Serendipity Style 2      Serendipity Style 2

 by Jonah in the Whale

  

 

 Disclaimer: see previous story

 Author's Notes: Thanks be to WolfWalker, for the Inuit dreamcatcher tale
which made this story so much better. (In fact, it saved it from being
mush)

 Story Notes: Spoiling--Eclipse, MotB, Mountie Sings the Blues, Ladies Man

Special Note: This is pre-slash; it contains some UST, but no romping.

 This story is a sequel to: Serendipity Style 1 

 

 "Do you believe in ghosts?" asked Ray. 

 It was later that evening, and they sat at Ray's table, eating home-made
hamburgers--Ray had insisted on hamburgers after being deprived of his
hotdog, so Fraser had insisted on the 'homemade' part. The consumption of
the hamburgers had proceeded in relative silence, broken only by the
occasional moans of pretended starvation from a hammish Diefenbaker, and
the frequent loud 'mmmm's and other growlings from Ray, clearly in ecstasy
because his sense of taste had returned. 

 "You're drooling again, Ray," said Fraser. 

 Ray mopped his chin with a napkin and lined it up with several other used
ones. "So do you?" 

 "Believe in ghosts?" Fraser swallowed his mouthful, and checked the room
before answering. "To be honest, I'm not sure." 

 "There's ghosts in here?" 

 "No," assured Fraser. "At least, none that I can see." 

 Ray licked sauce off his fingers in contemplative fashion. "None that you
can see, huh... so you're saying you've seen ghosts before." 

 "Not in here." At least, he couldn't at this moment recall seeing his
father in Ray's apartment before... 

 "Not just here, I mean anywhere." 

 "That depends," said Fraser. 

 "On what?" 

 "On whether you think I am completely sane, or not." 

 "You're nuts, Fraser, everybody knows that." 

 "Then the answer is no." 

 "No, Fraser, the answer is yes. Only nutty people see ghosts." Ray
gripped his burger firmly between two hands and, elbows braced on the
table, lunged to take a bite. 

 "Not so," said Fraser. "By your reasoning, if I was 'nuts', then I could
not be seeing ghosts, because any claim I made to see ghosts would be
considered delusional." 

 "That's the point, Fraser. You say, 'I see ghosts' and we say, 'Fraser,
you're nuts'." 

 "Ah." Fraser considered this. "By the way, you're drooling again." 

 "Yeah, thanks Frase." Ray snatched another from the dwindling pile of
napkins. "How come you never drool? And don't say it's because you're a
mountie." 

 "In this instance, it would be because I forswore the tomato sauce, the
mayonnaise, the mustard, and the chili sauce." 

 Ray pointed. "Your burger is un-American." 

 "As am I." 

 Ray grinned. "I like you anyway." 

 "And I you, Ray." 

 For long moments they looked at each other. Fraser noted the smudge of
sauce on Ray's lower lip, the bonyness of his thin wrists poking out of
the sleeves of his sweater, the way his slender fingers curled around his
overstuffed burger. The light shone from behind him, casting shadows on
his face. It made the irises of his eyes seem very dark. 

 Ray shook his head, and averted his eyes. "Whoa." 

 "What is it, Ray?" 

 "Nothing. Burger's getting cold." He bit hugely into the remains and
chomped his mouthful rigorously. 

 "Right you are." 

 In less than a minute, Ray had finished his burger. Looking down at his
plate, he drew squiggles in the sauce with the tip of his finger. "You
know," he said to the plate, "if you saw ghosts, I'd believe you saw
ghosts. I don't mean I'd believe in them, but I wouldn't think you were
delusional." 

 There didn't seem to be anything he could say to that, except to point
out it didn't quite make logical sense--which, he knew immediately, would
be a terrible mistake. Truth could be remarkably resistant to logic and,
whether he would admit it or not, Ray's words were spoken from the heart.
Since such matters were not Fraser's forte, he elected to remain silent,
consuming the last mouthfuls of his burger. 

 Meanwhile, Ray had risen, and now came back to the table with a beer for
himself, and--most welcome--a glass of milk for Fraser. Ray took a long
swallow of the beer before rejoining Fraser at the table. 

 "I had this dream the other day," began Ray, fiddling with his beer.
Fraser made a sound of encouragement, and he continued. "We were being
chased by a witch, you and me. We were running through all these different
landscapes, uh, deserts, and forests, and grassy plains, you know, and
sometimes we'd lose sight of her, but always just before we ran into
another landscape, we'd see her there, far away but still on our tail." 

 "What was the witch going to do to us, if she caught us?" asked Fraser. 

 "I don't know, maybe boil us in her cauldron and eat us--it's not
important, Fraser. Anyway, finally we ran into a city, and we found an
amusement park. We went into this place, it was a house of illusions, and
we found we could change ourselves into anything we wanted. I changed into
a tiger so I could eat the witch, and you changed into a bird. Then you
told me to change into a bird, too, so that we could fly away from the
witch, so she could never catch us." 

 Ray stopped. As he didn't seem inclined to continue, Fraser prompted him
with, "So what did you decide?" 

 "I changed into a bird," said Ray, "and we flew away together, escaped up
into the heavens where she couldn't ever catch us." 

 "That sounds like a very uplifting dream," said Fraser. 

 "The flying bit was amazing. The other bit was scary." 

 "I can imagine." 

 "So, what do you think it means?" asked Ray. 

 "Well..." Fraser sipped his milk, before replying. "The true meaning
behind a dream often depends on the context." 

 "You mean, when it happened?" 

 "Yes, and the circumstances that prompted it. For instance, the witch
might represent an actual person, or she could be a metaphor for something
in your life that you are afraid of, or perhaps a symbol of-" 

 "It was just a witch--you know, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty--a witch." 

 "But as you're not Snow White or Sleeping Beauty," said Fraser, a touch
teasingly, "it follows that the witch must signify something other than
being a witch." 

 Ray nodded. "Okay. Um, when I had the dream--it was last week, after we
wrapped that case with the country singer--Tracy Jenkins or whatever." 

 "Hmm. Tracy Jenkins doesn't strike me as much of a witch. And I see no
reason for you to run from her." 

 "It wasn't just me running," Ray reminded him. 

 "I'd have no reason to run from her, either." 

 "You told me she wanted you to go on tour with her." 

 "I also told you I refused her offer." 

 "Did you kiss her?" 

 "Is this pertinent to the dream?" 

 Ray dropped his gaze. "No. Sorry. Don't know why I said that. Okay, so
the witch isn't Tracy Jenkins." 

 "When you say we were running," mused Fraser. "Were we running equally,
or was one of us leading the other?" 

 "I don't know, it was a stupid dream, just forget about it." 

 Ray had gone defensive, which was never good. Switching tactics, Fraser
tried to lighten the mood once again. "Perhaps it's me who is Snow White,"
he said. 

 "Huh?" Ray's head jerked back up. 

 "I'm running from the witch, and you--you must be one of the seven
dwarfs." 

 "I'm not a dwarf, Fraser." 

 "Sneezy? No; Sleepy?--rarely, unfortunately; Grumpy--possibly-" 

 "Fraser-" 

 "Happy, no... you must be Dopey." 

 "I'm Prince Charming," said Ray. 

 "Oh, of course. How could I not see that?" 

 "I'm disguised as a Chicago flatfoot." 

 "So you are." 

 Ray smiled, and made a noise of disbelief in the back of his throat.
"You're unhinged." 

 "I confess it may be so." 

 Shaking his head, Ray said, "You know, I think the dream's just telling
me to listen to you more. Like today, when I went with you on the ghosts
thing. Everything worked out because I backed you up on the ghosts." 

 "Perhaps," said Fraser, "although the act of transformation, from human
to animal, would tend to suggest some deeper message..." 

 "Like what?" 

 As Fraser didn't want to end up with a defensive Ray again, he decided to
side-step. "Or it could simply be literal," he continued. "You think
you're a tiger, when really you're a bird." 

 "I'm not a bird," said Ray. "You, yes. Me, no way." 

 "I'm a bird?" 

 "Yeah, with the singing, and-" he grinned "-licking things off the
sidewalk-" 

 "Whereas you are most likely a kin to Diefenbaker, with his preference
for pizza and hamburgers..." Fraser looked down at the wolf. Diefenbaker,
eyes closed, was reposed in a manner that suggested sleep. 

 "The wolf's had it," observed Ray. 

 "It's been a long day." 

 "Yeah, look at that, it's after nine. I bet you were up with the dawn,
too. Must be about your bed time." 

 "Nearly," agreed Fraser. 

 Ray stood and gathered up his used napkins. "I'll just get cleaned up
here..." 

 Together they washed the dishes and then, as Ray wished to finish his
beer before driving Fraser back to the consulate, they retired to the
couch in the main room, where Ray played with the TV remote and Fraser...
leaned his head back and closed his eyes. 

 He struggled back from sleep to the sound of a voice. "Fraser. Fraser.
Hey, Benton-buddy." Opening his eyes, he saw Ray in front of him, bent
forwards, hands on knees. The light from the TV haloed him, and for an
instant, Fraser could swear he saw wings surrounding Ray's shoulders. He
wished for wings of his own, so that they could be together, despite the
tremendous odds against it... 

 "I didn't kiss her," he told Ray. 

 "What? Time to wake up, Frase." 

 "No. Tracy Jenkins. I didn't kiss her." 

 "Oh." Ray seemed to consider this. "You know, maybe you should just go
back to sleep." 

 His mind veiled in tiredness, Fraser nevertheless began to get up. "No,
no, I really should get back to the consulate." 

 "It'll still be there in the morning. Come on." Ray pushed and prodded
him in a direction that did not appear to be the front door. In fact-- 

 "This is your bedroom," said Fraser. 

 "Ding! Give the man a prize. Come on, Frase, boots off and into bed.
Don't argue with me, I'm kinda tired myself." 

 "Oh. In that case..." Fraser sat on the edge of the bed and began
unlacing his boots. There was no point in insisting he take the couch
instead; Ray always claimed he needed to watch TV in order to wind down. 

 "Besides," added Ray, "I want to catch you drooling." 

 "Motive, thy ulterior is Ray." 

 "A rose by any other name still smells as sweet," rejoined Ray. "Or
something," he added, uncertainly. 

 "No, that's the gist of it, Ray. Shakespeare." 

 "Cool. Uh..." he gestured to the door. "Let me get you a glass of water."


 This left Fraser with the usual problem; whether to continue undressing
and be in bed by the time Ray returned, or to cease at the removal of his
boots and wait. The former seemed improper, the latter seemed awkward. As
usual, Fraser chose to be awkward over improper. In any case, he had
removed his red tunic before the hamburgers, so he already felt partially
undressed. The dream catcher over the bed caught his eye; he wondered if
Ray had been here, in bed, when he had the dream in which they turned into
birds. He suspected that it was the sort of dream a dreamcatcher would let
pass, to be meditated upon by the dreamer. Which Ray had been doing,
somewhat unsuccessfully. Fraser knew he could offer little help; no doubt
his own presence in the dream, and his own feelings towards Ray in
general, were influencing his interpretation--perhaps quite wrongly. 

 "Dief's stolen my couch," commented Ray, returning with the water. He put
it down on the bedstand. 

 "He has no manners at all," sighed Fraser. "Do you want me to-" 

 "It's okay, I'll kick him off." Ray stopped in the middle of the room,
hugged himself. "Uh, goodnight." 

 "Good night, Ray. And sweet dreams." 

 "Yeah. If you see any ghosts, just call." 

 "I will, Ray," promised Fraser. "And likewise." 

 Ray met his eyes, looked away, nodded to himself. Then left, pulling the
door partway closed behind him. As Fraser completed his undressing, he
heard Ray shuffling about in the room outside, turning the television
down, talking briefly to Dief, then clinking glassware in the kitchen.
Switching off the light, Fraser climbed into bed and pulled the covers up.
Ray's scent enfolded him, as warm and soothing as the blankets, and he
allowed sleep to overtake him. 

 Something awoke him. Eyes closed, he listened first, but heard nothing
except the usual night sounds--an occasional beam creaking, the whish of a
car on the street outside, a spider spinning its web above the bed.
Briefly, he thought of the Inuit story about the spider. Ray's
dreamcatcher was for Ray's dreams; perhaps this spider was even now
gathering his own bad dreams and storing them to be burned up by the sun.
Ray--where was Ray? He could hear Diefenbaker, snoring sonorously as
usual, out in the front room, but Ray... 

 Fraser rolled over. A glance at Ray's alarm clock showed him it was just
after one in the morning. There was a shadow in the partially open
doorway. He raised himself up, the better to see. 

 "Ray?" 

 "Uh huh." 

 "Are you all right?" 

 "Uh huh." 

 Perhaps he was dreaming. An odd dream, to be sure, but... he shifted
himself up on both elbows. Still, he could see only Ray's shadow, not Ray
himself. "Ray?" 

 "Go back to sleep, Fraser." 

 "I'm not dreaming?" 

 "I don't know. All I know is that I was." Ray stepped a little into the
room. The streetlights outside diffused their light through the thin
drapes, outlining his form. Although Fraser could not see his face
clearly, he could see that Ray wore his long-sleeved sweater, coupled only
with boxer-briefs. His legs and feet were bare. 

 "You were dreaming," repeated Fraser, feeling muzzy-brained. 

 "Yeah. I had this dream. I told you a really big secret, a secret about
myself, something that no one ever knew. And you stopped being my friend."


 "I would never do that, Ray." 

 "It was a really big secret, Fraser," whispered Ray. 

 "Ray... Ray, listen to me. The 'me' in your dreams is not the real me.
It's a 'me' that your unconscious creates in order to explore your most
deeply held hopes and fears." 

 "Am I dreaming now, or is this real?" wondered Ray. 

 "I've pinched myself," said Fraser, "and I believe it's real." 

 "Okay. I should go, then." 

 "Wait. Ray." 

 Ray rubbed his arms, turned away. "I'm cold, Fraser." 

 "Come here." When Ray didn't move, he repeated, "Come here, Ray." 

 Arms wrapped around himself, Ray obeyed. The light was stronger here--or
perhaps Fraser's eyes had adjusted more completely. Ray's reluctance was
clearly evident; in the tilt of his head, in his downcast eyes, in the way
his body turned away as he approached. 

 "This dream you had," said Fraser. "It frightened you?" 

 "No," said Ray quickly. "No, it was just... it woke me up, that's all." 

 "Hard to get back to sleep?" 

 "Yeah." 

 Fraser began to push back the covers. "You should be sleeping here, under
the dreamcatcher. I'll go and sleep out on the couch." 

 "Fraser, no. I didn't mean--I'll go back, I'm okay." 

 He was close enough. Fraser reached out, took hold of Ray's arm over his
bicep, halted him. "Ray, listen to me. You've told me before the
dreamcatcher helps." Then carefully, he let go. 

 Ray looked up at the dreamcatcher, reached to finger the feather. "You
sure this isn't a dream?" he said to the dreamcatcher. 

 Although dense with tiredness, Fraser had begun to sense a theme. "No,
not entirely. Get in. Ray. Get in the bed." 

 "I'm not going to turn you out-" 

 "Get in," repeated Fraser, shifting to make room. 

 Slowly, without looking at Fraser, Ray slipped onto one side of the bed.
Fraser, respectfully, did not look at him either, but rather lay flat on
his back on the cold side of the bed. The mattress undulated beneath him
as Ray wriggled around, so much so that Fraser felt uncertain of his
equilibrium, felt almost that he ought to reach for a hand-hold. It was
quite some time since he'd shared a bed with someone; he'd forgotten the
immediacy, the intrusiveness of it. 

 Abruptly, the wriggling stopped. Fraser nearly relaxed, but there was
something subtly wrong. He shrugged a shoulder, jutted his arm a little.
No Ray. He dared a look. 

 Ray lay, back to Fraser, right on the edge of the mattress. There had to
be two feet of space between them, positively unnatural even in a
Queen-size bed. At least it felt, at one thirty in the morning, in Ray's
bed, deeply unnatural. Fraser stretched, sighed deeply, rolled over. Now
less than a foot remained between himself and Ray. He sighed again. 

 A faint--the faintest of faint--whispers pricked his eardrums. "Fraser?" 

 Fraser shuffled a little more, reached an arm out, clumsily touched his
palm to Ray's shoulder. Just a touch; and he was about to draw his hand
back when Ray made a sound, and shifted a little towards him. 

 "Ray?" he murmured, placing a slight, ambiguous pressure on Ray's
shoulder. He felt the slide of Ray's body in response, catalogued the
endless seconds between that simple touch of Ray's shoulder against his
palm, to the shocking intoxication of Ray's warm arm against his own,
Ray's chilly leg resting briefly against his knee, Ray's head only inches
away from his own on the pillow. His hand, displaced, had no idea where it
should put itself. Hovering in space for a moment, it eventually settled
for curling unobtrusively around his own chest, in a sad imitation of the
way he suddenly wished to hold Ray. 

 "What was your dream about?" asked Fraser, to distract himself. 

 "Can't tell you." 

 "How is your jaw?" 

 "Fraser--go to sleep." 

 "Sorry," said Fraser. His arm which lay against Ray's was, he discovered,
in a somewhat uncomfortable position. In fact, it was beginning to cramp
up. Moving it, however, meant he would lose that strange and wonderful
feeling of his bare flesh in contact with Ray's. He supposed he could move
it into an alternative position that would be at once comfortable while
still touching Ray, but that might seem at least premeditated--which it
would be, of course--or at worst, offensive. After all, Ray's touch
against him was happenstance, its continuance meant only that they were
good friends and that Ray was not threatened by circumstantial intimacy of
an unavoidable nature--which sounded suspiciously like far too many
adjectives- 

 "Fraser, stop it." 

 "Stop what?" asked Fraser, surprised. He honestly hadn't moved. 

 "You're thinking. I can tell." 

 "I'm not thinking," Fraser defended himself. Truly, he was not. Thinking
involved reason and logic, not this jumble of ridiculous rhetoric on
whether he should move his arm or not. 

 "Mm. Click, click, click," murmured Ray. "Can hear the cogs." 

 Hearing Ray's voice, under such circumstances--being, in a bed,
together--so close and so soft, was... strange. Yes, it seemed he was
overusing that word, but, as he was discovering, the words did not exist,
or existed only partially, to describe this situation. Feelings that could
be effectively dismissed under normal circumstances invaded him--as though
without his uniform, without his boots and trousers and red tunic, he
became a zone of conflict. No neutral ground here, no time-out zone,
except in his head, and his head wasn't co-operating. He could close his
eyes, and not see Ray; he could breathe through his mouth, and thus not
smell Ray; he could perhaps put something in his ears and not hear Ray's
breath; he could even move his arm away from Ray and not touch him... but
he could not erase the knowing. He was lying, in a bed, in his undershirt
and shorts, and he KNEW Ray was beside him, and he could anticipate the
clear possibility that no matter how much he withdrew, no matter if he
slept the sleep of the dead; at some point in the night he would roll
over, or Ray would roll over, and because he wasn't seeing, listening,
smelling, or feeling, the shock of them touching would be magnified
impossibly-- 

 Ray grumbled unintelligibly. 

 And there you have it. His thoughts were so bizarre, even Ray could sense
them. With an internal sigh, he pulled his arm back from its companion,
and rolled onto his stomach. Touch no more. Tucking his hand under the
corner of the pillow, he looked at Ray, in lieu of touching him. Their
faces were about a foot apart, now. The light from beyond the partially
open door barely touched Ray's face; Fraser could make out odd details,
like the tip of his nose, the curve of his ear, as though he was a
half-finished sculpture abandoned by the artist for the night. A
refraction, like moonlight off water--Ray's eyes. Ray's eyes were open. 

 "Did I ever tell you," whispered Fraser, "the story behind the
dreamcatcher?" 

 "Yeah," mumbled Ray, "you made it for Ray Vecchio, the real one, and, uh,
I turned up in his place so you had to give it to me." 

 "I don't remember saying that." 

 "You told me the story about the eagle feather, how hard it was to get
eagle feathers." 

 "I wanted to impart to you the significance of the dreamcatcher. That's
why I told you that story. I had actually had the eagle feather for quite
some time," explained Fraser, propping his head up with the hand that
wasn't under the pillow. "It was given to me as a gift from someone who
had earned it, who considered that I had likewise earned it." 

 "So, uh..." Ray took a couple of short breaths; Fraser waited. "You,
uh... it was Vecchio's birthday..." 

 "I made the dreamcatcher for you. Ray Kowalski you." 

 "Why?" 

 Because I wanted to apologise, because I wanted to know you, because we
were going to be partners in a dangerous profession, because the eagle
feather was given to me for saving someone's life and you'd saved mine,
because it felt right, because it represented the friendship already
growing between us... the reasons were separate, yet necessarily
interlinked, like a spider's web. 

 "Because..." stalled Fraser. "I never did tell you the story, did I?" 

 "What story?" 

 "The story of Nokomis, the grandmother, who watched the spider weave
above her bed-" 

 "This an Inuit tale?" 

 "Yes. One my own grandmother told me. Every evening the spider would
begin to spin his web, and Nokomis would watch him and admire his work
before going to sleep. One day, her grandson came in. He saw the spider,
and shouted at Nokomis, and picked up a shoe intending to hit the spider.
Well, Nokomis wouldn't let him kill the spider and sent him away." 

 "I like spiders," murmured Ray. "Stella didn't like them, she'd try to
kill them, so I used to... I'd collect them up in a shoebox before she saw
them, take them somewhere safe, like out to the garage." 

 "I have a terrible time guarding them at the consulate," admitted Fraser.
"Inspector Thatcher doesn't like them either." 

 "The Ice Queen doesn't like anything. You know, she and Stella would
probably get on great." Ray wriggled about, turning more fully onto his
stomach, bringing his nearest hand up under his pillow in imitation of
Fraser. "So, come on, what's the rest of the story?" 

 "Well... the spider saw what Nokomis did, and spoke to the old woman,
offering her a gift for saving his life. Then he went to the window and
spun a new web just for her, a special web where each thread would
entangle her bad dreams, allowing only good dreams to pass through the
hole in the center and be remembered." 

 "So it was a dreamcatcher," murmured Ray. 

 "Yes." 

 "Mmm. Knew that spiders were good people." 

 "Well, not precisely people, Ray..." 

 Ray chuckled. "Shut up now, Fraser." 

 "As you wish." 

 Strangely, telling the tale had relaxed him completely. No longer did his
body twinge and tense, no longer did his mind yammer irrationally, no
longer did he feel conflicted. His feelings for Ray were wholly clear to
him, yet he once again had control over them, could ignore the less
acceptable ones. And when Ray, now breathing in the deep, regular manner
of sleep, moved his arm so that it once again touched against his own, it
felt simply good. Warm, soothing, good. Everything was all right. 

 It was a little after five am when he next awoke. Something solid yet
extremely comfortable supported him on one side. At first, he thought of
Diefenbaker; but the snores emanating from the foot of the bed seemed more
likely to belong to that person--rather, that individual, that particular
half-wolf, half-something-else. Cautiously, he lifted his head. Yes,
Diefenbaker had somehow insinuated himself into a hollow formed between
Ray's legs and his own. Which meant the body leaning against him was
clearly Ray. 

 As Fraser had moved onto his back some time during the night, so Ray had
rolled onto his side. He faced away from Fraser, his back pressed along
Fraser's side, his head tucked into his chest where Fraser's elbow jutted
out towards it, his legs curled awkwardly around Diefenbaker. He looked
supremely uncomfortable, yet appeared, for all that, to be sleeping
soundly. 

 Fraser knew he should go. Now, while it was still dark. What seemed clear
and simple at one o'clock in the morning when both parties were half
asleep could become awkward, problematic, even contentious in the full
light of day. To put it simply, going to sleep with someone was different
to waking up with them. For the sake of their friendship, he had to leave.


 Somewhere between getting out of bed, dispatching Diefenbaker and
collecting his uniform, he became aware that Ray was awake. Yes, Ray had
shifted, but it was more than that. A feeling, arising from a part of him
that was always aware of Ray. Ray had not spoken--would not speak, Fraser
knew. If Ray spoke, it would shatter the tenuous spell that had allowed
them to sleep together, in Ray's bed, without it meaning anything bad, or
good; without it meaning anything at all. 

 Motioning to Dief, Fraser followed him out of Ray's bedroom, pulling the
door nearly closed behind him. In the main room, he dressed, then used the
toilet, before letting himself and Diefenbaker out of the apartment.
Outside, the first tentative threads of dawn wove into the darkness. 

 "I know you're lonely, son, but this is ridiculous." 

 Fraser swung around. "Dad. What are you doing here?" 

 His father gave him that familiarly irritating look of wise innocence.
"Taking a walk," he said. "Best time of the day to go walking. Wakes you
up, gets the blood pumping, gets things clear in your mind." 

 "There's nothing wrong with my mind." 

 "I'm not so sure about that," responded his father. "Look, son, I know
when you're forced to work closely with someone, sometimes things can
happen--but it's circumstance, son, there's no future in it." 

 "It's not what you're thinking," said Fraser firmly. 

 "The Yank still loves his wife," his father went on. "Written all over
him. He's loyal, I'll say that for him." 

 "Dad, not only are you following the wrong trail, but it's none of your
business." 

 "A son's happiness is always a father's business." 

 "I'm not unhappy, Dad." 

 "But you're lonely," reiterated his father. "Underneath it all, you want
what every man wants; a wife, children, a home, sled-dogs... well, the
first three, at any rate." 

 "I'd be happy with the sled-dogs," said Fraser. "And in any case, I have
Diefenbaker." 

 His father said nothing for a time. Half a block passed in silence before
he said, "Just have patience, Benton. Don't do anything foolish." 

 "I'm not planning to," sighed Fraser. "I've learned that particular
lesson in times past." 

 "Yes, I rather hoped you had." 

 "I don't wish to discuss this further." 

 "I understand that, son. I was simply concerned. I'd like to see you
happy, settled down. Is that so bad?" 

 Fraser sighed. "No... but I'm not sure, at this stage in my life, that
it's what I want." 

 His father nodded sagely. "You're a good man, Benton. One day, you'll
believe that." 

 Fraser looked away. When he turned back, his father was gone. 

 "I wish he wouldn't do that," he muttered. "Dief, why don't you ever warn
me he's about to do that?" 

 Dief looked up at him and shook his head. Dief, it appeared, would be
quite happy if Fraser would be 'foolish' and tuck up with Ray every night.
Ray's bed was much bigger than Fraser's cot, and softer too. And Ray's
apartment was warmer than the consulate. 

 "You're getting soft," said Fraser. 

 Dief simply grinned at him.  

 Late morning, and chaos again reigned supreme at the 27th precinct,
Fraser noted with relief. Telephones rang, detectives rushed about,
arrestees blocked the aisles. Somewhere close by, Ray could be heard
arguing. 

 With Francesca, Fraser noted, and approached, vaguely nervous about the
morning's situation and how Ray would react to him. 

 Ray, his shoulder holster on over a dark sweater, was sitting on
Francesca's desk. "Look, Frannie," he was saying, "if you can't do it-" 

 "It's not that I can't-" 

 "It's just that you can't," sang Ray. 

 "-it's that--shut up, smartbutt--it's just that there's something jammed
or something-" 

 "It's smartass, you doof, and computers don't jam. Here." 

 Francesca pushed him away. "Don't, you'll just make it worse. Ray, don't
bang the keyboard, you'll--look! Look at that! Look what you just did!" 

 "It was broken anyway," said Ray, turning to go, and walking into
Diefenbaker. "Dief, buddy," he said, rubbing Dief's jowls. 

 "Don't just leave, fix it!" cried Francesca. "Fix what you did!" 

 But Ray had spotted Fraser. "Hey, Fraser!" 

 "Hello, Ray," said Fraser. 

 A brief but brilliant smile crossed Ray's face, before he continued
speaking. "Frannie broke the computer, can you fix it?" 

 Francesca gaped. "Huh? Huh? I broke the computer? You are so--arghhh!" 

 "Let me see," said Fraser, bending over the keyboard. "Hello, Francesca,"
he nodded. 

 "Hi, Frase." She wheeled aside in her chair to allow him to see, before
rolling back to look over his arm. "Can you fix it?" 

 Ray crowded in on his other side. "Of course he can, Frannie." 

 Fraser tried various keys--none of them seemed to work. "Your faith in me
may be somewhat misplaced, Ray..." 

 "Nope," said Ray, certain. His shoulder nudged Fraser's. Clearly, he felt
no differently towards Fraser, despite the circumstances of the past
night. Thank god. Thank god for Ray, for his acceptance, his trust,
his--Fraser sniffed--the pleasing vanilla scent of his soap... now, that
was getting silly... 

 "Were you working on anything particularly important?" he asked
Francesca. 

 "No, I was just looking up something for buster, here. I can get it
back." 

 "Good," said Fraser, executing a command to list the programs in
operation, and exiting each until the computer abruptly unseized. "There.
I believe you'll find it works perfectly now, Francesca." 

 "Thanks, Fraser," she smiled. "I really appreciate it." 

 "It's no bother," he told her. He stepped back, allowing her to continue
with the task Ray had requested of her. 

 "Frannie, can you deal with that by yourself now? Me and Fraser've got
work to do." 

 "Yes, Mr Hot-Shot Detective," she sniffed. 

 "Great. Okay, Fraser, come with me," said Ray, jerking his head, drawing
attention to the purpling swelling on his jaw. 

 "How does your jaw feel today?" Fraser asked, concerned. He'd quite
forgotten about it- 

 "It's fine," said Ray dismissively. "Looks ugly, feels fine. Let's go! We
got a corpse downstairs, dead guy found in an alley earlier this morning,
no ID," he explained, leading them towards the exit. "The uniforms got
nothing out of the people in the nearby apartments, so I'm seeing what
Frannie can dig up on missing persons, whatever. Thought we'd go out there
for ourselves, talk to some of the street people, maybe. You're good with
people like that." 

 "I presume we're currently on our way to the morgue?" 

 "You presume correctly. We're going to see if Mort can tell us anything
at this juncture. Don't smile at me like that, I can use those words." 

 "I wasn't smiling," said Fraser. 

 "You were smiling inside, I know you. Now listen, we're going to have a
normal day today," Ray asserted. He began putting up fingers. "No cars
running into fire hydrants. No licking things, no ghosts. Okay?" 

 "I don't recall licking anything yesterday-" 

 "No, that was your wolf." Ray bent down. "Hear that, Dief? No licking
anything." 

 Dief licked his face. 

 "Including me! Including me!" 

 "It's always prudent to be specific, Ray," said Fraser. He and Ray paused
at a set of doors and allowed two hurrying uniforms to go through first. 

 "There is no such thing as prudent with you two," said Ray. "Prudent is
carrying a gun if you're a cop in Chicago. That's the definition of
prudent." 

 "I've never needed a gun thus far," Fraser pointed out, starting through
the doors. 

 Ray followed him, continuing to grouse. "People say to me, 'Ray, you're
getting freaky, you're using words like 'juncture', you let people go
through doors ahead of you, you're analysing your dreams, you LIKE
listening to Inuit tales, you-" 

 Fraser let him grumble. With that last reference, the final piece of
tension in him loosened. It was a direct reference to last night, and it
represented to him a clear statement from Ray that everything was fine. He
chided himself for his doubt. He really had to stop second-guessing.
Together he and Ray had a true serendipity, an ability to forge ahead,
find the answers, achieve what they sought. Whether it be such life and
death situations as saving an innocent woman from death row, or finding
their way off a sinking ship; or more mundane matters such as
ghost-exorcism, they achieved together what neither could achieve alone.
It was clear that Ray felt that too; in fact, it was Ray who pointed it
out to him, months ago, when they were lost in a submersible many many
fathoms under Lake Superior. 

 They had arrived at the morgue, and Ray entered the autopsy room ahead of
Fraser. "Ungh, dead guy," he said, backpedalling, and hunched in his usual
position near the corridor window, already looking green. 

 Ray's words resounded in his mind. The one-two punch. You set 'em up, I
knock 'em down. And, allowing Ray to take counterpoint for the moment,
Fraser stepped forward to pick up the melody in their duet. 

End Serendipity Style 2 by Jonah in the Whale: jonakay@upnaway.com

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