Lullabye in Blue
by Hth

	Ray's asleep, in possibly the most uncomfortable position ever attempted by
man. He's not quite sitting on the couch, but he sure as hell isn't lying, either. 
He's knocked both the pillows to the floor and is resting his head on one outstretched 
arm, the blanket is wrapped like a cummerbund right around the middle of him, and 
every time his chest moves with a raspy breath, the remote control to the television 
teeters and threatens to slide off his hip.
	And all that's not even to mention the cast that immobilizes his left leg
almost from groin to ankle.
	I'm torn, because he's just so -- he's such a fucking headcase. I want to wake
him up and tell him to go to bed before he tears fuck-all out of his back and neck 
and ends up being fed through a goddamn tube. I want to ask him why he hasn't taken 
any of the painkillers I left in a convenient candy dish right on the coffee table, 
along with a gallon jug of strawberry-orange-banana juice. I want to tuck him in and 
play with that flattened mess of bleach-blonde hair and just sit by him and look at 
him, run my fingers over that strong, broad cheekbone and that soft mouth, because 
when he's awake he never sits still long enough for me to linger over the way he looks, 
the way he's mine to touch any time I goddamn well like.
	Mostly, though, I want to put a bullet in between his ribs. Hell, it worked
for me. And I'd do it real careful; a few days in the hospital, that's nothing, Ray 
does that two, three times a year without my help. I'd aim it just right, and I'd 
drive him to the emergency room myself, and by the time he was all patched up and 
the CPD put him out to pasture, he'd be thanking me for it.
	Okay, so he wouldn't. So Ray would fuck me up but good if I ever got his
badge taken away -- most of the time, I know I can do what I like to Ray, because 
he's a pushover in spite of all his bluster, but I've seen him when he gets serious, 
really down-and-dirty, do-or-die serious, and there's something diamond-hard in him 
that I can't touch, and I sure as hell can't compete with.  Yeah, you don't take a 
dog's food while he's still eating it, no matter what a nice poochie he is most of 
the time, and you don't put Detective Stanley Ray Kowalski out to pasture.
	So I'm totally lying. It would be all for me, if I shot Ray. Because if I
put a bullet in him, I'd finally be done with pushing painkillers on him and helping 
him hobble around the house and reading nine-month-old Newsweeks in ER lobbies while 
the doctors take their own sweet time telling me what they're trying to do to fix 
whatever he broke this time and waiting by the phone at four in the morning, needing 
it to ring, scared to death that it's going to ring. Needing to know what the hell 
is happening, but always knowing in some sick and perverse place deep down that it's 
going to be Welsh, saying, "Vecchio, I'm sorry...."
	Because next time a steel beam falls on him, it might crush his head instead
of his leg. And the next guy who gets all hopped up to take a shot at my significant 
other probably isn't going to be as affectionate about it as I would be. He'll probably 
be aiming to kill.
	Which would fuck me up. Real bad. Worse than I can even think straight about, 
which only makes it easier to be mad at him for sleeping in positions that would make 
a chiropractor's hair go grey. Weird. Seems like knowing how utterly screwed, blued, 
and tattooed I would be without Ray K in my life -- seems like that should make him 
easier to live with. But that fear that he sneaks into my heart just makes everything 
fit worse, makes the whole world seem off-kilter, and of course it's all his fault.
	Headcase. Him, and me, too, ever since he got me where he wanted me, ever
since he won me over with that jittery, bob-and-weave bravado, that scattershot
IQ, that heart-attack-on-legs sexiness.
	I slip one arm under his shoulders, wrap the other around his waist, ease him
down to the couch, but when I do, the remote control finally succumbs to the laws 
of physics and hits the ground, changing the channel to static.  His head jerks sharply, 
and he mutters something incomprehensible, reaching where it used to be and isn't 
anymore.
	"Relax," I say, scooping up the remote and using it to turn the tv off. "Just
go back to sleep."
	"I was watching that," he complains, but he can't even keep his eyes open, or
talk without slurring his words. He's like a little kid whose babysitter told him 
he could stay up late, so now come hell or high water he's not going to admit that 
he'd rather go to bed.
	"You were not watching Ricki Lake."
	"Sure I was." He lets me get him situated though, and sighs a little as I
spread the blanket over him.
	"Since when do you watch trash talk shows?"
	"Since I got sick of soap operas. Sixty channels, and daytime tv is still
crap. Hey, Vecchio?"
	"What is it?" I can't resist running my palm over his forehead, brushing his
hair.
	"How come nobody *talks* on talk shows?"
	"Everybody talks on talk shows. Nobody *listens.*"
	He nods slightly, so I guess that answered his question. I put my hand on the
warm back of his neck, lift up his head just enough to get a pillow under there. I 
get down on my knees and kiss him, just a soft little kiss, and he kisses me back, 
lost and sleepy but still recognizing my lips when he feels them against his. "Hey, 
Vecchio?"
	"What now?"
	"Promise me something."
	Promise me something, Stanley Ray. Promise me I'll never get that fucking
phone call, that every freak mess you get yourself into will just be a few weeks laid 
up on the couch watching white trash television. Promise me you'll always be my freaky, 
messy, white trash one and only, and that you'll never die. "Yeah, sure. Whaddaya 
want?"
	"You ever wanna dump me, don't do it on national tv, okay?"
	"Public access only. Swear to God."
	He sticks his tongue out at me, and I fight back the urge to nip at it,
because that would just wake him up and encourage him to try to play with me. 
I want him back asleep, peaceful and safe under my watch. "Y'know, you'd be
cute if you weren't such a fucking bitch."
	"I get that all the time. Go to sleep."
	For a long time, I'm totally awake, just leaning my cheek on the couch and
holding my hand over his arm. Watching him be quiet for once, watching nothing
happen to him. And my last thought as I start falling asleep right there on the floor, 
braced against the couch, is that my chiropractor would have a fit.