Weaponry Challenge by Giulietta
Apr. 30th, 2006 07:43 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
mondschein1.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionThis fic is a companion piece to the Vigilante(80K) universe. I'm thinking that it probably takes place a few months after Visiting Hours(40K). Therefore, if you haven't read those, it would be wise to read them before reading this. If you didn't like those, you're probably not going to like this either.
Rated R for violence. Gen. Fraser, RayK, RayV. 2787 words.
[Disclaimer: Ray and Fraser do not belong to me. Nor does vigilante!Ray, however much he seems to have taken up residence in my brain.]
Passing the Gun
"I can't do it, Ray," Fraser tells Ray hoarsely, staring at the gun that Ray's pushed into his hand. "I can't. I'm not like you."
"I know you're not," Ray mutters tensely, knowing he's talking too fast. "Did I say you were like me? No. No, I did not. I fucking know that."
Fraser lifts his head to look at Ray directly, and for half a second Ray feels everything he knows about people wobble and try to shift. Maybe Ray's wrong; maybe Fraser doesn't need this. Maybe he actually cares more about Ray than he cares about his dad -- but that just sounds stupid. "You need this," Ray tells him softly, and tries not to look as shit-scared as he feels. "Listen to me. You -- "
"I don't. I don't need it, Ray -- "
"Look." Ray clenches his fists and throws his best "fuck with me, why don'tcha" look right into Fraser's face. "You're a Mountie, right, I get that. Fine. You wanna pursue justice anywhere else, that's just peachy. But do not tell me that you -- "
"But it's true," Fraser says, eyes wide and earnest. The hand holding the gun is shaking, its knuckles bone-white, palm bright blood-red. "I'm telling you the truth. This won't help me; it won't help anyone. You -- "
"Listen to yourself, Fraser," Ray bites out. "Just listen to yourself. How many of 'em d'you think wanna kill me? How many?
"They're in the wrong," Fraser retorts stubbornly. "I'm not doing this. I will not."
He thinks he's got it all figured out, huh? Well, he's wrong. "Then why're you still holding the gun?" Ray hisses, and Fraser freezes. "Huh? You wanna explain that to me?"
"I -- " Fraser's eyes drop to the gun, then drop to the floor. "I'm not -- I didn't -- "
"Give it up, Fraser," Ray growls. "Just give up."
"No," Fraser whispers. "I'm not -- "
"You are." Ray doesn't care what Fraser thinks he isn't; if it means Fraser can't do this, it's not true. Fraser can. Fraser can and Fraser will, even if Ray has to scare him into doing it. "Don't give me that shit. You are."
"I don't want to." Fraser jerks his head up, mouth set in a hard line, looking at Ray steadily. "I don't want you dead. I don't want to kill you. All I want is -- "
"Justice, yeah, yeah, save your breath," Ray interrupts. "Look. You look into my eyes, you look me straight in the eye and tell me that you're never gonna want to talk to your dad again."
It's a good card, and he can tell that it's hit a nerve, mainly 'cause Fraser blinks twice and squeezes the gun a little tighter. Normally, Ray'd take that as a cue to back off; right now, though, he keeps hammering it. "Tell me. Come on. Just how much did ya hate your old man, anyway?"
"I didn't," Fraser chokes out. "I didn't hate him."
"Yeah? Thought you'd have to," Ray sneers, and feels like blowing his own brains out. That wouldn't do what it's supposed to do, though. "Just sitting here, looking me in the eye, having polite conversation. You know I killed him. I'm asking you to do it. Hell, I'll make it easy on you," Ray adds, and gets down on his knees. "I'm not trying to escape." He pivots on his kneecaps -- he could never do that without falling flat on his face, before Stella showed him how -- and turns his back to Fraser, folding his arms on the bedspread. "Do it," he commands, swallowing the panic that's trying to squirm out of his throat. He drops his head forward, exposing the back of his neck.
"Ray." Fraser sounds awful, like somebody's been smashing him in the gut with a pair of brass knuckles. "This -- this isn't the solution. It won't fix anything."
Ray shuts his eyes, tastes old sweat in the corner of his mouth. "You'll be surprised," he breathes, and the words feel hot on his lips. "Fixed a lot for me."
Fraser pulls a shaky breath. Ray can't see his face, and it's driving him a little crazy -- a little crazier. "It's not the same."
"Isn't it?" Ray demands quietly. "You said it was."
"I was wrong," Fraser protests, but his voice is starting to break up.
Ray lets that hang in the air for about a minute. Lets Fraser go through the I-was-wrong bit, and the now-I'm-right bit, and the maybe-now-I'm-wrong bit. "Fraser," Ray says softly, "don't make me wait. Do it. Do it fast. Do it now."
Ray can't see Fraser, but he can hear him. He can hear Fraser's boots rasping on the rough carpet. He can hear Fraser's ragged breathing; every few breaths he'll make a sound that's almost like a sob. It makes no sense -- but Ray's still grateful for it, a little. Somebody doesn't want him dead -- that's something, isn't it?
The back of his throat tastes sour, and he thinks he might throw up all over the bedspread -- only that'd get Fraser distracted all over again, and then Ray'd be right back where he started. Hating himself to death, day by day.
Ray squeezes his eyes shut tight when he feels Fraser come up close behind him, so close that he can feel Fraser's wet breathing on his skin. Ray waits, carefully thinking about absolutely nothing at all. Nothing. Just -- nothing. He's not gonna fuck this up. Not over something stupid, like being afraid to die. Ray hasn't been afraid of that in months. There's no reason to start now --
-- and then there's cold metal settling onto the skin stretched over the base of his skull, and he pulls in a little involuntary gasp.
Ohgod.
Ohgod.
He's really gonna die.
Right where that cold muzzle is sitting, he's gonna have a bullet hole there in a minute. He's gonna have a fucking hole in his head. He's gonna be dead. His brains're gonna leak out all over the carpet, and Fraser's gonna have to call it in, and Ray's going to have a tunnel going right through his head for the split second before his brain collapses. The bullet's gonna bury itself in the bed, and forensics is gonna fish it out and figure out exactly what happened.
There'll be blood. Just like Stella's. And Ray's not gonna be around to see it.
Can't breathe. Cannot breathe. There is no air in this fucking room, and Fraser's hand's settling on Ray's shoulder to hold him steady, and the gun's pressing against his skin, and everything's just so -- fucking -- heavy, and Ray can't hold any of it up. There're tears pricking the backs of his eyes and he can't hold it up, he can't --
"Ray?" Fraser grates out, fingers clenching on Ray's shoulder. "Are you -- I don't have to -- "
Ray grits his teeth. "Just do it," he gasps hoarsely, and Fraser clicks the safety off. He takes another breath, and Ray's about to tell him to quit fucking around.
Then he hears the gunshot -- or he thinks he does, anyway. It might not be. It might be his imagination -- hell, if there's a gunshot, he's fucking dead, fucking head's gone splat --
Fucking --
-- falling --
It's dark.
Not totally dark, just normally dark, like the lights are out and curtains are a little open. Ray can see parts of the "M" and "O" in the sign on the motel next door through the gap. Cars are buzzing by a few stories below. Everything seems -- normal. Normal enough.
He's gasping huge, dry breaths, and somehow there's not enough air in any of them. He stays there for a little while, not registering anything but his breathing for a few minutes -- and then he registers where his hands are.
One arm is right in front of him, lying flat on the unmade bed.
The other hand is twisted around behind his head; he lifts it out and holds his hand in front of his face, and the gun gleams at him from in between his fingers.
"Fuck," he whispers, even though no one's there to hear him.
He's had dreams before. Some of them have Tess in them, which don't bother him as much as the others; she put herself where she ended up, mostly. And then sometimes it's Stella, looking disappointed, which makes him wake up curled in on himself and sobbing like a three-year-old. Mostly, though, it's this guy. Fraser. Fraser, looking upset and lonely, and trying to push the gun away when Ray tries to give it to him.
It's never gone this far before.
Ray knees his way up onto the bedspread and stares at the gun in his hand. It'd been in the drawer on the other side of the room -- he knows that, because he always knows where his gun is. He's got to be able to get to it in his sleep, in case somebody comes barging in.
At that, Ray chokes on a laugh. Yeah, somebody. Somebody like him. Why the hell not? He got up in his sleep, got his gun from the drawer, tried to blow out his ownbrains -- while he was asleep. That's officially crazy for you; that's officially fucked completely up. He just didn't actually pull the trigger, somehow.
He flips the gun over and, just to see how damn coordinated he is, checks the safety.
It's off.
"Fuck," he rasps again, and drops the gun on the bedspread.
It's not that he doesn't want to die. Probably somebody should shoot him in the head; probably Fraser should. But Ray's gone through too much to just do it himself. He fucking broke out of prison so that he'd get it done right. The only thing he's got left to give is dying, and he's not gonna toss it onto the ground and hope Fraser finds it. He's gonna wrap it up, nice and pretty, maybe put a bow on top, and mail it. Maybe tape a Canadian flag to it; Fraser's a Mountie, he'll like that. Send it off first class, airmail.
Somewhere in there, Ray starts laughing, and sometime after he realizes he's laughing the tears start. Not real crying, or anything. He's still laughing. He's laughing so fucking hard that he's crying. That's all. Just your regular crazy stuff. Just another day in the life of Ray Kowalski: Ex-Superhero, Ex-Assassin, and now Fugitive.
He's shivering, now -- adrenalin, or something -- and his hands are shaking too hard for him to get a cigarette out of the pack on the night table. His clothes're drenched with sweat, sticking to his skin, and his stomach is doing some kind of twisting dance under his ribs. Finally, he flings the pack across the room and tucks his hands into his armpits, just to see if that'll help, which it doesn't.
Well. Whatever. He can deal with that. That's just fine. At least this way he won't go to sleep and do something stupid again.
Ray sighs and rubs his eyes. He entirely fails to remember to thank the waitress, so Fraser does so on his behalf. "Great," Ray declares sarcastically. "Another rewarding day in the life of a detective."
"Now, Ray, I don't think -- "
"Fraser, I am being bitter here. Do you mind me being bitter? It's my life, right?"
"True enough. Though you might be interested to know that mindset has a remarkable effect on productivity and, eventually, success."
Ray stares at him for a minute or two. "Right. Fine. You're telling me that a positive mindset's going to get this kid a fair trial?"
"Well -- "
"And standing up to Frank Zuko isn't gonna be a problem at all, because we're all gonna have ourselves a positive mindset."
Fraser frowns with some annoyance. "All right, Ray, you've made your point. I was merely attempting to be of some service."
Ray sighs. "Yeah. Right. Thanks." He stares into his coffee, absently stirring itfirst clockwise, then counterclockwise. "Hey, Benny," he says suddenly. "Where's Kowalski, right now?"
Fraser blinks. "Ray Kowalski?"
"Yeah. You know, right?"
Fraser scratches an ear. "Well, no, Ray. I'm afraid I don't."
Ray slaps his palms down on to the tabletop, exasperated. "You're telling me you actually haven't been keeping track of him?"
"Yes. That's exactly what I'm telling you."
"Why? He would've told you. He wants you to find him, Fraser, why wouldn't he tell you where he went?"
Fraser's eyebrows knit together, and he shakes his head seriously. "No, Ray -- in fact, it's just the opposite. He doesn't want to be found until -- well, until he can receive a fair trial. In the event that I found him, I would most certainly return him to the correct authorities."
Ray studies Fraser with tired, red-rimmed eyes for a moment. "No, you wouldn't," he declares finally.
Fraser is appalled. "Of course I would." From under the table, Dief woofs his support.
"Nah. You'd have a nice little conversation about how nobody really wants justice, and then you'd come right back here and tell me that he's not coming back." Looking smug, Ray retrieves his coat from the back of his chair.
Fraser has no idea whatsoever how to respond to such an accusation. "I don't think I -- "
"Hey." Ray claps a hand to Fraser's shoulder, grinning. "Look, I'm okay with it. Even if you know, don't tell me, okay? I don't want him getting thrown in the brig, either."
"I don't know where he is," Fraser insists.
"Hmm." Ray puts his coat on, snaps a lid onto his coffee cup, and hands Fraser his hat.
"No, Ray, I actually do not know. There are some things that I am not aware of, however -- "
"C'mon," Ray interrupts, making his way to the door of the cafe. "I'll give you a ride."
"But Ray -- "
"Benny, you got to know when to let something drop, all right? Lesson number one: when you've been running after punks and messing with bruisers for over forty-eight hours, what do you do?" Ray gives Fraser a suspicious look. "No, never mind, let me answer that for you. You go home, and you sleep. You do not drive your partner to distraction with discussions of morality."
Fraser opens his mouth, and Ray gives him a stern look. "Ah," Fraser concedes finally, not liking it a bit, "I see."
"You'd better."
Fraser holds the door open for Dief, who shoots out from under the table and dashes enthusiastically into the parking lot. "I shall have to remember that in the future, Ray."
"Don't worry -- anytime you forget, I'll remind you."
"That's very magnanimous of you, Ray."
"Thank you very much."
"Now, Ray, perhaps I'm mistaken -- but is that not a moral code that you have just issued?"
--fin
Rated R for violence. Gen. Fraser, RayK, RayV. 2787 words.
[Disclaimer: Ray and Fraser do not belong to me. Nor does vigilante!Ray, however much he seems to have taken up residence in my brain.]
Passing the Gun
"I can't do it, Ray," Fraser tells Ray hoarsely, staring at the gun that Ray's pushed into his hand. "I can't. I'm not like you."
"I know you're not," Ray mutters tensely, knowing he's talking too fast. "Did I say you were like me? No. No, I did not. I fucking know that."
Fraser lifts his head to look at Ray directly, and for half a second Ray feels everything he knows about people wobble and try to shift. Maybe Ray's wrong; maybe Fraser doesn't need this. Maybe he actually cares more about Ray than he cares about his dad -- but that just sounds stupid. "You need this," Ray tells him softly, and tries not to look as shit-scared as he feels. "Listen to me. You -- "
"I don't. I don't need it, Ray -- "
"Look." Ray clenches his fists and throws his best "fuck with me, why don'tcha" look right into Fraser's face. "You're a Mountie, right, I get that. Fine. You wanna pursue justice anywhere else, that's just peachy. But do not tell me that you -- "
"But it's true," Fraser says, eyes wide and earnest. The hand holding the gun is shaking, its knuckles bone-white, palm bright blood-red. "I'm telling you the truth. This won't help me; it won't help anyone. You -- "
"Listen to yourself, Fraser," Ray bites out. "Just listen to yourself. How many of 'em d'you think wanna kill me? How many?
"They're in the wrong," Fraser retorts stubbornly. "I'm not doing this. I will not."
He thinks he's got it all figured out, huh? Well, he's wrong. "Then why're you still holding the gun?" Ray hisses, and Fraser freezes. "Huh? You wanna explain that to me?"
"I -- " Fraser's eyes drop to the gun, then drop to the floor. "I'm not -- I didn't -- "
"Give it up, Fraser," Ray growls. "Just give up."
"No," Fraser whispers. "I'm not -- "
"You are." Ray doesn't care what Fraser thinks he isn't; if it means Fraser can't do this, it's not true. Fraser can. Fraser can and Fraser will, even if Ray has to scare him into doing it. "Don't give me that shit. You are."
"I don't want to." Fraser jerks his head up, mouth set in a hard line, looking at Ray steadily. "I don't want you dead. I don't want to kill you. All I want is -- "
"Justice, yeah, yeah, save your breath," Ray interrupts. "Look. You look into my eyes, you look me straight in the eye and tell me that you're never gonna want to talk to your dad again."
It's a good card, and he can tell that it's hit a nerve, mainly 'cause Fraser blinks twice and squeezes the gun a little tighter. Normally, Ray'd take that as a cue to back off; right now, though, he keeps hammering it. "Tell me. Come on. Just how much did ya hate your old man, anyway?"
"I didn't," Fraser chokes out. "I didn't hate him."
"Yeah? Thought you'd have to," Ray sneers, and feels like blowing his own brains out. That wouldn't do what it's supposed to do, though. "Just sitting here, looking me in the eye, having polite conversation. You know I killed him. I'm asking you to do it. Hell, I'll make it easy on you," Ray adds, and gets down on his knees. "I'm not trying to escape." He pivots on his kneecaps -- he could never do that without falling flat on his face, before Stella showed him how -- and turns his back to Fraser, folding his arms on the bedspread. "Do it," he commands, swallowing the panic that's trying to squirm out of his throat. He drops his head forward, exposing the back of his neck.
"Ray." Fraser sounds awful, like somebody's been smashing him in the gut with a pair of brass knuckles. "This -- this isn't the solution. It won't fix anything."
Ray shuts his eyes, tastes old sweat in the corner of his mouth. "You'll be surprised," he breathes, and the words feel hot on his lips. "Fixed a lot for me."
Fraser pulls a shaky breath. Ray can't see his face, and it's driving him a little crazy -- a little crazier. "It's not the same."
"Isn't it?" Ray demands quietly. "You said it was."
"I was wrong," Fraser protests, but his voice is starting to break up.
Ray lets that hang in the air for about a minute. Lets Fraser go through the I-was-wrong bit, and the now-I'm-right bit, and the maybe-now-I'm-wrong bit. "Fraser," Ray says softly, "don't make me wait. Do it. Do it fast. Do it now."
Ray can't see Fraser, but he can hear him. He can hear Fraser's boots rasping on the rough carpet. He can hear Fraser's ragged breathing; every few breaths he'll make a sound that's almost like a sob. It makes no sense -- but Ray's still grateful for it, a little. Somebody doesn't want him dead -- that's something, isn't it?
The back of his throat tastes sour, and he thinks he might throw up all over the bedspread -- only that'd get Fraser distracted all over again, and then Ray'd be right back where he started. Hating himself to death, day by day.
Ray squeezes his eyes shut tight when he feels Fraser come up close behind him, so close that he can feel Fraser's wet breathing on his skin. Ray waits, carefully thinking about absolutely nothing at all. Nothing. Just -- nothing. He's not gonna fuck this up. Not over something stupid, like being afraid to die. Ray hasn't been afraid of that in months. There's no reason to start now --
-- and then there's cold metal settling onto the skin stretched over the base of his skull, and he pulls in a little involuntary gasp.
Ohgod.
Ohgod.
He's really gonna die.
Right where that cold muzzle is sitting, he's gonna have a bullet hole there in a minute. He's gonna have a fucking hole in his head. He's gonna be dead. His brains're gonna leak out all over the carpet, and Fraser's gonna have to call it in, and Ray's going to have a tunnel going right through his head for the split second before his brain collapses. The bullet's gonna bury itself in the bed, and forensics is gonna fish it out and figure out exactly what happened.
There'll be blood. Just like Stella's. And Ray's not gonna be around to see it.
Can't breathe. Cannot breathe. There is no air in this fucking room, and Fraser's hand's settling on Ray's shoulder to hold him steady, and the gun's pressing against his skin, and everything's just so -- fucking -- heavy, and Ray can't hold any of it up. There're tears pricking the backs of his eyes and he can't hold it up, he can't --
"Ray?" Fraser grates out, fingers clenching on Ray's shoulder. "Are you -- I don't have to -- "
Ray gripped Stella's hips with sweaty, slippery fingers. His head was spinning, and he couldn't see straight, and he thought Stella had just made a noise. "Stell? Are you -- "
"Just do it, Ray," Stella whispered, and Ray touched her face and did it, because her jaw was clenched and she'd kick his ass if he didn't.
Ray sighed and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyesockets. "I just don't think I can do it, okay? She's a girl, and she's too young, and I just -- she couldn't've done those things. She couldn't've. And she looks like -- like -- " He couldn't say it. He could not say it, and so he just shut up.
Tess was staring at him; he could feel it. When he finally dropped his hand away from his face, she was giving him this look: like she was wondering why she'd ever tried to hire him. "Just do it, Ray," she told him tiredly. "Trust me. Just do it."
"You gonna back out, Stanley?"
"Yeah, Stan. You gonna back out? You can back out. No trouble."
"It's gonna hurt like a motherfucker, you know that? It's gonna be a fucking pain in the ass. You sure you wanna go through with this?"
Ray looked up at the guys, who were all sneering at him happily, and wondered how many of those tattoos wrapping themselves around Syd's arms had gone down like this. "Do it," Ray muttered, looking over at the needle and trying to keep his stomach still. "Just fucking get on with it already."
Ray grits his teeth. "Just do it," he gasps hoarsely, and Fraser clicks the safety off. He takes another breath, and Ray's about to tell him to quit fucking around.
Then he hears the gunshot -- or he thinks he does, anyway. It might not be. It might be his imagination -- hell, if there's a gunshot, he's fucking dead, fucking head's gone splat --
Fucking --
-- falling --
It's dark.
Not totally dark, just normally dark, like the lights are out and curtains are a little open. Ray can see parts of the "M" and "O" in the sign on the motel next door through the gap. Cars are buzzing by a few stories below. Everything seems -- normal. Normal enough.
He's gasping huge, dry breaths, and somehow there's not enough air in any of them. He stays there for a little while, not registering anything but his breathing for a few minutes -- and then he registers where his hands are.
One arm is right in front of him, lying flat on the unmade bed.
The other hand is twisted around behind his head; he lifts it out and holds his hand in front of his face, and the gun gleams at him from in between his fingers.
"Fuck," he whispers, even though no one's there to hear him.
He's had dreams before. Some of them have Tess in them, which don't bother him as much as the others; she put herself where she ended up, mostly. And then sometimes it's Stella, looking disappointed, which makes him wake up curled in on himself and sobbing like a three-year-old. Mostly, though, it's this guy. Fraser. Fraser, looking upset and lonely, and trying to push the gun away when Ray tries to give it to him.
It's never gone this far before.
Ray knees his way up onto the bedspread and stares at the gun in his hand. It'd been in the drawer on the other side of the room -- he knows that, because he always knows where his gun is. He's got to be able to get to it in his sleep, in case somebody comes barging in.
At that, Ray chokes on a laugh. Yeah, somebody. Somebody like him. Why the hell not? He got up in his sleep, got his gun from the drawer, tried to blow out his ownbrains -- while he was asleep. That's officially crazy for you; that's officially fucked completely up. He just didn't actually pull the trigger, somehow.
He flips the gun over and, just to see how damn coordinated he is, checks the safety.
It's off.
"Fuck," he rasps again, and drops the gun on the bedspread.
It's not that he doesn't want to die. Probably somebody should shoot him in the head; probably Fraser should. But Ray's gone through too much to just do it himself. He fucking broke out of prison so that he'd get it done right. The only thing he's got left to give is dying, and he's not gonna toss it onto the ground and hope Fraser finds it. He's gonna wrap it up, nice and pretty, maybe put a bow on top, and mail it. Maybe tape a Canadian flag to it; Fraser's a Mountie, he'll like that. Send it off first class, airmail.
Somewhere in there, Ray starts laughing, and sometime after he realizes he's laughing the tears start. Not real crying, or anything. He's still laughing. He's laughing so fucking hard that he's crying. That's all. Just your regular crazy stuff. Just another day in the life of Ray Kowalski: Ex-Superhero, Ex-Assassin, and now Fugitive.
He's shivering, now -- adrenalin, or something -- and his hands are shaking too hard for him to get a cigarette out of the pack on the night table. His clothes're drenched with sweat, sticking to his skin, and his stomach is doing some kind of twisting dance under his ribs. Finally, he flings the pack across the room and tucks his hands into his armpits, just to see if that'll help, which it doesn't.
Well. Whatever. He can deal with that. That's just fine. At least this way he won't go to sleep and do something stupid again.
Ray sighs and rubs his eyes. He entirely fails to remember to thank the waitress, so Fraser does so on his behalf. "Great," Ray declares sarcastically. "Another rewarding day in the life of a detective."
"Now, Ray, I don't think -- "
"Fraser, I am being bitter here. Do you mind me being bitter? It's my life, right?"
"True enough. Though you might be interested to know that mindset has a remarkable effect on productivity and, eventually, success."
Ray stares at him for a minute or two. "Right. Fine. You're telling me that a positive mindset's going to get this kid a fair trial?"
"Well -- "
"And standing up to Frank Zuko isn't gonna be a problem at all, because we're all gonna have ourselves a positive mindset."
Fraser frowns with some annoyance. "All right, Ray, you've made your point. I was merely attempting to be of some service."
Ray sighs. "Yeah. Right. Thanks." He stares into his coffee, absently stirring itfirst clockwise, then counterclockwise. "Hey, Benny," he says suddenly. "Where's Kowalski, right now?"
Fraser blinks. "Ray Kowalski?"
"Yeah. You know, right?"
Fraser scratches an ear. "Well, no, Ray. I'm afraid I don't."
Ray slaps his palms down on to the tabletop, exasperated. "You're telling me you actually haven't been keeping track of him?"
"Yes. That's exactly what I'm telling you."
"Why? He would've told you. He wants you to find him, Fraser, why wouldn't he tell you where he went?"
Fraser's eyebrows knit together, and he shakes his head seriously. "No, Ray -- in fact, it's just the opposite. He doesn't want to be found until -- well, until he can receive a fair trial. In the event that I found him, I would most certainly return him to the correct authorities."
Ray studies Fraser with tired, red-rimmed eyes for a moment. "No, you wouldn't," he declares finally.
Fraser is appalled. "Of course I would." From under the table, Dief woofs his support.
"Nah. You'd have a nice little conversation about how nobody really wants justice, and then you'd come right back here and tell me that he's not coming back." Looking smug, Ray retrieves his coat from the back of his chair.
Fraser has no idea whatsoever how to respond to such an accusation. "I don't think I -- "
"Hey." Ray claps a hand to Fraser's shoulder, grinning. "Look, I'm okay with it. Even if you know, don't tell me, okay? I don't want him getting thrown in the brig, either."
"I don't know where he is," Fraser insists.
"Hmm." Ray puts his coat on, snaps a lid onto his coffee cup, and hands Fraser his hat.
"No, Ray, I actually do not know. There are some things that I am not aware of, however -- "
"C'mon," Ray interrupts, making his way to the door of the cafe. "I'll give you a ride."
"But Ray -- "
"Benny, you got to know when to let something drop, all right? Lesson number one: when you've been running after punks and messing with bruisers for over forty-eight hours, what do you do?" Ray gives Fraser a suspicious look. "No, never mind, let me answer that for you. You go home, and you sleep. You do not drive your partner to distraction with discussions of morality."
Fraser opens his mouth, and Ray gives him a stern look. "Ah," Fraser concedes finally, not liking it a bit, "I see."
"You'd better."
Fraser holds the door open for Dief, who shoots out from under the table and dashes enthusiastically into the parking lot. "I shall have to remember that in the future, Ray."
"Don't worry -- anytime you forget, I'll remind you."
"That's very magnanimous of you, Ray."
"Thank you very much."
"Now, Ray, perhaps I'm mistaken -- but is that not a moral code that you have just issued?"
--fin
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Date: 2006-04-30 09:56 pm (UTC)I love vigilante!Ray. Now I'm going to wait for a further sequel (and hope for slash in it). :)
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Date: 2006-05-01 01:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-01 05:25 pm (UTC)You did really well with that first scene, I really believed Fraser was there (not that I believed he was really going to shoot him) and then the fact that Ray was going to shoot himself in his sleep is just too damn creepy for words.
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Date: 2006-05-01 05:45 pm (UTC)Thankee!
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Date: 2006-09-10 07:15 pm (UTC)I just read this series. Very nicely done, with Ray K so twisted around himself needing vengeance for Stella. I wanted to kick Tess in the head, for pulling him back into it when he had finally made his peace after Ellery's death.
Thirteen years at Tess's side, and 23 homicides later, Fraser catches him. And maybe it was Tess's death, maybe it was the shock of knowing that he's been willing to kill an innocent man, but suddenly every one of those deaths is an albatross around his neck. He really wants to give the dead their justice. Of course Fraser can understand a man obsessed with the pursuit of justice. He came close to stepping across that line himself in "Bird in the Hand".
The scene here where Ray almost shoots himself in his slep is utterly chilling. This line moved into my head and took up space: The only thing he's got left to give is dying, and he's not gonna toss it onto the ground and hope Fraser finds it. There's a dark beauty to that.
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Date: 2006-09-11 08:02 pm (UTC)I wanted to kick Tess in the head, for pulling him back into it when he had finally made his peace after Ellery's death.
Huh. You know, it quite honestly hadn't occured to me that people might not like Tess. Now that you mention it, yeah, it kind of makes sense: she fucks up Ray's life kind of a lot, and I haven't really gone into her character in detail yet. Shall keep this in mind. :)
He really wants to give the dead their justice.
Exactly! And it's back and forth about whether or not Fraser'd do it -- on the one hand, yes, Ray killed a LOT of people, and whod turn down the opportunity to exact revenge in like kind? But on the other hand, was Ray intending to kill people horrible for his own advancement? No. He was trying to pursue justice, too. So -- *tilts hand back and forth*
Thanks so much for reading!
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Date: 2009-05-08 10:34 pm (UTC)I'm going back and forth on whether Fraser would actually accept Ray's vigilantism as a good thing. My inclination would be not--I mean, in Bird in the Hand he doesn't kill Gerard despite Ray and Bob urging him to do it. OTOH, there's the Victoria thing, where he's going with her even though she's a murderer. Hmm. Fraser is a complex man.
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Date: 2009-05-09 09:43 pm (UTC)I'm glad I managed to hold your attention through the whole series! Thanks for reading!