AFTER THE RAIN, by Zhirea. Circa July 27th, 2001.
Pairings: BF/RV.
Spoilers: Victoria's Secret.

Disclaimer: Although the characters aren't mine, the story, plots and ideas are. Third part of Tears. RayV's POV.

Author's Note: I wanted to make it Slashy, but thought better of it. Like it better this way. Angsty.

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After The Rain

by

Zhirea

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It's raining.

I've been on this motel room for I don't know how long. All I know is that everything's got bent out of shape, and I don't know if I can fix it. In fact, I don't know if I wanna fix it, anyway.

Things have been hellish this past few days. You're still trapped in that damned hospital, hooked on to so many machines that I can't see you without shoving cables to the side, although very carefully, of course. We wouldn't want you to die for one of my mistakes, now would we? And anyhow, what few people on that hospital know is that I put you there. All by myself, I managed to shot my best friend, single-handedly, and people are still trying to make me feel better about it. How can I , damn it???

Maybe I'm talking incoherently. Must be the bottle of vodka I just downed, or the fact that I can't find the corkscrew to open this bottle of wine. Maybe I'll just brake it against that table and slit my wrists with the shreds while I'm at it. Anything to get out of this nightmare.

Death doesn't scare me anymore. Maybe it's because when you're a cop, Death plays with you all the time, and most of the time you win, but you can always lose... And as for my religion, that forbids me to commit suicide and, if I do, I'll go straight to hell, all I can say is that I don't give a shit. In fact, I've found so many loopholes in Catholisism that I've concluded that it's an ancient religion that doesn't adapt to the modern world, or the wretched reality of yours truly.

Speaking of dying, I don't wanna die a painful death. Even if Death doesn't scare me, pain does; especially when I saw you twisting in agony after I shot you. And since it's vox populi that I'm a coward, it shouldn't surprise anyone that I'd take the easy way out. It may not be clean, but it'll be fast and, above all, painless. I'll be dead before I feel any pain.

The crackle of lightning makes an amiable companion, like whiplash.

I've found the corkscrew and the tangy taste of this $80 wine is like sex: unexpected, pleasurable, and you don't want to end it. At least that's the way I figure sex would be with you. But in our case, as if I had a chance in hell with you, wounded or not; it would've been heaven. Just having you there, pressed against my body and telling me that you love me, would be the most exquisite of tortures. But it's not, and will never be: even if you get out of that bed, and walk again, and resume your normal life, I'll be out of the picture. I don't want to be with you anymore. I can't risk it. I can't make you a target again. I love you too much for that.

So, now the bottle is empty, and I'm dressed in my Academy uniform, because I want to be found in honorable fashion. Maybe that'll ease the pain of my mother, and my sisters. And as you told me once, the worst way to die is without honor. So maybe, in this uniform, I can fake that I was honorable. Or maybe they'll just think that I make a handsome corpse. I'd laugh at that, but I'm too depressed.

The gun weights heavily in my hand. It's cold and hard, so unlike you; and that's what I deserve: to be mocked by this gun before it erases me from this existence. And unlike the custom, that is to put only one bullet on the chamber and off yourself with it, I've loaded the gun in case I flinch when I pull the trigger. It's unlikely I'd flinch six times, but I don't want to leave anything to chance.

It's pouring outside. I can hear faint shouts and the click-click of high heels on the paviment, receding towards the management office of this crappy motel. That clicking reminds me of prostitutes. God forbid me; maybe I'm passing judgment, but who knows? Maybe I'm right. All I know is that sound reminds me of whores. I'm definitively loosing it. Whatever.

Yes, I know I'm stalling. The gun is pressed against my chest, directed to my heart. I pondered the possibility of blowing my brains out, but I know Ma wouldn't stand it. And besides, I don't want to be bald and brainless. I caress the handle once again, checking for the thousand time that the gun is unlocked. Imagine how it would be to pull the trigger and have nothing come off. What a mood-killer, eh?

Alright, enough chit-chat for a lifetime. This last words are for you, Benny: I love you, and I'm sorry. That's all I have to say.



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-Epilogue-

Detective First Grade Raymond Vecchio did pull the trigger. The hollow, empty sound his silenced gun made was somehow heard by his neighbour and he called the police. When they arrived, the good cop was lying on the floor, unconscious, and after the paramedics arrived and examined him, they found that, unexplicably, his chest was only scratched. No blood, no gore, no nothing.

No one can explain what happened that night. And no one can explain how a loaded gun pointed directly to the heart and fired by a seasoned cop could somehow misfire, knocking the wind out of him without actually killing him.

As of this moment, Ray Vecchio lies on a bed beside his best friend, Benton Fraser, in the same hospital room, and is being monitored closely by doctors and psychiatrists. As for his friend and love, Benny, he's come out of his delicate condition and spends his time watching over his friend, who's so out of it he doesn't know what's up and what's down. The only thing they both aknowledge is that they're both alive, together and saved by some kind of miracle. Now they have the rest of their lives to work things out.

Ah... and it stopped raining.

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THE END

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