Unfamilliar Ceiling
Authors Notes: For the sake of argument, assume that Victoria's Secret happened towards the end of the Second Season, so Thatcher and Turnbull are around. This story is set somewhere after the first few scenes of Letting Go, and is full of continuity errors and angst. Forgive me, its only the second piece of fic I ever wrote!
Three days. Three days, and still Francesca could not sleep. She was exhausted, sure, but when she finally closed her eyes her dreams were tortured, twisted realities and all featured the same face. Fraser. How close had he come to losing him, to that woman? She could barely bring herself to speak her name.
Victoria. Fraser had loved her, loved her in a way Francesca had feared she could never compete with. Beautiful, dark haired, dark eyes, china-pale skin and full lips that promised so much. Jealousy was a terrible thing and no one knew it as well as Francesca did, lying awake in her cousin’s bed, unable to return to her own for fear of the past.
Why do I love him so much?
Because I can’t have him, she realised. Because he’s out of my reach. Victoria had him, used him, and I hate her for that. But Fraser loved her and I will never get past that. She tried to destroy him, she set up him and Ray, and didn’t care, but he still loved her. They shared a night together I can never imagine.
I want him to love me like that.
Rolling over and pulling the duvet with her, Francesca stared out at the night through the window, curtains swept to one side. Stars in the sky overhead, the same stars that looked down on Fraser, the same darkness that enveloped Victoria as the train had taken her away. His face when she closed her eyes, the sound of the gunshot she had never heard in her ears.
I don’t want to lose him. What if I lose him?
Don’t let him die, she prayed, to anyone listening. I couldn’t stand that. And Ray . . . he couldn’t cope if Fraser died. I never realised how much Fraser means to us, to the whole family, and now we may lose him and I never got to tell him . . . I never got to tell him how much I love him. I wish I could have protected him, could have taken Ray’s bullet, could have pulled him down when Victoria lifted him up. I wish I could turn back time and make everything alright again.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
*
It was not uncommon for Welsh to still be in his office late into the night, and he had never seen quite so much paperwork as had been connected to this one case. One of his own officers, a friend, under investigation, case pending. Another friend and colleague, a man he had thought invulnerable, lying in a hospital bed, destroyed by a woman and a stray bullet. Physically and emotionally, Fraser would never be the same. Neither would Ray.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Leaning back in his chair, Welsh stretched out his legs beneath the desk and stared up at the ceiling. Life as a police officer had seemed so simple, back in those far off days of the Academy. How could things change so much, how could life get so complicated? Watching his men die, men whose lives he had taken responsibility for as soon as he had accepted this role, men who were his friends, whom he trusted and relied upon. Gardino. Fraser. True, the constable wasn’t one of his own men, but although he had at first loathed the appearance of the Mountie in his station house and the trouble he brought, he couldn’t imagine life without him.
Things aren’t as black and white as I first thought.
There were the good guys, and the bad guys. It didn’t take a cadet long to realise that being a cop wasn’t a matter of being good. You were simply a line, a line drawn to protect the innocent from the guilty. There was no good, no right or wrong. And then he’d met Fraser, and his faith in the basic honesty of humanity had been restored. After all he’d seen Fraser do and say, the idea of a woman hating him so much, willing to risk everything for revenge, shocked Welsh more than he cared to admit.
And then there was Ray. Vecchio, one of his best cops. It was one thing to be betrayed by an ex-con, quite another to be betrayed by a friend, to then shoot that friend in the back. Watch him die. Maybe not physically, but Welsh had seen that haunted look in Vecchio’s eyes, the same haunted look in the eyes of any cop after losing a partner. The grief from the loss of a friend. Fraser had been someone to believe in, had restored Welsh’s faith in humanity - he had the habit of doing that to everyone he met. Just a brief ‘thank you kindly’ and you found yourself singing Julie Andrews hits and smiling far too much. Welsh had barely spoken to Ray after the shooting - Vecchio had been silent most of the way to the hospital - but once, sitting in the hospital, he had said softly:
He lied. Fraser lied to me. I don’t know him anymore.
And Welsh had turned away, hating himself for silently agreeing.
*
Constable Meg Thatcher lay back on the couch of the Consulate, and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn't often that she slept in her office, preferring the comfort of her own bed to the austere confines of her conference room, but over the past few hours the paperwork and questions had been too much, and she found herself unable to go back home. At least here there was work, something to distract her from other thoughts. Thoughts of Fraser, of that badly dressed detective Vecchio.
She kept reliving the phonecall in her mind. Welsh's voice down the other end, strangely familiar yet unplaceable. She'd only met him a few times, and had a poor memory for American faces. The same could not be said of her deputy liaison officer . . .
"There's been an accident."
Her voice, anxious, despite her attempts to control the slight tremor when she answered. "Constable Fraser . . ?"
"He's been shot. They've taken him to Mercy but . . ."
She stopped listening at the 'but.' Never heard Welsh explain about Victoria, or at least the little he knew. Of how Fraser had been apparently set up, of diamonds and dirty money and train stations. Sat there, alone in her room with Turnbull outside the door, eavesdropping. When she had finally replied her voice was steady; more than could be said for the hand that gripped the receiver, knuckles white.
"How is he?"
"No one's saying anything. You now how doctors are. They've taken him into the operation theatre, but they're not certain they can remove the bullet."
"I'm sure they're doing the best they can." What if they couldn’t? Shot in the back - what if he was paralysed, or worse . . . what if he . . ?
"Thank you for contacting me Lieutenant. You will let me know if there is any change?"
"Of course."
And then she had hung up, and sat back in her chair for a second. Still hadn't moved. Staring up at the ceiling, wishing she could go back on past regrets, on all the things never said, on all the things she had said.
The Dragon Lady.
Did they really think she hadn't heard the nickname? Didn't they realise how it hurt, hurt to hear Vecchio refer to her as that? Sharp and spiteful, bossy, cold, or worse, she'd heard all the names. Here was one man who had apparently seen through it all, seen past the walls into the woman she wanted to be, warm and affectionate and loving. He had tried to reach out and touch her, and she had taken his hand and slapped him back, again and again and again. Driven him into the ground until he was gone from her, lost to this woman, to the love he wanted and she could not give.
"How could I hurt him?" she asked herself, aloud. "After all the things I did and he never said a word. Am I really that cruel?"
She hated herself with a passion. Hated Ray even more. Vecchio had shot Fraser, shot the only man she had ever thought about loving, but who had been beside the Mountie when he was dying, lying on that station, rushed through into ER? And where was she? Answering phonecalls, demands from her superiors, asking questions and disliking the replies, clearing Fraser's name from any possible guilt and explaining his actions to the ones above, finding more out about Fraser than she had ever wanted to know.
She had never thought she could hurt so much. She was so afraid, and couldn't express it, a prisoner of walls she had built by hand.
Dropping her face into her hands, Meg Thatcher began to cry.
Across the city from the Consulate, in a small hospital room reeking of disinfectant and drooping flowers, Ray Vecchio shivered. He was cold, despite the warmth of the room and the blanket that some kindly nurse had decided to donate. He had not left the hospital in three days. His mother had insisted, Welsh had insisted, Francesca had insisted, even the various doctors and nurses passing though the corridors had insisted, but he had refused.
I'm not going to leave you. I swear, Benny, I'm not going to leave you.
It had been a shock, at first. Sitting in the waiting room for so many hours, Welsh beside him, hearing the clatter of heels against tiles, the scrape of trolleys and wheelchairs, the smell of antiseptic permeating everything. He had refused to think about anything at first, still trying to deal with the concept that Benny might die, and it would be all his fault. And then the nurse had arrived and told him that the operation was over, that he could see his friend if he wished, if only for a short while. He had rushed into the room and then just stood there, numb with horror. Fraser, so vulnerable, hooked up to drips and breathing monitors and blood pressure monitors and other equipment Ray couldn't even start to identify, face pale as the thin sheet which covered him. And Ray had thought only one thing.
I did this to you. Oh God, I did this to you. Forgive me.
Welsh had left, left him to be alone. Pulling up a chair, Vecchio had seated himself beside Fraser and reached out to take his friend's hand, still and cold in his touch. And he had cried, tears spilling over the sheets, silent sobs wracking his body until he could stand it no longer, falling into uneasy sleep, his head resting on the mattress.
He did not sleep for very long. There were dreams, Victoria's face, Fraser, the scene on the train station, the sound of the shot. Every time he wanted to reach out and stop his past self from pulling the trigger, or tried to knock Fraser to the ground and take the bullet for him, but something thick and slow weighed down his feet and he couldn't get there in time. Fraser had fallen, and he could do nothing to stop it happening over and over and over again.
When he had awoke he looked even worse then ever. A nurse had entered the room, concern on her face, saying she had heard someone cry out. He denied it, and she had seemed to accept this. But she had returned a few minutes later, bearing a cup of hot coffee and the blanket that was now draped around his shoulders. Gradually, a 'short while' turned into several hours, and then a day, and now three, and Ray was still sat here, unwashed and in need of a shave, pale and shadowed and thin beneath Armani.
Ma had arrived at some point. He had only then remembered about the house, and started apologising, babbling insanely. She had reached out and taken him into a hug, the sort he remembered from his childhood when his father had beaten him for being late, warm and comforting, managing to dissolve all other worries with a simple gesture of maternal love.
" The house doesn't matter. My poor Raimondo." And she spoke to him in Italian, whispered words into his ear he had long forgotten.
He had seen Franny. She stood by the entrance to the hospital room, watching Fraser sleep, but never came in. Ray looked up at her and she had given him a sweet, sad smile, then left as silently as she had arrived.
Odd, for Franny to be silent. He expected tears from her, floods of them, and possibly hysterics, but maybe he had underestimated the extent of her feelings.
There was a slight stirring of the covers. Ray leaned over to see if Fraser was awake, but the Mountie's eyes only flickered slightly. Another nightmare, he wondered, touching his friend's hand in a gesture of comfort. There had been many, too many, and Ray had sat there unable to do or say anything, but wanting so much more.
I want to take you pain away. All of it, all that I've done, all that she did to you. I want to take away the past, take you out of here, make everything like it was. There's so much I wanted to say to you, so much I owe you.
I owe you my life. I may have taken yours away.
There was anger. He couldn't deny it. There was pain, and grief, but bubbling beneath the surface was resentment. He had believed in this man, trusted him, bonded, shared something he had with no other. He was willing to sacrifice his career, possibly even his freedom, for Fraser and a second chance. And yet then, on the train station, he had tried to go with her.
Was there really a gun? How could he be sure that he hadn't purposefully imagined the weapon? Had he shot just to ensure Fraser wouldn't leave him, to save his home and his family and his own fear of loneliness? After all that Victoria had done Fraser still loved her, had been willing to overlook everything to be with her, but Ray had taken that away from him. But what if Fraser had gone, what if he had left with Victoria, could Ray ever forgive him for considering that?
To many ifs.
Closing his eyes, Ray tried to think about the past, before Victoria. About the moment when he had first met Constable Benton Fraser, how that meeting had almost got him killed.
"This was a mistake."
Fraser glanced downwards quickly, couldn't meet his eyes. "Yes."
Ray had not understood then the full implications of what Fraser meant. He had been referring to entering the flat, for falling into such a stupid trap, for almost killing the Mountie. But Fraser meant something more, beyond that simplicity.
"A mistake."
Their meeting. Partnering up with each other, working together. Even then Benny had blamed himself, and Ray had been too slow to see it. So many hours in a hospital bed, staring at a ceiling not too dissimilar to the one above his head now, he had realised what Fraser meant and had cursed himself for his own stupidity. That was why he had gone after him, trekked up North to go risk his neck - yet again - for a man he barely knew.
"Fraser?"
He gripped his friend's hand tightly, afraid of letting go.
"Benny, I'm sorry. I'm so . . ." he trailed off, unable to form words, his mouth suddenly dry. So . . . so what? So afraid of losing you? So afraid you won't forgive me? So afraid that it's too late.
Fraser stirred once more, moaning softly as he shifted beneath the sheets. Ray swallowed hard and wished that there was something he could do, hated himself for his helplessness.
"Benny? Benny, I’m so sorry."
Silence. Fraser seemed to settle down a little, and Ray allowed himself to relax. As he reached over to adjust the blanket he felt a rustle of paper in his breast pocket. The letter.
Pulling it out from his jacket he studied it for a moment, the neat handwriting, betraying none of the Mountie's real emotions. Opening it up, he read the words he knew almost by heart, fingers tightening around his friend's hand.
Ray,
I love her. I was wrong before, I made such a terrible mistake. And I don't want to make it again.
She's going to kill me. I think she really does love me, but she can't forgive me for what I did. I don't blame her.
I'm sorry for everything. About the house, our argument, your snooker night . . . everything.
Take care of Dief. Tell Francesca . . .
And then the note trailed off, a scrawl signifying Fraser's signature, reflecting his panic, his fear. He never intended to go with Victoria, not until that last moment. But he had thought he would die, that she would kill him and he didn't seem to care.
That was what made Ray angry. As though Victoria was the only thing that mattered, as though she were everything. He was jealous, and hated the feeling, burning within him.
But none of it mattered anymore. Fraser wasn't going to die, he told himself. He was going to pull through, and regain his strength, and move on from Victoria, and Ray was gong to be there to help him. It was the only way he knew how to make up for all he had done.
"Please forgive me. I never meant to hurt you."
Another pause. The sheets moved gently, as Fraser shifted slightly, moving his arms against the loose restraints of the bed. Ray reached out, took his hand once more in his own, blinked back fresh tears.
"I need you, Benny. You can’t leave me. I did a stupid thing and if I were you, I’d never forgive me, and I don’t care. I just want you back."
An unfamiliar ceiling.
Fraser stared up at the ceiling above him, and frowned. He couldn’t remember where he was - couldn’t remember if he was supposed to know where he was - couldn’t quite remember why he seemed to ache all over, why there was a needle in his arm and bleeping machinery beside him. But he did remember something, something inexplicable, something he couldn’t touch.
Snowflakes. The train station. Victoria, ordering him to pick up the diamonds, and him refusing, taking her gun. Watching her leave, unable to stop her, unable to move, watching the train pull away from the station and knowing that this was it, this time there would be no return. No second chances.
Victoria?
He tried to speak and found he couldn’t, found he barely had the energy to move his head. Something touched his hand, something warm and oddly comforting. Ray.
Why are you here? I hurt you, I hurt you so badly . . . how can you ever forgive me?
I would have gone with her, he realised sadly. I would have left Chicago, left Dief, jumped bail and left the Vecchios homeless, left Ray alone, and all because of her. He closed his eyes and could still picture her face, just as he had seen her in that first dream, stood behind the glass in the snow, asking . . . asking why. Why had he betrayed her, that first time? Why couldn’t he have just followed his heart instead of his duty, and let her go?
I want you back. I miss you so much it hurts, and I wish I had never woken up, that Ray had done a more permanent job.
He couldn’t think that. He couldn’t. After all he had done, and never a thought for Ray. How must he be feeling, believing he had almost killed his best friend. Some friend. Willing to sacrifice everything over a woman. Victoria. She had set them up, framed them for murder, lied and cheated and was willing to kill the to get what she wanted. He hated her. And he loved her.
Hate. Love. That about sums it up.
He shifted slightly between the sheets, bit his lip to stop crying out when his back protested. His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white, but it was only an abstract feeling, observable. Not like the other.
I never knew anything could hurt so much. I want you, I want you back. How could you hurt me like this? How could you leave me?
He saw her through the window, saw the reflection of her face in the glass. Snowing again, ice flakes settling on her hair, on her shoulders. Such beautiful eyes, filled with tears, and he wanted so badly to reach out and touch her, to let her know everything was forgiven. Just to be with her, and pretend that none of the last few days had ever occurred. Her lips moved but he could not hear her voice, could barely make out the words: I’m sorry.
Come back to me. Don’t leave me alone. I love you - you can’t leave me. I should bee on that train, I should be with you. Please, don’t leave me alone . . .
"Benny?"
A reflection in the glass. His imagination. A dream. That’s all it was, all it had ever been. How could he love one woman so much, only to see her destroyed? Tears on her cheeks, still whispering sorry, fading into the night. He tried to reach out, to take her hand in his own, to take her in his arms just as he had done in his apartment, hug her, dry her tears.
Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone.
"Benny, I’m so sorry."
Another face. Pale skin, stubbled cheeks, dark eyes that told so much and betrayed so little. Hunched over so small, so afraid, reaching out to take a friend’s hand in his own.
"Please forgive me. I never meant to hurt you."
Not Victoria. Someone else, someone closer. The only person to ever, truly take away Fraser’s longing for home. His loneliness shared in this one man. An Italian detective with terrible dress sense and an equally flamboyant taste in cars, reaching out to touch a friend.
Closer than that.
"I need you, Benny. You can’t leave me. I did a stupid thing and if I were you, I’d never forgive me, and I don’t care. I just want you back."
Forgive you?
The hurt would never go away. The pain, the guilt, betraying the only woman he had ever loved, watching her return for revenge, to be so swept up in a single emotion that nothing else mattered except to be with her. And then betraying the only other person to ever get that close to the truth. Ray. Somehow it hurt less knowing that Ray was there, despite everything. Forgive him?
Forgive me.
Robert Fraser stood over the hospital bed and watched his son sleep. It was odd, he mused, after so many years alive and so many months dead he still couldn’t accept Benton as an adult, a man free to make his own decisions, his own mistakes. Except this was one mistake he might not survive. Unless . . .
There was always the Italian. He glanced at the detective, still holding his friend’s hand, looking decidedly haggard. Bob Fraser had never had much time for Americans, even an Italian American, but he couldn’t help admitting a grudging respect for the detective. And he was jealous too, jealous of the bond Vecchio had with Benton, a bond he had missed out on.
"I’m sorry," he said simply, trying to reach out to touch his son’s shoulder and then remembering he couldn’t. "I’m sorry I couldn’t be the father I should have been. I’m sorry I’m not here when you need me."
He gave Vecchio another glance. "But I think you’ll be okay. There a lot of people here who love you. They all want to protect you. They just have to realise that they can’t. That I can’t. Not anymore."
Fraser couldn't undo his mistakes, no matter how much he regretted the past. But there were people around him who cared, wanted to see more than anything a return to that familiar Canadian smile, and a 'thank you kindly.' And maybe that desire would be enough.
These characters are not mine, I only borrowed them and promise to put them back when I'm done! Comments appreciated.