Disclaimer: Detective Ray Vecchio, Constable Benton Fraser, Sgt. Frobisher, Sgt. Fraser (deceased), Ma Vecchio, Father Behan, and so forth belong to Alliance and not me. The story however is mine, and I represent Tracy in all personal appearances. Thanks go out to Charly for betaing. Remaining errors are my own. (Like not thanking Charly on AtQM.)
Warning: This is rated R, and contains carnality between consenting, married adults. There are also fruits playing at being vegetables. If you are underage, or offended by such subjects, go away. This is set in Autumn 1997, and follows Antipodes and Night Conversations. Occurs two years before All the Queen's Men. Comments and constructive criticism appreciated. wellplaypeoria@hotmail.com
"How you doing there, Benny?" Ray worried his tie for the umpteenth time.
"I'm fine, Ray." He leaned over and righted Ray's knot. "Nervous?"
"Me? Why should I be nervous?" *Just because I've bent so many statutes nearly double.* He'd called in more favors than he knew he'd had. *Worth it.* Ray looked over at his friend. *Totally calm.* It was unnatural. The Canadian was getting married today. *Married.* And he was perfectly at peace. "So, what is this fashion statement?" Ray had always figured the Mountie would wear his dress uniform. He was half right.
"You've seen me wear a kilt before." Instead of the jodhpurs and riding boots, he had on a black pair of shoes, diced hose with flashes, dark kilt and a white fur sporran.
"I thought your kilt was red." *I know way too much.*
"This is Black Watch, the standard military sett." That Fraser would have been frightful with the red serge was rather obvious. "Bagpipers of course wear Royal Stewart, but their coats are black." Lest they clash with their pipes.
"Of course. What is that tucked in your sock?"
"Sgain dhub."
"Bless you."
"It's a small knife."
"You have a knife in your sock?" This made a lot of sense. The man who in four years of Chicago crime fighting consistently refused guns, had a knife in his sock. At his wedding.
"It's traditional."
"To have a knife in your sock for a wedding."
"Don't be silly, Ray. It is a customary part of dress."
"To have a knife stuck in your sock?"
"To have a sgain dhub in one's hose, yes, Ray."
"And why is this customary?"
"Most convenient place to keep it."
Father Behan tuned the cd player to the correct march. As a Catholic priest he couldn't officiate over the ceremony, but given how frantic Ray had been, he'd felt it only right to attend. *They've changed each other so much.* Four years ago, he wondered if anything could rekindle Ray's agape. Always sensitive, the things he saw as a detective weighed on him heavily. Thinking the worst of his fellow man, he'd taken refuge in cynicism. *And then the Mountie came.*
The skirl of pipes wafted through the small chapel. When they finished, three stood in front of the Episcopalian clergywoman. To the far left was a small table, counterbalancing Ray on the far right.
*Wow.* It really was breathtaking. Ray had of course seen Tracy dressed as a woman before, yet seeing him, *her*, seeing her this way was nothing short of amazing. The simple white dress was accented by a shoulder drape of purply plaid, held by a silver brooch with a large crystal. *Can't believe we didn't figure it out.*
"...and the State of Illinois, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss."
"Got to say they have good lung capacity."
Buck Frobisher spared his dead friend a sidelong glance. *Think he'd take off his hat.* True enough, rarely were the guests so thoroughly ignored by a couple. Not that they were many. Mrs. Vecchio, the charming lady, was his only living sitting companion. Besides Ray and the minister, there was just the priest and lady photographer. And Robert, who was continuing his commentary.
"Ma, they'd like you to sign off as a witness. You too." Ray waited to give his mother an arm, and was wide-eyed when she claimed the Mountie's.
"Better watch your womenfolk, Yank." Ghost or not, he'd smelled enough Vecchio dinners. There was only one thing Buck liked more than women and tracking a fugitive, and that was a home cooked meal. *Two out of three.* Would Frobisher ever return north?
"Son, can I have a word with you?" He watched as the 'bride' signed off and passed the pen. "Ben, I've tried to be understanding, but this is a bit much." Benton turned around with a faint puzzled expression.
*Heaven knows I didn't raise him to be this dense.* He gave a glance towards Tracy.
*Humm? Ahh!* He looked around, wondering where he could have a word with his father.
"What's wrong?" Tracy toyed with the ring on Ben's hand.
"Looking for somewhere to talk." He found himself being lead to a small room. Only once inside did he recognize it as a ladies' lounge. "Uhm..."
Tracy gave Fraser an appraising look. *He ever figures out the effect his blushing has...* "So, you wanted to talk?" It wasn't like they planned a long reception, but they couldn't just sneak away. *A kilt is a good thing.*
"Uah." He clutched the hand on his lower thigh. *Now he follows.*
This was not how he expected to spend the afterlife. Following his son into church ladies' rooms, watching him felt up by a man in drag. *Whom he married.* He could only be thankful he was already dead. He stood at Benton's right, ignoring the full tableau.
This was not good. *How is Tracy not going to believe I'm crazy?* He tried to listen to his dad's latest rant while both not encouraging nor ignoring the very warm redhead.
Tracy tried to figure it out. Fraser wanted to talk, but he wasn't speaking. *Listening.* Tracy tried to see the source. *Faint.* "This a private conversation?"
"What?" He glanced between Tracy and shade. "You can see him?"
"Of course I can see him! I may be dead but my eyes are good."
"Him? Mountie, right? Not clearly, or rather, clearly, except for the buttons which I sort of can make out."
Fraser tried, and failed, to make sense out of that. He turned back to his dad, without Tracy's hand up his kilt. "This is Tracy, professionally still known as MacKinacmakan. And this is my father."
It was really quite vexing. *He's tracking me.* He tried to fake, but it didn't work. The man's eyes continued to follow him. "He can see me?"
"Apparently. Um, about the pronouns... Depending on how you're using them. Well. Tracy."
"He's not strictly a he."
"What the bloody hell is he nattering about."
"You see, you could call her a she and be about as wrong, or right."
"Tracy can see me."
"Actually, I'm wondering about that too. Tracy, you can see him?"
"Just the glint off the buttons and buckles. Sir, I'm certain this is quite confusing. I assure you, I do match my birth certificate." Interesting as this might be at another time, it was their wedding day.
Knock-knock knock. "You two okay in there?"
"Ye..." He couldn't very well finish the thought, let alone the sentence. He tried again once he caught his breath after the kiss. "Ray..."
"Never mind."
"Huhich" Tracy double-checked Fraser for flipped pleats and pulled him towards the door.
Tracy looked at the small structure. *Rays sense of humor?* Glancing at the Mountie sent him clumsily searching through the sporran for the key. It really was funny how a flustered Ben reverted to mannerisms more suited to a six-year old boy than a seasoned officer. *Somehow I don't think he was ever six at the time.* Caught in that thought, Tracy didn't notice Fraser until after being deposited by him on the other side of the threshold.
Inside, while small the cabin was not exactly rustic. *Unless for a magazine spread.* Fireplace, big bed, dressing screen, more than adequate kitchen and what looked to be a good-sized bathroom. "Well, Mr. Fraser, what am I going to do with you?" *Aw, he's not blushing as much.* When he didn't say anything, Tracy continued. "You're supposed to say, 'Mrs. Fraser, anything you want.'" *Bingo.* Now he was about matching his serge. Smiling something between amusement and wickedness, Tracy slowly walked closer.
The truth was, he didn't know how to act with Tracy like this. Not that his bride was especially behaving differently than normal. Somehow it seemed strange anyway. *Kiss.* The strong arms around him were fairly insistent, and he went with the sensations. *What?* He opened his eyes wide.
"Just got to get out of this dress. It isn't as forgiving as what you're wearing." Tracy grabbed the small carry-on bag and headed behind the screen. Several zips, rustles, and other clothing noises later, Tracy came back out. "Where were we?" *That's right.* Now that Tracy was in a full chemise, Fraser wasn't so shy about where he put his hands. Sliding hands under his kilt... Tracy pulled back.
"You're wearing trews." *Not the perplexed-by-restatement-of-the-obvious look.* They really spoiled the natural elegance of a man being removed from his kilt. *There's a reason 'one leg after the other' is the ultimate statement of human frailty.*
"Well, the dry-cleaning..." Fraser's sentence was cut off in a rather pleasant manner. Apparently, Tracy wasn't too upset.
Tracy started working on the tunic's buttons. Eventually, the Sam Browne would have to go, to get the jacket off. Tracy was not single-minded with the coat just yet, straying to play with other points of interest as the fancy struck.
Fraser's hands and mouth were taking their own tour. The oversized shirt was quite open at the top, while the hem was several inches above the knee.
*Time to undo these buckles.* Quickly Tracy had the belts off, the jacket fully open and was working on the shirt underneath. *Chest.* An unused part of the brain noted the buttons were too damn small. Hard to manage by feel alone.
Fraser only noticed the tunic being pushed off because his arms were needed. Where it landed didn't concern him at all. His socks and shoes going he was more aware of, partly because Tracy had to slip out of his arms to do it, but more because of the nibble at the back of the knee. *Better.* Tracy was back to working on his shirt, pulling the tails from the kilt, and pushing it partway off his shoulders.
Tracy managed to land the sporran gently on a chair. *Bed.* The navigation wasn't easy, nor was flipping back the blankets. Snagging Fraser's hands, Tracy finally went for the kilt straps, before they tumbled into the bed.
"Morning." Fraser was cute confused. *Tousled and sleepy. Good look.* "Just put the seat back down." Tracy watched as Fraser retreated. *View from here is pretty good.* Tracy considered looking for some food, but stayed in the warm bed. *About eight o'clock.* P.M. *Even better view.* Ben slipped back under the covers.
*Rumble.* Fraser looked over. *There it is again.* He climbed back out of bed.
"Come back to bed."
"Supper." Finding a pair of boxers, he looked through the kitchen partly clothed. "Ah ha."
Curious, Tracy found the shirt that had gotten tossed aside, and pulled it on. *How much of a mess is my hair?* Ben starting a fire, *My boxers?*, was not to be missed. *My boxers.* Tracy's generally ran either to silk or flannel. The occasional sheeting novelty pair not withstanding.
"Ben, what's this?" Tracy circled gently around the scar in his back.
"Bullet wound."
"When Ray shot you." Tracy felt him shiver, and not from the room's chill.
"She had a gun. A second gun. I..."
"I know. You were going to go with her."
He turned from the fire, his face open in confusion. "How..."
Rubbing a knee. "I'm a student of man, remember? But you didn't go."
"She still wanted to kill Ray." *Why was that more important?* "I should have told you."
"You told me the important parts. Fraser, you would have brought her in." *Or died trying.*
"Tracy..."
"Mr. Fraser, I believe you offered to cook. Ben, I know it is hard to believe, but you are not the first and certainly not the last good man manipulated in the machinations of a woman. You would have found the right." Tracy settled a tender kiss on his lips. "What are you going to make?"
Tracy scooted one of the last bites around the syrupy plate. "It's always a good time for breakfast." With that, the morsel on the fork was popped in and chewed slowly. *A chest blush too?*
"Well, um, I figured, um, that a short cooking time, that is..." He stopped talking as a syrup coated finger was pressed to his lips.
"Let's get these washed up." Tracy stood, the chemise not rising so quickly. *Better not let him see this smirk.* Turning on the hot water, a slow stream of detergent was poured into the sink. "You dry?" The rustle of the towel was the only reply. Slowing rolling up the sleeves, Tracy started on the dishes. Circling one way and then the other, the chemise following the motion. Pulling taut here, hitching up there.
"Need any help there?" He leaned in to look. Ben couldn't remember even pancake plates requiring such intensive washing. In response he was handed back a carefully shook plate. Once, twice, thrice the arm went down before entrusting him with the plate. Seemingly, the syrup was especially viscous, catching the scrubber.
Tracy handed back the other plate, careful not to let go until Fraser had it firmly in grasp. Making quick work of the flatware, rippling the back of the chemise, Tracy turned to dry them with Ben still holding the towel.
"I'll clean the skillet and bowl."
Stripping the suds down forearms and off fingers, Tracy let Ben to the sink, taking the towel. Interestingly, the last of the dishes went much faster, though with more splashing. "That everything?" Tracy laughed while propelled back towards the bed.
*Got to love a man in uniform.* Once you got him out of it. Tracy looked at how innocent Fraser looked as he slept. A wicked smile played across the New Zealander's lips.
Toe twitch. He slept on. Ignored the tickle on his calf. HE WAS AWAKE. It took him a few moments to convince his eyes however.
"Morning." Tracy stretched up from the blankets for a kiss, and sat partly up. "Good to know you are an early riser." *Tut, tut. No rolling over.* Tracy pressed down on his shoulders, holding his hips between knees. "So, what do you want to do today?" *Ooh, that owl blink is very fetching.* Tracy shifted some. And some more.
Fraser tried to roll them over a few more times. After the first couple, it was mostly because he thought he should be able to manage. When he gave up, Tracy ceased pinning him in place. He cupped his hands halfway up the heaving rib cage. "What... What do you want to do today?"
"I'll have to give that some thought." With that, Tracy stretched out and planted a long kiss, dueling with the tongue within.
Tracy was trying to stay quiet. Fraser seemed to get awfully distracted at the least bit of talking, which given he was chopping wood, wasn't good. *Very, very, trying.* "Don't you think that's enough?" Not that the show was bad, but Illinois was chilly this time of year.
Setting down the axe, he started piling the logs. *That's better.* It wasn't like Tracy would let him drop one on his foot.
"Tracy?"
"Needed to warm my hands." Tracy wiggled them between the layers of denim.
"Oh." The hands were removed, and reinstated in his hip pockets after he turned around. "That okay?"
"I'm thinking, sir, that you are more wicked than you lead others to believe."
"On the contrary, I'm a Mountie. We always get our man."
"I thought the motto was 'Maintain the Right'." The corners of Tracy's mouth went up on noticing they were moving into the trees.
"Well, yes. However..." He was stopped in mid-explanation, quite vigorously. His jaw released, he continued forward.
*Tree.* From the smoothness of the bark, Tracy figured it was a maple. Looking overhead, Tracy spotted the branch. *Did he plan that?* Regardless, it was in arms reach. Just.
Ben felt the hands slip out of his hip pockets. About to step back, he noticed the calves behind his own legs. He pressed closer forward, running his hands over the heavy sweater and then under it, starting on the buttons halfway up.
It took him a moment to place the texture under his hands, and then he snaked his fingers to the back. Momentarily it hung from under Tracy's top before dropping to the ground. He returned his attentions to Tracy's freed bosom.
Zippp. Tracy felt as the second talon was pulled down more slowly, the looser fabric of slacks pooling before Fraser's tighter jeans could be pushed to the ground. Tracy bit back the outdoorsman quip that came to mind. *Don't... dis...turb... a... man... at... his... la...bors.*
"This is good." Tracy sopped at the stew with a chuck of bread.
"It's pretty forgiving once it's simmering." As he'd seared the meat during breakfast and gotten the vegetables cut and into the kettle before splitting wood, lunch was ready about when they were. "Tracy, why were you able to see my dad?"
"Other people don't see him?"
"No. Well, Frobisher can. That was the first I knew it wasn't just my subconscious. But he worked with Buck for years."
"Any other ghosts I should know?"
"He's haunted by my grandmother."
"But you aren't?"
"I couldn't see her. This doesn't sound strange to you?"
"Should it? Odd that I could see him, sort of. Otherwise, no. May be a little of the second sight. He isn't going to come round?"
"I think that is the last thing he'll do." He was going to be in for a very long, rambling conversation, though. *Probably in the middle of a fire fight.*
"Do you talk to him often?"
"More than when he was alive."
"Ah."
"Ah?"
"Nothing."
"Oh." He saw Tracy stand.
"Want to wash up? Shower..." Tracy quickly rinsed the two bowls, chasing him into the bathroom.
Tracy shut the water off lest it finish as a cold shower. *Not good.* "Frase, Frase, FRASER!!!" Tracy scrambled to find purchase on the slick tiles before Fraser could pull them into a heap. After a breather clutching the grout, Tracy flashed the water back on.
Tracy turned. *Not bad wet either.* Pulling a towel into the steamy stall, Tracy worked at patting them dry. Or at least to mildly damp. "Let's get you by the fire." Snagging more towels, Tracy got them back by the hearth.
"Turban?"
*Certified mush.* "Some of us don't have drip-dry hair." Fingers sank into the usually tamed curls. "Love you." *Good thing you smile when you snore.* Tracy snuggled in, one hand still caught, the other across the bare chest.
"What time is it?" *Oh, that time.* He really was developing a very wicked grin. "Anything in mind?" *So you do.* The hand stopped its progression just below the hip. Leaving Tracy totally taken by surprise as the other hand pulled at the small of the back.
Kneeling, he pulled Tracy up and closer. At first the kiss was faint, steadily increasing intensity. Until both hands were cupping Tracy's face. Her hands gripping his shoulders. Having to breathe, he dropped one hand to trace the edge of her towel.
*Umm.* It took Tracy a moment to realize it was his towel that was still in the way. "You're overdressed." *That's much.... Better.*
"Huhm?" Tracy looked around. "Hi. Bed again so soon?"
"Didn't mean to wake you." He set his burden under the covers. "Thought it was past time for supper."
"I ever mention how attractive I find a man that cooks?"
"Next meal is your turn."
"There's still food in the kitchen?" Right, this was only meal four. "Need any help?"
"You get to wash the dishes," he whispered to the sleeping form.
"Stir-fry for breakfast?"
"You'd eat ham for breakfast."
"Sure."
"Eggs, vegetables."
"Sometimes."
"Grain."
"Yes."
"Stir-fry for breakfast, and big mugs of black tea. I think there are some bisscotti, for afterwards."
*Are you trying to tell me something?* He took a bite. *Good.*
"You didn't believe me."
"Umh..."
"Don't answer that." Tracy stole the bit of pepper hanging from his lip. "Am I on lunch patrol too?"
"Thought you wanted me to make lunch?" *Not that your offer isn't tempting.*
"Two cooks in the kitchen?"
"Find some clothes." Tracy padded into the bathroom. *How am I going to get on that plane?*
*Not a lot left.* He wasn't thinking of just the state of the pantry. Tracy had a class to teach in the morning. And a flight to catch tonight.
"I know." Tracy kissed him between the shoulder blades. "Go on, put on a shirt. And find me at least a pair of boxers." *Hanging just a shirt on the door.* Tracy swatted at the retreating rear.
"I think that turned out well." Strange, but good. Bannock, curried beef, egg noodles, potatoes 'n' greens and rippled brownies for dessert.
Fraser licked at the bit of chocolate by Tracy's mouth. He extended his left hand.
Tracy gave him the right and stood. "What should we dance to?"
"A waltz."
Tracy settled on his shoulder. "We never did thank that maintenance man."
Fraser smiled. "For not posting a sign?"
"Would you have made a move?"
"You?"
"We really should thank him." They laughed.
Tracy tucked in the shirttails. "Ray will come back for you after he drops me at O'Hare." Honk-honk. "I'll call when I get into New York. Don't..." Tracy held him in bed with a finger to the lips. With a pat to the chest, Tracy grabbed the small carry-on and slipped out the door.
Ray stood by the idling Riv. *Just Tracy.* No teary-eyed parting at the door. It simply was not natural. *Them and their damn duty.* He slipped back behind the wheel, as Tracy got in. Neither of them spoke on the trip away from the cabin.
"Ray."
He looked over startled. He'd thought the Kiwi would leave without a word.
"You look after him."
"Sure." *How can you just leave?*
"Please."
Ray looked at Tracy. And saw. *It's who you are.* "I will."
"Thank you." Tracy got out and headed for the automatic door.
Ray pulled out of the standing zone. He'd have to fetch Benny soon.
Finis