For HYPERfocused by akamine_chan

Leaving A Mark

One

When Stanley was eleven years old, he lived with his family in an old row house in a predominately Polish neighborhood, with widowed Mrs. Pozinak and her kids on one side and the Mazur family on the other.

Johnny Mazur was his best friend.  They spent a lot of time together, playing soldier in their backyards.  Both of them had listened raptly to the stories told by Stanley's grandfather Stanislav about the bloody battles fought by the Poles during World War II and were still young enough to find the blood and body parts fascinating.  Stanley always made Johnny play the Germans.  Johnny was such a great buddy; he never complained.  And sometimes Andrew Wiśniewsk from down the street would come and be the Russians.

For his birthday, Johnny had gotten him a pocketknife.  Over the next few days, Stanley spent his free time in the backyard, sitting at the old rickety picnic table, carving his name into the weathered wood.

S.  The double curve threw him at first.  Knives weren't exactly designed to cut curves easily and Stanley's hands were still small.  He kept going and eventually managed to get a decent looking S into the wood.  If he squinted at it, it looked more like a five, but it was okay.

T.  The T was pretty easy.  Straight lines.  The T reminded Stanley of church and crosses and his grandmother.  A.  N.  He thought about stopping there--his dad called him Stan instead of Stanley, just like he called his brother Walt instead of Walter.

No.  He shook his head.  He wasn't really Stan, he was Stanley.  Stanley Raymond Kowalski.

L.  E.  Y.  He struggled a little with the Y, with its tricky forked bit.

When he was done, he blew away the last of the wood shavings and grinned.  He traced the letters with his fingers, feeling the roughness of the wood.  S.  T.  A.  N.  L.  E.  Y.  That was him.

Stanley was here.  No one would forget that he was here.

Two

Ray curled his body protectively around his broken hand, trying to breathe through the agony.  His face was wet with sweat and tears and he bit back a moan.  He tried to move his fingers a little and he almost passed out from the pain, swallowing repeatedly to keep from throwing up.

It hurt, his hand hurt terribly, but it didn't compare to the anguish he'd felt at his dad's words.  "You're not my son anymore."  He'd turned away from Ray.  "Leave this house, now."

Ray had stormed out, shaking off his mum's concerned touch, covering his pain with anger.  He'd worked damn hard to get through two years of community college, and then he'd transferred to the police training academy and spent the next four months working even harder.

His mum had reassured him that Dad would come around, that he'd just needed time to accept Ray's choice of careers.  She promised she'd talk him out of his mad, that she'd bring him around.

She'd failed.

His father had refused to come to his graduation ceremony, had refused to even acknowledge what Ray had done, what Ray had accomplished.

He'd gone back to the apartment that he shared with Stella and in a fit of rage, had punched the thin wall once, twice, three times in quick succession.  The pain was overwhelming and immediate.  Instead of breaking through the drywall, Ray'd managed to hit the wall stud.  The drywall was cracked and crumbled enough to show the beam that he'd broken his hand on.  There were splotches of blood staining the plaster where the drywall had cut up his hand.

It was a mess.

Ray was here.  Even after he patched up the hole, he would still see it. He wouldn't ever forget.

Three

When Ray was seventeen, Stella broke up with him.  She said something about wanting to see other people, to go out and have fun.  "We're too young to be so serious about each other, Ray."

He knew Stella, though.  She had her eye on some new guy and
didn't want to hurt Ray's feelings.  So he watched, and saw her flirting with Davey McDonald, who was a couple of years older and had joined the Navy.  He was back in Chicago on leave, looking strong and mean, tattoos standing out on his big arms.  He caught Stella tracing one of the designs with a finger, hanging onto Davey's arm and leaning against him.

Ray went home, locked himself in his room and pulled out a bottle of whiskey that he had stashed in his closet.  He opened it and started to drink, feeling miserable.  It was the last thing he remembered.

He woke up, moaning in agony, half on the bed, half on the floor.  His head was pounding, his clothes were on backwards and there was a weird prickle in his arm, like he'd slept on it wrong.

He staggered into the bathroom and while stripping off his clothes to take a hot shower, he found the tattoo.  He touched it, outlining the shape of it, savoring the sting.

Slowly, a smile broke out on his face.  He couldn't wait until Stella saw this.  He had a feeling Davey McDonald was history.

Ray was here.  No one could say different.

Four

They finally reached the end of their journey, the furthest north they could get without jumping into the Beaufort Sea and swimming like polar bears.  Fraser was wearing that smile again, the one that Ray had seen more and more frequently on the Quest.  That expression was starting to look normal on Fraser's beard-scruffed face.

"We made it, Ray."

Ray slung an arm around Fraser's shoulders and squeezed.  "That we did, buddy.  That we did."  He squinted and watched the light dance hypnotically across the water, feeling warm and happy.  Fraser leaned over and dropped a soft kiss onto his mouth, still smiling.

Later that evening, once they'd set up camp, Ray left Fraser warming stew on the fire and went back down to the barren beach.  He gathered some larger rocks and formed the base of a cairn with them.  He hunted among the water-smoothed stones on the beach, looking for the rocks that called to him, ones with interesting colors or shapes and added them to his growing pile.

Eventually, Ray was satisfied with his inukshuk.  It was a little lopsided, but he thought it suited an aging Chicago flatfoot with experimental hair.  He brushed the dirt from his hands and rose from his crouch, feeling a sense of contentment.

He was here.  No one could say he hadn't been here.

Falling Behind

One

It was a hot, muggy day and Stanley was lost. He'd been lost for a while, walking through the crowd and calling for his mum.

They'd come to Jefferson Park for the Polish food festival; his mum had offered to help with their church parish's booth. She had promised to buy some pączki for them to take home, if he behaved.

He'd tried. But he'd let go of her hand for a second and she hadn't slowed down and the next thing he knew, she was gone. She'd left him behind.

Stanley looked for her, but he was hot and tired and scared. He found a shady spot under a tree and cried for a bit, hiccuping sobs that hurt his throat and made his nose run.

"Hey there, little man. Are you lost?"

The woman was tall and dark and looked friendly. She was smiling at him.  He nodded, hoping he wouldn't get in trouble for talking to strangers.

She held out a hand. "Let's go find your mom, okay?"

He stared at her suspiciously for a long moment, thinking of witches and evil fairies and the stories of Baba Jaga his grandmother had told him. Slowly, he put his hand into hers and let her lead him back to his mother.

She'd forgotten him, lost him. He would never give her a reason to do that again.

Two

His mum called to tell him.

"Stanley, honey, your father and I are moving down to Arizona. We're getting too old to enjoy these cold Chicago winters. Plus, we'll be closer to Walt and his family, so your father can enjoy the grandkids."  She chatted with him for a few minutes more before promising to visit before they left and hanging up.

Something cold and brittle settled over his heart. He felt numb, broken, worthless. Unwanted.

His mum had said we, but Ray knew she really meant your father.  They didn't want to leave Chicago, Dad did. His dad had never forgiven him for becoming a police officer, couldn't see the good he did for the people of Chicago. He would always see Ray as a failure, someone who'd thrown away a chance at a better life, a cleaner life.

His dad was trying to leave him behind and forget him. Ray wondered if it would ever stop hurting.

Three

Stella came home and Ray knew. She looked at him with eyes that couldn't see him anymore.

All Ray could see were the places they didn't fit together anymore, the awkward words and broken silences. All the ways they were strangers to each other, their friendship lost along the way.

She still loved him. He could tell that their love hadn't died.  It still flared brightly on occasion, two bodies moving together in a familiar dance, but Stella was afraid of being hurt now. She flinched away from his touch and got out of bed as quickly as possible, dressing silently and leaving the bedroom.

Stella helped him pack his stuff, looking guilty and a little bit glad.

Stella was leaving him, pushing him away and moving on. He ached to fix things between them, but found that she didn't care anymore.

Four

"Ottawa?"

It might as well have been the moon as far as Ray was concerned. They couldn't be partners if Ray was in Chicago and Fraser was in Ottawa.

"Well, you gotta do what you gotta do, Fraser. Welsh's offered me a transfer back to my old district."

And even as he said the words, he could feel something hopeful dying inside. He tried to harden his heart against the knowledge that he would be alone again, just him and the turtle against the world, but he couldn't convince himself that he was happy about it.

Maybe if he ended things quickly, killed their partnership without any hope of recovery, the wound would be smaller. It would be easier to stop the bleeding.

Ray looked at Fraser and saw something in Fraser's wide eyes, maybe the same fears and the same drowning hopes. He wasn't sure and he was too scared to try to find out.

In the end, they went back down to the docks where it had all started and Ray made Fraser punch him back. "You put in your transfer, I'll put in mine. It's quits." They shook on it.

Fraser was the best friend that he'd ever had and he was leaving Ray behind.  Leaving him and moving on with his life.

Ordinary Legacies

One

Stanley was doing his homework by sorting through his hockey cards. His teacher, Ms. Nowak, had decided that their class would make a time capsule. So his homework assignment was to make a list of things he thought should go in the capsule. Everyone else would make their own lists and then they'd all compare and vote on what got to go into the capsule and what didn't.

He thought that maybe a hockey card would be a good thing to include and was trying to decide between Bobby Hull and Stan Mitka.

Earlier, with the help of his mum, Stanley had made his list. They'd talked about what different things meant to different people. She'd told him about some of the family treasures she'd inherited from her grandmother: a old china tea set, the heavy silverware they used at holidays, and some sweet red pepper seeds.

He'd actually thought about it for a while, looking at the things around him, taking some things off his list, keeping others as possibilities.  A copy of the Chicago Tribune, maybe a Sunday edition with all the ads.  A record from his favorite band.  Subway tokens.  The Sears catalog.

So many choices.

He sat at his desk, dreaming about the future, until his mum called him down for dinner.

He wanted to leave something behind, something that other people could touch and feel. Something to connect him to the future.

Two

It was December, and it was cold, but Ray didn't even feel it.

All he could feel was the blood soaking into his shirt and the boy
trembling behind him. He couldn't feel any pain, and he couldn't feel any fear. He was sure he should be feeling both, but the adrenaline kept everything sharp and focused.

He got the kid out, apprehended the suspects and was carted off to the emergency room in spite of his protests. The doctor stitched him up, gave him some shots and handed him over to the tender mercies of Stella, who looked really pissed.

The car ride home was silent; Stella tapping her fingernail impatiently on the steering wheel as she drove. She bullied Ray up the stairs, ignoring his complaints, and got him into their apartment. Once the door was closed and locked behind them, she pounced.

Stella tore his clothes off, left bite marks and a hickey on his neck, made him come so fast and hard he almost screamed. And then she burst into tears and cried hysterically while he held her tightly.

His citation consisted of a piece of paper and a scrap of ribbon, but he carefully tucked them away. His dad might not care, but someday, he'd show them to his kids.

Three

Sometimes, it was "Ray, I don't think we're ready for kids." Other times, it was "Ray, I don't think you're ready for kids." He tried hard not to push; he knew that Stella wanted more out of life than being a wife and mother. He had no problem with that--Stella was smart and ambitious and it seemed a shame to waste that amazing intelligence on just housework and kids.

So Ray waited, and waited, and was patient. Saved money and dreamed of buying a house in Rolling Meadows for him and Stella and their kids.  Their family.

Eventually, after endless arguments and discussions and talks, he realized that it was Stella who wasn't ready for kids. Who might never be ready for kids.

It broke his heart.

Sometimes he imagined a loud, spiky-headed little boy with his eyes, or a blonde tomboy with Stella's face. Sometimes he could hear their voices, feel their touch.

Four

It was the helpless and the innocent that got to him. Ray didn't have a problem with death when it came for the evil, the corrupt, the uncaring. Maybe, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he thought that the bad people of the world got what was coming to them.

But the upright, the honest, the trustworthy and the caring people, those who relied on him to do his job and protect them--those were the ones that got to him when he couldn't save them.

Most times, they continued to haunt him long after he found justice for them. But only in his dreams. His waking moments were filled with regrets, but the ghosts were curiously absent.

Ray did his job, even when it meant wading through the very worst of humanity. He did his job and lived for the moments when he was fast enough, smart enough, strong enough to keep someone from becoming another ghost.

There were days that he hated his job. But with Fraser at his side, he found a kind of redemption in his job.

Enough Love

One

Stanley's mum loved him. There was never a lack of hugs and kisses in the Kowalski household. She was always there for him.

When he got beat up by the neighborhood bullies, she put Band-Aids on the cuts and cuddled him close, humming wordlessly. When he was sick, she brushed the hair back from his forehead and found more blankets to cover him with. She called Stanley her angel, her baby, her hellion.

Most times, he squirmed impatiently away, wanting to be turned loose to run and play and jump. "Leggo, Mum!" Other times, those rare quiet times, they sat together in the old rocking chair and daydreamed for a while.

Ray knew he was his mum's favorite, even though she tried not to show it.  It made him feel special.

Two

Ray was twelve when his father decided he was old enough to change the oil in the family sedan by himself. Nervous and trying not to show it, Ray slid under the car and started loosening the drain plug, working to ignore the critical eyes following his every move.

He started to sweat and his shaking hands made it harder to fit the wrench to the oil filter. Ray set the tools down and took several deep breaths.  He knew how to do this, he could do this while asleep. He could do this now, with his father watching.

Feeling calmer and more relaxed, Ray picked up the filter wrench and changed the oil without making a single mistake. The look of pride on his dad's face made Ray happy, made him feel worthwhile.

Looking at his father had always made Ray feel an odd combination of love and admiration for this man who had tried so hard to give his sons a better life. Ray wished he could do him proud.

Three

She wore an expensive white dress with a veil and a long train. And even though they'd been friends since they were thirteen, had been together for so long, he was terrified of this moment. This was it, that instant that he'd wished for and dreamed about. Stella was going to be his. He was going to be hers. Together forever.

Her father put her graceful hand into his sweaty one and she just looked at him, glowing with happiness. There was a burning in his chest and his eyes were stinging. Ray realized that he'd stopped breathing and gasped, blinking rapidly. Stella squeezed his hand hard and smiled.

She was so beautiful.

Stella was his first love, but Ray thought she was his last. He'd had no idea how wrong he was.

Four

Ray had swiped the Stetson in an unguarded moment, had worn it for the duration for the Christmas party and now he was in trouble. He wasn't sure if Fraser was really mad--

Fraser leaned forward and brushed their lips together softly. He pulled back and looked into Ray's eyes.

Ray was sure that he was almost cross-eyed with shock. That was not at all what he expected Fraser to do. Punch him, yeah. Yell at him, sure. Guilt-trip him in his very best Canadian manner, oh hell yes.

As he watched, a light in Fraser's eyes dimmed and started to fade away. Ray could see so much of Fraser's heart in those blue eyes and he found himself at a do-or-die moment. Reach out for what Fraser was offering, love and laughter and adventure or turn away and live a quiet, unremarkable life, dying alone and unloved.

There wasn't a choice, really. Ray had never been a coward, but Fraser had taught him how to jump off buildings and fly.

So he did.

Having Fraser in his life had been totally unexpected and unlooked-for.  That was probably why it hit Ray so hard when he realized he was in love with him.