Author's website: http://www.catmoran.com/

Disclaimer: They aren't mine, but they followed me home.

Author's Notes: This story would be 1/4 as long and half as good, without the help of LJV. One line in here is hers, too. Of course, if I had actually paid attention to half of what she said, it'd be that much better. Final encouragement to post is due to my mom.
Archive: Bindle, dueSlash, Due South Fiction, nowarning. Anyone else, please ask.

Story Notes:

The rain's soaked into this bench but good, and the crummy jacket I'm sitting on isn't doing much to keep the damp from soaking into my jeans. It'd be more comfortable to stand here until my meet with Fraser's over, but I don't want to take the chance of him noticing my bum ankle. I stink bad enough living on the street, I don't need to add any of his Canadian first-aid potions to the mix. I spot someone walking toward me and I sneak a look at my watch. If it's 5 am, it must be Fraser--and he's got my coffee.

Fraser goes to sit next to me and pops up like his shorts are on fire. "Ray, you do realize that this bench is wet, correct?"

"Yeah Frase, it's been raining for three days. Things tend to get wet in the rain. Is that coffee?" I can't help sounding pathetic; this morning ritual is my only dose of normal for the day.

"Ah, yes." Fraser hands me the Styrofoam cup. I peel off the lid, close my eyes and just inhale... just smelling the stuff almost makes me feel human. "Oh man. Real 100% caffeine with chocolate. You really know how to treat a guy."

"My pleasure, Ray."

His voice sounds funny, kind of hollow and distracted. I look up at him, then look down where he's looking. I can't see anything but my filthy sneakers, but that doesn't mean much this far from a streetlight and without my glasses. I lift one foot and wave it at him. "Hey, is there something I should know? Foot odor? My footwear isn't up to the dress code? What?"

He stares at my foot, then back up at me. "Ray, how long- That is to say, when- No... Ray, how did you die?"

It takes me a second to process the question. I take a few more seconds to process an answer, then the coffee starts to kick in and I realize there isn't one. I stand up and squint, give him a real good looking over. If he's funning with me, I'm gonna kick him in the head. But his eyes are sort of distant and glazed looking, he looks like he might pass out. "Hey, you seeing ok there, buddy? Did you hit your head? Here, maybe you'd better sit down, you don't look too good."

Fraser sits down on the bench and pops right back up again. Well, his reflexes are good, anyway, and the exercise seems to have woken him back up. "I assure you, I'm quite all right. You, however, are quite obviously a ghost."

"Uh-huh. And how do you figure that?"

"When I handed you the coffee, it fell to the ground."

I wave the cup in front of his face. "Fraser, I'm holding the cup right here."

"Ray, you are holding what you imagine to be a cup. The real cup fell to the ground." Fraser stoops and gingerly picks up a cup from under the bench.

"So there was a cup on the ground. A plain, white, Styrofoam cup just like the one I'm holding. There's probably 50 more like it just in this park. I'm holding the cup you gave me, so if you saw me drop one you must be seeing things."

"Ray, I assure you-"

I shake my head. "Frase, you know I love ya, right?"

He nods. "Yes, Ray."

"Then believe me when I say, you've come seriously unhinged."

"That does not alter the fact-"

"Come on Frase, use logic. Do I look dead to you?"

"Actually Ray, I said that you are a ghost."

"Ghost, dead, what's the difference?"

"Well-"

"No, hold on. Facts, Frase." I take a step back and point at myself. "Can you see through me? No, you can not. Am I drinking this coffee? Yes, I am. And, would a ghost be gimping around ouch-" I don't believe this. I'm in the middle of a park in the middle of the night, demonstrating dance moves to an insane Mountie. My insane Mountie.

"Ray, you really don't need to-"

I hold my hand up in a stop gesture and Fraser nods for me to go on. "-on a bum ankle? I don't think so. Frase, get it through your head, I'm not dead."

Fraser tries to look all serious and logical, but it sort of clashes with the lost look he was already wearing. "In point of fact Ray, your ankle can not hurt, as we are both only imagining that you have an ankle."

"So what you're saying is, I'm imagining the coffee and my ankle."

"Yes, Ray."

"Fraser, my imagination is way better than that. I mean, the coffee's pretty good, but why would I be imagining a sprained ankle? I mean, I can think of lots better things to imagine."

If this wasn't Fraser, I'd say he just shrugged. "I suppose it's because this is what you remember your life to be."

"Ok then, tell me this. If I'm dead, how'd I die?"

Fraser blinks. "Actually Ray, I have yet to determine that."

Ok, that's one point to me, and we're going to stop while I'm ahead. "You know what Frase? I'm tired, damp, dirty and I really can't handle this conversation right now." 'Or any other time.' I add under my breath. "So we're going to forget all about your hallucination or nightmare or whatever. Right?"

Fraser looks like he's winding up for another round of this craziness, but then I give him my best "don't mess with me" look. He looks distressed and I switch to the face that, under other more private circumstances, would get me some serious cuddling. He doesn't lose the distressed look, but he gives me a short nod. I'll take it.

"Ok, here's what I've got. We figured right, Captain Hart is definitely in on it. I saw him meeting with one of Warfield's guys just around the corner from the station with a couple of uniforms standing right there next to them, playing bodyguard for him. Something's going down in the next couple of days, I heard them negotiating hardware-"

"Hardware, Ray?"

"Yeah, guns 'n stuff. Sounded like fairly small shit, probably just to use as holdouts. The great news is, they don't trust each other an inch and Warfield and Hart are both insisting on the other one be there for the exchange. So this isn't just some turkey IA thing anymore, we're gonna catch them red handed!" Playing spy, even on a bunch of bums like the guys in the 7th, can do stuff to a guy. But it looks like we're really gonna do some good with this one. I might look like shit and feel like shit, but at least now I know I'm not shit.

I guess Fraser can tell that, because he's out of his crazy funk and smiling at me, real nice. It's way too risky, but I look around and lean forward to kiss him right on the lips, real quick. I pull back and he looks stunned. Hey, even playing homeless I still got it.

I can feel Fraser watching me as I limp out of the park and down the street.

What a day. I hope Fraser was just having a temporary insanity thing, or he's gonna make me nuts. Which would be pretty ironic.

The rain's coming down in buckets out there, again. It better let up pretty soon; I'm tired of spending the nights inside. This place is a real pit, and that's bein' nice about it. But there's no place better to hole up--I've been looking around and this is as close to 'nice' as abandoned gets in this neighborhood. It's dry in here, but I'd feel a lot safer camped on a nice clean park bench in the open.

At least I've seen everyone in here before. There's that crazy vet sitting in the lobby, smoking pot and talking to himself. He's a really big guy, but mostly quiet. I've seen him in the park; like me he only goes inside when it rains. That huddle of scrawny teenage boys that went creepin' past me on the stairs earlier, I know they were here last night. Or someone else wearing those clothes was, anyway. I don't even know if they are teenagers or boys, and I don't plan to take a closer look. Even ganged together like they are, they don't seem like much of a threat but there's no point in pushing it.

Up on the top floor there's a family; mom, dad, and a couple of little kids. I think they're pretty much permanent; I've seen the guy coming in and out of here pretty regularly and the only time I saw the mom and kids was in this building. I kinda wonder how they ended up here, but I've seen enough that I can make some guesses. I haven't seen any of 'em tonight but I know they're up there, 'cause I can smell something cooking. Baked beans, maybe. There's no gas and electricity in here, they must have a camp stove or something.

Damn, my ankle's throbbing again. It feels like I landed on it wrong, but I haven't been doing anything fancier than walking for the last couple weeks. I probably stepped off a curb wrong, but it just bugs me that I don't remember how I hurt it, I pay attention to stuff like that. Ya know, I figured that when Frase saw me limp that I'd have to fend off him and his stinky Canadian salve. I definitely did not, could not, figure that he'd tell me it can't be hurting, because I'm dead.

I'm officially worried about him, now.

I mean, he's never been the poster boy for sanity. Although he could be a poster boy for a lot of other things--like lookin' hot in a goofy red uniform that just yells out 'shoot me!' Or in anything else. Or nothing else. Shit, no point thinking like that when I can't do anything about it.

So Fraser's nuts, that isn't news, right? The guy talks to his wolf, I've known that since day one. We were a little busy that day, so I think it might have been day two that I figured out he thinks the wolf is talking back. Not really a problem, lots of people act loony about their dogs. Not so many people think the dogs are really talking back, but maybe it's one of those, what'ya call it, uncon- no, subconscious things. Like, he figures something out but doesn't know he figured it out, so the wolf musta told him.

What else is there? He's hopelessly polite. Ok, that's just him being a freak, not crazy. 'Til you get to the part where he's being a big polite target for people with guns. Maybe it goes with the target outfit. It's just a good thing for him that I wear a vest. I told him I don't sacrifice myself for anyone, and I meant it! Speaking of which, he expects everyone and everything to be fair. No, that's not right; he expects everyone to be 'noble'. That'd be another thing that just makes him a freak, until you find out both his parents were murdered.

Ok, survey says that Fraser's been crazy since I met him.

But it looks like more cards have been slipping out of his deck. And I don't mean just him claiming I'm dead. I mean like a few months back on our big Canadian Adventure, in the middle of a frozen lake, he tells me he's been chatting with his dad for the last few years. His dead dad, that is. A ghost. Ok, sure, it explains why Fraser's always talking to himself--if it's not the wolf he's been yakking at, it's his dad.

Yeah, Frase, whatever you say.

Still, not a big deal, right? So his dad's dead and he's still talking to him--I guess that's not much weirder than the wolf thing. And the part where he got to see his mom, that's pretty cool. Even if he was just seein' things from rattling his brains around, fallin' down a mineshaft.

But it looks like that was just the start of it. On the Mulroney case, when I asked him how he knew that a dead guy had been blackmailing his brother-in-law? He tells me he's been talking to more ghosts since his dad left. I cut him off right there, told him I didn't want to hear about him turning into the Canadian Whoopi Goldberg. He just gave me that blank look of his. Of course he hadn't seen 'Ghost', what was I thinking? I wouldn't have seen it, if Stella hadn't dragged me to it. And I'd bet that Frase wasn't even in dragging distance of a theater back then.

I guess I should've talked to him. Seein' ghosts is one thing, but thinking that live people are ghosts is a whole new level of crazy.

I just hope he can hold it together until we can get this undercover gig wrapped up, 'cause if we have to pull out now we might not get another chance this good. It shouldn't take too much longer, the stuff I'm relaying through Fraser is finally turning into a real case. And maybe that's my answer--Fraser's gone 'round the bend, but at least he's thinking that he's seeing me when he shouldn't, instead of not seeing me when he should. And you know, if people keep lookin' right through me, I might start to believe I'm a ghost.

But I'm worried about that look I saw in his eyes this morning. Right there, he looked more like the homeless guy than me.

The rain's lettin' up, I'd better get back to it. The sooner we wrap this up, the sooner I can get back to reality. And bring Fraser along with me, I hope.

Another day, another cup of coffee. Except, that doesn't look like a cup of coffee Fraser's carrying. He's still too far across the park to see very clear, but it definitely looks bigger and squarer than a cup. I'm squinting and staring while Fraser gets closer, but that doesn't make it look any more like coffee than it did before.

He gets close enough for me make a positive ID, and I can see that it's definitely a newspaper he's carrying. I can also see that he's starting to look sort of ragged. Oh, he's just as tidy as ever, but there's a lot of strain showing around his eyes and mouth. "Hey Frase, that's a nice thought, but people leave the paper on the El platforms all the time. What they do not leave are full cups of coffee fixed up with chocolate."

He's doing his eyebrow-rubbing thing. It'd be a lot cuter if it wasn't usually followed by something I don't want to hear. "Ah. Well Ray, I thought that perhaps, that is, there's an article in the morning edition that you may find to be enlightening."

He holds out the paper and I take it. What, he didn't have enough hands for both coffee and a newspaper? "Looks like I'm ok, right Fraser?"

"To what are you referring, Ray?" He stops staring at his hand and looks up at me.

"Fraser, I'm holding the paper." Maybe I shouldn't bring this up, maybe he's forgotten. Oh hell, Fraser never forgets anything. "Ghosts don't hold newspapers, Fraser."

"You are only imagining that you are holding the newspaper."

How'd I know that was coming? 'Cause I'm psychic, that's how. Not. I raise the paper, and with some difficulty restrain myself from smacking him with it to show him just how unimaginary it is. He can tell what I'm doing, of course.

"You did bring it up, Ray." Good, snooty Fraser is an improvement over insane Fraser.

If I'm being rude it's his fault, he's the one that didn't bring me coffee. Hell, he didn't even bring imaginary coffee. I'm really too old to be someone's imaginary friend, although I guess he's not too old to have one. Next thing he's going to start calling me Harvey. Why am I thinking this way? Not enough sleep or coffee, that's why. "Fraser, you don't plan to call me Harvey, do you?"

He gets that cute puzzled look on his face. "Why would I do that, Ray? Unless you would prefer that I called you Harvey?"

"Nevermind. What'd you want me to read?" If I can't get coffee, at least I can get his mind out of insanity central, right?

"Um. Page 19, the left-hand column."

I flip open the paper and look. 'Ex-governor sticks to cooking career' "Fraser, this is about some guy in Arizona, it ain't even our governor."

"I believe that you are looking at the right-hand column of the paper, rather than the left."

I look at my feet and then look at the paper. Yeah, he's right. What can I say? My feet know left from right better than the rest of me. "Ok, there's a whole bunch of little stories here, you want me to read 'em all? Fraser, we really don't have time for this."

"The top story will do."

"Right."

[The Green Towers tenement building was consumed in an early morning blaze yesterday. The call came in at 3:15am, firefighters from two stations had the fire under control by 5am. The building was slated for demolition; no tenants were living in it at the time of the blaze. The bodies of 10 people, believed to be homeless, have been retrieved from the structure. The cause of the fire is still under investigation.]

"That's too bad. What, does Welsh want me to keep an eye out for a fire bug?" I hand the newspaper back to him, and for just a second, my eyes go funny on me. It's sort of like the movies, when the sound and the picture doesn't sync up, but this time it's Fraser's hand and the paper. I blink my eyes real fast to get the sleep out of them, and everything looks like it should, with Fraser holding the paper.

"Uh, no, that won't be necessary. I expect that the Fire Marshall will soon rule the cause of the fire to be accidental. But I rather thought that you might find the location of the fire significant."

"What, a tenement? There's a bunch of 'em scattered around this part of the city, and a lot of them are firetraps."

"The Green Towers tenement, Ray?"

"Yeah, Frase, I read that. It's still not ringing any bells. You want to tell me what this's about? Or are we gonna play twenty questions?"

Here we go with the sad look again. This'll be priceless. "That's the building you've been sleeping in, Ray."

Did I call it? "Fraser. That's impossible, and do you want to know how I know that's impossible? Nevermind, I'm gonna tell you. I think that I would have noticed if a building I was sitting in was burning. No, I don't 'think' it, I know it. Fraser, sit down over here." Damn, the bench is still wet, I forgot. "No, forget about sitting and just listen to me. Fraser, I'm getting pretty worried about you."

"And I you."

"Yeah, we've already established that. But Fraser, how can I convince you I'm not dead? I mean, don't you think I'd notice?"

"Of course, Ray."

"Fine, so we've agreed that I'm alive."

"No, Ray. I'm merely agreeing that I would have expected you to know that you're dead."

"I guess you're gonna tell me that there's a logical explanation, huh?"

"I believe the most obvious explanation would be amnesia."

"Ghosts can forget important stuff like being dead, is that what you're trying to tell me Fraser?"

"Well, I hadn't realized that a spirit could incur amnesia. I suppose that if the cause is psychological rather than physical, it makes no difference."

"Fraser, I just- You gotta knock this off. You're really scaring me, here."

"Ray-"

"No, Frase. Just forget it, ok? Forget I brought it up. Just-" God, I can't think. I gotta pull out. I mean, what's more important, my best friend or a bunch of crooks? Deal time. I've got one more day, and if I don't see things getting tied up then that's it, I'm out. Welsh'll understand. And if he doesn't, that's his problem. "Ok. Frase, whatever you think is wrong with me, we still gotta wrap this up, right? Tell Welsh we'll have something tomorrow."

We better have something tomorrow.

One more day. Just one more day and we'll have this case wrapped up. By tonight I'll be sleeping in a nice clean bed with a nice warm Fraser, bribing the wolf to stay outta the bedroom. Paperwork and Fraser's sanity allowing, of course.

It's a darned good thing that it's dry enough to stay outside tonight, 'cause I'm way too wired to be inside. Somebody'd kill me for sure, the way I'm pacing. Well, limping. Plus this way, I'm right where I need to be to meet Frase... in another 2 hours and 42 minutes.

I got the info we need, and I damn near blew it. I had to get real close to hear what Connelly and Warfield's goon were setting up, and I know I saw her look right at me. I'm not vain, I don't expect just anyone from all the way back at the academy to recognize me after this long. But I was on the outs with Stella at that particular time, and we went out once. And I sort of got the impression that she didn't like that all I could talk about was Stella. It's my experience that chicks usually remember that sort of thing, I'm lucky she's the exception.

Just two more hours and 41 minutes...

Finally. I will not yell across the park at him. Just because no one patrols this neighborhood, doesn't mean there's no dirty cops sneaking around on other business. Be cool.

"Frase! We got it buddy, we got it!" Stage whisper, that's subtle. At least it was quiet. He walks the last few yards to where I'm fidgeting, almost out of range of the nearest streetlight. He gets close enough and I can see he's gone past ragged, now he just looks numb. This can't be over fast enough. "Frase, what say we makes plans to spend time up north after this?"

"Ah. Yes, that would be a fine idea." If he even heard the question, I'll eat his hat.

"Fraser, you paying attention? We're on the final stretch here." I get right in his face, and he looks like he's paying attention. "Ok. The exchange is happening at 2:30 this afternoon, at the boat storage place over on Blackhawk. Hart, Warfield, and a bunch of guns and drugs will all be there; they're each bringing 4 guys to watch their backs. Hart's sending a couple of guys over early to start watching the place, so tell our guys they gotta be careful. I'll call for a pick-up if anything goes funky between now and then, otherwise I'll see you there, right?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Frase- Ben, it'll be ok. I'll be home tonight."

His expression doesn't change, but he manages to look worse.

Just 12 more hours...

Shit.

When I saw the storage place, I saw a nice tidy bust go out the window.

I mean, you think boat storage, and you figure there's gonna be plenty of boats for our guys to hide behind, right? Nope. Turns out, they store all the boats inside one big building. The only thing outside the building is some concrete and weeds, and a chain link fence. Put a couple guys on each side of the building, and you could see anyone coming from a block away. Since I got there early I was in a snug little spot a lot closer than that, but with no weapon and no idea of 'our' plan I wasn't going to be any help.

So about 2:35 I'm watching the stooges play guard while their bosses are inside the building chatting, when I see this pickup drive up towing a boat. It takes maybe a minute for the closest pair of guards--one cop, one crook, or should that be two crooks?--to decide which one of 'em should check it out. By which time a well-thrown canister of tear gas has them both on the ground and a bunch of the good guys come swarming out of that boat. By 2:40 the whole thing's over but the shouting, most of it coming from Hart.

Fraser's wearing his shoot-me uniform, so I have no problem spotting him. He and Welsh are standing next to the building, close to where Hart and his guys are being checked over by the EMTs. As I'm walking over to them I have to jump out of the way of a patrol car coming in, and that makes me take maybe a second too long getting to them. Because just before I reach them, all hell breaks loose.

Hart's hands are free and he's holding a gun. The uniform who was supposed to be watching him is doubled up with his hands over his crotch, it's probably his gun that Hart's holding. Hart's twisting around looking for a hostage or a target, while I'm moving faster than my ankle likes, hoping I can tackle Fraser before Hart pulls the trigger.

I totally miss Fraser and land flat on my face. The son-of-a-bitch super-Mountie's practically leaping forward to do his polite-target routine. I'm furious and terrified, which explains how I'm able to jump up, grab him, spin him behind me and drop both of us back to the ground, all as I'm hearing the crack of Hart's gun. A fraction of a second slower and I'd have a bullet through my brain, instead I feel it tracing a path along the back of my scalp.

Fraser looks at me from a distance of about 3 inches, and in the happiest voice I've ever heard says, "you're bleeding, Ray." Then he passes out cold.

That's the smartest thing he's said in days. I black out on top of him.

Clean bed--check. Well, mostly. I'm pretty sure Fraser hasn't changed the sheets since I left last week. But it's about 100 times cleaner than anywhere I've slept since then, so I'm not about to complain.

Warm Fraser--check. Warm, nude and recently conscious. He's gonna be fine, thank God. He wasn't sleeping from worrying about me, which led to him sort of seeing things. Once he got it into his head that I was dead, that really did make him sort of nuts. He sort of snapped out of it when he saw me bleeding; once he gets two or three days of sleep under his belt he'll be good as new.

Wolf out of the bedroom--well, you can't win them all. Anyway, I kind of missed fur face and neither me or Fraser are in any shape to be athletic right now. The wolf's cool as long as we're just cuddling, it's only when we get busy that he starts interrupting things with his constant criticism. Well, that's what Fraser claims he's doing. I think he's just grumping 'cause he's jealous.

Me, I've got two stitches on the back of my head, a sprained ankle, a warm Mountie and two weeks leave coming to me.

Tomorrow, we start planning that vacation.

The End

End Homeless by CatMoran: catmoran@catmoran.com

Author and story notes above.