A Picture's Worth

There are a limited number of times that a person can listen to a novelty Christmas song before losing his grip on his sanity. Benton Fraser was rapidly approaching that threshold, and Renfield Turnbull was in grave danger of getting stuffed head first up the nearest available chimney stack.

Thanks be to whatever gods protect fools and Mounties, the Consulate closed early on Christmas Eve. Inspector Thatcher was already on her way to Toronto - Air Canada, of course, there was no other way to fly - and Turnbull would be off shortly, too, leaving Fraser to some glorious peace and quiet.

A sudden impulse made him leave his desk and hurry into the lobby, where the hapless young Constable was busy taking down the more garish decorations that had been put up for the consular Christmas party the night before... or, as he put it, 'un-decking' the halls. This impulse was due less to holiday cheer than to a dread that Turnbull was gearing up for yet another enthusiastic rendition of the less-than-delightful 'Santa Drives a Pickup'.

"Constable?"

The younger man turned around, and Fraser felt his irritation start to drain away at the sight of those sparkling eyes and that joyful grin, not to mention the yards of golden garland he'd draped around himself, presumably to keep from tripping over it as he bustled around the room, taking it down.

"Yes, sir?"

"The forecast calls for snow tonight, and you're almost finished anyway. Why don't you go home, and I'll tidy up for you."

Turnbull brightened even more, then hesitated. "Are you sure, sir?"

Fraser smiled encouragingly. "Absolutely. Go on, I'll take care of it."

Turnbull nodded, then dashed from the room, returning after a few moments minus the garland, buttoning up his coat. "Have a merry Christmas, sir," he said warmly, heading for the door.

"You too," Fraser replied. Then, with a spark of mischief, he called out, "Renfield?"

Surprised, the young Constable turned. "Yes, sir?"

"Watch out for that fat man," Fraser told him solemnly. "He'll be coming down your stack."

Warmed by the peals of laughter that trailed off in Turnbull's wake, Fraser locked the front door and quickly surveyed his domain. Turnbull had done a good job of cleaning up - most of the decorations had been taken down, leaving only occasional sprigs of holly, evergreen boughs, and the lavishly decorated tree in the sitting room. He decided he'd leave those up until Boxing day, figuring that they'd make his Christmas a little more pleasant.

He smiled to himself as he recalled explaining that particular post-Christmas holiday to his partner. The name 'Boxing Day' had, of course, put a bizarre image in that spiky head.

"Canadians have a whole day for kicking each other in the head? And you choose the day after *Christmas* to do it? Geez, you're just the ambassador for a whole freakdom, aren't you?"

He'd laughed at that, and set about explaining the etymology of that particular name, and the history of the holiday, until Ray's eyes had glazed over and he'd chalked the whole thing up to general Canadian wackiness.

The thought of his exuberant partner sent a pang through him, though, and suddenly the empty silence of the building around him seemed almost overwhelming. The soft whine from behind him echoed his sentiments, and he turned to give Diefenbaker a stern look.

"I'm not going to have this conversation with you again, Dief. I'm sorry we have to spend the evening here on our own, but you know full well why it has to be that way."

Another whine, and he sighed in response. "I know, boy. I miss them too." But with Ray in Arizona, and the Vecchios all gone off to Florida to visit Ray and Stella, there really wasn't much of a choice.

Bark.

"Yes, I know Francesca took Ante with her."

Dief huffed, and padded back into Fraser's office, no doubt to curl up on the blankets of his cot. For a brief moment, Fraser wanted nothing more than to do the same.

He'd spent Christmases alone in the past, many of them, after the death of his grandparents. Oh, he'd always found something to do - help out at the local Inuit village, or stand the shift of a coworker who had small children at home, and there was always the obligatory call to or from his father. He'd always been content with that, or so he'd thought at the time. It wasn't until he'd come to Chicago that he truly realized what he'd been missing.

Friendship, family, acceptance, love. They were all a part of his life now, tough it took the lack of them for him to appreciate fully how ... addicted he'd become to it all.

Even through his loneliness, though, he couldn't begrudge his friends their absence. He'd been invited to accompany the Vecchios down south, and while he might have been able to take the required time off work, he felt that their holiday should really be spent only with family this year. Sadly, Ray Vecchio hadn't put up too much of an objection to his polite refusal, and they both knew the reason why - Stella remained one of the few people that Fraser hadn't managed to endear himself to in Chicago... though he had to admit that he hadn't tried particularly hard to do so.

He'd been invited to join the Kowalskis, too, in their celebration, and he'd declined that invitation more hesitantly, and for altogether different reasons. He was very fond of Ray's parents, and having met Ray's brother and his brood upon his and Ray's return from the Territories, he knew their assurances that he'd be welcome in their home anytime were honestly meant.

As much as he'd been tempted to go, however, he'd stayed behind after all. He had some very difficult things to sort through where his partner was concerned - feelings, emotions, impulses he'd thought he'd buried long before, and the last thing he wanted to have to do was to come to terms with them under the watchful eye of various assorted Kowalskis.

Ray hadn't insisted, though he'd given him a long, contemplating look before assuring him they'd usher in the New Year together, and driving off in the GTO.

Fraser went to the kitchen, putting the kettle on for tea and fixing a light supper for himself and for Dief. As if on cue, the wolf appeared just as his bowl was filled. He glanced into the dish, then up at the refrigerator, and finally to Fraser, with a wuff.

"No, that's all for tomorrow. I assured Mrs Vecchio we'd have it for Christmas dinner."

With a resigned air, Dief turned back to his dish, presumably with visions of homemade pastas and sauces dancing in his head, and Fraser sat down to his own meal.

When everything had been cleared, overcome by sudden generosity, he reached for the dainty assortment of goodies that the Vecchio children had made him, found the misshapen gingerbread man that little three-year-old Teresa had assured him she'd made "speshafully" for Dief, and offered it to his friend, who promptly disposed of it with a happy chomp. Choosing another cookie for himself, he took his tea and, with Dief in tow, went to sit by the tree.

Turnbull had thoughtfully laid out logs and kindling in the fireplace and, moments later, the room was lit by the fire's cheery blaze. He sat back in the comfortable armchair, wolf at his feet, to indulge himself further in his bout of self-pity.

If his father was here, he'd be on Fraser's case to snap out of his funk, but he wasn't; the man who'd shown up, months dead, in the back seat of the Riv, could it only be two Christmases ago, had now been laid to rest, leaving Fraser alone to be lonely in peace.

'A pity party of one,' Ray would call it. Pity party. Pitter patter. With a sigh, he stared at the flickering flames as the world around him was gently covered by a blanket of snow, meditating deep into the night before silently taking himself off to bed.

The phone rang early the next day, startling him from his breakfast, and Dief jumped up, staring at him intently. With a frown at the wolf's curious behaviour, Fraser picked up the receiver.

Before he had a chance to speak, a joyful voice rang out, "Hey, Frase! Merry Christmas from Arizona!"

He was instantly filled with warmth, and he smiled brightly as he answered, "Merry Christmas to you as well, Ray."

"Is Dief there?"

Fraser blinked at the unexpected question. "Yes, he's right here. Do you want to speak to him?"

"Smartass!" He could practically see that dazzling grin. "Nah, just tell him I said 'Now'."

Fraser was game. "Ray says 'Now'," he told Dief, who immediately raced off into Fraser's room/office.

"What's going on, Ray?" he asked, bewildered.

A low chuckle came over the line. "Just wait a sec."

Sure enough, Dief was back , this time with a small, brightly wrapped package held carefully between his teeth, which he offered up to Fraser.

Speechless, he took the gift, unwrapping it to reveal a small leather-bound book. Opening it, he drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the beautifully drawn portrait of Diefenbaker, his muzzle lifted up to howl at the moon. He flipped through the rest of the book, amazed at the northern landscapes, sketches of Dief playing in the snow, Buck Frobisher standing in front of the RCMP outpost, his father's cabin. The final image brought him short, and he gazed down in astonishment at the portrait of himself, bundled up in his parka, staring off at some unseen point in the distance, contentment written in his every feature.

He stared down at it until it blurred, and he suddenly remembered that he was in the middle of a rather expensive phone conversation. "Oh, Ray!" he managed to say, his voice thick with emotion.

"You like 'em?" Ray asked hesitantly.

"Ray, they're... it's... perfect." Fraser cleared his throat. "I didn't realize you were such an able artist."

"Yeah, well. I don't got a way with words like you do, Frase, but I always had a thing for art. Took some drawing lessons once..."

"I'm amazed you were able to keep these a secret for so long."

Ray chuckled. "You think you're the only one who knows how to be sneaky, Mountie?"

Fraser smiled. "I suppose not. I only wish I had something to give you in return."

"Look, it's no biggie. Didn't I hear something once about some parts of Canada where they do all their partying on New Years, instead of Christmas?"

"Well, yes, Ray, that is a French Canadian tradition."

"So we'll just do a French Canadian thing when I get back." Ray paused, then added jokingly, "So you got plenty of time to get me something nice."

Fraser was examining his portrait again. Ray seemed to have captured his entire essence; every line was drawn with attention to detail, with passion, with ... love. And, all at once, his agonizing decision became crystal clear.

"Yes, Ray," he answered softly. "I promise I will get you something very nice for New Years."

"'Cause, you know," Ray continued in a lower voice, "I got some resolutions I wanna try out this year."

Fraser knew, then, that once again he and his partner were on the same wavelength. It was going to be all right.

"I look forward to it," he answered. "Give my best to your family."

And, as Ray signed off to, as he put it, 'get his skinny ass whupped by his niece on the kids' new Playstation 2', Fraser smiled in unaccustomed joy.

Resolutions. Oh, yes, he had made his own set of resolutions this year, and he was looking forward to seeing just how long he and Ray could make them last, together.

Forever, he hoped.

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