Disclaimer: I don't own due South any more than any other author on this site. I'm just using my imagination-

Author's Notes: Written on a deadline for a RayK challenge on Livejournal. Had to start with a snippet of an Old97 song (see below). This is my first Due South fic and I have to commend all Due South writers for their stellar, stellar characterisation and stories. Thank you for the inspiration.

Story Notes:
14. I couldn't drink enough to make this make sense
But I think I'm gonna give it a try
There's no settling down there's only driving downstate
So I drive
(Jagged)

I couldn't drink enough to make this make sense.

"I didn't have enough time," I tell the bartender as he pours me another drink. He shakes his head and walks off. I'm so pathetic.

Some women come ask me if they could have my autograph. This is the 6th time people have taken me for Billy Tallent up here. Maybe more. Explains the alarming amount 'welcome home, man's' I get when I walk down the street. Freaked me the fuck out at first, I thought Fraser had told everyone I was emigrating.

I would be flattered if I weren't so drunk, guy is a fucking gui-tah genius, but right now I'd rather be alone with my crisis. The girls are good looking and don't seem to care that I'm shitfaced and I probably stink. I don't get it; I don't have any inclination whatsoever to even talk to them when frankly, my appalling lack of sex in the last few years is probably contributing to this breakdown. I manage: "I'm sorry, I'm not him."

One of them shoves a napkin and a pen at me anyway.

I sign it I'm not him and hand it back. She lifts my chin and looks into my bloodshot eyes. I'm such a mess.

"Welcome back Billy," she says, and leans in to kiss me. She gets the corner of my mouth when I turn away.

"Thank you kindly," I reply, and it takes everything I am not to start crying.

I am such a loser. Girl walks out with her friend like she's happy. Bartender mutters 'rock stars' to another patron and rolls his eyes.

I'm not him but I may as well be. It's like that chick song, you know the one that talks about cardboard masks of all the people you've been? Well that's what I am. My brain's a repository for these two-dimensional people I tried to make real that have lost their relevance but refuse to disappear. There are no lines up there anymore; it's blurry, just like my vision is starting to be.

'You're Ray,' Fraser would say, 'you're my friend'.

He's in my head too... He's SO in my head these days, but I don't mind his voice. I'm doing it more and more. I come up with these big-ass words I would have stumbled on not a year ago. They just come out of me now... Makes me wonder if I'm in his head too. I wonder if he's got me cussin' and whining in there. I wonder if one day he'll just let some Ray talk loose. It'd sure give a heart attack to whoever he's with. That makes me smile for a moment before my heart starts to hurt. I down the rest of my drink.

Fuck. What the hell am I supposed to do?

I shouldn't stop; I can't keep stopping like this. I need to get into the groove, stay one the road until things make sense. I'll go sleep it off in the back seat and drive to the next one Tim Horton's town in the morning. Maybe I'll try that mocha-coffee they told me about when they saw me dropping M&M's in my cup. You know, I don't know why Fraser kept telling me I had to use Smarties when there are M&M's on the shelf right next to them. Maybe it's a Territories thing... Freak.

I couldn't drink enough to make this make sense, but I keep asking for refill after refill like it's going to help.

I'm mad at a dead man.

When Bartender calls the last round I stumble to the car and get ready to pass out under some dirty cover in the back seat.

I hope for unconsciousness but my mind starts racing. Going over things. It's going to be another long night.

Used to think about life starting in the bank with The Stella. Now I keep going back to when I started substituting for Vecchio. I never used to be so confused, just did my job kicking heads and taking names. If I went under, I'd put on this mask, this person and when it was over I did my damndest not to drag it back with me. I was still Ray Kowalski, I'd just have to shuck the skin and get on with my life with my wife: I had the girl of my dreams and I wasn't going to do that to her. It was hard, sure, but I focused a lot of energy on making sure my dirty-ass job didn't touch her. Not that her job didn't get her dirty but that part she actually chose. Stel hadn't asked to become a cop's wife and all the bullshit it came with.

So I wasn't always successful in stepping out of an assignment's shoes... I'd bring home a pattern of speech, a little bit of slang that would have Stella shaking her head but basically life would go back to normal until I'd screw up in some way or other, maybe let something slip about an assignment or bring up the subject of kids and she'd shut off. We'd go through the motions for a while, pretend everything was okay and then I'd volunteer to take the next undercover assignment.

Being in someone else's uncomfortable shoes always put things in perspective for me. Thinking of Stella kept me sane and grounded. She brought me home in one piece, and she was always glad to see me when I got back. She was a little annoyed she had to worry about me, she said once, but she'd pat my butt and tell me to take a shower. I'd get in there and wash whatever poor loser I'd been right out of my unmanageable hair. Even when that poor loser had been cool, free and more on the ball than I was. I wanted to make my life work, even though sometimes it felt like I was trying to jam a square peg into a circle.

I was on the verge of chucking my career when I got the offer. I didn't have Stella to come home to that time, but I could almost be myself, there was no way I could foresee a problem like the one I was about to have. I thought it would give me time to figure out what to do next before telling the powers that be they could shove my badge where the sun don't shine. I'd been pretty excited to meet Fraser that day, to jump in. I was put off a little at first when I thought he was yanking my chain but we got into a groove so fast I felt like I had finally found my place in the world. I fell hard and there was nothing I could do about it, thoughts of quitting were put on the backburner. I'd had passing attractions to men so I wasn't completely caught off guard but to feel like I found the right person? That was unexpected to say the least.

The line with Vecchio was blurry, too blurry even, but I thought it would be easy. All I had to do really was answer to someone else's name and give said guy my arrest record. Maybe Welsh wanted that too and it was good to be wanted. Except that I wanted. I wanted and I couldn't have, because I was, if only very loosely, detective first grade Raymond Vecchio. The guy people used to call the schnoz. Sure, that I had Vecchio dressing like a cop didn't blip too hard on the proverbial radar screen, but if I suddenly made Vecchio less than straight, that would raise more than a few eyebrows in and out of the 2-7.

So I took a lot of cold showers. I gritted my teeth in my sleep. I boxed, although I'd lost my groove in the ring. I even tried to get dates with every single female I could think of, but I'd lost my groove with that too.

I tried to do the buddy thing. I was strong. Sure, I went a little nuts before the whole Henry Allen thing, but I realized that being with Fraser in a platonic way was better than being away from him. I about stopped breathing when I thought he would take his transfer. I was pissed, but I couldn't imagine life without Fraser in it and I decided to calm the fuck down and take what I could get.

The sex (wanting it and the lack of it) became secondary, that is to say, I don't think it drove me any more nuts than a lot of other things. I thought about it. I thought about what it would feel like. What he would feel like. What two guys could do together. By the time a year rolled around I'd gotten past all my mental hang-ups and was so ready to go. Except it could never go anywhere. I did all that without even knowing if I had a chance and knowing for damn sure that even if I did, I couldn't take it. What can I say? I'm used to the short end of the stick.

So we were closer than a lot of men. We touched each other, walked closely together, and went on tons of outings that looked a lot like dates, had fights that normal people would only have if they were fucking. Except we really weren't. I was used to not having the sex, sadly. Of course, like half of frickin' Chicago, I sometimes got the overwhelming urge to shut Fraser up with a kiss, or bend Fraser over my couch, but I kept it on a whole other level, where I used to keep myself when I was on previous undercover assignments. It was a fact of life like any other, I could not be that part of myself and I dealt with it by dividing up what was left of me. Sometimes I would have whole conversations overlapping the ones I was actually having with Fraser that would include words like 'you're so fucking beautiful, I love you so fucking much, kiss me, take off your clothes, say you love me, stay.' And I say he's unhinged...

One random day everything changes with no warning. Armando Langustini aka Vecchio shows his great shnoz in Chicago, we fly to Canada on the wing of a plane and 'look Ray, turtles' jump out of the rickety piece of shit into some really nice snow. You know the rest, and you know nothing can go back to the way it was.

I wonder if Fraser gets the Serge scotch-guarded... I almost laugh but it's hard to forget where I am. I shift over, pushing the only seatbelt into the crack of the seat. Damn thing's been stabbing me for hours.

I want another drink but it's too late.

My breath stinks, my blanket stinks. Some undesirables are still filtering out of the crappiest bar in craptown but I know I'm safe. This cheap clunker I bought doesn't look like anything people would want to steal. And I stole one of Fraser's big-ass hunting knives.

I'm such a man. Can't take what you're fucking offered you always gotta want more. Impossible stuff. Unfathomable stuff... See? He's in my head. Been that way for a while, started after we took off. Sometimes I could talk along with him in my head. We were a real duet, in perfect synch. The whole time we just passed looking for the hand of Franklin? I was happy. It's easy to forget that there are other things out there besides your city and that if you just took a chance you can do anything. Like learn to steer a sled, learn morse code, make snow angels even though you're an adult. I was cold as fuck but even when I thought I would die of hypothermia I knew that I had never been that happy. And when I got used to the rigours of the outdoors, when I got used to getting up at the butt-crack of dawn, when I got into arctic expedition shape I started wanting again. Oh fuck, did I start to want. I mean, who gets hot flashes at 40 below?

He's so Fraser. He's my Fraser and the more I think about it the more I'm sure no one knows him like I do. I don't even know who I am but with him, it doesn't matter. He knows exactly who I am. And he loves me. Well, the few times I told him I loved him he's said 'and I you, Ray'...

That should be good enough. But it really isn't. I jump out of planes for this guy.

I'm not even sure what province I'm in, just keep driving due south, closer to the border now. I keep getting hammered, which slows me down because I've never been the kind of prick that drinks and drives, but going back isn't an option. It's just been too long. When I'm back in Starbucks territory I'll probably drive downstate. Maybe I'll drive downstate till I'm in Mexico. And maybe I'll keep driving then. Fraser says Mexico has states too. It's called the United States of Mexico, believe it or not. Why the fuck didn't we learn that in school? It's the kind of useless information I would have remembered. Maybe I'll drive straight through. No sense in stopping, don't have anything left.

That said, I should probably get the turtle back from Frannie though. And check up on her. She's pregnant, I heard, and there's no dad in the picture. I should close up the apartment, put some stuff in storage. I should go tell Welsh I ain't coming back.

Fuck. What am I supposed to do now?

I couldn't drink enough to make this make sense, I keep telling myself. But I keep stopping in these stinky-ass hell-holes because I can't take it. Don't want really want to go forward, can't turn back. It's so fucking hard. If Buck Frobisher weren't already dead, I'd kill him myself. Why'd be have to croak? Why'd he have to croak before I made my move? Why'd I take so fucking long?

I want to go back.

Fraser's up there in frozen Mountie land probably talking about positions that need to be filled and I'm here in butt-fuck nowhere crying in a lemon that'll probably get me killed before I even get to America.

I wasn't ready to be away from him.

I'm such an ass.

It all happened so fast; Fraser was so sad and I didn't do anything about it because I was so fucking mad I'm not sure I said anything civil on the way back. Then other Mounties kept filtering into town and taking him away to offer their condolences or gush about something he did or ask his advice or offer him some post like those assholes never exiled him in the first place and he would just stand there and smile and participate and he didn't call them on it. 'Caught me off guard.

I refused to go to the funeral. He said he didn't understand why I was being so difficult. I threw a plate at the wall. Deif growled at me.

I imagine he gave the eulogy. Talked about the importance of partners, the importance of the job. What being a Mountie means.

He should have had a new job before the day was over. You could see they knew he was The Man; they even had the gall to offer him a post as the public face of the RCMP. Bastards.

I keep thinking he could have tracked me if he wanted to. I keep lingering in places longer than I should, just in case. Hoping.

I am such a bitch.

This is ridiculous; being in love does not look good on me. I should stop in Chicago. Maybe he asked about me? Left a message somewhere? I get out of the car and stroll to the Tim Horton's. I should sober up. Buy a toothbrush. Stop being such a shit. It's not the end of the world. It's only the end of the world if I let it be. "You'll see him again," I say, as I wash my face in the restroom. I have to see him again. And if I have to become a Canadian well, at least they have good coffee.