Living in the Real World    Song Cycle #5: Living in the Real World 

 WARNINGS: for... (all together now!) "the dollar/rand exchang..."
<Oooops! Wrong litany! <g>> How about: "More PG-rated M/M angst." But this
is new and improved angst-- now with added plot! ;-)  Follows "How Am I
Supposed To Live Without You?", "The Beat of a Different Drum", "On My
Own", and "Blue Moon."	

 This piece has no song. No really, I mean it this time! ;-) I finally
realized that I was trying desperately to come up with a song that fit the
story that was developing in my head and eventually even _I_ realized how
silly that was, so I stopped. Don't get used to it, they take too much
work this way... and it's murder to come up with your own title! 

 Hey, don't look at me, _you're_ the ones who wanted more, who couldn't
leave the happily-ever-after fade into the sunrise bit alone. Well I hate
to tell you, but there's a reason you fade out on happily- ever-after.
Sometimes reality *bites*... and pain and misery are an author's
livelihood. Deal. ;-) 

 Besides, you know me by now. I'm not gonna _leave_ them that way... what
kind of a sadist do you think I am? Anyway, Dief's still in quarantine,
poor thing... and if you think I'd torture *him*, you've got another think
coming! <g>   

 Living in the Real World by Dianne T. DeSha (a.k.a. "la Mercenaire")
 Cat.Goddess@pobox.com
 

  

 This morning at the lake was wonderful, incredible-- the realization of a
dream that, impossibly, miraculously, you shared. It was as if no one and
nothing could ever touch us again.... 

 Then we had to return to the real world. 

 Driving back we didn't realise it yet, still sitting there just looking
at each other every chance we got... every emotion displayed on our faces
and every one of them some shade of joy. At every signal light you'd turn
to me and... Oh Ray, you have the most beautiful smile.... 

 And the horns blaring behind us would startle us out of our mutual trance
and you'd laugh as I blushed and you turned back to the road. 

 You dropped me at the consulate, where I'd left my things, and it was so
automatic... I was out of the car before I could realise I wanted to say
good-bye, that I was going to miss you ridiculously for the next hour or
so the way new lovers do. I turned back at a loss and you just smiled at
me-- and suddenly everything was all right. 

 You pulled away to go back to the house and change and I walked inside
grinning like the love-sick fool I was.... 

 Constable Turnbull seems as confused as ever, but I feel no urge to
enlighten him as I enlist his help in arranging for Diefenbaker's
transport, along with the rest of my things left in Paulatak. He is quite
eager to help, in his own way, as I draft a formal request to be returned
to my old posting-- which he assures me has not been filled in the month I
was gone. He even is kind enough to allow me the use of my old office to
store my things while I arrange housing, but, as I have only the one bag,
I decline. 

 Everything is coming together perfectly as I shoulder my bag and prepare
to go down and wait for you at the curb.... 

 "Constable?" 

 The look on the Inspector's face is somewhere between shock and offense
as she looks me over, as though the explanation for my sudden reappearance
is to be found written on my clothing. I find myself snapping to attention
without even needing to think, even though it feels odd to be standing so
in civilian clothes. 

 "Good morning, Inspector." 

 "What are you doing here?" 

 Surprise has cut directly though the usual courtesies, so I respond in
kind. 

 "I plan to be staying in Chicago, or rather returning to it, for the
foreseeable future. In light of this I have prepared a formal request for
the reinstatement of my posting here. I left it on your desk, as Constable
Turnbull assures me the position has not yet been filled...." 

 That apparently was enough to earn the hapless young constable a
momentary glare from the Inspector, although why, I'm not certain. But a
second later her eyes are back on me, staring for just a moment, puzzled,
before asking: 

 "Why?" 

 And it's only at that moment-- at that seemingly simple and obvious
question-- that it all comes crashing down. 

 My mind races through possible answers... and their consequences. We
didn't discuss this, we didn't plan, we didn't think... we were too busy
feeling. 

 If the choice were solely mine I would happily-- proudly-- tell her the
truth: I've fallen madly in love with a Chicago police detective and I
want to be with him for the rest of my life. After all, the RCMP has an
official non-discrimination policy, and, even unofficially, admitting this
could hardly damage my career any more than the other things I've done for
love in the past. 

 But the choice is not mine alone. My admission would implicate you as
well, and that frightens me. You have a career, a family, friends-- a
life. And this might cost you them all. The very thought makes my blood
run cold. What are we going to do? 

 I realise that the Inspector is still staring at me, waiting for an
answer I have no right to give her. So I cite 'personal reasons', which
is, after all, the truth, and allow her to assume things went badly
between Linda and me. 

 She lets it go, for now. She has little choice, but I don't delude myself
into thinking that it won't come up again. It's never been a secret that
my original posting here was as much a punishment as anything else. Even
if people assume the problem is Linda, they will want to know why, given
the choice, I would ever return here. 

 And questions at the consulate will only be the beginning. 

 So I stand at the curb, my euphoria gone and my heart aching all over
again... until I see a familiar green Buick pull up. 

 "Hey, stranger, need a ride?" 

 And the smile is back on my face. It will work. Somehow it has to work. 

 I get in and immediately feel my hand clasped in yours. I look up and our
eyes lock for an endless moment, restating our love more clearly and
deeply than any words can. Then you turn back and we pull away. 

 "Saw Ma and she was glad to hear you're back. She insisted you come over
for dinner tonight." 

 I look over, trying to read your face, but I can't. Only there's a
certain wariness in your eyes as you ask me: 

 "So. How'd things go at the consulate?" 

 I assure you that everything went well, that it looks likely I will be
able to return to my old post... but the news doesn't seem as comforting
as it should. Undoubtedly you have been faced with "Why?" as well. You are
far more skilled at dissembling than I, but even you can't avoid such
questions forever. 

 And you are the one with the price to pay, the stakes to lose. 

 I want to ask if you're having second thoughts, but I can't get the words
past the knot in my throat. 

 It's a sign of trust... or habit... or is it desperation?... that I've
not even thought to ask where we're going before now. 

 "I'm supposed to work today, but I figure we'll just stop by long enough
for me to ask Welsh for some time off, o.k.?" 

 You turn back to me and the smile has returned full-force... and with a
certain wicked gleam to it this time. I blush and nod, not trusting myself
to say a word. 

  

 I look up, distracted from my thoughts as you swear under your breath,
tear the form from the typewriter as though it had personally offended
you, crumple it, and send it sailing towards the trash can. You see me
watching, roll your eyes dramatically, and feed another sheet into the
machine. 

 I know you feel badly that we have to stay here until you finish this
paperwork, but I don't mind. It's not your fault that the Leftenant was in
such a mood today as to insist you catch up before you take any time off. 

 I like being here. It reminds me of old times as I sit across the desk
watching you work. I find I like just being able to sit and watch you. 

 Besides, it gives me time to think. It's not a pleasant thing, but it's
necessary. 

 Leftenant Welsh welcomed me back with a startled look and the
all-encompassing shrug he seems to have adopted in regards to me and my
presence here in general. Then he slapped me on the back and suggested
that maybe now that I was here I could "whip you back into shape again."
I'm not sure quite what he means, but I rather think I'm at least partly
responsible for the record speed at which that paperwork is being done. 

 Elaine is off today and Detective Huey is out working a case. No one else
here will openly question my return, although many of them are obviously
wondering. 

 What will you tell them? Now is not the place for this discussion, but I
need to know. I'm afraid to know. 

 After all, when you were arguing for leave you told Welsh you needed to
help me settle back in... which is true. As true as the 'personal reasons'
I cited. 

 And just as evasive. 

 I don't blame you, you know. Not at all. I can't even imagine myself in
your position to know what I would do. For all your 'loose cannon'
attitude, you have a promising career here. You may not fit the common
stereotypes, but those labels do come from somewhere. A police force can
make life hell for one they feel has somehow turned against them, take it
from me, Ray. And in a profession like ours, where fast and reliable
back-up can be all that stands between you and a criminal's bullet,
contempt can be deadly. 

 You pull the last sheet out of the typewriter with a flourish and slam
the folder closed around it. Then, with that smile that undermines all my
best intentions, you pick up the stack and fairly run to the Leftenant's
office door. 

 I catch up in time to see you drop the pile triumphantly on his desk,
like a child finishing lessons early, and ask if we can go now. The
Leftenant looks at you, looks at me, then shakes his head and mutters,
"The lengths you'll go to to avoid partnering with Huey...." 

 And you just smile at this tacit reinstatement of our unofficial
partnership. 

 We're in the car again and have barely cleared the block when you ask me
where I'm staying. Before I can even answer the radio interrupts and,
after a moment's pause, you answer it with a scowl. 

 "Yeah, Elaine? I'm off-duty you know." 

 "Not anymore you're not...." 

 "No way! Ask Welsh...." 

 "Listen up, Vecchio, there's been a shooting down Southside. Some little
kid got hit by a stray bullet when gangbangers decided to take on some of
the 21st. Now things are looking ugly down there, they're worried about a
riot, and they've recalled everybody ASAP." 

 You swear under your breath and pound the steering wheel with your fist.
Then, with your eyes rolled heavenward as if asking for intervention or an
explanation, you respond. 

 "Got it, Elaine. I'm on my way back." 

 You throw down the radio in disgust and turn to me, mouth open to
apologise. But I just nod my understanding. With a heartfelt sigh and one
more blow to the inoffensive car, you're spinning the wheel and I'm
hanging on, eyes closed, as we turn around. 

  

 By late afternoon the feared riot has not manifested, but neither has the
situation been brought under control to the satisfaction of the Chief. 

 Through strategic retreats and the general crisis atmosphere, I've
managed to avoid being questioned closely by anyone, but the effort is,
frankly, beginning to take its toll. While I've finally convinced you to
keep your unflattering opinions of your superiors down to the occasional
discreetly-muttered-- if generally-improbable-- suggestion, I've
accomplished little else in the past few hours except to think myself into
more desperate and comfortless circles. 

 You must be able to see it because, as you rise to answer yet another
summons to the Leftenant's office, you pause to give me a wan smile. 

 "There's no reason for you to stay here, Benny. Who knows when they're
gonna let us go. Go home." 

 And you're gone before I can remind you I don't have a 'home' here
anymore. 

 But then I realise that's one thing I need to change. 

  

 Mr. Mustaffi, like Leftenant Welsh, seems oddly unsurprised to see me
back. In no time at all I'm reinstalled in my old apartment-- he says the
renter he found to replace me moved out within the week. 

 As I sit once again on the narrow bed, it's as if nothing has changed, as
if the whole last month was merely a dream or simply a vacation and now I
am back. But it's not true. Everything has changed. 

 I miss Canada still; I don't think that will ever change, and I find a
certain perverse comfort in that. But the pain is much less now. I think
that the trip, as hard as it was without you, has done me a world of good.
Maybe that's all I need, a trip back every so often, to keep that part of
my soul intact. Maybe next time I can take you with me.... 

 I can't help it. Thoughts of you, happy, joyous thoughts, now turn almost
immediately to fear, worry, uncertainty. 

 I returned to this apartment because I needed time to think. Ray, my
love, we haven't thought this through. Nothing would make me happier than
to be with you night and day, but where? How? All the sweet romantic
notions in the world are paling beside the simple logistics of everyday
life. 

 The house? Would you laugh this time when I blush at the thought, Ray?
You obviously haven't even told your mother yet, I can hardly show up on
her doorstep, belongings in hand. And you must have been thinking just as
I have. Realizing the consequences implicit in what we've proposed. Is
this something you dare tell her? Do I even want you to? A place of our
own would be no less a problem. 

 Which leaves... here? 

 The difference between a discreet liaison and a tawdry affair is in the
heart of the participants, not the particulars of decor. Still I can
hardly see you here-- I know how you hate this place. Perhaps I can find a
more suitable apartment?... although the danger of discovery still makes
it a reckless plan. I don't know if I can live a gamble, with the life you
know and love hanging in the balance, Ray. 

 With a sudden relief I remember that your mother is expecting me for
dinner. I need time away from these thoughts, from the constant litany of
doubt, so I head downstairs to find a cab. 

  

 Not the wisest move on my part, was it? Why sit in the frying pan when I
can leap directly into the fire? 

 What is it about you that clouds my most basic thinking, Ray? 

 The crisis apparently over, you meet me at the door, a mix of concern and
relief on your face. You ask where I've been and I barely have time to
tell you of my good fortune in finding my old apartment empty when your
mother seizes me in an unexpected and quite overwhelming embrace. Over her
shoulder I can see Francesca rolling her eyes and berating you for letting
me return to 'that place', but the look on your face as you fend off her
reproach worries me. 

 Perhaps you've finally had a chance to think things through as well. 

 With a terrible tightness in my chest I allow your mother to lead me into
the dining room and before I know it dinner is in full swing-- grown
siblings sparring like children again, small children loudly demanding
attention, food in every direction, utter chaos.... 

 And I love it, Ray. A secret part of my heart now calls this home too. 

 Although it would hurt terribly to lose this acceptance, the place I have
here, I can't even imagine what it would be like for you. I never want you
to have to know. 

 And even if your family could somehow manage to accept this, accept us,
what of their friends, their neighbours. Would we be asking them to live
with the consequences of our relationship too? Can we do that? 

 My half-formed fears of this morning that we would give ourselves away
with a look, a reaction, are eased. Francesca obviously suspects nothing,
at least, and returns to aiming her unsubtle flirting my direction as if I
had never left. Even Maria's pointed reference to a current boyfriend
doesn't break her stride. 

 I find myself responding with a smooth combination of obtuseness and
deflection that impresses even me. Although it probably doesn't show, the
nervousness, the discomfort I once felt at such come-ons is gone. Maybe
it's simply in knowing where my heart lies-- in knowing for certain what I
do and don't want. If nothing else, loving you has given me that
confidence, Ray. 

 I catch your eye after one of her more transparent attempts and we
exchange a secret look of amusement, of knowing. But you turn away at a
comment from your mother and I can see that you look at her with a
sadness, a worry. 

 And I feel a coldness seep into my chest. This isn't going to work, is
it, Ray? It was a pretty dream, a beautiful dream. But now it's morning
and it's time to wake up. 

 I reassure everyone that Dief is indeed on his way-- drawing an
indecipherable look from you that only tightens my chest more. Any
questions about Linda or my reasons for returning are quickly put down by
your mother, scolding sternly in the name of tact and consideration of my
feelings. 

 I can't do it, Ray. 

 I can't take this from you. I of all people know how much it hurts to
become persona non grata in your own home, to see looks that were once
filled with camaraderie turn cold and hostile. If it kills me, I can't ask
you to give that up for me. 

 Someday you'd end up hating me for it. I'd end up hating myself. 

 Dinner's over and I don't know whether to be glad for the end of this
silent torture, or miserable at the approach of the inevitable. 

 I thank your mother for her hospitality and, as if in a dream... or is it
the surreal and inescapable slow-motion of a nightmare?... hear you
reaching for your keys and announcing your intention to drive me home. 

 Like always. But not like always. 

 Oh, Ray, I don't think I can do this.... 

 <finis> 

  (Ack!!! Wait! Wait! Put down those pitchforks! Remember: if you kill me
*now*, there's no more story. Riiiight???) 

 Dianne
 "Just call me Scheherazade..." <g>
 Dianne la Mercenaire... -*- <cat.goddess@pobox.com>
 Vanity Web Page-- http://moonlight.dreamhost.com/lamerc/
 "I had to. I was depressed. When depressed, we must dance and throw a
party." -- Chris