Rating: G
"Bleeding Hearts"
by Mary Healey
(takes place somewhere between Juliet Is Bleeding and One Good Man)
The confrontation had been building for weeks. Wrapped in his own concerns, numbed by grief and regrets, Detective First Grade Raymond Vecchio, CPD only gradually became aware of his officially unofficial partner's unusual behavior. Ray was somewhat inured to oddness from that quarter, had become accustomed to tracking criminals by triangulation, or soap crystals in mud, or the unique gustatory properties of dog urine. He thought nothing Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP could do would surprise him. Annoy him, yes. Disgust him, probably. But surprise? After all they'd been through in the last two years, he hadn't thought surprise was possible. He was wrong.
If that made the Mountie right, someone was going to pay.
In the days following Irene Zuko's violent and untimely death, Ray had accepted Fraser's presence as the lesser of two evils. Well, not exactly evils. Fraser silently hovering was just infinitesimally more bearable than Rosa Vecchio's prayers and reminiscences about the treasured old days. The days when Ray had an abundance of both hair and dreams. The days when the connection between Ray and Irene was more than coincidence and tragedy. Dead days.
Ray hoarded his memories of Irene without apology, refusing to share in the traditional rituals of remembrance. Fraser allowed him to mourn, brood, and sulk by turn, shielded him from his relatives' well-meant jollying. They returned to work, playing good cop / apathetic cop.
A buoyant soul, even one as focused and resolute in its misery as Ray Vecchio, can only wallow in deepest wretchedness for a finite span. Eventually, despite his own best efforts, Ray began to take notice of his surroundings again. Once noticed, simple things would catch his interest, briefly and with much attendant guilt. Interest led inexorably to enjoyment. In degrees so gradual that only Fraser and Ma Vecchio could take their measure, Ray's appetite returned. His demeanor resumed its cynical and world-weary course.
As normalcy returned to his own daily activities, Ray began to discern aberrations in Fraser's behavior. On the surface, nothing had changed. Fraser was still punctual, polite, and polished. He was, Ray decided, missing the fourth 'p' - pushy. He accepted a ride to work, with murmured thanks. He dined with the Vecchios when invited, provided Ray with assistance when requested, and participated in any socially acceptable activity Ray proposed without demur. All well and good, but something was missing. The knight errantry characteristic of the Mountie's Chicago tenure, with Sancho Vecchio providing the link between idealism and reality, was completely absent. No tainted pony meat, dizzy blondes, needy children (or their equally desperate parents), no quests of any kind. It was unnatural.
Concerned, Ray resolved to find the cause of his friend's oddly subdued habits and immediately discovered that a direct approach was useless. Fraser flatly denied any changes in his behavior, claimed his health was fine and his attitude identical to what it had always been. Ray found no sensible way of saying "I know there's something wrong because you're not making me crazy", so he let the topic drop. But the sheer niggling "wrongness" sharpened his observations, and that's when he noticed another oddity.
Fraser stared at him. Stared with a calm intensity that, had it been anyone else, would have had Ray muttering "psycho" and looking for an excuse to draw his gun. From the moment he pulled up at the curb of 221 W. Racine, to the last glimpse at the end of a long day, Fraser stared at his partner. Met his eyes placidly, refused to look away, made excuses to spend more time in Ray's company. And stared.
Only the sheer childishness of "you're LOOKING at me!" kept Ray from confrontation at that point. He had no proof; really, just the ephemera of prolonged looks and not being asked to save every stray cat caught up a Chicago tree. Dark bags under his eyes and increasingly drawn features Fraser dismissed as a simple case of insomnia. He refused to discuss anything more personal.
The last straw was when Ray realized he was being followed. He'd drop Fraser at his apartment and head home. In the middle of the night, some slight noise outside would wake him. Cautious investigation revealed the clear signs of someone checking the locked doors on the house and the car, even scuff marks where the interloper slid partway under the car. Unnerved by the same unsettling routine night after night, Ray finally lay in wait for the perpetrator, fully intending to make an arrest. He wasn't sure what charge, except trespass, could be brought against this sleep thief, but he was going to throw the book at the bastard. Literally, if possible.
Resolution melted when Ray identified Fraser by his rolling stride and ramrod-straight posture. The Canadian made a careful and silent inspection of every possible entry, trying the doors and pressing a cautious hand against the window frames. Ray, secreted strategically under the neighbor's bay window, waited to speak until Fraser approached the car.
Two soft words cracked the darkness. "Can't sleep?"
Fraser froze.
"Me, neither. You do have a key, you know."
"I know." No more, no explanation or excuse or plea for understanding. But Ray could see the tension radiating through his friend.
"C'mon, Benny, I'll drive you home."
"That's not necessary, Ray."
"I know it's not necessary, Fraser. I also know that we need to talk, and I'm not waking up the entire street with the news that my Canadian partner is a raving lunatic so get in the car."
Silently, Fraser climbed into the passenger seat and buckled himself in. Equally silent, Ray drove through near-deserted streets and parked in front of the tenement Fraser considered home. He followed Fraser to his dingy third floor apartment without uttering a word, despite nearly slipping disastrously on a plastic donut some gubby toddler left strewn on the stairs. Safely enclosed by Fraser's little piece of Chicago real estate, Ray opened his mouth and woke the entire precinct.
"What the hell's the matter with you, anyway?"
"Nothing." Fraser locked eyes with an exasperated Vecchio. "There's nothing the matter with me. I couldn't sleep, so I decided to take a walk. When I reached Octavia, I decided to make sure you got home safely. There's nothing wrong with that, Ray."
"You've been taking these little walks, and checking my locks, for the last ten days that I know of, Fraser. That's more than a random, occasional act. How long?"
Fraser's answer was prompt and dispassionate. "Since Gardino died."
"You mean you've been slogging over to my house every night for over four months, Fraser? How did I not notice that?"
"You've been somewhat distracted lately."
"You could say that." Briefly, Ray was immersed again in the aftermath of Irene's death. He returned with a jolt. "Why, Benny? What were you thinking?"
For the first time in weeks, Fraser refused to meet Ray's eyes. "I saw my best friend's automobile explode into a blast of flaming metal. I watched as someone familiar to me was burned alive. I may not have known Louis Gardino well, but that doesn't change the horror of his death. Every time I close my eyes, I see it again. I live with the knowledge of my failure to protect him."
"It wasn't your fault, Benny." The words were automatic, hollow absolution.
"I know that. I also know you were the target of that bomb. You were the one at risk."
Ray was suddenly very interested in the worn wooden floor. "Coulda, woulda, shoulda, Fraser." He shrugged.
"When I pursued my own investigation, you thought I was being disloyal. To Louis' memory, to you, to law enforcement. Believe me, Ray, I was honoring a fallen comrade the only way I know how. It frightens me beyond measure that you don't see that." Fraser shook his head, frustrated. "Through it all, through Frank Zuko's false gratitude and your disgust and the enmity of everyone in Chicago I respect, I couldn't stop thinking that the killer would try again. That you'd be immolated, like Louis. Or shot, and left to die alone, like my father. You didn't give your own vulnerability a second thought, did you, Ray?"
"Why would anybody want to kill me, Fraser? It didn't make sense."
"Why would anybody want to kill Louis Gardino? Or Irene Zuko? None of it made sense, Ray. Their deaths were as senseless as any random act of violence."
A stray memory captured Ray's attention, and he spoke without thinking. "'Living without honor, dying without reason'. Gardino and Irene both died for no reason, and it bugs you."
"No. Yes. No. Not exactly." Fraser paused. "There's a legend among the Inuit - "
"Fraser, don't start with the Inuit stories. Really. I mean it."
"Ray, please. You asked me what's wrong and I'm trying to tell you but it's not a simple matter of facts and actions. Now, legends among the Inuit and other peoples tell a story of a man, or woman, who protects his heart by removing it from his breast and hiding it - in a box, or a statue, on top a high mountain, or buried in the deepest sea bed."
"We're not talking about Gardino anymore, are we?"
"No, not exactly. I understand the impulse to keep one's heart both insulated and isolated. But what I've never understood is that none of the people in any of the stories has any inclination to examine their heart, to keep it near and watch over it." Fraser shrugged and looked almost apologetic. "That's how I feel, anyway. You're my heart, Ray."
"Huh?"
"You're my heart."
"You're nuts. I can't be your 'heart', Fraser. I'm not - I don't want to be anybody's heart." Ray started pacing the room, a panther disturbed.
"I don't believe you have a choice, Ray. In any case, it's not important. What is important is that Louis Gardino's death, while senseless, was not without reason."
"Huh?"
"Gardino's death, and the manner of that death, made me realize some things about myself, and about you. You're my heart. When someone attacks you, they've attacked me. I will protect you with my life, not because you're my friend or because it's my duty, but because nothing can live without its heart." Bleak and quiet, Fraser said, "If Serento had succeeded, if you had been the one killed in that explosion, Frank Zuko would be dead."
"You would have figured it out."
"From jail? I think not. If you had died, and if I'd thought for even a moment that Frank Zuko was responsible, he'd be dead by my hand and the true killer would have gone free."
"That's crazy, Fraser. You had a chance to off Gerard and didn't take it."
"Despite the urging of certain other parties," Fraser replied darkly, speaking to a point just behind and to Ray's left.
Ray spread his fingers, apologetic. "Hey, I just said I'd back your play. That's not urging anything. And you didn't do it, even when you could."
"I've killed, Ray. In self-defense. For survival. There's a split second of hesitation in truly civilized people, a split second that separates the born killers from the rest of humanity. I've never hesitated."
"With Dief - "
"If shooting Diefenbaker had been the clearest, best decision, I would not have hesitated. I had doubts."
"But you wouldn't have doubts about Zuko."
"As I said, if I suspected Mr. Zuko of deliberately harming you, he would be dead."
"Suspicion's not certainty, Fraser."
"Are you saying I should let your death go unavenged?"
"Benny? I'm not dead."
Fraser smiled, but the sad, quiet resignation remained. "Not now. But every time I close my eyes, I see your car in flames. Half the time, you and Louis have changed places."
"Oh, geez, Benny. That's why you've been walking to my house and back every night for months, isn't it? You wake up from that nightmare and you have to come check on me? Prove I'm alive?" Fraser nodded. "Maybe you should see somebody, a professional."
Fraser shrugged. "It's a trivial matter, Ray."
"Only you would say that, Fraser. Look, tomorrow we're going to go out, and I'm getting you a cell phone." Fraser opened his mouth to object, but Ray cut him off. "You don't have to use it for anything else. But you can keep it here on the nightstand and if you have that nightmare and you need to check on me, you can call."
Obstinately, Fraser insisted, "But that would wake you up."
"Prowlers at two a.m. wake me up, too, Benny. I can answer a phone without getting dressed and trying to load my gun in the dark."
"I'm sorry, Ray."
"Yeah, I know. It's okay. I guess I didn't think about you being out there when the Riv blew. So much happened after that, and then Irene died -"
"You weren't too pleased with me at the time, as I recall." Fraser's tone was almost light, but still sardonic.
"That's what I recall, too. But we're okay now, right?"
Fraser took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Controlled. Then he nodded decisively. "We're fine now."
"Good."
"Fine."
"Right." Ray smiled, a tentative, rusty expression. "I'm going to go home now. Try and catch the last ten of my forty winks."
"Goodnight, Ray."
The resolute cheerfulness of Fraser's farewell brought another question into Ray's mind. "Benny? How many times a night do you have that nightmare?"
"Oh, only a few times, Ray."
"And you walk to Octavia every time it happens?"
"Usually, yes."
"Are you going to have another nightmare tonight?"
"No."
"You're not going back to sleep tonight, are you? That's how you won't have that dream again."
"I'll be fine, Ray."
"Damn right, you'll be fine. Fix me that goofy Mountie bedroll thingie, Benny, I'm staying." Ray grinned boldly at the shock on Fraser's face. "You can see for yourself I'm just fine. And tomorrow we'll get you a cell phone."
Under token protest, Fraser divided his entire stock of bedding between the cot and the floor. Ray grumbled amicably about each site, but declined to take himself home. Ray opted for the floor, at which point Dief started grumbling counterpoint. Ray was not a man who took stolen covers or shared bedspace lightly. In a short time, the impromptu adult sleepover settled down for what remained of the night.
"Hey, Benny?"
"Yes, Ray?"
"If I'm your heart, does that mean you're my head?"
"Now, that's just silly, Ray."
End
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