<PRE>
Prologue
By: L. Garlick

Standard disclaimers apply: No infringement of copyright implied, no other posting, no publication for profit, etc. If you'd like to proceed with any legal action for my technically unauthorized use of your creations, please do so. You'll just be wasting time (which I have plenty of) and money (which I have none of, since I'm definitely not making any from this piece of fiction). Just make sure to take a number because the line forms to your left. Also, it might be a while before your number comes up, so get comfortable.

This is my first completed attempt at 'dS' fan fiction. More is in the works. Comments? Send them to: l_garlick@yahoo.com. Make sure to include your return address if you'd like a reply.

WARNING: Rated 'PG' (just to be on the safe side) and 'H/C'. May NOT be suitable for some younger readers since it deals with a death/attempted suicide theme.

Prologue
By: L. Garlick

(SCENE: SENIOR CADET DETACHMENT SQUADROOM, 'THE DEPOT', RCMP ACADEMY, REGINA, SASKATCHEWAN PROVINCE, CANADA.

It's late October and two days before graduation so the dozen or so cadets in the office are hurrying to finish some last minute details. A few of their classmates are still out with some of the Academy instructors getting in that final bit of 'real' experience, in this instance a 'ride along' with some of the Regina city police officers, before going to their Field Coaching posts.

Two of the teams still out come into the office. It's early fall, which means it's cold and raining outside, so the four officers (two graduating cadets and two seasoned instructors) are dressed in medium-weight jackets and rain slickers - and dripping wet. The two young men are their usual boisterous selves as they greet their fellows; they've dealt (vicariously) with some not-so-serious crimes today and are still elated by their 'practice'. The two instructors are gently chiding them about their 'lack of proper RCMP decorum', but they're obviously not serious about the correction since these 'kids' will soon be full-fledged Constables and then gone. The Watch Commander comes out of his office and calls to one of the returning cadets.)

"Cadet Westfall. Will you please come into my office?" S/Sgt. Anders quietly asked as he spotted the newly arriving senior cadets. His voice easily found its' target, despite the noise level in the busy room, causing everyone to pause and glance at the indicated cadet.

"Yes, sir," Mark Westfall smartly replied. He'd been called into the Watch C/O's office before and it usually meant he was in trouble. He turned and raised an accusing eyebrow at his partner.

"Don't look at me!" Fraser exclaimed, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. "I haven't the slightest idea what you did this time."

"Some help you are," Westfall said and, unable to keep from grinning any longer, slapped his dripping Stetson against Fraser's chest. His friend returned the grin as he automatically grabbed the hat. "I haven't done anything, as far as I know, so - whatever it is - it's probably all your fault!" he retorted in a teasing tone as he shook a finger at the other man. "I've been told several times you're a bad influence on me, Benton Fraser, and now it seems my sources were right!"

"Now would be a good time, cadet," Anders said, his tone and expression clearly indicating he wasn't in any mood for their usual bantering.

Westfall's high spirits and boyish grin immediately vanished as he glanced one more time at his friend and then handed Fraser his dripping slicker. "Whatever's happened - it must be serious, Anders isn't usually so abrupt," he commented quietly to his partner before more loudly responding, "Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!" Ben merely shook his head and shrugged as Mark turned to obey their commander. There was concern in his eyes as he watched Mark disappear into the C/O's office then he looked around for a place to hang up his friends' wet hat and raingear.

Anders moved around behind his desk as Westfall entered the office. "Close the door, cadet," he ordered then sat down and began to sort some paperwork. Mark quietly swung the door closed then moved to stand at attention in front of the staff sergeant's desk. 'What the hell did I do now?' he silently wondered as he waited. Anders continued to rearrange the files in front of him for another minute before glancing up.

"Sit down, cadet," he said then looked away again. Westfall raised an eyebrow in surprise (and relief) then sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, if he'd been in serious trouble Anders would have ripped into him while he was still standing. Personal experience had taught him that the C/O didn't believe miscreants should be comfortable while they got what was coming to them.

Anders ran a hand across his mouth before quietly saying, "I have some bad news and I'm not quite sure how to say it, so bear with me cadet."

"Yes, sir," Mark replied, a feeling of utter dread sweeping over him and settling in the pit of his stomach.

After a few moments of silence, Anders abruptly stood and paced over to a geophysical map of Canada hanging on the opposite side of the room. He studied it for several moments then said, "For the last hour I've been trying to find an easy way to say what I have to tell you - but there isn't one, so I'll just give it to you straight out." He turned and looked directly at the waiting cadet. "There's been an accident," Anders paused, took a deep breath and continued in a rush, "A drunk driver hit your wife's car head on. There wasn't anything the paramedics could do. Carole apparently died on impact. You were out in the field, so I thought it best to wait until you returned to tell you." Pausing once again he finished, "I'm sorry, Mark."

"No." Mark shook of his head, his voice deceptively quiet. "No, that can't be true. They must have gotten the identification wrong. Carole can't be-- " Mark choked on the word and shook his head again in denial. "We're going to have a baby in four months. She can't be--"

"They found her photo identification in her purse, Mark," Anders gently interrupted. "It was Carole."

"No," Mark insisted, then looked away. "No." As he looked back at Anders, shock turned to anguish as he saw the expression on his commanding officer's face. "No."

"They... " Anders moved around in front of the desk and sat on a corner of it before continuing, "They took her to the hospital. The Coroner needs you to go over there and officially identify... " He couldn't bring himself to finish the official statement. Carole and Mark Westfall had been this Cadet Detachment's unofficial mascots ever since the young married couple arrived at Depot and Anders was finding it difficult to deal with the reality of Carole's abrupt and senseless death. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes as Mark tried to absorb what he'd been told.

Anders finally broke the increasingly painful mood by saying, "If it helps any, I know what you must be feeling right now. I lost my wife a few years ago but, at times, it still feels like it was only yesterday." He continued to talk for a while, hoping to ease some of the grief he knew the younger man was feeling. Nothing had ever done more than blunt the veteran RCMP staff sergeants own grief over the loss of his wife, and Anna had died more than ten years ago. He watched his cadet closely as he spoke. Mark simply sat there, staring straight ahead at nothing the entire time. Eventually he ran out of things to say Mark obviously wasn't hearing anything he'd said anyway, and told the cadet to go home. He'd tell the Coroner that the 'family identification of the deceased' had to wait until after Mark could bring himself to face the reality of the situation. 'And from the look of things that may take a while,' Anders thought as, unseeing and without a word, Mark slowly stood and walked out. The other cadets were still hard at their duties, so only one of them saw him re-enter the squadroom.

"Hey, Mark!" Fraser called to his friend. "What was it this-- " He abruptly cut off the question as he noted Mark's expression then asked, "What is it? What's wrong?"

Anders had followed Mark out of the office and saw a couple of the cadets silently signal to the rest that something wasn't quite right. Quiet descended on the busy room as most of them stopped what they were doing and watched the two cadets. Mark halted in front of Fraser, shock plainly visible in his expression and movements. By the time he was able to bring himself to reply, everyone in the squadroom was listening.

"It's... Carole," Mark quietly said, not looking at Ben, or anything else for that matter. "Anders' says she was in an accident. She didn't make it," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper and his expression blank.

Fraser stared at him in shock. The three of them had become close friends ever since Mark had invited his overly reserved classmate home for dinner one night shortly after they started training together. "What!?" he exclaimed, grabbing Mark's arm. "When?" he demanded.

"Stay," Anders quietly ordered as some of the other cadets, hearing the news, began to move. Neither Fraser nor Westfall heard the order but the rest of the room froze in disbelief.

"Over an hour ago. I have to go now." Mark started to brush past but Ben refused to let go of his arm and made him turn around.

"Mark... " The look of desolation in the other man's eyes stopped whatever else he been about to say. Reluctantly, he released his grip and Mark slowly left the room. Watching until he was gone, Fraser looked helplessly at Anders then at Cadet Liz Marchand, who was standing a few feet away. She and Carole had developed a close friendship over the past few weeks and she'd been helping Carole get the nursery ready. In fact, the four of them had gone out to dinner the night before. He remembered that Liz had teased Carole about trying to play matchmaker and 'fix her up' with him.

"Go after him, Ben," Liz said. "He shouldn't be alone right now."

'She's right,' he thought. 'I can't let him leave this way.' He grabbed his jacket and trotted out the door but, by the time he got to the building's entrance, Mark was nearly at the end of the Academy's long main driveway. He stopped and watched as Mark broke into a jog then started to run down the street.

"He's heading for the hospital," Liz said as she came up behind Ben.

He glanced at her then back at Mark's swiftly retreating form. "How do you know?" he asked.

"It's what I'd do," she quietly replied. After a moment, she continued, "He's had a severe shock. There's no telling what someone will do when faced with this type of thing." Fraser paled as he realized what she was implying. "Despite what anyone else might say - including Mark - you can't let him be alone. Not now. Use the truck," she urged, gesturing toward a new, recently delivered RCMP four-wheel drive vehicle that was parked nearby.

Normally, Fraser would never even think of taking anything that wasn't clearly his property - this situation was anything but 'normal', however. Ignoring the rain, he ran over to the truck, threw open the driver's door, got in and drove off in high-speed pursuit of his friend. For once, he'd worry about the consequences later; right now he had to get to Mark before the other man did something nearly unthinkable.

At first, Mark simply wanted to get as far away as he could from Anders and the things he'd said. Running blind down the middle of the street, he was nearly hit twice by cross traffic before he finally came to a stop and noticed he was at the hospital's Emergency Room entrance.

He had no idea why he was there. 'Carole's not here... and our baby isn't here, either,' he thought, bewildered. The words echoed through his mind as he looked up at the imposing glass and steel structure that they had visited several times a month since they got the news about her pregnancy. 'Carole's not here. The baby isn't here. They're both at home. Safe. Alive.... No. Carole is not here! The baby is not here. No! Anders' has to be wrong! They can't be...!'

"No!!" he shouted at the building then staggered back a few steps onto the grass of the circle drive and collapsed to his knees. "No!" Sitting on the slick grass, the cold rain pouring down and soaking him to the skin, he leaned forward and placed his hands on the soggy ground. Eyes tightly closed, he lowered his head and tried to shut out the cruel reality hammering at his mind. The din inside his head was so loud he didn't hear the tires of the truck squeal in protest as Fraser slid it to a stop on the wet pavement a few yards away.

"Mark!" Ben yelled as he jumped out of the truck and ran toward the other man, almost losing his footing on the slippery grass as he stopped. "Mark?" he asked, nearly pleading with his friend to respond.

Shaking his head, Mark dropped to the ground on one elbow. He hadn't even noticed Ben, much less heard his own name being called. Nothing existed for him now but Anders' words: 'A drunk driver hit your wife's car head on. There wasn't anything the paramedics could do. Carole apparently died on impact.' There wasn't anything they could do... there wasn't anything... there wasn't...

Fraser slowly came closer and knelt next to him. "Hey, Mark, can you hear me? Mark?" he gently asked as he reached toward him. Just before Ben could touch him, Mark slowly placed his forehead on his rain soaked sleeve and collapsed the rest of the way to the ground. Alarmed, Fraser closed the short distance between them and touched his friend's shoulder.

"Mark?" he asked again, worry heavily lacing that one word question. Not getting a response, he gently tugged on Mark's arm and, when he encountered no resistance, bent down and examined Mark a bit closer. He seemed to be unconscious.

"Is anything wrong, Cadet?" someone who obviously recognized Fraser's uniform, suddenly asked from behind him.

Fraser whirled in surprise; a hospital security officer was standing a few feet away. He'd been so concerned about getting to Mark he hadn't noticed or heard the man's approach. "No," he automatically replied, then immediately corrected himself. "Yes. He's just been told his wife's been... killed... in an accident. I... I think he's passed out."

"Let's get him inside, out of the rain and cold," the officer suggested as he came over. "They should be able to do something for him in there."

"I hope so," Fraser replied as he turned around and started to pick Mark up.

"Let me give you a hand there," the other man offered.

"No, thank you kindly," Fraser quickly said. "I've got him." He struggled a bit with Mark's limp bulk but finally managed to get him off the ground. Closely followed by the security officer, he carried him into the emergency room.

"How's Mark?" Liz asked as Ben came into the otherwise empty squadroom the next day, the graduation ceremony was tomorrow, and he needed to clean out his desk. His other classmates had already cleared out their own workstations and he was a bit surprised to see anyone there.

The young, 'all-but-official' Constable hung up his coat and hat then, without a word, went over to his assigned desk. Sitting down, he started taking things out of the drawers. Unable to do this last chore the day before, he'd hoped to have some time alone to sort out his thoughts about what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

"That bad?" Marchand persisted. Fraser didn't reply but she could see that every move he made shouted anger and grief.

Without even a glance in her direction, and with uncharacteristic disregard for any damage he might be causing, he started to almost literally throw all of his equipment into a discarded cardboard box he'd appropriated from the supply room. "What are you doing here?" he demanded in a tight voice.

"Clearing out Mark's desk," she quietly replied. That startled him enough to make him look up at her then over toward another desk on the other side of the room. As soon as he'd realized the two new cadets had developed a friendship, Anders had put their workstations as far apart as possible and still allow them to be in the same room. Otherwise, the C/O had wisely reasoned, no one would have been able to get anything done when their duties required them to be there together.

He paled and swallowed reflexively as he saw the sealed box sitting on top of the desk. Somewhat ashamed that he hadn't thought about doing that himself, he looked down for a few moments then resumed his packing. A small pewter statue of a wolf standing near his nameplate caught his eye and he reached for it. Turning it over in his hands, he painfully remembered that Carole had given it to him. Carefully, he placed it on top of the other things.

"Come on, Ben," Liz demanded as he finished then stood and picked up the box. "I'm not letting you out of here until you tell me what's going on with Mark - and you, for that matter."

"Other than Carole being dead and Mark apparently so unable to face that fact that he'd rather voluntarily be comatose, you mean?" he asked, looking directly into her eyes.

Liz paled at the totally unfamiliar angry edge to his voice and the hardness of his expression. "What!? No! That's not what I mean and you know it! And don't take that tone with me, Benton Fraser. Carole was my friend, too!" She retorted then abruptly turned her back on him.

He stared at her for a few moments, clearly seeing and hearing the effort she was going through not to cry in front of him. 'It's not a thing Mounties do,' he could almost hear Corporal Wilson, one of their former instructors, say. 'And yet, that's exactly what I want to do - need to do. But I can't. Why?'

"I'm sorry, Liz," he offered as he sat the box back down and rested his hands on the top edge of the open container. "I don't really know how Mark is - much less myself. The doctors either can't or won't tell me anything other than there's apparently no physical reason for him being unconscious. And, well... that's a big part of the problem."

She quickly wiped her eyes then turned back to him. "Ben. If it helps any, we're all going through pretty much the same thing right now," she replied in a shaky voice. "You're not the only one who likes Mark, you know. Both of you did occasionally spend time with other people, but we all knew the two of you were the best of friends and there wasn't anything anyone could, or wanted to do, to change that. A few jealous souls thought about it, but they were quickly dissuaded by your real friends."

Embarrassed, he looked down at the box for a few moments. "Liz... I... I don't know what to say."

She stepped around the desk and placed a hand on his arm. "Believe me, I understand. And you don't have to say anything, Ben."

He shook his head. "Yes, I do," he said as he looked up. "Because I miss Carole so badly and I'm... " He looked away and had to take a deep breath to steady his voice before he could continue, "I'm... scared... that Mark will... I don't think I could take it if I lost both..."

Without a word, and acting purely on instinct, she pulled on his arm until he half-turned toward her then wrapped him in a hug. Something she'd wanted to do ever since she first met the handsome cadet several months ago - but for a very different reason. Now, despite not being very 'Mountie-like', she knew it was something they both needed at the moment. Fraser hesitated, then returned the hug. They stood that way until he gently pulled away.

"It'll be all right, Ben," she tried to reassured him. "Everyone just needs some time, that's all. This just happened yesterday, for God's sake!"

"Uh... ahem... yes. Yes. You're absolutely correct," he said, nervously tugging at his collar.

She smiled sadly at the oddly endearing blush that crept up his throat. 'That look of embarrassment belongs on a little boy,' she thought then stopped any other thoughts of that sort - they made her feel like she was taking advantage of the situation.

"Well, uh, I need to be going," he hastily said then turned and retrieved his box. With a final glance at her, he grabbed his coat and hat then left.

Two days later, Mark was sitting in his favorite easy chair when someone knocked on his apartment door. He ignored it until the knock sounded again, this time louder and more insistent.

"Mark?" a voice, asked from the other side of the closed door. "Mark? Are you in there? Mark?" More knocking followed the barrage of questions.

"Go away, Ben," he ordered, not in the mood for visitors.

"No. I'm not leaving until you talk to me," Fraser insisted. "I'll stay out here all day if necessary, but we are going to talk. We have to."

"No, we don't," Mark snapped back.

"Mark, please. Open the door," Fraser nearly pleaded.

With an effort, Mark stood and moved over to the door. Just before he reached it, Fraser knocked on it again. Now irritated, Mark abruptly yanked it open.

Caught in mid-knock, Fraser, wearing his brand-new formal red serge dress uniform and holding an equally new Stetson, stood there looking at him. "Hello," he said.

Mark couldn't help but be impressed by the sight. The RCMP dress reds were one of the things that had attracted him to the Force in the first place. Things were radically different now, though, and it had lost a lot of its appeal.

"Hi," he replied. After a couple of awkward moments, he gestured at the uniform. "It looks good on you."

Fraser glanced down at himself then said, "Oh. Thank you." He fidgeted nervously with his Stetson. "Of course, it would look better if you were wearing one, too." Too late, he realized how insensitive that comment sounded right now as he noticed Mark swallow and look away. "I'm - I'm sorry," he hastily added in embarrassment and, at a loss for any more words, he simply stood there wishing he hadn't come. Finally, after a minute of painful silence, he softly asked, "May I come in?"

Backing up and turning away Mark returned to the chair he's occupied for the greater part of the last twenty-four hours. Fraser realized that was the only invitation he was going to get, so he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Slowly moving across the room, he tried to think of a way to open a conversation. He'd never been good at these 'feelings' discussions and this one was proving more difficult than he's anticipated. Considering how Mark had answered the door, he knew Mark probably wasn't going to be of much assistance. Still searching for the right opening, Ben finally stopped in front of the window near the easy chair and looked down at the street. The scene outside, pedestrian and vehicular traffic hurrying through rain that was becoming more and more mixed with snow didn't give him any ideas.

"I went to the hospital yesterday after--" He paused awkwardly, barely catching himself before he could mention the graduation ceremony directly.

Mark had yet to regain consciousness when the rest of his classmates were graduating the day before. The Cadet Corps Commander had refused to delay the ceremony for a possibly indefinite length of time just so one temporarily disabled cadet could graduate with his class. In spite of the fact that every single member of the senior cadet Detachment (as well as several of their families) had independently made the same request. Cadet Westfall would just have to miss the official ceremony and, if he still wanted to continue with the Force, receive his certificate and field training assignment later. It had been a very somber day for all concerned.

"I went to the hospital this morning and the nurse I spoke to said you'd been released yesterday afternoon. About the time that--" He winced and once again interrupted himself. While he had known before he arrived that this talk would be difficult for them both, it hadn't occurred to him until just now exactly how difficult discussing Carole's loss with Mark would be. He glanced around the apartment in search of assistance, then regretted the idea. There were too many items that reminded him of who wasn't here - and never would be again.

'Mark's been here alone for nearly a day surrounded by so many reminders of Carole that he can't help but see them every time he turns around,' Fraser thought, finding the familiar room incredibly difficult to look at, so he could imagine what it had been doing to Mark. He pulled his attention away from the photographs and knick-knacks. As he crossed over to the chair to Mark's right, his gaze swept over the coffee table in front of the two chairs. He froze at the sight of what was there - and shouldn't be.

Though partially hidden by an old newspaper, he saw the handgrip of Mark's service revolver. He glanced suspiciously at the newspaper covering the gun. It was open to the crime report section... and the article about Carole's accident. Fraser took a good look at Mark for the first time since he arrived and couldn't remember ever having seen a more graphic depiction of extreme depression anywhere. Not even in his grandparent's extensive library. Mark seemed listless and, from the circles under his eyes, it was obvious that he hasn't slept since being released yesterday. Fraser felt compelled to say something - anything - before his friend could do something incomprehensible.

Trying as hard as he could to pretend that he hadn't seen the gun, Fraser sat down. They sat in silence for several long moments, Mark obviously elsewhere mentally and Ben in growing agitation. "This is ridiculous, Mark," he finally stated in frustration. His voice was tinged with desperation, despite his best efforts, as he placed his Stetson on the end table. "I can't keep verbally dancing around like this trying to find something to talk about other than the subject that we both know has to be addressed."

"And what would that be?" Mark challenged in a dull voice.

"Carole," Fraser stated simply.

"There's nothing to discuss," Mark retorted a bit more heatedly. "She's gone. That's all there is to the subject."

"Then why did you 'check out' as Jack Chapman, our ever-so-eloquent fellow cadet, so quaintly described your self-induced lack of consciousness?" Fraser countered.

Mark stood up suddenly and paced over to the window. He stared out at the dismal weather and said, "I don't think we have anything more to discuss, Ben. You should leave now."

With a glance at the revolver, Fraser also stood. "I can't do that."

Mark turned, pure anger twisting his features. "You don't have a choice," he warned. "Get out or I'll damn well throw you out."

"You don't mean that, Mark," Fraser said in as calm a tone as he could manage, hoping that Mark would pick up on it and also calm down.

"The hell I don't!" Mark insisted, his volume rising as he advanced on the other man. "Get out!"

"Mark, calm down. There's no need to lose your temper!" Fraser said, raising both of his hands.

"And why shouldn't I?" Mark demanded, drawing closer with each word. "Why shouldn't I lose my temper? I've got every right to be angry at this moment and you know it. So take some advice, Ben. Leave while there's still a chance of walking out under your own power!"

Ben was acutely aware of why Mark was so highly agitated, still, he had to try at least one more time to reason with him. "Mark, you don't know what you're doing right now. Maybe if we just sit down and --"

He never got to finish. Mark lunged at him and pinned him against the wall. "I said there's nothing more to discuss! Can't you understand English or do I have to beat the message into you? GET OUT!" He held Fraser by the front of the new tunic for a few more seconds then suddenly let go and stepped back. As Ben regained his balance, Mark balled his hands into fists.

"Mark, please. Listen to re--" Fraser started to say and received a right cross to the jaw for his effort. He could only stare at Mark, unwilling to accept the fact that his best friend has just struck him. The thought of hitting Mark back never crossed his mind. "All right, all right!" he said and once more held up a placating hand, this time more in self-defense. "I'm going. Obviously you're not ready to deal with this issue yet. We'll talk about it some other time. All right?"

"No. We won't," Mark stated. "In fact I don't want to see you ever again. Do you hear me? Never. Again." He strode over to the door and yanked it open. Fraser instinctively stepped back in anticipation of another attack as Mark crossed back to his chair. "Now get out and don't come back, unless you want to get hurt."

"You don't mean that. You can't mean that!" Fraser exclaimed. "We're friends, Mark. I'm only trying to help, for God's sake!"

"Then leave, if you want to help so much," Mark shouted. "Because I don't need you to psychoanalyze me. All I need is to be left alone. Got that? Just leave me the hell alone!"

"And if I do as you say? What will you do then? What are you going to do with the gun, Mark?" Fraser asked, gesturing at the coffee table.

The other man's entire attitude changed abruptly. He slowly turned, picked the weapon up and, not taking his eyes away from the Smith and Wesson, softly asked, "What d'you think I'm going to do with it?"

Fraser blanched as an involuntary image of his grief-stricken friend sitting alone in this apartment, surrounded by reminders of his loss and with a presumably loaded weapon close at hand, flashed through his mind. "No," he insisted and took a step towards Mark. He knew he had to stall for enough time to think of a way to get the weapon away, so he tried to keep Mark talking. "That's not the answer, Mark, and you know it. Don't do something stupid."

"When have you ever known me to do anything 'stupid', Ben?" he asked, his voice still deathly quiet and calm.

"Never. So you shouldn't start now," Fraser quietly replied. "Give me the gun, Mark."

"I don't think so." Mark turned and pointed the weapon in Fraser's general direction. "I said get out. I really don't like to repeat myself, so you'd better listen this time."

This wasn't quite how he'd expected the other man to respond - to say the least! Getting a good look at the .38's full ammunition chamber for the first time, he regretted opting for the flashier formal tunic instead of his brown field uniform. He never contemplated its gunbelt coming in handy when he'd decided they needed to have this 'talk'. Fraser had to swallow before he could reply. "I can't do that, Mark. I can't leave. Not while you're holding a loaded weapon."

"That's not an option," Mark said through clenched teeth as he cocked the hammer with his thumb and raised it to sight down the barrel - directly between his friend's eyes.

Fraser knew they were equally qualified with small arms, even so, at this distance there's no way anyone could possibly miss a stationary target as big as a human. He slowly raised both hands to shoulder level, making sure to keep his palms toward Mark. He hoped the other man wasn't so blinded by grief that he wouldn't mistake the gesture for anything other than what it was - a plea for reason.

They stared at one another along the weapons' sightline for several eternal moments then Mark slowly began to move around the coffeetable, each step emphasizing his words. "This is all your fault. If I hadn't gone with you none of this would have happened," he softly accused as he stopped just out of Fraser's reach. The gun never wavered from its' target as he continued, "If you still want to keep on breathing - then get going before I forget that you were once my friend."

"My fault?" Fraser demanded in an effort to distract Mark from making the worst mistake of his life. "What's my fault, Mark?" He glanced at the revolver. It twitched slightly as the tension in Mark's trigger finger increased along with his anger. He realized that if he wasn't extremely careful in the next few minutes, Mark could very well shoot him. "Listen, Mark, I know what you're going through--"

Mark barked a short laugh that was totally devoid of any humor whatsoever. "You know what I'm going through? You!?" he asked in disbelief. "How could you possibly have even the remotest clue about what I'm going through?" Before Ben could even begin to formulate a reply, Mark continued, "If I'd only ignored you when you practically begged me to go on that ride-along... I might have been here to stop her. I might have been able to keep her from driving that day or at least I could have been the one behind the wheel. She was on her way to one of her routine check-ups, did you know that?" He once more advanced on the unarmed Constable, forcing Fraser to edge closer to the door.

"If I'd only turned away... then I would have been with her, driving, and it might have been me dead on the pavement instead of Carole and our--" His voice broke suddenly, a single tear escaping his shaky control to creep down his cheek. He looked away for a second and the gun wavered slightly. Calculating the distance between them, Fraser quickly speculated whether he could disarm the distraught man before Mark could do something that would undoubtedly haunt him for the rest of his life. He managed only one step in Mark's direction before the other man snapped his attention, and deadly aim, back in his direction.

"Mark," Fraser tried once again to reason with him. "You have to realize that even if you had gone home instead of with me, the accident would probably still have occurred--"

"You don't know that for sure!" Mark loudly interrupted, desperate to deny his friend's words and remove some of the monumental, and unreasonable, guilt he was feeling. "I could have done something - anything! I could have stopped her."

"You don't know that for sure, Mark!" Fraser said, deliberately throwing Mark's words back at him. "How would you have kept her from leaving the apartment that day? What possible reason could you have given her to not go out, especially since she had an appointment with her doctor that day? You couldn't have known that drunk driver was going to plow into Carole's car - no one could have known that! So, even though you would have been here, the accident probably would have happened anyway."

"No! I could have prevented it! I could have-."

"Mark, will you listen to what--"

"No!" Mark shouted, all patience gone. "No. No more talking and no more listening. I'm tired and you haven't said anything worth listening to." Motioning towards the door with the gun, he continued, "For the last time, Ben - get out. Now. Get out and never come back. If you don't leave now, I can't be held responsible for what'll happen next."

Fraser stared at him for a few moments, finally at a loss for words. Nothing he'd said so far has gotten through and it seemed nothing would right now. Although he was honestly frightened about what would happen if he left Mark alone in this condition and with a loaded weapon, there didn't seem to be any other choice. Things had gotten too far out of hand. He only hoped he could reach the authorities soon enough to get some professional help for his friend before Mark... did anything to himself.

"If that's what you want, that's what you'll get," Fraser said in resignation. Sick with the thought of leaving, he backed closer to the open door. As he crossed the threshold, he hesitated as if he was about to say something else, then thought better of it. Instead, he looked into Mark's eyes one last time then nodded once, turned on his heel and left before he could set the other man off again.

Mark slammed the door shut then eased the revolvers' hammer back down as soon as Ben was gone. He glared at the inoffensive wood for a couple of seconds before he once more returned to his chair and his brooding. As he sat down, he glanced over at the other chair and saw the new Stetson still on the end table where Ben had placed it such a short time ago.

He gingerly put the gun on the table beside his chair then rose and picked the hat up, meaning to go after Ben and fling it at him in a final gesture. Instead, feeling the rigidity of the brim and the texture of the new felt he looked at it more closely. He noticed that there was already a trace of perspiration on the sweatband and he detected the faint odor of the soap Ben habitually used, despite Carole's efforts to get him to switch to a shampoo specifically designed for his type of hair. He smiled faintly as he remembered them arguing about it, then once again returned to his temporary sanctuary - his chair.

Carefully placed Ben's Stetson on his lap, he and looked toward the window. He'd been unable to think about anything other than Carole since being allowed to return home yesterday, but this was the first pleasant memory out of thousands that had paraded across his consciousness. He continued to drag up more and more of these pleasant thoughts, most of them involving the three of them, until he suddenly realized that it was getting dark - and he was so very tired. Wearily getting up, the Stetson safely tucked under one arm, he headed for the bedroom. He left the revolver on the coffee table. In the morning he would unload it and, along with the Stetson, store it deep in a closet. After he'd had a real night's rest. And, although Mark didn't know it yet, it was all thanks to the friend he'd just exiled from his life.

It was getting colder outside and there seemed to be more snow than rain coming down, but he didn't even consider retrieving his hat. Fraser knew there would be a charge for another one, and the quartermaster undoubtedly wouldn't appreciate a brand-new graduate coming back so soon to requisition another Stetson, but it was essential to have a complete uniform when he arrived at his assigned FC detachment. Pausing on the sidewalk outside, he looked toward the window of Mark's apartment for a few moments.

It was useless to hope that Mark might have changed his mind and been watching for him, still.... He tore his eyes away and looked down at the sidewalk. He'd stood outside Mark's door for a few moments after it had closed and seriously considered going back in to reclaim the Stetson. Then, through the relatively thin wood, he'd heard the hammer of a revolver being carefully released. Sensing that Mark was safe, at least for now, he'd closed his eyes for a moment in relief then left the building.

Knowing it would probably be the height of folly to come back tomorrow, but unwilling to just walk away and hope everything would be all right, Fraser looked for a payphone and called Liz Marchand. He told her what had happened and asked her to drop by Mark's place. Mark would undoubtedly not appreciate the gesture, but Ben was certain that he would react somewhat less violently toward her. Even if he was a bit annoyed by the 'cosseting' of his friends, Ben knew that Liz was more than capable of dealing with him. As soon as he finished the call, he headed back to the barracks to finish packing and say the rest of his good-byes. Even though he knew it would be better if he talked with someone, he resolved to never mention this farewell to anyone else. Ever.

Tomorrow he'd collect another Stetson and leave this now empty part of his life behind.

Forever.

THE END
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