Note: This is a companion piece/sequel to Memory of life and this will make much more sense if you read that story first. Feedback, good or bad, is much appreciated.
This received thoughtful and helpful comment from Mia, Gearbox and Audra. Members of 5Ps also encouraged me with the concept, for which I am very grateful.
I wrote this because I needed cheering up by playing with the boys. Actually, this was Alex's suggestion, so thanks, Alex. But thanks also to the people who wrote and said they liked the first story. Hope you like this one too.
This is also for Denise, for beta'ing above and beyond the call of duty, for appropriate ass-kicking and gratuitous abuse from time to time as required!
The first thing I am aware of is a total overload of sensation - too much pain, too much light, too much noise. I keep my eyes closed, trying to separate the different stimuli. My head hurts, and that is the overarching irritation. There is a man's voice, very hoarse, saying my name against a background of beeps and machinery sounds. There is bright light against my eyelids and a strong feeling of nausea barely kept at bay. The man is urging me to open my eyes, and reluctantly I do so. It seems to be difficult - it certainly is unpleasant - and I can only open them part way. I see a stranger sitting there, watching me intently. A nurse, perhaps. I look around the room. Hospital. Something's happened. The man has called a female nurse over, she asks me if I'm awake, but doesn't wait for an answer before leaving. The man is talking to me, but it's very hard to concentrate through the pain. Suddenly he takes my hand, and I pull it away, annoyed at the liberty. "Who are you?" I ask. He doesn't answer. Then a doctor comes and questions me intently about my mental state.
I don't feel particularly muzzy, unless you count the headache, but they are not happy with the results of the inquisition, I can tell. I want to ask what's wrong, but for the moment I have been abandoned. The blond stranger has disappeared. I close my eyes again, and when I next open them, another doctor is asking me if I'm in pain, can I move my arm, and other rather irritating questions. All I want to do is sleep. And to know what the hell is going on.
The next time I wake, the headache is a little better. A doctor comes and explains very carefully that I appear to be suffering from amnesia - in short, I've lost ten years of my life. She warns me not to panic, or worry, that it may resolve spontaneously. She explains that I've been in the hospital for several days, and was injured in a criminal attack. She's rather circumspect about explaining my situation - she's hoping, obviously, that my memory will come back of its own accord. The skull fracture has left me with some weakness on my left side, and I will need therapy to overcome that. I try not to show that this is all rather a lot to take in - I am a Mountie, I can deal with this, I tell myself. It's not a lot worse than when I was hospitalized after jumping off that fifty foot cliff that time, and broke my leg. Then I realize my attention has wandered.
"Sorry, doctor - what did you say?"
"You have a visitor. Do you want to see him?"
I can't imagine who that would be - my father is too far away to come so quickly, and as they have explained I am in Chicago, I don't think I know anyone here. But I agree, and shortly after, the blond man comes in.
"How are you feeling, Fraser?" he asks, with a worried frown. An American, from his accent.
"Better, I think. Do I know you?"
He says his name, which absolutely refuses to register in my brain. "I'm a friend of yours."
"A friend?" He seems an unlikely person for me to know, let alone be friends with, but one can't, of course, tell by appearances. He is very dishevelled, with a week's growth of stubble, and bruise-like smudges under his eyes. His expression is grim, and he seems uncomfortable, as if he is in some pain from the injury which has left one arm in a cast. The only relief from the rough image is his eyes which are large and surprisingly beautiful to be set in such a rugged face.
"Yeah. Best friend. Partner actually."
Now this hardly seems credible. "Look, mister ... whatever your name is - I'm a Mountie. You are obviously an American. Now does it seem likely to you that we would be partners?"
He makes an obscure gesture with his hands, and seems frustrated. "I know it's hard to figure ... it's complicated, OK? You work at the Canadian Consulate here, I'm a detective with the Chicago police, and we've been unofficial partners for over three years. You liaise with us. Just trust me on this."
I don't have a lot of choice. I still can't imagine that I really am close to him - I don't have that many friends. He doesn't stay long after that, and then the nurse comes over and checks all the leads and the intracranial pressure monitor. "Nurse, did that man visit while I was unconscious?"
She looks at me in a strange way. "Mr Fraser, that man saved your life. He talked to you for nearly 24 hours straight to bring you out of the coma. I wish I had a friend like that." Now I feel like a heel. But I am still confused. The last thing I remember was handing in a report in my detachment at Tuktoyuktuk. A lot seems to have happened in ten years, but quite how I got to the point of working in a city the size of Chicago, in America, with a man like that - a man who seems incredibly loyal for all his roughness - I can't begin to fathom. I wonder if anyone's told my father where I am.
The fellow comes back every day for several hours. I feel bad that it takes me so long to remember his name - the doctor did explain that short, as well as long term memory would be affected, and one thing almost for certain, I will never remember the attack upon me. A baseball bat, they said. Ray, my visitor, was also injured in the attack, which, together with his long vigil at my bedside, explains the state he was in when I saw him. He is on edge whenever he visits me, and looks at me with a disquieting intensity, clearly desperate for me to remember him. I feel like snapping at him that he's not the only one who's desperate. We seem to have little in common, and I wonder over and over what possible basis we had for friendship. He's a decent person, and devoted, but a typical American, brusque, and quite uninterested in intellectual conversation - well, not that I'm up to much at the moment, but more than he can stand. After the third day, the doctor gives him permission to fill me in on the gap in my history.
So my father is dead, and I am unwanted in Canada. This is hard to bear, of course, but it does explain my presence in the city, even though I find it almost incredible that I have been here for five years. He tells me about my former partner and close friend, also confusingly called Ray, and about some of the cases we worked on. Then he begins to tell me about himself. There is obviously much more to this man than meets the eye, and I begin to respect his bravery. Perhaps this was what drew us together as friends, as well as partners. Things have certainly been less than dull since I began to work in America. I also discover I have a half-sister I was unaware of. That at least is pleasant to learn.
The story takes a long time, and I am tired when he finishes. Almost finishes.
"There's one more thing, Fraser, and it's not good news. You up to it?" I nod. After everything else, what on earth could he consider worse than what he's told me?
"It's about Victoria Metcalf."
I suck in a breath. "How do you know about her?" Victoria is my one great secret - no one knows how I feel about her.
He begins the sorry tale. Victoria is now on the run, a murderer and a thief, and I almost joined her, were it not for my friend's bullet. God, I wish I could think this man was lying to me, but I know in my heart he is not. But to me, none of this has happened, and my love for this criminal is as strong as it ever was. I can see her face as it was the last time I saw her, at her trial, being led off to begin her ten year sentence, so angry with me. "Victoria," I whisper. I weep for my loss, and I don't care who sees it. This news is the last straw and I turn away from Ray, unable to take any more. When at last I roll back, he's gone.
Ray comes every day, and now the secret is out, we have more to talk about. The pressure monitor is removed, and I am allowed to make my first steps, with the help of Ray and a nurse, to the bathroom. I do not make a particularly alluring sight - my hair has been completely shaved, my beard has two weeks' feeble growth on it, and my black eyes have mutated to a gruesome suite of purple, green and yellow colours. Ray helps me with the necessary activities, and offers to shave me. I get the impression he's comfortable doing that, but he hasn't mentioned if I've been in the hospital before while we've worked together - perhaps I've been ill and he's helped me then. Yes, that would explain it. He is very gentle, and skilful, and I get the impression that his affection for me is deep. That in itself is endearing, but his unvoiced longing for me to recall is a constant irritant. But I can't crush him by insisting he stops - I am clearly important to him, and he has been unfailingly kind and helpful. He's there too while I begin therapy, learning to walk properly, and use my left hand again.
It all takes much too long for me, but finally, I am being released. Ray informs me I rent a room from him, which seems a little odd given my salary and my age, but there is no denying that my belongings and my father's journals are all in place. I really hate the apartment, though I daren't tell him. So cluttered, so noisy, too light and much too warm. The television is on all the time, it seems, and Ray likes his music loud. Out of deference for me, I guess he has modified his behaviour, but the constant rub of another person - a virtual stranger - and the thousands of people I see every day, are like sandpaper on my nerves. How on earth have I stood this for so long? Five years - it seems incredible. Chicago is supposed to be one of America's most beautiful cities, and if I weren't so homesick, I suppose I might agree. But all I can focus on is the smell and the noise - the pace of things. People living worse than starving animals in zoos, and more depraved than I could have imagined. It is all so depressing, and so mindless.
The only consolation is that I apparently own a handsome, if deaf, wolf, who is very fond of me - and of Ray. Diefenbaker goes a long way towards buffering me from the loneliness of city life, but it only takes me days to realize that , whatever has gone before, I must escape. Fortunately my superior at the consulate is very sympathetic, and makes strenuous efforts to assist, enabling me to transfer back to Inuvik with my as yet unknown sister within a month, now that I have been certified fit for active duty.
Ray avoids me as much as possible - probably I am as irritating to him as he is to me. To my shame, I find myself avoiding him too - the longing in his eyes too much to bear. The man never smiles, not even once, and I wonder what has happened in his life to make him so bitter and sad. He has few friends, and never goes out, except to work. I invite him to come and stay at my father's cabin, thinking he could use the break after all the work he's put in on my rehabilitation, but to my surprise he refuses, with a patently false excuse about too much work. However, I am much too eager to return to allow him to dampen my mood. The day finally arrives when I can be free. He drives me to the airport, and shakes my hand with a semblance of cheerfulness. He insists that I keep his keys in case I want to visit, although I think that is highly unlikely. I regret the pain I have caused this man, but short of my memory returning, I can't think how I can help him. He waves me off, and at last I am going home.
The plane arrives at Inuvik, and I pick up my two bags and go out onto the tarmac. There's a young blonde woman sensibly dressed in lumber jacket and jeans waiting for me but the moment I see her, I get a flash of an image of the same person in red serge. Maggie. "Maggie," I call out, and she grins and comes over.
"Hey, Ben, you remember me." She gives me a warm hug. "This amnesia thing is all an act then? You shaved all your hair off for a bet, right?"
I shake my head. "Sorry, I've just remembered you in your uniform - I guess it was in Chicago, but nothing else. But be flattered, it's the first thing I've got back."
She looks seriously at me. "It must be difficult for you."
"It's been difficult for everyone." I put my hand on her shoulder. "Maggie, you'll have to be patient - they don't know when, how long - if ever..."
"Ben, I can be patient. I waited 27 years to find out I had a big brother, I can wait a little longer until he remembers why I only hear from him every six months."
She's teasing, and for the first time since I left the hospital, I actually feel happy. The weight of the city is behind me, and guiltily, I realize the weight of Ray's expectations are also gone. Perhaps that's why I have started to remember - the pressure is off. I spent much of the flight feeling I had let him down, that I should have been a better friend to him, but somehow I also feel that this would not have been enough for him. I shake myself. Time to start reclaiming my life. I'll be staying with Maggie until I get my own place - once Ray decided he didn't want to come north for a vacation, I changed my plans and felt it might be better to get to know Maggie again, settle back into the RCMP routine, catch up on procedures and new rules introduced during the 'gap'.
Maggie is completely unfazed by my amnesia, telling me cheerfully about how she met me. She does give me a odd look when I mention Ray, and ask if she met him, forgetting that he had already told me she had. "Ben, Ray's your closest friend. You and he spent a month up with me after you caught Muldoon. He's a great guy, the best." She sounds a little wistful as she talks about him - the second person I've spoken to about him who's emphasized what a nice person he is. I am even more puzzled that he is so lonely. She cheers me up by describing how Ray and I had apparently been competing for her favours, until I worked out the surprising fact that she was my sister.
"Were you and Ray...?"
"No," she says regretfully. "I would have, like a shot, but when you both came up, I could tell he'd put me into the 'let's be friends' basket. I'm happy with that - he's terrific, so sweet. You and he make a great team."
I ponder that for the rest of the trip to her house. As I get out of her jeep, again I am struck by deja vu. It's the snow - the snow on the roof - I know I've seen this before. "I've been here - I remember." Maggie is very excited by this, and to tell the truth, so am I. There is hope, after all. Diefenbaker greets me enthusiastically, and with the cold clean smell of snow and pine - the absence of man-made noise - I feel I am home at last.
She has taken a week off to help me settle in, and we spend most of that time talking. Having a sibling is a such a luxury, and for the first time in my life - that I can recall, anyway - I no longer feel alone. Her existence assuages some of the hurt of knowing Dad has died, and the darker betrayal of learning that my mother was murdered by Muldoon. I don't, of course, talk to her about Victoria - the shame and the loss are much too deep to share.
I return to work in another week, and settle back to the routine. My physical injuries are mostly healed, and the scar on my skull is rapidly being concealed by my regrowing hair. I am finding it difficult to assimilate information as easily as I used to, but I was warned about this, and hopefully with time that will improve. Images and snatches of memory come back slowly, sometimes in large chunks, but mostly disconnectedly. A visitor to the detachment wearing bay rum aftershave sets off a whole string of memories - visiting a prison, being in a warehouse, running along the top of storage racks (although I have absolutely no idea why). Attending officially after a local house fire, I embarass myself by standing and staring for over ten minutes, while I remember another burnt building - my own, in Chicago. And a burning car? It's not quite the same as remembering a dream, but the disorientation it causes is similar. More than once, Maggie has come across me staring into space, lost in whirling thoughts. Fortunately she, and my superior officer, are very understanding and patient. Talking with her allows me to make some sense of it all.
Winter transmutes to spring, then to summer, and I have almost forgotten that I was ever away from the Territories. Summer brings the tourists, and we are kept busy by them. I am visiting one of our local hotels to speak to the manager when I hear an American whine. I look around, and I see a balding man with a big nose, smiling at me. 'Ray - Ray Vecchio.' I start towards him, but then he is gone, replaced by the reality of a tall, but not balding blond man who is wondering why I am staring at him so strangely. Sudden I am hit by years of memory - Ray, helping me catch Dad's murderer, blowing up his car - in a freezer, in a bank vault ... shooting me, keeping vigil. Victoria.
Someone is calling my name. "Constable? Constable Fraser! Are you all right? You look as if you are going to pass out - sit down." I let the manager set me down while I try and get myself back together. I cannot, though. I manage to ask him to call Maggie at the depot, and I wait until she comes. She takes me home, and settles me on her sofa, fussing about me.
Finally, I explain. "I remember, Maggie... so much..."
"Is it everything?"
"I don't know - how can I...? No, it can't be, Ray Kowalski is still not there. But Ray Vecchio ... Maggie, I have to make a call, to Florida."
"Of course - I'll get your telephone book."
She leaves me in peace while I make the call. I feel slightly foolish but the need to speak to Ray is overwhelming, I have been hit by such a strong feeling of missing him. How could I have forgotten my best friend like that? His secretary answers and puts me through to him.
"Benny? Wow, long time no hear from." God, his voice - so familiar.
"Ray...." I choke up.
"Fraser?" I hear him ask in alarm. "Benny, what's happened?"
I tell him, in disjointed, almost incoherent fashion, what's been going on - Ray Kowalski did not tell him and I can understand why, when there was no way of knowing how long my condition would last. He listens carefully, sympathetically.
"Jesus, Benny - I had no idea. I'll kill that little shit..."
"Who?"
"Kowalski. He never told us."
"Don't be hard on him, Ray - he's helped me a lot."
"Yeah, well maybe he's got nothing else in his life." There is a great deal of animosity in his voice, which I can't explain ... oh, wait, yes, Ray Kowalski told me, Ray Vecchio is married to his ex-wife. Bad blood there, no doubt.
"It's good to hear your voice, Ray."
He stops fulminating against Ray Kowalski, and I can hear the smile. "You too, Benny. Look, you call anytime, and if you need anything, I'm your man."There is a pause. "Listen - you remember about Victoria, right?"
"Yes, Ray. It's all right. I remember it all."
He is relieved. "That's good, Fraser. You tell that sister of yours to look after you. I'll give you a call next week, OK?"
"OK, Ray." He disconnects. A whole part of my past has been returned to me. But where is Ray Kowalski in all this?
Chunks of memory begin falling to place over the next month, and I remember working with Ray Kowalski on several cases. What puzzles me is that I still seem to have no recollection of our actual relationship - nothing to substantiate the fact that we are, or were, very close. However, worryingly, I am plagued by phantom memories of speaking to my father while I worked in Chicago - a patent impossibility, but as real as any other 'real' memory. There is even a memory of me, as an adult, talking to my mother and my father, which is utterly ridiculous. These things I don't discuss with Maggie - I may be a coward, but I am afraid that I may be losing my mind.
Even worse are the dreams - featuring Ray Kowalski of all people, naked, making love to me. There is one ... I don't know why I keep having this one, it's not like I have ever performed the act with any one I've been in love with ... but I see myself kneeling before him, fellating him ... the taste of him is so real ... and he is making the most extraordinary noises of passion and pleasure ... then he touches me, strokes me, and then I wake with the feeling of my orgasm matched by the state of my bedding. I wake up again and again covered with the evidence of arousal, burning with shame over involving this good man in my sick fantasies. Yet try as I may, I cannot untangle the false visions from the true.
Finally it gets so bad as Fall nears its end that I request two weeks' leave to go up to my father's cabin. I'm hoping the solitude will help me get things clear. The leave is granted and I am at the rebuilt cabin within two days using Maggie's dogs, and Dief. But things only get worse. Sitting drinking tea, I get a flash of Ray standing in the door way, illuminated by sunlight, dressed only in a pair of grey underpants, holding a mug and smiling at me. I've never seen him smile before. The sight is not unpleasant - actually, it's surprisingly delightful - but its vividness is disturbing. So is the erection it causes.
In vain I go for long sled rides, chop wood, carryingout repairs on the cabin and planning an extension to it until I drop from exhaustion - the images get stronger. So is the feeling that I miss Ray - a frankly unanswerable need, since if I were to approach him and admit what has been going on, I would only add disgust to his pain. There are some memories of ordinary companionship - some recollection of our 'adventure', images of sitting by campfires, oddly, once again in Chicago... and on a tall-masted sailing ship. But the sexual thoughts are the most insistent. At the end of the two weeks, I am in a worse state than when I started. I must talk to Maggie, and damn the consequences.
She welcomes me back with the news that Ray Kowalski's boss, Lieutenant Welsh, has been trying to reach me. By the time I get the message it is too late to speak to him - I leave a message on his office voicemail that I have returned. Maggie is rightly concerned about my state. I sit her down so we can talk in comfort.
"Maggie, this is going to sound as if I have a hole in my bag of marbles, but just bear with me. I know my father died before you and I ever met ... but did you ever meet him? And this is going to sound strange... did you meet him after he died?"
She is quiet for a long time, and I'm afraid that I have finally exceeded her patience, but then she speaks. "You remember, don't you. Ben... I can't explain it... but I talked to your father in your office in Chicago. You and he had some sort of relationship after he died, but it was entirely real, unless both of us were crazy."
"Oh my God... it's real..." I'm lost in thought, remembering it all.
"Ben, you're scaring me... are you all right?"
"Not hardly, Maggie." I tell her what I remember and she confirms that the memories are all apparently genuine. But if that's the case...
"I have another question, but this is highly personal, and I wouldn't want to you to breathe a word to another soul, it would hurt..."
"Ben, spit it out, will you?"
Her impatience makes me blurt out, "Were Ray Kowalski and I more than just good friends?"
Again she is silent, and her sympathetic look makes me feel like a lunatic. Finally, "I don't know for sure, but it would explain a lot... you and he were very, very close for friends, and I did catch him looking at you in an odd way, and sometimes you seemed to..." Her voice trails off but I understand what she's trying to say.
Then it's true ... oh god, that explains so much about Ray's reaction to my amnesia. But I can't remember everything, how we got together, whether we were still together at the time I was injured. I dare not approach him until I can recall more. Maggie interrupts my thoughts.
"Ben, take a little time - so much has come back, I'm sure the rest will. Then you and he can talk."
Yes, we will. That night I think back to Ray in Chicago, how unhappy he was. I was so insensitive to him, now I recall - why didn't I take the trouble to investigate why he reacted so badly to my condition? I could have rung him the second I started to remember him, but I never mentioned it in my letters to him - I suppose I was afraid of arousing unrealisable hopes. And he refused my invitation in the summer to come and stay, even though if I had hinted my memory was returning, he would have come. Now I can put a name to that emotion I saw in his face - it was hunger. Pure and simple. Hunger for me. I am such a fool.
Fate has other plans for me. There is a call very early the next morning from Welsh and it's bad news.
"Constable, Ray Kowalski's been seriously hurt in an attack - his partner was killed. You're still down as his emergency contact. I've tried to get hold of his parents but they're on the road. Fraser, I'm worried about him, he's taking this hard, and the way he's been..."
"What way?"
"Depressed, lonely ... he doesn't talk to people anymore, he bit my head off for trying.. he's been a mess since you left. Fraser, he needs a friend. He got out of the hospital two days ago, but he won't let anyone near him. He's a good cop, and I don't want to lose him."
I'm tempted to ask if it's just a friend he needs, but his words - 'he's a good cop' - suddenly trigger an avalanche of recollection. I remember him saying that another time - the day I met Ray. The day we drove Ray Vecchio's burning car into the lake. Me thinking he was dead from Greta Garbo's gunshot. Everything suddenly falls into place as he speaks. Good God, I remember! I manage to promise the lieutenant I'll come down immediately, and hang up before I embarass myself.
Ray and me... in the cabin, making love. Ray declaring his feelings on our expedition, and the joy of realizing that he felt what I felt. Being with him in that cramped apartment, being together. Oh, I miss him. I love him. Ray, how could I have forgotten you? You must have suffered all this time. And now you are hurt.
I hardly know what to do first, and start making up a pack while trying to explain to Maggie what has happened. Being more sensible than me, she takes the pack, and sits me on the bed, and makes me slow down and tell her what's happened.
"Maggie ... Ray .. he's... we're lovers... God, I must have hurt him so much... he's been stabbed... I have to go..."
I'm worrying her. "Ben, settle down. When do you need to go?"
"Now. Immediately."
"OK. Let me ring headquarters and tell them you'll be in soon to sort out leave, and I'll book your flight. You pack. Try to stay calm."
"But what if he's...."
"Ben. He's not. The lieutenant would have said. We'll get you down there as soon as we can. That's all we can do. Now scoot."
There is space on the next flight south that afternoon, and I hurriedly arrange for three weeks' leave, citing a family emergency. It is no lie - Ray is my family. Maggie patiently listens to me fret.
"Why didn't he tell me, Maggie? You should have seen him - he was so miserable. I could have helped him."
"He must have been trying to shield you, Ben. If he'd told you the truth, imagine how upset you would have been."
"I know - but a whole year ... he must have been so lonely. I was so selfish..."
"Well, now you make it up to him. Be you can't beat yourself up over this - it isn't your fault."
Somehow that doesn't make me feel a whole lot better about things.
The noise at O'Hare hits me like a blow after a year of the peace and quiet of the Territories. I'm glad I left Diefenbaker behind, he's been much happier - and much fitter - since I went back. But right now, all that is on my mind is the desperate need to get to Ray's apartment. I suppose there must be something fey in my heritage - not many people can talk to their fathers several years after they've been killed, and right now I have an awful sense of unspecific foreboding. The lieutenant's call is enough in itself to cause this - Welsh is not given to dramatics, but he sounded as worried as I've ever heard him, more than the simple facts of Ray's injuries would appear to warrant. The taxi ride takes more than an hour, and for the first time in my life, I really wish the driver would break the law and drive faster.
Finally he pulls up outside Ray's building. I practically fling the fare at him, race up the three flights, and pound on Ray's door. I have the keys he insisted I keep, and I will use them if I have to, but I think I can hear life inside. I bang again, and then I do hear someone fumbling slowly at the lock. The door opens, and there is Ray - looking like death. His mouth opens, but he doesn't make a sound. Before I can say anything myself, he sways, then collapses onto the floor. I shout his name, but he is out stone cold. A faint, I think, from shock, I hope. I kick the door shut and crouch down beside him. He is very hot, and pale, but his breathing is relatively normal. Even as I'm looking at him, he starts to mumble, but doesn't wake. I have to get him off the cold tiles. I grab him under his armpits, and half carry, half drag him to his bedroom, and lower him onto the bed. He still doesn't wake up.
I throw off my backpack, and sit on the bed, pulling his head onto my leg. I touch his face - definitely much too hot. I'll give him five minutes, then I'm taking him to the hospital for sure. But within a couple of minutes, he is moving, and says my name. I put my arm around him for reassurance, and his eyes open. Unfortunately, I seem to have caused him some distress. He shouts and pushes himself up unsteadily, struggling against my helping hand, and shoves his feet into his shoes. He runs, after a fashion, out into the living room, still yelling at me to keep away from him. It must be the fever doing this, I think.
I hope.
I really don't know how Ray gets to the bottom of the stairs without falling head first down them. I follow as close as I dare given that he seems so anxious to escape me, close enough to hear the mumbled words over and over, "forgot, forgot, gotta get out, get out, forgot." He stumbles over the step at the building entrance, and I think he is going to fall, but he collects himself, and staggers on. I am never more than three paces behind him, close enough to catch him if he needs it, but letting him wear out this impulse to run away. I know sooner or later I will have to get hold of him regardless of his desire to escape. There is simply no way he can go much further. He is only wearing sweat pants and sweat shirt, and the icy wind must feel even colder to a man with a fever. Even so, to my surprise he persists almost to the gates of the city park, but then he stops dead, and sways. I take the opportunity to drop his coat over his shoulders and get in front of him, holding him upright, and shake him carefully, worried by his pale, sweating face. He opens his eyes and mutters "Don't," so I stop, and tell him he needs to come back with me. For some reason this makes him laugh slightly hysterically, and I hear the word "dead," in amongst the incoherence. Then, suddenly, he is sobbing, tears running without surcease down that tired, beloved face, and I draw him into me and hold him close while he trembles and cries, rambling on as he does so, apologizing to me. His legs give out, but fortunately I am expecting this, and hold him up, but when I see his eyes rolls up in his head, I lower him carefully to the ground.
He is quite unconscious, having fainted again. It's definitely not shock this time, and I realize I must get him to the hospital. I look around - ah, there is a taxi. I hail it, and the driver, though a little suspicious of Ray's condition, accepts the fare, and gets us to the ER quickly enough. Ray is placed on a stretcher, and taken into the treatment room, where I give them as much history as I know. Luckily, the physician who released Ray from the hospital four days ago is on duty. She is not best pleased with my friend.
"He told me he had help at home - I knew he was lying about there being a girlfriend around, but I never thought he would be so irresponsible...," she says angrily.
I cut her off impatiently. "Well, he's got help now - will he be all right?"
"From the looks of him, I'd say we're dealing with the start of an infection, neglect - and considerable stress. You know his partner died?"
"Yes. He's ... been under a great strain for a while." I explain the unusual circumstances concerning my departure from Chicago, and although I don't spell out the nature of our relationship, the doctor is perceptive enough to read between the lines. Her demeanour softens.
"That poor guy ... look, Mr..."
"Fraser - Benton Fraser."
"Mr Fraser - he needs looking after. If he does have an infection, I have a strong inclination to keep him here for a couple of weeks, but I'm guessing that he won't stand for that..."
"I think you're right."
"Yes, but he must change those dressings, he has to eat well, take the antibiotics. I'd suggest counselling, but with your arrival, perhaps we can hold off on that. But he strikes me as someone right on the edge. His mood while he was here was very withdrawn, depressed. You may be the only thing holding him back at this point."
Her words send a chill through me, but I am determined that Ray will not fall into the abyss while I have any say in it. She gives me more information about his injuries, how the blood loss nearly claimed him as it had Joe Rossi, and tells me chapter and verse what needs to be done when he gets home. The doctor attending Ray comes out to say that indeed he does have an infection, but is sleeping now under the effects of a mild sedative.
He has an IV inserted and is taken to a ward, where I can sit and watch him. There are new lines in his face, and he is thinner than he was. I should have made more of an effort to get him to come up north - perhaps I would have remembered things more quickly, and he would have been spared that much anguish. We'll never know. He sleeps for two hours, then turns, and grimaces in pain. I call his name, and he says mine, disbelievingly.
"I'm here, Ray."
He shakes his head, and scrunches up his face, a tear falling from his closed eyelids. I put my hand on his cheek and brush the moisture away with my thumb. Dull blue eyes open, and he says in a husky voice, "Please, Fraser, go away. I forgot..."
My god, he's still trying to protect me from his own feelings. Still cupping his cheek, I say quietly, "Forgot what, Ray? That you and I were lovers?"
His eyes close again, as if in pain, and he shakes his head. "You weren't supposed to find out, Fraser."
No, I was supposed to go on living a happy life while you slowly died - that's what you were prepared to do for me, wasn't it, Ray Kowalski?
"I didn't, I remembered," I tell him. I know I should have rung him, I should have written. I am such a selfish fool.
He refuses to believe me, and I can't blame him. He thinks he's dreaming. I tell him he is not, to open his eyes and accept it. Only when I kiss him do those eyes open again. He is still half asleep, exhausted and drugged, but he won't let me go until I tell him how and when it all came back to me. I think he understands, but the tiredness is tugging at him. At his insistence, I hold his hand until he is sound asleep once more. I kiss his forehead and leave him there, asking the staff to ring me if he wakes and needs me there. The doctor told me he was likely to sleep well enough, and I am content to leave him in their care while I stock up his apartment, and talk to Lieutenant Welsh. I will take him home tomorrow.
I return to Ray's apartment and collect his car to get some groceries and medical supplies in. I arrange to meet Welsh for supper back at the apartment. He is waiting when I arrive, and helps me carry the bags up. The place is very untidy, but I clean up sufficiently for us to eat a quick meal and for him to fill me in on what happened to Ray. It's an ugly story - the officers who found Ray said his hand was clamped tight over a gaping wound in his dead partner's neck, his own arms a mess of gashes from the sadists who waylaid them, a sword still embedded in his stomach. "There was so much blood, they weren't even sure he was alive," Welsh tells me and my stomach roils at the image. He confirms that Ray has been more and more turned in on himself, almost to the point where Welsh was considering forcing him off on psychiatric leave. "Don't get me wrong, Fraser - he's still one of the best cops I've ever had working for me. But he's wound up tighter than a steel spring, and I knew he was gonna snap. I kept wishing you were here - you had a knack of unwinding him." He looks at me, and I know that he knows, but we're gentlemen and so the words do not need to be said. "You gonna stay, Constable?"
"I don't know, sir. I need to talk to Ray. At the moment, his needs are paramount. But I will look after him."
He looks at his watch. He has to go. "You see that you do, and you tell me if he needs anything. By the way, Joe Rossi's funeral is the day after tomorrow. I don't know if Ray knows..."
"I'll tell him."
He gets up and shakes my hand. "I'm happier than you know that you're back, Fraser. Take care of that dumb kid, will ya? And tell him if he pulls a stunt like this again, I'll kick his ass."
I smile at the image. "You'll be in a queue behind me and his doctor, Lieutenant."
I let him out, and set to cleaning up. I feel completely at home here, marvelling at how I had balked at staying here after I first got out of hospital, but the evidence of Ray's mental state is not comforting at all. The apartment speaks of a long lack of attention to comfort, and in the very recent past, to necessities. I dump several sacks full of garbage out just from the kitchen, before turning to the living room, and tut at the number of old newspapers and magazines lying around. I stack the magazines and decide to toss the newspapers. I pick up one lying on the coffee table. Oddly, Ray's gun and cell phone are lying underneath it - he usually keeps those in the bedroom. Then I see the envelopes, carefully addressed and sealed, and an empty one with my name on it, lying on a writing pad. Conscious that I am invading his privacy, I still can't help reading the first couple of lines of a letter to me, and my blood runs cold. I have to sit, because my legs won't hold me up, and then I read the rest of the letter, the erratic handwriting of a very ill man blurring more and more through tears as I get to the end. Oh my god, I keep thinking, oh my god. So close, so close. What if I had not taken the afternoon plane, left a day later? What would I have found here? I know the answer to that question, even as I try to push the images of Ray lying dead on this very sofa, to the back of my mind. I feel so very cold, so frightened at the nearness of the tragedy. Ray has carefully worded his letter to absolve me of all blame, but his terrible distress comes through. Could I have blamed him for this step? Would I have condemned a dog to such agony?
I shove the letters into Ray's desk. I'll have to talk to him about this, but I need to get him home first. I spend the rest of the evening cleaning and tidying, not allowing my mind to rest and dwell on what I have read. I call the hospital and confirm that Ray is still asleep, change the bed linen which is stale with sweat and the smell of illness, and collapse onto the bed. I pray that Ray will return to me safe, well and in whole mind. We haven't got through all this to fall at the last step.
He is sitting up, with more colour in his cheeks and an irritated air when I arrive the next morning to take him back. I gather he has been lectured quite severely over his self neglect, but his embarrassment over that is overridden by his utter hatred of hospitals, his subsequent need to escape, and most of all, by a delightful eagerness to see me again. Dressing him takes forever - he really isn't mobile, and he makes no argument about being taken to his car in a wheelchair. Stomach wounds, so I understand, are particularly painful, even when not neglected and infected. I drive more carefully than usual, but once back at his building, the difficulty of getting up three flights of stairs presents itself. He's not paying a lot of attention, the drugs in his system have left him woozy, so it is relatively easy to surprise him, to sweep his legs out from under him and pick him up. It is far too easy to carry him in my arms, even with the muscle condition I've regained up North, and a lecture on a decent diet is forming in my mind, distracting me from his fierce verbal protests. To my relief, at least he isn't foolish enough to try and struggle and we get into his apartment safely. I place him on his bed and he delivers a final curse for my presumption.
"You're a son of a bitch, Benton Fraser." His pursed lips and angry expression release the block I have been keeping on my feelings, and all my own anger and fear at the near miss come rushing out in bitter accusing words, all over one tired, ill Chicago cop who should have been allowed to go to bed and sleep before we had this conversation. Predictably, his annoyance immediately turns to hurt and shame, and he retreats against the headboard almost as if he fears I will strike him, which makes my heart twist in disgust at myself. He pleads with me that the pain was so great... that he had tried for so long without me. He clutches a pillow to his chest, and hides his face in his hands, trying to conceal the torment which my cruel words caused, and I am ashamed and angry at myself for bringing him to this state. This man has been through so much - I came here to help him, not hurt him more. I drop to the bed beside him and take him into my arms, and try to repair the harm I have done. He weeps silently for a long time, cathartically, for a great deal of pain and grief endured in painful isolation, while I rub his back, and listen, and soothe. I can feel the slight fevered heat coming off his body, the tremors shaking him. Never, I promise myself, never again will I leave him. At last as he quiets, I set him down again, and lie alongside him. I tell him I will stay with him here or he can come back with me, and he begs me, almost as if he expects me to refuse, to take him back to the Territories. I promise him I will, and with that, all the fight goes out of him. With my arms around him, he falls asleep.
I lie with him like that for a long time - I have, after all, nothing to do, nothing I want to do, but care for him - until his next pill is due. I free myself carefully from him, but still he murmurs my name in his sleep. I get juice and the pills, and stroke his face until he wakes. Until he remembers, his face is sad, but then he opens his eyes and sees me, and gives me a half-smile. "Still keep thinking I'll wake up and you'll be gone again."
"Not in this lifetime, Ray." He takes the pills. "How do you feel?"
"Like shit, Ben, what do you think?" But he smiles as he says it. "Listen, Ben ... sorry you got stuck with me, having to do all this..."
I stop him by putting a finger on his lips."Ray Kowalski, it is my pleasure - my honor. How can you think anything else after... after...? " No. I do not want to talk about this now, not when he's only half awake, and ill. I made a bad enough mistake earlier. "Just let me do it. I need to do it, okay?" He nods, then kisses my finger. I touch his hair, a little sweaty from sleep and the fever, and rub the bristle which has grown long enough to not be rough any more. "You're a little scruffier than usual."
"Didn't have anyone to nag me, Ben. Give me a break, I just got out of the hospital."
I grin. "I know. Just teasing. Do you feel up to eating?"
He pulls a face, but the doctor's warnings are fresh in his mind. "What have you got?"
"Soup. Sandwiches. Blubber and lichen pizza." That gets an actual grin out of him, and I kiss him on the lips, tasting the juice and the bitterness of his infection. "You haven't been eating."
He gives me a guilty look. "Don't, Ben. Just don't. Bring on your food. I'll eat everything you put in front of me."
If he weren't so sick, and so raw, I'd be tempted to make a rude comment, but I restrict myself to asking what flavour soup he fancies. I wait until he finishes his meal before broaching an unpleasant subject. "The lieutenant wanted you to know that it's Joe's funeral tomorrow." He leans back on the pillows, his eyes once again closed in pain.
"I have to go, Fraser."
"I understand. Is your uniform clean?"
His eyes open and he looks at me suspiciously. "What, no 'But Ray's', Fraser? No 'you're not up to this' ?"
"You're not. But he was your partner. I understand, you have to do this. I'll come with you."
"Thanks, Ben. And no, I think my uniform needs cleaning."
"I'll get it done. I'll need to borrow a suit from you, I didn't bring my uniform."
"Anything, you know that. This is your place, too. Remember?" He doesn't give that last word the bitter twist I might expect, but we have a long way to go - and a funeral to get through - before Ray believes in happiness again. Regaining my memory is not the panacea we both hoped it would be.
He sleeps most of the rest of the day - he has a deficit to make up, and he's been given some anti-emetics because the antibiotics and infection together are making him nauseous. He has to avoid vomiting with his injured stomach muscles, but the drugs make him drowsy. I get his uniform cleaned, and search for the black suit I've made use of before. It looks like it hasn't been worn since I last did so, and only needs a brush. I ring Welsh and tell him we're both coming, and get the details from him. He's pleased Ray's home, and I don't tell him about the suicide notes - with luck, he'll never need to know about them.
When I go back into the bedroom to wake Ray again for his medication, I fancy he looks a little better. A little more colour, a little more peaceful. This time, the smile is on his face before he opens his eyes. "Getting easier to remember you aren't dreaming?"
"Yeah. Still can't believe you're here, though. I'd given up hope."
Neither of us comments on just how much he'd given up. I help him sit up and he takes the pills, then he insists on coming out into the living room. "Been lying down all day, Ben. I'll turn into a pumpkin if I don't move."
I look at him critically. "A zucchini, perhaps."
"What?" He looks as if I have temporarily lost my mind.
"A pumpkin is rather rotund, and orange, whereas you, my friend, are long, thin and somewhat green about the gills. Therefore, if you are going to turn into a member of the squash family, I would suggest a zucchini as requiring the smallest change."
He stares, and isn't sure if I'm insulting him, but then he grins. "Now I know I'm not dreaming - I couldn't come up with weird shit like that in a million years."
"No, I suspect not. Come on."
I settle him on the sofa, and tuck a blanket around him, then turn the television on for him. Unusually, he is content to watch a single programme instead of channel surfing as used to be his habit, while I make some scrambled eggs, about the only thing I can think of which is light enough for his condition. When I bring the food over to him, I see he's not really watching the screen at all. "Something on your mind, Ray?"
He looks at me as if I've woken him from a reverie, takes the plate from me with a thank you, but doesn't start to eat. "Just thinking about tomorrow."
"It will be hard, I know. Police funerals are the worst."
"You been to a few, Ben?"
"Well, my father's, naturally. Louis Gardino's. One or two others of people I didn't know that well. It's never easy." I indicate the plate. "They're getting cold," I say gently.
He still doesn't start. "It should have been me, Fraser. It's not fair - Joe had his family, he was a young guy, three little girls. And what did I have? Nothing - I wanted to die. He didn't."
The despair in his voice cuts me like a knife, but I must tread carefully. "Ray, eat your eggs. We can talk about this later - you're in no fit state to get yourself all worked up."
He pokes at his food, and with a little urging from me, actually eats something. But his appetite is gone again, and in light of what he's just said, and the impending funeral, I think it's wiser not to push him. He's in need of TLC more than anything else. Having a partner badly injured is bad enough - I know that from bitter experience - but having them die, let alone losing them before your eyes, is much worse. This is something he needs to get through. "Welsh said he would drive us there."
He grunts at that, but I for one am glad the big man will be close by. The normal procedure after something of this nature is for the officer involved to receive mandatory counselling - but as Ray has said he wants to go north, I'm not sure how this will fit in with our plans. His remorse over Joe Rossi's death is still, I can see, tangled up with the emotions he's been keeping under wraps for a year, and we will need to talk about that before Joe's death can be dealt with, I suspect.
The unwanted food is laid aside, and he slides sideways, supported and padded all about with cushions, his head on my lap. He wants contact with me more than almost anything else at this point, and I feel the need too, to bridge the empty spaces left by my long absence. We sit together as we used to, me stroking his hair, his hand on my thigh, by his face. We haven't, either of us, said the words 'I love you' to the other more than once since my return - we never needed to much before, and I don't need to hear it now. This man was going to kill himself because he couldn't live without me - further proof of his feelings I could never want. As for Ray, he's a very tactile person, his sight being so poor, and to him, my hand on his face or in his hair, is more proof than any words could be. To him, touch is love - I only realised that after I had worked with him for over a year. Even a punch to the jaw meant something to him, from him. He was telling me, "Fraser, I love you, but you're killing us." Once I understood that, the barriers to our relationship - our friendship, and then our love - fell away. How could I have forgotten all this? It is my very life I hold under my hands.
We watch television for a couple of hours, and I think he has dozed again, but when I shift my leg, he grumbles.
"I thought you were asleep."
"Nah. Just comfortable. Those pills really knock me out."
"Still, I think we should go to bed - it's going to be a long day tomorrow."
I help him up, and into the bathroom, and then back to bed. He watches me undress down to my underwear. "Ben..."
"What is it, Ray?"
"Would you ... can you take everything off? I want to see you."
"Of course." I strip off my boxers and shirt, and let him look. I understand, I think. This makes it more real for him.
"Come here." He pats beside him.
I get onto the bed, and lie flat next to him. He's still wearing a sweat shirt and boxers, to protect his wound dressings. He runs his hand lightly down my stomach, down to my genitals, then he gently clasps my penis. "Used to dream about this, Ben."
"My penis?"
"Um, yeah." He looks slightly embarrassed, but when I put my hand over his, he continues. "You know, holding it ... playing with it, tasting it. All of you ... I tried not to think about you too much, it hurt ... but the more I didn't think about you, the more I used to dream. Stupid, huh?"
"No, that's often the way it works. I had... one or two dreams about you too." That makes him grin briefly. "But now that I'm here, does it hurt to think?"
He gives me a wry smile. "Not about you, no. Everything else, but not you."
I roll over him carefully, not resting my weight on him, then kiss him deeply, taste his jaw and his neck, nibble his ear, to his evident pleasure, going by the little sighs he's making. "Are you done looking, mister? Because I'm getting cold."
He snorts at the obvious lie, but lifts the covers to let me in, then wraps himself around me.
"You know the other thing I missed? Dief. I really miss the furball."
"You miss my wolf more than me?"
"Yeah, sure, Ben," he says sarcastically. "No, like, he was part of the team, a partner, like you and me. Then you were gone, he was gone..." His voice dies away. I look at him. His eyes are bright. I stroke his face gently, and his eyes close as I hold him tighter.
"It's OK now. I'm back. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."
"Not gonna let you anyway," he mumbles.
"Sleep well, Ray."
For all that, he is restless, possibly because he has slept so much during the day, but when he calls his dead partner's name a few times in pure anguish, I know it is the upcoming funeral which is really the cause of his distress. He never wakes though, and I just make sure I have hold of him. I find sleep elusive for different reasons, but I find a considerable amount of peace in watching him sleep, feeling the weight of him in my arms.
Without my lupine alarm clock, I am still asleep at eight, an almost unheard of situation. I open my eyes and find my companion smiling at me. " 'Morning, sleepyhead."
"Hello, Ray. How do you feel?"
"Better. Sore." I kiss him and go fetch his antibiotics, but he refuses the pain pills and the anti-emetics. "They make me too drowsy, Ben. I want to be awake for the funeral."
I have strong reservations about this course of action, but he is well able to judge his considerable tolerance for pain, and so long as he takes the antibiotics, no harm will be done. He only eats half the breakfast I make for him, but as it was a large portion, I don't complain. Then we have to tackle getting him showered and his dressings changed. He's still very unsteady on his feet, so I have to assist him. I get him seated on the closed toilet lid, and take off his sweat shirt, then start to remove the dressings on his arm. The sight revealed makes me stop dead in my tracks. "Dear god," I mutter.
"What's wrong, Ben?" He twists and looks at his upper right arm, and swallows. "Oh, fuck."
"You haven't seen this before?"
"Um, no. They changed the dressings in the hospital and I never bothered to look, and when I got home..."
"You just didn't bother, yes, I know. What on earth happened?" The cuts are long, haphazard in pattern and angry and red around the stitches.
He shrugs. "Kids playing with knives. Joe and me were down, they liked cutting." I get the feeling he's not telling me everything, but neither of us wants to prolong this procedure. I remove the dressings on his other arm which is not quite as bad as the right side, and the covering over the stomach wound, then get him under the shower. He has to wash carefully, but finds it difficult to reach, so finally I just take the sponge from him, and holding him up with one hand, I gently soap and clean his body. He is slightly chagrined at needing my assistance, but even with it, he's shaking from the effort of standing up for so long. I seat him again to dry him, reapply clean dressings, and wrap him in a bathrobe. I get him into the living room, and let him collect himself and drink a cup of coffee, while I shower also.
I frown at him when I emerge. All the colour he seemed to have regained has gone. "Ray, are you sure you can do this? You don't look OK, if you don't mind me saying."
"Just sore, Ben. We got a couple of hours, right? Just leave me be, I'll be fine." I have to believe him - after all, this man followed me to the Arctic Circle, clinging to the wing of a plane, just because he was my partner. Tenacity could be his other middle name. I let him rest quietly, puttering around, getting dressed myself before finally producing his cleaned uniform.
Once dressed, he pulls a face at the picture he makes, and I can see why. The Chicago police uniform is a spectacularly unflattering outfit, and Ray looks like a gawky twenty year old rookie. He must have lost weight since he first put it on, but then I've hardly seen a police officer on which the thing didn't hang like a badly made sack. "You're cheating," he says to me ruefully. "You always did look good in black."
"I think I prefer you in no clothes at all, actually."
He sticks his tongue out at me. I kiss him, glad to feel the fever seems to be gone. He is still pale, a fact accentuated by the dark uniform, but when Welsh arrives, he straightens up, and puts on his most determined face. I doubt the canny lieutenant is fooled for a second, but I play Ray's game, trying to be as surreptitious in my assistance in getting him to the car as I can be.
The funeral is a Catholic requiem, and unfortunately nearly an hour long. Ray is utterly silent, grim faced. I encourage him to stay seated through it, except when the coffin is removed, keeping a hand on his shoulder. We still have the burial to get through, and already I don't like the look of him. I am dismayed that chairs have only been provided for Joe Rossi's family, but Ray seems determined to stand regardless. I know he regrets he cannot act as pall bearer, but he stands solemnly, silently, through the eulogy, the gun salute, the lowering of the coffin and the sad rituals of the dirt throwing and the flag being handed to the officer's widow. I wish I could take Ray's hand, but he would find that unpardonable in the circumstances. I stand close enough that I can feel the fine tremors rippling through him, but he maintains his dignity through the whole thing. Then Mrs Rossi, leading her toddler by the hand and followed by her two older daughters, comes over to Ray.
"Camilla, I'm so sorry. I tried..." Words seem inadequate to convey his regret, so he stops.
She takes his hand. "Ray, I know. The lieutenant told me how you were hurt trying to help Joe. I'm just grateful he didn't die alone - and that you didn't get killed." That starts her weeping again, and Ray pulls her gently towards him, hugging her, then letting her go.
"If I can do anything... I mean, I know I haven't been much help up to now..."
She wipes her eyes. "I understand, Ray. You look after yourself, you hear? Joe said you were a good man."
"So was he - the best." She pats his hand, and gives him a sad, last look, before returning to her relatives.
Ray looks at me, and he has gone white. "Get me home, Ben," he says under his breath. Welsh is still tied up, so I quickly let him know we'll get a taxi back. Ray is completely silent on the journey home. I have almost to carry him up the stairs again, and as soon as we are in the door, his legs give out. I get him to the sofa.
"Hurts," he whispers. I get his medication and once he takes it, I hold him close, letting my strength be his, allowing my calmness to wash over him. He grasps at my shirt with white knuckled fists. He's shaking with strain but gradually his breathing slows down, and his grip slackens as the pain lessens. His head rests on my shoulder, and I can feel his breath whuffing against my neck, the slight dampness of his skin. The tension very slowly seeps out of him, but he holds me close, as if my very scent is necessary to him. I, too, need to be close to him, closer than we have been. After all that has happened today, I need affirmation of his life force. I taste the saltiness on his lashes, and lick the hollow under his jaw, on his neck, feeling the slowing strong thrum of his pulse on my tongue, with my lips. I kiss him gently, on the forehead and on his cheeks, light touches of assurance, comfortingly at first, but then with more passion, as he responds to me, his tongue flickering over my lips, questing tenderly in my mouth. His eyes are closed throughout, as he relaxes into the sensations. Too long has he been without the gentle touch of a lover, as have I, but only he had the pain all this time of knowing what he had lost. I unbutton the ugly coat and the shirt, and put my hand against the warm living skin inside them, on his stomach away from the wound, so silky and unmarred.
"Ray, I want to ... do you mind?" I put my hand over his crotch and massage it gently. No evidence of arousal there, not surprising considering he is in pain, and tired, but the urge to touch him, to feel him, is overpowering.
He puts a hand on my cheek. "No, Ben. I don't mind. Give me something nice to think about."
He sighs quietly and gets comfortable so that his stomach muscles are not under stress. I put a couple of pillows behind him to support him, then he leans back against the sofa as I tug his shirt out of his trousers, loosen his belt and undo his fly. He knows this is nothing to do with desire, or sex, but a need in both of us to have me claim him. If he weren't injured, I would do so even more vigorously, but I can do this.
I slide off the sofa, and kneel between his legs. I free his penis from the confines of trousers and underwear, and take it, barely hard, into my mouth and suckle gently, stroking his still-covered testicles through the material. His hands are moving through my hair, and he keeps saying my name, a needy sound, almost a prayer. He becomes erect only slowly but he wants this as much as I do. There is no hurry, and I revel in the feel and the taste of him, so long absent. I play gently with the wiry golden hairs, so beautiful, and take time to relish the sight of his sex. I could do this for hours, touching him, loving him. The drugs and his illness - and time - have changed the taste of him subtly, but it is still unmistakably Ray, my beloved Ray. His breathing increases, and he moans a little as he moves towards climax. I feel his hand take one of mine, squeezing it tight as he comes. So good - so real, so full of life, the taste of him. I lick him clean, then he takes my chin and nudges me to stand. I do so, and look down at him. His eyes almost glow, his paleness is gone. He is breathing shallowly, and he is far from sated. The endorphins from his orgasms have overcome his pain. He draws me close, resting his face in my crotch. I can feel his warm breath through my pants, on my erection.
"I need you, Ben." He tugs at my pants, and I assist him by undoing my trousers and pushing them and my boxers down. For a minute or two he simply rests his head against me, petting me, and I let him do as he wants, but then his stroking becomes more urgent. He licks the top of my erection, then looks at me.
"What do you want , Ray?"
"Take me," he says hoarsely.
I shake my head. "I can't. There's no way we can do that with..." I indicate his injuries. He groans.
"Ben, please ... I need you in me. Need to feel you." He strokes my penis slowly, and I put my hand over his, so that we are both jacking me. He stops and leans back, a look of pain in his eyes.
"Ray, let's stop. I'm OK, you're hurting."
"No, dammit," he growls. "Take me, fuck my mouth."
"Are you sure?" We had not done this often.
"Make me remember... make me forget, Ben," he says. "Please," and I understand. I push him back carefully against the pilllows, kick off my pants which are puddled around my ankles, and kneel on the sofa, straddling him carefully, my hips in front of his face. "Don't move," I say. "Let me do the work."
I slide slowly between his lips, and cry out at the shock of the heat of his mouth. It's been so long since .... I want to keep my hands beside me, for fear of thrusting too hard, but he takes them, and puts them on the side of his head, which almost makes me come then and there. For all that, he is in control, and I lose the worry of hurting him. His hands squeeze my buttocks in time with my thrusts. I move slowly, needing this connection more than any orgasm, but I am so close already, and he knows this. He puts his hands over mine, and holds them tight again, both of us holding his head as I come with a cry. He swallows, I pull back but he keeps me against him, nuzzling his face in my crotch again, reassuring me. My knees have gone weak, and I swing off him, so that I don't collapse on top of him. I find to my surprise my eyes are wet, and I am trembling, and then it is he who comforts me, and holds me. "I almost lost you, Ray, too close," I babble foolishly, and all the while, he's hushing and stroking, holding me against his strong, deceptively strong body. So alive, so warm. If I had actually lost this man... I would not have been as strong as he, to have lasted a year without him, to not have gone mad or become suicidally reckless, I know that.
"Ben, come here beside me." He lies down, pushes himself against the back of the sofa, and I stretch alongside him, still snuffling, ashamed at my loss of control when he has been in so much pain. He doesn't seem to mind, and rests my head in the crook of his shoulder, still murmuring words of comfort. When I at last can talk without my voice cracking, I ask him.
"Tell me what really happened to you and Joe, Ray." I feel him stiffen slightly, and I know his instinct is to lie, to protect me. "You were hurt trying to save him. Tell me."
He sighs, and puts his hand over my heart. My foolish, brave man, still worrying about me. He speaks quietly. "We went after three gang members, and we got trapped in an alley. One of them stabbed Joe in the neck - must have hit the artery, cos there was blood everywhere. I had to try and stop the bleeding, but the fucker who had me wouldn't let me go to him. When I tried, he stabbed me with this sword he had. Every time I put my hand towards Joe, someone cut me. Like I told you, kids getting kicks with knives." He turns his head to look at me, and I can see the guilt, the pain in his lucent blue eyes. "I had to try and save him, Ben - he was my partner. He deserved better. God, I was such a prick to him - never asked about his family, never let him be friends. He was a great guy, Fraser - you'd have liked him." His voice is breaking up.
"Ray, he deserved no one better than you - there is no one better than you." He starts to protest. "No, shut up and listen to me. You were willing to give your life to save him - there is no greater gift. You gave up your happiness to protect me, to protect my welfare and sanity, and look what it almost cost you. I'm absolutely sure Joe would be very proud of you. I know I am." I hold him tighter, to reinforce my words. So inadequate to convey what I feel for him.
He is silent for a long time, his eyes closed, but I can tell by his breathing that he is nowhere near falling asleep. Then he says, "Seeing his wife today ... that was me, Ben, that's how I felt. That was me."
"It would have been me, if you had gone ahead with your plan, Ray," I say gently.
"I'm so sorry, Ben. I just... I should have died in that alley, you know? Me, not Joe. And when I woke up, it was like I was cheated. I wanted to wait for you, I knew you'd remember me .. you know, at the end... and then they took that away from me." He gives me a sad smile. "Guess I wasn't thinking too clearly .. kinda off my head, with the pain and everything."
"Perhaps you were a little. But I don't blame you."
He is surprised. "You were pretty fucking angry yesterday."
"I was worried and frightened at how close I'd come to losing you. It wasn't fair of me. You're the one who's had to bear all of this on your own. I have no business making judgements on you. "
"So you forgive me?"
"Nothing to forgive - unless you still plan on carrying it out."
"Not now, Ben Fraser. Not now you're back with me."
We rest together for a few minutes, but his last words remind me that we still have to talk about the future. He made a choice yesterday when he was upset and still groggy. I need to know that is what he wants. "Ray, do you remember what we talked about yesterday?"
"About me coming back with you? You haven't changed your mind, have you?" He looks worried, and I laugh in spite of myself.
"Not in the least. I thought you ought to have a chance of changing your mind - I mean, what will you do with yourself up there?"
"You want to stay down here again?"
"If I'm honest..."
"And you always are..."
"Thank you. Which I always am, no, I would have to say that I don't particularly want to come back. But I want to be with you."
"Me too, Ben. Look, I'm sick of Chicago. Sick of kids running around killing cops and cutting each other up when they're not killing themselves with drugs. Sick of the dirt and the noise. I liked it up there. Wasn't ready to stay before, but now I am. I'll find something to do, I know lots of stuff. Please tell me you want me up there."
"God, Ray, more than you can possibly imagine."
"Then shut up trying to change my mind, you dumb Mountie," he says in irritation, and I laugh at him again.
We lie like that for some time, not talking. There's no need to. But eventually my rumbling stomach reminds me it's mid-afternoon and neither of us have eaten since breakfast. I have just stood up, and pulled on my pants, when there is a knock at the door. Ray hastily zips and buttons while I answer it. It's Lieutenant Welsh.
"Hello, Lieutenant... we were just going to have some lunch. Have you eaten?"
He coughs, slightly embarrassed. "Yeah, Fraser... at the wake." That explains his embarassment - he doesn't want to remind us that we'd left the proceedings earlier than was strictly polite. "Just wanted to see how he was holding up."
Ray's voice is heard from the sofa. "I'm good, boss. Come on over."
"How are you doing, Kowalski? Sorry I had to let you guys get home on your own, but I couldn't just leave Joe's wife there..."
"I know, Lieu. It was fine. Just don't have the ole stamina back yet." Ray grins cockily, and for a second I could almost have been fooled into thinking that it wasn't as difficult as I thought it had been. Welsh isn't.
"Cut the crap, Ray. I was damn proud of you. When does the doc say you can come back to work?"
Ray looks at me. It's sooner than either of us would have wished, but he needs to be told. "Boss, I'm not coming back. I'm going with Ben up to Canada." I step closer to him, and he takes my hand, looking at Welsh defiantly. Welsh looks at him, and at me, then laughs, and shakes his head.
"Jesus, boys, things are never boring with you two."
Ray is miffed. "That's it? That's all you got to say?"
"Hell, Kowalski, I knew about you guys before you did. Dewey was running a pool at one point."
Ray splutters. "He...? Who won?"
Welsh grins. "Francesca - she was the only one who said it was never gonna happen. You were pretty good, I'll give you that - I didn't know for sure until Fraser went back to Canada."
Ray chuckles, but then sobers up. "Boss, I'm real sorry to do this to you..."
Welsh made a 'settle down' motion with his hand. "Ray, you've been dying on your feet for a year. I'm sorry to lose you - you're a good cop - but you belong together. And I think for the sanity of the Chicago PD, I'd be happier if the constable didn't return for any more 'liaising' - it gets too exciting when you're around."
He grins at me to take the sting out of his words. I put my hands on Ray's shoulders. "I understand, Lieutenant. I think my work in Chicago is done."
"Then take this walking disaster area up there and off my hands, will ya? I don't want to live through another week like this anytime soon."
"Is Camilla OK?" Ray asks.
"No, not yet. But she will be, I'd bet on that. Ray - it's not your fault. You did all you could. Go and make a new life for yourself, make Joe's death worth something at least. " He stands and offers his hand to Ray. "No, don't get up. You 'll need to write me a letter, officially - don't be in any hurry. You're on leave for the next two weeks, may as well get the pay while you can. I'll keep quiet."
"Thanks boss - for everything. For bringing Ben back."
Welsh looks at me, and I realize he knows more than I think about how close it must have come. He puts his hand out to me. "Goodbye Constable. You've done good work."
"Thank you sir. You've done more than you know."
He grunts. "Don't bet on that, Fraser. " He raises a hand. "I know - you don't bet. See you round, boys."
I let him out, then come back to Ray on the sofa. "You OK?"
"Tough day." He pulls me in for a deep, life affirming kiss. "But I'm good. " I look at him carefully. "I'm good, Fraser" he repeats. "I'll survive." My heart lifts - he is back from the edge of the abyss. "Now let's have lunch. I'm hungry." He gives me a glorious grin and for the first time in over a year, I see him looking happy and uncareworn. It is a sight to remember.