Title: "Chance Met"

Author: xoverau

Fandom: Andromeda/Due South

Pairing: Harper/RayK

Rating: PG...well, except for some language

Summary: Well, there's time travel. Offpage. Spiked hair, caffeine, and snark combine to form a stable triangle.

Archive: If you actually want it ::covers a grin:: write me and let me know where it's going. Keep the headers and name intact, of course.

Feedback: Just let me know if you want to see more nooky.

Email: DreamSkein@aol.com

Disclaimers: the _Andromeda_ characters belong to Gene Roddenberry's estate, Tribune Entertainment Company, and Fireworks, while the _ due South_ characters belong to Alliance. Blame: All. Viridian's. Fault. And they said it couldn't be done.

***********

"Chance Met"

by xoverau
*********

"And that's all that happened. He ran. You chased. He got away."

"Yes, Ray. I apologize that the narrative is less than gripping."

"And you didn't...track him down. Follow the signs, trace his spoor, nothing."

"Concrete has much to recommend itself to prospective escapees, Ray. One of the reasons I found an urban post challenging. As for spoor...." Fraser paused delicately. "A human being producing it in the streets would hardly need an experienced tracker to locate him."

"Coffee," Ray said to the waiter. He made a gesture with his hand which meant "I'm going to cut your throat" in Brooklyn and "I'm a big queen" in certain parts of South Beach. Because Fraser was a civilizing influence, he translated it for the man's benefit. "None of that fruity crap with the foam. No maple nut cranberry cream vanilla bean pansy oil. Coffee."

"Coffee," echoed the waiter, and departed.

"At least it didn't come up 'no synonym found'," Ray muttered. "So you were chasing this guy and you went down an alley and
all of a sudden he just--what? Vanished into thin air?"

"No, Ray. In fact, he...disconcerted me with a prop and then ran away quite swiftly."

"'Disconcerted you with a prop'? That's odd syntax even for you, Frase. Was he a pilot? Or maybe he played the violin backwards?"

Someone behind them snorted. Ray didn't bother to look, fixed as he was on Fraser's effort to be forthright *and* slither.

"He..." The Mountie trailed off and stirred his cup. "He thrust a large tool in my face."

Ray was suddenly very glad his coffee hadn't come yet. As a sinus flush, it always left something to be desired. At the adjacent booth, someone was having an asthma attack.

"Did you just say the words 'thrust a large tool in my face'? All in a row?"

"If your hearing is untrustworthy, Ray, perhaps you're in need of a physical. The...object he waved at me was long and pink. I
suspect it was some type of striking weapon, something like a kendo stick or short staff--"

"Okay, okay, okay, Frase. Let me get this image. He shoved his long, pink staff in your face and your mouth came open and--"

"I was *disconcerted*!"

"So your mouth did come open?"

"Ray, I--"

"He fails to see the humor in the situation," finished the asthma sufferer, near Ray's ear. Ray jerked away, something exceedingly sharp flickering against his jawline and over his neck--fingernails? ice pick? blade?--

*Hair*. Just friggin' hair like he'd never seen. Well, maybe in a mirror, on a didn't-have-time-for-a-shower-so-I-emptied-the-gel-tube day. Hair on an upside-down head, hanging over the padded plush seat back they shared. Eyes crinkled and bright with laughter and gravity. "Don't worry. I have one of those too."

"One of those what?" Ray's brain, still in pink tool mode, jittered inside his skull.

"A guy who'd say he failed to see the humor in the situation." The guy righted himself and then sort of...folded up and turned around at the same time, something Ray would have laid money wasn't possible in that little space. Hooked his arms around his knees and kind of balanced on his ass and peered at both of them. "I also have a guy with a long pink tool. Are you sure you're not me? That's happened before."

The blonde sitting across from him at the table cracked a sugar packet and flexed her thigh under the table. Hair Guy winced.
Ray couldn't see her feet, but he'd bet they were encased in some kind of sharp black boot; she was the type. He surprised himself by being annoyed that they were probably dating.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure you're not me. I'm better looking." He waved his hand at Fraser. "Hey, where the hell is the coffee? This guy got coffee." Five cups, in fact. The empties stood around him in a ring.

"Well, now you know looks aren't everything," Hair Guy said. "It also takes charm, balls, and command presence."

"Oh, yeah?" Ray jerked halfway around in his chair. "You listening to this, Frase? He says he can get service faster than me. Want in on this action?"

The up side of surrealism--and God knows their work had given him enough reason to appreciate it--was that it secured a priceless politeness on Fraser's face. Sort of a "don't mind me, I go to Mars all the time, what lovely heads you have" look. "You do recall, Ray, that you are not allowed to draw your gun in non-lethal situations?"

"I do *not* need a gun to get coffee in a friggin' coffee shop!" he protested. "Where's the love, Fraser? Where's the love?"

"I'm not certain where the 'love' is, but your coffee is on the table, where it has been for nearly five minutes."

Stricken, Ray contemplated the steaming cup. "I was...."

"Disconcerted?" Fraser offered innocently.

Contemplated the steaming cup and Fraser's gory death. Hair Guy *and* Bombshell were laughing at him now. Total strangers ganging up with *Fraser*, who'd never had a gang in his entire *life*.

Betrayed, yeah, set up, but on the grounds that getting pissed would make him look like an asshole, he thrust out his hand. It
was a narrow decision. "Ray."

Hair Guy took it. "Har--ow! Har...old. Harold. Sean."

"Harold Sean."

"Yeah! No. Sean Harold. Yeah."

"You always give your name like you're reading it off a DMV report?"

"You always shake hands for a minute and a half?"

Ray dropped Sean's hand like a dead rat. Fought not to do the Homophobe Handwipe on his pants leg. Sean was, past the goof, frighteningly sharp. ~Does he know I think he's cute? Answer: He knows everyone thinks he's cute. Don't say something macho, dumbass. Don't.~

"I'm a cop. I was checking for weapons." Just the right touch of humor on it. Dodging the bullet.

"I'm not packing," Sean shot back. *Knowing* how that sounded, busting Ray with his glittering eyes and quick grin. "Sorry to
disappoint."

The bullet thumped home after all, but didn't hurt the way Ray feared. Even though he was *fucking* embarrassed in front of Fraser, who probably could have lived several long Inuit lifetimes without seeing him hit on a man, something about Sean's humor stole the sting from it. "Well, y'know. Wouldn't want your guy with the long pink staff getting jealous."

"Hey, maybe they're the same guy," Sean said. "My guy and your guy. Was he really tall with slitty eyes and brown hair and nice pecs?"

Ray grinned like a shark at Fraser, who was wearing his wary when-on-Mars expression again. "I dunno--was he, Fraser?"

"He was not particularly tall," Fraser began. "But the rest is...accurate, to the degree that I could discern through clothing."

"Yeah," Sean agreed. "If he was naked, you'd hardly need to be an experienced tracker to locate him."

The coffee really *didn't* have much to recommend it as a sinus flush. Ray buried his face in paper napkins. When he emerged, Fraser was looking hangdog and the blonde was looking away and Sean....

Was looking at him. From about six inches away. Which was just *fine*.

"He fails to see the humor," both of them said together, and laughed until they knocked over two fake plants on the windowsills.

*********

He gave Sean his number on the back of a coaster, which he eyed as if he'd never seen one before and then made vanish into some pocket. Through the haze of dread at the conversation--or worse, lack of conversation--with Fraser to follow, Ray distinctly caught the words "--think it's Dylan?" and "--not to fraternize, Harper. From the hair, you could be related" as the two others left the shop.

There was a brief interlude during which he weighed running back to his laptop at the precinct and inputting a database search of the fifty states for records on an S. Harper, but in the end, surreality won the day. There was a special knack to understanding *and* appreciating it, and he wasn't going to throw that away simply for the sake of sense.

"C'mon, Fraser," he said, slinging his jacket over one shoulder. "You still have to write a report about the guy with nice pecs who flashed you."

God, he loved putting that look on his partner's face.

****The End****