Kowalski took a deep breath before he walked into the station. Shit. This is gonna be hard.
But that didn't matter. It had to be done. Pitter patter, let's get at 'er, he told himself, forcing his boots to move forward. He could feel the extra weight of Rylan's gun in the pocket of his leather jacket, a cold reminder of what had happened last night.
Not that he needed one. His body was busy reminding him all about how it had been not just used, but abused. He ached all over. Felt like a six foot, walking purple and green bruise. His head, neck, chest and wrists all throbbed in time with each other, and the coffee he'd drunk while slowly getting dressed earlier was jumping around in his gut like it was trying to find its way back up his throat.
But he hid all that. He'd trimmed his beard and moussed his hair up extra carefully that morning, and even worn a long-sleeved sweater so the cuts and bruises on his wrists wouldn't show. There was nothing he could do to disguise the lumps on the back of his head, but he'd done what he could about the rest of him. He needed to look his best, or at least in control, when he confronted his partner. So he moved purposefully despite his pain, trying to look like a man on a mission, instead of the used up, banged up, shit-for-brains loser he really felt like.
Okay, so it was an illusion. What else did he have?
Captain Harlan stepped out of his office before he'd taken more than a few steps toward his desk. "Hey, Kowalski. In my office," he said.
Ray hesitated. Fuck, he thought. The last thing he wanted was a lecture from the Captain. I need to find Rylan.
"Now, Detective!" Harlan barked. "Are you deaf?"
Ray set his jaw. Sometimes Harlan reminded him of Thatcher so much that it creeped him out. But since he knew what he wanted and that it wouldn't take much time, he headed reluctantly for Harlan's open door.
When he'd closed it behind him, Harlan sat down behind his desk and fixed him with a measuring stare. "Did you see the headline in the paper this morning, Kowalski?"
Ray's heart fell. He hadn't even looked at a paper, but it didn't take a genius to guess what had happened. Damn, but the shit was really hitting the fan lately. "No. Another one?" he grated.
Harlan nodded grimly. "A sixteen year old. She's in Cook County General as we speak."
Ray grimaced.
"That makes what -- five junkies in the past three months, who've managed to survive sniffing coke cut with rat poison? And two who didn't? How's your investigation coming, Detective?"
Ray shifted uneasily on his feet. "We gave it priority, Captain. We've been rattlin' dealer's chains for weeks, but nobody's talkin."
Harlan's eyes narrowed. "What a surprise! And here I thought someone would be eager to confess."
Ray winced. He'd known he was walking into this, but that didn't make it any easier to hear.
"So what you're saying is, you still don't have any solid leads. Is that about right?" Harlan snapped.
He shrugged. "It takes time--"
"We don't have time, Kowalski!" the Captain barked. "The bodies are piling up! I need some answers, dammit!"
Ray knew that. He knew everyone was on Harlan's ass about this thing, from the Mayor on down, and nobody wanted to solve it more than he did. He opened his mouth to tell Harlan his suspicions, but then remembered that he didn't have any solid evidence to back up them up -- not yet, anyway. So he shut it again.
But not fast enough. "What?" Harlan prompted, his eyes narrowing.
Ray scratched the back of his head, around the edge of the big, throbbing lump he'd gotten when Rylan knocked him into his table last night. "It's nothin'," he said, not wanting to look like a fool.
"No, you were gonna say something," the Captain insisted. "What was it?"
"It's Donen," he said reluctantly.
Harlan lifted an eyebrow. "Ty Donen? He's a pretty heavy hitter. What about him?"
Ray shrugged a little. "I think it's him."
Harlan settled back in his chair with a sour look. "You THINK so."
The sarcasm dripping from his voice pissed Ray off a little. "Yeah! I wasn't gonna bring it up, cuz we don't have anything solid on him. But he's been gettin' squeezed lately. There's this new dealer, Ramirez, who's cuttin' into his business, and a couple of his restaurants are losin' money too."
Harlan looked a bit less skeptical; and he followed Ray's lead instantly. "So maybe he's been cuttin' his stuff to stretch it. More bang for his bucks?"
Ray nodded. "Maybe. I think so. He felt wrong to me, when we talked to him. But we're not done interviewin' dealers yet, we've got five more to go."
Harlan's look got even colder. "Make it fast, Kowalski. If it's Donen, nail him. If it isn't, then find the bastard, whoever he is, and get that crap he's been sellin' off the streets before one more junkie dies. You got me?"
He nodded. "Loud and clear, Captain."
"Okay. Now get goin'."
He was halfway out the door before Harlan finished his sentence. He knew how important the case was, he hadn't needed a lecture about it. What he did need was to find Rylan. Pronto.
It didn't take long. The kid wasn't at his desk, but Ray met him coming out of the break room, sipping coffee morosely. When their eyes met, Rylan was the first to look away.
It made him feel a tiny bit better. But he knew the worst was yet to come. Still, he'd spent a mostly sleepless night thinking about what he should say, and he'd managed to come up with a plan. He walked up to Rylan and said tersely, "Come on outside. We need to talk."
And somewhat to his surprise, Rylan followed him without a word.
In a bathroom stall at the 27th, Ray Vecchio stared at the little piece of paper from the clinic, with his test results. For the first time in months, he knew a moment of pure relief. He'd had it sent to the station because he didn't want his family, much less Serena, to know that he'd even gone in for testing. They'd have wanted to know why, and that was something he could never, ever tell any of them. Not even her. Especially not her. It was for her sake that he'd gone, that he'd spent the last eight months worried out of his mind. All for her.
Because he loved her, because she'd saved his life, his sanity -- and because this was the one thing that might've taken her away.
He knew all the statistics by heart by now. They'd told him that risk of transmission was low, that only about one in five hundred people who had intimate contact with an infected person actually got it, but that hadn't reassured him. He'd gotten tested several times, needing to be absolutely sure. Three times before, in fact. Once, then again after 3 months, again at six, and this was his eight month clincher. If it hadn't showed up by now, then they'd told him his chances were nil. That he would be safe.
"I'm clean," he thought, closing his eyes to let it wash over him. "I'm clean! Thank you, God." He sat back on the toilet, drawing deep breaths, feeling the nervous pounding of his heart slow to a more normal rhythm. He clutched the tiny cross he always wore in an unsteady hand, and smiled as he sent up a little prayer of pure gratitude. He was clean. He was free. He could forget.
He could get married.
Good thing -- because it was only a few weeks now until the wedding. Then Benny would stand up beside him and hand him the ring, he'd marry the woman he was madly in love with, and finally be able to put the past behind him. Close the frigging book on the Bookman, once and for all. And on James Maxwell.
Jimmy the Crusher. Jimmy the Freak...
That name still meant pain, but he could control it now. Push it away with the intensity of his relief. Just a few more weeks now, and he'd finally be able to forget.
Thank God.
Wanting privacy for what he was about to say, Ray walked Pat out to the parking lot. He stopped by his car and waited as Rylan took a final gulp of his coffee. He looked like he needed it. Like he hadn't gotten much sleep the night before either. Ray allowed himself a little jab of satisfaction at that, then pushed the feeling aside in favor of more serious business.
"Okay. About what happened--"
Rylan winced. "I'm sorry, Ko," he said hastily.
But Ray cut him off. "I heard that. Don't wanna hear it again," he said coldly, taking control. "You got yer chance to talk last night. Now it's my turn. You shut up and listen."
Rylan's mouth tightened into an unhappy line. He crushed his styrofoam coffee cup, dropped it on the ground and mashed it with the toe of his boot. "Okay," he grated. He looked visibly unhappy, but at least he hadn't walked away. At least he was listening.
Inwardly, Ray breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't been at all sure this would work, that Pat wouldn't tell him to do his worst and be damned. But he didn't betray that by as much as a flicker of an eyelash. He kept his face hard and cold, his eyes boring into Rylan's. "You got one chance," he said. "One way to keep yer badge."
"How's that?"
"Counseling. You gotta see a shrink about what you did. About all of it. Yer dad, Hank Miller, and me."
Pat's eyes widened with alarm. "Aww, come on--"
Ray knew what he was thinking. "I don't mean the department shrink," he said. That doctor's records were supposed to be strictly confidential, like those of every other psychiatrist. But the truth was, if you started seeing him regularly, word had a funny way of getting around that you were nuts. Weird, with a capital W. And the next thing you knew, none of your brothers in blue wanted to work with you. He understood why Rylan would be hesitant to confide in him. "But you haveta see a shrink. Yer gonna call one right now. Before we leave. Or I don't get in the car with you. Izzat clear?"
Rylan looked off down the street, his dark eyes bitter. "I hear ya," he said.
"Good. And there's more. Yer not just goin' for one visit, yer goin' for at least six months."
Pat looked back at him swiftly, openly angry now. "I'm not--"
"Hey!" Ray cut him off. "This isn't you mouthin' off. This is you listenin', or else I swear out a complaint. Ya got that?"
Rylan swallowed hard, visibly trying to throttle back his temper. But eventually, common sense prevailed, and he nodded reluctantly. "Yeah."
"Okay then. The second thing is, we're done. You don't come to my place again, for any reason. Ever."
Pain leached the color from Rylan's face. A muscle worked in his cheek, and he looked away, squinting as if the sunlight hurt his eyes. "Surprise, surprise," he said, trying to sound cool.
But Ray knew he'd hurt him. It made him feel strange. Vengefully glad yet guilty, all at once. But he didn't let it distract him from finishing what he had to say. "The last thing is, I'm gonna keep an eye on you. And if you don't keep seein' the shrink like I said, then I'll swear out that complaint after all."
Surprise mixed with the look of pain in Rylan's dark eyes. He searched Ray's for a second, as if checking to see how serious that threat had been. Ray met his gaze without blinking. Rylan sighed, and toed the remains of his coffee cup moodily. "All right," he said at last. "It's not like I have much of a choice, is it?"
Ray narrowed his eyes at him. "More of one than you gave me," he said.
At that, the bitterness faded from Pat's eyes, replaced by shame. "True enough," he said. He hesitated, then sighed again. "Okay then," he shrugged, giving in. "Let's find a phone booth, and I'll call a shrink."
Ray fell into step with him automatically as they headed for the nearest public phone booth, by a convenience store about half a block from the station. He didn't say anything, but he felt relief washing through him. He'd done it. Convinced him to get help, even though he wasn't very happy about it. He just prayed that he'd done the right thing. That it would be enough. That he wasn't making a mistake by not turning him in.
But he didn't think so. If Rylan hadn't felt intensely guilty about what he'd done, about getting drunk and acting like his abusive old man, he would never have given in so easily. Ray figured that deep inside, he knew he needed help. He must, or he wouldn't have let him go last night. After all, he'd had the chance to rape him, and he hadn't done it. So that had to mean that his bastard of a father hadn't been able to beat all the goodness out of him. Somewhere deep inside him, there was still a part of him that wanted to be a decent human being. Ray felt that was the part of him that had chosen to become a cop, to help people. That was the part of him that was still desperately looking for love, in a world where he'd never found any.
That part was worth saving.
He waited outside the booth while Pat pulled out the tattered copy of the Yellow Pages, turned to the section on doctors, and dialed a number. He listened as he made himself an appointment in about a week, then hung up. "Done," Pat said. "His name's Kelly. Hey, think he might be Irish?" Rylan smiled a little, trying to ease the awkward moment.
"I don't care if he's from Mars, as long as ya talk to him," he said wryly.
Rylan nodded. "I will, Ray. I swear," he said, suddenly serious again. His large, dark eyes had softened. They searched his in a way that reminded Ray of last night, when he'd admitted that no one had ever loved him. Like he was hoping against hope that calling a doctor had made Ray forgive him.
Ray turned away from that look, from his hopeful eyes. It was going to take a lot more than that, to get him off the hook for what he'd done. A memory flashed through his mind, of Rylan holding him by the hair and pulling his neck back until his muscles screamed. It shook him. A wave of anger rolled through him, dark and deep. He wanted to punch him all over again. He walked away from him instead, not even waiting to see if Rylan was following.
But of course, he did. Seconds later, he was at his elbow. Looking down at him again with those eyes. Those eyes that said, Forgive me. Help me. Please.
"We still partners, Ko?" he asked.
Ray had to bite his tongue. With the memory of his abuse still raw in his mind, he was tempted to tell him to fuck off, to find himself a new partner. He knew he probably should. He hadn't made continuing their partnership part of the deal to save Rylan's badge because he hadn't been sure, even then, if he wanted to go on with it. But Rylan's look, and the fact that he'd complied with his rules so far, swayed him. Besides -- he'd also sworn to keep an eye on him, and he knew it would be easier to do that if they stayed together. "For now," he said at last, his voice cold. "But it's Ray, not Ko. And ya screw up again, and we're history."
"Gotcha. And I won't, I promise," Rylan said, looking immensely relieved. He even reached out to touch Ray's arm. "You won't be sorry you kept me as your partner, Ray. I swear."
But Ray couldn't take his promise on faith anymore. Not after last night. He didn't even like Rylan touching him. His wounds were still too raw. He looked down pointedly at the big hand that rested on his forearm. He'd trusted that hand, had relied on it, but last night, it had turned on him. Cuffed him. Hurt him. "Don't be doin' that," he said tersely, shaking him off.
He strode on then, not turning to see the look of hurt he knew must be in Pat's eyes. He couldn't, because he knew in his bones that what had happened wasn't all Rylan's fault. He'd helped to put that look there, by not turning him down when he'd first asked for sex. That had been a stupid, colossal mistake. It still tore at him. But he kept walking, because he'd done all he could to set things right now. He could've turned him in, but instead, he'd made him get help. Even agreed to remain his partner, if only at work. It was the best he could do.
Hell, it was the probably the first unselfish thing he'd done since he'd left the 27th. And he'd done it because it was what he figured Benny would've done in his place. In some weird way, though Fraser would never know it, he'd done all of it for his sake, even more than for Rylan's. He'd given Rylan all that he could, and more than he'd thought he was capable of last night. Rylan would have to take things from there. But somewhere deep inside, he felt better. Like this might be the first step back towards being Stanley Raymond Kowalski again. Maybe even the first step back towards Fraser.
"Come on," he called over his shoulder, without stopping. "We got more social calls to make this mornin'."
Then he heard Rylan's boots behind him. When he caught up again, to Ray's relief, he only said one word. "Ramirez?"
Ray nodded. "Yeah. Donen's competitor. He's next." Then he dug Rylan's gun out of his pocket and handed it back to him. Pat looked almost elated, as if he thought that meant everything was back to normal between them. Ray eyed him moodily. Things will never be the same now. Doesn't he get that? "Don't make me sorry I did that, either," he said coldly, as they climbed into the car.
Harry Styles, Donen's lieutenant, called him on his cell phone later that morning. Having followed the two cops when they left the 29th, he was now idling by the window of a liquor store not far from Ramirez's headquarters, where he could keep an eye on anyone coming in or out. "Now would be a good time, boss, " he said, lowering his voice automatically, so none of the store's other customers could hear him. "They just went into Ramirez' place."
"Do it," Donen said coldly.
So Styles cut off that call and made another: to a cell phone in a car a block away, where two men sat waiting. After he gave them directions to Ramirez's, they hid their guns and the other tools of their trade beneath long coats and climbed out of their car. Seconds later, they were walking towards Ramirez' headquarters. They took a position just down the block and around the corner from its front entrance, talking idly as they waited.
They didn't mind being patient for a little while longer. They were being well paid, and besides, they both liked their work.
Ray Kowalski came up once. Let himself float way up, up into the light and sensation... and pain. So much pain. He was cold, and he hurt. God, it hurts! My head's on fire.
And it wasn't just his head. It was his chest, arms and legs too. He hurt all over.
He heard the loud, repetitive sound of someone breathing in short, ragged gulps of air, instead of normal breaths. And every time he heard one, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. After a time, he realized the sound -- and the pain -- were connected to him. That they were him. Holy shit! That's me, he realized with a dim sense of panic. My head hurts, and it hurts when I breathe! This is bad. What the hell happened?
Frightened, he tried to move, then stilled when excruciating pain shot through him with the effort. But though he hadn't managed to lift a finger, his aborted attempt at moving produced another, unexpected result. He heard a voice, someone saying his name. "Ray. Ray? It's all right. I'm here." It was a male voice, and familiar, but he could hardly hear it for the pounding pain in his head.
He was still confused. Where the hell is here? he wanted to ask. And who the hell are you? He tried to take a deep breath so he could talk, but tensed as pain cut through his chest again. Shit, that hurt! Bad idea. Okay. No talkin'. Just breathe... Little tiny breaths, not deep ones... That's it.
While he was trying to quiet his breathing so his chest wouldn't hurt so much, a dark thought slipped into his head. Broken ribs. I must have broken ribs. That's why I can't talk. But how the fuck did that happen? He searched his memory with no result. His skull was splitting, and even trying to remember what he'd had for breakfast was an effort. He couldn't do it. Didn't even know what day it was. The last thing he could remember was going to work. Talking to Rylan...
"We still partners, Ko?"
"Yeah, but if you screw up again--"
"I won't..."
Beyond that, there was nothing. Nothing, until he woke up here.
What the hell had happened?
All at once, he felt someone touch him. Fingers slipped over his hand. He would've shrunk from the contact except that the touch was so gentle, at first he thought it must be a woman's. Jeez. Am I in bed with someone? he wondered, his confusion intensifying. But then the hand enfolded his completely, and it was so large he realized that it belonged to a man. It was strong, and radiating heat, and in the cold, strange place of agony he was in, he craved its warmth. So he didn't try to pull away from it. He let it warm him while he tried to figure out whose it was.
Okay. So a guy's holdin' my hand. Why would a guy do that? Maybe it was his partner. Rylan? he tried to ask, but couldn't. He felt his lips move, but nothing came out. Stubbornly, he sucked in a deeper breath, determined to speak, then shuddered as a hot, stabbing pain seared through his chest again. Damn ribs! Can't do it. No way. He stopped trying, gave in and took little, shallow breaths again, until the hot wave of pain receded.
"Don't try to talk. Just rest, Ray. It's all right," the voice said again.
His scrambled brain still couldn't identify it -- but he realized it wasn't Rylan's voice. It was familiar though, and it sounded so close he figured it must belong to the guy holding his hand. The deduction made him feel a bit less stupid. And the guy's touch -- and his voice -- made him feel even better. Warm and safe, despite his pain. A friend, he thought, clutching at elusive threads of memory connected to the voice. Feelings of trust, of affection. He's a friend...
But was that all he was? All at once, another memory connected to that voice filled his mind. A memory of hearing it whisper tender things to him, of hearing it cry out in passion. He suddenly remembered being held by those big, warm hands once before. The memories were intense, and intensely sexual. Those hands had done more than touch him, they'd stroked him -- they'd made love to him. But that realization only increased his confusion.
How can that be? He's not Rylan... and I'm not sleeping with anyone else. Am I? Thoughts whirled round and round through his mind, chased each other crazily, like squirrels on speed. Where's Pat? Who the hell is this guy who's with me? And if I had sex with him, why can't I remember his name?
Nothing made any sense. His confusion suddenly escalated, approaching panic. He had too many questions, no voice to ask them with, and he was in too much pain to come up with any answers. He couldn't even open his eyes to see what the hell was going on. Despite the voice's reassurance that he was okay, realizing how weak and helpless he was scared him. Why can't I remember how I got hurt? Why can't I see? Am I blind? What the fuck's goin' on?
Confused, he made another effort to sit up, using the hand holding his as leverage. But he couldn't do it. He was so weak that the effort of tensing his muscles made him shake. Pain exploded in his head and chest with the effort, so much pain that this time, he moaned a little.
"Ray, please be still!" the voice above him pleaded. Its tone had gone from comforting to distinctly anxious, as if his efforts to get up had scared its owner. He felt another large hand settle onto the arm he'd been trying to use to push himself up with -- and that hand exerted a light, careful downward pressure. "Don't try to get up. Don't try to move. Just lie still. You've been hurt."
No shit, Sherlock! he felt like saying. That's the only part o' this I do understand...
"But you're safe now. If you can hear me, try to open your eyes."
He responded instinctively to the voice. Stopped trying to move, and tried to obey it. To open his eyes instead. After a titanic effort, he managed to lift his lids a little, but all he could see was light so bright that it hurt. It stabbed into his eyes, blinding, agonizing. Oh God -- it hurts too much. I can't! He hated to disappoint the voice, but he finally gave up. Closed his eyes, let go of consciousness again and fell back down. Down into the warm, comforting darkness where nothing could hurt him. Into the blackness where he could rest...
When Ray regained consciousness again, the blinding pain in his head had faded a fraction. It still felt like a bunch of construction workers were banging on the inside of his skull with hammers, but not as hard as they had been. At least he managed to get his eyes open. He remembered someone -- a man -- saying, "You've been hurt. But you're safe now." But he wasn't sure if that had been real, or just a dream. So he tried to look around him, to see if the man was still with him, to see if he really was safe as he'd said.
At first, he just blinked slowly at the unfocused brightness around him. His eyes watered so much that he couldn't see. It took awhile, but he finally got them to focus. Even managed to turn his aching head to the left at last, very slowly. There was no one there, but he saw several bouquets of flowers sitting on a counter. Brightly colored balloons saying "Get Well Soon" floated nearby.
Hospital, he thought weakly, as his vision blurred in and out. I'm in a hospital. Shit. I hate hospitals.
But the fear he'd felt when he'd first opened his eyes ebbed away as that sunk in. The voice had been right: whatever had happened, he was safe now. Much as he hated hospitals, they were good places to be when you were hurt; and he was hurting, big time. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck. He just couldn't remember when, or how it happened. He tried again, tried until his head hurt so much he almost puked. But there was nothing, just this greyness in his head where memory should've been. So he gave up trying and closed his eyes for a minute, trying to relax and keep his stomach from crawling back up his throat.
When the nausea passed and he could stand to open his eyes again, he turned his head in the other direction. He saw what looked like the hazy outlines of a man's figure beside him, and he blinked, trying hard to make him out. He thought he remembered a man's hand holding his, but when he rolled his eyes downward, he saw that no one was touching him now. He felt confused. Disappointed. That hand holding had felt nice.
But he wasn't sure if it had been real. Maybe that was just a dream... Maybe this is too. He blinked and squinted at the apparition by his bed, trying to be sure, trying to focus on it. But when the figure became a little clearer, he was stunned. Because he saw red. A bright shade of red that was burned into his memory: Mountie Red. Blue eyes that were burned into his brain. Ben's eyes. It was Benny. He was sitting in a chair by his bed in full uniform. The Sacred Stetson sat on a counter nearby.
Ray's heart turned over. He blinked again, but the vision stayed put. He stared at the Mountie, rapt as any worshipper eyeing the image of a saint, emotion surging so painfully in his chest that he could hardly breathe. Fraser wasn't looking at him, he was looking down at the floor, with his eyes half closed. But it didn't matter. He drank in the sight of him like a starving man.
But when Fraser didn't move, or even seem to breathe for several minutes, Ray frowned. Am I dreamin' this after all? Because he'd gotten used to dreaming about him lately. He saw him almost every night, and he always looked beautiful in those dreams, so beautiful that he forgot how much he'd hurt him. But then he realized that this time, for some reason, Ben looked different. A little less perfect, maybe. A bit thinner, a little tired and worried. There were faint circles under his eyes, and his head was drooping. Even as Ray watched, it drooped a little more, until it rested on his chest. Then his eyes closed for a few seconds.
He looks really tired. Like he's crashin' cuz he's exhausted. Like he hasn't slept in days. He frowned unconsciously. So maybe this isn't a dream. I wouldn't dream somethin' like that. So maybe he's really here. A light dawned in his head. Maybe he came to see me because I got hurt. That would be Fraser-like, visiting the wounded. Even if the injured body belonged to a former partner who'd treated him like crap, he'd still consider it his duty to pay his respects. Yeah, that could be it. Please, let that be it! Let him really be here!
A faint thrill of hope, of excitement shot through his aching body. He tried not to think of other reasons Fraser might've come, but he couldn't help it. Maybe he still cares what happens to my sorry ass. Maybe he even wants to patch things up! he thought, excited.
He stared at the sleeping Mountie, hypnotized, hope racing through him. Fraser the Ice Prince. Benny the Beautiful. His Benny Ben, in the same room with him again! Maybe even here because he wanted to be -- because he cared. It seemed too good to be true. Impatient, he suddenly wanted Ben to wake up and tell him something: some dumb story about moose, or seals, or lichen, or crazy trappers, or weird relatives who liked cabbage way too much. Or even, God help him, an Inuit story. Anything, to prove that he was real. If it's weird enough, I'll know it's really Ben.
But for once, Fraser wasn't talking. He just sat there sleeping. Just my luck, he thought wryly. I used to have a hard time gettin' him to shut up, and now that I can't talk, he's out of it!
He licked his dry lips, trying to summon up the energy to speak himself. "Fraser," he tried to say, but all that came out was a sigh. Still, as he watched him, his lips curved in a little smile. Benny Ben, he thought, forgetting his eagerness to wake him as he indulged in the luxury of just looking at him.
Despite his air of weariness and the hint of dark circles under his eyes, Fraser was still incredibly handsome; and as his gaze roved over his former lover, Ray's mood shifted from impatience back to quiet adoration. God, you're beautiful. Ben's full lips and high cheekbones seemed even better defined than they had been, as if he'd lost a few pounds, and his tunic looked like it was fitting looser too. Ray wondered why, then forgot the question as he admired his dark hair, which was as thick and shiny as ever. And even though they were closed now, Ray remembered how blue his eyes were. Ben had the most amazing eyes he'd ever seen, so clear and innocent they were like summer skies, so pure they'd always made him feel like he could dive into them, dive deep and cleanse his soul...
Maybe he still could. Remembering Ben's eyes, the tiny, fragile hope Ray had been nurturing since Frannie's visit grew stronger, like a spark flaring into a small but steady flame. Frannie had convinced him that he'd been wrong. She'd said that Fraser hadn't betrayed him, and that there was at least a slim chance that he might forgive him. And after what he'd done with Rylan, he needed someone to do that. No, not someone -- Fraser. Ben. He needed to talk to him, to tell him he was sorry. He needed him to be real.
There was only one way to find out. He swallowed hard, trying to wet his dry mouth, and opened it to call out to him again. But he closed it before saying anything, because then he remembered. Not what had happened to him, not why he hurt so much or how he'd ended up in a hospital bed, but something more important: why Fraser couldn't possibly really be here. Because he'd yelled at him, shoved him, kicked his hat -- because he'd humiliated him in front of the whole squadroom. Because he'd broken up with him in the worst way possible. Because he hadn't even spoken to him for months.
It all came back to him in a sickening rush. No matter what happened to me, no matter how I ended up in here, there's no way he would've come to see me. No way that he would've held my hand. I don't deserve that, after the shitty way I treated him. So either I'm so doped on painkillers that I'm hallucinatin', or this is just a dream after all. That voice I heard earlier, it must've been Pat. He must've told me that I'm safe. He must've held my hand. It couldn't've been Fraser. That was the only idea that made sense. This vision of Ben, well... That was just morphine messing with his head, or a dream.
Having convinced himself that Fraser couldn't possibly be real, Ray felt the heaviness of regret steal through him, a bleakness a dark as his pain. His eyes filled with tears. If it's a dream, I don't wanna wake up. So he didn't try to talk to the beautiful apparition in red. In his dreams, every time he did, Ben went away. So Ray didn't speak, didn't move -- he hardly even breathed. He just stared at his dream lover silently, and remembered how it had felt to be happy.
Fraser lifted his head with a jerk, realizing with a surge of shame that he'd somehow fallen asleep -- for how long, he didn't know. But something indefinable had wakened him. He'd spent so much time here in the past few days that he'd become attuned to its smallest details; and just now, something in the still, silent room had changed. Not its smell, that was still the same combination of flowers, harsh cleansers and stale, recirculated air. What was it? Then he saw it: something had moved. Ray had moved on the bed beside him. Turned his bruised, bandaged head towards him a little. Ray's blue eyes were open. Open, aware -- and focused on him.
Fraser sat up swiftly, his heart turning over. Thank God! He's conscious again. Something inside him that had been stretched taut for days -- ever since Ray was admitted to the hospital, battered, bloody, unconscious and near death from a beating and gunshot wound -- finally relaxed. He had been afraid, so afraid...
Ray Vecchio had driven him to the hospital when they first got the terrible news. Someone had made an anonymous 911 call to report a shooting, whose victims turned out to be Ray Kowalski and Patrick Rylan. The news had flashed from District to District, as reports of cop shootings always did. Vecchio had received it on his car radio when they were driving back to the 27th from a crime scene. They'd exchanged a shocked look, and then, without a word, Ray had headed for the hospital at top speed. He'd driven far too fast, swinging the Riv around corners so fast that it had rocked Fraser in his seat, but Fraser hadn't reprimanded him for it. He'd wished he could go even faster. All he could think was, Ray's been shot.
And suddenly, all the reasons he'd had for not trying harder to mend fences between them seemed ludicrous.
By the time they arrived, Kowalski was already in surgery for his head injury, gunshot wound, and fractured ribs. His surgeon had told Ben afterwards that the operation had been successful. With typically guarded optimism, he'd added that if all went well, Ray should regain consciousness some time in the next few days.
But since no one knew who had shot Ray and his partner, or if they would return to try to finish the job, Kowalski was given a round-the-clock police guard; and Fraser's long vigil began. Inspector Thatcher allowed him to utilize some of his accumulated sick leave in order to stay with Ray, a kindness he hadn't expected. But deep in his heart, he knew that if she'd refused his request, he still would've stayed with him. Even if it had meant the loss of his career, he couldn't have done anything else. Despite the constant presence of a policeman guarding Ray's door day and night, Fraser wouldn't have felt that he was safe if he hadn't watched over him personally. He had to protect him -- but more than that, he felt he had to will him to live.
Because Ray didn't regain consciousness after his surgeries. Two days later, his vital signs were strong enough that he was moved out of the ICU and into a private room. But when two more days passed and he remained comatose and unresponsive, Ben had feared the worst. In the dark, pessimistic part of him that he always hid from others, the fearful part of him that Victoria had worsened, he'd feared that Ray would die.
He kept remembering what his father had said about Victoria, and how second chances, no matter how badly you needed them, were seldom granted. Sitting by Ray's silent figure, the memory had made him ache. He hadn't been able to mend things with her. Was Ray going to be taken from him too, before he got the chance?
There had been only one moment when he'd had a brief surge of hope. On the third morning after the shooting, Fraser had thought for a moment that Ray might be regaining consciousness. He'd stirred and moaned softly. His right leg had shifted slightly under his covers, and then his right arm had moved. He'd felt somehow that Ray was waking, that he was perhaps even trying to get up. He'd taken his hand and tried to reassure him, but he wasn't sure if Ray had even heard him. He hadn't spoken or opened his eyes. But his breathing had grown louder and more labored, and his eyelids had twitched slightly; and Fraser could've sworn that when he took Ray's hand in his, just for a moment, Ray's fingers had curled against his with a faint, answering pressure.
But he wasn't sure. Wasn't at all sure that wasn't just an illusion his mind had dreamed up, to keep him from losing all hope. Because Ray's slight stirring took less than two minutes, and when it was over, his hand was completely limp again, his breathing quieted and he sank back into unconsciousness. And he'd stayed that way all day, and part of the next.
Now that his eyes were finally open, Fraser realized that Ray had been unconscious for five days. Five long days, during which he'd watched over him almost ceaselessly, sleeping only rarely, in two-hour snatches, either in a chair or on the floor beside his bed.
Fraser let out a sigh of pure relief. But in the next instant, as he searched Ray's eyes, he felt a new kind of fear. He didn't know what to do, what to say to him. His head felt heavy with weariness, from days without sleep, and he remembered how the last time he'd seen him, Ray had threatened him with violence if he ever caught sight of him again. Did he still feel that way? Would he swear at him again, tell him to get out?
Fraser wasn't sure how he would bear it if he did. He held his breath, staring at his injured former partner intently. He tried to read Ray's expression, but his bruises and bandages made it difficult. Ray didn't speak, either; he just blinked rapidly. But for a second, Fraser wondered if he was trying to hold back tears, and his hopes rose. Was Ray so happy, so relieved to see him again, that he was crying? That was a possibility he'd never imagined. He caught his breath, his heart surging in his chest.
Then he realized it was more likely that Ray was just trying to clear his probably cloudy vision. He bit his lip, embarrassed at himself for seeing what he wanted to see, rather than what was. For reading things into Ray's responses that weren't really there. He'd told himself over and over again in the last few days that even if Ray did recover, it wasn't likely that he'd forgive him. The truth was, he had no way of knowing what his former partner was feeling: pain, regret, fear? He didn't even know if Ray recognized him.
But he longed to reach out to him. He wanted to touch him, to hold his hand again... But he held himself back, partly out of a fear of hurting him, and partly because he was afraid his touch wouldn't be welcome. It had been one thing to hold Ray's hand to comfort him when he was semi-conscious. But now that his eyes were open and he was aware, such a gesture might be repulsed. Don't, he warned himself. This may not have changed anything. He may still hate me.
"Ray," he said hoarsely at last. "Do you know who I am?"
A long pause, then the bandaged head nodded very slightly. Ray's blue eyes held his, but he still didn't speak. Not a word.
Fraser tried to tell himself that he probably couldn't talk, that his broken ribs probably made taking the deep breaths necessary for speech very painful, if not impossible. Still, he was disappointed. Somewhere deep inside, he'd been hoping -- waiting -- for Ray to say his name. Perhaps even for Ray to forgive him.
But he suddenly realized that he shouldn't be waiting at all. Shouldn't be here any longer. He'd gotten so tired, he'd forgotten that he had an important task to perform. He swallowed hard, trying to clear his dry throat, to gain control of his rampaging emotions as duty and love warred inside him. He had to report Ray's improved condition to his doctor and the police. Yet he couldn't seem to make himself do it. He just sat there looking at him. Rejoicing, privately and selfishly, that his former lover was getting better -- that he was going to live.
He tried to shove his enormous feeling of relief aside, and compel himself to do his duty by listing all the reasons for it in his head. His doctor gave me strict instructions to call him as soon as Ray woke, so he can check his progress and responses. And his Captain needs to question him about the shooting as soon as possible, in an effort to catch their attackers. It's been several days now, and they have no clues. Without Ray's eyewitness information, the trail is getting cold. Also, everyone at the 27th District is waiting for good news about him too. I have to go tell them all that he's awake.
So said logic. So duty demanded. But his heart said otherwise. Neither duty nor logic could compete with the need that beat hard within him, that tightened his whole body. A need to communicate with Ray. To connect with him again, to regain what they had lost. He wanted so desperately to be alone with his former lover for just a few moments more, to tell him -- to tell him--
To tell him the truth. I need you, Ray, he wanted to say. I've missed you so much -- I love you.
It seems little enough to ask, he thought, rationalizing his own behavior. All I need is a few minutes to say that, and then I'll do my duty. Give up on having Ray all to myself, and let everyone else in on the wondrous secret of his recovery. But he had to say those words first. They were burning inside him, as if his whole life had been building towards just this moment, though he'd never guessed it. That was the one positive thing Victoria had taught him: there were times in life when Love had to come before Duty. And this was definitely one of those times.
In a moment of guilty insight, he wondered if that was one of the reasons that Ray had walked away from him before, because he'd never said those words to him. Never told him how much he meant to him. That was his fault, and the result of his past. After Victoria, he'd been afraid to say those words to anyone. But he didn't want to lose this chance to set that right. As Ray stared at him, Fraser wondered if he was waiting for him to say it too.
He opened his mouth to do it, to ease the enormous pressure in his chest by letting out the truth that beat inside it like a caged bird, trying to get free. But as usual, the words choked in his throat. "Ray, I--"
A little frown formed between Ray's brows, as if he sensed that Fraser was trying to tell him something very important. His eyes searched Ben's intently.
Ben tried again. "I need to say... That is, to tell you -- tell you that I--"
He broke off, disgusted with himself. He was stuttering like an idiot. His need to speak was intense, as strong as his love for Ray, yet he couldn't seem to utter the words he needed to say. They throbbed inside of him, gathered in his throat like a shout. But something held them back, some greater force prevented his frozen lips and tongue from shaping them. He took a deep breath and tried again. But instead of declaring his love, all that he finally managed to ask was the question, "Do you remember what happened to you?"
Fraser couldn't believe it. As soon as the words left his lips, he was filled with shame. He sounded like a policeman, like a cop taking a witness's statement, rather than an impassioned lover. How could his clumsy body have betrayed him so completely? It was as if his overwhelming emotions had overloaded the neural connections between his brain and his tongue, and his subconscious had fallen back on his RCMP training as the only available means of expression. He hated himself. He'd said the careful thing, the correct thing -- not what really mattered. Not the truth. And he suspected that he knew why. He was still too afraid to say it. He was terrified to tell Ray that he still loved him, for fear of being brutally rejected again. For fear that Ray had never really loved him back.
Coward, he cursed himself.
Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Ray just shook his head.
"You don't remember anything, Ray?" Fraser persisted, wanting to be sure. "Nothing at all?"
A look of pained frustration crossed Ray's face, and he shook his head again. Just a small, silent shake, but he winced a little afterwards, as if even that slight movement hurt him. Seeing that, Fraser was a bit relieved that Ray didn't remember what had happened to him yet. For one thing he'd been assaulted so brutally that the memories had to be traumatic; and for another, he was in enough physical pain without adding emotional stress to his burdens. It also made Ben feel a tad less guilty for not immediately reporting his return to consciousness. After all, if Ray didn't remember the shooting, then he couldn't give Captain Harlan any leads about his assailant, could he?
A second later, he seized on that as an excuse to remain with him. Since Ray can't give anyone any information about his attack, he reasoned, surely it would be permissible for me to stay with him a few minutes longer?
He knew he was being terribly selfish, but for once, he let his heart rule his head. After his long, lonely, anxious vigil, he allowed himself a bit of purely selfish pleasure. He just sat watching the blue of Ray's eyes, marveling at the intensity of their color in his pale face. His own feelings were equally intense, but confusing. Some of them were positive: he felt overwhelming relief, hope, and love. But darker emotions swam inside him too. Frustration from not being able to express his love, and bitterness about the circumstances that had finally brought them together again. Though he was glad to see Ray again, so glad that he couldn't find words to express it, he hated the fact that his first sight of him after so long was in a hospital room. He hated the fact that someone had hurt him so much, had almost killed him...
Seeing Ray, who was normally a ball of kinetic energy, lying so still and white in a hospital bed was almost more than he could bear. It also brought back disturbing memories of another hospital vigil, when he'd been the one injured and Ray Vecchio had sat vigil over him. There had been a black cloud hanging between them as well, every bit as dark and ominous as the tension that thickened the air between him and Ray Kowalski now. Fraser remembered bitterly how he'd thought, at that time, that his life could never get any worse. That he'd been through utter hell, and that at least he had the small comfort of knowing that would never happen again. That he'd hit rock bottom, and there was no place to go from there but up.
But hell, it seemed, could be gone through again. He had just been there. The circumstances weren't exactly the same: this time he hadn't been shot, Ray had -- and presumably not by a friend. But the details didn't matter. It was the feelings that counted. It was having your heart torn out that gave you the taste of hell, and for the past few days, Fraser's mouth had felt dry and full of ashes. He'd felt that way ever since he'd gotten the news that Ray had been severely beaten, then shot and left for dead.
Now that Ray was awake, now that he knew he was going to survive, his troubles still weren't over. Because after rushing to his side to watch over him, he'd taken yet another blow. He hadn't spoken of it to anyone, and no one else who'd visited Ray -- not Lt. Welsh, Francesca, Stella or Captain Harlan -- had seemed to notice the marks on his wrists: the distinctive pattern of severe handcuff chafing. Or if they had, they must've assumed he'd gotten them when he was attacked. But Ben knew better. He'd had the chance to study them closely; and since the blood in those cuts had already dried and granulated when he first saw him, they predated the injuries that had put him in the hospital. So they weren't part of that attack at all. And there was only one way Ray could've acquired those cuts and welts: he must've been handcuffed, then jerked and pulled so hard against the restraints that his skin had been not just bruised, but cut open.
Fraser had the sinking feeling that he knew exactly how Ray had acquired those wounds. Though he wasn't very experienced sexually, he wasn't by any means naïve about such things. He'd seen such marks on people before, in the course of his police work. People who'd had sex with someone who enjoyed domination and pain, who got aroused by handcuffing and hurting a helpless partner. And he'd heard rumors that Ray's current partner, Rylan, was very handsome, but also a bisexual sadist. He hadn't wanted to believe them, but since Ray and Rylan both carried handcuffs as part of their job, and Ray suddenly bore the marks of severe handcuff chafing only a few months after becoming Rylan's partner, it didn't take much deductive reasoning to guess that he was the one who'd cuffed Ray -- or why.
Fraser knew what his fading cuts and bruises signified, but he couldn't accept it. So while Ray lay unconscious in his bed, he'd stared at those red marks on his slim wrists for hours, as if his intense scrutiny could somehow make them, and the heartache they caused him, go away. But of course, they didn't; and the fruitless exercise only deepened his grief. It was bad enough that Ray had taken a new, younger lover after he'd left him -- but clearly, he had also let that lover do sadistic things to him. To hurt him. Fraser had had plenty of time, sitting beside his bed in that quiet room, to absorb the shock of that. But he couldn't. If he'd had a lifetime, it wouldn't have been enough.
Still, it had given him a bitter insight. For the first time, he knew in his heart how Ray Vecchio must have felt after he'd shot him. Why his green eyes had been so full of guilt. Fraser felt just as responsible for Kowalski's injuries now as Ray had once felt for his. Not just the injuries from his attack, but the bruises from his bout of rough sex as well. He knew Ray had left the 27th because of him, because of the pain he'd felt over their breakup. And he suspected that his wild behavior at the 29th, perhaps even his affair with Rylan, sprang from the same source -- from Ray's unhappiness, which he had somehow unwittingly caused. He couldn't help thinking that Ray would never have taken up with such a kinky person as Rylan if they had stayed together. He would never have transferred to the 29th at all, would never have become Rylan's partner, but for him; and if he'd stayed at the 27th, he wouldn't have been shot.
He remembered the dream he'd had just a few nights ago. The dream that something bad was going to happen to Ray. Now that it had, he knew it had been more than a dream. It had been a premonition -- a warning, which he'd ignored. Why, oh why hadn't he listened to it?
Ray was now lying here half dead and sexually abused because he hadn't. Because he hadn't been able to stop himself from falling in love with his own partner; and because he hadn't been able, when they'd had a fight, to find the words to make him stay. Or the courage to go after him later to try and mend their broken relationship, to bring him back, even when his dreams had warned him to.
Coward! he thought again, even more bitterly than before.
Sitting there looking at his injured friend, Ben wondered how Ray Vecchio had sat beside him for so many long days in a quiet hell like this, and not broken down and wept with the pain of it. Then he thought, Perhaps he did. But knowing Ray, he would've done it somewhere where I wouldn't see him. Where no one would see him.
Fraser had done the same. None of the nurses who'd been attending Ray had ever caught him weeping. But that didn't mean he hadn't cried. He had, more times than he cared to remember. He'd just made sure that no one saw him doing it. He'd timed the nurses' rounds and only let his tears fall immediately after they left, so no one would ever know the depth of his grief; or that this was all his fault.
But Ray knows, he thought bleakly, staring into Kowalski's light blue eyes. He knows. The only question is, does he hate me for it? His guilt was so enormous that he didn't know what to say. And Ray either couldn't, or wouldn't, speak. Fraser wasn't sure if Ray meant to punish him with silence, but it was beginning to have that effect. It had stretched out between them for so long that it was becoming painful. He had to break it somehow.
Force of habit made him cast around in his mind for a way to make himself useful, to help Ray, though he wasn't sure if he would let him. His eyes fell on the carafe of water and cups he'd had the nurse leave by his bed earlier, and he realized that he must be thirsty. "Here," he said. He filled a paper cup with cold water, put a straw in it and held it out to the detective, hoping against hope that he would take it. For an instant, Ray didn't move. Then he bit his lip and slowly lifted his free hand, the one that wasn't hooked up to an I.V., to take the cup. At least, he tried to. But he was still very weak, and it was shaking so badly that Fraser was afraid he'd drop it, and spill the water on himself.
"It's okay, I'll hold it," he offered automatically. Then, remembering Ray's pride, he thought, Oh, dear. Now he'll think I'm treating him like a child. He'll get angry...
But to his surprise, Ray didn't. Didn't get angry or push him away. In fact, his blue eyes flashed what he could've sworn was a look of gratitude at him. Then he let his arm drop back down onto the bed while he held the cup to his bruised lips. Ray took the straw in his mouth and sipped the water eagerly, until he'd drained the cup dry.
"More?" Fraser asked, pleased that his small effort to help hadn't been angrily rejected, as he'd feared.
"Yeah... Thirsty," Ray muttered hoarsely.
"Here." Fraser filled the cup again, and held the straw carefully to Ray's lips, basking in the warmth of being needed, for what felt like the first time in ages.
Ray couldn't believe it. Fraser didn't seem to hate him. Hell, he was helping him! He'd somehow figured out what he needed, the way he'd always been able to, without him having to say a word. And now he was giving it to him. Ben probably should've hit him upside his stupid, jealous head for leaving him; but instead, he'd handed him a cup of water to ease his thirst. And a few minutes earlier, he'd had the oddest feeling he'd been trying to do even more than that. He'd been trying to tell him something, something important. But he'd gotten tongue-tied, stuttered a lot, then retreated into acting official instead. Asked him if he could remember how he got hurt. It frustrated the hell out of him, because Ben only got tongue-tied like that when he was trying to talk about his feelings -- and he wanted to be all over that subject. He wanted Ben to spill his guts, tell him everything he was hiding behind those beautiful blue eyes.
But he didn't ask, because after what he'd done, he was lucky the Mountie was there at all. And he knew it. He was so lucky he'd do anything to keep him there -- including keeping his own mouth shut, for once. So he tried to tough it out, tried to act cool, to take the glass of water casually, like he wasn't reading anything into Ben's presence, or his help. But he couldn't do it. He was so weak, and so damn nervous and excited and afraid, that his hand shook like a junkie in dire need of a fix. So bad that Fraser's eyes widened.
"It's okay, I'll hold it," Ben said, bringing the cup to his lips instantly. So he wouldn't feel bad about his own weakness. So he could have what he needed.
Fraser did all that instinctively -- even after everything he'd done to him. It made Ray want to cry. He knew that Rylan wouldn't have done it. Rylan had never been to him what Fraser was. Maybe because Rylan wasn't one tenth the man that Benton Fraser was. Or the partner. The quiet Canadian had made the true definition of that word painfully clear to him once again. Even after he'd kicked him out of bed, out of his life, he'd still come to look after him when he got hurt. His kindness touched Kowalski so deeply that he had to fight to keep from reaching for him with his weak, shaky hands. He struggled to keep his face blank, to hide the powerful emotions that were sweeping through him, now that he knew Fraser was real. That he'd come to be with him in his hour of need. That he didn't hate his guts, like he'd feared.
I don't deserve it, he thought. And in the next breath, Wanna kiss you. A beat later, God, I love you. But he didn't say any of that. He knew he didn't deserve to. He'd lost the right to when he'd thrown Fraser away. So he just set his jaw and froze his whole face as Ben held the cup of water to his lips. Tried not to feel stupid as he sucked it up through a straw, like a baby. He felt like a baby: weak, helpless, overcome with emotions he could hardly control. He had to blink back a stupid surge of tears at the sight of Ben's beloved hands, so close to his face. He could hardly hold his head up off the pillow, but he wanted to grab his hands and pull them to his mouth, wanted to kiss them, wanted to pull him into his arms and never let him go. He didn't know what had happened to him, why he was here, or what the hell was going on. All he knew was, Fraser still had his heart.
It had leapt in his chest at his first sight of him. It was beating way too fast now, as Ben's hands hovered near his mouth.
He just didn't know if Ben wanted it anymore.
Fraser filled the cup again, and held the straw to the detective's mouth. Ray's dry lips closed around it and he gulped eagerly at the cold water. Too eagerly, because he coughed a little, then winced with pain.
"Slowly," Fraser cautioned.
Ray obeyed him, taking smaller sips, and as he did, Fraser snuck a glance at him at close range, trying to gauge his mood. He held his head up off the pillow a bit, but he looked tense beneath his bandages. Stiff. Even pained. Fraser wasn't sure if that pain was emotional or physical. It was possible that even lifting his head was an effort for him at the moment; and even likelier that he was finding the pain of his injuries hard to bear.
Or maybe, as he'd feared, Ray was still angry with him.
Fraser didn't know, and it made him uneasy. He held the cup a little closer to him, and wondered what to say next. How to get past the awkwardness between them. Then he remembered how he'd felt when he first woke up in the hospital after Vecchio had shot him: how confused he'd been, how uncertain of what was real and what he had just dreamed... He hadn't remembered being shot at first, and Kowalski had admitted that he couldn't remember what had happened to him either.
Perhaps I should tell him what's going on, Fraser thought. Not what happened to Rylan, perhaps. I'm not sure he's in any shape to hear that just yet. But I could tell him about his own injuries.
After draining the cup a second time, Ray laid his head back down on his pillow, panting as if the slight effort of lifting it to drink had exhausted him. "Rest for a minute, Ray," Fraser said gently. "Don't try to talk. Would you like me to tell you what's happened?"
Ray's eyes fixed on his. Fraser saw fear there, but Kowalski nodded his head anyway. He admired his courage even as he tried to decide just how much to tell him. "All right. Well, as you've no doubt surmised, you're in the hospital," he said. "It appears you were ambushed by a person or persons unknown. You were badly beaten, and shot in the chest at close range," he said hoarsely, his throat choking with emotion at the thought of how close Ray had come to death because of that. But he forced himself to go on. "The bullet pierced a lung just above your heart. You also had a bad head injury. A blow of some sort caused a subdural hematoma."
A flicker of alarm flared in Ray's eyes at that, and his breath came faster.
Oh dear. I've frightened him, Ben realized. "You've already been operated on for it, though," he reassured him quickly. "And your surgeon said you should recover without any permanent damage."
Ray closed his eyes for a second, with what Fraser assumed must be pure relief. When he opened them again, he focused them on him intently and nodded, asking him to go on, as if he knew there was more.
Fraser chose his next words cautiously. "You also have two broken ribs and some internal injuries." Ray's doctor had told him those injuries were probably caused by a large, hard object like a baseball bat; but Fraser withheld that information. It was speculation anyway, and he didn't want to torture Ray with grim details that might not be true. "Your kidneys and spleen are bruised, so relieving yourself will hurt for awhile. But it's nothing that won't heal."
"So. Somebody... worked me over... good. Meant... to waste me. That... it?" Ray rasped slowly. His voice was weak, hardly more than a whisper, but Fraser was glad to hear it nonetheless. Gladder still that it sounded relatively calm, despite what he'd just related. "You tellin' me... all of it?"
Fraser hesitated. It went against his grain to lie, but he told himself that he really wasn't doing that, he was just withholding information until Ray was stronger and better able to cope with it. Delaying. Equivocating. Not lying. He would tell him everything, just not now. "Yes," he said. "That's the extent of it. You'll be here for another week, maybe two."
But Ray must've sensed that he hadn't been entirely candid, for a spark of impatience flared in his eyes. "No. I meant... Rylan. My ... partner. Was he... with me?" Ray's breathing came faster, and his eyes darkened. "Is he... okay?"
Fraser lowered his eyes. It was natural, even commendable for Ray to be worried about his partner. But his own feelings about Rylan were far different. He didn't want Ray to see the aversion he felt at the mere mention of his name. The pain. He looked away and ran the back of a finger nervously across his eyebrow, trying to decide whether to tell him the truth or not.
Ray stirred restlessly, painfully on his bed. "Frayzh!" he gritted. "Tell... me--"
Fraser lifted his gaze again reluctantly. Ray's eyes pleaded with him, and he gave in. He never had been able to deny him anything; that much hadn't changed. "Yes," he said quietly, trying to keep his voice even. "Rylan was with you, and he was shot too. But he didn't survive."
Ray let out a long, slow, shuddering breath as he absorbed the terrible news. Then he closed his eyes and set his jaw; and there was no mistaking the pain on his face.
That pain hurt Fraser on so many levels that for a moment, he lost his voice. He had to swallow hard before he could speak again. "He was dead before the paramedics got to you, Ray," he said very quietly. "And you were unconscious, and near death yourself from injuries and loss of blood. There was nothing you could've done."
Ray still didn't answer. Fraser looked away, seized with a jealousy he knew was inappropriate but couldn't help. His throat grew tight again. He wished he hadn't had to be the one to tell Ray that his partner -- his lover -- was dead. It didn't seem right, when he couldn't find it in his heart to regret that. Perhaps he could have, if it weren't for those marks on Ray's wrists. But those, and the abuse that had caused them, he couldn't forgive. He couldn't even fathom why Ray had allowed it to happen; much less that he might have enjoyed it. Though he'd never met Rylan, or even seen him, he hated him for hurting Ray like that.
But Patrick Rylan was dead, and despite what he'd done, what he'd been, Ray grieved for him. Ben knew he should probably go and leave him alone with his sorrow, but he couldn't make himself do it. He felt an almost superstitious fear that if he walked out of Ray's room now, he would lose him forever. Besides, he couldn't leave before saying what he'd been longing to tell him. He had to try again. So he stayed where he was and looked down at his boots, trying to think of a way to change the subject. Struggling to form the right words. There was such a gulf between them now, such a chasm, that bridging it wasn't easy. "Ray," he began again, "I need to tell you--"
But when he looked up, Ray's eyes were still closed, and he was crying.
The sight struck Fraser dumb. Pain lanced through him, and he gave up on the idea of telling Ray that he loved him. This wasn't the right time. He wondered painfully if maybe the right time had already come and gone, and it was too late now. "Ray?" he whispered, wanting to comfort him. Needing to be comforted himself.
But Ray didn't answer. Didn't open his eyes, didn't even move. He just lay there silently, with tears running down his cheeks, crying for his dead lover.
Ray could hardly take it in. Rylan, dead. Patrick Rylan, his twenty-five-year-old partner, dead. Shot dead. The words echoed hollowly in his head. How can that be? I just talked to him. Didn't I? But it must be true, Fraser said so and he never lies... But how could I let that happen? We were together, Fraser said that too. Why didn't I save him?
He didn't know. He couldn't remember any of it. Nothing. After he'd watched Rylan call a psychiatrist, his mind was a blank. And somehow, that was the worst of it. His own partner was dead, and he had no memory of his last moments, his last words. Did he call out for help? Did he yell for me, but I wasn't there? he wondered, agony cutting through him. What the fuck happened?
He went through it again in his head, poring over his memories desperately. He saw Pat standing shamefaced in front of him as he told him to go see a counselor. Pat nodding, agreeing to everything he said. Pat making the call, then asking, "We still partners, Ko?"
And him saying yes. Yes because he could see the hope in his eyes, a desperate hope that he couldn't quite hide. And because somehow, that look reminded him of Sammy, that mutt dog he'd had when he was growing up. Sammy had looked at him just like that, after he got hit by a car. Like he knew he was his last hope, his only hope.
He hadn't been able to help Sammy, but even after what Pat had done to him, he'd wanted to help him. Maybe because nobody else in his whole rotten life ever had. Maybe because he knew that in his own way, as much as he knew how to, Pat loved him. But mostly because it was what he knew Ben would've done. So he'd said yes. Yes, we're still partners, for now.
But maybe I shouldn't have.
Because what the hell kind of partner had he been? The kind that got Pat killed, that's what. Then couldn't even recall how it happened. There was nothing more in his head after they renewed their partnership. Nothing but a grey void, before he woke up here. He couldn't remember anything else. Not the shots, not the blood, not Rylan dying. Nothing.
Was that all Pat's life added up to? A big fat zero?
Ray closed his eyes in agony. But into the darkness behind his eyelids, an even worse thought floated. Did I let it happen? Did I let him get killed, because I was mad at him for what he did? Oh, God, no. Please, don't let that be true.
Ray paled and seemed to shrink inside his bandages at the news of his partner's death. Ben's heart sank. This was why he hadn't wanted to tell him about Rylan. When Ray closed his eyes as if to shut out something unbearable, he wished he hadn't. He reached out, meaning to take his hand, to tell him that he was sorry about what had happened. But then he realized that would be a lie. He grieved for Ray's pain over it, but he didn't regret the death itself. He knew he should, but he couldn't. He was jealous of Rylan, and the cruelty he'd exhibited towards Ray by handcuffing him and hurting him for his own pleasure sickened him. I'm not sorry he's dead, he thought.
He wouldn't have mourned the death of anyone who hurt Ray. It was that simple.
He wasn't proud of those feelings, of course. He even knew they weren't precisely fair. He'd never even met Rylan, after all; and it was possible that jealousy was making him judge him too harshly. Rylan might've had some redeeming qualities of which he was unaware. But if so, he didn't want to know what they were. At least not now. What he'd heard of the man, and inferred from Ray's wounds, he didn't like; and he couldn't pretend to mourn him. Given his near hatred, that would be hypocritical. So he pulled his hand back, dropped it into his lap and sat watching Ray, trying to think what to say to comfort him.
Tears rained from under his closed eyelids. Then Ray began to shake. He bit his lip, trying to contain his grief, but failed. He cried silently at first, then he began to weep in earnest. Harsh, choking sobs that Fraser knew must have hurt his injured ribs.
"Ray, don't!" he whispered. Because they hurt him too. Watching Ray cry, he felt like he was falling. Down and down and down, as he'd dreamed of doing by his window on so many lonely nights. And there was no one to catch him, nothing to break his fall.
But either Ray didn't hear him, or he couldn't control himself, because he kept on crying. Fraser ached for him, but couldn't summon the words to comfort him because he knew he was grieving for another lover, the man he'd chosen to replace him. And his jealousy spurred another dark thought. It suddenly occurred to him that Ray hadn't cried when they'd parted. He'd yelled, screamed, even shoved him -- but he hadn't shed a tear. But he's crying now, over a sadist. Over a man who hurt him, who put handcuffs on him and used him brutally for his own gratification.
He didn't understand it, just as he hadn't understood their breakup. And he resented Ray for confusing him so. He tried to tell himself again that he wasn't being fair. After all, the situations weren't the same. Their breakup had been upsetting, but it didn't have the same weight and gravity as a man's death. So how could he compare the two, or expect Ray to have reacted similarly to each situation?
But logic didn't matter to his heart. All it saw -- all it wanted to see -- was that Ray had shed tears for Rylan, but not for him. Does that mean Ray cared more for him than he did for me? Ben wasn't sure, but he suspected that it might. He was filled with bitterness, and the reassuring words he knew he should be saying wouldn't come.
"Ray," he croaked finally. "Please don't. I didn't... mean to upset you."
It wasn't much in the way of reassurance, but at least it wasn't a lie.
But it didn't seem to help. Ray's sobs had quieted a little, but tears still ran down his pale cheeks, and Fraser wasn't even sure if he'd heard him. If he was even aware that he was still in his room. He just lay there crying silently, and didn't speak or look at him.
Ben set his jaw tightly. This was worse than being punished -- it was torture. He felt further away from Ray than ever. It was just as he'd feared; nothing had changed between them after all. It didn't matter that he'd come here, didn't matter that he'd watched over him faithfully for several days without much sleep. It didn't matter how much he loved him, how deep his devotion was. Even now, he was not to be forgiven. He would never be forgiven -- or even told what it was that he'd done wrong.
Maybe that was immaterial now anyway. His place in Ray's heart had been taken, and he would never get it back. What was left for him to say?
Suddenly, Ray wasn't the only one who was crying. Fraser's eyes flooded with hot, useless tears. Rejected, humiliated and bewildered, he got up and reached blindly for his hat. Put it on and pulled the brim down a bit lower than usual, hoping it would shade his tear-filled eyes. I'll go get his doctor, he told himself, trying to stave off his own despair with thoughts of duty, as he always did. Get someone to come and check on him...
He headed blindly for the door.
After he learned of Pat's death, Ray remembered how he'd once confessed that no one had ever loved him. Now, nobody ever will. And it's my fault. My fault. That realization undid him. Both of his partners had depended on him, maybe even loved him in their own ways, and he'd failed them both. First Fraser, and now Rylan. And Rylan might've died because of it.
Fraser's presence had roused emotions in him he hadn't felt for months, had set a tiny pulse leaping inside of him -- but learning of Rylan's death turned his heartbeat into a runaway, a huge, thumping pain in his chest. He wasn't just a screw-up, he was a curse. A walking, talking voodoo juju jinx, guaranteed to cause pain and misery to anyone he got close to. His chest heaved with a silent sob as the cold, hard lump of despair that had settled in his gut when he left Ben suddenly liquified, and swelled into a black ocean of pain and guilt that drowned him.
He tried to hold it back, but he couldn't. He was too weak. The ocean grew, waves of grief surging against the tight cage of his chest until his ribs ached. Until his body couldn't hold it all in. He started to shake, then it poured out in a flood. Hot tears rained from his eyes, and sobs choked out of his mouth. He was crying, weeping like a girl in front of Fraser. It was humiliating, but his grief was so overwhelming that he couldn't even bring himself to care. He heard Fraser saying something, but his voice was dim and far away. He couldn't make out the words, and he couldn't answer. He could hardly even breathe through his pain and tears.
Finally, he brought up a shaking hand and wiped at his streaming eyes -- just in time to see Fraser's wavery red form moving. He swiped at his eyes again, blinking to clear his vision. He managed to see that Ben had gotten to his feet, and he had this awful look on his face. This blank, frozen Mountie mask that Ray knew he only wore when he'd been deeply hurt. Then he put on his hat, pulling it down low so that it shaded his eyes.
That little gesture panicked Kowalski. He didn't understand how he'd hurt Ben, but he recognized the signals. Knew what all that meant. He's leaving, he thought, panic cutting through the heaviness of his grief. He's leaving, and this time, he won't come back. I lost Rylan, and now I'm gonna lose him again too. Forever. Jesus, no! If he leaves, I won't make it--
Panic accelerated the painful galloping of his heart. He choked down his tears and reached out blindly for the Mountie, but he was too far away. Fraser didn't see him. His broad back was already turned, and he was heading for the door. Ray's terror increased. He had to stop him, but he couldn't move, couldn't even get up, he was too goddamn weak to catch him... He took a deep breath and cried out. Croaked his name in a voice hoarse with fear. "Ben! Benny, wait!"
"Benny, wait!"
Ben stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of his name. He turned to find Ray watching him. Saw him try, with shaking hands, to force himself up.
"Don't," he said automatically, taking a step back towards him.
Ray reached behind him, pulled a pillow up and raised himself up on it a little. "Don't leave, okay?" he choked out as he fell back onto it, wiping at the tears that stained his cheeks. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his voice. "I'm sorry," he rasped, a little louder.
Fraser took another step towards him, his heart leaping -- then he caught himself. He didn't know what Ray meant, and he didn't dare allow himself to hope. "For what, Ray?" he asked, his own voice unsteady.
"For the fight we had. For -- kickin' yer hat, and... all those things I said," Ray whispered. "For leavin' you. It was a mistake. I'm sorry."
Fraser almost swayed on his feet as a wave of shock rolled over him. He felt himself trembling. He'd been waiting to hear those words for so long, so very long. But until now, he'd only heard them in his dreams. Until now, the distance between them had seemed immense. Suddenly, it had shrunk to the size of a room. A mere few steps.
"I acted like a jerk. I'm sorry," Ray said again, his tear-stained face taut with strain. He didn't say, "Forgive me," but his eyes did.
Hope soared in Ben, hope and love that had been too long denied. He moved towards Ray's bed, put his hat down and sat down in the chair beside him again. "I'm sorry too, Ray," he said softly. But though he longed to touch him, he still didn't dare. Just because Ray had said he regretted their breakup, it didn't necessarily follow that he would want him back. Rylan still lay between them, for one thing. Ray's grief at learning of his death had been genuine, deep and devastating.
He couldn't reach out to Ray until he knew what it meant. He wondered with a pang, for the thousandth time, if he'd been in love with Rylan. Rylan, but not him. But he didn't dare ask. Couldn't say the words or touch him, either. The truce between them was too new, too fragile to bear the weight of such truths yet. And Ray's flesh seemed too fragile to bear the intensity of his feelings. He was afraid that if he touched him, his emotions would overwhelm him and he'd try to embrace him, maybe even to kiss him -- and he was far too weak for that.
So he settled for laying his arm on the bed near him instead. Then he drew a deep breath, and decided to venture his own apology. Unlike his aborted declaration of love, which had been a spontaneous impulse, he'd been rehearsing ways to say "I'm sorry" in his head for days now, while Ray lay unconscious in his bed. So they came to him readily. "Ray, I'm sorry for what happened between us when Ray Vecchio came back," he said quietly. "I know I hurt you somehow, but please believe me when I say that I don't know how. It wasn't intentional. I never meant to. I would never want to hurt you."
"I know," Ray whispered. "S'okay." He reached out slowly. His fingers touched Fraser's, and they were shaking. "Just... say ya don't hate me."
Ben's heart rose into his mouth. I thought you hated me. But it seemed that Ray didn't. He'd touched him -- had, perhaps, even forgiven him. So now, finally, he could reach out. Touch him back... He took a deep breath, exerted every ounce of self control that he had, and took Ray's fingers very gently in his. He closed his larger hand around his former partner's slightly smaller one. Just that, nothing more. But holding those slender fingers in his, he was struck anew by how delicate Ray really was, how fine-boned and beautiful -- how fragile. And when Ray tightened his fingers a little, gripping his hand in return, it moved him.
"I don't hate you. I never did. I--I missed you, Ray," he murmured. It wasn't quite "I love you", but it was all he could say. All he could force past the lump in his throat. He stroked Ray's knuckles with his thumb, shaken by the emotions sweeping through him: love, jealousy, anger. But he tried not to look at the bruises on Ray's wrists. Tried not to think about his tears, tried to focus only on his love for him instead.
Because he'd been given a gift, and he knew it. That second chance that his father had talked about, the one Life seldom granted you: a second chance with Ray. He didn't know what it entailed, whether Ray was offering to resume their former friendship, or if he'd take him back as a lover. But either way, Fraser couldn't treat it lightly. He was grateful for it, would accept whatever Ray wanted to give. Because being allowed to touch him again, to be close to him, to have his forgiveness after being so long alone...
It was more than he'd dared hope for. It meant everything to him.
"Guess I missed you too," Ray rasped. "Haven't seen anyone ... taste anything gross... for months. Felt weird."
Fraser laughed, and held onto his hand. Love surged in him with painful force, so strongly that he felt tears in his eyes again. But this time, they weren't tears of sadness. Ray had reached out to him: held his hand, even joked with him. He hadn't pushed him away, he'd even said he was sorry for leaving him. It felt good, so good to be close to him again. It felt almost like old times. His tired body filled with a sweet relief, pure as flowing water. He had to blink hard to hold back his tears as he stared down at their entwined fingers. "Your hand is cold, Ray," he said hoarsely. "Are you cold?" He let go of him so he could pull his blankets up higher. He tucked them in around him gently with his free hand.
"Nawww." Ray shook his head, his bruised lips softening into a little smile. "Not now." He slipped one hand out from underneath his blankets and reached for Ben's hand again. Took it in his long, slender fingers and held on tightly to it.
Fraser smiled at him, his heart too full for words.
Ray took Ben's hand in his, and Ben turned his warm, beautiful blue eyes on him and smiled.
That was all it took. It was too much, too fast. Rylan's death, Ben's return, his forgiveness -- emotion piled on emotion. After so many months of being frozen cold inside, he wasn't used to dealing with so many strong feelings all at once. He was thawing out, coming alive again, and it hurt. Rylan's death had torn him open, left him vulnerable; and now Ben's smile pierced his heart.
He tried to smile back at him, but somehow, found himself crying again instead.
Ben saw Ray try to smile back at him. But his lips trembled visibly and somehow, his smile turned into tears. "Damn," he muttered, as they slid down his cheeks. He bit his lip and closed his eyes again, his throat working as if his emotions were overwhelming. "Sorry. Must be ... the painkillers or somethin'." He flushed under his bandages, and Fraser knew he was embarrassed at his lack of self control.
"It's all right, Ray," Fraser said gently. And this time, it was. He wasn't sure what Ray's tears meant this time, if they signaled grief or happiness, but it didn't matter so much now. Ray had forgiven him, he didn't hate him. For now, that was enough. They still had a lot of talking to do, and he needed to find out what had caused their breakup, exactly what it was Ray had blamed him for. But now he felt there would be time to sort all of that out. All of Ray's complex emotions, and his too. And as long as they did that together, everything would be all right.
As long as Ray didn't let Rylan's memory come between them...
Fraser forced the thought out of his mind. "You've been through a lot. You should try to rest again now," he said. He gave Ray's hand a final squeeze, then laid it gently back on his breast. Then he leaned over and adjusted the pillow behind his head so that he could lie down again. Ray didn't argue with him, he just laid back down and rubbed at his eyes, trying to wipe away his tears. Ben suddenly realized, belatedly and with a guilty start, that he still needed to inform Lt. Welsh, Captain Harlan and Ray's doctor that he'd regained consciousness. He'd put that off long enough, so he stood up to go.
Then Ray opened his eyes again, and the corners of his bruised mouth lifted in a little smile. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks for comin'."
But even as Fraser drank in the sight of that smile like a starving man, Ray's eyelids began to droop. Obviously their brief conversation, and the emotional strain of learning of Rylan's death, had exhausted him. "You're welcome. Try to sleep, Ray," he said again, very gently.
"'Kay," Ray agreed, his voice already fading as his eyes closed. "Kinda... tired." But then his eyes fluttered open again briefly. "You gonna... be here when I wake up?" he asked.
That was the second time Ray had pleaded with him to stay, and it touched Fraser immensely. He smiled, warmed by the knowledge that Ray still needed him. That would sustain him for now; the rest could wait until Ray was stronger. "Yes. I'll stay as long as you want me to," he promised.
Ray stared at the walls of his room, bored and frustrated. There were so many questions, and he couldn't answer any of them. Who had attacked him and Rylan? Who beat the crap out of him, then shot him and left him for dead? Who killed Rylan, and why? Captain Harlan kept asking, and he had to keep telling him that he couldn't remember. But he knew that Harlan had left no stone unturned trying to figure it out. He'd even investigated the remote possibility that Ray might've somehow been involved in his partner's death, for reasons unknown. Harlan had already told him that they'd found all their guns at the scene, both his handgun and his smaller boot gun, and Rylan's too. And while he lay unconscious after his surgery, those weapons had been thoroughly checked out. But though all their guns were loaded, none of them had been fired. So before he'd even opened his eyes, it had been established that the bullets that killed Rylan hadn't come from his weapon.
Ray wasn't offended by Harlan's investigation. For one thing, he knew it was standard procedure. For another, he was grateful that its results had cleared him of any direct responsibility for Rylan's death. All the evidence suggested that he and Rylan had been taken by surprise by someone, or several someones, which gave him a kind of grim relief. Since he couldn't remember the incident himself, if he'd known that his gun had been fired, or worse, that it had been used to kill Pat, he would've felt even worse than he already did. He would've had to wonder if they'd both gone crazy, if Pat had attacked him again, and if he'd killed him in retaliation for that, plus his earlier rape attempt. The way things were, at least he knew they'd been assaulted by some perps, not each other.
But he still had no memory of the attack. None at all.
He sighed, frustrated. The bandages on his head and chest itched, and he wished, for probably the hundredth time that day, that he was anywhere else. Or at least that Fraser was here...
At the thought of him, he smiled without knowing it. Though Ben had gone back to work the day after he regained consciousness, he still came by to see him every night, as soon as his shift was over. And it was five thirty already, which meant that Ben was due in about fifteen minutes. Ray could hardly wait. He found himself living for those moments, for the sight of that flame-bright jacket and broad-brimmed hat coming through his door. He felt amazingly lucky that Ben still cared for him, after he'd freaked out and left him.
But they still hadn't talked about that. Ray wanted to, but he didn't have the guts to bring it up. To say that he hoped Ben wasn't just being kind. That he hoped Ben wanted him too; wanted him back as his lover. But he kept thinking that if he said all that, actually put his hopes into words, he'd jinx things. Find out something he didn't want to know. Ben might tell him that he was sorry, but he was with someone else. And he didn't know if he'd be able to stand that.
He didn't think that someone else was Ray Vecchio though. Not anymore. Vecchio had actually shocked him by coming by to see him the night before with Fraser and his mom. He'd been nice enough, and once Mrs. Vecchio was done hugging and kissing him, he'd even asked how he was doing. No sarcasm, no "Stanley", no contempt in his eyes or his voice.
Ray wasn't sure what was up with that. If Vecchio felt sorry for him, if he'd changed his mind about hating him for some reason, or if Fraser had brow-beaten him into being nice by threatening to tell him Inuit stories non-stop for a month, if he insulted him. But for whatever reason, Vecchio had been on his best behavior, so he'd decided to go with the flow. Behave himself too. So he'd told him he was doing fine, and that he was probably going to get out within a week.
Still, as they were talking, he'd wondered what Vecchio was really doing there. Then he'd noticed that while they made awkward small talk, Benny stood nearby beaming at them both. So he'd decided it must've been his idea for Vecchio to come and see him. Fraser was trying to make peace between the two of them.
Ray wasn't surprised. Even though Fraser still didn't know he'd left the 27th because of him, Vecchio had probably told him about how they'd sniped at each other when they'd first met. And the second time, when he'd practically thrown his files at the Italian, muttered a few surly hints about his top priority cases, then stalked out, hadn't been much better. So if Vecchio had mentioned any of that, Ben would've known there wasn't any love lost between them, and good-hearted as he was, he'd naturally tried to patch things up by bringing Vecchio to visit him.
Ray knew he should've appreciated that. But the whole time he'd been talking to Vecchio, despite what Frannie had told him, and his 99 percent certainty that she was right about him not being gay, half his mind had been preoccupied with watching him and Fraser. It was like the Italian set off this jealousy alarm inside his head. Whenever he saw him within ten feet of Ben, it started shrieking. Maybe it was because he was paranoid, or because the bond between them was so strong it was unmistakable. Either way, he couldn't ignore it. So while pretending to make conversation, he'd scanned them anxiously to see if there was any hint of romance involved in it.
But he hadn't seen any. Not in Ben's eyes, or in Vecchio's; and he'd been watching them both like hawks. They were easy with each other, there was deep, committed trust and affection there, but no sexual spark. None at all. Ben didn't touch Vecchio, and though Vecchio touched him, it was in a casual way. No hunger behind it.
Frannie was right. Ben and Vecchio weren't lovers. As far as he could tell, they never had been. Once he had the chance to study them together, he was sure of it. The last, thin little clouds of suspicion that had been floating at the back of his mind finally dissipated then, like so much smoke. Ray was still jealous of Vecchio for being Fraser's friend first, but he didn't hate him anymore.
He still hated himself, though. Because even though he'd told Fraser he was sorry for their break-up, he hadn't had the guts to take the next step. To explain why it had happened. To tell him that he'd spied on them, seen them hug and assumed (wrongly) that they'd been lovers, and that they were getting together again, shacking up behind his back -- and that Ben had lied to him about it.
He sighed to himself. He just couldn't figure out a way to say all that without making Fraser crazy, and himself look like the biggest ass in Illinois. Which, of course, he was. But he couldn't let it go, either. Sooner or later, polite as he was, Fraser was going to ask him what the hell had happened. And not only did he owe him an explanation, he also figured it'd be better if he brought it up himself. He was supposed to be a tough guy, so he had to start acting like one.
He was trying. He'd been practicing, when he was alone in his room. Trying to find the right words. "Uh, ya see, Frayzh," he muttered, "it's like this. I got worried about ya-- No. Start over," he told himself. "That sounds stupid."
He cleared his throat and tried again. "Okay. See, it all started the morning Vecchio came back. After we -- well, you know. When you didn't come back to my place in a half hour, like you said you would, I thought somethin' must've happened to ya. So I took a cab over to yer place, to find out what was goin' on."
He broke off, swallowing hard at the painful memory. "You didn't know I was there," he forced himself to say. "And I didn't tell ya, because when I got outta the cab in front o' yer apartment, I saw ya with him, Frayzh. You were with Vecchio, and ya were both laughin'. Dunno what at, but I thought it was me. I saw him put his arm around ya, and I thought--"
He broke off, unable to go on. He always choked at that point in his apology. He'd never been able to put the worst of his guilt into words, not even when he rehearsed all by himself like this.
"Well," a familiar voice suddenly said. "That's all very fascinating, but you've left out the best part, Detective. Just exactly what DID you think? When you saw Detective Vecchio with his arm around Constable Fraser, I mean?"
His ex-wife sauntered into his room, smiling wickedly.
Ray froze. "Hi, Stella," he said weakly. It was the second time she'd been by to see him in the last few days. Why in hell couldn't she have picked some other time, any other time to visit than right in the middle of one of his private confessions? Oh jeez, he thought, panicked. How long has she been out there? Did she hear all of it? Did I actually say that we -- that Frayzh and me--
Stella's smile widened. "Oh, Ray. You should see your face!"
He didn't have to. He could feel a slow flush creeping up his neck as she teased him. And he knew it must be putting ideas in her head about him and Fraser, if she didn't have them already after what she'd overheard. But he hadn't meant Stella to know that he and Benny had been lovers yet. Or maybe ever. He didn't think she'd take it well at all. So he pretended to misunderstand what she was talking about. "Yeah, well, you might not look so hot yerself, if you'd just been shot like I was," he muttered.
Stella sat gracefully down in the chair beside his bed, and pulled it up close, so that her knees were touching it. "Still," she said softly, "it's a nice face, under all those bandages."
She smiled at him, and he relaxed a little. "Thanks, Stel. Yer not so bad yerself. That's a nice dress yer wearin'," he added, grateful that she'd been diverted from the subject of whatever she'd overheard of his stupid little confession. He told himself it couldn't have been much, or she'd be giving him the third degree.
"Thank you," she smiled back. "How're you feeling?"
He shrugged. "Bored. There's nothin' good on the tube, and my bandages itch."
He scratched at the one on his head, and to his surprise, she leaned forward and kissed it, very gently. "Better?" she breathed.
He couldn't believe how nice she was being. She'd been like this when she came to see him before, too. All sweet and soft, like she used to be when they were first married. It was like the hard, sharp-tongued Stella who was Assistant State's Attorney Kowalski had been replaced by his Stel, the gentle girl he'd dated a thousand years ago. It brought back all his old feelings, made him want her all over again. In a kind of nostalgic way. For old times sake. "Yeah," he said, giving her a look. "Wanna try again?" he asked, only half teasing. He reached for her, drew her gently towards him. "This time, I'll help--"
For a second, it seemed like she was going to do it. Really going to kiss him. Then she lifted her head and kissed him on the forehead again, instead of on the mouth like he'd been wanting. "That probably wouldn't be a good idea, Ray," she said softly. "Seeing as how you're in love with Fraser, I mean."
"Stella--" He fell back onto his pillows with a groan. Holy shit. She DID hear it all! Embarrassment choked whatever excuses he might've dreamed up to try to explain it.
Amazingly, she didn't look angry. More sad than anything. Maybe even a little jealous. "I've known for awhile, Ray," she said quietly. "When were you going to tell me?"
He felt completely humiliated. Not only had Stella figured it out, but she also knew he'd been trying to hide it from her. So he did what he always did when he felt bad. He got angry. "I dunno," he shot back defensively. "When were ya gonna tell me about Frank Orsini? On yer weddin' day maybe? I hadda find out about him from my mom."
She winced. "Touche´, Ray." She sat back a little, looking away from him.
For a minute, silence fell between them, and he was sorry he'd said it. This felt so familiar: the hurt, the jealousy, the regret. They'd played this scene a hundred times before, but it never got any easier. Sometimes he felt like this was all they had left, of what had once been an amazingly good thing: the ability to hurt each other. He didn't know what to say to her anymore, that wouldn't cause scenes like this. After an awkward silence, he reached out and took her hand gently. "Stel..."
She looked at him warily, hurt still written on her face. But she didn't pull away, and that was something. He ran his fingers over the back of her hand gently. "I just... didn't know how to tell ya," he said at last. "Didn't wanna hurt ya, and that's all I seem to be good at anymore."
She smiled at him then. A small, rueful smile, but the hurt look had faded from her eyes, replaced by a tenderness he'd seldom seen since their divorce. "No it isn't," she said. "You still have a way of surprising me sometimes, too."
And he knew what she meant: him holding her hand, and Fraser. Fraser, too. But it warmed him a little, knowing that despite their divorce, they still had something left between them besides pain. That way of knowing what the other was thinking without words; and caring about it, too. So the connection between them was still there, on some level. The love. Always would be.
"Constable Fraser..." She faltered, and for once, words seemed to fail her. She settled for shaking her head wryly. "That was a surprise."
He couldn't help himself. He grinned at that. "Freaked me out too, at first."
She managed to smile a little. "But I have to say, you've got good taste, Ray. He's very -- handsome."
"Yeah." It was all he could say. He felt himself flushing stupidly again, even redder than before. He'd never even imagined being able to talk about Fraser to Stella like this, or hearing her say anything good about him either, once she knew. He didn't have a clue how to respond. It was too weird, his own ex-wife thinking his male lover was cute! So he settled for squeezing her hand again.
He was a bit ashamed of himself now, for keeping it from her for so long. After all, now that she'd found out about it, she wasn't screaming at him like he'd thought she would. She wasn't saying ugly things or trying to make him feel bad. She'd actually given Fraser a compliment. She was trying to accept it, for his sake. He could hardly believe it. He caressed her fingers very tenderly, wishing he could tell her how relieved he was to find that she knew his secret and didn't hate him for it. How embarrassed he felt, looking back at the way he'd acted when she'd dated other men.
"Stella?"
All of a sudden, he saw that she was crying. Her big blue eyes were filled with tears that threatened to overflow. Stella never cried, and it shocked him. "Hey!" Alarmed, he pulled her chair back over to the side of his bed again, so that he could reach out to her. He couldn't figure out what she was so upset about. Maybe the idea of him being with Fraser was freaking her out after all. "Whatsa matter?"
"I'm sorry," she sniffed, wiping at her eyes. "I swore I wasn't going to do this--"
"It's okay," he said softly. "What's up?" He put a hand on her shoulder and tugged her gently towards him, still half afraid she would push him away. But she didn't. She leaned over and laid her head against his shoulder, even let him put his arms around her. He felt her swallow hard, as if she were choking down a sob.
"It's just -- you scared me a bit this time, Ray," she whispered then, in a very small voice. "You were out so long... I thought you might die."
Her arms slipped around him then, tentatively, and he held her tighter, deeply touched. He was wrong, it wasn't Fraser that was bothering her at all. Or maybe it was, but not as much as this. "Shh," he crooned, rubbing her shoulder soothingly. "You know better'n that. I'm too stubborn to die."
She laughed, a shaky little puff of breath against his chest. "Isn't that the truth!"
He kissed the top of her head very softly. "Yeah. It is." He felt immensely tender. "I'm never gonna leave ya, Stella," he promised. It had been long enough since their divorce, now, that he could say that and mean it. "Not if I can help it, anyway. Even if... ya find someone else and get married, I mean. Or if I--" He caught himself. It wasn't an if anymore, he already HAD found someone. But at that instant, for the first time, the thought of making it official crossed his mind. He thought of marrying Ben. Not just getting him back, but putting a ring on his finger. Wow. It was mind-blowing.
But he knew better than to say it out loud. It was a total pipe dream, and besides, it kind of scared even him. He could just imagine how Stella might take it. Besides, this wasn't the time to even bring something like that up. "What I mean is, I'll always... be here for ya. If ya ever need anything. Not that you do," he added hastily, remembering her pride. "I mean, I know ya can take care of yerself and all, but I--"
She lifted her head then, and smiled at him through eyes that were still a little too bright. "It's okay, Ray. I understand," she said. She touched his cheek gently. "And that goes for me, too. Always."
To his surprise, she leaned over and kissed him then, very softly. On the lips, just like he'd been wanting her to. He kissed her back, knowing that he would always love her. Feeling more peaceful inside about her than he'd felt since she left him.
But that feeling of contentment didn't last long. Because when she let him go and he finally opened his eyes again, he saw Fraser standing in the doorway watching them.
Oh shit. Ray stiffened in an instant. He knew Ben had seen it all. Worse yet, Stella didn't see him at first, and she took a shade too long letting him go.
And Fraser saw that, too.
His blue eyes were practically blazing with anger as Stella pulled away from him. It scared the hell out of him, because he wasn't sure if it was her he was mad at, or him. "Hey, Frayzh," he began, trying to act casual, so Fraser wouldn't think he'd walked in on a make-out session. Trying not to panic, trying to think of a way to explain that their kiss had been tender, not sexual. All about old times, not right now. That Stella was his past; but he wanted Fraser to be his future.
Fraser didn't give him a chance. "I'm sorry, Ray," he said, so stiffly polite that Ray winced. "I see that you're busy," he said tightly. "I'll come back later."
And with that, he was gone.
"No," Ray whispered. "Frayzh, wait!" he croaked, but it was too late. The Mountie had already left.
Stella stared at him. Ray had never been good at hiding his feelings, and right now, he was so upset he wasn't even trying. He looked frightened, even stricken, and she felt more than a little guilty. She knew what Fraser had seen, or thought he'd seen, and it was partly her fault. For a second, though, she considered just letting it go. Not doing anything about it. Letting Ray wiggle out of it as best he could. After all, his love life wasn't her problem anymore; and it'd serve him right actually, for stalking her when she was seeing Frank Orsini.
But then she saw how bruised and fragile he still was, and she wavered. How could she be cold to him, when she'd just come really close to losing him entirely? It seemed unfair, when he'd just finished telling her in his tough guy way, that he would always love her and look out for her. No matter what, for the rest of his life. And he'd do it. She knew that, too.
It was hard to hold a grudge against a man as sweet as that. So though she was jealous of the Mountie, she decided it wouldn't be fair of her to come between them. She still loved Ray, she always would, but she wasn't in love with him anymore. She'd moved on, and so had he. Hell, a blind man could see that he was desperately in love with the gorgeous Constable. And from the look in the big guy's eyes when he'd caught them kissing, it was decidedly mutual.
And though that hurt her somehow, she decided that it had its positive aspects, too. Maybe if the two of them got together, Ray would stop following her around when she went on dates. It was worth a shot. So before she knew it, she was on her feet, throwing her purse quickly over her shoulder. "Don't worry, Ray," she smiled down into his pale, anxious face. "I'll talk to him."
Then she hurried out the door, hoping she could catch up with Fraser before he got out of sight.
Ray sank back onto his pillows in total dejection. "Perfect," he groaned. "That's just friggin' perfect!" If he hadn't been wearing hospital duds that didn't even cover his ass, he'd've gotten up and run after them. Because given a choice, he wouldn't have sent Stella to talk Benny out of his snit. Not in a million years. Not when she was the cause of it. On a scale of 1 to 10 of possible disasters, that seemed like a twenty. Especially since Stella wasn't always the diplomatic type. Just thinking about what she might say to Fraser gave him the shivers.
Probably something like, "Oh, for God sakes, Constable. Stop being such an idiot, and go back in there and talk to him. We were only kissing, after all. It's not like you caught us having sex! And even if we had been, I fail to see how that would be any of your business!"
Oh, geez. I can hear it all now. He swallowed hard and shut his eyes tightly, trying to blot the disastrous image out of his head. Because if she said something like that to Fraser, he'd assume they were having sex (if he didn't already), and he could kiss any hope of ever having that with him again goodbye. He pounded his covers with a fist, because he knew it was half his fault.
Why'd you do it? Why the HELL did you DO that? he groaned inwardly. Ya KNEW Benny was on his way, how could ya forget that? He was only just starting to trust ya again. Now he probly thinks you were tryin' to score with Stella in yer hospital bed. He probly won't ever come back here again!
Stupid, stupid, STUPID! He hit himself in the forehead a couple of times with his fist, on general principles. It didn't seem to help. In fact, it hurt. Quite a bit. And when the pain died away, he was still terminally stupid. And he was still alone.
Fraser strode down the hall, his head spinning. First Rylan, and now Stella! he thought, furious. I thought Ray's ex-partner was the only one standing between us, but it seems that Ray's ex-wife is also there! He was kissing her, in his hospital bed no less! It stunned him. Despite the fact that he'd wanted to kiss Ray there himself, it infuriated him that Stella had done so instead. Indulged herself in what he'd only dreamed of doing. Exactly how many people was Ray involved with at the moment, anyway? Did the list even end with Stella and Rylan?
Maybe I should take a number when I visit him, he thought, seething. As if I were visiting the post office, or some other government agency. Line up behind all the others, living or dead, with whom Ray is in love!
Taking long strides, he bypassed the hospital elevator in favor of the stairs. He was in no mood to be polite to anyone at the moment. He didn't even want to look at anyone, much less speak. In fact, he opened the stairway door with perhaps more force than was absolutely necessary, and took a sort of grim pleasure in the loud noise it produced when it slammed back against the stairway wall.
He plunged through the doorway in a huff, and began taking the stairs down to street level two at a time. He knew he was behaving childishly, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He'd hurried to the hospital earlier, eager to see Ray, his mind filled with thoughts of him -- and his disappointment at finding Stella in his arms, at seeing them kiss, was overwhelming. He wasn't even sure what he'd said to them. All he wanted now was to get away from them, as fast as possible. Out into the night, where he could think.
But he'd only made it partway down the stairs when he heard someone calling him.
"Fraser! Constable Fraser, wait! Please!"
It was Stella.
Damn it! How did she track me here? he thought. He didn't look back at her. For an ignoble second, he actually considered ignoring her. Pretending he hadn't heard her, and heading out into the night as he'd planned.
But she had said please... Then she said it again. "Please, wait!"
A plea from a woman, couched in polite terms -- how could he resist it, when he'd been trained since birth to respond to such stimuli? He slowed in spite of himself. Lowered his head and sighed, and forced his boots to a stop. "All right," he called reluctantly back up the stairs. But he stayed where he was, not walking back up to her right away. He needed to get his breathing under control first, had to try to hide his fury. His jealousy. Assistant State's Attorney Kowalski was a very sharp, intelligent woman. But she didn't know about his relationship with Ray -- at least, he assumed that she didn't, from the way she'd been kissing him just now. And it certainly wasn't his place to tell her, or to allow her to deduce it from his expression.
Besides, after what he'd just seen, it seemed that his physical relationship with Ray was finished anyway.
So he hesitated before turning to talk to Stella Kowalski. It just wasn't easy, even for him, to give up his dreams in an instant.
Stella wasn't sure what to say to the Mountie. It wasn't every day that her ex-husband's new male lover caught them kissing, after all! His extremely handsome male lover, she thought wryly, as she stepped down the stairs towards him. She hadn't been exaggerating when she'd told Ray he had good taste. Like every other woman who came into even casual contact with him, she'd noticed Fraser. Six feet of glossy dark hair, broad shoulders, long legs, tight butt, and a boyishly handsome face were hard to miss. She could see at least some of the reasons why Ray had fallen for him, even from a distance. And the way he'd been watching over Ray since the shooting, keeping a vigil over him even though there was a 24-hr-a-day cop guard outside, spoke volumes about his character as well. But she'd always avoided him, mostly because he was her ex-husband's partner, and God only knew what Ray had told him about her.
But as she stepped downstairs towards him, she actually felt sorry for him. She noticed that he kept his back to her, that his broad shoulders were stiff, and that he was holding onto the stair rail with a grip that was far too tight. As an attorney, she'd learned to pay close attention to body language; and Fraser's fairly shouted pain, jealousy, and barely controlled anger. Those small details told her just how badly they'd hurt him, and how much he cared for Ray.
"Constable, I just wanted to tell you something," she began.
He surprised her by turning suddenly to face her, his face wiped clean of the anger she'd glimpsed on it earlier. Wiped entirely clean of any emotion whatsoever, in fact. He even let go of the rail. "Yes?" he asked politely.
She gave him high marks for self control, as well as good looks. Evidently, despite his anger, he'd decided not to give anything away. For Ray's sake, she approved of his discretion. But it also made her task even harder than it already was. How did she explain that the kiss he'd just seen didn't mean what he'd thought it did, when he seemed determined to pretend that he hadn't seen anything at all?
"I just wanted to say thanks... for taking care of him," she said carefully. "Of Ray, I mean."
Fraser stood very still, not saying anything. But his eyes searched hers intently, as if he were trying to fathom her motives for thanking him, and for following him down here.
He shouldn't have had to do that. She should've made them clear. She felt impatient with her own timidity. She wasn't usually like this, she was an attorney for god sakes. She knew how to state a case. "What you saw in there, Constable, wasn't what you think," she said firmly. Then she damned herself for sounding so cliched. "I was -- upset because Ray almost died. He was just comforting me. That's all."
There. She'd gotten it out. She hadn't exactly been eloquent, but she thought she'd gotten her point across. She gave herself points for presentation, anyway. Her voice had been firm and her eyes direct, though saying that hadn't been easy. She didn't really even know the man, and it wasn't like this situation was -- well, exactly normal for her. It was actually pretty weird. For Fraser too, she suspected.
But if so, he didn't let on. "Ahh," was all he said. His voice was quiet, and the word so ambiguous that she couldn't tell if he'd understood what she meant or not.
She shrugged mentally. Even if he hadn't, she wasn't willing to go further than that; not even for Ray. She'd done what she could, had embarrassed herself enough for him. So she didn't try to explain further. "All right then. I've got to be going now," she said instead.
"I see. Well, goodbye, then," Fraser said. He still hadn't betrayed, by so much as the blink of an eyelash, if he understood -- or forgave them.
Stella felt frustrated. The man's a veritable Sphinx, she thought. Still, thought his reticence was exasperating, it wasn't entirely unexpected. He'd always struck her as very quiet and polite -- seemingly not Ray's type at all. Then again, despite the fact that they'd been married, it seemed she didn't really know what Ray's type was, did she?
"Yes. Goodbye," she answered automatically. But as she passed him on her way downstairs, she had another idea. "Why don't you go back up and see Ray?" she suggested pointedly. "No need to cut your visit short because of me."
And if he doesn't get THAT, she thought wryly, he's too stupid to deserve him.
But it seemed Fraser did, because he suddenly smiled a little. "Yes," he said, with a quiet gleam in his eye. "I think perhaps I will."
Fraser headed back to Ray's room with a distinctly light heart. Not only had Stella Kowalski not been giving Ray a passionate kiss, as he'd thought, it seemed that she also knew that he and Ray had had a relationship. Maybe even that he hoped they could renew it. Stranger still, she seemed to approve. He wasn't sure if she'd deduced it from his behavior just now, or if Ray had told her; but he supposed it didn't really matter. It made him feel oddly warm, that two people -- Frannie and Stella -- had figured out that he was in love with Ray, and contrary to his expectations, neither of them had objected. In fact, both women had gone out of their way to try to help the relationship along.
He shook his head as he headed down the hall. Will wonders never cease.
Ray sat up in bed with a thermometer under his tongue as an aging nurse took his temperature and blood pressure, wondering how the hell his life could get any worse than this. Bad enough that he was bruised all over and bandaged like a mummy. Now, he was also being tortured by an old Nazi masquerading as a health care worker, who was squeezing his arm down to the size of a popsicle stick! Worse yet, Fraser had left him in a snit. Worst of all, his ex-wife had gone to chase him down and talk to him about it.
"Somebody shoot me," he pleaded miserably. But then he remembered -- somebody already had. That's why he was here. But it didn't matter much, as the thermometer garbled his words anyway, so not even the nurse could tell what he was saying. She just fixed him with an evil eye, and made the cuff squeeze his arm even harder. "Oww!" he moaned, so dejected he couldn't even summon the energy to growl at her.
Just then, Fraser came back through his door. And he wasn't angry anymore, he was smiling. Which could mean only one thing.
Stella found him, and she didn't screw it up. She explained things, and now he's cool with it! Ray realized, astounded. In a second, his world went from black to dazzling light. Forgetting all about what the nurse was doing to him, he lifted his head and grinned so hugely at him that the thermometer fell out of his mouth.
The nurse shook her head at him. "Mr. Kowalski! You need to keep that in your mouth--"
"Grrr!" He bared his teeth at her and snarled a little. Now that Ben was back, he felt much better.
His nurse wasn't fazed. She just pursed her lips in disapproval, and picked the thermometer up calmly. Apparently, it had been in his mouth long enough for her to take a reading, because she just said "Hmm," then made a note on his chart.
He turned back to his Mountie. "Hi, Frayzh," he said. "So, did Stella find ya? Did you guys talk?"
Fraser nodded, with a slight smile. "Yes. Everything's fine, Ray."
Ray relaxed, with a sigh of relief. "Whoo. That's good. Cuz when you left before, ya know, ya looked like you were really pissed at me."
Fraser's eyes slipped past his shoulder, to the nurse, then back at him. "Yes. Well. I'm not now," he said briefly.
Ray realized what that meant. Fraser didn't feel comfortable talking about this when they had an audience. He nodded. "Gotcha," he said. He'd been so excited that he'd come back that he'd forgotten the nurse was still in the room. But now that Fraser had reminded him, he just wanted to get rid of her, so they could be alone.
He turned back to her for a second, to find her staring googly-eyed at Fraser over the top of his chart, his vital signs forgotten. He wasn't surprised. All his nurses did that, the first time they saw Benny. When he'd first woke up after the shooting, he'd thought it was hysterical. But now it was starting to irritate him. It was hard enough trying to get Fraser back when he was covered from head to foot with bandages and bruises, without having to beat the nurses off him with a stick, too. "Hey! Florence Nightingale!" he snapped, waving the blood pressure cuff at her to snap her out of her trance. "Remember me? Yer patient? You can take the instrument of torture off now!"
"Really, Mr. Kowalski!" she sniffed as she slipped it off. "We do this for your own good, you know."
"Yeah, yeah. Scat," he said tersely. The nurse raised her eyebrows at him, but he ignored her and turned to smile at Fraser again.
"I think what Mr. Kowalski meant," Fraser said smoothly, "is thank you kindly for taking such good care of him, Nurse -- Retched," he smiled, reading her nametag.
"No I didn't," Ray muttered rebelliously.
But the nurse didn't even hear him, because Fraser was bending over her just then. Ostensibly to read her tag, but also to give her the benefit of his hundred gigawatt smile. What Ray privately thought of as 'The Killer Smile'. The one guaranteed to melt anyone, male or female, into this little puddle at his feet.
The nurse definitely puddled. She fluttered her eyelashes and almost giggled. "Oh, well, that's no problem," she blithered. "Mr--?"
"Dahmer," Ray jumped in helpfully, with a gleam in his own eye. "This is my friend, Ben Dahmer. Jeffrey's youngest cousin, on his mom's side. Cops haven't been able to make anything stick so far, though. So don't worry."
Nurse Retched shot him a shocked glance. He just smiled and did his best to look innocent. So she blinked at Fraser in consternation. Then a second later, she was making for the door.
Fraser opened his mouth to contradict his story, but she was already gone. He shut it again, with a bemused look. "Did you have to pick a notorious serial killer, Ray?" he asked wryly. "Surely you could've invented a slightly less unsavory name for me--"
He grinned, unrepentant. "Okay. Next time, I'll tell her you're Clinton's cousin. What's the dif? Got rid of her, didn't I?"
To his surprise, though Fraser didn't actually grin, his eyes were smiling. "True." But then he sobered. "But you won't repeat that to anyone else, will you?"
Ray laughed to himself. No need for that. Nurse Retched would spread it all over the hospital without his help. The rumor that her nasty cop patient was being visited by the relative of a famous murderer would be the top of the hospital grapevine for the next week, at least. He just hoped some of the younger, prettier nurses would think the story interesting enough to check out in person. "No. 'Course not," he said aloud, trying to look serious.
Then his amusement died away as Fraser walked over to his bed and looked down at him. It struck him all over again, just how beautiful he was. His dark hair, his smooth, pale skin and deliciously red mouth... He suddenly remembered kissing him. Pinning him against the wall and kissing the hell out of him, one magic night four months ago. Making love to him like they were the only people in the whole world.
It hit him again, like a punch in the gut, how much he'd lost. Got no right to do that anymore. No right to even touch him.
But he wanted to. Damn, how he wanted to! Just looking at him took his breath away.
Fraser frowned a little, as if something of his hunger had shown in his face. "Ray?"
He looked away. Tried hard to get his mind off of fucking him. "Damn bandages itch," he complained. It wasn't quite a lie. Not entirely. His bandages did itch, just not as much as he itched for Ben; but he figured the Mountie didn't need to know that. He wasn't even sure he'd want to know that, now. So he shifted his legs under his covers so he wouldn't see what he'd done to him, with just one innocent little look.
Fraser leaned over suddenly, unexpectedly, and gently, very gently, touched his temple where the bandage covered it. "Here, Ray?" he asked softly. "Is that where it's itching?"
Jesus. Does he know? Is he playin' with me? He shot a look at the Mountie, but Fraser's eyes held nothing but a kind of warm concern. But even that was too much. All at once, Ben was too close, too warm, too gentle -- too everything. Ray could hardly breathe. He closed his eyes helplessly. "Yeah," he croaked.
Ben started to massage him. Right through his bandages. He moved his fingers across his forehead, rubbing gently, loosening their edges a little, lifting them off his skin. Oh, it felt good. Ray drew in a deep breath, and let out a long, quivering sigh. Magic fingers, he thought, entranced.
"Is that better, Ray?" Fraser asked after a few minutes, withdrawing his hand.
Ray had to bite back a moan at the cessation of that wonderful stroking. "Yeah," he said aloud, in the understatement of the year. "Better. Thanks." When he finally got himself under some marginal control again, he opened his eyes -- and got the second shock of the day.
Ben was still leaning over him, just inches away, and his eyes were fixed on him. Fixed, dark and dilated with hunger; as if touching him had aroused him too.
He wants me!
Ray froze for a second, unsure what to do, terrified that he might be wrong, that he might be seeing things. Then he reached out. Like a man in a trance, he reached out for Fraser, meaning to pull his dark head down and kiss him, like he'd been longing to do for days.
But in that second, Fraser recovered himself. He backed away from his bed, away from his outstretched hand, and groped for the chair. Dragged it a safe distance from the bed and sat down in it, his body stiff and his posture formal. "Good. That's good," he said quickly. "Well. How are you feeling today, Ray?"
Ray groaned to himself, and dropped his outstretched hand. He recognized a hasty retreat when he saw one. So it's like that, is it? We're back to that? HowareyouRayI'mfineFrayzhhow'reyou? Dammit! It made him want to throw something at Fraser's handsome, overly polite head. Still, he knew he had no one but himself to blame. He shouldn't have looked at him like that, shouldn't have tried to grab him. It was too soon. Or maybe it was too late. Way too late. Months too late. Maybe he'd mistaken that hunger in Fraser's eyes, or even imagined it. He was sure by now that Ben wasn't sleeping with Vecchio, but that didn't mean he hadn't found somebody else, while he was off busting junkies with Rylan. And if that were true, he had nobody to blame but himself. He'd had Fraser in his bed, and in one of the stupidest moments of his whole life, he'd thrown him out. So he bit back his frustration. "I'm okay," was all he said.
And he was. He still hurt, but every day when he woke up, he felt stronger. More like himself. He was becoming Stanley Ray Kowalski again. And deep inside, that little pulse was throbbing harder. That little pulse that had sprung to life when he woke up to find Benny Ben beside him. That was what kept him going. In spite of everything, even now when Ben had pulled away from him, he couldn't quite give up his hopes.
Soon, he told himself. Some day soon, yer gonna look at me like that and I won't let you pull away. Won't let you run. I'm gonna kiss ya. Then, we'll see what happens.
But for now, he settled back against his pil