CROSSING LINES
By
Nikki Harrington
Fraser never thought the day would come when he did what he did.
An established relationship story.
Written: August 2008. Word count: 500.
Fraser stared in horror and shock at the gun in his hand.
What had he done?
For a moment he felt darkness sweep through him and bile race up into his mouth. He had killed a man. He had killed a man in cold blood. He had killed a man to save the life of another. He had killed a man to save the life of Raymond Vecchio. Ray Vecchio: partner, friend and lover. The man he loved and was loved by.
Then the darkness fled and he felt over-whelming calm spread through his body. Carefully he pushed the safety-catch back on the gun and pushed it under his tunic into the back of his trousers.
Then moving carefully, steadily he crossed to where the body of the man he had shot was sprawled. He had no doubt the man was dead; he may not use a gun very often, he may not be licensed to use a gun in Chicago, but he was, nonetheless an excellent shot. However, certain that he was, his training insisted he made sure, so still with care and still with the same calm that had swept through him, he dropped to one knee and put his hand on the assailant's carotid artery. There was nothing; he felt no flutter of life beneath his fingers.
The man was dead. He, Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had killed him.
"Benny?" Ray's voice, little more than a harsh whisper came across the sudden void that had arisen.
Fraser shook himself, stood back up and hurried to where Ray lay, his hand pressed against his side. "Ray," he said, putting his own hand over Ray's and letting the other come to rest on Ray's shoulder, before he moved his fingers to stroke Ray's face.
"What happened, Benny?"
"He shot you, Ray. And he was moving in to shoot you again; no doubt to kill you. So I," he swallowed hard and went on. "I grabbed your back-up gun and . . . And I shot him, Ray. He is dead."
"Benny." Ray's voice sounded even softer as he moved his other hand and searched for Fraser's. "You grabbed my gun?"
"Why, yes, Ray. You had fallen to the ground; it was a simple enough move for me to roll, pull out your gun, push off the safety and fire it."
"Doesn't sound that simple to me, Benny," Ray said, now capturing the hand Fraser was using to stroke his face.
"I assure you, Ray. There was nothing complicated about it. It was just a matter of -"
"Benny," Ray's voice cut into his words.
"Yes, Ray?"
"You'd better call 911."
"Ah, yes. I should indeed hand myself over to the authorities."
Ray shook his head. "No, Benny. I meant call me an ambulance."
"But what about -"
"Lieutenant Welsh'll sort it, Benny."
"But Ray -"
"Hush, Benny. Just trust me."
"Always, Ray," Fraser said, and with now shaking hands, he took Ray's cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number.
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