Conversation   
 
 SPOILERS: for "Heaven and Earth" and "The Deal." But I'm sure I don't 
 tell you anything you didn't already know.
 
 DISCLAIMER: Ray Vecchio, Francesca Vecchio, Benton Frasier, and all 
 things Due South related belong to Alliance Productions, not to me. By 
 writing this story, I am violating their copyright. However, I can't 
 say that this particularly bothers me.
 
 ANOTHER DISCLAIMER: All of the spoken dialogue in this story was taken 
 directly from the episode "Heaven and Earth." That dialogue belongs to 
 whoever wrote the episode; it does not belong to me.
 
 WARNING: This is a slash story. If the idea of two men in love makes 
 you uncomfortable, then I suggest you hit the delete key now. Rating:
PG-13
 
 SUMMARY: Frannie has a revealing conversation with her brother.
 
 ARCHIVING INFO: May be archived at the main Due South Fanfiction 
 Archive, and at Belynda's All-Fandom Slash Archive. Anyone else, please 
 ask first.
 
 FEED ME, SEYMOUR: All feedback, from praise to constructive criticism, 
 will be welcomed with little cries of joy at aimee_2@hotmail.com.
 
 AUTHOR'S NOTES: Hello, everyone! I'm relatively new to Due South 
 fandom, and this is my very first Due South story (although I have 
 written others, mostly ST: VOY and Sentinel; you can find them at 
 http://www.geocities.com/TelevisionCity/Set/4824). I hope you enjoy it!
 
 Many thanks to Hannie for beta reading this sucker. Now, on to the 
 story!
 _______________________________________________________________________
 
 "Conversation"
 by Aimee
 
 "Stay away from him, okay?"
 
 I can't believe my ears. "Ex-*cuse* me?"
 
 "Look, Frannie, you heard what I said. Just stay away from him, okay?"
 
 "Ray!" 
 
 "Frannie, you are in over your head."
 
 Up until now, I haven't said much -- I've been too shocked. This was 
 not a conversation I ever thought I'd be having with my brother. It was 
 so unexpected that, for a moment, it almost sounded like he was speaking 
 in a foreign language; I just couldn't understand, couldn't wrap my mind 
 around what he was saying. But it's sunk in now. 
 
 And I'm getting *angry*. "Meaning?" I asked in low, furious tones.
 
 What you say next defuses my anger just as neatly as a SWAT team 
 defuses a bomb. "Meaning guys like him don't marry girls like you. 
 That's fairy tale. And girls like you get hurt and guys like him don't 
 even know it, and that's life."
 
 Well, *shit*, Ray. Pardon my french.
 
 You have no idea how pathetic you sound.
 
 Guys like him don't marry girls like me? Ray, Ray, my poor, sweet 
 brother -- what makes you think I *want* to get married again? You know 
 how disastrous my first marriage was. You were there when my divorce 
 came through; you know I swore never to do that again. It's not 
 *marriage* that I want from Ben.
 
 But it's what you want, isn't it.
 
 You know he's gay, don't you. That's what you meant by "guys like 
 him." I only just figured it out, otherwise I wouldn't have embarrassed 
 myself by throwing myself so obviously and publicly at him, but you knew 
 it all along, didn't you.
 
 'Cause you are too.
 
 I want to tell you. I want to tell you that I know, and that it's 
 okay, that you don't have to hide it so desperately. Then I start to 
 wonder if you even know. 
 
 I remember when we were kids. When we were really small, you hadn't 
 learned that being gay was wrong. You did even know what "gay" *was* 
 yet. So your behavior was a lot less . . . guarded. And even when we 
 got older -- well, you hadn't yet perfected that mask you wear; there 
 were still cracks in the facade of your machismo. 
 
 I remember you and Marco Metroni -- *before* Danny Zuko used his face 
 as a basketball court, I mean. And I remember what happened when Dad 
 caught the two of you necking on the couch, although I don't want to. 
 He went absolutely ballistic. He was always a little too free with the 
 corporal punishment, if you know what I mean, but I've never seen him 
 like that. Never, not before or since. He just went crazy. And, 
 afterwards, when you got out of the hospital -- well, that's when he 
 started with the "real man" lectures. A real man doesn't cry. A real 
 man can take care of himself. Real men don't hug, or worry about 
 anybody but themselves. A real man this, a real man that, blah blah 
 blah. Looking back on it now, I can see that those talks were basically 
 just a long, slow process of brainwashing.
 
 You never let yourself look at another man again. You didn't dare.
 
 Until Fraser.
 
 I've seen the way you look at him when you think nobody's watching
 you. 
 I see heat in your eyes. I see passion. I see lust.
 
 I see love.
 
 This whole big speech you just gave me, this "stay away from him" 
 speech? This was not your typical overprotective older brother lecture. 
 I know that one by heart; I've heard it a million times. This was 
 different.
 
 This was jealousy, pure and simple.
 
 Ray. You might be able you fool yourself, but you can't fool me.
 
 I want to tell you all of this. But I don't. You're not ready to
 hear 
 it. I bet you'd panic and embrace your denial even more fiercely than 
 you do now, and you'd probably end up doing something really stupid, 
 like running away from Fraser for good. So I don't mention any of this.
 
 But I can't keep quiet either. It's not in my nature. Suddenly, I 
 hear myself saying, "You know what your problem is, Ray?" without 
 meaning to.
 
 "No, Frannie, why don't you tell me." 
 
 All right. All right. I will. "Yeah, I'll tell you." I'll say it
 as 
 clearly as I can. I hope you can hear it. "Your problem is that you're 
 so afraid to dream. You are *so* afraid to reach out for something that 
 you *really* want." It's not wrong, Ray. It's *not* wrong. You never 
 listened to Dad about anything else, why listen to him on this? Follow 
 your heart instead. It's much better than his was any day.
 
 You're still not getting it. Time to try a little harder. I'm good
 at 
 that. "You know what happens to people like you? They get old, they 
 get alone, and they die. And they never know." My throat chokes up; 
 I'm on the verge of tears. And I suddenly realize that I've been 
 talking about myself just as much as I've been talking about you. Dying 
 alone, without ever really having *lived* -- that's my worst nightmare, 
 my secret fear. "Well, that's not me!" Please, God, don't let that be 
 me.
 
 That's it. I'm done. You are never going to realize that you're in 
 love with Fraser, and I'm tired of trying to make you see it. If you 
 won't reach out and take what you so obviously want, why shouldn't I 
 grab it instead? Don't I deserve some happiness, too?
 
 Sometimes I get so lonely I want to scream.
 
 You grab me when I try to leave. "Did you sleep with him?" Jealousy 
 fairly drips from your voice.
 
 For God's sake, Ray! Do you ever listen to yourself? Sometimes I
 feel 
 like I'm banging my head against a brick wall. "Why?" I ask. "Why? 
 Would it matter to you if I did?"
 
 "Yes, it would! You're my sister." I look into your eyes while you 
 say this, and I'm surprised to find that you mean it. You really mean 
 it. You're not just jealous because you want Fraser for yourself; 
 you're also worried that I'll get hurt. You're worried about me.
 
 All right. You win. I'll back off for now. But you better not take 
 too long to go after him for yourself, because I'm not going to quit. 
 This may be a cease fire, but it's not the end of the war.
 
 "I care about you," you say, after a long pause.
 
 And I believe you. Underneath all the complaining and the fighting
 and 
 the friendly (and not-so-friendly) insults, you really do care for me. 
 I hug you, and smile at you. I haven't believed that of someone in a 
 very long time. It feels good.
 
 Hey, Ray? 
 
 I love you too.
 
 
 THE END
 
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