Author: Desiree Armfeldt
Title: Real Men Don't Beg
Fandoms: due South
Characters: Benton Fraser, Ray Kowalski (pre-slash)
Rating: Mature (somewhat graphic violence/gore)
Length: 1480
Angst-to-hope ratio: Low
Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters, I don't own them, I derive no profit from their use.
Summary: Ray is never going to beg again.
Bookkeeping Notes: Also fulfills the "begging" square of my hc_bingo card (which means it counts towards the Cross-Pollinator badge).


After Stella, after the long, painful process of detox—because that’s what it was, Ray can see that now: he was addicted to her, and it took him years after the divorce to get clean—anyway, after he did get Stella out of his system, he swore he’d never do that to himself again.  Never let himself need someone so much he'd humiliate himself like that.  Never beg anyone for anything again.

He’s still clinging to that promise, along with the salvaged scraps of his self-respect.  Sometimes it feels like that’s just about all he’s got to cling to.  Can’t cling to Fraser, that’s for sure, because that’d be a one-way ticket back to Loserville, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.  Never going back there, he reminds himself, whenever he catches himself smiling too easy, showing off too much, sneaking too many casual touches.

So the only begging he does is when he’s by himself, at night, with sad music on the stereo and Jack Daniels making him sloppy.  Sprawled in his battered armchair with his hand down his own pants.

Please, please, come on. . .  as his hand speeds up and his body strains to come.  Some nights, it doesn’t even feel especially good, even though he’s craving the release.  It’s like pushing a stalled truck up a steep hill, sweating and shaking, just a little more, come on, almost there, please, please. . .  Jacking himself desperately, like the need is an itch or a pain, something he needs to get rid of.  Easy for . . .just, more, let me, now, just, please. . . to turn into, Please, I need you, please, see me, touch me, want me, I’ll do anything you want, you don’t even have to love me, just please don’t leave me. . .

But there’s no one there to hear him, and by day, he’s got his shit together, or close enough.  He’s hooked, yeah; no point in denying that to himself, even if he’s doing his damnedest to keep the rest of the world from catching on.  He doesn’t know why the hell he does this to himself, but apparently he’s just naturally a sad fucking junkie.

Still, he gets his regular fix of Fraser, and he does okay.  And he’s still got a little pride left, a little self-control.

So he doesn’t beg for Fraser’s attention.  Not even when Fraser goes from grinning at him one minute to turning all his million-watt focus on other people instead, like Ray’s just some guy who happens to be standing next to him, or else lights out on his own on some wild goose chase, like he’s never heard of partners.  Ray does a lot of other things to get Fraser’s attention.  He argues, and yells, and sulks, and chases women who would be horrible for him if they could ever be bothered to give him the time of day, and once he even punches Fraser in the mouth.  But he doesn’t beg, nuh uh.

At some point, it all changes, or rather, Fraser changes.  He goes all. . .quiet.  Oh, he can still talk up a storm when he needs to convince a gang member to go straight or explain how they make red dye out of bugs, but he doesn’t do it as often, and it sometimes seems like his heart isn’t really in it.  The rest of the time, it’s like he’s off in outer space, down one of those black holes where no signal can get in or out.  Ray doesn’t know what’s up, and he can’t ask, because, A) black hole, and 2) honestly, he’s afraid of finding out the answer.

Of course, he’s afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t figure out what’s wrong, too, and even more afraid that there’s nothing he can do to fix it in any case.

The fear leaves him staring at the streetlight-shadows on the ceiling at three in the morning, wondering if tomorrow’s going to be the day when it all comes crashing down in some undefined, horrible way.  The fear gets under his skin and makes him crabby at work, makes him snap at Fraser instead of blurting out, What’s wrong?  Tell me how to make it better, please.

Which, of course, he can’t ever say, because it’s just a tiny step from there to that guy that Ray is never going to be, ever again.  No matter how bad things get, Fraser’s never going to hear him beg.


                        *                      *                      *


“I’ve been offered a promotion,” Fraser says, then takes a deep breath and spits out, “And a transfer.  To Yellowknife.”

And Ray can’t say a word, can’t even open his mouth, because if he does, it’ll all spill out; he’ll be begging Fraser to stay, down on his fucking knees, please, I’ll do anything, just don’t leave. . .

So he keeps his mouth shut, and if Fraser’s maybe kind of offended by that, too bad.  It’s the best he can do, and it won’t matter in a few weeks anyhow.

The next several days pass in a blur of asphalt and car fumes, lukewarm coffee and the horrible fluorescent lighting in the interrogation rooms, voices chattering nonstop around him—some of them probably saying things Ray ought to be paying attention to, but it all just fades into a background murmur like a radio left on in the next room.

And then the grey blur is shredded by blinding white and red, the ear-ringing crack of gunfire, and Ray’s on his knees on the cold concrete, his hands splattered to the elbows with Fraser’s blood.  He's pressing a makeshift bandage for all he's worth with both shaking hands against the slimy mess of a puncture in Fraser's side, swallowing down his nausea because he doesn't have fucking time to be sick, here.  Fraser’s breathing in shallow gasps, and every time he does there’s a whistling, sucking echo that means he’s got a punctured lung for sure, which is maybe the least of his worries.  His mouth is bloody, which could be just spatter or something worse, but Ray can't check and he can’t wipe it off, either, because his hands are busy and he's not a fucking EMT, just a cop who's better at putting holes in people than at keeping his partner's blood from draining out all over the fucking street.

And Ray’s babbling, begging, words spilling out of him that he doesn’t have time to listen to.  This is the kind of situation where people talk to God, but Ray doesn’t give a damn about anyone but Fraser; it’s Fraser he’s pleading with, Please, hang on, don’t leave me, I’ll do anything you want, just don’t, please. . .

A million years later, there’s sirens screaming behind him, and then strangers easing Fraser out from under Ray’s hands and taking him away.

                        *                      *                      *

By the time they let Ray in to see him, Fraser’s conscious, but he’s not really awake.  He’s staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, the walls, or maybe through them, because whatever he’s seeing, he doesn’t like it one bit.  And he keeps saying, Ray, Ray, Ray, but not in that metronome way he normally does when he’s trying to get Ray’s attention.  More like a kid who’s lost his mommy in the mall and is two seconds away from totally losing it.

“I’m here, buddy,” says Ray as he sits down next to the bed.  But Fraser doesn’t seem to hear him, just keeps repeating Ray’s name.  Or, hell, maybe Vecchio’s name, but Ray’s the Ray who’s here, and he’s got more important things to worry about right now, because Fraser’s starting to thrash around in the bed like maybe he’d crawl out of there if he knew which way was up.

“Right here.  It’s okay.  It’s gonna be okay.”  Ray puts his hand carefully on top of Fraser’s, the one lying on the sheet, pinned down by IV tubes and God knows what else.  Fraser makes a confused little moan that sounds almost like a question.  So Ray leans over him, lays his other hand on Fraser’s cheek, and tells him again, “I’m here.  It’s okay.”

He’s not sure if Fraser hears him, exactly, but he does calm down.  Ray scoots the chair closer to the bed and settles in with one hand on Fraser’s shoulder, the other holding his hand.

Fraser looks up into Ray’s face, like maybe he’s really seeing him for once, and whispers, “Ray. . .please.”

Ray squeezes his hand tight and whispers back, “Anything you want, Frase.”

Fraser’s other hand makes its way over to cover Ray’s, so Ray’s hand is sandwiched between both of Fraser’s, which are cold like Fraser’s hands are never cold.

“Please.  Don’t.”

“I won’t,” Ray tells him.  “Don’t worry.  I’m not going anywhere.”