraser!" she smiled breathlessly.
Truer words were never spoken. The love, the joy she'd brought to his life had made it better than he'd ever known it could be. And like an addict, the more he got of her, the more he wanted. So he stood passive in her hold, enjoying the game immensely. Her sense of fun was just one more way Elyssa differed from Victoria. There had been no laughter in their relationship, and the only games Victoria had played with him had been deadly ones. But Elyssa had taught him how to laugh again, and he loved her for it.
"It seems so," he allowed. "The question is, what do you intend to do with me?"
She pursed her lips, considering it. "Well...I'll consider a reward, if you answer a question correctly." Her long lashes lowered as her gaze dipped to his mouth, and he hoped desperately that the answer wouldn't require a lot of thought. He always had a hard time thinking rationally when she was this close to him.
"I'll do my best," he said, his eyes on her beautiful, teasing, slightly parted lips.
"Okay. Here it is: Did you miss me today?" she whispered.
He swallowed hard, realizing belatedly that the door was open and the Consulate wasn't entirely deserted; so anyone left in the building who passed by his opened door could see them embracing. It felt strange, but he wanted her so badly he didn't care. "That's easy. I haven't been able to think about anything else all day," he confessed hoarsely, with a little smile.
"Bingo!" she said softly. "That's the right answer." She swayed against him even harder, until he could feel her heart beating right through the thick serge of his uniform. "You win," she breathed, smiling as she felt the evidence of his desire.
"I believe that you mentioned a reward?" he hinted. "What would that be?" Whatever it was, he wanted it badly.
"This." She kissed him, slowly and thoroughly, a mile-deep fall into sweet sensuality that spun duty, worry and the rest of the world away from him, until all that was left was her. He lost himself in it gladly. He'd been so afraid she was drifting away from him that he couldn't hold her close enough, kiss her hard enough. It took everything he had not to groan out loud with the pleasure of it.
When Elyssa finally lifted her head, his breathing was ragged, his heart pumping fast. He wanted her so much he could hardly stand it, but he'd remembered that they were still standing by the open door, and grasped for control. Realizing that his hands had strayed, he pulled them out from under her sweater with an effort, and pulled it back down. We're at the Consulate, he reminded himself dizzily. Right out in plain sight. This isn't right, we should go home...
Then he felt her slender fingers tugging at the top buttons on his uniform. As she undid enough of them to bare his throat, it seemed she'd read his mind, for she said, "I love you, Ben. And just this once, I don't want to wait. I want you now." He blinked in astonishment, and she smiled a little uncertainly. "Is it all right?"
All right? The thought that she wanted him that much aroused him unbearably, sent a bolt of excitement shooting through his body that shook him right down to his boots. Still, the thought of making love to her here warred with his sense of propriety. He felt a tiny, cowardly impulse to refuse, or to pretend he didn't understand, but he squelched it. So he'd never done anything like this before in his life, had never even thought about it--what did that matter? Imagination had never been his strong suit, but it was Elyssa's. She loved him, and she was the sweetest woman he'd ever known, and an inherently good person. She'd never ask him to do something that was wrong; so if she wanted this, then it must be all right.
Besides; after last night and what he'd learned about them both today, he needed this just a little, to reassure himself that she was still his.
But he didn't want to take advantage of her. "Umm...I don't-- have anything," he muttered, embarrassed. "With me, that is, to...you know. I wasn't expecting...That is, I didn't think we--" God, he thought, I'm babbling. Ray always yelled at him for that, but it was devilishly hard to think straight with Elyssa undressing him, and talking about sex always made him uncomfortable anyway...
"I don't care," she whispered against his mouth. Somehow, she'd understood him perfectly. She traced his lips with her tongue, then parted them and kissed him passionately, running her fingers through his hair. And when she looked up at him again, her green eyes burning with desire, her lips wet with kissing him, he didn't care that he hadn't come prepared either. In fact, he thought he might go up in flames right where he stood.
"Understood," he croaked. She went back to unfastening the buttons on his uniform, working rapidly. But all at once, a tiny worry intruded into his happy haze of lust. He frowned a little. "You're not... I mean, this isn't because we--"
She planted a tender kiss on his lips, cutting him off. "No, this isn't because we had a fight this morning," she whispered tenderly. "This is because I love you so much I can't go another minute without having you, Benny." Her rapid breathing and racing heartbeat convinced him it was true.
He took her face in his hands gently. "I'm sorry about this morning."
Her face grew serious. "So am I, Ben," she whispered. "I've just... been alone so long, it's hard to let someone in, I guess. I-- should've told you about the dreams, I just... couldn't. It's not you, it's me."
"It's all right. I love you," he said softly. " And I don't think you're crazy." Just wounded even worse than I was.
She smiled at him again. "Oh, but I am, Ben," she breathed. "I'm so crazy about you I can't think straight sometimes. Did you know that?" She buried her face in his neck and hugged him, and he held her just as tightly, his eyes closed. Apology accepted, he thought. He hadn't given up on finding a way to help her with her nightmares and her pain yet, either. His visit to the library was just the beginning.
But now isn't the time to talk about that... Or about my question either, he thought, with a flicker of pain. Then he reminded himself that they'd had enough heartache last night. It was time to have fun now. Time to love...
So he kissed her again, not wanting to lose the mood. "Well then. 'Nuff said," he grinned wickedly. He reached over to shut the door with one hand, but kept the other wrapped around her, not letting go for an instant. Elyssa got the hint. As he closed the door, she undid the rest of the buttons on his jacket and pulled it off him. Her slender hands were surprisingly efficient, and they didn't stop there. He barely got the door locked before she had his suspenders down and his undershirt off. Hurrying to catch up, he pulled her sweater off eagerly. She started kissing down his bared chest, and he noticed with a tiny, distant part of his brain still capable of rational thought that his hands were trembling.
Diefenbaker whined uneasily, but he wasn't paying any attention to his wolf. Every cell in his body was focused on the warm woman in his arms.
"Oh, God," he breathed, as Elyssa sucked hotly at his neck while unbuckling his belt. Then he threw his jacket and shirt on the floor and pulled her down onto the soft pile of clothing. After that, neither of them had any breath left for words.
Diefenbaker rose and paced to the locked door, growling deep in his throat. Neither Benny nor Elyssa noticed, but the wolf stayed there until the shadow outside finally moved away.
The slender, blonde, bearded janitor Fraser had bumped into in the hall earlier paused by his office door. He jammed his hat tighter down on his head, pushed his thick glasses back up on his nose, and brushed absently at his worn coveralls. Then he checked up and down the hall to make sure no one was around. Once he was sure the corridor was empty, he leaned his mop against the wall, pulled a rag out of his pocket and knelt to scrub at a spot on the floor, positioning himself so that his ear was almost against Fraser's door. The two inside had lowered their voices, trying to be quiet, but the Consulate was silent, nearly deserted, and from where he was, their muffled voices were still audible.
Dark eyes narrowed, then grew stormy as the janitor heard a woman's soft laugh, then a deep, purely masculine sound of satisfaction. He knew that voice: it was Fraser's. And the identity of the woman with him was easy to guess. He'd seen her come into the Consulate earlier, seen how pretty she was. He'd sensed that she must be the Mountie's lover the second he'd laid eyes on her. He'd tried to tell himself it wasn't true, but the erotic coos and whispers coming from Fraser's office confirmed the hateful suspicion.
Damn you! he murmured silently. He looked carefully down the hallway in both directions, then quietly tried the door, only to find it securely locked. He tried it again, then flinched as a low, animal growl sounded a warning.
Shit! The wolf's in there, too. He gritted his teeth with frustration. Once again, with typical thoroughness, the Mountie had shut him out. He couldn't believe it. He'd thought of nothing but him, dreamed of nothing but him for months...He'd come back here for him, so sure that he'd be waiting, that he'd be lonely...And now this! He was glad he'd retained enough caution to come here in disguise, to check the situation out before approaching the Mountie openly.
Now that he's got her, he won't want me anymore. What a fool I was! If I'd gone to him, he might've had me arrested! he realized, seething.
"Oh, yes, Benny!" the woman whispered behind the locked door. "Please!" she pleaded, breathless, wanting more.
Betrayal washed over him, bitter as the death of dreams.
He should've left, but he couldn't. He should've known better, but he hadn't. He'd been stupidly, rankly sentimental. He'd dared to dream, dared to hope that things might be different this time, that he could come back and convince Fraser to go away with him, somewhere where they could be together, love each other in safety. He realized now that that had been just a stupid fantasy. This was reality.
Paying the price for his own weakness, he forced himself to stand there and listen to all of it, every laugh, every whispered endearment, because he'd learned the hard way that anything and everything could be used--even this. Betrayal could be used to foster hatred. Hatred could be turned to strength and dark, bitter purpose.
The Mountie had taught him that unholy catechism. Prison had burned the lessons into his brain.
He held himself silent and rigid as the couple's words became breathless moans and sighs. Listening to them, he remembered sweet, hot kisses first tasted in a blizzard years before, then again in a cramped little bed. His eyes turned black with venom, and he wanted to snarl as savagely as the wolf. Those kisses had branded him, obsessed him, drawn him here against his will. They always would -- until one of them was dead.
Once, that realization had frightened him. So much that he'd stayed away for almost two years, so much that he'd had to deny it, bury it deep before he could find the courage to return to Chicago and claim the Mountie. He'd thought he could change things by making love with him this time, not war.
He'd been a fool.
Now, he resurrected his long-buried hatred, let its coldness wrap his heart in ice. He accepted, even embraced their dark, inevitable destiny. There would be no leaving this time, no quarter given, no mercy shown until Fraser saw it, too.
Until it was over between them, forever.
He waited, torturing himself, as the sounds wafting through the door grew louder, more ragged and breathless. Storing every moan he heard away in his mind for future reference, he waited until they reached a crescendo, then died away.
Only when the office grew quiet again did he pick up his cleaning supplies and move off down the hall. Rage beat inside him like a drum, a rage so intense it made his hands shake, so volatile he thought it was a wonder that he didn't explode and incinerate the building. But he was careful to move silently all the same. It wouldn't do to be caught, not now. He had to make them pay first, for what he'd just heard, for what had no doubt been going on for months. Maybe ever since I left!
It was prophetic that Fraser's first words to him, after so long a time, had been "I'm sorry."
You will be! he thought savagely. Maybe you thought you suffered the first time around, but you didn't know the meaning of the word. It'll take me some time to get set up here, but once I do, I'll teach you the meaning of pain!
You won't shut me out forever-- Benny.
I'll teach you; and her, too, she thought.
Two weeks later, Elyssa found Mr. Hallen in his office at the gallery, poring over some sales receipts, and decided it was time to raise the subject of her portfolio with him. She knocked on his open door, and when he smilingly waved her to a chair, she sat down and got right to the point. "Thanks for taking time out to see me, Mr. Hallen. I was wondering if you've had time to look at the slides of my work yet."
He shook his head regretfully. "I'm sorry, Ellie, but the sculpture show we've got coming up in a few weeks has kept me so busy I haven't had time."
She was disappointed, and irked at being called 'Ellie' again besides, but she didn't let it show. "It's all right, there's no rush." She held his gaze. "I just wanted to be sure that you do mean to look at them when you get time."
He rose to his feet, came around the desk and laid his hand on her shoulder with an almost paternal beam. "Of course, dear. I was impressed by the two slides I've already seen; I'll get to the rest as soon as I can, I promise."
"Thanks." She didn't like the feel of his heavy hand on her shoulder. She slid out from beneath his arm and got to her feet, shaking him off politely.
But his eyes followed her as she left his office, and she wondered what he really wanted to look at: her work, or her?
That night, she had one of her nightmares. She managed to jolt herself out of it just after the two men started beating her, before the worst began. She sat bolt upright in bed, shaking and covered with sweat. Since Benny was sleeping beside her, she was glad she hadn't screamed.
But it was a wonder she hadn't. Because this time, in the dream, one of her rapists had Mr. Hallen's face.
A week after that, Fraser and Ray Vecchio sat over an early breakfast before work in a small cafe not far from the 27th Precinct. As he drank his orange juice, Benton smiled. Not for any particular reason, as far as Vecchio could see; in fact, his gently abstracted expression and dreamy eyes were a dead giveaway that his thoughts were somewhere else.
Probably with Elyssa Ryan, he thought.
They were an almost embarrassingly happy couple. Ever since Benny had gotten together with Elyssa, he'd practically glowed. It's ridiculous! Vecchio thought darkly. Women are supposed to do that, not guys.
But Fraser was doing it; he was definitely glowing. He sat there radiating pure, animal health and vitality. His thick dark hair shone, his blue eyes sparkled, and his pale skin was so perfect it was almost dazzling. It's like eatin' breakfast with a damn walkin', talkin' fashion ad! he grumped to himself, feeling shabby by comparison, despite his expensive clothes.
Worse, he wasn't the only one who'd noticed Benny's luster. The entire female half of Chicago seemed to be in heat--or else they'd issued some kind of "Mountie Alert"; because everywhere they went, female heads turned and women rushed towards Fraser, panting. Benny had always been handsome, but his newfound happiness had turned him into a six-foot babe magnet whose like Ray had never seen before.
Benny wasn't even safe at the 27th lately. He grimaced, just thinking about it. Fraser had come over to have lunch with him a few weeks ago, and hadn't even made it to his desk before causing a small riot. When he'd heard a woman squeal, "OhmiGod! A Mountie! Are you for real?", he'd known there was going to be trouble. He'd hauled ass into the squadroom, and found Benny standing there trying unsuccessfully to dislodge an over-enthusiastic hooker who'd launched herself into his arms and was doing her best to suck his lips off.
"Jesus H. Christ!" He'd been forced to go to his embarrassed friend's rescue amid catcalls from his fellow cops and loud promises from the young streetwalker that she'd do Ben "for free anytime, honey!". So he'd torn her off Benny with a little more force than was strictly necessary. She'd thanked him with a swift, painful, high-heeled kick to his shin before another cop had finally hauled her away. Then, to top it all off, Elaine Besbriss had come rushing over, "to make sure Fraser was all right"!
"Hey! What about me?" he'd protested, indignant. "She just kicked me! What'm I, chopped liver or somethin'?"
"You're fine, Ray," Elaine said dismissively. "Quit whining."
Chopped liver, all right.
After that, she ignored him completely, and started examining Fraser at close range for any signs of damage. There were none: apart from the fact that the hooker had managed to smear her candy red lipstick over the entire lower half of his dazed face, Benny was fine. But despite his protests that he could do it himself, thank you kindly, Ray couldn't help but notice that Elaine took an indecently long time wiping the lipstick off his mouth, and that she wore a dreamy look by the time she was through.
Unbe-effing-lievable!
That was one of the reasons he'd chosen to have breakfast at this little cafe. Its waiter and manager were both male, so he wouldn't have to put up with watching a waitress drool all over Benny the whole time they ate. Of course, Fraser didn't care or even seem to notice the way women practically threw themselves at his feet. He had eyes for no one but Elyssa. But all that misdirected female lust was beginning to get on Ray's nerves.
It's makin' me sick, is what it's doin'! If I see one more woman eye him like he's an ice cream cone they wanna lick real slow, I'll--
You'll what? the voice of reason cut in. Benny can't help it if he's handsome. He doesn't make a big deal out of it, either. You're just turnin' green because you wish you were getting half the female attention he is. You can't stand the fact that he's found a great woman, and you haven't.
You're jealous, Vecchio!
Ray tried not to scowl, but he knew it was true. It was crazy, but he was more than a little envious of Fraser and his girlfriend. Elyssa was terrific; she was smart, pretty and accomplished, a great cook and an even better artist. Better still, she was warm and kind, and she'd made Benny happier in the last six months than he'd ever seen him. Best of all, Ray knew she liked him too. Oddly enough, they'd really bonded while rescuing Benny from a near suicidal depression after they'd broken up over a misunderstanding last fall. Ever since then, Elyssa hugged him whenever she saw him, invited him over for dinner a lot, even asked him along when Benny took her to hockey games; and they all had fun together. He considered her a good friend, almost like a sister. And after their disaster with Victoria, he should've been thanking God every day that his best friend had found a woman like her. He'd prayed for it often enough.
And he was happy for Benny. For both of them. But this morning, he just couldn't help wishing he had someone like that too. A woman who'd make him look as goofily happy as Fraser did, this early in the morning on a work day. It's been too long since someone loved me the way Elyssa loves him, and vice versa, he thought, wondering bleakly if that would ever happen again.
Chopped liver, that's me. Remembering the last time he'd seen Angie, he wished that he'd been nicer.
Aloud, he said only, "Pass the salt, wouldja' Fraser?"
"Hmm?" Fraser blinked as if his voice had dragged him back to reality from a million miles away. He took a shade too long reaching for the salt shaker as a result, and Ray grabbed it himself, with a grimace of annoyance.
"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser apologized, as if he'd just realized that mile-deep reveries weren't exactly polite when one was supposed to be listening to one's best friend. "You were saying?"
Ray's grimace deepened as he shook salt over his eggs. They hadn't had a chance to spend much time together lately, and he'd been looking forward to a few minutes alone with his friend before work. But it was just his luck, Fraser couldn't stop thinking about his girlfriend! Not that he didn't understand; if he had a woman as great as Elyssa, he'd be grinning too. But since he didn't, Fraser's distraction just irritated him. He knew he was being petty, but couldn't seem to help it. "I wasn't sayin' anything, Benny, because you wouldn't have heard me anyway." He snapped his fingers impatiently in front of the Mountie's nose. "Ground control to Major Tom! Earth to Fraser! Houston, we have a problem! "
Fraser hadn't meant to be rude. He really was glad to see Ray, who'd been scarce lately, due to his involvement in a serial murder case. Vecchio was as sartorially splendid as ever, in a black overcoat, dark suit and a green tie that matched his eyes, but Ben noticed that he looked tired. His eyes lacked their usual spark, and his hands hardly even moved while he talked, which was a dead giveaway that something was wrong. Any time Ray was less than animated, Fraser knew he was troubled about something.
He meant to cheer him up, but his thoughts drifted in spite of him. He had a lot of things on his mind, too...
The way Elyssa had loved him last night was one. It had gone on for hours, neither of them wanting to stop, each pause only a chance to catch their breaths before coming together again. He was sure he'd yelled out loud more than once. He wondered with some embarrassment if Mr. Mustafi had heard them...Then decided that, even if he had, it had been worth it. Sometimes, when she made love to him as devotedly, as endlessly as she had last night, his pleasure was so great it went beyond the merely physical. For a man who'd been lonely all his life, such giving, such closeness was a transcendent experience, so overwhelming that he almost felt his soul had risen up out of his body and mingled with hers.
Perhaps it had. Because though he'd hardly slept, he felt energized, rejuvenated; in a word, marvelous.
No other woman had ever done that for him, given herself to him so generously. Before he met her, he hadn't even known freely offered love was possible. But Elyssa asked nothing from him: not stoic, proper behavior, or money, or help of any kind. She was so much a part of him now that even his feelings for Victoria, which he'd once thought passionate, seemed a pale, sickly dream by comparison. He would've dared anything, risked any danger for her; but the hell of it was, she didn't ask him to. She was so independent that she hadn't even asked him for help with her worst problem, her persistent rape trauma. She asked for nothing but his love.
But he loved her too much to knowingly watch her suffer, so he'd taken the initiative himself. Now he wondered how he was going to tell Elyssa that he'd called her former psychologist last week, in an effort to help her. Tracking Dr. Elden down had been absurdly simple; he'd just called Springfield information. But talking to her hadn't done him much good. She'd been kind, but refused to say a word to him about Elyssa, wouldn't even confirm that she'd been her patient. She'd reminded him that all such information was private by law; doctor-patient confidentiality and all that.
"You see, I love her," he'd tried to explain, more than a little desperate. "And she's having nightmares, but she won't talk to me about them, and I'm afraid of what it's doing to her. Can you at least tell me what I could do, hypothetically speaking, to help a former rape victim deal with lingering trauma like that?"
But Dr. Elden had informed him firmly that even approaching the subject that way would violate her ethics. "After all, Constable Fraser, since we both really know who that 'hypothetical' person is, that would again constitute a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality, if Ms. Ryan was in fact my patient. I'm sorry, but I can't help you. Have you tried looking up information about rape trauma at a library?"
He'd been tempted to snap that he couldn't tell her that, because it would violate his ethics regarding his confidential relationship with his lover. But he'd gritted his teeth on that sarcasm and managed a polite "Yes" instead. Because despite his disappointment, he knew the doctor was right. She had an obligation under the law to protect her patient's privacy, much though that frustrated him in Elyssa's case.
He'd been about to hang up at that point, when Dr. Elden had surprised him by saying there was one thing she could do...
"Pass the salt, wouldja' Fraser?" He came back to the present with a start, realizing belatedly that Ray had spoken some time ago, but he hadn't moved. He dove for the salt shaker in guilty haste, trying to make up for his inattentive daze, but Ray got there first. He snatched it up himself, and he didn't look happy.
Oh dear, he thought, apprehensive. What did I miss?
Whatever it was, it must've been pretty important, because Ray began snapping at him in what sounded like some sort of aerospace slang that didn't make much sense. The words "Earth" and "Houston" certainly suggested the space program, but he failed to understand why Ray would suddenly introduce NASA into their breakfast conversation. If, in fact, that was what he meant.
Oh dear oh dear...
Fraser blinked at him, a tiny 'oh is that another peculiar American expression?' kind of frown gathering between his brows. " 'Ground control' ?" he echoed, confused by the unfamiliar references. "I believe that might be a term used by NASA, but I confess I've never heard of a Major Tom--"
"Major Tom! David Bowie!" Ray shot back. "'A Space Odyssey', y'know?"
If anything, Benny's frown deepened, as if his explanation had only confused him further. So what else is new? Vecchio thought. He threw up his hands in disgust. "Never mind!" he snapped. "Jesus, Fraser, haven't you picked up any American since you've been here?"
Benny's eyes fell, and he colored a little. "I'm sorry, Ray," he said earnestly. "I am trying, but the sheer volume of slang and obscure cultural references makes it difficult--"
Ray sighed, knowing he'd lashed out unfairly. "It's okay, Benny. Forget it. I'm not really mad at you anyway."
Fraser eyed him curiously. "Then what is it?"
He shrugged. "It's this case I've been workin' on, I guess. It's startin' to get to me. It's been goin' on for so long now, sometimes I think it'll never be over." He stabbed moodily at his eggs, making them pay for his displeasure, for the way work had been going lately. Maybe even for the way he'd spent the last six months sleeping in an empty bed, while Benny and Elyssa--
Whoa! He slammed the brakes on his prurient train of thought so fast that it was a wonder Benny didn't see smoke coming from his ears. Benny was his best friend, and Elyssa was almost like a sister to him. So he was never, but never going to imagine, even for one second, what they did in private. It would be almost like... like mental incest. And even I'm not that hard up.
"You mean the murder case ?" Benny asked, pulling his thoughts back to unhappy reality. "The 'Gay Strangler' thing?"
"Yeah." There was no need to explain further. They'd talked about the case before, and the papers had been full of it: three gay men, Tom Tressor, Jimmy Tucci and Ronald Edgar, had been strangled to death in the last two months, their bodies left in trash bins and back alleys in sleazy parts of town. And so far, they had no fingerprints and no good suspects.
Benny put down his spoon, his food forgotten. His blue eyes were suddenly clear, intent, and interested. The eyes of a cop, not a lover. "Any leads?" he asked.
Grateful to have Fraser's full attention at last, Ray shook his head. "No. Welsh has had me and Huey workin' undercover on it, and we've staked out the bars where the victims were targeted, but this guy, whoever he is, never seems to hit the same place twice. We know he's male, because the victims were all raped and we've found semen--"
"What about DNA testing?" Fraser interjected.
Ray shrugged. "You know how it is... Semen samples are useless without someone to match 'em to. There are no obvious links between the victims either, other than the fact that they were all gay, and strangled with wire. But we've had no solid leads in two months -- which is about two months too long for my taste! Two months o' stakin' out fern bars, two months o' pretendin' to be..."
He shook his head without finishing the sentence.
Fraser raised deceptively mild eyes to his. "Pretending to be what, Ray?"
He gave him The Look, and Vecchio's eyes narrowed suspiciously. He knew that look: all wide, blue-eyed innocence. At least, he used to think so. But by now, he'd seen Fraser use it a thousand times, on an amazing spectrum of people--from drug dealers, hookers and street scum to high-ranking diplomats--and the outcome was always the same. He'd just turn his baby blues on someone who was angry or upset, stare at them quietly for a few minutes with that alert attentiveness that was so flattering, and they'd soon be spellbound, mere putty in his hands. Ray had actually seen victims of The Look sit willingly through long, godawful, boring Inuit stories about caribou and/or other weird forms of Canadian wildlife without bolting, or throwing up. There was only one possible explanation.
nocent, my ass! That Look is magic. Like some weird kinda Mountie hypnosis.
It was obvious why it worked on women; Benny was so handsome he might as well be a poster boy for the RCMP. But the really strange thing was, it seemed to work just as well on men. Vecchio would've died rather than admit it, but sometimes it even worked on him! He'd look into Benny's blue eyes and they'd seem fathomless, like warm, azure oceans he could dive into and float in forever. He'd have to blink to snap himself out of it.
doubt about it, Fraser could charm the birds outta the trees. And since he'd gotten together with Elyssa, Ray thought he might be even better at it. The Look seemed to be even more powerful, as if Benny's new happiness had enhanced his native hypnotic abilities.
But tempting as it was to lose himself in that gaze, it wasn't going to work on him. Not him. Not today. He wasn't a fucking bird, and he was enjoying his own bad mood too much to let Benny witch him out of it. He looked away from his friend and down at his plate, to break the spell of those oh-so-innocent blue eyes.
"You know what, Fraser!" he growled. He knew what Benny was doing -- trying to make him say that word again: gay. Screw that. He refused to repeat it just to prove that it didn't make him uncomfortable. He lifted a forkful of eggs to his mouth instead, and chewed defiantly.
Benny just lifted an eyebrow at his truculence, then calmly went back to eating his cereal without another word. But Ray wasn't fooled. He knew what Fraser was really up to. Since The Look had failed, he was changing tactics, trying the silent treatment. He'd just sit there quietly eating his Wheaties, radiating sweetness and light but not speaking, until the silence drove Ray nuts, and he caved and told him what was bothering him. Like he always did.
Vecchio groaned inwardly. No fair! Benny knows me too damn well. A compulsive talker himself, he hated the silent treatment with a passion. It was almost as bad as when Fraser babbled.
Correction -- nothing's as bad as a babbling Benny.
He dropped his fork on the table. "Jesus! I'm even startin' to think like you!" he blurted, horrified.
Fraser smiled a little as he drank his orange juice, imperturbable as ever. "What, Ray?"
"Nothin'." Vecchio's lips thinned, and he shot him a sullen look. "Yer gonna make me say it, aren't ya'?"
"It might help the conversation along," Benny allowed, " if I had some idea what you're so upset about." He looked so amused Ray suspected that if he weren't Canadian and his best friend to boot, he would've been grinning openly.
"Awright, awright already, Benny!" he exploded. "Here it is: for the past two months, I've been pretending to be gay. That's what you do when you go undercover; you assume an identity, try to blend in. Well, I've been 'blending' for the past two months, hangin' out in gay bars pretending to be homosexual, or gay, or whatever you wanna call it, tryin' to catch this creep. There! I said it: I've been posing as a gay person. Gay, gay, gay! Are ya' happy now?"
As he paused for breath, Benny stared off into space for a second, considering the question. "Well, I don't think that 'happy' would be the right word to describe my state of mind, but--"
He shook his head in disgust. He'd never been able to figure out if Fraser really was that blindly literal, or if he just pretended to be at times, to drive him crazy. "Never mind!" he sighed. "It's making me nuts, I can't even sleep sometimes, but I shouldn't've expected you to understand."
"But I do understand," Fraser said. Suddenly, the laughter was gone from his eyes, and his voice was quietly earnest. "What I'm trying to say is, of course I'm not happy you're having trouble with this case. We're friends, and if you're unhappy, I'm unhappy."
"Oh." Ray looked down at his hands, startled into silence by Benny's open concern, and a little embarrassed that he'd been feeling jealous of Elyssa earlier, too. Benny hadn't left him behind when he'd fallen in love, like many men would've. He still made time for him, made it clear, in his quiet way, that he was very important to him. His love for Elyssa hadn't changed what was between them; in fact, it had made it better. Fraser had always been a loyal friend, but emotional expression hadn't been his strong suit until he met her. She'd helped him come out of his shell. Now that they'd been together for awhile, Fraser would sometimes talk about their friendship more openly than he ever had before.
We're friends, and if you're unhappy, I'm unhappy. Men usually didn't usually say things like that to each other; but somehow, when Benny did it, he didn't mind. In fact, it warmed him like nothing else could. Maybe because he knew Fraser had done it for his sake, because he'd known he needed to hear it. He wondered if that was what he'd been waiting for all morning without knowing it, just to hear Benny say that he cared.
Enough with the sensitivity, already! You make me wanna puke, his father's cynical voice snarled in his head. You're becomin' a sap, ya' know that?
Shut up, Pop! he shot back. If that were true, if he and Benny were both being sentimental, then so be it. God knew, there was little enough of that in his life at the moment; and he'd been around long enough to know that if you stopped feeling entirely, even though you were still breathing, you were already dead. He'd seen that happen to his father, and watched more than a few cops fall into that trap over the years, too; and they'd all been the worse for it. He didn't ever want that to happen to him or Fraser. So he put aside the macho sarcasm he'd learned to defend himself with long ago, and smiled gratefully at his friend. "Thanks, Benny."
Fraser nodded. "I know that working undercover can be highly stressful," he went on. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No." He shook his head, pushing what was left of his eggs around his plate without seeing them. But Fraser didn't buy that. Without even looking at him, he could see Benny waiting patiently for him to speak, so he finally gave in.
"Well... yeah, I guess," he admitted at last. "But I'm not sure how to explain it. I mean, it's weird pretending to be someone else, but I've done that before. That's not the worst part of it." He shifted in his seat, staring down into his coffee, wondering why he'd finally decided to go into this in detail when it made him so uncomfortable; and knowing it was because Fraser was the only man he knew who would hear him out, who'd try to understand what he was going through without laughing at him. "The acting doesn't bother me, it's..."
"What?"
"Come on, Fraser, you're a cop, you know!" he protested, dancing around it uncomfortably.
Perfect dark brows lifted in genuine confusion, and Ray's frustration increased. "Oh, come on! Even you must--" He stopped in mid-sentence, realizing suddenly that he had no real idea how Fraser felt about gays. They'd never discussed it. Ray had just assumed that because he was a cop...
"Well, I just feel really uncomfortable goin' there, that's all," he groused. "Pretendin' to be one. A gay guy, I mean."
"Why?"
Jesus, Benny was making this hard! "WHY? Because I'm a man, that's why!"
"But so are they, Ray," Benny pointed out, reasonable as always.
Ray hated that. "Well, yes, if you wanna get technical about it, they are, but not like us," he explained. Fraser looked at him blankly again. He scowled, frustrated. For such a smart guy, Benny had a lot of trouble with simple explanations sometimes. "I mean, we're not like that," he elaborated. He lowered his voice unconsciously. "Well, you know what I mean. We don't--do what they do together," he ground out awkwardly. "That, it...It's creepy, it's unnatural!" he spluttered, unable to articulate in a few words the prejudices instilled over an Italian Catholic lifetime. "Isn't it?"
Fraser just shrugged. "I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "Is it? Homosexuality exists in nature, you know, Ray. Chimpanzees, dogs, even wolves sometimes--"
Ray waved his hands, disturbed by information he'd rather not have known about. "Enough, enough with the National Geographic specials, Benny! I'm tryin' to tell ya' why this case makes me queasy, and you go all Marlin Perkins on me!"
"Marlin Perkins was the host of "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom", I believe," he corrected, with maddening calm. "Not--"
"Fine." Ray spread his hands flat on the table on either side of his plate. It was either that, or strangle Fraser with them. "Fine. FINE!" he growled, surging to his feet. "If that's how you wanna play it, forget I even mentioned it--"
Fraser caught his coat sleeve and tugged on it, his blue eyes suddenly contrite. "No, please -- sit down, Ray. I didn't mean to upset you."
He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, relenting. But he didn't sit down again. Talking about this made him feel restless, as if he couldn't sit still. He was trying hard to tell his friend something without putting it into words, was hoping Fraser's magic Mountie intuition would just pick up on it and spare him the humiliation of having to say it himself. "I'm tellin' you, it's hard for me, Benny," he said, meaning it. "I've had guys hangin' on me, kissin' me--" He shook his head. There was more, and he wanted to get it all out, to explain that his problem with this case went beyond distaste with gay passes, but somehow, he couldn't. He swallowed hard. "I don't know how much longer I can take it, ya' know?"
"Try thinking of it as just an expression of affection, Ray," Fraser suggested naively. "Maybe that would help."
He snorted sarcastically. "Those kinda 'expressions' I don't need, Benny," he retorted. He wasn't about to go into any more detail about it, but the passes he'd had to put up with on the Gay Strangler case had had more to do with lust than affection. Still, Fraser's words had unknowingly touched on the aspect of his undercover stint that was bothering him even more than the hands he'd had to fend off. He'd hoped Fraser would guess it, because he seemed unable to bring it up himself.
The problem was, some of the guys he'd seen in the gay bars he'd been in lately didn't conform to the gay stereotypes he'd expected. In the course of their investigation, he'd kept his sharp eyes and ears open as always, and he couldn't help but notice that most of the gay men he observed didn't seem like monsters, or perverts, or even people for whom he could feel contempt. They were just guys: construction workers, salesmen, truckers... He'd even met a few doctors. And what bothered him even more was the fact that they hugged, touched and spoke to each other with genuine affection, as real as what he felt for Fraser.
That confused him.
He'd been raised to believe that homosexuality was evil, a perversion right up there with child molestation; and his job as a cop had reinforced that belief. But in the past few months, in his secret heart of hearts, for the first time, he'd begun to question that. Sure, some of the men he'd seen had been overtly effeminate, and that kind of thing turned his stomach; but they weren't evil. Some of them just seemed like regular guys who happened to like men instead of women.
Far from hating them, he'd actually liked them. And he didn't know what to make of that at all. Suddenly, all the names he used to call them -- fag, queer, pansy -- seemed as ugly as nigger, wop, or any of the other stupid epithets people used to make themselves feel superior to others.
"They're not like us," he'd said, and that was true; but what he hadn't said--what he'd been scared to admit, even to Fraser -- was that it was also untrue. He was beginning to realize that in all the ways that counted, homosexuals were men just like him. Guys who drank beer, went to games, and cherished their friends and families. And that bothered him. So much that he couldn't even confess his tangled feelings to Fraser.
"I really wish we could catch this guy, Benny," he said, wishing even more that he could tell him all the reasons why.
Fraser nodded, his eyes grave. "I know," he said quietly.
He knew that was true, that Benny understood his frustration. There was nothing worse for cops than trying to catch a serial killer. Each new victim increased their feeling of helplessness, and their desire for justice, exponentially. And this case, with its peculiar circumstances and wily murderer, was worse than most.
But Fraser still didn't have a clue about the other reasons the Gay Strangler case was driving him crazy, and Vecchio scowled, angry with himself for not being able to explain it.
He remembered a swishy redhead who'd grabbed at his crotch a few days ago, purring that he "liked them big and macho". It had been all he could do not to shove the guy away from him. Still... The longer he worked this case, the more his viewpoint changed. He'd come to realize that the aggressiveness of such come-ons bothered him even more than the gender of the guys making them.
And to make things even more complicated, he'd also begun to feel a hidden sense of anger at the casual attitude that seemed to prevail about the Gay Strangler murders. The constant faggot jokes in the squadroom wore on his nerves. Even things he'd heard on the street, from the public, grated on him. He'd stopped to buy a paper at a newsstand the morning after Jimmy Tucci's lifeless corpse had been discovered, and overheard a couple of businessmen discussing the headline about his murder.
"Guess that's one less faggot in the world," one had said with a grin. "Yeah, big loss, huh?" his buddy answered. Then they'd both laughed.
Assholes! he'd thought, outraged. He'd seen Tucci's lifeless body the day before, bloodied, violated and tossed in a smelly garbage bin like so much trash. Hearing them dismiss him as if he were no more than that made him furious. He'd barely been able to suppress an urge to take his newspaper and beat them with it.
But he'd restrained himself, imagining what Lt. Welsh would have to say about it if he did.
"Now, let me just get this straight, Detective Vecchio. You assaulted these two respectable businessmen with a Sun-Times, striking them repeatedly about the head and shoulders, because they uttered slurs against gays in your presence? Is that right? What exactly did they say, Detective, that you haven't already said a thousand times yourself?"
It was true. He'd been one of those gay-hating assholes himself, just a few short months before. All his life, really. He'd been raised that way. And it wasn't like he'd become gay by association recently, either. He'd been telling Benny the truth about how hard it was for him to pretend he liked having strange guys making passes at him, touching him...The truth was, it felt really weird. But the knowledge he'd gained from first-hand observation of gays at the bars he'd hung out at lately, and the murders of Tommy Tressor, Jimmy Tucci and Ronald Edgar had changed him, all the same. The dead men weren't jokes to him at all. They were victims, and he wanted justice for them. He wanted it bad. He was going to find the man who'd murdered them, he didn't care how long it took.
It was just that in pursuing him, he'd discovered that he didn't hate gays anymore; and the unexpected changes in his life-long attitudes unsettled him. Deep inside, he felt they were for the better, but they still made him feel strange.
"Ya' ever been in a gay bar, Benny?" he asked moodily, taking one last stab at communicating the real reason for his malaise, though he already knew what Fraser's answer would be.
Fraser's gaze slipped down to his orange juice in a slow blue slide, as if the unease Ray felt had finally communicated itself to him. "I'm sorry, Ray."
"Well trust me, they're not very fun places for guys like you and me." Secretly, though it didn't surprise him, he was a little disappointed by Fraser's lack of experience. If Benny had been in even one gay bar, he would've been able to talk to him about his confusion. They could've compared notes, so to speak, on their observations of gays. He could've asked Benny what he thought about the Church's position on the issue too, and maybe it would've helped him sort out his own feelings about it.
But no such luck. He sighed to himself, wondering why in the world he'd thought Benny, who was such an innocent, would've ever set foot in a place like that anyway. Hell, he seldom even went into normal bars, because he hardly ever drank.
Why the hell did I think he could help me with this?
Yet somehow, even though Benny had never been in a gay bar, talking to him about it had made the thought of going to one again a little easier. Now that they'd had a few minutes of quiet conversation about it over their coffee, he found he no longer dreaded it. At least, not quite as much.
Must be that Mountie hypnotism, he thought with a smile. Or maybe it was just knowing that he had a best friend, that someone cared what he did, how he felt, that made the difference. "Come on, Fraser," he said, feeling better as he signaled for their check. "I'll give you a ride to work."
Fraser flashed him a smile as he reached for his hat, the kind of white-toothed grin that melted women in their tracks. "Thank you kindly, Ray."
As they headed for the door, Benny put his hat on, straightening the brim meticulously, as he always did. The perfect Mountie, Ray thought. Unable to resist the urge to ruffle that perfection, he decided to tease him a little. "Hey, did you say 'Hi' to Elyssa for me last night?" he asked casually.
"No," Fraser answered innocently, caught off guard. "It was late, and we were...Umm...Well, we were--" He fell silent, suddenly realizing he'd made a mistake, but it was too late. He'd already given away the fact that he'd been with Elyssa, and unless they'd taken up Satan worship recently, Ray knew there was only one thing they could've been doing that Benny wouldn't want to talk about. His nervousness confirmed Ray's suspicions about the origins of the goofy little smile Fraser had been wearing earlier, too.
Small wonder he's glowing. If that wasn't an "I just got some" grin on his face, then I'm not Italian, Vecchio thought, amused.
Benny caught his grin, and it flustered him. "That is... Well, we were... talking about other things," he stammered.
"What things, Benny?" he asked with apparent innocence.
"Oh, nothing in particular," the Mountie floundered, looking like he wished he was back in Moosejaw, or the Yukon, or anywhere else but here. "I mean...Well--"
Ray raised a curious eyebrow.
"Ballistics," Fraser sputtered at last.
"Ballistics?" he echoed, trying hard to keep a straight face.
"Yes. We were...discussing ballistics," he repeated, in a nervous effort to brazen it out.
Ray had to clench his jaw to keep from laughing out loud. Fraser was, without a doubt, the worst liar he'd ever seen. He was nuts about ballistics--he even kept boring books about it in his apartment! But Ray didn't believe for a second that Elyssa was even remotely interested in the subject. No woman in her right mind who wasn't a cop would be. Hell, I'm a cop, he thought wryly, and I'm not that interested!
For a moment, he was tempted to say, "Oh, so that's what they're calling it now! Ballistics!" But he restrained himself, and raised a skeptical eyebrow instead. "Oh, I see. So you and Elyssa were sittin' around last night readin' ballistics textbooks, is that it?"
Fraser swallowed hard, so deeply mired in his white lie now that he couldn't see a way out. "Well, not all night," he temporized.
But Ray couldn't let it go just yet. He was having too much fun torturing Fraser. He shook his head admiringly. "And to think some people waste their free time watchin' TV, makin' out, and stuff like that. You and Elyssa are an inspiration to us all. Wait'll I tell the guys at the Station that your girlfriend's hobby is ballistics! They'll be thrilled. They'll probably wanna quiz her on it, the next time they see her. "
"No!" Benny blurted hastily, beads of sweat popping out on his brow. "I mean, there's no need to tell them that. In fact, I think I'd really prefer it if you didn't..."
"Aww, come on! This is great. I'm tellin' ya', she'll be the hit of the 27th, Benny--"
"Was I supposed to say 'Hi' to Elyssa for you, Ray?" Fraser interrupted, returning to his original question in desperation, his color deepening the more he thought about the night before. His snow-pale skin was already alarmingly red with embarrassment. Watching him, Vecchio blessed his own darker coloring, that prevented his emotions from showing so vividly. Ray knew exactly what Fraser was thinking. One, he was trying to remember if he had actually asked him to say Hi to Elyssa or not. Two, he was wondering if he'd violated his own rigid standards of politeness by forgetting to do so, and (last but not least) he was worrying about how he could explain that lapse to his friend without revealing what he and Elyssa had been doing last night, instead of passing on 'hello's' from friends.
As if I don't already know, he thought, bemused as always by his friend's innocence. But over the years, he'd discovered it was one of the things he liked the most about Benny. He still retained the sunny belief that people were mostly good. And Ray had no desire to damage that belief, mistaken though it was. So he finally took pity on him and clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"It's okay, Red," he laughed, as he payed their bill. "Forget about it."
Fraser nodded, transparently relieved to have finally been let off the hook. But as they headed out of the cafe, Ray realized, with a slight sense of shock, that it was the first time he'd laughed in days. Maybe weeks. And it was all because he'd spent some time with his best friend.
All at once, his good mood vanished as he remembered how Theo D'Angelo, Jimmy Tucci's "best friend", had cried when he'd questioned him at the Station about Jimmy's murder. The other detectives had laughed about his tears once he left: "Jeezus! Real manly, huh? But what else can you expect from a fruit who's lost his main squeeze? Ha, ha! Fruit, squeeze -- get it, Vecchio?" But he hadn't laughed. He'd got it, all right: D'Angelo had been devastated. He hadn't just lost a sex partner, he'd lost his best friend. Someone he loved.
He couldn't help wondering if he'd have done any better if someone had been questioning him because Fraser had been killed.
He'd come close to that once, closer than he ever wanted to come again. It had faded to the stuff of occasional nightmares now, but the memory of that terrible day he'd shot Fraser, and of how Lt. Welsh had forced him to go and talk to that department shrink about it afterwards, would always be with him. "Regulations, Vecchio," the Lt. had said quietly, with such compassion in his eyes that Ray had to turn away for fear he'd lose it completely.
He'd stomped out of Welsh's office and slammed the door behind him in a fine display of Italian temper instead. Which might've fooled Welsh, but not the psychiatrist. She'd seen right through him. With a few quiet yet pointed questions, she'd stabbed right into the impossible, crushing weight of grief and guilt inside him, and he'd lost control just as he'd feared he would. He'd come unglued, and ended up screaming at her. "He's fine! I'm fine! We're all fine, okay? " (Thereby proving, of course, that he wasn't.)
He'd always wondered if she'd known that he'd yelled at her because that was the only safe way he knew of losing control. Because deep down, he was terrified that if he didn't get furious, he'd end up sobbing as helplessly as Theo D'Angelo had, because he'd put a bullet in Benny's back and he didn't know if he was going to live or die, or how he would survive either way...
Suddenly, he realized he was standing out on the street beside his car, staring at nothing. "Are you all right, Ray?" Fraser asked.
His eyes looked disturbingly like Lt. Welsh's had that day; searching and compassionate. And somehow, that bothered him. He looked away from him, busied himself with opening his door. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinkin' about the case," he lied, as he slid into the Riv. As Fraser got in beside him, he suddenly remembered the pool of blood that had seeped out of him at the train station, so dark that it had looked black. He fought off a shudder. He hadn't thought about that for a long time. He didn't want to think about it.
Damn, this case is gettin' to me! He grimaced as he nosed his car out into traffic, his smile gone as if it had never been.
Fraser felt vaguely unsettled as they left the cafe. It had been good to see Ray, as always, but his friend's discomfort over his undercover assignment troubled him. He'd seemed depressed, so much that he'd hardly even smiled. And when they'd headed to his car afterwards, his eyes had been so dark and distant he might as well have been a thousand miles away. He wished Ray would tell him what was bothering him so much. He knew there was something else about the Gay Strangler case that was troubling him, something more than his admitted distaste at having to suffer men making passes at him. But he wouldn't say what it was, and his silence bothered Fraser. It was uncharacteristic of the Italian to keep secrets like this. He wished he could've been more help to him, but his knowledge of homosexuality was scanty, and his experience of gay bars was--
Well, I didn't really lie about it, he thought uneasily. Not precisely.
Chicago Sun-Times: K-State Instructor Leads National Campaign to Force Investigation of Mississippi Murders.Biloxi, MI/ It all began with the execution-style murder of two gay men, Robert Walters and Joseph Shumake, a questionable investigation by the local police, a sixteen year-old suspect who mentioned as his motive a fear that the two men were going to rape him, and a judge who said the deaths may have been justified if the two men were infected with HIV.
The defense attorney said that if the two men were found to be infected with HIV, the murders were justifiable homicide.
Deb Taylor, an English instructor, has helped to organize supporters in 20 states and two countries in a massive letter-writing campaign to the Governor of Mississippi aimed at precluding such a verdict. She said she hopes we don't wind up with a justice system that makes gays and lesbians responsible for their own murders.
Elyssa went to T