Disclaimer: Due South and its characters belong to Alliance Atlantis. No money is being made. :P

Author's Notes: Really wanted them to get some, but shocked self when couldn't do much more than some innuendo. Sexual perversion has really let me down. Poor guys.

The postal worker's brisk steps echoed hollowly on the buffed floor of the Consulate, slowed, then stopped in front of the reception desk as the man stood in a horrified sort of fascination, staring at the disquieting form looming over the visitor sign-in book. "Welcome to Canada," the black mass said earnestly. His eyes widened and he took a step back.

A head sporting a rather unfortunate hat tipped inquisitively sideways from behind the blob and into his field of view. "Ah! The post!" A blinding smile, and a man wearing an outfit that looked as if it had been drawn on him with a crayon stood up. Straight. "I wasn't aware that the previous letter carrier for this area had been replaced. Lovely man. Very disciplined. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor dark of night kept him from his appointed rounds. Although, most of his deliveries were around noon, and as such, firmly within daylight hours...." His eyebrows drew together briefly, then cleared. "However, I do recall that even on the day of the eclipse our mail was delivered with courtesy and dispatch. Commendable." He beamed.

"Uh huh," the man replied, since an answer seemed expected.

"Oh, dear! He wasn't dishonourably discharged, was he? He was tardy a few times, but seemed truly sorrowful, really. It was quite moving."

"Uhhh..."

"It's probably my fault! He was so distraught over his perceived failing that he strove to amend his transgression to the exclusion of his other duties! How could I have been so insensitive? I'll write a letter to your superior immediately, taking full responsibility for the situation..."

The man's eyes began to glaze over. He wasn't sure if it was the Mountie or the bleak form of despair sitting on the desk, but he suddenly felt like taking a bath with his hair dryer.

"...certain that the Minister of Finance will reimburse you for any necessary relocating expenses incurred, since it was my fault that you are in this pickle to begin with. Sir?"

He snapped his gaze back to the Mountie and shook his head. "Yeah. So, would you be Ray Vecchio, then?"

"Not currently, no. Constable Renfield Turnbull, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Although, I suppose I would be Detective Vecchio, should the position become available. I think, however, that Constable Fraser would be a better alternative, being much more familiar with the Detective, and an excellent officer besides. But you didn't hear it from me." Turnbull winked broadly.

A pause.

"Sign here, please."

"Certainly."

#####

"Go ahead, gimme another one."

"What was given to you, belongs only to you, yet is used most often by your friends?"

Ray snorted. "My money. No, no riddled cynics- cynic riddles...."

Diefenbaker whuffed from the backseat and Fraser turned in his seat to shush him. "Did I ask you? Don't give it away, you're going to spoil it for him." A baleful toss of the head, and Dief turned to look out the opposite window. "You know, petulance is a trait very unbecoming a wolf."

Ray smacked him in the chest with the back of his hand, and Fraser spun around to face front. "My name! That's the thing. My thing that you use and I don't. Ha!" Ray's self-satisfied grin was infectious, and he slapped the steering wheel in victory.

Fraser smiled. "Remarkable, Ray. How did you solve that one so quickly?"

"Like a two-piece puzzle, Fraser, my friend. What do I got that other people don't? Tattoo, distinguishing marks, name, badge number.... And what do you use out of all that? Glue it, frame it, mount it on the wall."

"I see," Fraser said, nodding. It didn't help him understand Ray's mind any better at all, but it was interesting nonetheless. "A two-piece puzzle."

#####

Ray pushed open the large wooden door of the Consulate and stepped into the foyer. "All I'm saying is, it don't got nothing to do with puzzles. There is no puzzle. There's nothing but a big puzzle-shaped hole where a puzzle should be, but isn't."

"Like a missing piece."

"Yes, like- No! I-"

"Eeeeeeee!" A loud, rhythmic thumping accompanied the screams emanating from the corridor. Ray promptly turned on his heel and started to march right back out, but Fraser was currently taking up the doorway. Was now marching him backwards into the building with hands on his shoulders.

"No. No! I do not have time for a quirky Canadian crisis today, Fraser. I have a very important other place that needs my immediate being there."

"Ahhhhhhh!"

"That sounds like Turnbull. He could be in need of assistance." He bounded down the hall, Dief scrabbling after.

And wasn't that the understatement of the century? Ray sighed, then pulled his gun and ran after his partner.

He ran into the Ice Queen's office and slid to a stop beside Fraser. Turnbull was jumping up and down, his not inconsiderable weight rattling the art on the wall, screeching in a way that was going to make his ears bleed all over the consular carpeting.

"Turnbull. Turnbull. Turnbull."

"Eeeeeeeeeee!"

Dief took up the harmony and began wailing in counterpoint. Ray clamped his forearms over his ears. "Shut him up, Fraser!"

"Turnbull! I'm trying, Ray, but I don't know what's wrong!"

"He probably just saw a mouse or something! Clock him!" Ray wrapped his arms around Dief and tried to wrestle him to the ground, but that left his ears open to assault, so he let go and curled them back around his head protectively.

"Ray!" Fraser turned to him, affronted. "I assure you, there are no rodents in the Consulate!"

"Ahhhhhh! Wheeeeee!"

"Ahhh!" Ray stomped over and swung his gun high over his head. "Shut. Up. Please. Or I will whip you into pie topping, I swear to God."

Turnbull quieted, and clutching a sheet of paper to his chest, sparkled at him. "Oh, Detective!"

"Thank you, Detectibe," Thatcher intoned dully from behind her desk. She lifted her head slowly to glare at her subordinate. "He's been... well." She seemed to lose steam, and sighed.

"It's the most wonderful news!" Sparkle, sparkle. Ray scowled.

"Inspector?" Fraser looked at her carefully. "Are you all right, Sir?"

"I'm fine, Constable," she snapped.

"Everything's simply wonderful!" Sparkle. Extra sparkly sparkle.

Ray bared his teeth. "What are you doing? Ugh. Stop that."

"We'be receibed the final guest list for the Loonies next month. Tracy Jenkins has confirmed her attendance as a special guest performer. God help us. You're both to be assigned to assist with the ebent. I expect that he'll be quite insufferable for the foreseeable future."

"Ah."

"Eee-"

Ray jabbed two fingers at Turnbull's face. "I swear to God." When Turnbull looked properly intimidated, he turned to Fraser. "Loonies?"

Fraser hesitated a moment. "Ah, an informal term referring to the Lionel Noonan Canadian Merit Awards, presented annually in recognition of Canadians who have contributed, through artistic and/or athletic endeavours, to the image of Canada as perceived by the world. Since the event's inception four years ago, Lionel Noonan has funded the awards himself with his personal fortune, amassed through various television and newspaper conglomer-"

"So, wait, wait, wait. You're telling me this award is given to Canadians who, like, put up a good front?"

Fraser scritched at his eyebrow. "Essentially."

Ray grinned, slow and smooth as syrup. "Essentially. And you guys're holding this noble celebration here because...?"

Thatcher straightened in her chair. "That is a matter of national security, Detective. All you need to know is that starting tomorrow, I'm afraid your friend will be indisposed, doing actual work for the Canadian authorities for a change." Fraser looked like he'd been kicked in the gut.

"Hey!"

"Perhaps you can use this opportunity to practise solbing your own cases."

"Hey!"

"Dismissed."

Turnbull scurried from the office to return to his post, while Ray was pulled out bodily by Fraser. The door snicked shut behind them and Ray shook off Fraser's grip. "Fraser, that woman is not your friend!"

"Well, no, Ray. She's my commanding officer." Ray stalked down the corridor, leaving Fraser to hurry behind him.

Practise! Ray muttered to Diefenbaker agitatedly. "What does she do here all day? I don't see her collaring any malfeasants there in Martha Stewart's dream office. Evil. 'Fraser, where's my nutritious lunch? Fraser, the welcome mat is getting wet, go and use your buff Mountie body to block the rain.'" Diefenbaker whuffed in sympathetic indignation.

Fraser's chiding voice piped up behind him. "Ray, she has never said any such-"

"Should try her for, like, abusing the Queen's subjects. Treason. The guillotine, you guys still use that? Off with 'er head!" His hand sliced through the air in illustration.

"Ray-"

"Off with 'er head!"

"I hardly think that decapitating the Inspector would-" Ray was spared the lecture when Fraser walked abruptly into his back. "Ray?"

Jesus! The disfigured nightmare perched on the reception desk stopped him in his tracks. "Fraser!" he hissed. "What in the hell is that?!"

"Oh, well that's... ah..." Fraser stepped around him to approach the desk. "Turnbull, what is that?"

Turnbull looked up from where he was taping the Loonie guest list to the wall. "Ah, Sir! Detective. I see you've noticed my bust."

Ray had to close his eyes. That Thing was going to eat his soul. He knew it.

"I'm sorry?"

"I made it myself. I felt that the entryway was lacking in a suitably awe-inspiring effigy of our beloved Monarch. The clay is my own recipe, in fact. To a base of standard modeling clay, I added a liberal amount of asphalt. The only drawback I can determine is a certain sensitivity to temperature. It melts somewhat when the sun reaches it at just after two in the afternoon."

"I see."

The standard model Monarch will eat my sensitive soul at two in the afternoon. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

"Aside from dashing my recipe altogether and starting over, I'm at a loss as to how I might address this dilemma. You wouldn't happen to have any ideas as to how I might salvage Her, would you, Sir?"

"Kill it. Kill it in the head!" Ray glared fiercely at Turnbull, who gaped at him. Diefenbaker moaned, and Fraser's posture faltered slightly.

Turnbull sputtered at him, then drew himself up regally. "Detective, I hope you are not suggesting that I wilfully destroy an effigy of our Queen, because if you were, I'm afraid I would be forced-"

"No duels, Turnbull!"

"But Sir-"

"Turnbull, no! Those swords are purely ceremonial! I'm sure Detective Vecchio meant no disrespect. Did you, Ray?" Fraser shot him a look.

Ray was good at reading looks. He'd gotten really good at reading Fraser's looks especially. This was the one that said, roughly translated: Play nice, Ray, if you would be so kind, or so help me, I will put fish hooks through your earlobes and drag you by them to a Yanni concert. Oh, he was too Canadian to say it, but he was thinking it.

Ray sulked for a moment, then shook his head. Turnbull looked mollified.

"Good, now apologize."

Ray gave him a look of his own.

Fraser floundered for a moment, then brushed his hands together briskly. "Yes! Well, I think we'll be going."

"Oh, Detective!" Turnbull reached under the desk. "This came for you today."

Ray took the offered box. "Oh yeah, thanks."

"With all the excitement today, I'd nearly forgotten-" He froze in the middle of an expansive arm gesture. "Oh, heavens! The ironing!" He turned and fled up the staircase.

Fraser looked after him for a moment, then turned to leave. "Diefenbaker, come."

"I thought we were leaving him here?"

"With Turnbull in such a state? I'm not cruel, Ray. We'll just have to go to a drive-in."

"Drive-through, Fraser. I'm not going to the drive-in with you. And if I did, it wouldn't be on my lunch break with a wolf in the backseat, if you know what I mean." He pushed the door open and waved Fraser and Dief through.

"Rarely, if ever."

"An' that's part of what I love about you, Fraser, my friend."

"An unusual basis for affection, but thank you." They got in the car, and Ray tossed the package to Fraser while he started it. "Columbia House?" he asked, squinting at the label.

"Hm. When you sign up, they send you twelve CDs free."

"Oh. Why did you have them sent to the Consulate?"

"They only let you do it once. I've already signed up with my address. Stingy bastards."

Fraser stared at the side of Ray's head. "You're using the Canadian Consulate to defraud an American business?"

Ray glanced over uncomfortably. "'Defraud' is such a dirty word."

"Ray!" Fraser looked at him as if he'd just said he sometimes liked to drop kittens off the roof of his apartment.

"Look, I'll... Next thing they send me, I'll just write 'moved' and send it back, okay?" They jack up the prices after the first twelve, anyway.

"Fine."

"Fine!" Ray scowled at the road. Damn it, they had maybe twenty minutes left till he had to be back at the precinct, and he didn't want them to spend the rest of his shift sniping at each other. Especially since after today, he might not get to see Fraser for a while. Stupid Canadian poser festival.

"So, you want to turn around and go back to the Consulate so you can arrest me, or what?" he said, teasing hesitantly.

Fraser looked at him in surprise. "No, of course not, Ray. Turn there, please. Jack up the Box looks suitably quick."

Ray smiled and relaxed. "In the box. They don't teach you to read in Canada?"

"Oh, so it is," Fraser said, frowning at the sign. Diefenbaker barked loudly. "Well, how should I know? Perhaps he was the proprietor of the establishment."

That was the beautiful thing about being friends with Fraser, Ray thought happily as they sat in the parking lot eating their lunch. The guy had himself arrested for stealing Milk Duds, but with a half-assed apology and lunch, someone he cared about could get away with using the Canadian government as an accessory to fraud.

"Fraser, man, I love you."

"And I you, Ray." Fraser smiled and passed his last french fry to Dief. "I think we should be heading back. Your lunch is over in seven minutes." He crumpled up their collected garbage and stuffed it in the paper bag.

And that was another thing, he thought, driving back. He could get away with saying shit like that. He didn't have to hide his borderline inappropriate affection from Fraser, it was welcome. Fraser liked that. Didn't think it was inappropriate at all.

And how cool was that?

#####

Ray pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked back tiredly into the blackened, swelling eyes of the punk sitting beside his desk. Ray thought it wasn't a bad look for the kid. Now his face matched his black outfit, black hair, black nails, black freakin' lipstick- "You wanna say that again?"

"William Shatner. You know, Star Trek?"

"William Shatner beat the shit out of you."

Black nodded emphatically. "My brother, he tells me the guy's staying at his hotel - my brother's a cook there - and he says William Shatner's staying at his hotel. And like, my brother has never seen an episode of the original series in his life. He's seen The Next Generation, but that was a commercial sell-out of Roddenberry's original vision, right? So, like, Kirk's wasted on him. I figure I'll go, just knock on his door, say hello, maybe get him to sign my script. And he answers the door, and when I tell him why I'm there, he gets all nasty on me, says he's gonna call security and shit. So I'm like, 'The fans made you what you are! You wouldn't have nothing if it weren't for people like me. We made you, and if you don't respect that, we can break you!'"

"And then he broke your nose."

The kid glanced away for a moment and sniffed, macho-like. "Yeah. Yeah, and I wanna see his ass in jail."

Ray rubbed at his eyeballs, toying with the idea of pushing them deep into his skull. He was sludging through Fraserless Day Eight, and wavering between wanting desperately to touch base with his partner, and wanting him to stay the hell away from him, because if he so much as saw that earnest, bewildered face, he was gonna rant and rail until he busted a kidney about his damn invading army and the unholy havoc they'd apparently all suddenly decided to wreak on his peaceful little town, thank you very kindly and take them with you when you leave.

Fortunately, or not, it was unlikely that Fraser would have time to come by anyway, since as fast as the 27 arrested the disorderly celebrities, the Consulate was leading them through some very annoying loopholes to have them released back into their care. After which, of course, they had to be released back to the states, which took more time and a hell of a lot more paperwork then he really wanted to do. A big game of Red Rover, and they were running short on arms.

Right now, the station was playing Hyatt to four unruly Loonie hopefuls. Two were television actors who had maxed out their credit cards at the mall, then walked out to their rental car loaded up with all the stuff they couldn't afford to pay for, one was some sort of glass artist who'd delivered an impromptu manifesto in front of a jewellery store after buying a souvenir, then proceeded to break every window on the ground floor using a bellows before taking off with an extra twenty thousand dollars in rock, and the fourth was a hockey player who was so personally affronted by the ATM that ate his card that he returned with a pickup truck and cables and ripped the thing out of the wall to take his daily portion of his yearly whatever million peanuts.

Fucking celebrities. Stupid Canadian poser festival.

Black shifted uncomfortably in his seat, drawing Ray's attention. "And I think he might have been on drugs."

#####

Fraser hefted the carved cedar eagle totem up onto the reception desk and sighed. Turnbull looked up from the computer sympathetically.

"Would you like me to take over for you, Sir? I would be honoured to assume the responsibility of overseeing the security for the ceremony and its participants." Fraser winced and craned his neck to work out the stiffness. The prospect was appealing, but the Inspector had made it excruciatingly clear that Turnbull was not to be allowed any closer to the proceedings than typing up invitations. He doubted the younger officer had ventured beyond the reception area in three days.

Turnbull brightened. "You could take the day off! Well, not off, of course, but I'm certain there are pressing matters of international cooperation that would benefit greatly from your participation." He grinned conspiratorially.

Fraser looked up in surprise at the rare display of deviousness. Turnbull was a great proponent of civil obedience, but had proven on more than one occasion that his respect for his fellow Constable often allowed him to blur the lines in Fraser's favour. Fraser couldn't really condone it, but he appreciated it all the same. He smiled warmly. "Thank you kindly, Turnbull, but no. Just continue doing... what you're doing."

The younger officer nodded gravely. "I'm composing a letter to the United States Postal Service accepting responsibility for the termination of an outstanding member of their ranks. I gave one personally to our current letter carrier, but he must have forgotten to forward it to his superiors, as I've yet to receive any kind of formal reprimand from the organization."

A pause.

"Carry on, then."

"Yes, Sir."

#####

Ray closed the folder on Shatner and put it on top of the growing pile, ignoring the sniggering of Dewey and the uniform in the corner. He'd pretty much figured out that the rest of the station was shafting him with all the Canadian cases. Apparently by being partners with one, he'd inherited responsibility for the whole lot. He wanted to object to the unfairness of it, but he couldn't think of anyone else he could reasonably pawn them off on.

Ray winced and craned his neck to work out the stiffness. He'd just have to guilt Fraser into dealing with them. It was probably his fault somehow, anyway. He was sure his partner could be persuaded to agree.

Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and reminisced about the days when he didn't have to know what a quad manifold for a bench burner was.

"Vecchio!"

Ray stretched out his legs and pretended for a few precious seconds that he was legally deaf.

"My office!"

He sighed, then trudged over to the Lieutenant's office, closing the door behind him with less than his usual vigour. "Yes, Sir?"

Welsh squinted at him in a way that made him look kind of like one of those wrinkly Chinese dogs. "You're looking tired, Detective."

Ray was caught off-guard by the unexpected concern, and smiled slightly. "Uh, yeah, sorta. See, there's this awards thing a week from Friday and-"

"I'm not interested in your personal calendar, Detective. Be a social butterfly on your own time. It's none of my business."

Ray snapped his mouth shut.

"But it is my business when my men get tired, because when they get tired they tend to do stupid things like rushing through statements and forgetting to mention that sweet girl we all know and love so dearly, Miranda." Welsh smiled and patted his stomach like a benevolent uncle.

"Yes, Sir."

"And that sweet girl can be a vengeful bitch when you forget about her, can't she?"

Agreeable nod. "Yes, Sir."

"So we're very careful not to take on too many things by ourselves and ignore the signs of fatigue like an ostrich that can't tell his ass from sand."

"Absolutely. No ostriches here, Sir."

"You're the ostrich, Detective."

"Right, Sir."

"And seeing as Big Red is Patient Zero in this outbreak, I think it's only fair that you call him and request his assistance in this matter of joint national interest." His tone made it clear he considered the matter closed.

Ray shifted his weight to his other foot and nodded. "Uh... see, I would, Sir, but there's this award show in town and they're sorta overseeing it, and the Ice Queen came down with Brontocitis so Fraser's kinda running the country over there."

Welsh blinked. "Brontocitis?"

"Brachiocitis. Some kind of prehistoric illness. Anyway, they're a man down, and Turnbull said they've got a pretty packed house."

Welsh raised his eyebrows. "You managed to get all that out of him?"

Ray sighed and shook his head. "Don't ask, Sir."

The Lieutenant leaned back in his chair and regarded his desk thoughtfully. "Sounds like they've got their hands full putting up all our perps."

"Yeah."

"And as our unofficial local liaison to Canada, perhaps your timely assistance during this busy time would not be amiss."

"Yes, Sir?"

"And if, during your helpful tenure, you were to uncover some explanation as to this unusual influx of imported crime, I'm sure that assistance would also not be looked upon with disfavour."

"Sir?"

"Police work, Detective. In Canada."

"You want me to help with the awards ceremony?"

Welsh shooed him out of his office with a wave of his hand. "Spread your wings, Detective."

#####

So he found himself standing in the doorway of the Consulate, prevented from actually entering the building by a delivery man with a dolly that seemed to hold a very large box of... water. The cardboard was dark and sagging, little drops sliding down the corners to add to the pool on the dolly, then spill onto the floor with an irregular "plop, plop" that echoed above the sound of a one-sided argument so civil it barely deserved the name.

He peeked around the delivery guy to see Fraser with his hands up in his conciliatory "I know it's not what you want, but it's for the best, really" stance, looking tense and understarched and about as tired as Ray felt.

"-for your trouble, and of course, the Consulate will pay for the extra delivery costs incurred, but we simply don't have the facilities here to store them."

"And I'm terribly sorry as well," the delivery man began, though his tone suggested otherwise and Ray's ears perked up, "but my boss doesn't care what facilities you don't have. This is the address on the waybill, this is where they go."

Fraser closed his eyes and rubbed at his eyebrow. "I understand you have a duty to perform, and your persistence is... admirable, but if the sculptures are left here, they will be good for nothing more than ice cubes by next Friday, and I doubt the sender intended for them to be destroyed before-"

"Look. Buddy. What the sender intended was that they be delivered here. So that's what I'm doing. End of story and sign the damn receipt!"

And, yeah, that was just about enough of that.

"Chicago PD, pal. What's in the box."

The two of them snapped to attention so quick he was surprised he didn't hear bones break. "Ray!" And hell if that so-happy-to-see-you-Ray! expression didn't almost spoil his scowling cop routine. Focus on the perp.

He looked gratifyingly nervous. "Uh, it's an ice sculpture. I have the order for delivery...."

Ray took the carbon copy and pretended to examine it. "That come with a permit?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fraser cock his head, but he kept quiet. Ray narrowed his gaze at the lost delivery man. "Article 25C of the Canadian Food and Beverages Act prohibits the importation of water in any form unless accompanied by a Form 678FG. You been through Customs? Huh?"

Faced with the horrors of international trade regulations, he shook his head mutely.

"Get that outta here! And be sure to put it in the freezer, or you'll be on the hook for destruction of evidence." He shook the waybill in his fist. "I'll keep this. Someone will be by next Friday to pick it up. Got it? Now scram!"

After watching the guy hurriedly manhandle the soaking package back into his truck, Ray turned back to Fraser, grinning.

"Ray," he said, chiding, but Ray heard the humour that Fraser probably thought would be unMountielike. "That was just silly."

"And effective."

Fraser hummed noncommittally as he watched the delivery truck pull away from the curb, and Ray looked at him critically. The tension was gone, but he still looked worn out and kind of rumpled, and Ray suddenly wanted to hug him and- and that inappropriate borderline was getting farther and farther-

"Ray!"

Ray started guiltily and met his partner's intent, rather desperate look. "Yes- yeah. What?"

"I wonder if perhaps you would be so kind as to help me with some preparations for the ceremony?"

Was that it? "Uh, yeah, sure Fraser. No problem."

"I realize you have your own responsibilities, and I wouldn't ask, but the sheer amount of detail involved in setting up such an event is enough to drive one batty, and what with-"

Ray held up a calming hand. "Hey, it's no problem, Frase, that's why I'm here. Welsh thought you guys could use a hand." He waved his fingers in Fraser's face playfully. "Make use of it as you will."

Fraser sighed in relief. "Thank you, Ray. Though I suspect I'll need both of them, and your tongue."

And he knew - he knew - that Fraser meant something perfectly innocent and reasonable, like licking light sockets, but he couldn't help the warm flush that crawled up his neck. He coughed roughly. "Yeah, well... whatever you need."

Fraser gave him a grateful look and pulled him into the Consulate.

#####

Fraser placed the envelope for Theodore Lyndham - the last of the Ls - on the neat stack of completed invitations to his right and leaned back against his desk. Ray, sitting in front of him on the floor of his office, sealed his envelope and tossed it on top of the sprawling pile of Ms to his left.

"I'm getting a little dry here, Frase," he said, licking another flap.

"Suck on your tongue," Fraser supplied helpfully. "It stimulates production of saliva."

Ray looked at him for a moment, unblinking, then dropped his eyes to focus on very carefully sealing the invitation in his hands.

Dear Ray. He was looking awfully green around the gills. And flushed besides. Perhaps, like Mabel Twofeathers, Ray was one of those who became ill after too much envelope licking? "You know, Ray, a wedding in the Yukon is often attended by every resident for over a hundred kilometres."

Ray twitched.

"Why, I remember one where the bride insisted on doing all the preparations herself. She was quite adamant that every detail be perfect, right down to the evergreen garland on the pews. Then, on the day of her wedding, when she spoke her vows, no one could understand a word she said." He chuckled.

Ray was watching him cautiously. "Nervous?"

"Hmm? Oh, no. Her tongue had swelled up like a blowfish. Spent the first day of her honeymoon vomiting. But the ceremony was beautiful."

Ray nodded slowly. "Charming story, Frase."

Fraser smiled. "Yes, indeed. Love makes us do strange things sometimes." He pushed himself up from the floor with a "hup!" and walked to the door. "Let's concentrate our efforts elsewhere for the time being, shall we?"

#####

Ray followed Fraser through the hall to the Consulate's kitchen, examining that stupid wedding story from every angle. Love makes us do strange things? Well, duh. Fraser's stories were bizarre and sounded like something out of Aunt Esther's Guide to Moral Behaviour, but they usually had at least some bearing on the here and now. And it sounded a hell of a lot like Fraser was talking about him. Like Fraser knew about that borderline that was becoming more of a smudge in the distance, really. A shiver of fear snaked down his back and he shook his head angrily to get rid of it.

Fraser hadn't sounded upset about it. He was pretty accepting of things, actually. Maybe it wouldn't faze him to know that his male partner had impure thoughts about his tongue. Maybe he should just tell Fraser, then they could deal with it together, they way they got through everything else.

Confession is good for the spirit and all that, he thought as Fraser pushed open the kitchen door. Maybe if he got it off his chest-

"You'll feel better."

Ray stopped short, and had to put his palm out quick to catch the door that was swinging back toward his panicked face. "Huh?"

Constable Turnbull and the Ice Queen turned as they entered. Sensing an opportunity, Thatcher tried to make for the door, but Turnbull, with surprising agility, blocked her way and waved a tablespoon in her face. "Ah ah ah, Sir. You know it's for the best."

Relieved, Ray sidled up beside Fraser to watch the domestic drama. "The Inspector's bronchitis has gotten worse," his partner explained quietly. "She's been quite neglectful of her health, I'm afraid."

"I can hear you, Constable!"

Fraser blushed as Turnbull took advantage of his superior officer's momentary inattention to stick the spoon with its chalky liquid into her mouth, then hastily retreated several steps.

Ray watched interestedly as Thatcher's face went through more emotions than he would have thought her capable of. Initial shock gave way to panic and she looked around the countertops desperately. Apparently deciding that spitting the cough syrup onto the island would be unseemly, she glared at them all with equal hatred, then with the look of someone facing a firing squad, tipped her head back and swallowed.

Fraser and Turnbull were oddly still, wearing similar expressions of fearful anticipation. Ray was about to elbow Fraser in the ribs when a sharp crack snapped his attention back to the other side of the room.

Thatcher's face was twisted up, eyes squeezed shut, as she raised her arm and brought it down again with a hard smack against the tile. A few more violent smacks, and a vigorous shake of her head, then she opened her now-tearful eyes, wiped them, sniffed, shouldered past them, and walked regally from the room.

Fraser and Turnbull let out their breaths. "Well done, Constable," Fraser said and patted Turnbull on the shoulder.

"Thank you, Sir. And thank you to you and the Detective for your timely assistance." He nodded at Ray as if he'd done something other than not get smacked in the face by a swinging door.

"Yeah, sure. So what was that? Some kind of moss-blubber-antler thing?"

"Oh no, Ray. A simple cough suppressant. Although I imagine the viscosity of blubber would most likely make for a suitable-"

"Like, from a bottle?"

"Entirely off the shelf, Ray," he said, pointing to the sink.

"Huh." Ray walked over and picked up the small brown bottle. He brought the open top to his nose and sniffed. Smelled all right. Kind of minty. "She freaked out over this?"

"Oh, don't underestimate it, Ray," Fraser said gravely. "It tastes awful."

"And it works!" Turnbull piped up.

Apparently that was a real knee-slapper to people with a degree in Things to Make out of Pine Cones, because Fraser was giggling into his hand, and Turnbull was daintily wiping his eyes with an oven mitt. Pfft.

They were interrupted when a young girl who Ray remembered as a pop princess he'd busted for solicitation walked into the kitchen wearing diplomatic pyjamas and furry dog-head slippers. Ray wondered if the Queen got to wear the dog-head slippers, too.

"Do we have any milk?" she asked Fraser, who was trying to regain some authoritative presence.

"Ah, I'm afraid we gave the last of it to the piglet." Ray closed his eyes. Later. Later.

"I'm craving a milkshake. I got strawberries."

"Perhaps you could use ice cream?"

She considered that for a moment. "Wouldn't that make it more of a float, though?"

"I believe a float traditionally requires a carbonated beverage."

"....Do we have any pop?"

"In the refrigerator."

Ray tuned out the sound of the girl rummaging through the fridge and making her strawberry ice cream pop drink with helpful suggestions from Turnbull. He considered warning her about his soul-stealing recipes, then decided one less Britney Spears clone would do the world some good, and read the ingredients on the bottle. No lichen at all.

#####

"Well, honestly, Ray, it wasn't meant as a challenge!" Fraser said huffily while rubbing comforting circles on his back.

Ray moaned and spat again on the step. He was glad it was dark now; even the thought of seeing the vile concoction he'd spat up was enough to make him hold his stomach. The night breeze was welcome and gave him a breath of life. "You said it was off the shelf!"

"It was, Ray."

"From the Seven-Eleven in Hell!?" Spit.

"No, Ray. Sarnia. Though I suppose some might-"

"Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Go get me some lichen or something."

"Yes, Ray."

Alone on the porch in the Consulate's back yard, he had little to occupy his mind but the taste eating away at the inside of his mouth. That wasn't minty. That was the polar opposite of minty. That was minty's evil twin come to kill the world's firstborn sons and Chicago cops. It might have been minty in its youth, but the radioactive fallout from the hell-place called Sarnia-

"Hey." A pair of furry dog-head slippers came into view carefully perched on the step to the side of his radioactive spit-up. He lifted his head to see the princess sipping on a brownish-pink liquid through a thick straw. His stomach objected. Were taste buds bred out of them?

"Ugh."

Taking this as an invitation, she sat down beside him, smoothing out the folds of her pyjamas. "You're the guy who arrested me, right?"

Ray sighed. "Yeah. And you're going right back there as soon as we push the papers, so don't go anywhere."

"I didn't do it, though," she said, seemingly unconcerned.

"I'm not the judge, Princess, I don't care if you did it or not."

His only response for a few minutes was the sound of her straw sucking up the last of the pink sludge. He could feel her eyes on him, though, and he itched.

"Okay! Maybe I care, but it's not my job. I bring you in, that's all!" He scowled at her.

She smiled at him like he'd said something nice, then looked down at the dog-heads, twirling the straw through the empty glass. "I'm just having a bad week, that's all. It's my first time out of the country, you know?"

"Uh huh." Ray prepared himself for caribou.

"After the awards I'm going on my first big tour. I didn't even have a passport, and there wasn't time to wait for it, so we had it sent here. They said it would be here over a week ago, but it musta got lost in the mail. If the replacement doesn't come soon, I'm gonna have to reschedule the tour."

"That's... That's too bad." Ray sniffed. "Uh, shouldn't you be getting back to bed or something?"

She sighed heavily in the way that only the put-upon young can sigh. "Avril snores. I guess I could try putting Kleenex up her nose."

"You do that." She shuffled off, and Ray heard her stop at the door back to the kitchen.

"Goodnight Constable Fraser."

"Goodnight Maya. Sleep tight."

Fraser took her place on the top step and held out a shallow bowl filled with puke-green bile.

"No thanks, Fraser."

He nodded and tossed the contents off the porch onto the grass. "Feeling better, then?"

"Yeah." Now that the taste was gone, he just felt like he'd sniffed some Vapo-rub and cleared out his chest. He took a deep breath of the cool air and went back to what he'd been thinking about before he'd gone through his experimental drug phase.

Okay, based on his panic attack in the kitchen, maybe he wasn't ready to tell Fraser anything. What did he know, anyway? Just that he liked Fraser a lot. Okay, he loved Fraser, but that could be just a best-friend-partner love thing. Lots of people loved their partners, so nothing strange there.

Lots of people didn't want to kiss the back of their partner's neck, though. That was different.

But lots of people wanted to kiss the back of Fraser's neck, so nothing strange there.

But he didn't want to kiss the back of lots of people's necks. That was different.

He used to want to kiss the back of Stella's neck all the time, but that was normal. He'd been married to her, he'd loved her. Of course he'd wanted to-

Oh.

They sat in silence for a little while, then Ray leaned over and rested his head against a scratchy red shoulder.

"Nice out."

"Yes, it is."

#####

By Thursday, Ray swore that no matter how much he loved Fraser, if they ever held another big event in his city, he was gonna be elsewhere. There was only so much suffering a man could be expected to take in the name of love, and being covered in piglet piss, getting reamed out by a wolf was about it.

"It's a pet! Can't you understand that, dog-brain? It's not food, it's somebody's friend!" Dief look at him as if he'd betrayed him and continued to tell him in no uncertain barks how entitled he was to have it, and couldn't you just drop him, Ray? No one will know you didn't try your best.

A week in this madhouse and he was putting words in the wolf's muzzle, too. "Fraser!"

"I'm here, Ray," Fraser said, pulling a bespectacled author down the stairs. The piglet squealed at the sight of its portly owner and struggled in Ray's grasp. A kick to the wrist with a sharp little foot, and Ray dropped the wriggling mass with a yelp.

He heard jaws snap on air, and lunged before Dief could get another shot, but he was away and after the animal before Ray hit the ground. Fraser leaped over the last few steps, landing in front of the chase. The piglet ran right between his legs and into the waiting arms of the man behind, while Dief dropped to his haunches and skidded to a stop, narrowly avoiding a crash with Fraser.

"Michael, if you would please put Hephicles back into his pen?"

"Yes, of course. I'm very sorry, Constable. Detective." The man nodded and disappeared back up the stairs with his too-smart porker.

"You are aware, of course, that Hephicles is neither maple-dipped nor covered in sprinkles?" Fraser said, looking down at Dief reproachfully. A few barks and growls, and Fraser shook his head. "No, you can't use that argument. He is a resident of Canada, and under our protection as long as he's under this roof. You don't see me trying to make bacon out of him, do you?" A wet slurp. "Yes, I'm sure you would. Animal."

Ray dropped his head to the floor. Unfortunately, that put his nose in a great position to get a whiff of himself, and he quickly scrambled back to his feet. "Fraser? Clean shirt, please? Now-ish?"

Fraser lifted his head and looked at Ray inquiringly. Seeing the substantial wet spot on his shirt, he raised his eyebrows. "Ray, what- Oh. Yes."

Fraser hurried to his office, leaving Ray to hold the soaked material as far from his skin as possible. Dief watched him, jaws open, tongue lolling.

"Yeah, shuddup."

The doorbell rang, loud and echoing. Ray looked to the door, then down at himself, and stayed put. A second peal, and Ray scowled toward the staircase. "Is someone gonna get that, or what?"

"If you would, please, Ray." Fraser's voice called from down the hall.

Oh fer- Fine. He stalked to the door, and swung it open. The mailman paused in the act of reaching for the bell again. A moment, then he twitched his nose slightly and coughed. "Delivery? Canadian Consulate, care of Margaret Thatcher?"

"I'll take it." He signed, and with the mailman's help, hauled the half dozen boxes into the foyer.

Fraser walked over, and held out a ragged old white sweater. "I'm sorry, Ray, this was all I could find. I'm afraid with all the people currently staying here, use of the laundry is at a premium."

"That's fine, Frase." As Fraser accepted the few letters the man had for them and saw him out, Ray stripped off his stinking shirt, probably for the last time - he didn't want to be reminded of this smell every time he wore the thing.

That's better, he thought, pulling the worn sweater over his head. Clean and dry and smells like Fraser, too. He pulled the turtleneck down under his chin and ran a hand through his hair to get it sticking up again. When he looked up, he saw Fraser watching him, letters still in hand.

He glanced away from the scrutiny for a moment, then turned back with a little laugh. "So, how does it look?" He held his arms out to the sides in an exaggerated gesture.

"You look very fetching, Ray."

Ray snorted and met Fraser's smile with a small one of his own. "Fetching."

Fraser cleared his throat and placed the envelopes on the reception desk. "Shall we see them, then?" he asked, nodding toward the boxes.

"We shall," Ray replied, and proceeded to tear into the closest box enthusiastically, flinging packing peanuts with vigour. When he got to the topmost package inside, he lifted it out carefully and placed it up on the desk.

"Drum roll, maestro!" he said theatrically, and Fraser obliged, drumming his fingers as Ray tore open the protective bubble wrap.

"Oh my God." Ray felt a familiar pull of horror deep in his chest as the monstrosity was unveiled, and backed away. "No."

Fraser turned to him, concerned. "You don't like it?"

"Like it? What is it?"

"It's a loon. Quite appropriate, I think, considering the award's unofficial nickname, and of course, the dollar-"

"No no, it's not appropriate. It's dead, Fraser. You want to celebrate with dead waterfowl? What is wrong with you people!?" He knew his voice was getting too loud and kind of hysterical, but that thing-

"Calm down, Ray. It isn't dead, it's gold-plated."

"It's gold-plated death, Fraser! Look at it!"

Fraser scratched his eyebrow and took another look at the award statue. The dying bird was wailing its pain to the skies, impaled through the gut on a sharp rock, wings spread helplessly in a futile attempt at escape from the clutches of its fate.

"I think it's lovely."

"Sick. That's just sick."

#####

The day of the awards ceremony dawned bright and beautiful, and by early afternoon, everything seemed to be in place. The invitations were sent and RSVP'ed, the celebrities under Consulate arrest were dressed up and had their special dispensations, and the ice sculptures were in place at the convention center, still recognizable as enormous leaves twirling gracefully to the ground, though if asked, Ray would assert that they looked much more like marijuana leaves than anything else. But as his renditions of "Oh, Cannabis" were underappreciated, he kept them to himself, sure he'd need the humour to get him through the rest of the day.

"Everyone! Everyone, may I have your attention, please?" Fraser clapped his hands together like a schoolteacher, and waited until the foyer was quiet. "If you would all kindly file out to the bus and board in an orderly fashion, we'll get this popsicle stand on the road."

Ray smiled and shook his head as Turnbull and the Ice Queen herded their charges outside.

"Well," Fraser said, looking around the empty room, "have we forgotten anything?"

Ray shoved his hands in his pockets and looked sideways at his partner. "Just our excuses for not being able to go."

"Oh God, yes," Fraser said with feeling. "But, as they say, this too shall pass."

Ray laughed. Somehow, hearing Fraser complaining did his heart good. The joy of the perverse, he guessed. "Pitter patter, then?"

"Hmm."

As they turned to go, Turnbull came running back into the Consulate, waving something in his hand. He came to a stop, and handed a few letters to Fraser. "The post! Lovely man. Well, have to go! See you there! Eeeeeeee!" The last wail echoed annoyingly even after the door closed behind him.

"Oh, Ray, your letter." Ray took the envelope from Columbia House, grinned, and went dutifully to the desk and wrote 'moved' in big letters across the front.

He went to hand it back to Fraser, but stopped when he noticed the "something's not quite right, but I'm not sure what it is yet" look. "Whatcha got?"

Fraser looked up distractedly. "It's more what I don't have."

"Were you expecting something?" He leaned up against Fraser's side to look at the mail. An electric bill and some government things in beige envelopes.

"In a manner of speaking. The volume of mail received by the Consulate has been abnormally low these past few weeks. Several expected documents have not arrived."

"Maya's passport?"

"Several passports, and various other identification papers. I'd attributed it to unusual volume in Ottawa, but...."

"But now you're thinking something's hinky?"

"It is suspicious that it would happen now," he said, tilting his head outside.

"Yeah." Ray frowned. "Crazy fan?"

"A stalker?"

Ray gave a short, humourless laugh. "Yeah, that's all Maya needs to cap off her trip. No passport, cancels her tour, gets arrested, gets a stalker...." He stopped, then slapped his fist to his forehead. "Hold on, hold on. Gets arrested...."

Fraser's head snapped up and he looked at Ray intently. "Ray! Were any of the suspects identified? By eyewitnesses?"

Everything clicked neatly into place and Ray dug his fist into his right eye socket. "No... Didn't need it anyway. We had the credit card reader from the mall, the hockey guy's ATM card, and all of them conveniently in town- God dammit!"

"And a valid passport is as much proof of identity as anyone could require."

"God dammit! You call Welsh, I'll go catch the Ice Queen."

"Right you are. Oh, Ray-"

"I'll meet you there!" he called as he ran out the door.

#####

Ray bounced tensely on the balls of his feet, then made an effort to relax. He wasn't accomplishing anything except drawing attention to himself. And that wasn't something he wanted to do standing in front of four thousand people. The buzz of the crowd settling into their seats did nothing to take his edge off, and he was about to leave his post and go looking when coming out of the door across the floor to his right, he saw a familiar shape.

His jumpiness disappeared, and he hissed as loudly as he could. "Fraser! Fraser!"

Bless those bat ears, he thought, as the dark head turned to him. Fraser smiled happily, and started over. Ray noted that he was dressed similarly to him, in a black suit and tie, any piece of which probably cost more than the Goat took in gas in a month. And oh, man, something about the way he looked, just walking in that suit was... yeah.

"Ray," he greeted with an unusually carefree grin. "You'll be pleased to know that Lieutenant Welsh has been fully informed, and has the situation well in hand."

"I am pleased to know that, Fraser."

"Apparently, our new letter carrier was recruited into a local crime ring and was intercepting the replacement passports and other assorted documents before they could reach their intended recipients. Then, other members of the group would alter and use said documents to obtain credit and bank cards under their false personages and use them in the perpetration of crimes that were then, naturally, attributed to the rightful owners of those identities."

"Naturally." Ray wondered if Fraser was wearing longjohns under the suit.

"Mr. Noonan seemed to take it quite personally and has charged me with assuring you and the department that if there is any way he can provide assistance in your investigation, he is more than willing to do so."

"It would be a great assistance for him to take his dead bird poser festival otherwhere next year. Tell him that." And maybe get him to let you keep the suit.

"Oh... I'll tell him, Ray, but I'm afraid he's had quite the eye for Inspector Thatcher since the Arts Council benefit last year, and may not be inclined to agree to that particular request." He tilted his head apologetically.

"Huh?" Ray looked up from his examination of Fraser's... buttons, and lowered his eyebrows. "Thatcher? Why-" Oh, that smug, self-important- "National security?! That woman, I swear!"

Fraser nodded. "I'm afraid so. Love makes us do strange things sometimes, you know."

"Yeah, so I've heard."

Ray sighed and thought over all the cases that had crossed his desk in the past few weeks, mentally sewing them up and packing them away. Then something about one of them pricked at him. "Hey! Shatner! The kid I took a statement from was a big Trekkie! No way he would've misidentified him!"

"Oh, Ray," Fraser said sadly, "That's entirely possible. Shatner is... well."

"Oh." Ray turned to give the nearly-full convention hall a cursory look around. Nothing left now but a few hours of dull speeches, and it was all over but the screaming. Ray just hoped he wouldn't be the one to start it.

After a moment, Fraser coughed delicately.

"If I may say so, Ray, you look... very fetching tonight."

Ray turned back with a teasing grin that faded when he saw the strangely intent look on his partner's face. He straightened slightly and resisted the urge to tug on his suit jacket. "Yeah?" he asked slowly.

"Yes, very much so." A cautious smile.

"Fetching."

"Absolutely."

Ray could feel the difference in the smile he gave Fraser then, and by the glowing expression on his face, Fraser saw it as well. "Well, Fraser, my friend, I think you look damn fetching tonight, too."

And hell, if he could make Fraser look at him like that, there wasn't anything to worry about, really.

When the lights in the hall went down, and the audience began screaming for their favourite celebrities, Fraser leaned over to him, as if to whisper something, and pressed his lips to the skin just below his ear. Jesus! He turned quickly to see Fraser give him a silly grin, then trot back to his post at the other end of the stage.

And if it felt like the crowd was cheering for him when the curtains parted to reveal the pot leaves and dying birds, well, he could be forgiven a little mushiness, seeing as it was a night for celebration and all.