This story was inspired by Cat Dudka's great piece, "Something About Frannie". She challenged me to write *my* take on the Francesca/Benton relationship and here it is! Big Kudos to my cheering squad, especially Deborah Herdman-Wedlake and Editor Supremo Stephany Smith. This is the first story in what Deb H-W dubbed "The Frannie Chronicles", because the story I want to tell is going to be pretty long, so it has been split into several seperate tales that can stand independently. Francesca Nightingale is the first of these.

Rated PG/Mild M. Adult themes, no sex, a teency bit of swearing. Comments appreciated. Copyright Helen Hart 1996.

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FRANNIE CHRONICLE I

Francesca Nightingale.

Francesca glowered after the cab disappearing along the darkening street clutching her coat to her throat against the cutting wind. Sure this was a tough neighbourhood, she thought, but still...couldn't he have waited two minutes while she delivered a message to the Mountie? It wasn't like she'd asked him to turn off his meter or anything.

As she trudged up the stairs to Fraser's apartment, she wondered how the hell she was going to get another cab. It was cold and snowy, it was getting late, it was the eve of Christmas eve. She'd never get one and it would be Ray's fault if something happened to her in this crummy place. Her carefully made up face smirked with derision, Mr Fancy-pants Detective was out romancing his States Attorney girlfriend so *she* got stuck delivering the message from Ma to Fraser because *he* didn't have a phone. No phone? How did the man live?

Silently Francesca threw her hands up in bafflement as she climbed on. She hadn't seen Fraser much lately. He still turned her on something cruel, but - well, hell, how many times does an intelligent woman need to be rejected before she gets the picture? She wasn't a masochist, so why spend more time than was necessary around the Mountie? Actually, it seemed to be working. She had stopped hyperventilating on the subway when her fantasies got out of hand. Come to think of it, she was really hyperventilating now, those stairs were a killer.

Holding onto her purse in one hand, Francesca rapped on Fraser's door with the other while she caught her breath. No answer. Was he in? she wondered. Probably out saving kittens from snowdrifts or something. Leaving a note on his door didn't sound good, in this building someone would steal it. She'd leave one inside on the kitchen bench.

She pushed the unlocked door open and then closed it behind her. The apartment was dark and silent and smelt just like her nephews' room last time they were home from school sick. As Francesca groped for the light switch, a furry snout pressed against her in the dark. Biting back a yelp of terror, she flicked the switch and glared at the wolf staring up at her.

"Ack!, Dief!. Don't scare me like that!"

At the sound of her voice, the figure on the bed stirred. Ben, still fully dressed in his winter uniform, was blearily raising himself from his untidy sprawl.

"Francesca?" he murmured.

"Yeah. Sorry to disturb you - how can you sleep at seven o'clock? - but Ma wanted me to tell you to turn up at about ten AM Christmas morning because....Fraser are you O.K? you look kinda green?....."

The Mountie focused with difficulty on the vivacious figure of Ray's sister. "No, I'm fine thank you. Just a touch of the flu. Could you write that down for me please?" he enunciated clearly. The effort appeared too great for him and his already pale skin seemed to go translucent .

"Lord, Fraser, you don't look so good, urgh, you're clammy and sweating, some flu. Where have you been lately?"

There was a pause as Ben fought off unconsciousness to answer. "I was helping....." he trailed off as a wave of nausea rose. Being an experienced Aunt of young children, Francesca recognised the signs of imminent barfing and raced into the kitchen. She dumped her purse on the bench, found a large bowl and was back in time for the unflappable Mountie to retch his guts out.

As he threw up she held his head and lectured, "Of course you were helping. Probably some ungrateful lowlife who will never try to improve themselves and just takes what you give them. And you give and give and give - and what do you ever get? You ask for nothing but you get a twenty-four hour virus and a bad cold on the eve of Christmas Eve. Examine this picture and pick the problem. Finished?"

Nodding weakly, Ben sat up. His normally neat hair was tousled and plastered to his brow with perspiration. Trying to hold onto his dignity he said weakly, "Thank you kindly. I'll be fine now. You should get home. I can look after myself."

Francesca shook her head. "When you're sick? - everyone else should look after you. Who was the last person to look after you?" All she got was a blank look. She tried another tack. "Did your Grandmother look after you when you were sick?"

"Of course."

"When were you last sick?"

"When I was eight."

Francesca couldn't believe it. No-one had thought to pamper this man since he had gotten out of short pants. She looked down at Ben's tired face and was hit by an unexpected and overwhelming feeling of tenderness. Lust sure, but tenderness? Where did that come from?

"Just lie down Fraser. I'll clear up a little." she said gently, pushing him back onto his pillow. Too weary to resist, Ben complied then looked up at her. "Why are you doing this?" he asked with devastating simplicity.

Francesca fought the lump in her throat. "Put it down to maternal instinct," she said flippantly, "besides, Ma would kill me if I left you to fend for yourself."

Smiling faintly at this, Ben closed his eye's and fell asleep.

Francesca stood and watched him for a few moments. Then, blinking suddenly to break the spell, she shed her coat and moved briskly into action. She emptied the bowl of it's contents and rinsed it out with boiling water. Then she checked his supplies, plenty of food, juice, candles and a first aid kit.

"Well, he's prepared," she said out loud, "why am I not surprised?" She cranked up the heater, then spent a tricky two minutes trying to open the window to get some fresh air without it slamming on her fingers. After several near amputations she got it propped correctly. During all this the wolf had followed her closely. Turning suddenly from the window, she tripped over him.

"Argh! Diefenbaker! What do you want?"

With a pitiful look, Dief picked up his bowl in powerful jaws and whined.

"Oh, food. Good idea. What the hell do you eat besides junk?"

Rummaging through the fridge she offered him several selections which he refused, untill they both agreed on left-over beef casserole.

With the wolf sorted, Francesca went back over to Ben lying on his bed. He had to get out of those clothes but he didn't look like waking up. Proving her wrong, he rolled over, eyes fluttering, and moaned. Moving swiftly, Francesca and her trusty bowl came to the rescue again. Once he had stopped, she got him a glass of water to rinse his mouth, then gently stroked his forehead. His temperature had risen significantly.

"My head hurts." Ben said pitifully, still not fully conscious.

"I know baby, here, drink some water. You don't want to get dehydrated." Francesca soothed. He drank some, then promptly threw it up again.

They went through the whole procedure once more before he settled down to doze fitfully. Francesca was a little worried, so she waited untill he was calm before getting her mobile phone out of her purse. Except it wasn't there. With a groan she remembered it was on her dressing table, broken because she had spilled nail polish onto it and flooded the receiver.

Tip-toeing to avoid disturbing Ben, she eased the door open and went to the door of his telephone owning friend. She prayed to God it was the *right *door and not some psycopath. The guy opened his door.

"Yeah? who are you?" he asked suspiciously through his security chain.

"I'm a friend of Fraser's and I really need to use your phone." she said as nicely as she could.

He grumbled but let her in and pointed to the wanted device. Dialing quickly, Francesca drummed her fingernails against the wall waiting for an answer. "C'mon, pick up! Jeez, where are you all when I need you?"

"Yeah, hello. Vecchio residence."

"Ray, it's Frannie...."

"Hey! Where the hell are you? Ma sent you out two and a half hours ago."

"I'm at Fraser's still, I'm stuck here, and NO! I did not do it on purpose," she said loudly to blot out his snort. "He's sick," she continued, " and he needs looking after, but he's running a temperature and throwing up so I want to talk to Ma and get her to help."

"No can do. She's gone to Cousin Leone's and everyone's snowed in so she can't get home. I'm alone in the house."

"Snowed in?" yelped Franchesca, "Don't yank my chain! It was only light flurries when I got here."

"Well now it's not. You're going to have to stay put, Frannie," ordered Ray, "Is he really sick? Does he need to get to a hospital?"

She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wall. "No." she sighed. "It's just a twenty four hour vomiting virus type thing, plus he's got a head cold."

"Oh poor Fraser. He's never sick, he probably feels totally shitty right now. Can you cope?"

"Yeah sure. I'll call tomorrow Ray."

"Yeah, do that. You're a regular Francesca Nightingale you know? But if things get out of hand, let me know straight off, okay?"

"Okay." she agreed, feeling somehow better now she had told her big brother. Her feeling of sibling affection was abrubtly terminated by his parting shot.

"Hey Frannie? Hold off on the seduction untill he's recovered. It's against the Geneva Convention to inflict you on sick men. Don't get me into trouble for letting you take care of him, huh?"

Francesca slammed the phone down in disgust, and after thanking Mr. Muffy, or Musty, or whatever, she went back to check on her patient .

He lay on his back, sprawled on top of the covers.

Okay, she thought, I've gotta get him out of those clothes. She considered the limp man before her. The *big* limp man before her. There was a snuffling bark from the kitchen.

"Oh, shut up. You and Ray are as bad as each other. I *have* to undress him you moron. I'll be like a nurse."

The wolf snorted again. She swung and glared him down. " You wanna do this?" Gingerly, Francesca started to unlace his boots. Flustered, moments later, she dropped them to the floor and surveyed the now conscious Mountie who was looking very uncomfortable hanging halfway off the bed with his jacket bunched up around his ears.

"Sorry, Fraser. I didn't realize I was yanking so hard."

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to get you undressed." She grinned suddenly, seeing the irony, "Seem's I've been trying to do this since you arrived here, huh? Well, don't worry, your virtue is safe with me. I'm like a nurse, totally uninterested - can you help me here? - you need to get out of this stuff and into bed to get some rest. How are you feeling, still nauseous?"

Bemusedly, Ben shook his head, obediently raising and lowering body parts as directed. "I'm much better now, thank you"

Francesca snorted indelicately as she tossed his greatcoat, jacket and shirt onto the growing pile on the floor.

"Sure you're fine. You look like green veined marble, you're shivering, you're clammy, untill recently you've been puking and you say this is okay? What do you feel like normally? The living dead?

When his head was freed from his undershirt by her efficient hands, Ben gave her a small smile. "Well, put that way, my head does hurt a little, and I am a trifle hoarse."

Francesca rolled her eyes. "A trifle hoarse." she mimicked and pushed him down again onto his back. He gazed up at her with those criminally blue eyes. Bare chested with his trousers riding low on his hips, even as sick as the proverbial dog, he was, undoubtedly, the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

"You know, this reminds me of that time I came here....." abrubtly she broke off and busied herself picking up his clothes. She hadn't meant to say that out loud. It had probably been one of the most humiliating moments of her life. She had jammed the lingerie into the back of her cupboard and had tried to forget it had ever happened.

Cursing her wayward tongue and hoping he wouldn't pursue the topic, Francesca avoided his eyes and set about dealing with his clothes. Ben, tactfully, kept quiet. As she moved around Ben's apartment, hanging up his jacket and putting away his boots, she realised she was bustling just like her mother did. I don't believe this, she thought incredulously, subconsciously grateful for a reason to get upset. I'm playing nurse to a sick man, being domestic,*bustling* for God's sake, and worst of all, I'm ENJOYING it!

She dropped the heavy leather boots angrily instead of carefully placing them down as she had been about to do. Hadn't she sworn off this kind of thing after her divorce? She wasn't going to be a doormat or a slave to any man again! *He* (she couldn't even think the name of her ex-husband without cursing) had tried to turn her into the kind of woman who fed everyone pasta and worshipped her man and sacrificed her life to his wishes. That was NOT for Francesca Vecchio. Thank God she had gotten out. Come to think of it, the reason she had gotten *into* that situation was that she had been feeling all clucky and domestic and *he* had come along and, well, had just been there at the wrong time. Francesca frowned unseeingly at the closet full of neat uniforms. Her marriage had been a disaster because she had married a man to play house, not because she loved him. She sighed and closed the closet door. Here she was, playing house again.

"At least I'm safe from any spontaneous marriage ceremonies involving Ben." she muttered self-deprecatingly.

"I'm sorry?" called Ben from the bed.

"Nothing." she replied. "Take your trousers off and get into bed. I'll get the thermometer."

She took longer than was strictly necessary getting the thermometer out of his first aid kit and shaking the mercury down in readiness. Eventually she had to turn around. Ben lay docile, blankets pulled up to his chest. "Ready?" she said with forced cheer. All that bare, beautiful skin so close was doing strange things to her blood pressure.

"I'm feeling better actually." Ben said as Francesca switched off the overhead light (what she couldn't see she couldn't lust after) and approached the bed. She laid a cool hand against his fevered brow and grimaced.

"Taking your temperature is just a formality, you're practically glowing you're so hot. Tell me how you feel, in detail mind you, none of this 'if I don't tell her she won't worry' crap. I can worry about any damn thing I want and you have to learn to be a little more selfish and ask for help instead of bravely soldiering on like a matyr all the time!" She took a deep breath, Ben looked a little bruised by her tirade. "Yes, mum." he said meekly.She searched his face for any hint of mockery, but his eyes were artfully blank as he listed his symptoms.

"I don't feel nauseous anymore, but my stomach aches, my throat is raw, my tongue is furry and my muscles are weak. My eyeballs feel like they've been poached then rolled in sand and I wish my head would just give up and fall off."

Francesca giggled. Ben smiled back. "I could get used to complaining."

"Doesn't it feel good to get it off your chest?" she crowed.

"Yes, surprisingly it does."

Francesca bought the thermometer up to his mouth. "I guess it's good you're not vomiting anymore."

"I hate that." Ben mumbled around the thermometer.

"Throwing up? Yeah, I hate it too. There are very few things that I hate doing more." said Francesca fervently. "I guess because you don't get sick you haven't got much experience with this, but being cramped in a grimy toilet cubicle in some bar, unloading my guts into a toilet bowl that hasn't been cleaned since the Civil War, is an memory I'll carry with me untill I die."

Ben shifted the thermometer slightly. "Been there. Done that." he said indistinctly.

"You?" snorted Francesca, "Excuse me if I have a little difficulty believing that."

He shook his head then grunted in pain as it protested. "No, really, I have." he said carefully, taking out the thermometer. "When I was 21 - on my birthday - a friend and I wanted to know what being drunk was like. So we went to a bar and drank Tequila shots untill we passed out."

She took the thermometer off him but stared at Ben in surprise instead of checking his temperature. "You got plastered?" she echoed.

"Yes. And spent the next two days throwing up." he finished.

The look of remembered embarrassment on his face was priceless and Francesca laughed out loud. "Oh man! I don't believe it!" she chortled.

"Believe it." Ben smiled and leaned back, trying to mask his weariness. "How is my temperature?"

Francesca switched on the bedside lamp to see, then put the thermometer down on the nightstand and stood to help him settle in. "High. You need to go to sleep. Sleep and lots of water is what you need, Fraser." She plumped his pillow and tucked in his blankets and stroked his head as he snuggled down to rest, looking for all the world like a little boy.

They sat in companionable silence as the last rays of daylight faded from the room. Francesca felt oddly relaxed. No, it was something else, some other word, ah jeez, what was it?....*contented*. Startled, she looked down at the dozing man. She hadn't eaten recently, nor moved a muscle for ages and she hadn't said a word in nearly an hour and she felt contented, Like this is where she was supposed to be.

As he sank deeper into unconsciousness, she straightened to refill his waterglass then jumped in shock as his hand shot out to grab her wrist. "Don't leave me alone." Ben spoke clearly. Even in sleep, the urgency of his voice was electrifying. She reacted automatically, as though to one of her young nephews who wanted his mother.

"Of course I won't leave you." she crooned. Francesca perched on the side of his bed and peeled his fingers from her wrist. Tucking his hand into hers, she stroked his arm gently, making all the unintelligible, crooning noises that have lulled humankind to sleep for millenia.

"Shh, close your eyes, sweetheart. I'll stay here, there....there....you'll feel better soon, baby, I promise. Shh....."

"...stay........" he begged sleepily. The blue eyes, glittering with fever, slowly closed...then opened to check she was there - then closed....and opened, and closed............and finally he went to sleep, holding tightly to her hand.

"I'm not going anywhere." she promised softly.

She lost track of how long she sat there, holding his hand and watching him sleep. Through the night he tossed and turned and kicked off his covers, bare skin glistening with sweat. He seemed to dream because his eyes darted below his eyelids and every once in a while he would mumble barely audible words - disjointed and passionate.

Several times Francesca tried to get up to straighten his blankets, or get him some water, or even to simply stretch her legs, and each time Ben refused to loosen his grip. He would stir and frown as she moved away, and the last time she had tried he had opened unseeing eyes and begged her not to leave him with such fear and pain in his voice that it bought tears to her eyes and made her reassurances that much hoarser as she fought them back.

Gradually the night passed. She must have dozed sitting up because she looked out of his window into darkness, then what felt only seconds later she jolted back to wakefulness, and the light outside was enough to give the blackness shades of early morning grey.

Not daring to let go of Ben's hand, Francesca carefully stood on cramped legs, endeavoring to avoid treading on Diefenbaker who had come and settled at her feet once his master had fallen asleep, amd untangled the covers from Ben's legs clumsily with her free hand. She tossed them to the foot of the bed and then trailed her fingers along the bottom sheet. The cotton had absorbed the sweat from the male body on top of it and now was damp and clammy and needed to be changed, Wondering how the hell she was going to do that she didn't notice, at first, the movement of his fingers in hers.

When she did, her eyes flew to his face. He was awake and looking at her. He looked terrible, he was pale and gaunt and his beard coming through made the hollows in his cheeks more pronounced. The only good sight he displayed was an absence of the febrile flush that had accompanied his fever, and he was no longer sweating.

"Good morning, Fraser," Francesca said softly, "how are you feeling?"

Ben tried to answer but only dry rasping noises emerged from his mouth. She ran to the kitchen and refilled his glass with water, then propped his head up as he drank thirstily.

Two glasses later his thirst was quenched and he tried again.

"Better, but weak as a kitten." he rasped, his voice thready and barely above a whisper.

"Looks like you lost your voice Benny Boy," said Francesca, "that's a good sign I think. Whenever I get sick, just as I'm on the mend? my voice goes."

"..bet Ray is happy...." joked Ben feebly.

"Are you kidding?" she rolled her eyes comically, "It's all he can do not to break into the Halleluliah Chorus. Now, I need to change your bed, do you think you could sit in this chair," she pointed to a kitchen chair sitting tidily at the table, "while I change it?"

Ben nodded and started to rise.

"No, no, " she scolded, "I'll help you, but first I need to get new sheets, where are they?" She went where directed ( a very logical place of course) and bought them back, dragging the chair behind her. Then carefully, she helped him out of bed and onto the seat. He sat, clad only in his boxers, like a rag doll; loose and limp. Dief sat next to Ben's legs and pushed his nose under the mans hand for Ben to stroke him.

"Give him a pat," Francesca tossed over her shoulder as she fussed with the bed, "he's been really worried about you. It's nice to have someone to care about you."

There was a curious silence and she turned to see why. His fingers were scratching the ecstatic wolf absently behind the ears but he was looking straight at her as if at a stranger he was trying to take the measure of. "Yes." he said finally, "It is."

The look in his eyes was unfathomable but it made Francesca's breath come with difficulty and caused a rushing of blood to her face.

"Oh, you would have done the same thing, anyone would." she babbled. He didn't answer, just looked down at Dief. She stripped the bed and remade it in record time.

"Well," she said briskly, not meeting his gaze, "you need to get back to bed. You need more rest, you look like you couldn't fight your way out of a wet paperbag."

"No," whispered Ben in his diminished voice, "I need to go to the bathroom first." and he blushed. This made her feel better for some reason. Stifling a smile, she ducked under one of his arms and tugged him to his feet.

"Lets go, Constable, nature calls." she said cheerfully. Then mischeviously, "I hope you can do this yourself, I mean, I can help if you need it...." Shakily they reached the little room, like a second closet really, that the toilet and sink were in. Ben was brick red by now.

"No thank you. I'll manage." he muttered.

Stifling another inappropriate giggle, she left him to it.

While she was waiting she had a drink of water herself then rooted through her purse untill she found her watch. 4.47am. Man, was that the time? Francesca couldn't remember the last time she had been awake at this hour without pharmeceutical aid. The toilet flushed. She strapped her watch to her wrist then knocked on the bathroom door. "You okay in there?" Silence, Then a feeble, "uh huh."

"Yeah, well, you don't sound it. Here I come, ready or not."

Ben stood clinging to the sink like a lifeline. Swiftly Francesca came and propped him up. "Okay? now don't pass out on me Ben. What? what did I say?" He looked at her sideways.

"You called me Ben, usually it's Fraser."

"Oh sorry...."

"I liked it."

Francesca's mouth made an 'O' but amazingly no sound came out.

Ben peered at himself in the small mirror propped on the narrow shelf above the sink. "Urgh." was his only comment.

"Well, you have been sick." she reminded him sarcastically.

"Yes, I remember," he grumbled, "I want to clean my teeth, shave and have a shower. I smell."

"Well, you can clean your teeth while you're here - but nix the shower idea, pal. I don't want to have to drag you out of that disgusting communal thing if you pass out. For one thing, you're too damn big and secondly, I wouldn't go in there without six months of prior fumigation and a S.W.A.T. team at my back to beat off the wildlife," she shuddered fastidiously, " I do *not* know how you can stand it."

Ben looked amused, but declined to comment. Instead he opened the small drawer under the sink and pulled out his toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste neatly rolled from the bottom.

"Alright, no shower. I'll just sponge myself down to wash off the sweat." he aquiecesed. Francesca's mouth went dry as an unbidden image of her sliding a wet washcloth all over his naked body, rose before her mind's eye.

"Uh, yeah..." she muttered.

Not seeming to hear her, Ben started to scrub his teeth. Francesca lowered the toilet seat and sat down before her shaking knees could give way and betray her. She took deep breaths as Ben rinsed and spat, each time a little slower, then ran his toothbrush under the tap to clean it, leaning heavily on the washbasin to remain standing.

"Damn, I hate feeling like this." he groused under his breath.

Francesca,who through years of listening to gossip could hear a whispered word at 400 paces, caught his complaint.

"Ray said you've never been sick." she noted, standing up. Her face came into view, just behind his left shoulder. His gaze met hers in the mirror.

"That's right. Well, aside from a case of pink-eye when I was eight..."

"Pink-eye?" she asked in incomprehension, then seeing him gird his mental loins to enlighten her further, muttered quickly, "Doesn't matter." She took in his appearance with a critical eye. "You won't be able to even sponge yourself down, sweetie. One quick move and you'll keel over. Better just get back to bed - you can shower when you're stronger." Ben grimaced with distaste. Actually it was closer to a pout. Francesca looked closer at his bottom lip. Yep, definitely a pout, well, whaddya know? He's as petty as the rest of us, she thought delightedly. She couldn't resist teasing him, he looked so adorable, so it was without much shock to hear herself reply to his sulky, "But I want to be clean." with a feisty, "Well, if you want it that much, you'll have to let me do it." Watching his head snap up in surprise, she yelled at herself; What the hell was *that*? Actually, she pondered more calmly, it's not so bad. He'll run like an outraged virgin at the thought of your hands all over him - well done Frannie old girl. A little reverse psycology hmm? Just the thing, tell a man what to do and he'll bend over backwards doing the exact opposite. Congratulating herself, she focused back on Ben's attractive features. You've still got it, babe, she thought smugly.

"Thank you kindly Francesca. I would appreciate it."

Now it was her turn to snap upright in shock. "What?" she squeaked. Ben's face was carefully blank but his mouth twitched slightly at her expression. "Thank you, that would be nice." he reiterated innocently. Nice? fumed Francesca. This, this...*Mountie* is winding me up. Lord knows he has me on red alert just by hearing his name, but now he's calling my bluff?

With a sudden wicked grin she pulled his neatly draped washcloth off the edge of the washbasin and pushed it under the running tap. The *cold* running tap.

I'll give him 'nice'. she thought.

Ben's expression shifted from amusement to apprehension as he watched her soap the cloth lightly. "Francesca.." he began. She moved to stand behind him, bringing her arms around his sides so she could reach his chest, pinning him between the sink and her body.

"Shhh." she whispered as she made the first pass over his skin.

Pausing only to moisten the cloth at times, Francesca ran it over his pectorals then down his chest to his belly. As she was standing behind him, he was blocking the mirror so she couldn't see his face. But she felt his abdomen clench and the sharp intake of breath he tried to stifle.

The cloth went over his shoulders, down his arms. It washed away the sheen of perspiration left by his illness, and as it wandered along his sides and across his back the atmosphere in that cramped room thickened perceptibly. Each breath Francesca took seemed to require more effort than the last. The water from the cloth ran in little rivulets down his skin and turned his white cotton boxers transparent. By now, Francesca had just stopped breathing altogether as she unknowingly stopped her ministrations, dropped the cloth and stared at his backside.

The material clung lovingly to a pair of muscular buttocks, and was stretching tauter and tauter under her fascinated gaze. She knew exactly what was taking up so much room in the front of his shorts, and it had her blood pressure off the scale.

Francesca lifted her eyes to the mirror and saw Ben staring back at her. She saw the arousal in his eye's, and strangely, it was like she was looking at a different man. It was Ben alright, but different. It took her only a nanosecond to realise that it wasn't him, it was the way she was looking at him.

Suddenly he wasn't a Greek God to be lusted after, and chased and fantasised over, subconsiously secure in the knowledge that that shining goal could never be achieved. He was real. A real man who felt, and loved, and could be hurt. Francesca couldn't put a name to every emotion flashing through her, but none of them was lust. This was beyond lust. This was serious.

Nervously, she took a step backwards. Ben never broke eye contact with her, it was Francesca who whirled and shot out of that tiny room and began rapidly jamming her belongings into her purse and reaching for her coat. "I've...I've.......oh damn. I've got to get going. You're okay now, and I'm tired and I've got to work tomorrow and, and......and......." she babbled, closing her eyes with mortification.

She could feel him walking unsteadily to stand beside her.

"Francesca...." he began. Francesca opened her eyes and stared at the kitchen counter in front of her, still spread with most of her purses contents. At the edge of her vision she could see his bare leg. He had wrapped a towel around his waist but the knot was on her side and she could see a flash of naked thigh through the slit as he shifted and cleared his throat. Knowing he had taken off his boxers and was only wearing a towel did nothing to calm her pulse.

"What." she snapped.

"Francesca, the roads will be impassable untill the snow ploughs have had a chance to tackle it and that won't be untill morning. Or, at least, a couple of hours. If you need to rest, there is plenty of room on my bed." At this, she turned to face him in surprise. Ben looked back at her seriously. "That was not a pass. " he stated. "I'll sleep under the covers and you can stretch out on top. You'll be safe, I promise. See? I'm not even going to argue with you about me doing the honourable thing by taking the bedroll on the floor while I'm sick."

Francesca closed her eyes again. She felt like there was a great hole in her gut and it echoed with a thousand tiny voices that laughed at her cruelly.

"So noble." she said flatly. "Has it occured to you that you might not be safe? After all, I'm the woman that propositioned you in a church, turned up uninvited one night in black lace and had her hands all over you, seconds ago?" She was so tired, she needed to crawl into her own bed, put her head under the covers and cry out her newest humiliation in private.

The sensation of a finger stroking her cheek snapped her eyes open. Ben was much closer.

"You surprised me in the church, the black lace was mindblowing, and I think you know how much I enjoyed having your hands all over me, seconds ago." he said in his diminished voice. "I'm not used to such forthright women. Your approach makes me nervous, not you. That, and the fact you're my best friends little sister has made me avoid you."

Francesca was at the mercy of that soft voice. The featherlight stroking of her cheek ceased as he moved so close she could feel his breath. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she felt his breath catch as she licked her lips nervously.

"You haven't been the scary woman you usually are while you've been helping me," he murmered, so quietly she almost didn't hear it. Then his voice dropped to the merest whisper, "...and right now I want to kiss you so much, I can't even remember who Ray is."

The kiss was light and cautious. On both sides. They had known each other for two years and yet didn't actually *know* each other.

His lips brushed against hers, once, twice, three times, then he lifted his head and watched her try to collect herself.

"Is the offer of the bed still open?" was all Francesca could think of to say. Ben nodded and took her hand, gently leading her over to the bed, carefully stepping around the wolf that had settled down on the floor to sleep. He pulled back the covers and got in. He arranged the blankets then pulled away the towel from under the covers and tossed it to the foot of the bed. He shifted to one side and patted the space beside him.

"Come and rest, Francesca." he called gently.

Wearily, Francesca slipped off her shoes and lay down. Her brain had stopped functioning, too much new information and not enough sleep. Ben turned her slightly so she lay on her side and he curled his body behind hers' so they fit like a pair of spoons. Francesca could feel his body heat, even through the blankets that she was on top of and he lay beneath. It was comforting, and she gave no protest when his arm came around and lay across her waist. He bent his elbow so his forearm was parallell with the bed and his arm was up near her chin. He groped untill he found her hands which were tightly clasped together. He carefully prised them apart and tangled his fingers with hers.

Francesca felt a tiny kiss on the back of her neck and heard a whispered

"Goodnight" before she succumbed to sleep.

When she came to, the first thing she saw was the surprised face of her big brother. Actually, it was closer to shock.

"What were you expecting?," groused Francesca in an undertone as she struggled to sit up without waking Ben. " blood on the walls?"

"At least." said Ray. "What the hell is going on here?"

Francesca gave up on being gentle, Ben's arm was feeling tighter and tighter. Suspicious, she twisted to look down on him. He was awake and he was definitley increasing his grip on her.

"We were just sleeping, Ray. It's been a tiring night." she said.

"Yeah." snorted Ray. "Benny looks real sick."

"Oh shut up Ray. What do you want? You want me to call a plumber to open up the pipes under the sink and show you the vomit I washed down there? You want photo's or something? Sorry, I didn't bring my surveillance camera. Shoot me."

There was a muffled laugh from behind her and she yanked at the arm holding her down.

"You, shut up too and let me go!" she snapped. Ben released his grip abruptly and she nearly rolled off the bed and onto Diefenbaker. She fumed as she straightened. Francesca was not generally a morning person, and her usual crabbiness was exacerbated by the strange new feelings that stirred whenever she looked at (or thought about) Ben, her continued tiredness, the knowledge that her make-up was probably pooling around her collarbone, and the way Ray was glaring at Ben who still lay in bed.

"Oh, knock it off, Ray." she sighed. "Just come on, I want to go home and clean off my make-up, I must look like a scarecrow." she picked up her purse and let Ray help her into her coat. She patted Diefenbaker goodbye then looked at Ben. He had sat up and the blankets were pooled in his lap. She knew what had Ray on edge, it was the faint gleam in Ben's eyes when he looked at her. Gone was the slight apprehension and wariness, they had been replaced with a look of dawning masculine speculation.

"Goodbye Francesca. Thank you kindly for your assistance." was all he said.

She nodded. "I'll see you on Christmas day, about ten a.m., okay? Don't overdo it. 'Bye." and with that she grabbed Ray's elbow and pulled him out the door, down the stairs and outside.

In the car, she knew Ray was busting a gut trying not to interrogate her but she couldn't bring herself to spar with him. For the first time in a long time, she dreaded going back to the full and noisy Vecchio household where nothing went unnoticed or undiscussed. She sat in the Riv and tried to make sense of the past twenty four hours and figure out how the hell she was going to deal with him coming for Christmas.

Oh, stop worrying, she scolded herself. You're a Vecchio. When in doubt, yell. Smiling faintly, she watched the scenery pass by. She was going to look forward to this.

END.

Next: Frannie Chronicle II. "A Very Vecchio Christmas."

Helen Hart

hartz@tnet.com.au