Life, Liberty, and . . .    Title: Life, Liberty, and . . . 

 Gearbox, September 1999
 Category: drama, I suppose
 Warnings: none
 Pairings: none
 Rating: PG, for two words and a gesture.
 Summary: An imaginary car chase and philosophy. 

 Disclaimers: I write this stuff for love. You couldn't pay me enough to
do this for money. They belong to Alliance. 

 Acknowledgments: Crysothemis and Te graciously beta- read this. Maxine
Mayer provided completely necessary moral support. 

 Feedback would be appreciated at gearbox@earthling.net 

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 "Frase," Ray asked across the last of the mu shi pork, "I know yer
Canadian and all, but you do smile when yer happy, right?" 

 Fraser assumed this was another of Kowalski's forays into
bait-the-Canadian, of asking rhetorical questions merely because Ray knew
that his partner would answer. He could have deflected the question with a
harmless circumspect story. Instead, he put down his chopsticks, leaned
back against the vinyl-covered cushioning of the booth, and resigned
himself to playing the straight man yet again. "Yes, Ray. Like most
Canadians, I do smile when I'm happy." 

 But instead of smirking, Ray frowned at him. "So what's wrong? Why you so
glum?" 

 "Ray?" 

 "You still miss Vecchio? Is it me?" Ray's voice sped up, "If I'm the
problem, you kin talk to Welsh, there's plenty a' other guys in the
department--" 

 "Ray," Fraser tried to break in. It hadn't been a game after all. Usually
he was far better at diverting such personal questions, but in the two
weeks since meeting Kowalski, the man kept catching him off guard. Thank
goodness he wasn't, so far as Fraser knew, a criminal. 

 "I can't ask for reassignment, 'cause I'm Vecchio, and he's happy with
you --" 

 "Ray." Fraser added with a bit more emphasis, but the other man's words
just accelerated over it, skidding away, leaving his interjection broken
on the ground like a pedestrian in one of those hit-and-run incidents so
common in this city. 

 "He's real happy," and Ray's volume and speed increased, "real happy
bein' yer partner, he's grinnin' ear-to- ear every morning knottin' his
fuckin' Italian silk tie-" 

 Now Kowalski had entered the realm of the personal. Fraser forced himself
to speak over the other man's words, adding emphasis to each repetition,
rather like (he imagined) maneuvering squad cars into a roadblock. "Ray.
Ray. Ray!" 

 "What?!" The monologue screeched to a stop. 

 "I'm not unhappy." //Please step away from your car with your hands in
the air.// Calm. Confident. Authoritative. 

 "Bullshit, Fraser." Ray gestured rudely with his pancake. "Yeah, you
never lie, okay, yer not unhappy, but but but -- yer not happy either. I
know, okay? I know what not happy looks like, I see it in the mirror
before I shave every day, okay," the stream of words slowed, "and you look
like it." 

 Fraser looked away, across the lunch-time crowd, silent. 

 After a moment, Ray spoke again, "Not that you don't look good. I mean,
yer the Mountie pinup poster boy, right, but. . . Maybe you've got a girl
up North, yer missing her, or missing the lichen or somethin'.. . . Maybe
it's none a' my business. Uh, just, just forget I said anything, okay?
It's none a' my business." 

 The words trailed off, Ray noticed the pancake in his hand and discarded
it into the remnants of the meal. Sat back, pulled out enough cash to pay
for the meal. He stopped, banged his wallet on the table. "My mistake.
It's Vecchio's business, so it is my business. I can't stand this. So I'm
askin' you, what's wrong?" 

 Fraser ducked his head, bringing one hand up to touch his eyebrow,
feeling weak for needing the brief refuge that the gesture provided. He
searched for the words that could reassure Ray, describe his feelings, and
allow him to retain some dignity, some slight privacy, as he opened his
heart amid the formica tables of the cramped restaurant. 

 The Mountie lowered his hand to his thigh, parade rest. "Ray, there is
nothing wrong. I do miss my home and the people there. But Diefenbaker and
I have a place here, for now. With you. I'm content. I'm fine." 

 ********************************************************* 

 That was, thankfully, the end of the conversation for the afternoon. But
that evening, Ray turned off the car beneath a streetlight in front of the
Consulate. While Diefenbaker marked a nearby fireplug, they sat in the
car. Ray kept his hands on the wheel, and his gaze out the windshield.
Instead of saying, "See you in the morning, seven, right?" as he had every
previous evening, Ray said, "Okay, so yer content. Good, that's good. But
that's not the same as happy. And I bet you've got a killer smile, Frase."
He paused. "Everybody's got a right ta life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness. That's what America's about." 

 Fraser retrieved his Stetson from the dashboard, and turned it in his
hands while he considered. Instead of saying, "Thank you for the ride.
Yes, I'll be ready at seven," he answered, "That's valid." He opened the
car door and stood as the wolf trotted back to them. He couldn't resist a
last word, "But I'm not American. Goodnight, Ray." 

 ************************************************************

 

 Benton Fraser, RCMP, spent the evening as was usual. Still in uniform, he
received Turnbull's account of daily business before the man left the
Consulate. He filled out his 10989B report and slipped it into his
superior's in basket. Then, official duty done, he changed out of uniform
and make a simple meal in the kitchen. No spices except salt, the way his
grandmother had cooked. It tasted terrible, but it reminded him of home.
He shared the meal with Diefenbaker, in silence. He tidied the kitchen. He
washed some of his few clothes in the sink, and laid them on the folding
stand to dry. He spot-cleaned the red serge he'd worn that day. He sniffed
it delicately, but decided that it could bear another week before it
required dry cleaning. He hung it carefully on a hanger to air out. He
ironed his other serge tunic and jodhpurs for the morning. He wiped his
boots and Sam Browne. Thankfully, there was no mending that could not wait
until he took his clothes to Mrs. Wong's dry cleaning and alterations
shop. Sewing was one area in which he accepted any help he could get. 

 He walked up to the bathroom, through the stately paneled halls of the
Consulate, empty and quiet now. He urinated, washed his face and hands,
and brushed his teeth. He made one last round of the Consulate before
retiring to his room, personal duties done. Then, finally, he set up his
cot and climbed into his bedroll. He usually read until bedtime. 

 This evening, he didn't open his book. Instead, Fraser turned off the
light immediately and lay wide-eyed in the darkness. 

 The pursuit of happiness, Ray had said. His partner was correct:
contentment was not happiness. Duty certainly was not happiness. Fraser
was so unused to thinking in these terms that, offhand, he couldn't
imagine how he might pursue his happiness. It felt . . . bewildering, like
learning that in the city it was actually more polite to not acknowledge
each person he passed on the street. But while he was in America, perhaps
he should try pursuing happiness. It would be a new experience, a bit like
riding the elevated trains. Part of adjusting to life in this strange,
strange place, the city. Chicago. 

 It would take some work. As long as it didn't interfere with duty. . . .
It would certainly require him to overcome several of his habitual ways of
thinking, but broadening his mind was nearly always a positive experience.


 Fraser closed his eyes. He had just enough self- awareness to realize
that the quest would also require courage, although he couldn't imagine
why it frightened him. Pursuit might be the single activity at which he
excelled. He had successfully hunted all manner of beasts and men, from
caribou to killers. It was a simple matter of understanding one's quarry,
of persistence, and of patience. If he set his mind to it, he could catch
anything. 

 He would have to discuss the matter with Ray in the morning.

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