Absence
by Te
November, 1999

Disclaimers: If they belonged to me, I wouldn't
be nearly as interested in playing with them.

Spoilers: Vague mentions of the Pilot, Victoria's
Secret, and Burning Down the House. 

Summary: Open letter to Benny.

Rating's Note: PG-13 for language, imagery.

Distribution: Wherever appropriate. Asking first
is nice.

Author's Note: An answer to Anagi's 'other' 
challenge, of sorts. 

Acknowledgments: To Viridian, for sending me the 
inspirational poem, and to Dawn Sharon for fine 
audiencing and encouragement. 

thete1@earthlink.net

*
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
- "Separation" by W.S. Merwin
*

It wasn't supposed to be like this, Benny. 

You weren't supposed to exist in my life in 
the first place, of course, but even after you 
showed up... It was going to be a one-time 
thing, you know? My chance to be a boy scout, 
without the prissy little shorts. 

You show up, I help you out, you get the hell 
back to Canada with a few nice words to your 
superior about that Vecchio guy, which in turn
get back to my superior, and maybe get me a 
few minutes of peace and quiet about the six 
hundred open cases in my lap. 

International favor and all that.

Instead, you stayed here. You stayed and I got 
stupid all over the place. Lost everything 
resembling an edge, had my cover blown 
everywhere it counted, lost thousands of dollars 
and more than a few good dates. For you.

And I just kept doing it, like the fucking chump 
my Dad always said I was and you kept 
accepting it. I think that's the worst part, and I 
honestly don't give one about what that makes 
me sound like. 

I *hate* the fact that you never once stopped 
coming around for help, Benny. I gave and I gave 
and I gave and you never *once* gave even lip 
service to the idea that I might say no.

You kept coming back like it was my fucking 
*duty* to say yes and I kept doing that duty. Who 
the hell do you think you are, anyway?

And Benny, I swear to Christ I can hear your voice
in my head. "Your friend, Ray."

My friend. That's... that's rich, you know it? I 
never once doubted that friends bend over 
backwards for each other, and it's not that I'm 
ungrateful for everything you've done for me, 
but... all the time?

Didn't you ever get tired? Do you think I'm weak
for being tired?

I know you do. You'd never say it out loud, but 
you know as well as I do that you never had to 
say *anything* out loud to me. Well, here's a 
newsflash for you, Benny: I ran.

When the feds showed up with a picture of 
Langoustini and a thinly-veiled order I fucking 
jumped at the chance. Jumped so fast Welsh 
looked at me funny and kept looking at me funny
until I finally got the hell out of the precinct. 
Guess I didn't bitch enough.

If you'd been here, you would've known. And you
would've found a way to talk me out of it. You 
would've found a way to make it sound like I 
was tarnishing the badge by accepting the 
position for all the wrong reasons. Made me 
doubt myself, my ability to go undercover -- just 
by being the Big Red Block of Morality I couldn't 
detach myself from with lube and a crowbar. 

But you were gone, and I yessired my way out 
to Vegas. 

I was hoping you'd hear something in my voice 
when I called you, can you believe it? Your friend. 
Always your friend. 

I'm killing this assignment, Benny. As far as 
these goons are concerned I'm Armando 
Langoustini to a 't'. They may even let me shave
this dumbass Hitler mustache without a 
comment because hey, Armando does what 
Armando wants when Armando wants it.

Cakewalk, Benny, and I sleep good at night, too. 
So there's no doubt in my mind that one day 
I'm going to walk back into the 2-7 with a 
commendation or three, and you're going to be 
there at my welcome back party, and you're 
going to give me a big, stiff hug and... and 
congratulate me on a job well done.

And that will be that. 

Oh, you'll be there if I need a shoulder, if it all 
gets too overwhelming going from one life to 
another and then back again. You'll say something 
wise and pretty, we'll solve another case, and 
you'll give me a meaningful look and a pat on 
the shoulder and then... there'll be a gunshot, or 
a scream, or some kid with big eyes and a chip on 
his shoulder and saints fucking preserve us if 
comforting me takes you away from your duty.

You'd let it, too. If I asked.

And I'd see it in your eyes. 

If I stole millions of dollars and killed some freak
would it work? If I broke your heart? 

Could I break your heart?

Ah, Benny, it scares me how little guilt I really 
feel over shooting you. I didn't kill you, or maim 
you, or even knock you out of commission for 
very long. The diamonds aren't with your 
bitchwhore, my debts are paid, and you're even
doing your duty again. And all that's just 
rationalization. 

In the end, you have a scar with my name on it. 

You're never going to be able to wipe me away, 
Benny, and that's all the payment I'm ever going 
to get for loving you.

End.