Disclaimer: Everybody belongs to Alliance Atlantis. I exist only to skulk about and throw insanity into the pot.

Story Notes: Companion piece to Socks, and sequel to Frostbitten -- you should read Socks before reading this, but it's not necessary to read Frostbitten.

Fraser's lying on his stomach in front of the fireplace, trying to make some sense of one of Francesca's letters -- the paper appears to have been splashed with apple sauce, apple cider, and apple butter on the left side, and smeared with peanut butter on the right. Frowning, he bats Dief's nose out of the way. Dief groans at him.

"No, I'm not going to let you lick it. It would be most unhygienic."

Dief whines, and shakes his head vigorously.

"Truly, you must know that your well-being is of greater import than Francesca's ramblings. She'll send another soon, and -- "

"Fraser?" Fraser cocks an ear towards the kitchen, straining to hear over the sound of clanging metal -- Ray's obviously attempting to make himself a cup of coffee. "Where'd you put the pan?"

"You seem to have found quite a few already."

"Not a pan, the pan. The one that's bigger than the stove."

"It's not essential -- "

"It takes too long with the other ones!"

"It's instant coffee, Ray. It's not going to take particularly long in any case."

"Yeah, well, hot water from the tap'd be faster'n this shit."

Fraser suppresses a smile. "Well, you're quite entitled to the tap."

"Yeah, right. I didn't think Mounties were allowed to be sneaky. You, Constable Fraser, have hereby been found guilty of subliminal messaging."

"I protest that -- "

"Though leaving that article about the effects of lead poisoning on my pillow wasn't exactly the subtlest of the subtle, y'know what I mean?"

"Subtlety, I confess, had not been my intention."

"Yeah, okay, whatever -- hey! Found it! Okay. Jesus, Fraser, you ever think about electric stoves? Like, this house here is made outa wood. And that there is an open flame."

"Nonsense, Ray, it's perfectly safe." Dief's nose creeps along the floor toward the yet-undeciphered letter. Fraser grabs it and tugs sharply, and Dief grumbles and stalks off into the kitchen.

"No, you can't have my M&M's. Stoppit. Stop -- do not lick, that is not helping you any -- okay, maybe just three."

"Ray!"

"Hey, I don't got the Mountie soul in me to withhold the candy in the face of sad doggie eyes. You gonna hold it against me? ...Okay, so, I just turn this knob, right?"

Fraser can't imagine which knob Ray's turned, but suddenly there's a horrible buzzing noise, the frequency so low that he doesn't so much hear it as feel his eardrums vibrating unnervingly. He leaps to his feet, prepared to rescue Ray from the stove or the stove from Ray, and dashes into the kitchen -- only to find Ray setting his pan of water down carefully, over the correctly adjusted flame. "What's got you all uptight? Frannie lose a kid somewhere?"

"Ah...no. Can't you hear that -- " but, oddly, as soon as he mentions it, it stops.

"Didn't hear nothin'." Ray looks at the paper in Fraser's hand. "So Number Three's teething, huh?"

Fraser blinks at him for a moment, concludes that Ray's ears haven't quite finished adapting to the the Yukon's noise level, and goes to the study to write a letter of congratulations to Francesca and Number -- no, Stephen.

Or was it Stephanie?

~((*))~

It happens again two days later, while Ray's outside and trying to convince himself that he could install plumbing if he wanted to. Fraser's only passing through the kitchen, trying to find his left boot -- it's equally possible that either Dief or Ray has hidden it somewhere -- when the stove starts to beep.

This is entirely unprecedented.

Buzzing could perhaps be considered an extreme case of the vibration caused when metal is heated too rapidly, but beeping?

And it's not just that it's beeping. It is beeping in a pattern. A very odd pattern: beeep blip blip blip, blip, beeep blip, beeep, beeep beeep beeep, beeep blip, blip beeep blip beeep blip beeep, blip blip blip, bleeep, blip beeep, beeep blip beeep beeep, blip beeep beeep blip, blip blip beeep, beeep -- and then silence.

Fraser stares at it.

It couldn't.

It couldn't possibly.

"You aren't, by any chance," Fraser mutters to the stove, hoping Ray won't walk in, "using Morse Code, are you?"

Beeep blip beeep beeep, blip, blip blip blip.

"Good gracious -- "

"Frase," Ray shouts, coming in through the door noisily, "I found your boot out by the shed. You gotta stop leaving your uniform around like that -- I mean, I'm allowed to, 'cause I'm the inconsiderate Yank, but you're probably not."

"Ray -- "

"Yeah, yeah, you're welcome, whatever -- I'm gonna get the pipes in. This summer, I swear."

~((*))~

Fraser eyes snap open, and it's dark out.

This in itself isn't particularly odd, since it's dark most of the time these days. Nor is it odd that he's got an arm under his head, a gel-spiked head on his chest, and a leg hooked around his knee, which is twisting slightly.

What is odd is his sudden intense desire for a cold glass of orange juice.

Nonetheless, he disentangles himself from the bedsheets and Ray's various limp limbs -- cravings, he's heard, are really the body's way of alerting one to deficiencies in one's diet. Besides, orange juice at two a.m. couldn't actually hurt. It may taste foul, but other than that there's no reason not to do it -- especially if he can avoid a cold in the process.

The floor slides under his socks, unsteady under his lethargic feet, so he puts a hand on the wall and braces himself against it. He reaches the fridge, opens it, closes his hand around the jug of orange juice --

"Glad you could make it, son."

Fraser bangs his head hard on the inside of the refrigerator. "Dad?"

"Who else?"

Fraser scans the inside of the fridge frantically, searching between the jars of mayonnaise and marmalade and instant coffee. "Where -- I can't see you -- "

"I'm not here, son -- haven't you heard of the telephone? Come over to the stove; I can't hear you in there."

Fraser pulls his head out of the fridge and shuts the door, then walks over to the stove, feeling somewhat hazy and halfway certain he's mad. Barking. Completely unhinged. "Telephone?" This is surely too much. "You're dead, Dad. There aren't telephones -- "

"Ah, but there are, and they're beautiful. No long distance charging. No charging, period. It's brilliant. It's extraordinary. Of course, you have to be dead to use it, but then that's rather a lot of people, now isn't it."

"But you went."

"Would I leave and not call? I'm a Mountie, Benton! I've got honor, I'll have you know!"

"And you're using the stove?"

"Didn't want to use the sink. And it's the oven, too, Benton, don't leave the oven out. It might be offended, and then it's liable not to cooperate."

"Ah." That makes sense. A little. Perhaps not at all. "Dad -- did you send me a Morse Code message?"

"You need to ask? I'm ashamed. Truly. Every Mountie should be able to recognize Morse Code from the first beep, Benton. You see why I couldn't just up and get? You may be over forty, but you've got loads to learn -- "

"Frase?"

"Ray?" Fraser's head whirls around, feeling rather as though it would like to come loose. "I, uh -- "

"You talkin' to the stove?"

"Ah. Well. That. I -- " Fraser fumbles for a moment. "In fact I did not initiate the altercation with the stove, the stove initiated the altercation with me, you see, and -- and in fact it wasn't the stove at all, it was the oven. Did I say stove? I meant oven, Ray -- "

"Huh?"

"I mean that I -- "

"Ben."

"Yes?"

"You're awake."

"I ... would appear to be, yes."

"And you're in the kitchen."

"Yes."

"D'you know what time it is?"

"...approximately five minutes after two?"

"Right. So, you see a problem here?"

"I -- " And then Fraser blinks. And looks at Ray properly. And blinks again. "Ray, your shorts -- "

"Are not sleepwear."

Fraser decides that yes, there is definitely a problem here, and not to do with Ray's definition of sleepwear.

--fin