Disclamer: To my endless dismay, this characters don't belong to me. However, no harm was intended on the creation of this story. This is a very sappy and somehow sad story, so have a box of Kleenex near you, sit back and relax. Any feedback would be greatelly appreciated. Thank You Kindly ;)
Getting Things Straight
by Zhirea
All that surrounded him was silence. A white, immaterial silence, something out of the reality he had come to know so well. A flash of light was glowing from under a closed door. A light so pure and luring that he started to walk towards it, reaching his hand to take the doorknob, when he heard that voice...
- You don't want that door.
- I don't? - he asked warily
- No, son! The one from the right - replied the voice he recognized as his father's.
When he opened it, he found the splendid sight of his Northwest Territories. All pines, cold breeze and snow... vast extensions of his beloved snow. Standing near the door was his father, Sergeant Robert Fraser.
- Come here, Benton. I have to talk to you.
He obeyed his father's command, walking by his side when suddenly a cabin seemed to raise from the very earth, where all there was before was all that white. Majestically, the cabin seemed comfortable and the wooden door opened by itself. Impressed, he feared to walk in. A firm grasp on his hand startled him as he saw his father leading him inside. That hand, that dead hand, felt quite lively, warm and strong.
Once they walked inside, Fraser found a vision from the past: the cabin they all lived in when he was little. The same cabin where his mother made delicious biscuits just to treat him, for he was the only one who ate them. But this vision had something that reality had lacked: there was his father, that man that spent countless months in the Tundra, the same man he feared so many times to be lost forever when suddenly he came back, bringing gifts and a wave of hope at his wake.
- What's this, Dad? - he asked looking at his father's eyes.
- This is what I would've wanted to do when I was alive. To read a book by the chimney, while your mother baked in the kitchen and you played by my side. Of course, reality was a lot more bitter than that.
- You don't say - he mocked him, both ironic and disgusted.
- Come on, son, I know we haven't talked about it as we should.
- Why do we have to talk about it? You left me, there's no question there. You left me with Grandma and took off after Mom died.
- I had my reasons.
- Yeah, I know. But somehow, Dad, that's not good enough.
Fraser Sr. sighed, leaning against the door frame, looking at the ideal memory. A little boy with eyes of sky was now seated on his father's knees, showing him a toy. The man smiled and brushed his son's hair, wavy and black as ebony, and looked proud of the little tyke that was mumbling something about dragons, knights and illusions. When he looked at his now grown son, he found that his eyes were filled with tears, looking at the vision, too. Longing for those moments that he knew would never be real. Now rage rushed through his blood when he turned around and faced his father, speaking in a tone no one had heard before:
- Why do you hurt me like this? Is this some kind of sick joke?
- No, Ben. I just wanted you to see what I would've liked to do for you and your mother. After I lost her, I lost myself. I couldn't look at your eyes, knowing that I wasn't able to protect you nor her. I couldn't look at your rejection or your shame.
- I was seven years old, Dad! How could I reject you? I came to know the story almost thirty years later! That is what ashames me. That you couldn't tell me yourself. I had to hear it from Muldoon's lips... and to think that he killed my mother... - he chocked with tears, his whole frame shaking and his face dreadfully pale.
- What was the use for you to know, Benton? I died and I couldn't join your mother for trying to kill him. I tried to take his life, son. That's what keeps me from moving on.
- I would've killed the son of a bitch myself.
- Then you haven't learned nothing of all this... I have wasted my time.
- I don't give a damn about what you think.
- Now, son. Is hate that's taking for you.
- No, Dad! For once, it's me who's talking.
He paused, trying to get a grip on himself. He looked around, seizing every detail, looking for his mother but he wasn't able to find her, although he heard her singing on the kitchen.
- I want to see Mom - he begged.
- We can't go pass this door. It's forbidden.
- Oh, yeah? Watch me - he confronted him, taking a step forward. An instant later, a lacerating pain on his chest made him groan, dropping on his knees. His father looked at him inexpressively.
- You could have warned me - he said gasping for air.
- You wouldn't listen.
- Damn you, Bob - he said when he could stand on his feet again. - Damn you for doing this to me. For showing yourself to me after you were dead. For driving me crazy because, I know now, you're just a figment of my imagination. You can't be real to expect me to forgive you!
- Benton, just listen to me. I've been by your side every time you needed me.
- I needed you when you were alive, not now. I grew up alone. Sure, Grandma was there, but that wasn't what I wanted, Dad. I wanted you to teach me. I needed you. And now I hate every time you show up, expecting me to follow your every command, talking to me in riddles like some fortune cookie. I'm tired of it. I can't get along with my life because every time I want to be alone, you're there.
- That was part of the job description, wasn't it? To be there when you were hurting, to show you my support? You're letting yourself die, Benton. You aren't fighting. And I can't let you make the same mistakes I made.
- What do you know about me? - he yelled at him, trembling with anger - You know nothing. You are stealing my peace! Did it ever occurred to you that all the time you were alive and I didn't talked to you was because I didn't wanted to? You never let me be part of your life, and now that I want you out of mine, you are doing this. Showing me your perfect little dream. Well, to hell with it! - he hissed at him, turning his back and walking outside, without looking back. Tears of rage and sadness rolled down his cheeks. And the need of kicking the hell out of his father came up on his mind just when he saw his old man standing in front of him.
- Let me through - he demanded, hate glowing on his eyes.
- I can't do that.
- I don't want to hurt you, but I swear I will, Dad. Get out of the way!
- I would love to see you try - his father challenged him, standing firmly in front of his son.
That was the last nail on the coffin. Fraser stood up tall in front of his father, overpowering him with his stature. He raised his fists, expecting the man in front of him to say something rational, but instead of that, for waiting he didn't saw the punch coming right to his face. The pain was overwhelming, and he felt hot, sticky blood coming out of his nose. It was more his surprise than his anger. He didn't wait for the second one, so he took cover and saw his father on the eyes, mumbling:
- You punched me.
- Yes, I did - he answered impassively.
- Why?
- Well, you're obviously bigger than I am, so I wasn't waiting for you to 'kick the hell out of me'.
- So, now that you know, is my turn - he said with an angry smile playing on his lips. The second punch, he didn't saw it either. Now he was on his knees, holding his stomach, with his forehead fallen on the snow.
- Had enough? - asked his father, looking at the pathetic scene.
- How could you? - Fraser managed to say between gasps.
- You would've done the same, son. Take this as a Life's lesson. Don't think, just do.
- We finished? - asked Bob when his son rose from the ground, after taking a handful of snow and using it to wash his face.
- Dad, what's the meaning of all this? How can you actually touch me? Where am I? - he demanded, looking around for answers.
- You're on the Other Side.
- Does that mean that I'm dead?
- Technically.
- What do you mean by that? - he asked fearfully.
- Well, the way I see it, you were shot on the head. You've been lying on a hospital bed for months, now. And I say that you're technically dead because you're a veggie. Well, you're on vegetative state. You follow? - he asked, but Fraser could just nod, almost in terror. When did this happen, he asked to himself. Why? He had never been sloppy... how could he get shot?
- You're not Superman, son - his father mocked him, like he was reading his thoughts. - You were on a stakeout with the American, and bang, you got shot. If it's of any consolation, Vecchio shot the guy right down in the spot. In fact, they had to take him out of the guy. He seemed like tearing the corpse apart.
- Where's Ray?
- He's right there with you - his father pointed through the door from where Fraser had walked in. The Mountie re-entered the corridor and, to his left, there was a crystal wall from there it could be seen a hospital room. Machines were monitoring every impulse from the man laying on the bed. He didn't have to see to recognize himself. Then his attention was deviated toward the right side of the bed and there he was, his brother and friend Ray. The Italian was holding a book, and reading out loud. Reading for him. He had the book in one hand, and with the other he was holding his hand.
- It has been like that for almost a month - his father told him, looking too at the image displaying in front of them. - They wanted to put you off the machines, but Ray wouldn't let them. He's hoping for a miracle, and that's where you come in.
- How?- he mumbled under his breath, after tears started to cloud his eyes again.
- You have three options. You can let yourself die and go wherever you're destined to go. I don't know where, I hope it's Heaven. Your second option is to step inside the cabin and join that 'perfect little dream', like you called it.
- But I tried! You said it was forbidden...
- It was. Now you know what's happening. If you decide by free will to go there, you can.
- What's the third option?
- Go through the glass and live again. But I have to warn you: I don't know how's your body, son. I don't know if it's functional or, if you go back, you'll have a permanent damage. Doctors can't know for sure. They're basically waiting for the miracle the Italian has been praying for, or that he just gives up and let them disconnect you.
- But Ray has the power to decide over my life?
- You gave it to him. Remember when you wanted to go away with Victoria? Remember the letter you left for him on Diefenbaker's cage?
- Yes, but I...
- Well, on that letter you said that if something happened to you, he was the one to make decisions about what to do. You trusted him blindly. And that's the same trust that keeps him from letting you go. He trusts you to go back.
- But what if I get prostrated in bed?
- Remember that the decision is yours. I'm afraid those are the only options I can offer to you. So, make up your mind now - Bob said, looking at the horizon. The sun was about to set. Benton saw the cabin lowering inside the ground, slow but constantly. Also, the image that could be seen through the crystal wall was changing: doctors were rushing inside the room, and Ray was watching desperately the scene, trying to keep them at bay. He even drawn his gun and pointed it at them, shouting something he couldn't hear. And the light that could be seen from underneath the first door he saw at the beginning was getting dim.
- What's this? I have to decide now? - Fraser groaned, looking alternatively at the three options he was given.
- Yes! We don't have much time - Bob reminded him, looking at the sun. Seeing the confusion on his son's face, he put his hand on his broad back and said tenderly:
- Ben, this is the only way for you to do the right thing. Whatever you decide to do is going to change your fate forever, but you must know that you can't ever go back. But I'm here to guide you even though when I... well, when we were alive I wasn't of much help for you. Now I'll be by your side, like it was meant to be.
After a short silence, Fraser just gave in, gazing into his father's eyes:
- Well, you have been there every time I've needed you. And even when I didn't want you around, you were there too. I want you to know that I appreciate it. And one last thing, Dad: I got mad at you because I love you. I know it sounds incoherent, but that's the best I can do with so little time. I do love you. I understand, and I also forgive you. I say this from the bottom of my heart... you believe me, right? - he insisted, looking desperately at his father. For all answer, Fraser Sr. held his son tightly, like he never did when he was alive. Tears were rolling from his eyes, too. He had finally found peace, even if it was at the end. Loosing the embrace, Bob looked up to his son's face, smiled and then kissed him on the forehead.
- I won't say I'm sorry for beating you, because I'm not - he grinned mischievously - I figured that a couple of punches would get things straight.
- Oh, yes - Ben answered laughing, rubbing his nose. I won't forget. Don't think, just do.
- That's right. Well, time to go. What would it be, Ben?
Constable Benton Fraser looked for the last time the three options. The sun could be barely seen, sinking on the edge of the ground.
He ran, and then jumped. He fell through what seemed to be a bottomless pit.
*************
All sounds faded. After coming inside the hospital room, Capt. Welsh disarmed Detective Ray Vecchio, and made him sit. The Italian was looking at the long figure stretched in the bed.
He looked like a fallen angel. His skin was now paler than snow, his lips curved in a strange smile. His eyes of blue, closed. Ray, not able to look at the scene anymore, covered his face with his hands and sobbed uncontrollably. Welsh was standing by his side, trying to comfort him through his own tears:
- C'mon, Vecchio. You know this is the best. You couldn't keep him alive for all eternity... he was just suffering. Hooked to all those machines... you've been very strong, but it was time to let go.
- But what will I do without him, Cap?! He was my conscience!! - he shouted, twisting his hands with a mixture of desperation and rage.
- I know. It's hard to lose a partner.
- He wasn't just my partner, Cap. He was my brother.
- I understand. But look at this as an act of mercy.
The morgue crew walked inside the room and waited respectfully at one side. Welsh saw them first, for what he took Ray from his wrist and pulled him to his feet, mumbling:
- Come on, son, let's get outta here so they can do their job.
Ray just couldn't resist. He allowed Welsh to drag him out the room after the men from the morgue gathered around the bed, to take care of the body that once held the spirit of a wonderful man, trully one of a kind. Just as the policemen were stepping out of the room, a gasp and then a thud sounded behind them.
Turning on their heels, they saw one of the man unconscious on the floor, and the other whispering: Holy Mother of God, protect us...
Ray held his breath and rushed pass the fallen man, pushing the other aside and looking at Fraser. He grasped convulsively his friend's hands, and then put his ear against his bare chest, trying to make a sound off it. Welsh just stood there, with his eyes widely opened.
Suddenly, Ray uttered a cry of happiness after he heard a distant beat. Far but steady. He shouted out the door for the doctors to come. One came, then two and shortly after that at least a dozen of people were surrounding the bed, looking both terrified and marveled at the face of the lying man. It wasn't still anymore: his eyelids fluttered a little and his mouth let through a sigh. And then, those heavenly eyes opened, wide and bright, looking like two sapphires shinning through the shadows. The face went from a deadly white to a soft pink. Ray was just watching there, crying and laughing at the same time. Doctors and nurses moved like a swarm around the bed, checking the pulse, watching his eyes, hearing his chest through stethoscopes.
Benton's eyes began to wander around, looking for a familiar face. Welsh and Ray understood his intentions and placed themselves at his right. Ben looked at them for a long instant, before the light of recognition stroke him. He smiled slightly, and opened his mouth a little, trying to say something. Ray leaned toward him to hear him better, and the word was finally pronounced. The Italian couldn't do less than smile through his tears.
- What did he said? - demanded to know one of the doctors, too shaken to understand what had happened.
- Miracle. That's what he said. And a huge one that was! - he laughed heartily, squeezing slightly his friend's hands.
An opportunity. The right choice made on the right moment. The will of living. And a miracle that not only saved him, but all those who loved him and relied on his strength.
- Thanks, Dad - he said on his mind, and a distant voice said cheerfully:
- You're welcome, son. Just remember what I said!
Don't think. Just do.