Author's website: http://home.iprimus.com.au/beeblebrox/sinistral.html

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Author's Notes:

Story Notes: Character death

BROKEN

Some days, I look at Fraser and wonder how the hell he does it. Where he finds the strength to keep going, how he manages to force himself out of bed every day. I see him some mornings, looking at the chair with such hate, like he wants to kick it to pieces, and I want to cry. And then he takes a breath and gets into the damn thing, and sometimes I do cry. He won't, though. He never does.

We're doing better than we used to, in this new partnership of ours. It took some time to get our heads round all of this, Fraser especially. He's not used to having limits. It was the worst thing that could ever happen to him--being caged in, pinned down. His whole life he's been used to roaming the wide open spaces, and now his world is limited to wherever the minivan can go.

He hated that more than anything at first. I never told him right out, but he knows I sold the Riv to buy it, and it cuts him deep. Him more than me--hell, I'm used to losing them by now. Can't tell him that, though. His sense of humour isn't what it used to be.

I'm not doing this for pity, even though I know he thinks I am. I came back from Florida, sans Stella and looking for a shoulder to cry on, maybe a dose of whatever Inuit moose-on-a-ledge story about lost love he thought would make me feel better. I found him flat on his back in the ICU, doctors saying he's done for, and Kowalski killed in a bust gone wrong. Took my mind off my own worries damn quick. He wasn't done for, natch, or not entirely anyway. So I converted the ground floor of my house and moved him in before he had time to argue about it. I couldn't stand him being anywhere else, and I think he knows it.

It's not pity I'm feeling. Guilt, sure, I've got my fair share of that. If I look at it one way, it's my fault he's in this mess now. But I don't think like that, because Fraser's got his own share of guilt to deal with, which makes us even. Nope--I just love the guy. He's family. No more to say on that score.

We never talk about what happened. I read the report, what there was of it. Drug bust gone wrong, shootout, officer killed, et cetera. But something happened with him and Kowalski that I can't figure out. I know Kowalski had a thing for him--yeah, Kowalski and half of Chicago, right--but it wasn't that. There was something specific about that bust that doesn't add up. I saw the crime scene before forensics got there. I saw Kowalski. He wasn't just shot, he was beaten. Blood all over, and not from fresh wounds. I saw marks on him that looked like he'd been whipped, and God only knows what else. But Fraser does his clam act every time I mention it, and the perps sure aren't talking, so that's that. I had to let it go. Now, I just make sure he keeps on getting up every day, thanking God on my knees every night that he's still alive.

Frannie and Mom have been amazing. I was having nightmares before Fraser came out of the hospital, but they've put more smiles on his face than I ever expected to see again. How much of it he's faking I don't know, but he's making an effort for them, and that means he hasn't given up yet.

That's what I'm most scared of now. I'm terrified that one day I'll go into his room and find him gone, in every way that matters. I always thought Fraser had too much gumption, too much sheer arrogance to give up, but these days I'm not too sure. He's different now. He's broken.

END

End Broken by Sel: sinistral_@hotmail.com

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