Six Feet Down and Wondering	 Title: Six Feet Down and Wondering
 Author: Cobalt
 E-mail: Poet279@aol.com 

Fandom: Due South
 Parings: Implied Fraser/Vecchio
 Rating: PG, UST, AU
 Date: January 2001
 Archive: The lists and anyone else who wants it, just let me know first,
and it'll be uploaded to Hexwood.
 Spoilers: General spoilage for the first two seasons and the beginning of
the third.
 Summary: Benny's alone and depressed and Stan doesn't know how to help.
 Series/Sequel: For a Winter's Night, Part One
 Other websites: http://www.stas.net/armani/main.html or
http://www.stas.net/armani/myfic/myfic.html
 Feedback: Pwetty pwease? 

Disclaimer: I'm Ray Vecchio's crackwhore, but I don't own anybody or
anything. If you recognize it, lay odds it belongs to Alliance, Paul
Haggis, or Mickey Mouse. 1000 bonus points and a jelly donut if you catch
the Deanna Troi reference. Please no lawsuits or otters (frozen, dead, or
otherwise). All you'll get is an orange Tabby with a bad attitude (even
for a cat) and one of those Delaware quarters worth two bucks. 

Notes: What the holy hell am I doing? It's not my fault; blame my
disgruntled muse, Methie. My first DS fic, and no Detective Armani! I
swear, I'm on more monkey crack than Joss Whedon, but thank you to
Christal, my wonderful beta, for my steady supply of said monkey crack. 

This is an AU. In the DS universe, it takes place about a year and a half
after "Burning Down the House." Unless told otherwise, assume that none of
the events after BDTH actually took place, especially COTW. In real time,
it takes place at the beginning of January 2001, about 22 months off for
DS. It's that new math. 

For the sake of clarity and so I don't drive my betas nuts, I will mostly
refer to the second Ray, Stanley Raymond Kowalski, as Stan. When I say
Ray, I will most likely mean the sexy Italian. The only time Stan will be
called Ray is in the dialogue, so that Benny doesn't blow Ray's cover.
Either of 'em. Got it? 

Thoughts are indicated like this... //Here are my thoughts. See my
thoughts?// 

Warnings: Oh yeah. Implied m/m relations. Naughty words. UST, Angst
abounds... He may be hangin' with Stan, but he's still missin' Ray. 

"Americans know as much about Canada as straight people do about gays." --
Scott Thompson ~*~~*~~*~ Six Feet Down and Wondering by Cobalt ~*~ 

Summarily dismissed, Constable Benton Fraser stepped out of the large
office and into the Consulate hallway. 

He had just gotten yet another dressing down from the Inspector, but this
time the Mountie actually deserved it. Benton Fraser's mind had been
elsewhere, and he had mishandled some paperwork having to do with the
impending visit of a Canadian Ambassador. If Constable Turnbull hadn't
caught his mistake and brought it to the Inspector's attention before the
forms were sent to Ottawa, it could have delayed the Ambassador's trip for
over a week. And though Fraser felt no ill will towards the Ambassador, he
almost wished the error had never been found. To be shown up by Constable
Turnbull, of all people! 

Fraser stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Canadian Consulate,
where even now Constable Renfield Turnbull was standing at attention on
guard duty. Benton took little satisfaction from the fact that Diefenbaker
was sniffing some exceptionally personal places of his fellow Constable's
uniform. Fraser caught his wolf's eye and summoned him with a single word.
"Dief." The wolf looked up into his friend's face with concern, sensing
the Mountie's melancholy mood. "Let's go for a walk," Fraser sighed. 

Fraser needed to try and clear his head, and Dief could use the exercise
anyway. "You've gotten soft Diefenbaker," Fraser scolded, but he couldn't
work up the energy to put any feeling behind his words. //I've gotten
soft, too.// 

Dief's only response was to increase his pace. The sooner they could get
this little walk over with and get the Mountie off the street and into the
relative safety of his quarters at the Consulate, the better. 

Scant minutes later they turned onto West Racine. They arrived at number
221 without incident, which could be expected in any other neighborhood
but was considered an act of God in this area of town. Ben raised his head
and regarded his burned building with a look of vague recollection, then
softly stepped inside and climbed the stairs to apartment 3J, wolf at his
heels. Diefenbaker settled down on the scorched floor, never taking his
eyes off of his packmate. 

Fraser looked around at his former living quarters vacantly; his thoughts
were not focused exclusively on this small, charred apartment, though it
had once made up such a large measure of his world here in Chicago. He was
surprised to find he missed this place immensely, but the Mountie could
observe no distinct reason why. The only compelling memories he had of
this place were all unpleasant: Victoria, finding Dief in a pool of blood,
being held captive by a pair of brothers bent on revenge... But for some
reason when he stood in this burnt building with no walls, Fraser felt a
warmth he had been lacking since his move to the Consulate. He couldn't
pin down any one explanation for why this apartment or his time here was
so important, just that it was, and he desperately wished that he still
lived here. 

Fraser was distracted from his thoughts by a decidedly cold and wet nose
rubbing against the exposed area between the top of his glove and the
bottom of his coat sleeve, and he reached down to rub his gloved hand
across Dief's muzzle reassuringly. "Come on, Diefenbaker." 

The walk back to the Consulate went quickly, due in great part to Dief's
rapid gait. When they arrived back at the Consulate, Constable Benton
Fraser trudged past the reception area to his own quarters, the buzzing of
Turnbull's chatter a faint hum on the edge of his consciousness. 

Benton entered his small living quarters and closed the door behind Dief,
not bothering with the lock. He slowly began the process of removing his
red Serge, carefully unbuckling and unbuttoning the complicated piece of
clothing. His jodhpurs and boots soon joined it in a pile on the floor,
quickly followed by his RCMP issue long johns. Ben stood naked in the
middle of his quarters, wholly unsure of himself.  

He was feeling a certain melancholy, he realized that. But what to do
about it? He hadn't a clue. //If Ray were here--// Ben quickly stopped
that line of thinking. It would get him nowhere. That was the problem,
wasn't it? Ray wasn't there. Not the *real* Ray; not *his* Ray.  

//He's been gone nearly a year and a half now,// Ben thought with some
wonder. He rarely allowed himself the indulgence of consciously counting
the days since Ray Vecchio had gone undercover, but Benny knew that for
the last 18 months he had involuntarily been ticking the days off in his
mind. It was as much a part of his daily ritual as were his Consulate
duties or caring for Dief.  

Ben had convinced himself in the beginning that as time passed he would
miss Ray less, but just the opposite was true. Benny missed Ray more now
than ever. That's why his work had been slipping. If Benny was really
truthful with himself, he had to admit that this wasn't the first time
Turnbull had shown him up. But it was certainly the worst. 

The presence of Stanley Raymond Kowalski had eased the pain somewhat. More
than somewhat. Benny still had someone to tag-along with, someone to let
him be a real cop. And to be his friend. But he wasn't Ray. 

//He never will be,// Benny thought with a sigh. //I may call him Raymond
Vecchio, but he'll never be Ray. No one ever could. Except Ray.// A single
teardrop traced a quick path to land on Benny's top lip, which was even
now curving into a small, sad smile. 

Mentally shaking himself, Ben realized he had been standing in his
quarters for the last fifteen minutes wearing nothing but his pride, which
even he had to admit had been slipping a bit recently. Better just to make
it an early night and go to bed. Ben really knew he should put on some
pajamas, but he just couldn't work up the momentum; he was so exhausted
after the emotional upheaval of the day that he went directly to sleep,
without even reading out of his father's journal.  

From under the table, Dief silently harrumphed at his packmate. He was
young, physically fit, unmated and going to bed at six on a Friday night.
*Alone*. //Humans!// Dief thought, not without a great amount of pity for
the lot of them. 

~*~ 

The GTO pulled up outside the Canadian Consulate unnoticed. Stanley
Raymond Kowalski stepped out and glanced around, looking for trouble. In
downtown Chicago after dark , even a gun and badge were little comfort.
Taking one last look around, Stan walked into the alley beside the large
building and glanced up at Fraser's window. //No light. Why was I checking
for a light? If there had been one, I'd still be goin' up there. This is
what prolonged exposure to Canadians does to people. First you start doing
all sorts of bizarre things like hanging outside a Mountie's window for no
reason. Then you start talking to yourself, and you're not even surprised
when it's the dullest conversation you've had in weeks.// Shaking his head
at his Mountie-addled brains, the detective returned to the front of the
building and walked inside, paying Turnbull even less attention than
usual.
 
 When he reached Fraser's door Stan knocked lightly, still unsure if he
was expecting an answer or not. When he didn't get one, he knocked a bit
louder. Still no answer. Deciding to live life on the wild side, Stan
tried the doorknob. It wasn't locked, so he opened the door an inch and
peeked in. Greeted only by silence, he pushed the door open all the way
and stepped inside, gently closing it behind himself.  

It took a moment for Stan's eyes to adjust to the darkness, and the first
thing he saw was Dief sitting at his feet, silently begging for something.
This wasn't Dief's normal
please-give-me-Milk-Duds-and-jelly-donuts-preferably-in-large-quantities
look. This was something different, and Stan couldn't put his finger on
what Dief was silently saying. But he knew it wasn't good. 

The second thing Stan saw was an obviously naked Fraser lying on his back,
asleep in bed, head gently lolling to the right.  

It wasn't that Fraser was exposed, exactly; the important parts were
completely covered. What gave Fraser's nudity away was the pale expanse of
skin stretching all the way from Fraser's left shoulder, past his bare
hip, to the toes of his size eleven foot. The thin blanket he used, even
in this 22° weather, covered the rest of his body. 

Deciding maybe he should leave the Canadian to his frost bite--//What
exactly is Frase doing sleeping *naked* in weather like this?//--Stan
turned around, eyes focused on the door, his escape from this most awkward
incident, when he was stopped in his tracks by a sleepy voice. 

"Ray? What are you doing here?" The voice sounded not angry, merely
inquisitive. 

Stan slowly turned back to face the Canadian, dreading what he might see,
only to find Fraser sitting up with his back against the wall and legs
stretched out in front of him, the blanket completely covering his body
from the waist down. 

"Um, well, I..." Stan stuttered, trying to remember exactly why he *had*
come here. Oh yeah... "I thought you were gonna meet me at the station
after your shift was over to help me on the Navarre case, and ya didn't
show, so I figured I'd come see what was up." //That's right, Kowalski,
play it cool.// 

"You were worried, Ray?" Fraser asked in a sweet voice full of something
approaching childlike wonder. 

"Well, I..." Stan muttered, turning his head away so he wouldn't have to
face those clear, blue eyes. 

"I certainly do appreciate the thought Ray, but I can assure you I am
fine," Frase said, smiling slightly. "Though I must apologize; I should
have called to let you know I would not be able to be of assistance this
evening." 

"Oh, it's no problem. Just thought I'd check to see if everything was
alright," Stan shrugged his shoulders dismissively as he turned towards
the door. Just before he reached it though, Stan turned back to face
Fraser uncertainly, not quite making eye contact. "You sure ya okay,
Frase?" Before the Mountie could respond, the detective continued. "I
mean, it's not even seven o'clock at night and you're already in bed. And
on a Friday," he finished, finally meeting Fraser's eyes. 

"Oh, I was just a little tired, that's all. Thought I'd turn in early. I
assure you Ray, I'm perfectly--" 

"--Yeah, I know, you're fine," Stan finished, cutting the Canadian off.
This "I'm fine" act could mean one of two things; either Frase really was
fine or something was seriously wrong, and Stan wasn't sure which it was.
"Come on, why don't you come out with me?" Stan offered hesitantly. 

"I don't know, Ray..." Frase trailed off uncertainly. 

"Oh, come on. We could grab something to eat, go have a beer, maybe go to
a club and listen to some music..." 

"Well..." Frase was still uncertain, and he glanced down to his feet as if
they would offer him an answer. 

"I mean, if you don't want to, that's okay..." Stan trailed off sulkily,
head down. 

"It's not that I don't want to accompany you, Ray--" 

"Great. It's settled then," Stan said, cutting Frase off. 

After a somewhat bewildered pause, the Mountie finally conceded, "Alright,
Ray. Just give me a few minutes to get dressed, and we can leave." When
Stan didn't move, Frase continued, "If you don't mind..." 

This seemed to startle the detective out of whatever reverie he had
slipped into. "Oh, yeah..." he said, spinning to face the door, his cheeks
turning slightly red. 

From where he was standing, Stan could hear the sound of the bedclothes
being pushed aside, followed by Frase's footsteps as he padded across the
room and the slight swoosh as Frase opened his closet door and began
rifling through his clothes in search of something to wear. 

Dief stepped in front of Stan and pawed at his leg. When Stan looked down
into the wolf's eyes he could almost see relief on the lupine face, and...
gratitude. 

//Definitely spending too much time around Canadians.// 

Stan turned away from Dief when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Before him
stood a fully dressed Canadian, ready for a night on the town, or at least
ready for a John Denver concert. "Hey Frase, don't you have anything but
white sweaters and flannel? You look like a lumberjack." 

"Sorry, Ray. I could find something more appropriate if you'd prefer." 

"You don't *have* anything more appropriate, do ya Frase." It wasn't
really a question. 

"No, Ray," Frase answered, without a hint of remorse in his voice, as he
reached for his leather jacket. 

Rolling his eyes as he released an exasperated sigh, Stan muttered, "C'mon
Frase, let's go." 

"Ray, I could-- " 

"Forget it, Fraser. 

"Understood, Ray."  

With that, the two men stepped into the hall, closed the door firmly
behind them, and headed downstairs to the GTO. Dief didn't have to be told
to stay behind. Benton didn't need him now. He needed to spend time around
other humans, and Dief knew he'd only get in the way. He would draw
attention to Ben, but not the kind his fellow Canadian needed right now.
What Ben needed was other people to want to talk to *him* and be around
*him*, not the Mountie in the red Serge, and Dief would only draw all
sorts of questions that would no doubt focus on the RCMP and the wilds of
the Yukon. The Canadian man needed to be Ben for one night, not Constable
Fraser. 

So Dief resigned himself to spending the night alone, in a dark room, with
only a bowl of kibble to keep him company. Well, that and the rat that had
just chosen the wrong Consulate to mosey into. 

//No kibble for me tonight... Ooh, he smells like Milk Duds!// 

~*~ 

Benton emerged onto the street, with Stan at his back, and, turning,
started walking further into downtown Chicago. 

"Hey Frase, you don't want to take the car?" Stan asked, slightly puzzled,
but not nearly as puzzled as he would have been a year and a half ago. He
was getting used to these little quirks in the Mountie's personality that
were just too irregular to be called idiosyncrasies. 

Benton was about 5 steps ahead of his partner, and turned to see the other
man standing next to the passenger door. "No, Ray. I could use the walk.
You don't mind, do you?" 

"Well, Frase, it is about 20° out and we aren't all Nanook of the North.
Some of us would actually prefer *not* to freeze to death." 

"Ray, if we walk fast, we'll keep warm," the Mountie replied as if
speaking to a child, gesturing for Stan to precede him. 

Stan wasn't budging, though. "*My* police force doesn't issue me thermal
underwear." Though that *was* true, beneath the jeans, long-sleeved
T-shirt, sweatshirt, and trench coat he had on, Stan was in fact wearing
long johns, but he wasn't going to let anyone know that, least of all
Frase. It would be like he was endorsing them or something. //And I just
know what I'll be getting for every Christmas from now until the day I die
if Frase ever finds out I wear these things.// Stan knew that wasn't
strictly true, but he felt it was better to err on the side of caution
when it came to his Canadian counterpart. 

"You should speak to the Leftenant about that. I always thought it was
something that the Chicago police force was lacking," the Mountie answered
in all sincerity. 

"Yeah, Frase, I'll do that. Now will you get in the car?" Stan asked
exasperatedly, opening the passenger door and gesturing for Fraser to get
in. 

"Alright, Ray," Fraser agreed amicably, taking the few steps needed to get
to the car. The cop waited until the Canadian was settled in his seat and
Stan had firmly closed his passenger door before he'd walk around to his
own side of the car. He didn't really expect Frase to *bolt*, per se, but
he wasn't taking any chances. "Thank you kindly, Ray," Fraser answered
pleasantly, not suspecting Stan's more selfish reason, the fact that he
just didn't feel like running down a Mountie right now, for being such a
gentleman.  

Stan's only answer was a grunt as he walked around the car to the driver's
side. He was suddenly very tired. 

"So where are we going, Ray?" the Mountie inquired. 

"Well, since I haven't had anything except M&Ms since this morning, I
figured we'd get something to eat first. I'm so hungry, my stomach's
beginning to think my throat's been cut." When the Mountie began
inspecting Stan's throat, he quickly batted the large hand away. "I didn't
mean literary--" 

"I believe you mean 'literally,' Ray." 

"Don't interrupt me. I didn't mean *literally* that my throat was cut.
It's just a saying. What, are figures of speech illegal up in Canada? " 

"That's just silly, Ray." 

"Of course, Frase. Thank you for that insight. What was I thinking?" 

"I've often wondered that myself." 

"Hey Frase?" 

"Yes, Ray?" 

"Stop talking." 

"Understood, Ray." 

With that, Stan drove off into the dark Chicago night, praying to whatever
deity that watches over undercover Polish detectives that he could somehow
find the strength not to kill the man sitting next to him. 

~*~ 

"You're doing that on purpose," Frase accused as Stan made yet another
illegal turn. 

"Doing what, Frase?" Stan asked, playing dumb, though he knew exactly what
Frase meant. He was running stop signs and making illegal turns left and
right, and he just knew what that would do to Fraser. 

As Stan ran through his third stop sign of the night, Frase sighed
resignedly and said, "Nothing, Ray." 

"No, what am I doing?" 

"Well, Ray, you are deliberately ignoring the traffic laws, specifically
to annoy me." 

"What makes you say that, Frase?" Stan inquired even as he made a turn
without signaling. 

"The fact that you just made yet *another* turn without employing your
blinker." 

"No I didn't." 

"You didn't, Ray?" 

"No Frase, I sure didn't." 

"Ah. My mistake. Sorry, Ray." 

"No problem Frase. Besides we're here," Stan said as he abruptly pulled to
a halt in front of a run-down, possibly even condemned, warehouse, the
jolt as the car stopped enough to force the Mountie to brace himself
against the dash. 

"What is this place, Ray?" Frase asked as he stepped out of the car and
looked up at the looming, and slightly wobbling, building. 

"This," Ray said as he stepped up onto the curb beside Frase, his arms
spreading wide to encompass both the building and the weight of his words,
"is an abandoned warehouse." 

"What are we doing at an abandoned warehouse, Ray?" 

"Parking." 

"Parking, Ray?" 

"Yeah, parking Frase." 

"Ah. Understood, Ray." 

"Good, Frase." 

After a pause, Frase said, "Ray, not that I mind the warehouse, but I
thought we were going to eat." 

"We are Frase. Follow me." With that, Stan headed off in the direction of
a small crowd of people, hazily illuminated by the soft glow of the lights
of an Italian restaurant a few blocks away. 

~*~ 

Fraser recognized the place immediately, but he couldn't--didn't want
to--let Stan know that. Stan's predecessor had brought him here, just
enough times for it to mean, in some subtle way, "Ray" to him. Ben had
even recognized the condemned warehouse; it had been in the same condition
for nearly three years now. //I had almost the exact same conversation
with Ray the first time he brought me here. For a second I could almost
pretend it *was* Ray.// Benny immediately stopped that line of thought. He
had first hand experience that pretending, even for just a moment, that
Ray was still here only made him feel the loss more keenly when he finally
came back to himself... and reality. He found that those particular sorts
of daydreams were better suited to late-night contemplation when he was
alone and less likely to publicly embarrass himself, and the only person
around to notice his sudden downward shift in mood was himself. 

Stan was so like Ray, even without Benny's self-delusion. It was
bittersweet comfort. Every time Stan did something that reminded him of
Ray, it was salve to his soul that he still had a bit of his best friend,
here in his new partner. But after that split-second of bliss was over,
Benny would feel the sharp knife of anguish tearing into his heart as if
he was losing Ray all over again. Because he was. 

But Benny wouldn't give up his time with Stan for anything. Not just for
those few blissful moments that occurred a million times a day, but
because Stan truly was his friend. Even with all traces of Ray Vecchio
stripped way, so that all that was left was Stanley Kowalski, he still
loved Stan very much. 

Ray and Stan both had told him on numerous occasions that guys just don't
talk about this kind of stuff, but Ben earnestly wished that they did. He
never told Ray how he felt about him. Benny knew with absolute certainty
that Ray realized Ben loved him and considered him his best friend, and
that had always been enough. But now it was little comfort. //If only I
could have actually told him. Without having to carefully word what I was
saying and without being worried he was going to get embarrassed. To have
just been able to tell Ray how I felt about him, just once. But I
didn't.// 

He hadn't, and now Ray was gone. All he had left was Stan. Ben knew Stan
understood his feelings with the same certainty that he knew Ray did. He
just wished he could tell Stan how he felt, before he lost him. Just like
he lost Ray. 

"Hey, Frase, you in there?" 

"I'm sorry?" Fraser asked, startled, coming back to himself. He didn't
even remember walking into the restaurant or sitting down at this booth. 

"You were off in outer space," Stan explained, smiling slightly. 

"Oh, sorry Ray," Fraser replied, mentally shaking himself. He shouldn't
indulge in these thoughts here, not when he and Stan were supposed to be
having a good time. 

"No problem Frase. So what were ya thinking about?" Stan inquired. 

Giving his friend a reassuring smile, Fraser answered, "Nothing of
consequence." He could almost make himself believe that. 

"Oh. Well whatcha gonna have?" Stan asked, gesturing at Fraser's menu. 

Fraser hadn't even been aware he was holding a menu until now. "I'm not
sure yet," Fraser answered, burying his face in the list of pastas. Gazing
down at the Italian delicacies, Fraser mentally pushed Ray Vecchio from
his mind. He could almost make himself believe that was possible, too. 

~*~ 

Stan looked at his partner covertly from behind his menu, quietly studying
the Mountie's features. Something was very, very wrong. Frase was *way*
more withdrawn than usual, and though the stoic I'm-fine-Ray act normally
worked, it would have been obvious to a bout of dysentery that the
Canadian was upset. Not even Frase could play off that incident earlier
with the menu. He had been holding it for a good five minutes before he
even noticed it was in his hands. Frase had tried to regain his composure,
but Stan saw the mask slip, if only for just a moment, and it had him
worried. 

Deep down Stan knew that Fraser was just as human as any other man and was
entitled to be in a funk every now and then if he felt like it, but this
knowledge was buried about as deeply as the knowledge that he really had
given up on his failed marriage and actually was over Stella, and Stan
tried to avoid that place as much as possible. It was an almost conscious
decision. He couldn't admit that he was alone or that the best friend he
secretly idolized was mortal just like everyone else. 

//So for now I'll just pretend that everything's okay. Nothing's wrong
with Frase until he says it is. Which he never will. Fine. Everything will
be just fine.// The detective need only look to his best friend's face to
see that wasn't true.  

//Okay, revised plan: I'll leave Frase alone until he comes to me--yeah,
right--or until it gets to a point where I have to step in. Until then,
we'll just go along like we both believe everything's okay.//  

Another look at Frase.	

//Okay, so maybe it *is* time to step in. Talking won't help, a
year-and-a-half should have taught me that.//  

A third look at Frase.	

//We'll just spend tonight forgetting that I'm an imposter living someone
else's life and that he isn't really Super Mountie. We're just two guys,
two friends, going out for a drink after work. Nothin' more, nothin' less.
Normal. That's what we are, normal.//  

And though he had never met his predecessor, Stan imagined he could hear
Ray Vecchio, the man he had so completely and inadequately replaced,
openly laughing at him, //If you believe that, Stanley my boy, I got this
great bridge I can sell ya!// He hated it when people called him Stanley
or laughed at him. What was this Ray Vecchio doing, getting into his
brain, calling him names only his mother was allowed to use and
embarrassing him as only Stella could? 

As soon as that thought passed through his mind, Stanley regretted it, if
only for it's complete and thorough lack of sense. //Good thing Ray
Vecchio isn't *really* up there. He'd be having a field day with me right
about now. I bet Vecchio's somewhere in Jersey or Vegas or wherever it is
they send the mob's bookmen, right now laughing his ass off at the poor
bastard who got suckered into agreeing to take his place and deal with the
Mountie and his stupid Inuit stories and his damned total lack of
imperfections!// 

Stan was suddenly startled to realize he was sitting in a restaurant being
served his Chicken Marinara by a cute little waitress and not in a boxing
ring duking it out with Ray Vecchio. He mentally started counting to
78--just to ten never seemed to do the trick for Stan, but he found that
if he made a concentrated effort, somewhere around 75 he was able to rein
in the impulse to just kick someone in the head. Feeling a bit calmer,
Stan was able to face Fraser with a somewhat more composed expression. 

Frase had already starting picking at his Fettuccine Alfredo, and though
his appetite was less than enthusiastic, when Stan made a joke and asked
him to pass the Parmesan, Frase's face was just a bit more open and he
gave Stan a genuine smile, not the one he flashed to every old lady he
passed on the street, one that made Stan believe that maybe things were
going to be okay. Or if not okay, at least their world wasn't going to
come crashing down around their ears anytime in the near future. Well, at
least not tonight. 

~*~ 

They paid their cover and stepped into the bar. Stan spotted a corner
booth near the back and headed towards it, checking behind him to make
sure he still had the Mountie with him. He had thought it was going to
take all night before they finally made it through the door; Frase had
insisted on letting everybody and his brother precede them. Stan finally
had to just grab the Canadian's arm and drag him inside. 

When they were finally settled in their booth and they had given their
drink orders to the waitress, Stan leaned back in the circular corner
booth, spreading his arms out across the seat back and surveying the bar
almost like a sovereign surveying his territory. 

"So what do you think, Frase?" Stan asked, a large grin on his face. 

"About what Ray?" 

"About Rosie's, the bar? What do you think?" 

Fraser considered the thirty or so people dancing, the loud, raucous
music, and the stench of alcohol and smoke pervading the establishment. 

"It's very nice, Ray."	

"Well, thank you for your enthusiasm," Stan replied sourly, taking his
arms down from the seatback and leaning forward. 

"I'm sorry, Ray; it really is nice. Thank you for bringing me here." Frase
smiled genuinely at his friend, and something inside Stan melted, as it
always did when Fraser smiled at him like that. Not that he would ever let
Fraser know that fact, or anyone else for that matter. "Thank you kindly,
Christal," Frase said to the waitress as she set down their drinks. The
waitress, for her part, was fairly beaming by the time she walked away
from the table.  

"I think she likes you, Frase," Stan teased, an amused smile lighting up
his face. 

"What makes you think--," Frase paused as he saw Stan take a swig of his
beer. He continued worriedly, "Ray, are you sure you should be drinking?" 

"Sure, I'm sure, Frase. Why?" Stan asked as he settled back and took
another drink. 

"Well, you are driving, and I'm not sure you should be drinking while
intoxicated." 

"Jeez, Frase, it's only one beer." 

"Yes, but--" 

"No buts, Fraser. It is physically impossible for me to get drunk from one
beer. Now enjoy yourself." 

"Understood, Ray." 

"Good. Now I'm going to go over there and ask that girl to dance," Stan
said, indicating a petite woman leaning against the far wall. "Now I
suggest you do the same thing... Wait, you can dance, right?" Stan asked
beginning to get worried. 

"Of course, Ray. I have danced at many Inuit tribal celebrations. You
know, the Inuit have a separate, distinctive dance for every occasion. For
instance, during the celebration of the Winter Solstice they..." 

Stan wasn't really paying attention anymore; he was just glad to be
hearing his friend's voice. //I never thought I'd be happy to be listening
to one of those damned Inuit stories.// Stan had been smiling and nodding
in what he thought were the appropriate places, but Fraser was now giving
him a quizzical look.  

"Ah." Stan knew that that "ah" could only mean trouble. 

"What does that mean, Frase?" 

"What does what mean, Ray?" 

"That 'ah.' What did you mean by that?" 

"Oh, that. Nothing, Ray." 

"It wasn't nothing, Frase, it was an 'ah.' It had to mean something. What
did it mean?" 

"Nothing in particular, Ray," the Mountie paused, but at Ray's threatening
look continued, "just that I asked if you minded the trout that was
sticking out of your left nostril, and you nodded and smiled at me... You
weren't paying attention to me, were you?" 

Frase didn't seem hurt or angry, just amused, but Stan decided to take a
chance and balls it. "Of course I was listening. I just, uh, thought it
was a... metaphor." 

"Oh?" 

"Yes, Frase." 

"A metaphor, Ray?" 

"Yes, Frase, a metaphor. I figured since it turns out you Canadians got on
that figure-of-speech bandwagon right along with the States, you guys had
metaphors up there, too." 

"Oh we do, Ray." 

 "Good, it's agreed then." When his inquisitive look got a nod out of the
Mountie, Stan's face took on a very self-satisfied look as he leaned back
into his seat again. 

"A metaphor for what, Ray?" 

"Huh?" Ray suddenly sat up and looked slightly worriedly at the Mountie. 

"A metaphor for what, Ray?" The Mountie repeated. Frase had called Stan's
bluff and they both knew it. 

After about ten seconds racking his brains for a suitable answer, Stan
finally yielded to the inevitable. "For the fact that I wasn't listening
to you?" 

"Yes. I believe that's it, exactly," Frase answered, a large, ice
floe-melting smile lighting up his face. 

~*~ 

After two hours of watered-down beer and loud music, Fraser was ready to
go home, but from the looks of things, Stan was prepared to stay until
dawn, or at least until the management kicked him out. Fraser took a
moment to consider his friend. It was obvious Stan was worried about him,
and had brought him here in a not-terribly-well-disguised attempt to cheer
him up. Though it hadn't had the desired effect, Frase was really grateful
that Stan had gone to so much trouble just for *him*. It still surprised
Fraser when people showed they cared, even though he knew that he had many
people who cared about him here in Chicago. It wasn't that he didn't
appreciate Stan's attempt to cheer him up, it was just that it was going
to take more than a night on the town to erase Ray Vecchio from his mind. 

Frase looked at the clock over the bar and realized their night on the
town had sometime in the last hour become a morning on the town. Stan,
however, seemed deeply engrossed in the band that had come on shortly
after the two men arrived. Frase couldn't remember the name exactly, but
he knew they were some local blues band. After about five minutes of
contemplating whether to ask Stan to leave or to just wait it out until
the bar closed or Stan decided to go home, whichever came first, Fraser
came to a decision. 

"Ray..." 

"Hmm?" 

A beat and then a bit louder, "Ray." 

The Mountie had finally got a firm, if somewhat tenuous, hold on the cop's
attention. "Yeah, Frase?" Stan asked, only briefly glancing back at the
band on stage before returning his attention to the Canadian. 

"I think I should be getting back to the Consulate. It's very late, and
I'm sure Dief will need me to let him out before too long." 

"Sure thing, Frase. Just give me a minute to pay our tab, and we'll get
going." 

"No, Ray, you should stay. You're still enjoying yourself. I can walk
home." 

"But Frase, I need to give you a ride back." 

"Oh, that's quite alright, Ray. We are actually only a few blocks from the
Consulate. I could easily walk back from here. I think the walk would do
me some good," Frase assured the detective, flashing him a reassuring
smile. 

"Well, if you're sure..." Stan trailed off uncertainly, looking from
Fraser to the band and back again. 

"Yes, quite sure, Ray. You shouldn't worry. I'll be fine. Enjoy the rest
of your evening," Frase instructed with a smile as he rose from his seat. 

Stan still looked a bit worried but amiably accepted the bills from Fraser
to cover the Mountie's portion of their tab. "Alright then... You have the
day off tomorrow, right Frase?" At the Mountie's nod of affirmation, Stan
continued, "I'll stop by sometime tomorrow, we can go to a hockey game or
something." 

"I'd like that, Ray," the Mountie agreed with an affectionate smile. "See
you tomorrow, then."  

With that, Fraser turned and walked out of the bar, heading towards the
Consulate. 

After a few minutes in the frigid air, Fraser removed his coat. He could
feel the cold night air cutting through his sweater and he licked his
lips, just to feel the icy air chap them. Winter was supposed to feel much
colder than this, at least 50° cooler than it was now, but Ben was happy
for the few minutes in the freezing air, sans outerwear. The Canadian
increased his pace feeing momentarily exhilarated as the cold wind whipped
around his face. //If Ray were here, he'd make some comment about freezing
off various body parts. Stan would, too, for that matter. Ray would
probably toss in a quip about it being too bad that there are no horse
carcasses around with which to encase ourselves, though.// For the first
time in a long while, it didn't hurt quite so much to think about Ray. It
still hurt, indeed it hurt very much, but the pain that normally stabbed
through Benny's heart was easing, and a surprising warmth was filling his
chest. 

But the warmth was meager and short-lived. The Mountie lowered his head
slightly and reined in his momentary emotional burst.  

He was back at the Consulate.  

For a few moments he hadn't been a Mountie, or a Canadian, or even Ben
Fraser. He had simply existed, in the cold, with the surprisingly
heartwarming memories of a lost friend. Now it was time to return to his
life. 

As Fraser mounted the steps, he put his jacket back on, rather than deal
with the disapproving or, even worse, curious remarks he was sure to face
from whomever happened to be on duty inside. 

Diefenbaker was lying asleep on the floor when Fraser opened the door to
his quarters but was instantly at the Mountie's side, whining slightly. 

"Yes, I had quite a good time." 

A warning yip from Dief. 

"No, I'm not lying. I really did have a very nice time. Ray and I enjoyed
an exceptional meal and afterwards visited an establishment called Rosie's
and listened to what I am led to believe is very good blues music." 

A small snuffle. 

"No, I didn't bring you any leftovers. You had plenty of food here, and
you don't need all that heavy cream sauce. You've been gaining weight." 

A groan of exasperation. 

"You have. You really do need to get more exercise." 

A yap of disapproval. 

"We can discuss it in the morning, Diefenbaker. Ray and I have plans for
tomorrow, and I should be well rested." 

Another snuffle. 

"No, I don't know if you're invited, but I will ask Ray if you may
accompany us." 

A sniff of acquiescence and Dief walked to his small bedroll and laid
down. 

With a final glance at his wolf, Fraser slowly removed his clothes and
walked to his small window. Ben opened the window about halfway and just
stood with his hand pressed against the top pane of glass, the cold wind
raising goose bumps on his bare skin. He didn't usually indulge this way,
but his window overlooked the back of an alley and the chances of anyone
seeing him were virtually nil. Ben lost all track of time until a soft
whine from Dief reminded him that it was 20° outside and he was naked and
his wolf was getting cold.  

With a resigned sigh, Fraser closed the window and fastened the latch. He
stopped on the way to his bed to check the lock on the door. Tonight
Fraser wanted to be alone with his thoughts. And so the Mountie, who
everyone saw as a paradigm of strength, dressed himself in thermal pajamas
and retreated to his bed for a fitful night of sleep, filled with thoughts
of a lost friend and dreams of a would-be lover. 

~*~ 

Fraser awoke to glaring sunlight and checked his watch. 10:07 a.m. Fraser
groaned and literally rolled out of bed, knocking his head, which was
already hurting from oversleeping, on the nightstand. The Mountie stood
and looked around the room. He couldn't remember the last time he had
slept so late. 

Dressing quickly, Fraser went to check his mailbox in the office of the
Consulate. Granted, Stan was probably still sleeping, but Fraser thought
he should check his messages just in case he had called to cement their
plans. Looking over his phone messages, Fraser absently picked up his
mail. There were three letters, one from a credit card company Fraser had
never heard of demanding payment, one from the same company inviting
Fraser to apply for their credit card, both of which Fraser deposited in
the waste bin, and one from Buck Frobisher, which Fraser tucked under his
arm to read later. Fraser turned to check his mailbox one last time to be
sure he hadn't missed a phone message and spotted a postcard that had been
lying under Sergeant Frobisher's letter. With a touch of surprise, Fraser
reached to pick it up. 

The front of the card displayed an aerial view of what appeared to be a
large hotel. The caption at the bottom proclaimed, "Grand Elizabethan
Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada," in bright yellow letters. Fraser studied the
front but couldn't remember having ever heard of the place. Turning the
postcard over, Ben immediately recognized the handwriting, and with a
shocked intake of breath and a total lack of aplomb, Benny dropped the
postcard. Shakily, he picked the thing back up and again looked at the
back. 

The stamp featured the picture of some flower Benny couldn't be bothered
to name at this moment but at any other time would have instantly
recognized as a Marigold. A large, white 32 was emblazoned across the
corner of the stamp, fairly mocking those who remembered a time when
stamps only cost a quarter. The postmark confirmed that the card did
indeed originate in Las Vegas, and had been mailed two days prior. There
was a second caption on this side of the card, featuring more information
on the hotel and giving a toll free number one could call if one wanted to
book a stay at the Grand Elizabethan. Just above that was Benny's name,
spelled by the sender as Benton Fraser, but no doubt pronounced by the
same as Benny Frasier. Directly beneath his name were the words "Canadian
Consulate," and beneath that was the address of the Consulate in Chicago. 

Benny took all this in without actually reading the message. He couldn't
bring himself to look at those three little words printed there. 

                I miss you. 

                --RV 

//RV. Ray Vecchio. I miss you, signed Ray Vecchio. 18 months, and nothing.
And now this. A postcard. For all I knew, he was dead.// With that
thought, Benny let out a small whimper and suddenly realized where he
was--the middle of the main office of the Consulate. Benny stuffed the
postcard into his jeans back pocket, lest he drop it again, and nearly ran
back to his room. 

Locking his door as he entered, Benny headed to his bed and sat down
heavily. He forced himself to calm down and take deep breaths. When he
felt he was as composed as he was going to get, Benny removed the card
from his pocket, shifting slightly to reach it. 

He slowly examined it again, half expecting the message to have somehow
changed in the time it took him to reach his quarters, or more likely,
that he had imagined the whole thing and now that he was calm it would
turn out the card was something entirely more plausible like a purple
goose with two heads. 

But no, there it was with the same message.  

                I miss you. 

                --RV 

//He misses me. I'm not alone.// 

~*~~*~~*~