Title: All That We Let In
Fandom: Due South
Rating: G
Length: ~1585 words
Characters: Benton Fraser, Ray Kowalski
Author Notes: Another moody quickie.  Title from the Indigo Girls song of the same name.
Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters, I don't own them, I derive no profit from their use.
Summary: Fraser returns to Chicago to lick his wounds.

Update: I've posted a slightly edited version of this story to AO3 -- if you're reading this story for the first time, you might want to look at that version instead.  Original version preserved here...for historical accuracy, I guess. :)



When I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father, I walked downtown from O’Hare with all my gear on my back and thought little of it.  (No, be honest: I was proud to be the sort of man who could do such a thing and think little of it.)  Now, the returning natives at the airport watch me juggling my crutches and duffel and bedroll, and they stand aside to allow me first place in the taxi queue.  I fold myself awkwardly, and rather painfully, into the back seat.  Hours crammed into airplane seats have done my shattered knee no favors, but I am well used to managing (or ignoring) pain.

I watch the city lights and landmarks parade past the window, strange and familiar.  My old apartment building on West Racine burned down years ago, of course, but the new one is similarly priced and, from what I remember from my years in the city, supplemented by what I could infer from the rental agent’s talk, in a similar sort of neighborhood.  I chose it for both reasons.  While I am provided for, my pension is not as generous as my salary was.  And if I could be said to belong anywhere in this city, it is among the neglected and ignored, such as my former neighbors.  Location was not otherwise a concern.  The apartment is convenient neither to the Canadian Consulate nor to the 27^th precinct police station: all to the good.

The driver actually gets out of the cab and fetches my luggage from the trunk for me, while I maneuver myself and my crutches onto the pavement.  As I pay him (in U.S. currency, procured in advance), he squints at me.

“Hey, aren’t you the crazy guy with the funny hat?” he asks.  “The one who likes to jump on car roofs?”

I don’t know how to respond.  Yes and No are equally untrue, and I am not equal to the task of attempting an accurate explanation, in which, no doubt, the cabbie has no actual interest.  So I simply shrug and thank him kindly for the ride, leaving him a generous tip.

The stairs are an ordeal, and for a moment I regret having taken a third-story apartment, but I set my teeth and drag my possessions and myself, useless leg and all, up both flights without resting.

Unlike my old apartment, this one has a lock on the door, for which I am grateful.  I lock myself in, spread out my bedroll, and lower myself awkwardly down.  I am also grateful for my exhaustion, which overrides the pain in my leg and the background light and noise of Chicago, allowing me to drop quickly into slumber.

                                    *                                    *                                    *

It’s amazing, how useful a cell phone with access to the Internet can be for a housebound man.  When I lived in Chicago in the late 1990s, one could use the telephone to order pizza or Chinese food delivered to one’s door.  Today, I can have groceries delivered, as well as furniture, appliances, books, or nearly any commercially-available product.  My needs are simple; but I do need to eat.

I order groceries, and also a pizza.  Sandor’s pizzeria is still in business, the online restaurant directory informs me, as are a number of establishments that Ray Vecchio favored.  I choose a place whose name is unfamiliar to me.  I am not particularly hungry, but I eat three slices and put the rest away for tomorrow.

In a few days, perhaps, I will start up an exercise routine, walking around the neighborhood and so forth.  Find some way to occupy my time.  Some way to be useful.  But right now, it doesn’t bear thinking about.  Like a wolf, I lick my wounds in solitude.

When I left Chicago, I could not imagine why I would ever want to return.  Although I made some friends here, and some happy memories, I have never been the sort of man who was truly suited to city life.  However, I can live independently here, taking care of my own needs without burdening (depending on) anyone else, which would be impossible in the isolated places my heart calls home.

When discomfort in my leg and my bladder forces me out of my bedroll, I discipline myself to shower, shave, dress, and limp around the perimeter of the empty apartment for half an hour without stopping, until I am trembling and sweating.

I stop in front of the window, lean my hands against the frame, and watch the streams of strangers hustling or ambling to and fro in the streets below.  Each of them a unique story, with his or her own problems and passions, but they arouse no curiosity in me.  I am not here for them.

                                    *                                    *                                    *

A knock on the door startles me.  I hobble over to answer it.  There’s a middle-aged Latina woman standing there with a casserole dish in her hands.

“You’re the Mountie,” she says.  It’s not even a question.

“I was,” I tell her.

“We heard you aren’t feeling well.  I brought you something to eat.”

“Thank you kindly.  Ah, I’m sorry, but have I met you before?”

“My sister,” she says.  “You helped her when her children were sick.  She always talks about you.”

“I see.”

“You don’t look too good.”

“I’m fine,” I say.  “I hurt my leg, but it’s getting better.”

She shakes her head.  “You make sure you eat.”

“I will.”  Even such a simple little promise feels as heavy as a stone.  I summon a polite smile and ease the door closed.

                        *                                    *                                    *

Each day, I find some new gift outside my door: cake, fruit, containers of fresh hot-and-sour soup.  Sometimes, people knock, but I don’t answer the door.  I don’t want to have to talk to them; not these people whose stories I know, whose lives I have touched, briefly or perhaps less so.  Strangers would be easier.

I lie down longing for dreams of snow and silence.  Instead, my sleep becomes a trek through rainforest; vines creep up from the ground and dangle from tree branches, wrapping themselves around my arms, legs, body, until I am thoroughly entangled in their suffocating embrace.

I wake breathing hard and lie staring at the patterns of streetlamp-light and shadow on my water-damaged ceiling, listening to my own heartbeat.

                        *                                    *                                    *

A knock on my door.  I don’t get up.  If I don’t answer, my uninvited visitor will conclude that I am not at home, or not at home to company, and go away.

But a full three minutes pass without any sound of retreating footsteps.  Then the knock is repeated.  And again, when I don’t answer, a wait of three minutes, and another knock.

Then my lock rattles and gives a sharp click.  The person on the other side has popped the latch with a credit card.

It will do him no good against the deadbolt.  He knows this, of course.  He doesn’t even test the doorknob.  He just waits for me to limp across the room and open the door.

“Del told me you were here,” says Ray Kowalski.  He stands framed in the doorway, hands jammed in the pockets of his leather jacket.  His hair is bleached as blond as ever, but his face is far more weathered than I remember.

“Del?”

“Rookie down at the station.  Says he met you once, before my time.  Says you and Vecchio sent his dad to jail, but I guess he doesn’t hold it against you.”

“I’m. . .glad.  Glad to hear that he’s doing well.”

Ray nods.  I expect him to remark that I, myself, appear to be doing less than well, but apparently he thinks that goes without saying.

“I ain’t gonna ask why I had to hear you were in town from him,” he says.  “I figured either you didn’t want to see me or you didn’t want me to see you.  Came here so’s you could tell me which.”

“How would it make a difference?”

He shows his teeth in something not quite a smile.  “Difference is whether I take a hike and pretend I never heard your name, or stick around and drive you nuts.”

I know what my father would be saying right now, if he were here.  I know what I would be saying, were I standing on the other side of the doorway.  I rest my hands on the doorframe, letting them bear some of my weight.

“You don’t owe me anything,” I say.

“Ain’t why I’m here.”

“I don’t have anything you want.”

“This ain’t a shopping expedition,” he says. 

He is close enough to touch; far enough from the door that I could shut it in his face.  Either would take more energy than I can summon at the moment. 

The lines around his mouth make him look ancient; the lines around his eyes remind me of the transforming brightness of his smile.  Every detail about him, from the state of wear of his jeans to the smell of tobacco that wafts from him to the slight defensive hunch of his shoulders, clamors to be acknowledged and interpreted and acted upon.

Not my job.  Exhausting to contemplate.

“C’mon Fraser, are you gonna let me in?”

I take a step backwards.  Another, and a third.  Carefully, like a man approaching a wild animal, he steps over the threshold.

And those lines around his eyes crinkle as he smiles at me.