Doris in Wonderland
Set some time in the third season. Not sure why I wrote it, but I was in a Kowalski mood. If you're wondering where the title is from, it's a rather obscure reference to another great show, Hill Street Blues. Comments are appreciated!
There had been a phone call. Fraser was working the late shift at the Consulate, finishing some paperwork, and was still awake when the call came in. Turnbull, head around the doorway, eyes blinking at him in that 'rabbit-caught-in-headlights' look.
"Sorry to disturb you sir, but there's been a phone call for you."
Fraser waited expectantly, but when nothing more was forthcoming prompted: "From whom?"
"Oh, ah, Lieutenant Welsh from the precinct. He said to tell you that there's been an accident, that you should go to the station house right away."
A slight hesitation before answering. "Did he say what was wrong?"
"Uh, no sir, he didn't. Would you like me to tell Inspector Thatcher where -"
"If you would."
"Understood." Turnbull stood up to attention, like an obedient puppy awaiting a biscuit. Fraser was half tempted to pat him on the head, but resisted the urge.
A taxi to the station house. It would take too long to walk, and Fraser couldn't wait, wasn't sure if he could make it the whole way before dissolving into panic. The message was to go to the station house, not Mercy, so he probably needn't be so worried, unless Mercy was too late . . .
Francesca caught him as he passed her desk, grabbed his sleeve. "Fraser!"
He glanced at her. "Ray -"
"He's okay. I mean, uh, you know, he's not hurt, or anything . . ." She ran her hand through her hair. "He's, uh, still in there." Gesturing vaguely towards Welsh's office, where the vague hint of spiky blonde hair could just barely be seen through the glass.
"What happened?"
"I'm not sure. I heard someone got shot. Ray was out trying to pick up this guy for the Stringer murders, y'know? Some guy called Stansfield."
The door to the office opened suddenly and Welsh stepped out, glanced across at Fraser, beckoned to him.
"Constable."
"Is Ray . . ." He paused, allowing Welsh to fill in the gap.
Welsh glanced back at the detective, who still sat on the couch with his head in his hands. Beckoning Fraser to move closer, he said softly:
"Vecchio was in a stand-off with a con named Stansfield. Some street kid ran out in front of them and Stansfield shot him. We can get him on manslaughter."
"Then the boy . . ."
Welsh gave a gentle shake of his head. "He was there when the boy, well . . . he's pretty cut up about it. I think you should go in there."
Another glance at Ray, then Fraser passed through into the room and sit next to his friend. Kowalski never reacted, continued staring at the floor, head in hands.
"Ray -"
"Welsh said I could go."
"I'll take you home."
"Uh-huh."
He stood up stiffly, shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets to hide the trembling. "The keys are on my desk."
"I'll get them."
It was a long trip to the car. Faces staring, then looking away, uncomfortable but sympathetic. Francesca, reaching out to touch Vecchio's arm briefly, a gesture of comfort, but there was no reaction. It was raining outside. The two men made it down to the car, where Fraser opened the passenger door for his friend to get in. Kowalski resisted.
"I can drive."
"I know, Ray, but . . ."
"I can drive!" he snapped. Moving around he took the driver’s seat, but waited for Fraser to climb in beside him.
Key turned, engine growling. The car pulled away from the station house and out onto the street. Fraser glanced at his friend, but Kowalski was stubbornly staring out of the window and refused to look his way.
"I’ll stay with you tonight. There should be someone with you."
He took it as a good sign that Ray didn’t protest, merely shrugging his shoulders wearily.
*
Arrival at the front door, followed by the curious looks from the landlady from behind net curtains. Kowalski fumbled with his keys, almost dropped them, then managed to unlock the door and pushed it open, stood in the entrance to his living room with a blank look. Empty eyes.
"Ray?"
He turned, looked up at his friend. "Thanks Benny. For coming home. Look, if you want me to pay for a taxi . . ."
Fraser couldn't hide his surprise. "I thought, maybe, you'd want someone to stay with you? I could sleep on the couch if you . . ."
"I'm okay." He said it roughly, then stepped indoors with an air of finality. "I'll, uh, see you tomorrow. At work."
"Lieutenant Welsh has given you a long weekend," Fraser reminded him.
"Yeah, well . . . then I'll see you. I'll phone you, maybe."
Then he stepped back, hand on the door. Fraser gave him another bemused look, but he ended up facing a door and silence.
*
Couldn't sleep. Even Turnbull had been surprised to see Fraser back at the Consulate, but none more so than Fraser himself. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, arms folded beneath his head, sound of the rain outside.
"Dad?"
No answer. Unsurprisingly. Funny how his father decided to turn up when ever he pleased. For a figment of the imagination, he could be awfully picky.
Stan.
*
Next day, and if Kowalski was in then he wasn't opening the door. Fraser went to the station house, but Welsh simply seemed surprised to see the Mountie, admitted he had no idea where the detective was.
"Isn't he with you?"
They expected Fraser to be there, to pick up the pieces, but Stan wasn't willing to let anyone in. There had been the time before, in the car, when he'd broken down into tears over Beth Boetrelle, but even then habitual reticence, on both sides, let their friendship down. Fraser wanted to be there for him, had been there, but only a comforting hand on the back, and nothing else. He hated himself, his inability to deal with emotion, both his and others. It had been the same with Ray, over Victoria, and then when Irene had died. Just that one-sided conversation in the hospital room and a promise of being there. Just in case.
No sign of him, or his car. This, Fraser decided, was a good sign. No call to Stan's parents, either; he didn't want them to worry unnecessarily. Fraser stood on the steps to the station house and suddenly realised he had no idea where Kowalski could be. If it was Ray, the real Ray, then he might look at the Vecchio home, or possibly at the church, but Fraser suddenly realised that he had almost no knowledge about where Ray might go. Not a crypt, not again.
And then he realised.
*
The most stupidly dumb place to choose to go, mostly full of young children no taller than Fraser's waist, and their doting parents. Fathers, mostly, teaching their young sons how to swing a bat. Late at night it was a place for taking out vent up oppression, but here, in the bright hours of a weekday morning, the baseball cages were a place for family fun, fatherly bonding.
Ray stood in one of the cages, alone, repetitively slamming ball after ball into the net ahead of him. The sound of the ball ricocheting off the metal mesh echoed around the concrete area, blended with the sound of laughter and giggling and mild scolding from around him. There was the smell of old chewing gum and sawdust, which rose in little clouds around his feet as he moved.
Another ball into the net. Fraser walked up the alleyway to stand behind his friend, chose not to enter the small cage. Invasion of personal space. Definitely personal.
"Ray?"
He never turned, as though expecting the Mountie's arrival.
"Fraser."
Another ball into the net.
Fraser opened the cage door and stepped through onto mushy wood chips and sand, still damp from the night before. "You weren't at home."
"Checking up on me?"
He didn't reply.
"Look, Frase, I appreciate the concern, but I'm just using up some suddenly spare time to practice my game. A guy can do that in peace, can't he?"
It hurt. Fraser blinked, started to back up. "Yes," he said simply, then was about to turn away.
Voices. Shouts, actually, raised above the background level. A child's voice, laughing, while his father recited baseball commentary on his son's game loudly and in a falsely nasal voice. Ray paused, his arm dropping, and he started to watch the father and son. The boy, Fraser estimated, must only have been about six or seven, and his father was equally young, suddenly sweeping his child onto his shoulders in celebration of victory.
A dull thud as the bat suddenly dropped to the floor. Fraser turned back, reached out to touch his friend on the shoulder.
"Ray," a whisper, "Hungry? We could go and get some lunch."
A vague nod. "Um, yeah. Okay."
*
They settled on sandwiches and doughnuts in the park, eventually. Kowalski found a bench with only one old woman on it, and something about his glare must have hinted a threat for she took off without a word. Fraser, for once, made no comment.
"Working the late shift again, Frase?"
"Actually, Inspector Thatcher has given me several days holiday. Since I've barely used any so far . . ."
"You thought you'd spend that time paying for my lunch?" Kowalski inspected his sandwich with tired suspicion. "I think you got done."
Fraser took a mouthful of what, the guy had assured him, was chicken. Judging from the taste, Fraser couldn't be sure if what was passing as meat had even seen a chicken, let alone once been one.
"They are, um . . ." He paused. "We could get something else."
"No, it's okay. I'm not really hungry anyway. Thanks for the thought." He dropped the paper bag into the bin beside him.
They sat in silence for a while, Fraser continuing to struggle through his lunch, and cautiously throwing glances in Kowalski's direction every so often. He hadn't realised in the baseball cage, assuming them to be simply part of the kit, but his friend was actually wearing gloves, thin leather ones that were tucked deep into his sleeves and hid all hint of human beneath. He chose to say nothing, deciding that if there was a reason other than the cold, then he would find out eventually. He hadn't shaved either, blonde stubble gracing his chin, and his shoulders were knotted beneath the coat.
"Ray." Said the name gently. "If you want to talk about things . . ."
"I'm okay," he reassured him. "It's just, that kid at the practice . . ." He changed the topic slightly. "Me and Stella always planned to have kids, you know. I mean, we never talked about it realistically, or at least I never did, and maybe that's why . . ." A slight pause. "We used to sit there, late at night, she'd lie in my arms and we'd choose names for them. We were going to have three, a boy and two girls. I can't remember all the names we thought about, they changed so often. But I always thought, you know, that I'd be a dad."
"And teach them baseball," Fraser prompted, evoking a slight smile from Kowalski.
"Yeah. Baseball. And dancing. Stella wanted them all to be 'fully rounded.' So our son could take his girlfriends to a dance, and our daughters would know how if they were ever asked. They were gonna be beautiful kids. The girls, they'd have Stella's eyes . . ."
Another pause. "I guess things don't always turn out the way you hoped they would."
"No." No argument there.
"Look . . . I should go."
Not yet.
"You have things to do?"
"Um, yeah, paperwork, you know . . . Thanks again for lunch." He stood up, and Fraser stood with him.
"Look, Ray . . ." Last chance. "If you want to talk about anything . . ."
"I'm fine." He gave him a tight smile. "Honestly, Fraser."
"Oh." He paused, glancing down at the grass. "Oh, um, Francesca invited you to a family dinner. Mrs Vecchio is cooking."
"Tell her thanks." A shuffle of feet. "Well, I'll see you around, Fraser."
And he turned, and started to walk away. Fraser sat back on the bench, studied the floor, and hated the silence.
*
A phonecall.
"Hey, Fraser! How are you?"
"I'm fine, thank you Francesca. Is Ray there?"
"Nope, 'fraid not. I've barely seen him. Been at his desk the entire time since he came back, filling in paperwork. I swear, there must be at least twelve months of work in there. Anyway, he's just gone to pick something up from Mercy. Something to do with a case, I'm not sure. Do you want me to leave a message?"
"No, thank you." It would only add to the small pile that was collecting in Kowalski's in-tray.
"Sorry I can't help." A small pause. "Stansfield . . . Huey and Duey are working on it. I know they can be idiots but they're good cops, and they're going to send him down for what he did. I just thought . . . well, you might want to know."
"Thank you, Francesca."
"See you."
The dialling tone, phone back on hook.
*
No answer. Two days since their brief lunch in the park, and still no answer. Not to the phonecalls, to the notes, to the reminders from Francesca. He had almost turned up to the station house, but decided last minute that it might seem as though he was watching Kowalski, as though he couldn't be trusted. Maybe he couldn't.
Raining outside his small room in the Consulate. Raining again, bouncing off the sidewalk, the air rumbling gently with the threat of an oncoming storm. But then, it was oddly warm in his father's office.
"You don't think he can handle this on his own?"
"I don't think he's handling it at all."
Fraser Snr considered this, lounging back in his chair. Snow outside the cabin, warm within the small wooden confines, the smell of smoke and pines in the air, strangely too real for what Fraser failed to believe was a dream.
"You're probably right. Considering his reaction to that kid in the baseball range . . ."
"You heard that?"
The ghost shrugged. "I always wanted to practise my batting arm.
Fraser raised his eyebrows. "You have never played baseball."
"Well, no. But that's why I need practice."
"And where would you find a team?"
"Oh, you know . . ." he shrugged. "The Inuit . . ."
Fraser shook his head disbelievingly. He stared into the flames of the hearth for a moment, listened to the wind outside.
"I'm not sure how to help him."
"He's not going to let you. That's not how the Yank works."
"There was one time . . ." Pause. "What do I do?"
"What can you do?"
"I can't phone Stella. It wouldn't be right."
"So?"
"Then . . ." He considered, then stood up determinedly. "I have to see him."
Fraser Snr watched him. "And?"
"I'm not sure." A glance. "No eavesdropping."
"I wouldn't dare."
*
He tried cajoling Diefenbaker to join him, but the wolf had simply whined and dug his claws into the carpet.
"You've faced snow storms, ice fields and floods, and yet you refuse to go out in the rain?"
Big brown eyes looked up at him soulfully, and Fraser had been forced to give up, left the wolf back at the Consulate with Turnbull. He flagged down a cab rather than walk, although ever since offering to pay with Canadian money most of the cabbies had been avoiding the Consulate. He said little to the driver but directions and a 'thank you kindly.'
Rain on the rooftop of the cab, the sound of squeaky windscreen wipers and the growl of the engine. The car pulled up at a red light, soft neon glow shimmering through the window, the driver muttering softly.
Diefenbaker has more sense than I do.
Fraser stared out at the street opposite, at blank shop windows and shuttered doors, at slick black umbrellas and puddles sparkling in the light of overhead street lamps. People huddled together in groups, or taking temporary shelter in an overshadowed shop doorway. As the cab drew to a halt one figure caught his eye, solitary in the rain, dark and brooding.
"Can you pull over?"
The driver shrugged. "Whatever. We're not going anywhere yet."
Kowalski never heard Fraser call his name from the sidewalk, but jumped when the Mountie touched his shoulder. He looked up, blinking, coat hung heavy around his shoulders, hair plastered flat to his head.
"Ray! You're soaked. I have a cab . . ." He turned slightly, pointed towards the taxi, where the driver was gesturing at the flashing amber light and the sound of angry cars building up behind him.
"You've been following me, I don't need it." Ray started to walk away. Fraser gave another glance at the taxi, but the cab was pulling away with an angry gesture.
"Ray -"
"Leave it, Fraser!"
He paused, felt his clothes quickly soak through with rain, clinging to him, water down the back of his neck. "Please," he said softly. "I need to talk to you."
Kowalski considered, then gave a half-hearted shrug. "Free country."
They continued walking, Fraser trying to hunch deeper into his leather jacket. "I tried ringing you."
"I was busy."
"And now?"
"I felt like a walk."
Fraser didn't push. "Francesca asked about you. She invited you to a family dinner."
It wasn't the reaction he expected. Ray's shoulders tensed, and he looked away. "She shouldn't have asked."
"She cares about you."
"I -" He paused, studied the sidewalk. "I'm okay." Another silence, continuing walking, turning the corner towards his flat. "No Dief?"
"He refused to go out in the rain."
"Bright wolf." He glanced towards the dark building across the street, the sparse lights behind curtains. "You could come in."
"To get out of the rain."
"Uh-huh."
Kowalski's steps seemed to drag as he got closer to the building, up the steps, past the eyes of the curious landlady from behind close curtains. He paused outside the door, fumbling for his keys with gloved hands.
Fraser wasn't sure what he expected when he arrived, but he knew it wasn't what he saw. The apartment looked almost exactly the same as when he'd left three nights ago, the same empty takeout boxes on the kitchen worktop, the same pile of washing up in the sink, same mug on the coffee table staining the varnish chocolate brown. Kowalski hung back in the doorway, running his hand through his hair and laving a trail of water and gel.
"I, uh . . ."
His failure to explain prompted Fraser to take the initiative and step forward into the apartment. "Coffee?"
"I . . ." Kowalski continued to hover in the doorway, dripping onto the rug and shivering. "Please," he said, almost childlike in his sheepishness. "Coffee is, uh, top right cupboard. Mugs . . ."
"I've found them." Fraser put the kettle on to boil, then started looking through the fridge for something approaching milk. There was one bottle that smelt strongly of sour cream, and more fell out onto the sink than flowed, so he gave up and settled on black. Kowalski, in the main room, took off his coat and hung it up, oblivious of the puddle that started to quickly collect beneath it.
"I'm gonna, um . . ." He trailed off, gestured vaguely behind him. "Shower," he finished. "Just, y'know . . ."
"I'll make something to eat. Just in case you're hungry." He waited for Ray to answer but no reply was forthcoming. The American disappeared into the bathroom, shut the door behind him.
Fraser started to search the cupboards for food, and located some pasta and enough ingredients for a bolognase sauce. Putting some water to boil he prepared the sauce, chopping onions and listing to the sound of water against tiles coming from the room next door.
Forty-five minutes later and the meal was going cold. Fraser stood by the bookshelves, open book in one hand, idly sheafing through poetry he had never expected to find on Ray's shelf. He glanced at the bathroom, called out: "Ray? Are you okay?"
Silence.
He stepped closer to the door, tapped with his knuckles. "Ray?"
No reply. He pushed the door open and took a hesitant step inside. The shower was still running, and he could see Kowalski's shadow behind the curtains, leaning against the tiles. Fraser allowed his eyes to drop to the cubicle floor, where crimson water was swirling into the plughole.
"Ray?"
The sound of someone choking back tears. Then the water was turned off with a squeak, and a very damp Ray peered around the corner of the curtain, hair plastered to his forehead.
"Um, I need . . ."
Fraser found a towel on the rail behind him and handed it to his friend. A moment later and Ray stepped out, holding out his hands sheepishly.
"I, uh, I couldn't make the stains go away . . ." His face almost crumpled into tears.
His hands and wrists were rubbed almost raw, the result of violent scrubbing using, Fraser would find out later whilst cleaning up, a small nail brush. His skin was a mass of redness and blood, scraped through flesh, and Ray stared down at them as though it was nothing, a haunted look in his eyes.
Without a word Fraser took his friend and led him out of the bathroom, set him down once more on the couch. He then disappeared back into the bathroom and emerged with a white flannel dressing gown, a first aid kit, and a small bowl of hot water. Kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa, Fraser reached out and began to clean his friend's hands gently, starting at the wrists and working down to his fingers. And then he bandaged them tightly, and helped him into his dressing gown.
"Ray?"
That continuously dead expression. Fraser sat on the sofa beside his friend, glanced at him. "Stan?"
A shiver, and then he began to cry, silently, tears spilling down his cheeks and darkening the dressing gown. Fraser sat there quietly, watching his friend's shoulders shudder uncontrollably with each breath.
"I couldn't stop it. He died in my arms, and I couldn't stop him hurting. His blood was on my hands . . ."
A long silence. Fraser placed a hand on his friend's back until he quietened. Deja-vu.
Kowalski swallowed, hard, taking a deep breath in an attempt to control himself. "I'm sorry." Wiped his face with one hand, looked up into Fraser's eyes. "You're right. And I . . . hell, I'll be alright. You shouldn't have to see this. It's not, um, you know . . ." He trailed off.
"I can sleep here if you want."
He gave a tried smile. "Thanks Fraser. I mean it. I'll, um, make up the spare bed . . ."
"I'll be fine here. Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?"
"No . . . actually, I think I'll just go to bed. I'm kinda tired." He tried to stand up, and almost fell back against the sofa, his face turning gray. Fraser grabbed him and helped him stand, arm around his waist, leading him into the bedroom and sitting him down on the bed. Pulling back the sheets he pushed Kowalski gently to lie back and then pulled a warm blanket up around his shoulders.
Another sheepish grin. "Housetrained already, Frase?" He closed his eyes momentarily. Murmured: "I'm sorry."
"You'd do the same for me."
"Yeah." Closed his eyes again. "I s'pose I would."
Fraser gave him another glance then moved to the door, switching off the light. In the living room he ate some of the spaghetti and then put the rest in the fridge, cleaning up the kitchen.
"You can't help him."
He turned slightly. "Hello Dad."
"You know that, don't you? You realise that in the end, it's up to him."
"I know." He started wiping down the surfaces with a damp cloth. "But he needs me."
"And you'd give up anything to help him?"
"Yes." He glanced at the ghost. "Wouldn't you, if you were in my place? If Ray was Buck Frobisher?"
"Of course. The one sure way to judge a man is to look at who he chooses to call a friend."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Take it how you like, son. But you're right, the Yank needs you."
And I need him.
He glanced at his father. "Thank you."
An uncomfortable shrugging of shoulders. "Well . . . you're right. That's all there is."
Fraser smiled, and went back to cleaning the kitchen.
*
Gentle sobs awoke him, the sound of someone desperately trying to force them back but failing, choking on tears. The room was dark, lit only by dim orange light from a streetlight outside, but Fraser did not turn on the lamp. Pushing back the blanket he sat up, listened to the muffled sound for a moment. It hurt, inside, but he tried to shake the feeling and crossed over to Kowalski's room, listening at the door.
"Stan?"
He pushed the door open, sending a dim orange glow across the bed. Kowalski was huddled up in the bed, blanket on the floor, curled up tight and shivering. He was still asleep, Fraser realised, as he sat down on the mattress beside him, reached out to touch his shoulder.
"Stan? Wake up."
Kowalski pulled back from his touch, stirred gently. His eyes fluttered, then opened, startling blue into Fraser's deep gray.
"I killed him."
Fraser helped him sit up, picking up the blanket and wrapping it around his friend's shoulders. "It's not your fault," he repeated, then added: "You're cold."
"Um, yeah . . . The landlady, she switches the boiler off at night, says it saves electricity, saves the tenant's money . . ." He trailed off. He lowered his gaze, studied his bandaged hands. "I killed him," he repeated softly.
He shivered, pulling the blanket closer around his shoulders. He closed his eyes. "I can see it. Reliving it over and over, y'know? Stansfield in front of me, and I can see down the barrel of his gun, and I know he's going to try and kill me, and all I can think of is I don't want to die like this. I'm so afraid . . . And then . . ." Another choked sob. "He ran out and it was so fast, too fast, and I heard Stansfield fire and at first all I could think of was am I okay? And then he was in my arms and his blood was everywhere and, oh god, I couldn't stop it . . ."
"It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known."
"I know, I know I couldn't stop it, but maybe - if I'd shot Stansfield instead of standing there, if I'd been quicker . . ."
"You did the only thing you could."
"You don't get it. Stansfield may have pulled the trigger, but it could have . . . I mean, I almost . . ." He broke off, shuddering. Fraser laid his hand on top of Kowalski's looked up at him, said slowly:
"It wasn't your fault."
He shook his head, pulled back. Repeated: "You don't get it. When that kid leapt, I turned, I thought he was another con, another gang member. And I almost . . . I mean, I would have . . ." He closed his eyes, shoulders knotting. "I tried to kill him. I pulled out my gun and almost fired. I would have killed him, only Stansfield got there first."
Fraser caught a glimpse of tears falling onto the floorboards.
"He fell . . . I saw him fall. Stansfield ran, and I didn't care. He was dying in my arms, and I couldn't stop the bleeding, and there was so much blood . . ." He tugged at the bandages around his wrists and fingers. "I couldn't wash it off," he said softly. "I see him, every time I close my eyes. And I can't shut him out, y'know? I can see his eyes, he had big brown eyes, kinda reminded me of Stella when we used to talk about kids." He gave a tired smile, then shuddered, pulled himself back.
"I'm sorry, Fraser. You shouldn't . . . you shouldn't have to see this . . ." He shivered, hands clenching weakly. "Look, um, I'm gonna get some sleep. I should probably, uh . . . y'know, before work."
"You should." He stood up, then paused by the doorway. "Everything will be alright. I promise."
"I know."
He closed the door, returned to the couch, but stayed awake all night listening out for any noise from the other room. Silence until morning.
*
Breakfast. Fraser had laid out the kitchen with cereal and toast, and there was a fresh pot of coffee warming gently on the stove. When Kowalski finally appeared it was nine thirty and Fraser had been up several hours, the living room spotless. He stepped out of his bedroom door with a slightly sheepish expression on his face, his hair ruffled, dressing gown crumpled from the night before.
"I, uh, smelt coffee."
Fraser stood and turned to pour out a cup.
"Black."
He knew, but said nothing. "Did you sleep?"
"Honestly?" He ran a hand across his forehead, frowned. "Aren't you supposed to be at the Consulate? You know, pigeon duty?"
"I rang Inspector Thatcher. Lieutenant Welsh has already spoken to her, explained the situation. She has allowed me several days of holiday."
"Explained the situation, huh?" He sat down at the worktop, sank his head into both hands. "You should go to work, Fraser. No good, um, you know, two of us being screwed up by this."
He pushed his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry. It's just, I never . . . I never thought anything could hurt this bad. It hurts so much I can't . . ." He stopped.
Fraser pressed a cup of black coffee into his hands, careful of the bandages. "I know."
"Fraser . . . what am I supposed to do?" He looked up at him with wide eyes. "I can't . . . all I can see is that moment, and I can't go back, and I wish . . ." He gestured vaguely. "I want to go back. I wish I could go back and save him, stop Stansfield. Stop myself. It hurts, Fraser. And I don't know how to stop it."
Fraser rubbed one finger across his eyebrow, looking downwards. "You can't," he said softly. "It doesn't go away."
"Never?" He paused, the barest hint of a sad smile passing across his face. "You're supposed to lie to me."
"Mounties don't lie."
"I forgot." A shaky sigh. "I couldn't come back here, y'know? That night, after you dropped me off . . . I couldn't stand it. Silence. Went out walking, never came back."
Over three days without coming home, without sleep, without a decent meal either, Fraser guessed. No judgements.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
Kowalski shrugged. "For, well . . . snapping at you. I shouldn't have."
"I don't blame you."
"And thank you. For last night. And," he added, glancing around his apartment, "for cleaning up this place."
"I think the turtle was hungry."
Another vague smile. "I guess when you spoke to Thatcher you also rang Welsh."
"He told me there was no more paperwork left on your desk, and that Huey and Duey were handling the rest of your cases."
A slightly derisive mutter. "I'm sure." Another pause, staring into the coffee. "I thought about resigning," he confessed suddenly. "When I got back to work the morning after. I had my badge in my hand, walking to Welsh's office, everything."
"But you didn't."
"Yeah." A slight pause. "Couldn't. I mean, I thought about it, and I think I would have, only . . . I didn't know what I'd do. I mean, if I wasn't a cop, I don't know what would be left."
Fraser glanced at him but said nothing, allowed him to continue.
"Everything about me is a lie except that. I'm a cop, I've always been a cop. Only now . . ." His fingers clutched at the coffee cup. "I almost shot a kid. That's the worst thing any cop can do. I remember a guy at my old precinct, he was investigating some report of a household disturbance, the suggestion of weapons drawn. His partner was several floors below him, checking the exits. Anyway, this cop . . . he kicked the door open, saw what he thought was a gun. And he fired. Turned out it was some kid left home alone while the mom was out round the corner, only went out for five minutes. Came back to find her kid was dead, shot by a cop who thought the kid's toy gun was real."
Kowalski ran his finger around the rim of the cup. "No one blamed him, y'know? The mother, hell, she was cut up about leaving the kid. But this cop, he couldn't cope. They had to lock him up, in the end, some hospital somewhere. I mean, he got out, recovered and all, came back to the station house about a year later. But he wasn't the same. And he wasn't a cop." He paused. "I don't think I can go out there again. Not in the same way. This guy, he got paranoid, started imagining things. What if I do the same? Or what if, what if I actually shoot someone, anyone, thinking maybe . . ." He shuddered.
"You can't second guess everything. You're a good cop."
"But I almost shot someone. A kid, maybe ten at most. And Stansfield shot him, because I didn't get there in time, couldn't stop him, almost did the job for him. What if next time I'm quicker, what if next time I actually succeed?"
Fraser considered his words for a moment, then asked: "Stan, have you even thought about why Stansfield fired first?"
Kowalski's blank look was more than an answer. He sank his head into his hands wearily. "Why?"
"You're a good cop, Stan. And you're an excellent marksman, one of the best. You could have pulled the trigger. You couldn't be sure who was coming out of the shadows, whether it was a child or one of Stansfield's associates. It could have been a threat, you could have been killed. But you never fired."
Kowalski continued to duck his head, massaged his forehead with his fingers. "I screwed up."
"I don't believe that. I think you knew that you weren't in danger, not from the boy. I think you saw who he was, even subconsciously, and you chose not to fire, because you knew he wasn't a threat."
He looked up. "But he's still dead."
"Stan . . ." He paused. "There will always be a moment in everyone's life when they regret something, something they did, or something they should have but didn't. We can't dwell on those moments." A slight pause.
"When I was ten, I was a member of the school hockey team, a friend and I, on the same side. We were in a match against another school, an annual event. We were ten minutes to the end and at equal points, each team eager to win. I remember . . . I don't remember much. I remember the sound of the crowd, and the thrill of the game, the struggle for victory. Then skidding on the ice, struggling to remain upright but failing, taking several of the other boys with me. I remember lying on the ice for a moment, feeling the bruises, and I remember hearing someone scream."
Kowalski glanced at him. Prompted, when Fraser fell silent: "What happened?"
"No one could ever be sure, but on the ice, with the skates . . . A boy died. I knew him vaguely, as a member of the other team, I'd practised with him more than once. Even after, no one ever attributed blame, called it a terrible accident, and moved on. But I felt it, and the other boys in my team. We blamed ourselves, saw it as the only way to deal with the situation."
"But that was an accident, Fraser. Not your fault."
"I know. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it from happening, not without foreknowledge, no matter how much I wished otherwise. I went over and over that moment in my mind, and tried to stop it from happening, but I couldn't go back, and eventually had to move on."
"And you think that's what I should do?" He shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know if I can. Watching him die . . ."
"You were there for him. He had no one else but you were there for him at the end. And because of the sort of man you are you can't let it go, you can't forgive yourself for something which wasn't your fault. But you have to move on with you life."
A shudder. "I know. It's just, I don't think . . . I need time. I can't stop thinking about him, not even at work."
"But you will."
"I know. I guess part of me is afraid of that, of forgetting." He looked up, into his friend's eyes. "Y'know? Like if I ever forget, if I ever stop thinking about it, then I'm gonna be as bad as him, as bad as Stansfield, and the kid's death is gonna mean nothing."
"You'll never let that happen."
"No." He hesitated, then looked up, caught Fraser's gaze. "Promise me you'll never let me."
He gave a small nod, no need for words. Kowalski blinked at him, an understanding between the two men.
"Good." Another deep breath, gathering himself together and draining the cup of now cold coffee. "I should do something. You know? Can't sit here."
"We could go to the supermarket?" Fraser suggested. "I think your fridge could use some, um, food."
"Yeah. Getting take-out every night is gonna break my bank balance." He hesitated before getting up off the stool, asked softly: "We?"
"If you want."
"Hmm." He gave him a tired, but genuine smile. "Thanks. You know . . ." uncomfortably, "for being here."
"You're my partner."
"Picking up the pieces, huh? You're getting good at that."
"You'd do the same for me."
"Mm." Another smile. "Guess I would. Partners."
These characters are not mine, I only borrowed them and promise to put them back when I'm done! Comments appreciated.