'Red.'

It's a color. That's all.

At least it used to be. Not one of my favorites. I mean, I kinda go more for the whole black tee and blue jeans thing. Or scrungy Army Surplus camo 'n khaki, olive green stuff, with yer occasional standard ratty white tee, and leather jacket toppin' it all off. Yah, sure, I got a few red things I wear now and then. Coupla shirts, some briefs; y'know. Nuthin' much. Never thought much about it, either.

Now all I see is red.

Red serge, that is. Not yer normal, everyday, fashion police color like ruby, or scarlet, or cardinal. Not what The Stella would call it. Nothin' like that.

No. Red. Just red.

Like I said, I never thought about it much. Oh, yeah, y'learn about the Redcoats in history class, from the time you're in grade school, clear on up. Every time you go through the American Revolution bit, there's the big, bad Redcoats. The ones we're shootin' at from behind trees 'n stuff. In the pictures, these fancy, bright red uniforms, all lined up; easy targets. With our guys lookin' like they just flung on the first thing they found in the dark, and usually all raggedy, at that. Like in Valley Forge. Or that picture of Washington crossing the Delaware. Everyone grungy except for the ol' General himself, wearing a blue and white uniform and that kick-ass cape. Like he wouldn't've probably fallen outta the boat, standin' up there that way. But then, it's a picture of our glorious past, so, ya know, they gotta do stuff like that. Wouldn't do for a hero of the Revolution to be sittin' down like a normal human, in a little boat crossin' an icy river.

But anyways, it's always the Redcoats standin' out in the open, stupid-like, while our guys do the smart thing and make like guerrillas. A'course, we were the underdogs, so we did kinda haveta do that - like they say, all's fair in love and war. But under all the joking about how silly it was for the British to keep marching in straight lines, never hiding, and wearing all this bright red, you c'n kinda hear a little bit a' sympathy sneakin' in here and there. I mean, even as a little kid, I always wondered why they kept on fightin' like that. You'd think they'da changed pretty damn quick, if they could. And then y' get older, and wonder if it was just the officers bein' stupid, and not thinkin' much of our guys as fighters. Or did the poor suckers in all those red coats really wanna stand there in them tidy rows and get shot at by a bunch of crazy bastards?

Then later on you learn that our side did do the line-up-and-march-straight thing at times, when we had enough men to do it. And sometimes they even wore uniforms. And we kept doing it up through the Civil War, too, although with a lot of the behind-the-trees thing thrown in, still. But then it was the South not havin' the uniforms, lotsa times, and both sides marchin' straight at each other and gettin' shot to pieces, and in general, a helluva mess, with you readin' and wonderin' how the fuck anyone ever had the guts to go out and do that sorta thing. I mean, just stand there, in this big formation, and march forward while the other guys fired at you like targets on a firing range. With your guys falling all around you, 'til you get close enough to shoot back, and then it all falls apart. Not to mention the cannon-fire.

Crazy. Just plain crazy. All of it. No self-respecting cop would do that. You wouldn't stay alive long enough.

And definitely not in red. Red serge. Bright, 'oh-shoot-me-now', red serge.

Even off duty. Red flannel shirts. Red plaid shirts. Red long-johns, which would look silly as hell on anyone else, but somehow look good on him. And the Sacred Stetson, a'course, but even that's not red. Or them uniform pants, the john...joper...baggy thingies. Nah, they're navy, except for the weird yellow stripe. But all you end up seein' is the red. Uniform or not. Red.

It's gotten to where every time I see somethin' red, I expect him to be there. Even if it's just a flash outta the corner of my eye. Awful distractin', you bet, especially when he's stuck at the Consulate and I'm out on the street workin' the job. Dangerous. I catch a hint a' red, and part of me thinks, 'Frase,' and that feeling wells up, like I got Superman on my side...and then I haveta pretty quick remember he's on signpost duty guardin' Canada, or something like that. All dressed up. In red. Naturally.

It ain't just the uniform. No, it's him. I mean, not that I know that many Mounties. There's Turnbull, of course, but he's...Turnbull. I mean, I dunno if he's a total fruitcake, or some nutsoid super-genius who acts whacko to keep everyone around him in a tizzy all the time, just for the fun of it. Can't tell; ain't goin' there, either. Thatcher, well, she's just the Ice Queen, in the Uniform or out. Even on that Mountie ship. The rest of the Mounties there were...Mounties. But Mounties in training, okay? Kinda in the background, except for that Scoutmaster-from-hell runnin' the bunch, and I wasn't really payin' attention, what with swingin' aboard a fuckin' ship like some pirate; only it was the pirate ship we were swingin' onto. Still, I didn't get chummy with 'em; too busy. Well, except the one I kissed, and that was just a heat of the moment kinda thing, there.

Anyways. The point is, the only Mountie I really, really know, is one Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP. The One and Only. The one with the wolf. (Oh, pardon me; half-wolf.) My partner.

The one from the land of ice and snow. The one who came to Chicago on the trail of his father's killers, and for reasons not important at this juncture, stayed. The one who crawls all over his partner, only it's a whole different guy than his partner, in a burning car, with said partner yellin' out why he took this funky-ass undercover assignment, and manages to save both of us from the bomb. The one who accepted this different-guy-who-isn't-his-real-partner as a friend. The one who doesn't carry a gun, despite being a sharpshooter - and he's been here how many years, and still hasn't gotten a permit to carry? How nuts is that? - and goes right on ahead and tells criminals with guns, ammo or no, that they're under arrest, thankyoukindly, and would you please come along quietly now? The one who sleeps in his damn' office. (In the long-johns.) The one who licks things. The one with bat-ears. The one who jumps anywhere and expects his partner ta do the same, even if his partner can't swim. The one who rescues his non-swimmin' partner from drowning. The one who stands beside, behind, in front of, between his partner and those guys with guns, and still somehow manages to do an amazin' job of backup. The one who talks like a dictionary, and keeps correctin' bad language. The one who listens to confessions from his crazy partner who's gone off to wait in a vault during an eclipse for a criminal he met long ago. The one who talks all the time, yet somehow seems to listen to the things ya don't say out loud. The one who's there when ya need him.

The one who wears that damned, obvious, way-too-bright, perfect-target red like it's a shield that's gonna protect him from anything. So he can protect anything. Or anyone.

The one who wears red, so red ain't just a color anymore. And you can say it all sorts of different ways, and have it mean even more.

Red is partners. Red is teamwork. Red is safety. Red is buddies. Red is truth. Red is courage.

Red is...Fraser.

Maybe those Redcoats weren't so damned stupid after all.