Fools Who Roam

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Alliance Co. I am using them without permission but I'm certainly not making any money off this.

Author's note: This is a fixit/sequel to COtW, which had its good points, but over all left me disappointed. I refuse to issue a Thatcher warning because she is a great character, despite what seasons 3/4 would have us believe. The segment quoted is from the poem 'The Fireside' by Nathaniel Cotton.

Dedication: This is for Mel, who looked at due South, looked at me and thought 'Its payback time, baby.' Oh, and because she wanted a happy ending as much as I did.

Fools Who Roam by Lucy

Ben Fraser dreamt of sunflowers and knew it was time to go home. It had been three years since he and Stanley Kowalski set out to find the Hand of Franklin and almost three months since they had given up. No, not precisely 'given-up.' It was more like coming to the mutual realization that the Hand of Franklin didn't exist in any sort of literal reality. Stan sensed Ben was ready to leave almost before Fraser did. Fraser had developed a restless way of looking across the tundra in the early morning and an absent way of scratching Deif behind the ears while fiddling with his compass. The songs he sang to himself were traveling songs and the books he read were about homecomings. After three years of searching, he had discovered the potent truth that 'home' was more elusive than mere geography. They were sitting out at the campfire in front of the cabin Fraser and Ray Vecchio had built, discussing the invitation they had just received to Frannie Vecchio's wedding when Fraser told Stan about the sunflowers. "I dreamt of sunflowers last night." Ben said softly, stirring the fire with a stick. He let his eyes slide to the stars above, so brilliant it looked as if someone had shattered the sun and swept the shards across the night. "Yeah?" Stan asked, scratching his nose. "That weird." Stan kept his voice light, hoping to dismiss the inevitable heaviness of Fraser's tone. "Were they doin' something? Dancing or something?" "No," Ben answered with a slight smile. "Not dancing. Just growing." He flicked the stick hard, sending a glittering shower of sparks across the snow. His voice dropped to quiet introspection and Stan recognized that to mean Fraser was about to tell him more than he was about to tell him. "When I was a child I saw a picture of a sunflower in an encyclopedia and I outright refused to believe it was real." He laughed a little at himself, leaning back on his elbows. "You see, in most of the places I grew up, it was much too cold for even the hardiest of wildflowers. The idea of a sunflower was so outrageous, so anathema to everything I knew of wildlife, it almost angered me. The audacity of such a thing. My grandmother urged me to cross-reference the sunflower in other encyclopedias. The more I learned, the less I believed it. A flower one to four meters in height!? With a flower head reaching one-third a meter in diameter?! I told her that in Gaileo's time there were hundreds of books claiming the universe was geocen-- uh, that the sun revolved around the earth and that didn't make it any more true." Stan shrugged, wrapping his arms around his pillow, his eyes distant. "Finally, Grandmother said I could order one from Ontario. And when that package arrived . . . with that infant sunflower, already the size of a white ash sapling . . . it was as if I had received a . . . a unicorn or some other object of imaginative whimsy. Pure fantasy that I could hold in my hands." He glanced over at Stan, who appeared to be fast asleep. Ben returned his gaze to the lonesome stars and when he spoke, it was only to them. "She smelled of sunflowers. At first, I thought it was perfume but it wasn't. It was sunflowers." Stan opened his eyes and studied Fraser's motionless profile, the brightness of his eyes. Hugging the pillow closer, Stan swallowed hard and began to waltz in his memory. When Fraser awoke the next morning, Stan was out with the dogs, leaving only Deifenbaker behind and instead of dirty breakfast

dishes, the only item on the table was a scribbled note.        'Fraser,
                Tell Frannie she was the best little sister I ever had.  And about

the other thing , pitter patter go get at her, buddy.

                        Stan Kowalski
        p.s. On second thought, tell Frannie her pasta fazool had me camping

out in the john for a week. Oh, and if you see Stella, tell her I said hey.'

And so exactly four days and seventeen hours later, Ben Fraser's plane touched down in the fourteenth windiest city in the continental United States.

        Ray leaned over and straightened Ben's tie, patting the fat square knot
down with the palm of his hand.         "Where's that damn uniform of yours,

Fraser?' He asked, smoothing his hand over his scalp. "Well, Ray, as I am no longer a member of the Mounted Police, I didn't think it appropriate to wear my uniform." "Eh. That's too bad, we coulda used you and Turnbull as matching doormen." Ben's eyes narrowed fractionally at the mention of Turnbull's name and he made a low noise in his throat. Ray clapped him on the shoulder and lead him out to the small yard behind the Vecchio's home. "I know how you feel, Benny. But he treats her good and he treats the kids good. That's all I ask, Benny, that's all I ask." Ray's voice trailed off as his eyes fell on the bride nestled in the noisy crowd of her family. "Ah, but don't she look beautiful, Benny." Ray said softly, without question. Ben studied Francesca, nearly hidden in the snow white gown as she bent down to speak to one of her many children of questionable origin. In that patch of spring sun, irrepressible Frannie Vecchio did indeed look like one of the most beautiful things Ben had ever seen. Ray pulled two patio chairs into one of the less boisterous areas of the Vecchio Three Ring Circus. The two friends studied each other in silence for a moment. "Its good to have you back, Fraser." Ray said at last. Ben stretched out a little, his ice blue eyes looking almost content. "And you, Ray." Ben countered. "Why did you come back, Ray? What happened to Stella?" "What and miss all this?" Ray asked indicating his kaleidoscope of screaming Vecchios and one serene Canadian bridegroom sprawled across the lawn. And though his tone was sarcastic, Ben sensed the solid truth behind it. Ray fiddled with his cummerbund and squinted off into the distance. "Stella's a good woman. But I was no more the love of her life than I was a Florida retiree. I suspect Kowalski might be having some company in that cabin of yours sooner rather than later." "I hope so. He deserves it." Ray turned back to Ben.

"Why is he still up there? Why didn't he come back with you." Ray was caught somewhere between curiosity, relief and grudging disappointment. Stan Kowalski was a good cop and Ray almost felt as if he had wanted to know him better. "I suspect he needed some time to figure out exactly who Stanley Raymond Kowalski really was. When he figures that out, he'll be back. Or not. Only time will tell. What about you, Ray? What are you going to do now?" Ray smiled and chuckled. "Actually, I'm returning to the force." Ray's smile widened at Benny's startled look. "C'mon, Fraser. I became a cop for a reason, you know."

        "I thought it was because your father hated cops."  
        "Yup.  And he loved bowling alleys."  Ben nodded sagely, realizing he

wasn't startled at all. As a comfortable silence spread over them, Ray could see Fraser's eyes drifting away. "Why are you here, Benny? I mean really. Why did you leave home?" "Barren rocks and snow no more make a home than mortar and brick made this a home." Ben paused, looking into Ray's eyes with a fragile inner truth. "I miss her, Ray." Ray reached out and squeezed Ben's arm. The last time he had spoken so openly about himself, they had been discussing the disappearance of Victoria Metcalf. "C'mon, Benny. Dance while the music's playing." So, Ben and Ray danced on the lawn to old Frank Sinatra records. Ray pretended the pretty bridesmaid in his arms was Irene and then Ange and then Stella. And then he stopped pretending. Ben danced with Frannie, Maria, Ma Vecchio, countless bridesmaids, and a little flower girl who stood on the tops of his feet and could only hold three of his fingers in her fist. When he missed Meg too much, he sat out and watched. And when he could stand the missing her, he got back up and danced.

"Well, you understand, Benton. Getting you reinstated in the RCMP won't come without cost. You were gone over three years. I've sent my final report to Ottawa, but I'm sorry to say I had to add a few recommendations about your posting." Ben swallowed nervously and juggled the phone to his other ear. "Such as, sir?" Buck Frobisher rustled as stack of papers and spoke in his most sympathetic voice. "Well, we won't be able to give you a higher rank than 'Constable.' Oh, and unfortunately, you'll have to serve as Acting Chief Liaison of the Chicago Consulate." Ben smiled to himself and heard Ray's voice in his head asking if the word 'sap' meant anything to him. He offered a silent thanks to the deep friendship between his father and Buck. " 'Acting' Chief Liaison Officer, sir?"

"Well, suppose someone of a higher ranking than you should, uh, arrive or return to the consulate. You understand we must keep the position open to the most qualified officer, where ever she may be tonight." Ben swallowed the sudden thickness in his throat. "Thank you, sir." He said simply, resting his forehead on the cool wood lining the Vecchio living room wall. "Good luck, Benton." Frobisher said, running his hand over a small snapshot of Bob and Caroline Fraser he kept tucked in a corner drawer and placing the phone back on the cradle.

Fraser returned to the dining room table and nodded. The large family burst into cheers and claps. Turnbull stood up, holding one of Frannie's

babies on his hip.      "I await your every command, sir."  He said, clumsily
saluting with his one free hand.        "Yeah, sit down before you hurt yourself."

Frannie responded, not unkindly and slipped an arm around his shoulders. "I think this calls for dessert!" Ma Vecchio said, lumbering into the kitchen followed by Maria, Frannie and most of the children. Ray watched Fraser carefully, noting the seriousness in his eyes, despite his relief at hearing his posting. During his frightening stay with the mob, Ray would have given ten years of his life to see just one person look at him with Fraser's implicit, child-like trust or guileless innocence. That look that only Fraser and his nieces and nephews had. He remembered a meeting with the Las Vegas PD who were trying to lean on him and his 'family.' "You know its in your best interests, Langustini." One of the vice cops snarled at him. His right hand man, Carlo leaned toward the cop, sneering. "And why should we help you, pig?" And out of nowhere, Ray heard himself say 'Our basic respect for the law," perfectly mimicking Fraser's confident, utter sincerity. The police and mobsters all stared at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. Listening to their comments, ranging from the cops' sarcastic 'very funny, *Armando*' to his henchmen's 'good one, boss,' Ray had missed Benny more than he ever thought humanly possible. Some of that sincerity, some of that trustfulness and some of that innocence was gone now, and Ray missed it all the much more for having lost it once already. Ben's sad silence stretched throughout dessert. Usually he watched the Vecchio madness with that same horrified fascination people watch car wreck clean-ups with. Lately, he just stared at his plate, poking at his food and daydreaming. When he couldn't stand it any longer, Ray pulled his chair closer to Fraser and whispered "What is it, Benny?" He looked up from his fork

and sighed.     "Its been three months, Ray."
        "Fraser, she's undercover.  She can't just pick up the phone and call

you. Believe me." Ben pushed his plate away and stared at Ray with desperate, aching eyes. "I haven't seen her in almost four years, Ray. I don't even know if she's . . . safe, much less if she's coming home." "She's coming home, Benny."

        "Says who?"  Fraser countered, something almost harsh and bitter in
his voice.      "God."  Ray answered with all the artless conviction he once

heard in the voice of a uniformed stranger looking for 'a detective Armani.' "God?" Fraser asked incredulously. "You spoke to God and asked Him this?" Ma Vecchio appeared at Ben's side, and picked up his dirty plate. "Yes, Benito. We speak to God and ask Him this everyday." Fraser's voice took on the measured hesitation of one breaking very bad news. "Mrs. Vecchio, God reserves the right to say 'no.'" Mrs. Vecchio gave a small,

patient laugh and kissed Ben's forehead.        "Not to Catholics He doesn't."
                                *****************
        Ben sat on the consulate steps watching Deifenbaker watch other dogs
play in the rain.       "You know you're getting soft." Fraser said out of

habit and Deif ignored him out of habit. It had been a bad night last night, tears and lack of sleep had reddened Ben's eyes. Deif whined sympathetically and nudged Fraser's hand. Fraser tried to smile at him and failed. For a long time he sat on the steps, holding his broad hands over his burning eyes. And when he opened them, she was there.

Ben tried to stand, tried to speak, tried to breath but he was suddenly struck with the overwhelming *rememberance* of her. A tidal wave of images and sensations inundated him until he feared he would lose consciousness. He remembered her wicked throwing arm, her low cut cocktail dresses, her fierce authority and quicksilver intelligence. He remembered her haughty pride and vehement loyalty. The taste of her tongue in his mouth and the feel of her fingers in his hair. The way her eyes closed when he kissed her so that he could feel the feather light brush of her lashes against his cheekbone. The fragrance of sunflowers and the way red suited her until he could barely breathe. Meg Thatcher looked down at Ben, sitting like a child waiting for the storm to clear. "Hello, Ben." She said setting her suitcase on the ground.

        "Hello, Meg." He responded in kind, never taking his eyes off of her
face or the slide show behind his eyes.         "So, I return from helping to

make the world safe for democracy and I get this memo from Sergeant Buck Frobisher offering me a position. And what might this position be? An ambassadorship? A director at the CIS? A professorship at the Academy? No. He said, if it interested me, I could become Chief Liaison Officer at the Chicago Consulate. And I wondered why that would interest me. Then I saw your name at the bottom of the memo." She paused for breath, unnerved by Fraser's complete lack of noise or movement. "Before I knew it, I was back on a plane, wondering what the hell I would say to you.

And then I remembered."         "Remembered what?"  Ben whispered.  Meg moved
closer, crouching in front of him on the steps.         "This story I once heard

about a thirteen year old boy and a caribou stuck on a mountainside."

The ghost of a smile danced on Ben's lips.      "I think I know that story."
He murmured, reveling in clean scent of rain on her skin.       "Good, because

I can't remember how it ends." Her voice was gentle Ben reached his hand out tentatively, almost afraid that if he touched her she would

vanish like a mirage in the desert.     "He gets the girl."
        "What girl?" Meg asked skeptically.  Ben's fingertips rested softly

on her cheek and he shivered with the realization of a dream. Of Home. "The one he's in love with."

"Oh." Meg responded. "That one." Her arms were around his neck then, her face pressed against shoulder, her fists holding onto to handfuls of fabric. And they both could have sworn they felt the rattling of a train beneath their feet and the wind rushing around their bodies. Or maybe that motion was the rocking of a ship and that sound was the howling of wolves. Maybe it was something infinitely more dramatic. Like the realization that if they had the courage to face down a handgun or disarm a nerve gas bomb then surely they had the courage to face the disapproval of faceless bureaucrats five hundred miles away. Surely they had the courage to come home. Pressed against the warm body of his Inspector, Ben Fraser was eight years old, unwrapping a preposterous flower from a plain brown wrapper. Closing his eyes, he whispered into her ear:

                        If solid happiness we prize
                        Within our breast this jewel lies
                        And they are fools who roam
                        The world has nothing to bestow
                        From our own selves our joy must flow
                        And that dear hut, is our home

And they all lived happily ever after.