It takes a lot for me to admit this. It's not as if it's something that the world accepts easily. I love Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Sure, it's easy to take that news about some guys. I mean, hey, one good look at some of those flakes, and you just know it. They might as well be wearing signs to begin with, so it's not hard when you find out they're slavering all over some guy. Letting themselves be lead around, obeying every command just because they've bought into some gooey love thing. Not me. Nah, I'm a real animal. Wild, free, untamed. When people look at me, I know they fear me. I'm just that kind of guy. The kind that likes his steak extra-rare and his nights wild, but knows how to really romance a lover. I freely admit that is my forte. I've romanced a good portion of Chicago's available female pool, and I'm not ashamed of it, even if it has landed me in trouble a couple of times. Once in particular, but that's not something I'd like to remember. I'm not at all like Fraser. He's Mr. Cool, Mr. Evenheaded. Mr. Just-This-Side-Of-A-Monk. If it wasn't for Victoria, as cruel as she was, I would probably wonder if he even knew how to go about things with a woman. After that, it became clearer. He's fallen hard for his boss, even though she treats him like disposable office equipment. I saw him start to go for that bounty hunter with the three children of the apocalypse (thank God that fell through). I even thought he was beginning to have feelings for that poker player, Ladyshoes, but it was all part of the game they were playing. I admit that was a surprise. Fraser had never been one for games. He's always so logical, so practical, the kind of guy who would never think of sleeping in or staying up late to just howl at the moon. I operate on instinct, usually just following my nose and my gut feelings from one clue to another. If something bothers me, it isn't too hard to figure out. Fraser says I whine, and I've got to agree, sometimes I do. But hey, it gets results, and there is no law written that you can't be a little annoy-er, *persuasive* if you want something. I'm up front, I always let people know exactly what I feel. Not like Fraser. The only way you'd know something was bothering him was if you counted limbs and came up with an answer of three or less. Even then, he'd probably tell you that he was all right. 'Oh, yes, it's perfectly normal to be minus an arm. Oh no, don't let me be a problem. I can handle it.' Anything less drastic than that, though, and it's a guessing game. The man berates me for my emotional displays, but hell, I'm not going to be the one with the ulcer in another year or two from suppressing everything. As different as we are, I sometimes wonder how I can love him. Maybe it was the first time I saved his life. Or the first time he saved mine. I've put my life on the line for him, but I know he'd do the same for me in a heartbeat. He tolerates my quirks, and I his. We both know that no matter where we go or what happens around us, the other will always be there. Sometimes, I know he thinks I'm ungrateful, but I am grateful. I'm very grateful. I'm just not sure how to show it. There are nights when I just want to go over and into his bed, pillow my head against his warm body and simply lay there, listening to him breathe until I drifted off to sleep. I could never do that, though. Who knows what he would do if I violated protocol so drastically? I don't know who wrote the rules, but they're clear enough. That's just not something guys do. So I'll just sit here, watching him sleep. He's not much more than a lump in the blankets, the moon shining through the window and lighting his face. I'm always amazed at how little that face has changed in the years I've been with him. I suppose he's just one of those people who is destined to look young forever. As I watch him sleep, he whimpers and shivers, his smooth brow creasing as he pulls the blankets in tightly around him. He's having a bad dream. To hell with protocol. Carefully, trying not to rock the bed, I hop up beside him, nudging his arm with my nose until he lets go where he was clutching the pillow. Satisfied, I slip in and lay down, my head resting on his outstretched arm, my furry side molding to his large form. He sighs in his sleep, and I see the lines of worry fading from his expression, replaced by a contented smile. "Dief...", he murmurs. It's everything I can do not to wag my entire rear end and lick him for that. It's just the way he said it. The tip of my tail twitches back and forth, unable to entirely contain my happiness. He loves me too. THE END (So, were you surprised by the identity of Fraser's admirer?)