I blame the muses for this one, and the hauntingly beautiful music of Lhasa. It's the only explanation I have for writing something so shamelessly moody and romantic (if you can call unrequited love romantic!). This story occurs at the end of the episode 'Strange Bedfellows', and will probably make no sense if you haven't seen the episode. Reference is also made to the episode 'Victoria's Secret'. Rated PG due to a few curse words and remembered romantic interludes.

Lyrics, indicated by bold italics, are the translation of the song 'De Cara a la Pared', by Lhasa. It's the song Ray and Stella dance to, and Ray listens to alone in his apartment, in the aforementioned episode. Check out the CD, it's wonderful. I've put the complete lyrics at the end of the story. Internal thoughts are in italics.

The characters of Due South are owned by Alliance. Nary a penny is generated from this story, 'cause it's strictly for fun.

Many thanks to my wonderful Beta and pal, Sorcha, for her generous and patient help with this story, and many of my other fanfic attempts. Then there's XmagicalX, who was so kind to check out the story and help me with my posting jitters. Lastly, the ever so excellent Eugenie put in the finishing touches. Thank you all, kindly!

This story is dedicated to my dear friend and true believer in Odonata fanfic, Alice.

Any and all comments are appreciated. Send them to Odonata@iname.com.
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Llorando
(Crying)

by Odonata (Odonata@iname.com)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Crying, face to the wall. The city goes dark.

Streetlight filters through the slatted window blinds, silhouetting objects within the dark apartment. The same dispassionate light shines upon hundreds of similar scenes on this summer night in Chicago, each with a man or woman lost within their own sorrow. Of the multitude of sleepless mourners, only Ray Kowalski dances a sad, slow dance.

The cold, dim light deepens the shadows, reducing the scene to a collection of featureless, dark forms - chair, couch, table, man - as if the shadows have melded with their source. The darkness hides the emotions clearly displayed on Ray's expressive face. He knows it reveals emotions he's never succeeded in controlling or understanding. Sometimes he stands before a mirror and looks into the reflection of his eyes, seeking to understand the mysterious turmoil raging in their intense depths.

He doesn't need to look into a mirror tonight. The air itself is thick and heavy with his grief; the music mirrors his feelings.

The sonorous wail of a violin fills the room. Swaying gracefully on the waves of sound, Ray closes his eyes as he cradles an invisible partner in his arms. Pulling the memory of her body close, he almost feels her hand resting featherlight on his arm, her fingers curling warm around his hand.

We were going to make love, like we used to. No, our love would've been better, the best. God knows I've dreamed of how I'd love you, love away all our problems and make everything right between us.

He stops dancing by the living room windows to peer upward to the stars he knows are there, but can't see.

We make love like we dance, Stella. It's so easy, like we're two parts of a greater whole. We're meant to be together. Why is it so hard for us when the dancing and loving stops?

The rhythm of the music spurs him back into motion. Eyes closed, his feet knowingly follow a well-worn path as he deftly dances in the cramped space. He's danced this sad dance many times before, held longing in his arms as if it would materialize into Stella and save him from the loneliness. The same song they'd danced to earlier in the night plays over and over again. Even through the breathless silence between the repeats, he moves without missing a beat.

Maybe tonight would've been different. Maybe our loving would've changed something in me, in you. Maybe tonight we would've figured out some way to stay together.

"Maybe," he softly mutters. The relaxed formality of his stance gradually erodes as he sags forward under the weight of grief, shuffling in an awkward parody of his former grace. His shadowed face is dark, but when his eyes open they shine like twin stars burning hot.

I was scared for you, Stella. There was only my body between you and a bullet. I know all too well how situations can go bad. One second I'm in the game, the next I'm down and all hell's broke loose and you and Fraser are on your own. I'd take a bullet for you in a heartbeat, Stella. But the odds were against any of us getting out alive if Weston started shooting.

Ray shuffles around until he bumps the back of his knees against the arm of an overstuffed chair. Plopping down gracelessly onto the seat cushion, he tiredly rubs his face with his hands.

All I could do was convince Weston to give up the gun, or at least distract him so Fraser could take him down. You know we're in trouble when I've gotta come up with the right words. That's your department and Fraser's, not mine. I sort of froze, couldn't say anything, but suddenly words I've heard you say poured out. All that stuff about letting go of the past and moving on, stuff you've been telling me for a long time. God help me, I saw my own madness in Weston's eyes, and I understood those words for the first time.

"Stella," Ray softly groans into his hands. "I need you."

The music penetrates his sorrow, its passionate declaration of lost love echoing the pain in his heart, begging him to join the dance of desolation. With a sigh he stands up and embraces his phantom partner once again. His flat-footed shuffle causes him to stumble on a raised corner of carpet. Crashing hard onto his knees, he kneels there, arms wrapped protectively around his stomach, rocking back and forth as if in pain.

Anguished words pour into the darkness, his staccato voice an eerie counterpart to the music's languid drone. "I wish I could say 'I'm sorry' about all I've done, and mean it. I followed you, Stella. I took advantage of you tonight, when you were upset about Frank and shook up by the craziness of the last few days. But I'd do it again. I'm just one step from that wacko, 'cause I can't let you go."

For a long moment only the music and his harsh breaths can be heard. Then a soft, trembling voice whispers words too painful to speak out loud. "All I can do is try to let you go, Stella. That's what you want, so I'll try."

The words hang heavily in the hot air, their terrible meaning a weight pushing him down until his forehead rests against the floor. Shudders wrack his lithe frame, becoming more and more severe. He wraps his arms over his head, and finally lets loose his grief and cries, the soft, guttural sound merging seamlessly with the low moan of the music.

He kneels on the floor for a long time, until the sobs and tremors gradually fade away. When there's nothing left to cry, he slowly, resignedly sits back on his heels, wiping the tears away with his arm.

It's over. We'll never be together again.

Hanging onto the coffee table, then the back of a chair, he slowly struggles to his feet. Staggering as if drunk, he weaves around the couch to stand before the stereo. The streetlight shines on his profile, outlining the deep ridges on his brow as his face scrunches as if to cry. His trembling fingers touch the power switch.

The switch rocks slightly under the pressure of his fingers. He lets the spring mechanism push his fingers back, then presses down slightly again. It rocks gently, and in that moment of balance, the toggle half-sprung, something within Ray begins to shift.

It's a familiar sensation, a gut feeling similar to heartburn, but he knows the discomfort leads to something he can hang onto in the midst of uncertainty. He trusts these feelings implicitly, treating them with awed reverence and faith usually reserved for divine revelations.

So he stands raptly through the song, his fingers holding stereo switch at that magical balance point, as if listening to a message hidden in the music. The insight comes, slowly, the various stages of revelation smoothing away the lines on his brow one by one. The song fades into silence as the last of tension drains from his face; his lips part slightly and curve into a small, sad smile.

If memories are all that's left, then I'll keep them for you, for us. I'll never forget.

He lets go of the switch and steps away from the stereo. Breathing a shuddering sigh, he closes his eyes and welcomes the painful, beautiful memory of her. Ghostly lips brush warm and tender against his face. He smiles, carefully cradling his absent love in his arms, and dances once again.

"Damn you, Stella," he whispers, but there's no anger in his voice. The streetlight plays across his face, deepening the shadows of creases that bracket his gentle smile. In the depths of the shadows, silvery tears shine.

"I love you, Stella."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dreaming, face to the wall. The city burns.

Far above the streets, Stella Kowalski's luxury high-rise apartment is ablaze with light. Usually the lights herald a festive occasion. During these events dozens of people mill about inside, or stand outside on the balcony to admire the sparkling lights of Chicago or to catch a glimpse of stars overhead.

Tonight there's only bright lights and silence. Stella sits forlornly on the couch, nursing a drink in a crystal highball glass. The rumpled figure is a far cry from the headstrong, confident woman of just a few days before, when everything had seemed perfect. She had a new love in her life, her career was successful, and her troublesome relationship with Ray finally was over. That was before Frank's crimes had been exposed, before her client's husband tried to kill her, and before Ray Kowalski tried to worm his way back into her life.

Slouching back against the cushions, she absently studies the amber liquid in her glass. The fluid's surface reflects the bright, harsh lights that illuminate her apartment. All lights had been turned on by the police, as if to expose every private corner of her home. Not that she had any privacy left, anyway. Everything would be on the news tomorrow, her personal and professional life laid out for all to see.

She snorts an ironic laugh. Frank would be congratulating her about the increased public exposure, if he weren't in jail.

Her reflection stares from the surface of the liquid; a small, tired looking face with eyes too big, too open and vulnerable to be Stella Kowalski, successful prosecuting attorney. A few irritated flicks of her wrist sloshes the fluid, fracturing her image into a shower of flashing gold light.

I hate scotch. If it weren't for Frank there wouldn't be any around. He always had to have his scotch, even here. He was probably an alcoholic, on top of being a liar. Why didn't I see what he was doing? Why didn't I see what kind of man he is?

No more scotch for you, Frank," she speaks to the glass with a slight slur in her voice. Tossing back the last of the drink, she winces as the fiery liquid burns down her throat. "Goddamn you!" she snarls, then throws the glass hard against the wall.

She jumps at the loud noise as the glass shatters, almost falling off the couch as she sways drunkenly. Leaning back to brace her arms against the couch, she smiles mirthlessly at the shards of glass on the floor.

"I never loved you, anyway. I thought I could learn to love you. Like learning to swim, or play the piano or . . . dance."

Her smile fades. It's not until she feels hot tears run off her face that she realizes she's crying. Then she's sobbing, big gasping cries. Pressing a shaking hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, she curls onto her side.

What happened to you tonight, Ray? To us? Are you really ready to let me go? I thought I wanted that, but now I'm not sure. I still love you, I always will. I'm so confused . . .

She grabs a throw pillow and hugs it to her chest. "Why, Ray?" she softly sobs. "Why now? Why do you have to be such a goddamn perfect jerk?"

She closes her eyes against the painful loneliness that fills her heart. The mournful strains of the music they'd danced to earlier echoes in her alcohol-fogged brain. Her body trembles with the memory of his gentle touch and his lips against hers, begging, pleading and claiming.

"In the morning we'd be back where we were," she murmurs angrily at the cloying memory. "More arguments over career and children. More regrets." The memory of angry, harsh words spoken during their many fights silences her sobs, hardening her heart.

"Why don't you remember the pain, Ray? Our relationship wasn't all dance and love. It was anger and jealousy and frustrated dreams over and over again. Nothing ever changed. You were satisfied, but I wasn't. I need more than an evening of happiness. We can't dance our way through life."

Her eyes slowly open, their blue depths filled with sad resolve. "It's over, Ray," she mutters thickly. She stares vacantly at the shards of glass that glint with reflected light. Her teary eyes blur the reflection, creating a halo-like nimbus around each piece. Dozens of points of light shimmer on the floor, like fallen stars.

"I'm tired of picking up the pieces." Her eyelids droop tiredly as numbness embraces her, as it does many other mourners in the city who turn to alcohol for succor. She closes her eyes and rolls over to face the back of the couch, turning away from the light, and falls into the darkness of sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dreaming, without breathing. I want to love you. I want to love you.

Benton Fraser lays on the grass in the park, looking up at the anemic glimmer of a few stars shining brightly enough to break through the pall of Chicago streetlights. Diefenbaker rummages in nearby bushes, tracking down a discarded portion of hot-dog and piece of candy.

Dad could've let me know about his office. Might've saved me questioning my sanity, not to speak of Inspector Thatcher thinking I was mentally indisposed. There's not much space or privacy at the consulate, and now I've got to listen to his tuneless singing as he works on his death taxes or whatever. Why does he need such a spacious office? He's dead, for goodness sake!

He sighs heavily, raising a hand to his brow to stroke away the pensive lines of irritation. He knows his peckish mood isn't his father's fault. He's just worried about Ray.

They'd parted ways earlier that night, Ray stating he needed time alone. Fraser respected that need, but he also needed to make sure that his friend was all right. So he'd discretely followed, to make sure there wasn't any trouble. The fiery-tempered cop had a penchant for getting into brawls, especially when he was upset.

Ray stood outside Stella's swank apartment building for a while, hands stuffed into his rumpled jacket pockets, staring at the ground and absently kicking at cigarette butts. Eventually the doorman left his post and asked him if he needed a cab, but Ray waved him off and walked away. He moved resolutely through the crowds, head down and bent forward as if pushing through a strong wind. Even stopped at street corners, Ray shuffled restlessly on his feet, unable to stand still. It took thirty-two minutes and twenty-three seconds to reach his apartment building. Ignoring the greeting from the caretaker, he walked through the foyer, opened the stairwell door, and pounded up three flights of stairs toward his apartment.

Fraser stood in the foyer, waiting for Ray to leave the stairwell before following. The wizened, gray-haired man stopped mopping and leaned on the stick, noncommittally looking at the red Mountie uniform.

"I apologize for my friend's rudeness. He's had a bad day." Fraser spoke.

"Seemed nice enough to me." The old man shrugged, then resumed mopping.

He smiled politely to the man's back, holding his Stetson in hand, wondering for about the five hundred and sixteenth time if the Chicago school system defined 'rudeness' using its own dictionary.

A few minutes later, he stood in a shadowed alcove next to Ray's door, listening to the activity inside to determine if his friend was going to stay or leave. Music drifted through the apartment door into the hallway, the same song that played at Stella's. He hadn't been able to listen to the entire song before, so he leaned back against the wall and let the beautiful, sad music wash over him. The song was in a language he didn't understand, but the sorrowful emotion behind the words was clear. The music faded into silence, revealing the rhythmic shuffling of feet in the apartment.

He's dancing. They danced beautifully together.

Fraser stood quietly in the hallway as the song repeated several times. The siren's call of the music lulled him into his own sad memories. Closing his eyes, he recalled the anguished night spent alone in his apartment, longing for Victoria.

He'd lit all his candles, close to a hundred scattered all about the apartment, shining their warm light just like on the night when she'd returned to him. It was all he could do to signal to her that he was still there for her, waiting, willing to do whatever he could to help her leave the darkness of her criminal life behind. It didn't matter that she'd left him and tried to destroy him and his friends. He still loved her.

He could still feel the sting of his father's soft, ghostly words. "She's not coming back, son."

They're never coming back, are they?

The question, and the pang of sorrow in its wake, startled him out of his reverie. Just when he thought he'd gotten over his love for Victoria, something would happen to remind him of her and he was back at square one, mourning over her loss as if it happened yesterday.

The mournful music sang of grief and loss over and over again. After a while, he heard Ray join in, sobbing brokenly with the music.

He was at the door, poised to knock, before he knew what he was doing. Instead, he rested his forehead against the cool wood of the door frame. His hat dropped unnoticed on the floor as he placed one hand on the door and the other on the wall, palm down with fingers gently splayed. Gentle vibrations caused by the music tingled his fingers. Pressing harder, Fraser thought he could pick up the faint vibration caused by Ray's convulsive sobs. He let that sorrow fill him, as if he could carry a portion of Ray's burden.

He stood at the door until Ray's sobs ended and he resumed dancing. With a heavy heart, Fraser returned to the consulate. There he discovered the source of the mysterious noises he'd been hearing; his father had built an office in his closet. Unfortunately, Inspector Thatcher found Fraser talking in the closet, and now seemed thoroughly convinced he was loony. It had all been too much, so he put on civilian clothes and escaped to a local park in search of peace and quiet, and a clearer perspective.

The comforting sensation of cool, soft blades of grass on his bare arms distract him from contemplation of the prior events of the evening. In this secluded section of the park, the copse of trees behind him blocks the streetlights, allowing a rare pocket of velvety darkness to exist amidst the harsh electric lights. Unfortunately, the sounds of the city are always present. The subdued sounds of the sleeping city rumble low; the ground underneath him vibrates with the city's slow pulse. Nearby, a solitary cricket sends out a hesitant call to prospective mates. Stagnant summer air lays thick and heavy over everything.

A pang of homesickness courses through him as he longs for the cool, crisp air of his home. There he could witness the galaxies as they whirled a stately dance across the night sky, accompanied by the streaming northern lights. Everything was so simple there, the harsh beauty of the northern territories paring life down to its essentials.

Ray's love for Stella is just as wild and beautiful as the northern wilderness. It's a force of nature, like the tide or the blowing of the wind. That love powered Ray's words as he pleaded for his ex-wife's life. Each of those words was heartfelt, perhaps more than Ray is ready to admit. How did he find the strength to put her needs above his own? I'm not sure I could do the same, walk away, if Victoria returned. Even though I know it would be the best thing to do.

His eyes cloud over at the thought of Victoria. Their love was also wild and beautiful and, at times, terrible like a flood or storm that scours the landscape with its unsparing power. Fraser accepts this wild love, as he accepts the gentle beauties and harsh, sometimes deadly nature of the wilderness.

Every day I wake up wondering if I'll see you again, Victoria. I don't know how many times I've thought you were in some crowd. Every time I find myself running toward you, certain that you've come back for me. I'm simultaneously relieved and saddened as I apologize to the startled woman I've mistaken for you. If you came back, I just don't know what I'd do.

Dief trots over to Fraser and lays down next to him. Benton turns his head away from the sky to smile at his companion. "You're lucky you don't have to deal with love. Nobody I know seems to be able to get it right." Dief whines in sympathetic agreement and paws at Fraser's arm.

Fraser grabs the paw and gives it an apologetic shake. "Excuse me, Dief. You sired a nice litter of pups, and have a wonderful relationship with Maggie. Only human beings seem to be afflicted."

A cool breeze ruffles Fraser's hair, promising the approach of fall. Closing his eyes, Fraser effortlessly falls into the memory of Victoria standing in falling snow. He sighs as longing so familiar once again fills his heart. Her memory always hurts, yet he can't bring himself to will away her breathtaking presence.

Her eyes, dark as the night sky, draw him into their mysterious depths. Her tender mouth whispers against his lips the musical words of a poem. He can't quite make out the words, but he breathes her breath and feels the life it gives. His hands trace the contours of her body, but when he tries to hold her, the memory dissolves. He can't suppress a disappointed moan as he tries to recapture her presence.

Dief moves closer to rest his head on Benton's chest. The weight of the wolf's head draws him out of his reverie. "Thanks, Dief," he smiles sadly. "I'm fine." Dief cocks his head skeptically, looking earnestly into the smoky blue eyes of the Mountie.

Dief whines as tears well in his friend's eyes. "You really are much too sensitive," Fraser comments. He covers his eyes with his arm and silently cries.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crying, face to the wall. The city goes dark.
Crying, and there's nothing else. I'm dying, maybe. Where are you?
Dreaming, face to the wall. The city burns.
Dreaming, without breathing. I want to love you. I want to love you.
Praying, face to the wall. The city drowns.
Praying, Santa Maria, Santa Maria, Santa Maria.

(Lhasa De Sela/Yves Desrosiers)