Disclaimer: Lamentably, Due South, Fraser, and Ray
belong to Alliance/Atlantis.

Author's Notes: Originally written in 2000. This much changed version from 2005. Moby's "The Sky Is Broken" and the XF ep "all things" originally inspired.

Story Notes: 1st place Winner, Writers Contest, Zebracon 17, Oct. 21-23, 2005

Lake. To my left. Blue. Twilight blue, like the dark side of the sky just after sunset.

Red. To my right. Fraser. Red as blood beating in my ears, backup vocals to his voice.

His voice. Sometimes, I just hear it. Other times - most other times - I listen. Not to the words.

To the sound.

Deep, but not too deep. Clear. Diction. That's what the nuns called it. Soft, sometimes. But with a rough edge. Or is it rough, with a soft edge?

Don't. Just don't.

But, yeah. Soft. And rough. And clear.

Possibilities, vague ones, come to me, cruisin' south on Lake Shore Drive, Fraser riding shotgun.

Possibilities I never do anything about.

They've gotten more detailed and less vague lately.

But still. . . only possibilities. Possibilities he knows nothin' about.

Usually, with me, "possibilities" means impossibilities.

In this case, that's probably best.

"And the raven said to the caribou..."

His voice stops.

"Ray? Are you listening?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Ah."

That little "ah" should annoy me, but it doesn't. I'm in that place, that cool place I go sometimes - only when I'm alone with him. Usually when I drive, and he talks.

Half-in, half-out of my head. Body relaxed. Guard down... mostly. Not drowsy... but a bit like that. Not horny... but a bit like that.

Not in love... but...

A bit like that.

"I'll just leave you to your thoughts, then," he says quietly, his tone the shadow of a smile.

If I could touch it, his voice would be suede. Dark blue, like the lake on one of those cloudy, windy days. Like his eyes are sometimes. Dark blue suede.

Not that silky imported Italian suede. More like the Marlboro Man's. Just wrap it around me. That voice. Soft, but rough. Rough like his hands would be from living up in the Great White North, choppin' his own wood. But he'd use `em soft on me. Or maybe rough. Or maybe both. Soft, then rough, one after the other, again and again.

If only.

Lips. Move. Mouth. Speak.

"Sorry, Frase. I really was listening... just not to the words exactly."

"Ray," he pauses, not dramatic, just thinking. Then, warm, slow: "I believe you."

Suede again. The little tension that seeped into my body drains from it.

"'Cause I'm telling the truth."

"I'm sure you are," he answers seriously. I don't look at him.

Possibilities hang, like moisture, like fog, between us in the car. Hang.

And then slowly disperse.

"As I was saying... the raven then said to the caribou..."

Tune out specifics. Words: unnecessary. But sound? Want. The tone, the feel - his voice, my eardrum. . . hell, my entire body.

Words? Whatever. Sound: need.

Engine rumble and purr, up through my feet on the floor, through the seat under my butt, through the steering wheel into my hands. Blacktop vibration under tires turning fast makes the car hum at a certain low pitch. The sound of his voice goes with it: just right.

If I could close my eyes and drive, these south-bound trips on Lake Shore Drive would almost be heaven.

But I don't have to close my eyes to see what I want to see. I can see it, and see the road, see the lake out of the corner of my left eye -- and the red on my right out of the corner of my other eye.

And picture him. Picture him doing what his voice feels like comin' across the front seat to me.

He'd be strong. Bigger, more solid than me. Like his body. And his voice. After listening to him talk, I realize how thin and flat my voice is. Like me.

"When the caribou found the feathers, she."

Still he talks, clueless as to what I'm really thinking.

Want. Need. Don't have. Can't even let myself try.

`Cause this is as good as it gets. This I take with me, this I hold in my mind. It's there when my eyes close at night, but I don't fall asleep right away. There when I shut my eyes for a sec at work. There before I open my eyes when I wake up.

Him. His voice. His sound. Sitting next to me, so fine, in the front seat of my car.

Gets too much, sometimes. Wanna let it out. Wanna let him know. Not sayin' that's smart... just too much sometimes. Feeling like this, not being able to tell anyone. And a `course, the person I'd want to tell is him, `cause he's the only one I really talk to since Stella.

But he's not the one to tell about this stuff. Not if I want him to keep ridin' shotgun with me.

Every once in a while, I look over at him, and nod. And he keeps talkin'. About the raven and the caribou. 'Cept now there's a bunch more caribous and ravens. I think.

Wasn't paying real close attention. Not to the words, anyway.

I drive us all over Lake Shore Drive, even when I don't need to. Just to listen to his voice. I love how he goes on and on. The unnecessary details. Love how his words go around the block in order to cross the street. Unnecessary details usually mean lies - but not with Fraser. That's just who he is. How his mind works. And waterfront cheers him up. So I'm drivin' Lake Shore Drive more and more. We get to be alone together this way. Just us two. Well, and Dief, but I get a warm vibe from him, too.

Most times, I only remember one thing from all these drives: the movies I make in my mind. Of him. With me.

His voice. Hands. Mouth. On me. Anywhere. Everywhere. Soft. Rough. Gentle. Persistent.

I slit my eyes and let the possibilities flow, see- through, across my view of the road, the skyline, the dashboard.

They'll never happen.

But so damn good to picture, while his voice strokes over my senses.

It fits, you know? His voice fits right in with all of it, with the blacktop vibration, the long slow curves of Lake Shore Drive, the movies I make, the engine hum, the sounds I would make, if.

Nah.

Lake. To my left.

Red. To my right.

And Fraser's voice strokin' over my senses, in my

ears with my blood, soothing my body.

want

Gentle. Strong.

need

Clear. Soft.

must have

Rough. Suede.

secret

damn

Not sad. But a bit like that.