The Power of Grace	The Due South Fiction Archive Entry	Home

 Quicksearch
 Search Engine
 Random Story

 Upload Story

     �	  The Power of Grace 
 by catwalksalone  

 Disclaimer: These characters belong to people who are not me. I just
borrow them, bend them into awkward positions and leave them out in the
sunlight to go yellow.

 Author's Notes: This was written for vecchiofest over at lj. Post-canon,
no spoilers. Beta'd by the incomparable lordessrenegade. She rocks.
Prompt: If you break down, I'll drive out and find you/ If you forget my
love, I'll try to remind you/ Stay by you, when it don't come easy. 

 Story Notes: This is story four (eight, sorry) in the Lost and Found
'verse.

 SequelTo: One Hundred Eighty

 

 Is it the crash or the violent swearing that wakes me from the
disturbingly pleasant dream I'm having about a 90% off sale at Armani? I
don't know. But I'm flinging the comforter off, sitting up in bed, rubbing
my eyes with finger and thumb and watching him yank clothes off hangers
and stuff them in a backpack. My first thought is that Welsh has called
him in on some kind of job � why else would he be out of bed before me? �
but then why would he need clothes? My second thought is accompanied by a
clunk in my stomach as it occurs to me � undercover. There aren't any more
thoughts.  

 "Um," I say, and my voice is croaky because I've just woken up.  

 He turns around but he barely sees me, and my guts clunk again because I
know that thought one and thought two are way, way off the mark. Because
I've seen that look on his face before. And I know who put it there. I
can't think, can't work out what to do, what to say. I just stare. He does
this thing where he winces and shrugs at the same time and turns back to
his sorry version of packing. I realise that I'm cold. Fucking freezing to
be precise. I'm naked and it's the middle of January. Not the best
combination. I yank the comforter back up around me, noticing how my dick
has already decided to beat a retreat from the cold. And I'm not sure I
just mean the room temperature.  

 He pulls out the gray sweater his mom knitted him for Christmas and yanks
it over his head. It's thick and soft and warm. He hasn't worn it yet �
says it's not for urban spaces. I stopped arguing with him about fashion a
long time ago. Then he sits on the floor, tugging on his heavy-duty boots.
He looks pale and sweaty. His fingers fumble with the laces and I have to
fight the urge to go over and do it for him. The shock is wearing off and
words are tumbling round my brain, hundreds of them, trying to sort
themselves out into the right order, the right sentence, the right way to
make this all go away. But I stay dumb because I'm not. Dumb. There's
nothing I can say. I know him in this mood � whatever I say will be wrong,
he'll use it to pick a fight and justify his actions. And I am not
absolving him of any of the guilt. Not one inch. Hey, I'm a Catholic,
guilt is my birthright, why shouldn't I share?	

 He's on his feet now, sweeping change off the dresser and shoving it into
his pocket. My keys are there too. I see him eyeing them.  

 "You're not taking my car. Not my fault the GTO got shot up." That comes
out more growly than I intended, but I'm not gonna clear my throat and
give the game away.  

 "Who wants that heap of shit anyway?" he mutters. He's all front. It's
the only way he can get through this. There's stuff you don't say, but it
don't mean it's not there. And I know � I know � but he's leaving anyway. 


 I want to close my eyes but I make myself watch. Watch him as he scoops
up his backpack and it thuds over his shoulder. Watch as he pauses with
his hand on the door, see his knuckles whiten around the handle. Watch as
his head twitches but he doesn't turn. And then there's only noise, and
then there's a click and then there's nothing. Nothing at all.	

 We had plans for today. OK, they weren't exactly well-formed,
bullet-proof plans. More of the
stay-in-bed-have-lots-of-sex-maybe-go-out-for-food variety. But I liked
those plans. And now everything's changed and I don't know why. Nah,
that's not true: I got a good idea why, or at least who. Maybe I was
stupid, thinking we'd gotten past that. Maybe we can't get past it, just
detour around it. Part of me wants to stay in bed, pull the comforter over
my head and never come out, but the detective in me snaps into action and
before I know it I'm out of bed, tying the cord on my robe, cursing the
cold floors.  

 I go into the living room. It's still dark in here, the curtains are
closed, but there's a flickering light from the TV. I ignore it � not
likely to find my evidence there. I open the curtains so I can see better
and the light hits me like a fist. It's dazzling in the way that in
Chicago means only one thing. I look out and sure enough there's about a
foot of snow out there. Everything has that weird sense of quiet about it
that comes after a big snowfall. Any minute the snow plows will be along
and people will start going about their business and the volume will turn
up as the city gets on with it. For now there's a single track of
footprints heading from this apartment building away up the street. Just
at the bottom of the stoop there's a deeper pair, as if someone stood
there for a moment before moving on. I flatten my hand against the cold
glass and clench my teeth together. Then I've had my moment too and I'm
back on the search.  

 On the counter in the kitchen there's two empty mugs, the kettle is still
warm. There's no mail scattered on the coffee table, there's no entry in
the calendar and I can't think of a Fraser-related reason to make this day
different. And then I see it. The light blinking on the answering machine.
Automatically I roll my eyes, he never remembers to reset the thing,
drives me crazy. But I'm walking over there in a trance because I know
that I'm gonna find my answer. My finger hovers over the play button for
what seems like hours � I don't know if I'm ready to hear what I might
hear. I figure I already thought of the worse case scenario so I should
just get on with it. I press the button.  

 I have to rewind it three times before I'm ready to believe my own ears. 


 "Benny," I say aloud. "You're like a well-meaning SCUD missile."  

 *  

 Ten minutes later, I'm dressed with a hot cup of coffee, watching the
ticker tape on WGN reporting the closure of O'Hare and Union over and over
again, road map on my lap. It's 3500 miles from Chicago to Inuvik. He's
gonna hitch-hike the whole way? Fucking crazy idiot. My guts ice over like
the snow outside. I know what I gotta do.  

 I'm methodical, thorough. If I take it one step at a time, concentrate, I
don't have to think about why I'm doing it. Chains on my tires? Check.
Warm clothing? Check. Food? Check. Lots and lots of strong coffee? Check.
There's only one thing that makes me stumble. When I go to pick up my car
keys the St. Anthony medallion that used to be mine, that he's hardly been
without in the past fifteen months, is lying next to them on the dresser.
I swallow the memory down. No time. Not now.  

 *  

 It's not until I'm in my car and I hit the gritted highway that I stop to
wonder if I'm doing the right thing. I got my route all mapped out:
Chicago to Emerson by way of Madison and Fargo, then on to Winnipeg,
Saskatoon, Edmonton, following the highways through Whitehorse to Dawson
City. Course the ferries are closed this time of year, but I'm a betting
man, hell I was the betting man, and the odds are stacked way in my favour
that he hasn't thought that far ahead. I'm hoping I'll catch him before
then, but he's got a couple hours on me, who knows where the fuck he's at
by now. I may have superior planning abilities, not to mention wit and
guile, but there's no guarantee that whichever nutjob gives him a ride
will go the exact same way. I just know I can't leave him out there. It's
dangerous and it's cold and what kind of man would I be if I didn't go get
him?  

 It's slow going because of the crappy weather and I find I can scan the
roadside, concentrate on keeping the car going forward and still have room
left in my brain to think.  

 I think about names. I think about how when we met he had my name and I
had someone else's. I think about how when I took my name back I somehow
managed to take part of him along with it. I think about how we were
Kowalski and Vecchio, even when we started. Started � dating, I suppose.
But Kowalski and Vecchio belonged to the grit and the dirt of the 2-7 and
it didn't seem right any more. And I think about how sometimes, just
sometimes we could be Ray and Ray but somehow those names belonged to
other people too, ex-wives and ... I think about how when we fight we call
each other all the names under the sun, but none of them ever mean
anything. I think about how it's unmanly to have cutesy nicknames like
pumpkin and honey-bear. But K and V? Manly, manly names. They set us apart
and link us together. No one else gets to use those names. Hell, no one
else gets to hear them. Except maybe sometimes when we forget. Powerful
things, names.	

 I think about how after I moved out Ma forgave him first. Invited his
skinny ass over for dinner and spent all night listing my shortcomings as
a son before sending him back home with leftovers. That was the night I
let him fuck me for the first time.  

 I don't think about the sex. I don't think about the sex. I don't think
about the sex.	

 It should take about ninety minutes to get to Rockford. It takes closer
to three hours. I try not to think about how quickly the dark falls at
this time of year and just keep scanning the roadside. I have a couple of
false starts � an abandoned roll of carpet can look amazingly like a dead
body � but no signs of him. I stop at every excuse for a truck stop on the
way. Nothing. I don't lose hope; I wasn't really expecting to find him.
But I gotta do this, so I keep going.  

 I'm coming up on Waukesha when way up ahead of me there's this huddled
shape on the side of the road. I think maybe it's more garbage, but it
leaps up and starts waving at the car in front of mine. The car don't
stop. Of course not, it's a sleek, silver cock-machine and the hitch-hiker
guy seems kinda wild. And before I'm close enough to get a good look, I
know it's him. There's the clunk in my guts again and I'm grinding my
teeth as I signal that I'm pulling over. He finishes flashing his middle
finger at the guy in front (so charming, my man, isn't he? Not my � not
mine?), turns round and sees the car slowing down. He drops his head, the
way he does when he's relieved, but then he jerks it up again. This time
he looks straight at me. I look back, not taking my eyes off him as I
park, turn off the ignition. He throws up his hands and starts walking
away. He gets about ten paces before he stops. I get out of the car.  

 "Kowalski," I say. Because names are powerful, right? "Kowalski, get in
the car."  

 He doesn't say anything, doesn't turn around, just makes this kind of
strangled sound. His backpack is sitting on the ground; I can see the dark
stains where the snow has started to seep into the material. I pick it up
and trudge around the car to pop the trunk.  

 "Get in the goddamn car, Kowalski. It's gotta be 20 below out here and I
have parts I would rather I did not freeze off."  

 He turns round and I can see his face is blue-tinged. How long has he
been out here? I know he's tramped through the wide blue-fucking-yonder
with the Super Mountie and can take care of himself but to me this does
not look good. I need to get him someplace warm. Now.  

 "I can't." It's as simple as that. The cold has deepened the lines in his
face and he looks older, sadder.  

 "C'mon," I change my tone to wheedling. "At least get in for five
minutes. I have coffee and heat. Look, I'll even give you my keys, then I
can't kidnap you or whatever it is you think I might do."  

 I open the passenger door, leave the keys on the roof then walk round to
my door and get in. I fish the flask off of the back seat, pour the coffee
and hold it between my hands, trying to get a bit of feeling back. Fuck,
it's freezing out there! And I wait. He stands still so long I wonder if
he's turned into an ice-sculpture. But eventually he starts towards the
car. There's a chill blast of air as he opens the door and I feel the car
sag as he sits down. I don't look over; just hold out the coffee to him.
He takes it. Step one.	

 He sips the coffee and I may or may not hear him sigh a little.  

 "Don't stop me," he says.  

 "Gee," I say. "Great coffee, Vecchio. Thanks for this; I thought my
insides had turned to icicles. You're a real life-saver." Did I tell you I
can do front as good as him?  

 "Don't stop me," he says again.  

 Step two.  

 "Who said anything about stopping you?"  

 "What?"  

 "I'm gonna drive you to him."	

 "What?"  

 "I believe you heard."  

 "Why?"  

 I gesture outside.  

 "There's the weather. And then there's you. In a fight between those two
things I know who'll win. And I don't want to have to tell my Ma and your
Ma that your body was found frozen by the roadside with little snowflakes
on your eyelids." So much front I wonder where my back went.  

 He says nothing.  

 "You good to go?" I ask, holding my hand out for the keys. I keep my eyes
on the road. I swear that sometimes it's like dealing with a nervous
horse. I feel him slump down in the seat and there's cold metal pressing
into my hands.	

 "Buckle up," I say, starting the car and heading back on to the road.	

 *  

 We drive without saying anything for a little while. He's got nothing he
can say and me, I got so much that I can't say that it's better to say
nothing at all. He's thrown off layers of clothing as he's warmed up. The
back seat looks like we're on a run to the thrift shop. The sun starts to
set and I flick the lights on. I try a little light-hearted banter.  

 "So what happened to your ride that I picked you up in the middle of
nowhere?"  

 "Nothing."  

 "Come on, Kowalski. You think I believe that? Spill."	

 "He, uh, he wanted payment."  

 "He wanted money?"  

 "No."	

 "Oh."	

 Another ten miles in silence. Another ten miles where I don't so much as
glance in his direction. Another ten miles where I ignore how much I want
to reach out and put my hand on his shoulder, tell him it's all going to
be OK. Because it isn't, is it? Not for either of us. This hurts like
hell. I don't think about it.  

 "There's some sandwiches in the glove compartment."  

 "Thanks."  

 And in another half an hour.  

 "You think you could unwrap one of those sandwiches and pass it to me?"  

 "Uh, yeah. Sure."  

 I chew on it. It tastes like dust. When I've choked down the final
mouthful, I say, "So I thought Minneapolis would be a good place to get a
few hours sleep. That is unless you wanted to take a turn at driving."	

 He fidgets.  

 "Yeah, whatever. I don't care."  

 "Just let me know," I say, pleasant and calm. Good cop, smooth cop.  

 Out of the corner of my eye I can see he's drumming his fingers on his
leg, twitchy. Then he raises his hand up and touches his neck. It's just a
brief moment but I see the medallion on the dresser. I remember way back
in the beginning when we were lying there in his bed, fucked out, and I
got up to go to the bathroom. I remember how he gripped my wrist tight,
pulling me round to face him. How he looked, all coiled energy and pain
and how he said "don't lose me." I remember the second of shock at how
hard his words hit and how I understood they came from a very fucked-up
place. I remember promising and how his hand stroked mine as he released
my wrist. I remember unclasping my St. Anthony and placing it round his
neck. I remember him touching it and looking at me, nodding.  

 I tell myself not to remember.  

 We drive on and on. He's tapping his foot and I ask if he wants music, he
refuses. Later, he seems to be trying to fit his body into as small a
place as possible. I ask if he needs more heat. We're about half an hour
west of La Crosse when he says, "Pull over."  

 I pull over. I turn off the engine and wait, hands on the steering wheel.
Nothing happens.  

 "Bathroom break?" I ask.  

 And then he's banging his head against the window. Alarmed, I turn round
and look at him for the first time since he got in the car.  

 "Stop that!" I reach out and yank him upright by the shoulder, shaking
him. He puts his head in his hands and his voice is muffled but I hear
every word.  

 "Am I fucking insane? What am I doing?! Why don't you stop me?"  

 "Because I told you before, I'm not your consolation prize. You gotta do
this? You gotta do this."  

 "I don't gotta."  

 I freeze, my hand still on his shoulder. Is this step three?  

 "You sure?"  

 He looks at me. And the heat's softened the lines or something, 'cos he
looks like himself again.  

 "I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head a little. "I don't know what I
was... I don't know what..."  

 "It's OK," I say. He shakes his head some more.  

 "It's not. It's not OK. I treat you like that and you do this. That's not
right, that's not buddies."  

 "Buddies," I say and there must be something he hears in my voice 'cos he
grabs me round the neck and pulls me into him, kissing me all soft and
gentle. He pulls away, but doesn't let me go, resting his forehead on
mine.  

 "I was never any good with words," he says.  

 "You're getting no argument from me," I say and he laughs and his laugh
slots into me like a missing piece of a jigsaw. He kneads the back of my
neck, thumb sweeping back and forth. I think about how much I would've
missed that touch, and then I think about how I could still and how this
isn't done yet and I squeeze my eyes shut. But then all that's left is the
hand on my neck and his warm breath on my face and all my body can think
of is where this usually leads and I'm getting hard. Fuck it. If this is
it, if this is where it ends, then I want this. If it's not it'll be
something to tell the hypothetical grandkids.  

 I slide my hand up his shoulder until it's resting against his neck and I
can feel his pulse starting to beat faster. I spread my fingers over his
cheek, dragging my thumb across his skin to meet the corner of his mouth.
He turns his head slightly, catching my thumb and massaging it with his
lips. My other hand finds his tee, yanks it out of his jeans, slides up
his side. He may have a little more padding these days but you can still
feel every single rib under the stone smooth skin. Play a tune on them.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem motherfucking sexy bones. OK, that's not quite
how it goes but maybe it should. My thumb is making its way over his chin,
down his neck, the wet coating helping it glide over the stubble. This
means his mouth is free. He doesn't like this obviously because his mouth
is on mine and soft and gentle is out the window.  

 He tries to pull me towards him, but the front seats are kinda awkward
for this sort of thing and there's things sticking in places they were
never made to stick in. We break apart. We been partners in both senses
long enough to know what the other one's thinking and we're scrambling
into the back seat, slipping on his discarded clothing. It doesn't take
long for him to be lying on top of me, kissing me like he wants to climb
right inside, his tongue licking the roof of my mouth, driving me fucking
crazy. I push up into him; show him what I got for him. He pushes right
back. I need him so bad it's not even funny. My hands are shaking but I
get his belt and flies undone. I'm so practised at this you wouldn't
believe, his jeans and shorts are around his ankles before you can say
spit. Course then he's fucked 'cos he's got those huge boots on, but I
figure I'm the one who's gonna bend, so it doesn't matter.  

 I wrap my hand around his dick; it's an old, old friend by now. I know
every last thing about it. I know how there's a seam of skin running from
his balls all the way up to the tip of his foreskin like that's where they
sewed him up when they made him. I know how each ridge of vein feels under
my fingers. I know how the head gets shiny and smooth and so goddamn big
when he's hard. I know how he's not perfectly straight, but curves
slightly upwards and I know how well that fits my ass. I know all this and
still it seems like this is the first time I ever touched it. I tighten my
grip and pull upwards, sliding his foreskin over the head of his dick. He
buries his face in my neck. I put one hand on his back, holding him there,
while I work him with the other one. His hips twitch, he can't stay still
and this turns me on so bad. I push up into him again; remind him there's
something out there besides whatever I'm making him feel inside.  

 He pulls his face away from my neck. Looks at me. Asks a question with
his eyes. I nod. I'm already toeing my shoes off. I let go of his dick and
let him help me out of my clothes. We do well; stake-outs have got us used
to operating in cramped circumstances. I hook one leg over the back of the
seat, dangle one off the front, give him plenty room. He rests his hand
over my dick. It beats mindlessly against him.	

 "We got nothing," he says, frowning.  

 "I know where I been," I say. "You know where you been?"  

 "Yeah."  

 "So?"	

 "So. OK."  

 "OK."	

 He's curled his fingers around my dick now, and he's playing with it
absently, like it's some kind of stress reliever or something. Which,
thinking about it, I suppose it is.  

 "What about the other stuff?"	

 I think about this for all of a second.  

 "Well, you know how relaxed I get after I, er."  

 He grins. The first one I've seen today. Makes my guts clunk again, but
in the good way this time. He slides down the seat, hunching his body over
and before he takes me in his mouth he looks up at me and grins again.
That's my boy, I think, and ignore the sharp little voice that tells me he
might not be. And it's easy to ignore because he's got his lips wrapped
around my cock and nothing else matters. He takes me down, his tongue
suckling at me, bathing me. It's warm here, it's home here. I feel the
pull as he hollows his cheeks, as his lips slide up and down, friction
free.  

 The buzz is growing in that place I never figured out how to find,
spreading out through my body, sparking in my fingers, my toes, my goddamn
ears. And then his hand is on my balls and he's gently tugging the skin
down as his mouth slides up and I. Love that. My eyes are rolling in my
head and I can feel liquid pushing up and out of my dick in response. I
open my mouth to say his name, but I clamp my lips over it before it comes
out. I don't know who I would be talking to.  

 The thought knocks me off balance a little but his mouth come off my dick
with a pop and I look up to see what he's doing. I like what I see. He's
sucking his fingers, getting them good and wet. And then his mouth is back
on me and his finger is pushing into my ass and I'm breathing fast and
shallow because I have no self-control when he does this. When he's
fucking me with his mouth and his fingers and his thumb is pressing into
that little bit of skin between balls and ass. The buzz is overwhelming me
now, contracting down to this pinprick of intense sensation, a star
collapsing. Too much Discovery Channel for me, I think. It's the last
thought for while, though because I gotta explode. Supernova. And I'm
seeing stars through the window and stars in my head and stars in front of
me surrounding his head as he sucks it all down.  

 "Oh yeah," I say.  

 And he says, "My turn."  

 I hook my dangling leg over the front seat and reach out for him.  

 We're getting into it, hot and heavy and I can see each vein standing out
on his arms. Wait. I can see the... I shouldn't be able to see anything
that clearly, it's starlight only out here. I realise that the light's
getting stronger, headlights are sweeping the car. It can't look real
pretty when I untangle my legs and wrap them around his back pulling him
down onto me.  

 "Car!" I say and then the light fades a little, but I can still see his
eyes glitter, wide, shocked as we hear the car pull to a stop. I grin. And
he laughs. He pushes himself up an inch or two, enough to peer out the
window. He manages to push himself into me at the same time. Horny little
fucker.  

 "See anything?"  

 He ducks down again, sliding out of me. I bite my lip.  

 "Guy's taking a piss."  

 I laugh. "Really?"  

 "I could check again if you like," he says, pushing back into me and
pushing up before I can say anything.  

 "You? Can do whatever the fuck you want. As long as it involves your dick
and my ass. Right. Now."  

 He looks down at me, smiling.	

 "I'm gonna take your word on that," he says, and repositions my legs over
his shoulders.	

 And he's fucking me slow and steady and deep, deep, deep and I don't even
hear the other car leave, I just know it's dark again. This is so good. We
are so good. Him and me. And I'm flying high on wings that have sprouted
out of my shoulders but I'm still here in this car and I know it's not
just fucking that's doing this. It's all of it. And I shut my eyes and
it's like there's a music video playing in my head as he pushes in, slides
out. You know, a film theme tune montage � an updated 'The Odd Couple',
maybe � and it's playing scenes of us together. At work � covering each
other on a bust, sweet-talking Welsh into letting us take vacation time
together, at Ma's � exchanging looks as Tony starts describing how this
time he really will be a millionaire, at home � me cooking, him keeping me
company, leaning up against the counter, racing the turtle against the
clock, watching sports with a couple of beers -bickering, fucking in the
bed,in the bathroom, on the floor, fucking after a fight, fucking. God.  

 This. Can't. Be. It.  

 I think I groan. And he shifts, altering the angle, getting it just
right. This time I definitely groan and he does it over and over again
until all I am is Jell-O. He speeds up, fucking me fast and hard, and my
head could be bashing into the car door for all I know, but I'm way, way
beyond feeling pain. I open my eyes because I know he's gotta be close to
the edge and I want to watch. And there's only starlight to see by, but I
see him looking right at me. His mouth moves, but there's no sound; I
can't tell what he's trying to say. Then, "oh god," as he buries himself
in me and I see his face change in the way it always does when he comes,
like he's lit from the inside. Angel. He shudders to a stop, breathing
hard and heavy. He lifts one hand and touches his neck, then bends down to
kiss me. It's soft and gentle, just like it started. I don't know what
this means.  

 By the time my heartbeat's back to normal, we're untangled and he's
sprawled out over me. I know we can't stay like this because the engine's
off and even if we created enough heat for the Big Bang just now it's
gonna get cold real quick. It's time. I take a deep breath and push my
fingers into his hair. Step four.  

 "K." And that's all it takes for me to put myself out there.  

 "V," he says and strokes my cheek and that's when I know it's going to be
OK. He's coming home with me. And the rest we won't talk about but that's
just fine because he's made his choice.  

 "Probably not going to make Minneapolis," I say. "La Crosse do you?"  

 I feel him smile into my chest.  

 *  

 We're dressed and ready for the road again. I squirm in my seat.  

 "Uncomfortable?" he grins.  

 But I'm reaching into my pocket and my fingers close around what I'm
looking for.  

 "Found it," I say, holding out the St. Anthony.  

 He puts it on.  

 "Yeah," he says.  

 I gun the engine. We head east. 

  
� 

End The Power of Grace by catwalksalone 

Author and story notes above.  

Please post a comment on this story.   


   �