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Taken For Granted
for Shay
by Giulietta
Author's Notes: Written for the 2005 Seekrit Santa. Thanks to Vienna Waits and Shrewreader for beta.
Fraser strides through the precinct's crowded, noisy hallways, scanning the various heads around him for blond spikes. When he doesn't find any, he doesn't immediately think anything of it. Ray, as accustomed as he is to the city, does not favor elbowing people -- or being elbowed by them in turn, as it may happen -- any more than Fraser himself does. Besides, Ray might be contemplating the Baldwin case, in which case he probably wouldn't find the hallway conducive to receiving hunches from the ethers.
When he finally makes it into the bullpen, however, Ray is not at his desk. No matter, Fraser thinks -- he himself is, after all, on his lunch break. Ray's probably gone out for lunch alone, for once. Still, it can't hurt to ask. "Detective Huey," he starts politely, noticing that Huey is glaring at Dewey with a certain -- tension, as it were. "Could you perhaps -- "
"Fraser," Huey interrupts loudly, visibly annoyed, "if you told your partner -- "
"Ray, you mean?" Fraser asks, pleased with this fortuitous move in the right direction.
" -- yeah, all right, if you told Ray that he owed you for doing all the paperwork the last time there was a crunch, you'd expect to find it done, wouldn't you?"
"Aw, c'mon, Jack -- " Dewey protests from his desk. Huey holds up a hand to silence him, and looks expectantly at Fraser.
Fraser coughs and tugs on an ear. "Ah, well -- in point of fact, I always do the paperwork. You see, my penmanship is more legible than Ray's. If I do it, he won't have to do it again."
Huey stares at Fraser for a moment. Dewey snickers; Fraser can't understand what he's found humorous about the statement. "Right," Huey says, apparently finding Fraser's answer inadequate. "What'd you want?"
"Oh, yes -- speaking of Ray, have you seen him today? He hasn't been answering his phone."
"Ray?" Huey frowns. "Uh, no. No, I -- uh, maybe check the lunch room. I haven't seen him. You seen him?" Huey asks Dewey suddenly.
Dewey sits up very straight. "No, of course not. I haven't seen Ray for, uh, days." Huey nudges him sharply. "Hours!" he amends hastily. Huey elbows him again. "Not since yesterday," he says finally. Huey seems to find that accurate, and they both smile at Fraser in an oddly familiar manner.
Ah, that's it -- like those sled pups he'd once tried to train in Inuvik. He wonders why that is.
"Thank you kindly," Fraser tells them sincerely. "You see, it just occurred to me today that Baldwin might in fact -- "
"Yeah. You," Huey says, pointing at Dewey aggressively, "are goin' down. Welsh is gonna chew you out like -- " Fraser, feeling that the finer points of his theory might be lost on them, heads back into the hallway.
Ray is not, as it happens, in the breakroom -- but Francesca is. She beams at Fraser in a rather alarming manner, and makes a beeline for him. Fraser fights the urge to shrink back into a corner, and instead settles for looking up, pointedly, at the far corner of the room, while Francesca lays a very well-meaning hand on his chest. "Hey there, Frase. Can I help you with something?"
"I -- well. Yes, as a matter of fact." As soon as that's out of his mouth, he begins to wonder if perhaps that wasn't the wisest course of action.
"Oh?" she prompts enthusiastically, smiling broadly and patting his chest encouragingly. Dief chooses this moment to trot belatedly through the door. He takes one look at Fraser and sneezes twice, amused.
Fraser refrains from informing him that there's still powdered sugar on his nose, and that he should at least attempt to be discreet in his gluttony. He looks back at Francesca, who is still watching him eagerly. "Yes. Have you seen your brother today?"
Francesca's face falls. Fraser would feel sorry for her, if he wasn't feeling grateful for the breathing room she's given him. "No. Not -- today. You know. Maybe he's, uh, at his desk. Working. He, uh, does that sometimes. Sometimes." She tugs at a curl of hair near her ear and laughs nervously, then whisks away.
Fraser blinks, confused, and Dief covers his face with one paw. "What?" Fraser demands.
Dief woofs.
"You think she's lying to me?"
Luckily, wolves haven't quite mastered the finer details of sarcastic eye-rolling.
"It's a serious accusation, Dief. And she has no motivation whatsoever."
Dief stares at him.
"No, this is not familiar in the least. In fact, I would venture to say that everyone's come quite uniquely unhin -- " And suddenly he understands what Dief's trying to tell him. That's ridiculous, of course --
("What's the matter, Pops? Something died in your throat?" Detective Huey inquired snidely.
"Not yet," the old man croaked.
Fraser didn't understand why Huey couldn't be more polite, but then it was not his place to ask. "Detective Huey, have you seen Detective Vecchio?"
"You mean Ray?"
"Yes, Ray Vecchio the detective."
"No. In the lunch room maybe?")
He can't afford to assume that Ray has --
( "You haven't seen Detective Vecchio, have you?" Fraser asked Elaine patiently.
"Ray Vecchio?" Elaine asked tentatively. Apparently, she'd become just as daft as everyone else at the station. It was a pity.
"Yes. The detective," Fraser confirmed.
"Ah, no, no. I haven't. He's probably at his desk," Elaine told him, which was just about the most massively useless thing he'd ever heard.)
-- just because the last time everyone lost track of one Detective Raymond Vecchio -- and even if that's his duty --
No. No, he must simply -- ask the right people. One never progresses by jumping to conclusions -- that will just slow him down considerably, later. He should just -- verify his facts. There is no reason to panic. Ray -- Ray Kowalski, in particular -- must be somewhere in the precinct. Though -- eerily -- no one seems to want to inform Fraser of his location, that does not necessarily mean that Ray is -- well, that Ray has --
"Perhaps," Fraser suggests brightly, "he's gone to pick me up at the Consulate." Dief gives Fraser a pitying look, but heads off to the door without making a fuss. "Well, " Fraser calls after him, knowing full well that Dief can't hear him, "it's not all that unlikely. It is lunchtime, and we often -- "
Lieutenant Welsh rounds a corner, looking rather more harried than usual, and cuts Fraser off by running directly into him. "Sorry," he mutters quickly, then does a double take. "Constable. I was looking for you -- "
"Well then, sir, it's very fortunate that you caught me just now," Fraser says. "I was just heading out."
"We need to talk," the lieutenant informs him gravely -- ("IRS?" Welsh repeated, looking alarmed. "All right, listen, Fraser -- there's a couple of things I got to do, but we have to talk," he told Fraser with surprising urgency.) -- and Fraser's heart sinks a little. "In my -- "
"This doesn't," Fraser asks -- does his voice sound excessively heavy? -- "have to do with Ray Vecchio, does it?"
Welsh frowns. "Which one?"
"The new one," Fraser specifies, feeling even more apprehensive.
Welsh nods, his face creasing tiredly. "Yeah."
Ah. Well. That's -- that's just -- that confirms it, then.
Welsh puts a heavy hand on Fraser's shoulder in an all-too-familiar way. "Let's go in my office, we'll -- "
"Thank you kindly," Fraser interrupts, squaring his shoulders, "but that won't be necessary." He can't go there now. Not now. He needs time to -- regroup. Yes. He'll be fine, he just needs -- time. He survived this the last time -- he'll survive it this time.
The lieutenant looks at Fraser steadily for a few seconds. "Yeah, okay," he says finally. "Go."
So without ceremony, Fraser leaves the precinct, Dief at his heels. He has absolutely no intention of returning.
Dief whines.
"I am not."
Dief whines again.
"I am not."
Dief growls, baring his teeth in extreme annoyance.
Well, fine. Two can play that game. "Well, perhaps I do feel betrayed!" Fraser snaps, throwing his fountain pen down onto the table. It leaves a large, wet spot of ink on the stack of forms he's supposed to be filling out, but Fraser can't bring himself to mind at this juncture. "Is that so terrible? Is that so very terrible? I didn't -- I didn't even suspect that anything was wrong until -- until -- " Fraser raises a hand, and finds it in a fist. He takes a deep breath, and relaxes it slowly. "And Ray Vecchio, at least, tried to -- said something -- I'd thought that Ray -- " Fraser stops, staring at the desktop. "That Ray would -- "
"Constable Fraser?" Turnbull calls from the hallway, sounding oddly muffled. "Are you all right?"
Fraser sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yes, Turnbull. I'm fine. Thank you for your concern."
"Because you sounded as though you were arguing with someone." Turnbull opens the door and steps in.
Fraser blinks at him, confused. Turnbull's head appears to be enveloped tightly in black knit fabric. Perched on top of Turnbull's head, unmoved from its usual place, is Turnbull's Stetson. "Ah, Turnbull -- "
"Yes, sir?"
"What are you wearing?"
Even though Fraser can't see Turnbull's face, the lengthy pause makes him suspect that Turnbull's scrambled brains have confused themselves again. "Well, sir, I'm fairly certain that I'm wearing my tunic, Sam Browne, trousers, suspenders -- "
"No, no -- on your head."
"Oh," Turnbull says, obviously delighted. "It's a stocking cap."
"A stocking cap."
"Yes. It was a gift. I think it looks splendid, don't you?"
Fraser frowns at where he thinks Turnbull's face is. "Can you see at all?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah. All right. Very we -- " and then the phone rings. Fraser leans forward and picks it up. "You've reached the Canadian Consulate in Chicago." Ray, Fraser thinks distractedly, would have interrupted him by now. Not that this matters in the least. Ray has -- left. There will be no correspondence. The -- the sooner he realizes that, the better. "My name is Constable Benton Fraser. May I -- "
"Benton Fraser?" a man says uncertainly at the other end of the line.
"Yes. Constable Benton Fraser."
"Oh, all right. This is Dr. Howards, from the Northwestern Memorial Hospital -- your partner's been asking for you, says you haven't visited."
Fraser's brain stutters and stalls abruptly.
The doctor doesn't seem to have noticed -- he's explaining himself at length, obviously expecting Fraser to know what on earth's happening. "Thing is, I think you have -- I just wanted to make sure, before I start testing for amnesia and the like. We don't have any records of a visit, but cops -- I know cops, they always visit their -- "
"Wait, wait, wait." Fraser can feel sweat breaking out at his hairline. "Do you mean to say -- Ray is with you? In hospital?"
"Ray -- Detective Vecchio, you mean?"
"Yes. Yes. Detective Vecchio," Fraser amends hastily, face heating.
"Uh -- yeah. He's here. You mean you really haven't come in?" The doctor sounds confused, and not a little shocked.
"I -- no. No, there's -- there's been a misunderstanding. I'm -- tell him I'm sorry. Tell him I'll be right there, I'll -- " and then he's hanging up, grabbing his hat and running out the door, ignoring Turnbull's aborted, "Sir, is everything under -- "
Quietly, Fraser watches Ray sleep the nearly motionless slumber of the well and truly drugged. Ray's got a swollen gash on the side of his head -- which is probably why the doctor suspects amnesia -- a few livid bruises coming up around his cheekbones and jaw, a brace around his left wrist. Fraser's heart is pounding -- how could he have not known all this time? How could Ray be hurt without Fraser knowing?
And what had he been doing, anyway? Why hadn't he told Fraser? If he'd just said something -- but no. This is not Ray's fault. Ray's motives were, undoubtedly, noble -- it was Fraser who made premature assumptions, Fraser who'd neglected to gather all the facts before coming to a conclusion. And all this time -- all this time -- Ray had been paying for that. He'd been lonely. He had asked his doctor to find Fraser. He'd --
"Frrrase?" Ray croaks, face suddenly squeezing tight against the lights in the room. "That you?"
"Yes." Fraser clears his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, Ray. I'm here. I'm -- sorry I didn't come earlier, I -- "
"'Sokay." Ray raises his head and tries to push himself into a sitting position, and Fraser automatically reaches out and grasps Ray's upper arm to pull him up gently. "Wait. They call you?"
"Yes. Yes, I -- "
"Shit. Look, it's okay, Fraser, you don't gotta -- I mean, I get that, it wasn't buddies. I shoulda told you about Baldwin -- "
"Baldwin?" Fraser repeats. Surely Ray's not that stupid. "Ray, Baldwin is a mob boss." That was theory, of course, but Ray's current condition makes it fact. "He could have had you killed -- " Is it really so terrible, considering that, for Fraser to be relieved to know that Ray was pursuing Baldwin? He is. He feels grimy and cruel and relieved, because Ray is here. Ray has not disappeared. It almost doesn't matter that he's injured.
Ray winces. "Yeah. I know that now. Not then."
Ah. "I'm sorry," Fraser whispers, looking down at his folded hands. "I should've -- "
"Uh-uh." Ray starts to shake his head, then grimaces and stops. "I was stupid. Wanted to..." Ray seems to get lost for a moment, frowning at the ceiling. "Shake 'em up, surprise 'em, see what comes out. Had this hunch, see."
"It wasn't entirely wrong," Fraser points out wryly.
"Nope. Wish it was."
"Yes," Fraser agrees. "But you -- you did well, I'm sure."
Ray thinks that over for a minute or two. Fraser waits. Finally Ray seems to have figured it out; he gives Fraser a woozily annoyed look. "'I'm sure'?"
"I, ah, didn't receive a full briefing from the lieutenant. My own fault," he adds hurriedly, before Ray can say anything against Welsh. "I didn't -- think, I didn't -- " He takes a deep breath, and tries not to stare at the bruise on Ray's collarbone. Ray's lucky it's not broken. "It's not important. I'm here now. That's all that matters."
Ray gives Fraser a steady look. He may be drugged, but apparently he's still lucid enough to be suspicious. Come to that, Fraser doubts that Ray will ever be able to sedate his natural suspicion of everyone and everything. "So, just curious. Where'd you think I was? You know, all day?"
Ah. Well. "Er," Fraser says uncomfortably. "I don't think it would be -- ah, wise to discuss that now."
"No," Ray retorts, pushing himself away from his pillow, which Fraser is almost certain he should not be doing, "no, I think we should."
"Ray, please, stay -- "
"Fraser."
"There's no need to injure yourself further -- "
"Fraser."
"I'll leave, I'm distre -- "
"Fraser!"
Fraser snaps his mouth shut. Ray shakes his head, apparently trying to clear it, and looks up at Fraser with unfocused eyes. "Okay. So. Spill."
"Well." Fraser coughs delicately into his fist. "I don't, in fact, know where you are every waking moment." But as he says it, he realizes that's not precisely true. Usually, he does -- albeit in a rather vague sense, but he can always find Ray if he needs him. That's not to say that Ray is obliged to comply with Fraser on that point -- it has simply become the norm.
Ideally, he ought to be weaned off it as soon as possible. It's not healthy, to expect such things. It's obsessive, in fact.
But Ray is shaking his head unsteadily. "Uh-uh. Too obvious. You're too nervous. C'mon, Fraser -- " Ray's looking more and more distressed -- he thinks, Fraser realizes suddenly, that Fraser doesn't trust him, which is so far from the truth that --
"I thought you'd left," Fraser whispers, looking away from Ray.
Ray doesn't seem to understand. "Huh?"
Fraser shuts his eyes and swallows, feeling his face heat. "I thought you'd -- left. Left me behind."
Ray's jaw is clenched, and real anger is starting to sharpen his eyes despite the medication. "You think I'd just go? You think -- "
"Left Ray Vecchio behind," Fraser clarifies quietly. His skin is burning -- cheeks, eyes, mouth.
Ray is, evidently, struck dumb by this statement. It's a few seconds before Fraser hears him draw a breath. "Frase. I'm not goin' anywhere."
Fraser nods, unable to look Ray in the eye. "I know."
"No, you don't." Ray's voice is roughening -- Fraser wonders how much of it is from pain and sheer exhaustion. "You thought I'd left. I wouldn't do that to you. Got that?"
It's not that simple. It wasn't, anyway; Fraser had thought that was the case, but somehow it hadn't seemed -- applicable, this afternoon. "I -- I thought -- they wouldn't tell me where you were, Ray, I didn't know what -- "
"Shit." Ray flumps back against the pillow. "Oh, boy. You couldn't've maybe asked Welsh?"
"I did. He said he had something urgent to tell me about you," Fraser says evenly. "In his office."
Ray groans. "Shit."
"And I still don't understand," Fraser adds before he can stop himself, "why you couldn't have informed me that you were going to -- "
"Didn't want you getting hurt. Thought I could handle it. And I knew you'd follow me if they told you I was going for Baldwin, so -- " Ray stares at the ceiling for a few moments. "Guess I was wrong. Sorry."
"There's nothing to apologize for," Fraser says, feeling mildly hurt all the same. He shouldn't -- isn't Ray here? Isn't it enough, to know that he's here and doesn't intend to leave? How much more can he ask for?
"Wasn't buddies," Ray repeats throatily, sounding -- pained, ashamed, upset in too many ways for Fraser to count or name.
"I -- "
"Don't," Ray interrupts thickly.
"Understood."
"Look, I'm not -- leaving, okay? 'M staying. 'Swhere I belong. 'Swhat I wanna do. Okay?" Ray nudges Fraser with a bare foot, and Fraser realizes that he expects an answer.
He should say Yes, of course, I know that -- but instead, helplessly, Fraser finds himself voicing every insecure thought he's had on that subject today -- more than he ever wanted Ray to know about, more than he wants to admit to thinking about. "They can tell you to leave. And then you will go. You won't have a choice, and you won't be able to warn me, and -- " Ray Vecchio, after all, had been able to say so little in that last phone call -- everything had gone completely over his head. Entirely. It was only later, when he knew, that the phone call had given him any comfort -- at least Ray had tried. " -- and you can't stay forever. You have to leave someday."
Ray doesn't say anything at all, and Fraser can hear his own voice ringing back at him from the walls: someday, have to leave someday, can't stay forever, won't have a choice, won't be able to warn me. He wonders if the same thing is happening to Ray. He wonders if Ray is as terrified of those words as Fraser is, if it pains him to think of them -- but he can't bring himself to look up and discover that Ray pities him for being terrified. For caring more than he ought.
The blanket shifts, loud in the still room. Fraser looks up -- and finds that Ray's back is turned towards him, so that he can't see Ray's face. Ray breathes in deeply, his ribcage expanding visibly under the scrubs. "Right," he whispers.
Something's gone terribly wrong. Fraser doesn't know what he's done, but he knows that something has gone awry. "Ray?"
"I'm tired, Fraser," Ray says abruptly, his voice harsh. "I'm tired and I wanna go to sleep."
There is no arguing with that tone. "All right," Fraser says softly, blinking rapidly against the bewildered burn in his eyes. "I'll go."
Ray doesn't turn to watch him leave.
"Now, behave yourself," Fraser warns Dief, who grumbles irritably. It's raining, and Dief does not generally appreciate being rained on. "He's only just gotten out of the hospital. You don't want to bother his ribs. They've not quite healed yet, I hear." Not from Ray himself, as he'd pretended to sleep through all of Fraser's visits -- for his own particular reasons, no doubt, as he must have had some motive to sit stoically through six consecutive caribou stories -- and had not, therefore, said a word on any subject at all. Fraser firmly tells himself that it's ridiculous to be worried over an encounter with Ray -- Ray, of all people -- cracks his neck, and heads into the bullpen.
Ray is not there. Oh, dear. "Detective Huey," Fraser says, pulling himself together and heading toward Huey's desk tentatively, "have you seen Ray?"
Huey stares at him, apparently shocked. "Ray Vecchio?" he asks, finally.
No. Fraser is not going to repeat that farce. He will not. "Yes. Detective Raymond Vecchio."
Huey's eyebrows lift. "Uh, Fraser," he says shiftily, "there's something I gotta tell you."
"Yes?" Fraser is not (is he hurt?) worried. He is not (is he dead?) panicking. He has every faith (has he left?) in Ray.
"Ray's transferred," Huey says, and it takes a few seconds for that information to sink in.
"He what?" Fraser's horrified. Ray'd said -- he'd promised --
"Transferred," Huey says uncertainly, as though he doesn't know whether he should say more or not. "Back -- I mean, down to the 1-9. Didn't he tell you?"
Something in the pit of Fraser's stomach has gone cold -- cold as ice, cold as snow, cold as home. He doesn't like it. "No, he didn't. I'm sorry, I have to -- I have to go," he says, and carefully refrains from breaking into a run until he's well outside the precinct.
Fraser stands, sopping wet, in front of Ray's door and knocks -- it wouldn't be appropriate to just let himself in, no matter how capable he is of picking the locks, or how desperate he is to get inside. He must do this correctly. He mustn't act rashly --
"Just a minute," Ray says on the other side -- at least he's there. There's the sound of feet padding on wood flooring, and a pause -- Ray must be looking through the peephole. Suddenly the door is flung open, and Ray is staring at Fraser with wide eyes. Fraser doesn't know what to say, and so he doesn't say anything -- the silence stretches out, building the tension between them.
"You're all wet," Ray says, finally.
"Yes. It's raining," Fraser replies, with what he thinks is remarkable tranquility. "You've transferred."
Ray's face closes up, then; his eyes shutter and tense lines appear around his eyes and mouth. "Yeah. So?"
Fraser looks down at his feet, letting a shaky breath out and licking his lips. "Could -- could we -- ?" He gestures inside. He doesn't want Ray's neighbors to hear this.
Ray looks at him for a few seconds. A few drops of water drip from the brim of Fraser's hat. "Yeah, sure," he says accommodatingly, turning to walk into his apartment -- but his mouth is tight and unforgiving, and Fraser wants nothing more than to know what he's not being forgiven for.
Ray shuts the door behind Fraser, and turns around to look at him again. Again, the silence stretches on and on, seemingly endless. "What?" Ray snaps finally.
Fraser's jaw works soundlessly. He doesn't -- he can't -- "Why?" He hears his voice crack on that one word; it's pathetic, but then he never actually claimed not to be.
Ray, unexpectedly, clenches his entire body -- fists, jaw, calves -- and explodes at him. "You're asking me -- you said all that shit about leaving, and now you're asking me? Thanks, but I can take a fucking hint. You can drop the fucking act, Fraser -- quit lookin' at me like I'm tearing your guts out, 'cause I know I'm not."
"Ray," Fraser breathes, shocked, taking a step toward him. "What are you -- "
"Quit it, Fraser!" Ray screams, pointing at Fraser's face threateningly. "Just -- don't make me the bad guy, 'cause I am doing this for you, get it? This is for you. You got no reason to -- "
"Ray -- "
"Shut up! I do not want to hear it! I do not want to hear about how much I suck, and how much you can't trust -- "
"Ray -- " Fraser has to stop him. Now. Before he gets violent, or -- or -- worse. "I don't -- "
"'Cause I get that I'm not Vecchio, and you'd really rather have him than me -- but the thing is, I'm not Vecchio, okay? Okay? I do not screw people over like that. So yeah, tell me you don't want me here with you, but do not give me any shit about how I'm gonna leave you and just take that when you think I'm gone -- "
He's not making sense. Fraser can't understand him. What is he saying? "I don't understand, Ray -- I don't -- "
"What's not to understand?" Ray snarls. "You wish Vecchio was here instead of me. You wish I'd just leave like Vecchio did. You don't even wanna know me -- well, get this; I don't wanna know him! It's no walk in the park, cleaning his shit up -- dead guys and shellac and missing coke -- "
"I -- " He's wrong. That's all Fraser knows -- he's wrong, and Fraser's got to prove that to him somehow. "No. No. Stop, Ray -- listen -- "
"I listened, Fraser. Yeah, yeah, I'm an idiot, but I listen. You don't trust me. You don't wanna trust me, cause I'm never gonna be as good as Vecchio, and you can't trust him -- "
"No, Ray. No. That's not -- "
"Liar," Ray hisses, and Fraser flinches away from him. "Liar. I'm not stupid, Fraser -- "
"Ray, please," but he won't let Fraser speak. He won't let Fraser near him.
"Don't. Just -- get the fuck out. Don't tell me nothing about partners, 'cause what we got ain't partners, Fraser -- what we got's nothing."
"No," Fraser whispers, reaching for Ray's arm, but Ray slaps him away.
"Don't -- get away from -- "
"I'm sorry, Ray, I can't -- "
" -- fucking apologize -- bastard -- " Ray growls, shoving Fraser back.
" -- you're not -- "
" -- won't let me in your fucking brain -- " and then Fraser, entirely exasperated, grabs Ray by the collar and shoves him back against the wall with a thump and presses their mouths together.
Ray struggles violently for a moment, but Fraser has at least fifteen pounds on him, and he soon subsides. The kiss is too brief to taste like anything at all, but it serves its purpose -- when Fraser pulls back, Ray is looking at him again.
"There," Fraser tells him, and his voice scrapes in his throat. "That's what's in my brain, Ray."
"Jesus Christ," Ray whispers.
"So you might gather that I do want to get to know you. Very much so." Fraser is acutely aware of Ray's skin, warm beneath his shirt; Ray's collarbone is millimeters away from the pads of Fraser's thumbs. "And I most certainly don't want you to leave."
Ray stares at Fraser, his breathing shallow and erratic. He doesn't move for several long seconds. "But," he says finally, "you still don't trust me." His tone is decisive, final, and it twists something in Fraser's gut. "You still think I'm gonna leave you."
Fraser cannot counter that. Not without lying, and he can't do that to Ray. "I -- I'm so -- "
Ray's eyes drop to the ground, and Fraser can't help feeling that he's -- lost, somehow. "Lemme go," Ray says quietly. "You're hurting my ribs."
Fraser jerks away. "Oh. I -- "
"Don't. Forget about it." Ray pushes himself off the wall and heads toward the kitchen, still not looking at Fraser. His shoulders are slumped, and Fraser is suddenly reminded of Ray's posture after he'd sparred with Mr. Mason -- hurt, in more ways than one. Weary. Has Fraser done that to him?
But he's walking away. He's walking away, and he hasn't said -- "Ray." Fraser's voice sounds ragged, even to his own ears.
Ray stops, but doesn't turn around. "Yeah?"
"Cancel the transfer." He's begging. There's plenty of shame in begging, but Fraser doesn't have time for petty things like shame just now.
Ray sighs, rolls his head back to look at the ceiling. "This's a really bad idea."
"No. It's not. I'll -- I'll learn, I'll -- "
Ray turns around and looks at Fraser. "Okay. Fine. I'll do it." Fraser feels a grin spread across his face; relieved, he moves toward Ray -- "But we still ain't partners, Fraser," Ray states flatly, stopping Fraser in his tracks. "You can fool everybody else, Fraser, but you cannot fool me." He taps his own chest, eyes intense. "So long as you know that..." He shrugs.
Fraser swallows, not daring to blink. It'll be all right, now. If Ray'll only give him a chance, he'll be able to fix this. It'll be fine. "Understood," he rasps, and Ray nods once, echoing the sentiment.
Fraser stares at Ray, his jaw throbbing from the punch and his mind whirling from shock. Ray. What -- how could he -- how can he expect Fraser to trust him if he -- no. No. It is not Ray's fault that Fraser can't trust him. It's not Ray's fault. It's -- it's --
The gap between them is too wide to bridge with words, even more impossible to bridge with a touch. But he's got to try, got to keep them together, because if he lets them break apart now there'll be no going back. There will be no trust, and there will be no partnership, and there will be no future. He's got to say something --
-- god, Ray's eyes are so terrible --
-- got to make this better. He can fix this, if he tries. He can fix this --
-- only he can't, and he's walking away, because he can't do it, can't do this, can't --
*
-- can't do this to Ray. Can't do this to them. End it? "I can't do this, Ray," he says, feeling wound tight, like Ray often is -- too small to hold everything he wants to feel.
Ray's eyes are cold, deaf as Diefenbaker to Fraser's mute appeal. "Look, you have to."
There is no way out. Ray will not allow there to be a way out. "This is for good?" Fraser asks, hoping to make Ray realize the magnitude of the decision he's making for the both of them -- and something flickers behind Ray's eyes. Ray is forcing himself to this, as much as Fraser is forcing himself to comply with Ray's wishes.
"You put in your transfer, I'll put in mine." His voice is dull, entirely unlike his usual enthusiastic tones, and Fraser has a brief, terrifying premonition that Ray will never lose that dullness, will never -- but of course that's silly. This was Ray's idea. Ray wants this. "It's quits," Ray says, as if to remind Fraser of reality.
"You're sure about this?" Fraser asks one last time, testing Ray's resolve as much as he can stand.
Ray nods firmly, his jaw tightening, bracing himself for the relatively simple force of the punch. "Do it."
And because he's waiting, and Fraser can't stand to leave him like that for long, Fraser pulls his arm back and smashes his knuckles into Ray's face.
Oh, God.
Fraser looks back through the water and sees Ray's silhouette drifting, sinking, going limp, and very nearly panics. That would be fatal, here -- he'd kill himself and Ray both -- and so at the last second, he doesn't. But there is a chant in the back of his head that refuses to be silenced: He'll die, he'll die, he'll die and leave me and then --
Hurriedly, he swims over to Ray and grabs his head -- there's no time to be gentle -- slaps him, shakes him to bring him back to consciousness, and then opens his mouth over Ray's without ceremony.
It's not until Ray's mouth opens under his, sucking his air in thirstily, that Fraser actually thinks of mouths, and kissing, and what people generally do with their mouths in this position. He hopes Ray doesn't know what he's thinking right now -- and he probably doesn't, seeing as he's probably more preoccupied with the fact that he's managed not to drown for another minute and a half.
A minute and a half turns out to be nearly not enough -- Fraser has to steer Ray in the right direction, as he seems to have failed to infer a steering technique -- but they make it, him and Ray. Fraser hears Ray expel all the air from his lungs with a panicked shout, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard; it means Ray is alive, well, and belligerent as ever. "What was that, Fraser?" Ray demands.
"What was what?" Fraser asks, distracted. They need to find a way out of here -- they still haven't gotten --
"That thing you were doing with your mouth," Ray explains, as if it's obvious and Fraser's just playing dumb.
Ah. "Oh, that. That's buddy breathing. You seemed to be in a bit of a -- well, having a problem. I have excess lung capacity, so..."
Ray sounds skeptical, for some reason. "Buddy breathing."
"Ah, standard procedure."
Ray frowns, but nods. "Good. Okay. All right. Nothing's, like, changed or anything, right?"
"No." It's not as though it's in his power to change anything, really -- he doesn't know why Ray's asking.
"Okay."
"Yeah."
"Thanks."
At this, Fraser has to drop the issue at hand for a moment and take a closer look at Ray. "You're thanking me?"
Ray immediately retracts, snapping, "Look, don't get too excited, Fraser. The jury's still out on this partnership thing, okay?"
Fraser knows exactly what he means -- but he's still smiling. He can't help it. "Oh, well, don't worry, Mr. Instinct, I'm not excited," but that's a lie, isn't it? Ray trusts him. He has every reason in the world to be excited.
Ray's coming toward him, and secretly, Fraser is glad that the Inspector's decided to leave them alone. He has a feeling that this could potentially become very, very nasty -- and if it does, he certainly doesn't want anyone else watching them too closely. Certainly not his superior officer.
Ray leans his elbows on the railing, looking out over the water. "So. Transfer. You thought about it?"
Fraser hesitates before answering. He doesn't want to ruin this -- doesn't want to lose the only chance he has to make Ray understand. "Well, it would be the logical career move," he points out carefully.
"I know," Ray says, sounding almost -- wistful. "That's what I think, that's what my instinct tells me." Their eyes meet for a moment, but Ray recoils and turns to look out at the sea again. Good God, this is difficult. Why does it have to be so -- ?
Fraser just barely manages to keep a hold of his skin when his father appears next to him. As usual, he seems to have a piece of helpful advice to give; hopefully, if Fraser doesn't make any sudden moves, Ray will fail to notice that he's here. "Buck Frobisher and I stood across from each other on the banks of that river," Bob Fraser says, in the deep, important voice Fraser's come to associate with him and storytelling and history, "and we knew, without even speaking -- we knew we'd come to the same conclusion: that sometimes you just have to make a leap, son. Sometimes you just have to leap."
And suddenly, it's blindingly obvious to Fraser -- he knows what he needs to do. He knows what he needs to tell Ray. "Thank you," Fraser says softly.
Apparently, not softly enough. "For what?" Ray asks defensively.
Fraser takes a deep breath, bracing his hands on the guard rail. As Ray might say, it's now or never. "Well, I realize that logic doesn't always work."
Ray tilts his head to the side, conceding the point grudgingly. "I know. And I realize that going on instinct doesn't always work, either."
Good heavens, no. "No. No, so -- " Should his heart be pounding this fast? Is it even healthy? Probably not. Probably --
"You going to take the transfer?" Ray breaks in, sounding impatient.
Fraser looks over at him, taking in the lines in his face, the insecurity he hadn't allowed himself to see, before. He looks away, because -- because he doesn't want Ray to see everything, just now. He can't afford for Ray to see everything.
And he leaps. "I don't think so." He catches Ray's head bobbing decisively out of the corner of his eye, and looks down at his hands. "You?"
Ray seems to be suppressing a full-body twitch; his head is still oscillating. And then -- as if it doesn't mean anything at all -- "Me? No."
Oh, thank God. Fraser feels almost like he had after he'd punched Ray, and the pirate had interrupted their plans -- he's been granted a reprieve, and he is relieved. He can't feel his knees anymore. He wonders what Ray would do if he just let them buckle and fell over on the deck. "All right," he says shakily. "So we're -- we're still, uh -- "
"I think," Ray says confidently, as though that were obvious -- and Fraser very nearly wants to hit him, because it's not obvious and it never was. But -- Ray's not leaving, because Fraser leapt, and Ray threw him a gun. Fraser leapt, and Ray caught him. So if Ray wants to play tough -- that's all right. That's just fine.
When Ray knocks on the Consulate door, Fraser is ready for him. He knows exactly who is knocking at eleven o' clock at night, and he knows -- he thinks he knows -- why Ray is here. Fraser gets off of the couch in the Consulate's sitting room and goes to open the door.
Ray comes in without really registering Fraser's attire; he gets as far as, "Fraser, we gotta -- " before turning around and blinking. "Uh, Frase, did I wake you up?"
"Oh, no, not at all. I've been expecting you."
"But you're, uh -- " Ray gestures at Fraser's longjohns.
"Yes. You see, I'm out of uniforms." Truth be told, he has an emergency set in his closet for just such a purpose -- but Ray doesn't need to know that.
Ray nods quickly, looking uncomfortable. "Uh. Yeah. Okay. Fraser, we gotta talk."
Fraser nods seriously, waiting, automatically shifting into parade rest. "What about?"
Ray paces back and forth, making one complete cycle before swiveling around and striding up to Fraser on long legs. "Fraser, you -- you 'n' me, we've -- had some issues."
"Ah. Well. I -- thought we'd resolved most of those."
Ray's face is unbearably close, coiled tight like a spring. "Yeah. Most of 'em. Except that trust thing." His voice is soft, breathy, nearly inaudible. "You remember that trust thing, Fraser?"
Fraser swallows, his mouth feeling dry. "Yes."
"Good." Ray takes yet another step towards Fraser. "See, though, you kinda -- did that thing. Today. With the trust."
Fraser rubs his eyebrow. He hopes that Ray's talking about what Fraser thinks he is. "Well, Ray," he replies calmly, just to make certain, "it would be ridiculous to shut your opinion out completely."
Suddenly Ray's hands blur into motion, and at the end of it, his fists are drawing the collar of Fraser's longjohns into two wrinkled knots. "Not that. That's small fry, that's little stuff, that's cop stuff -- what I mean, I mean you and me. You thinkin' I'm gonna ditch you."
This is it. This is it. "Ah," Fraser says, purely unable to think of anything else to say.
"But," Ray murmurs roughly, "you stuck your neck out today. You gave me a chance to go off someplace, leave you by yourself. You did that for me, right?"
He's so warm, and his mouth is so close, and he -- he wants to -- "Yes, Ray," Fraser whispers. "Yes."
Ray's fingers tighten. "You know I'm not gonna leave you now? You get what I feel like? I wanted you," he breathes, and Fraser swallows noisily. "Even then, only -- if there's one thing I know -- there's no point in trying if you think I'm gonna drop you in a ditch somewhere in Idaho. 'Cause I can't, Fraser. I can't leave here anymore than -- anymore than you can leave me. You -- you get that now?"
Fraser's breathing too loudly. His heart's beating too loudly -- this close, Ray must hear. "Yes."
"Okay," Ray breathes, his voice warm on Fraser's face -- and Fraser doesn't remember closing his eyes, but he doesn't remember Ray pulling him close, either. And yet, here they are -- mouth to open mouth, pressing open and pressing in and opening and tasting and -- and Ray is so warm, and he's shaking, he's shaking, but he's got his hands clenched in the fabric over Fraser's side and he's not -- letting -- go, and he never will. Ever. Because he says he'll stay. And Fraser knows he will, and -- that's all they need to know.
--fin
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