Standard disclaimers vis á vis Alliance/Paul Haggis: if I did own them, I'd set them free.
Implied M/M, NC-17, graphic depiction of violent suicide, no sex. F/K; AU; no COTW.
This is an alternate ending to Near Wild Heaven. Major characters die. I'm sorry. I didn't want to write this but it haunted me until I did.
Last warning: unbetaed.
©1999 AuKestrel
I will try not to breathe,
this decision is mine. I have lived a full life
and these are the eyes
that I want you to remember.
"Try Not to Breathe," Automatic For the People, R.E.M.
Ray picks me up, as usual, at the Consulate, but after his initial greeting, that lopsided grin, a warm glint in his eyes for me, he is rather silent as we drive to my apartment. And again, as he has done frequently in the past few weeks, since learning of Ray Vecchio’s promotion, he answers my question, "Would you like to come up?" with a grin and a shake of his head and a "Nah, not tonight, Frase," as I lean back in to let Dief out. He says there is nothing wrong, when I have asked before. And when he does come up, not as often as before, with a feeling of having given in, I think, he is as affectionate, as passionate, as ever, although still slightly remote, slightly not quite there. It’s difficult to put a finger on, and perhaps I wouldn’t notice if I didn’t know everything I do know about Ray, about the myriad expressions in his eyes, the way he tenses ever so slightly just before we kiss, as if even after all this he can’t believe that it’s true, that I actually do want to kiss him.
And in truth I do not know how far to go, how much to push him. Perhaps he needs space, as he often says. We are both loners. Perhaps living with my early hours and my annoying wolf is too much to take in. Or perhaps he is emotionally distancing himself. I can’t tell; I have no experience upon which to predicate a hypothesis. All that I know is that I dislike waking up alone now, dislike intensely not being able to watch Ray as he sleeps, not being able to watch him as he wakes, even dislike not seeing him put Smarties in his coffee. And if that isn't a shameful thing for a grown man, a Mountie, to admit, I don't know what is.
So tonight, because I am worried and, I confess, lonely, and, above all, missing Ray, I lean back into the car again and hesitate for a moment. He meets my eyes with his own, a puzzled look. That is harder to overcome than a defensive glare or even a teasing grin. That says that he clearly thinks there is nothing wrong with his desire to be alone and that he isn't quite sure why I can't accept it. I am not sure, either, Ray. But I say, finally, "Are you sure?"
He hesitates even longer than I did, and I see something flicker in his eyes, something that gives me hope for a brief second, before dropping his eyes and nodding. "Yeah, ‘course I'm sure, Fraser." He offers no excuses, no explanations. I do not know if that is better or worse than feeling he must explain.
****************
Even though I don't feel like I'm punishing Fraser, I feel like shit as I drive away, watching in the rearview mirror as he stands looking after me. How can I explain to Fraser why I don't want to be around him, even though I want to be, when I don't understand it myself? I just . . . I just can't be there while he's punishing himself again. Can't see that. Makes me cold inside, makes me hard and angry and I can't be there. Vecchio's promotion makes sense. Makes sense for him. Is Fraser the only one who can't see that? But I can't say that 'cuz I got a vested interest in seeing the back of Vecchio, at least in his mind, and Fraser's. So I go home and dance and try not to think about Ben and enjoy being with him when I can. And despise myself, sometimes, for being so lonely or so desperate or so something that I do go home with him and for a while it's like it was before and then afterwards he's gone again, into his all-my-fault mode, his lonely guilt-induced hell, and I'm out in the cold, further than I was before. And I can't stay out in the cold, not after the warmth we had, the connection we had, without risking my soul.
***************
I am still standing on the sidewalk, suddenly too tired to move, when I hear the familiar sound of the new Riviera's engine. Ray Kowalski won't talk to me. Ray Vecchio hasn't talked to me about anything except cases since he told me about his promotion. So he must be here for a case, and therefore I stifle all thoughts of changing, of dinner, and walk to the curb to meet him.
But he gets out of his car and he's looking happier than he has been. I'm not sure why until I realise that probably he is getting the arrangements finalised for his promotion, the arrangements that will effectively erect an impassable barrier between us, a barrier begun by my distrust and deceit, made taller by my unforgiveable outburst with the bottle of whiskey, and completed, perhaps tonight, in the final acceptance of the end of our friendship. But it is still, at this moment, a friendship, so I listen as he tells me more about the new job.
We start to walk up to my apartment and he looks around and asks, "Where's Kowalski?"
"He went home," I say, and am proud that my voice betrays none of my feelings in the matter.
"Oh. So listen, what do you think of this . . . "
We are sitting at my kitchen table. I can't face the sofa tonight. It reminds me of the trouble we had getting it up all those stairs, and how we celebrated, when we finally succeeded. That was over a week ago, the last time that Ray came to my apartment. I come back to the present and realise that Ray Vecchio has finished speaking and is waiting expectantly.
"You sound excited about this, Ray. I had formed the impression that you were unhappy."
"I was at first, Benny. You know me, I don't like change. But I talked to them more. Talked to Welsh, today. There's stuff I can do here, without being undercover, to make a difference. In Chicago, with my family and you. Yeah, we won't be partners any more, not day to day, but you and I both know that Kowalski's the one who's better suited for rummaging in dumpsters with you." He grins at me, almost like a little boy, at that, pleading with me to see that he isn't making fun of Ray, that he's laughing at himself and Ray and me. I feel a small weight lift from my heart, enough to make me smile too.
He looks at me then, closely. "Fraser, what's going on with you? With you and Kowalski?"
I am silent. I still cannot lie. I try to equivocate. "He is a loner."
"Yeah, no kidding."
I am silent again. There is no explanation. I have none.
Ray cannot keep a note of hope out of his voice as he asks, "Are you two - have you two - gee, do guys break up?"
And I cannot keep the shakiness out of mine as I reply, "I don't know."
He sighs. "I can't believe I’m doing this . . . " he mutters. "What's wrong, Benny?"
"I don't know."
"Don't deflect, Benny."
"I'm sorry, Ray, that’s the truth. I don’t know."
"Is he giving you the silent treatment? The cold shoulder?"
"No."
"Then what?"
And in my misery, I forget that Ray is not happy about this, is less than comfortable with this, in general avoids my apartment if there is the least chance that he may run into Ray Kowalski there, and say, "He's simply not there any more, Ray."
"There at all? I see you two hanging out at the station, going to lunch, stuff like that, he still takes you to work and home again, right?"
"Yes." All that is true. How to explain to Ray that my Ray is just not inside himself any more?
"You talked about it?"
"I - I've tried."
He sighs. "Benny, I'm no good at this. I wouldn't be good at this if this was Katherine Burns."
That brings an involuntary muscle spasm that could almost be described as a smile to both of our faces. "The benefit there would be that she would be telling us, at great length, exactly what was wrong, or at least why she thought something might possibly be wrong, and not listening to either of us," I say.
"Yeah, Benny, I always thought she was perfect for you," he says, deadpan. "Except your kids would probably have run away to a Pacific island for some peace and quiet between the two of you."
"I would undoubtedly have embarked on my own quest for the hand of Franklin before children were an issue," I say.
"Hand of Franklin? No, no, we're not gonna go off on one of your tangents, Benny. So you haven't talked. Why not?"
"He doesn't seem to think that anything is wrong. And after all I am hardly an expert. He is a loner. Perhaps he needs to be alone."
Ray sighs again. "Yeah."
To my relief he abandons the discussion and we sit in a companionable silence for a few minutes. He recalls himself to the present and begins again to tell me about the job, about what he thinks they will be doing.
" . . . We're making it up, a little, as we go, I guess, but that'll give me some leeway anyway, you know how I hate all that procedure stuff."
Yes, I am intimately aware of your disregard for procedure, Ray, I think fondly. I do not say this out loud, however. I simply nod.
When he finishes talking, he asks, "So what do you really think, Benny?'
I blink. "I think it sounds like a good opportunity, Ray. I didn't realise you were happy about it."
"You said that before."
***********
Suddenly my brain kicks in. 'Is that what's up with you lately? You think I was taking this promotion to get away from you, Benny?"
And that damn Mountie looks at me, and then has the gall to nod.
"Benton Fraser, did I not tell you that none of that mattered? To us?"
He nods again.
"I'm a little angry, here, Benny."
He sighs. "Yes, I thought you were. I realise that we haven't settled certain things. The whiskey, the things I said and did . . ."
"Not before," I say, my voice getting louder. "Right now!"
He says nothing.
"You know what I think of our friendship, Benny?"
I think he's scared to look at me. I wait until he does. That big-eyed Mountie look's got nothing on the look on his face right now. "Yes, Ray?" I don't get it for a minute until I realise he is waiting to be hurt, waiting for me to tell him it's been real but not so fun lately.
"Benny. That's not what I mean. I meant that I saw how much you cared about me when you lost your temper."
"That's insane, Ray." Incredulous.
I gotta grin. "No, Fraser, I got some reasoning going on here. You never lose your temper. But you did, with me, because I said I needed a drink. You were so scared and worried about me that you actually lost your temper. Just like a real person, Fraser. That was - that had to help."
He is silent for a long moment and I see a tear spill over his eye and begin to run down his cheek. "Only you, Ray, could find a way to make that sound as if I were trying to help. You know perfectly well that I was wrong and ill advised as well to have said or done any of that."
"What I know, Benny, is that you cared. That you cared enough to get mad. And you shocked me back into caring too. "
A long silence. Another follows that first tear but then no more, thank God.
"Then since we are baring our souls, I must confess, Ray, that I learned what our friendship meant to you when it did not even cross your mind that it was quite attainable to get rid of Ray Kowalski simply by spilling the beans, so to speak. One whisper, as you know, can do wonders and more than whispers will of course get one slightly rebellious detective transferred or pushed out. Yet as angry as you were with me, as disappointed as you were in me, you never thought of that." He looks at me steadily the whole time he's talking, his eyes blue-grey with sincerity, honesty, and . . . friendship? Yeah.
I feel a big stupid grin come over my face. "No, I didn't, did I. I didn't, Benny." And because I haven't told him, haven't told anyone everything about my assignment, there's no way he'll ever be able to understand what he's just given me. The knowledge that I am still human, that I am still Ray Vecchio, and no longer Armando Langoustini, if I ever was. If I ever could have been. But he sees the joy in my face and his own face softens into an unexpected smile. I still see pain and self reproach in his eyes but now I see a familiar warmth there again too, a warmth I hadn't been conscious of missing until just now.
What is it about Fraser's kitchens that always bring tears to my eyes? He must use a lot of pepper in his cooking. To hide the taste. Speaking of cooking . . .
"C'mon, Frase, let's get some dinner. Go get changed. I want Chinese. Let's go, let's go."
He stands, hesitates a minute and then grabs my hand and shakes it, hard.
"That's nice, Benny, don't break anything." But I know what he's trying to say. So what the hell, I use his hand to pull him into a quick hug. "C'mon, Fraser, I'm hungry here. Go get changed. Dief's hungry."
"I can just go like this, Ray," he says.
"Benny. Get changed. Sheesh. It's like talking to Dief."
**************
We enter the restaurant, the one from one of our first cases together so long ago, to the sound of Ray's voice chanting The Rules. I had forgotten about The Rules at some point in his absence.
"No jumping on cars. No jumping off cars. Remember the license plate. No sniffing things. No jumping out windows. That's what doors are for. No I came to Chicago on the trail of my father's killers. And above all - "
I join in.
"No licking!" And we both begin to laugh as we make our way to a table, not near a window. Oddly, Diefenbaker doesn't follow us. Rather, he makes a beeline for the register. I see why almost immediately. I have twenty-twenty vision.
Ray Kowalski is standing there, toothpick in mouth, with a bag of takeout for which he has obviously just finished paying. He nods at us, a little awkwardly, and reaches down to pat Dief, who is on his hind legs with his nose buried in the bag. "Ah, Dief, not your kinda stuff. Not spicy enough. Want some Szechuan stuff, huh, Dief?" and he repeats the order in a fast, low mutter to the waitress.
"He's always feeding that wolf," Ray Vecchio says good-naturedly.
The restaurant is by now intimately familiar with Diefenbaker's needs, desires, and preferences, and in less than two minutes his order is ready and has been placed in a large china bowl to boot, no doubt a concession to Ray's habit of generous tipping. Ray carries the bowl over to put it down by our table, hesitates, and says, "Hey."
"Hey, Kowalski. want to join us?"
"Hello, Ray. Please do."
'No, no thanks. Got stuff to do, that's why I got it to go tonight. See ya tomorrow," he says, not meeting my eyes at all. "And, Fraser, ya got an overdue library book. Or so I hear."
"Impossible!" Ray Vecchio says, grinning broadly. "Not Fraser!"
"Oh, dear. I think you're right. Thank you, Ray."
He shrugs. "No prob, Frase."
Unexpectedly, Ray Vecchio speaks up again. "C'mon, Kowalski, stay. I might come up with a story you haven't heard yet."
I look at him, surprised. Ray is surprised too. He recovers fast. "I doubt that, Vecchio." And grins, a sight so welcome to me that I involuntarily close my eyes to retain the image. "Been your partner for what, over three months now? You talk a lot, man."
The waitress comes over, clearly expecting to set another place. Ray shakes his head at her, and I catch his eye as he does so. He looks full at me for a brief moment and I see pain and longing in his eyes before he drops his eyelids, quickly. "No thanks, I'm leaving," he tells her. "Just stopped to say hi."
Dief, who's finished eating, looks from the table to Ray to the table again, and Ray laughs. "Oh, Dief, you're good. Gotta go, buddy." He pats him, says a generic, "Bye," and heads to the stairs. Diefenbaker follows him. I see Ray grab his muzzle and I am surprised that Dief allows that. Ray enunciates something and Dief moans at him but after a moment drops his eyes and then tries to walk casually back to us.
"It's no use looking like that," I tell him. "You are certainly welcome to go home with Ray if you so desire. It's called free will. We've had this discussion before."
Diefenbaker pointedly ignores this as he settles beneath the table with a soft exhaled mutter.
I have very little appetite.
After we finish eating, Ray offers to drive me home. That is somewhat unusual since I know he dislikes me walking in my neighbourhood and thus rides are generally taken for granted between us.
I rouse myself to take an interest in his conversation in the car but it is difficult and I am about to open my mouth to apologise when I realise we are pulling into Ray Kowalski's parking lot.
I turn to look at Ray Vecchio, open-mouthed.
"Think you got some talking to do, Fraser."
"Ray. I appreciate it, but no. If he says he needs to be alone, then I need to let him."
"C'mon, Benny. Work with me, here."
And indeed this is so generous of Ray, so accepting, that I realise I must do more than argue with him. So I take a deep breath, thank him kindly, and get out of the car with Diefenbaker. He nods in the direction of the apartment door. He knows me so well. He will not leave until I enter the building. I am surprised that he isn't walking me, personally, to Ray's door. I have no choice but to enter. I can leave again when he is gone.
He waits for a few minutes. I thought he would. I lean against the wall in the hallway and close my eyes. Someone is coming down the steps. I open my eyes again. Of course it is Ray. I knew that from Diefenbaker's excited wriggle. Unaccountably I blush.
He is carrying two bags of garbage. He is, of course, surprised to see me.
"Hey, Fraser." His voice is carefully neutral. I must leave.
"Hello, Ray."
"Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what’re you doing?"
I nod towards the parking lot. "Ray Vecchio thought we needed to talk."
He opens his mouth and then shuts it again, clearly speechless.
"I was waiting for him to leave. I know you want to be alone. I was trying to allow you to have that." I look at the floor as I say this, since I know I cannot hide, not from him, how I wish things were different.
"Polite as always, huh, Frase." Now he sounds angry; I’m confused. "Let me take this out, see if the coast is clear so you can bug out." Sarcastic too.
He is shaking his head upon his return. "He's still there. Stalked by cops, Fraser, your usual weirdness."
I can say nothing because I can't trust my voice.
He begins to climb the stairs and Diefenbaker whines, looking up at me. I nod. Diefenbaker begins to follow him.
"No, Dief, stay with Fraser."
"It's . . ." I have to clear my throat. "It's all right, Ray. He wants to. He chooses to live with me. I don't own him. And he is usually quite certain about what he needs."
"Too bad you're not the same way."
What is that supposed to mean? And without thinking, without remembering that we are in a public stairwell, where we can be overhead by any chance-met neighbour, I say simply, "I need you, Ray."
He closes his eyes as his hand grips the banister, hard, narrowing so much that his bracelet falls all the way down his wrist to his hand and clinks against it. That small sound brings his eyes open, and he looks back over his shoulder at me and says, very quietly, "Come on, then." He sounds resigned, still unhappy, but the look on his face belies the tone of his voice.
We enter his apartment and he shuts the door hard, locking it in almost the same motion. Then he turns to me and kisses me, urgently, hard, with no preamble, and seemingly with no affection, and I feel only a desperate drive, overlaid with a raw, aching need. My hands slide down his to his wrists, preventing him from putting his arms around me. He pulls back at this and says, thickly, "What's wrong, Fraser? Isn't this what you need? It's what I need too."
"I need you, Ray," I say, as steadily as I can, as if my heart isn't pounding in my temples. He stares at me for a long moment, intense longing warring with bitter pain in his eyes, and my heart almost skips a beat as I feel my stomach twist in anguish. How can I have caused this man so much pain? Again? What have I done, now?
I do not realise I am still holding his wrists until he jerks his hands away in a frenetic, angry motion. My thumb and forefinger were caught under his bracelet and with no sound at all one link parts company with another and it slides from my hand and his wrist, still joined for a split second by the bracelet. Automatically, my reactions still quick, I catch it before it reaches the floor and close my hand around it. He looks from my hand to my face, and then turns away abruptly.
"I'm sorry, Ray," I hear myself saying, probably the worst thing I could think of to say at this juncture. "I'll fix it."
"That's okay, Fraser." His anger is gone again. He is weary, resigned, back in his shell. "It was an accident. I don't think it really matters anyway."
"I should leave."
"You don't have to." But he doesn't look at me.
"I must," I say firmly. He nods.
"Yeah. Let me go with you, make sure Vecchio's gone."
"Thank you, Ray, but I am perfectly capable of opening a door in a furtive manner to determine whether there is someone on the other side or not."
"Yeah, I know." No grin. He is more withdrawn than ever.
We walk in silence to his apartment house's entrance. I demonstrate my prowess at furtive door-opening. Raymond Vecchio is gone. Ray watches me, still silent, still remote.
"Good night, Ray."
Diefenbaker whines but stands with Ray as I step outside. It has begun to rain.
"Do ya need a ride home, Fraser?" He sounds unwilling and yet concerned.
"No, thank you kindly, Ray. I don't mind rain."
"Figures."
"Good night," I repeat.
"Goodbye, Ben," he says, not quite so remote and sadder than I've ever heard him. I glance back at him, startled. Then I understand.
"Goodbye, Ray." And I am proud that my voice is steady, almost normal, and that I manage to walk away without looking over my shoulder a single time. I am a half a block away when I hear the familiar click of Diefenbaker's nails on the street behind me.
say goodbye on a night like this
if it's the last thing we ever do
you never looked as lost as this
sometimes it doesn't even look like you
it goes dark
it goes darker still
please stay
but i watch you like i'm made of stone
as you walk away
a night like this, robert smith, the cure
I stand watching Fraser and Dief walk down the street for a long time. A lone man. A lone wolf. Can't believe I said that. Can't believe I said that. Why didn't I say what I really wanted to say? Please stay, Ben. Please let me love ya. Please let me in. Please don’t be so damn hurt that Vecchio's leaving again. He's not leaving for good this time, hell, you'll probably see more of him than ya do now. Please don't go away from me, Ben, from us.
A voice beside me says, "At least the wolf knows his duty."
I almost jump outta my skin and jerk my head around to see an old guy, with a funny hat, standing next to me. Looks like one of the rejects Fraser talks to in the park. One of his charity cases. What the hell is he snooping around here for? And what's he got a fur hat on for? It's almost summer.
"Yeah, wolves are like that," I say coldly, and turn to go up the stairs. I look back for a second and the guy's gone. That was weird.
~~
I walk steadily away from Ray, my mind curiously blank, curiously calm, my body and brain devoid, thankfully, of feeling.
The confusion will set in soon, I know this about myself. The doubts, the questions will arise; but at present there is a strange peace.
As my apartment nears the peace begins to drain away and the thoughts begin to circulate in my head despite my attempts to remain blank and calm. A word begins to repeat itself in my head. A word that has lost all meaning in my life, now. Ray. Ray. Ray.
The car is this way, Ray.
I sit at my kitchen table, my mind running in a circular fashion. Every few seconds I try to redirect it to thoughts of the future. A transfer. Ray. A transfer to a remote area of the Territories. Ray. My cabin. Ray. Ray at my cabin.
I will not cry.
Relentlessly I drag my mind back on track. A transfer. The paperwork is at the consulate. Ray, at the consulate, calling my name as if I were his only hope. The thought buoys me for a moment. I did help him. I helped my partner. My friend. My best friend. Was that hard to say? Ray? My best friend with benefits.
Ray.
Transfer.
The thought of Canada seems remote, a dream. Something I can’t quite remember, something at the edge of my consciousness, unable for my brain to grasp, to formulate into a solid idea, a solid thought, a solid memory, a solid future.
Future.
Ray.
Transfer.
Ray.
Diefenbaker whines from under the table. I am still unsure why he chose to come with me tonight and thankfully allow my mind to worry at that problem for a long moment before it returns to its endless circling. I feel his nose push into my lap and into one of the hands clenched there. He whines again, forcing me to open my hand and bury it in his damp fur, warmth beneath the wet, softness, life.
Tears threaten.
I swallow them. I am strong. I am a Mountie. I am too strong to succumb to this weakness.
Two minutes have passed without thoughts of Ray.
Ray.
Canada.
Transfer.
Strength.
Oddly I do not feel strong. I am used to being strong. I am used to people thinking I am strong; another of the lies I have lived. I am weak inside, not strong enough for us. For Ray.
I will try not to breathe.
I can hold my head still with my hands at my knees.
These eyes are the eyes of the old, shiver and fold.
"Try Not to Breathe," Automatic For the People, R.E.M.
~~
I'm not sleeping too well but I finally doze off and start dreaming about that guy in the fur hat, of all people. You'd think I could at least be with Ben in my dreams, but no, my subconscious has to go with old freaks.
He's sitting on my bed and he's telling me a long incomprehensible story about some guy named Muldoon and how it was Ben's dad's fault Fraser's mom is dead (and I'm seeing that maybe the whole guilt thing is just plain hereditary), and how he went away from Fraser, too, left him alone all his life. Then he switches to Ben's favourite story, the caribou one. And then I get it. I'm dreaming about Ben's dad. This is my life. Ben's dad's ghost sitting on my bed at two a.m. talking about caribou. And I don't have the heart to tell him I heard the one about the ledge already.
But the dream is unsettling enough that I wake up and see that it really is two a.m. And I get up, and walk around restlessly for a few minutes. After all, I wasn't sleeping, before, when the old guy said the wolf knew his duty. Like I don't. What duty, anyhow? It's not my duty to love Ben. Or vice versa. What kinda duty could I have towards Ben that his dad doesn't think I'm fulfilling?
"Fer keeps," I say hoarsely, then, realising. That it can't ever be goodbye, for us. For me. But Fraser thinks it can. Can't think anything else, really, that's his whole life experience, after all. I don't even remember getting dressed or tearing outta the parking lot with all the demons of hell after me.
There's no light in Fraser's place, just the glow from the streetlights through the windows. It's dark. I look in his bedroom first. No Fraser, no Dief. Go back out to the living room and see the bedroll, tightly rolled, in its usual place next to the wall by the fireplace. I look around again and hear, finally, a soft whuffle from Dief, somewhere near the window, which is, as is usual for the crazy Mountie, open. And raings still pelting in. I walk closer, intending to close it, and see Ben, beneath the window, leaning against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms loosely clasped around them, his head on his knees. He's asleep. And I see, in a picture my head can't make sense of for a minute, a metallic gleam around his right wrist. My bracelet. Not long enough to go twice around his wrist. He did fix it.
I step closer and can't make sense out of it, the puddle on the floor that seems to be a lot of water in one place, and is darker than water, and then the smell hits me: it's blood, and in a wordless scream I throw myself at Ben, knocking him backwards onto the floor, my hands going to his wrists instinctively. He's as efficient at this as he is at everything, long vertical gashes on each, in just the right place. But he's still warm and he's still breathing, and there is a lot of blood on the floor but it's still pumping, or trying to, through my fingers. Dief whines again, totally lost, totally confused, belly to the floor, ears flat, tail nowhere in sight. In a panic, I straddle Ben, putting one knee to each wrist for the hardest, most direct pressure I can think of, while my hands, slippery with blood, fumble with my cell phone. 911, how hard can it be, Kowalski?
His eyelids flutter as I fumble with the phone, and then he looks up at me, dazed, and smiles that angel's smile, and says, "'All other things, to their destruction draw; Only our love hath no decay.'"
Is that insane Mountie quoting Donne at me? When he's dying? I finally hear the phone ring. "Fraser," I say urgently. "Fraser!" But he's closed his eyes again, his mouth gently smiling.
Blood dries fast. It's sticking to my fingers and the phone as I wait for an answer. Finally. I cut her off. "Chicago PD, got an attempted suicide at 317 Placeholder. Victim's still breathing, was conscious a few seconds ago."
"What sort of attempt, sir?"
"Slash. Both wrists, vertical."
"How much blood has the victim lost?"
The victim. Fraser. Ben. I close my eyes in brief anguish. "A half pint, maybe more."
"An ambulance is on its way. Are you trained in CPR?"
"I'm a cop!" I snap and look down at Ben again, ghostly pale, still breathing.
"Are you still there?"
"Yeah."
"Would you like me to stay on the line with you until the ambulance gets there?"
Yes. No. "Is there anything else I can be doing?"
"Have you managed to slow the bleeding?"
"Yeah. Got 150 pounds of pressure on his wrists."
Silence while she absorbs that image. "Good." A glint of humanity. "Are you all right?"
"What do you think?"
Silence again. Then, "Do you hear the ambulance yet, sir?"
"No."
"Can you give me your name, department?"
"Ray Kowalski, detective first grade, 27th Detective Division."
"How did you find him?"
I had a dream about a crazy Mountie's dead father. Deliberately I misunderstand her. "On the floor under an open window." Sitting in the rain, my bracelet around his wrist.
"And do you know the victim?"
Ben. His name is Ben. "Benton Fraser. He's a cop too."
A brief exhalation, not quite a sigh. Yeah. They've had this call before. She asks me another question. Trying to keep me talking, trying to keep me from panicking. I"ve never felt so clear headed. "Is he attached to the 27th as well?"
"No. He's a Mountie. He's attached to the Canadian Consulate here in Chicago."
As if he hears the conversation, I see Ben's eyelids flutter. "Fraser! Fraser, buddy! You hear me?"
But his eyelids don't open and he sighs a little sigh as he turns his head slightly to one side. Terror grips my heart. I drop the phone, don't even realise it. "Fraser. Hang on. Ambulance is coming, buddy!"
And then I feel him jerk under me. Feel for a pulse. Lose too much blood, the heart stops. That's how this works. He's gonna stop breathing in a few seconds. I start CPR, almost automatically. Keep that heart pumping blood. Ben's blood. Ben's heart. The heart big enough to carry the world, but not us. Not our love. Not me. One two push rest hope he doesn't stop breathing I'm afraid to get off his arms. And finally I hear the sirens. He's still breathing. Come on, Ben, come on. And realise I am chanting "Come on come on come on." Chest massage is working, he hasn't shut down all the way.
Firefighters first, the paramedics right behind them. Not sure how we're gonna do this. I keep up the CPR, nodding at his arms. One of 'em lifts my left knee, putting pressure on Fraser's biceps. The bleeding has stopped.
"Hypovolemic shock," the one says to the other. He's got the other arm now, bandaging it good and hard, while the first one takes over CPR. And then I look up to the doorway to see Welsh standing there, in jeans and a sweatshirt, his face paler than I've ever seen it. I kinda stumble to my feet and he crosses the room to grab my arm. How the hell did he know?
"Police scanner," he says, answering the question in my eyes. "How did you know?"
I'm too tired, too scared, too spent to lie. "I had a dream."
The paramedics are talking in low voices. They don't sound happy. "At least a pint, maybe more,' one's saying. "We're gonna have to do it all the way there."
Welsh looks at me and slowly takes out his cell phone. "I'd better call Inspector Thatcher."
I shake my head.
"She's his next of kin, or was," Welsh says, almost gently.
"Yeah. Okay. She'll know how to reach Maggie."
Maggie. Shit. Oh, God, Ben, please be all right.
They've got him on the stretcher now, they're starting to take him out. I follow automatically. So does Welsh. So does Dief. We get to the ambulance and Dief jumps in before the rest of them.
"Hey, no dogs!"
"It's a wolf," Welsh says. "And I'm not gonna tell him he can't ride."
Apparently they're not either but they take it out on me a minute later when I try to get in.
"Where are you going? Only family."
Again Welsh intervenes. "His only family is in Canada. That's his partner. Let him go."
"We're not supposed - '
"Gentleman, a man is seriously injured, maybe dying, and you're worried about whether his partner, the guy who called you, can ride the bus or not?" He turns to me and barks, "Get in."
They don't argue this time.
"I'll meet you there," Welsh says to me, and walks to his car, already dialing his cell phone.
By the time they get Fraser into surgery, Thatcher's arrived too, and Vecchio. Guess Welsh called him. They both try to talk to me, Vecchio even tries to put an arm around my shoulder but I shake him off. I gotta keep moving. Dief paces with me.
"Did you call Maggie?" I remember to ask. Thatcher nods.
"She's probably on her way."
They come pretty soon and tell us what's happening. They got him stitched. They're transfusing him. They're worried because they can't get his heart back into a regular rhythm and of course he's not breathing on his own. They don't know if his kidneys are functioning or not. He lost almost two pints of blood. And I look down at my hands, my shirt, my jeans, covered in Fraser's blood, and suddenly, without warning, I puke all over the waiting room couch. Welsh takes me to the can, helps me get cleaned up. Never seen this side of him before.
"He's a strong man," he says to me.
"Yeah." Not strong enough. Not strong enough for us.
We go back out. Vecchio's already gotten someone to clean the place up.
Thatcher comes over and says to me, "The fact that he was still conscious when you found him is a good sign. His circulation probably wasn’t severely impaired."
These are so many words to me. I look at her and nod.
Vecchio's standing next to me. I didn't even notice. He hands me a cup of coffee. And a bag of M & Ms. My fingers go numb and I drop the whole thing spilling coffee all over me and him and I turn blindly, looking for the door. Gotta get out. Hear Welsh say, "No, let him go."
I get outside and stand taking deep breaths of the night air. After a few minutes I feel a little more in control. Welsh comes out then.
"Feeling any better?"
"Yeah."
"They got the heartbeat stabilised. They're worried about the kidneys. He's not out of the woods yet. " This strangely makes me feel better than artificial hope would. "You gonna stay?"
I look at him, puzzled. Where would I go?
He shakes his head. "Stupid question."
Vecchio and Thatcher stay too. Welsh stays until about seven and then heads home to get changed and go to the station.
There isn't much talking going on. Thatcher's cell phone rings a lot. Vecchio's rings a couple of times. I left mine in Ben's apartment. Covered in Ben's blood. I shudder involuntarily.
Thatcher sees it but doesn't comment. She sits down next to me and takes one of my hands. Hers is warm. Warmer than I thought it would be.
"Maggie's on her way. She should be here in a few hours," she says quietly.
How can I face Maggie? How can Vecchio even look at me, let alone feel sorry for me, which he obviously does?
"Do you want to talk about it?" Thatcher asks. Reluctantly. I know she's glad when I shake my head. Emotions are Bad Things in Thatcher's book.
Time moves by, somehow. Fraser's still in a coma. Still on a respirator. Kidneys are apparently acting up. They're talking dialysis already.
I only realise how much time has passed when I see Maggie come through the door. She was booking to get here. Ignores everyone else in the room, just walks over to me and holds me. Oh God.
"How is he?" she asks Thatcher, over my shoulder.
I can see Thatcher shake her head out of the corner of my eye. Maggie slumps a little.
"Can't we see him?" she asks.
"He's in a coma," Vecchio says. "He's not stable."
"Evidently," Maggie says. God, she is so like Fraser it's breaking me in two. She releases me and goes to the nurse. The nurse shakes her head. Maggie keeps talking. A doctor joins them. Shakes his head. Maggie keeps talking. Another doctor, one I recognise from the emergency room. He must be in charge because after he listens to Maggie and nods, the other two step back. Maggie turns and motions to me. "Come on."
The nurse starts to say something. Maggie says, quite clearly, "I am his next of kin, so it's my decision." And takes me by the hand as we follow the doctor down the corridor.
Fraser is deathly pale, doesn't look like himself. Maggie leans over him, says in his ear, "Ben, it's Maggie. I'm here." She pulls me over. "Tell him you're here."
"Hey, Frase," I say awkwardly. He heard me before, when he was under the influence of that curare root or whatever the hell it was.
Maggie says, "Ben, you've got to be strong. You've got to come back."
She's holding one of his hands and she nods at me to take the other. I see my bracelet still on his wrist. Why'd they leave it on? How'd they bandage around it? Slide my fingers under it. And then the tears start coming.
Maggie looks at me for a minute and then hands me a tissue. Sensible Maggie.
"Ben," she says again. And she looks around the room. I look too. She doesn't seem to see anything. I don't see a shimmer. Yeah, he won't be back, won't show up to me. I blew it. Blew my duty to his son. "Talk," she says to me.
"Maggie, I don't think he wants to hear me."
"Ray, you are extremely stupid. Talk, please, now."
So I do. "Fraser, Fraser, Ben. Come on, Fraser. Come on, ya big dumb Mountie." Dief stands up with his front paws on the bed and whines. His heart monitor picks up but he doesn't stir or open his eyes.
There's only one chair. I push it over to Maggie, who shakes her head and continues to stand by Fraser, every so often saying his name
They give us a few more minutes before they shoo us back out. Vecchio and Thatcher look up hopefully as we return, only to have those hopes dashed as Maggie shakes her head. More time passes. Then we hear some scuffling, some rushing, some beeping. A few minutes later Dief sits up just like one of those pictures and howls.
My heart breaks in two. He howls again and I already know what they're coming to tell us. Dief gets to his feet and runs to the door. Not the door to Ben. He's running for the outside doors. Without thinking I follow him.
He's running at a steady trot. Not too fast for me to keep up but he knows where he's going and he's purposeful, steady. After a few minutes I realise we're heading for the lake. What's he doing?
We get to the park and he heads without stopping to the beach, then to the breakwater. "Dief, NO!" I shout, and I sprint for him, but he's too fast. He's running out the breakwater now and without a pause he leaps off the end into the water and starts swimming. Swimming out into the lake. Oh God. And I’m following him, my feet moving of their own volition, when I hear a voice say, "Ray!" behind me, and I am tackled from behind, rolling both of us into the shallow water. It's Maggie, of course. I catch a glimpse of red serge as she comes down on me and see her Stetson go flying into the lake.
"I'm so sorry, Ray," she says breathlessly. "But let him go. He knows what he needs." And she sounds like Fraser and she smells like Fraser and she looks like Fraser and those are some of the last words Fraser said to me and my senses are overwhelmed and they just shut down and I feel the words coming through the sobs. "He was… he was the most beautiful person I ever knew. And he thought that because he wasn't perfect, he wasn't good enough. He thought he just wasn't good enough."
Now she's crying too. And we cry together and hold each other for what seems like hours.
"I'm sorry, Maggie," I finally whisper. "I'm so sorry."
She gets up on her hands to look at me in amazement.
"You? Why? This is not your fault, Ray. This was his fault. His choice. And you should be angry with him, not yourself. I am furious with him!"
I never could stay mad at Ben, and in a voice that doesn't sound like mine, shaky and exhausted, I say that. Her face crumples up and she collapses back onto me as sobs shake her body and mine, again.
We are finally interrupted by Vecchio and Thatcher. Vecchio's eyes are bright red and swollen and I think Thatcher's are too.
"I'm sorry, Maggie," Thatcher says in a low voice, "but you're needed at the hospital. There are decisions."
Maggie climbs off me and helps me up. Vecchio comes over to brush sand off me. "Dief?" he asks in a low voice. I shake my head.
"Yeah. I had a feeling." And he turns away but not before I see a tear rolling down his cheek. It is all I can do to hold mine in. Probably most of 'em are gone by now. I feel empty and meaningless inside. Like it doesn't matter whether I walk or fall where I stand.
I feel Vecchio put his arm around me and start leading me to his car. Thatcher and Maggie are ahead of us. Thatcher isn't saying anything. Maggie's walking with her head erect but I can tell it's an effort. She didn't get her Stetson. I break away from Vecchio and run back to the beach. Suddenly finding her hat is more important than anything else is. Luckily it's washed up on the beach a little way down. Vecchio followed me and nods at my glance. Thatcher and Maggie are waiting in the car when we get there, and Maggie takes her hat without a word and puts it on her lap, her fingers playing with the brim, just like Fraser used to do. And the tears come outta nowhere again. I thought they were all gone. No one says anything. Maggie leans forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. Vecchio is trying not to cry, himself.
At the hospital the two Mounties handle everything. I hear Maggie donating Fraser's organs right and left. Yeah. He'd want that. Thatcher starts talking about funerals. He's not even cold yet. "No," I say, violently, harshly. She stops in surprise and looks at me. I look at Maggie. "Don't put him in the ground, Maggie," I say. "Please."
She comes over and puts a hand on my cheek. "You don't need to say please, Ray. Whatever you want. You know. I'm just trying to make this a little easier for you."
"Yeah, Maggie. But he would want to be at the cabin."
"Okay, Ray. We can do that." And she pats my cheek before turning back to Thatcher.
I want to see him but that's probably not a good idea. It'll just underline what I've lost. What we've all lost.
"Let me take you home," Vecchio says to me. I shake my head violently.
"No, my house. Come on, Kowalski. Come home with me."
I shake my head again. There's nowhere I want to be. I just don't want to be here at all.
In a voice I don't recognise as my own, I say, "No. I'm gonna go home."
"Let me take you, " Vecchio says again. I don't want to argue. I don't care.
Maggie comes over and hugs me again. "I have to go to the Consulate. I'll see you soon, Ray."
These simple words threaten to set off tears again. I just nod.
Vecchio takes me to my apartment and I look at him, puzzled. "Home, I said."
He gets it. Closes his eyes in pain. "No, Kowalski, I don't think that's a good idea."
I get out of the Riviera. "Thanks for the ride."
And I set off on foot, the same way Fraser walked not 24 hours ago, his wolf at his heels.
The smell of blood is still strong at Ben's place. It's a stench. Sometimes it takes two or three washes to get that smell out of your clothes. Sometimes it's easier to just throw them away. And I see Fraser's leather jacket over the back of the kitchen chair, and I grab it, and wrap myself in it. And see an envelope on the table, addressed to me. Underneath is one to Maggie.
"Ray," it begins abruptly, "this is a cowardly choice. This is a choice that leaves you with no solutions. I am sorry for that, as I am sorry for so many, many things. And this is a cowardly death. I hope that you can remember that at least I lived with honour. And know that I loved you. And Ray, take comfort, when you can, in the thought that I do not fear this death."
And I am sobbing all over again.
I wake up to hear Maggie's voice saying my name. Just like Fraser. "Ray. Ray." I am curled up in a ball on the kitchen floor with Fraser's note held to my chest.
"Ray, what is it?"
Speechless, I hold out the letter. And nod to the table. She sees her name and her eyes widen. I get up to give her some privacy to read it. Find a bucket and a sponge under the sink. And feel them taken from my hand.
'No, Ray."
"He wouldn't like the mess, Maggie," I say, frustrated.
"Then he shouldn't have made it," she snaps. "Ray, there will be an investigation. We shouldn't be here. We shouldn't have touched those notes."
"I don't give a flying fuck," I tell her, instinctively holding the note closer to my chest.
She sags. "I know. Me either. Let's clean up."
She finds soap too and we are heading out of the kitchen when the door opens. It's Welsh, and his face falls when he sees us. "I got people coming to do that, " he says. "Come on."
"No," I say. "It's my responsibility. My fault."
"It's not, Ray," Maggie says, angrily.
Welsh is more direct. He grabs me, shakes me. "Kowalski, I don't want to hear that coming out of your mouth ever again." He grabs the bucket and sponge from me and heads to the window. I follow. And watch. His shoulders shake from time to time. It takes me a while to realise he's crying. Crying for what? For the son he never had? For the son he wished was Ben? For Ben, who's dead.
And stare at the floor, scrubbed clean. Stare for a while. No more traces of him there. Hear Maggie and Welsh talking. They're arguing about something but I have no energy to listen, to make sense of their words. Sounds like they resolved it. Not like me.
"Ray," Maggie says, gently touching my shoulder, "Lieutenant Welsh is going to get us some dinner. I'll stay here with you tonight." Of course she says "Lieutenant' the same way Fraser does. Did. And the damn tears spill over again. She leads me to the couch, pushes me down.
"If you need to talk, Ray, I'm here."
"You probably need to talk as bad as I do," I say, looking up at her. She sighs.
"Probably not, Ray."
Another silence, broken only by my sniffling.
"His will was at the Consulate,' she says abruptly. "He left it all to you, Ray."
"The cabin? The journals? Those should be yers, Maggie. You take 'em."
"Ray, he made copies. Not of the cabin, of course. But the journals; I've had them a while."
Yeah, I remember now he said something about that while we were there. And did it, without fuss. That's how he was. He just did what had to be done. Like last night.
She continues without looking at me, as if reciting a memo.
"The memorial service is going to be tomorrow. He'll be cremated after that. You and I are booked on a flight the next day so we can take his ashes to the cabin. I can't think of anything else to do. Is there anyone he would have wanted at the memorial service?"
"Everyone. Or no one."
She considers that. "Yes."
Welsh is back soon with dinner. Not pizza. Not Chinese. I'll never be able to eat those again. He went to a diner, got burgers and stuff. He watches us eat for a while, and then says to Maggie, "I'll see you tomorrow. You too, Kowalski. Don't worry about your leave."
After he leaves Maggie and I don't say much. She makes a move a couple of times toward his closet and then stops herself as if she can't or won't face that yet.
At last she looks at me and, forcing a smile, asks, "Do we flip for the couch?"
"Maggie, you take the bed." Couch has a lot fewer memories. We didn't have it long. We didn't have any of this for long. She doesn't argue with me, just heads to the bedroom and closes the door.
I wake up screaming Ben's name at the top of my lungs. It's 2 a.m. I probably woke every one in the neighbourhood. And Maggie is there, holding me, stroking my head, as I shudder in her arms.
"Ray, come to bed with me."
I jerk upright, push her away. "Maggie, hell, no!"
She sighs. "Ray. I didn't mean that. Just that I want to hold someone. And I know you do too. Let's be there for each other. That's all we have tonight."
She's right and she's right too that it does make a difference. We finally fall back asleep, our hands clasped in the middle of Fraser's narrow bed. And I sleep until morning. And I wake, forgetting what happened, only knowing there is a warm body next to mine, still smelling Fraser's scent on the pillow, and I reach over with a smile, and touch softness, instead of hard muscle, and the memories come rushing back and I jump up like I was just shot.
She's waking, still sleepy, and looks confused.
"What is it?" she asks, all fuzzy voiced.
"Nothing. It's nothing, Maggie. Gotta go to the can." And I practically run down the hall and stand inside the bathroom door, shaking. Shower. I should shower. I forgot my clothes. There's no Mountie to forget to bring me my underwear. I thought by now for sure I had finished with the crying. I haven't.
Eventually I pull myself together and get a shower. Maggie's made coffee but no breakfast. She doesn't know what to fix. All I want is coffee. I grab a cup on the way to the closet to get dressed. Maggie heads for the shower, getting a robe on the way.
It hurts to see her in the Mountie uniform. But it's a good hurt. She's a good Mountie.
"Where do we gotta go now?" I ask.
She hesitates. "The - the funeral home, Ray, but you don't - "
"I'm cool, Maggie."
We're driving there and I ask her without thinking about it, just like I did with Fraser, "Do you think I'm nuts to want to see him? Now, I mean?"
She considers before answering. "No. I think it helped me, with Casey. And I want to see him too, so if so, we are nuts together." And she smiles at me. Fraser's smile. I blink hard to clear my eyes.
She's right. It helps. He looks remote, cold, but I can see that he's not there anymore, that Fraser is gone, and that maybe next time around, if that's how it works, he'll realise that he's fine the way he is and doesn't have to be perfect for people to love him. And I control myself for all of five minutes this time. It's progress.
I don't remember the memorial service much. The only thing that sticks in my mind is Quinn quoting a poem that is so Ben it sticks in my head for a long time. It starts out, "If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance, run." Yeah. That's Fraser. Was. He gave it his all and then some. With spades.
I don't remember much about the journey to the cabin. Maggie handles it all, with that frightening Mountie efficiency. And we almost have a good time, or at least a peaceful time, spreading his ashes with Eric's help.
But that night in the cabin the memories are hard to keep at bay. Fraser's eyes and the stars. The bull moose. Walden. My best friend, my lover, is dead. And Maggie holds me as I sob myself to sleep on the bedroll.
In the night I wake to a touch. I know now it's not Ben's. It's Maggie's.
"What…" I ask.
"Oh, Ray," she says, softly, with a tremble. "I just like to touch you. I'm sorry."
I turn to face her. "Maggie, I can't give you anything. Anything. I can't even give you tomorrow."
"I'll take what I can get," she says quietly, and I realise that what she told me, last time we were here, wasn't quite the truth. She wasn't in love with me in Chicago, but she was a lot closer to it in Canada than she let on. Oh, Maggie.
And with a sense of futility . . . I guess I never could say no to those Frasers . . . I lower my head to kiss her. It's not difficult. I already knew that. She even tastes a little like Ben.
And before I know it, I am responding to her urgency with my own. No stars, no fireworks, but a release, a sweet release, and she sighs into my mouth in her own.
The next morning, she asks again, with her eyes, and I can't say no to those eyes. She comes back with me to Chicago. She's still on leave. Still settling affairs. Will has to be proven, stuff like that. Fraser has a lot of money too. More than we knew. His dad's account, the one that Fraser thought was set up to frame him, we decide to give to the local Inuit village, the one displaced by the dam. And while Maggie's handling the rest of it, I'm taking care of my own stuff. Never thought about a will before. Time to think of that now. I go back to work. It's easy to do. I'm not worried about anything. And Maggie is there every night, never demanding, but there. I'm starting to figure stuff out now.
I overhear an argument between Vecchio and Welsh. Vecchio wants me relieved. Says I'm walking dead. I can't hear Welsh's response but I'm sure it's along the lines of giving me something to do. But I know what I gotta do.
I finally tell Maggie. She has to know. She probably does.
"You are missing half your soul," she says matter-of-factly. I have never come closer to loving her than at that moment.
"I'm sorry you couldn't be my half," I say.
"And I, Ray," she says, and that echo of him nearly brings tears to my eyes. But I'm over that.
"Besides you gotta go north soon again."
She nods. "And your parents?"
I nod too.
"It's just you, " I say.
She leans in to kiss me quickly. "You have given me more than I ever thought possible. You have a generous soul, Ray, and both Ben and I were honoured to have you as a friend."
We don't talk about it after that and try to enjoy her last few days in Chicago. When the time comes to leave, she is sad, but she is glowing too and I know she is looking forward to going home. And I wish I could have taken Fraser to Canada and stayed there. But that way lies madness and I am calm. So I kiss her goodbye, and Thatcher actually unbends enough to hug her. Vecchio hugs her too, and whispers something in her ear. Her eyes widen and she blushes. And my heart turns over, and I grab her again, and kiss her. God I think I miss his blushes most of all. She smiles at me, so sweetly, and touches my cheek, and then my lips, and then leaves. She doesn't look back either.
And I am happy, for a moment, knowing that we settled it between us and the phone call, or the telegram, won't come as a surprise, when I find my opportunity, a few days later, to get in a crackhead's face and take a bullet for another cop. I forgot my vest. And it hurts for a minute, hurts a lot, and then there's no more pain, just the stars and Ben's eyes.
oOo
The poem Quinn reads is “If,” by Rudyard Kipling:
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!