Author's website: http://www.slashcity.org/~rushlight

Disclaimer: No harm, no foul.

Author's Notes: Many thanks as always go to Beth for tireless encouragement and plot discussion, as well as help with the background details.
The line of poetry Ben quotes at the end is from "The Waste Land", by T.S. Eliot.

Story Notes: WARNINGS: This story deals with some nonconsensual themes. If you like your Ben squeaky clean, then this isn't the story for you. Caveat lector.

The Stranger Within
by, Rushlight

I should have known from the moment I woke up this morning that this would be the day that ended it all.

It's not like I didn't know it would happen eventually. I think I actually managed to fool myself for a while there, managed to convince myself that yes, I honestly do deserve this life I have, that I deserve this kind of happiness.

That I deserve Ray.

And that was just ... wrong. I knew that, I knew that as well as I've ever known anything, but I chose to believe it anyway. It was self-delusion of the highest caliber.

Not too surprising, really. Self-delusion is what I'm best at, after all.

I think it was the way he touched me this morning that gave me my first clue. Lying in our bed together in the predawn hours, both of us awake but somehow unable to sleep. It always seems to work out that way, I've noticed. Like we're connected on some level beyond the blatantly obvious.

He says he loves me.

I can still remember the way he touched me, the way his hand felt as it brushed across my skin. He has such beautiful hands. I've spent hours paying homage to them, letting him know how much I love them. How much I love all the varied parts of him. But this morning it was just his hand that captured my attention, his hand and then his eyes, bright in the light of the streetlamps that bled in through the open window.

"Why are you so unhappy?" he asked me.

It was the first time he'd come out and asked the question directly, although I've seen the question in his eyes before. It made me smile even as it cut into me, because I know how tenacious Ray is; he never lets go of a question once it's been asked. No, I knew he'd follow the question to its inevitable conclusion.

Still, I believed that it didn't necessarily have to be the end, that he didn't have to know the truth entirely. And maybe it would still have been all right, if things had happened differently later.

I turned to him and I touched his hair, trying not to see the concern shining in his eyes. He has such fey eyes. I've never seen their like before.

"I'm not unhappy," I lied to him, and in a way, it wasn't lying at all. Because I've been happier with him than I've been in ... a long time.

I could tell by the way his face tightened that he didn't believe me, but that didn't honestly concern me. He didn't have to believe me; he just had to let the question go, for now. And so I kissed him, a light brush of lips across each eye, to close them, to free myself from their censuring gaze. And then across his cheek, tasting the faint rasp of his stubble, to his ear, his neck, and finally his mouth. He opened for me, as he always does, and then there was nothing but the feel and the taste of him for a good long while.

It wasn't until after the sun had risen and we were getting dressed for work that his eyes asked me the question again. I pretended I didn't see it, and thankfully, he didn't put it into words a second time. Master of self-deception that I am, I allowed myself to believe that that might actually be the end of it, and I responded eagerly to his familiar teasing while we ate our breakfast together, enjoying the privilege of his company. He told me again that he loved me as we made our way out the door.

Even so I knew, somehow, that it was the beginning of the end.

"Hey, Frase!" Ray felt a grin spread across his face as he caught a familiar glimpse of signal-flare red by the doorway. The bullpen was a madhouse today, and he smirked as he watched Fraser pick a careful path across the room toward him, maneuvering cautiously to avoid running into anyone. He could almost hear the inevitable chorus of "Pardon me"s and "Thank you kindly"s as Fraser made his way across the room.

God, he loved this guy. Even if he was a freak.

Or maybe because of it.

"Good afternoon, Ray." Fraser finally reached his desk and all but collapsed into the empty chair there, looking a bit worn around the edges. It made Ray want to kiss him, made him want to do what he could to ease those frown lines away, but he controlled himself with an effort. It wasn't the time, and it most certainly was not the place.

Dief settled down on the floor next to them and looked around at the room curiously, panting. Ray made commiserating noises, feeling for both of them. "The city always goes a little crazy during the summer," he said, signing his name to the bottom of the report in front of him with a flourish. To be honest, he liked the busy season because it made the days go by quicker. "It'll be like this till September at least."

"Yes," Fraser agreed, sounding distracted. He'd never admit to it, but all the craziness did get to him every once in a while. No matter how much he tried to pretend, he just wasn't cut out to be a city boy. Ray knew he didn't like crowds at the best of times, and added to the heat wave they'd been having for the past few weeks, the guy was pretty much miserable 24/7. Chicago in the summertime had to be the ninth ring of hell for Mounties and arctic wolves alike.

At least Ray hoped that's all it was. Because Fraser had told him there wasn't anything else bothering him, he'd said he wasn't unhappy here, even though it seemed like it at times. But still, Ray couldn't help but wonder. Maybe he was just being insecure -- god knew Stella had accused him of that often enough -- but sometimes he really couldn't figure out what the hell Fraser was doing here.

It wasn't that they weren't good together. Hell, they were the best -- in bed, on the job, you name it, they aced it. They'd been living together for two months now, and even that was good, despite the reservations he'd had at first. He knew from experience that he didn't play well with others -- just look at his track record in the romance department -- but the fact was, he and Fraser were good together. He loved falling asleep beside the guy, loved waking up with him, loved having sex with him -- that part was very, very good -- loved living their lives together on a day-to-day basis. He hadn't felt this way about anyone since the early Stella years, and it was great.

Which made it all the more puzzling when Fraser fell into these funks of his. It was almost like something inside him wouldn't let him be happy, and that was just damned irritating because there didn't seem to be anything Ray could do about it. It hurt a bit that Fraser wouldn't open up to him, but he tried not to think about it that way. Hell, maybe Fraser was as clueless as he was about what was bothering him. Maybe it was just the summer craziness getting to him, making him realize how far he was away from home.

But it wasn't like he couldn't leave whenever he wanted. He'd been offered his big promotion back north, back there during the whole boat thing. And he'd turned it down, even though he hadn't really had any reason at the time to stay. Their partnership had been showing definite frays around the edges at that point, and they'd already come to blows over it. Why the hell hadn't Fraser taken the out his government was offering him? All he'd had to do was pack up his things and go.

But he'd stayed. That had been the first clue that told Ray maybe there was something else going on between them than friendship. He supposed it should have occurred to him a lot sooner, but honestly, sometimes you had to smack him upside the head with a clue-by-four before he'd take notice of what was going on around him. It was one of his biggest faults, how he'd get so caught up in his own frustrations that he'd lose sight of ... well, of just about everything else. God, he could still hear Stella reaming into him about it.

And Fraser had stayed. He'd given up his ticket back to the wide open north with all of its clear skies and forests and new-fallen snow, and he'd chosen ... Ray. The mind boggled.

Not that Ray was complaining. But still, he couldn't help wondering why. And yeah, maybe he was insecure, but it bothered him when Fraser crawled into these shells of his, like he was afraid of letting Ray get too close. Sex he could do without a problem, it seemed, but intimacy was another thing altogether. Ray couldn't help feeling like he didn't really know him at all sometimes.

"Lunch at Pelligrini's?" Fraser said, breaking into his thoughts.

Ray glanced up, catching the not-quite-flicker that crossed Fraser's eyes. He smiled briefly; he knew it made Fraser nervous when he was quiet for too long, like the thought of him actually sitting still long enough to think was cause for major worry. It would have been funny, except he had the uncanny feeling that Fraser knew exactly what he'd been thinking about.

"Uh, sure." He looked up at the clock. It was almost two already. It was kind of comforting and quirky all at the same time how Fraser knew him well enough to assume he hadn't eaten yet, without having to ask. "Just let me finish up with these last few pages and then we'll go. Welsh'll have my ass if I keep him waiting any longer."

Fraser nodded absently and settled back to wait. Ray turned back to his work and finished as quickly as he could, feeling grateful that Fraser would have come all the way here to have lunch with him. Fraser knew full well that he sometimes forgot to feed himself when he got caught up in a heavy workload; he was worse than a mother hen where Ray's welfare was concerned. That had to be a good thing, right? Fraser wouldn't take the extra time to make sure Ray was taking care of himself if he didn't want to.

He'd said he wasn't unhappy here. He'd said so.

For the first time since they'd met, Ray believed that Fraser had told him a bald-faced lie.

He finally finished the last of the paperwork, and he shoved it into a folder to hand to Welsh on their way out. Suddenly he couldn't wait to get out of there, and it was more than just the fact that he was hungry.

Fraser seemed almost normal as they left -- at least as normal as he ever got -- and Ray was almost able to forget all the weirdness as they made their way down to the garage where the GTO was parked. That's the way it was with Fraser; he was real good at showing you what you wanted to see. Or no, that wasn't it. He showed you what you expected to see. It wasn't lying, exactly, but it meant you'd never really notice the discrepancies in him unless you looked beneath the surface.

They chatted about work-type things on the way to the restaurant, and Ray took advantage of the opportunity to vent about the cases he'd been working on that morning. "Fucking punk bastard," he found himself saying as they pulled into the parking lot of Pelligrini's. "These damn kids think they can do whatever the hell they want, and no one'll hold 'em to task for it. I'm just glad this girl decided to press fucking charges. You know what I mean? 'Cause half the time they never do."

He glanced over at Fraser as he pulled the key out of the ignition, looking for some kind of mirror for the outrage he was feeling. Fraser was looking at him, sure enough, but his eyes slid away before Ray could read the expression in them. He didn't say anything as he climbed out of the car.

And that was one of those discrepancies he'd been thinking about right there. It was something Ray'd noticed before, but hadn't ever given any real thought to. Fraser just seemed unnaturally ill at ease about the date rape cases they worked on. Not that there were all that many, thank god, but he just got ... weird ... whenever the subject came up. Maybe things like that just didn't happen in the great wild north; Ray'd always figured it was because Mr. Country Boy had trouble adjusting to the more common injustices of city life, and he'd been willing to cut him some slack over it.

In fact, he might not have given it another thought this time, either, if it wasn't for the questions that were tumbling around in his head today. But now all of a sudden it seemed kind of ominous, and he ticked off the reasons for his sudden uneasiness one by one. Fraser didn't seem able to be happy in an intimate relationship. Fraser didn't feel comfortable talking about rape cases. Something was bothering Fraser that he wasn't willing to talk about, not even to the man he supposedly loved.

Goddamn it.

So maybe he'd been raped. God, that would explain so much. But Fraser didn't have any problems with sex that Ray could see -- even the first time they'd fallen into bed together, he'd been so hungry, so eager. But that was Fraser all over, he supposed -- if something's bothering you, just lock it down, shore it up, don't let anyone else see. It was entirely possible that the reason he was so gung-ho about sex was precisely because he'd had a bad experience in the past somewhere.

The thought made Ray feel like a heel.

He could feel Fraser's eyes on him as they moved into the restaurant to take their seats. Pelligrini's was a small family-owned establishment that wasn't on any of the tourist brochures. There was an intimate, homey air to it that Ray liked, and the food was incredible. Plus, the owners didn't mind when Dief came in to eat with them, which was the winning stroke as far as Ray was concerned.

They ordered their food from a perky young waitress who looked like she was working a summer job out of high school. She looked a little uncertain about Dief's inclusion, but a smile from Fraser set her immediately at ease. There were still stars in her eyes as she turned to place their orders.

Ray chuckled lightly, shaking his head in admiration. "How do you do that?"

Fraser arched a brow at him. "What?"

"Charm women like that. Jeez, I swear we should register your smile as a lethal weapon."

The words were meant to be teasing, but for some reason, Fraser didn't rise to the bait. Something dark flickered across his eyes, and his expression turned carefully blank as he reached to take a sip of his water. "I hardly think that's necessary, Ray." The words were clipped.

Fucking hell. What did he say? Fraser always had been a little weird about women, but this was ridiculous.

So okay, they definitely had to talk. Maybe this wasn't exactly the most perfect place, but at least they had some measure of privacy here at the back of the room. The lunchtime crowd was never very big at Pelligrini's, and because of the lateness of the hour, they were practically the only ones here.

Ray fidgeted nervously with the napkin in front of him before he gathered his thoughts enough to speak. "So," he said, hoping he sounded casual and knowing full well that he didn't. "You're not unhappy here."

From the look in Fraser's eyes, Ray guessed the implied question didn't come as much of a surprise. There was the faintest flicker of a smile that looked almost bitter, gone so fast Ray wasn't sure he'd seen it at all.

"No, Ray. I'm not unhappy here."

Fuck it all, but he was lying. Ray knew he was lying. He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. "You know, if there was ever anything you wanted to tell me, you know you could, right? I mean, you can tell me anything you want to."

Now Fraser's gaze turned weighing, as if he couldn't quite figure out what Ray was trying to say. "Yes, I know that." The words were cautious.

Okay, so subtle wasn't going to work. He should have known it wouldn't be that easy; it never was, with Fraser. Holding Fraser's gaze evenly, he lowered his voice and asked, "Have you ever been raped?"

There was absolutely no describing the emotions that jumped across Fraser's eyes at that moment. Ray wasn't even sure those kinds of emotions had names. For a heart-wrenching moment he was absolutely, devastatingly sure he'd hit the nail on the head, until Fraser dropped his gaze again and shook his head.

"No," he said. It was almost a whisper.

The relief Ray felt at that was so profound it left him dizzy. God. "So what, then?" he asked, keeping his voice low. He leaned forward earnestly. "What's going on with you, Fraser? I wish you'd tell me."

Fraser shook his head slowly, refusing to meet his gaze. "Nothing. There's nothing wrong, Ray."

Lie. Lie, lie, lie. It irritated him that Fraser would be so intentionally deceitful. He was such a fucking bad liar. "Do you love me?"

The look Fraser gave him was stricken. "You know I do."

"Then talk to me, goddamn it." Why did Fraser have to make this so difficult? "Trust me. I can't help you if you won't tell me what's wrong."

"I told you--"

"There's nothing wrong. I fucking know, Fraser." Ray leaned back hard in his chair, wishing he had a cigarette. This was getting them absolutely nowhere. If Fraser didn't want to talk to him, he wasn't going to talk, and that was it. It didn't have to mean anything. Didn't have to mean he was thinking about leaving.

"Ray." Fraser's voice was pleading. "Can't you just let it go? Please?"

And what the hell was he supposed to say to that? Ray rubbed at his eyes tiredly. He really hadn't been getting enough sleep lately. "I love you, Ben," he said, sighing.

"I know." The words were soft.

Did he? Did he, really?

Picking uneasily at the edges of his napkin, Ray settled back to wait for their meal.

It seems an odd twist of fate that would put him so close to the mark, and yet so wholly far from the truth. If I were a religious man, I might believe it was a case of divine justice. Or at least divine humor.

And yet, as I sat there looking at him across the table, I still believed my crime might somehow remain unspoken. It was a foolish hope, but one I clung to, for whatever selfish reasons I still had. Because I've never yet known Ray to let go of a question once it's been asked.

Tenacious. It's one of the qualities I admire most in him.

Even so, there was a part of me that simply wanted to sit back and drink in the sight of him there, as if I realized on some subconscious level that it would be my last. The afternoon light slanted in heavily through the window beside us, and it touched the hairs on his arms with an edge of gold. His eyelashes, which I have long admired, flickered briefly when he turned his head to thank the waitress for our food, catching the light in a subtle weave of sunlight and shadow across his cheeks.

The sight of him made me hungry for things I knew I had no right to long for. When I breathed, I could taste the scent of him on the air, subtle and shifting, like the memory of a dream. It made me thirsty, made me close my eyes and grope for that legendary control I've grown so reliant on over the years. It's become habit, really. I'm afraid to want too much, afraid of what might happen if I allow myself to believe.

He asked no further questions while we ate our lunch, and for that I was grateful. I knew it was a temporary reprieve -- I knew that -- but still I took comfort in simply being allowed the pleasure of his company. I wonder if he has any idea how much that meant to me -- how much it still means to me. That he would look at me, flawed image that I am, and love me.

It's a privilege I've been afforded precious few times in this life. And never with the sheer passion and honesty that he brings to the most trivial of encounters. To our bed, our home, our lives together.... He brings nothing less than all of himself, pure and undiluted.

I envy him that.

I fear him for it as well. Because it's that very honesty that keeps me awake at night, wondering just how long I'll be able to stand measuring myself by his standards. He's the mirror I see myself by, and that image is ... splintered. I'm such a pale shadow of everything he is, of everything he believes me to be.

I want to love him, in the way he deserves to be loved.

I want to let him go so he'll be free to find someone who can.

I want to hate him for daring to believe in me, for having the gall to believe I'm something more than what I am.

I want to hold him down and lick every inch of his body, make him beg, make him moan.

I want to make him promise he'll never let me go.

But I gave up the right to lay claim to those fantasies a long time ago. I stepped into this relationship with my eyes wide open, and now the only thing I can do is see where it leads us both. Because no matter the injustice of it, I can't help but take whatever he is willing to offer me. Because I love him.

And it's been a hell of a ride.

Trust had always been the one hurdle they could never get past.

It was like feast or famine, all or nothing.... It was either there or it wasn't, every single time. Like the time Ray'd taken refuge at the Consulate, on the run for a murder he couldn't remember he didn't commit. He could still remember the way Fraser's eyes had looked there in the hallway, telling him to stay put, telling him to sit back and let Fraser take care of him.

You have to trust me.

Trust you, Fraser? I don't even know if I trust me.

And he had trusted, up to a point. At least until he'd gone out and done a fair job of almost getting them both arrested, or killed, or worse. Because there were worse things than death. Ray believed that from the bottom of his soul.

*Look, Fraser, just this once. Just this once. I trust you. Every single time, every single time I gotta trust you. Just once, you trust me....*

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, trying not to feel the way Fraser was looking at him. The restaurant was even emptier now than when they'd come in, and if it wasn't for the muted clink of dishes in the kitchen and the low murmur of traffic on the street outside, he'd almost believe they were the last two people alive on the planet.

And Fraser was doing that wounded-puppy thing with his eyes again.

Hell, he wished he could just let it go. Because they were good together, he knew they were good together, but it was just so fucking frustrating that Fraser still didn't seem to trust him enough to talk to him, after all this time. If they couldn't be honest with each other, then where did that leave them?

Not anywhere he wanted to be, that was for damn sure.

He settled back into his chair with a sigh, drumming a nervous tattoo across the tabletop with the fingers of one hand. "We're supposed to be partners, Fraser. A duet. Right?"

There was that smile again, small and sharp-edged, as if Fraser had been anticipating the question. "Yes, Ray." He met Ray's gaze evenly enough. "Of course."

Of course. Well, that was good, at least. "So, okay. Good. And partners trust each other, right? They tell each other when something's bothering them."

"Yes, but I told you--"

"And they do not lie to each other, Fraser. Not under any circumstances. Okay?"

Now Fraser was beginning to look irritated. "I'm not sure what you want me to say."

Ray blew out a frustrated sigh. "I don't know. Whatever you aren't telling me. Anything. Everything. Why you feel the way you do. I just want to understand you. Is that too much to ask?"

Fraser shook his head slowly. He looked tired. "Maybe I don't understand myself."

So where did that leave them? Ray clenched his fist tightly. "I feel like I'm losing you," he admitted, hating the vulnerability he heard in his voice.

There was honest surprise in the gaze Fraser flicked up at him. "You're not losing me, Ray." Low, honest conviction in the words.

Ray wished he could believe them. "Sometimes I feel like I never had you to begin with." Point and score, judging by the flinch that crossed Fraser's face. He ground his teeth together lightly. "Do I have you, Fraser?"

There was absolutely no reading the emotions in those eyes. "Yes."

Bullshit. And because he was so angry that Fraser was lying to him again, he said it out loud. "Bullshit."

Fraser's eyes flashed. "I don't know what you want me to say," he said again.

Ray turned to look out the window, clenching his jaw. *Tell me you love me,* he thought, almost desperately. Tell me you're happy here with me. Tell me you're not going to leave.

Instead, all he said was, "I want you to trust me."

"I do." No hesitation there. Not even a little.

Ray smiled sadly; Fraser was so good at showing people what they expected to see. "I trust you, too," he said, willing Fraser to hear the truth behind the words.

The corner of Fraser's mouth twitched in a wry smile, but there was no humor in it. No humor at all. His eyes glinted softly. "Maybe you shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do."

And that was the problem right there, wasn't it? That was the problem exactly. "So why don't you tell me?"

The wry not-humor in Fraser's eyes deepened; there was something almost dangerous about the expression, something that made Ray's skin crawl. "I'm not sure you really want to know." The words sounded like a challenge.

There was a strange feeling of consequence to this moment, like he was poised to open Pandora's box and let all the evils of the world escape. But that was crazy, wasn't it? Because this was Fraser, who'd never had an evil thought in his life.

Ray took in a deep breath and then let it out slowly, holding Fraser's gaze. "Tell me."

And the light in Fraser's eyes ... went out. He slumped forward slightly, looking suddenly tired, looking suddenly like a guy who'd spent his entire life trying to be something he wasn't, and was too worn out to pretend anymore. He looked ... defeated.

"I went on an evening date about twelve years ago," Fraser said, without lifting his eyes from the table in front of him, "with a young woman from a village where I was stationed near the Saskatchewan border." He traced patterns absently in the condensation on the side of his water glass, seemingly enthralled by the tracks his finger left as it skimmed across the smooth surface.

Ray felt a tightening in his chest. Suddenly he wasn't sure he wanted to hear this, wasn't sure he wanted to know. But it was too late to back down now, and this was the closest Fraser had ever come to confiding in him. "What happened?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

The eyes Fraser raised to him then were empty in a way that rattled Ray to the core. When he spoke, his voice was lined with regret and the bitter echo of remembered pain.

"I raped her."

There was a certain amount of vindictive pleasure in finally saying the words aloud. In finally telling it to someone, despite the vow I'd taken. It seemed fitting, actually, that my betrayal should take this final turn.

I sat there and I watched as the encouraging smile on his face slowly froze, watched as the concern in his eyes turned brittle as broken glass and then, when I didn't refute the question in them, finally shattered. I felt the echo of it pierce deep inside of me, and the pain of it burned so bright it felt like orgasm. It felt like being born.

It was, of course, no more than I deserved.

And somehow, underneath it all, what I felt was a deep and searing relief that he finally knew the truth. *Yes,* I remember thinking. Yes, see me as I am. Please. Because no one, not anyone ever, has looked at me and actually seen what's in front of them. No one since her.

Her name had been Michele.

Strange how I can think her name now without feeling ... anything. And that seems like yet another dimension to my betrayal, to the crime I committed. I should feel ... something, when I remember her. I owe her that much.

It seems almost funny that I don't even know her last name. Never asked for it, never cared to ask for it, and she never offered. To be honest, I can't even remember what she looked like anymore. Some days I wonder if she was even real, if she was anything other than just a figment of my tormented imagination. I find myself closing my eyes at inopportune moments and trying to recapture the memory of her smile, or the color of her hair.

It seems a greater wrong, somehow, that she should fade so entirely from my memory. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But perhaps it's fitting that I should be locked alone here inside the prison of my thoughts, kept company only by the memory of the things I felt that night, the things I did. Refusing to forget, even for a moment, because this self-imposed sentence is the only one I will ever see for my crimes.

It was my first day in from Fortitude Pass, and I'd been high on the excitement of being back among civilization after so many days away. I'd spent the past two weeks out in the wild, tracking down the light aircraft that had carried Victoria Metcalf over the border from Alaska. And that, perhaps, is where this story truly begins, out there in the wilderness where heart and duty clashed, and fought, and eventually died.

Victoria.

Victoria I have not forgotten.

Her name still brings with it the familiar pain, a resurgence of the ache that has become as much a part of me as my skin or my bones or my hair. I close my eyes at night sometimes to drown out her memory, but I can still feel her, warm against me as the world turned white around us. I can still hear her voice, holding the cold at bay, tying us both to the fate of surviving a storm that should, by all rights, have been the death of us.

Sometimes I wish it had been.

But even Victoria hadn't been able to see beyond the surface of me, beyond the image of what she expected to see. Not that first time. Maybe not ever. At first she'd seen only her savior, and then her betrayer, and then -- in the end -- she hadn't seen anything other than hate. And so we're both left with the repercussions of the choices we made.

And my choices included turning her in to the proper authorities, and leaving her to find her own fate while I went on to face the accolades of my peers for having tracked her down. I hadn't realized at the time how much publicity her crimes had garnered, and it was a bit of a shock to discover that I was considered, for all intents and purposes, a hero for having brought her in.

The irony of it still manages to amuse me, even after all this time.

I believe I was drifting in a bit of a haze at that point. None of it seemed real to me; it hadn't quite sunk in yet just what I'd done, how I was alive and she was alive, and I honestly hadn't expected either one of us to ever lay eyes on the sun again. I'm still not sure what it was we forged out there together, or what it might have turned into if it had been given the chance to grow. I remember her eyes, though, as they came to take her away. She didn't cry, but the betrayal I saw there was a reflection of the guilt I knew suddenly would be with me until the end of my days.

Some choices, once they are made, cannot be undone.

And they wanted to give me a citation for it. Call me a hero, put my name in the newspapers and turn me into a bit of a small-town celebrity for being the one to bring Victoria Metcalf in. I hadn't managed to recover the money she'd stolen, but that didn't seem to matter to them; they had their perpetrator, their symbol that justice was being done.

They had no idea. No idea at all.

Michele was one of many strangers I met at that night's congratulatory celebration, who all seemed hell-bent on expressing their appreciation for what they saw as an act of supreme fortitude and dedication. It's a mark of the weakness in me that I agreed to go out to dinner with her when she asked. Women are always making such offers to me -- it's the price of the uniform, I've long suspected -- and normally I would have declined politely enough. I have little interest in casual romantic entanglements, and I already knew that I planned on transferring out as soon as the opportunity arose.

But that night I was ... lonely. I didn't want to spend the night alone.

We had dinner together at a trattoria by the pier. It was actually quite pleasant, as I remember it, although I indulged in drinking far more than I should have. Amazing, how much alcohol deadens the pain. It almost allowed me to forget, for a while, and at the time I thought it was a blessing.

After dinner, we moved back to the little apartment I had at the edge of the RCMP outpost. It was very cold that night, and I had my arm around her waist as we made our way up the steps toward the door. I can still remember the way she leaned against me, the sound of her laughter, the light brush of her hair as it moved across my cheek.

The moonlight silvered the ice that clung to the windows, giving the homely cottage the look of something out of a fairy tale. We went inside and started a fire, and we sat for a long while, talking. We drank together from the bottle we'd brought with us -- I a great deal more than she -- and I found myself relying ever more heavily on the emotional buffer it offered. It became obvious that in Michele's eyes, I was still the dauntless "hero" who had brought Victoria Metcalf down, and my attraction for her began to sour considerably as I listened to her well-meaning praises. I knew she didn't mean anything by the words, knew she didn't mean to be so hurtful, so cruel. But still, the wound was made.

God help me, it sounds as if I'm trying to make excuses for what I did. And I'm not. Because there is no excuse, no justification that can absolve me of my crime.

I don't honestly remember how it happened. I remember feeling the effects of the alcohol very strongly, remember feeling Victoria's ghost hovering around us, remember feeling her eyes on me -- madness! -- accusing me of all I had done to wrong her. I remember the feel of Michele in my arms -- willing, at first -- remember thinking it wasn't Michele I wanted to be holding. I remember thinking very hard about the time I'd spent out in the wilderness with Victoria, the nights we'd spent together, the heat we'd shared, keeping each other alive. I remember the feeling of guilt, of betrayal, of rage that I would have given in to that kind of weakness, that I could have been so foolish as to let temptation find its equal to duty within my heart.

And, finally, I remember the way she struggled to get away from me, the muffled sound of her screams against my hand on her mouth, the way the light from the fire glistened on the tears that spilled down her cheeks. If there was a single moment when I decided yes, this was the course I would take, I do not recall it. But the fact remains that it was the course I chose.

When I woke up the next morning, she was gone. I remember lying there in the predawn coldness of the room, staring up at the shadows that chased their way across the ceiling. It was very quiet, and I thought I could still detect the faintest scent of her on the air.

I felt ... cold. There was no moment of mercy where I failed to remember just what had happened during the night. I knew from the moment my eyes opened just what it was I had done.

I don't believe I've ever hated anyone as much as I despised myself at that moment. I knew full well the crime I was guilty of, the weakness I'd given in to in the depths of my rage and wounded self-pity. A loss of control so shattering I couldn't begin to imagine the repercussions it might have.

I laid there for a very long time. Perhaps I was waiting for the authorities to come and take me away, much as they'd taken Victoria away the day before. I know that's what I wanted to have happen. Because my career was over now -- my career, my reputation, my whole fucking life -- and suddenly I wanted that more than anything, to be held to task for my crimes. In retrospect, I rather suspect that was a part of my motivations that night; it was an act of self-destruction so grand it could only have been intentionally self-inflicted.

But it didn't turn out that way. I waited, but the expected knock on the door never came. And so finally I got up, and dressed, and went out in search of Michele.

I suppose I was looking for some kind of closure; I felt cut adrift, lost, as if I'd been thrust into the middle of a dress rehearsal without being given a script. I know I wanted to do what I could to make amends. As if there was anything that could excuse what I'd done. What did I expect to say to her? I'm sorry? But I knew I had to try.

I didn't honestly believe I'd be able to find her. It seemed surreal to be looking for her, this woman I'd so grievously wronged, when I didn't even know her full name. But find her I did, by tracking her through the people I'd seen her with at the party the night before. I can be a very determined tracker, I'm told, when the cause warrants it.

The moment I saw her eyes -- those betrayed eyes that looked at me with such fear, such loathing, that looked at me and saw me, and not the image of me -- I knew she had no intention of letting anyone know what I had done. I suppose I even understood her motivations for it -- I've learned through experience the types of stigmas that can get attached to women who suffer from these kinds of crimes. No, all she wanted was for me to leave her alone, and to demand that she never, not even once, lay eyes on me again.

In hindsight, I can recognize the vicious irony of it. I knew full well I'd hurt her, knew I'd shamed her, violated her, and I had no excuse save my own self-centered wish for self-destruction. The knowledge of it tortured me, but I was being denied the opportunity to do penance for my crime.

I wonder, even now, if she had any idea what sentence she was imposing by refusing to allow me to pay.

She looked terrified when I told her of my willingness to go to the authorities, when I told her with heated assurance that I wouldn't deny any charges she might choose to raise against me. No, she told me. No one must ever know. She made me promise, made me vow that I would never, under any circumstances, reveal what had been done to her.

So much for promises.

As I look at Ray now, sitting across the table from me, staring at me with those eyes of his that now, finally, see me for what I am, I feel a brand of closure that's been denied to me for nearly fifteen years. Because as painful as it is, I know I deserve this. To have Ray look at me and see the monster behind the mask, to have this final chance at happiness stripped away from me, as it should have been all those years ago.

I have seen the devil that exists at the heart of men.

And he is me.

Holy fucking shit.

No. No way did he just say what Ray thought he'd just said. Fuck.

Ray wiped his suddenly sweaty palms over the tops of his thighs, trying to ignore the itchy rasp of the jeans against his skin. His chest felt like it was about two sizes too small for his lungs, and he concentrated on breathing for a moment while he took another sip of his drink.

Okay, he just had to chill out for a minute. Fraser was still staring at him with that freaky little not-smile that told Ray he was bracing himself for some sort of explosion that he probably felt he deserved. And hell, yeah, probably he did if what he was telling Ray was true.

Ray coughed lightly to clear the catch from his throat. "Are you going to tell me what happened?" he said at last.

Fraser shook his head slowly. "Does it really matter?"

No. No, it really fucking didn't. But he wanted to hear it anyway. "You tell me." Damn if he'd give Fraser the benefit of the fucking doubt on this one.

Fraser sighed and looked away, scratching at his eyebrow absently. "I assure you, Ray, telling you the details involved won't make it any prettier. I went on a date with a woman who trusted me, and I...." -- he didn't seem able to say the "r" word again, for which Ray was exceedingly grateful -- "I did something that I regret very strongly, to this day."

And that was just bullshit. Because he knew Fraser, and Fraser wouldn't just.... Well, he wouldn't do something like that for no reason.

"What the fuck, Fraser." Perhaps it wasn't the most intelligent comeback he could have come up with, but it was probably the best he could expect from himself under the circumstances. He shifted in his chair, unable to get comfortable, unable to lose the wired tension that was suddenly singing through him. "So what was it? You were just out looking for kicks on a Friday night?"

Yeah, it was a stupid cruel thing to say, but he figured it was the only way to get Fraser talking. And just the way he thought it would, the distant coolness in Fraser's eyes suddenly snapped to life, and he leaned forward with a sudden vehemence that made Ray draw back reflexively.

"Of course not." The words were fairly spat out. "I wouldn't.... I mean, I didn't want...." He bit the words off as if they left a bad taste in his mouth and collected himself with an effort. "It wasn't something I planned to have happen."

Oh please, tell him Fraser wasn't going to say it was an accident. Ray grabbed a French fry off his plate and fed it to Dief, just so he'd have something to do with his hands. "You know, Ben, I'm really trying to understand here, but you aren't giving me a hell of a lot to go on."

"Yes, I ... I realize that." And the anger just ... left him, like it'd never been there at all. He sat there blinking for a moment before lowering his gaze. "I'm sorry."

Ray could almost see him trying to crawl back inside his shell, but there was no way he was going to let that happen. Not now. Not after this. Because if Fraser left it there, Ray didn't know how the hell he'd ever be able to speak to him again without wanting to hit him. Shit.

"So," he said, as casually as he could. Which wasn't very casually at all, he knew, but maybe Fraser wouldn't hold it against him. "What happened?"

The corner of Fraser's mouth twitched slightly, as if he found Ray's persistence amusing. He hesitated for a moment more, but then the fight seemed to drain out of him.

"It happened during...." He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. "Anything I say is going to make it sound like I'm trying to make excuses. And I'm not." He looked up at Ray as if he needed desperately for Ray to understand this. Ray nodded, and he relaxed slightly. "I'd just spent half a month tracking ... a bank robber up through the mountains near Fortitude Pass. And caught her." He stared down at his hands for a moment, frowning.

Wait a minute. Bank robber? "You mean Victoria Metcalf." Ray squirmed slightly at the surprised look Fraser gave him. "I, uh, read the files from when she came to Chicago." And saw enough in them to know there was more to that particular story than he'd been made privy to, although he'd never said anything.

Fraser nodded absently, turning away to look out the window. "That was after she got out of prison. But that first time we met, we--" He gave another one of those not-quite-smiles and did the eyebrow-flicking thing again. "It doesn't really matter. What does matter is that after I turned her in, I was ... ashamed of the way I'd comported myself in her presence. And I had reason to regret ... things that had been done."

Hmm. Read between the lines, and that meant he and this Victoria chick were doing the horizontal tango. And then he'd gone ahead and turned her in anyway. Ouch.

"Okay," Ray said, trying to keep his voice as soothing as possible. As painful as this was, he didn't want Fraser to stop talking now. "So you turned her in. Did that have anything to do with ... with what happened?"

Fraser actually shrugged then, the slightest dip of his shoulder that looked even more glaringly alien against the stiffness of his uniform. "Depends on your point of view, I suppose. For whatever reason, I was feeling ... out of sorts that night."

He was not going to react to that. He wasn't. "You mean you weren't yourself."

Another slight shrug, so quick he might have missed it. "Or perhaps I was more myself than I've been ever since."

And just so he didn't have to think about that too hard, Ray said, "Keep talking," and leaned down to scratch Dief on the head.

Fraser's lips tightened into something that was almost a smile, except that it so obviously wasn't. "There's not much to tell. I was asked out to dinner by a young woman, and I accepted. I got very, very drunk. Do I have to draw you a picture?"

Fucking hell. Did Fraser want him to hate him? Ray felt like he'd fallen into the Twilight Zone. "You are a serious fucking asshole."

Fraser's eyes glinted with something that almost looked like pleasure. "Yes. I know."

God, Ray wanted to get up and leave, just walk out and not look back. He twitched once, almost doing it, almost getting up right there and doing it, but something held him in check. Because this was Fraser, goddamn it. Fraser, who was looking at him with those fucking wounded eyes, looking like he was bracing himself for a blow and wanting it. And that blew the anger right out of Ray's sails.

Ray dragged his fingers back over his hair with a sigh. "Look, Fraser. Ben. I don't know what the hell you're trying to do here." Except that he kind of did. Fraser did guilt better than anyone he'd ever known, and it showed itself in weird ways sometimes. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You don't have to say anything, Ray." That was spoken very, very quietly.

There was a brief commotion as the front door opened, and a young-looking couple came in. Ray watched as they were shown to a table at the far side of the restaurant, on the other side of the divider that blocked off the kitchen.

It gave him a few moments to gather his thoughts. He took a slow sip of his soda, grimacing at the taste of the melted-down ice cubes. Goddamn, but he wanted a cigarette. Giving up smoking had been a stupid fucking idea.

So, okay. He'd been the one to open this particular Pandora's box, and now he had to deal with the consequences. Whatever Fraser had done or not done, it was a long fucking time ago. What the hell did it have to do with their relationship now? The only difference was, now Ray knew. And it wasn't like Fraser was an evil person. Hell, he'd done more good than all the other people Ray'd met in his life combined.

And that was the question, wasn't it? Did one bad choice -- and yes, it was a doozy -- make Fraser a bad person? Did all of the good things he'd done since then make up for it? Could anything make up for something like that?

Ray sure as hell didn't know.

He shook his head, feeling suddenly ages old. "I'm assuming the girl didn't press charges."

Fraser closed his eyes briefly. "No."

And that explained so much, didn't it? Because this was Fraser, who gave himself written reprimands for the slightest imagined infractions. Living with this secret for so long without being allowed to pay for it had to be hell on earth for him.

If nothing else, Ray supposed some things made a lot more sense now. Like the way Fraser refused to drink so much as a drop of alcohol, even at social gatherings. Like the way he flinched away from any contact with women, no matter how boldly or demurely they came on to him. Like the way he threw himself into his work so wholeheartedly, doing good, doing right with a passion so powerful it'd nearly killed him on more than one occasion.

Fraser was still trying to make amends.

Ray sighed heavily. "I think you've done your time, Ben."

Fraser's eyes opened again, and they blinked slowly, glittering softly in the light from the window.

"I'm not looking for absolution, Ray." His voice was hard.

No. No, he probably wasn't. Ray sighed and looked out the window again, watching the endless stream of traffic move by on the street outside. "Then what do you say we get back to work? We've already spent too much time here as it is."

For a moment he thought Fraser was going to object, but then he just sighed, and nodded, and reached for the check. Ray pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills down for the tip while Fraser paid their tab, and he gave Dief one last scratch on the head as he got up to leave.

By the time Fraser joined up with them outside, he had the Mountie mask almost perfectly back in place again, with all of his many demons carefully caged away. Except now that Ray was looking for it, he could see the cracks there, the faint glimmer of turbulence beneath the placid surface. And damn if Fraser didn't look different somehow. Like Ray was seeing him, really seeing him, for the very first time.

"Come on," he said quietly, reaching out to squeeze him lightly on the arm. "Let's go."

Fraser's eyes flickered briefly, but then they just looked ... resigned. "Yes, Ray."

And that was the only kind of closure they were going to get on this, Ray supposed. It was still a damn sight more than he'd been expecting when Fraser'd first made his confession.

Sliding on his sunglasses with a short sigh, Ray led the way to the car.

EPILOGUE:

'I think we are in rats' alley, where the dead men lost their bones.'

I've always been fond of poetry, of the way it takes a life's experiences and twists them into some new shape, some new pattern, all in just a scattering of words. The sheer essence of human experience, compressed and yet somehow undiluted.

He says he forgives me.

It's not something he's said with words, because we've never spoken of it since that one afternoon. But he says it in countless other ways: with his eyes, with his hands, with his body in the middle of the long nights as he eases me through orgasm and into the blessed oblivion of sleep. With his heart that beats next to mine as we lay together, bound to one another with more than just the common occurrences that tie us to our lives.

I honestly thought that would be the end of it, there in the restaurant when his eyes first looked at me and saw. But I've always underestimated him, my Ray, and he's managed to surprise me even in this.

I'm ... happy.

I am.

I suppose it's absolution of a sort. An absolution I have never asked for, never believed I had the right to long for, and yet ... it comforts me. He forgives me, for whatever reasons he has.

I know I'll never be able to forgive myself.

And if sometimes his eyes turn sad and weighing, and look at me with questions he can't give voice to, well ... I can pretend I haven't seen them. It's a matter of trust, after all. He trusts me to know myself, and I trust him to know me.

Dear god, I love him.

I wonder sometimes if he understands the sublime cruelty of what he's done by loving me in return, by refusing me once again the opportunity to do penance for my crime. Sometimes, when I lie awake at night, I think he knows full well, and that, too, comforts me.

It is, perhaps, is the only real absolution I can ever expect to have.

The End
3/14/02

End The Stranger Within by Rushlight: n_sanity75@hotmail.com

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