All This Time

All this time we were waiting for each other
All this time I was waiting for you

 ----

I pace the darkened hallways of the Consulate. It is but two hours to dawn and Ray has not called despite his many assurances that he would, as soon as he was back at the precinct. My indecisiveness is unfamiliar territory; I am not in general prone to vacillation. Nor do I recognise the inclination to sulk that has overcome my habitual equilibrium. It is silly, I tell myself. I am a grown man; I do not need permission to attend a nightclub.

Ray doesn’t want me there. He has forbidden me. I cannot deny it; I am hurt. I am Ray’s partner, I should watch his back no matter how routine the operation. And this undercover operation is anything but routine. I do not take Ray’s safety lightly. Neither do I wish to defy Ray’s express wish that I “stay out of it, Fraser, I’m serious.”

I pace some more, and worry. I cannot shake the impulse to go keep an eye on Ray; something feels off about the operation.

 ----

The nightclub is overwhelming. I pause beside the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the strobing, flashing sweeps of blue, green, red, purple. The music is loud; it thumps against my chest, a tangible thing. My heart thumps in rhythm as I scan the crowd for Ray.

There. He draws my gaze immediately, even though the dance floor below is crowded. He moves with sinuous grace, shoulders rolling and hips shifting as he sways, lost to the music. I know, despite every appearance to the contrary, that Ray is alert, aware of the people and movement that surrounds him. He is here as bait, having been deemed to have the right build and appearance to lure a serial rapist of men, one who has already struck twice in this establishment. I scan the interior of the club, noting the exits on both levels and picking out plainclothes officers watching Ray, the exits and the patrons with sharp, attentive eyes.

I am not here in any official capacity, of course, Ray having vetoed my involvement in the operation in no uncertain terms. He seemed, inexplicably, to think I would be a liability in the club. “The last thing I need is to worry about keeping your ass safe,” were his exact words. It still rankles; it’s not as if I do not have experience undercover and certainly Ray knows I can handle myself in a fight. I wonder if Ray has perhaps picked up on my attraction to him despite my efforts to conceal it; if that is what makes him uncomfortable with my presence in a gay nightclub. The thought is mortifying.

Yet I had still felt compelled to be present, to provide back up, no matter how unwanted. I push down the thought that I could not bear to see Ray leave the club with another, as he would have to do if approached by the suspected rapist. I could not bear to let him do so unprotected, I correct myself.

And so I had donned my dress uniform and walked in as any other member of the public. Despite its startling shade of red and propensity to attract attention, I find the uniform does an admirable job of shielding the real me from the public gaze, hiding me in plain sight; just another clubber in costume. My own sedate plaid shirts and hiking boots would have stood out far more in this world of tight leather, mesh and chains. The pulsing light leaches my uniform of its brightness, helping me blend with the other patrons here.

I descend to the level of the dance floor. Ordering a bottle of water, I lean against the bar, eyes fixed on Ray. A man dances closer to him, telegraphing invitation. It is not our suspect; this man is shorter than Ray, and slender, even more so than Ray.  I watch as he begins to dance beside and then against Ray, pressing close. Ray smiles lazily, eyes hooded. He swings his hips against his partner; they are chest to chest, thigh to thigh.

There is an unpleasant burn of jealousy in my gut, even as I tell myself that Ray is pretending, that he is straight, and that in any case he is not mine, he is free to dance with whoever he chooses.

It does nothing to quell the urge to stride over and peel the other man’s hands off my partner. I imagine myself cutting in, pulling Ray close, until it is my chest he is plastered against, my hips flush with his. Heat washes over me, molten, a river of lust. I stare, helpless, drowning, unable to tear myself away. My uniform feels suddenly unbearably restrictive. I tug at the collar, momentarily easing the pressure against my throat. Nevertheless, despite the discomfort, I am grateful for the stiff concealing serge that hides the evidence of my arousal.

A gleam of light on metal catches my eye, bringing me instantly alert. I know knives; the glint of a blade is unmistakable even in this hell of smoke and strobing lights. I push my way towards Ray before I am aware of forming any conscious decision to do so. I am almost at his side when I see metal flash again and realise with a sickening lurch in my gut that it is Ray’s dance partner wielding the weapon. I lunge, throwing myself at the assailant.

Late; I am too late. I watch Ray fold to his knees, clutching his side, even as I tackle his attacker to the floor and plainclothes officers surround us. I hand off my captive for arrest and elbow my way through the crowd of onlookers separating me from Ray.

Ray has been eased onto the floor and is being administered first aid by an officer while another radios for an ambulance. He is bleeding heavily; blood stains his clothes, the floor and his hands. I kneel by his head and perform my own visual examination. I would prefer to check him over more thoroughly but hesitate to get in the way of the first aider applying a tourniquet to his side, somewhere in the region of his ribs. Not his lungs, I pray silently. I take his hand in mine. His eyes flutter open for a moment, widen in surprise to see me.

“Ray,” I choke. His eyes open fully then and look directly into mine. There is so much there in his eyes, so much unsaid between us. They flutter closed again and the vice in my chest tightens.

I accompany Ray in the ambulance by the simple expedient of declaring myself his partner. Lieutenant Welsh, freshly arrived on scene, nods to the medics, who are disinclined to argue; they are as desirous as I am of getting Ray to hospital. I sit by his head as they stabilise him, out of the way, but leave my hand on his pillow. I see the medic shoot surreptitious glances at me. She doesn’t ask what kind of partner I am, although I sense her curiosity. I keep my gaze trained on Ray; she is welcome to draw any conclusion she wishes. At length, she says quietly, “He should be alright. We’ve slowed the bleeding and his vitals are strong.”

I nod, but cannot force words out past the gratitude that washes over me. I know, as she does, that there is still the possibility of internal damage and that Ray’s prognosis is uncertain until he is out of surgery. Yet her kindness brings some small comfort.

----

I sit on a hard plastic chair in the waiting room while Ray is in theatre and wait for news, my head in my hands.

I am shaken. I had of course realised I was attracted to Ray. I knew it was a hopeless attraction; Ray was very much straight, and still, to all appearances, very much in love with his ex-wife. I have wrestled with my conscience on those occasions, in the dark solitude of night, when I gave into temptation and allowed thoughts of him to cross my mind as I pleasured myself. No matter that I told myself it did no harm, that Ray would never know; I struggled with guilt – guilt for betraying his trust, violating our friendship in such a debased manner.   

And now it seemed that I had been foolish enough to fall in love with him. I had not recognised the strength of my feelings for him – or maybe I had refused to – until that fateful moment when he collapsed just out of my reach. The emotions churning in me now defy any attempt to quiet them. I feel sick.

There is a hand on my shoulder. I struggle to compose myself as I raise my head. It is the lieutenant, I had not heard him approach. He holds two paper cups of coffee in one hand, the other is still on my shoulder. He gives me an encouraging pat before passing me one of the cups.

“Coffee. You’ll need it, if you won’t go home.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I shall stay with Ray for the time being.”

“Good, good. You do that, Constable.” He takes a seat across from me. He sighs heavily. His voice is sombre as he updates me. “It was a random attack. Unplanned. The kid was high as a kite and looking for trouble. Ray caught his eye.”

I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse. Such a senseless, thoughtless reason to inflict pain and injury, possibly death, on  another. And yet the consequences for the victim, for those who care for him, could be life changing. I shudder. I do not think I can bear it if I lose Ray. It’s an ever present risk as a law enforcement officer, of course, but if this meaningless attack, not even in the line of duty, were to steal his life, his future – I cannot bear it.

I think I must make some small noise, because the lieutenant reaches across to drop a heavy hand on my shoulder again. He squeezes, then lets go and sits back. His eyes are compassionate. He knows. Of course he does; I have no defences left, no mask, as I wait in bleak agony. Ray is hurt, and I could not save him. Ray could die, and he does not know I love him.

Endless minutes, then hours, tick by.

Lieutenant Welsh clears his throat. I look up; the doctor is approaching us. I stand and meet her halfway, the lieutenant at my heels. She looks tired but smiles, telling us that Ray is in recovery and expected to make a full recovery, albeit a slow one given the location and severity of his wound.

“You may see him now, if you wish. A few minutes,“ she warns, “one of you. He’s regained consciousness from the anaesthetic, but he’s asleep, so please don’t disturb him.”

Lieutenant Welsh flashes his badge, claps me on the back. “Thank you, Doctor. Constable Fraser here is his partner. I would take it as a great kindness if you would let him watch over my detective.” The doctor starts to shake her head, but the lieutenant presses on. “Considering there was an attempt on his life just a few hours ago, it would greatly relieve my mind if the good Constable could stay. Unofficially, as it were. Of course,” he adds ruminatively, “I suppose I could post a police guard…”

“Well, perhaps the Constable could stay, Lieutenant,” the doctor agrees hurriedly, no doubt envisaging disruption to her peaceful ward. She turns to me and skewers me with a look, one that would have been intimidating had I not become inured to similar from Inspector Thatcher. “You will not wake him. You will not disturb him in any way.”

“Understood, ma’am,” I nod.

---- 

It hurts to see Ray lying so quiet. He seems somehow diminished now that his habitual state of perpetual motion is stilled and his exuberance dimmed. The room closes in around me as I pause in the doorway, watching him. The machines beeping beside him chafe my senses. He looks very alone in the clinically white bed; as alone as I feel. I am afraid to approach, to take his hand, as I long to do. I edge over to the window instead and fall into parade rest, indulging my desire to look at him, to study him as I am rarely afforded the opportunity to do.

Guilt twists my gut. This ordeal feels like punishment for my desire, for hiding my feelings from him, from myself. That it is Ray that is hurt for my sins is unbearable. That it took his near death for me recognise what he means to me is intolerable. Logically I know I am being ridiculous. There is no higher power punishing me, or Ray. But logic holds no sway over my emotions, which threaten to overwhelm me as I contemplate the future. Our future.

I see no happy outcome for our partnership. I cannot, in good conscience, continue to leave Ray unaware of my feelings for him. Now that I recognise the depth of my regard; it feels deceitful to conceal it from him, a betrayal of our friendship. I quail at the thought of confessing to Ray my sexual feelings for him, which I expect will overrule any feelings of friendship - or symbolic love - he has for me.

“Do you think the Yank is stupid, son?” I am startled by my father materialising beside me.

“Not now, Dad. Please.” I squeeze my eyes shut, pinch the bridge of my nose. My voice is hoarse; I have not spoken in hours.

“Really, Benton. You have such a turn for the dramatic. You think you’re the only one who’s ever developed feelings of a forbidden nature?”

“Forbidden nature? Now who’s dramatic?” I retort, stung.

“Okay, then, for a forbidden person.”

I am speechless. I don’t know where to start with a response to that. My father snorts. Suddenly, the words spill out.

“Ray is straight, Dad. He doesn’t feel the same way about me. Besides, he is my partner. He’s a police officer. I am not being dramatic when I say there can be no happy outcome.”

“Are you sure about that?” Dad asks complacently.

“About…?” I am increasingly annoyed. I do not feel up to dealing with my father in puckish mood.

“I see the way he looks at you,” announces Dad, bouncing on his toes a little. He peers at Ray. “Ooh, he doesn’t look good, does he?”

What way, I want to ask, but dare not. How does he look at me?

“Please, Dad,” I beg. “Go away.”

“Well if you’re going to be like that,” he huffs and vanishes, leaving my thoughts in even worse turmoil.

I lean back against the wall and continue my lonely vigil. My mind meanders, shying away from the open wound it has been circling.

No doubt in the morning we will be invaded by well meaning visitors. Uncharitably, I wish they would stay away. I intend to assert my right to stay with Ray. I wonder if Lieutenant Welsh has called Ray’s parents. They are visiting his brother in Arizona, so it will take them some time to return. Until then, the only person likely to try to oust me is Ms Kowalski. She will find me resolute. Lieutenant Welsh did, after all, ask me to watch over Ray.

I am recalled to the present by a groan from the bed. I am by Ray’s side in a moment; my heart in my throat. The room is lit only by a nightlight and the machines that monitor Ray. In the dim light, I study his face anxiously. He is still asleep. I am about to step back when his fingers twitch. His head turns towards me, as if seeking my presence. I take his fingers in mine, careful not to disturb his IV. I am gratified when he squeezes lightly back. Sinking into the chair next to his bed, I keep his hand in mine. I do not think I could let go, not for anything.

I am drowsing when I next hear Ray move. I jerk awake to find him watching me. The room is still dark, I haven’t been asleep long.

“Frase,” he croaks.

I’m on my feet immediately, pouring him a glass of water. I slide one arm behind his shoulders to support him as I hold the glass to his lips. His hand comes up to take the glass, but he is weak; I steady it for him to sip, my hand over his.

Done with the water, he relaxes back against my arm for a moment with a sigh, letting his head rest against my shoulder. I am undone, torn between committing to memory the feel of Ray in my arms, and the pain of knowing this is likely the last time I will ever be close this to him again. A sob escapes me.

“Shhh, Frase,” he soothes. “I’m ok. I’m ok.”

I settle him carefully back against the pillows as gasping sobs wrack me. I cannot help it, I am overwhelmed by the events of the night, my own feelings, the certain end of our friendship. He grabs my hand as I draw away, his grip stronger now.

“Frase, what’s wrong?”

I shake my head, unable to speak. I turn away, drawing shuddering breaths, and wrap my arms around myself in a semblance of a hug, hunching my shoulders protectively over myself; a self-soothing technique I discovered as a lonely child. It is one that I resort to when I am most desperate. I use it now to try to calm myself, to slowly regain control. Once I have stopped shaking, I turn tentatively back to Ray, ashamed. He has fallen back asleep. I sigh, thankful for the reprieve. I sit back down and drop my head, hiding my face against the side of Ray’s mattress. My forehead rests against his forearm.

----

I come slowly awake to fingers stroking my hair. Dawn light filters through the shades; it is not yet fully morning. I stay still, basking in the feeling of Ray’s fingers stroking, petting me. How I have fantasized about those long slender fingers trailing over my skin. I stiffen, as memories of the night before rush back. Ray must sense it, because he takes his hand from my hair. I raise my head reluctantly and meet his eyes.

Ray looks much improved. He watches me with bright eyes, more alert and aware than he was in the night. I feel the heat of a blush rise to my face.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“I’ll live,” he says, grimacing. “These are some good painkillers they’ve got me on.”

“It was mostly a deep gash,” I tell him. “You lost a lot of blood, but the knife cut across you rather than stabbing through your ribcage.”

“You knocked him off kilter,” Ray says. “Thanks.”

“Ray – “

“Fraser. What was that last night?” he asks quietly. My cheeks heat more. I take a deep breath and… stop, unable to form words. My head is full of static. The breath is frozen in my lungs, I can’t exhale.

“Hey. Hey, buddy. Breathe,” Ray coaches, shaking my shoulder lightly.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” I say, gulping in a breath.

“This is really hard for you, isn’t it?” asks Ray, like he’s just worked something out. That brings my head up. He’s looking at me keenly. I shy away from his knowing gaze, studying my hands, which are clenched in my lap.

“I – I have feelings for you,” I mumble to my hands. “I’m in love with you.”

“I know.”

I look up sharply at that. He’s smiling, that tentative, shy smile that transforms his face.

“You know?” I ask incredulously. “You aren’t freaking out?”

“I’m not as stupid as I look, you know. I’ve known for a while.”

“You – I – you never said anything!” I blurt out, mortified.

“I was giving you space. When you didn’t take me up on any of my advances, I figured you didn’t want it, that you were fighting it.”

“Ad…advances?”

“Fraser,” he says, exasperated. “I was right there with you.” His voice took on a sing song quality. “The lingering looks, the shoulder nudges, the pizza on the couch, our knees touching. Those advances. Flirting.”

I blink, trying to adjust to this unexpected new worldview. Ray flirting. With me. Ray not freaking out. Ray receptive to my feelings.

“Freak,” he says affectionately, reaching out carefully, IV and all, to cup my jaw. “I love you too, how can you not know that?”

A sudden thought punctures the bubble of joy growing in my chest.

“You love Stella,” I point out.

“Yes, I do,” he says, “but I’m not in love with her. Not anymore.”

“But –“

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs. “I’m not- I’m not proud of my behaviour. I was using her as a kind of shield, to hide my feelings.” He looks up, into my eyes. “I thought you didn’t want me. I was scared.”

“Scared, Ray?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I was scared how strong my feelings for you were. I didn’t want to love someone again, not if they didn’t love me back the same. Not again.”

“But you said you knew how I felt.”

“I thought you had feelings for me, yeah, but you were pushing them away. I thought you didn’t want to have those feelings.”

“What changed, then?”

“When I was bleeding out on the floor. I saw you. I saw your face. I knew. And then last night…”

My face is wet again. “Come here,” Ray whispers, drawing me closer with the hand still holding my jaw. I rise willingly to lean over him, bracing myself with a forearm on the mattress either side of him. He loops his arms around my shoulders and we hold each other, careful of his injury and the IV line.  

“Figures,” Ray says in a disgusted tone. “All this time I’ve wanted to hold you, touch you, taste you, and now I’m stuck in this stupid bed.”