Fandom: Due South
Parings: Implied Fraser/Vecchio
Rating: PG, UST, AU
Date: January 2001
Archive: The lists and anyone else who wants it, just let me know first, and it'll be uploaded to Hexwood.
Spoilers: General spoilage for the first two seasons and the beginning of the third.
Summary: Benny's alone and depressed and Stan doesn't know how to help.
Series/Sequel: For a Winter's Night, Part One
Other websites: http://www.stas.net/armani/main.html or http://www.stas.net/armani/myfic/myfic.html
Feedback: Pwetty pwease?

Disclaimer: I'm Ray Vecchio's crackwhore, but I don't own anybody or anything. If you recognize it, lay odds it belongs to Alliance, Paul Haggis, or Mickey Mouse. 1000 bonus points and a jelly donut if you catch the Deanna Troi reference. Please no lawsuits or otters (frozen, dead, or otherwise). All you'll get is an orange Tabby with a bad attitude (even for a cat) and one of those Delaware quarters worth two bucks.

Notes: What the holy hell am I doing? It's not my fault; blame my disgruntled muse, Methie. My first DS fic, and no Detective Armani! I swear, I'm on more monkey crack than Joss Whedon, but thank you to Christal, my wonderful beta, for my steady supply of said monkey crack.

This is an AU. In the DS universe, it takes place about a year and a half after "Burning Down the House." Unless told otherwise, assume that none of the events after BDTH actually took place, especially COTW. In real time, it takes place at the beginning of January 2001, about 22 months off for DS. It's that new math.

For the sake of clarity and so I don't drive my betas nuts, I will mostly refer to the second Ray, Stanley Raymond Kowalski, as Stan. When I say Ray, I will most likely mean the sexy Italian. The only time Stan will be called Ray is in the dialogue, so that Benny doesn't blow Ray's cover. Either of 'em. Got it?

Thoughts are indicated like this... //Here are my thoughts. See my thoughts?//

Warnings: Oh yeah. Implied m/m relations. Naughty words. UST, Angst abounds... He may be hangin' with Stan, but he's still missin' Ray.

"Americans know as much about Canada as straight people do about gays." -- Scott Thompson

~*~~*~~*~

Six Feet Down and Wondering

by Cobalt

~*~

Summarily dismissed, Constable Benton Fraser stepped out of the large office and into the Consulate hallway.

He had just gotten yet another dressing down from the Inspector, but this time the Mountie actually deserved it. Benton Fraser's mind had been elsewhere, and he had mishandled some paperwork having to do with the impending visit of a Canadian Ambassador. If Constable Turnbull hadn't caught his mistake and brought it to the Inspector's attention before the forms were sent to Ottawa, it could have delayed the Ambassador's trip for over a week. And though Fraser felt no ill will towards the Ambassador, he almost wished the error had never been found. To be shown up by Constable Turnbull, of all people!

Fraser stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Canadian Consulate, where even now Constable Renfield Turnbull was standing at attention on guard duty. Benton took little satisfaction from the fact that Diefenbaker was sniffing some exceptionally personal places of his fellow Constable's uniform. Fraser caught his wolf's eye and summoned him with a single word. "Dief." The wolf looked up into his friend's face with concern, sensing the Mountie's melancholy mood. "Let's go for a walk," Fraser sighed.

Fraser needed to try and clear his head, and Dief could use the exercise anyway. "You've gotten soft Diefenbaker," Fraser scolded, but he couldn't work up the energy to put any feeling behind his words. //I've gotten soft, too.//

Dief's only response was to increase his pace. The sooner they could get this little walk over with and get the Mountie off the street and into the relative safety of his quarters at the Consulate, the better.

Scant minutes later they turned onto West Racine. They arrived at number 221 without incident, which could be expected in any other neighborhood but was considered an act of God in this area of town. Ben raised his head and regarded his burned building with a look of vague recollection, then softly stepped inside and climbed the stairs to apartment 3J, wolf at his heels. Diefenbaker settled down on the scorched floor, never taking his eyes off of his packmate.

Fraser looked around at his former living quarters vacantly; his thoughts were not focused exclusively on this small, charred apartment, though it had once made up such a large measure of his world here in Chicago. He was surprised to find he missed this place immensely, but the Mountie could observe no distinct reason why. The only compelling memories he had of this place were all unpleasant: Victoria, finding Dief in a pool of blood, being held captive by a pair of brothers bent on revenge... But for some reason when he stood in this burnt building with no walls, Fraser felt a warmth he had been lacking since his move to the Consulate. He couldn't pin down any one explanation for why this apartment or his time here was so important, just that it was, and he desperately wished that he still lived here.

Fraser was distracted from his thoughts by a decidedly cold and wet nose rubbing against the exposed area between the top of his glove and the bottom of his coat sleeve, and he reached down to rub his gloved hand across Dief's muzzle reassuringly. "Come on, Diefenbaker."

The walk back to the Consulate went quickly, due in great part to Dief's rapid gait. When they arrived back at the Consulate, Constable Benton Fraser trudged past the reception area to his own quarters, the buzzing of Turnbull's chatter a faint hum on the edge of his consciousness.

Benton entered his small living quarters and closed the door behind Dief, not bothering with the lock. He slowly began the process of removing his red Serge, carefully unbuckling and unbuttoning the complicated piece of clothing. His jodhpurs and boots soon joined it in a pile on the floor, quickly followed by his RCMP issue long johns. Ben stood naked in the middle of his quarters, wholly unsure of himself.

He was feeling a certain melancholy, he realized that. But what to do about it? He hadn't a clue. //If Ray were here--// Ben quickly stopped that line of thinking. It would get him nowhere. That was the problem, wasn't it? Ray wasn't there. Not the *real* Ray; not *his* Ray.

//He's been gone nearly a year and a half now,// Ben thought with some wonder. He rarely allowed himself the indulgence of consciously counting the days since Ray Vecchio had gone undercover, but Benny knew that for the last 18 months he had involuntarily been ticking the days off in his mind. It was as much a part of his daily ritual as were his Consulate duties or caring for Dief.

Ben had convinced himself in the beginning that as time passed he would miss Ray less, but just the opposite was true. Benny missed Ray more now than ever. That's why his work had been slipping. If Benny was really truthful with himself, he had to admit that this wasn't the first time Turnbull had shown him up. But it was certainly the worst.

The presence of Stanley Raymond Kowalski had eased the pain somewhat. More than somewhat. Benny still had someone to tag-along with, someone to let him be a real cop. And to be his friend. But he wasn't Ray.

//He never will be,// Benny thought with a sigh. //I may call him Raymond Vecchio, but he'll never be Ray. No one ever could. Except Ray.// A single teardrop traced a quick path to land on Benny's top lip, which was even now curving into a small, sad smile.

Mentally shaking himself, Ben realized he had been standing in his quarters for the last fifteen minutes wearing nothing but his pride, which even he had to admit had been slipping a bit recently. Better just to make it an early night and go to bed. Ben really knew he should put on some pajamas, but he just couldn't work up the momentum; he was so exhausted after the emotional upheaval of the day that he went directly to sleep, without even reading out of his father's journal.

From under the table, Dief silently harrumphed at his packmate. He was young, physically fit, unmated and going to bed at six on a Friday night. *Alone*. //Humans!// Dief thought, not without a great amount of pity for the lot of them.

~*~

The GTO pulled up outside the Canadian Consulate unnoticed. Stanley Raymond Kowalski stepped out and glanced around, looking for trouble. In downtown Chicago after dark , even a gun and badge were little comfort. Taking one last look around, Stan walked into the alley beside the large building and glanced up at Fraser's window. //No light. Why was I checking for a light? If there had been one, I'd still be goin' up there. This is what prolonged exposure to Canadians does to people. First you start doing all sorts of bizarre things like hanging outside a Mountie's window for no reason. Then you start talking to yourself, and you're not even surprised when it's the dullest conversation you've had in weeks.// Shaking his head at his Mountie-addled brains, the detective returned to the front of the building and walked inside, paying Turnbull even less attention than usual.

When he reached Fraser's door Stan knocked lightly, still unsure if he was expecting an answer or not. When he didn't get one, he knocked a bit louder. Still no answer. Deciding to live life on the wild side, Stan tried the doorknob. It wasn't locked, so he opened the door an inch and peeked in. Greeted only by silence, he pushed the door open all the way and stepped inside, gently closing it behind himself.

It took a moment for Stan's eyes to adjust to the darkness, and the first thing he saw was Dief sitting at his feet, silently begging for something. This wasn't Dief's normal please-give-me-Milk-Duds-and-jelly-donuts-preferably-in-large-quantities look. This was something different, and Stan couldn't put his finger on what Dief was silently saying. But he knew it wasn't good.

The second thing Stan saw was an obviously naked Fraser lying on his back, asleep in bed, head gently lolling to the right.

It wasn't that Fraser was exposed, exactly; the important parts were completely covered. What gave Fraser's nudity away was the pale expanse of skin stretching all the way from Fraser's left shoulder, past his bare hip, to the toes of his size eleven foot. The thin blanket he used, even in this 22° weather, covered the rest of his body.

Deciding maybe he should leave the Canadian to his frost bite--//What exactly is Frase doing sleeping *naked* in weather like this?//--Stan turned around, eyes focused on the door, his escape from this most awkward incident, when he was stopped in his tracks by a sleepy voice.

"Ray? What are you doing here?" The voice sounded not angry, merely inquisitive.

Stan slowly turned back to face the Canadian, dreading what he might see, only to find Fraser sitting up with his back against the wall and legs stretched out in front of him, the blanket completely covering his body from the waist down.

"Um, well, I..." Stan stuttered, trying to remember exactly why he *had* come here. Oh yeah... "I thought you were gonna meet me at the station after your shift was over to help me on the Navarre case, and ya didn't show, so I figured I'd come see what was up." //That's right, Kowalski, play it cool.//

"You were worried, Ray?" Fraser asked in a sweet voice full of something approaching childlike wonder.

"Well, I..." Stan muttered, turning his head away so he wouldn't have to face those clear, blue eyes.

"I certainly do appreciate the thought Ray, but I can assure you I am fine," Frase said, smiling slightly. "Though I must apologize; I should have called to let you know I would not be able to be of assistance this evening."

"Oh, it's no problem. Just thought I'd check to see if everything was alright," Stan shrugged his shoulders dismissively as he turned towards the door. Just before he reached it though, Stan turned back to face Fraser uncertainly, not quite making eye contact. "You sure ya okay, Frase?" Before the Mountie could respond, the detective continued. "I mean, it's not even seven o'clock at night and you're already in bed. And on a Friday," he finished, finally meeting Fraser's eyes.

"Oh, I was just a little tired, that's all. Thought I'd turn in early. I assure you Ray, I'm perfectly--"

"--Yeah, I know, you're fine," Stan finished, cutting the Canadian off. This "I'm fine" act could mean one of two things; either Frase really was fine or something was seriously wrong, and Stan wasn't sure which it was. "Come on, why don't you come out with me?" Stan offered hesitantly.

"I don't know, Ray..." Frase trailed off uncertainly.

"Oh, come on. We could grab something to eat, go have a beer, maybe go to a club and listen to some music..."

"Well..." Frase was still uncertain, and he glanced down to his feet as if they would offer him an answer.

"I mean, if you don't want to, that's okay..." Stan trailed off sulkily, head down.

"It's not that I don't want to accompany you, Ray--"

"Great. It's settled then," Stan said, cutting Frase off.

After a somewhat bewildered pause, the Mountie finally conceded, "Alright, Ray. Just give me a few minutes to get dressed, and we can leave." When Stan didn't move, Frase continued, "If you don't mind..."

This seemed to startle the detective out of whatever reverie he had slipped into. "Oh, yeah..." he said, spinning to face the door, his cheeks turning slightly red.

From where he was standing, Stan could hear the sound of the bedclothes being pushed aside, followed by Frase's footsteps as he padded across the room and the slight swoosh as Frase opened his closet door and began rifling through his clothes in search of something to wear.

Dief stepped in front of Stan and pawed at his leg. When Stan looked down into the wolf's eyes he could almost see relief on the lupine face, and... gratitude.

//Definitely spending too much time around Canadians.//

Stan turned away from Dief when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Before him stood a fully dressed Canadian, ready for a night on the town, or at least ready for a John Denver concert. "Hey Frase, don't you have anything but white sweaters and flannel? You look like a lumberjack."

"Sorry, Ray. I could find something more appropriate if you'd prefer."

"You don't *have* anything more appropriate, do ya Frase." It wasn't really a question.

"No, Ray," Frase answered, without a hint of remorse in his voice, as he reached for his leather jacket.

Rolling his eyes as he released an exasperated sigh, Stan muttered, "C'mon Frase, let's go."

"Ray, I could-- "

"Forget it, Fraser.

"Understood, Ray."

With that, the two men stepped into the hall, closed the door firmly behind them, and headed downstairs to the GTO. Dief didn't have to be told to stay behind. Benton didn't need him now. He needed to spend time around other humans, and Dief knew he'd only get in the way. He would draw attention to Ben, but not the kind his fellow Canadian needed right now. What Ben needed was other people to want to talk to *him* and be around *him*, not the Mountie in the red Serge, and Dief would only draw all sorts of questions that would no doubt focus on the RCMP and the wilds of the Yukon. The Canadian man needed to be Ben for one night, not Constable Fraser.

So Dief resigned himself to spending the night alone, in a dark room, with only a bowl of kibble to keep him company. Well, that and the rat that had just chosen the wrong Consulate to mosey into.

//No kibble for me tonight... Ooh, he smells like Milk Duds!//

~*~

Benton emerged onto the street, with Stan at his back, and, turning, started walking further into downtown Chicago.

"Hey Frase, you don't want to take the car?" Stan asked, slightly puzzled, but not nearly as puzzled as he would have been a year and a half ago. He was getting used to these little quirks in the Mountie's personality that were just too irregular to be called idiosyncrasies.

Benton was about 5 steps ahead of his partner, and turned to see the other man standing next to the passenger door. "No, Ray. I could use the walk. You don't mind, do you?"

"Well, Frase, it is about 20° out and we aren't all Nanook of the North. Some of us would actually prefer *not* to freeze to death."

"Ray, if we walk fast, we'll keep warm," the Mountie replied as if speaking to a child, gesturing for Stan to precede him.

Stan wasn't budging, though. "*My* police force doesn't issue me thermal underwear." Though that *was* true, beneath the jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, sweatshirt, and trench coat he had on, Stan was in fact wearing long johns, but he wasn't going to let anyone know that, least of all Frase. It would be like he was endorsing them or something. //And I just know what I'll be getting for every Christmas from now until the day I die if Frase ever finds out I wear these things.// Stan knew that wasn't strictly true, but he felt it was better to err on the side of caution when it came to his Canadian counterpart.

"You should speak to the Leftenant about that. I always thought it was something that the Chicago police force was lacking," the Mountie answered in all sincerity.

"Yeah, Frase, I'll do that. Now will you get in the car?" Stan asked exasperatedly, opening the passenger door and gesturing for Fraser to get in.

"Alright, Ray," Fraser agreed amicably, taking the few steps needed to get to the car. The cop waited until the Canadian was settled in his seat and Stan had firmly closed his passenger door before he'd walk around to his own side of the car. He didn't really expect Frase to *bolt*, per se, but he wasn't taking any chances. "Thank you kindly, Ray," Fraser answered pleasantly, not suspecting Stan's more selfish reason, the fact that he just didn't feel like running down a Mountie right now, for being such a gentleman.

Stan's only answer was a grunt as he walked around the car to the driver's side. He was suddenly very tired.

"So where are we going, Ray?" the Mountie inquired.

"Well, since I haven't had anything except M&Ms since this morning, I figured we'd get something to eat first. I'm so hungry, my stomach's beginning to think my throat's been cut." When the Mountie began inspecting Stan's throat, he quickly batted the large hand away. "I didn't mean literary--"

"I believe you mean 'literally,' Ray."

"Don't interrupt me. I didn't mean *literally* that my throat was cut. It's just a saying. What, are figures of speech illegal up in Canada? "

"That's just silly, Ray."

"Of course, Frase. Thank you for that insight. What was I thinking?"

"I've often wondered that myself."

"Hey Frase?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"Stop talking."

"Understood, Ray."

With that, Stan drove off into the dark Chicago night, praying to whatever deity that watches over undercover Polish detectives that he could somehow find the strength not to kill the man sitting next to him.

~*~

"You're doing that on purpose," Frase accused as Stan made yet another illegal turn.

"Doing what, Frase?" Stan asked, playing dumb, though he knew exactly what Frase meant. He was running stop signs and making illegal turns left and right, and he just knew what that would do to Fraser.

As Stan ran through his third stop sign of the night, Frase sighed resignedly and said, "Nothing, Ray."

"No, what am I doing?"

"Well, Ray, you are deliberately ignoring the traffic laws, specifically to annoy me."

"What makes you say that, Frase?" Stan inquired even as he made a turn without signaling.

"The fact that you just made yet *another* turn without employing your blinker."

"No I didn't."

"You didn't, Ray?"

"No Frase, I sure didn't."

"Ah. My mistake. Sorry, Ray."

"No problem Frase. Besides we're here," Stan said as he abruptly pulled to a halt in front of a run-down, possibly even condemned, warehouse, the jolt as the car stopped enough to force the Mountie to brace himself against the dash.

"What is this place, Ray?" Frase asked as he stepped out of the car and looked up at the looming, and slightly wobbling, building.

"This," Ray said as he stepped up onto the curb beside Frase, his arms spreading wide to encompass both the building and the weight of his words, "is an abandoned warehouse."

"What are we doing at an abandoned warehouse, Ray?"

"Parking."

"Parking, Ray?"

"Yeah, parking Frase."

"Ah. Understood, Ray."

"Good, Frase."

After a pause, Frase said, "Ray, not that I mind the warehouse, but I thought we were going to eat."

"We are Frase. Follow me." With that, Stan headed off in the direction of a small crowd of people, hazily illuminated by the soft glow of the lights of an Italian restaurant a few blocks away.

~*~

Fraser recognized the place immediately, but he couldn't--didn't want to--let Stan know that. Stan's predecessor had brought him here, just enough times for it to mean, in some subtle way, "Ray" to him. Ben had even recognized the condemned warehouse; it had been in the same condition for nearly three years now. //I had almost the exact same conversation with Ray the first time he brought me here. For a second I could almost pretend it *was* Ray.// Benny immediately stopped that line of thought. He had first hand experience that pretending, even for just a moment, that Ray was still here only made him feel the loss more keenly when he finally came back to himself... and reality. He found that those particular sorts of daydreams were better suited to late-night contemplation when he was alone and less likely to publicly embarrass himself, and the only person around to notice his sudden downward shift in mood was himself.

Stan was so like Ray, even without Benny's self-delusion. It was bittersweet comfort. Every time Stan did something that reminded him of Ray, it was salve to his soul that he still had a bit of his best friend, here in his new partner. But after that split-second of bliss was over, Benny would feel the sharp knife of anguish tearing into his heart as if he was losing Ray all over again. Because he was.

But Benny wouldn't give up his time with Stan for anything. Not just for those few blissful moments that occurred a million times a day, but because Stan truly was his friend. Even with all traces of Ray Vecchio stripped way, so that all that was left was Stanley Kowalski, he still loved Stan very much.

Ray and Stan both had told him on numerous occasions that guys just don't talk about this kind of stuff, but Ben earnestly wished that they did. He never told Ray how he felt about him. Benny knew with absolute certainty that Ray realized Ben loved him and considered him his best friend, and that had always been enough. But now it was little comfort. //If only I could have actually told him. Without having to carefully word what I was saying and without being worried he was going to get embarrassed. To have just been able to tell Ray how I felt about him, just once. But I didn't.//

He hadn't, and now Ray was gone. All he had left was Stan. Ben knew Stan understood his feelings with the same certainty that he knew Ray did. He just wished he could tell Stan how he felt, before he lost him. Just like he lost Ray.

"Hey, Frase, you in there?"

"I'm sorry?" Fraser asked, startled, coming back to himself. He didn't even remember walking into the restaurant or sitting down at this booth.

"You were off in outer space," Stan explained, smiling slightly.

"Oh, sorry Ray," Fraser replied, mentally shaking himself. He shouldn't indulge in these thoughts here, not when he and Stan were supposed to be having a good time.

"No problem Frase. So what were ya thinking about?" Stan inquired.

Giving his friend a reassuring smile, Fraser answered, "Nothing of consequence." He could almost make himself believe that.

"Oh. Well whatcha gonna have?" Stan asked, gesturing at Fraser's menu.

Fraser hadn't even been aware he was holding a menu until now. "I'm not sure yet," Fraser answered, burying his face in the list of pastas. Gazing down at the Italian delicacies, Fraser mentally pushed Ray Vecchio from his mind. He could almost make himself believe that was possible, too.

~*~

Stan looked at his partner covertly from behind his menu, quietly studying the Mountie's features. Something was very, very wrong. Frase was *way* more withdrawn than usual, and though the stoic I'm-fine-Ray act normally worked, it would have been obvious to a bout of dysentery that the Canadian was upset. Not even Frase could play off that incident earlier with the menu. He had been holding it for a good five minutes before he even noticed it was in his hands. Frase had tried to regain his composure, but Stan saw the mask slip, if only for just a moment, and it had him worried.

Deep down Stan knew that Fraser was just as human as any other man and was entitled to be in a funk every now and then if he felt like it, but this knowledge was buried about as deeply as the knowledge that he really had given up on his failed marriage and actually was over Stella, and Stan tried to avoid that place as much as possible. It was an almost conscious decision. He couldn't admit that he was alone or that the best friend he secretly idolized was mortal just like everyone else.

//So for now I'll just pretend that everything's okay. Nothing's wrong with Frase until he says it is. Which he never will. Fine. Everything will be just fine.// The detective need only look to his best friend's face to see that wasn't true.

//Okay, revised plan: I'll leave Frase alone until he comes to me--yeah, right--or until it gets to a point where I have to step in. Until then, we'll just go along like we both believe everything's okay.//

Another look at Frase.

//Okay, so maybe it *is* time to step in. Talking won't help, a year-and-a-half should have taught me that.//

A third look at Frase.

//We'll just spend tonight forgetting that I'm an imposter living someone else's life and that he isn't really Super Mountie. We're just two guys, two friends, going out for a drink after work. Nothin' more, nothin' less. Normal. That's what we are, normal.//

And though he had never met his predecessor, Stan imagined he could hear Ray Vecchio, the man he had so completely and inadequately replaced, openly laughing at him, //If you believe that, Stanley my boy, I got this great bridge I can sell ya!// He hated it when people called him Stanley or laughed at him. What was this Ray Vecchio doing, getting into his brain, calling him names only his mother was allowed to use and embarrassing him as only Stella could?

As soon as that thought passed through his mind, Stanley regretted it, if only for it's complete and thorough lack of sense. //Good thing Ray Vecchio isn't *really* up there. He'd be having a field day with me right about now. I bet Vecchio's somewhere in Jersey or Vegas or wherever it is they send the mob's bookmen, right now laughing his ass off at the poor bastard who got suckered into agreeing to take his place and deal with the Mountie and his stupid Inuit stories and his damned total lack of imperfections!//

Stan was suddenly startled to realize he was sitting in a restaurant being served his Chicken Marinara by a cute little waitress and not in a boxing ring duking it out with Ray Vecchio. He mentally started counting to 78--just to ten never seemed to do the trick for Stan, but he found that if he made a concentrated effort, somewhere around 75 he was able to rein in the impulse to just kick someone in the head. Feeling a bit calmer, Stan was able to face Fraser with a somewhat more composed expression.

Frase had already starting picking at his Fettuccine Alfredo, and though his appetite was less than enthusiastic, when Stan made a joke and asked him to pass the Parmesan, Frase's face was just a bit more open and he gave Stan a genuine smile, not the one he flashed to every old lady he passed on the street, one that made Stan believe that maybe things were going to be okay. Or if not okay, at least their world wasn't going to come crashing down around their ears anytime in the near future. Well, at least not tonight.

~*~

They paid their cover and stepped into the bar. Stan spotted a corner booth near the back and headed towards it, checking behind him to make sure he still had the Mountie with him. He had thought it was going to take all night before they finally made it through the door; Frase had insisted on letting everybody and his brother precede them. Stan finally had to just grab the Canadian's arm and drag him inside.

When they were finally settled in their booth and they had given their drink orders to the waitress, Stan leaned back in the circular corner booth, spreading his arms out across the seat back and surveying the bar almost like a sovereign surveying his territory.

"So what do you think, Frase?" Stan asked, a large grin on his face.

"About what Ray?"

"About Rosie's, the bar? What do you think?"

Fraser considered the thirty or so people dancing, the loud, raucous music, and the stench of alcohol and smoke pervading the establishment.

"It's very nice, Ray."

"Well, thank you for your enthusiasm," Stan replied sourly, taking his arms down from the seatback and leaning forward.

"I'm sorry, Ray; it really is nice. Thank you for bringing me here." Frase smiled genuinely at his friend, and something inside Stan melted, as it always did when Fraser smiled at him like that. Not that he would ever let Fraser know that fact, or anyone else for that matter. "Thank you kindly, Christal," Frase said to the waitress as she set down their drinks. The waitress, for her part, was fairly beaming by the time she walked away from the table.

"I think she likes you, Frase," Stan teased, an amused smile lighting up his face.

"What makes you think--," Frase paused as he saw Stan take a swig of his beer. He continued worriedly, "Ray, are you sure you should be drinking?"

"Sure, I'm sure, Frase. Why?" Stan asked as he settled back and took another drink.

"Well, you are driving, and I'm not sure you should be drinking while intoxicated."

"Jeez, Frase, it's only one beer."

"Yes, but--"

"No buts, Fraser. It is physically impossible for me to get drunk from one beer. Now enjoy yourself."

"Understood, Ray."

"Good. Now I'm going to go over there and ask that girl to dance," Stan said, indicating a petite woman leaning against the far wall. "Now I suggest you do the same thing... Wait, you can dance, right?" Stan asked beginning to get worried.

"Of course, Ray. I have danced at many Inuit tribal celebrations. You know, the Inuit have a separate, distinctive dance for every occasion. For instance, during the celebration of the Winter Solstice they..."

Stan wasn't really paying attention anymore; he was just glad to be hearing his friend's voice. //I never thought I'd be happy to be listening to one of those damned Inuit stories.// Stan had been smiling and nodding in what he thought were the appropriate places, but Fraser was now giving him a quizzical look.

"Ah." Stan knew that that "ah" could only mean trouble.

"What does that mean, Frase?"

"What does what mean, Ray?"

"That 'ah.' What did you mean by that?"

"Oh, that. Nothing, Ray."

"It wasn't nothing, Frase, it was an 'ah.' It had to mean something. What did it mean?"

"Nothing in particular, Ray," the Mountie paused, but at Ray's threatening look continued, "just that I asked if you minded the trout that was sticking out of your left nostril, and you nodded and smiled at me... You weren't paying attention to me, were you?"

Frase didn't seem hurt or angry, just amused, but Stan decided to take a chance and balls it. "Of course I was listening. I just, uh, thought it was a... metaphor."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Frase."

"A metaphor, Ray?"

"Yes, Frase, a metaphor. I figured since it turns out you Canadians got on that figure-of-speech bandwagon right along with the States, you guys had metaphors up there, too."

"Oh we do, Ray."

"Good, it's agreed then." When his inquisitive look got a nod out of the Mountie, Stan's face took on a very self-satisfied look as he leaned back into his seat again.

"A metaphor for what, Ray?"

"Huh?" Ray suddenly sat up and looked slightly worriedly at the Mountie.

"A metaphor for what, Ray?" The Mountie repeated. Frase had called Stan's bluff and they both knew it.

After about ten seconds racking his brains for a suitable answer, Stan finally yielded to the inevitable. "For the fact that I wasn't listening to you?"

"Yes. I believe that's it, exactly," Frase answered, a large, ice floe-melting smile lighting up his face.

~*~

After two hours of watered-down beer and loud music, Fraser was ready to go home, but from the looks of things, Stan was prepared to stay until dawn, or at least until the management kicked him out. Fraser took a moment to consider his friend. It was obvious Stan was worried about him, and had brought him here in a not-terribly-well-disguised attempt to cheer him up. Though it hadn't had the desired effect, Frase was really grateful that Stan had gone to so much trouble just for *him*. It still surprised Fraser when people showed they cared, even though he knew that he had many people who cared about him here in Chicago. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Stan's attempt to cheer him up, it was just that it was going to take more than a night on the town to erase Ray Vecchio from his mind.

Frase looked at the clock over the bar and realized their night on the town had sometime in the last hour become a morning on the town. Stan, however, seemed deeply engrossed in the band that had come on shortly after the two men arrived. Frase couldn't remember the name exactly, but he knew they were some local blues band. After about five minutes of contemplating whether to ask Stan to leave or to just wait it out until the bar closed or Stan decided to go home, whichever came first, Fraser came to a decision.

"Ray..."

"Hmm?"

A beat and then a bit louder, "Ray."

The Mountie had finally got a firm, if somewhat tenuous, hold on the cop's attention. "Yeah, Frase?" Stan asked, only briefly glancing back at the band on stage before returning his attention to the Canadian.

"I think I should be getting back to the Consulate. It's very late, and I'm sure Dief will need me to let him out before too long."

"Sure thing, Frase. Just give me a minute to pay our tab, and we'll get going."

"No, Ray, you should stay. You're still enjoying yourself. I can walk home."

"But Frase, I need to give you a ride back."

"Oh, that's quite alright, Ray. We are actually only a few blocks from the Consulate. I could easily walk back from here. I think the walk would do me some good," Frase assured the detective, flashing him a reassuring smile.

"Well, if you're sure..." Stan trailed off uncertainly, looking from Fraser to the band and back again.

"Yes, quite sure, Ray. You shouldn't worry. I'll be fine. Enjoy the rest of your evening," Frase instructed with a smile as he rose from his seat.

Stan still looked a bit worried but amiably accepted the bills from Fraser to cover the Mountie's portion of their tab. "Alright then... You have the day off tomorrow, right Frase?" At the Mountie's nod of affirmation, Stan continued, "I'll stop by sometime tomorrow, we can go to a hockey game or something."

"I'd like that, Ray," the Mountie agreed with an affectionate smile. "See you tomorrow, then."

With that, Fraser turned and walked out of the bar, heading towards the Consulate.

After a few minutes in the frigid air, Fraser removed his coat. He could feel the cold night air cutting through his sweater and he licked his lips, just to feel the icy air chap them. Winter was supposed to feel much colder than this, at least 50° cooler than it was now, but Ben was happy for the few minutes in the freezing air, sans outerwear. The Canadian increased his pace feeing momentarily exhilarated as the cold wind whipped around his face. //If Ray were here, he'd make some comment about freezing off various body parts. Stan would, too, for that matter. Ray would probably toss in a quip about it being too bad that there are no horse carcasses around with which to encase ourselves, though.// For the first time in a long while, it didn't hurt quite so much to think about Ray. It still hurt, indeed it hurt very much, but the pain that normally stabbed through Benny's heart was easing, and a surprising warmth was filling his chest.

But the warmth was meager and short-lived. The Mountie lowered his head slightly and reined in his momentary emotional burst.

He was back at the Consulate.

For a few moments he hadn't been a Mountie, or a Canadian, or even Ben Fraser. He had simply existed, in the cold, with the surprisingly heartwarming memories of a lost friend. Now it was time to return to his life.

As Fraser mounted the steps, he put his jacket back on, rather than deal with the disapproving or, even worse, curious remarks he was sure to face from whomever happened to be on duty inside.

Diefenbaker was lying asleep on the floor when Fraser opened the door to his quarters but was instantly at the Mountie's side, whining slightly.

"Yes, I had quite a good time."

A warning yip from Dief.

"No, I'm not lying. I really did have a very nice time. Ray and I enjoyed an exceptional meal and afterwards visited an establishment called Rosie's and listened to what I am led to believe is very good blues music."

A small snuffle.

"No, I didn't bring you any leftovers. You had plenty of food here, and you don't need all that heavy cream sauce. You've been gaining weight."

A groan of exasperation.

"You have. You really do need to get more exercise."

A yap of disapproval.

"We can discuss it in the morning, Diefenbaker. Ray and I have plans for tomorrow, and I should be well rested."

Another snuffle.

"No, I don't know if you're invited, but I will ask Ray if you may accompany us."

A sniff of acquiescence and Dief walked to his small bedroll and laid down.

With a final glance at his wolf, Fraser slowly removed his clothes and walked to his small window. Ben opened the window about halfway and just stood with his hand pressed against the top pane of glass, the cold wind raising goose bumps on his bare skin. He didn't usually indulge this way, but his window overlooked the back of an alley and the chances of anyone seeing him were virtually nil. Ben lost all track of time until a soft whine from Dief reminded him that it was 20° outside and he was naked and his wolf was getting cold.

With a resigned sigh, Fraser closed the window and fastened the latch. He stopped on the way to his bed to check the lock on the door. Tonight Fraser wanted to be alone with his thoughts. And so the Mountie, who everyone saw as a paradigm of strength, dressed himself in thermal pajamas and retreated to his bed for a fitful night of sleep, filled with thoughts of a lost friend and dreams of a would-be lover.

~*~

Fraser awoke to glaring sunlight and checked his watch. 10:07 a.m. Fraser groaned and literally rolled out of bed, knocking his head, which was already hurting from oversleeping, on the nightstand. The Mountie stood and looked around the room. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept so late.

Dressing quickly, Fraser went to check his mailbox in the office of the Consulate. Granted, Stan was probably still sleeping, but Fraser thought he should check his messages just in case he had called to cement their plans. Looking over his phone messages, Fraser absently picked up his mail. There were three letters, one from a credit card company Fraser had never heard of demanding payment, one from the same company inviting Fraser to apply for their credit card, both of which Fraser deposited in the waste bin, and one from Buck Frobisher, which Fraser tucked under his arm to read later. Fraser turned to check his mailbox one last time to be sure he hadn't missed a phone message and spotted a postcard that had been lying under Sergeant Frobisher's letter. With a touch of surprise, Fraser reached to pick it up.

The front of the card displayed an aerial view of what appeared to be a large hotel. The caption at the bottom proclaimed, "Grand Elizabethan Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada," in bright yellow letters. Fraser studied the front but couldn't remember having ever heard of the place. Turning the postcard over, Ben immediately recognized the handwriting, and with a shocked intake of breath and a total lack of aplomb, Benny dropped the postcard. Shakily, he picked the thing back up and again looked at the back.

The stamp featured the picture of some flower Benny couldn't be bothered to name at this moment but at any other time would have instantly recognized as a Marigold. A large, white 32 was emblazoned across the corner of the stamp, fairly mocking those who remembered a time when stamps only cost a quarter. The postmark confirmed that the card did indeed originate in Las Vegas, and had been mailed two days prior. There was a second caption on this side of the card, featuring more information on the hotel and giving a toll free number one could call if one wanted to book a stay at the Grand Elizabethan. Just above that was Benny's name, spelled by the sender as Benton Fraser, but no doubt pronounced by the same as Benny Frasier. Directly beneath his name were the words "Canadian Consulate," and beneath that was the address of the Consulate in Chicago.

Benny took all this in without actually reading the message. He couldn't bring himself to look at those three little words printed there.

               I miss you.

               --RV

//RV. Ray Vecchio. I miss you, signed Ray Vecchio. 18 months, and nothing. And now this. A postcard. For all I knew, he was dead.// With that thought, Benny let out a small whimper and suddenly realized where he was--the middle of the main office of the Consulate. Benny stuffed the postcard into his jeans back pocket, lest he drop it again, and nearly ran back to his room.

Locking his door as he entered, Benny headed to his bed and sat down heavily. He forced himself to calm down and take deep breaths. When he felt he was as composed as he was going to get, Benny removed the card from his pocket, shifting slightly to reach it.

He slowly examined it again, half expecting the message to have somehow changed in the time it took him to reach his quarters, or more likely, that he had imagined the whole thing and now that he was calm it would turn out the card was something entirely more plausible like a purple goose with two heads.

But no, there it was with the same message.

               I miss you.

               --RV

//He misses me. I'm not alone.//

~*~~*~~*~