AUTHOR'S WEBSITE: http://fangirlz.net/miriam.heddy/

Disclaimer: No profit but pleasure.

Author's Notes: Thanks to anne for the beta, and for asking questions I don't always answer.

Story Notes: SOUNDTRACK: "Fast Buck Freddie" and anything by Hendrix.

"Okay, so I've had one. Uh, experience, that is. It was '75, maybe '76? Something like that. Don't matter. And I was shit-faced, so who the hell knows when it was. And there was this guy, this buddy of mine, Jeff--Jeff--something (and shit, I can't even remember his last name, now--how's that for a meaningful relationship?). So I figure it wasn't all that innocent or anything, but it didn't leave much of an impression, either.

"Riiight, anyway, so we're downing shots like Kool-Aid on a hot day, me hitting the table and counting 'em, and alluva sudden Jeff gets this look in his eye and says, 'I can take you.'

"Funny thing was, we were at this campus bar--one of those places with wood and brass and music I fucking can't stand--nothing you can dance to--but Jeff's girlfriend did those, whatdayacallit, open-mike for bad poetry reading things on Friday nights, and she hauled Jeff there, and so somehow, the two of us end up there, without the girls. Rumor was it was a fa-- a hangout for homosexuals, but we didn't buy that, and even if we did, Jeff's girlfriend said it was to keep guys like us out. Stella thought that was real clever, there. Stella was a clever girl.

"So anyway, Jeff's still giving me this look, 'C'mon, c'mon, c'mon,' and so I down another shot and then nod, not because I agree, but go ahead and try, sucker. Hell, I was still fighting regular, back then, back when, back before The Stella said, 'I do, but...'

"But, but, and but. But--funny thing there--I was more than happy to hand over the featherweight belt at that point, y'know? You just had to see her--college girl, pre-fucking law--hair tied up in a ponytail, and even then, hell, she never even wore jeans--always these skirts with sweaters, with little sweaters underneath--everything matched everything else. Coordinated, that was Stella. Pink lipstick, pink toenails in the summer.

"Heh. Me? I was like one of those tattoos the good girls get nowadays that say their boyfriends name across their butt, but if you look close, you can see it really says, 'Screw you, Dad.' I don't know. I mean, sure, she loved me, but.... Always came down to that final but. Until finally it didn't. Hell, I was one of those tattoos--'Champion' in my own mind, y'know? Screw you, Dad. So I shouldn't talk. About Stella, I mean.

"So, anyway, Jeff's waiting, except he's drunk and sorta drifting off, and in a minute he's not gonna remember what we were talking about. And Jefferson Starship's singing--

"How long, how long would you like it
How long, how long will it be
Think fast.

--so I give the signal, and Jeff and me, we sorta hunker down on the floor next to the stage where the godawful bands play on Saturday nights, and I've got my knee in his back, and he flips me over somehow--pins an arm across my scrawny chest (and he's not exactly Mr. Universe himself, so I'm still thinking, 'Come and get it, you asshole'). God knows where the bartender was during all this. It was too early for the good tips, so maybe he didn't give a fuck-all.

"And that's when it turns weird. Because Jeff's leaning over me, just bigger than life all of a sudden, long hair plastered to his forehead, panting like he's run the ten-minute mile, and it's the damndest thing--I can feel it--him--pressing into my thigh. And it's not like I don't know what's what--because hell, it's sure as hell not his wallet there in front. No brewer's droop there.

"But that shit happens all the time, y'know? No comment, no harm, no foul. Except something's, uh, different this time--I dunno--maybe six ounces of booze acting up, and I say, thinking I'm smart or something, 'Happy to see me?' and he squints down at me, like it's him that needs the coke-bottle glasses--and then he smiles, this sweet, sweet smile.

"And when did guys start going sweet on me? But there you are, and he's just grinning at you, like somebody blew sunshine up his ass.

"And I'm thinking something profound at this point, like 'Fuck me!' and I swear, I swear to God, it's like he's waving the red blanket, doin' that, and I push up with my hips, bucked up off the floor so hard I hit my tailbone on the way down. Weird--I can remember that, and what was on the turntable, but damned if I can remember Jeff's friggin' last name.

"So, long story short, that was it--all five minutes of it. And, uh, I didn't even, y'know--get off. Jeff just sorta backed off--like I knew he would--and got off of me, not in a hurry, because we were drunk, and, uh, couldn't. Also, we were drunk, not stupid, and if anybody panicked... So we both just... Nothing to see here, folks, move along.

"So, ya see--you gettin' what I'm saying here? Nada. That was it. No big revolution--revelation. The world kept on spinning--maybe Jeff married the poet-chick, probably had two point five kids. And me and Stella tied one on right after I figured out I looked better in blue.

"I believe it was Jefferson Airplane."

"Hu--What? You... what?"

"Jefferson Airplane, not Starship."

"The hell it was."

Fraser's eyebrow's up, skeptical, like he's sure he's right, because he's Fraser, and Fraser's always right, therefore he's right. Except this is music, and where the hell was Fraser in the seventies--Buttfucktuck, Canada?

"You're missing the point here," I point out, trying to ignore the urge to smack him one. "The point--the point is. Shit." Language, Ray. He doesn't say it, but I can see he's thinking it--for the last ten minutes, he's thinkin' it. Stella bought me this "Word a Day" calendar one year for Christmas, like--take a hint. Subtle, she was not. But then I don't hear subtle real well.

Fraser's still got his eyebrow up, only now he's rubbing it with his thumbnail.

"The point is--is that I don't go there."

"There?"

"There." I swing my hands up in the air, but damned if I know the sign language for what he's asking.

"Oh." Like the light's finally coming on. "Well, that's good to know."

Like I told him it was going to rain out. That's good to know, Ray. I'll be sure to bring my umbrella. Are my lips not moving here? "Fine. Good. So we square, then?"

"Yes. Yes, I think so." He nods and puts on his hat, and gets up off the sofa, and suddenly, I get that he's about to go back to Canada--or the Consulate. Same thing.

"Frase, seriously..."

He half-turns around, his hand still reaching for the doorknob. He's waiting for me to say something serious, but I don't have a clue what I'm trying to say, here. Don't go? Wait for me?

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asks, like maybe the answer's no. I shouldn't be so relieved, but I am. I really am. Look, he's been seeing me tomorrow for the past three years now. He's seen me tomorrow at the 27th, at the Consulate, out the door of an airplane, and in a goddamn tent on an ice floe. And now--and this really sucks--seriously sucks like a Hoover--now, he's not even sure he'll see me tomorrow, because I'm here, and he's over there. Because I'm here, because I'm....

Except I'm not. I'm sorry, really, really sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. But I'm just....can't. I just can't.

"I'm sorry, Frase."

He nods, this curt little nod, and then, "whoosh," he's gone, out the door, headed for parts North, and I can hear his boots thudding down the hallway. Mounties do not walk out on you on little cat's feet, that's for sure.

My hands are slick with sweat and he's just about at the end of the hall before I manage to get the door open again. He's a sort of blurry red and I reach in my pocket for my glasses, except they're on my face already, so why the hell can't I see?

"Ray?" He's stopped, his hands behind his back like he's at parade rest, like he stands when he's playing toy soldier outside the Consulate. And my glasses are on, but I can't make out his face.

"I, uh... Fraser..." Yeah, that's his name. Now say something. "Look, I was just wondering if you wanted..." Now make him an offer. Just complete the fucking sentence. He's waiting, always patient and polite like a good little Mountie, and I say the first thing that comes out of my mouth. "Dinner? You want some dinner? We could, y'know..."

Eat. Yeah, we could eat. When in doubt, offer food. I ain't Italian, but I play one on TV.

"Yeah, look--" He hasn't said anything yet, and it occurs to me that he's said all of five words in the last twenty minutes, not even interrupting me once. It's... kind of nice, but it makes me nervous. Makes me feel like I gotta keep talking.

"Look, I can heat up some of that lasagna. Or we could get a pizza. Or Chinese." Or maybe you could go get the menus, Kowalski, see if there's anything there he likes. Bring him a fucking buffet.

I'm leaning out my own doorway babbling like someone trying to tempt a stray cat inside, and the neighbors are gonna think I'm nuts. Fraser's gotta think I've gone off the deep end, here.

And Fraser--all Mountie polite--he's still standing there at the end of the hall.

And then he smiles. "Dinner would be... delightful, Ray," he says, like he's accepting an invitation to the White House or something.

"So what--lasagna? I've got--" What the hell else do I have? All I remember seeing was that lasagna. Oh, and a half-pint of extremely dry white rice. And three domestic beers.

"Ray, anything you choose would be fine."

"Right. Right. My choice." Mr. Polite leaves it all up to me. Because Mounties--they're easy to please. Are all Canadians passive-aggressive, or did I just get lucky? Make a decision. Make a decision.

Because he's here, he's here and coming closer, right back at me, and this time he's pretty light on his feet, standing right in my space in the doorway--right up there in my face.

So I back up out of the doorway and he comes back inside, brushing past me, and makes himself comfortable on the sofa like he never left. Takes off his hat and his jacket and then... then he starts to unlace his boots.

And I've gotta make a decision, so I go to the kitchen, start preheating the stove, getting out the plates. "Take me now, God, because I'm about to commit as many sins as I can get in before the magic bullet comes."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing, nothing, Frase." Just talking to God. Just making a decision I hope I'll live to regret, trying to convince myself it's just like jumping out an airplane. Look, Ray--turtles. "So... lasagna?"

Wait--he answered that already, didn't he. I throw the food in the oven and turn around, watch Fraser watching me cook, or what passes for cooking in my life.

And it's a helluva thing. Fraser has this smile--a grin, really. This sweet, sweet, stupid grin. It comes on sudden, and sometimes I want to kick him in the head, knock it off his face but good. Did that once and once only, but it didn't take.

Just my luck--he keeps coming back.

Fin.