Close Encounter of the Third Kind (Part 1)
Pairing: Kowalski/Turnbull
Rating: R
Size: about 9.000 words
Summary: When the search for the Hand of Franklin ends, a heartbroken Ray Kowalski returns home.
Close Encounter of the Third Kind
1. Love is a bitch
Ray was angry. He was angry, and angry was what he wanted to be. He was desperately holding on to the feeling, hating what was lying ahead. He knew he couldn’t be mad for very much longer-he had been mad the entire trip back, and now he was tired and icy fingers were tearing at the seams that barely held him together.
Oh, goddammit, Fraser.
The apartment was cold and dusty and smelling of loneliness (yeah, sure, Ray). The fridge was empty, so apparently the message he sent four months ago had reached Mrs. Blackstock.
He walked around a little, restless, sort of saying hello to the rooms. It felt uncannily like the time when he had first moved in here, two years ago. Only the reason had been different then.
No, it hadn’t. Right now, he had to start all over again, just like two years ago. The situation was exactly the same, only the person that had caused it differed.
He felt a distinct rip inside at this, but he didn’t give in. Avoiding was not an option, but delaying was something at least.
Switching on the TV after plugging it in was a mistake. It wasn’t the program (he didn’t even realize what was on) it was the sound and the moving images, the sitting on the couch that did it. There was no wolf sitting next to him with his head tilted a little, apparently mesmerized by whatever it was he was watching-and there never would be again. There was no one sitting on his other side. Never again would he discuss hockey, or curling, or movies with F-
The icy fingers gripped his gut, causing him to bend over and curl up on the couch.
Hot tears burnt his eyes and cheeks. He let them take over, just riding the waves. It hurt, but he didn’t resist, knowing from experience that if he waited it out, the crying would calm him down and ease his pain a little for a couple of hours.
When he came to himself, the couch was drenched where his face had been. He let out a slow breath and managed to think wryly that the start had been made and that from here, there were only 99 buckets of tears to go.
***
“No, Ray.” The bearded cheek had been pulled away from his lips immediately, and Fraser had gone all stiff (and not in a good way). “Go to sleep. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
Ray had gone to sleep eventually. Which was a real miracle because it had been pitch dark and freezing cold in the Northwest Territories (there was no reason anymore now to annoy a certain someone by calling them Areas), and he had been lying in a tent in a double sleeping bag, unable to go anywhere or do anything, trapped in the arms of the man who had just rejected him.
In the morning, Fraser had explained to him that their feelings weren’t mutual. Ray hadn’t been willing to believe him at first. Going on a search for the Hand of Franklin together had been Fraser’s idea, not his. Why would Fraser have suggested it if he wasn’t…if he didn’t…
He had asked about it. Fraser had been silent for a while. “I suppose that it was an attempt on my part to delay saying goodbye to you,” he had said, adding a sharp, “No, Ray, don’t,” to the words, and killing the hope that had flared in Ray for a moment.
“Then why did you ask me?” he had said.
Again after careful consideration, Fraser had replied, “Ray, I can’t think of a way to explain myself without hurting you. I do love you, and I will miss you when you go back to Chicago.” (“When”, not “if”, Ray had registered.) “There just is no physical desire involved on my part.”
Ray had still been convinced that it was a lie. No, not a lie, Fraser never lied, but an untruth.
“You’re afraid of it, aren’t you?” he had said. “You’re afraid of passion, afraid that it’ll make you feel too much, that it’ll cause you to lose control.”
Fraser hadn’t needed to think about a reply this time. “Yes,” he had instantly said. “Yes, I most certainly am. Ray, don’t you see that I have every reason to fear passion? I have only experienced it once in my life, and it rendered me an utterly immoral man. I would have done anything to…’ He had stopped, and the vehemence in his tone was gone when he said, “I was lucky that Ray Vecchio shot me.”
Ray cringed. He knew what Fraser was referring to. Even though they had never discussed it, and even though the official report had asked a lot of Ray’s ability to read between the lines, it was abundantly clear to him what the Metcalf bitch had done to Fraser.
He had felt torn between hope and despair when he said, “Not everybody is like Victoria, Fraser.”
“Yes, I know that,” Fraser had replied. “Most people are not criminals with a talent to manipulate and a desire to inflict pain on others. But Victoria is the only person for whom I had feelings so strong I couldn’t control them. It was delightful, and it was terrifying. With her, I wasn’t myself.”
Ray had winced at the look on Fraser’s face as it had expressed the delight and the terror Victoria’s memory brought about.
“Fraser…”
“No, Ray. Don’t you understand what that means? Apparently, passion can only be invoked in me by danger and deviousness, by death even. It’s not a feeling I must seek again.”
It was wrong. The idea of Fraser willingly choosing a celibate life because he was afraid of passion was truly depressing.
“You can’t do this, Fraser. You can’t tell yourself not to feel,” Ray said.
Fraser threw him a look. If it had been coming from Ray, it would have meant “Wanna bet?” and if Ray hadn’t felt so miserable, it probably would have made him chuckle.
“It’s not that I don’t feel attracted to other people on occasion,” Fraser said. “Inspector Thatcher, Janet Morse, Denny Scarpa, even my own sister in a way-I have felt drawn to them. But those feelings were very bleak in comparison to what I felt for Victoria.” He looked up. “And they involved only women, Ray.”
This was true, Ray realized. Fraser had never shown any specific interest in other men. Ray had thought this was because Fraser was interested in him. There had been glances, and touches, and tones, and smiles that had made him feel hopeful. When Fraser had asked him to go on the search for the Hand of Franklin after they got Muldoon, he had been sure that Fraser felt the same. That at some point Fraser would tell him he loved him.
Ray had waited four frigging months. He had thought it were Fraser’s nerves that the Mountie never said anything about being in love. He had been wrong all the time. His hunches had let him down once again, just as they had with Stella, when they’d told him that if he tried hard enough his marriage could be saved. When it came to love, his hunched didn’t know shit.
“I’m sorry, Ray,” Fraser said. “I love you, but I don’t desire you. I think it would be best if you went home as soon as possible.”
At Ray’s departure, there had been no touch, no hug, not even a handshake. Fraser had straightened his back and said, in a perfectly flat tone, “Goodbye, Ray.”
He had turned and left immediately, leaving Ray to hate him more than he had ever hated Marcus Ellery.
***
2. Woe is Ray, they say
Ray felt completely transparent under Welsh’s glare. It wasn’t a good feeling.
“I find that welcoming you back on the force doesn’t please me as much as it should,” the lieutenant said. “I take it that things up North didn’t work out the way you wanted them to.”
“They didn’t, sir,” Ray said. He had to wrench the words out.
“I’m sorry, Ray.” Welsh’s voice sounded sincere.
Ray wasn’t planning to fall apart in front of the lieu, though. “I don’t need your pity, sir,” he said.
Welsh got the hint. He immediately slipped back into efficient and harsh lieutenant mode. “Right. If you decide to be back, there’s some paperwork to do, of course, but it won’t be anything too tedious. You can partner with Carol Brady. She’s with Lyndon and Greer now, but I’m sure you’ll get a chance to meet her today.”
Ray blinked. He had never heard any of those names, and he was sure Walt Disney hadn’t either.
“There have been a lot of changes,” Welsh explained. “Huey and Dewey resigned from the force. They started a comedy club. Your first guess about its success would be the correct one.”
“What else has happened?” Ray asked.
The lieutenant looked uncomfortable. “Well, your ex-wife…uh, Attorney Kowalski and Detective Vecchio got married and moved to Florida.”
Ray laughed. Stella and Vecchio being married didn’t take his mind of Fraser for even a second, but the idea was just too ridiculous not to cause laughter.
“Anything else?”
“Uh, yeah, it’s about Frannie,” Welsh said. “But she’d better tell you herself.”
Frannie turned out to be pregnant. With triplets.
“Who’s the father?” Ray asked.
It was an impolite question; he knew that. If Fraser had been here, he’d have uttered a shocked “Ray!” Ray could hear him say it.
Oh, goddammit.
Frannie shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, does it? They’ll be my babies.”
“Uh, sure,” Ray agreed.
“I’m sorry you’re back,” she said, changing the subject. She didn’t mean it to sound the way it did, and Ray knew it.
“Yeah, me too.”
“We need to catch up,” she said. “We can’t talk here. Why don’t you drop by tonight? At eight.”
Ray wanted to say no. He didn’t want to drop by at the Vecchio House-he had never been to the Vecchio House without Fraser-and he certainly didn’t want to talk. But of course, Frannie wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Ray did some paperwork, read a few case files, and met Carol Brady. She was a woman of about fifty who looked a little like his mother when she was younger.
“I hear you’re going through some rough times,” she said. “If you ever feel the need to talk, don’t hesitate. I’m also divorced.”
Like that made her an expert on heartache.
Jeez. Why didn’t anybody get it. That Ray. Didn’t. Want. To talk. About it.
***
3. Amazing Frannie
Frannie was happy. In six months time-probably sooner-she’d be mother of three, and she was obviously very much looking forward to it.
“How will you cope with three babies?” Ray asked.
“Oh, I’ll have plenty of help,” Frannie said. “There’s Ma, and Maria, and Tony. The kids will have different role models to choose from.” She smiled. “Although Tony isn’t much of a male role model, of course. Maybe you could drop by occasionally to make up for that.”
“When did you decide that you wanted to be a mother?” Ray asked.
“The morning after you and Fraser went to Canada to catch Muldoon,” Frannie said instantly.
Ray blinked in confusion.
“I had been so patient, you know,” she explained. “I had been waiting four fucking years for him to finally see me as the woman he wanted to share his life with. I had tried about everything to make him notice me. And then Ray was shot, and he was in the hospital, and there was a lot of stress and a lot of emotions; and it is commonly known that in times of stress people tend to be more open about how they feel.”
Ray wasn’t sure how “commonly known” this was, but he nodded to make Frannie continue.
“I had asked him earlier to tell me how he felt about me, but he didn’t respond at that time. In the hospital, outside Ray’s room, he tried to answer the question.”
“He told you he liked you,” Ray said.
“No, he didn’t. You said it for him, Ray. Don’t you remember? Even at a time like that, Fraser couldn’t say it himself.”
Ray swallowed. Before Fraser’s name had been mentioned like this, the conversation had been easier. Even though he hated the Mountie, he didn’t like to hear about his flaws.
“That moment I knew it was no use,” Frannie continued. “I knew he would never tell me he loved me.”
Ray clenched his jaw at the memories these words brought about and swallowed again. Sometimes it bloody hurt when people said they loved you.
“So I went home, and I cried all night over the tremendous loss I had suffered, even if it wasn’t a real loss but just an idea,” Frannie was saying. “I slept in late the next morning, and when I woke the sun was shining, and I realized that Fraser wasn’t all my life was about.”
She looked at him. “I don’t mean to say that I suddenly decided that I hadn’t been in love with him for four years, or that he wasn’t the most wonderful man I had ever met. I just realized that one of the reasons I had been after him was his sperm.”
“What?!”
“I realized that one of the reasons I had been after him was that I wanted to have his babies.”
“Your babies aren’t Fraser’s,” Ray said. He knew they weren’t. It was ridiculous to feel so upset about the idea.
Frannie smiled. “No, they aren’t. They are someone else’s. When I woke up that morning, I realized that I really wanted to have children, and that if I couldn’t have Fraser’s, I needed to find another solution.”
“What solution?”
“Sperm bank. Unknown donor,” Frannie said curtly. “Ma’s not pleased about the fatherless thing, but that’s just stupid. I grew up without a father, and I turned out fine.”
Ray couldn’t bring himself to make a sound of agreement. Frannie had overcome her feelings for Fraser and she was happy now. Ray didn’t understand how this was possible. He wasn’t sure he thought that it was right either.
“Ray.” Frannie’s tone was one of concern. “What happened up North?”
He was too weak to resist the soft look in her eyes. Some of the pain needed out.
“He said that he loved me, but that he didn’t want me. And then he sent me home.”
God, he was on the verge of tears now. He didn’t want that.
“If he hadn’t been so fucked up by that bitch, then he wouldn’t have been so shit scared of love, of feeling-”
“Ray,” Frannie interrupted, “please, don’t blame Victoria.”
He realized he had been talking about something that was supposed to be a secret. And that Frannie knew about it anyway.
“A brother has no secrets for his sister,” she said, reading his thoughts. “Or a sister knows how to grill her brother, more like.” Then she continued, “Victoria Metcalf was a bitch, of course she was, and she’s to blame for a lot of things, but not for causing Fraser’s fear of feeling. She may have added to it, but I believe it was already there when they met. It was probably the cause of his attraction to her.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know he was raised by his grandparents from the day his mother died, don’t you? They probably meant very well, but they expected him to be an adult from that very day. Not only that, they expected him to have his emotions under perfect control.”
Frannie threw him a look that left nothing to guess about what she thought of emotional control (as if Ray didn’t know already). “He was six, Ray!”
“So you’re saying that it wasn’t Victoria who fucked him up, but that his grandparents did the honors.”
“Pretty much,” Frannie said. “I think they taught him to fear his feelings. In the end, fear was probably the only feeling he recognized. It’s easy to imagine that his grandparents taught him to be fearless about everything except feelings.” She paused. “He met Victoria under frightening circumstances. She was more dead than alive and he had to put his own life at risk to save her. It’s no surprise that he fell in love with her in such an extreme situation.”
Ray stared at her. “When did you think of all this?”
“The general idea first came up after Ray shot Fraser when he was about to follow Victoria on that train. Over time I refined my theory.” She held his gaze. “I felt that I needed to understand him, you see. I needed to understand him in order to find a way to heal his pain and make him fall in love with me.”
Ray swallowed against the lump in his throat.
“I know what you’re hoping for, Ray, but you have to let it go. Fraser doesn’t want to be healed, and even if he did, and even if you could, there’s no guarantee that he’d fall in love with you along the way.” Her tone was even softer when she said, “If he said he loved you that’s really something, but it doesn’t mean you should hope for more.”
Ray felt tears running down his face but he didn’t try to stop them. Frannie was right-would it hurt so much if she wasn’t?-but he didn’t feel ready to even start “letting go”.
“It’ll get better,” Frannie said. “You need to give it time. Just promise me you won’t try to hold on to it.”
“I won’t,” he replied, unconvinced that that would be enough.
“Good,” she smiled. “You’re resilient, Ray. You got over Stella too. She doesn’t hurt anymore now, does she?”
“She married your brother,” Ray said.
Frannie grinned. “Yeah, she did, and it doesn’t bother you much, I believe.”
“It doesn’t,” he admitted.
“See?” She seemed to think that was proof enough.
He wanted to believe her. No, correction, part of him wanted to believe her. The other part didn’t want to let go of his connection with Fraser, even if it was made of pain. And this was exactly how it had once been with Stella.
It wasn’t a good thought.
“You know, Turnbull has had an accident,” Frannie said.
Jeez, talking about a change of subject.
“He was running for public office when he was run over by his campaign bus. It hit him hard, resulting in cracked ribs, broken bones, and a fractured skull. But he’s tough apparently, because the doctors don’t expect any permanent damage.”
She gave him a look. “He’s still in the hospital. I went there to see him. He seems lonely. You should visit him, Ray. It would take your mind off things.”
Ray was about to protest-surely, there were better ways to overcome rejection than visiting Turnbull-when Ma Vecchio knocked and entered the room.
She seemed just as delighted to see him, as she had been when she answered the door. Her eyes shifted repeatedly between him and Frannie. “It’s so good to see you, Stanley,” she said again, handing him a tray with a cup of coffee and little blocks of chocolate on the side. “No M&M’s, I’m afraid, but I’ll make sure there will be the next time you come to visit Francesca.”
Frannie laughed. “You’re a treasure, Ma. Now, if you’d please leave my room, Ray and I were in the middle of a conversation.”
Mrs. Vecchio was gone in an instant.
“She would be so happy to have you as a son in law,” Frannie said. “And, obviously, as the father of her grandchildren.”
***
4. Taking advice
Hospitals weren’t Ray’s thing, but he was about to do his second good deed of the day. Fraser would be so proud of him. (God, stop it, Ray!)
He had bonded with Carol earlier. She was his new partner and he’d thought that it would be a good idea to try to get along with her.
It had helped that she apologized for her introduction the day before.
“I meddled,” she said. “I tend to do that a lot, and I forget that it isn’t always welcome. It hardly ever is, now that I come to think of it. So,” she looked at him, “you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to talk. I can live with that.”
Ray wasn’t entirely sure. He grinned at her, amazed that it didn’t feel terribly fake. “I might want to talk someday, you know. Just not now.”
“Right,” Carol said briskly. “Either way is fine with me.”
Ray had come to know the plus side of Carol’s meddling too. When she needed information, she didn’t stop asking until she got it. Goons or snitches made no difference to her. He thought he could work with her.
Turnbull’s room was full of visitors-of the other patients. One of the curtains around the beds was closed. A nurse opened it.
Turnbull was lying on his back, and his eyes were closed. His face was strangely undamaged, Ray saw to his remarkable relief. There were pins sticking out of the constable’s left elbow, but the rest of his body seemed okay.
Ray softly cleared his throat. “Hey, Turnbull, how are you?”
The constable blinked. “Detective Kowalski.” His voice sounded weak, but pleasantly surprised. He blinked some more and slowly turned his head. “Did Constable Fraser return to Chicago as well?”
“No.” Ray said it louder than he had intended, and more under his breath, he added, “No, he didn’t. He’s still in Canada.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Detective,” Turnbull said, in the tone that had become too bloody familiar to Ray since he’d come back. Why was everybody taking so much pity in him? Didn’t they get it that he was already doing a great job at that all by himself?
He spotted some flowers on the nightstand beside the bed. They looked pretty dead. Frannie had probably brought them when she came to visit Turnbull the week before.
Somebody had pinned a lonely “get well soon” card on the wall above Turnbull’s head. “From all of us-Toni Blair” it read. It was dated two months ago.
“Who’s Toni Blair?” Ray asked.
“My boss. Inspector Thatcher’s successor,” Turnbull said. “She’s very nice.”
“’Course.” Ray didn’t know what to say next, so he repeated the rather lame, “How are you, Turnbull?”
“I’m fine, Detective. In fact, I’ll probably be discharged by the end of the week.”
“Do you want me to pick you up?”
Jeez, he was in good deeds mode today, wasn’t he? Of course, offering to take Turnbull home was the right thing to do, but Ray didn’t really want to give the constable a lift. It was sort of a friends thing to do, and he wasn’t friends with Turnbull. He didn’t even like the constable very much. Turnbull might be a Mountie, but he wasn’t like Fraser at all. Most of the time, Turnbull was annoyingly stupid. Who on earth would let himself be run over by his campaign bus?
Ray waited hopefully for the rejection of his offer-after all, it would be the polite thing to turn it down, wouldn’t it-but Turnbull smiled at him. “That is most kind of you, Detective,” he said. “I’d be happy to accept a ride home.”
***
5. Aftercare
On Friday noon, Ray drove to the hospital to pick up Turnbull. He met the same nurse who had intercepted him when he had been leaving last Wednesday. She still seemed to think that Turnbull and he meant something to each other. Something professional, or something familial, or-and this was Ray’s fear-something romantic.
The day before yesterday, when he was about to leave the hospital room telling himself that it was not a big deal to give Turnbull a lift after the guy would have been discharged (really, no big deal at all) the frigging nurse had come after him.
“Sir, I’d like to share some aftercare information with you, if I may,” she said.
Ray had stared at her. Aftercare? Oh no. It was one thing to give Turnbull a lift home, but it was something entirely different to take care of him. Something Ray didn’t want to do. He did not-repeat not-care for Turnbull.
The nurse got his shocked expression completely wrong. “Don’t you worry, sir, we’re all very pleased about Mr. Turnbull’s remarkable recovery. His fractured skull is healing nicely; he has already regained almost full memory.” She had smiled at Ray. “The pins in his elbow will come out tomorrow, and we’re expecting him to regain full use of his left arm.”
She was obviously very happy about all this, and she seemed to have completely forgotten the aftercare thing. Ray reluctantly reminded her.
“Oh, yes. Most importantly, Mr. Turnbull needs to rest a lot. He has to stay in bed for at least another week. You’ll have to buy the groceries and do the cooking, and he’ll probably need assistance in feeding and washing himself.”
She had looked at him radiantly, as if she expected him to be delighted about it. He realized why. She thought it was romantic. She was one of those women who had a thing for gay guys, and she thought he was one. She was in part right, of course, but that had nothing to do with Turnbull. Jeez.
“When I’ve, um, taken care of him during the day, is it okay for me to go home at night?” Ray had asked, going for a meaningful glare.
“Well, yes, of course.” The nurse’s glare was meaningful too. “Why on earth would you want to?” it was saying.
She had handed him a card with a number he could call to know the exact time of Turnbull’s discharge on Friday, and a letter with “Aftercare instructions for family of Mr. R. Turnbull.”
Now, two days later, she was greeting him in the hallway, telling him that Turnbull was waiting for him.
“We’ve already seated him in a wheelchair,” she said cheerfully.
Yeah, wasn’t that greatness?
Ray was shocked to see Turnbull. Lying in a bed, the guy had seemed reasonably okay, but now sitting in a chair, he didn’t look well. At all.
“Hey, Turnbull, are you ready to go home?”
Stupid question. The answer was obviously no.
After he got a failed attempt on a smile from Turnbull, Ray took a deep breath, gripped the handles of the chair and wheeled the constable as carefully as possible out of the hospital.
Getting Turnbull in the car took a lot of time and effort for both of them. When it was finally accomplished, Turnbull’s face had a pale greenish color.
“Are you all right?” Ray asked.
“Nauseated,” Turnbull replied.
Two thoughts occurred to Ray. One was that he didn’t want the Goat damaged by Turnbull’s puke. The other was that he was a jerk to think about the Goat first, and that Turnbull was a sick man who needed a break, for god’s sakes. (That didn’t imply that he was looking forward to having the constable puke in the car, of course.) The guy had never done anything wrong to Ray. He probably had never done anything wrong to anybody, because in order to think of something nasty you needed brain cells, and Turnbull didn’t have those.
“What’s your address?” Ray asked the constable, who seemed to be looking a little less green already.
Turnbull stared at him.
Shit. “You do remember were you live, don’t you?”
The constable closed his eyes for a second, as though he really had to concentrate, and came up with an address. Ray hoped it was the right one.
Getting Turnbull out of the car was by no means easier than getting him inside. Getting him inside the apartment was even more difficult than that.
The building had no elevators, only stairs. Turnbull was clinging to the rail as if it was his lifeline. When he took breaks (and he took many), he was swaying on his feet.
Ray could do nothing other than pray that the constable wouldn’t collapse. He couldn’t support Turnbull because the guy’s left arm was in a sling and must not be touched for another week.
Somehow, they managed to get to the right floor and the right door. Ray succeeded in getting Turnbull’s keys from his pocket. Together, they managed to get Turnbull in the bedroom and in bed.
The constable was looking terrible, and Ray’s considered opinion was that the medics had sent him home way too early.
He found himself opening his mouth to ask Turnbull what groceries he needed. Fuck. Wasn’t it obvious that Turnbull needed help? No, care? The guy was in no condition to think about stupid things like groceries. Somebody needed to take some responsibility here.
Ray went to the kitchen and made an inventory. The fridge was unplugged and empty-probably Frannie’s doing. Except pots and utensils, there wasn’t much stuff in the cupboards and drawers. A box with teabags, a few packages of crackers, a bag of rice, a bag of pasta, that was about it.
One cupboard was different. On the bottom shelf Ray found a wide range of herbs and spices, some of which he’d never even heard. He involuntarily registered that Turnbull loved to cook. Ray was a detective; he noticed things. It’s wasn’t that he had any personal interest in Turnbull, obviously.
The top shelf of the cupboard was filled with cans of syrup. Ray counted two dozen, all the same flavor. First, he thought the sticky stuff must be of a rare Canadian brand, smuggled across the border or something. Then he realized that Turnbull didn’t have the brains to be a successful smuggler. Besides, after closer inspection he saw that the syrup was American, and, as far as Ray could tell, of average quality. Turnbull apparently liked strawberry lemonade. A lot.
Ray bought some groceries, bearing in mind what sick people needed (or rather, what his mother had taught him they needed). Milk, and oranges, and soup. (His mother was convinced that sick people needed cough syrup as well, but Ray reckoned that coughing syrup wouldn’t do much for a cracked skull.)
By the time Ray returned to the apartment Turnbull had fallen asleep. This was good of course, sleep was good for sick people, but it left Ray with nothing to do. Which was a bitch, because having nothing to do always made him antsy. Besides, as things were now, it would cause him to think (and feel) and he really didn’t need that.
By way of distraction, Ray decided to inspect Turnbull’s living room. There was a dinner table with four chairs, but no couch, only a larger chair next to a very small coffee table. If Turnbull put his feet on that table, there would be no room for anything else. But then, Turnbull probably would never do such a thing.
A TV set was sitting opposite of the chair. It was a very tiny TV set. Judging from the distance between the chair and the tube, Turnbull must have amazing eyesight.
There was nothing much on the walls, except a small picture of the queen (who else?) and a couple of bookshelves. On the lower shelf, there were three books, as well as two CDs. Ray had a closer look at the CDs first.
They were The Carpenters’ “Voice of the heart” and Abba’s “The visitors”. Turnbull had very limited taste in music. It was mellow. In capitals. Ray wasn’t surprised.
He wouldn’t have blinked if the books had contained fairytales or love stories or something, but they didn’t. To Ray’s surprise the spines read “Pontiac Muscle Cars”, “Fifty Years of Ferrari”, and “Caterpillar Photo Gallery”.
He took the first book from the shelf and noticed there was a leaf inside. He opened the book and removed the leaf. “Ray’s car” was written in neat, big, girlish pencil letters next to a picture of a black GTO. It was a strange feeling to see it.
Ray quickly put the book back and took the next one. It had a leaf inside as well. Turnbull had written something next to a picture of a guy who had apparently won the Formula One Grand Prix in 1958. “Looks like Ray” the handwriting said about the racing champion.
Ray didn’t agree. Sure, the guy was blond, but he was handsome too, plus he seemed to have some muscles on his bones. But even if Turnbull had a rich fantasy, it was strange that he’d used it to make a comparison that involved Ray. The only the thing that could explain it was that Ray was one of the very few people Turnbull knew. But then, Turnbull knew Fraser too and there weren’t any other leaves in the book to indicate a look-alike. Ray’s fingers itched, but he kept himself from browsing. He had made a promise to Frannie, and fifty years of Ferrari were not a good enough reason to break it.
The third book contained pictures of bulldozers. Classic ones, apparently. The lines beneath the pictures praised the performances of the caterpillars, making them look very cool. It was strange to realize that Turnbull was into cool stuff.
On the shelf above the books were two ten inch model cars: a black Rolls-Royce and a pink Cadillac. Ray carefully took the Cadillac. It was lightweight, so he figured it wasn’t prefab but from a do it your self kit. It was absolutely perfect. The Rolls was too. Turnbull could have bought the models at a garage sale maybe, but somehow that didn’t seem likely. They wouldn’t be in such good shape if he had. Could the constable have built them himself? Turnbull was clumsy and he had big hands, but he also had Mountie dedication. And he loved cars. He might have built the models, Ray decided.
He went to the bedroom, but Turnbull was still asleep. Ray had a look at a sleeping Turnbull five times more before the constable finally opened his eyes. By that time, Ray felt very, very antsy. There was nothing he could do besides watching TV, but the screen was so small that he had to press his nose against it to see anything. It really wasn’t fun.
“How are you feeling?” Ray asked, standing in the doorway.
“I’m all right,” Turnbull said. “Did I sleep long?”
“Couple of hours. Would you like some soup?”
Pause. Turnbull wasn’t hungry apparently. So much for Ray’s good aftercare intentions.
“Soup would be nice,” the constable said. “But would you please first help me to take off my trousers?”
Oh, shit.
Ray wasn’t afraid to see Turnbull’s bare legs. He was a regular gym visitor, he’d seen legs before, and he wasn’t a sissy. But to undress another man was different than seeing him undressed. And the fact that Turnbull needed his help-as opposed to wanting it-somehow made it worse. Although, if Turnbull wanted his help to take off his pants, Ray probably would really freak out.
Turnbull unbuttoned his jeans and slit the zipper down. Then he looked at Ray and nodded.
Ray took a deep breath-he could do this, this was no big deal-and approached the bed.
Turnbull lifted his hips. Ray pulled the jeans down over the constable’s legs and feet. Turnbull’s hips sank on the mattress. He was panting.
Ray averted his eyes and dropped the jeans he was holding the moment he realized they were still warm from Turnbull.
This is not intimate, he reminded himself. This is just bloody fucking aftercare.
He shook his head against the image of that fag hag of a hospital nurse who’d probably wet her panties if she could watch this little scene.
When the nurse was gone, Ray tugged at the duvet, and with Turnbull’s help, he managed to get it on top of the constable.
“I’ll heat some soup,” he announced.
“Thank you, Detective,” Turnbull said. He didn’t open his eyes.
When Ray came back, Turnbull tried to sit up straight, with reasonable success.
Ray placed a tray with a bowl of soup and a spoon on the constable’s lap, and but realized this wouldn’t work when Turnbull tried to eat. There was too big a distance between the bowl and Turnbull’s mouth. Besides that, the constable wasn’t sitting comfortably.
Ray put a pillow behind Turnbull’s back and then touched the bowl on the tray. It was too hot to lift.
“We’ll have to wait until it’s cooled down a little,” Turnbull said.
He was right. Ray knew it would be rude to leave the room, so he didn’t, but the sight of Turnbull in bed, looking weak and vulnerable and all made him feel very awkward.
“You could sit down on the edge of the bed,” Turnbull suggested.
Ray complied. What else could he do? But it wasn’t fun. He didn’t know where to look. Looking at Turnbull didn’t seem a good idea. His hunches told him it would only increase the awkwardness. So he waited. And cursed aftercare.
Finally, the bowl wasn’t too hot to handle anymore. Turnbull took the spoon and moved it to his mouth. Ray made sure the soup the constable spilled landed in the bowl and not on the duvet.
They adopted a quiet rhythm together. Ray was feeling nervous. The closeness, the eye contact, they made it very difficult not to think of this as intimate. He didn’t want to think of it as intimate. He really didn’t like to think of intimacy and Turnbull in the same sentence.
He found that it was impossible to avert his eyes sitting on the edge of a bed somebody being ill was lying in, holding a bowl so the patient could feed himself.
He couldn’t help noticing that Turnbull’s eyes were blue. Almost the same color as Fraser’s.
The bowl almost slipped out of Ray’s hand. Dammit. This was not the time to think of Fraser.
But it was difficult not to do it. If Ray would be sitting here with Fraser instead of Turnbull, things would be so different. It wouldn’t be awkward at all. Ray would love it.
Then he realized that Fraser wouldn’t love it. He wouldn’t even like it.
Goddammit, Ray, don’t think of Fraser, asshole.
Ray forced himself to focus again and tilted the bowl so Turnbull could have the last soup.
“Thank you, Detective,” the constable said with a tired smile.
Ray took the bowl and the spoon to the kitchen, rinsed them, and brought back a package of crackers, a box of cookies, two apples, and a bottle of water, and put it on the nightstand.
“Do you need anything else?”
“No. Thank you kindly, Detective,” Turnbull said.
“Are you sure?” Ray really wanted to go home, but no matter how much he disliked providing it, aftercare was serious business, and he wasn’t planning to do a sloppy job at it just because Turnbull wasn’t Fraser.
Turnbull shook his head, and Ray helped him to lie down.
“I’m going home now,” he said. “Will you be all right?
“I’ll be fine, Detective,” Turnbull assured him. “Thank you kindly for your help.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Is four okay? And is it all right if I take your keys?”
“Certainly, Detective,” the constable said. “I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Ray was cursing the Mountie politeness (it was so fucking Fraser) when he realized that Turnbull probably wasn’t just being polite. He was depending on Ray. Jesus.
“Good night, Detective.”
“Sleep tight, Turnbull.”
Fuck. Now he sounded like Turnbull was his kid or something. Ray really needed to get away.
One thing was still bothering him. Nobody ever called him “Detective”, except Welsh. And Welsh was his boss.
“Would you call me Ray, Turnbull?”
It earned him a faint smile. “I’d be happy to,” Turnbull said.
Ray felt antsy. Now the constable probably would want to return the favor and offer to be called Renfield. Ray wouldn’t “be happy to” go along with that. “Renfield” was a weird name. He didn’t think he could say it without choking.
Turnbull didn’t return the favor. He just said, “Good night, Ray” and he sounded sort of happy.
***
6. A silly offer
When he woke the next morning, Ray didn’t know what to do. He had the weekend off, but for the first time in two years, he couldn’t spend it with Fraser.
He needed to get out of the apartment. If he stayed in, he would surely break his promise to Frannie and mull over Fraser.
He packed his boxing gear, shoved a couple of CDs in the bag as well, and drove to the gym.
Half way he found himself making a U-turn. It didn’t seem right to go jump up and down to work the heavy bag all healthy and shit, while Turnbull was lying in bed feeling sick and miserable.
It was about noon when Ray arrived at Turnbull’s. He instantly knew he’d made the wrong decision. Turnbull was still asleep. Of course. The guy needed a lot of rest, not a watchdog. Jeez.
Ray put a CD in the CD-player. It didn’t help making him feel better. Playing Pink Floyd on low volume was just stupid, and not being able to dance to the music made him feel restless.
Leaving was not an option, though, so he did a lot of pacing from the living room to the bedroom and back, hoping Turnbull would wake up soon. Then Ray could finally do something.
Jesus, now he was already beginning to see the aftercare thing in a favorable light.
Turnbull finally awoke at two.
“Ray.” He sounded pleasantly surprised. “What time is it?”
“Two p.m.”
“Have you been here long?”
Ray shrugged.
“I’m sorry I overslept,” Turnbull said.
“You didn’t oversleep. I arrived early. I had nothing better to do.”
Turnbull blinked.
Oh, greatness, Ray. Really nice.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said. “Actually, I was planning on going to the gym, but it didn’t seem right to work out while you were in so much pain.”
Oh, much better, Ray. Why don’t you just have a sex change, put on a pink dress, and be a real girl from now on.
“You are very kind to me, Ray,” Turnbull said. “But the pain is rather bearable.”
Yeah, sure, to Mountie standards, Ray thought. Normal, non-Mountie people would have long demanded morphine drips-with nice wide tubes-in Turnbull’s situation.
The hint of admiration he felt didn’t help make him feel better about assisting Turnbull in washing himself. Of course, even a guy more macho than Ray would feel nervous when he had to help another guy wash himself by handing him a washcloth and taking it back to rinse it in a bowl so the other guy could use it on another part of his almost naked body. But that didn’t help Ray to feel less awkward about it.
He tried to distract himself by imagining how his father would react if he ever needed help like this from his son. Grumpy, no doubt. His brother Marlon on the other hand would mock himself and Ray if they were ever put in this kind of situation. Marlon would probably make it an incestuous thing, and pretend that he relished the treatment he got from his little brother.
Turnbull didn’t grumble or tease. He just sort of surrendered. Jesus.
When Turnbull was clean, Ray made some sandwiches and watched while the constable ate one. He witnessed him chew very carefully. And he realized he’d looked at Turnbull more during the past 24 hours than he had in the last two years.
Eating a sandwich seemed to wear the constable out. When Turnbull went to sleep again, Ray returned to the living room, and took “Pontiac Muscle cars” from the bookshelf. He wasn’t very much into books, but this one wasn’t as boring as most because it had lots of pictures. Pictures of cars were the next best thing to real cars.
Turnbull woke at six and had some soup and crackers. “Thank you, Ray,” he smiled, when he had finished them.
Ray found himself smiling back at the constable. He froze at the notion but then relaxed. He was returning Turnbull’s smile-so what? It wasn’t a crime. Surely, nurses smiled at their patients all the time.
“I’ll drop by again tomorrow,” he said. “Good night.”
Turnbull opened his mouth to say something.
“Don’t worry that you’ll oversleep,” Ray said. “I’ll make sure I won’t be early.”
***
He kept his promise. He went to the gym the next morning to work the heavy bag. The adrenaline felt good, and when the bag sort of became Fraser, Ray didn’t mind. He just pounded the guy; hard and fast and cursing. Fraser deserved every beat, goddammit.
At some point Ray realized that he had started to hug the heavy bag between hits. Okay, he’d worn himself out, but crying in the middle of the gym was not a good idea. He had to save it for some other time and place.
He gave the bag some last good punches and quit.
When he entered Turnbull’s apartment Ray felt strangely loose and relaxed. Helping the constable wash himself wasn’t as nerve-wrecking as it had been yesterday. It started to feel kind of normal, like something that just needed to be done, something that wasn’t such a big deal at all.
Maybe it helped that Turnbull didn’t seem so weak today. He was awake when Ray arrived and had greeted him cheerfully. He ate two sandwiches and a cookie before he went to sleep.
Ray read “Fifty years of Ferrari”. He had a look at the sleeping constable only three times during the afternoon. The last time he went to see if Turnbull was awake, the constable was gone.
“Turnbull,” Ray called out. The worry in his voice was rather pathetic.
The toilet in the bathroom was flushed and then a tap was running.
The relief Ray felt at this was really embarrassing. Jesus, couldn’t he even allow another guy to take a leak without panicking?
Turnbull appeared in the doorway. “I’m all right, Ray,” he said quietly.
“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Sorry. Do you need anything?”
“Well, I’d very much like to have a glass of strawberry lemonade,” Turnbull said. “The syrup is-”
“On the top shelf of the cupboard on the right wall,” Ray interrupted him. Then he grinned. “Did you inherit those cans?”
“No, I didn’t,” Turnbull said solemnly. “I just like strawberry lemonade very much.”
Ray watched him getting into bed without help. “Right,’ he said. “One strawberry lemonade coming up. How strong?”
“An inch of syrup at least, if you’d please,” Turnbull said. And he meant it.
Ray felt a little sick. He had lemonade trauma. He got it when he was five.
At that time, he had just discovered how his mother made orange lemonade. She used some bright orange stuff from a bottle, poured a few drops of it in a glass and then spoiled it by adding a lot of water. Ray had figured that it’d be much better (‘cause sweeter) not to add the water. When his mother was upstairs once, he had made himself a glass of pure orange syrup. He had taken a big gulp, expecting it to taste delicious. Shocked because it hadn’t, he’d forgotten to spit it out and swallowed it instead. He’d been pretty sick.
The experience hadn’t cured him from his sweet tooth, but since then drinking lemonade was a bit scary to him.
To Turnbull it clearly wasn’t.
“Okay,” Ray said to the constable. “One nice, strong strawberry lemonade coming up.”
***
On Monday, Ray got to the precinct to collect Carol. They worked on the Brandon Lewis case the whole morning but made very little progress and felt they really needed a break at lunchtime.
“I’d like to visit a friend,” Ray said. “He’s sick. Would you mind to have lunch without me? Maybe you could ask Frannie.”
Carol grinned. “Excellent suggestion. I already discovered that Frannie is a wonderful lunch companion.”
Karen Carpenter’s voice greeted Ray when he entered Turnbull’s apartment.
The constable was out of bed, making himself a glass of lemonade.
“You’re not allowed to be up until Friday,” Ray said sternly.
“I was thirsty,” Turnbull apologized.
Yeah, too much sugar usually has that effect, Ray wanted to say. “Give me the glass and get back into bed,” he said instead.
Turnbull obeyed. That was nice. Ray had little experience with bossing people around, but it felt good.
He put the glass of deep red lemonade on the nightstand and told Turnbull to stay in bed for the rest of the afternoon, until he-Ray-would be back.
“Yes, Ray,” Turnbull said.
Oh yeah, real nice.
Ray was back at six. Good Turnbull was still in bed. He was awake and looked surprisingly healthy.
“Are you hungry?” Ray asked. “Would you like anything other than soup? Pizza maybe?”
“I’d prefer vegetarian lasagna, if that’s all right with you, Ray,” Turnbull said.
Ray called Salvatore, who was surprised but apparently pleased to hear from him.
“I’m back,” Ray said nonchalantly. “I need the usual pizza, and a vegetarian lasagna.”
“Vegetarian lasagna? Constable Fraser isn’t ill, is he?”
“Not that I know of. He was fine when I last saw him,” Ray said. “He’s still up North. We…we separated.”
Jesus. He hated to use that word. It sounded so fucking gay. But he couldn’t think of another way to explain things without having to explain things and sounding even gayer.
“I see. Yeah, partners split sometimes,” Salvatore said compassionately. “It happened to me once, when Ricardo told me he was sick of the catering industry and wanted out.” His tone changed completely when he asked, “Did you meet somebody?”
Ray sighed. Fucking Italian curiosity. “No, the lasagna is for a sick friend.”
“Vegetarian lasagna is excellent food for sick friends,” Salvatore said conspiringly.
“Then hurry. By the way, Sandor needs to drive a few extra blocks because my friend lives in the twelfth district.”
Ray gave Salvatore the address. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“That’s fine, Ray,” Salvatore said. “Just tell me, is she hot?”
“Yeah, he’s extremely hot. His temperature is a 105. He’s sick remember?”
Turnbull didn’t have a fever-Ray hoped he didn’t-but Salvatore really needed to shut his trap for once.
The food arrived. Ray ate the entire pizza with extra pineapple and Turnbull ate half of his lasagna.
“Are you tired?”
Turnbull shook his head. “No, Ray, my stomach just isn’t used to such a large amount of calories anymore. I’m fine.” He smiled. “Just a little bored. Would you tell me about your day today?”
Ray tried to come up with an interesting story, but the only non-boring thing he could think of was Carol and her way of interrogating goons and snitches. She never threatened to kick them in the head. On the contrary, she was always very worried about their well-being. It hadn’t taken Ray more than half a day to get Carol’s act of behaving like a mother hen until her victims told her if they were in trouble, if temptation to do something illegal had been too strong for them to resist, or if they had been talking to bad people.
“She sounds like a very nice woman,” Turnbull said.
Ray grinned. He’d known the constable would say something like that.
There was a silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, it just made Ray look at Turnbull and wonder about him.
“I’ve seen your books,” he said. “I never knew that you are so much into cars.”
“I love cars. They are fast, and beautiful, and impressive,” Turnbull said immediately. He sounded like a true admirer.
“Then why don’t you own a car?”
“I don’t have a driver’s license. I failed my tests. I don’t have the talent.”
That was just wrong. A guy who loved cars as much as Turnbull did was entitled to have a license.
“When you’ve recovered I will teach you,” Ray said.
“I don’t think it’ll be any use,” Turnbull said regretfully.
Tough shit. Ray was going to try anyway. “I’m going to teach you how to drive. Got that?”
“Yes, Ray, but-”
“Did you like to drive the times you tried?”
“Oh, yes.” Turnbull nodded enthusiastically. “It felt very powerful to be able to make something so big move like that all by myself.” His face dropped. “But my instructors told me I wasn’t any good.”
Ray didn’t think much of instructors, or teachers in general. They were all narcissists who didn’t have one creative cell in their bodies, a fact they took out on people who depended on them, brainwashing their pupils into thinking that having an unusual go at things was some kind of sin.
“If you love it, you can do it,” he stated.
“Do you really think so?”
A radiant smile spread across Turnbull’s face, and something kicked Ray in the gut. He had managed to dodge it for seven days, thinking about the promise he made to Frannie, but now he couldn’t avoid it any longer. He’d poured out all of his anger in the gym yesterday, and there wasn’t any left to protect him from the hurt.
It hurt bad to realize that he’d give anything to make Fraser look as happy as Turnbull looked now. He knew he never would. Only the Northwest Territories had that ability.
Jesus. Ray did not want to cry. Not in front of Turnbull.
“Are you all right, Ray?” the constable asked.
“Yeah,” Ray nodded, but he knew that even Turnbull wouldn’t be fooled by the tone.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” He needed to control himself. Turnbull needed his care, not the other way around.
“It’s Constable Fraser, isn’t it?”
Something snapped. Ray just couldn’t help it. He tried, but it was no use. He spilled the whole story, starting with the discovery of his feelings for Fraser. He told Turnbull about the shock of it, the hope that Fraser felt the same, the need to do something about it, the fear of making the wrong move, the patience, the search for the Hand of Franklin, the end of their trip, Fraser’s rejection.
“There are handkerchiefs in the top drawer of the nightstand,” Turnbull said softly when Ray had finished his story.
Ray took one, dried his tears, blew his nose and felt very pathetic.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you with this,” he said. “I’m just one completely fucked up guy. A worthless piece of shit. I fuck up everything that’s important to me. My marriage to Stella, my partnership with Fraser. I appear to have this great habit of always falling in love the wrong way with the wrong people.” Wallowing in self-pity some more, he added, “I’m good for nothing.”
“That’s not true,” Turnbull said. “You are wonderful, Ray.” The objection sounded pretty strong.
This was a surprise to Ray, because he would have thought that Turnbull could identify with low self-esteem like nobody’s business.
“I know I have no right to interfere with your grief about Constable Fraser’s decision, but I can’t allow you to think so low of yourself. You are wonderful, Ray,” Turnbull repeated.
Ray felt all but wonderful right now. Of course, Turnbull was unhinged. Besides, he was still in the process of recovering from a cracked skull, so the things he said mustn’t be taken too seriously. But something in the man’s tone made Ray search his face for clues. And then he realized.
Bloody fucking hell.
“You’re in love with me.”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Since the day I first met you, I’m afraid.”
Jesus.
Ray was speechless. His heart started to race, and his mouth got dry. He didn’t feel repulsed by Turnbull’s confession. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was a strange realization. His eyes were drawn to Turnbull’s lips. Then to his eyes. Turnbull blushed. It was kind of cute.
It occurred to Ray that Turnbull was rather good looking, in that beauty without brains kind of way. There were…possibilities here. The guy really deserved to have a good time for a change. And Ray himself deserved to feel wanted just for once.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” he asked.
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” Turnbull repeated. “I do have some self-esteem, Ray. I don’t want your pity. And I most certainly don’t want to be a stand in for Constable Fraser.”
Oh. Right.
“Don’t get me wrong, Ray. I think the world of you. You are the most wonderful and beautiful man I ever laid eyes on. Even if I can’t have your love, I’d be most happy with your friendship.”
Ray had the same weird feeling he sometimes had as a kid, when his mother reprimanded him for something, and even he had to agree that she was right.
Turnbull said, “I don’t mean to reject you, Ray, only your offer that, as you undoubtedly will see in the morning, is rather silly.”
END OF PART 1
Rating: R
Size: about 9.000 words
Summary: When the search for the Hand of Franklin ends, a heartbroken Ray Kowalski returns home.
Close Encounter of the Third Kind
1. Love is a bitch
Ray was angry. He was angry, and angry was what he wanted to be. He was desperately holding on to the feeling, hating what was lying ahead. He knew he couldn’t be mad for very much longer-he had been mad the entire trip back, and now he was tired and icy fingers were tearing at the seams that barely held him together.
Oh, goddammit, Fraser.
The apartment was cold and dusty and smelling of loneliness (yeah, sure, Ray). The fridge was empty, so apparently the message he sent four months ago had reached Mrs. Blackstock.
He walked around a little, restless, sort of saying hello to the rooms. It felt uncannily like the time when he had first moved in here, two years ago. Only the reason had been different then.
No, it hadn’t. Right now, he had to start all over again, just like two years ago. The situation was exactly the same, only the person that had caused it differed.
He felt a distinct rip inside at this, but he didn’t give in. Avoiding was not an option, but delaying was something at least.
Switching on the TV after plugging it in was a mistake. It wasn’t the program (he didn’t even realize what was on) it was the sound and the moving images, the sitting on the couch that did it. There was no wolf sitting next to him with his head tilted a little, apparently mesmerized by whatever it was he was watching-and there never would be again. There was no one sitting on his other side. Never again would he discuss hockey, or curling, or movies with F-
The icy fingers gripped his gut, causing him to bend over and curl up on the couch.
Hot tears burnt his eyes and cheeks. He let them take over, just riding the waves. It hurt, but he didn’t resist, knowing from experience that if he waited it out, the crying would calm him down and ease his pain a little for a couple of hours.
When he came to himself, the couch was drenched where his face had been. He let out a slow breath and managed to think wryly that the start had been made and that from here, there were only 99 buckets of tears to go.
***
“No, Ray.” The bearded cheek had been pulled away from his lips immediately, and Fraser had gone all stiff (and not in a good way). “Go to sleep. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
Ray had gone to sleep eventually. Which was a real miracle because it had been pitch dark and freezing cold in the Northwest Territories (there was no reason anymore now to annoy a certain someone by calling them Areas), and he had been lying in a tent in a double sleeping bag, unable to go anywhere or do anything, trapped in the arms of the man who had just rejected him.
In the morning, Fraser had explained to him that their feelings weren’t mutual. Ray hadn’t been willing to believe him at first. Going on a search for the Hand of Franklin together had been Fraser’s idea, not his. Why would Fraser have suggested it if he wasn’t…if he didn’t…
He had asked about it. Fraser had been silent for a while. “I suppose that it was an attempt on my part to delay saying goodbye to you,” he had said, adding a sharp, “No, Ray, don’t,” to the words, and killing the hope that had flared in Ray for a moment.
“Then why did you ask me?” he had said.
Again after careful consideration, Fraser had replied, “Ray, I can’t think of a way to explain myself without hurting you. I do love you, and I will miss you when you go back to Chicago.” (“When”, not “if”, Ray had registered.) “There just is no physical desire involved on my part.”
Ray had still been convinced that it was a lie. No, not a lie, Fraser never lied, but an untruth.
“You’re afraid of it, aren’t you?” he had said. “You’re afraid of passion, afraid that it’ll make you feel too much, that it’ll cause you to lose control.”
Fraser hadn’t needed to think about a reply this time. “Yes,” he had instantly said. “Yes, I most certainly am. Ray, don’t you see that I have every reason to fear passion? I have only experienced it once in my life, and it rendered me an utterly immoral man. I would have done anything to…’ He had stopped, and the vehemence in his tone was gone when he said, “I was lucky that Ray Vecchio shot me.”
Ray cringed. He knew what Fraser was referring to. Even though they had never discussed it, and even though the official report had asked a lot of Ray’s ability to read between the lines, it was abundantly clear to him what the Metcalf bitch had done to Fraser.
He had felt torn between hope and despair when he said, “Not everybody is like Victoria, Fraser.”
“Yes, I know that,” Fraser had replied. “Most people are not criminals with a talent to manipulate and a desire to inflict pain on others. But Victoria is the only person for whom I had feelings so strong I couldn’t control them. It was delightful, and it was terrifying. With her, I wasn’t myself.”
Ray had winced at the look on Fraser’s face as it had expressed the delight and the terror Victoria’s memory brought about.
“Fraser…”
“No, Ray. Don’t you understand what that means? Apparently, passion can only be invoked in me by danger and deviousness, by death even. It’s not a feeling I must seek again.”
It was wrong. The idea of Fraser willingly choosing a celibate life because he was afraid of passion was truly depressing.
“You can’t do this, Fraser. You can’t tell yourself not to feel,” Ray said.
Fraser threw him a look. If it had been coming from Ray, it would have meant “Wanna bet?” and if Ray hadn’t felt so miserable, it probably would have made him chuckle.
“It’s not that I don’t feel attracted to other people on occasion,” Fraser said. “Inspector Thatcher, Janet Morse, Denny Scarpa, even my own sister in a way-I have felt drawn to them. But those feelings were very bleak in comparison to what I felt for Victoria.” He looked up. “And they involved only women, Ray.”
This was true, Ray realized. Fraser had never shown any specific interest in other men. Ray had thought this was because Fraser was interested in him. There had been glances, and touches, and tones, and smiles that had made him feel hopeful. When Fraser had asked him to go on the search for the Hand of Franklin after they got Muldoon, he had been sure that Fraser felt the same. That at some point Fraser would tell him he loved him.
Ray had waited four frigging months. He had thought it were Fraser’s nerves that the Mountie never said anything about being in love. He had been wrong all the time. His hunches had let him down once again, just as they had with Stella, when they’d told him that if he tried hard enough his marriage could be saved. When it came to love, his hunched didn’t know shit.
“I’m sorry, Ray,” Fraser said. “I love you, but I don’t desire you. I think it would be best if you went home as soon as possible.”
At Ray’s departure, there had been no touch, no hug, not even a handshake. Fraser had straightened his back and said, in a perfectly flat tone, “Goodbye, Ray.”
He had turned and left immediately, leaving Ray to hate him more than he had ever hated Marcus Ellery.
***
2. Woe is Ray, they say
Ray felt completely transparent under Welsh’s glare. It wasn’t a good feeling.
“I find that welcoming you back on the force doesn’t please me as much as it should,” the lieutenant said. “I take it that things up North didn’t work out the way you wanted them to.”
“They didn’t, sir,” Ray said. He had to wrench the words out.
“I’m sorry, Ray.” Welsh’s voice sounded sincere.
Ray wasn’t planning to fall apart in front of the lieu, though. “I don’t need your pity, sir,” he said.
Welsh got the hint. He immediately slipped back into efficient and harsh lieutenant mode. “Right. If you decide to be back, there’s some paperwork to do, of course, but it won’t be anything too tedious. You can partner with Carol Brady. She’s with Lyndon and Greer now, but I’m sure you’ll get a chance to meet her today.”
Ray blinked. He had never heard any of those names, and he was sure Walt Disney hadn’t either.
“There have been a lot of changes,” Welsh explained. “Huey and Dewey resigned from the force. They started a comedy club. Your first guess about its success would be the correct one.”
“What else has happened?” Ray asked.
The lieutenant looked uncomfortable. “Well, your ex-wife…uh, Attorney Kowalski and Detective Vecchio got married and moved to Florida.”
Ray laughed. Stella and Vecchio being married didn’t take his mind of Fraser for even a second, but the idea was just too ridiculous not to cause laughter.
“Anything else?”
“Uh, yeah, it’s about Frannie,” Welsh said. “But she’d better tell you herself.”
Frannie turned out to be pregnant. With triplets.
“Who’s the father?” Ray asked.
It was an impolite question; he knew that. If Fraser had been here, he’d have uttered a shocked “Ray!” Ray could hear him say it.
Oh, goddammit.
Frannie shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, does it? They’ll be my babies.”
“Uh, sure,” Ray agreed.
“I’m sorry you’re back,” she said, changing the subject. She didn’t mean it to sound the way it did, and Ray knew it.
“Yeah, me too.”
“We need to catch up,” she said. “We can’t talk here. Why don’t you drop by tonight? At eight.”
Ray wanted to say no. He didn’t want to drop by at the Vecchio House-he had never been to the Vecchio House without Fraser-and he certainly didn’t want to talk. But of course, Frannie wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Ray did some paperwork, read a few case files, and met Carol Brady. She was a woman of about fifty who looked a little like his mother when she was younger.
“I hear you’re going through some rough times,” she said. “If you ever feel the need to talk, don’t hesitate. I’m also divorced.”
Like that made her an expert on heartache.
Jeez. Why didn’t anybody get it. That Ray. Didn’t. Want. To talk. About it.
***
3. Amazing Frannie
Frannie was happy. In six months time-probably sooner-she’d be mother of three, and she was obviously very much looking forward to it.
“How will you cope with three babies?” Ray asked.
“Oh, I’ll have plenty of help,” Frannie said. “There’s Ma, and Maria, and Tony. The kids will have different role models to choose from.” She smiled. “Although Tony isn’t much of a male role model, of course. Maybe you could drop by occasionally to make up for that.”
“When did you decide that you wanted to be a mother?” Ray asked.
“The morning after you and Fraser went to Canada to catch Muldoon,” Frannie said instantly.
Ray blinked in confusion.
“I had been so patient, you know,” she explained. “I had been waiting four fucking years for him to finally see me as the woman he wanted to share his life with. I had tried about everything to make him notice me. And then Ray was shot, and he was in the hospital, and there was a lot of stress and a lot of emotions; and it is commonly known that in times of stress people tend to be more open about how they feel.”
Ray wasn’t sure how “commonly known” this was, but he nodded to make Frannie continue.
“I had asked him earlier to tell me how he felt about me, but he didn’t respond at that time. In the hospital, outside Ray’s room, he tried to answer the question.”
“He told you he liked you,” Ray said.
“No, he didn’t. You said it for him, Ray. Don’t you remember? Even at a time like that, Fraser couldn’t say it himself.”
Ray swallowed. Before Fraser’s name had been mentioned like this, the conversation had been easier. Even though he hated the Mountie, he didn’t like to hear about his flaws.
“That moment I knew it was no use,” Frannie continued. “I knew he would never tell me he loved me.”
Ray clenched his jaw at the memories these words brought about and swallowed again. Sometimes it bloody hurt when people said they loved you.
“So I went home, and I cried all night over the tremendous loss I had suffered, even if it wasn’t a real loss but just an idea,” Frannie was saying. “I slept in late the next morning, and when I woke the sun was shining, and I realized that Fraser wasn’t all my life was about.”
She looked at him. “I don’t mean to say that I suddenly decided that I hadn’t been in love with him for four years, or that he wasn’t the most wonderful man I had ever met. I just realized that one of the reasons I had been after him was his sperm.”
“What?!”
“I realized that one of the reasons I had been after him was that I wanted to have his babies.”
“Your babies aren’t Fraser’s,” Ray said. He knew they weren’t. It was ridiculous to feel so upset about the idea.
Frannie smiled. “No, they aren’t. They are someone else’s. When I woke up that morning, I realized that I really wanted to have children, and that if I couldn’t have Fraser’s, I needed to find another solution.”
“What solution?”
“Sperm bank. Unknown donor,” Frannie said curtly. “Ma’s not pleased about the fatherless thing, but that’s just stupid. I grew up without a father, and I turned out fine.”
Ray couldn’t bring himself to make a sound of agreement. Frannie had overcome her feelings for Fraser and she was happy now. Ray didn’t understand how this was possible. He wasn’t sure he thought that it was right either.
“Ray.” Frannie’s tone was one of concern. “What happened up North?”
He was too weak to resist the soft look in her eyes. Some of the pain needed out.
“He said that he loved me, but that he didn’t want me. And then he sent me home.”
God, he was on the verge of tears now. He didn’t want that.
“If he hadn’t been so fucked up by that bitch, then he wouldn’t have been so shit scared of love, of feeling-”
“Ray,” Frannie interrupted, “please, don’t blame Victoria.”
He realized he had been talking about something that was supposed to be a secret. And that Frannie knew about it anyway.
“A brother has no secrets for his sister,” she said, reading his thoughts. “Or a sister knows how to grill her brother, more like.” Then she continued, “Victoria Metcalf was a bitch, of course she was, and she’s to blame for a lot of things, but not for causing Fraser’s fear of feeling. She may have added to it, but I believe it was already there when they met. It was probably the cause of his attraction to her.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know he was raised by his grandparents from the day his mother died, don’t you? They probably meant very well, but they expected him to be an adult from that very day. Not only that, they expected him to have his emotions under perfect control.”
Frannie threw him a look that left nothing to guess about what she thought of emotional control (as if Ray didn’t know already). “He was six, Ray!”
“So you’re saying that it wasn’t Victoria who fucked him up, but that his grandparents did the honors.”
“Pretty much,” Frannie said. “I think they taught him to fear his feelings. In the end, fear was probably the only feeling he recognized. It’s easy to imagine that his grandparents taught him to be fearless about everything except feelings.” She paused. “He met Victoria under frightening circumstances. She was more dead than alive and he had to put his own life at risk to save her. It’s no surprise that he fell in love with her in such an extreme situation.”
Ray stared at her. “When did you think of all this?”
“The general idea first came up after Ray shot Fraser when he was about to follow Victoria on that train. Over time I refined my theory.” She held his gaze. “I felt that I needed to understand him, you see. I needed to understand him in order to find a way to heal his pain and make him fall in love with me.”
Ray swallowed against the lump in his throat.
“I know what you’re hoping for, Ray, but you have to let it go. Fraser doesn’t want to be healed, and even if he did, and even if you could, there’s no guarantee that he’d fall in love with you along the way.” Her tone was even softer when she said, “If he said he loved you that’s really something, but it doesn’t mean you should hope for more.”
Ray felt tears running down his face but he didn’t try to stop them. Frannie was right-would it hurt so much if she wasn’t?-but he didn’t feel ready to even start “letting go”.
“It’ll get better,” Frannie said. “You need to give it time. Just promise me you won’t try to hold on to it.”
“I won’t,” he replied, unconvinced that that would be enough.
“Good,” she smiled. “You’re resilient, Ray. You got over Stella too. She doesn’t hurt anymore now, does she?”
“She married your brother,” Ray said.
Frannie grinned. “Yeah, she did, and it doesn’t bother you much, I believe.”
“It doesn’t,” he admitted.
“See?” She seemed to think that was proof enough.
He wanted to believe her. No, correction, part of him wanted to believe her. The other part didn’t want to let go of his connection with Fraser, even if it was made of pain. And this was exactly how it had once been with Stella.
It wasn’t a good thought.
“You know, Turnbull has had an accident,” Frannie said.
Jeez, talking about a change of subject.
“He was running for public office when he was run over by his campaign bus. It hit him hard, resulting in cracked ribs, broken bones, and a fractured skull. But he’s tough apparently, because the doctors don’t expect any permanent damage.”
She gave him a look. “He’s still in the hospital. I went there to see him. He seems lonely. You should visit him, Ray. It would take your mind off things.”
Ray was about to protest-surely, there were better ways to overcome rejection than visiting Turnbull-when Ma Vecchio knocked and entered the room.
She seemed just as delighted to see him, as she had been when she answered the door. Her eyes shifted repeatedly between him and Frannie. “It’s so good to see you, Stanley,” she said again, handing him a tray with a cup of coffee and little blocks of chocolate on the side. “No M&M’s, I’m afraid, but I’ll make sure there will be the next time you come to visit Francesca.”
Frannie laughed. “You’re a treasure, Ma. Now, if you’d please leave my room, Ray and I were in the middle of a conversation.”
Mrs. Vecchio was gone in an instant.
“She would be so happy to have you as a son in law,” Frannie said. “And, obviously, as the father of her grandchildren.”
***
4. Taking advice
Hospitals weren’t Ray’s thing, but he was about to do his second good deed of the day. Fraser would be so proud of him. (God, stop it, Ray!)
He had bonded with Carol earlier. She was his new partner and he’d thought that it would be a good idea to try to get along with her.
It had helped that she apologized for her introduction the day before.
“I meddled,” she said. “I tend to do that a lot, and I forget that it isn’t always welcome. It hardly ever is, now that I come to think of it. So,” she looked at him, “you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to talk. I can live with that.”
Ray wasn’t entirely sure. He grinned at her, amazed that it didn’t feel terribly fake. “I might want to talk someday, you know. Just not now.”
“Right,” Carol said briskly. “Either way is fine with me.”
Ray had come to know the plus side of Carol’s meddling too. When she needed information, she didn’t stop asking until she got it. Goons or snitches made no difference to her. He thought he could work with her.
Turnbull’s room was full of visitors-of the other patients. One of the curtains around the beds was closed. A nurse opened it.
Turnbull was lying on his back, and his eyes were closed. His face was strangely undamaged, Ray saw to his remarkable relief. There were pins sticking out of the constable’s left elbow, but the rest of his body seemed okay.
Ray softly cleared his throat. “Hey, Turnbull, how are you?”
The constable blinked. “Detective Kowalski.” His voice sounded weak, but pleasantly surprised. He blinked some more and slowly turned his head. “Did Constable Fraser return to Chicago as well?”
“No.” Ray said it louder than he had intended, and more under his breath, he added, “No, he didn’t. He’s still in Canada.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Detective,” Turnbull said, in the tone that had become too bloody familiar to Ray since he’d come back. Why was everybody taking so much pity in him? Didn’t they get it that he was already doing a great job at that all by himself?
He spotted some flowers on the nightstand beside the bed. They looked pretty dead. Frannie had probably brought them when she came to visit Turnbull the week before.
Somebody had pinned a lonely “get well soon” card on the wall above Turnbull’s head. “From all of us-Toni Blair” it read. It was dated two months ago.
“Who’s Toni Blair?” Ray asked.
“My boss. Inspector Thatcher’s successor,” Turnbull said. “She’s very nice.”
“’Course.” Ray didn’t know what to say next, so he repeated the rather lame, “How are you, Turnbull?”
“I’m fine, Detective. In fact, I’ll probably be discharged by the end of the week.”
“Do you want me to pick you up?”
Jeez, he was in good deeds mode today, wasn’t he? Of course, offering to take Turnbull home was the right thing to do, but Ray didn’t really want to give the constable a lift. It was sort of a friends thing to do, and he wasn’t friends with Turnbull. He didn’t even like the constable very much. Turnbull might be a Mountie, but he wasn’t like Fraser at all. Most of the time, Turnbull was annoyingly stupid. Who on earth would let himself be run over by his campaign bus?
Ray waited hopefully for the rejection of his offer-after all, it would be the polite thing to turn it down, wouldn’t it-but Turnbull smiled at him. “That is most kind of you, Detective,” he said. “I’d be happy to accept a ride home.”
***
5. Aftercare
On Friday noon, Ray drove to the hospital to pick up Turnbull. He met the same nurse who had intercepted him when he had been leaving last Wednesday. She still seemed to think that Turnbull and he meant something to each other. Something professional, or something familial, or-and this was Ray’s fear-something romantic.
The day before yesterday, when he was about to leave the hospital room telling himself that it was not a big deal to give Turnbull a lift after the guy would have been discharged (really, no big deal at all) the frigging nurse had come after him.
“Sir, I’d like to share some aftercare information with you, if I may,” she said.
Ray had stared at her. Aftercare? Oh no. It was one thing to give Turnbull a lift home, but it was something entirely different to take care of him. Something Ray didn’t want to do. He did not-repeat not-care for Turnbull.
The nurse got his shocked expression completely wrong. “Don’t you worry, sir, we’re all very pleased about Mr. Turnbull’s remarkable recovery. His fractured skull is healing nicely; he has already regained almost full memory.” She had smiled at Ray. “The pins in his elbow will come out tomorrow, and we’re expecting him to regain full use of his left arm.”
She was obviously very happy about all this, and she seemed to have completely forgotten the aftercare thing. Ray reluctantly reminded her.
“Oh, yes. Most importantly, Mr. Turnbull needs to rest a lot. He has to stay in bed for at least another week. You’ll have to buy the groceries and do the cooking, and he’ll probably need assistance in feeding and washing himself.”
She had looked at him radiantly, as if she expected him to be delighted about it. He realized why. She thought it was romantic. She was one of those women who had a thing for gay guys, and she thought he was one. She was in part right, of course, but that had nothing to do with Turnbull. Jeez.
“When I’ve, um, taken care of him during the day, is it okay for me to go home at night?” Ray had asked, going for a meaningful glare.
“Well, yes, of course.” The nurse’s glare was meaningful too. “Why on earth would you want to?” it was saying.
She had handed him a card with a number he could call to know the exact time of Turnbull’s discharge on Friday, and a letter with “Aftercare instructions for family of Mr. R. Turnbull.”
Now, two days later, she was greeting him in the hallway, telling him that Turnbull was waiting for him.
“We’ve already seated him in a wheelchair,” she said cheerfully.
Yeah, wasn’t that greatness?
Ray was shocked to see Turnbull. Lying in a bed, the guy had seemed reasonably okay, but now sitting in a chair, he didn’t look well. At all.
“Hey, Turnbull, are you ready to go home?”
Stupid question. The answer was obviously no.
After he got a failed attempt on a smile from Turnbull, Ray took a deep breath, gripped the handles of the chair and wheeled the constable as carefully as possible out of the hospital.
Getting Turnbull in the car took a lot of time and effort for both of them. When it was finally accomplished, Turnbull’s face had a pale greenish color.
“Are you all right?” Ray asked.
“Nauseated,” Turnbull replied.
Two thoughts occurred to Ray. One was that he didn’t want the Goat damaged by Turnbull’s puke. The other was that he was a jerk to think about the Goat first, and that Turnbull was a sick man who needed a break, for god’s sakes. (That didn’t imply that he was looking forward to having the constable puke in the car, of course.) The guy had never done anything wrong to Ray. He probably had never done anything wrong to anybody, because in order to think of something nasty you needed brain cells, and Turnbull didn’t have those.
“What’s your address?” Ray asked the constable, who seemed to be looking a little less green already.
Turnbull stared at him.
Shit. “You do remember were you live, don’t you?”
The constable closed his eyes for a second, as though he really had to concentrate, and came up with an address. Ray hoped it was the right one.
Getting Turnbull out of the car was by no means easier than getting him inside. Getting him inside the apartment was even more difficult than that.
The building had no elevators, only stairs. Turnbull was clinging to the rail as if it was his lifeline. When he took breaks (and he took many), he was swaying on his feet.
Ray could do nothing other than pray that the constable wouldn’t collapse. He couldn’t support Turnbull because the guy’s left arm was in a sling and must not be touched for another week.
Somehow, they managed to get to the right floor and the right door. Ray succeeded in getting Turnbull’s keys from his pocket. Together, they managed to get Turnbull in the bedroom and in bed.
The constable was looking terrible, and Ray’s considered opinion was that the medics had sent him home way too early.
He found himself opening his mouth to ask Turnbull what groceries he needed. Fuck. Wasn’t it obvious that Turnbull needed help? No, care? The guy was in no condition to think about stupid things like groceries. Somebody needed to take some responsibility here.
Ray went to the kitchen and made an inventory. The fridge was unplugged and empty-probably Frannie’s doing. Except pots and utensils, there wasn’t much stuff in the cupboards and drawers. A box with teabags, a few packages of crackers, a bag of rice, a bag of pasta, that was about it.
One cupboard was different. On the bottom shelf Ray found a wide range of herbs and spices, some of which he’d never even heard. He involuntarily registered that Turnbull loved to cook. Ray was a detective; he noticed things. It’s wasn’t that he had any personal interest in Turnbull, obviously.
The top shelf of the cupboard was filled with cans of syrup. Ray counted two dozen, all the same flavor. First, he thought the sticky stuff must be of a rare Canadian brand, smuggled across the border or something. Then he realized that Turnbull didn’t have the brains to be a successful smuggler. Besides, after closer inspection he saw that the syrup was American, and, as far as Ray could tell, of average quality. Turnbull apparently liked strawberry lemonade. A lot.
Ray bought some groceries, bearing in mind what sick people needed (or rather, what his mother had taught him they needed). Milk, and oranges, and soup. (His mother was convinced that sick people needed cough syrup as well, but Ray reckoned that coughing syrup wouldn’t do much for a cracked skull.)
By the time Ray returned to the apartment Turnbull had fallen asleep. This was good of course, sleep was good for sick people, but it left Ray with nothing to do. Which was a bitch, because having nothing to do always made him antsy. Besides, as things were now, it would cause him to think (and feel) and he really didn’t need that.
By way of distraction, Ray decided to inspect Turnbull’s living room. There was a dinner table with four chairs, but no couch, only a larger chair next to a very small coffee table. If Turnbull put his feet on that table, there would be no room for anything else. But then, Turnbull probably would never do such a thing.
A TV set was sitting opposite of the chair. It was a very tiny TV set. Judging from the distance between the chair and the tube, Turnbull must have amazing eyesight.
There was nothing much on the walls, except a small picture of the queen (who else?) and a couple of bookshelves. On the lower shelf, there were three books, as well as two CDs. Ray had a closer look at the CDs first.
They were The Carpenters’ “Voice of the heart” and Abba’s “The visitors”. Turnbull had very limited taste in music. It was mellow. In capitals. Ray wasn’t surprised.
He wouldn’t have blinked if the books had contained fairytales or love stories or something, but they didn’t. To Ray’s surprise the spines read “Pontiac Muscle Cars”, “Fifty Years of Ferrari”, and “Caterpillar Photo Gallery”.
He took the first book from the shelf and noticed there was a leaf inside. He opened the book and removed the leaf. “Ray’s car” was written in neat, big, girlish pencil letters next to a picture of a black GTO. It was a strange feeling to see it.
Ray quickly put the book back and took the next one. It had a leaf inside as well. Turnbull had written something next to a picture of a guy who had apparently won the Formula One Grand Prix in 1958. “Looks like Ray” the handwriting said about the racing champion.
Ray didn’t agree. Sure, the guy was blond, but he was handsome too, plus he seemed to have some muscles on his bones. But even if Turnbull had a rich fantasy, it was strange that he’d used it to make a comparison that involved Ray. The only the thing that could explain it was that Ray was one of the very few people Turnbull knew. But then, Turnbull knew Fraser too and there weren’t any other leaves in the book to indicate a look-alike. Ray’s fingers itched, but he kept himself from browsing. He had made a promise to Frannie, and fifty years of Ferrari were not a good enough reason to break it.
The third book contained pictures of bulldozers. Classic ones, apparently. The lines beneath the pictures praised the performances of the caterpillars, making them look very cool. It was strange to realize that Turnbull was into cool stuff.
On the shelf above the books were two ten inch model cars: a black Rolls-Royce and a pink Cadillac. Ray carefully took the Cadillac. It was lightweight, so he figured it wasn’t prefab but from a do it your self kit. It was absolutely perfect. The Rolls was too. Turnbull could have bought the models at a garage sale maybe, but somehow that didn’t seem likely. They wouldn’t be in such good shape if he had. Could the constable have built them himself? Turnbull was clumsy and he had big hands, but he also had Mountie dedication. And he loved cars. He might have built the models, Ray decided.
He went to the bedroom, but Turnbull was still asleep. Ray had a look at a sleeping Turnbull five times more before the constable finally opened his eyes. By that time, Ray felt very, very antsy. There was nothing he could do besides watching TV, but the screen was so small that he had to press his nose against it to see anything. It really wasn’t fun.
“How are you feeling?” Ray asked, standing in the doorway.
“I’m all right,” Turnbull said. “Did I sleep long?”
“Couple of hours. Would you like some soup?”
Pause. Turnbull wasn’t hungry apparently. So much for Ray’s good aftercare intentions.
“Soup would be nice,” the constable said. “But would you please first help me to take off my trousers?”
Oh, shit.
Ray wasn’t afraid to see Turnbull’s bare legs. He was a regular gym visitor, he’d seen legs before, and he wasn’t a sissy. But to undress another man was different than seeing him undressed. And the fact that Turnbull needed his help-as opposed to wanting it-somehow made it worse. Although, if Turnbull wanted his help to take off his pants, Ray probably would really freak out.
Turnbull unbuttoned his jeans and slit the zipper down. Then he looked at Ray and nodded.
Ray took a deep breath-he could do this, this was no big deal-and approached the bed.
Turnbull lifted his hips. Ray pulled the jeans down over the constable’s legs and feet. Turnbull’s hips sank on the mattress. He was panting.
Ray averted his eyes and dropped the jeans he was holding the moment he realized they were still warm from Turnbull.
This is not intimate, he reminded himself. This is just bloody fucking aftercare.
He shook his head against the image of that fag hag of a hospital nurse who’d probably wet her panties if she could watch this little scene.
When the nurse was gone, Ray tugged at the duvet, and with Turnbull’s help, he managed to get it on top of the constable.
“I’ll heat some soup,” he announced.
“Thank you, Detective,” Turnbull said. He didn’t open his eyes.
When Ray came back, Turnbull tried to sit up straight, with reasonable success.
Ray placed a tray with a bowl of soup and a spoon on the constable’s lap, and but realized this wouldn’t work when Turnbull tried to eat. There was too big a distance between the bowl and Turnbull’s mouth. Besides that, the constable wasn’t sitting comfortably.
Ray put a pillow behind Turnbull’s back and then touched the bowl on the tray. It was too hot to lift.
“We’ll have to wait until it’s cooled down a little,” Turnbull said.
He was right. Ray knew it would be rude to leave the room, so he didn’t, but the sight of Turnbull in bed, looking weak and vulnerable and all made him feel very awkward.
“You could sit down on the edge of the bed,” Turnbull suggested.
Ray complied. What else could he do? But it wasn’t fun. He didn’t know where to look. Looking at Turnbull didn’t seem a good idea. His hunches told him it would only increase the awkwardness. So he waited. And cursed aftercare.
Finally, the bowl wasn’t too hot to handle anymore. Turnbull took the spoon and moved it to his mouth. Ray made sure the soup the constable spilled landed in the bowl and not on the duvet.
They adopted a quiet rhythm together. Ray was feeling nervous. The closeness, the eye contact, they made it very difficult not to think of this as intimate. He didn’t want to think of it as intimate. He really didn’t like to think of intimacy and Turnbull in the same sentence.
He found that it was impossible to avert his eyes sitting on the edge of a bed somebody being ill was lying in, holding a bowl so the patient could feed himself.
He couldn’t help noticing that Turnbull’s eyes were blue. Almost the same color as Fraser’s.
The bowl almost slipped out of Ray’s hand. Dammit. This was not the time to think of Fraser.
But it was difficult not to do it. If Ray would be sitting here with Fraser instead of Turnbull, things would be so different. It wouldn’t be awkward at all. Ray would love it.
Then he realized that Fraser wouldn’t love it. He wouldn’t even like it.
Goddammit, Ray, don’t think of Fraser, asshole.
Ray forced himself to focus again and tilted the bowl so Turnbull could have the last soup.
“Thank you, Detective,” the constable said with a tired smile.
Ray took the bowl and the spoon to the kitchen, rinsed them, and brought back a package of crackers, a box of cookies, two apples, and a bottle of water, and put it on the nightstand.
“Do you need anything else?”
“No. Thank you kindly, Detective,” Turnbull said.
“Are you sure?” Ray really wanted to go home, but no matter how much he disliked providing it, aftercare was serious business, and he wasn’t planning to do a sloppy job at it just because Turnbull wasn’t Fraser.
Turnbull shook his head, and Ray helped him to lie down.
“I’m going home now,” he said. “Will you be all right?
“I’ll be fine, Detective,” Turnbull assured him. “Thank you kindly for your help.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Is four okay? And is it all right if I take your keys?”
“Certainly, Detective,” the constable said. “I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Ray was cursing the Mountie politeness (it was so fucking Fraser) when he realized that Turnbull probably wasn’t just being polite. He was depending on Ray. Jesus.
“Good night, Detective.”
“Sleep tight, Turnbull.”
Fuck. Now he sounded like Turnbull was his kid or something. Ray really needed to get away.
One thing was still bothering him. Nobody ever called him “Detective”, except Welsh. And Welsh was his boss.
“Would you call me Ray, Turnbull?”
It earned him a faint smile. “I’d be happy to,” Turnbull said.
Ray felt antsy. Now the constable probably would want to return the favor and offer to be called Renfield. Ray wouldn’t “be happy to” go along with that. “Renfield” was a weird name. He didn’t think he could say it without choking.
Turnbull didn’t return the favor. He just said, “Good night, Ray” and he sounded sort of happy.
***
6. A silly offer
When he woke the next morning, Ray didn’t know what to do. He had the weekend off, but for the first time in two years, he couldn’t spend it with Fraser.
He needed to get out of the apartment. If he stayed in, he would surely break his promise to Frannie and mull over Fraser.
He packed his boxing gear, shoved a couple of CDs in the bag as well, and drove to the gym.
Half way he found himself making a U-turn. It didn’t seem right to go jump up and down to work the heavy bag all healthy and shit, while Turnbull was lying in bed feeling sick and miserable.
It was about noon when Ray arrived at Turnbull’s. He instantly knew he’d made the wrong decision. Turnbull was still asleep. Of course. The guy needed a lot of rest, not a watchdog. Jeez.
Ray put a CD in the CD-player. It didn’t help making him feel better. Playing Pink Floyd on low volume was just stupid, and not being able to dance to the music made him feel restless.
Leaving was not an option, though, so he did a lot of pacing from the living room to the bedroom and back, hoping Turnbull would wake up soon. Then Ray could finally do something.
Jesus, now he was already beginning to see the aftercare thing in a favorable light.
Turnbull finally awoke at two.
“Ray.” He sounded pleasantly surprised. “What time is it?”
“Two p.m.”
“Have you been here long?”
Ray shrugged.
“I’m sorry I overslept,” Turnbull said.
“You didn’t oversleep. I arrived early. I had nothing better to do.”
Turnbull blinked.
Oh, greatness, Ray. Really nice.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said. “Actually, I was planning on going to the gym, but it didn’t seem right to work out while you were in so much pain.”
Oh, much better, Ray. Why don’t you just have a sex change, put on a pink dress, and be a real girl from now on.
“You are very kind to me, Ray,” Turnbull said. “But the pain is rather bearable.”
Yeah, sure, to Mountie standards, Ray thought. Normal, non-Mountie people would have long demanded morphine drips-with nice wide tubes-in Turnbull’s situation.
The hint of admiration he felt didn’t help make him feel better about assisting Turnbull in washing himself. Of course, even a guy more macho than Ray would feel nervous when he had to help another guy wash himself by handing him a washcloth and taking it back to rinse it in a bowl so the other guy could use it on another part of his almost naked body. But that didn’t help Ray to feel less awkward about it.
He tried to distract himself by imagining how his father would react if he ever needed help like this from his son. Grumpy, no doubt. His brother Marlon on the other hand would mock himself and Ray if they were ever put in this kind of situation. Marlon would probably make it an incestuous thing, and pretend that he relished the treatment he got from his little brother.
Turnbull didn’t grumble or tease. He just sort of surrendered. Jesus.
When Turnbull was clean, Ray made some sandwiches and watched while the constable ate one. He witnessed him chew very carefully. And he realized he’d looked at Turnbull more during the past 24 hours than he had in the last two years.
Eating a sandwich seemed to wear the constable out. When Turnbull went to sleep again, Ray returned to the living room, and took “Pontiac Muscle cars” from the bookshelf. He wasn’t very much into books, but this one wasn’t as boring as most because it had lots of pictures. Pictures of cars were the next best thing to real cars.
Turnbull woke at six and had some soup and crackers. “Thank you, Ray,” he smiled, when he had finished them.
Ray found himself smiling back at the constable. He froze at the notion but then relaxed. He was returning Turnbull’s smile-so what? It wasn’t a crime. Surely, nurses smiled at their patients all the time.
“I’ll drop by again tomorrow,” he said. “Good night.”
Turnbull opened his mouth to say something.
“Don’t worry that you’ll oversleep,” Ray said. “I’ll make sure I won’t be early.”
***
He kept his promise. He went to the gym the next morning to work the heavy bag. The adrenaline felt good, and when the bag sort of became Fraser, Ray didn’t mind. He just pounded the guy; hard and fast and cursing. Fraser deserved every beat, goddammit.
At some point Ray realized that he had started to hug the heavy bag between hits. Okay, he’d worn himself out, but crying in the middle of the gym was not a good idea. He had to save it for some other time and place.
He gave the bag some last good punches and quit.
When he entered Turnbull’s apartment Ray felt strangely loose and relaxed. Helping the constable wash himself wasn’t as nerve-wrecking as it had been yesterday. It started to feel kind of normal, like something that just needed to be done, something that wasn’t such a big deal at all.
Maybe it helped that Turnbull didn’t seem so weak today. He was awake when Ray arrived and had greeted him cheerfully. He ate two sandwiches and a cookie before he went to sleep.
Ray read “Fifty years of Ferrari”. He had a look at the sleeping constable only three times during the afternoon. The last time he went to see if Turnbull was awake, the constable was gone.
“Turnbull,” Ray called out. The worry in his voice was rather pathetic.
The toilet in the bathroom was flushed and then a tap was running.
The relief Ray felt at this was really embarrassing. Jesus, couldn’t he even allow another guy to take a leak without panicking?
Turnbull appeared in the doorway. “I’m all right, Ray,” he said quietly.
“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Sorry. Do you need anything?”
“Well, I’d very much like to have a glass of strawberry lemonade,” Turnbull said. “The syrup is-”
“On the top shelf of the cupboard on the right wall,” Ray interrupted him. Then he grinned. “Did you inherit those cans?”
“No, I didn’t,” Turnbull said solemnly. “I just like strawberry lemonade very much.”
Ray watched him getting into bed without help. “Right,’ he said. “One strawberry lemonade coming up. How strong?”
“An inch of syrup at least, if you’d please,” Turnbull said. And he meant it.
Ray felt a little sick. He had lemonade trauma. He got it when he was five.
At that time, he had just discovered how his mother made orange lemonade. She used some bright orange stuff from a bottle, poured a few drops of it in a glass and then spoiled it by adding a lot of water. Ray had figured that it’d be much better (‘cause sweeter) not to add the water. When his mother was upstairs once, he had made himself a glass of pure orange syrup. He had taken a big gulp, expecting it to taste delicious. Shocked because it hadn’t, he’d forgotten to spit it out and swallowed it instead. He’d been pretty sick.
The experience hadn’t cured him from his sweet tooth, but since then drinking lemonade was a bit scary to him.
To Turnbull it clearly wasn’t.
“Okay,” Ray said to the constable. “One nice, strong strawberry lemonade coming up.”
***
On Monday, Ray got to the precinct to collect Carol. They worked on the Brandon Lewis case the whole morning but made very little progress and felt they really needed a break at lunchtime.
“I’d like to visit a friend,” Ray said. “He’s sick. Would you mind to have lunch without me? Maybe you could ask Frannie.”
Carol grinned. “Excellent suggestion. I already discovered that Frannie is a wonderful lunch companion.”
Karen Carpenter’s voice greeted Ray when he entered Turnbull’s apartment.
The constable was out of bed, making himself a glass of lemonade.
“You’re not allowed to be up until Friday,” Ray said sternly.
“I was thirsty,” Turnbull apologized.
Yeah, too much sugar usually has that effect, Ray wanted to say. “Give me the glass and get back into bed,” he said instead.
Turnbull obeyed. That was nice. Ray had little experience with bossing people around, but it felt good.
He put the glass of deep red lemonade on the nightstand and told Turnbull to stay in bed for the rest of the afternoon, until he-Ray-would be back.
“Yes, Ray,” Turnbull said.
Oh yeah, real nice.
Ray was back at six. Good Turnbull was still in bed. He was awake and looked surprisingly healthy.
“Are you hungry?” Ray asked. “Would you like anything other than soup? Pizza maybe?”
“I’d prefer vegetarian lasagna, if that’s all right with you, Ray,” Turnbull said.
Ray called Salvatore, who was surprised but apparently pleased to hear from him.
“I’m back,” Ray said nonchalantly. “I need the usual pizza, and a vegetarian lasagna.”
“Vegetarian lasagna? Constable Fraser isn’t ill, is he?”
“Not that I know of. He was fine when I last saw him,” Ray said. “He’s still up North. We…we separated.”
Jesus. He hated to use that word. It sounded so fucking gay. But he couldn’t think of another way to explain things without having to explain things and sounding even gayer.
“I see. Yeah, partners split sometimes,” Salvatore said compassionately. “It happened to me once, when Ricardo told me he was sick of the catering industry and wanted out.” His tone changed completely when he asked, “Did you meet somebody?”
Ray sighed. Fucking Italian curiosity. “No, the lasagna is for a sick friend.”
“Vegetarian lasagna is excellent food for sick friends,” Salvatore said conspiringly.
“Then hurry. By the way, Sandor needs to drive a few extra blocks because my friend lives in the twelfth district.”
Ray gave Salvatore the address. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“That’s fine, Ray,” Salvatore said. “Just tell me, is she hot?”
“Yeah, he’s extremely hot. His temperature is a 105. He’s sick remember?”
Turnbull didn’t have a fever-Ray hoped he didn’t-but Salvatore really needed to shut his trap for once.
The food arrived. Ray ate the entire pizza with extra pineapple and Turnbull ate half of his lasagna.
“Are you tired?”
Turnbull shook his head. “No, Ray, my stomach just isn’t used to such a large amount of calories anymore. I’m fine.” He smiled. “Just a little bored. Would you tell me about your day today?”
Ray tried to come up with an interesting story, but the only non-boring thing he could think of was Carol and her way of interrogating goons and snitches. She never threatened to kick them in the head. On the contrary, she was always very worried about their well-being. It hadn’t taken Ray more than half a day to get Carol’s act of behaving like a mother hen until her victims told her if they were in trouble, if temptation to do something illegal had been too strong for them to resist, or if they had been talking to bad people.
“She sounds like a very nice woman,” Turnbull said.
Ray grinned. He’d known the constable would say something like that.
There was a silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, it just made Ray look at Turnbull and wonder about him.
“I’ve seen your books,” he said. “I never knew that you are so much into cars.”
“I love cars. They are fast, and beautiful, and impressive,” Turnbull said immediately. He sounded like a true admirer.
“Then why don’t you own a car?”
“I don’t have a driver’s license. I failed my tests. I don’t have the talent.”
That was just wrong. A guy who loved cars as much as Turnbull did was entitled to have a license.
“When you’ve recovered I will teach you,” Ray said.
“I don’t think it’ll be any use,” Turnbull said regretfully.
Tough shit. Ray was going to try anyway. “I’m going to teach you how to drive. Got that?”
“Yes, Ray, but-”
“Did you like to drive the times you tried?”
“Oh, yes.” Turnbull nodded enthusiastically. “It felt very powerful to be able to make something so big move like that all by myself.” His face dropped. “But my instructors told me I wasn’t any good.”
Ray didn’t think much of instructors, or teachers in general. They were all narcissists who didn’t have one creative cell in their bodies, a fact they took out on people who depended on them, brainwashing their pupils into thinking that having an unusual go at things was some kind of sin.
“If you love it, you can do it,” he stated.
“Do you really think so?”
A radiant smile spread across Turnbull’s face, and something kicked Ray in the gut. He had managed to dodge it for seven days, thinking about the promise he made to Frannie, but now he couldn’t avoid it any longer. He’d poured out all of his anger in the gym yesterday, and there wasn’t any left to protect him from the hurt.
It hurt bad to realize that he’d give anything to make Fraser look as happy as Turnbull looked now. He knew he never would. Only the Northwest Territories had that ability.
Jesus. Ray did not want to cry. Not in front of Turnbull.
“Are you all right, Ray?” the constable asked.
“Yeah,” Ray nodded, but he knew that even Turnbull wouldn’t be fooled by the tone.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” He needed to control himself. Turnbull needed his care, not the other way around.
“It’s Constable Fraser, isn’t it?”
Something snapped. Ray just couldn’t help it. He tried, but it was no use. He spilled the whole story, starting with the discovery of his feelings for Fraser. He told Turnbull about the shock of it, the hope that Fraser felt the same, the need to do something about it, the fear of making the wrong move, the patience, the search for the Hand of Franklin, the end of their trip, Fraser’s rejection.
“There are handkerchiefs in the top drawer of the nightstand,” Turnbull said softly when Ray had finished his story.
Ray took one, dried his tears, blew his nose and felt very pathetic.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you with this,” he said. “I’m just one completely fucked up guy. A worthless piece of shit. I fuck up everything that’s important to me. My marriage to Stella, my partnership with Fraser. I appear to have this great habit of always falling in love the wrong way with the wrong people.” Wallowing in self-pity some more, he added, “I’m good for nothing.”
“That’s not true,” Turnbull said. “You are wonderful, Ray.” The objection sounded pretty strong.
This was a surprise to Ray, because he would have thought that Turnbull could identify with low self-esteem like nobody’s business.
“I know I have no right to interfere with your grief about Constable Fraser’s decision, but I can’t allow you to think so low of yourself. You are wonderful, Ray,” Turnbull repeated.
Ray felt all but wonderful right now. Of course, Turnbull was unhinged. Besides, he was still in the process of recovering from a cracked skull, so the things he said mustn’t be taken too seriously. But something in the man’s tone made Ray search his face for clues. And then he realized.
Bloody fucking hell.
“You’re in love with me.”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Since the day I first met you, I’m afraid.”
Jesus.
Ray was speechless. His heart started to race, and his mouth got dry. He didn’t feel repulsed by Turnbull’s confession. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was a strange realization. His eyes were drawn to Turnbull’s lips. Then to his eyes. Turnbull blushed. It was kind of cute.
It occurred to Ray that Turnbull was rather good looking, in that beauty without brains kind of way. There were…possibilities here. The guy really deserved to have a good time for a change. And Ray himself deserved to feel wanted just for once.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” he asked.
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” Turnbull repeated. “I do have some self-esteem, Ray. I don’t want your pity. And I most certainly don’t want to be a stand in for Constable Fraser.”
Oh. Right.
“Don’t get me wrong, Ray. I think the world of you. You are the most wonderful and beautiful man I ever laid eyes on. Even if I can’t have your love, I’d be most happy with your friendship.”
Ray had the same weird feeling he sometimes had as a kid, when his mother reprimanded him for something, and even he had to agree that she was right.
Turnbull said, “I don’t mean to reject you, Ray, only your offer that, as you undoubtedly will see in the morning, is rather silly.”
END OF PART 1