Theodicy, by Katherine F.  
 A somewhat late Christmas story. What can I say, I'm slow...

 Feedback welcome as ever; send it to katherinef@softhome.net.

  Title: "Theodicy" Author: Katherine F. Pairing: F/K (what else?), though
this is on the gen end of the spectrum, oddly enough; don't pant for a
sequel, either, cos there ain't gonna be one. Unless one of *you* wants to
write it... Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and the boys do some thinking.
Post-GFtS. Notes: This story contains serious discussion of religious
issues and a certain number of almost-but-not-quite-completely unfounded
assumptions about the affiliations of our heroes. Just so's you know, I
don't for a minute claim these as the definitive answers to the question
of what the boys believe, nor do the religious opinions expressed in this
story necessarily correspond to my own. I'm assuming here that the 27th
District Christmas party took place on Christmas Eve. No particular
reason, it just felt right. "Theodicy" by Katherine F. "...a vindication
of the divine attributes, esp. justice and holiness, in respect to the
existence of evil; a writing, doctrine or theory intended to 'justify the
ways of God to men'." -- (Definition of "theodicy", _The Shorter Oxford
English Dictionary_, edition of 1964) He had pondered whether he should go
or not, and if he did go, whether he should mention it or just slip away
discreetly as the party was tailing off; but when the Inspector asked him,
more gently than usual, to give the Consulate a quick once-over with a
vacuum cleaner (Turnbull having left for (literally) greener pastures) he
found he couldn't refuse. By the time he was finished it was half-past
eleven. Nonetheless, he left the Consulate, wandering through the streets
with no particular aim, turning now left, now right, his hands in his
pockets and his mind thoroughly occupied. At some level he registered his
changes in direction, the sludgy snow on the sidewalks, the few people he
passed by; external things, unrelated to the events of the past few days
or the endless churning of his own thoughts. He was almost surprised when
his feet brought him to the church he'd passed by a week before. The
lights were on, and he could hear the sound of the organ through the
half-open doors. Did he dare go in, now that the Mass had already started?
The congregation began singing, and his heart swelled painfully. He
stepped forward, scarcely aware of what he was doing; blessed himself at
the font, moved past the notice boards and the rows of dribbly candles
like the ones he'd lit for his mother as a boy, even past the pews at the
back where the latecomers sat. He genuflected some ten pews in, ignoring
the twinge in his back that the gesture brought on. Once a year, he could
do things right despite his pain. Once a year, at least. When he'd
established himself there, it scarcely mattered what the priest said,
although so much of the liturgy was burned into his brain by many
repetitions. The words washed over him, as they always did, as he hoped
they always would; a comfort, an acknowledgement, a warm embrace, all at
once. There was nothing in the world like it. And the music! dear God, the
music! *Ay, and therefore be merry! Rejoice and be merry! Set sorrow
aside! Our saviour Christ Jesus was born at this tide!* It was not until
the time came for the Sign of Peace that he came out of himself once more.
He looked around for someone's hand to shake and saw that the closest
person was two pews to the front of him. As he walked as quickly as
possible towards the man, he felt his stomach flutter. It couldn't be --
Ray looked up at him, startled, then offered his hand. Fraser took it.
"Peace be with you," they murmured in unison. The rest of the service was
difficult to endure. Ray was fidgety, though Fraser suspected that was at
least partly due to embarrassment. He felt a trifle embarrassed himself,
though knowing it was foolish. He had nothing to feel bad about. It was no
sin -- quite the contrary -- to come to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.
And yet... The last strains of the *Adeste* had not quite faded when the
congregation (a small one, doubtless on account of the cold) began to
leave the church. He and Ray stood on the sidewalk outside for a most
uncomfortable interlude before Ray stamped his feet and rubbed his hands
together theatrically. "Damn, it's cold! I just hope the heating's still
working." "Do you have reason to believe it isn't? That could be a serious
problem." "Nah, nah, just covering all the angles. So, uh, you want a
lift? I got my car parked just around the corner." Car. Ray had driven
here. Had he wandered aimlessly, as Fraser had, or had he known all along
where he was going? "I think -- yes. Yes, I would like a lift. If it's not
too much trouble." "No, no, no trouble, Fraser, not at all." For a moment
he stood there, rubbing his hands, as if there was something more he
wanted to say. But he said nothing, turning abruptly and walking past
Fraser, his hands in his pockets. He wasn't wearing gloves. Fraser felt
his own hands growing cold in sympathy. It wasn't until Ray had got the
car started -- with difficulty -- that he spoke again. "I never knew you
were Catholic, Fraser," he said, his voice aiming for evenness and missing
by a millimetre. The inevitable question. And how to answer it, and answer
it honestly? For anyone else he could concoct a facile and basically true
explanation that would skirt expertly around the emotional heart of his
belief. Or unbelief. They were becoming harder to distinguish with the
passage of time. Ray was staring at him now. Fraser felt inclined to chide
him for not watching the road, which would have been a distraction as
well; but the road was as close to empty as it ever was, and Ray knew
that, and he knew that, and Ray knew that he knew that. He looked out the
window. It would be easier that way. "In the strictest sense of the word,
Ray, I'm actually not. My -- well, as you know, I was mostly raised by my
grandparents, and they were atheists. My father was less...dogmatic than
they were, but he wasn't religious. So I wasn't baptised or raised in any
religion." "But you go to Mass anyway?" said Ray, his eyebrow twitching.
"Not regularly, no. Though when I was younger -- I mean, before I joined
the Academy -- I went every chance I got." "Why'd you stop?" Ray's voice
was muted, almost as if he hadn't meant to speak aloud. Fraser glanced
across at him; he was looking at the road. "I'm not sure. I'm not even
sure why I started in the first place, except that I felt something
missing, something...You see, after my mother died, I could...feel her
presence. It wasn't something I could articulate, or explain; it didn't
fit in with what I'd been taught. It was an anomaly." "*You're* an
anomaly, Fraser." This said with a slight lopsided grin. "Of course." "I'm
not being funny, Fraser. Don't tell me you haven't noticed." "I've
noticed." Softer than he'd meant to say it, so that Ray shot an uneasy
glance in his direction, which made him feel bad; he hadn't meant it as a
jibe. The events of the past week had hurt him badly, and Ray had been the
one to bathe his wounds, although perhaps Ray didn't see it that way. Ray
cleared his throat, something Fraser had noticed was his way of signalling
a subject change. "Myself, I got the whole nine yards as a kid. Baptism,
Confirmation, all of that. I was never an altar boy, but apart from that,
I was pretty much soaked in the stuff. All the way, until..." "Until?"
"Until I went to college. Then everything changed." "How? How did
everything change?" Fraser found himself staring, and every reason he
could think of to look away seemed trivial and petty. Ray was silent for a
long moment. "I met new people," he said finally, "and they didn't believe
what I believed." A snort, as if the simplicity of it baffled him. "That
was enough. Because I'd never really questioned any of it. I just took it
all for granted, and then suddenly I *couldn't* take it for granted any
more, and I had all these questions that there was no answer for,
and...It's like a house of cards, you know? All the rituals and the
beliefs and the weird little rules, they're piled up together so that if
you pick at one card, one single solitary card, the whole thing falls
apart." Fraser felt a lump rising in his throat as Ray spoke. What must it
be like for Ray, who had always had that comforting faith behind him, from
his earliest childhood, to leave it behind? To go it alone in a cold and
Godless world? It was hard enough for him, and he'd had precious little of
that warmth in his life. Yet there was something he needed to know. A
question still unanswered. He cleared his throat. "So, why tonight?"
"Why...oh. Well, it's Christmas." "That's all?" "It's all I need. See..."
He twisted his neck in that endearing little gesture of his, and Fraser
felt a smile rising in spite of himself. "This time of year, I feel
like...like everything is telling me I was wrong. That the house of cards
is still standing. I love Christmas, ya know? The lights and the tinsel
and all the...the bustle, it's...it's like the city dressing itself up for
a party. And I remember, every time I see a manger or a Santa Claus or a
Christmas tree or *whatever*, I remember what it's all really about. And,
this time of year, it makes sense. "Now, I know that by the 28th or so,
I'll remember all the questions I never got answered, and all the pain and
ugliness and shit, pardon my language, that there is in the world and that
God never did a damn thing about. But tonight, none of it matters." Ray
fell silent, and Fraser was grateful; he surely would have begun to weep
if Ray had continued. Suddenly he knew, *knew*, as he had never known
before, that he was not alone, that there was someone in the world who
thought the same way he did. "Theodicy," he said, and Ray turned his head
sharply; but there was no annoyance on his face, only recognition, and a
sort of dawning light, as if things were making sense to him that had
never made sense before. "That's it," he said. "Christmas is theodicy. Its
very own theodicy." "God's in his heaven, all's right with the world."
"Exactly." A pause. Fraser felt himself gradually returning to his usual
state of hyper-awareness, as if waking up from a half-sleep. When had the
car stopped? When had Ray turned it towards his own apartment building
instead of the Consulate? Ray seemed to regain awareness of his
surroundings at the same time, as if their two minds were bonded -- which
Fraser sometimes thought they were. "Hey, Fraser...Uh, you wanna come up
to my place, maybe drink some eggnog, watch some bad TV?" "I don't want to
impose." And how false that courtesy seemed, after all their
heart-scouring; not just of this night, but of all the days and nights
that went before. What was the use in trying to hide the fact that they
were closer than partners, closer than friends, closer than...than
anything? "Fraser, you're not imposing. You'd be doing me a favour. Look,
if you don't come...I'm going home alone. This is no time of year to be
going home alone." Unspoken: *you'll be going home alone, too, so let me
ease your loneliness while you ease mine*. So typical of Ray -- such a
thoughtless act of kindness -- to expose his own vulnerability without
doing the same to Fraser. Not in words, anyway. But Fraser knew that Ray
would think less of him, would draw back from their closeness and hide
behind his own masks, unless he did what Ray was refusing to do for him.
"I'd like that," he said, breathing carefully to keep his voice even. "I
don't...I'd rather not be alone, either." Ray smiled then -- and what a
smile! Fraser knew that for such a smile he would mine for gold and climb
mountains and walk barefoot over ice -- or spend another year in a city
that was smothering him by inches. But he could worry about that tomorrow.
Tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. Tonight there was
Christmas, and there was Ray, and all was well with the world. And one day
there would be more... [end]