Author's website: http://www.uninged.0catch.com

Disclaimer: Not mine. But the people who own them aren't using them, and it seems a shame to let all that potential go to waste.

Author's Notes: This story didn't turn out as I intended. Blame this on my muses, who hijacked my brain and refused to return it until I wrote what they wanted.
Thanks to Karra for her kind words (we're not worthy!), and Raven for encouraging my belief that I'm sick ans scary. Also for the spiffy new web page (check it out).

Story Notes: This story deals with the physical and emotional after-effects of a case involving the sexual abuse of minors. It's not a pretty subject, and it's not a pretty story either. If this is a squick for you or you prefer to steer clearn of stories that are downbeat, feel free to pass it on by. I'm not trying to rain on anyone's parade, but I can only write what I feel.

God Bless the Child
By MR

It's past midnight by the time Ray and I finally make it back to the apartment, and as I lean against the wall, eyes closed, listening to him fumble with the key, I realize how tense the muscles in my back and neck are. What I need most at this moment is a hot meal and an even hotter shower.

What I have is Ray, whose hand/eye coordination is seriously impaired; possibly due to the twelve beers he drank at Callaghan's earlier.

Sighing, I push myself away from the wall and appropriate his keys. I expect some sort of verbal outburst, but he simply looks at me, blue eyes unfocused behind his glasses, and lets me unlock the door and escort him inside.

By the time I've locked the door and taken off my coat he's drifted over to the couch, where he sits slouched, studying the coffee table as if he expects it to offer him some sort of explanation for what's happened. Dief, who normally greets both of us with an almost unseemly joy if he's been alone during the day, nudges his hand gently, sensing that things aren't right. He's known things haven't been right for quite some time.

The ordeal is finally over. Yet I can't help but wonder, looking at Ray, if things will ever be right again.

"Do you want something to eat?" I pitch my voice deliberately low, partially out of deference to his inebriated condition, partially because my ears are still ringing from the background noise at Callaghan's.

He manages to cock his head sideways. "Dunno. What've we got?"

Heartened by the fact that he's still capable of talking, I go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. One of the first things I did when I moved in with Ray was to go through his refrigerator throwing out anything that was past its due date and/or growing mold. He'd expressed outrage at my insistence on throwing away the two-week old slices of pizza, but it had been a mock rage, lasting only long enough for him to distract me sufficiently to kiss me. Things had gone rapidly downhill from there, and in the end it took me almost two days to get the refrigerator in good order.

I straighten up and show him the container of cold fried chicken. "I could reheat it in the microwave."

He nods, or at least I think he nods, so I busy myself with arranging the pieces on the plate.

Four years ago, Ray's silence would've driven me to pester him until he lost his temper and exploded. That was before Ray Vecchio's return, before the search for Franklin's hand, and before we managed, quoth Ray, "To get our damn wires uncrossed!" Since then I've learned that the best way to get him to talk is by allowing him to be silent.

I won't claim this method doesn't occasionally get on my nerves, just as Ray would no doubt tell you (in detail) about certain habits of mine that grate on him. When my father said partnership was like a marriage, he probably had something very like this in mind.

As I take the plate out of the microwave, the first strains of music float through the air. I'm always intrigued by what Ray listens to when he's upset because it varies so widely. I'm never sure if I'll be assaulted by two hours of German techno-industrial noise or Billie Holiday singing "Stormy Weather."

Tonight, thankfully, he's in a Billie Holiday mood.

I stand a moment watching him slow-dance to "God Bless the Child." His grace, even when drunk, amazes me.

He must be aware of my gaze, because he turns, face naked, defenses down, everything he's been bottling up shining in his eyes.

I'm not even conscious of putting the plate down. I cover the distance between us in a few strides and my arms go around him. For a second he stiffens, then relaxes in my grasp, his own arms slipping around my neck, his head resting against my shoulder, and we stand there, swaying to the music.

He told me once that Stella was never able to handle his emotions; that despite what she said about wanting a man who was sensitive enough to cry, she didn't want him crying on her shoulder. Oddly enough I have some sympathy for her. The day Ray and I met, his willingness to show what he felt, be it anger or joy, frightened me almost as much as his insistence that he was Ray Vecchio. I had, after all, spent most of my life suppressing my feelings. I had my Mountie mask firmly in place and very few had ever seen beneath it.

But Ray was the first person who refused to accept what he saw. Instead he picked and poked and prodded. He hit me, then made me hit him back to even the score. It took nearly losing him as a partner (and nearly losing both our lives in the process) to shake me loose from the box I'd stuffed myself into. No one was ever more amazed than I when the world didn't end the first time I expressed how I really felt about something.

Lady B is wailing about how her man done her wrong before he speaks. Two words, in a voice choked with shoving his anger and sorrow deep inside, lest they trickle out and taint the case. "Verdict sucked."

I nod. He doesn't need me to talk yet. He knows I feel the injustice of what's taken place as strongly as he. Despite being unable to assist him on this case, I've been kept apprised of the details. I spent the last two weeks in court, sitting in the special section reserved for other officers of the law and journalists while he sat up front with the witnesses. I'm still not sure how the Lieutenant managed to wrangle me admittance, given that the trial was closed to the public. When I first approached him about it, he mumbled something about me wanting him to turn shit into gold. Two days later I had the necessary permission. When I thanked him, he simply shook his head. "Take care of him, Constable. This one's gonna be a ball-breaker."

The last two weeks served to drive home how right he was. Fourteen days spent watching the prosecution's witnesses-an odd mix of young adults, teenagers and children- stand up before a room full of strangers and try to answer questions about things that, in a sane world, wouldn't exist. Watching the defense pick apart their stories, confuse them with double-speak, do everything short of calling them liars to render their testimony in doubt.

How many of the older ones are already permanently damaged, destined to a lifetime of abusive, dead-end relationships? The children, some of them not yet out of grade school, can never regain the innocence that was forcibly taken from them. They will receive counseling, of course; but will it be enough to help heal the damage to their souls?

How many of this man's victims never received their day in court? How many chose to not come forward, too ashamed of what they'd experienced to expose themselves to the public eye? The man on trial is in his early 30s. The police have evidence proving that since his first arrest at age 17 he's molested hundreds of children, some mere toddlers.

What sort of world produces such a person? How could he have violated so many innocents and remain undetected? Didn't someone, at some point, suspect what was going on? If so, why didn't they come forward?

And most frightening, how many of the victims will grow up to be victimizers? How many of them will prey on other innocents as they, themselves, were preyed upon?

Two weeks spent in court, from eight every morning until as late as six or seven in the evening. Two weeks of listening to the same story from 36 different perspectives. Only on the last three days were Ray and his fellow officers allowed to speak. He, Detective Chris Kirkland from the 24th Precinct, Detective Kirya Lee from the 14th, and Officers David Amato and Richard Amory from the 22nd went before the jury to tell how, working together, they managed to bring Martin Greenburg to justice. It took them close to a year to build a case sufficient to arrest Greenburg on charges of indecent contact with a minor (15 counts), possession of prohibited materials (135 boxes of tapes, magazines and photos depicting minor children in sexual situations, either with other children or adults), and violation of interstate law (a computer database listing more than 2500 people Greenburg had mailed movies, magazines and pictures to). Martin Greenburg's desire to profit from what he did proved, in the end, to be his undoing. Had he chosen to remain a simple pedophile, there's a very good chance he would've never been found out.

A year's worth of undercover stings and assumed identities, of Ray, Chris and Kirya immersing themselves in the underworld Greenburg called home, putting their lives on the line to prevent this monster from hurting any more children for what? All but three of the 15 indecent conduct charges were dismissed due to lack of evidence. The possession and distribution of child pornography cost Mr. Greenburg much more than his molestation of God alone knows how many children. A twenty-five year sentence, the first 10 years to be served concurrently with no chance of parole.

Ray and I stopped by the 27th on our way home to let Lt. Welsh know the verdict. It was almost nine but he was still there, desk covered in paperwork; he had, it turned out, been waiting for us, knowing that Ray would want to tell him what'd happened.

He snorted upon hearing the sentence, and then told us to take the next three days off. On our way to Callaghan's, Ray explained that with petitions for retrials and changes of venues, it could well be another year before Martin Greenburg ever sees the inside of Joliet. The only comfort to be derived is that at least he'll be locked up somewhere he can't get his hands on any more kids.

This last year tried both of us to near the breaking point. We've been separated for stretches of several months, necessitated by Ray, Chris and Kirya setting themselves up as potential buyers. More than once I received calls from Ray asking me to meet him at whatever hotel he was staying in. He couldn't stand sleeping alone, he said; he needed me there to keep the nightmares away. His own personal dream catcher. He never talked about what he'd seen or heard, whether out of fear of jeopardizing the case or because he didn't want to visit his own nightmares on me as well I'm unsure. He's still undergoing the mandatory counseling required following cases of this kind. I went with him a few times at the beginning, but stopped after Dr. Ahmad told me my presence kept him from talking freely.

"You have to understand, Mr. Fraser, that Ray has a very real fear that the time he spent undercover has tainted him."

"Tainted him?" I rubbed my eyebrow. "He believes he's going to become a child molester?"

"He believe his association with this man has made him unfit to be your lover."

I wanted to tell him how ridiculous an idea it was except that it made perfect sense. Ray had been hesitant to do more than kiss and cuddle since he came back. I hadn't pressed him further because I believed he was under enough pressure from the case.

Several weeks later Dr. Ahmad called and asked me if I could come in with Ray for his next session.

It was then I learned the truth; that on four different occasions, Ray had been forced to watch Greenburg or one of his assistants molest a child, not daring to interfere or show his disgust lest he blow his cover. His horror, allowed no other outlet, had solidified into a very real fear that if he remained undercover much longer, he would be forced to do the same to prove his loyalty.

Sitting in Dr. Ahmad's office that day, he cried until he was physically ill. The doctor wanted to hospitalize him, but Ray refused; if he broke down now, he said, he'd be deemed unfit to testify. In the end Dr. Ahmad sent him home in my care, with the understanding that once the case was closed, he would admit himself to the hospital to undergo intensive psychotherapy. He'd given me a prescription for some medication to help Ray sleep. We stopped at the drugstore long enough to get it filled, then went home, where Ray took two tablets and, snuggled safe in my arms, fell into the first truly peaceful sleep he'd had in months.

The CD has reshuffled itself back to "God Bless the Child" before Ray speaks again, his voice clearer. "I've been thinking."

Legs tired, we've moved to the couch, where we lie sprawled in an ungraceful tangle of limbs. "About what?"

He raises himself up on his elbows. "When I get outta the hospital, I wanna go back to Canada."

I nod, one hand smoothing his unruly hair. "I'm sure Lt. Welsh will be more than willing to grant you the vacation time."

"I'm not talking about a vacation, Ben." He slips off his glasses, laying them on the coffee table. "I'm talking about moving."

"To Canada?" It's not that we haven't discussed the idea before, but it's always been relegated to a nebulous future and retirement.

"To Canada." He agrees, laying his head back on my chest. "I can't do the job anymore, Frase. Everywhere I look I see kids whose parents don't seem to give a damn. I wanna grab them and shake them real hard, and scream 'Don't you know what can happen when you turn your back?' Don't you realize your kid could end up ruined for life?'"

"You can't spend the rest of your life running from it, Ray. Canada has child molesters and kiddie porn too."

"I know that, ya Freak. I'm talking about being a cop. If I try and make myself stay on the job, I'm gonna end up one of those guys that pulls someone over for speeding one day 15 years down the road and ends up beating their head in. If I can't be a good cop, Ben, then it's time to move on to something else."

I have more than a few favors due me; it would be relatively easy to call one in and obtain a posting in a smaller town. Someplace large enough to keep Ray from feeling isolated, yet far enough away from Toronto to not stir up bad memories. "It could take some time for me to arrange my transfer."

"That's okay. I don't know how long Dr. Ahmad wants me to be in the hospital. I already gave Welsh my resignation."

I sit up, dislodging Ray in the process. "You've given him your resignation? Good Lord, Ray, didn't you consider we might need to talk about it first?"

He smiles up at me from the floor. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't wanna go back to Tuktoyuktuk."

And of course he has me. The only reason I came back to Chicago and the Consulate was because Ray wanted to return. If he'd said he wanted to sail to Tortuga, I would've been on the next available boat. "I want to be where you are," I say, reaching down to touch his face.

"Same here. And since we both wanna be in Canada," he somehow manages to shrug while lying down. "It's not like we're leaving tomorrow. I need to get my head on straight before I go anywhere."

I'm still somewhat amazed that he's actually following through on Dr. Ahmad's suggestion. I'd been anticipating a fight, and I tell him as much.

His smile fades. "I'm tired of fighting, Ben. Getting from one day to the next shouldn't be so goddamn hard, ya know? If it hadn't been for you, I'm not sure I'd have lasted long enough to get through the trial. Only thing that kept me going was knowing you were there for me."

"I'll always be there for you, Ray." That brings a slight smile back to his lips. "Truth be told, you'd have a hard time getting rid of me. I've grown rather fond of you over the last several years."

He reaches up and takes my hand, squeezing it. "Is that Canadian for 'I love you, Ray'?"

I nod and am rewarded with something I haven't heard in nearly a year; something I was, in fact, afraid I might never hear again. The sound of Ray's laughter as it drowns out the music from the CD, rendering "Stormy Weather" nothing more than an echo in the distance.

End God Bless the Child by MR: psykaos42@yahoo.com

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