desireearmfeldt

Fraser is running for  a train.

The same train – the same god-damned train – that he chases in his dreams, the one he’s been chasing all his life. 

His legs pump, his heart pounds, his lungs heave, his hand reaches out—his whole body yearns towards that receding machine, even though he knows he won’t catch it.  He never catches it.  His whole life has been a series of being just too late when it matters most.

He runs, his eyes locked on the figure leaning out of the door, anchored by one hand to the train, the other hand reaching out towards Fraser.  Not the slender, black-coated woman of his nightmares, with her masses of dark curls.  Not his father in his regulation fur hat; not his tiny, barely-remembered mother. 

Ray Kowalski looks back out of that train car, holding out a hand strong and sure enough to pull Fraser off the ground and up into a new adventure, if only Fraser can bridge the distance between them and touch Ray’s fingers.  Fraser is running across a platform buried in drifts of snow, but the sun gleams warm on Ray’s sandy hair and bare arms.  Ray is calling to him; Fraser can’t hear the words, only the urgency in his friend’s voice.

The gunshot echoes behind him.  Fraser doesn’t spare a glance over his shoulder, but he knows exactly what he would see if he did.  Not Ray Vecchio, his round face full of fear and loyalty, his hands steady as he levels his gun.  Not his colleagues from the 27^th district, watching helplessly from too far away.  Fraser knows what’s back there: three cornered, panicked, drug-addled teenagers with guns, and Ray Kowalski’s crumpled, bleeding body.

The train is pulling away from him, but in the Borderland the questions and answers are yours alone, and no matter which way you step, your destination is the same, and for once in his life, just once, damn it, Fraser will catch that train, his hand will curl around the rail and he’ll jump on board.  He’ll catch it if it kills him.

“Benny!”  Ray Vecchio’s voice startles him, throwing off his stride.  He hesitates for a fraction of a second—but no, the train, Ray Kowalski receding, his hand outstretched, and Fraser can’t stop, not even for Ray Vecchio.  Surely, Ray will understand that Fraser has to do this, and forgive him, as he always has before.

And surprisingly, when Ray’s voice comes again, it’s encouraging him, exhorting him: “Come on, Benny, don’t quit on me now.  You can do this.  You’re not going to let a stupid little thing like a bullet slow you down, are you?”

And no, he isn’t.  He can’t outrun a bullet, obviously that’s impossible; even more impossible to outrun time already past.  But the train, the damned train, he doesn’t care if it’s impossible, his legs push harder, feet pounding against the concrete platform, and his chest is on fire, but he’s gaining on it, he’s almost close enough to touch—

—“Benny!   Come on back, please, I know you can do it. . .” —

—And Ray Kowalski’s smile melts into a grimace of regret as he shakes his head and pulls his hand back—

“No you won’t!” Fraser gasps with the remnants of his breath as he launches himself at the train.

He catches only a glimpse of Ray’s astonished expression as Fraser slams into him, full-body tackle, and then he’s falling with his arms clenched tight as death around Ray’s body, and the ground comes up to batter him into unconsciousness. . .

. . .”Benny?”

Fraser opens his eyes to a blurry white world and Ray Vecchio’s face looking down at him.  He hurts—he can’t localize the pain—and when he draws a breath it burns, nearly choking him.  But Ray’s worried expression is transmuting into a grin, which means something must be good, except that Fraser knows that something is very, very bad, and any minute he’s going to remember what it is. . .

“You’re awake.  How you feeling?” Ray asks.

“Ray,” he croaks, and then he remembers—“Ray!”

“Right here,” says Ray.  Fraser shakes his head frantically—it’s heavy, hurts to move at all—and Ray touches his face to still him, making worried soothing noises.

“Ray?”

“He’s here,” says Ray.  “He can’t come see you because he’s—hey, no, calm down, you can’t—“  He’s got both hands on Fraser, pushing him down as Fraser struggles upright through a haze of pain and electronic beeping.  Fraser’s vision is still blurred, but in his head he can clearly see Ray Kowalski bleeding on the pavement. . .Ray’s outstretched hand as the train vanishes in the distance. . .

Ray Vecchio’s hands are on him, holding him up now instead of pushing him down, easing him off the bed and into a wheelchair—Ray is talking, other people in the room are talking, women’s voices very far away and Ray’s voice close in his ear—and then Fraser is moving through the cold white halls.  He’s moving so slowly, but it doesn’t matter, because the train is long gone.

“Okay,” says Ray, bending over him from behind.  “We’re going to go in and see him, but you need to be prepared, all right?  He’s not doing so good. . .”  Fraser nods, the words washing over him half-heard.

There’s a bed, and machines and tubes, but none of that matters because Ray Kowalski turns his face to look at them, and Ray Vecchio’s hand is solid on Fraser’s shoulder as Ray Kowalski’s hand warms between his own, and for once, no one has been left behind.