Fraser/RayV story: Heavy As Hope (PG)
Jan. 19th, 2007 09:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
arrow00Hi everyone. This is my first DS story. It's unbeta'd because I'm brand-new (two weeks) to the fandom. If anyone has the time or interest to beta me in future, please contact me at artemis.arrow@yahoo.com.
Title: Heavy As Hope
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
arrow00
Fandom: Due South
Pairing: Fraser/Vecchio
Rating: PG for a little bit of roughness
Complete
Summary: Fraser is kidnapped. He has one very good reason to try to survive.
Heavy As Hope
Byarrow00
Fraser was afraid.
He wasn't afraid at first, when they hit him in his hallway, with Dief scrabbling frantically at the door before him as Fraser sagged into midnight black. Nor was he afraid when he regained consciousness in the back of a van, hat missing, hands tied behind him and blood tickling the back of his neck. No, he just lay there as he pondered all the tricks he knew for getting blood out of serge.
It wasn’t until the biggest one of them dragged him out by the simple expedient of a hand on the back of his collar and the other clutching his testicles, and Fraser imagined Ray giving a rude comment, that he felt his first trickle of fear.
The large, dark-haired man, a 'goombah,' as Ray would have called him, pulled him through a door and dumped him onto a musty mattress at least three times softer than his own cot, and served him an unsporting kick to the ribs once he was down. Fraser could hear Ray's voice in his head.
'They mean business, Benny. I don't like the looks of this.'
Thinking of Ray, for the first time in his life Benton Fraser contemplated the real possibility of failure. Or, perhaps it was the first time he really, truly feared that possibility.
He didn't want to leave Ray, was the thing. They had unfinished business, largely because Fraser had never mentioned to his friend certain things—privileged information about his heart, and the impossible direction in which it was leaning. And now he might never have the chance.
That, more than anything, gave him a chill in his stomach that had nothing to do with the kick to the ribs or the ache in his bruised balls.
They left him alone for a little while, and as soon as he could get to his feet without nausea threatening to overwhelm him, he paced his confines inspecting it for any possible exits. There were none. The door had no knob on the interior, just a metal plate covering the lock mechanism. The plate also hung far enough over the jamb to prevent the use of any kind of shim. The hinges were protected as well. The small windows were covered with iron bars, and the ventilation panel was too tiny for a newborn baby, let alone a full-grown Mountie.
The place might as well have been designed as a prison.
The only contents of the room were the musty mattress, a wooden desk covered with a plastic tarp, a tin cup, a small piece of brick, a newspaper, and a bucket sitting against the wall. He knew what the bucket was for, and his fastidious nature made him wince.
He heard footsteps and quickly faced the door, his spine straight as a ramrod.
Two guys burst in, one the goombah who had done the previous manhandling. Fraser hesitated, but with both hands tied behind him, there wasn't much he could do but let them grab his arms. A third man entered, dressed in a dark suit and carrying a telephone, dragging the cord behind him. He was thin, balding, with wisps of grey hair slicked back over the high dome of his head.
"Greetings, Constable. My, my." The man made a show of looking him up and down. "That suit of yours certainly is red."
Fraser stared forward without responding. Obviously, they knew he was a Mountie, so the jibe about his uniform could be nothing more than that—an effort to provoke. And if hours of standing outside the consulate had taught him nothing else, it was how not to react, no matter the circumstance.
He suddenly missed his hat.
"My name is Raskin," the man said, taking a small bow. "I imagine you are wondering why I invited you here today."
Fraser had to suppress a reflexive raising of his eyebrow at the man's word choice.
"You see, I would like your friend, Detective Vecchio, to do a little favor for me."
Ray. Fraser's heart lunged upward, threatening to choke him. He'd been trying desperately not to think of Ray, or where he might be. That they might have taken him, as well, perhaps to another room right next door.
Raskin stared at Fraser keenly. "I assure you, he has no idea as yet that you are with us. But I need this favor, and seeing as it's well known he isn't on the cuff, I thought I'd use a different brand of persuasion." Raskin jerked his head. "So," he said crisply, "let us begin."
He nodded at the goombah, who pushed Fraser downward, leaning on him with his not-inconsiderable weight. After a brief struggle, Fraser found himself on his knees.
Raskin nodded with satisfaction. "Let's make a little phone call, shall we?"
"I won't," Fraser said in spite of his suddenly charging heart. "I cannot let you use me that way."
Raskin smiled. "Oh, but you will." Without a gesture from him, the goombah moved, and Fraser heard a snick and felt a pinch at his throat. He felt warmth seeping, trickling down, and had an urge to scratch at the trail of blood. Then the knife moved and hovered just below his eye.
And with that, Fraser knew he wouldn't be getting out of there alive.
Such a strange thing. How often had he risked his life without thought? How many times had he faced a gun or a knife, or the bleak winter eyes of merciless Nature? He'd so often been close to death that he almost felt friendly toward it, and yet always grateful for continued beating of his own heart.
But now, the fear was like something huge rising inside him, threatening to block his sight. Not fear of dying, but fear of failing in this final test.
Ray. His breathing quieted at the single word and the thousand images that came with it. Ray, his hazel green eyes squinting with laughter, his warm hand patting Fraser on the back, on the shoulder; the fondness in his tenor voice. The soft tone that called Fraser his friend. The trust of his open arms and rough hugs. The love—maybe not all that Ben could want, but more than he'd ever dreamed of having in his previously solitary life.
Fraser opened eyes he wasn't aware of closing, and met Raskin's with the peace that one name gave him.
Raskin's face grimaced with understanding. "No? We shall see." He shook his head at the goombah and then consulted a piece of paper in his hands before dialing the phone.
"Is this Detective Vecchio? Ah, yes. I have a friend of yours in my present care. A big, red friend, if you understand me? I'm afraid I have to ask a favor of you if you care to see him again in one piece."
Fraser heard the high, strident voice of his friend echoing tinnily from the headset. He had to suppress a painful smile.
"Detective, please! Such language. Wouldn't you like to say hello to your friend?"
Raskin approached with the phone. The goombah and his pal hauled Fraser back up to his feet, and the mouthpiece was held to his face.
"Hello?" Ray's voice was in his ear. Fraser pressed his lips together, meeting Raskin's eye.
Fraser felt the iron grip of the goombah clamping on his sore testicles. His eyes rolled up with the excruciating pain, and he could feel sudden cold sweat popping up along his hairline with the effort of not making a sound. The goombah shifted his grip and squeezed again, and Fraser started breathing harshly through his nose.
Then the hand twisted, and a muffled moan escaped from Fraser's lips.
"Benny? Oh, God, Benny!"
Failed. Failed him. How Ray had identified him from that single, small sound didn't bear thinking about. Not at all. Because it was enough. Ben had failed his friend.
"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser whispered, knowing they were his last words to Ray, wishing with all his heart he could add, I love you. But he couldn't give these evil men that much more of a possible lever over his friend.
"Christ, Benny—"
The phone was pulled away and Fraser was released to drop to his knees and curl around his abused genitals.
"Now, Detective, would you like to discuss our little deal?" Raskin turned toward the door, still talking.
The goombah shoved Fraser prone and leaned over him. He felt a prick in his neck and adrenaline rushed through him. What was that? What? Thought grew hazy immediately, and he wondered foggily if he'd ever wake up again.
His eyes closed, and the last thing he heard was the door clanging shut.
Failed him. Oh, Ray.
<<<<>>>>
He tossed with strange dreams and hallucinations; first, of Victoria, her hair like black silk, curling sensuously over his belly. He'd never felt anything like it before or since, or the sultry heat of her mouth, doing things to him he'd only read of in books.
But when she looked up, her eyes were dark pits, and he heaved himself away with revulsion, afraid to look inside. He spun into another dream, of his grandparents' cabin, the Dutch oven baking his back as he read yet another book. His grandmother had tsked at his choice in reading material this time—some cheap romance novel. She didn't know his secret—that he wasn't reading it out of prurient interest, but for those passages he found of the unspoken tenderness, the touch of hands over hearts.
His grandmother looked up from her desk and shooed him to bed. He forced himself to get up and approach her, daring even to lean over and brush his lips against her papery cheek. She looked startled, and frowned. The paper crackled, and suddenly he saw the lines on her skin were words, written in fine, tiny print.
She pushed him away with a stick-like arm. Ben bowed his head and went to his cot, his sheets smelling of musty paper and leather bindings.
He was alone.
<<<<>>>>
Fraser swam back into awareness slowly, with great effort
It was night. Which meant he had slept the entire day under the influence of the drug. He spared a thought to wonder where Ray was and what he was doing. The thought hurt so much Fraser almost retreated back into unconsciousness.
But he had a duty, even if it wasn't clear in this context. He just knew he couldn't give up.
The first order of business was to remove his bindings. They hadn't taken his serge coat, for which he was grateful, because unknown to his captors, a Mountie's jacket meant survival.
He eased his rear end through his arms and got his bound hands in front of him, then dug in the lining for the small knife sewn into the hem of his coat. It was simple work to remove the blade and sever the ropes binding his wrists. He stood, rubbing them absently as he continued his interrupted survey of the tiny room.
Now that his hands were free, he could move the table over to the wall so he could stand on it and look out of the tiny windows. They were just above ground level. He saw a dim courtyard, and then more buildings. It looked like some sort of abandoned plant or factory. Breaking the windows and calling for help would be fruitless.
He jumped down from the table and rotated his arms, relishing his freedom from the ropes. At least, if they came back, he could 'go out swinging' as Ray might have put it.
But Fraser didn't imagine that they would be back. Now that he had betrayed his identity to Ray, they didn't need him for anything but insurance, and for that, they only needed him alive for a few days. The fact they hadn't brought him food or water in the day he had been here was a telltale sign they had no intention of keeping him alive.
Probably, once they had what they wanted, or even if they didn't succeed, they would just let him die of thirst.
No, they wouldn't be back, but Fraser had absolutely no doubt that Ray would come. He believed it with a fierceness that was totally unquestioning. He believed it like gravity.
His duty was now clear: he had to be alive when Ray finally did come.
A glimmer of memory edged into his mind and he relaxed, letting it come, coaxing it from the shadows. A book he had read once—been fascinated by—of survival strategies. He'd glanced only briefly at the section on enduring the snow and cold, confident of his own abilities in that regard, but had soaked up with fascination information on fending off wild crocodiles, or dealing with snakebites.
And surviving in the desert. The illustration stood clear in his mind of a contraption that was useful for reclaiming water from one's own waste. A sheet of plastic, some sand, some sun, a stone and a cup were all that was needed.
He didn't have any sand, but the bucket would function, and the tarp was coated in plastic. He retrieved some of the loose chunks of brick from the corner of the room. They'd removed his larger knife from his belt, but he still had his flint, and burning the mattress would supply heat.
Fraser got to work assembling the pieces. He was aware of his ready thirst, and it only grew more acute as he labored, tearing out the inside of the mattress for burning, setting the bucket on top.
He relieved himself in the bucket, then broke off a small piece of the brick by slamming it onto the floor. He carefully positioned the larger piece in the center of the bucket, then put the cup on top of it, covering the entire thing with a square piece of tarp. In the center, right above where the cup lay beneath, he dropped the small piece of brick to weigh down the tarp into a shallow point.
Now, heat. Using the flat handle of his knife, he unscrewed a bracket from the table and flicked sparks into the thick mattress stuffing until it caught.
Immediately, the rising smoke made him aware of a flaw in his plan, and he hurried to retrieve another chunk of brick, wrapping it in his jacket to smash open one of the windows.
He stood on the table, the cool air hitting his face, reminding him of freedom and forcing a sudden surge of claustrophobia, the strongest he'd felt since moving to Chicago, where it had taken him some time to acclimate to sleeping indoors. Now, he was truly stuck inside, and the knowledge made him reach for the bars of the window helplessly.
That wouldn't do. Fraser shook himself and dropped down, quickly checking on his condenser, as he'd come to think of it. His fire was burning merrily now, the smoke rising up to swirl through the broken window. He had a vague, silly hope that someone would see his smoke signal.
The contraption worked just as advertised, the water slightly steaming and condensing on the undersurface of the tarp to run down and drip, drip, drip into the tin cup. Every tink of water was like a note in a song of survival. Fraser checked on the progress occasionally, watching the cup fill slowly, his heart heavy with hope.
Funny, he'd never thought of hope as being heavy, before. Or, at least, the only time he'd felt it so was when Ray had been shot saving his life, and the endless wait while Ray was in surgery had had this same weighty quality.
After a while, the cup was almost full, and Fraser carefully removed it, then drank the tepid water down swiftly. It tasted slightly of plastic from the tarp. It tasted like victory.
He quickly put it back and continued with the process until most of his waste had been reclaimed. Then he put out the fire, and curled up on the remains of his mattress.
He dreamed of the open sky.
<<<<>>>>
The next morning there was more water in his cup, a couple of bare swallows, which he downed quickly. He relieved himself, and then took care of the distasteful process of disposing of his solid waste, wrapping it in newspaper and hurling it as far as he could between the bars and out into the courtyard.
He activated his condensing mechanism again, this time with assurance and something like smugness. But his enthusiasm quickly faded as the day wore on and he had to continue with his labor, one ear always trained toward the door in case Raskin should decide to return.
And Fraser was bored. As a remedy, he daydreamed for a while, sifting through recent memories of cases they'd taken on since their recovery from their gunshot wounds. Every memory was a reminder he might not ever have an opportunity to make any more with Ray, but he couldn't help thinking about it. After a while, the direction of Fraser's thoughts mutated to what he might say if, indeed, Ray found him in time.
It was difficult not to let himself fantasize a joyous reunion, one in which his surfeit of feeling might give Fraser the freedom he'd never felt to express his painful new emotions toward his friend.
But even as he fantasized about it, he knew he was incapable of taking action. Fraser had never had any illusions about his own inadequacies when it came to connecting with other people on an intimate level. He'd long since given up trying, and if Victoria hadn't returned and forced the issue after he'd walked her to the hotel, he would have let her go without ever having known the taste of her lips, or the feel of her touching him, an experience he was still having difficulty shaking, in spite of all that came after.
How he'd thirsted for it.
He removed the cup from within the bucket, drank the contents, and damped out the fire yet again. From his reading, he knew the best place to keep his water supply was within his own body, but it was time to sleep.
As near as he could calculate, he'd been imprisoned for fifty-two hours.
<<<<>>>>
He lost count somewhere along the fourth day. Hunger had made him sluggish and weak, and at one point, clumsy—he lost half the contents of his cup while removing it from the bucket.
He knew he was losing moisture to evaporation, because every time he relieved himself there was less and less. He was thirsty all the time, and took to lying down while watching the mattress pieces smolder.
Speaking of mattresses, he was lying on an almost empty shell of material, and soon would have to try to break up the table for kindling. The thought made him weary beyond belief, but he struggled to his feet, determined to do it while he still had the strength.
When he was finished, he slept some more.
The days passed in cycles of waking, tending his contraption, and lying on the mattress casing on the cold cement, either asleep or panting shallowly. Hunger was a constant, gnawing beast in his belly. He no longer had to relieve himself often at all, and the pitiful output wasn't worth trying to reclaim, although he kept trying, if only for the few drops of moisture at the bottom of the cup, just enough to wet his parched lips.
When the day came that he tried to struggle to his feet and failed, he knew it was time. He dragged the newspaper over to him, and with a shaky hand he pulled his pen from his pouch and scribbled some words on the margin of the top sheet.
Once his final task was complete, Fraser fell back into a delirious sleep. This time he dreamed he was trying to run, Diefenbaker beside him as they slogged through knee-high snow. It was Aqilluqqaaq snow, fresh and soggy, and he wondered why he didn't bend to scoop some into his mouth, because he was thirsty, so thirsty.
Suddenly the snow gave out to sidewalk, and his footsteps hastened. Now he was running fast, Dief barking joyously, and Fraser knew why he hadn't stopped. Because Ray was up ahead, waving at him, his sunglasses flashing so his eyes were like beacons.
But Fraser woke before he could reach him. His eyes were heavy, and he was reminded of the sleepiness that had overtaken him during the blizzard, when hypothermia had shut down most of his bodily functions, and sleep was like a welcome lover with warm arms.
He fought it, and struggled to open his eyes, because a noise had awoken him, the first he'd heard outside his own breathing since Raskin had left him to die.
If they came back now, they would find him a sorry challenge.
But instead of the scrape of a key in the lock, he heard a scrabbling sound. Familiar, so familiar. He was still trying to identify it when a muted whine and rough bark made his heart give a wild double-thump in his chest, enough to drive him to try to sit up, but his body failed him, and he sagged back down.
"Dief," he tried to say, but he couldn't make sound move past his swollen tongue.
Then he heard a frantic pounding.
"Benny? Benny, are you in there?" A muttered curse, and then more pounding.
And then gunfire. The sound made Fraser smile, the pull of his cheeks cracking his chapped lips. He could remember other occasions when Ray had vainly tried to shoot open a lock. In fact, Fraser couldn't ever remember a time when Ray had been successful in getting a door open that way.
Except this time. This time, with a grating rattle, the door suddenly burst open. Fraser turned his head and blinked furiously, but there was a fog in front of his eyes, so all he saw was an approaching blur of brown and white.
And then Diefenbaker was licking his temple, and Ray was grabbing him, hands rough on Fraser's cheeks.
"Oh, God. Benny! Benny, can you hear me? Benny!"
Speech was impossible, even if his mouth hadn't been dry as hundred year-old parchment, because Fraser's entire heart was wedged tight in his throat. So he nodded weakly, still blinking at the brown blur.
"Sweet Mary, thank you. Thank you. God, Benny." Ray's forehead was pressed against his, the newspaper on Ben's chest crackling between them.
"I found you. I found you."
Ben nodded, mouthing, I knew you would.
<<<<>>>>
He was still running along the sidewalk, but this time Ray was running next to him.
"I don't mean to be, you know, picky or anything, but where the heck are we going, Fraser?"
"It's just up there," Fraser said, pointing. It was a cabin, squeezed tight between two apartment buildings. A log cabin, right in the heart of Chicago. Fraser could make out the firm silhouette of the chimney and some smoke rising from the top. Snow was glistening on the roof, even though the rest of the city was in spring.
"I don't see it, Benny," Ray said.
"It's right there, Ray." Fraser picked up his pace. The wind caught his eyes, blurring his vision, and he stumbled to a halt.
He faced a vacant lot.
"But...it was right here!" Fraser turned helplessly, looking in every direction, trying to find the cabin. But around him were more apartment buildings, tall and gray. He spun to face Ray, who was looking at him sadly.
"Just a dream, Benny," he said.
Fraser stirred, tossing angrily.
"Just a dream," he heard repeated. Something was pinching the back of his hand, and he reached down to rub at it, but his fingers were blocked, then held.
"Don't mess with that, you need it."
"Huh?" His mouth was sticky, and he tried to wet his lips.
"You want some water? Yeah, I bet you do. Come on." Something pressed against his lips and slid into his mouth. Fraser sucked reflexively and was rewarded with cold water. He drank frantically until he was pulling nothing but air.
"Easy, easy." Ray laughed, the sound like rough music.
"Ray?" Fraser's voice was a harsh rasp.
"Yeah, it's me, dummy. Who else d'you think?"
Fraser opened his eyes wider, struggling to see. Hanging above him was Ray's split grin, white against his olive cheeks. His eyes were liquid.
"I'm happy to see you, Ray," was all Ben could come up with. Polite nicety. He had nothing else in him, the dream still hanging heavy on his heart.
But Ray laughed with delight. "I'm happy to see you, too, Benny. So happy, you have no idea. You really scared me, you know that?"
Fraser squinted, looking closer and noting the shadow on Ray's usually impeccably-shaven cheeks, and the dark smudges painted under his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Ray."
Ray blinked, and turned away, clearing his throat. "I don't know what for. Listen..." He turned back slightly. "I have to go tell the doc you're awake. I promised I'd let 'em know as soon as you were. Be right back."
He hastened out the door.
"Well, son, you sure do get yourself into some fine messes."
His father.
"Oh, now you show up," Ben said in a rusty voice. "Where were you when I was half dead?" He couldn't keep the petulance from his voice.
"Dead? That wasn't dead. This is dead." His father tapped his chest proudly. "You weren't even close."
Fraser was indignant. "I was so! You just always have to be better at everything."
"Well, of course! I am your father, after all."
"Lucky me." Fraser tried to reach for the pitcher on the side table, but it was three fingers two far. He fell back with a grunt. "Could you hand me that?" He joked weakly.
"You know I can't." There was something mournful in his father's voice, and Ben's eyes darted over to him.
"I know. It's okay."
"I would've helped you if I could've," his father continued, sounding abashed.
"I know," Fraser repeated.
"Know what?" It was the doctor, or at least Fraser assumed it was, since the man was wearing a white coat and dangling a stethoscope. His father was gone.
"That I'm lucky to be alive," Fraser said, since he figured those would be the next words out of the doctor's mouth.
"You are, indeed. Now let's see how well you came out of this."
The examination was brief. Fraser was admonished to take in as many fluids as he could, rest as much as possible, and eat the special high-nutrient meals the hospital would be providing. The doctor told him he would be released the next day, barring any complications.
Fraser thanked him politely for his time.
"Oh, and your friend is waiting outside. I suggest you convince him to get some rest, himself. It looks like he could use it."
But the first thing Ray did as he came back in was pull up the chair and plop himself down as if he planned to stay a while.
"How're you feeling?"
"Thirsty," Fraser replied. He smiled a little at the graceless haste Ray exhibited in jumping up to pour him some more water.
Fraser drank it down, and another cup. He thought maybe he would always be thirsty.
Looking up at Ray's big, doleful eyes pretty much confirmed it.
Now was the time when Fraser would give anything to have just one ounce of the freedom Ray seemed to have in expressing his emotions. Because all those crazy fantasies from his time in the tiny room were fluttering at the edge of his vision, taunting him. Fantasies of reaching out, and grabbing Ray's hand, and telling him, once and for all...
"How did you find me?" Fraser winced as he asked, but Ray didn't seem to see it.
"Diefenbaker, of course. Well, with a little help." Ray eagerly recounted the tale, how Dief had tracked the car as far as the outskirts before losing the scent. How Ray had followed the back-trail of the kidnapper's demand. Ray was supposed to make a piece of evidence conveniently disappear out of the locker in order to get a case thrown out for a wise guy it turned out Raskin was working for. Instead, Ray went straight to Welsh. The department obviously couldn't give in to the demand, but they threw everything at the case. Thatcher also brought in her intelligence resources, and together they identified Raskin as the mastermind, and from there it was a matter of tracing dummy corporations to properties and then letting Dief loose on the ones closest to the lost trail.
It had taken them six days, and they'd had no communication from the kidnappers after the last failed bid for more time.
Ray cleared his throat and reached into his jacket, pulling out a mug shot.
"Raskin," Fraser said.
Ray nodded. "We've got him in custody on a holding charge. Now I guess we'll be loading a couple of other charges on his ass." His voice was as cold as the winter wind.
"Thank you," Fraser said. His throat still sounded like a bad hinge, and Ray winced and offered him some more water. Fraser drank greedily.
Ray said hesitantly, "You gonna tell me what it was like for you?"
What it was like. Fraser felt like he had traveled far away. The hospital room, Ray, the doctor, they all felt like another one of his dreams. And his dreams...somehow felt more real. Part of him wanted to go back to them, especially the one with Ray waving, waiting for him.
Only, Ray was right here. And he was waiting for him to answer.
Fraser took a deep breath. His lungs hurt for some reason, and he coughed, the force of it burning his throat, which made him cough again, more harshly. Finally, the spasms stopped and he sank back.
Ray had risen and was hovering over him, looking anxious. He laid his hand on Fraser's chest.
Curious. It didn't feel heavy at all. Ray's hand was as light as leaves.
"Ray," Ben began, and then it happened again—his throat locked up like a door between his mouth and the words that wanted so badly to come.
"Yeah, Benny?" Ray said softly.
Fraser shook his head with despair. "Tired," he said. A cheap out.
Ray nodded reluctantly. "Okay. You get some rest."
"You, too, Ray. Please?"
Ray nodded. He patted Fraser once, lightly, and left.
<<<<>>>>
They let him out the next day, and Ray took him home. Dief greeted him at the door with some frantic woofs, accepted a quick hug, and then shook him off and headed toward the kitchen and his bowl. His tongue lolled greedily.
"I see you have your priorities right in line," Fraser said caustically.
Ray laughed and went to feed Dief while Fraser moved slowly around his apartment. He'd never expected to see it again. It felt smaller, somehow, and he opened all the windows, letting in as much air as he could.
"I have to get to work. We've got a case to build against Raskin. You gonna be okay?"
"Yes, Ray. I'll be fine." It almost wasn't a lie.
"Get some rest. I'll be back in a few hours."
Once Ray was gone, Fraser shuffled aimlessly for a little while, putting small things in order, before the walls pressed in on him a little too closely, and he motioned Dief out for a walk.
It took Fraser at least five minutes to get out of the building. Each one of his neighbors seemed to want to stop him to welcome him back. By the end he was sweating hard, the narrow corridors making him breathless, and he escaped with his panic barely under control. He walked down to the nearest park and took off his shoes to sink his feet into the grass. Dief headed for the hot dog vendor, and Fraser politely averted his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the wolf's transgression.
Fraser broke out of his daze to find the sky had darkened. Dief had long since curled next to him, his nose on his paws but his eyes still watchful and alert. Suddenly, Fraser felt incredibly tired, and he shuffled back home.
The apartment still felt too closed in. Fraser took one look at the cot and knew he couldn't possibly sleep on it. Instead, he grabbed his blanket and bedroll and opened the window to crawl out onto the fire escape. He stared up at the slot of sky between the buildings, and gradually his heart slowed to calm, steady beat.
He didn't dream.
"Benny? Ben?" There was panic in Ray's voice, and then a whuff and the click of Dief's paws. Fraser opened his eyes to see Dief hanging out the open window.
"I'm here, Ray," Fraser said. He rose and climbed in through the window.
"Jesus, don't do that." Ray moved toward him quickly.
"Do what? Sleep outside?"
"Don't disappear on me."
Ray's voice sounded broken, and Fraser stared at him in surprise.
Ray refused to back down. "I mean, Jesus, Benny, I just got you back..."
"I'm sorry, Ray." Fraser's own voice was hoarse.
"Yeah, you've been saying that a lot." Now Ray sounded almost angry.
"But I am. I don't mean to...I—" He caught the words just in time.
Ray moved one step closer.
Fraser backed away. He could feel his pulse ticking frantically in his throat. "Ray..." he said, uneasy.
"Why don't you try singing a different tune for a while," Ray said quietly.
It was hard to swallow with his throat still so dry. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." Ray reached into his pocket and came out with a piece of paper. It was curled tight, and he unrolled it, his eyes locked on Fraser's. "Like what you wrote here."
Fraser looked down at the strip of newspaper. Oh. He had forgotten about it. He'd forgotten all about it, and now Ray had it. And he knew. He knew.
The ticking had turned into a hammer, echoing the pounding in his chest. He couldn't speak, could only stare into Ray's wide green eyes.
"Maybe if you read it to me." Ray held it out. Too far. Fraser had to take a step forward, so he took it. Then another. The paper dropped into his palm like a falling feather. Fraser looked down.
Ray, I'm sorry. I tried. I love you.
"I love you," Ben whispered, repeating the most important part. The words that had come out when he had no strength left to stop them. He steeled himself and looked up.
Ray was smiling. A huge smile, the generous lips stretching wide.
"No, but—" Fraser started, and he wasn't allowed to finish, because Ray's hand was back, resting lightly, this time on his lips, stopping him.
"Don't screw it up," Ray admonished.
Fraser nodded. He could feel the heat of Ray's fingers, burning. Then the heat of Ray's lips on his, even hotter, but moist and sweet, like clear water. Like nothing he had ever tasted.
He heard himself moan, and the sound made embarrassing heat rise along his neck until his ears tingled. The rush of blood made him feel faint, and he staggered. Ray's arms came around him, holding him up, and he broke the kiss.
"Shit, I'm sorry. I forgot." Ray guided him toward the bed, and Fraser sat quickly, his legs like overcooked linguini.
He panted a little. Ray moved away and came back holding a glass of water.
"Here, drink this."
Fraser drank. He thought Ray's lips tasted better. He wished he could say it.
"I shouldn't have hit you with this so soon," Ray said, sounding remorseful. "I'm sorry."
"You keep saying that," Fraser said. He couldn't stop the smile, especially when Ray gave him a reproachful look.
"Funny guy." But now Ray was smiling, too. It broke over his face like clearing clouds.
Ben's heart made that odd thump again, and he took a shaky breath. His body was trembling, but he couldn't say if it was the dehydration or the soaring joy.
Ray's smile faded into a look of concern. "You look...you'd better rest, huh, Benny?"
"No, I—"
"Seriously. This'll keep, won't it?" Ray's eyes pleaded with him. He looked so tired. And it was all Fraser's fault.
"All right, Ray."
Ray smiled and pushed him down on his pallet, then strode off to retrieve his blanket from the fire escape. Fraser watched Ray return, the blanket in his hands, an uncharacteristically timid look on his face.
Ben moved over on his bed, making room.
The smile broke again, quick as lightning, and Ray dropped the blanket on him then stripped down to his undershirt and boxers. Fraser averted his eyes. It was too much, too soon.
He was apprehensive, too, because he wasn't sure he could sleep inside. The walls wanted to cage him. But he couldn't ask Ray to join him on the fire escape. So he waited, his heart still beating too rapidly, until Ray slipped in beside him.
And strangely, having Ray next to him somehow made it better.
Ray shuffled around, brushing against him, and then he leaned on one elbow, looking down at him. Fraser looked up to see the deep eyes shining.
"Just in case you were wondering, I love you, too, Benny."
And when Ray put his arms around him, they were as wide as the sky.
..................
2007.01.19
Title: Heavy As Hope
Author:
arrow00Fandom: Due South
Pairing: Fraser/Vecchio
Rating: PG for a little bit of roughness
Complete
Summary: Fraser is kidnapped. He has one very good reason to try to survive.
Heavy As Hope
By
arrow00Fraser was afraid.
He wasn't afraid at first, when they hit him in his hallway, with Dief scrabbling frantically at the door before him as Fraser sagged into midnight black. Nor was he afraid when he regained consciousness in the back of a van, hat missing, hands tied behind him and blood tickling the back of his neck. No, he just lay there as he pondered all the tricks he knew for getting blood out of serge.
It wasn’t until the biggest one of them dragged him out by the simple expedient of a hand on the back of his collar and the other clutching his testicles, and Fraser imagined Ray giving a rude comment, that he felt his first trickle of fear.
The large, dark-haired man, a 'goombah,' as Ray would have called him, pulled him through a door and dumped him onto a musty mattress at least three times softer than his own cot, and served him an unsporting kick to the ribs once he was down. Fraser could hear Ray's voice in his head.
'They mean business, Benny. I don't like the looks of this.'
Thinking of Ray, for the first time in his life Benton Fraser contemplated the real possibility of failure. Or, perhaps it was the first time he really, truly feared that possibility.
He didn't want to leave Ray, was the thing. They had unfinished business, largely because Fraser had never mentioned to his friend certain things—privileged information about his heart, and the impossible direction in which it was leaning. And now he might never have the chance.
That, more than anything, gave him a chill in his stomach that had nothing to do with the kick to the ribs or the ache in his bruised balls.
They left him alone for a little while, and as soon as he could get to his feet without nausea threatening to overwhelm him, he paced his confines inspecting it for any possible exits. There were none. The door had no knob on the interior, just a metal plate covering the lock mechanism. The plate also hung far enough over the jamb to prevent the use of any kind of shim. The hinges were protected as well. The small windows were covered with iron bars, and the ventilation panel was too tiny for a newborn baby, let alone a full-grown Mountie.
The place might as well have been designed as a prison.
The only contents of the room were the musty mattress, a wooden desk covered with a plastic tarp, a tin cup, a small piece of brick, a newspaper, and a bucket sitting against the wall. He knew what the bucket was for, and his fastidious nature made him wince.
He heard footsteps and quickly faced the door, his spine straight as a ramrod.
Two guys burst in, one the goombah who had done the previous manhandling. Fraser hesitated, but with both hands tied behind him, there wasn't much he could do but let them grab his arms. A third man entered, dressed in a dark suit and carrying a telephone, dragging the cord behind him. He was thin, balding, with wisps of grey hair slicked back over the high dome of his head.
"Greetings, Constable. My, my." The man made a show of looking him up and down. "That suit of yours certainly is red."
Fraser stared forward without responding. Obviously, they knew he was a Mountie, so the jibe about his uniform could be nothing more than that—an effort to provoke. And if hours of standing outside the consulate had taught him nothing else, it was how not to react, no matter the circumstance.
He suddenly missed his hat.
"My name is Raskin," the man said, taking a small bow. "I imagine you are wondering why I invited you here today."
Fraser had to suppress a reflexive raising of his eyebrow at the man's word choice.
"You see, I would like your friend, Detective Vecchio, to do a little favor for me."
Ray. Fraser's heart lunged upward, threatening to choke him. He'd been trying desperately not to think of Ray, or where he might be. That they might have taken him, as well, perhaps to another room right next door.
Raskin stared at Fraser keenly. "I assure you, he has no idea as yet that you are with us. But I need this favor, and seeing as it's well known he isn't on the cuff, I thought I'd use a different brand of persuasion." Raskin jerked his head. "So," he said crisply, "let us begin."
He nodded at the goombah, who pushed Fraser downward, leaning on him with his not-inconsiderable weight. After a brief struggle, Fraser found himself on his knees.
Raskin nodded with satisfaction. "Let's make a little phone call, shall we?"
"I won't," Fraser said in spite of his suddenly charging heart. "I cannot let you use me that way."
Raskin smiled. "Oh, but you will." Without a gesture from him, the goombah moved, and Fraser heard a snick and felt a pinch at his throat. He felt warmth seeping, trickling down, and had an urge to scratch at the trail of blood. Then the knife moved and hovered just below his eye.
And with that, Fraser knew he wouldn't be getting out of there alive.
Such a strange thing. How often had he risked his life without thought? How many times had he faced a gun or a knife, or the bleak winter eyes of merciless Nature? He'd so often been close to death that he almost felt friendly toward it, and yet always grateful for continued beating of his own heart.
But now, the fear was like something huge rising inside him, threatening to block his sight. Not fear of dying, but fear of failing in this final test.
Ray. His breathing quieted at the single word and the thousand images that came with it. Ray, his hazel green eyes squinting with laughter, his warm hand patting Fraser on the back, on the shoulder; the fondness in his tenor voice. The soft tone that called Fraser his friend. The trust of his open arms and rough hugs. The love—maybe not all that Ben could want, but more than he'd ever dreamed of having in his previously solitary life.
Fraser opened eyes he wasn't aware of closing, and met Raskin's with the peace that one name gave him.
Raskin's face grimaced with understanding. "No? We shall see." He shook his head at the goombah and then consulted a piece of paper in his hands before dialing the phone.
"Is this Detective Vecchio? Ah, yes. I have a friend of yours in my present care. A big, red friend, if you understand me? I'm afraid I have to ask a favor of you if you care to see him again in one piece."
Fraser heard the high, strident voice of his friend echoing tinnily from the headset. He had to suppress a painful smile.
"Detective, please! Such language. Wouldn't you like to say hello to your friend?"
Raskin approached with the phone. The goombah and his pal hauled Fraser back up to his feet, and the mouthpiece was held to his face.
"Hello?" Ray's voice was in his ear. Fraser pressed his lips together, meeting Raskin's eye.
Fraser felt the iron grip of the goombah clamping on his sore testicles. His eyes rolled up with the excruciating pain, and he could feel sudden cold sweat popping up along his hairline with the effort of not making a sound. The goombah shifted his grip and squeezed again, and Fraser started breathing harshly through his nose.
Then the hand twisted, and a muffled moan escaped from Fraser's lips.
"Benny? Oh, God, Benny!"
Failed. Failed him. How Ray had identified him from that single, small sound didn't bear thinking about. Not at all. Because it was enough. Ben had failed his friend.
"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser whispered, knowing they were his last words to Ray, wishing with all his heart he could add, I love you. But he couldn't give these evil men that much more of a possible lever over his friend.
"Christ, Benny—"
The phone was pulled away and Fraser was released to drop to his knees and curl around his abused genitals.
"Now, Detective, would you like to discuss our little deal?" Raskin turned toward the door, still talking.
The goombah shoved Fraser prone and leaned over him. He felt a prick in his neck and adrenaline rushed through him. What was that? What? Thought grew hazy immediately, and he wondered foggily if he'd ever wake up again.
His eyes closed, and the last thing he heard was the door clanging shut.
Failed him. Oh, Ray.
<<<<>>>>
He tossed with strange dreams and hallucinations; first, of Victoria, her hair like black silk, curling sensuously over his belly. He'd never felt anything like it before or since, or the sultry heat of her mouth, doing things to him he'd only read of in books.
But when she looked up, her eyes were dark pits, and he heaved himself away with revulsion, afraid to look inside. He spun into another dream, of his grandparents' cabin, the Dutch oven baking his back as he read yet another book. His grandmother had tsked at his choice in reading material this time—some cheap romance novel. She didn't know his secret—that he wasn't reading it out of prurient interest, but for those passages he found of the unspoken tenderness, the touch of hands over hearts.
His grandmother looked up from her desk and shooed him to bed. He forced himself to get up and approach her, daring even to lean over and brush his lips against her papery cheek. She looked startled, and frowned. The paper crackled, and suddenly he saw the lines on her skin were words, written in fine, tiny print.
She pushed him away with a stick-like arm. Ben bowed his head and went to his cot, his sheets smelling of musty paper and leather bindings.
He was alone.
<<<<>>>>
Fraser swam back into awareness slowly, with great effort
It was night. Which meant he had slept the entire day under the influence of the drug. He spared a thought to wonder where Ray was and what he was doing. The thought hurt so much Fraser almost retreated back into unconsciousness.
But he had a duty, even if it wasn't clear in this context. He just knew he couldn't give up.
The first order of business was to remove his bindings. They hadn't taken his serge coat, for which he was grateful, because unknown to his captors, a Mountie's jacket meant survival.
He eased his rear end through his arms and got his bound hands in front of him, then dug in the lining for the small knife sewn into the hem of his coat. It was simple work to remove the blade and sever the ropes binding his wrists. He stood, rubbing them absently as he continued his interrupted survey of the tiny room.
Now that his hands were free, he could move the table over to the wall so he could stand on it and look out of the tiny windows. They were just above ground level. He saw a dim courtyard, and then more buildings. It looked like some sort of abandoned plant or factory. Breaking the windows and calling for help would be fruitless.
He jumped down from the table and rotated his arms, relishing his freedom from the ropes. At least, if they came back, he could 'go out swinging' as Ray might have put it.
But Fraser didn't imagine that they would be back. Now that he had betrayed his identity to Ray, they didn't need him for anything but insurance, and for that, they only needed him alive for a few days. The fact they hadn't brought him food or water in the day he had been here was a telltale sign they had no intention of keeping him alive.
Probably, once they had what they wanted, or even if they didn't succeed, they would just let him die of thirst.
No, they wouldn't be back, but Fraser had absolutely no doubt that Ray would come. He believed it with a fierceness that was totally unquestioning. He believed it like gravity.
His duty was now clear: he had to be alive when Ray finally did come.
A glimmer of memory edged into his mind and he relaxed, letting it come, coaxing it from the shadows. A book he had read once—been fascinated by—of survival strategies. He'd glanced only briefly at the section on enduring the snow and cold, confident of his own abilities in that regard, but had soaked up with fascination information on fending off wild crocodiles, or dealing with snakebites.
And surviving in the desert. The illustration stood clear in his mind of a contraption that was useful for reclaiming water from one's own waste. A sheet of plastic, some sand, some sun, a stone and a cup were all that was needed.
He didn't have any sand, but the bucket would function, and the tarp was coated in plastic. He retrieved some of the loose chunks of brick from the corner of the room. They'd removed his larger knife from his belt, but he still had his flint, and burning the mattress would supply heat.
Fraser got to work assembling the pieces. He was aware of his ready thirst, and it only grew more acute as he labored, tearing out the inside of the mattress for burning, setting the bucket on top.
He relieved himself in the bucket, then broke off a small piece of the brick by slamming it onto the floor. He carefully positioned the larger piece in the center of the bucket, then put the cup on top of it, covering the entire thing with a square piece of tarp. In the center, right above where the cup lay beneath, he dropped the small piece of brick to weigh down the tarp into a shallow point.
Now, heat. Using the flat handle of his knife, he unscrewed a bracket from the table and flicked sparks into the thick mattress stuffing until it caught.
Immediately, the rising smoke made him aware of a flaw in his plan, and he hurried to retrieve another chunk of brick, wrapping it in his jacket to smash open one of the windows.
He stood on the table, the cool air hitting his face, reminding him of freedom and forcing a sudden surge of claustrophobia, the strongest he'd felt since moving to Chicago, where it had taken him some time to acclimate to sleeping indoors. Now, he was truly stuck inside, and the knowledge made him reach for the bars of the window helplessly.
That wouldn't do. Fraser shook himself and dropped down, quickly checking on his condenser, as he'd come to think of it. His fire was burning merrily now, the smoke rising up to swirl through the broken window. He had a vague, silly hope that someone would see his smoke signal.
The contraption worked just as advertised, the water slightly steaming and condensing on the undersurface of the tarp to run down and drip, drip, drip into the tin cup. Every tink of water was like a note in a song of survival. Fraser checked on the progress occasionally, watching the cup fill slowly, his heart heavy with hope.
Funny, he'd never thought of hope as being heavy, before. Or, at least, the only time he'd felt it so was when Ray had been shot saving his life, and the endless wait while Ray was in surgery had had this same weighty quality.
After a while, the cup was almost full, and Fraser carefully removed it, then drank the tepid water down swiftly. It tasted slightly of plastic from the tarp. It tasted like victory.
He quickly put it back and continued with the process until most of his waste had been reclaimed. Then he put out the fire, and curled up on the remains of his mattress.
He dreamed of the open sky.
<<<<>>>>
The next morning there was more water in his cup, a couple of bare swallows, which he downed quickly. He relieved himself, and then took care of the distasteful process of disposing of his solid waste, wrapping it in newspaper and hurling it as far as he could between the bars and out into the courtyard.
He activated his condensing mechanism again, this time with assurance and something like smugness. But his enthusiasm quickly faded as the day wore on and he had to continue with his labor, one ear always trained toward the door in case Raskin should decide to return.
And Fraser was bored. As a remedy, he daydreamed for a while, sifting through recent memories of cases they'd taken on since their recovery from their gunshot wounds. Every memory was a reminder he might not ever have an opportunity to make any more with Ray, but he couldn't help thinking about it. After a while, the direction of Fraser's thoughts mutated to what he might say if, indeed, Ray found him in time.
It was difficult not to let himself fantasize a joyous reunion, one in which his surfeit of feeling might give Fraser the freedom he'd never felt to express his painful new emotions toward his friend.
But even as he fantasized about it, he knew he was incapable of taking action. Fraser had never had any illusions about his own inadequacies when it came to connecting with other people on an intimate level. He'd long since given up trying, and if Victoria hadn't returned and forced the issue after he'd walked her to the hotel, he would have let her go without ever having known the taste of her lips, or the feel of her touching him, an experience he was still having difficulty shaking, in spite of all that came after.
How he'd thirsted for it.
He removed the cup from within the bucket, drank the contents, and damped out the fire yet again. From his reading, he knew the best place to keep his water supply was within his own body, but it was time to sleep.
As near as he could calculate, he'd been imprisoned for fifty-two hours.
<<<<>>>>
He lost count somewhere along the fourth day. Hunger had made him sluggish and weak, and at one point, clumsy—he lost half the contents of his cup while removing it from the bucket.
He knew he was losing moisture to evaporation, because every time he relieved himself there was less and less. He was thirsty all the time, and took to lying down while watching the mattress pieces smolder.
Speaking of mattresses, he was lying on an almost empty shell of material, and soon would have to try to break up the table for kindling. The thought made him weary beyond belief, but he struggled to his feet, determined to do it while he still had the strength.
When he was finished, he slept some more.
The days passed in cycles of waking, tending his contraption, and lying on the mattress casing on the cold cement, either asleep or panting shallowly. Hunger was a constant, gnawing beast in his belly. He no longer had to relieve himself often at all, and the pitiful output wasn't worth trying to reclaim, although he kept trying, if only for the few drops of moisture at the bottom of the cup, just enough to wet his parched lips.
When the day came that he tried to struggle to his feet and failed, he knew it was time. He dragged the newspaper over to him, and with a shaky hand he pulled his pen from his pouch and scribbled some words on the margin of the top sheet.
Once his final task was complete, Fraser fell back into a delirious sleep. This time he dreamed he was trying to run, Diefenbaker beside him as they slogged through knee-high snow. It was Aqilluqqaaq snow, fresh and soggy, and he wondered why he didn't bend to scoop some into his mouth, because he was thirsty, so thirsty.
Suddenly the snow gave out to sidewalk, and his footsteps hastened. Now he was running fast, Dief barking joyously, and Fraser knew why he hadn't stopped. Because Ray was up ahead, waving at him, his sunglasses flashing so his eyes were like beacons.
But Fraser woke before he could reach him. His eyes were heavy, and he was reminded of the sleepiness that had overtaken him during the blizzard, when hypothermia had shut down most of his bodily functions, and sleep was like a welcome lover with warm arms.
He fought it, and struggled to open his eyes, because a noise had awoken him, the first he'd heard outside his own breathing since Raskin had left him to die.
If they came back now, they would find him a sorry challenge.
But instead of the scrape of a key in the lock, he heard a scrabbling sound. Familiar, so familiar. He was still trying to identify it when a muted whine and rough bark made his heart give a wild double-thump in his chest, enough to drive him to try to sit up, but his body failed him, and he sagged back down.
"Dief," he tried to say, but he couldn't make sound move past his swollen tongue.
Then he heard a frantic pounding.
"Benny? Benny, are you in there?" A muttered curse, and then more pounding.
And then gunfire. The sound made Fraser smile, the pull of his cheeks cracking his chapped lips. He could remember other occasions when Ray had vainly tried to shoot open a lock. In fact, Fraser couldn't ever remember a time when Ray had been successful in getting a door open that way.
Except this time. This time, with a grating rattle, the door suddenly burst open. Fraser turned his head and blinked furiously, but there was a fog in front of his eyes, so all he saw was an approaching blur of brown and white.
And then Diefenbaker was licking his temple, and Ray was grabbing him, hands rough on Fraser's cheeks.
"Oh, God. Benny! Benny, can you hear me? Benny!"
Speech was impossible, even if his mouth hadn't been dry as hundred year-old parchment, because Fraser's entire heart was wedged tight in his throat. So he nodded weakly, still blinking at the brown blur.
"Sweet Mary, thank you. Thank you. God, Benny." Ray's forehead was pressed against his, the newspaper on Ben's chest crackling between them.
"I found you. I found you."
Ben nodded, mouthing, I knew you would.
<<<<>>>>
He was still running along the sidewalk, but this time Ray was running next to him.
"I don't mean to be, you know, picky or anything, but where the heck are we going, Fraser?"
"It's just up there," Fraser said, pointing. It was a cabin, squeezed tight between two apartment buildings. A log cabin, right in the heart of Chicago. Fraser could make out the firm silhouette of the chimney and some smoke rising from the top. Snow was glistening on the roof, even though the rest of the city was in spring.
"I don't see it, Benny," Ray said.
"It's right there, Ray." Fraser picked up his pace. The wind caught his eyes, blurring his vision, and he stumbled to a halt.
He faced a vacant lot.
"But...it was right here!" Fraser turned helplessly, looking in every direction, trying to find the cabin. But around him were more apartment buildings, tall and gray. He spun to face Ray, who was looking at him sadly.
"Just a dream, Benny," he said.
Fraser stirred, tossing angrily.
"Just a dream," he heard repeated. Something was pinching the back of his hand, and he reached down to rub at it, but his fingers were blocked, then held.
"Don't mess with that, you need it."
"Huh?" His mouth was sticky, and he tried to wet his lips.
"You want some water? Yeah, I bet you do. Come on." Something pressed against his lips and slid into his mouth. Fraser sucked reflexively and was rewarded with cold water. He drank frantically until he was pulling nothing but air.
"Easy, easy." Ray laughed, the sound like rough music.
"Ray?" Fraser's voice was a harsh rasp.
"Yeah, it's me, dummy. Who else d'you think?"
Fraser opened his eyes wider, struggling to see. Hanging above him was Ray's split grin, white against his olive cheeks. His eyes were liquid.
"I'm happy to see you, Ray," was all Ben could come up with. Polite nicety. He had nothing else in him, the dream still hanging heavy on his heart.
But Ray laughed with delight. "I'm happy to see you, too, Benny. So happy, you have no idea. You really scared me, you know that?"
Fraser squinted, looking closer and noting the shadow on Ray's usually impeccably-shaven cheeks, and the dark smudges painted under his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Ray."
Ray blinked, and turned away, clearing his throat. "I don't know what for. Listen..." He turned back slightly. "I have to go tell the doc you're awake. I promised I'd let 'em know as soon as you were. Be right back."
He hastened out the door.
"Well, son, you sure do get yourself into some fine messes."
His father.
"Oh, now you show up," Ben said in a rusty voice. "Where were you when I was half dead?" He couldn't keep the petulance from his voice.
"Dead? That wasn't dead. This is dead." His father tapped his chest proudly. "You weren't even close."
Fraser was indignant. "I was so! You just always have to be better at everything."
"Well, of course! I am your father, after all."
"Lucky me." Fraser tried to reach for the pitcher on the side table, but it was three fingers two far. He fell back with a grunt. "Could you hand me that?" He joked weakly.
"You know I can't." There was something mournful in his father's voice, and Ben's eyes darted over to him.
"I know. It's okay."
"I would've helped you if I could've," his father continued, sounding abashed.
"I know," Fraser repeated.
"Know what?" It was the doctor, or at least Fraser assumed it was, since the man was wearing a white coat and dangling a stethoscope. His father was gone.
"That I'm lucky to be alive," Fraser said, since he figured those would be the next words out of the doctor's mouth.
"You are, indeed. Now let's see how well you came out of this."
The examination was brief. Fraser was admonished to take in as many fluids as he could, rest as much as possible, and eat the special high-nutrient meals the hospital would be providing. The doctor told him he would be released the next day, barring any complications.
Fraser thanked him politely for his time.
"Oh, and your friend is waiting outside. I suggest you convince him to get some rest, himself. It looks like he could use it."
But the first thing Ray did as he came back in was pull up the chair and plop himself down as if he planned to stay a while.
"How're you feeling?"
"Thirsty," Fraser replied. He smiled a little at the graceless haste Ray exhibited in jumping up to pour him some more water.
Fraser drank it down, and another cup. He thought maybe he would always be thirsty.
Looking up at Ray's big, doleful eyes pretty much confirmed it.
Now was the time when Fraser would give anything to have just one ounce of the freedom Ray seemed to have in expressing his emotions. Because all those crazy fantasies from his time in the tiny room were fluttering at the edge of his vision, taunting him. Fantasies of reaching out, and grabbing Ray's hand, and telling him, once and for all...
"How did you find me?" Fraser winced as he asked, but Ray didn't seem to see it.
"Diefenbaker, of course. Well, with a little help." Ray eagerly recounted the tale, how Dief had tracked the car as far as the outskirts before losing the scent. How Ray had followed the back-trail of the kidnapper's demand. Ray was supposed to make a piece of evidence conveniently disappear out of the locker in order to get a case thrown out for a wise guy it turned out Raskin was working for. Instead, Ray went straight to Welsh. The department obviously couldn't give in to the demand, but they threw everything at the case. Thatcher also brought in her intelligence resources, and together they identified Raskin as the mastermind, and from there it was a matter of tracing dummy corporations to properties and then letting Dief loose on the ones closest to the lost trail.
It had taken them six days, and they'd had no communication from the kidnappers after the last failed bid for more time.
Ray cleared his throat and reached into his jacket, pulling out a mug shot.
"Raskin," Fraser said.
Ray nodded. "We've got him in custody on a holding charge. Now I guess we'll be loading a couple of other charges on his ass." His voice was as cold as the winter wind.
"Thank you," Fraser said. His throat still sounded like a bad hinge, and Ray winced and offered him some more water. Fraser drank greedily.
Ray said hesitantly, "You gonna tell me what it was like for you?"
What it was like. Fraser felt like he had traveled far away. The hospital room, Ray, the doctor, they all felt like another one of his dreams. And his dreams...somehow felt more real. Part of him wanted to go back to them, especially the one with Ray waving, waiting for him.
Only, Ray was right here. And he was waiting for him to answer.
Fraser took a deep breath. His lungs hurt for some reason, and he coughed, the force of it burning his throat, which made him cough again, more harshly. Finally, the spasms stopped and he sank back.
Ray had risen and was hovering over him, looking anxious. He laid his hand on Fraser's chest.
Curious. It didn't feel heavy at all. Ray's hand was as light as leaves.
"Ray," Ben began, and then it happened again—his throat locked up like a door between his mouth and the words that wanted so badly to come.
"Yeah, Benny?" Ray said softly.
Fraser shook his head with despair. "Tired," he said. A cheap out.
Ray nodded reluctantly. "Okay. You get some rest."
"You, too, Ray. Please?"
Ray nodded. He patted Fraser once, lightly, and left.
<<<<>>>>
They let him out the next day, and Ray took him home. Dief greeted him at the door with some frantic woofs, accepted a quick hug, and then shook him off and headed toward the kitchen and his bowl. His tongue lolled greedily.
"I see you have your priorities right in line," Fraser said caustically.
Ray laughed and went to feed Dief while Fraser moved slowly around his apartment. He'd never expected to see it again. It felt smaller, somehow, and he opened all the windows, letting in as much air as he could.
"I have to get to work. We've got a case to build against Raskin. You gonna be okay?"
"Yes, Ray. I'll be fine." It almost wasn't a lie.
"Get some rest. I'll be back in a few hours."
Once Ray was gone, Fraser shuffled aimlessly for a little while, putting small things in order, before the walls pressed in on him a little too closely, and he motioned Dief out for a walk.
It took Fraser at least five minutes to get out of the building. Each one of his neighbors seemed to want to stop him to welcome him back. By the end he was sweating hard, the narrow corridors making him breathless, and he escaped with his panic barely under control. He walked down to the nearest park and took off his shoes to sink his feet into the grass. Dief headed for the hot dog vendor, and Fraser politely averted his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the wolf's transgression.
Fraser broke out of his daze to find the sky had darkened. Dief had long since curled next to him, his nose on his paws but his eyes still watchful and alert. Suddenly, Fraser felt incredibly tired, and he shuffled back home.
The apartment still felt too closed in. Fraser took one look at the cot and knew he couldn't possibly sleep on it. Instead, he grabbed his blanket and bedroll and opened the window to crawl out onto the fire escape. He stared up at the slot of sky between the buildings, and gradually his heart slowed to calm, steady beat.
He didn't dream.
"Benny? Ben?" There was panic in Ray's voice, and then a whuff and the click of Dief's paws. Fraser opened his eyes to see Dief hanging out the open window.
"I'm here, Ray," Fraser said. He rose and climbed in through the window.
"Jesus, don't do that." Ray moved toward him quickly.
"Do what? Sleep outside?"
"Don't disappear on me."
Ray's voice sounded broken, and Fraser stared at him in surprise.
Ray refused to back down. "I mean, Jesus, Benny, I just got you back..."
"I'm sorry, Ray." Fraser's own voice was hoarse.
"Yeah, you've been saying that a lot." Now Ray sounded almost angry.
"But I am. I don't mean to...I—" He caught the words just in time.
Ray moved one step closer.
Fraser backed away. He could feel his pulse ticking frantically in his throat. "Ray..." he said, uneasy.
"Why don't you try singing a different tune for a while," Ray said quietly.
It was hard to swallow with his throat still so dry. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." Ray reached into his pocket and came out with a piece of paper. It was curled tight, and he unrolled it, his eyes locked on Fraser's. "Like what you wrote here."
Fraser looked down at the strip of newspaper. Oh. He had forgotten about it. He'd forgotten all about it, and now Ray had it. And he knew. He knew.
The ticking had turned into a hammer, echoing the pounding in his chest. He couldn't speak, could only stare into Ray's wide green eyes.
"Maybe if you read it to me." Ray held it out. Too far. Fraser had to take a step forward, so he took it. Then another. The paper dropped into his palm like a falling feather. Fraser looked down.
Ray, I'm sorry. I tried. I love you.
"I love you," Ben whispered, repeating the most important part. The words that had come out when he had no strength left to stop them. He steeled himself and looked up.
Ray was smiling. A huge smile, the generous lips stretching wide.
"No, but—" Fraser started, and he wasn't allowed to finish, because Ray's hand was back, resting lightly, this time on his lips, stopping him.
"Don't screw it up," Ray admonished.
Fraser nodded. He could feel the heat of Ray's fingers, burning. Then the heat of Ray's lips on his, even hotter, but moist and sweet, like clear water. Like nothing he had ever tasted.
He heard himself moan, and the sound made embarrassing heat rise along his neck until his ears tingled. The rush of blood made him feel faint, and he staggered. Ray's arms came around him, holding him up, and he broke the kiss.
"Shit, I'm sorry. I forgot." Ray guided him toward the bed, and Fraser sat quickly, his legs like overcooked linguini.
He panted a little. Ray moved away and came back holding a glass of water.
"Here, drink this."
Fraser drank. He thought Ray's lips tasted better. He wished he could say it.
"I shouldn't have hit you with this so soon," Ray said, sounding remorseful. "I'm sorry."
"You keep saying that," Fraser said. He couldn't stop the smile, especially when Ray gave him a reproachful look.
"Funny guy." But now Ray was smiling, too. It broke over his face like clearing clouds.
Ben's heart made that odd thump again, and he took a shaky breath. His body was trembling, but he couldn't say if it was the dehydration or the soaring joy.
Ray's smile faded into a look of concern. "You look...you'd better rest, huh, Benny?"
"No, I—"
"Seriously. This'll keep, won't it?" Ray's eyes pleaded with him. He looked so tired. And it was all Fraser's fault.
"All right, Ray."
Ray smiled and pushed him down on his pallet, then strode off to retrieve his blanket from the fire escape. Fraser watched Ray return, the blanket in his hands, an uncharacteristically timid look on his face.
Ben moved over on his bed, making room.
The smile broke again, quick as lightning, and Ray dropped the blanket on him then stripped down to his undershirt and boxers. Fraser averted his eyes. It was too much, too soon.
He was apprehensive, too, because he wasn't sure he could sleep inside. The walls wanted to cage him. But he couldn't ask Ray to join him on the fire escape. So he waited, his heart still beating too rapidly, until Ray slipped in beside him.
And strangely, having Ray next to him somehow made it better.
Ray shuffled around, brushing against him, and then he leaned on one elbow, looking down at him. Fraser looked up to see the deep eyes shining.
"Just in case you were wondering, I love you, too, Benny."
And when Ray put his arms around him, they were as wide as the sky.
..................
2007.01.19
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Date: 2008-08-27 11:44 pm (UTC)