And now, for my first excursion on the DS fiction list, here's a little
BL-inspired speculation on why Fraser couldn't make it in Moosejaw. 
I'm pretty sure there are no spoilers in this, though seeing Body Language
first will probably add to your reading pleasure.  Enjoy!

by Heather Park-Albertson

The two men sat in the darkened end of the bar, watching the third man,
young and intense, in his conversation with the dancer.  They could not
hear, over the bump-and-grind music blaring, what the young man was saying
to the girl.  His face was deadpan, though, not split with the usual
ear-to-ear grin most young men would have pasted across their faces when
speaking with such an animated, and skimpily clothed--decorated, more
like--young woman.  Especially out here, where she was likely the first
woman they had seen in two or three months.

The girl got up and gestured toward the stage.  Time for her number.
The young man made an earnest inquiry, then fetched a twenty out of his
hatband and offered it to her. Ah, the watchers thought--he's hiring
her for a table dance.  The girl clearly thought the same, for she began
her routine right there in the fellow's face.  A face which immediately
turned the color of his scarlet uniform as he looked away modestly. 
He hastily uttered a correction--she was disappointed, but pleased--as
he gestured her back into the chair opposite him.

"Ed, I'm telling you, I don't know what he says to them, but I can't
afford to lose another one."

"What do you want me to do about it?  I mean, all he does is ask them
questions."

"Immediately after which, they pack up and tell me to get stuffed, they're
going back home.  I don't care what he says to them, or what he does
to them, I just want him out of here."

"There's nothing I can do.  He's not on duty.  And he's not breaking
the law."

"Well, give him something to do, then--keep him outta my place, away
from my girls."

"I don't have the manpower to move him onto another shift.  And he's
not due for rotation for another six months."

"Move it up.  Get him out of here.  Find a reason."

"Can't you just convince the girls to stay?  Offer them more pay, better
tips, something?"

"I'm already paying them what I can.  Look around you, Ed--this is Moosejaw,
not Las Vegas.  A girl ain't gonna get rich dancing here.  If she's lucky,
she'll either move on to Calgary, or she'll marry a customer.  That's
the best tip any of them can hope for."

The girl leaned forward.  George knew that Fraser, if he bothered to
look like any healthy man would do, would see some of the most impressive
cleavage in his life.  Fraser kept his gaze steady on the girl's face.
It was unnatural, how he could do that.  Unmanly.  She hung her head
and whispered something to Fraser.  He shook his head and 
took her hands gently in his.  His reply was soft, kind--you didn't have
to hear the words to know they were gentle like his touch.  She began
to cry.  He offered her his handkerchief, apologizing for its starched
stiffness. 

All Fraser ever did was ask them questions.  He never lectured them,
he never pulled out a bible, he never touched them--though he tipped
very, very well, for a fellow who didn't get the goods.  Just those damn
questions.  And then they'd come back to see him, George, before the
next set, all apologetic and sad, but happy, too.

"I'm going home, George.  Gonna give it another go."

Some of them went home to boyfriends or husbands, some back to families,
a few back to empty flats in some podunk backwater, still fewer to broken-down
farms.  So far, not one had returned.  His business couldn't take it
anymore.  He was down to only six girls, and there Fraser was, working
on one of them. 

Succeeding, too, by the look of things.  The girl had that silly grin
they all got after Fraser talked to them, and her face was all lit up
from inside, like a damn neon Happy Happy Joy Joy sign.  She spoke animatedly
with Fraser, practically bouncing in her chair, hands fluttering as she
described something about the home she'd come from.  
Fraser finally cracked a smile, encouraging her, even laughing once over
something she said.  Finally, she nodded and stood up.  Leaned over (George
was going to miss that view) once more and kissed Fraser chastely on
the cheek.   He blushed, by God, blushed!  And took out what George could
only guess was a hundred or so dollars 
from that bottomless hatband to give the girl.

Sure enough, she headed straight for George instead of the dressing rooms.
She started to speak, but George just sighed and waved away the excuses.
They were always so nice when the time came, wanting him to be happy
for them.  And he was, he was.  It was just that he found it difficult
to be happy for them while watching his business go down the tubes. 
George heaved himself off the stool, went to the register, and drew out
what he owed Angelique (really, her name was Joan).  After a moment's
thought, he pulled out another hundred.

"Here, honey, you were a good worker.  Get outta here and get yourself
a real life," George told her.  She eyed the money, knowing it was more
than he owed her.  He pushed it at her.  "Take it, it's yours."  She
took the money from him, slowly, almost like she couldn't believe he
was letting her go. 

"That's it?  What about ... what about my contract?  You said--"

"I said, get outta here and get yourself a real life.  How many time's
a guy got to say get lost before you get it through your head?"

"I don't know what to say."

Fraser came up behind her.

"I think a simple Thank You Kindly would do, Joan."

"Thank you kindly, George--Mr. Brandon.  Thank you.  Thank you so much!"

Joan fairly skipped away, back into the dressing rooms to pack up her
stuff.  Another one gone.  Another empty dressing room.  Another set
gone.  Fraser met George's eyes and nodded.  He executed an about-face
good enough for the parade ground, placed his Stetson on his head with
equal precision, and left the saloon.  George shook his head.

"I swear, he's gonna drive my business into the ground and I'm gonna
end up thanking him for it.  Thanking him kindly, no less."  George sighed
and heaved himself back up onto the barstool next to Sergeant Thompson.
"The worst part is, I think I'm starting to like watching them go."

--DOOOMAH-OH (OR, THE END)--

Copyright 1996 by Heather Park-Albertson on all original story content.
Not intended to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Productions or
any other copyright holders for DUE SOUTH. Please do not reproduce for
anything other than personal reading use without written consent of the
author.