Disclaimer: Not mine, but I'm happy I get to have a bit of fun with them while not intending infringement or making any money.

Story Notes: This is the second of a "set" of stories (rather than a series) revolving around meals Fraser and Ray have. <g> "Breakfast" is the first story. I had written several "food fics" over in Sentinel, and wanted to see how the idea would play out with Fraser and RayK. These aren't sequels or even necessarily related; I'm just messing with a theme. :) Hope you enjoy it! I'd love to hear what you think!

It's Sunday morning and Fraser and I are elbow deep in brunch fixings. He's in charge of the chorizo and eggs; I've got the accompaniments -- tortillas, beans, cheese, cilantro (I'm a big fan of cilantro) -- under control. Both of us are stirring or chopping to the rhythm of the music drifting in from the living room -- today it's Gilbert and Sullivan's operetta *The Mikado*.

Yeah, I like Gilbert and Sullivan, so shoot me. I got culture. Stella didn't always think so, but then it was more a matter of our ideas of culture not meshing. Matter and antimatter.

But, yeah, Gilbert and Sullivan must've been a couple of pretty off-the-wall guys. They hated each other, but they created these incredible masterpieces. Now, I've gotta say, I don't like all of them; some get a little old. I mean, come on! How many times can there be a guy with a magic potion or charm or whatever? But the music is full of these great images and beats and tones, and the lyrics just slay me. I like *The Mikado* best. And the best song out of it? "Let the Punishment Fit the Crime." Oh, yeah. I think my favorite line is the one about punishing cheaters by forcing them to play pool with bent cues and elliptical billiard balls. Classic. Fraser likes that one too. Tickles his inner-Mountie.

My grandfather introduced me to Gilbert and Sullivan when I was so little he'd sit me on top of his huge old stereo cabinet while he changed the records. Listening with him used to be one of the few good things -- the other was my grandmother's mashed potatoes -- about having to go to Sunday dinner at the grandparent's. And since my brother was never into that kind of music, I had fun having my grandpa to myself.

Then, when Ben and I got together and he discovered my stash of Gilbert and Sullivan CDs (they were behind the Social Distortion and New Order ones - I'd gotten tired of the comments on poker nights), he'd been delighted - his word, not mine. He'd been raised on them, too. Grandparents, again. Yet another cosmic clue that we were meant for each other. He always grins when I say stuff like that.

Last Christmas, I got him the DVD of a great version from that Stratford Theater in Canada. When we watched it, he had this grin on his face that made me want to push him back against the cushions and let loose. I managed to hold back until the part with all the boring wedding prep songs and then had him all straightened back up for the grand finale songs. Yet another reason to like *The Mikado.*

At the moment, Ben is singing along with the Mi-Ya-Sa-Ma song. I've always loved his voice. It really . . . fits him -- deep, strong, real. The first time I heard him sing, at that table on the Henry Allen, I'd been a little distracted. The second time, I'd been amused watching him try to dance. The third time, well, being caught in a crevasse doesn't do much for your concentration. The fourth time, though, we were sitting around our fire, I'd actually listened. I think that might've been the night I finally started figuring out I had feelings for him that went beyond the whole partner-best-friend kind of thing. It had just felt so right, being surrounded by nature, his voice making me feel at home yet making me yearn for . . . . something.

A couple of weeks later, we were in another part of the middle of nowhere, and Fraser'd started singing again, a song about a miner and the love he'd left back home. When he'd finished, he'd sat, staring into the fire, with this really weird look on his face. I'd spend a lot of time making an art of watching him without making it look like I'd been watching, and something in that look had made me feel like it was the same one I'd been wearing -- like he was wishing for something he could never have. I'd opened my mouth before the thoughts had even finished forming.

"You think that way, Frase? That there's only one true love for a person?"

"Yes." But he paused and looked up at me. "And no. I think that having loved once, a person has a greater capacity to love again because he or she has opened themselves up to the emotion. And yet, I think there are people who have a natural match out there, and those who find that other person, that other piece of themselves, are the ones who have the true love."

Something in his tone, in the way his eyes bored into me made me catch my breath. I forced myself to ask. "You ever find that other person?"

"I thought I had, once, but she wasn't . . . ." There had been a long pause where the only sounds were the wind rustling and the fire popping. "She wasn't what I thought she was." He stopped again for an endless moment, staring at me, his eyes shadowed and questioning in the flickering light. "More recently, I've begun to wonder if I haven't found my true match, and if, perhaps, this person isn't as unobtainable as I'd always assumed."

I remember that, for a moment, I was caught between wanting to get up and run into the night, terrified I'd mess this up, and wanting to leap across the fire and never let go of him. Clearing my throat a couple times to find my voice, I answered. "Well, buddy, you know what they say about people who assume."

The non-sequitor confused him; he got that little frown between his eyebrows. "No, Ray, I don't -- what do people say?"

I got impatient with the delay because I could feel in my gut that this was it. This was our chance, and if one or the other of us said the wrong thing, somehow we'd miss it. And I so didn't want to miss it, not when we were this close. Heart beating fast, I answered with a dismissive wave. "That you shouldn't." Then I started talking really fast, trying with everything in me to do this right. "You know, Frase, I've got a theory about love, too. I've always thought that you should be bold, you know? That the chance for finding something real is worth the risk of maybe being wrong."

He didn't look away as he answered. I felt a surge of pride in him because I could see the emotion and worry and fear rolling around behind his eyes; some of my fear quieted down at seeing I wasn't alone in this. His voice was quiet, but I could still hear it with no problem. "It's hard."

"Yeah, yeah, it is. But it's worth it; you're worth it, Benton Fraser."

He closed his eyes for a moment so long I was on the verge of bridging the gap myself, of going to him and saying the words first, even though I knew he had to figure this part out on his own -- and be sure -- without any pushing from me, but then he opened his eyes. And there it was, all of his feelings, the love and want that I knew I was mirroring back, all of it was right there in his eyes.

"I love you, Stanley Raymond Kowalski." And then he said the perfect words, words that were us. "Will you have me?"

I stood up and took slow, deliberate steps towards him, letting him see the answer in my face before I said the words. "Oh, yeah, absolutely, full stop. I love you, Benton Robert Fraser; will you have me?"

He cupped my face with his hands. "Yes, most certainly." And then he kissed me, and despite our chapped lips and cold noses, it was perfect because we were each other's perfect piece.

And that's how, eight months later, we ended up here, back in Chicago for a few more years until I finish my twenty and can retire with full pension. We bought a little house, something that's both of ours while we wait out the time before moving north permanently.

And this morning, we're listening to *The Mikado,* moving together in the kitchen like a well-oiled machine, and cooking brunch for a group of our friends; in a little while, Welsh, Mort, Fraser's new boss, Inspector Carlson, the Hutchensons, our neighbors across the street, and Frannie are joining us.

Then, later, after they've gone, Ben'll build a fire in the fireplace, and if I'm real lucky he'll sing to me, and when I pull him down on top of me on the hearthrug, we'll find each other all over again.