Sorcha Rediscovered  Contains graphic m/f sex. Sorcha Rediscovered (c)
1995, J. Soper-Cook 

"I don't know how I feel about it." Ray toyed with the last of his lunch,
pushing the remainder of his sandwich around on the plate. "It's not like
it happens to me everyday." He slanted a look across the diner banquette
at his friend and partner, grinned. "Not like I'm *you* or something." 

Ben Fraser paused in his application of ketchup, left his fries untended
for a moment as he looked up to dispute this. "I'm not---" 

"Sure you are." Ray signaled the waitress, who ignored him. "Hey!" He
yelled across the diner, but his voice disappeared in the lunchtime din.
"Hey, honey! Can I have another cup of coffee?" 

"You shouldn't call her honey," Ben pointed out, gesturing towards the
waitress with a french fry. "It's sexist." 

Ray frowned, rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I don't--" The waitress
passed the table, balancing a tray of food. "Hey! Can I get some coffee
over here?!" He slammed his empty cup down on the table in frustration,
rubbed his forehead in an effort to will away a nascent headache. 

"Ray." Fraser's calm voice cut through the diner's cacaphony. "What's
wrong? Did you and Sorcha....?" 

Ray stared at him. "Did we *what*?" A cold, sick feeling washed over him,
and astonishingly, he was near to tears, for the first time in ages and
ages. He pressed his hand against his mouth, willing it back. How the hell
did Fraser do that, anyway? How did he *know* these things, this soul-deep
torment? Was it some Inuit trick, some ancient Eskimo magic? He forced
himself to take a deep breath, draw the feeling back inside, where it
wouldn't embarrass him, reveal his secrets, leave him dazed and
vulnerable, like a peeled orange. "I don't want to talk about it." 

"That's your answer for everything." Fraser's blue eyes were concerned;
this wasn't good, Ray was his best friend... "Don't talk about it, that'll
make it go away." He looked up as the waitress passed. "Excuse me, ma'am.
I was wondering if we might have some coffee?" 

The waitress smiled at him, paused to refill both their cups. "You just
holler if you need *anything*." 

"How the *hell* do you do that?!" Ray shook his head, thankful for the
distraction. Maybe now Fraser might change the subject. 

"I'm not letting this go, Ray. Not until you talk." Fraser was genuinely
worried: for all his supposedly-brusque exterior, Ray was vulnerable right
now, and even though he, Fraser, didn't know all the details of what had
transpired at his apartment that night, he had a pretty good idea. "The
two of you--" Now for a good euphemism-- 

"Shut up." Ray buried his face in his coffee cup, but his voice trembled.
"Just shut *up*." But God! He just wanted to blurt it out, tell Fraser
everything: after all, it wasn't like this hadn't happened to Ben... "I
woke up and she was gone." 

There. 

"Ray, I'm so---" 

"Shut *up*!" he hissed, savagely; his heart was pounding underneath his
ribs, a ragged cadence like a series of sobs. "I should never have even
bothered! It's always the same with me, I'm not good enough, I've never
been good enough---" 

Ben Fraser waited until Ray stopped talking, waited until he ran out of
steam. "Do you remember Victoria?" His voice was as calm as ever, but the
blue of his eyes darkened, coloured by painful memories. 

Ray swallowed hard. How could he not remember? the woman who had suddenly
reappeared in Fraser's life after all those years, the woman who proceeded
to thoroughly fuck him over and then leave without a trace... Oh yeah, Ray
thought sourly, and she also shot his dog.... 

"Do you remember what you told me? Do you?" 

Ray nodded, remembered all too well that awful night down at the precinct,
waiting and waiting, an eternity of despair... 'She'll come back,' he'd
told Ben, knowing it to be false even as his lips shaped the lie. 

"What happened?" Fraser stared at him. "Come on, Ray; you *owe* me!" He
pushed away his lunch, suddenly no longer hungry. 

"I--she--I don't know! I don't-- I didn't do anything wrong, we just---" 

We just... She reached out for me and told me she wanted me, and then she
put my fingers in her mouth and sucked and then I couldn't think anymore 

and I just 

and we just 

all night, with her in my arms, her skin against mine, her hands on my
body.... 

He looked up at Fraser, realising that he hadn't spoken a single word
aloud, realised that there was no need: Fraser understood. Oh God, it was
the words from that song, that music that Fraser liked, that Arden woman: 

There will be no consolation prize this time the bone is broken clean; no
baptism, no reprise, and no sweet taste of victory... All the stars have
fallen from the sky and everything else in-between; satellites have closed
their eyes, the moon is gone...to sleep.... 

That song...it was called "Unloved." Ray felt suddenly sick. 

"She'll come back." Fraser's voice came to his ear as if from very far
away. 

Liar. 

 

Ray said nearly nothing on the ride back to the precinct, and Fraser left
him alone. If he didn't want to talk, he didn't have to; besides, it was
something with which Fraser was so intimately acquainted himself that
there really was no need for words.... 

The afternoon was uneventful: just the kind of quiet Friday that made for
a welcome change once in awhile. Fraser spent the afternoon at his
computer typing up reports, tidying up his files and tying up a week's
worth of loose ends. He looked across the desk once or twice, checking on
Ray, but the other officer was crouched in front of his computer, immersed
in the same kind of afternoon busy-work as Fraser. He didn't look up, and
anyway, the crowded precinct office was no place for an intimate chat.
Still, something in Ray's posture and mood wasn't right, and Fraser
resolved to ask him about it after work. 

"Fraser!" The voice was a bark at his ear, and he looked up to see
Rimkowsky, one of the duty sergeants, standing over him. "You got a
long-distance telephone call from Canada." 

Ray glanced over the top of his computer screen, flickered a gaze at
Fraser. What was this about? 

"Uh, thank you. Thank you." Fraser blanked his computer screen. "Could you
patch that through to this extension?" He waited for the ring, picked up
the receiver. "Fraser." 

"Ben? Is that you?" Her voice was anguished, tormented. 

"Yes." He caught a glimpse of Ray out of the corner of his eye, rising out
of his chair, and he swiveled so that his back was to him. "Where are
you?" 

"Ben, how is he? Oh God, I can't believe---" On the other end of the
phone, Sorcha began to cry. 

"Shhh...listen to me: where are you?" 

"Um, I'm home, I'm---" 

"In Newfoundland?" Fraser couldn't believe this: what the hell was going
on? 

"Yes, I'm in St. John's... Benny, listen to me: did I really hurt him?"
She sounded as if she were talking more to herself than him, Fraser
decided. "I shouldn't have run off like that, oh God, what am I going to
do?!" 

"It's her, isn't it." The voice at his shoulder was Ray's. 

Fraser lowered the phone slightly, could still hear Sorcha's agonised
voice, a tinny whisper. "Yes." 

Ray took a deep breath, drew himself up. "I want to talk to her." 

"Ray, I don't---" Fraser was trying to listen to Sorcha, trying to fend
off Ray, and it wasn't working. 

"I even left the assignment half-finished, and that's not like me, Ben;
you know me better than that!" 

Fraser thrust the phone at him. "Here. Talk to her." He swallowed hard,
got up and walked away. 

 

 

The first sound of her voice scalded him, a pain that hissed along his
skin like spilling steam, searing. "Sorcha? It's me, it's Ray. Don't hang
up---" 

Please. 

Silence on the other end; silence humming down the lines: silence strung
across the ocean. He had to swallow hard before he could continue; his
heart was pounding madly at the base of his throat. "Sorcha, I---" I want
you to come back to me, dammit! "I want you to come back." That's good,
continue, this was so hard! "I don't know what I did, but whatever it is,
I'm sorry, and lookit, I---" 

Please don't cry like that. "What did I *do* to you?" He was clutching the
phone so tightly his knuckles were white. "Did I hurt you, was I too
rough? What was it? Did you figure this was a big mistake?" 

"Ray..." 

She was talking to him, she was speaking! A great flush of heat washed
over him. "Whatever it is, I'm *sorry*!" 

"Oh Ray, I'm so sorry! I should never have left you like that..." 

He sank to the floor, clutching the receiver against his ear, pressing her
voice into his head. "Tell me you are coming back...." 

The small airport was crowded to capacity when he and Fraser filed off the
plane and into the warmth, and Ray found himself shoving his hands into
his pockets to warm them. Even inside, the chill of a Canadian winter
seemed to pervade the air, seep into the marrow of his bones. 

"God *damn*, but it's cold!" He glanced at Fraser, standing near him with
his coat open, oblivious to the cold. "How the hell can you stand that?!" 

"What, this?" Fraser grinned at him. "It's not cold. Just comfortable,
actually." 

"Yeah, yeah. If you're a polar bear." Truth be told, he was nervous about
this meeting: Sorcha had said she'd meet them, but there was still this
anxious feeling in his gut. 

"Stop worrying. She'll be here to meet us." 

"I wish you wouldn't read my mind." 

"Actually, it's not your mind I'm reading: most people, whether they
realise it or not, display their feelings quite openly, even when they
think otherwise---" 

"There she is---" Everything stopped for a moment; the din of the tiny
airport faded away: she was moving through the crowd towards them, she was
here, just as she'd promised-- "Sorcha!" Stepping towards her, arms out,
here I am.... 

She sidestepped him neatly, tucked her hands into her pockets. "Hello,
Ray." She stood on tiptoe to kiss Fraser's cheek. "Benny." 

What the hell was going on? Ray stared at her, reeled away from them both,
suddenly weak and sick. The noise and confusion of the airport swirled
around him, a surrealistic nightmare of voices and colours, bright
Christmas ornaments, strands of tinsel. Oh yeah, he thought; it's
Christmas, isn't it? Peace on earth, goodwill to men, all that--- 

"Ray?!" Fraser grabbed his arm, steadied him against the rush and push of
the crowd. "Are you alright?" 

His head swam; he was going to be sick, he felt cold all over, his throat
thick, swollen together. He tried to take two steps towards her, stumbled
over his own feet, over the throbbing in his chest. "Ray!" He felt
Fraser's arm go under his shoulders, holding him up; he was swaying, he
felt as if he'd been sucker- punched hard, in the gut. "Something's
wrong," he heard Fraser say, felt himself guided resolutely through the
crowd, held up on Fraser's arm which was like a bar of iron around his
shoulders, conveying him out of the airport as if he were so much
baggage... 

Baggage. 

 

He swam up as if through clinging layers, opened his eyes to unfamiliar
walls, the sound of seagulls outside the window. He was in bed, and as far
as he could tell, he was pretty much naked, but not suffering from the
cold since the bed was piled high with hand-stitched quilts and woolen
blankets. 

"Hello?" He leaned up on one elbow, glanced around the room, noting
details: the sloping ceiling, the wash stand in the corner, the braided
rug on the floor. "Hello?" His voice sounded okay, but his throat was
thick and sore, and he guessed, infected. He felt the way he had at nine,
when he'd been sidelined for two weeks with tonsillitis. 

He tentatively slid out of bed, laid his bare feet on the braided rug, and
reached for the robe that had been left across the foot of the bed. There
were slippers, also, under the wash stand, and he slipped these on. 

A glance in the mirror confirmed his guess: he was sick. He looked pretty
damned bad, truth be told: wan and sallow, with dark circles underneath
his eyes. He could only guess how long he'd been here: when he usually got
hit with a bout like that, it could be days or weeks. 

There was a bathroom a little further along the hall, and he slipped
inside, ran the shower until it was steaming-hot and got in. The heat
seeped into his bones, and he stood for a long time just soaking
underneath it. When he emerged, he was washed and shaved, but he delayed
getting dressed just yet. It felt entirely too decadent to change out of
his robe, and as there seemed to be no other life stirring, he decided to
go and find something to eat. 

The house was two-storey, a wooden frame house, of old fashioned design.
Whoever owned it had taken pains to restore it to the original state by
retaining the house's distinguishing features, which would explain the
braided rugs and the wash stand in his room. The upstairs hallway led down
a flight of stairs to an open-design living/dining room, panelled in oak
and surmounted with a massive fireplace. Wow. 

"Ray!" 

"Hello?" He turned at the sound of her voice, it was Sorcha- -"Hey." 

"You're not supposed to be out of bed. You were very sick." She obviously
hadn't been up long, either: she was still wearing a robe and slippers. 

"I'm sorry, I got hungry, I wanted to get a shower." He allowed her to
lead him over to the table, sit him down. "Uh...where am I?" 

"You're at my house." She was in the kitchen, bustling about, pouring
orange juice, putting bread into the toaster. "You collapsed at the
airport--do you remember that?" 

Yes. "Uh...where's Benny?" 

"He's in Chicago." She turned from the counter, brought a pot of coffee to
the table. "Ray..." She filled his cup and her own, pushed cream and sugar
across the table to him. "How long do you think you've been here?" 

"Uh...I dunno. Couple of days, maybe?" He stirred his coffee. 

"You've been in that bed for three weeks." She glanced around as the
toaster popped, went to fetch the bread. "You were very sick. The doctor
thinks it's pneumonia. We thought we were going to have to take you to the
hospital." 

Pneumonia? Was she *serious*? "Really? God, it came on so suddenly...I
felt funny at the airport, kinda sick, like I was gonna faint..." He
glanced up as she passed him a plate of toast. "And you took care of me?" 

"Yes." 

Suddenly, there was nothing to say. 

"Ray, I have something I need to tell you." 

Here it comes, he thought: this is where she tells me to hit the road.... 

"I was really wrong to treat you the way I did, and I'm sorry." Her hand,
warm against his arm. What was happening here? Was she dumping him or not?
"The truth is---" She reached out and touched his cheek, smoothed his face
with the back of her fingers. "---I think I love you." 

Stop this moment, freeze it in time forever, just so I don't forget, so I
don't *ever* forget--- 

"I have never felt with any man the way I did with you that night...it
scared me. I had to run away from it, figure it out, get my head around it
before I could take it any further, but I did it all wrong!" Her fingers
cupped his chin, traced his bottom lip. "I got scared, and I *ran*!" 

"Sorcha--" 

"No, please listen." Her finger pressed against the center of his lips,
stilling his words. "What I feel for you is so intense that it scares the
bejesus out of me. I don't know what Benny told you, but I haven't had an
easy life; I don't trust easily, I don't let people into my soul---" 

"Not even Ben?" It had to be asked. 

"I loved him. I was new at the police academy, fresh off The Rock, too
green to burn! And just *dying* inside from the scars..." 

"What happened, Sorcha?" His fingers sought and found her arm, he had to
touch her, reassure himself that she was real. 

"I'd been raped--it was pretty bad--and of course, all the stuff that goes
with it. Ben was so kind to me, so very gentle...I loved him. He was the
first man to touch me after the rape, the only man I trusted enough, the
only man who was gentle and loving and kind, who slowly coaxed me back
into feeling again..." She broke off suddenly. "He's that kind of guy,
just..." 

"I know." 

"I haven't felt anything like that for a long time--" 

Certainly. Couldn't very well top Fraser in *that* department, now could
I? 

"--until that night with you." 

Ray stared at her for a long moment, swallowed hard. "Really?" 

"Oh God, yes!" She was smiling, but tears were standing in the rims of her
eyes, her beautiful eyes. "How could I not love you, Ray? You were
everything I could ever want: you're kind and funny and brave--" 

And wounded, like me. 

"Sorcha, I really love you." He forced himself to speak it, push it past
the soreness and the lump in his throat. "And I understand. I haven't had
it easy---" 

"I know." 

He glanced at her sharply. "How?" 

"Ben..." Her fingers traced the pattern in the drinking glass, absently.
"Even before I met you, he's been...*briefing* me...he told me all about
you." 

Ray stared at her. "Like what?" 

"That you were kind, and brave, and funny...that he thought you were the
best friend he'd ever had...that you saved his life over and over
again...he told me I just had to meet you, that we were perfect for each
other.... Every time I talked to him on the phone--and it was a lot--he'd
say, 'You gotta come down and meet Ray.'" She looked up into his eyes. "He
loves you." 

Ray felt his gut tighten, blinked rapidly, pressed a hand against his
eyes. "So he planned all this?" 

She nodded. "Yes." 

My God. In a flicker, in a heartbeat, he reached for her, clasped her
beautiful face in his hands and kissed her, gently slipped the tip of his
tongue into the warm cavern of her mouth, withdrew. She slid across the
space separating them and moved into his lap, parted the front of his robe
and pressed her lips against his neck, his earlobe, the curve of his jaw.
Ray slid his hands around her waist, felt the delicious flex of her body
underneath the thin fabric of her robe, the heat of her skin against his
palms, burning. 

"Upstairs," she parted her mouth from his long enough to whisper, took him
by the hand and led him back into the sloping bedroom. Her hands were all
over him as her fingers mapped his body, remembering. Her palms found the
hard points of his shoulders, the bulge of biceps in his upper arms, the
sculpted fineness of his hands and fingers. She slipped the robe off his
shoulders and dropped it on the floor, and then their naked skins were
pressed together, his arms around her, the heated bundle of her lying atop
him. 

It had been so long: he was all eagerness, immediately hard; but he forced
himself to go slow and steady. Knowing what he knew now, it was essential
that he be careful, that he be gentle... 

"You're still sick; let me." Her cheek, against his flat stomach, the dark
fan of her hair against his skin and she bent and took him into her mouth,
drew the hard length of him deep into her throat. 

It was daylight and morning, it was Sorcha; it was clear light and the
sense of the ocean outside, watching. She gently straddled him, pulled him
deep inside her. 

"I have to see you..." He brushed the dark curtain of her hair aside,
clasped her creamy shoulders in his palms, slid his hands down her arms.
Her body moved against him as he moved inside her, gently pushing up into
her warmth and tightness, the heat of her. She bent forward and kissed
him, slid his arms over his head and held his wrists together as she
quickened the rhythm of their movements. Her mouth found the sensitive
juncture between earlobe and shoulder, fastened to the point and sucked,
her tongue swirling against his skin. 

It was joyous, it was glorious, it was making love in every sense...
"Sorcha..." He sang her name, calling her. "Sorcha..." and watched as her
lovely eyes lost their focus and the first ripple of releasing desire
raced along her spine as she whiplashed back against him, "Oh!" He felt
her tremors pull him more deeply inside her and then there was nothing to
think about, nothing, nothing, but--- 

--his eyes fluttered closed as the first delicious convulsion gripped him,
wrenched a groan from his throat; exploded deep inside his belly, deep
inside his brain and brought him panting and wrenching down to sanity
again. 

"Ray, I love you." Her lips, at the corner of his mouth, the base of his
throat. "I love you." 

Now it was alright. 

 The End