These Words Are Haunting (Me)
Author's Notes: This happens Post-COTW, and post my earlier version of COTW2, (There's Nothing for Nobody and Everyone Wants to be Someone). All you need to know is that both Rays are in Chicago and working together - and Ray never coughed up the golden bullet. Just like my previous story, the title is taken from the late My Life Story. Always sparkling in my eyes. I apologise for my complete lack of knowledge of medicine and the structure of the RCMP.
Rating: PG-13 for occasional language
Spoilers: Pretty much all of DS.
It was raining.
It was the sort of rain only Chicago could produce, pasty grey clouds overhead, fat and thick drops of rain smacking against the sidewalk, dripping from broken guttering, puddling in concrete cracks.
Weird, that one of the things he had missed most in Vegas was the rain. It never changed, always hot, and dry, and stale. Like the people. And he had missed the snow. He missed seeing the lake freeze over in winter, missed having to de-ice the Riv every morning, missed walking through the streets with his hands stuffed deep into pockets, huddling deeper into his coat to cower from the cold.
He'd tried explaining it to Fraser, once, when they had returned from up North after the Muldoon incident. He found, partly to his own horror, that he was unable to go home, back to the Vecchio household and Ma and Maria and Tony and Franny and the kids. After a year alone, going back to that seemed too much, and Ma had understood, because she was like that. Kowalski, of all people, helped him find a flat, reasonably spacious and close to the family home. And Ma and Fraser roped people into helping him move in - Kowalski, Tony, even Huey and Dewey had pitched in (whining, mind you).
And after they left, Fraser had remained, and it started to rain outside. Dark, stormy, oppressive. He remembered explaining how he missed everything, even the weather, and Benny told him about his feelings upon arrival in Chicago, that first time. About missing his home, and the snow, and all the things other people found irritating or just couldn't understand.
And now it was raining again, just like that day in his apartment. He turned his head against the pillow, and watched fat raindrops on the hospital window race each other to reach the sill, listened to the gentle rumbling of thunder.
Thinking back.
*
"Constable!"
Fraser looked up from where he was filing paperwork, across at the open door. The voice came, as he knew it would, from the office across the hall, the largest one, with newly decorated walls in that shade of green that so complimented the colour of her eyes. In a moment he was stood outside her door, waiting obediently for an invitation.
"Come in, Constable. The door is open, I would have thought that made it obvious."
*Idiot! You start this conversation by sniping at him . . .*
There were boxes beside the desk, three of them, half-packed with several photo frames, paperwork, folders, stationary. Fraser stared at them, uncomprehending.
"You're leaving, sir?"
"Ah. Yes." She took a deep breath, unprepared for how hard this was going to be. "For Toronto. My promotion came through just as planned!"
"That's, well, that's . . . congratulations, sir." He seemed somewhat lost for words, the last phrase weak, though sincere.
"Yes." *Then why aren't I celebrating?* "The flight leaves in three days, which gives me two days to pack. I know it's sudden, but they want someone up there to take over the position as soon as possible. It means higher status for myself, of course; I'll be in charge of foreign liaisons on a much larger scale, holding diplomatic meetings, hosting political events . . ."
He hesitated, allowing his pose to relax slightly. "Forgive me for asking, sir, but are you sure this is what you want? It's just, you don't seem very happy . . ."
"I am. Happy, that is." She stopped her pacing, stood by the window. "It's everything I wanted from my career. It means more money, of course, although that’s hardly where my main interest lies. I will be involved in many deeply serious political issues, participating in diplomatic debates of international significance . . ." This was true, at any rate. "Who knows? In a few years I may even make Ambassador."
Fraser nodded. "But is it what you want to do, sir?"
"I . . ." She paused. Answered, seriously: "Yes. This is what I want to do. It's what I've always wanted to do. I just never thought . . . I never thought . . ." Turned away, trying to blink back tears, telling herself that this was most inappropriate behaviour for a superior officer in front of her second-in-command.
"Sir?"
"I never thought it would be so hard to leave!" She pulled back, drying her eyes delicately on her sleeve, careful not to smudge her mascara, turned back with total composure. Cleared her throat. "As your superior officer, I have come to, well, to feel a certain . . . respect for your work, and I believe we have built up a . . ."
"Rapport?" he suggested.
"Yes, a rapport, that I will miss." Looked up at him, his dark eyes. "Deeply."
He returned her gaze for a long moment. "Deeply, sir?"
"I . . ." Shook herself, mentally. "You need not worry as to your own job here, Constable. I understand that you have, well, ties to Chicago, and I'm not going to disrupt that for my own career. As for the position of Inspector here at the Consulate, well, I'm not entirely sure. A new post will be created here for yourself, continuing this Consulate's relationship with the local police department."
"Ah. Thank you, sir."
"Yes." She picked up one of her desk ornaments, one of those squeezy stress ball things that Turnbull had sheepishly presented her with at Christmas. Played with it in her hands, anxious not to stand still.
"Sir . . ." He paused. "If there were reasons, other than your career, to explain your decision, reasons such as perhaps myself, and my relationship with Francesca Vecchio . . ."
Her shoulders tightened. "I can assure you . . ." *What? That it isn't the case? You can't lie to him. Not to Fraser.* "Perhaps," she acquiesced, reluctantly, "our relationship, our feelings towards each other . . . they're in the past, I realize that. Nevertheless . . ." Paused.
"You believe . . ."
"It would be true to say that I . . . that I still hold . . . *feelings* towards you. And that these feelings are not reciprocated."
"Oh." He looked downwards, his expression unclear.
"Would it be true . . ." Hesitated. "Would it be true to say that they once were?"
"I . . ." He thought of a train, of her scent as they pressed against each other, the rush of wind as their lips met. "Yes."
"But no longer." There was no hope in her voice, just a statement of fact.
"I . . . I'm sorry."
"Yes, well, there's nothing to be sorry about. I mean, we are adults, after all. And I am your superior officer. A relationship between the two of us would never have worked anyway, so really, all I am is being completely selfish by thinking otherwise . . ." Was she just reciting all that she'd told herself, lying awake last night? Justifying things to herself?
Softly: "You're not selfish."
She looked up at him, shocked. "Sorry?"
"I . . ." Fraser looked downwards. "I do, that is, I feel . . . I still care about you."
"Yes." She flushed, overly aware that this conversation was treading dangerous ground. "Well . . ."
"And over my feelings towards you, I had often hoped that, that our relationship might have . . ."
"Grown."
"Grown. But I was unsure. And eventually . . ."
*I left it too long. I told him to forget it and eventually, he has.*
"Yes." She gave him a tight smile. "The past, Constable. And we have to look forward to the future."
"And Toronto -"
"Toronto," she said firmly, "is my decision. I will miss you, of course, but this is my choice, one I believe in."
"And you would regret not going?"
"Exactly." Another one of those fake smiles. "I still have two days, however. And I'm sure that, after I've left, we could, perhaps . . ."
"I'd like that."
"Good." She took another deep breath, incredibly relieved that it was over. "I'm glad we've cleared the air." Put out her hand, abruptly. He shook it, and she felt his warmth, tried to shake the painful twist of her stomach at his touch. "It's been excellent working with you."
"And I you."
She broke away, turned back to the desk. "Oh. Detective Kowalski called. He should be here in a few minutes to pick you up. A case . . ."
He nodded. About to leave, he stopped, turned back.
"Sir?"
She almost dropped the papers she held. "Yes?"
"I am sorry."
She smiled, sadly. "I know."
*
"So the Dragon Lady's really leaving?"
"It appears so Ray, yes."
"And you're okay with that?"
"Why shouldn't he be?"
"Well, you know, with all that stuff on the train, and everything . . ." Bizarrely, Ray continued to be in denial over the obviously growing relationship between his best friend and his sister, an illusion that at the moment Fraser wasn't too keen on disrupting.
"Inspector Thatcher and I have always had a purely . . ."
"Oh, don't give me that bull about superior officer romance and stuff. You care about her."
"Ray . . ."
"Admit it! You care about the Dragon Lady."
"I care about her." Interrupting the Italian's triumphant crowing: "As a friend."
"Yeah Benny, whatever."
The case was a simple one, following up on an informant, trying to track down two suspects wanted for the recent armed robbery of a gas station. Fraser apparently knew the owner, and had joined Vecchio and Kowalski to reassure the man that something was being done to catch the perpetrators.
A small explosion, like a car back firing. Again, for the second time, and a third.
"What the hell was that?"
Ray braked, hard, almost throwing his passengers through the front windscreen. Ignoring the protest of cars behind him, he turned to look at the man to his right.
"That sounded like gunshots."
Fraser nodded. "A handgun, I believe, though I can't be sure of which millimetre."
With a small sigh, Ray grabbed the steering wheel once more, spinning the small car as best he could into a U-turn, only adding increase to the traffic noise behind him.
"Um, Ray, I think that turn was illegal."
"Yeah, well, it would be a hell of a lot of a quicker turn if a *certain person*," with a glare to the man in the back seat, "hadn't driven my baby into a lake."
"Hey, don't blame me!" Kowalski held up his hands in protest. "If you hadn't pissed off a serial arsonist in the first place then his insane psycho of a woman wouldn't have tried to blow me and Frase up!"
Another stormy silence reigned, despite the noise from outside. Fraser gave a small, long suffering sigh. Ever since returning from the North, despite initial attempts at getting along, Kowalski and Vecchio's tense partnership had quickly dissolved into petty bickering and childish insults. Though he was still glad to be reunited with the both of them, Fraser couldn't help but think that life would have at least been quieter with only one.
There was another screech of tires as Ray pulled up onto the pavement, his disregard for the car exaggerated by his abuse of the vehicle's suspension. Grabbing his hat from its place on the dashboard, Fraser opened the car door and started to run down the alley, his two partners hot on his heels.
Another gunshot. Vecchio grabbed his friend's arm, motioned with the barrel of his gun the direction he was taking. As Ray disappeared to the right of the building, Stan took the left, flashing Fraser an inane grin.
There was silence, for a moment, suddenly disturbed by the sounds of crashing garbage cans. Fraser pushed himself back against the wall, hidden from the corner by a pile of cardboard boxes leaning haphazardly against bricks.
There was a figure on the other side of the alley, dressed in dark trousers and a denim jacket. He never noticed Fraser approach him from behind, all his attention concentrated on the locked bolts of the door to the warehouse, and his vain attempts to shoot the lock off with his handgun. When Fraser spoke, his voice carried high on the breeze in the alley, the boy turned, revealed himself to be maybe sixteen years old, and nervous as hell.
"I don't believe that is the best way to gain access to the building," he stated, calmly, watching the teenager.
"Oh shi-" the kid began, dropping the gun, turning to run. He started off down the alley quickly, Fraser close on his heels, but the kid's younger legs and obvious knowledge of the streets made keeping pace harder than Fraser originally planned. But then that was an advantage of owning a wolf.
Dief was around the boy's ankles in a moment, snapping with enough superficial venom to make the kid yelp, fall back against the wall. "Alright, alright! Just keep your dog off me, okay! Get off, get off -"
"He's a wolf, actually," Fraser told him, retrieving the gun from the floor. "And he's also deaf, so shouting at him won't do any good." Slipping the gun into his belt, he walked up to Diefenbaker and mouthed: "It's okay." With a small sniff, the wolf stepped back, allowed Fraser to take the boy gently but firmly by the wrist.
"You realise if you escape then Diefenbaker will undoubtedly chase after you."
"Yeah, yeah, I've got it, I'm not going anywhere. What sort of a name is Diefenbaker anyway?" He reassessed his captor. "Are you Canadian?"
"Yes, actually," Fraser explained, conversationally, leading him back in the direction of the car. "I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father, and for reasons that don't need exploring -"
"Fraser!"
The startled shout from Kowalski came from the alleyway to the right. Fraser grabbed his prisoner's wrist again, pulled him roughly but firmly towards the shout, Diefenbaker running ahead. When the wolf turned the corner, and he heard him whine, the boy was suddenly forgotten, pushed back against the wall
"Fraser!"
Kowalski was bent over, on his knees, and beside him Ray lay on the cold concrete, curled tightly. Leaving Dief to control the kid, Fraser sank to his knees beside his partner, noted his pale skin, beads of sweat on his forehead.
"What happened? Did someone -"
Stan shook his head. "Nothing like that. We were running after this guy we saw in the alley when we got jumped from behind. They ran off when I flashed my gun, when he kinda collapsed, just like that . . ." He got up quickly, glancing at the boy. "I'm gonna go call an ambulance, okay? Um, stay here . . ."
He disappeared around the corner quickly. Still pushed up against the wall by Dief, the boy tried to step forward, demanded: "Hey! If this guy's crook then I'm not hanging around!"
Fraser ignored him, bending close over his friend, supporting his head against his lap. Ray reached out, gasping, grabbed his friend's hand tightly.
"Oh, God . .. I can't breathe, Benny, I can't . . ."
His eyes clenched shut, nails pressing into Fraser's hand. His back arched, and Fraser held him until the spasm ceased, one hand holding his, the other against his friend's forehead.
"It's going to be okay, Ray. Stan's gone for help, he won't be long . . ."
Frightened green eyes looked up at him. "Stupid . . ." His words were punctuated by a hiss of pain, choked back, and he closed his eyes again, curled up even tighter. "Oh -"
"Ssh, Ray, don't try and talk." Fraser pulled him a little closer, looked up across at Dief. "Everything's going to be okay."
*
Following the ambulance to Mercy gave Fraser too much of a sense of deja-vu. Kowalski drove, taking Ray's place in the driving seat, keeping his gaze concentrated on the road ahead except for the occasional glance in his partner's direction.
Rushing through the ER, being pushed back by a handful of nurses. Fraser could remember little of it, when he thought back later, but he finally awoke from shock sat in an uncomfortably cheap plastic chair in the waiting room. Kowalski was offering him coffee, telling him he was going to ring the station.
"What will you tell them?"
Kowalski's face remained neutral. "I don't know. I'll see if I can grab a doctor, find out what's going on, okay?"
Somehow he managed a tight nod, sank back into the chair, closed his eyes.
*It was so quick. That's the problem. That's why you can't find any feeling in your legs.*
Dief was curled around his feet, occasionally whining softly as he dozed. At first the nurses had threatened to keep him outside, except Stan had pulled his 'hard-ass' routine until they'd relented, as much to shut him up as anything else.
He knew. He knew even before the doctor appeared, a woman with strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and a soft voice.
"Detective Vecchio has been taken into surgery. We believe -"
Fraser never meant to interrupt but found himself speaking automatically, unable to stop himself. "The bullet." His voice sounded scratched, hoarse. "In his shoulder."
The doctor, whose name-tag read 'Doran,' glanced down at her clipboard of notes. "He was shot a month ago, but the bullet was deemed to be too close to his heart to remove."
"He was supposed to be okay -" Kowalski spoke up, Fraser suddenly silent. "I mean, they let him go back to work -"
"It's not unheard of in cases like this for the obstruction to move, especially if the patient is subjected to a sudden blow or physical stress. This sort of injury is almost impossible to predict. Now it's still difficult to determine exactly what harm has been done but we believe there may be some additional damage to his heart and surrounding muscle. He's currently in surgery to repair the damage and determine how serious his condition could become."
"You mean . . ." His voice dry, Fraser felt a slight pressure on his arm from Kowalski's firm hand. "You think -"
"To be honest, Constable, we can't be sure of what we're dealing with until we're in there. Now, we're doing everything possible and there will be someone to tell you if his condition changes, but for the moment there's really little I can tell you." She looked almost apologetic. "I assume you'll be waiting."
"Yeah," Kowalski said, fiercely, as though he expected the doctor to force them out.
"Then I know where to find you." The doctor gave them a small nod, then turned, headed for the whiteboard.
Kowalski took Fraser's arm firmly, led him back to the chairs. "You okay?" he asked, anxiously. His friend gave a tight nod.
"Yes."
The blonde wasn't so sure, but he stayed quiet. Kept his hand on his friend's arm.
*
Kowalski was pacing the small area of the hospital waiting area when Welsh arrived. The Lieutenant had been held up, almost literally, by an armed robbery in a grocery store down town. Six hours and one overly impatient SWAT team later he had finally managed to get down to the hospital in person, although he had been ringing the ER on and off since the call came in. The blonde looked almost as bad as Welsh felt, but amongst the shadowed eyes and mussed hair lay a deep mix of fear and guilt. Unfortunately Kowalski's emotional well-being would have to come second place to his primary concern of 'officer down.'
"How is he?"
Rubbing a hand though his hair: "I, uh, he's out of surgery. They, uh, they took it out. You know, the, uh . . ." Gestured vaguely with one hand.
"The bullet."
"Yeah. Said it was pretty touch and go for a while, but he's out now. Whassit, um, stable but serious."
"And Constable Fraser?"
"He's been in there ever since they brought Vecchio out. The doctors said, um, they can't be sure when he's gonna wake up, even if everything goes okay but Fraser's, well, you know Fraser."
Welsh nodded. He knew. "What about you?"
Kowalski looked up at him, obviously surprised. "Me, sir?"
"You, Kowalski. You were with Vecchio when he went down, right?"
A nod.
"Had lunch? Breakfast? Anything to eat since yesterday?"
"Coffee . . ." Shook his head, sheepishly, mumbled: "I guess I kinda missed lunch cos of paperwork and I'm not a breakfast person so . . ."
Welsh laid a hand on his detective's shoulder gently but firmly. "Then how about we both go get something to eat?" he suggested, noted Kowalski's long look back in the direction of ICU. "You can bring something back for the Constable."
Reluctantly, Kowalski turned his back on the dimly lit hospital room behind him and followed his Lieutenant's lead. Ran another hand through his hair and tried not to think of the friend he'd left behind.
*
Fraser pulled up yet another cheap plastic chair to the side of the bed, but left the lights off, deciding that the glow from the machines and outside was enough. The steady beep of various monitors, and the sound of heavy rain outside mingled to form a soothing, almost pleasant sound. It drew Fraser back into memories, finding the atmosphere strangely familiar, thought back to long days spent staring at the ceiling, his best friend asleep in the chair beside him.
"Ray?"
Reaching up and, hesitantly, briefly, placing his fingers flat against his friends cheek, cold to the touch. Then down, hand over his hand.
"Ray, I . . ." Ducked his head. How to begin. "I'm . . ." Deep breath. "When I reached your hotel room, and the door opened, and I saw you there, I felt . . . I was so glad to see you. Nothing else mattered. For all this time you've been away it's like . . ." Pause. Don't go there, can't talk about that, forced himself to go past the overwhelming need for silence. "It's as though part of me has been missing and then you came back. And now I . . . I can't . . ."
Broke off, wrapping his arms around himself against the sudden chill. Began again, throat suddenly dry: "Ray . . ." Cut off, silence. Closed his eyes, tightly.
*"It's just one of those special cases where when we're alone we're incomplete, but when we're together we're better than we are separate."*
He remembered. God, he remembered.
Inspector Thatcher practically forced me into taking the sick leave, although I'm reluctant to leave my duties. It's as though she was scared, Ray said something about finally recognising that Superman wasn't immortal. And she seemed . . . guilty. On the other hand, she might just be using my concussion as an opportunity to get me out of her hair - on reflection, this is the far more likely option. It's only when I arrive back home that I'm able to forget my duties, and this is still work, officially, helping a group of RCMP cadets rebuild their previous station post. Ray offered to come, of course, but after his last experience in the wild I suspect that the offer isn't entirely genuine; and then the FBI appeared at the station wanting to run a drug bust and his chance at a holiday disappeared. We've not spoken for over a fortnight, a result of few telephones and Ray pulling double shifts.
We didn't say goodbye. Ray promised to take me to the airport, but in the end work got in the way and I arrive back at my apartment to find a note on the door apologising, and some money for a taxi as way to make up. I don't mind, and I don't use the money, put it away and promise to use it for some other purpose, like buying pizza for his next attempt at a snooker night, the night I ruined.
There was one phonecall. I hear his voice down the line and still never guess that something is wrong, except maybe towards the end. His voice goes quiet and I can imagine him rubbing one hand over his head, resting at the back of his neck, the way he does when he's worried or tense. And when I arrive back in Chicago my Ray is gone, and there's a new man in his place, a blonde with spiky, experimental hair and uncontrollable energy. He's a polar contrast to Ray Vecchio, so much so I find it hard to believe they chose this man as his cover. He can't sit still for any great length of time, he can't cope with silence, even I can tell he has terrible dress sense and he's still the only person I know who dumps Smarties in his coffee.
A small smile crossed his face, was gone almost as fast, as though guilty for allowing himself to feel . . .
Shook himself, mentally. Suddenly had an incredible desire to get out, run, the smell of disinfectant and hospital food suffocating. Free hand clenched tight around the metal railing of the bed, other hand moved away from his friend and rubbed at his eyebrow, struggling to gain some sort of control.
"Constable?"
He almost - almost - flinched at the sudden voice. Took a moment before turning, and the nurse offered him a warm smile.
"Detective Vecchio's sister is outside. I told her you were in here but she said she would stay in the waiting area. I think she'd like to hear from you."
He managed to nod, rose from the chair. The nurse checked one of the monitors, then looked back at him, assured: "I'll tell you if there is any change."
Another nod, but no attempt at a 'thank you kindly.' It was a sign of a troubled Mountie, Kowalski had told him once, when he gave up on manners. He left the nurse to do her work, found the corridor empty. Stopped short when the corridor started to sway, put a hand out to the wall and found the cold anchoring, closed his eyes, controlled his breathing.
*Ridiculous. You don't have anxiety attacks. And Ray will be fine . . .*
"Fraser?"
He turned quickly, almost collided with Francesca. She'd been crying, he could tell, her mascara smudged, eyes red, looked up at him shakily, didn't notice his own discomfort. Maybe he was hiding it too well.
"Is he, um . . ." She trailed off, sniffed.
He wasn't sure what to say to her, how to reply, but apparently his face was enough. She gave a small sigh, about to turn away.
"No change, huh."
On impulse, he reached out, took her arm gently, pulled her back to face him. "Francesca," he said, softly, "I'm sure Ray is going to be okay."
"Yeah?" She raised her face to his, rubbed one trembling hand across her cheek. "I, uh, I'm sorry for, you know, falling apart like this." Gave a small, weak laugh. "Guess I'm really not handling this as well as I said I was."
"Francesca, if you want to talk . . ."
"It's just . . ." She broke off, sniffed again, tried to wipe away her tears before they could spill down her cheeks. "He went away, Fraser, and that was okay, but it was so long before he came back, and then he gets shot, and we almost lose him, and now it's all happening again and I can't lose him again, I can't . . ."
Hesitantly, Fraser slipped an arm around her waist, pulled her forward, so she could bury her face in his shirt, put his hand against the back of her head and felt her shudder.
"Stupid . . ." Her voice was muffled through cloth. "I know he's going to be okay, I know, it's just, what if he isn't, I mean, I just can't . . ."
He remained silent, waiting until her sobs subsided, until she pulled away just enough to look up at him, without leaving his embrace.
"You're worried too. God, what am I thinking, I mean, Ray's like your best friend . . ." She shook her head.
"He's also your brother."
"Yeah, I know, but sometimes it's easy to forget that you, well . . ." She closed her eyes, took a deep, steadying breath.
"Maybe you should sit down," he suggested, leading her to a line of chairs that stood along the back wall of the corridor. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, a typically uncharacteristic Francesca move, sitting down at the same time as he. Slowly, partly afraid she might pull away, Fraser reached out and took her hand in his, rested on her lap. She raised her head, caught his gaze for a moment, then looked away.
"I always hated hospitals . . . It's like, what's that feeling, when you feel like you've done something already?"
"Deja-vu."
"Yeah. That." Another shaky sigh. "Ray was the first cop in our family, you know? You read about these stories in the papers, cop shootings. We had to get used to, you know, the idea that there'd be a phonecall, in the middle of the night, and Mom or me or Maria would answer, and then . . ." She shook her head. "I guess you know all about that, though. I mean, your dad was a Mountie, right?"
He paused for a moment before answering. "It's not something you can adjust to, no matter what the circumstances."
"I know. Boy, do I know. I mean, Ray . . . there was only one time before, I mean, before you were here. It wasn't anything too serious, not like, well, not like this. Ray had been out all night, but that wasn't surprising - he'd just broken up from Angie, and, well, I guess he was burying himself in his work, or something like that. He got caught in the middle of a mugging, chased off down an alley without waiting for backup. Next thing you know Ma's getting this phonecall telling her to get down to the hospital, Ray's been in a fight. They wouldn't tell us what happened, not over the phone, and I remember getting there and finding out he just had a couple of cracked ribs, broken arm, but it was the drive, all the way here, not knowing . . ." She broke off again, turned to Fraser. Caught the flash of guilt in his eyes, mistook it for something else.
"This wasn't your fault, you know. I mean, if Ray hadn't, well, done what he did . . ."
"I know."
Something in his tone seemed odd, out of place. "What is it? Fraser . . ." This time she placed her hand over his, forced him to meet her eyes. "Is this about what I said before? About Ray . . . about this not happening before you came? Because I didn't mean for it to come out like that."
His turn to look down at the floor. "You were right, Francesca. The very first time we met Ray was injured because of my actions. Then after . . . after I was shot, Ray took a bullet for me in the hospital."
"Yeah? He didn't have to do any of those things, Fraser." She suddenly sounded more angry than upset. "You think he didn't blame himself for almost getting both you and him killed in Chinatown? And after, after *her*, you think I didn't see him spend every night at that hospital blaming himself, and, and *punishing* himself for what he had done to you?"
"Francesca, I didn't mean -"
"Ray hated himself before you got here. He hated who he was, the fact Angie left him, the sort of cop he was, all of it, and maybe he didn't tell me but I saw. We all saw, me and Ma and even Welsh, how he changed when you arrived in Chicago, like he was a different person. Like he finally started to like who he was again. So don't ever, *ever* go blaming yourself for everything that happens to him, because Ray owes you everything, okay? And he would never have you taking it all on yourself."
She stopped, her shoulders slumping, her moment of rage having passed. "He gets himself into these situations. There are days when I wish he had a normal job, you know, a safe job, working in a bank or some shop somewhere. Except that isn't Ray. And I know I can never be sure that the next junkie on a high isn't going to turn round and shoot -"
She cut off, sharply, closed her eyes. Fraser said nothing, wasn't sure of the words, but kept hold of her hand, as though physical contact could anchor them both in place.
Opened her eyes. "I, uh . . . Stan's waiting for you. Lieutenant Welsh dragged him off to go get some food but he's back and I think he brought something for you."
He blinked. Had almost forgotten about his other partner, waiting out in the hall. Suddenly wondered how he felt, whether his old insecurities over losing his own identity had resurfaced. Francesca must have recognised the indecision in his eyes, for she pulled her hand gently but firmly away, told him:
"I'll stay. You should get something to eat, Fraser. If anything happens I'll come get you."
They stood together, Francesca looking distinctly awkward. "I won't be long," he told her, but she shrugged.
"The doctor said he wasn't going to wake up for another few hours anyway, even if everything, well . . . no complications. You may as well go get something to eat if you're going to spend the night here, or you'll have Ma down your throat as soon as she gets here."
"Understood." He hesitated before leaving, asked: "Can I get you anything?"
A smile. "No, that's okay." She watched him make his way down the corridor and turn the corner before she left the silence, pushed open the door to her brother's room.
*
"Ray?"
Softly, as though she expected an answer. Francesca gave a little, trembling sigh, and sank onto the chair beside the bed, legs giving way. Looked over her brother, seemed so alien, pale face, still, hooked up to a multitude of machines she couldn't hope to identify. Reached out to place her hand against his cheek, cold to her touch.
"Oh god . . ."
Barely a breath on the wind. She drew back, closed her eyes, struggling to control her tears. Took a deep breath, opened her eyes, her voice level.
"Okay. I'm sorry, it's just, well . . ." Pause, her voice threatening to break yet again. "Ma's going to kill me," she managed. "I promised her I'd keep an eye on you while she went off to Florida. I know, you'd hate her being so protective, but I think she's worried you might leave us again. I think we all are."
Stopped. Lifted her head, stared at her reflection in the window. Rubbed her eyes, smearing mascara over her fingers.
*You think I look bad. You should have seen the other guy.*
"Fraser's outside. Stan said he's been there ever since, well . . . he's been here all the time. I've tried telling him to go get some rest, but he won't. No big surprise there, huh. Um . . . oh, the guys at the precinct house were asking about you. Huey asked me to update him, and Dewey . . . well, Dewey's a jerk, but then you know that already." Smiled, inspite of herself.
"No, really. Everyone wants you to be okay. Even Stan. I know you don't think that much of him, but you're wrong. He's a good guy, Ray. And when you were away . . . he was never your replacement, I don't mean that, but he was there. You remember Guy Rankin? Yeah." She drew shaking fingers across her hair, pulling it back behind her ears. "His body turned up behind a wall in one of the interrogation rooms. And I . . . I'm sorry Ray, but the way you came after him, after he touched me . . . I thought you'd . . ."
Pause. "Anyway, Stan and Fraser got the guy who did do it. He was really good like that. I mean, he didn't have to, but the stuff he did, to make sure your cover wasn't blown . . . And he was really good, to me and Ma and Maria, after you left. He didn't, I dunno, try and take your place. He couldn't. But he looked out for us."
"Anyway . . . what I'm trying to say, is . . . Ray, give him a chance. You'll like him, I know you will. And him and Fraser . . . it's not like it was with you and him. I mean, it's the same, but different. And Fraser . . ."
She broke off, lost in her own thoughts.
*He likes you too.*
*I know.*
"I care about him, Ray. I mean, really. I know, you think it was just a crush, you know, because, well, it's *Fraser* . . ." Started fidgeting with the silver charm bracelet on her wrist. "I never slept with him. You should have told me about Frank Zuko, Ray. Walking in there, into his apartment, and finding him like that . . . you really think I could have, after that? You really think I could have done that?" Lowered her voice. "No. We . . . we talked. And I, I . . . well, someone needed to make sure he was okay. I guess you were feeling guilty, or something, I don't know, but what I do know is that I was there, and he needed someone, and it never went any further than that. Just . . . talking. Making sure he was okay. And I know I shouldn't have told anyone about it, but I guess it's one of my bad points. But you shouldn't have gone off at him. That wasn't right."
"Anyway . . . after that, things were . . . I love him," she finished, simply. "I don't know if he feels the same way, if he even has any of the slightest idea . . . no. I think, that is . . . he said he felt the same. And I want to go somewhere with that, Ray. I know he's your best friend, and you're my brother, and you want to look out for me, but it will make me so happy, and it's Fraser, he's about the safest and strongest and . . . well, you can't have a problem with me being with a guy like that."
She started twisting her fingers, over and over, trying to tear herself away from the past.
"Hi." I want the ground to open up and swallow me. "Where's the Mountie?" Ouch.
"Come here."
He pulls me into an empty interview room, hand on my wrist. I knew that I couldn't avoid him forever, but I still hoped it was possible. He's holding me so hard it almost hurts, but I don't think he means to, but I'm scared, scared of his voice, the hold on my sleeve.
"You and me gotta talk."
"What?" I try to take on this indignant look, as though I don't know what he's talking about. Like that could ever fool my brother.
"Stay away from him okay?"
Now I'm angry. He's let go of my wrist but I still can't believe he grabbed me like that, and now he's threatening me? "Excuse me?"
"Look Franny, you heard what I said. Just stay away from him." His voice has this low quality, I can tell he's serious. He had the same voice on when he beat up on Guy. He used the voice when we were kids, and Johnny Setchell would try and push me into the sandbox. But he's never used it on me before, and that scares me more than anything, but I'm still angry. As though I'm still a kid, and he feels the need to patronise me.
"Ray -"
"Franny, you are in over your head."
The Vecchio aggression gets the better of me, we're not brother and sister for nothing, and I take a step forward so we're only inches from each other. "Meaning?"
"Meaning guys like him don't marry girls like you. That's fairytale. And girls like you get hurt and guys like him don't even know it and that's life."
That hurt, maybe because I'm afraid of it being the truth. But it makes me even more angry, hiding my fear in sarcasm. "Oh, and you know this."
"Why do you do this?" He moves as though to grab me again, then moves away. His voice is all soft, but still angry, and maybe that makes me more scared, but furious, because it's like he's despairing of me. "You always do this to yourself."
Angrily: "Yeah I do." And inside I want to scream at him. This has to be the biggest argument yet, and I'm scared of losing him, but sometimes people just need to hear the truth. "You know what your problem is, Ray?"
He's not listening, and that annoys me. "No Franny, why don't you tell me."
"Yeah I'll tell you. Your problem is that you are so afraid to dream." I put emphasis on the last word. "You are so afraid to reach out for something that you really want. But you know what happens to people like you? They get old, they get alone, and they die. And they never know. Well that's not me."
God, what have I said? Part of me, a big part, wants to take the words back. I know after Angie he had this big fear over being alone, I know he wouldn't tell anyone but I'm his sister, I know these things. You can't hide stuff from an Italian family. But I'm still angry, I'm furious that he thinks he owns me, and Fraser, that he can control me. But I don't want to say anything else, I don't want to make things worse so I head for the door. Again he grabs me, but his touch isn't quite so hard.
"Hey, hey! Come here." He looks me in the eye, asks, softly: "Did you sleep with him?"
"Oh . . ." I shake my head. "Why? Why? Would it matter to you if I did?"
"Yes, yes it would." Ever so gently, and more vulnerable than I think I've ever seen him: "You're my sister. I care about you."
And that's when I know. He loves me. I'm his little sister and he's always been there to protect me, even when dad used to come in drunk and take out his anger on the nearest person available, and that person was usually Ray. This is exactly the same thing, Ray trying to protect me, and Fraser, but he can only be big brother to one of us. And he's afraid, I think, of losing us.
So I reach out and hug him. I think Vecchios have always been a touchy feeley kind of family, and I can't understand how anyone like Fraser can be brought up to be afraid of physical contact. I can feel the warmth of Ray's arms around me, he's tired, he's not been away from the station house in three days and I want him to go home. It's like for a very, very brief moment he's leaning on me, and I'm leaning on him, and without each other we'd fall. And then it's gone. I pull away, smile at him, then open the door, and this time he doesn't stop me.
"Ray?"
Quietly. No answer. Francesca closed her eyes, resting her head very briefly on the cold metal railing of the bed. Uncomfortable, she looked up, trying to shake mental cobwebs.
"Ma's on her way here. You know she gets worried."
Another hesitation. There was a gentle tap at the door, but the sudden noise in the silence served to shock, and she practically bumped her head on the ceiling as she leapt up.
There was a brief glimpse of blonde spikes outside, and she opened the door to him, mastering complete self-control, only pale fingers and smudged make-up to show anything was wrong.
"Hey." Kowalski's head bobbed up and down, threw a glance over her shoulder, then pulled his eyes away, back to hers. "I, uh, I came to see if you wanted anything. Maria called, asked if you needed anything if, you know, if you were going to stay the night."
She hesitated, focus darting back to her brother. "I don't think so. But I should speak to Maria, she'll want to know what's happening." Another short silence. She took a step forward, but stopped, chewing her lip.
"This is gonna sound stupid but, um, I don't want Ray to be alone."
He blinked at her, took a moment to register her meaning. "Sure," sounding considerably more casual than he felt, "I'll stay. I think Benny will be along here any minute -"
She offered him a grateful smile. "Thank you."
Taking a step to the side to let her pass, Kowalski impulsively took hold of her arm, held her back for a lingering moment. Caught her gaze.
"I, uh . . ."He trailed off, struggling for words, but she waited, sensing his need to speak. "Everything will be okay."
She repeated her smile, wistful, inwardly wishing she could believe him, left Kowalski wishing he could sound more upbeat. One slender hand brushed against his fleetingly, and then his grip dropped away and she continued her path down the corridor.
Kowalski turned back to the hospital room. His fingers hovered over the door handle before pressing down firmly, his feet taking two hesitant steps across tiles.
The room felt alien, the air cold and hostile across his skin. Oblivious to the darkened window, the green glow from machinery, Kowalski found his focus held completely by the figure in the bed. His eyes rested briefly on the pale face, narrow features.
*I can't do this. I can't -*
Then his feet were taking a panicked back-track across the floor, his spine bumping into the door, shaking as he fell out onto the corridor.
"Shit. Shit. Shi-" His eyes screwed closed, breath ragged and hitched in his throat. His head dropped between his shoulders, struggling to control his fear.
"Stan?"
Kowalski straightened violently, pulling a muscle in his back. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets to hide the tremors, managed to control his response.
"Frase. Back so soon?"
The Canadian nodded, reducing the distance between them to inches. "Are you alright?"
"Sure." His head made a bobbing motion at the door. "Franny asked me to wait here, til someone came to take over."
"Oh."
There was a sudden noise behind them as a pretty blonde nurse appeared on the corridor floor, pushing a trolley of crumpled sheets. The wheels squeaked against the tiles, the only sound as she passed the two men without an acknowledgement. The double doors at the far end hid her from sight, clapping against each other as they closed behind her, but a faint hint of bleached cloth and rose hip shampoo lingered.
Kowalski followed her departure, his eyes drawn to the doors, before returning his attention to the floor. "Look, ah, if you're gonna go back in there I'm going to go get some coffee -"
Fraser blinked, recognising his friend's haggard appearance for the first time. It was early morning, maybe as late as four or five. He knew Kowalski had been up late the night before, working on a stake-out, and his earlier irritability was caused by three hours sleep in a holding cell cot, but the memory was fuzzy, distanced by emotional events. "I'm sorry, Stan. You should go home, get some sleep -"
Blonde hair shook determinedly. Mumbled: "Someone needs to be here for you, Frase." A small pause, and then Kowalski raised his head, making his best attempt at a grin. "Besides, Vecchio's my partner too. Just cause we argue doesn't mean I don't care about the guy."
The words tasted poisonous in his mouth, and he swallowed bile quickly, retained his masked smile. "Look, I'm okay. Jeez, Frase, you shouldn't be worrying about me, I can look after myself. You go back in there, I'll go check on Franny. Don't think she's leaving either."
Kowalski caught the nod his friend returned him, saw the Mountie's chin rest, briefly, on his chest. *God, Fraser, this shouldn't have happened, everything was going okay, it shouldn't happen to you . . .*
Brown eyes looked up, caught Kowalski checking him over. Fraser looked away from the gaze, his hand reaching out to close around the door handle. Hesitated.
Softly: "It wasn't your fault."
Kowalski's blue shot up quickly at the epiphany, but a shoulder of crumpled red serge was all he caught before his friend disappeared into the room. He felt his heartbeat quicken at the sight.
*Never seen the uniform look like that. Mussed up.*
He gave himself a mental shake, feet taking him back up the corridor.