Leave The Memory Behind
by Akamine chan
Disclaimer: Benton Fraser, Ray Kowalski and the due South universe are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Muchas gracias to Keerawa, Bertybertle, Isiscolo, Nos4a2no9, and Simplystars for hand-holding, encouragement, critiques, pointers, common sense, comma wrestling and grammar help. This story is not what I had hoped it would be, but without their help it would have been much worse. So, thanks. Plus, all the ds_team_angst members for the camaraderie and endless amputation jokes. Title stolen from Duran Duran.
Story Notes: Written for Team Angst during Livejournal's ds_flashfiction's ds_match 2007.
Warnings: Violence. There's also sex, blood, non-con, knife play, and character death, but they all take place in dreams.
The water is frigid and dark. It's already up to his knees, and more is rushing in through the open door. There's no sound; he can't hear the roar of the water at all. There's hardly any light down here and he shakes the water out of his eyes, squinting to see better. Yanking hard on his arm, he tries to free himself from the handcuffs keeping him trapped here. The water is up to his waist now, and he feels the panic clawing at the back of his throat. He can hear himself starting to breathe faster; it's all he can hear, his breath and his pounding heartbeat. Trying to use his weight and what little leverage he has, he keeps pulling at the cuffs but it's hard to get any force behind the movement. The water slows him down so it feels like he's trying to move through molasses.
He's sliding through panic and into hysteria. Shouting soundlessly, trying to call for help, straining hard against the cuffs. The water laps at his chest and the biting cold takes his breath away. The rush of his blood is deafening as the water continues to rise, quickly filling up the small space he is trapped in. Ray is frenzied now, thrashing and screaming, the water at his chin. He can feel the cuffs biting deep into the flesh of his wrists, but he barely notices the pain. He tugs and pulls, tilting his head back to keep his mouth and nose out of the water for just a moment more.
The water closes over him, and he gasps, inhaling its icy coldness. Ray tries to cough it back out, but there's no room in his lungs. Gagging at the foul taste, he keeps trying to breathe, but there's no air. No air. The blood is thundering in his ears and there are black spots swimming in his vision, slowly growing larger as his struggles die away. He's got no energy and no air left, and he can hear his heartbeat slowing... slowing... stopping.
Ray woke with a scream locked behind his teeth, gasping for breath. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up, he flattened his hand against his chest where his heart fluttered like a trapped thing. He was covered with sweat but still shivering from the memory of the chilling water. Trying to wipe away the desperation of the dream, he rubbed his hands over his face.
Ray looked over at his alarm clock. Shit. There was only about ten minutes until it was set to go off, which was not enough time to go back to sleep and try to get rid of the taste of lake water in his mouth. He got up and staggered towards the shower.
"Jesus Christ, Fraser, what were you doing? I almost shot you!" Ray waved his arms around wildly, motioning towards Fraser, the alley they were in, the man he had trapped under his knee. "I said to wait for backup!" he yelled. The suspect struggled and complained loudly as Ray slapped the cuffs on him, then stood, planted a foot in the middle of the perp's back and glared at Fraser.
"Ray, don't be—"
"Fraser, shut up, shut up, just shut up!" Reaching around, Ray grabbed the tail of Fraser's pea coat and pulled it up, showing him the bullet hole two inches from the bottom hem. To make sure that Fraser got the point, he stuck his index finger through the hole and wiggled it. "Don't. Say. A. Word."
Ray flung the coat away and turned back to the suspect. He Mirandized him, manhandled him to the GTO and with the warning, "Don't move!" threw himself behind the steering wheel to wait for backup.
He sat there for a moment before realizing that he was shaking. It had been a close call. If Fraser had just been a little faster, or slower, zigging instead of zagging, Ray would have become the second partner—and the second Ray—to shoot Fraser in the back. The thought made his stomach heave.
Ray leaned out the open door of the GTO, swallowing hard against the nausea. After a few minutes of repetitive swallowing and shallow breathing, the feeling passed. Sitting back up, he pounded on the steering wheel several times, shouting "Fuck!" each time he hit his hands on the hard plastic.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fraser ducking down to peer at him through the passenger window. He was staring at Ray uncertainly. Fraser opened his mouth to speak, but Ray stopped him by holding his hand up. "I don't want to hear it, Fraser."
As soon as their backup arrived, Ray was pushing the perp into the back of the squad car. "Take him down to the station and book him—armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon—I'll be down in the morning to do the paperwork." Ray was pleased with himself; he'd managed to not sound like a raving lunatic on the verge of beating some sense into his partner.
"Get in the car, Fraser," he snapped, sliding in and starting up the engine.
He waited, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, while Fraser gingerly climbed into the car and fastened his seat belt. Fraser placed the Stetson in his lap and fiddled with the brim. "I'm sorry," he told the hat.
Ray blew out a breath loudly. "Don't," he spat. "Don't even start." He was barely holding onto his temper and if he had to hear any of Fraser's lame excuses—
"Ray, please, let me—"
That was it. Ray leaped out of the car and headed for the alleyway. Once out of sight of the road, he began to shout in frustration, arms flying in his agitation. Suddenly, he threw a hard right punch at the wall, feeling the bones crack and a bright flare of pain that stole his breath away.
"Shit," he mumbled, falling to his knees in the filthy alley and cradling his arm to his chest. His hand throbbed with agony, echoing every heartbeat.
"Ray, Ray, Ray—let me see. Please." Fraser was crouched next to him, supporting Ray's shoulders and holding his hand out, patiently.
Moving painfully, Ray let Fraser see the damage. His knuckles were already badly swollen, bruised and bleeding. Fraser gently held his wrist so he could turn Ray's hand without actually touching it. Nausea spiked through Ray at the sight of his blood.
"It looks like you've broken at least two proximal phalanges and maybe one of the metacarpals. It's hard to see what else is damaged without x-rays." He looked at Ray, lips pinched in anger. "What the hell were you thinking?" he asked.
"I can't do this anymore, Fraser," Ray said, voice flat and emotionless. "You won't listen to me and you keep taking these risks—I can't live like this. I'm always worried that you're gonna get yourself killed. I can't do this anymore," he repeated, meeting Fraser's wide eyes. "I love you and this is killing me."
There.The words were finally out in the open.
Something in Ray's expression made Fraser pale and swallow hard. "What are you saying, Ray?"
"I'm saying that since we got back from our adventure, we've been dancing around this—this sex thing—this love thing that's happening between us. And you've been acting like you did before the Henry Allen. Not listening to me." Ray looked down at his hand and tried to wiggle his fingers, causing fresh agony to flood his nerves. His voice roughened. "Not communicating, not trusting. Arguing with me about every little thing. Trying to get yourself killed by pulling crazy stunts."
"But—"
"No. I am so not doing this with you again." Ray pulled away from Fraser's hand, getting to his feet shakily. He took a deep breath. "You're my partner, my best friend, Fraser. But you've been so involved with whatever is going on inside your head that you haven't noticed that our duet isn't working anymore."
He glanced at Fraser's face and the blankness there made his heart skip a beat. Ray was going to lose him. Lose the best friendship, the best partnership he'd ever had. "You need to decide if you want to be my partner. If you're prepared to change things. If so, we'll work things out. Otherwise," he shrugged, pretending a calm he didn't feel, "I'll have to ask for a transfer."
"Ray—"
"Just—just think about it, will you?" Ray turned away from Fraser's shocked face and walked back to the Goat, and waited for Fraser to come and drive him to the hospital.
He feels her delicate touch moving from his chest to his belly. It feels good, just the faintest scratch of sharp nails on his skin, skirting the very edge of being ticklish but never tipping over. She strokes him again, moving down, down past the part of him that is hungriest for her. She skims over his thighs, brushes past his knees, runs her thumb firmly over the sole of his foot.
He wishes he could see her face but the blindfold is tied too well around his head, blocking out even the faintest hint of light. Behind the cloth, all he can see is darkness. But he can feel, and hear, and smell, and that's almost enough. He wants to touch her smooth skin, but she tied his hands to the wooden headboard, using his lanyard and tight little knots.
She works her way back up his body delicately. He barely prevents his hips from thrusting up as her elegant hand slides past his penis without stopping, barely brushing and forcing a small moan from his lips. He is so hard for her.
He feels her shift and suddenly she straddles his hips, rubbing her wet slickness against him. She teases, barely taking the tip of him of him inside her warmth, before sliding away again. He wishes he could grab her, hold her hips still and thrust into her hard, easing some of the burning in his blood. He pulls on his bonds, but there is no give or slack in the lanyard.
She leans over him and he feels a sharp pain as she bites his neck, hard, right over the pulse that's pounding frantically. She scatters more stinging bites across his chest, following no pattern that he can discern. He grunts with the pain, which doesn't seem to dampen his arousal. In fact, it seems to push him toward new heights of pleasure.
She bites again with her sharp little teeth, harshly enough that he's sure she's broken the skin. He clenches his jaw with the pain and the throbbing in his cock, holding back the groans that build in his throat. She bites harder and harder, and he can feel the blood dripping down his chest, warm and wet. He can smell the faintly metallic scent over the musk of her. The line between pain and pleasure is burnt away and all he can do is lie there and want her. And want her.
She kisses him roughly, nipping at him, forcing his mouth open with her nimble tongue. She takes and takes, and he feels like he's drowning in the sensations that she forces on him. She moves suddenly, sharply, and takes him inside of her. She thrusts fast and hard and he finds himself abruptly on the verge of coming. As quickly as she started, she stops. He moans her name and swallows hard, trying to slow his panting breaths. He's very close...
She starts rocking again, back and forth, taking him slow and deep. He can hear her gasping with each thrust and he tries to help, but between the lanyard and his position, he has very little leverage. He can't do much more than lie there and take it. He can feel his scrotum tightening, the orgasm creeping up on him slowly, inevitably. "Please, please," he pants, needing to come, wanting to come so badly that he pulls harder on his bound wrists, letting the pain spike him into a frenzy of pleasure.
She rocks faster and suddenly cries out, trembling, as she comes. He can feel her warmth gripping him tightly and pulsing all around him, driving him insane with need. He bucks upwards, trying to get deeper, but she pulls back a little, taunting him. She inhales sharply and he feels the cool kiss of metal on his chest, followed by a blazing sting of pain. It is sudden and shocking; he loses track of the sensations for a moment, but as he fights for control, he realizes that she's cutting him—
He opens his eyes and the blindfold is gone. She is above him, riding him hard and rhythmically, blood smeared across her mouth. His blood. With one hand she cups her breast, and the other holds a wickedly sharp blade. As he watches, she brings the knife down in a quick, gleaming arc across his chest, laying open a long furrow that quickly fills with bright blood. Again and again she slashes at him, until his chest is a bloody ruin and the mingled pain and pleasure fills his world, reducing him to inarticulate begging and a feeling that his penis is about to burst.
His fists are clenched and he arches his back, desperate to get deeper into her. The lanyard digs into his wrists, a lightning strike of sensation, agony and lust twined together, but he doesn't care. Nothing matters except coming, and he's so, so close. Just a little more. Involuntarily, he starts to keen wordlessly, deep in his chest, thrusting his hips up fiercely. She winds the tension tighter and tighter, dragging him to the edge of sanity.
Her hips are slamming into his and she smiles down at him, a feral, hungry smile stained with blood and malice. The tension tightens every muscle in his body, he's panting loudly, held deep within her. One last thrust and he starts to fall, convulsing—
—and he feels the cold slide of the knife as she slips it through skin, muscle and bone. There's no pain, just the intense throbbing satisfaction of his orgasm as it reverberates through him. His pulse falters as she gradually pierces his heart with the knife, a look of smug victory on her face. He can feel his heart struggling to beat around the obstruction, struggling and failing, slowing, slowing...
He woke to the sound of Dief barking in his ear, alternating loud woofs with licks and whines. He held tightly to the wolf, buried his face into the soft fur to mute the gasps that tore raggedly from his throat. He touched his chest and was startled to find that he was whole—no cuts, no blood, no knife. He shifted under the Dief's weight and realized with a growing sense of despair that he had ejaculated into his boxers.
He pushed Diefenbaker away gently, thanked him softly for the comfort. He looked at the clock and saw that it was almost time to get up. Stripping off his soiled underwear, he headed for the shower, frantic to wash away the shame and blood and feel of her from his skin. Desperate to feel clean and whole again.
He hadn't slept well, fighting off the unsettling dream that had haunted him for days. He concentrated hard on the mundane tasks of letting Diefenbaker out and making tea, hoping to regain his equilibrium. It didn't seem to be working.
He took a long, hot shower. There was some part of him that felt fractured, and without Ray's bright presence he needed to find comfort where he could. He shaved, deliberately avoiding the bloodshot blue eyes that stared at him and saw through his lies and deceptions.
He dressed in his shadowed bedroom. Normally, putting the uniform on was a familiar, soothing activity. Today, tiredness made his fingers stutter over the buttons and straps and clasps, and it took him twice as long to get the uniform just right. He brushed away some stray wolf hairs from his sleeve and checked it over in the full length-mirror, still refusing to look himself in the eye.
Dief returned from his morning constitutional just as Benton was boiling water for his oatmeal. He made the oatmeal, adding a pinch of nutmeg and a dollop of honey, then sat down at the kitchen table. Dief walked over and set his head on Benton's knee, whuffing softly.
"No, I don't think we'll be seeing Ray today," he replied, stirring his oatmeal attentively. "He's been busy—" Diefenbaker interrupted him with a disbelieving snort and a nudge to his knee. "It's—it's possible that Ray might have had a valid point. " He huffed out a breath at Dief's yip. "I don't know what to do about it, Dief."
They sat, man and wolf, while he pretended to eat his oatmeal and Dief continued to watch him worriedly. Finally, he stopped and put down his bowl, the oatmeal untasted, and rubbed at his eyebrow. "I think we need to go home for a bit."
A long flight from Chicago to Edmonton, a shorter one from Edmonton to Whitehorse. Benton spent the night in a back office at the Whitehorse RCMP detachment, curled on the floor in his sleeping bag, Dief warm at his back. In the morning, they rented an off-road vehicle, outfitted it with the necessities and headed down the rural highway.
It took much longer than he had planned, finding the place where it had started. He had a good map to that desolate place called Fortitude Pass, but it had been a lifetime ago and time had dulled the details. He found the church steeple outside of the town, and from there he could backtrack to the spot where he first found her.
The weather was relatively clear, so he set up his tent, got Dief settled and hiked around a little. He wanted to get a feel for the area now that he wasn't escorting an escaped criminal and half out of his mind with hypothermia. Finding the rocky crag that they had sheltered in, he was surprised at how small it actually was. It had seemed bigger in his mind. Big enough to hold them and the weight of the storm that had trapped them there for days.
He found no sign of their movements through the area. The events of that painful episode were magnified to monumental proportions in his mind, and he had thought there would be some indication of their passing on the landscape.... Shaking off the bleak memories, he headed back to his tent. He prepared a stew for dinner and ate outside on a tarp, watching the stars glitter in the night sky. Diefenbaker got his own bowl of stew and kept him company.
He crawled into the tent, feeling too awake to sleep, but it was too frigid to remain outside. Climbing into his sleeping bag, he blew out the lantern and lay there, trying to turn off the chaotic thoughts swirling around in his mind.
He kept returning to the first time they had met, here out in the cold, in the storm. He shivered and stared unseeing at the ceiling of the tent. Why had he been so foolish? Why hadn't he seen her for what she was—a sociopathic bank robber, a killer, a woman far outside the boundaries of law and community.
He'd given her his heart and his soul, his innocence, and then subordinated his life to her will. When she'd come back, he'd let her manipulate him into betraying his friend and partner, betraying absolutely everything he stood for. After that, he'd locked his spirit away.
It was difficult for him to look at his perfidy straight on; he wanted to cringe in shame at the recollection of what he'd done. What he'd done for her, in the name of his love and her revenge. Would he do it again? If she returned to Chicago, would he give over everything that he was one more time? Betray his new Ray, their partnership, and the love that he felt toward him?
He swiped at his wet eyes and remembered how Ray had looked, the last time he had seen him. Angry. He'd been so angry.
Was he always going to fail and disappoint those who meant the most to him, forever locked in this hopeless cycle of self-doubt and unreasonable expectations?
He needed to shatter that emotionally destructive pattern, but how? All he knew was how strong and brave Ray was, throwing caution to the wind and living, no matter the pain or struggle; he didn't know how to do anything else. He wanted to live like that, so very much.
He wept into his pillow, realizing that he had taken his whole adult life and sacrificed it to his fear. So much he hadn't done, hadn't said, missed out on because he was afraid. He cried until he fell into an exhausted slumber, not even stirring when Diefenbaker moved closer to guard him.
The light has a bluish-green tint to it and Ray thinks maybe it's because it's being filtered through the ice. He doesn't worry about it too much, since he's got more pressing problems right now.
He's not sure how this happened. One minute he was walking through the snow, the next he's wedged down here like a cork in a bottle. The walls of the crevasse are icy, nothing for him to get hold of and pull himself up and out.
His chest aches and he suddenly realizes that he's panting, unable to draw in a deep breath. This is so not good. Ray tries to stay calm, but the panic flutters threateningly in his stomach.
He wiggles a little, trying to get a better view of the walls above him, trying to find a way out of the mess he's in. Wiggles, and gasps when he slips a few inches further down into the chasm, the pressure across his chest growing. Ray scrabbles at the wall with his legs, trying to find purchase, any small ledge or crack to get his foot into and stop his slow downward progression, but there's nothing. Nothing, and the sweat is beading on his forehead in spite of the chill.
Unexpectedly, he finds a foothold and it surprises a sob out of him. Carefully, slowly, terrified of losing his footing, he puts as much of his weight onto that one foot as he dares, hoping and praying that it will support his weight. Ray hears himself muttering, "Please, please, please..." under his breath and bites his lip, hard, to shut himself up.
The foothold seems to be bearing all of his weight; he gingerly shifts and pushes back against the opposite wall, bracing himself as best he can. He might not be able to get out of the crevasse just yet, but at least he's managed to stop the slide downward, giving himself some breathing space.
Cautiously, he looks up. The lip of the chasm seems to be only about five feet away, but the walls are sheer and polished. Five feet or five miles; makes no difference when there's nothing but smooth walls and the heavy pull of gravity. Beyond the edges he can see the light blue of a beautiful cloudless sky.
Keeping his foot firmly jammed into the precious toehold, he inches upward against the wall, up and up until his leg is stretched out as far as possible while still bearing most of his weight. He lifts his other leg up and braces it against the wall as hard as he can. Taking a deep, calming breath, he warily shifts his weight from the toehold, praying that the other foot will hold him up. It does. With very deliberate movements, he pushes up, up toward the light.
There's a loud crack, a brief second before the ice gives beneath his braced feet. Ray doesn't even have time to panic before he finds himself further down in the crevice than before. He feels a rib give way to the overwhelming pressures of momentum and his own weight. The sudden, shocking pain makes him exhale, contracting his chest and allowing him to slip farther into the chilling embrace.
Ray struggles desperately, unable to draw air in, unable to move, unable to find a way out of this situation. He feels dizzy from the lack of oxygen but he continues to try to fight his way upwards. His feet slip on the wall and there are black spots dancing in his vision. His heart is thundering loudly in his ears, and the walls continue to squeeze him tightly, slowly sucking him down like a hungry mouth.
Ray woke at the sound of his own despairing moan. He sat upright, gasping, but quickly bent over, cradling his chest, feeling the phantom pain of the broken rib. He was cold, shivering; he'd pushed all the blankets off the bed in his sleep. Wrapping his arms around himself, he rocked, trying to find comfort, trying to dispel the dream images that felt so terrifyingly real.
There was a loud, mechanical click and his alarm went off, beeping obnoxiously. Ray reached over and turned it off with fingers that were still trembling. With the back of his hand, he wiped the tears from his face and got up tiredly, feeling shattered and raw.
Ray hadn't really talked to her since she left Vecchio behind in Florida. He had seen her a few times at the precinct, but they hadn't had much to say to each other. He wondered what had happened with Vecchio and the bowling alley but couldn't bring himself to ask.
The phone rang one, two, three, four times before Stella picked it up. "What?" She sounded groggy and mostly asleep. No surprise, really, considering it was close to three in the morning.
He opened his mouth, then shut it, everything he wanted to say forgotten in his fear. He swallowed hard and croaked, "I'm sorry."
"What—Ray, is that you? Have you been drinking again?" Her voice was sharp and impatient, instantly awake. "Look, I told you not to call me when you've been drinking—"
"No, no, Stel—I've been drinking but I'm not drunk. Just buzzed. I swear." Ray held up his right hand, forgetting for a moment that she couldn't see him. Which was good, because then he'd have to explain the cast.
Sighing, she asked, "What do you want, Ray?"
He was stretched out on his couch, all the lights off, and an empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table. He covered his eyes with his plaster-encased arm and inhaled deeply. "Please, Stel, I need you to listen to me. Just—hear me out, okay?"
There was a long pause where Ray could tell she was trying to decide if he was being a clingy ex-husband. "I'm listening."
He hesitated, trying to organize his thoughts. Calling Stella had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he wasn't so sure. Ray was going to babble like an idiot and then she was going to yell at him, then he was—no, he could do this. He knew what he wanted to say. "I'm sorry. I didn't understand, at the end, what you'd meant by us not being friends anymore. But I do now."
"Oh, Ray."
"No, really, Stel," he said earnestly. "It was more important for me to have a wife than it was to have my best friend. And that was wrong. I finally get that. I'm sorry."
There was a long pause while she absorbed this. "It took me a long time to figure out that we weren't friends any more. It took me even longer to figure out why. It hurt," she said tiredly. "You were my best friend, the one person who I thought would always be there for me. And then you weren't."
Even after all this time she still had the talent for hitting him below the belt. The truth was painful, sometimes. Now, they needed the truth so they could both get on with living their lives. "I was always afraid of losing you. Always afraid you'd wake up and realize the mistake you'd made in marrying me..." He laughed bitterly. "Poor white boy from the wrong side of the tracks and a Gold Coast girl."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "So you pushed me away. And I let you."
"Aw, Stella, it's not-"
"I still love you," she interrupted. "You know that, don't you? It wasn't all your fault. It was both of us. We grew apart and neither of us wanted to admit that. Or to let go. We held on too long and ended up hurting each other." Stella wasn't going to let him take sole responsibility for the death of their marriage.
"Yeah, I know. I just wish—do you think we can try to be friends again?" He ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck. "If you can bring yourself to trust me again."
"I would like that very much, Ray. I've never distrusted you. You've always tried to do what you thought was best for me." Lightly, she laughed. "Even if I didn't agree."
The telephone line hummed softly with nostalgic memories for a moment. "What brought this on, anyway?" Stella asked quietly. "Everything all right with you? I haven't seen you down at the precinct the last few weeks."
With that, they'd started working back towards the friendship they'd shared a lifetime ago.
"Yeah, everything's fine." Ray looked at the plaster cast that enclosed most of his fingers, his hand, his wrist and his arm up to the elbow. "No," he said suddenly. "Nothing's all right. Everything's wrong. I don't know what to do." He chewed nervously on his lip, wondering how she would react to his news.
"Talk to me, Ray. You know it's easier to solve problems once you've laid out all the facts."
He grinned. Stella was a lawyer, through and through. Sobering, he decided the only way to do this was to tell her straight out. "Okay, I'm in love with someone and I might have fucked up."
"The Constable?"
"Well, he's a Corporal now—wait a minute! How the hell did you know that?"
Annoyance crept into her tone. "I'm not blind, Ray. And I know you. You two have been inseparable." Ray could almost see her waving her hand elegantly through the air to make her point. "Also, you wear your heart on your sleeve." Stella gave him a moment to digest that. "I've also watched you put the moves on more than one guy over the years." She chuckled. "So, how did you mess up with Fraser?"
Sitting up on the couch, he squirmed around, trying to find a position that didn't make his back ache. "He'd been a loose cannon lately, more than usual. Fraser had something going on in his head and he wouldn't tell me what it was." Ray worked hard to keep his tone level. "I told him that he needed to stop pulling stupid stunts or I wouldn't work with him any more. Three days later he took off for Canada and I haven't heard from him since."
"Ray, give him some space. If he's trying to work through personal issues, it's going to take time." He could hear her biting her fingernails, the only bad habit she had. "Fraser is a very honorable man; I don't think he's going to leave without telling you. He'll be back and then you'll have a chance to talk."
"I'm not so sure." Ray yawned widely, twice in a row, and scratched at his belly. "Stel, thanks for talking with me, but I think it's time for all good little lawyers and flatfoots to be in bed, sleeping."
She chuckled. "How about dinner tomorrow? We can finish talking about your love life—"
Ray was glad that she couldn't see his blush. "Only if we talk about yours, too."
"Deal." He could hear her smiling again. "See you tomorrow, Ray."
"See you tomorrow, Stella," he replied, and hung up the phone.
Ray finds himself with his gun in one trembling hand, a flashlight in the other. It is quiet, so quiet that his breathing is deafening by comparison. He turns, gun and light synchronized, sweeping across the corridor, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The light catches something and he kneels down, looking closer. Bloody footprints, still wet, leading onward. He stands back up and slowly follows them around the corner, wary.
Hearing a noise behind him, he pivots quickly, the flashlight showing him an empty hallway. There's nothing there, but the sense of something stalking him remains. He turns back and continues to track the footprints. In the dark they're hard to see, but the flashlight picks them up without too much difficulty. He cautiously trails after them, down another hallway, up another corridor, leading him somewhere that makes his chest tighten with unspoken fears.
He's breathing fast, panting almost, hunting through endless twisting passageways, being hunted in turn by something he can't see, only feel deep in his gut. The flashlight flickers and dims, throwing weirdly shaped shadows on the wall, and Ray taps it against his palm, hoping to jar the batteries into giving more power. The skin on the back of his neck is crawling with the feeling of being watched, but every time he turns around, there's no one there.
Ray goes around another corner and stops, frozen.
She's standing there pointing a gun at him. Looking at him accusingly, she asks, "Why?"
He feels like he's going to throw up. She trusted Ray, and he betrayed that trust in the worst way.
She pulls the trigger three times in quick succession. Bang-bang-bang! Ray feels a hard punch where each slug hits: shoulder, chest, side. The momentum throws him to the ground, and he can feel wetness where he's been hit. That scares him; the damp can only be blood, but he looks down anyway. There's blood oozing from the wounds, almost invisible against the dark blue of his uniform. Pain washes over him, hot and stinging, and he can't even breathe for a moment, it hurts too much.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her walking slowly toward him, footsteps oddly silent. Ray reaches out, ignoring the pain, trying to find the weapon that he dropped when she shot him. If he can just find his damn gun, he might have a chance of getting out of here alive. His hand flounders and touches something cold and metallic. He gasps and struggles to get his hand on it, get his fingers around it and bring it up—and freezes when she points the gun at Ray's head.
She smiles at him, a smile full of bitterness and pulls the trigger.
Ray woke to the sound of his own voice shouting, the gunfire still echoing in his ears. He sat up, gasping at the throbbing aches in his shoulder, chest and side. Looking at the alarm clock, he wiped the mingled sweat and tears from his face. It was set to go off soon; he turned off the alarm with shaky fingers and lay back down. He curled into a ball, clutching his knees to his chest, trying to forget the betrayal that tastes like bile in the back of his throat.
It was stupid, really. All Ray wanted to do was get drunk and stay that way for a while. Maybe a long while. Maybe for the rest of his life.
Ray had planned on getting drunk. Fraser had been gone for over three weeks and he couldn't get a straight answer from anyone at the Consulate about when he was returning to duty, if ever. Ray had a sinking feeling that Fraser wouldn't be coming back.
He had been stuck on medical leave since he broke the hand—he couldn't shoot, couldn't write, couldn't do much of anything with his right hand in a cast, and his left hand was pretty useless for most things. Which meant that he'd had plenty of time to sit at home, mope at Turtle and feel sorry for himself. He was about out of hope and tired of the Fraser-shaped hole in his life.
Ray would do anything to distract himself from the hollow feeling that he got in his chest whenever he thought about Fraser. Listlessly, he watched endless amounts of television. Cleaned the apartment repeatedly. Debated with Turtle on the nature of love. Called himself names for throwing away his second chance at happiness, reminding himself forcefully that most people only got one shot at it. Even if his version of happiness consisted of being friends and partners with a crazy Mountie with delusions of super powers.
Getting drunk seemed to be a great idea. Ray had drank the last of his whiskey the week before, so he had run down to the nearest liquor store to replenish his supply. He'd picked up a bottle of his favorite whiskey and a six pack of beer, browsed for a while and headed for the register.
Standing in line, he'd noticed that the clerk had on the loudest, ugliest tie he'd ever seen. It had hurt his eyes just to look at it. When he got to the register, the annoying blue and green circular patterns on the tie resolved into - "Turtles! Cool, man."
The clerk had smiled and rung up his purchases. "One hundred percent polyester."
"Huh. I thought it was silk," Ray had remarked, paying for his alcohol.
As the clerk bagged the bottles, he shrugged, "Nah, silk's too much work."
Ray picked up his purchase and was ready to go home and drink himself into oblivion. And that's where he got into trouble.
Four greasy-looking punks burst through the door, shouting and waving sawed-off shotguns and 9 mm pistols. Ray was right there, next to the register, a heavy paper bag in his left hand, his right in the cast. Maybe he'd been a cop for too long, because the first thing he did was to reach for his gun. The gun he no longer wore, because he couldn't shoot with the cast on. The gun he had left in the lock-box in the top drawer of his dresser.
Ray had a brief, intense longing for his Kevlar vest before all hell started to break loose.
One of the punks saw Ray's aborted motion and screamed, "Cop, he's a cop!" Another started shooting. By then, he had already moved. He tossed his bag at the head punk and threw himself left onto the ground, trying to find cover in the aisle. He didn't have time to think, just crawl, and his brain screamed at him to go-go-go-go-go! Ray tried to go, somewhere, anywhere; he heard the whine of a bullet next to his ear. It sounded like a war-zone, gunfire and screaming, shattering glass. A shotgun blast took out the shelf of bottles above him, showering him with alcohol and glass shards.
Ray heard sirens wailing in the distance. "Oh, thank God!" he muttered. He worked on getting up on his hands and knees and then something punched him, hard in the shoulder. He found himself flat on his face, his entire shoulder and arm was numb. "Shit!"
Ray was about to really start panicking when a whole display of Jack Daniels bottles was knocked over onto him. Ray tried to curl up and protect his head, but one arm wouldn't work and the other had a cast on it. He did the best he could, but a bunch of bottles still managed to hit him in the head, hard. His last thought, before he lost consciousness, was of Fraser.
He can smell the lake water, hear the sounds of the waves, feel the weak winter sunshine on his skin. He's cold, and the uniform is clammy and wet, but he's focused all of his attention on the man and the gun he's waving at them.
Ray has stepped in front of him, trying to talk him down, blocking him from Benton's view.
There's the roar of shots, but the sound is hollow and muted. Ray is falling heavily back against him, slowly, slowly. Benton catches him and turns to lay him down on the ground. He doesn't see any blood, but his primary concern is to incapacitate the gunman. Then he can take care of Ray. Benton rushes the gunman, disarms and immobilizes him.
Quickly, he returns to where Ray lies unmoving among the wood pieces and yellow rubber toys. Kneeling down, he touches the bullet hole, gasping when blood wells up strongly, staining his fingers red. "Ray!" He puts his palm over the wound and presses hard, trying to stop the bleeding.
Why wasn't he wearing the vest? He should have been wearing the vest!
Ray opens his eyes and looks up at him. He's got a goofy grin on his face and his pupils are dilated; he's slipping into shock. "You called me Ray."
Benton chokes back a sob and thinks of all the things he's never said to Ray, things he's wanted to tell him but never had the courage to. Things he was too afraid to say, thinking the words weren't strong enough to the shadow of his fears. Things he'll never have a chance to say. He can feel Ray's life slipping away with the warm blood under his hand and puts more pressure on the wound, muttering prayers under his breath to a god he no longer believes in.
"Stay with me," he says, touching Ray's forehead to get his wavering attention, trying to will him to live a little longer. Just a little longer. Blood is smeared on his forehead and his eyes are so, so blue that Benton feels like he's falling into them. Between one moment and the next, Benton actually sees him go. Sees the eyes dull and feels the chest under his hand stop moving, feels the absence of a beloved heart beating.
"Oh, no, no, no, please, no." He kisses the bloody forehead and leans his head against Ray's, refusing to believe that he is gone. "Please, no," he whimpers.
"NO!" he shouts, and wakes himself up.
He sat up and looked down at his fingers, expecting them to be covered with Ray's blood. Instead, he saw only his hands, pale, strong, capable. Trembling. He looked at the travel clock on the nightstand and with a sudden spasm of movement, picked it up and hurled it against the wall, feeling no satisfaction as it crunched and thumped to the ground. Scrubbing roughly at his face, he got up to take a shower.
Benton stood outside of the door, hands trembling, punchy with exhaustion and worry. The antiseptic smell of the hospital stung his nose and made his eyes water. Some of the officers from the 27th had been in the waiting room; they had directed him to this room.
He opened the door. Ray wasn't alone. Stella sat in a chair next to his bed, sleeping. Obviously, he was in good hands. He wasn't needed here. Benton started to back out of the hospital room when Stella suddenly opened her eyes, alert.
"Corporal Fraser. I'm glad you're here." Her voice sounded rusty with disuse.
Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out. "Are you?" She had been a source of pain for both of his Rays and it was hard for him to not be sharp with her. How could she have throw away the love they'd offered to her?
Standing up, she smoothed the blanket over Ray's chest tenderly. "Actually, yes, I am," she replied. Her clothing was wrinkled and her hair tangled. She'd clearly been at the hospital for a while. "Ray's been in and out of consciousness since he got out of surgery. He had asked for you and became pretty agitated when you weren't here. The doctors are hoping that you'll be able to calm him down and let him rest."
He swallowed hard. "Asking for me?"
"Yes." Stella warily took hold of his arm and led him to the bedside. "Did they tell you anything?" Shaking her head, she answered her own question. "No, of course not."
They both looked down at the still figure. He was concerned about how pale Ray was. It reminded him too much of the dream that had chased him back to Chicago. He still saw the blood on his hands when he closed his eyes, could still feel the warmth of it covering his fingers.
"He was at a liquor store when it got robbed. Simple bad luck. Unarmed, and for once, not trying to be a hero." She brushed back the hair that curled on Ray's forehead, an unexpected, sweet gesture that made his eyes sting.
As she continued to speak, he visually cataloged the injuries. "Two gunshot wounds, one to the knee, one to the shoulder." She stopped for a moment, breathing deeply, calming herself. "The slug went straight through his shoulder, missing the important parts. His knee," she paused and sighed. "The knee is going to require a lot of work. He probably won't ever have full use of it again."
He stifled a cry of protest. Ray, his kinetic energy crippled by a damaged knee, unable to dance, to move gracefully?
She rubbed her eyes and seemed to fade out for a moment. "Forgive me, Corporal. It's been a long couple of days. He's got a concussion, but he has gotten worse from his boxing days. A lot of cuts from all the glass."
He could see shape of the bandage around Ray's left shoulder, as well as the cast on his knee, under the thin blanket. The lacerations and bruises that were visible on his face were clean and seemed to be healing. He wanted badly to touch the sleeping form, just to prove to himself that Ray was going to be all right. He wrapped his hands tightly around the bed rail to control the impulse and tried to steady his heartbeat and breathing.
Stella turned to him, combing her fingers through her mussed hair. "Fraser, may I speak honestly with you?"
"Yes," he replied. He could be—would be polite to her. For Ray's sake.
She reached under the blanket for Ray's hand, holding it gently between her own. "I love Ray."
Fraser inhaled sharply. She was trying for a reconciliation with Ray. Something small and hopeful inside him froze at that. He knew that it was impossible that Ray would want him when he could have his Stella back.
"I love Ray," she continued, "and I will always love him. But we're two very different people now, people that don't fit together anymore." She stared at him with steady blue eyes. "He and I have been talking while you were gone, and I think we've managed to make a start on rebuilding our friendship." Stella leaned over and placed a kiss on her ex-husband's cheek. Taking Benton's broad hand, she placed Ray's in it. "I'm leaving his heart in your capable hands. It's very fragile. Please don't break it." She patted him on the arm and walked away, leaving him alone in the room.
He stood, paralyzed for a moment, as he absorbed what she'd said. Dizzy with relief, he brought Ray's cold hand to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss on the back of it. "You and I will have to talk, once you're better, Ray. There's so much I need to say."
-fin-
End Leave The Memory Behind by Akamine chan
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