by MR
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. Don't sue me, unless you want possession of my small tiger cat Samhain, affectionably known as Beelzebubba.
Author's Notes: This is based on an actual incident that took place in a nearby city. I've often wondered how cops deal with all the ugliness they see.
Story Notes: R for swearing and fairly graphic discussion of violence against a child. If you can't deal with that, walk on by.
Riding the Storm
By MR
"Dammit, Ben!"
Ray's face down on the bed, naked, and I know what he wants know before he even says it, and all I can say is, "No, Ray."
How many times have we played this scenario? The first was the night after Beth Botrelle was released. We'd only been lovers for a short time, and when Ray started talking about wanting me to get rough with him, slap him around, fuck him without using any lubrication, I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. In truth, it scared me. It was a side of Ray I'd never seen before.
I have a better understanding as to why he does it now. I will say that I can't quite grasp the actual thinking behind it, but Ray's mind is an odd place, not meant for the unwary to go wandering around in.
"Ben." I can hear the barely controlled anger in his voice. His body's completely rigid; even if I were to attempt intercourse, I doubt I could penetrate him. "You gotta help me with this, Ben!"
"I will, Ray." I sit down on the side of the bed, and began to stroke his shoulders. They glisten with sweat, fired by the heat of the day and his own internal rage. "I'll help you in any way I can. But I refuse to do this...thing."
His head whips sideways, and I'm not surprised to see his blue eyes are brimming with tears. "Why not, Ben? Ya tol' me ya loved me. Why can't ya do this for me just once?"
I continue to stroke his shoulders; long, sweeping curves that go down to his mid-back. Unconsciously, some of the stiffness leaves him. "Because you don't deserve it, Ray. No matter what you believe, you don't deserve to be hurt."
He sniffs and reburies his head in the pillow, but I can still hear the anguish. "Yeah, well, neither'd Kelsey McGuire, Ben. She sure's hell didn' deserve what she got. Christ!" His voice breaks, and he's sobbing. "Jesus, Ben, what sort've sick fuck could do that to a little girl? What sort've slime ball, sleazebag motherfucker'd do that kind've thing to his own daughter? She was his own fuckin' flesh and blood! How could he rape her?"
He's crying openly now; deep, gut-wrenching sobs that make me wish I could somehow go inside that strange mind of his and remove all the horrible things he's seen. All the things that make him wake up in the night screaming; all the scars he carries on his soul. Despite his cocky, tough-guy pose, Ray's a gentle man. I know he wanted children of his own badly; I've gathered that, as much as anything, led to the final break-up with Stella. Stella Kowalski who couldn't endanger her career by taking time off to have a baby. Now Stella Vecchio living in Florida with my other Ray, expecting their second child.
"You did what you could, Ray." My hand moves to his hair, and I stroke it. For all its wildness it feels like silk. I have very vague memories of my mother stroking my hair like this when I was frightened or sick; it gave me comfort then, and it gives Ray some measure of comfort now.
"Know what the kicker is, Frase?" He's cried himself out; his voice carries the weariness of a man who's spent 20 years doing a job that few people understand, and even fewer respect. "The real kicker is if we'd just got there 20 minutes earlier, we could've saved her."
"You don't know that, Ray."
He turns his head to look at me, eyes swollen and red from crying. "Yeah, I do. Mort said it pro'ly took her 15 minutes to bleed out. If we'd gotten there 20 minutes earlier, she would've still been alive."
I know he's telling the truth; I read the forensic report myself. Kelsey McGuire barely had three years of life on this earth, most of them unpleasant, if Mort's autopsy report is correct.
I want to make him feel better. I want to take the pain away. I want to say, 'Well, he'll pay for it, Ray.' But nothing I do or say will bring Kelsey back to life. Nothing will assuage Ray's guilt over not getting there in time. Nothing will keep him from adding Kelsey's battered body to the thousands of other horrific images stored in his mind.
All I can give him is something to hang onto until he rides the storm out. I push him over a little so I can slide in next to him, then arrange us; me on my back, him with his head on my chest. Fine tremors still run through his body, and every so often, his breath hitches. I bring my hand up and began to stroke his hair again, even as a new round of tears start.
All I can do is help him ride out the storm. And I will. However long it takes.
END