Disclaimer: Alliance Atlantis own the millieu, I own the ideas.

Author's Notes: ZZ, who's led me down this path to ruin <g> and is the best roommate a person could have. I'm very lucky. Anita and Karen/s, who seem to follow me willingly down any trail where fandom leads me, and for bearing with me in my first first-person POV story. Something I said I'd never do. Well, I guess I really never say never.

Story Notes: Spoilers for the Pilot, Ladies' Man, Bird in the Hand, Manhunt, etc, ad nauseum.

>>><<<

"Hey, Frase, there's some kinda trunk downstairs for you?"

He looks up at Frannie, a frown mark between his eyes. "A trunk?"

"Yeah. This came with it." It's a big brown envelope, Mountie seal in the corner. He closes the file he's working on and takes the envelope in his hand. He's looking at it like it's gonna bite him. This has me leaning across the desk at him. He stares at it, funny look on his face. Like it scares him. It's just paper--we haven't done anything that'll get us in real trouble for months now. Okay, weeks, maybe.

He's not looking at it like he wants to open it. "Bad news?" I ask.

He looks at it some more. "I have no way of knowing."

Right. "But you're not opening it."

"It's from Staff Sgt. Meers."

"Uh huh." Like that means something.

"As a rule, word from Sgt. Meers is generally bad news."

Oh. Okay. Well, Fraser has the blank, bad news look on his face. "How come I never heard of him?"

Fraser's brow goes up, but he smooths it with a thumb nail. Thumb nail means worried, edgy. "I haven't had particularly bad news in some time."

"So, you want to postpone the inevitable."

"Perhaps." But I know he won't. He picks up the letter opener and slices it open like he's gutting a fish, sliding the letter out. And a key. I see the Mountie seal thing on the top, but I also see it's handwritten--strong, blue scrawl. They must learn that at Mountie school, too. I lean back, give him some space. He'll tell me, or he won't. If he doesn't, I'll beat it out of him. Either way, I'll find out. Just have to wait.

Doesn't take long. He reads the letter. Reads it again, turning the key over in his fingers, then he tosses the letter on my desk, taking off like a man on a mission, leaving me in the dust.

Reading, while walking, without my glasses makes me car sick, but the letter is from Meers apologizing politely, actually saying 'dreadfully sorry'--for not forwarding him the remains from his dad's cabin blowing up. That was when? Two years ago? Yeah, dreadfully sorry might not cover it. But, then two years and Ben hasn't been there to collect the stuff himself. Must be a story there. Anyhow. This Meers is retiring. Thirty years gets you some kind of bonus. Your weight in Canadian Tire Money. That's what Fraser told me once. Then he stood there waiting for me to laugh. I didn't get it.

So, cleaning up loose ends, he finds this trunk of Fraser's stuff and sends it on. I'm down at the booking desk now, and there's Fraser, standing, staring at a battered footlocker, looking damn grim. "So, what'd Santa bring you?"

His mouth thins. He licks his lip. He cracks his neck. Okay.

"How 'bout you go get your hat and coat, and we get this in my car." He's still looking at the locker, quiet. I know he heard me, but it's time for me to shut up and wait.

His head comes up, but he's looking at the dirty wall, weighing what he wants to say. "I'll get my coat." That's what he was working up to?

"Yeah, do that."

I grab a uniform on the way by and we lug the trunk to the GTO. Have to shift the shit already in there to fit it in. No problem. I lean on the car, and wait, wishing I still smoked. I have a feeling that the footlocker in my trunk is a land mine. Fraser isn't taking this too well, if the neck cracking and the eyebrow rubbing are telling the story. Dunno. Another stick of DoubleMint is going to have to do it coz here he comes.

Ramrod straight. Not good. Definitely not good.

"Okay, where to?"

He's looking at the lid to my trunk. Now it's the thumb knuckle on the eye brow. Indecision.

"My place, it is." I head for the car, letting the wolf in. The Mountie is in the car before I am. Wolf has his nose in the guy's ear, and he's letting him. I swallow and crank the car up.

Climbing the stairs to my place, Fraser's at the rear of the footlocker. Of course, he takes the rear. Bears the load. Takes all the weight on himself. Talk about your symbolism. Once inside, I scrape the crap off the coffee table and down the trunk goes. He starts to say something about it being too rough an object to be atop my furniture. I just walk away. Blah, blah, blah--you know?

I turn on the kettle, pull down the teapot and the tea. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Never mind that a good stiff belt of something strong would be a better choice. I pick my fights.

Turning back to Fraser, he's still standing staring at Pandora's Box. "You got the key?" I ask. Of course, he does. It's just a nudge.

"Uh--yes." His hand is in his pocket, it's in his hand. Reluctant. Is there a better word that says, reluctant, scared, terrified? Maybe. Anyhow, he sits on the couch and opens the trunk. So, I'm nosey. I walk over and look over his shoulder. It looks like something out of an attic, lined with old wall paper. A couple of shoe boxes. A couple of books. A wallet, from one of those kits you get from Santa for Christmas, start it, get bored and never finish it. Except someone finished this, then wore it out, repaired it, then finally gave up.

"Please, Ray," Fraser says. "Come sit with me."

"In a minute. I'm making the tea." He nods, and reaches into the trunk. You don't need both eyes to pour scalding water into china, and I'm watching him. Out of the trunk comes a ukelele. Now, in theory, I knew they existed, and in, like, the olden days people played them. Never encountered one before, but here is one. Fraser put it back down to pull his tie loose and open his collar button. Hmmm. Hard to interpret that. Is he getting comfortable, or expressing uncomfortableness? Have to add this one to the database.

He's got the uke in his hand, and he's tightening the strings getting ready to tune it up. Wonder what that's gonna sound like after years in cold and damp, but he's tight lipped and he's tuning it.

I bring two mugs of tea to the table, knowing we'll be drinking it cold. He stands up with the thing as soon as I sit down. Okay. I swallow. Getting worse by the minute. I'd batten down the hatches if I had any. He walks over to the window.

Leaning against the window frame, he's looking out at the street as he fiddles with the peg-things. I don't think he sees the street. Shrugging is about the only thing I can do at this point. I sniff. I look inside the trunk. There's a book I didn't see before. "Twenty Bathtub Ballads." That sounds hokey. It has that old timey kind of cover, with scrolly writing and a scratched up picture of the writer. I lift it out.

"Hey, that Robert Service, didn't he write those Yukon poems you're always spouting?"

"That's him."

Wow, I got an answer. I open the book, leaf through. The dry, crumbling leftovers of what must have been a couple of roses falls out. They must have been red coz now they're black and shedding all over my pants. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Fraser." On the floor there's the envelope from my last phone bill, so I try to get as much of the dust into the envelope. I feel like a heel messing with Fraser's memories like this.

I try to sneak a look at him there at the window, but no sneaking, he's watching me. Now I feel like a total heel. "I'm sorry--" I start, but we aren't on the same page.

"They're from a bouquet that was sent from the Gerrard family for the funeral."

That must bite. To be reminded of that SOB.

"When spring will bring the daffodils."

Okay. That means less than nothing to me. "It happens." I'm out to sea here. Not a clue what to say to that.

"That's where you are."

"That's where I am?" Nope. The universal translator is off line.

Oh, the book. It's a songbook. The one it's open to is, sure enough, "When Spring Will Bring the Daffodils." I scan it. Oh, Jesus. Yeah, this one is special. Fraser must be a mess inside.

He's plinking the ukelele, giving it a fine tuning. Now he's strumming. Now he's singing.

"Winter days are long and dreary, By the fire I pine.

Spite of pipe and song I weary For you Caroline; As I watch the fading embers All my being thrills, Suddenly my heart remembers Dancing daffodils. What mem'ries shrine - You, Caroline!"

It's a snappy little dance hall song. I look at the, whadyacallit, music bars and it's 6/8 time. Like a march. And his voice is as good as always, not a crack, not a sniffle. It's not natural, I mean, I'm guessing here that this song means his mother to him. That's a logical flow that even I can get.

The ukelele is a pretty surreal instrument in a situation as shitty as this. It's plinky, and shrill. When you know what kind of sadness must be going through this guy's head, it's like that Bunnuel movie with the razor blade on the eye ball. That's how it feels to me, and it's not even my mother we're singing about here.

"O Caroline, will you be mine, When Spring will bring the daffodils?

        Will your eyes shine with joy divine When all the land with raptures thrills?
        When larks arise in happy skies And gorse is golden on the hills,
        Will love entwine your heart with mine When Spring will bring the daffodils?"

Man, this is just breaking my heart. I canNOT imagine what it must be doing inside Fraser. All of a sudden my gum goes sour and I grab a page from my phone bill to get rid of it. Not knowing if I'll be thanked or slugged, I stand up and walk over to the window, stop about a foot away from Fraser. Okay. He's not crying, but he's not singing anymore. His fingers aren't plinking on the strings no more. He's looking over my shoulder.

"Upon reflection, it seems she was buried rather quickly." He stops, he swallows. "I'd never been to a funeral before. Never heard the word until that day. We went to the church. There was a box there, a coffin." He looks at me then, but he's not so focused, his eyes are back 30 years ago. "They said we were going to say good-bye to her." He's wincing. "I didn't understand. I didn't know where she was, how were we going to say good-bye?" Again, silence. "I embarrassed myself and my grandparents with my reaction." Another pause. "I created quite a scene, with tears and whatnot."

Tears and whatnot. "You were a kid, Frase."

He blinks at me. "That doesn't excuse my behavior."

I think we've established that he's unhinged. I'm thinking that I'm pretty close to knowing why. "Oh, come on. You were six. Your mom just died."

"My grandmother was quite--" Oh, don't say it. "-disappointed."

I'm a pretty demonstrative guy. You know how I feel, it's out there. Can't help it. Not a whole lot of self-restraint. I have my arms around Fraser before I can help myself. Not that I would help myself if I could. It doesn't take someone with all his oars firing to see that the guy is hurting with a hurt like scorched earth.

He's as stiff as he looks, his hands on me to push me away. Ain't gonna happen. Nope. He may not think he wants it, or needs it. But, the choice is out of his hands--I'm going no where. No. Where. I hug him tighter, push his head onto my shoulder. He rests his cheek there, his face away from me.

And the flood gates open. Great big gulp of air, and the dam bursts. I just hold tighter, my hand still on the back of his head, the other one stroking up and down his back as I let him go to town. My cheek is on his hair, riding up and down on the sobs that are telling me he should have cried like this years ago, with his head on the lap of someone who loved him. Loved a little boy that didn't need anything else but love--and to be able to cry.

I'm not a violent man. Sure, I talk the talk. And every once in a while, I mix it up with a thug or two, but right now I'm glad Fraser's grandparents are dead. And his dad. God damn it. Because if they weren't, I'd kill them myself.

There's a picture Fraser had. Got it for Christmas last year, from where I have no clue, but it's him standing in an animal hide parka between two adults in likewise animal skins. There was a distinct body language thing going on there. They weren't touching. None of them. All my family pictures, we're touching. Poking, grabbing, pulling hair. It explains a lot of why Fraser isn't good at the touching thing. But, man, it must be so lonely.

I'm rubbing his hair back and forth, just letting him know I'm not going anywhere, and he's still crying. Quieter now, but he's not pulling away. He's still in my arms, but his are down at his side, like dead weight. Usually, the crying thing makes me skittish. Stella didn't cry, she got angry. That would make me want to make it all better. My mom cried a lot. Later I put two and two together and came up with PMS. Mum cried, Stella yelled. But this is about Fraser.

And the world of tears he's got here. But he's also pushing away now. Had to happen. Way too soon. But, it's not like I'm going anywhere, he can stand up if he wants. "You okay?" I say. D-U-M, dumb.

"Not hardly," he admits.

I tilt my head. "Don't try to apologize."

"I-" he starts, but he understands the look and shuts up. For a minute. "I really loved my mother."

I nod. Duh. "A couple of years ago, when I first found my father's journals--" he keeps stopping, looking at me for something like permission to keep talking. I'm looking at him, quiet. That's his permission. "He wrote about the last time he had seen me, I was seven." He's mopping his face with a hankie the size of a puptent. "He said I shook his hand, already a stronger man than he'd ever be. But, the fact is I was--so scared that if I cried I would disappoint him. And he wouldn't ever come back."

So, he's crying again. Silent this time. I think if he could stop himself, he would. But he can't. He's rubbing the face with the back of his hand, then the hankie. I try to hug him to me, and he won't come this time. Still close, I rub at the tears with my finger tips, just brush them away. His eyes look so hopeless, such misery. There's nothing I wouldn't give to take the pain away, to brush away the hurt like the tears. But, like the tears, there's always more hurt to take its place. "I wish I could make it better," I murmur. He closes his eyes to swallow.

I don't know if it's the right thing to say, but it's the thing I feel strongest in my heart. This is one of the most beautiful human beings I've ever known. Good, kind--they just don't make them like Fraser--ever, and that he hurts like this hurts me in a way that gets me deep in my gut. Can't say that about another soul. Well, maybe Beth Botrelle, but, shit, without Fraser, that ache would never have gone away. With Fraser, it got solved and it got better. And Beth has her life back.

So. What I'm saying is: this man is my friend. His pain is my pain. And right now--we're in pain. My fingers are now stroking his jaw line, nice and easy. His eyes are closed again, the tears just silently streaming. "It's okay, Frase, nobody's gonna rag you for crying. I'm the last one you have to worry about," I whisper, nice and easy. Pretty soon, I get my way and he's in my arms again. Resting, exhausted, only an occasional hiccup.

Don't know how long we stand there. It is getting dark by the time he finally pushes off me to stand up straight. He looks like hell, probably feels that way, too.

"Ray--" he starts, but I don't let him finish.

"Look, Fraser, let's get this stuff packed up and leave it for the weekend," I say, turning back to the trunk, but his hand is on my arm. He is pretty insistent. I look back at him.

"Ray, thank you. Your kindness is appreciated." Is he blushing from embarassment or just splotchy from bawling?

"It's buddies, Fraser." I shrug him off.

"I know," he says, his tongue is inside his lower lip. "I feel very fortunate."

I can't very well roll my eyes at the guy, so I sigh. I'm the one that's fortunate. Too late, I said it out loud. Now he's hugging me. A big 'I've created a monster' bearhug. I feel thanked in a big way. My smile is huge. His is kinda shy when he lets me go. I kinda like it.

"I think I need to go back to the consulate to change." He pauses. "I think I'd like to go out for Italian tonight." He's trying to smile again.

"Perfect." Don't know how my smile gets bigger, but it does. "Let's get you into some play clothes and eat."

He bends to pick up the ukelele from where he dropped it. He twirls it in his hands, then hands it over to me. I set it into the footlocker with everything else, and push the lid down. He watches me closely, but says nothing. I stand up, looking him in the eye. "I couldn't do this without you," he says, and he means it. Now I'm choking up. I want to say something to throw it off of me, to shrug it off, but I don't. He doesn't give stuff away like this--these feelings from deep inside.

So, I take it. And I cherish it. And we go to supper.

The end.

Note: Robert Service wrote about 1,000 poems, some about the Yukon, some about WW1, some about love. He did write two books of beer hall type songs and they can be found at: http://www.ude.net/service/ There are other sites, but I like this one best. It feels kind of homey.

Like it? Hate it? Tell me at BJCochran@aol.com.

End When Spring Will Bring the Daffodils by BJ Cochran: BJCochran@aol.com

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