due South: A Buck and Change 11	 Warnings: M/M, R, Sex,  A bar
stool, Diefly thoughts, a Chicago sidewalk, and I've heard this episode is
*not* a cure for Bronchitis. 

Promises: No . . . song. Honest! Really! Don't you believe me? Well, it's
*not* my fault. Karen made me do it. And Welsh isn't my fault either!
Okay, lyrics, the real thing. Benny's sultry tones. And lovely, though
brief, thoughts of Ma.  Quiz by Laurie Taylor. ltaylor@provider.uk. Beta
Reading by Dyevka.   A BUCK & CHANGE - Episode 11   or An Invitation to
Revenge   by Mitch Hudson A headache! Yes. He did have a headache. How
odd. Never before in his life had he allowed himself to be subjected to
something as incorporeal as a headache. Two interminable days had passed
since his lover had fled Lieutenant Welsh's office singing that *Secret
Agent* song. 

Constable Benton Fraser, spinal column in the optimal position, shoulders
flexed back, strolled down Canary street. Neither left nor right did the
turn his head. His attention was focused on attaining his destination in
as efficient a manner as possible. 

Trailing behind his two-legged companion, the pale wolf, Diefenbaker
sniffed short and quick. More deep-fried foods were near. He dropped his
head to catch the heavy scent roiling its tendrils of essence along the
ground. 

He stopped and the corrugated soles of field boots continued their
rhythmic betraying noises. His companion's progress never wavered as
Diefenbaker padded into an alley. 

Yes! Fried yeast biscuits would be stalked, captured and consumed, perhaps
with a little fish. A little fish wouldn't hurt. Just avoid dairy, and,
well . . . If a little butter was lying about, who was he to refuse it?
After all, it wasn't like keeping Kosher was a big issue with him. *His*
ma wouldn't be giving him that once-over when he got home tonight.
Sometimes he wondered how the two-legged Ray put up with it like he did.
If Diefenbaker's ma had been an *Italian* mama? The wolf shuddered and
broke into an easy lope. 

Fraser quickened his pace. Inspector Thatcher expected her dry cleaning
delivered to her no later than 4:45 post meridian and if he arrived
precisely three minutes early he would have time for a cool drink in the
beverage purveyors establishment adjacent to his destination. 

As he approached his new goal his headache developed a definite beat, an
unpleasant beat. Fraser allowed his forehead to crease, allowed his body
to display an outward sign of the discomfort inside it. 

A snatch of music drifted out the door he passed. Fraser stopped in mid
stride. It was a wonder he didn't fall over with only one foot on the
ground and his body leaning forward from his momentum. But the Mountie
managed it with a certain . . . "I don't know what." 

The music was in perfect rhythm with the pulsing pain in his head. The
words were garbled but he recognized the song. One of Ray's . . . tunes
he'd emitted the last time they'd been together. How could the fates be so
cruel to a Royal Canadian Mounted Police Officer? 

Se cret aye gent man- Oh, dear. The words had actually been formed by his
own rebellious mind! Fraser shuddered which set his body in motion once
again and he found himself in the dim, cool interior of Karosi's Karaoke
Bar & Grille. The interior was all that was dim and cool about the
establishment at the moment. Fraser instantly deduced the reason for its
current state. Happy Hour. 

"Howdy, Constable." 

Fraser turned left toward the voice, fixing a pleasant expression firmly
on his face. He *was* in his dress reds, a living representative of the
corps and as such must present the correct image to the abundance of
Americans he encountered, the swirling teeming, waves of humanity, the sea
of sapient beings, the masses of mankind, crowd of civilization, horde of
Homo Sapiens, swarm of society, throng of-- 

"You look a mite poorly there, fella. He looks a little done in, don't
'cha think?" the gentleman in the oddly blocked Stetson asked his dark
haired table mate. 

"Yeah. I think so. Fraser," the table mate asked, "would you like to sit
down for a minute?" He pushed out the chair beside him. 

"Thank you kindly," Fraser returned with a confident smile, "but I seem to
be a bit lacking in time at the moment. I only came in for a cool drink."
Fraser removed his Stetson, eyeing its black brand-mate tilted back at a
precarious angle on the first gentleman's head. The man himself was also
tipped back in his chair, a perilous position Ray Vecchio chose to place
himself in at every opportunity. 

Oh, Ray! Fraser hung his head down as he was doubly assaulted by inner
despair and outer inharmonics. 

"Hey, don't look so peaked there, Mountie. The song's almost over. You
don't like that Sean Connery music?" 

"It's not *Sean Connery* music," the dark-haired man interjected. "If you
bothered to learn the most rudimentary facts of--" 

"Ah, come on," the Stetson-wearing man protested to his companion in a
nasally drawl, "you're gonna carry on so's Fraser don't have time to get
hisself a drink." 

The shorter gentleman rose and brought his drink to Fraser who took it
absently. The Mountie's blue eyes shifted to the stool in the nearby
corner where a young man in a rather lavenderish suede suit stared at a
television screen reading the words he was attempting to sing. 

Ray had sung it so . . . friskily in the car. But at the station as he
departed, leaving Fraser destitute, the delivery of the words had taken on
a completely different meaning merely by Ray's manipulation of
pronunciation, tonal range and *certainly* cadence. 

Oh, Ray!  Fraser gulped the drink. 

"Slap 'is back hard. He's a 'gonna choke ta death on that carrotey gunk
you handed 'im." 

"I *am* slapping him hard. Give him something to drink, something to help
clear his throat!" 

"All right. All right. Jeez, no reason to get all testy 'bout it," the
Stetson-wearing man drawled as he thrust a glass of amber liquid against
Fraser's lips and helpfully held it firmly as the fluid flowed down the
Mountie's abused throat. 

Fraser realized his throat was on fire now. Flames must surely be leaping
from between his teeth. He pushed past the men and made his way to the
bar. The glass of water he so un-Canadianly snatched from another patron's
hand went down into his stomach in one gulp. It didn't help. It might not
have been water. Fraser sagged against the brass rail as the alerted
bartender stalked toward him. 

"You don't suppose it could have been the carrot juice, do you?" the dark
haired man asked in dismay. 

His companion took off his hat and slapped the brim against his Levied
thigh. "No," he said through a restrained chuckle as he took his seat
again. 

"An allergic reaction of some kind--" 

"Hell, no. I think it was the bourbon part of your little *vitamin* drink,
darlin'." 

"The *bourbon*?" he asked as he turned on his companion. "But if you
thought that . . . you gave him *your* drink. That rot-gut stuff you
insist on ordering no matter *where* we dine." 

A pearl-snapped sleeve whisked out and drew him down on his companion's
lap but he stiff-armed away from the man. "And just what do you think
*Ray* is going to say about this? You giving his Mountie . . . " he
twisted around to the entrance to follow his companion's bemused gaze. 

Ray followed Lieutenant Welsh through the bar's open door. A Karaoke bar.
He couldn't possibly imagine a worse place to have that *talk* the
Lieutenant had been hinting at for the last two days. Glumly he followed
his superior officer to a table far into the right. 

"Always wanted to try out one of these bars," Welsh said happily as he
possessed a chair with a good view at one of the empty tables. 

Ray slumped across from him and propped his elbows on the table. Blessed
silence descended upon the patrons as the prefabricated, premixed
prerecorded music ended. Ray laid his forehead down on his crossed hands
and Welsh's cell phone trilled. He plugged his fingers in his ears to
block out the Lieutenants end of the conversation. 

"--for my lover," Fraser sighed into the microphone. Whistles and
scattered applause met his dedication. "You see, we had a . . . slight . .
. disagreement a short time ago and I-" he swallowed past the numbness
that existed where his throat should have been, "really, really, really,
*really* relali- re *al* ize that I've been a shellfish, cold, and
unsharing piss-head," he flinched, "unsharing person and I should have
been much more forthright in communicating my feelings. Cause I *love*
him." 

Loud applause broke out across the bar. Several patrons stamped their feet
and thumped on the tables enthusiastically. Fraser smiled his appreciation
to them all, resisting the urge to run around the room and hug each of the
patrons. He wiped his damp forehead and nodded to Arnie, the very friendly
bartender's assistant to push that button. 

Melodious strains drifted over the red-clad Mountie and he swayed in time
to the blissfullness. 

"I have to meet the commander in the Mayor's office in twenty minutes."
Welsh glared at his weary detective. "But we *will* make time for our
little chat, Detective." 

"Oh, yes sir," Ray said as he shook his head from side to side.
"Absolutely. You can count on *me*, sir. Just name the time and place and
I'll be there, with bells on, sir." 

Welsh scowled. It really pissed him off when Ray got so sarcastically
agreeable. It reminded him of a young child exerting his first skills at
talking back to an adult. He'd long since left the stage of having to deal
with difficult offspring. A fleeting thought ghosted through his mind. Ray
was Sofia's *son*. It was a package deal, he realized. One enchanting
Italian lady of noble bearing and one obnoxious overgrown *boy*. 

"You just stay here and have dinner," Welsh said with a strained smile as
he stood and slapped a fifty dollar bill on the table. "I've never been
here before so tomorrow you can tell me how the food is. And it's on me .
. . son." He fled before the word gagged him. 

Ray slowly thumped his forehead on the table-top. 

". . . feee lings, trying to for get myyy feelings of loooove." 

Fraser ripped open the Velcro tab of his high collar. 

"Teardrops . . . rolling down on *my* face, trying to for geeeet my, fee
lings ooov looo ve. *Feee* lings whohw whohw whohw feee lings, I wish I'd
never met you- Raaaayyy, you'll never . . ." 

Ray's head came up, and he froze. Like a gazelle on the African Serengeti,
he was instantly alert with every fiber of his being seeking first with
his sense of hearing, then tasting the breeze, feeling for vibrations
through the ground. Like any competent herd beast would, he flicked his
razor sharp gaze at those nearby. Stampede, the flight response that
hoofed beasts knew could result in their death. Was it building in those
around him? 

No. The others were grinning, swaying on rhythm, oblivious to the imminent
disaster. Ray bolted to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor.
No heads turned his way. 

"Feelings, feelings like I've never lost you and feelings like I've never
have you again in my life." 

The singer choked on a flood of emotion and Ray whirled around. The red of
a tunic stood out clearly amid the throng of patrons who'd arrived in time
for the reduced drink prices. 

Ray felt his body waver from its firm anchor in the universe. 

"Feelings, whohw whohow-" 

"Benny?" Ray drifted toward the patch of red. 

"--again in mihiy aharr mzzz--" 

He drew close enough to touch the figure, so he did. 

Fraser jumped and stumbled off the padded stool. "Ray? Oh, Ray, what are
you doing here? Have you come to get me? Are you here for me?" 

"Benny? What the hell--" Ray peered into the blue depths of Benny's moist
eyes. Love wreaked from them as much as the alcohol on his breath. He
cupped his palm around the Mountie's wet cheek. "Of course I have, lover,"
he whispered as he stepped closer. 

Fraser's hands, including the one clutching the microphone, slid up Ray's
reassuringly solid, Armani-suited chest. 

"I've come to get you, Benny. Are you ready--" Ray felt his voice echo
through the deathly silent bar, amplified by the microphone. He drew his
brows together in consternation and peered over his shoulder. A few chairs
suddenly scraped across the floor, fabric rustled as bodies were
repositioned. But none of the patrons were looking at he and his lover.
They were looking down at their tables, off into space, at the tantalizing
Carravaggio over the bar, anywhere except  at the two men in the spotlight
beside the karaoke machine. 

"Oh, Ray. I love you," Fraser sighed the words into Ray's ear and the
microphone. 

Ray snatched the amplifying device from Benny's finely boned hand and
thumped it on the stool. Oh, the seat was still deliciously warm from his
lover's bottom. With an effort Ray withdrew his touch on the hard wood and
transferred it to the cause of that warmth. He leaned against his lover
and whispered something in his ear. 

Fraser chuckled as Ray's breath tickled his earlobe. He shied away and
licked Ray's ear. 

"Cut it out, Benny. We're in a public place." He saw the giddiness drain
from Fraser's face immediately. Ray ascertained that his right hand,
resting as it did on his lover's round cheek was totally out of sight from
prying eyes, (of which there appeared to be an amazing absence of) so he
gave Benny a reassuring squeeze. 

This proved to be all the encouragement Fraser needed. He wrapped himself
around Ray and began licking every bit of flesh that touched air
unhampered by clothing. 

"Cut it out, Benny." Ray struggled with the arms around his neck but made
no progress. He inched backward, attempting to move Benny and himself from
the spotlight's glare. He made it four feet before bumping onto a table. 

"Sorry," he mumbled but the occupants stunningly failed to notice him or
his Canadian appendage. He inched toward the exit but two tables from it
Benny succeeded in getting his hand inside Ray's charcoal-gray Armani
slacks. 

"Fraser!" he yelped and twisted away. 

"Restroom, Ray," Fraser commanded as he now took control of their
direction of travel. He moved them left, away from the exit and toward a
door displaying a circle with an arrow protruding from it. 

"Benny!" Ray sputtered. "Benny, don't you dare--" A yelp burst from him as
he felt his feet leave the ground. 

Fraser positioned one of Ray's legs up over his hip and settled Ray's
groin against his own. He clamped onto Ray's supple neck, clearly the most
erotic area within easy reach and continued to weave a circuitous route to
the door. 

"Benny, you can't-- This is so-- Put me down. Right now. Benny?" Ray tried
to protest, tried to get free from the walking fortress that held him
fast. 

Metal clinked to the ground in their wake. Fraser misjudged the doorframe
and brought Ray up hard against the wall. 

A groan wrung from the squashed detective as Benny's hard sex pressed into
his sensitive groin. Ray gasped. 

Fraser took his love's mouth, his tongue breaching Ray's moistness. He
strained forward, pressing his need against the luscious body he cradled.
He pressed again, and again as Ray writhed against him. 

"Ben--" Ray's protest was swallowed greedily. He twisted away. "Benny!
Please, don't-- you can't--" Fraser recaptured him. 

Apparently some of his words had penetrated the testosterone soaked brain
of the Canadian. Fraser lunged back a step then leaned his body toward the
door and Ray felt them sucked through the opening, into privacy. 

A roar of approval swept through the bar's patrons who cheered and
applauded. A thin blond slid from his chair and quick-stepped to the
fallen metal object. He scrambled on hands and knees and touched the
prize. 

A shadow fell across his body like the silhouette of a hawk against the
noon sun. The shadow descended and a pointed-toed boot squashed his
fingers flat over the metal. The blond peered up in mortal fear. 

He couldn't see the face of the man above him, it was shadowed by the
western hat on his head. The man struck a wooden match on a small box and
lit the cigar clenched in his teeth. 

"Um, you-- you want something?" 

A smoke ring was his only answer. "O- okay. You can have em. Honest," he
insisted. The boot rose a half an inch and the blond scooped up the metal
and held it out to the smoker. 

"Thank you," he said around the rolled tobacco leaves and turned away.
Then he stopped, turned back to the blond and added, "kindly." As he
paused to retrieve his table mate he folded the handcuffs and slipped them
in the back pocket of his Levis. At the door the cuffs were pulled from
his pocket by his handsome companion. 

"I think I'd better take charge of these for now." And the two men were
gone. 

Conversation in the bar cycled in a kaleidoscope of colors and textures
through the patrons. 

"Do you think they'll come out before midnight?" 

"Okay, I'll be shocked if we see either of them before dawn.' 

"But I have to go to the john!" 

"Oh, honestly. Go to the dry cleaners next door." 

"For a tea party? No thanks. 

"Hey, anything can happen if the writer can justify it! I'm laying odds we
won't see them till after midnight. Anybody want to bet? Might make a nice
list challenge." 

"Wait! What about Ray? Anybody think he'll come through the door or will
he go out the window? And who can tell me his badge number?" 

"Are you suggesting something like that tape train? I think the window.
After all, you gotta remember who he's in there with." 

"What do you mean, who he's in there with? Ray wouldn't be in there with
anybody else!" 

"Oh? What about the sourpuss he came in with?" 

A chorus of no's drowned the last speaker out. Babbling chaos reigned over
the room now. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

The end of this bit of chaos. Will the karaoke bar patrons continue to
write slash forever? I hope so! Tune in next week for: A Buck & Change
episode 12 or . . . Heaven and Hell (Oh, come on. You knew I would!) ~ * ~
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ QUIZ By Laurie Taylor. 

1 What did Inspector Thatcher expect Fraser to deliver unto her?   A A
good hiding?  B Her dry cleaning?  C A baby?  D A comprehensive set of the
Encyclopaedia Brittanica?  2 What had Ray done previously in the car that
Fraser now described with the adjective 'friskily'? 

3 Fill in the blanks: Fraser's hands, including the one clutching the
------- slid up Ray's reassuringly solid ------- ------- --------. 4 What
does the phrase 'cut it out, Benny' mean in this context? A Kindly have
yourself castrated, Benny? B Cease and desist with your amorous lingual
thrusts, Benny? C Please use the scissors to create a paper doily? 

Under no circumstances should this quiz be attempted by gorillas or people
wearing mauve. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ ANSWERS. 

1 B. 
2 Ray had sung. 
3 Microphone Armani-suited chest 
4 B. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

FEELINGS 

Feelings, nothing more than feelings, trying to forget my feelings of
love. Teardrops rolling down on my face, trying to forget my feelings of
love. 

Feelings, for all my life I'll feel it. I wish I've never met you, (Ray);
you'll never come again. 

Feelings, wo-o-o feelings, wo-o-o, feel you again in my arms. 

Feelings, feelings like I've never lost you and feelings like I've never
have you again in my heart. 

Feelings, for all my life I'll feel it. I wish I've never met you, (Ray);
you'll never come again. 

Feelings, feelings like I've never lost you and feelings like I've never
have you again in my life. 

Feelings, wo-o-o feelings, 
wo-o-o, feelings again in my arms. 
Feelings...(repeat & fade) 

- Morris Albert ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ End Disclaimer: This story is
written for the private entertainment of fans. No infringement of any
copyrights held by Alliance Communication, CBS, CTV, or any others is
intended. This story is not published for profit, and the author does not
give permission for this story to be reproduced in any form. The author
makes no claims on the characters or their portrayal by the creation of
this story. Mitch_H@hotmail.com geocities.com/soho/lofts/5843/mh-fict.htm