(no subject)
Learning How to Say Hello
Hard Core Logo/due South
9200 words
Notes: In... August ignazwisdom told me she wanted to read a story where John and Fraser met, because Fraser must have bought John his red long underwear. Six months later, this is that story. Sorry it took me so long! Huge, huge, huge thank yous to my awesome betas, rhythmsextion, nos4a2no9 and villainny. You guys rock. ♥
November 1, 1992
This is a terrible idea.
I miss the band.
The first time John enters Gerry's Downtown, he doesn't immediately notice the Mountie at the counter, red shoulders straight and tall. Watching his feet, John settles onto one of the stools and places his palms flat on the smooth, cool surface to stop the shaking. It's been sixteen -- seventeen? eighteen? twenty-six? -- days since he's stopped taking his pills this time and it's tough. It's always tough, and he doesn't know why he'd thought this time would be any different, but sometimes he forgets. Sometimes his mind goes a little blank and in those moments he reaches for the little blue notebook, shaky hands curling over the flimsy spine as he wrestles it out of his jacket pocket.
He writes to remember. Since the band broke up two years ago, John finds he has a hard time remembering. He'll snort a line and a memory will disappear, flitting out of his mind like it was barely there to begin with. He writes things down now so that he won't forget, keeping the memories safe and secure in his world, in his apartment, in his little book, if not in his head.
The pen trembles in his fingers as he puts it to the page and as he begins to write, another pen taps lightly on the counter top to get his attention.
Head snapping up, John looks startled for a moment and then relaxes slightly when he sees it's only the waitress.
"You want anything to eat?" she asks, offering him a sweet, gentle smile.
"J-ju-just a... c-c-coffee," he answers slowly and when she doesn't so much as flinch at his stutter, he smiles at her hesitantly.
"Just a coffee. Got it," she replies, giving the counter another soft rap with her pen before she heads away.
It's only after she's returned with his coffee cup on a small saucer and a bowl with several containers of creamer that John lets his pen touch the paper again.
November 15, 1992
In a diner in Calgary, Alberta. My coffee is too hot to drink to the point of scalding. The waitress seems not to notice, but she's young. Life is different for the young. My coffee is unimportant to her.
The diner is quiet, peaceful, and I'm grateful for it. There are six other patrons. Two women together, three men and one
John pauses, looking to his right, taking in the imposing figure sitting at the counter three seats down from him. He's seen Mounties before, he's been arrested by one or two of them in the past, but he doesn't see them in diners too often. Mostly it's just the regular cops. Curious, his eyebrows lift and he studies the other man furtively, his gaze flickering between the notebook in front of him and the patches on the Mountie's arm.
There's something about the man that draws John, something in his steady gaze or in the way his hands don't shake or even seem to move at all. He's drinking some kind of dark tea and John glances down at it briefly before he looks back at the Mountie's face, surprised to find himself meeting a dark, unwavering gaze.
"S-sorry," John stutters, immediately turning back to his notebook, but he doesn't write. He doesn't know which words should come first anymore and he has to raise a hand to his forehead, rubbing it uncomfortably. Everything goes blurry for a moment and then it snaps into focus again, the words crisp and clear on the lined page in front of him.
"Excuse me, are you alright?"
At first, John doesn't realize that the Mountie is speaking to him and he continues to stare down at his notebook, pressing the tip of his pen into the page until the ink bleeds out and makes a small, dark spot right in the middle of his entry. It looks too angry for the rest of the words he's written and John briefly considers tearing the entire page out of the book.
"Sir?" the Mountie asks, ducking his head slightly in what John imagines is an attempt to see his face.
"Me?" John asks, resisting the urge to glance to his other side to see if there's someone else sitting there that the Mountie may be talking to.
"Yes, sir," he answers, then clears his throat softly. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry, but my name is Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and if you were in need of anything..." He seems uncomfortable, though, and John watches as he trails off, unsure of what else to say.
In his rare moments of lucidity, John can acknowledge that there are many things of which he's in need. He's in need of help, of real help, he's in need of a person to take his hand and lead him through this part of his life, and he's in need of a punch in the mouth if you listen to Billy. He's in need of money to pay off the guys he's been buying coke from; someone to tell him to stop snorting the goddamn coke would be good, too. He's in need of a good place to live, a new pair of socks, a pair of boots without holes in the bottom, but he can't ask for those things.
Rubbing his forehead again, John shakes his head and closes his notebook quickly.
"No," he says, then picks up his coffee cup with shaking hands and burns his tongue as he takes a sip, but the pain is real. It snaps him into reality again and he blinks in confusion, glancing first at the cup in his hands and then over at the Mountie. Constable Fraser.
"I'm fine," he adds a second later, sounding surer this time, his voice steadier.
"If you’re certain," Constable Fraser answers, his voice gentle, and John finds himself wanting to give in to that voice. He finds himself wanting to tell the Mountie all his secrets, but instead he just nods.
"I'm sure," he answers, his voice hushed, then digs enough change out of his pocket to pay for his coffee, counting it out carefully. Then he adds the tip, blunt, calloused fingertips picking through the coins before setting them silently on the counter top. Each coin is pressed slowly and steadily onto the surface, because John can't stand the sharp clatter coins make when they drop and even the light tap of a quarter against the linoleum makes him wince very faintly.
"It was n-nice m-m-meeting you," he says, standing abruptly as he shoves his notebook back into his pocket. The movements are stilted and awkward now, stuttered enough that even John notices and he has to stop for a second to let himself calm down.
"What's your name?" the Constable asks and John looks over at him as if he's surprised that he's still there.
"Oh," he says, and then looks at the door. "J-John. Oxenberger."
"It was nice meeting you, John."
The nod he gives is short and stiff and he notices that there is ink all over his fingers. The pen has exploded in his hands. John frowns, throwing it back on the counter as if it's burned him. He doesn't know what's wrong, but he doesn't want to give the Mountie another chance to ask, so he leaves quickly, his head ducked against the cold November wind that barrels into him when he leaves the diner.
Within blocks, the Mountie and the burning coffee have vanished from his mind.
-
Parties make John's head hurt, but he knows where he needs to go to score what he wants. He combs his hair and he trims his beard and he puts on clean clothes before leaving, taking care not to cut himself or put something on inside out. Over the past few weeks things have begun to get more and more difficult, although he doesn't understand why. He doesn't have money to pay his rent or his bills and he's worried he's going to get kicked out of his place, even though his place isn't that great to start with. The jeans he's wearing are one of two pairs of pants he hasn't sold for drug money.
He's careful to lock the door behind him, although he has nothing left for anyone to steal. The apartment is bare, but clean. John sleeps on an old futon mattress on a rickety frame, but the sheets are freshly laundered. Even though he doesn't have anything to wear, his towels and his blankets are clean.
On the way down the stairs, John counts them to himself, whispering, "Seven, eight, nine," before he reaches the front door. He's careful to close that securely behind him as well, though he thinks the other tenants probably don't care.
It makes him sad, how lonely they all are. Every last one of them.
He walks, because he can't afford a cab and he can't afford the bus, but he's remembered to pull on his denim jacket this time. It doesn't afford much in the way of a barrier against the damp, cold night, but it's enough. There are Christmas lights strung up in windows now and they make John feel warm - just a stupid, nostalgic reaction to something he'll never have again.
The party is supposed to be some kind of Christmas celebration, but John notices the distinct lack of a tree when he arrives and the decorations are sad and mostly torn down already. It's barely even ten at night, but the party has already been raging for hours, he imagines. People like these don't really understand when it's time to stop.
John's not actually sure he understands when it's time to stop anymore.
Shifting awkwardly, turning his shoulders to the side, he slips between people, he moves into the crowd and tries to ignore how sick it makes him feel, pushing in from all sides. He's reaching up to push his hair back off his face when he sees her and John's written enough songs to know when something is a cliché, but that doesn't prevent him from stopping to stare at her. It's like the whole room drops away.
It's her hair that he sees first and then the rest of her, the way her gaze slides away from most of the people in the room, not because she's nervous, but because she's not. John doesn't know if he can explain it, but it's as if she knows she's better.
She is. She must be.
"John, fuck, move it," someone says from behind him and he's snapped out of his reverie, blinking at the sound of his name.
"Oh, s-sorry," he stutters and moves forward again, all the while searching for her in the crowd. Now that he's seen her, he's afraid to lose her.
"He's off his meds again," someone else mutters and any other time, those words would twist inside of John's chest, burrowing in until he can't ignore them anymore, but he barely hears them this time.
"D-d-d...do you know..."
But by the time he's getting the words out, trying to ask the question, Joe's there, his arm slung around John's shoulders, dragging him away from the crowd, away from the girl.
"Hey, Johnny-boy," Joe says, his arm tightening briefly around John's neck and although he misses them, misses playing with them side by side, this is uncomfortable, and he tries to push away from Joe's side.
Joe, for his part, doesn't even notice, just continues to talk as he drags John back through the crowd. "Kenny's in the back bedroom, man. He's been kinda quiet all night, but he's got the good shit back there."
Joe is already high. John thinks he probably should have known.
"How much money you got on you?" Joe asks and John feels stricken for a moment, patting his hands against the front pockets of his jeans as if searching for the money he knows he has to have somewhere.
"Enough for a g-g-gram," he answers, making it clear that it isn't a gram he's going to be sharing. It's all he can afford. It's food for a week, it's his electricity bill, it's a portion of his rent, but he needs this more than he needs any of that.
"You here to party or just buy?" Joe asks as they enter the back bedroom and he kicks the door shut behind them. The bang shakes John to the core, rattling through him so hard that he swears he can feel it in his teeth.
"Just to buy, Joe," he says, wishing he could be the guy he used to be. That guy who partied with the band, got wasted and laughed and felt like he belonged. John, John, John Oxenberger. John the bass player.
"Too bad, man. Miss having you around," Joe says and John can tell that he means it genuinely. As genuinely as Joe can mean anything, anyway.
John from Hard Core Logo.
Maybe he doesn't party anymore because to party is to want to forget. The parties were always whitewashing over other things, over pain and misery. He has nothing left to forget.
Maybe I never had a real self to throw away like those guys.
"Hey, John," Kenny says softly from where he's sitting on the bed and he manages a faint smile, the corners of his mouth curving softly and John isn't sure if his dealer is stoned or if he's just sad. For as long as he's been using, he's been buying from Kenny, with little forays to other dealers whenever Kenny's not around. It's never his regular guy that gets him into trouble, of course, it's always those lapses in judgment, those times when John simply can't wait another day or two until Kenny gets back and he has to find someone else who'll sell to him.
He still owes a couple hundred bucks to one of them, but he's trying not to think about it. Not tonight.
Maybe he still has a reason to party, after all.
-
"Sorry."
She's short enough that her hair is brushing the underside of John's chin and he raises clumsy hands, resting them on her shoulders. Her skin is warm under his fingers, slightly damp from the humid interior of the party house.
"Don't worry about it," she says softly and offers up a smile that strikes John dumb.
Taking a step back, she lifts a hand to push her curly hair off her face, then tilts her chin up to take him in. John's shoes scuffle faintly against the tiled floor and he wonders if he's supposed to say something else now. It's been awhile since he's been involved in social niceties.
"I'm Celine," she says just as John opens his mouth to speak and he blinks in surprise.
"Oh," he answers. "Oh, h-hi. I'm J-j-j..." His gaze hovers somewhere near her left ear, his mouth pressing into a thin line as he tries to catch his breath with a few long, careful inhales. "I'm John."
"Yeah," Celine tells him, tugging her sweater closed over her t-shirt, doing up the buttons slowly. "Yeah, I know. A couple of the guys I'm here with were fans of your band. They told me who you are."
"You were asking?"
Her shoulders rise and fall in a smooth shrug and her smile grows a little shy, a little secretive. "I saw you earlier."
"I saw you, too," John answers. "When I got in here. But I had s-s-something to, uh... do."
Celine's gaze darts to the door to the back bedroom, Kenny's hideout and her smile fades slightly, her mouth turning down at the corners. There's something like disapproval there, but John doesn't really understand what he's done to cause it.
"He's m-m-my friend," John tries to explain and Celine's gaze immediately shifts back to him, her smile returning full force.
"Yeah, he's a cool guy," Celine agrees, although it's said with a forced sincerity that John doesn't like hearing in her voice. He's known for her less than a minute and already he's unsettled by her and drawn to her at the same time. He wants to know more; he wants to understand what makes her say things and what she thinks.
"Look, I was ju-j... I was just leaving," he says slowly and carefully, and then he holds out his hand, calloused fingers brushing her shoulder again. "Just for a walk. I mean, back to my place, but... I don't mean... I could walk you home," he offers.
For a moment it looks as if she's going to refuse, but then she's reaching for a nearby jacket, tugging it from the faded and worn arm of the couch. "Sure," she answers, giving that smooth, graceful shrug again, tugging her long hair from the collar of her jacket as she pulls it on. "Walk me home, John."
He smiles then, bright and unguarded, reaching for her hand. It feels so small tucked inside his, fragile almost, but he leads her out of the house and into the night and he thinks maybe these parties aren't so bad.
There's a gram in his pocket and the girl with the hair, Celine, she's letting him walk her home.
-
December 23, 1992
Been home in Vancouver for several weeks now. Strange to still think of this place as home when nothing has ever really felt like I imagine home must feel. Vancouver is as close as I get, however, and if I think on it too long, I begin to wonder if a man like me will ever truly find his home.
I feel as though I should be grateful for what I have.
Met a woman last night. Celine. She's a friend of a friend, someone I knew a long time ago. She let me walk her home, although it was out of my way and it was cold, but I didn't mind. I'm going to see her again soon.
John's fingers shake and the pen makes a faint squiggle across the page, causing his mouth to twist into an uncomfortable frown. The diner he's found this week is nearly empty and he's near the back, in one of the booths, but even so, he doesn't trust himself to take a hit. Not now. Not when there are people around.
The buzzing fluorescent lights hurt his head a little and he blinks against the bright light and sickly shadows they create. When the bell over the door makes a soft dinging sound, he looks up, wondering if maybe he's imagining things. This isn't the part of town where Mounties hang out, although now that he's thinking of it, he isn't sure there is such a part of town. All in all, John doesn't remember seeing many Mounties in Vancouver. As far as he knows, they stick to the cities further north or the really small ones without much of a police force.
But there's a Mountie in Vancouver now and he's sliding into the booth across from John.
"Hello," he says with a polite smile.
John stares back at him, frowning in response. "D-do I know you?" he asks.
"Ah, yes," the Mountie answers, removing his hat and placing it primly on the table. His fingers curl over the brim and John watches them, wondering if anyone else ever notices how much this guy is holding back. "I'm Constable Benton Fraser with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. We met in Calgary in November. I believe it was the fifteenth."
"Am I in trouble?" John asks, suddenly acutely aware of the cocaine in the pocket of his jeans. He feels as though it's burning a hole in the denim, hot and obvious next to his keys and the quarters he's keeping there for his next cup of coffee or maybe a slice of pie.
"No, sir," the Constable answers immediately. "Not to my knowledge."
"Then why are you f-f-following me?"
"I assure you, I'm doing no such thing," Constable Fraser says, looking a little taken aback by the idea he might have been following John. "This is merely a surprising and pleasant coincidence. I'm being stationed here briefly before I continue on to what will likely become my new station in Kitimatt."
Warily, John studies the other man, glancing down once more at where his fingers are curved tightly over the brim of his hat. The way he holds onto it, John is sure he's hiding something, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. Maybe it's okay for him to be hiding things if a Mountie is doing it, too.
"So you just came to t-t-talk because you recognize me?" John asks and although he's feeling more comfortable now that he knows they're the more similar than he originally thought, his voice doesn't indicate that at all. His tone is still guarded and wary.
"Yes, sir," Fraser replies. "I thought perhaps you might like some company, but if you'd prefer I leave you with your thoughts, please just say the word and I'll be on my way."
John says nothing for a moment, considering his options and although he thinks it might be smarter to tell the Mountie to go away, he doesn't think he wants to be alone right now. It's a strange feeling to want to keep a Mountie around, especially when he's carrying drugs in his pocket, but it's better than being alone. Although he's spent much of his life that way, John doesn't enjoy being by himself and right now, the only person he feels he might be able to call is Celine.
He doesn't want to scare her off yet, however, so he's been holding off. This Mountie -- Fraser -- he'll do for now.
"Do you want a coffee?" John asks by way of telling Fraser that he can stay.
"Do they serve tea?" he inquires and John shrugs, then looks over at the waitress, trying to catch her eye. "I don't come here much," he explains as the waitress comes to join them. "I don't really know what they serve here."
"What can I get for you?" the young woman asks as she flashes a smile at Fraser. It's the sort of smile that John only sees when he's on stage and he frowns a little, watching the interaction between the two of them. However the Mountie reacts to her little flirtations, that's how John thinks he'll be able to judge his character.
"Do you serve tea?" Fraser asks, looking up at the waitress curiously and John's a little surprised by the bland, oblivious expression on his face.
The waitress cocks her hip and her smile brightens now that she has Fraser's gaze on her. "We sure do, handsome. Black tea, Earl Grey, a few kinds of herbal teas..."
"Black tea would be fine, thank you," he answers, then immediately turns his attention back to John, as if the waitress hasn't just practically thrown herself in his lap. She remains there for a moment and it's only when she finally realizes that he's not paying attention to her any longer than she walks away, her skirt swishing around her knees.
"She liked you," John tells him.
"I'm sorry?" Fraser asks, looking confused. It's as if he honestly doesn't understand the statement.
"The waitress," John repeats. "She liked you."
Fraser blinks and then turns his gaze to where the young woman is preparing his tea, his eyebrows drawn together in surprise. "Oh," he says. "I don't know that that's true. She and I have hardly exchanged more than a mere handful of words, after all."
"That's n-not what I meant," John insists, his voice stronger than it's been in quite some time. He isn't angry, he's more bewildered than anything, but he feels as if it's his duty now to make sure Fraser understands what he's missing or overlooking or possibly just outright ignoring. "She would probably d-d-do things with you."
Fraser's back stiffens at that and he immediately returns his gaze to the table and his hat upon it. "I believe you're exaggerating the young woman's interest in me."
"No," John says, then shakes his head. "Did you really not notice?"
For a moment, Fraser says nothing and then he lifts his head, meeting John's gaze steadily, although John senses he probably wants to look away.
"I honestly didn't notice," he says.
They stare at each other then and John tries to read him, tries to see something in those passive eyes. In the end, he's not sure what he thinks. It's possible the Mountie really doesn't notice when women throw themselves at him, or it's possible he's just ignoring it because he gets it so often. Maybe it's easier for him to just pretend he doesn't notice so that people don't give him crap about it and John finds that he wants to know the truth.
He's not going to find it today, however. Not by trying to stare the other man down.
"Okay," he agrees, relaxing as the waitress brings Fraser his tea.
"Thank you," the Mountie says simply and then waits for her to leave, refusing to lift his gaze from the tea cup in front of him and John has to wonder if he's trying to make her go away or if he's afraid of what he might see if he lets himself look up.
"Where are you from, John?" Fraser asks and John jerks himself out of his reverie, closing his book and laying his trembling hands on top of it.
"Here," he says. "Vancouver, I guess. It's where I grew up, anyway. W-what about you?"
"Up North," Fraser tells him. "I grew up in the Northwest Territories."
"Is it cold?" John asks. "Colder than here?"
"It can be," Fraser says, nodding and his hands curl around his warm cup of tea. "I suppose I just grew used to it."
"Like the rain," John murmurs. "It rains a lot in the winter and some people come here and they d-don't know what it's like. They don't like it."
"I find it peaceful," Fraser admits, stealing a glance toward the front door of the diner and John smiles despite himself.
"Me, too," he says quietly, still smiling to himself, feeling more relaxed than he has in days. He still wants to gets stoned, but it's faded to a dull thrumming at the back of his skull, a gentle pulse that he can ignore if he just pushes it away for a little longer.
"Were you in Calgary for business when we last met?" Fraser asks politely and John laughs to himself, looking up in surprise.
"Business?" he asks. "D-do you really think I was there for b-b-business?"
"Anything is possible," Fraser answers and John wonders where he's found such innocence. It's something John misses, something he wishes he could still have, but it feels lost to him now. He wants what Fraser has or, at the very least, what Fraser seems to be able to fake better than the majority of people.
"I was just there," John answers elusively, because if he's honest, he doesn't remember why he was there. It could have been anything. Music, drugs, alcohol, a woman. It could have simply been that he'd picked up one day and decided to go, but he doesn't remember and that's the worst part somehow. He wishes he could remember. "I probably wrote it down."
"Do you write down most things?" Fraser asks gently.
"Yes," John tells him, surprised by how easily the words are coming. "I write things down, because otherwise I m-might forget. I don't want to forget."
"I can hardly blame you." Lifting the tea to his mouth, Fraser takes a careful sip, then lowers it again and John flinches at the soft clink of the cup hitting the saucer.
"I'm sorry, I should go," he says abruptly, collecting his book, tucking it into his jacket as he yanks the loose change from his pocket. It spills across the table and Fraser places his hand on top of one of the rolling coins, stopping it from rolling away.
"Did I say something?" Fraser asks, his voice full of concern and John shakes his head, praying that he doesn't accidentally yank out the baggie of cocaine while he tries to pay for his coffee.
"N-n-no, nothing," he answers, throwing yet more change on the table and he turns to go, unsure if he's left enough or too much or not enough. He doesn't care, though, he's fleeing blindly, pushing out the front door and exiting into the soft, steady rain. It's cold on his face and he doesn't know what happened there. He doesn't understand.
"Oh, God," he whispers to the rain. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."
He apologizes to the world, to himself, to Celine, as he turns the corner behind the diner and slides down against the brick wall, crouching alone in the alley. There's cocaine in his pocket and he wants it. He can't go without it anymore.
"I'm so fucking sorry," he says again, but the baggie is between his fingers and he's opening it with shaking hands.
-
It feels like hours and minutes and days later when John resurfaces, when he comes back to himself and realizes that he has a smear of cocaine on his little finger. Ducking his head, he licks it carefully from his skin with one long swipe of his tongue, then lifts his gaze to the mouth of the alley.
There, framed in the light, is Fraser. John looks down, a shamed flush creeping up his neck.
"It's not what you think," he says quietly, his eyes downcast, feeling guilty and ashamed, as if he's done something horrible. As if he's disappointed the Mountie somehow and he knows that's silly. They barely know one another, after all.
Fraser says nothing, but he takes several steps forward and then stops again, removing his hat from his head. As before, he holds it by the brim in front of his body, his fingers curled over the edge as if letting go of it will pain him somehow.
"I'm sick," John adds. "I need to or I act... weird. I act wrong."
"You need to snort cocaine?" Fraser asks and although his tone isn't harsh, John flinches away from the words.
There's silence in the alley, broken only by the gentle pattering of the rain on the asphalt. John watches as the drops break up a puddle of oil near his left foot, studying the ebb and flow of the colours and he can feel his heartbeat slowing.
"I'm sick," he says again, gently insisting. There's nothing else to say and so he gets to his feet, knotting the small bag and returning it to his pocket. He can't look at Fraser, so he stares at the wall opposite him, counts the bricks, notes the dirt and the grime and the remnants of graffiti.
"You know the drug is only making it worse," Fraser answers, sounding stronger and more sure than John has heard him. "Whatever may be wrong with you, the drug is only exacerbating the problem. Perhaps the drug is the problem, John."
"No," he whispers, shaking his head. "That's not it. It helps me."
"I can help you," Fraser says imploringly, taking a step into the alley and then another. "You're worth more than this."
John shakes his head again and his gaze snaps up, away from the wall, settling on Fraser's face. He's so sincere, so sure and it makes John furious for a moment, then disgusted. Everyone who has it made is just like this, everyone with a safe life and a house and a family who loves them is exactly like this. They think they can save him or fix him or make him better and, quite frankly, John thinks they're full of shit.
He can't be fixed and, even if he could be, being pulled together doesn't make anyone qualified to do it.
"I have to go," he says, buttoning his jacket with steady hands.
"What do you need, John?" Fraser asks and there's such a genuine note of concern in his voice that John's hands actually stop and he lifts his head to look at the Mountie standing in the mouth of the alley. He's backlit, like some fucking superhero, but John knows better. Superheroes don't exist. He's even begun to question the existence of regular heroes, the everyday kind you hear about in the feel good section of the newspaper.
"Three thousand dollars," he answers, because there's something about the way Fraser is standing there that makes John realize he's expecting an answer. And not just any answer, he's expecting an honest answer, so that's what John gives him. "I owe a couple hundred to one guy, twenty-five hundred to another. S-sooner or later, they'll k-k-k… they'll kill me."
It's only now, saying it, that John realizes he's never been really scared of that. It's unsettled him, twisted his stomach around for a few minutes before he's moved onto something else, usually with the help of drugs, but it's never really scared him. Not until now. Now he feels like he might have something to lose after all.
There's silence from the Mountie and John shakes his head sadly before he looks down at his buttons once more, his hands so steady and still against the plastic circles.
"You can't help me," he says finally, then takes a step away.
Fraser says nothing to argue this fact and John has to laugh, a soft, sad breath of a noise, and then he's walking away. He's not stupid, despite what people say about him. There's no one here who can help him.
-
January 5, 1993
How is it possible to miss someone I barely knew at all to begin with? Haven't seen the Mountie in nearly two weeks. Wonder how he's doing, if he's still here in Vancouver. If maybe he could have helped me in the end, had I let him.
Doesn't look like the type to keep three thousand dollars tucked into his boot, though, so I doubt it.
The money will be made. Don't have any other choice, not if I want to keep this up. Celine offered me a couple hundred dollars, but it felt wrong to take it from her. Found it stuffed into my shoe a few hours after she left. Don't know how it happened, but I met her. The One people talk about, the one you're supposed to wait for. Never thought it was possible.
When the knock sounds, John's hand jerks across the page, a thick line scratched over the centre of the book and onto the opposite page. He isn't expecting anyone, but that means little these days, especially when Celine shows up unannounced all the time, her cheeks and nose red from the cold outside. It's the thought of seeing her smile that propels John across the room to the door and he opens it with a smile of his own, expecting to see her waiting for him on the other side.
The punch he's met with is so unexpected that it nearly knocks John off his feet. As it is, he stumbles back, his legs hitting the arm of the futon as his hand flies to his nose to staunch the flow of blood. He hears the door slam, hears the footsteps as someone crosses the room toward him and then there's fingers buried in his hair, yanking him around until he feels the cool blade of a knife pressed to the skin just under his ear.
John stops struggling, drops his hands and blinks until his vision clears. His nose is probably broken, but he barely registers the pain over the shock and surprise.
"Who are y-you?" he asks, because the guy is standing too close for John to focus on his features.
"Twenty-five hundred dollars," the man answers and the knife makes a little slip-slide movement, skating along the angle of John's jaw, just hard enough to leave a faint red mark behind. "That's how much you owe Jeremy, am I right?"
Rather than nod, John says, "Yeah." Nothing else. He's scared of this all of the sudden, he's scared that Celine will return hours from now and find his body on the floor, throat slit, blood cooling under him, under his couch.
"You got a week," the man tells him, flicking the knife lightly against the underside of John's chin before he pushes him away. "One week. Then there's gonna be a real problem."
The only thing John can do is nod, tasting blood in the back of his throat and he touches his hand to his nose again. Before he can look up, the guy is gone, leaving the apartment door wide open and it's a few minutes before John can find it in him to go over and close it carefully. The deadbolt whisks silently into place and he places a trembling hand against the doorframe, taking in a deep breath and then another.
It doesn't take him long to clean up and find his coke. Takes even less time for the drug to take him away and John closes his eyes as he leans back on his couch and thinks about nothing at all. Nothing matters here. A week is a long time, he's not in any danger.
Yeah, a week is a long time.
-
When he wakes up, someone is pounding on his apartment door, shouting his name, and it takes John a long moment to realize that he'd fallen asleep. He sits up on the futon and rubs his eyes, wincing at the sudden pressure in his nose. Maybe it's not broken, but it hurts like hell and it feels swollen under his fingers.
"Just a second," he calls, his voice hoarse and he wonders who's pounding on his door. No one comes to see him anymore.
He rubs his hands on his jeans, feeling the worn denim soft against his calloused palms and it comforts him. Then he gets to his feet, counting the steps from the futon to the door, and warily turns the lock. This time he's ready, but it's only Celine in the hall, looking terrified and worried.
"John, what happened?" she demands, closing the door behind her, letting him lock it again. "I was standing there, knocking and calling your name for almost ten minutes. Were you asleep?"
"Yeah," he answers slowly, then takes a step back, then another. "Yeah, I was just… I fell asleep."
"I was worried," Celine says, then flips on the light, flooding the room with yellow and John winces against it, closing his eyes. There's silence and when John opens his eyes again, Celine is staring at him in shock.
"What?" he asks, forgetting about his nose, about the attack earlier.
"Who did that?" she asks in return, stepping closer, shrugging her jacket off and draping it over the arm of the futon. "John, who did that to you?"
His shoulders rise and fall in a slow shrug even as Celine tugs him down to sit on the futon, her hands soft on his arms. It's astonishing to him, that after only knowing him for a few weeks she can look at him with such concern. She looks so worried, so sick, and he feels guilty for making her look like that. They've known each other for such a short period of time, but he knows that he's never wanted to make her look like that. All he wants is to make her happy, but he knows he isn't capable of that. A man like him doesn't know how to do such a thing.
"You have to stop this," she tells him gently, lifting her hands to examine his nose carefully. "The drugs, John, these people you're involved with, it's going to get you killed."
"I just have to pay back what I owe," he answers, letting her do what she needs. Her hands are cool against his skin and it feels so nice that he closes his eyes and feels himself beginning to relax. "Then it'll be done. I won't do it anymore."
It feels nice to promise that, too. It feels nice to have a reason to promise that.
"You know it's not that easy," Celine points out, but John doesn't think that's right. He thinks maybe it is that easy. With Celine here, it can be that easy.
"You'll h-help me," he says quietly, because he doesn't want to open his eyes and break the perfect quiet and stillness of this moment. There are so few things in this world as beautiful as a perfect moment and John knows what he has right here. He wants to hold onto it for just a little while longer.
"I'll do what I can," Celine agrees, although John chooses not to hear the slight hesitation, the way she pauses before she speaks. What he's doing is scary, he knows this, but he hopes she sticks around until it's all over. Whatever she wants, it's exactly what he'll do.
"I know," he replies, then drifts off again, into the waves of dull pain that radiate out from the centre of his face.
-
January 11, 1993
Starting to worry. I'm afraid it shows in the lines on my face, in the curve of my smile, in the quaking of my fingers. She knows.
Walking quickly, John can hear the sound of his legs swishing against each other, the rough scratch of denim in the cold. His breath puffs out in front of him, but he doesn't see it, walking with his gaze down, his eyes on his feet as they move. One step, two step, one step, two step, if he keeps up this way, he thinks, it's all going to blow over.
It's dark and the night is cold, a brisk wind coming up over the ocean and striking his bare face, his trembling fingers, but John doesn't notice. In his head, he's chanting. One step, two step, one step, two step and when he hits the block that will take him to his apartment, he begins to count his steps, whispering them under his breath. The numbers are a distraction, calming and peaceful, each one assigned to a hollow thump of his boot on the cold sidewalk.
He's only just reached twenty-three when he hears footsteps coming up quickly behind him. As he turns, something hits him just behind the ear, something hard and cold and John goes down, hitting the sidewalk with a cry. Blood drips down his neck, warm and thick and he lifts his hand to where he's been hit with a pole. A fucking metal pole.
"You got your fucking warning," someone says from above him and John thinks he recognizes the guy's voice from the attack in his apartment, but he can't be sure. His head is swimming and he can't focus.
"I h-have it," he manages to say, but he's slurring badly. For a terrifying moment, John can't remember if he's just that stoned or if it's because he's been hit. Scrambling for words, for some kind of reassurance that he hasn't forgotten everything, his mouth falls open as he tries to say something.
"Shut the fuck up." That's the only reply he gets before something hits him again and he can't be sure if it's the pole or someone's hand or the butt of a gun.
They have to have guns. He isn't going to walk away from this, this isn't just a warning anymore. This is the end, this is where John Oxenberger ends.
John the bass player.
A boot catches him in the kidney and John cries out again, curling into himself, but he can't protect his face and his back at the same time. He's kicked again and again, pain blossoming out from his lower back, radiating through him with an intensity he doesn't think he's ever felt before. Something cracks into his face and his nose really is broken this time. It has to be, there's no way he can be hit so hard twice and still walk away without a broken nose.
Almost out of nowhere, John laughs. He's not walking away from this.
"You think this is funny, kid?" someone asks and he coughs, then shakes his head, even though it is. It's a little bit funny, if he thinks about it, if he lines up all the things he's done for the past few months and sees just where they've taken him. It's a little funny.
Someone kicks him in the ribs and the air rushes from John's lungs. He can't laugh now even if he really wanted to. They kick him again, then a third time and the force of the kick turns him over onto his back where he lies on the sidewalk and stares up at the sky. Past the streetlights, past the apartment buildings, past the clouds and the wind, right up to the stars and the moon.
John readies himself to die.
John from Hard Core Logo.
When he's kicked in the face, he feels two teeth rattling around in his mouth and he turns his head, spitting them out onto the sidewalk. The second kick knocks him out, takes him away and John thinks maybe it's finally time for everything to be okay.
If he goes away, there can't be any more trouble.
-
The first slap barely registers and John groans softly, the sound muffled through his broken nose and his blood clogged throat. The second slap, though, is much harder and his head rocks to the side as his eyes open, pain shooting through his face and rippling down through his chest and shoulders.
"What..."
"John, can you hear me?"
It's absurd. It's absurd and impossible, but that damn Mountie is crouched over him on the sidewalk and John almost laughs, feeling delirious and completely, unreservedly free.
"John," Fraser says again, his tone sharp and firm. "Can you hear me?"
"Yes," he answers, but the pain is coming now, it's arriving in waves, each one stronger than the last. "I c-can hear you. You're Constable B-B-Benton Fraser with the Royal Canadian M-Mounted Police." Then he laughs again, the sound tapering off into a moan. "I'm cold."
"They left you with nothing," Fraser answers and it's only then that John realizes he's been stripped down to his briefs and socks. His jacket and shirt and pants, they're all gone. From the corner of his eye, he thinks he can see his boots lying in the road, but it's possible there's nothing there at all. It's possible he's dead.
"Nothing," John repeats and then closes his eyes again. "Not nothing."
Definitely not nothing. The longer he's awake, the more pain he feels and he knows that can only mean one thing. He's not dead. Dead people don't hurt and he isn't sure how he knows this, but he knows it has to be the truth. There's no pain like this once you die.
"Can you stand?" Fraser asks. "Should I call an ambulance?"
"No," John answers. He breathes deeply, then opens his eyes again. "No ambulance. I just want to go home."
"You have no clothes, no wallet, no keys," Fraser points out. "John, please. Let me help you."
With his eyes open, he can see the sincerity in Fraser's face, the concern, and so he nods. He's just so cold now, so completely fucked that he doesn't know what else to do. He can't go to Celine like this, but he needs someone to do something, even if it just means helping him stand.
"What should I do?" he asks as Fraser gets a good grip on his arms and helps him carefully to his feet. A sharp pain blooms in his right side and John worries for a second that the next time he takes a piss, it's going to come out pink, but he still doesn't want a hospital. Not until that happens, if it happens at all.
"First, I think we should buy you some new clothes," Fraser answers and it takes John a moment to realize that there's a hint of humour in the Mountie’s voice. The situation itself isn't funny, but he can’t help but laugh again, realizing just how far off track his life has gotten.
"Do you often f-find naked men lying outside in the w-w-winter?" John asks, then laughs again. It hurts so goddamn much to laugh, but it feels good, too. The air is cold, too cold for his body and his lungs, but he breathes in deeply anyway and then laughs again, louder this time.
"Well, actually, there was one time up north. I was crossing the street in hopes of getting a nice, piping hot bowl of oatmeal from the restaurant near my station when I found a man lying face down in the snow," Fraser says as he helps John across the street. "He'd been stripped naked, although to this day I'm not sure if that was his own doing or if the herd of elk were responsible for that in some way. The jar of saskatoon berry jam I certainly found questionable, but you can't very well leave a naked man in the snow, jar of saskatoon berry jam or not..."
He continues to talk and John listens, smiling faintly to himself. There's a second hand store not far away and John thinks they're going there, but he suddenly doesn't have the strength to ask. The only thing he can do is lean heavily against Fraser, his vision blurring as he tries not to cry. Everything hurts so much, every movement, every shift of his muscles, but he's going to do this.
-
Standing in front of the mirror wearing red long underwear, John stares at himself. The bruises under his eyes are dark, almost black and he wonders what the clerk must have thought when he and Fraser had shuffled into the store. He'd been practically naked, wearing only his underwear and socks, and he'd been with a Mountie. The poor kid probably thinks they're insane, but John isn't entirely sure that's an inappropriate assumption.
There are bruises everywhere. Every inch of him feels tender and sore. The skin over his ribs is a deep purple and his back hasn't fared much better, but he's just thankful he isn't pissing blood. The skin behind his ear is red and swollen, dried blood caked in his hair, but he's alive and he's standing.
"They even have a trapdoor," he says to Fraser, laughing softly as he looks at himself in the mirror. The longjohns are warm and soft, even if they are secondhand and he isn't sure what he did to deserve this. It feels like some kind of protection sent to him from somewhere else. From God or whatever else might be out there, an arm to hold onto and a face to smile at him.
John's underestimated the power of a smile.
"Are they alright?" Fraser asks, looking concerned as he tries to find a pair of jeans that might fit John. "I can see if they have something else."
"No," John answers and he presses his fingers into the soft red material, presses a bruise underneath until tears spring to his eyes and he shakes his head. "I like them."
For a moment they both stand just where they are, John at the mirror, Fraser behind him, watching their reflections with a pair of jeans in his hand. The florescent lights cast sallow shadows across John's face, but he thinks he's never looked better.
"John, if there's anything else I can do for you..."
But John only shakes his head, looking at Fraser's reflection in the mirror and offering him a smile. "No," he says. "This is enough." This is more than enough, he's never had anyone buy him clothes before and he's never known anyone who insists that a sturdy pair of long underwear is a sound investment, but he isn't going to argue this.
There's a hesitation from Fraser, like he wants to say something more, insist on helping John further, but then he turns back to the rack of pants and continues his quest. There isn't anything else he can say and John thinks he knows this. The rest of this, the mess he's made, the things he's done, they aren't things anyone else can solve for him.
He's just going to take it one step at a time. Long underwear first, the money second, the drugs third. And Celine will be there for him, he feels this deep down in his stomach, but he doesn't say that to Fraser.
"When you get home, take a warm shower. Not too hot," Fraser advises. "Warm. Take care around your scalp, both lacerations are deep and if you scrub too hard you'll open them again and they'll begin to bleed. If you absolutely need to, take a painkiller, but try a hot water bottle first, they can do wonders."
"I will," John promises, then takes the jeans Fraser hands to him, intending on getting dressed. The clothes are more than he would have ever asked for, they're more than anything he's expected. They're warm and they're his and he smiles a little as he begins to dress.
"Call her," Fraser says so quietly that John almost doesn’t hear it at first. He turns, frowning faintly, his shirt half on.
"Whoever she is, she's worried," the Mountie continues. "When you get home, you should call her. And, John, if you need anything--"
"I have to do this on my own," John insists, cutting him off. He appreciates it more than he can say, but he knows it's the truth. They both do.
Fraser simply nods, then turns away to pay for the clothes.
-
In his apartment, John sits on the futon in his long underwear, the phone in his hand. A part of him is ashamed that he has to call Celine and explain to her what happened, but he feels better than he has in months and maybe this shame is something he needs. It's not something he remembers feeling in a very long time.
There's no stash anywhere in his place. He's never been able to keep the drugs around, he's never been a hoarder, but maybe that's the best place to start.
Shaking fingers trace a pattern over red material on his thigh, then find a bruise and press it lightly. The pain grounds him, brings him back to the task at hand and he dials her number.
"I'm okay," he says immediately when she answers. "This guy, this Mountie, he gave me a hand tonight. I'm okay."
Then he laughs and looks down at his fingers against his thigh. "Sorry," he says. "Hi, Celine."
Hard Core Logo/due South
9200 words
Notes: In... August ignazwisdom told me she wanted to read a story where John and Fraser met, because Fraser must have bought John his red long underwear. Six months later, this is that story. Sorry it took me so long! Huge, huge, huge thank yous to my awesome betas, rhythmsextion, nos4a2no9 and villainny. You guys rock. ♥
November 1, 1992
This is a terrible idea.
I miss the band.
The first time John enters Gerry's Downtown, he doesn't immediately notice the Mountie at the counter, red shoulders straight and tall. Watching his feet, John settles onto one of the stools and places his palms flat on the smooth, cool surface to stop the shaking. It's been sixteen -- seventeen? eighteen? twenty-six? -- days since he's stopped taking his pills this time and it's tough. It's always tough, and he doesn't know why he'd thought this time would be any different, but sometimes he forgets. Sometimes his mind goes a little blank and in those moments he reaches for the little blue notebook, shaky hands curling over the flimsy spine as he wrestles it out of his jacket pocket.
He writes to remember. Since the band broke up two years ago, John finds he has a hard time remembering. He'll snort a line and a memory will disappear, flitting out of his mind like it was barely there to begin with. He writes things down now so that he won't forget, keeping the memories safe and secure in his world, in his apartment, in his little book, if not in his head.
The pen trembles in his fingers as he puts it to the page and as he begins to write, another pen taps lightly on the counter top to get his attention.
Head snapping up, John looks startled for a moment and then relaxes slightly when he sees it's only the waitress.
"You want anything to eat?" she asks, offering him a sweet, gentle smile.
"J-ju-just a... c-c-coffee," he answers slowly and when she doesn't so much as flinch at his stutter, he smiles at her hesitantly.
"Just a coffee. Got it," she replies, giving the counter another soft rap with her pen before she heads away.
It's only after she's returned with his coffee cup on a small saucer and a bowl with several containers of creamer that John lets his pen touch the paper again.
November 15, 1992
In a diner in Calgary, Alberta. My coffee is too hot to drink to the point of scalding. The waitress seems not to notice, but she's young. Life is different for the young. My coffee is unimportant to her.
The diner is quiet, peaceful, and I'm grateful for it. There are six other patrons. Two women together, three men and one
John pauses, looking to his right, taking in the imposing figure sitting at the counter three seats down from him. He's seen Mounties before, he's been arrested by one or two of them in the past, but he doesn't see them in diners too often. Mostly it's just the regular cops. Curious, his eyebrows lift and he studies the other man furtively, his gaze flickering between the notebook in front of him and the patches on the Mountie's arm.
There's something about the man that draws John, something in his steady gaze or in the way his hands don't shake or even seem to move at all. He's drinking some kind of dark tea and John glances down at it briefly before he looks back at the Mountie's face, surprised to find himself meeting a dark, unwavering gaze.
"S-sorry," John stutters, immediately turning back to his notebook, but he doesn't write. He doesn't know which words should come first anymore and he has to raise a hand to his forehead, rubbing it uncomfortably. Everything goes blurry for a moment and then it snaps into focus again, the words crisp and clear on the lined page in front of him.
"Excuse me, are you alright?"
At first, John doesn't realize that the Mountie is speaking to him and he continues to stare down at his notebook, pressing the tip of his pen into the page until the ink bleeds out and makes a small, dark spot right in the middle of his entry. It looks too angry for the rest of the words he's written and John briefly considers tearing the entire page out of the book.
"Sir?" the Mountie asks, ducking his head slightly in what John imagines is an attempt to see his face.
"Me?" John asks, resisting the urge to glance to his other side to see if there's someone else sitting there that the Mountie may be talking to.
"Yes, sir," he answers, then clears his throat softly. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry, but my name is Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and if you were in need of anything..." He seems uncomfortable, though, and John watches as he trails off, unsure of what else to say.
In his rare moments of lucidity, John can acknowledge that there are many things of which he's in need. He's in need of help, of real help, he's in need of a person to take his hand and lead him through this part of his life, and he's in need of a punch in the mouth if you listen to Billy. He's in need of money to pay off the guys he's been buying coke from; someone to tell him to stop snorting the goddamn coke would be good, too. He's in need of a good place to live, a new pair of socks, a pair of boots without holes in the bottom, but he can't ask for those things.
Rubbing his forehead again, John shakes his head and closes his notebook quickly.
"No," he says, then picks up his coffee cup with shaking hands and burns his tongue as he takes a sip, but the pain is real. It snaps him into reality again and he blinks in confusion, glancing first at the cup in his hands and then over at the Mountie. Constable Fraser.
"I'm fine," he adds a second later, sounding surer this time, his voice steadier.
"If you’re certain," Constable Fraser answers, his voice gentle, and John finds himself wanting to give in to that voice. He finds himself wanting to tell the Mountie all his secrets, but instead he just nods.
"I'm sure," he answers, his voice hushed, then digs enough change out of his pocket to pay for his coffee, counting it out carefully. Then he adds the tip, blunt, calloused fingertips picking through the coins before setting them silently on the counter top. Each coin is pressed slowly and steadily onto the surface, because John can't stand the sharp clatter coins make when they drop and even the light tap of a quarter against the linoleum makes him wince very faintly.
"It was n-nice m-m-meeting you," he says, standing abruptly as he shoves his notebook back into his pocket. The movements are stilted and awkward now, stuttered enough that even John notices and he has to stop for a second to let himself calm down.
"What's your name?" the Constable asks and John looks over at him as if he's surprised that he's still there.
"Oh," he says, and then looks at the door. "J-John. Oxenberger."
"It was nice meeting you, John."
The nod he gives is short and stiff and he notices that there is ink all over his fingers. The pen has exploded in his hands. John frowns, throwing it back on the counter as if it's burned him. He doesn't know what's wrong, but he doesn't want to give the Mountie another chance to ask, so he leaves quickly, his head ducked against the cold November wind that barrels into him when he leaves the diner.
Within blocks, the Mountie and the burning coffee have vanished from his mind.
-
Parties make John's head hurt, but he knows where he needs to go to score what he wants. He combs his hair and he trims his beard and he puts on clean clothes before leaving, taking care not to cut himself or put something on inside out. Over the past few weeks things have begun to get more and more difficult, although he doesn't understand why. He doesn't have money to pay his rent or his bills and he's worried he's going to get kicked out of his place, even though his place isn't that great to start with. The jeans he's wearing are one of two pairs of pants he hasn't sold for drug money.
He's careful to lock the door behind him, although he has nothing left for anyone to steal. The apartment is bare, but clean. John sleeps on an old futon mattress on a rickety frame, but the sheets are freshly laundered. Even though he doesn't have anything to wear, his towels and his blankets are clean.
On the way down the stairs, John counts them to himself, whispering, "Seven, eight, nine," before he reaches the front door. He's careful to close that securely behind him as well, though he thinks the other tenants probably don't care.
It makes him sad, how lonely they all are. Every last one of them.
He walks, because he can't afford a cab and he can't afford the bus, but he's remembered to pull on his denim jacket this time. It doesn't afford much in the way of a barrier against the damp, cold night, but it's enough. There are Christmas lights strung up in windows now and they make John feel warm - just a stupid, nostalgic reaction to something he'll never have again.
The party is supposed to be some kind of Christmas celebration, but John notices the distinct lack of a tree when he arrives and the decorations are sad and mostly torn down already. It's barely even ten at night, but the party has already been raging for hours, he imagines. People like these don't really understand when it's time to stop.
John's not actually sure he understands when it's time to stop anymore.
Shifting awkwardly, turning his shoulders to the side, he slips between people, he moves into the crowd and tries to ignore how sick it makes him feel, pushing in from all sides. He's reaching up to push his hair back off his face when he sees her and John's written enough songs to know when something is a cliché, but that doesn't prevent him from stopping to stare at her. It's like the whole room drops away.
It's her hair that he sees first and then the rest of her, the way her gaze slides away from most of the people in the room, not because she's nervous, but because she's not. John doesn't know if he can explain it, but it's as if she knows she's better.
She is. She must be.
"John, fuck, move it," someone says from behind him and he's snapped out of his reverie, blinking at the sound of his name.
"Oh, s-sorry," he stutters and moves forward again, all the while searching for her in the crowd. Now that he's seen her, he's afraid to lose her.
"He's off his meds again," someone else mutters and any other time, those words would twist inside of John's chest, burrowing in until he can't ignore them anymore, but he barely hears them this time.
"D-d-d...do you know..."
But by the time he's getting the words out, trying to ask the question, Joe's there, his arm slung around John's shoulders, dragging him away from the crowd, away from the girl.
"Hey, Johnny-boy," Joe says, his arm tightening briefly around John's neck and although he misses them, misses playing with them side by side, this is uncomfortable, and he tries to push away from Joe's side.
Joe, for his part, doesn't even notice, just continues to talk as he drags John back through the crowd. "Kenny's in the back bedroom, man. He's been kinda quiet all night, but he's got the good shit back there."
Joe is already high. John thinks he probably should have known.
"How much money you got on you?" Joe asks and John feels stricken for a moment, patting his hands against the front pockets of his jeans as if searching for the money he knows he has to have somewhere.
"Enough for a g-g-gram," he answers, making it clear that it isn't a gram he's going to be sharing. It's all he can afford. It's food for a week, it's his electricity bill, it's a portion of his rent, but he needs this more than he needs any of that.
"You here to party or just buy?" Joe asks as they enter the back bedroom and he kicks the door shut behind them. The bang shakes John to the core, rattling through him so hard that he swears he can feel it in his teeth.
"Just to buy, Joe," he says, wishing he could be the guy he used to be. That guy who partied with the band, got wasted and laughed and felt like he belonged. John, John, John Oxenberger. John the bass player.
"Too bad, man. Miss having you around," Joe says and John can tell that he means it genuinely. As genuinely as Joe can mean anything, anyway.
John from Hard Core Logo.
Maybe he doesn't party anymore because to party is to want to forget. The parties were always whitewashing over other things, over pain and misery. He has nothing left to forget.
Maybe I never had a real self to throw away like those guys.
"Hey, John," Kenny says softly from where he's sitting on the bed and he manages a faint smile, the corners of his mouth curving softly and John isn't sure if his dealer is stoned or if he's just sad. For as long as he's been using, he's been buying from Kenny, with little forays to other dealers whenever Kenny's not around. It's never his regular guy that gets him into trouble, of course, it's always those lapses in judgment, those times when John simply can't wait another day or two until Kenny gets back and he has to find someone else who'll sell to him.
He still owes a couple hundred bucks to one of them, but he's trying not to think about it. Not tonight.
Maybe he still has a reason to party, after all.
-
"Sorry."
She's short enough that her hair is brushing the underside of John's chin and he raises clumsy hands, resting them on her shoulders. Her skin is warm under his fingers, slightly damp from the humid interior of the party house.
"Don't worry about it," she says softly and offers up a smile that strikes John dumb.
Taking a step back, she lifts a hand to push her curly hair off her face, then tilts her chin up to take him in. John's shoes scuffle faintly against the tiled floor and he wonders if he's supposed to say something else now. It's been awhile since he's been involved in social niceties.
"I'm Celine," she says just as John opens his mouth to speak and he blinks in surprise.
"Oh," he answers. "Oh, h-hi. I'm J-j-j..." His gaze hovers somewhere near her left ear, his mouth pressing into a thin line as he tries to catch his breath with a few long, careful inhales. "I'm John."
"Yeah," Celine tells him, tugging her sweater closed over her t-shirt, doing up the buttons slowly. "Yeah, I know. A couple of the guys I'm here with were fans of your band. They told me who you are."
"You were asking?"
Her shoulders rise and fall in a smooth shrug and her smile grows a little shy, a little secretive. "I saw you earlier."
"I saw you, too," John answers. "When I got in here. But I had s-s-something to, uh... do."
Celine's gaze darts to the door to the back bedroom, Kenny's hideout and her smile fades slightly, her mouth turning down at the corners. There's something like disapproval there, but John doesn't really understand what he's done to cause it.
"He's m-m-my friend," John tries to explain and Celine's gaze immediately shifts back to him, her smile returning full force.
"Yeah, he's a cool guy," Celine agrees, although it's said with a forced sincerity that John doesn't like hearing in her voice. He's known for her less than a minute and already he's unsettled by her and drawn to her at the same time. He wants to know more; he wants to understand what makes her say things and what she thinks.
"Look, I was ju-j... I was just leaving," he says slowly and carefully, and then he holds out his hand, calloused fingers brushing her shoulder again. "Just for a walk. I mean, back to my place, but... I don't mean... I could walk you home," he offers.
For a moment it looks as if she's going to refuse, but then she's reaching for a nearby jacket, tugging it from the faded and worn arm of the couch. "Sure," she answers, giving that smooth, graceful shrug again, tugging her long hair from the collar of her jacket as she pulls it on. "Walk me home, John."
He smiles then, bright and unguarded, reaching for her hand. It feels so small tucked inside his, fragile almost, but he leads her out of the house and into the night and he thinks maybe these parties aren't so bad.
There's a gram in his pocket and the girl with the hair, Celine, she's letting him walk her home.
-
December 23, 1992
Been home in Vancouver for several weeks now. Strange to still think of this place as home when nothing has ever really felt like I imagine home must feel. Vancouver is as close as I get, however, and if I think on it too long, I begin to wonder if a man like me will ever truly find his home.
I feel as though I should be grateful for what I have.
Met a woman last night. Celine. She's a friend of a friend, someone I knew a long time ago. She let me walk her home, although it was out of my way and it was cold, but I didn't mind. I'm going to see her again soon.
John's fingers shake and the pen makes a faint squiggle across the page, causing his mouth to twist into an uncomfortable frown. The diner he's found this week is nearly empty and he's near the back, in one of the booths, but even so, he doesn't trust himself to take a hit. Not now. Not when there are people around.
The buzzing fluorescent lights hurt his head a little and he blinks against the bright light and sickly shadows they create. When the bell over the door makes a soft dinging sound, he looks up, wondering if maybe he's imagining things. This isn't the part of town where Mounties hang out, although now that he's thinking of it, he isn't sure there is such a part of town. All in all, John doesn't remember seeing many Mounties in Vancouver. As far as he knows, they stick to the cities further north or the really small ones without much of a police force.
But there's a Mountie in Vancouver now and he's sliding into the booth across from John.
"Hello," he says with a polite smile.
John stares back at him, frowning in response. "D-do I know you?" he asks.
"Ah, yes," the Mountie answers, removing his hat and placing it primly on the table. His fingers curl over the brim and John watches them, wondering if anyone else ever notices how much this guy is holding back. "I'm Constable Benton Fraser with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. We met in Calgary in November. I believe it was the fifteenth."
"Am I in trouble?" John asks, suddenly acutely aware of the cocaine in the pocket of his jeans. He feels as though it's burning a hole in the denim, hot and obvious next to his keys and the quarters he's keeping there for his next cup of coffee or maybe a slice of pie.
"No, sir," the Constable answers immediately. "Not to my knowledge."
"Then why are you f-f-following me?"
"I assure you, I'm doing no such thing," Constable Fraser says, looking a little taken aback by the idea he might have been following John. "This is merely a surprising and pleasant coincidence. I'm being stationed here briefly before I continue on to what will likely become my new station in Kitimatt."
Warily, John studies the other man, glancing down once more at where his fingers are curved tightly over the brim of his hat. The way he holds onto it, John is sure he's hiding something, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. Maybe it's okay for him to be hiding things if a Mountie is doing it, too.
"So you just came to t-t-talk because you recognize me?" John asks and although he's feeling more comfortable now that he knows they're the more similar than he originally thought, his voice doesn't indicate that at all. His tone is still guarded and wary.
"Yes, sir," Fraser replies. "I thought perhaps you might like some company, but if you'd prefer I leave you with your thoughts, please just say the word and I'll be on my way."
John says nothing for a moment, considering his options and although he thinks it might be smarter to tell the Mountie to go away, he doesn't think he wants to be alone right now. It's a strange feeling to want to keep a Mountie around, especially when he's carrying drugs in his pocket, but it's better than being alone. Although he's spent much of his life that way, John doesn't enjoy being by himself and right now, the only person he feels he might be able to call is Celine.
He doesn't want to scare her off yet, however, so he's been holding off. This Mountie -- Fraser -- he'll do for now.
"Do you want a coffee?" John asks by way of telling Fraser that he can stay.
"Do they serve tea?" he inquires and John shrugs, then looks over at the waitress, trying to catch her eye. "I don't come here much," he explains as the waitress comes to join them. "I don't really know what they serve here."
"What can I get for you?" the young woman asks as she flashes a smile at Fraser. It's the sort of smile that John only sees when he's on stage and he frowns a little, watching the interaction between the two of them. However the Mountie reacts to her little flirtations, that's how John thinks he'll be able to judge his character.
"Do you serve tea?" Fraser asks, looking up at the waitress curiously and John's a little surprised by the bland, oblivious expression on his face.
The waitress cocks her hip and her smile brightens now that she has Fraser's gaze on her. "We sure do, handsome. Black tea, Earl Grey, a few kinds of herbal teas..."
"Black tea would be fine, thank you," he answers, then immediately turns his attention back to John, as if the waitress hasn't just practically thrown herself in his lap. She remains there for a moment and it's only when she finally realizes that he's not paying attention to her any longer than she walks away, her skirt swishing around her knees.
"She liked you," John tells him.
"I'm sorry?" Fraser asks, looking confused. It's as if he honestly doesn't understand the statement.
"The waitress," John repeats. "She liked you."
Fraser blinks and then turns his gaze to where the young woman is preparing his tea, his eyebrows drawn together in surprise. "Oh," he says. "I don't know that that's true. She and I have hardly exchanged more than a mere handful of words, after all."
"That's n-not what I meant," John insists, his voice stronger than it's been in quite some time. He isn't angry, he's more bewildered than anything, but he feels as if it's his duty now to make sure Fraser understands what he's missing or overlooking or possibly just outright ignoring. "She would probably d-d-do things with you."
Fraser's back stiffens at that and he immediately returns his gaze to the table and his hat upon it. "I believe you're exaggerating the young woman's interest in me."
"No," John says, then shakes his head. "Did you really not notice?"
For a moment, Fraser says nothing and then he lifts his head, meeting John's gaze steadily, although John senses he probably wants to look away.
"I honestly didn't notice," he says.
They stare at each other then and John tries to read him, tries to see something in those passive eyes. In the end, he's not sure what he thinks. It's possible the Mountie really doesn't notice when women throw themselves at him, or it's possible he's just ignoring it because he gets it so often. Maybe it's easier for him to just pretend he doesn't notice so that people don't give him crap about it and John finds that he wants to know the truth.
He's not going to find it today, however. Not by trying to stare the other man down.
"Okay," he agrees, relaxing as the waitress brings Fraser his tea.
"Thank you," the Mountie says simply and then waits for her to leave, refusing to lift his gaze from the tea cup in front of him and John has to wonder if he's trying to make her go away or if he's afraid of what he might see if he lets himself look up.
"Where are you from, John?" Fraser asks and John jerks himself out of his reverie, closing his book and laying his trembling hands on top of it.
"Here," he says. "Vancouver, I guess. It's where I grew up, anyway. W-what about you?"
"Up North," Fraser tells him. "I grew up in the Northwest Territories."
"Is it cold?" John asks. "Colder than here?"
"It can be," Fraser says, nodding and his hands curl around his warm cup of tea. "I suppose I just grew used to it."
"Like the rain," John murmurs. "It rains a lot in the winter and some people come here and they d-don't know what it's like. They don't like it."
"I find it peaceful," Fraser admits, stealing a glance toward the front door of the diner and John smiles despite himself.
"Me, too," he says quietly, still smiling to himself, feeling more relaxed than he has in days. He still wants to gets stoned, but it's faded to a dull thrumming at the back of his skull, a gentle pulse that he can ignore if he just pushes it away for a little longer.
"Were you in Calgary for business when we last met?" Fraser asks politely and John laughs to himself, looking up in surprise.
"Business?" he asks. "D-do you really think I was there for b-b-business?"
"Anything is possible," Fraser answers and John wonders where he's found such innocence. It's something John misses, something he wishes he could still have, but it feels lost to him now. He wants what Fraser has or, at the very least, what Fraser seems to be able to fake better than the majority of people.
"I was just there," John answers elusively, because if he's honest, he doesn't remember why he was there. It could have been anything. Music, drugs, alcohol, a woman. It could have simply been that he'd picked up one day and decided to go, but he doesn't remember and that's the worst part somehow. He wishes he could remember. "I probably wrote it down."
"Do you write down most things?" Fraser asks gently.
"Yes," John tells him, surprised by how easily the words are coming. "I write things down, because otherwise I m-might forget. I don't want to forget."
"I can hardly blame you." Lifting the tea to his mouth, Fraser takes a careful sip, then lowers it again and John flinches at the soft clink of the cup hitting the saucer.
"I'm sorry, I should go," he says abruptly, collecting his book, tucking it into his jacket as he yanks the loose change from his pocket. It spills across the table and Fraser places his hand on top of one of the rolling coins, stopping it from rolling away.
"Did I say something?" Fraser asks, his voice full of concern and John shakes his head, praying that he doesn't accidentally yank out the baggie of cocaine while he tries to pay for his coffee.
"N-n-no, nothing," he answers, throwing yet more change on the table and he turns to go, unsure if he's left enough or too much or not enough. He doesn't care, though, he's fleeing blindly, pushing out the front door and exiting into the soft, steady rain. It's cold on his face and he doesn't know what happened there. He doesn't understand.
"Oh, God," he whispers to the rain. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."
He apologizes to the world, to himself, to Celine, as he turns the corner behind the diner and slides down against the brick wall, crouching alone in the alley. There's cocaine in his pocket and he wants it. He can't go without it anymore.
"I'm so fucking sorry," he says again, but the baggie is between his fingers and he's opening it with shaking hands.
-
It feels like hours and minutes and days later when John resurfaces, when he comes back to himself and realizes that he has a smear of cocaine on his little finger. Ducking his head, he licks it carefully from his skin with one long swipe of his tongue, then lifts his gaze to the mouth of the alley.
There, framed in the light, is Fraser. John looks down, a shamed flush creeping up his neck.
"It's not what you think," he says quietly, his eyes downcast, feeling guilty and ashamed, as if he's done something horrible. As if he's disappointed the Mountie somehow and he knows that's silly. They barely know one another, after all.
Fraser says nothing, but he takes several steps forward and then stops again, removing his hat from his head. As before, he holds it by the brim in front of his body, his fingers curled over the edge as if letting go of it will pain him somehow.
"I'm sick," John adds. "I need to or I act... weird. I act wrong."
"You need to snort cocaine?" Fraser asks and although his tone isn't harsh, John flinches away from the words.
There's silence in the alley, broken only by the gentle pattering of the rain on the asphalt. John watches as the drops break up a puddle of oil near his left foot, studying the ebb and flow of the colours and he can feel his heartbeat slowing.
"I'm sick," he says again, gently insisting. There's nothing else to say and so he gets to his feet, knotting the small bag and returning it to his pocket. He can't look at Fraser, so he stares at the wall opposite him, counts the bricks, notes the dirt and the grime and the remnants of graffiti.
"You know the drug is only making it worse," Fraser answers, sounding stronger and more sure than John has heard him. "Whatever may be wrong with you, the drug is only exacerbating the problem. Perhaps the drug is the problem, John."
"No," he whispers, shaking his head. "That's not it. It helps me."
"I can help you," Fraser says imploringly, taking a step into the alley and then another. "You're worth more than this."
John shakes his head again and his gaze snaps up, away from the wall, settling on Fraser's face. He's so sincere, so sure and it makes John furious for a moment, then disgusted. Everyone who has it made is just like this, everyone with a safe life and a house and a family who loves them is exactly like this. They think they can save him or fix him or make him better and, quite frankly, John thinks they're full of shit.
He can't be fixed and, even if he could be, being pulled together doesn't make anyone qualified to do it.
"I have to go," he says, buttoning his jacket with steady hands.
"What do you need, John?" Fraser asks and there's such a genuine note of concern in his voice that John's hands actually stop and he lifts his head to look at the Mountie standing in the mouth of the alley. He's backlit, like some fucking superhero, but John knows better. Superheroes don't exist. He's even begun to question the existence of regular heroes, the everyday kind you hear about in the feel good section of the newspaper.
"Three thousand dollars," he answers, because there's something about the way Fraser is standing there that makes John realize he's expecting an answer. And not just any answer, he's expecting an honest answer, so that's what John gives him. "I owe a couple hundred to one guy, twenty-five hundred to another. S-sooner or later, they'll k-k-k… they'll kill me."
It's only now, saying it, that John realizes he's never been really scared of that. It's unsettled him, twisted his stomach around for a few minutes before he's moved onto something else, usually with the help of drugs, but it's never really scared him. Not until now. Now he feels like he might have something to lose after all.
There's silence from the Mountie and John shakes his head sadly before he looks down at his buttons once more, his hands so steady and still against the plastic circles.
"You can't help me," he says finally, then takes a step away.
Fraser says nothing to argue this fact and John has to laugh, a soft, sad breath of a noise, and then he's walking away. He's not stupid, despite what people say about him. There's no one here who can help him.
-
January 5, 1993
How is it possible to miss someone I barely knew at all to begin with? Haven't seen the Mountie in nearly two weeks. Wonder how he's doing, if he's still here in Vancouver. If maybe he could have helped me in the end, had I let him.
Doesn't look like the type to keep three thousand dollars tucked into his boot, though, so I doubt it.
The money will be made. Don't have any other choice, not if I want to keep this up. Celine offered me a couple hundred dollars, but it felt wrong to take it from her. Found it stuffed into my shoe a few hours after she left. Don't know how it happened, but I met her. The One people talk about, the one you're supposed to wait for. Never thought it was possible.
When the knock sounds, John's hand jerks across the page, a thick line scratched over the centre of the book and onto the opposite page. He isn't expecting anyone, but that means little these days, especially when Celine shows up unannounced all the time, her cheeks and nose red from the cold outside. It's the thought of seeing her smile that propels John across the room to the door and he opens it with a smile of his own, expecting to see her waiting for him on the other side.
The punch he's met with is so unexpected that it nearly knocks John off his feet. As it is, he stumbles back, his legs hitting the arm of the futon as his hand flies to his nose to staunch the flow of blood. He hears the door slam, hears the footsteps as someone crosses the room toward him and then there's fingers buried in his hair, yanking him around until he feels the cool blade of a knife pressed to the skin just under his ear.
John stops struggling, drops his hands and blinks until his vision clears. His nose is probably broken, but he barely registers the pain over the shock and surprise.
"Who are y-you?" he asks, because the guy is standing too close for John to focus on his features.
"Twenty-five hundred dollars," the man answers and the knife makes a little slip-slide movement, skating along the angle of John's jaw, just hard enough to leave a faint red mark behind. "That's how much you owe Jeremy, am I right?"
Rather than nod, John says, "Yeah." Nothing else. He's scared of this all of the sudden, he's scared that Celine will return hours from now and find his body on the floor, throat slit, blood cooling under him, under his couch.
"You got a week," the man tells him, flicking the knife lightly against the underside of John's chin before he pushes him away. "One week. Then there's gonna be a real problem."
The only thing John can do is nod, tasting blood in the back of his throat and he touches his hand to his nose again. Before he can look up, the guy is gone, leaving the apartment door wide open and it's a few minutes before John can find it in him to go over and close it carefully. The deadbolt whisks silently into place and he places a trembling hand against the doorframe, taking in a deep breath and then another.
It doesn't take him long to clean up and find his coke. Takes even less time for the drug to take him away and John closes his eyes as he leans back on his couch and thinks about nothing at all. Nothing matters here. A week is a long time, he's not in any danger.
Yeah, a week is a long time.
-
When he wakes up, someone is pounding on his apartment door, shouting his name, and it takes John a long moment to realize that he'd fallen asleep. He sits up on the futon and rubs his eyes, wincing at the sudden pressure in his nose. Maybe it's not broken, but it hurts like hell and it feels swollen under his fingers.
"Just a second," he calls, his voice hoarse and he wonders who's pounding on his door. No one comes to see him anymore.
He rubs his hands on his jeans, feeling the worn denim soft against his calloused palms and it comforts him. Then he gets to his feet, counting the steps from the futon to the door, and warily turns the lock. This time he's ready, but it's only Celine in the hall, looking terrified and worried.
"John, what happened?" she demands, closing the door behind her, letting him lock it again. "I was standing there, knocking and calling your name for almost ten minutes. Were you asleep?"
"Yeah," he answers slowly, then takes a step back, then another. "Yeah, I was just… I fell asleep."
"I was worried," Celine says, then flips on the light, flooding the room with yellow and John winces against it, closing his eyes. There's silence and when John opens his eyes again, Celine is staring at him in shock.
"What?" he asks, forgetting about his nose, about the attack earlier.
"Who did that?" she asks in return, stepping closer, shrugging her jacket off and draping it over the arm of the futon. "John, who did that to you?"
His shoulders rise and fall in a slow shrug even as Celine tugs him down to sit on the futon, her hands soft on his arms. It's astonishing to him, that after only knowing him for a few weeks she can look at him with such concern. She looks so worried, so sick, and he feels guilty for making her look like that. They've known each other for such a short period of time, but he knows that he's never wanted to make her look like that. All he wants is to make her happy, but he knows he isn't capable of that. A man like him doesn't know how to do such a thing.
"You have to stop this," she tells him gently, lifting her hands to examine his nose carefully. "The drugs, John, these people you're involved with, it's going to get you killed."
"I just have to pay back what I owe," he answers, letting her do what she needs. Her hands are cool against his skin and it feels so nice that he closes his eyes and feels himself beginning to relax. "Then it'll be done. I won't do it anymore."
It feels nice to promise that, too. It feels nice to have a reason to promise that.
"You know it's not that easy," Celine points out, but John doesn't think that's right. He thinks maybe it is that easy. With Celine here, it can be that easy.
"You'll h-help me," he says quietly, because he doesn't want to open his eyes and break the perfect quiet and stillness of this moment. There are so few things in this world as beautiful as a perfect moment and John knows what he has right here. He wants to hold onto it for just a little while longer.
"I'll do what I can," Celine agrees, although John chooses not to hear the slight hesitation, the way she pauses before she speaks. What he's doing is scary, he knows this, but he hopes she sticks around until it's all over. Whatever she wants, it's exactly what he'll do.
"I know," he replies, then drifts off again, into the waves of dull pain that radiate out from the centre of his face.
-
January 11, 1993
Starting to worry. I'm afraid it shows in the lines on my face, in the curve of my smile, in the quaking of my fingers. She knows.
Walking quickly, John can hear the sound of his legs swishing against each other, the rough scratch of denim in the cold. His breath puffs out in front of him, but he doesn't see it, walking with his gaze down, his eyes on his feet as they move. One step, two step, one step, two step, if he keeps up this way, he thinks, it's all going to blow over.
It's dark and the night is cold, a brisk wind coming up over the ocean and striking his bare face, his trembling fingers, but John doesn't notice. In his head, he's chanting. One step, two step, one step, two step and when he hits the block that will take him to his apartment, he begins to count his steps, whispering them under his breath. The numbers are a distraction, calming and peaceful, each one assigned to a hollow thump of his boot on the cold sidewalk.
He's only just reached twenty-three when he hears footsteps coming up quickly behind him. As he turns, something hits him just behind the ear, something hard and cold and John goes down, hitting the sidewalk with a cry. Blood drips down his neck, warm and thick and he lifts his hand to where he's been hit with a pole. A fucking metal pole.
"You got your fucking warning," someone says from above him and John thinks he recognizes the guy's voice from the attack in his apartment, but he can't be sure. His head is swimming and he can't focus.
"I h-have it," he manages to say, but he's slurring badly. For a terrifying moment, John can't remember if he's just that stoned or if it's because he's been hit. Scrambling for words, for some kind of reassurance that he hasn't forgotten everything, his mouth falls open as he tries to say something.
"Shut the fuck up." That's the only reply he gets before something hits him again and he can't be sure if it's the pole or someone's hand or the butt of a gun.
They have to have guns. He isn't going to walk away from this, this isn't just a warning anymore. This is the end, this is where John Oxenberger ends.
John the bass player.
A boot catches him in the kidney and John cries out again, curling into himself, but he can't protect his face and his back at the same time. He's kicked again and again, pain blossoming out from his lower back, radiating through him with an intensity he doesn't think he's ever felt before. Something cracks into his face and his nose really is broken this time. It has to be, there's no way he can be hit so hard twice and still walk away without a broken nose.
Almost out of nowhere, John laughs. He's not walking away from this.
"You think this is funny, kid?" someone asks and he coughs, then shakes his head, even though it is. It's a little bit funny, if he thinks about it, if he lines up all the things he's done for the past few months and sees just where they've taken him. It's a little funny.
Someone kicks him in the ribs and the air rushes from John's lungs. He can't laugh now even if he really wanted to. They kick him again, then a third time and the force of the kick turns him over onto his back where he lies on the sidewalk and stares up at the sky. Past the streetlights, past the apartment buildings, past the clouds and the wind, right up to the stars and the moon.
John readies himself to die.
John from Hard Core Logo.
When he's kicked in the face, he feels two teeth rattling around in his mouth and he turns his head, spitting them out onto the sidewalk. The second kick knocks him out, takes him away and John thinks maybe it's finally time for everything to be okay.
If he goes away, there can't be any more trouble.
-
The first slap barely registers and John groans softly, the sound muffled through his broken nose and his blood clogged throat. The second slap, though, is much harder and his head rocks to the side as his eyes open, pain shooting through his face and rippling down through his chest and shoulders.
"What..."
"John, can you hear me?"
It's absurd. It's absurd and impossible, but that damn Mountie is crouched over him on the sidewalk and John almost laughs, feeling delirious and completely, unreservedly free.
"John," Fraser says again, his tone sharp and firm. "Can you hear me?"
"Yes," he answers, but the pain is coming now, it's arriving in waves, each one stronger than the last. "I c-can hear you. You're Constable B-B-Benton Fraser with the Royal Canadian M-Mounted Police." Then he laughs again, the sound tapering off into a moan. "I'm cold."
"They left you with nothing," Fraser answers and it's only then that John realizes he's been stripped down to his briefs and socks. His jacket and shirt and pants, they're all gone. From the corner of his eye, he thinks he can see his boots lying in the road, but it's possible there's nothing there at all. It's possible he's dead.
"Nothing," John repeats and then closes his eyes again. "Not nothing."
Definitely not nothing. The longer he's awake, the more pain he feels and he knows that can only mean one thing. He's not dead. Dead people don't hurt and he isn't sure how he knows this, but he knows it has to be the truth. There's no pain like this once you die.
"Can you stand?" Fraser asks. "Should I call an ambulance?"
"No," John answers. He breathes deeply, then opens his eyes again. "No ambulance. I just want to go home."
"You have no clothes, no wallet, no keys," Fraser points out. "John, please. Let me help you."
With his eyes open, he can see the sincerity in Fraser's face, the concern, and so he nods. He's just so cold now, so completely fucked that he doesn't know what else to do. He can't go to Celine like this, but he needs someone to do something, even if it just means helping him stand.
"What should I do?" he asks as Fraser gets a good grip on his arms and helps him carefully to his feet. A sharp pain blooms in his right side and John worries for a second that the next time he takes a piss, it's going to come out pink, but he still doesn't want a hospital. Not until that happens, if it happens at all.
"First, I think we should buy you some new clothes," Fraser answers and it takes John a moment to realize that there's a hint of humour in the Mountie’s voice. The situation itself isn't funny, but he can’t help but laugh again, realizing just how far off track his life has gotten.
"Do you often f-find naked men lying outside in the w-w-winter?" John asks, then laughs again. It hurts so goddamn much to laugh, but it feels good, too. The air is cold, too cold for his body and his lungs, but he breathes in deeply anyway and then laughs again, louder this time.
"Well, actually, there was one time up north. I was crossing the street in hopes of getting a nice, piping hot bowl of oatmeal from the restaurant near my station when I found a man lying face down in the snow," Fraser says as he helps John across the street. "He'd been stripped naked, although to this day I'm not sure if that was his own doing or if the herd of elk were responsible for that in some way. The jar of saskatoon berry jam I certainly found questionable, but you can't very well leave a naked man in the snow, jar of saskatoon berry jam or not..."
He continues to talk and John listens, smiling faintly to himself. There's a second hand store not far away and John thinks they're going there, but he suddenly doesn't have the strength to ask. The only thing he can do is lean heavily against Fraser, his vision blurring as he tries not to cry. Everything hurts so much, every movement, every shift of his muscles, but he's going to do this.
-
Standing in front of the mirror wearing red long underwear, John stares at himself. The bruises under his eyes are dark, almost black and he wonders what the clerk must have thought when he and Fraser had shuffled into the store. He'd been practically naked, wearing only his underwear and socks, and he'd been with a Mountie. The poor kid probably thinks they're insane, but John isn't entirely sure that's an inappropriate assumption.
There are bruises everywhere. Every inch of him feels tender and sore. The skin over his ribs is a deep purple and his back hasn't fared much better, but he's just thankful he isn't pissing blood. The skin behind his ear is red and swollen, dried blood caked in his hair, but he's alive and he's standing.
"They even have a trapdoor," he says to Fraser, laughing softly as he looks at himself in the mirror. The longjohns are warm and soft, even if they are secondhand and he isn't sure what he did to deserve this. It feels like some kind of protection sent to him from somewhere else. From God or whatever else might be out there, an arm to hold onto and a face to smile at him.
John's underestimated the power of a smile.
"Are they alright?" Fraser asks, looking concerned as he tries to find a pair of jeans that might fit John. "I can see if they have something else."
"No," John answers and he presses his fingers into the soft red material, presses a bruise underneath until tears spring to his eyes and he shakes his head. "I like them."
For a moment they both stand just where they are, John at the mirror, Fraser behind him, watching their reflections with a pair of jeans in his hand. The florescent lights cast sallow shadows across John's face, but he thinks he's never looked better.
"John, if there's anything else I can do for you..."
But John only shakes his head, looking at Fraser's reflection in the mirror and offering him a smile. "No," he says. "This is enough." This is more than enough, he's never had anyone buy him clothes before and he's never known anyone who insists that a sturdy pair of long underwear is a sound investment, but he isn't going to argue this.
There's a hesitation from Fraser, like he wants to say something more, insist on helping John further, but then he turns back to the rack of pants and continues his quest. There isn't anything else he can say and John thinks he knows this. The rest of this, the mess he's made, the things he's done, they aren't things anyone else can solve for him.
He's just going to take it one step at a time. Long underwear first, the money second, the drugs third. And Celine will be there for him, he feels this deep down in his stomach, but he doesn't say that to Fraser.
"When you get home, take a warm shower. Not too hot," Fraser advises. "Warm. Take care around your scalp, both lacerations are deep and if you scrub too hard you'll open them again and they'll begin to bleed. If you absolutely need to, take a painkiller, but try a hot water bottle first, they can do wonders."
"I will," John promises, then takes the jeans Fraser hands to him, intending on getting dressed. The clothes are more than he would have ever asked for, they're more than anything he's expected. They're warm and they're his and he smiles a little as he begins to dress.
"Call her," Fraser says so quietly that John almost doesn’t hear it at first. He turns, frowning faintly, his shirt half on.
"Whoever she is, she's worried," the Mountie continues. "When you get home, you should call her. And, John, if you need anything--"
"I have to do this on my own," John insists, cutting him off. He appreciates it more than he can say, but he knows it's the truth. They both do.
Fraser simply nods, then turns away to pay for the clothes.
-
In his apartment, John sits on the futon in his long underwear, the phone in his hand. A part of him is ashamed that he has to call Celine and explain to her what happened, but he feels better than he has in months and maybe this shame is something he needs. It's not something he remembers feeling in a very long time.
There's no stash anywhere in his place. He's never been able to keep the drugs around, he's never been a hoarder, but maybe that's the best place to start.
Shaking fingers trace a pattern over red material on his thigh, then find a bruise and press it lightly. The pain grounds him, brings him back to the task at hand and he dials her number.
"I'm okay," he says immediately when she answers. "This guy, this Mountie, he gave me a hand tonight. I'm okay."
Then he laughs and looks down at his fingers against his thigh. "Sorry," he says. "Hi, Celine."