Nevermore: A Series of Abnormal Circumstances
by Giulietta
Disclaimer: Fraser and Ray belong to Alliance Atlantis -- if they belonged to me, I wouldn't be here.
Story Notes: Warning: this story deals with AIDS in great detail, and does not dabble with miracles. Do not read if it bothers you.
Ray's drunk -- well, at any rate, it would appear he is. He's slumped over the bar, apparently completely silent and utterly motionless. I shouldn't be surprised -- alcohol is a depressant, after all -- but I had thought, earlier, that he's generally vociferous and aggressive when drunk. Perhaps, at the time, he hadn't been well and truly -- well. It doesn't matter now. I've found him -- to be strictly accurate, Dief did, but they held him at the door -- and now I need to get him safely home before he does himself any serious damage.
I don't know why he's doing it this time, but I've found it's wise not to ask until he's home and almost asleep.
It's not loud today; tomorrow is a workday, and most of the neighborhood has the sense not to put their jobs in jeopardy with a hangover. I shake Ray's shoulder a little bit. "Ray," I mutter, close to his ear, hoping to prevent any embarrassment. "Get up, Ray, you need to go home."
Ray groans, and lifts his face out of his arms. "Frase?"
"Yes, it's me, as usual."
"Fuck." His head drops down again.
Well. I had thought he'd be mildly glad to see me. "Good to see you too, Ray," I snap.
"Didn' mean it like that, I jus'..."
"I see."
"You don't. Ya don't, Fraser, you don't get nothing--"
"I don't know that I want to," I break in -- and where had that come from? Of course I want to know -- it's no insignificant thing that can bring Ray to this bar every night for the past week.
Ray has gone, impossibly, even more still, now decidedly rigid. "You don't?"
I sigh. "Not here, no -- you need to get home. We can talk there," I offer, and again feel that baffling reluctance. I don't want to know. I don't want to talk.
But Ray's fumbling in his pockets, finding the GTO's keys and handing them to me. "Yeah, okay, lessgo." He seems to be in a rambling mood, spewing far more words than are necessary; he wants to talk, badly. And just as badly, I wish I could ignore it. Whatever it is, it can't be good.
I shake my head to admonish myself, take the keys, and let him lean on me when we walk out. He's feverishly warm, even though it's mid-February, and soon my left side has gotten quite comfortable in the heat he gives off. His jaw is shaking, though, teeth on the verge of chattering, and I realize he's not wearing a coat. "Did you bring your coat?"
His voice is muffled against my shoulder. "Huh?"
"Where's your coat?"
"Oh. Uh...home."
"You left it -- Ray, do you know what the average ambient temperature is?" I'm sounding dangerously maternal, I know, but even Ray isn't usually this careless.
"Mmmmm..." He's more than half-asleep, and I'm sure he's only barely registering anything I say. I fall silent.
Diefenbaker has already reached Ray's car, and his fur stands out in the darkness. Even Ray, his astigmatism worsened by the drinks and exhaustion, can make him out. "Dief! Dief, buddy, buddy, you wanna...you...Fraser?"
"Yes?" I unlock the door and attempt to dislodge him from my tunic, which he has gripped suddenly, apparently disoriented.
"Dief's got a girl, huh?"
"He -- what?" I turn around to look at Dief, sitting next to the front wheel, quite alone. "He hasn't got a girl, Ray. He's right here, and he hasn't any companions at the moment save us."
Ray is silent for a moment. "Should...go home, maybe. Sozzled, right?" He taps his head for emphasis, just as I manage to put him through the door and drop him on the backseat. I hold the door open for Dief, and take Ray home.
I've walked perhaps ten meters from the building when Ray pokes his head out of the door and proclaims to the world at large that he can't "figure out the fucking elevator buttons," Perhaps I'm making assumptions, but he never had difficulty with it before, and even if he had, his landlady would have been glad to help him. I think he's trying to lure me in. He's going to tell me, whatever it is, and he doesn't want to do it in public.
It's definitely not good news, then, and so I hesitate -- but Dief runs back ahead of me, and then I have no choice in the matter.
It's just as well, I chide myself. It's irresponsible to avoid bad news -- good or bad, if Ray needs to drink himself into oblivion for it, you need to at least try to help.
I walk back, at a pace somewhere between brisk and lagging.
Dief has settled himself on the rug near Ray's stereo, and Ray and I sit at his table. Rather, I sit, and he adopts a peculiar position that is halfway between lounging and slouching. He rolls an untouched glass of water between his fingertips -- I've given that to him in exchange for the beer he'd pulled out of the fridge. It sits, unopened, on my left, out of Ray's reach.
"Here's the thing, Frase," Ray starts unsteadily. "You, uh -- you ever, you know, look at guys?"
I know he probably means something other than the obvious, but I can't imagine what it is, so I have to take the question literally. "Certainly. I'm doing so right this minute."
He shakes his head. "No, no, I mean, you know --" and he raises his eyebrows emphatically -- "look. Consider. You know."
Ah. I see. I think. "Aside from one or two occasions in my adolescence -- which hardly counts for anything -- no."
Ray sighs -- relief, I think, but I'm not sure. "You said you thought I was attractive, though."
"You asked. I simply changed my viewpoint --"
"And you got a viewpoint?"
I frown. "I'm human."
Ray props his chin up on his forearm, watching his finger as he sticks it into the water and stirs. "Okay, so, sure -- what's your viewpoint got to say 'bout Frannie?"
I snort. "Weren't you trying to tell me something?"
"Uh...yeah, yeah, I...well, see, the thing is, I don't look at guys either. I mean not usually. I mean you -- aw, shit. Look, I mean I haven't been fucking random guys in bars, okay? I haven't even been fucking any particular guy. Okay?"
I blink. "I...didn't think you had been."
"Just, you know, keep it in mind, right?" He takes a deep breath, and then says in a rush: "I'mHIVpositive."
It takes a minute for the words to sink in -- and when they do, I'm up suddenly, my chair clattering backwards; I'm staring down at his bowed head. "HIV -- Ray -- you -- how?" As soon as the words are out I regret them -- it's not my business, it's not, I --
But he's already answering, voice tinged with panic now, gripping hunks of his hair in both hands. "I don't know, I don't know, I've never...been unsafe, or nothing, and I'm not queer, dammit, they keep looking at me like I -- and I'm not, I don't do guys, I --"
He's becoming hysterical now, and I don't know what to do -- I feel trapped, tongue-tied; I have no handy story to tell him. I can, I think, only offer comfort in a touch -- but he could misinterpret that, right now, seeing judging glances in every face, and he might hit me, and we might fight and he might bleed and --
--God, God, how long has he had it? I've had his blood on me before, countless times -- I could --
A soft whine cuts into my frenzied thoughts; Dief has roused himself from the rug, sensing the growing discord. He studies Ray briefly, and then walks up to him, licking Ray's ear and placing his head in Ray's lap. Ray hugs him hard, instinctively -- and watching them, I become aware of how far I've drifted from my friend. "Ray," I whisper, bending down, kneeling, holding him and Dief both, "I'm sorry, Ray, I'm sorry --"
Ray is crying, his eyes squinched tight closed -- painful tears, too few staining his cheeks because he's so afraid, and I can do nothing but hold him, whisper that I'm sorry, I'm sorry, 'til I don't know what the words mean anymore.
It's only much later that he finally stops shaking, and can say anything meaningful. By then we've all sagged to the floor -- my face is pressed into the warm damp of his neck, and he's pressed up against my chest, Dief curled around our legs. "Frase?" Ray say, and he almost sounds normal again.
"Yes?" My own voice is hoarse.
"'M not dead yet."
That word, dead, gives me a fair jolt, but it's not enough to start me crying again -- I'm too tired. "No. No, you're not."
"'M gonna beat it. Beat it, Fraser, you hear me?"
It's unlikely, says a voice in my head. Too unlikely.
It's best, says another voice, sounding uncannily like my father, to go out fighting.
"You'll try," I say, uncertainly, and Ray's entire body tenses, ready to lash out.
"I'll win," he growls.
"Every day?"
"Every single fucking day for the rest of my fucking pathetic life."
"Of course," I whisper, trying to soothe the bristle out of him. "Of course you will."
And really, I think later, putting Ray to bed and shutting the door behind me on my way out, fighting's the only way for Ray to go out.
Detectives Huey and Dewey emerge, in that order, from the doctor's office, and we know even before they shake their heads that they're negative. Under other circumstances, we might have been happier for them -- but just now we are all fearing for our own lives, waiting for our sentences: life or death. Negative or positive.
As I wait, I find that I'm actually wondering which one I want.
These last few days have been strained for me -- of course, I'm spending my every free hour with Ray; he needs the comfort, I need to comfort, so there's not much of a choice there. But our conversations are anything but comfortable. I don't think I ever realized how easy we were with physical contact until we just weren't anymore -- I hesitate, now, before every touch, for the moment it takes to recall the peculiar way HIV is transferred. Every touch is premeditated, deliberate -- and I've never been able to think about touching anyone without being embarrassed. It seems that the whole affair has become a mass of awkwardness.
Ray drove me here this morning -- and the routine was, comfortingly, exactly the same, two cups of coffee before leaving, each sweetened with seven chocolate candies -- despite my assertion that it was a short enough distance to walk. He insisted, on the way there, that I call him for a ride when I was through. I knew why he demanded that, and so I agreed with not a contrary word.
But then, with one boot already out of the car, he called me back. "Frase?"
"Yes?"
"If you -- you know -- if you got it. Um. You know, I'll be sorry and all, but I don't know if I...can be really sorry, you know? I mean...I'm not really sick, yet, but it...hurts, 'cause I..." He trailed off, but for once I knew where he was going with it.
"Understood," I replied shortly, and stepped out of the car.
"Hey Frase? You think I'm --" cruel? selfish?
"No, Ray. You're..." I hesitated. "...human."
And he is -- he's only that. I understand that.
"Benton Fraser?" calls the clerk. "The doctor will see you now." I'm nervous. I feel sick, I'm that nervous.
The lieutenant puts his hand on my shoulder briefly. "Constable," he says, reassuring, "whatever it is, you and Kowalski've got the balls to deal."
I nod. "Understood."
"Afraid?"
"Petrified."
He nods once, briefly. "We're with you." He knows that if any of us has it, I do, and he's trying to help me. I hope he knows that I appreciate the effort.
The nurse leads me to the doctor's office, not the exam room -- which only makes sense, after all. They're only disclosing test results. He looks up from filing away someone else's medical records. "Ah, Constable Fraser -- have a seat."
I sit and wait while he thumbs through the "F" section for what seems to be an interminable period. I wish Dief was here, but I had to leave him with Ray.
"Here we are -- Fraser, Benton; male; 38 years old?" I nod, and he flips through the papers to the back, the most recent tests. "Mmhm -- you're fine."
"Fine?" I repeat, somewhat stunned.
"Yeah, your T-cell count is quite high,and you're HIV negative. Healthy as a horse."
"I -- thank you, sir, I --"
He smiles wryly. "I'm glad. Now go, scoot, you'd better tell them before they get worried."
"Right you are, sir."
I hurry back to the waiting room in a daze, and at my head-shake the little room erupts with cheers. I locate the lieutenant, who notices my confusion. "We're all clear," he explains, "except for Kowalski -- hey, you want to call him?"
"I think that would be wise."
"Here," Welsh says, and rummages in his pockets for a moment, eventually producing a cell phone and handing it to me. "Don't take too long," he warns me gruffly. "The battery's low."
I thank him, and dial Ray's number as quickly as my fingers, shaking with relief, will allow. "Vecchio," Ray answers, before the first ring can cease.
"Negative," I tell him, knowing that I need say nothing more.
He's quiet for a moment. "That's...that's great, Frase. And what about the rest of 'em?"
"All negative."
I can hear him breathing and, fainter, Dief's low whine, the rustle of Ray's hand rubbing his head. "Greatness. So, uh, Frase -- you wanna maybe get some lunch with me?"
I'm about to protest that it's not necessary, that I'm sure I can pick something up on my way to the Consulate -- but something about his voice alarms me, tells me he's not actually talking about food. "I thought...you were coming to pick me up."
"Yeah, but I mean, you want me to drive you to the Consulate, or what?"
"Ray --"
"What?" he says, with such anxiety that it seems almost a snap.
"This doesn't change anything."
A soft sigh, almost inaudible -- followed by a sharp beep from the phone. "Nothing?"
"Nothing at all." I say, and glance at the phone -- the lieutenant is quite aware of his electronics, I must say. "Ray, the battery --"
"You using somebody's cell? Okay, okay, I'm coming to get you," he promises, and hangs up.
There is some difficulty, after that, about Ray's job -- they want to get him out of there, because of course a police officer is at constant risk of being injured and infecting the rest of the CPD. But the lieutenant is adamant that Ray not be cut loose to deal with AIDS -- AIDS -- alone, without health insurance or a proper paycheck. In the end, it's decided that Ray Kowalski will remain undercover as Ray Vecchio, and Ray Vecchio will be removed from the force for medical reasons -- but as Ray Kowalski is still undercover, he is still an employee of the CPD, with insurance and a regular paycheck. It's a clever bit of legal work, and I suspect ASA Kowalski and the lieutenant gave the process a considerable shove in the right direction.
But even so, knowing that he's protecting the life of a fellow police officer for a good cause, Ray seems to slowly bleed and fade away at the edges. It's to be expected, I suppose -- men like Ray are easily addicted to the fight-or-flight response that becomes almost customary in his profession. Nonetheless, it's distressing, especially after I repeatedly come to his apartment to find him on his back, on the couch, shrouded in smoke, like a corpse -- and it's that which, one day, I finally cannot stand any longer, which provokes me to begin our first fight since the diagnosis.
"Put that thing out," I snap, almost shouting really, before taking the cigarette from between his lips and doing it for him. "It's bad enough, without you getting lung cancer on top of everything else --"
"Yeah, well, I needed a smoke."
"Every day, Ray? A pack a day?"
"Two packs," he corrects me quietly, pulling the one I hadn't seen from under a cushion.
"Two packs, then! No one needs it unless they --"
"I need it, okay, Fraser? End of discussion." He heaves himself off the sofa. "You want something to drink?"
"I brought milk and coffee, but --"
"Thanks."
"Ray, listen to me, this is ridiculous, you --"
"I been doin' it for years, Fraser, What's done's done. I might go back to good old Canada and breathe nothin' but fresh air every day, but it's not going to change much." He pokes through the brown paper bag I've brought. "Hey, egg noodles. You 'n' Dief staying for dinner?"
"Yes -- I think I'll stay overnight, too. I don't know how you might try to kill yourself after I leave," I add meanly -- and God forgive me, but that pettiness feels so good.
Ray's laugh is harsh and grating. "You think I'm trying now?" He looks me in the eye. "You just wait 'til it gets really bad. You wait 'til I'm vomiting blood --"
"Shut up!"
He does, but he keeps looking at me with a kind of bitter triumph; his eyes glitter, and there are high spots of color on his cheeks. I take an unsteady breath. "I know you miss the excitement..." I hedge tentatively.
"Ha!" Ray barks, voice so rough I'm sure it must hurt him. "Yeah, yeah, that thing I used to call a job? Uh-huh. Filling out reports --" he stabs a hole into the bag of egg noodles -- "drinking bad coffee -- " he empties the bag into a pot of water, which overflows and hisses violently on the hot stove -- "and oh yeah," he adds, as though something's just occurring to him .
"Ray -- "
"You," he says, cutting me off and tipping a finger in my direction. "Yeah, you. Running around with you, after you, beating the bad guys, endangering my life in new and bizarre ways." He comes closer to me, and I want to back away, but I don't. "More fun than a barrel of monkeys, right?"
"I don't know what you're -- "
"But you know," he interrupts me again, "I think there's plenty of reason for me to associate you with impending death. Classical conditioning, I think they call it."
"I -- I'm sorry," I stammer, because I don't know what else to say, because I don't know what's coming next.
"But I don't," he goes on, ignoring me. "I don't 'cause you're my friend, and prob'ly the reason I'm not dead already is 'cause you been lookin' out for me." He's very close; I can see his pupils, dilated from the nicotine; minuscule contraction, expansion, contraction. "But I think, Fraser, that it's really -- "
And he never finishes his sentence; he suddenly seizes me, puts his arms around my shoulders, and I flinch hard, my whole body jerking at the unplanned contact before I can reassure myself: it's a hug, just a hug.
But it's not, really, because when he pulls back his face is shuttered and cold, his eyes averted, and the noodle-pot boils over noisily but neither one of us starts.
"Well," he says finally, "I guess that's the first test you ever failed."
"You're mistaken," I say, and Lord how I hate this tendency to ramble, "When I was six my father -- "
He's turned away from me, and extends a splayed hand in my direction: save it. I watch him warily as he moves around the kitchen stiffly, turning down the stove, mopping up the water on the floor. "You don't have to stay here, Fraser," he tells me, looking up from where he's squatting. "I can take care of myself."
"I need to stay, Ray," I reply, trying not to let my voice crack. "I want to stay," I add, because that seems to be the issue.
"Lemme rephrase that. You should leave -- "
" I won't -- "
" -- 'cause you're not gonna get over this thing." He glares at me, daring me to prove him wrong.
"This touching thing."
"Yeah."
"Ray, I've never -- "
"With me you did. Don't give me that shit, you -- "
"It's a perfectly normal reaction! Given the circumstances -- "
"Normal. Fraser, when was the last time you did normal? So, okay, you're here, that's not normal, so what I'm saying is that you better get more freakish or less 'cause this? This is not -- "
"You want me to touch you."
"Among other things, yeah. I mean, I want you to talk to me like I don't got it. I want to pretend it's not here."
"But it is."
"Not yet, it's not advanced yet, you don't got any reason to be careful around me. If you were fucking me, well -- "
"Ray!"
" -- that'd have to stop, but we're not, so..."
"So you don't see why anything should have to change."
Ray leaves the noodles, now simmering quietly, and slumps heavily onto the couch. "Yeah."
"All right."
"What the hell's that supposed to -- "
"It means all right, I'll pretend." I sit down next to him and peer at him out of the corner of my eye. "But you still -- "
' -- shouldn't give myself cancer.Yeah, I know."
His knee bumps up against mine, and I try very, very hard not to flinch; but he must see something, because he narrows his eyes and bumps me again, deliberately. I'm tempted to smile, but his face is completely serious and I'm afraid he'll only get angry again if I do -- bump, bump, bump, his bony kneecap knocking against mine.
After ten bumps I lose count, and sometime shortly after that my stomach stops jumping at every bump. Then I become aware that his leg is up against mine, lax and comfortable and so familiar...I've missed this, this ease. Ray's right -- we couldn't have gone on much longer if I'd maintained that level of discomfort.
"Okay," he says quietly, "we can make this work."
Ray wants to pretend he's not sick, and so for the most part we do -- apart from Ray's absence at the precinct, where my aid is often enlisted, we lead the same lives we always have. And if Ray is less flirtatious with the entirety of Chicago's female populace...well, I pretend not to notice, and secretly admire his nobility.
One random Tuesday I ring the bell to Ray's apartment and get no answer.
I know he's in there; I can hear the hiss of the open intercom, but then it cuts off again without a sound. I'm immediately concerned, and ask his landlady to let me in -- she really is fond of Ray, and is quite as worried about him as I am.
As she fumbles with her keys outside Ray's door, I strain my ears, trying to detect some sound, anything to tell me what's happening. And then I hear it: a suppressed cough, which sounds like it would be a full-fledged hack if Ray wasn't holding it in. "Hurry," I tell the landlady sharply, then add "please," as an afterthought.
Finally the door swings open, and I poke my head in. Ray's not in the living room, which is odd in itself; at this time of day, Ray's usually watching television. Ray's landlady looks in over my shoulder. "You'll, uh, see to 'im then?" she asks me worriedly. I nod absently at her, and she shuts the door behind me.
I follow Dief, who is following his nose, through the apartment to the bathroom door. Ray is standing just inside, one hand clutching the counter, the other held to his mouth. As I watch, he shudders, and shudders, the coughs shaking his entire body.
Dief goes to him, whining, and paws gently at Ray's calf. "It'd be best," I say in a small voice, "to let it out."
Ray shakes his head violently.
"Why?"
He taps his throat. "Hurts," he rasps, and shudders again.
"Even so." I come a little closer. Ray reaches down, tightens his fingers in Dief's fur. "You need to expel the -- "
Ray lets go of Dief to wave that hand at me: okay, okay, geez. He breathes shallowly -- in, out, in. "Hold me," he whispers, urgent.
I don't understand, but I do it anyway -- wrap my arms around his chest, under his armpits, and wait. When the cough comes, I see what Ray meant: not hold him, but hold him up, which is a different matter altogether. His chest heaves under my forearm, and he's trying to curl into a fetal position, so I lower him gently to the floor. He keeps coughing, long grating rasps that seem to tear out his throat; now I'm only holding him, waiting with him for it to be over. Finally it is, and he goes limp, his hands falling away from his mouth --
"Shit," He's hoarse still, but he can speak -- "Shit. Shitfuck. Fraser -- blood -- get off, get out, fuck -- " He's pushing me out of the door with his legs, and just before he kicks the door shut in my face I see his palms, smeared with crimson -- God. God.
I check myself for blood, but can't find any -- my tunic, though, could have blood on it and I'd never know. I strip out of it quickly, and sigh with relief when I find my Henley unmarked.
When Ray emerges from the bathroom, he looks distinctly shaken. "It wasn't much," he tells me. "I don't think I got any on you." But his eyes are flicking rapidly over me, checking for blood stains. "Uh, Fraser," he says, edging closer, "you, uh, don't gotta -- um." He's afraid, I realize, truly petrified of saying whatever it is he's trying to say. "You don't gotta stay," he mutters in a rush.
I goggle at him. "Ray -- "
"I know, I know, I don't need to give you permission to -- "
" -- you've coughed up blood. You should be finding your doctor, not -- "
He waves a hand at me impatiently. "Been there, done that. Went last night."
"You -- when did this start?"
"Last night, like I said."
"Why didn't you tell me something? You must have been -- " Terrified, I want to say -- which he must, must have been, because how else could he have been? Alone, in pain, and above all confused and not really certain that he wouldn't die...yes, terrified. But Ray will never admit that.
"Yeah," he says. "But I didn't wanna wake the whole Consulate up, and besides, there was blood everywhere. I wouldn'ta known where to put you."
"I would have managed."
"Right." Ray runs a hand through his hair. "See, I'm thinking maybe -- maybe we can't pretend anymore."
I swallow hard, and reach for my tunic, seeking some comfort in the familiar movements of tying it on. "And what, precisely, do you mean by that?"
"I mean I got this thing, okay? It's here, it's staying. If you stick around, you'll be -- "
" -- at risk."
"Yeah." His shoulders are slumped, and while Ray is a habitual sloucher, I've never seen them slump quite this far. He looks...young, I suppose, too young -- he's forgotten to gel his hair, but he's shaved carefully, which makes him look about twelve years old. It's not normal behavior for him -- I'm used to the perpetual stubble and haphazard spikes -- but then Ray's life is anything but normal, just now. It's strange and ... lonely. Yes. That's the word. Ray is lonely in Chicago, which I hadn't thought possible, but...
"All right," I reply, avoiding his eyes, "so what?"
Ray looks at me sharply. "Fraser?"
"Yes?"
"Are you nuts?"
"It's been suggested more than once, I'm afraid."
"You could get -- "
"I know."
"You could -- "
"I know."
"You could die -- "
"I know, Ray!"
He's a foot away from me -- he came closer to me while he was protesting -- and his chest is heaving erratically. The outburst must have used up his limited air supply. "Listen," he starts breathlessly.
"No, Ray. Be quiet a little. You don't -- "
"Listen to me," he interrupts me fiercely. Under normal circumstances, he'd probably have grabbed the collar of my tunic. "You know I said I was gonna fight this thing?"
"...yes."
"Well, let me tell you somethin'. It don't feel like fighting. I'm good with fighting, I like fighting, do it all the time -- and this ain't it. This, this just feels like being sick. Like being weak -- "
"You're not -- "
"It's not noble, Fraser," he shouts over me. "It's not like you can save me from it by taking a bullet for me, or by hitting somebody 'til let me alone, or even like the two of 'em mashed together somehow. It's just me, getting sick -- and dying at the end of it -- "
"Ray -- "
" -- 'cause you can't keep it from happening, Fraser," he tells me -- wise words, on the surface, except his face is screaming terrified, terrified, fucking terrified. "You can clean up my vomit, if you want, you can bring me candy and meds and feed me if -- if things get that bad, but I'm still gonna die."
This is killing me. He can't know it is -- he's only trying to face up to the inevitable, to just accept it so he won't fear it -- he's not even talking to me, to be honest -- but it is, it is, because I don't want to know this. I don't need to know how helpless I really am.
"And if you get it," he goes on, voice shaking slightly, "it won't be like you taking a bullet for me, it'll just be you getting sick, and you dying, for no fucking good reason at all."
A trembling silence follows that; my hands tremble, and all of him is trembling. I'm afraid he'll fall. And beyond that, I'm just afraid.
Finally I take my hat in my hands, put in on carefully. His eyes are following me, wide -- despite all his reasoning, he doesn't want me to leave; he can't quite believe that, right this minute, I'm going to. I raise my eyes to his -- he's between me and the exit -- begin making my way to him, to the door. When I'm directly in front of him, he lowers his eyes to the ground, leaning up against the wall.
I put my arms around him.
It's an awkward hug, because Ray is all startled elbows and knees, jabbing into my torso painfully -- but it's a hug, nonetheless. Eventually Ray's limbs stop flailing, and his hands come to rest on my shoulders uncertainly, torn between pushing me away and hugging me back.
When I pull away, Ray looks even more confused than he had earlier. "What -- "
"I'm afraid," I break in, "that I'll have to stop by the Consulate, for a moment."
"...why?"
"Well," I explain, with an affected air of forced tolerance, "my worldly possessions are are rather small in number, but they do not fit into the uniform very well, so I can't carry them with me."
He squints at me suspiciously, all traces of that vulnerable confusion gone. "You're gonna get your stuff?"
"Yes."
"No. Nuh-uh. Weren't you -- "He's coming towards me again, frustration flushing his cheeks. I halt him at arm's length with a hand on his shoulder.
"I was listening, Ray. I listened, and I always do, regardless of your mental health, because I'm your friend. As such, I'm afraid I can't leave you to wither away and die in solitary confinement. That's...not buddies." I back away, towards the door, and Dief bolts across the apartment to my side. "I'll see you in...approximately half an hour."
Quickly, before Ray can voice another protest, I shut the door behind me. Diefenbaker and I then hurry through the halls, making as speedy a getaway as possible without being overly rude to anyone passing us by. It isn't, incidentally, until we're out on the street that Diefenbaker emits a low whine and looks up at me, disgruntled.
"That," I reply testily, "was a brilliant escape, and a brilliant argument, and there's no sense in undermining all that just so that we can go back and get the car keys!"
Another whine -- God, that wolf is dogged.
"So all right! I didn't plan it! I was most certainly not prepared for it -- are you getting somewhere with this?"
Diefenbaker grins, and intimates that a doughnut would prevent him from getting there.
"Ask Ray. He'll have little else to do with you when you stay with him on workdays."
I'm almost certain that wolf would sell his soul for the right number of pastries...
"Good afternoon, you've reached the Canadian Consulate, acting -- "
"Constable," Welsh interrupts me. "I think you might like to get down here sometime today. With Kowalski."
"...sir?"
"Don't worry, no field work. It's an old case."
"Is something out of order with it?"
"No -- look, just come down here, and I'll show you. How does that sound? Or would you prefer I describe the paper quality to you?"
"Ah -- no, sir, I'm on my way."
"Both of you. Kowalski'll have your head if you cut him outta this."
"He's not -- that is to say, I'm not sure he's -- "
"Well, then you bring him in when he is."
"Understood, sir."
"See you then, Constable."
"Good day, Lieutenant."
Reluctantly, I dial Ray's apartment.
"Vecchio."
"Good afternoon, Ray, I -- "
"Hey, Fraser -- I got some issues with your wolf, he thinks there's somethin' edible in the fridge."
"And there isn't?"
"No. Well, unless you count them green things you stuck in there Saturday."
I sigh. "That's food, Ray, they're collard greens -- "
"Yeah? I thought you were meanin' to plant 'em." There's a slight sarcastic twang in his voice. Perhaps I ought to stop assuming Ray's ignorance as pertains to healthy food -- he does have a mother, after all, which is more than I have -- but it's not as though he's given me much reason to believe otherwise.
Suppressing a smile, I change the subject. "Not at all. Ray, the lieutenant called me earlier to ask if you could accompany me to the precinct, your health permitting."
There's a brief silence, during which I know Ray is putting his incredulity into a handy mental strongbox. "Uh...yeah, okay, I'm feelin' pretty good -- when d'you want me to pick you up?"
"That's not necessary; I'll -- "
"Fraser. I said I'm feelin' good; I can drive," he tells me impatiently, and my cheeks flush. "When d'you want me to pick you up?"
"Whenever you're ready."
"Okay, I'm ready now. What the hell's he want me for, anyway?"
"He didn't say."
"Yeah, whatever. I'll be there in a minute, okay?" he says, and hangs up.
Upon our arrival at the precinct, Ray is hit by -- well, what I can only call a truckload of nostalgia, and I must say I'm not spared it either. I've been picking up his weekly paychecks -- it didn't make sense, at the time, for him to waste fuel driving to the precinct when I could save the trip -- so the last time we came here together was to arrange those paychecks. But this -- sitting together in the GTO, outside the precinct, preparing to be confronted by the lieutenant -- I've missed this. I'd thought I was missing Ray, working with Ray -- endangering Ray's life, perhaps -- but more than half of what I'm missing seems to be this moment of silence, almost imperceptible, while he shuts off the ignition and checks gas, clutch, and locks.
"C'mon," he says quietly, and I realize that he's gotten out already, and is waiting for Dief and me to do the same. I flush with embarrassment.
"I'm -- "
"'Sokay," he says, and his eyes are kind. I get up, and push the seat forward to let Dief out.
We walk slowly through the door, like -- well, I suppose we are getting old, but we're not so old yet that we can't walk as quickly as we like. We're savoring -- Ray's savoring, which under normal circumstances might alarm me.
"Where's Frannie?" Ray asks, abruptly, as we enter the bullpen.
"Ah -- she's on maternity leave. The children were becoming a problem around the station..."
Ray grins. "Man, I'd've liked to see that." And you know, I just know he would have taken the fecal matter on his desk in stride, if he'd been here to see it.
"Vecchio, Fraser -- in my office." Ray's almost intoxicated by the feeling of familiarity, I think-- he grins foolishly at Welsh for the moment it takes Welsh's stare to sink in.
It's not just the lieutenant who's staring -- everyone in the bullpen has turned, astonished, to stare at a legend. Detectives Huey and Dewey are not present at the moment, I realize -- the room is filled, instead, with the newer police officers, their faces painted with equal parts awe and fear -- so no one here, besides the lieutenant and myself, knows the men behind the name. Even before I close the office door behind me, the whispers start: "Mountie 'n' him...heard he can...queer, you say?...shot a guy dead at a hundred feet...doesn't look Italian...oh, AIDS, right, gotcha." My jaw clenches, and I resist the urge to slam the door shut.
"Take a look," the lieutenant says, handing a manila file to Ray. I look over his shoulder as he skims his own handwriting, refreshing his memory.
"Oh yeah, this one was nasty. McAllister, yeah -- there was a junkie if you ever saw one. Knocked out one of his teeth when he resisted arrest," and he's closed the file now -- he's telling it from memory, his face glowing, remembering a job well done, "except I had a hell of a time provin' he'd done it. But we got 'im, in the end."
The lieutenant takes the file back, but doesn't put it away; he twists the labeled tab a little, this way and that. "It was a good case."
Ray's grinning, his characteristic nervous energy back in full swing -- God, he'd loved being a police officer, as much as he'd complained. "Yeah. Yeah, it was a good bust."
"Kowalski, I'm gonna tell you something. And I don't want you to do anything -- anything stupid, got it? I'm enlisting the Mountie to keep you outta trouble."
"Yeah, okay, what's up?"
Welsh takes a breath. "McAllister's...been diagnosed with AIDS."
Suddenly, in a flash, Ray's body stills, energy gone -- he's leaning forward, gripping the edge of the table hard. "McAllister?"
Welsh nods.
"God. I suck. I suck -- why didn't I -- " His face is twisting with guilt -- it doesn't seem to matter particularly to him, whether the man's on the wrong side of the law or the right.
"You didn't give it to him, Kowalski -- his case is a lot worse than yours. I just -- I thought -- if you want to blame it on something..."
Ray stares at him for a minute, then nods. "Where is he?"
Two hours later, having made three wrong turns in his agitation, Ray's stationed himself outside McAllister's room in the hospital. It's difficult for me to feel any aggression towards the man -- he's not conscious, and appallingly underweight; even though this is the man who, in all probability, has broken Ray's life, all I can think is: This is Ray. Who knows how long it'll take him to get here, but this is Ray.
Ray lets out a shuddery breath, and gropes momentarily at knee level. I smile wryly; we've both become accustomed to having a shaggy wolf-head to stroke whenever we feel overwhelmed. Neither of us has him now, though -- the hospital has a strict no-wolf policy -- so I edge closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder.
"I never should've hit him," Ray says hoarsely.
I can't disagree with that -- I did tell him to be careful, because naturally the probability of McAllister having AIDS is higher than that of most other perpetrators. But what else could Ray have done?...well. Several alternatives suggest themselves to me, but Ray would never employ any of them. "Perhaps not -- but it can't be helped now."
"You told me to -- you warned me -- I thought you were just being paranoid -- why didn't I listen to you?"
I pull him around roughly to face me. "Ray. It -- doesn't -- matter -- do you understand?"
"But if I -- "
"You'll drive yourself out of your mind if you keep worrying about what you could have done. You need to accept it -- truth be told, I thought you had already -- "
"You want me to just accept that?" Ray shouts, flinging his arm towards McAllister's room. "Look, you -- you promise me something, okay?"
"What?"
"If I end up like that -- don't visit. Just don't. It won't matter if you do or don't, and I do not want to have to think about you watching that."
I'm shocked, and more than a little bit hurt. "But, Ray -- "
"Don't." His face is inches away from mine, and almost desperate.
I lower my eyes. "Understood," I say, even though truly, I don't. Not one whit.
"Okay." He glances back through the door. "Let's just...go home, okay? I hate hospitals. Don't know why I came here, anyway."
"All right."
I'm curled up on the couch, reading, when Ray drops a six-pack of beer on the coffee table, in front of my face, with a loud thunk. "Ray, what -- ?"
Ray's grinning mischievously; I've learned to fear that look. Or I should have done -- at the moment I only feel perplexed. "We're gonna get drunk."
I blink up at him, then calmly shut my book and sit up. "I see. And when did we decide this?"
"I did. Just now."
"Might I ask why?"
"It's Friday night, you're home at a decent hour, you've got yerself the whole night free, and you're -- reading."
"Well, as a rule I don't drink -- you know that."
"Yeah -- why not?"
"You shouldn't, at any rate -- you've been nauseous every morning for the past week -- "
" -- and a hangover ain't gonna hurt it much. That's the other thing -- normal people woulda made some stupid joke about me being pregnant -- "
"But I know full well it's only the new medication."
"Besides which it's impossible -- but that's not the point, Fraser. You're gonna live with me, you gotta learn to have fun." I'm not seriously worried about the threat -- he's looking far too amused with himself. "Okay, let's put it this way: if you're gonna be dealin' with me in all your spare time, you deserve to unwind a little on Friday night."
I look at him dubiously. "It's no trouble at all, I assure you. You make very good company."
"An' so do you, 'cept when you won't be my drinking buddy."
"It might be more efficient to find someone else to -- "
"Nothin' doin'. See, all my other drinking buddies have this preference for actual bars, and actual bars tend to have actual girls lookin' to get laid, and even supposing the best case where I get lucky I still gotta explain to her why I'm off limits. Fucking depressing either way."
"Why don't you get drunk, and I'll make sure you don't trip and fall and break something important." I wouldn't, normally, suggest such an offer -- but it's becoming rapidly clear that Ray is determined to sideline my moral code tonight.
"Something important? Like what, a lamp?"
"Like your skull."
"I could," Ray says, switching back to the original topic with a thoughtful look. "But that's kinda lonely an' embarrassing after a while. No point in going off my head if you're gonna cluck at me while I do."
I sigh. "Ray -- "
"Believe me, you gotta unwind. You're gettin' these pissed-off lines around your eyes."
"What?" I prod at the skin around my eyes; I haven't noticed.
"Here, I'll show you in the mirror," Ray offers, and steers me into the bathroom. "See, here? And here. And I hear that stress puts you at risk for heart disease..."
"You've been watching PBS, haven't you."
"So, okay, what if I have?"
"I'm sure drinking is not the remedy they had in mind."
"Well, it can't hurt."
"On the contrary -- "
"Fraser. I do not mean a beer for breakfast, a beer for lunch and a beer for dinner. That takes, like, skill. Even I can only keep that up for three days straight. Just a coupla drinks for social purposes, okay? Like, beer and hockey?"
I'm tempted. "Is there any way I can convince you to leave me sober?"
"Prob'ly not." Ray frowns at me, then brightens. "Beer and curling, how 'bout it?"
I think he knows me too well.
We watch curling for a few hours, until Ray asks me to explain a play and I find myself entirely unable to. Then we switch off the television; a sudden unreasonable impulse compels me to turn off all the lights in the apartment, and Ray watches, bemused.
"You always go this wonky?" he asks, a little slurred.
"Wouldn' know." My own voice is somewhat indistinct. I look around the dark room, suddenly feeling lost, and locate Ray's body, silhouetted by a moonlit window. I move toward him -- on all fours, so that I have a shorter distance to fall if I do -- and sit next to him on the floor, close enough that our shoulders snug together.
"Mmmm," Ray hums, content, "lookit Dief. He think we're nuts." And Dief does appear to be gazing at us with a certain disapproval. The moonlight makes his coat gleam, and strikes amber sparks from his eyes -- but perhaps that's my imagination, which seems to have conquered a disproportionate sector of my brain. When I look at Ray, he appears encased in ice, and his eyes seem like two icicles that have sunk into his skull -- but of course that's ridiculous, even to my inebriated mind, as I can feel his warmth right at my elbow.
I giggle suddenly. "Dief won't tell," I say faithfully, "will you, Dief?" Dief makes a soft whuffling sound, and lays his head on my knee. "You won't let Dad know."
"What," Ray says, looking somewhat alarmed, "wolf talks to ghosts?"
"He's a lupine politician."
This seems to reassure him, and he settles next to me again. "Talks to everybody."
"And anybody, for Chicago junk food."
"Handy, that. Hey, let's have a...a...whatsit?"
"Oh...a...a..."
"Whatsit, Fraser?"
"...starts with an 's'..."
"'s'...se...si...sa..."
"...san..."
"...sans? No, that's -- "
" -- French...seance! That's it!...isn't that also French?" I knew this. Just a minute ago. Or an hour.
"Yeah! That's it!" Ray shouts enthusiastically. "...what was I sayin'?"
"You wanted one. But maybe you shouldn't talk to Dad."
"Why not?"
"He calls you," I confide shamefully, "a Yank."
Ray ponders this. "Am I one?"
"Technically, yes."
"I thought I was."
"You're brilliant," I tell him, not remembering why I'd originally thought so.
"So, we'll have one of them 's' things -- you know, for practice."
"Practice for what?"
"For when I'm dead. You think the phones are long distance over there?"
I've been leaning against Ray, but now I sit up straight. "Dead?"
"Yeah."
"No."
"Yeah."
"No!"
"Okay."
"What?"
"Okay, you win. Didn't I say that?"
"No."
"I said, you win. Sheesh. That all you know how to say?"
"No," I reply, and then, to prove it, "What do I win?"
"You win..." Ray thinks. "You win...the bed! Yeah, the bed."
"Nooooo..." I groan, sleepily.
"Why not? It's an okay bed. It's got pillows."
"Couch's closer."
"Oh. Bastard."
"Uh-uh." The walls do a little swoop and dive, and I tighten a hand on Ray's t-shirt until they settle down again.
"Semi-bastard, then. Goodnight."
"G'night."
"Leggo."
"Sorry."
"'Sokay." The back of his gray t-shirt fades into the general blackness of the dark apartment. I crawl towards the couch, heave myself onto it, and promptly pass out.
The next morning, Ray vomits spectacularly into the sink before breakfast, and both of us pointedly refrain from mentioning the night before. Some things are too bizarre to talk about.
When Ray's illness takes a turn for the worse, it's an abrupt one: one day, he's essentially fine, plagued more by his drugs' side effects than the virus -- and the next, he's frighteningly ill. He won't admit it at first, of course; he ambles around unsteadily, trying to feed his turtle and only managing to spill the food all over the floor.
"'M sorry," he mumbles indistinctly as I vacuum the carpet.
"It's quite all right."
"You gotta go to work."
"Not quite yet."
"Quite," he mutters, and then doesn't follow that up with a critical remark.
I'm slightly concerned, because I must confess I meant to provoke him from his subdued state. A closer inspection reveals over-bright eyes and flushed skin; slight, widely spaced shudders indicate chills. I flick the vacuum cleaner off and take two large strides toward him -- I have a hand on his brow before he can deduce my intentions.
He jerks back, but it's too late. "Ray, you're burning up -- "
"I'll be fine, 'sjust the flu...or something..."
"Or something." I try to keep my voice down, to control my anger at his show of toughness -- as if he can convince a virus that he's too tough for it to bother with. "In your condition, nothing is ever just the flu -- can't you make some effort -- " I bite that sentence off. He doesn't need to hear that. "You're going to bed -- and I'm going to call the doctor."
"No," Ray protests, and simply sits down on the couch and refuses to get up -- so I have to forcibly drag him into his bedroom. It's not difficult -- though he fights me all the way, swearing at me under his breath, I have at least twenty pounds on him, and he's frighteningly weak already. I heave him into the bed -- it's surprisingly easy -- and fold the covers over his trembling body before realizing that I have no way of contacting his doctor. Address book -- where would Ray keep his address book --
I find it in his roll-top desk, and listed in it -- thank God -- is a Dr. Marcus Lester. I dial the number rapidly -- at least my hours at the Consulate have turned my right thumb into a speed-dial. "Good morning, Dr. Lester's office, would you like to schedule -- "
"I need to speak with the doctor. Now. It's an emergency." That may not be strictly true, but it might be the case -- I can't take chances.
The secretary hesitates. "I'm not -- "
"Please, it's an emergency, I don't know what to -- "
"One moment." There's a clicking sound, and a new voice comes on the line. "Hello?"
"Doctor?"
"Yes, who is this?"
"My name is Benton Fraser, I -- "
"Mr. Fraser? Is Mr. Kowalski all right?"
"No, no he's not, he has a fever -- "
"All right, Mr. Fraser, you're going to have to locate a prescription of his."
A prescription -- most likely in the medicine cabinet; there's a veritable wall of transparent orange bottles in it. I stretch the phone cord into the bathroom with me and open the little door. "Which one?"
"It should be labeled azidothymidine."
I turn the bottles around so I can read their labels without displacing them, just in case Ray's organized them, however unlikely that may be. "I've found it."
"Give him one dose -- no more -- just follow the directions on the bottle. Call me if he gets worse after today."
"I will, thank you." I hang up, and go into Ray's room, bottle in hand.
Ray's eyes are closed, his breathing shallow; I call his name softly, but he still winces. "Head hurts," he chokes. "Like a -- "
"Shh, Ray." I pick up the water bottle he keeps by his bed. "I have medicine for you -- open." His lips part, and I put the capsules on his tongue -- carefully, very carefully, so he doesn't choke. "Drink," I instruct him, holding the water bottle to his lips, and he does. I watch his throat move, and take the bottle away when I'm sure the capsules have gone down.
As I set the bottle down, Ray catches my wrist with one hand. "Stay, Frase," he wheezes.
Feeling utterly helpless, I sink to my knees, bringing our eyes level. "I won't leave."
Ray blinks at me slowly, painfully, his eyes glazing. "Yeah," he says inexplicably. His eyes close gradually, drooping before the lids seal and his even breathing tells me he's asleep.
Even then, I stay, the skin of my wrist just barely touching his burning fingertips. His mouth hangs slightly open, his face lax and almost untroubled. The pillow has flattened the spikes on one side of his head, making him look unbearably child-like, intolerably innocent -- I can't understand why his hair changes his appearance so much, but it does, and it hurts. "You're too young," I whisper to him, my eyes burning. "You can't..."
He snorts suddenly, but doesn't wake, and I snap my mouth shut. A ridiculous idea forms in my head as I gaze at his tousled head -- it's ludicrous, it's decidedly abnormal, but why shouldn't I? So I hesitate -- but eventually I bury my fingers in his hair and rake it upward, reforming the spikes. There. That's right. Or close enough.
Ray's fever persists for the rest of the day and most of the next one, but gets no worse and no better until the next evening, when it finally breaks. Then...then I leave Ray's sweat-drenched bedside, walk into the bathroom, and shut the door so I can sob my relief without Dief watching me.
I jolt awake. I've no idea what woke me, but I'm groping my way down the hall to Ray's room before I'm even altogether certain I'm awake.
What's happening? Some sound --
And then I hear it again: a hack.
It's been five days since that first fever broke, with no relapses; we've both been feeling a little overconfident, I suppose -- but it's been even longer since the last hack. I never expected to hear a hack from Ray ever again, but here it is.
So we'll manage it.
I fight down the panic and open Ray's bedroom door. "Ray?" My voice sounds horrible, gravelly with sleep, but I'd bet Ray's sounds worse.
Hack, hack, hack -- and then a long clear sigh. At least, this time, it doesn't look so painful. "Sorry, Frase," he says, and to my surprise he sounds no worse than I do. "Didn't mean to wake ya up. I'm okay, you can go back to sleep."
"You're coughing," I point out quietly.
"Yeah, that's what's s'posed to happen -- didn't the doc tell you?" I shake my head. "The new meds don't let the old meds work so good."
"But...then what's the point?" The question sounds embarrassingly like a whine, even to my own ears, but Ray doesn't heed that; he pats the edge of his bed, inviting me to come sit, so I do.
"It sucks," Ray says frankly, "but I'm still better, right? I'm talkin' to you, right?"
"...yes," I agree reluctantly, because he has a point, but...
"So I figure I'll deal with the cough thing. An' it's better, okay? No blood." He grins at me, suddenly alive and vibrant and invulnerable, miles away from last week -- except for the cough, which racks him then, spoiling the moment.
"It's not fair to you," I say softly, when he's done.
He slings a warm arm around my shoulders, squeezes tight. "It's not. It's not fair to you, either. I still don't get why you don't just leave," he adds, turning his face away.
"I'm your friend, Ray."
"Yeah -- but look, Stella hasn't even visited, you know that? She called once, but she didn't visit. 'M not whinin', just makin' note. But you..."
"I'm your partner -- you were injured in the line of duty -- it's only logical that I help you."
"It's still not fair," he says. "But are you gonna leave?"
"Of course not!"
"And I can't leave, and there's no making nice with a couple hundred thousand million bits of virus in there, so I guess we're stuck."
I smile wryly. "You seem to be taking that extraordinarily well."
"Yeah, well, I been thinkin' about it a lot. Mainly I only hit things when you're not watching." He yawns hugely, and takes his arm back to cover his mouth belatedly. "Look, I gotta get to sleep."
"Right you are, Ray. Good night."
"'Night, Frase."
The next fever is worse; the virus must have grown resistant to the drugs or something, but I'm not thinking about that now, because the doctor's giving me trouble.
"What do you mean, you can't -- ?"
"He told me, very specifically, that he would not go to a hospital unless it's absolutely necessary."
"He's stubborn as a mule, you must know that -- "
"It's what he wants, Mr. Fraser. If you can convince him to change his mind -- "
"He's not lucid at the moment."
"When he is, then. I'm sorry, Mr. Fraser. Call 911 if he passes out -- but I don't think he will, yet. Just keep giving him his prescriptions."
And that's the limit -- keep giving him little white magic pills until he comes back to himself. I utilize less traditional methods as well, bathing his flushed face with a cool wet towel; when he moans, clutching his head, I attempt to give him aspirin, but his teeth are gritted against pain and pain reliever both. Then I can only sit, clutching his fever-hot hand as he tosses his head and groans and finally goes still, eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids. It's horribly frightening, humbling even, though Ray seems essentially normal once the fever breaks. I wish there was someone with some medical experience with me, even Innusiq, who has probably never seen a case of AIDS before. Someone to distract me from Ray; someone who can tend to him better than I can.
I should count my blessings -- if the Inspector hadn't let me bring my paperwork home, Ray'd be left to fend for himself. At least I'm here. That's something -- though that particular blessing sounds hollow, somehow, rings somewhat false; I need more than that.
And though Ray and I can talk about his death with apparent ease and relative good humor during the day, during his relatively healthy spells, it's different when the fevers hit. In his bedroom it is perpetually dark, perpetually nighttime, perpetually nightmarish -- and I whisper strange impulsive words into the darkness, humid with his sweat: "Don't leave. Not yet. You can't leave. You can't leave me -- "
I don't know if, in these moments, he can hear me -- but it must mean something, that he doesn't leave.
He comes back to me.
Ray barely resembles the man who hugged me four years ago in the precinct; he's even less like the man in the pictures propped on his television, who encircles Stella's waist with both arms and smiles brilliantly into the camera, like he's the happiest man in the world. Ray's face is twisted from its previous angular beauty: inflamed patches of skin streak his face and neck, and blotches of purple-black Kaposi's sarcoma mark his forehead and the hollows of his cheeks. Swollen lymph nodes in his neck give him a bloated, unwieldy appearance -- but in truth, he is lighter than he ever was. His cheekbones are too prominent, his eyes seem overlarge in his gaunt face, and when his shirt rides up in his sleep, I can count each protruding rib.
One morning I wake to a warm, wet tongue on my chin; my eyes fly open, and immediately focus on Dief's muzzle. "What? What's wrong?" I rasp, because his tail juts straight out behind him, and he reeks of distress.
Dief whines, and trots down the hall to Ray's room -- immediately I'm up and following him. Ray's fever had seemed on the verge of breaking last night -- surely he's all right --
Dief noses the door open, and I peer in. His eyes are closed, and he's breathing -- shallowly, because of the enlarged nodes in his neck, but steadily. "He's asleep," I tell Dief. "It's good for him. Let him alone."
To my surprise, Dief actually growls at me. Then, before I can stop him, he's lunged into the room, onto the bed, and given Ray's ear a sound lick.
Ray doesn't stir -- doesn't even twitch.
Alarmed, I come closer. His eyes are still behind the lids. Still, still, so still, not even a whisper of movement, save the rise and fall of his chest -- and my mind flashes back suddenly, randomly, to that image of Ray sitting hunched over a bar with no coat on or off --
Ray should never be still. It's wrong.
I take only a moment to hug Diefenbaker -- in thanks, for support -- before stumbling out of Ray's room and calling 911.
Dr. Lester's face is grave when he comes into the hospital waiting room. I rise to meet him -- it never even occurs to me that he's here to speak with someone else. Dief, also, rouses himself -- we compelled the hospital workers to make an exception, just this once. It doesn't matter how exactly we managed it -- Dief has to be here, now, from now 'til the end.
"It's not good," he tells me, and for a moment, I have to fight a mad urge to bash the man's head into the wall.
"How so?"
"The Kaposi's sarcoma has spread into his brain."
I blink at this, uncomprehending, sleep-hazed brain refusing to function. "...I thought that was one of the skin conditions."
"In most cases it is; but in rare AIDS cases it can spread into the vital organs." He sighs heavily and scrubs at his face. "There's not much left for us to do now -- chemotherapy, radiation maybe. As long as no one's protesting heroic measures..."
"She's not," I confirm, and then clarify: "His ex-wife isn't."
"All right, then -- we'll start treatment in an hour." He peers at me, and then settles a friendly, comforting hand on my shoulder. It's heavy, the fingers thick -- entirely unlike Ray's. "It won't be long now, Mr. Fraser," he soothes.
And for a moment, to my shame -- only a moment -- I am soothed. It's almost over. Almost. Soon -- but then I come back to myself. No. No. Not yet -- not now -- and that is familiar, that is the same, despite the new wash of guilt that almost makes my thoughts hollow.
I don't ask if I can see him -- nothing can keep me out, not even a long-ago half-promise to Ray himself.
"I'm here," I tell Ray again, for the tenth time this hour. "You're alive."
It seems important to keep repeating that -- the first, because the Vecchio family has come and gone long ago, and Stella Kowalski is here but not here, by his side. The second I reiterate because the doctors seem to keep forgetting that, their movements languid and unhurried: they don't think this patient can be saved.
But Ray's not dead yet. He's still fighting, and damn if I'm going to admit his fight is futile.
"I'm here. You're alive."
I know I should be thinking of Ray now, Ray's past smiles and tears, fists and hugs -- but my mind keeps shying away from him, to land, unhappily, on Stella, ASA Kowalski. She comes by occasionally, peering in, but she never stays; to my adrenaline-addled mind, this feels like a metaphor for everything Ray told me she ever was to him. I hate Stella Kowalski, sometimes, I think -- and that just sounds so right that suddenly I know.
"I'm here. You're alive."
Yes. I hate Ray's ex-wife. I hate her painted red lips, her black-rimmed eyes; I hate the smile she wears in the pictures on Ray's mantelpiece; I hate how she hurts him and browbeats him, even now that he has no strength to fight it. Perhaps part of me thinks I'm being too stern to the woman -- Ray does make a habit of filling out paperwork improperly -- but then that part is vanquished by how good it feels, to finally have a target for my suppressed protective rage. Who cares if I'm in the right or not?
"I'm here. You're alive."
My hands drop to knee level automatically, and for once Dief is there, because neither of us would take no for an answer. It may be very slightly illegal, but for now I'm too glad to tighten my fists in the fur at his neck, on his abdomen; I'm pulling so hard that I must be hurting him, but he doesn't flinch.
My eyes track the tubes in Ray's emaciated arms, reading the names printed on their respective plastic bags. I'm almost asleep -- my vision is blurring, and it's difficult to read, but finally I find two bags that I recognize: anesthetic, inserted in the crook of his right elbow, and chemotherapy solution, in his left. I stare at the latter for long moments, feeling vaguely ill at ease and wanting, inexplicably, to just pull that needle out of him.
"'M here. You're...alive."
My last thought before I pass out is that this scene is too like the preparation for an execution -- the lethal injection, administered to a dying man.
--fin
End Nevermore: A Series of Abnormal Circumstances by Giulietta
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