The Yank	The Yank

 by otsoko

  

 Author's Website: http://www.finnatics.com/otsoko.htm

 Disclaimer: Alliance owns them all.

 Author's Notes: Aukestrel and Kellie for the insta-beta, and catching
some embarrassing mistakes, and making it tons better. Thanks tons,
comrades!

 Story Notes: Dedication: For everyone out there that knows that the REAL
lyric from the chorus of Stan Rogers' 'Barrett's Privateers' (the one
Fraser sings in MotB) is: 
"God damn them all! We were told we'd cruise the streets for American boys
. . . " 
warning: small-n Canadian nationalism and Slashiness

 

 

 None of this would have happened if Ray hadn't left his tee-shirt here,
right by my cot. I idly picked it up as I headed for bed. I sat on the cot
and looked at it, smiling at the Chicago Bulls logo. Very Ray. I suppose I
ought not have done it, but I couldn't resist. I lifted it to my face and
inhaled. 

 It smelled of Ray. 

 I lay back on the cot and closed my eyes, his tee-shirt in my left hand
as my right . . . found something else with which to occupy it. As I
lifted the tee-shirt to my nose again, it was enough. I lay there panting,
catching my breath, when I sensed I wasn't alone. And it wasn't Dief. 

 There are some moments when one's privacy is paramount. When one had
every right to expect to be left alone, with one's thoughts and one's . .
. well, actions. 

 I suppose that it was the nightmare of all adolescent boys. Except that I
had passed that stage long ago. But my father seemed to have little sense
of propriety recently. If he ever had had any. 

 "Evening, son." 

 "Dad!" I protested, yanking the blanket over my bare and now slightly
sticky torso. 

 He grinned a sly grin. "My apologies, son. But if you don't want to be
disturbed you really ought to put a sign on the door or something." 

 "As if you'd pay any attention to that. . . " 

 "There is that, son, there is that. . . " That damned wry smile again. 

 "You're enjoying this!" My tone was accusatory. 

 "Nonsense, son." But the small smile on his face clearly indicated that
he was in fact enjoying embarrassing me. 

 His eyes traveled over the cot and grew wide as he saw what I had been
holding in my left hand while my right was . . . otherwise occupied. 

 "Son!" 

 I followed his gaze, and quickly tossed the incriminating evidence under
the cot. I sat up and leaned against the wall. He looked at me half
understanding, half accusingly. 

 "Son. Another man is hard enough to take. But a Yank?" 

 "Dad!" I pleaded. This was truly embarrassing. I could feel the redness
spread from my forehead down to my entire torso. 

 "Does this mean I should give up on thoughts of having grandchildren to
bounce on my knee?" 

 "You're dead, Dad." 

 "So you keep telling me. With overmuch delight, I might add." He sighed
deeply. "When they changed the regulations permitting . . ." He coughed.
". . . certain varieties of off-duty romantic entanglements, I never
thought that it would apply to my own son." He shook his head. 

 "There haven't been any . . . entanglements with him, Dad." 

 "Well, there's that, I suppose." He looked at me carefully. "But you want
there to be." 

 I hesitated and then nodded. 

 He let out a long sigh. "I do hate seeing you alone, son." 

 "As do I, Dad." 

 "But son, really . . . Couldn't you have at least found a Canadian? I
mean son, a Yank, for heaven's sake!" 

 "Would you prefer I take up with Buck Frobisher, Dad?" 

 "Bite your tongue! Lord, son! Death is hard enough to take without you
putting thoughts like that into my head." 

 "Well, he is a Mountie, Dad. We have a lot in common. And he might be
able to use his influence to help me return to a posting in Canada." 

 "You're just saying that to upset me, son. That is simply cruel." 

 He looked at me for a long moment before he sighed deeply, as if
accepting the information and deciding to live with it . . . or continue
dead with it. 

 "So, it's the Yank, is it?" 

 "If he'll have me." 

 "It just bothers me that you would take up with someone who doesn't share
. . . Damn, son, he's a Yank!" 

 "He is a hockey fan, Dad." 

 His eyebrows went up. "Curling?" 

 I scrambled for words. "He did spend an evening watching curling with
Constable Turnbull." That had almost led to a fight between the two, but I
decided that some discretion was due me. 

 He nodded. Curling was a major point in Ray's favour. "I just can't
imagine you sitting around a campfire with someone who's never heard of
Stan Rogers." 

 "I can teach him Stan Rogers' songs, Dad." 

 "Ah, but will he learn them, son?" 

 I looked down. "I don't know, Dad." 

 "You mean you don't know if he's interested in pursuing . . . " 

 "No, Dad." 

 He sighed. "He is, son. He is." 

 My head snapped up. "Huh?" 

 "What sort of way is that to speak? Use complete sentences, son!" 

 "Sorry. What makes you think he'd be interested, Dad?" 

 "The way the Yank looks at you, son. Dead give-away. Reminds me of the
way old Joe McTavish used to look at his trapping partner, Geoff
One-Feather. Like he couldn't wait to get him across a campfire again,
with a tub of bear grease at the ready." 

 "Dad!" My ears were burning. 

 "Lord, son! What did you think happened out in the bush?" He looked at me
carefully. "Well, I suppose it's better than having a lupine fetish." 

 "Dad!" 

 "Well, you did seem to be awfully close to that wolf sometimes, son." 

 "Dad!" 

 "How many times have I seen you run screaming from a woman into the arms,
or paws of that wolf, son?" 

 "I never ran screaming." 

 "I'm dead son, not deaf. I could hear your internal scream." 

 "My internal scream?" 

 "Yes, well . . . One's ears get quite sensitive after . . . " 

 "Death, Dad?" 

 "Yes, you needn't rub it in, son." 

 "Sorry, Dad." But I was smiling. 

 "We never really had the Talk, did we, son?" 

 "No, Dad." 

 "Well, son. It is important to take certain precautions . . . " 

 I cut him off, "And we are not going to have the Talk now, Dad." 

 "Well, thank goodness for that," he said, clearly relieved. 

 "Yes, thank goodness." 

 "Well, I suppose I have always thought that partnership was like a
marriage." 

 I looked at him with an eyebrow raised. "You and Buck Frobisher?" 

 "Perish the thought, son!" He looked at me, scandalized. "Buck Frobisher!
Lord, son! The man's intestinal problems would make . . . " He saw the
twinkle in my eyes, "You're having a go at me!" He accused. "That's not
showing the proper filial respect, son." 

 I let a smile cross my face. "I'm going to sleep now, Dad." 

 "Good night, son." I could feel his eyes on me as I lay with my back to
him. He whispered, "Let him know, son." 

 I sighed. "I don't know how, Dad. I don't know how." 

 "Find a way, son. Find a way." 

End