(Don't) Leave Me Alone.    

 ****** I always wanted to read fanfic written about Victoria's Secret and
Letting Go. No one seems to really want to rip out all that angst again.
Well, I did. I guess it's the masochist in me. That, and the start of
Season Three... I want to thank everyone who reads my writing. I love you
guys. I just wish I heard from you more often... Comments, once again, are
welcome and appreciated. 

 ***** 

 thanks very much... 

 (Don't) Leave Me Alone. 

 Week One. 

 He's looking a lot better today. Less pale. Maybe even a little less
dead. 

 What happened? So what do I tell him? Things got messed up. I can barely
speak the name myself. He can't say it at all... we just go on pretending
that part of our lives didn't happen. 

 So here I'm sitting, watching him sleep, hoping upon hope that some time,
somewhere, I can talk to him. He's getting stronger every day. Stronger
physically, but I don't know how he's faring inside. 

 I'm a mess. I know I'm a mess. Look at me. Spending my free time here at
his bedside, wishing I could just hold his hand, help him through this...
and when the time comes for me to make a connection, I say something
stupid and his eyes cloud over and he shuts me out again. And all that I
can see him want is for me to leave him alone. But if I do that, I'll lose
him forever. 

 He wants to be left alone so he can retreat into his own little world and
waste away, shrinking away inside and shutting his eyes to die. I'm not
going to let him do that. It's bad enough he can barely move. He can
barely sit up by himself. Sometimes he can barely feed himself. He needs
me here. He needs my help. He needs me. 

 In a way, I need him, too. I see him getting better, but I see him
getting worse inside. He's crying inside, and I'm helpless. Guilt follows
me around this hospital, and guilt is tying me down. 

 I just want to talk to him, say "hey, lighten up, it's okay now." But I
know that's a lie. Nothing is going to be the same again. He's hurting
bad. He's hurting and he won't let me share in the pain. There are so many
things I want to say, want to do, but I can't even touch him. I can't
touch him like this, trapped in a body that won't listen, that won't work.
I can't touch him, feel those unresponsive muscles, make him feel even
worse than he does now. 

 I know he's trying. He really wants to recover. I can see the frustration
in his eyes when fatigue overtakes him. When he's reaching out so hard to
say something, anything, and his body puts him to sleep. I watch his eyes,
and he's trying so hard, and then his mind shuts off. 

 It's not fair. It's not fair that I put him in this situation, and it's
not fair that I can't help him out of it. I want to so desperately, I'm
reaching out my hand, but we can't touch. It's like we're in two separate
worlds, and he's looking over a canyon, and the only way we can
communicate is by sign language or semaphore or Morse code... 

 He's asleep. I sit beside his bed. Talk. Yeah, talk to him, that's good.
While he can't hear you, talk to him. How does he feel about all of this?
The same, probably worse than I do. And I'm raking myself over hot coals
with this. 

 How could I do this to him? How could I trap him so close to death and
make it so goddamned difficult to get away? 

 I didn't mean to hurt him. I know in my heart I would never do that to
someone I love so dearly. He's like a brother, more than a brother... like
a lover... like a lover I haven't met yet. 

 And what do I do? I screw it up. I screw around with his body, with his
life, and now he's lying here instead of the person responsible. Me. It
shouldn't have been him. It should have been... me. 

 I'd never do it again. Given another lifetime, another chance of losing
him, my life for good, I'd never do it again. I'd let him leave unharmed,
into god knows what dangers, and I'd never do it again. I hurt him so bad,
and I don't want to see him suffer. 

 Sometimes when he's awake, I know he's desperately trying to say
something, anything. And I can feel my fingers twitch, wanting to take his
hand and comfort him, coax the words out of him, help him lighten the
load, or at least share it. But he won't say anything. Mute and
unresponsive, he stares past me out the window, while I sit here in my own
personal hell like the idiot that I am. 

 What the hell kind of friend would do this to a friend? I still can't
believe it... how the hell could I have done that? He was happy--he was
going to jump on that train and run away from all his troubles. From his
life, from my life, and he didn't give it a second thought. 

 My God, when he pulled himself up in front of her, all I could think was
"that's not my bullet." But of course it was. I shot him. 

 This is worse than shooting someone in a gunfight. They train you to deal
with that. But to accidentally shoot a friend in the back... to nearly
kill a very dear friend... this isn't covered in any handbooks I've ever
read. 

 

 Oh, and the therapist. She's doing a great job. Been seeing her for what,
a week? They made me go and see her, and I'm still not ready to talk to
her. She's got me sitting in there day after day, dragging my soul out in
great snarled lumps, while she sifts through it with a comb. She's doing a
fine job at increasing my guilt. Talk to him? He's barely conscious. 

 And he mutters and moans when he sleeps, sometimes whimpering like a lost
puppy. I want to wake him out of his nightmares, but I haven't the heart
to do it. Sometimes the nightmares are better than life. 

 And so when he cries in his sleep, I lower my head and leave the room,
stumble into the bathroom or some other secluded area, and relive the
whole goddamned event again. Why couldn't it have been me? 

 And then the absurdity of it strikes me. It could never have been me. It
never could have been. I was holding the gun that nearly killed him. I'd
have to shoot myself. 

 Week Two. 

 They say he has a very good chance of making a full recovery. I believe
them. I want to believe them. I have to believe them, because if he
doesn't, and he spends the rest of his life in a wheelchair, I don't think
I could ever forgive myself. 

 He would, though, that's the part that kills me. He'd deal with it, and
go on with his life. And if I asked him he'd say "oh, no trouble a'tall.
I'll just have to find a different place to live." 

 And then I'd have to deal with it, living with it on my conscience for
the rest of my life... 

 I wonder if Frannie'd give up? Probably not. He'd be much easier to
catch. 

 Yeah. Somehow, that's not very reassuring. 

 I mean, it's really tough just dealing with the trauma of being shot.
Goddamn it, now he's got to go through it all as his body recovers, too.
Things will never be the same again. 

 Yeah, doctor, of course I want to talk to him. But it's hard, you know?
Like I don't want him to know what I'm really thinking inside. He woke up
with tears on his face this morning, and I had to look away, pretend to
stare out the window and not notice until he'd wiped them away. He doesn't
want to be seen weak like this. And a part of me doesn't want to see him
like this, either. He's always so strong... and now here he is, flat on
his back in a bed and he won't even talk to me. 

 I mean, I know we never had the best communication in the world, but
sometimes I'd just like to say something to him... let him know I'm
worrying about him. I can sit beside him all day, practically holding my
breath, waiting for something, anything to happen, and still I can't say
anything. 

 What do I want to say? "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. It shouldn't
have been you." Yeah. He'd look away and never say a word. 

 Does he not want me to see him like this? Even super heroes have to come
home once in a while. Even super heroes have to eat, have to bathe, have
to sleep. 

 Yeah. 

 Week Three. 

 So now it's been three weeks in this goddamned place. Whoever did the
interior decorating should be shot. Come on, the man's depressed, give him
something to look at. But no, beige walls and linoleum, my God. It's even
starting to get to me. This whole place is getting to me. I gotta talk to
him, say something other than "Hey" and "See ya later." Gotta say
something intelligent. 

 So how about a television? It'd take my mind off my worries a little bit.
He says no, protesting costs. The government's paying enough for this
protracted hospital stay anyway. Shouldn't make the taxpayers pay more
than they have to, what with the economy being the way it is. 

 So I end up paying for it, which I don't really mind. At least it's a
start. 

 The wolf is hanging around less and less. The hair is beginning to grow
back over the bullet wound. He looks sorta mangy right now. He used to
stay here all day, watching with those soulful eyes. But then I guess he
figured he could get free food easier from conscious people, and took to
visiting the nurses' station. He's probably off for lunch or something.
Right now, it's just me and him. 

 His eyes are closed, but I know he's not really sleeping. He's hovering
in darkness behind his eyelids, hoping that when he opens them everything
will be fine. I watch him breathing slowly. He's still hooked up to the
intravenous drip, despite the fact he hates it. Just the antibiotics are
pretty strong, they don't want to take any chances with that bullet so
close to the spinal cord... 

 He's doing pretty well with the pain. Occasionally, usually when he's at
the end of his medication window, and when he's pretty alert, those little
lines around his eyes crinkle up, and that mean's he's hurting. 

 I mean, there's only so much I can say. I sound like an idiot no matter
what. The most I can do for him is just be here. He's gonna get back on
his feet soon, the doctors were poking around today, and he's healed up
enough that he can start physio. His reflexes are good, except there was a
lot of trauma to the lower spinal cord. He's pretty weak right now, and he
can't feel much at all from about the knees downward, but I know he'll get
better. He has to. 

 

 The therapist making him work. She's doing what I should be doing. He
talks to her. Damn it, I feel so helpless when he's around, and then she
can talk to him, just like that... 

 He's exhausted, poor man. He's fighting just to keep his eyes open. And
then he mentions her. She's still haunting him. Yeah, what do I say? "The
medication can do that to you..." Idiot. He contemplates the small pills
for a moment, then tosses them into the garbage. 

 What does he see? He sees his lover, swinging up into a train. What do I
see? I see him falling from it, spilling blood onto the cement. I see his
face, pale as death, swimming in my dreams at night. I'm not sure what I
see, actually. 

 But I know what I want to see. I want to see him standing tall,
unassisted, not slumped back in bed or collapsed into a wheelchair. I want
to see his eyes dance with light again, before all this happened. I want
to see him smile... at me... with me... 

 Yeah, I can tell him now. I think I can tell him. Will he listen? Yes?
No? It doesn't matter now... 

 But something's changed... it's that therapist. 

 How can I get so jealous over something so simple? She's helping him in a
way that I can't... changing him for the better, and I have to get angry
and jealous... 

 He's exhausted, barely enough strength to propel himself into the room.
I've got something to give to him... I though long and hard about this.
This is something I want to do for him. 

 "I figured when you're recovered, we could go up North and rebuild your
Dad's cabin." 

 Those words seem to mean more to him than anything I've ever said to him
before. His eye get that tiny gleam, just briefly, but I see it. It peeks
out from behind the curtain of exhaustion that threatens to drop itself
over him. 

 He accepts. He smiles wearily, his mind in the past. This is a new
future, one he hadn't anticipated... and I hadn't either. And he thinks
about it... and mumbles about axes... 

 Week Four. 

 He's doing pretty well. Come to think of it, so am I. A lot has happened
since that exchange about the cabin. For one thing, I got a bullet through
the shoulder. Nice touch. It's ironic, but I didn't think that something
that hurt so much could make me feel just a little bit better. But it did,
and there it is. I have a nice little round scar now, on both sides, one
where the bullet went in, and one where the doctors took it out. 

 Yeah, he's much better at walking, though he still complains briefly of
numbness down the sides, and in his feet. His balance is much better. Oh,
and they discharged him a couple of days ago. I didn't want him
negotiating all those stairs in his condition, so I rigged up a little
something at home. 

 He's staying here for a couple of weeks. We're closer to the
physiotherapist here, and we're closer to each other. 

 I still haven't told him. 

 I mean, I know I should. It's just going to get worse from here on, and
I'm gonna get more and more nervous the longer I wait. But I don't want
him to say no... I don't want him to hate me. 

 We've got a good thing going here. I don't want to scare him off... He's
like a hurt puppy--one move and he'll run back home to lick his wounds.
I'm gonna be gentle and easy about this... 

 I sit him down in the living room. Strangely enough for my house, it's
quiet. It's a nice day, and everyone's gone to the park. But I asked him
to stay with me. 

 He sits down, and watches me with those big blue eyes. I feel myself
begin sweating. I'm nervous. Why should I be nervous? 

 "I-" 

 It's easy to think... not so easy to say. "I've known this for a long
time now, and--" 

 He's watching me. 

 It's easy, here... 

 "I love you, Benny." He shifts in his seat. "Now, you don't have to say
anything, if it offends you, I'm sorry, and--" 

 "Ray." He cuts me off, grabbing my trembling hand. I shut up for a
moment. 

 He pulls me down towards him, and then he's kissing me, and his hands are
on me, and mine are on him, and everything is warmth and love and hot
breath and me falling deeper and deeper into his blue eyes. His hands are
on my chest, unbuttoning my shirt, digging his fingernails softly into my
skin, and I'm sucking and nibbling at his neck, and my hands are trying to
drink in every ounce of him, his beautiful body, his eyes, his mouth, and
we're together... 

 He pulls back. Strangely, we've shifted position. He's on top of me, and
I'm half naked on the couch. He has a pained look on his face. 

 "Hey, Benny--" 

 He's kneeling over me, and it's hurting him. I slither off the side, and
he collapses with a short grunt. He rolls over and looks up at me. 

 I don't have to say anything, do I? I never did. His eyes tell me
everything. 

 THE END.  

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