Story Notes: Written in September 2007. Originally posted over at forbeingawesome, an LJ birthday comm for Sdwolfpup. You should check out the comm--it's, well, awesome. Thanks much to Brynnmck for responding to my panicked whiny request for prompts with Fraser and Vecchio, movies, compromise.

"It's my fault, of course," a voice says. Fraser groans and pulls his head out from under the pillow, and, yes, it's his father.

"If I'd been around more I'd have trained you out of moping and sulking," he says.

"This is neither, and you're not helping," Fraser says.

"It's all about that incident in the back passageway, isn't it?"

"What--I--you were watching?"

"Lord, no. Couldn't pay me enough. But it's not as if I'm the only one around, you know. Turnbull's great-aunt Lavinia--"

"I beg you not to finish that sentence."

"Fine. I am told that your Yank--kissed you."

Fraser shivers, because yes: Ray'd pushed him up against the door to the consulate kitchen, taken the tray of canaps out of his hand; yes.

"Well, I guess you're due a period of mourning. But hurry it up," his father says, and Fraser's suddenly enraged.

"There's no mourning required, nothing is over, Ray and I will still be friends, partners, I just have to work out how to say no--"

"Not what I meant, son. Lavinia--I am informed that you, briefly, responded."

"Yes," Fraser whispers.

"That what you thought you'd do?"

"No."

"There you go. If you don't do what you thought you'd do, then you're not who you thought you were, are you?"

"I--what?"

"Bury who you thought you were, son. Mourn it, but do it fast, before the Yank puts in his transfer papers. Welsh's grandfather tells me--"

"Begging you."

"Fine, just hurry. And stop moping," and he's gone.

Fraser lies on his cot a while longer, watching sunset shadows move across the ceiling, thinking. Then rolls over and says to Dief, "Bury it, mourn it, stick it in a box marked 'done,'" and smiles a little, and starts putting on his boots.