thelockbox | Benton Fraser

Benton Fraser | Due South

BENTON FRASER。

"You know, Fraser, when they offered me this assignment, they made it sound kind of normal. They say, 'Hey, Ray, here's a chance to start over, ditch the past.' 'What's the catch?' I say. 'Oh, your partner's Canadian.' Canadian? I got nothing against Canadians, except for the time when they won the World Series, which I'm willing to overlook. But at no time did they say, 'you'll be working with a Mountie who's got a wolf that's a florist'"

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[Francesca, he supposes, was a whole different ball game from the rest of the Vecchios. They all had their own quirks and forceful habits, but she was relentless in her pursuit, obsessed with Fraser up to the very end and beyond. It was really quite amazing to witness just how much she didn't get it, but that might just be from some exceptionally deep seated denial. In the years Fraser had known her, he still hadn't found a way to keep her away, and Ray was just as clueless as the Mountie. How do you say no to a woman who doesn't accept it as an answer?

Even with the few brief glances he spared over to Fraser between driving, he could tell his partner was already worrying over the finer details of a stalking Frannie, and God knows how bad she'd be with a few drinks inside her.]

Don't worry about it. I'll think of somethin'. Even if it means I gotta dance with her. [If he can distract her long enough to let Fraser escape then it's worth it.]

Free bar though, huh? That's gonna make for a fun night. Last time I was at a weddin' with one of those, I woke up naked in the bath tub of the bridal suite, covered in confetti. Fun times, huh? Fun times.

[ There was a flare of jealousy - just the briefest - at the idea of Ray taking his fall for him, dancing with Francesca so that he could escape. And wouldn't that be a thing? After all Ray had been Francesca's brother for more than a year, and while he'd known his partner had been initially attracted to her, they'd fought like Vecchios ever since. Now, Francesca was Ray Vecchio's sister again, and just another girl to Stanley Kowalski. And why shouldn't they hook up? They were both single, they already knew each other, and Fraser's reservations about sleeping with his best friend's sister didn't apply to Ray.

But it made him jealous, and that was a bad sign. Like the next 24 hours were going to be hell to get through, whether he was spending time with other people or simply in his own company.

His mood stirred slightly at Ray's story, and he glanced up at him. ] You never told me about that.

[ It couldn't have been his wedding, after all Ray was a cop, and he had to have been to dozens of these sorts of events. They were unavoidable in social circles. Which means that the bridal suite he'd woken up with also wasn't his own, and leant something risque to the entire affair. They were arriving, though; when they turned right into the arching driveway in front of the ostentatious wedding venue, the gravel crunched under the Firestone tyres of the Pontiac. Fraser could feel Ray slowing down to a crawl to protect the paintjob, but gravel was gravel, and even he flinched with every ding and audible flick of stones flung out of the treads.

But they were here, and parking beside the dozens of other cars, and a porter in conspicuous red was already on the way over to fetch their luggage, though he froze halfway across the concourse when Diefenbaker jumped out of the front of the car after Fraser. Having closed the door, he leaned down to peer into the still open window. ]

Ray? Shall we?

[If Fraser had voiced his hidden jealousies, Ray would have laughed them off in an instant anyway. The idea of him and Fran hooking up is beyond ridiculous. Sure there'd been that brief time when he'd found her attractive, but that was before Ray had found out she was bat shit crazy and a Mountie stalker, not to mention he can never un-see her as a sisterly role now. Fraser didn't have to worry about that. If Ray was going to go for anyone, it'd be some girl he's never met before and therefore never has to see her again after the wedding.]

Nothin' to tell. Was just a drunken thing.

[If he told Fraser all the weird shit that's happened when he's been drunk, they'd be talking for a looong time.

As they turn into the drive way, Ray slows right down, careful of the abuse the gravel would do to his poor Pontiac. He supposes a few nicks would give him and his father something to refine when he got back, but he'd really rather keep the paint job free from too much abuse. When he does finally crawl the car up to the entrance, he stills, switching the engine off but staying right where he is.

Just being there was making it all too real, the tell-tale white and cream decorations bringing home the memories of weddings gone by. Of his. With Stella. The woman now getting married to another.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he shouldn't have come after all. Maybe...]

Uh?

[It's only the voice of Fraser that draws him out of his thoughts, jerking his head towards the passenger side and staring blankly for a moment.]

Sure. Sure. I uh. I'll just. Yeah.

[Slowly, ever so slowly, he opens up the door and drags himself out with what looks like far too much effort, his body as reluctant as his mind.

Come on Kowalski, just think of the free bar.]

[ And wouldn't that be just the thing to do? Show up at Ray Vecchio's wedding, get drunk, take one of Stella's sozzled attorney bridesmaids to bed--or well, maybe not bed. Maybe the nearest closet or bathroom stall. If Fraser thought he'd been jealous before, the mere suggestion of that would have such feelings flaring up again, before of course he smooshed them down into something more appropriate. All the while as he seethed inside, he'd pretend to be happy that Ray could be back on the game despite it all--which of course in an abstract way he would be. He did want his partner to be happy. And if Ray caught on, it'd just turn into a row about why he thought it was appropriate to pick up women at his ex-wife's wedding anyway; it wasn't healthy behavior, why was he doing this to himself?

He could see the moment the car door opened that Ray was back in zombie mode, probably wondering why he was here, and how he'd gotten here in the first place. He looked shell shocked. If Fraser didn't intercede, Ray would be gone the next time he blinked, and so he reached in through the window and hooked the Pontiac's keys out of the console, tossing them to the still nervous looking porter. ]

Treat her like you would your own mother. Room 217, Kowalski-Fraser. [ His voice held an unusual authority. ] When you're done, leave the keys courtesy of the Vecchio party. Thank you kindly, George. [ And he tipped a twenty out of his hat and wrapped an arm around Ray's back, expecting that that would be it.

Unexpectedly the man - British - babbled: Thank you, Sir. Mr. Kowalski-Fraser, Sir. Fraser bit his lip, tried to keep his eyes straight ahead, but ended up darting a look in Ray's direction after all. George thought they were a couple. Sure. As if that was even remotely legal in the state of Illinois.

He leaned up into Ray's ear and hissed, none the less, something very intimate and warm about the gesture. Maybe he wanted the guy to get ideas. He could spread it around the staff, and maybe from there it would blossom... ]

I hear the minibar in our room is unreasonably expensive, but for once perhaps frugality is overrated. And it is almost lunchtime...

[ Fraser would insist on paying the new Vecchios back eventually rather than eat and drink on their tab, but that was only so that he could humor Ray with the promise of guilt free revenge in the meantime, and play along without feeling bad himself. Dief, who had been ignoring the conversation until the word 'lunchtime', suddenly barked eagerly and bounded ahead of them. Apparently the idea of oven baked Chicago style pizza with pineapple on top appealed to him too. Comfort food. ]

Edited 2014-08-02 16:33 (UTC)

[Granted, sleeping with the first willing female he found would be considered desperation by most, a clear rebound from all of this ex-wife stuff, but he thought it'd be justified considering his current position. He and Stella had been separated for some time, but her getting married to another brought it all back again, the realness of the situation and the impossibility of getting her back. It didn't help that it was the very man he'd been undercover for, some smug, balding Italian. What did he have that Kowalski didn't have?

Still, as tempting as it is to start up the car again and wheel spin his way to freedom, he decides to man it up and see it through, if only thanks to the reminder of how damn lonely he'll feel if he sulks back at home without any of the usual friends and colleagues around.

Fraser takes control enough to get the Pontiac cared for and Ray lets it happen, barely even reacting like a shell-shocked victim, easily led by the arm wrapping around him. He didn't mind the contact, not from Fraser, they'd known each other long enough to comfortably be close, and right now Ray could use all the guidance he could get. He barely even hears the porter's response, although spares the briefest glance over at the guy as if he's not entirely sure what he heard. Mr. Kowalski-Fraser? What even was that? He'd almost be tempted to question it where it not for the words close to his ear, bringing him back to the reality at hand.

Minibar. Yes. Now Fraser was talking his language.]

Heh. I could run up a pretty high bill.

[And Vecchio could pay for every single penny of it, the bastard.]

C'mon then, buddy, I gotta lot of drink to get through before the day is out. [The bark from Dief is enough of a prompt for Ray to add;] And food too. Hey, y'think we can get pizza out here? Must be some place who delivers.

[ Anyone else would have been wary of such a declaration, particularly anyone who knew that a drunk Ray was the kind of Ray who locked himself away in the dark and danced with himself with the ghosts of his memories; but Fraser could be dense at times. At least he was ensuring that Ray would eat as well as drink, and how much booze could there be in a hotel suite anyway? Together they got their keys from the front desk - though Fraser had to produce the letter he'd requested from the hotel's proprietor saying that since this was a special occasion Diefenbaker could stay - and then he ordered their pizza then and there, tried to tip the woman at the desk and only got waved off because he was so polite..

They had to climb up the stairs to the second floor to find their room, and Fraser went ahead to unlock it, finding their luggage already inside and the twenty he'd given to George laid down on the key tray by the door. It was odd how he inspired that in otherwise weathered Chicago residents, but somehow--there it was. He shook his head, put the twenty back in his hat, propped the hat on the coat hook on the back of the door, and then turned on into the room.

It was a double.

Maybe Vecchio hadn't known. It could be a simple mistake, and Fraser could certainly head down and speak to the staff about the mistake, but since when had he needed a plush hotel bed to sleep on anyway? He could sleep standing up if he absolutely needed to, and there was a plush faux fur rug that would make a far more comfortable bed than any expensive featherdown mattress. He'd be fine. ]

Well, you'll have to share with Diefenbaker, but I'm sure you'll come to some kind of arrangement.

[Ray didn't pay any attention to the usual affair of checking in, blindly going through the motions of it all and letting Fraser sort out his wolf issue before they were finally allowed access. Pizza ordering was a good addition too, saving them the hassle of sorting it out later. Sooner the better, Ray was starved and drinking on an empty stomach was never a good idea.

When they got access to the room, Ray doesn't even think about the bed, instead moving towards the fridge and observing it's insides with a heavy level of interest. There should be enough to tide him over, all those various miniatures and plenty of chocolate too. He'd make sure the newly weds had to pay through the teeth for this.

It's only when Fraser speaks that Ray finally straightens up, peering over at the bed with furrowed brows.

Who the hell orders a one bed room for two guys?]

I'm not sleepin' with the wolf, Fraser. He snores. [And even after Dief's protest, Ray's shrugging a shoulder at the canine.] Sorry, buddy, you do.

We'll just go ask for a switch. I don't care how much you enjoy sleepin' on the floor.

[ Ray Vecchio does, because he thinks it will be funny. Because he's thinking 'how do I get those guys back for running off to Canada when I'm lying in hospital half dead', and then he thinks 'well if they like each other's company so much ha ha'. The moment Ray frowns at the bed Fraser knows that's what it is, and no matter how he wants to feel that his friend is above such things, he knows Ray Vecchio isn't. Acting like you're five when you ought to know better, it's apparently an American thing. ]

I prefer the double, Ray. We've slept in more cramped quarters than this. Besides, you'll prefer to have the room to sprawl. You'd stick your legs out the side of a single bed when you lay in it sideways.

[ Get your legs in, Ray.

Fraser decided to make a point by crossing to the closet and fetching down the extra bedding. He hadn't brought his bedroll despite a suspicion that Ray might keep driving and they'd end up camping in the middle of nowhere rather than go to the wedding. Maybe he'd been overconfident in his abilities to convince him at the time--maybe not, he had gotten Ray to come.

But if Ray was already kicking up a stink about changing rooms, who knew where he'd be by the time the ceremony actually got started.

He tried something else. ]

Please?

[Of course Vecchio is behind it, even if, for some stupid reason, Ray's persuading himself it's a clerical mistake. It'd be just like Vecchio to pull something like this on the two of them, even if it meant a hassle for all parties involved. Not that Fraser would cause any sort of hassle. That would be far too un-Canadian.

Still, the Mountie has a point. The two of them have spent plenty of time stuck in snow shelters, tents, cabins and whatever else, huddled up in close quarters trying to keep warm, and wasn't it Ray who'd admitted to himself he missed that company now that they were back in Chicago? He'd barely had a good nights sleep since they'd got back, maybe this is what he needed, especially with the aid of booze.]

Fine. We can make it work. You don't gotta sleep on the floor, but Dief has to stay on the end of the bed. [Because snoring.

The problem seems to be short lived either way as Ray turns his attention back to the fridge and rifles through it, withdrawing several tiny bottles of bourbon.]

So how many drinks y'think I can fit in before this thing starts? I wanna beat some records.

[ Was Ray inviting him to actually share the bed with him? Fraser blinked despite himself, staring up at his partner, then blushed and looked away, grateful that Ray's attention was on the contents of the fridge and not on him. ]

You want me to produce a number based on how much I think can be drunk leveled against how long we have before we need to be changed and ready, just so that you can attempt to beat it. Do I have that about right?

[ He wasn't really asking. Of course Ray did. ]

It depends on the units of alcohol you attempt to imbibe, but I believe your limit would be... [ Thoughtful pause. ] Two beers, and seven of the tiny bottles. And your chances of beating such a record depend on how many slices of pizza you eat, although I won't tell you if you would be required therefore to eat more or less pizza.

And speaking of--

[ There was a knock on the door, and Fraser head over to open it at once, thanking the porter for delivering the pizza and once again offering to tip him. No thank you, Mr and Mr. Kowalski-Fraser, the pleasure is all mine.

And then look: there was pizza, and Fraser trying to act naturally, and Dief trying to jump up and get it while he carried the boxes over to the bed and climbed up onto it. They'd scatter crumbs no doubt, but since the room lacked a table, the bed was the best place to share a meal ]

Challenge accepted.

[He doesn't even bother to get those tiny cans of coke out. There's no point masking the already cheap booze with it all, and it's much quicker to down it straight than it is to start swilling soda with it all. And so he does down it, unscrewing one of the small bottles and knocking it back like it's a shot.

There's only one taken before the knock at the door comes, Ray heading to perch on the bed as Fraser goes to collect. There's that porter again with his weird naming system.]

Mr and Mr. Kowalski-Fraser? That kid must be dumber than Turnbull. Heh.

[Even if Kowalski-Fraser didn't sound so bad... Better than Vecchio anyway. Why would Stella ever want that as a-- Nope. No. He had pizza, now wasn't the time to be brooding on Stella.

As Fraser settles with the boxes, Ray's immediately snatching for his, opening it up with a satisfied sniff and passing Dief the first slice.] It's gonna be hot...

[And considering he's got two hands, he's perfectly capable of feeding the wolf and himself at the same time. And talking. With his mouth full. Such a gent.]

You got your speech all set?

[ And Diefenbaker accepts, and talks. With his mouth full. What a team they make. Fraser sits crosslegged on top of the bed, balancing the slice of pizza (Ray would say that vegetables didn't belong on pizza, and Fraser's was a prime offender, with asparagus and heart of artichoke) on the tips of his fingers. It was much better than the pizza in the city. Not that Fraser would dare to speak such blasphemy. It would be disloyal. ]

Ah--

[ He ducked his head slightly, chewing, and then lowered the pizza half an inch. To be fair he preferred to eat his food cold anyway, so it did little harm that he usually talked through his meals.

But this time he prefaced the conversation with something simple--all that needed to be said, given the circumstances. ]

Inuit story.

[ Ray Vecchio would be expecting an Inuit story, and though Fraser did expect that he'd see his friend around, his former partner had been flagged for early retirement, and idle comments about going to Florida and opening a bowling alley hadn't been wholly rebuked by his soon to be wife. Fraser, knowing Vecchio the way he did, was probably the only one who knew that his mentions of this dream were hints rather than offhand remarks. Ray had family in Florida, after all. And if those dreams became reality... Well, they'd drift apart. Florida was further south than anywhere Fraser had ever been. There were no mountains, and it didn't even snow.

Like Ray, whether he cared to admit it or not, Fraser was losing something too; something he'd never be able to get back. So somehow it mattered that he'd tell an Inuit story at his friend's wedding. It was the nature of things--people drifted, moved on with their lives, and probably noone would ever call him 'Benny' again.

He felt his mood register on his face, misery painted in a way that was impossible to miss, in that it took him several seconds to flatten it back out of his expression. He bit into his pizza again, letting the hot cheese scald the roof of his mouth. One day Ray Kowalski would leave him too. A beautiful, patient woman would take one look at him and know what a wonderful man he was--and Fraser would be alone. What was it about weddings? ]

I gave great consideration to the tradition of finishing on a joke, or quote, but it seemed to me that an excerpt from The Godfather might be seen to be in bad taste.

[Ray doesn't even question Fraser's pizza choice. It seems so counter productive to put vegetables on something as perfectly unhealthy as a pizza, although he's noting this pizza seems particularly less fatty than the usual city choices. Boo. But beggars can't be choosers.

The second Fraser ducks his head, ray knows what's coming. Inuit story. Of course it fucking is, what else would it be? It'd be blasphemy for Fraser not to recite some ridiculous tale of Canadian antics. In fact, Ray would be pissed if Fraser didn't do it. Everyone should have to suffer through the same shit that he has to on a daily basis.

It's tempting to voice that, but then he looks up from his pizza during that moment of reflective silence and sees Fraser's face, and fuck, the Mountie looks as depressed about all of this as Ray feels. Ray had been so focused on Stella that he'd never even thought about the other side of it, and just for a moment he reflects on how fucking selfish he's been about it all. He may be losing his ex-wife, but he'd lost her long ago. Fraser, though? Fraser was losing a long time good friend. It would be hos before bros after marriage, Vecchio would spend all his time with his wife (not like he wasn't already), and if the rumours were true, they'd be moving off to sunny Florida, away from the cold and the wind and the grimy streets of Chicago. And away from Fraser.

Of course, Benton would take it all with polite smiles and well wishes. Of course. But even that brief flicker of glumness is enough for Ray to realise how much of a cover that will all be.]

I bet it'll be good, no matter what. You always did know how to tell a story, Frase.

I do? You're right, I do.

[ But his mind wasn't on stories. He was still dwelling on separation and it's crushing inevitability. That was what his father had told him, after all, wasn't it? That nothing ever stayed the same. Everything, even partnerships, had to end. There was a bittersweet finality to this, as there had been to losing the ghost of his father, seeing his mother for the first and last time. Ray would soon be gone, as everyone would eventually be gone in time. That was true also of this Ray - the new Ray - maybe even of Fraser himself, and certainly of his posting to Chicago.

How long could he string it out? He'd been a police officer for seventeen years, a Constable for most of that. People who had gone to the Academy a decade after him were being promoted over him to jobs that appealed to their city aspirations in Toronto and Ottawa. How long would it be before, choice or not, they took him out of the field and put him behind a desk, far away from the snow, or real police work, where he couldn't embarrass any more Canadian officials?

And would retiring on full pay even be worth the way it would destroy his soul to have to suffer through it?

He ate quietly, distractedly, and then at last lowered the pizza just a few inches - still on his first slice - and looked sadly across at Ray again. ]

Perhaps it wouldn't hurt if... This once... If we shared a drink that was somewhat stronger than camomile tea.

[ He felt like he needed to excuse himself. ]

It is a wedding, after all. [ And nobody needed a miserable Mountie bringing down the mood before festivities had even gotten started. Just one drink--enough to dull the razor sharp edge of his mind and soften him up. What could go wrong? ]

[Well now they're both full of sads, both losing someone close to them and and left with one another. Although if Ray's entirely honest with himself, he's kind of glad to hear Vecchio may be off to Florida, it means not seeing Stella walking into the station and providing plenty of visual reminders, and not having Vecchio trying to be around Fraser. Vecchio may have seen him first, but Kowalski knows the Mountie far better than that slick, Italian bastard ever will. It takes more than taking a few bullets for the Mountie to really get to know him.

Maybe all this wouldn't be so bad after all. He's losing his wife, but he's regaining sole possession of his best friend. Not a bad trade off, even if Stella is his life long love interest. It's hard not to miss a woman you've been fawning over since you were a little kid.

So torn. And yet Fraser provides the perfect distraction when he reminds Ray of alcohol.]

Stronger than tea? You sure about that, Fraser? I mean, I'd be all over you stumblin' your way through the chapel like a klutzy toddler, but I dunno if that'd be appreciated by Vecchio.

[But even with the warning, Ray's stuffing the remainder of his current pizza slice into his mouth and sliding off the bed to go gather up those tiny bottles and, for Fraser's sake, a few tiny coke cans too.]

[ Yes, it should be a happy occasion. Ray would be happily married and Fraser would have his partner all to himself. Maybe they'd never be sharing nights in the wilderness again, pressed into each other's arms to keep the cold out, but their partnership could only become stronger than ever. He just had to see the silver lining--which would be more possible if he wasn't too busy staring at the ground, and actually looked Ray in the eye instead.

He tries for levity. It doesn't work out so well. ]

I'd rather hoped you would be all over me, Ray.

[ He said it distractedly, as though it had an entirely different meaning--which to Fraser it of course did. He meant 'Catch me if I fall', obviously, and chewed his way around the thick Chicago style crust of his pizza. He'd once told Ray that there was enough food in just one thirteen inch pie to feed a whole family of Inuit people, and yet between them and Diefenbaker they tended to clear two boxes easily. Maybe living in Chicago just made him hungrier--or it was the lack of pemmican in his diet. Either way, he ate his fair share.

When Ray settled back down, Fraser squinted at some of the bottles, trying to remember from the incident with his grandfather's liquor cabinet what tasted like what. He'd used the information since - you could find a wealth of information licking shoes and tables and bar counters and... But which flavors did he actually like? That was much more debatable. He settled on the black rum, unscrewing the tiny lid and raising it up for an overpowering sniff. Even the smell of it might make him tipsy. His eyebrows flicked toward his hairline, and then, preparing himself with a fierce grimace, he drained the bottle.

And coughed. And choked. And then coughed again until tears pricked his blue eyes. His throat had closed up, he could barely speak, but he managed to get out: ]

That was just as awful as I remembered.

[I'd rather hoped you would be all over me, Ray.

It's taking a moment for ray to process that, tossing it around in his head as he tries to make sense of it. Must be some weird Canadian thing, requesting support or something. Every other reasoning just makes it sound really freaking odd.

But whatever. Pizza and booze. And the pizza is pretty much all gone so only booze is left. Ray gets through his pizza eating pretty speedily, especially with Dief's help, and he never struggles to clear out a whole one. He blames his high metabolism for his ability to clear through mass, fatty foods and still be bouncing off the walls and be hungry minutes later, all while keeping a trim form. It's not as if pizza tends to stay long, all carbs and fat, but it proves to be a damn good absorber for alcohol, he finds. Plus it's a favourite of his and the wolf's.

Once he's settled back with the alcohol, he lets Fraser rifle through the clinking bottles, lips curling upwards slightly as he observes the Mounties' choice of alcohol. Rum. Cute. To be honest, any of the spirits would be an entertaining choice and Ray isn't disappointed as he watches the scene unfold.

By the time Fraser's choking on the heavy burn of alcohol Ray's unable to hold back a laugh, chuckling out a few amused exhales, too entertained by his friend's discomfort.]

Take it easy, buddy. That's strong stuff for a light weight.

[He reaches for a bottle as his laugh dies down, vodka being the first in his grip which he drinks down as easily as water, little more than a slight throat clear to ease it down. Ray's certainly had much more experience with drinking the stuff.]

[ And that's it. Between being laughed at churlishly and the dogged expectation that had been pasted on Ray's face, he's flipped over from teasing to playful grumpiness, and he grouses: ] I'm not a lightweight.

[ But his neck has turned pink up to his chin, and there's patches of color under his eyes and his ears are all but glowing. Maybe he doesn't know what the term means. Now that it's down, the rum feels warm and pleasant - Fraser feels warm and pleasant - and as expected all thoughts of being alone are well and truly parted--but that's more down to the distraction than taking a magic pill.

Licking the taste of it from his own lips, he returns the favor, watching Ray drink the vodka fluidly, and he shifts very slightly on the bed. There's...something. There's something about the way that little bottle is held up, Ray's mouth curling around the thread of the rim, his long throat exposed and rolling as he swallows, that is...

No. ]

How do you do that?

[ It might have been a request, or a rhetorical question. In either case Fraser rifled through the bottles until he found another bottle of vodka, which he supposed because Ray had drunk it so easily might be somehow easier to inhale. His curious gaze stayed on Ray though, and there was a youthful quality to his questioning gaze. Something innocent and unworldly. It flicked briefly away as he began to speak, then drifted back. ]

My parents only kept one bottle of alcohol in the house at any one time, and it was for the use of guests. Brandy--practicality always first, of course, for first aid and warmth. Two days after my mother died, Buck Frobisher took the bottle off the shelf and emptied it into the snow.

When I was thirteen - and it must be noted that I was a rather contrary thirteen year old--practically a ruffian - I picked the lock on my grandfather's liquor cabinet. I had to practice the skill somewhere, and there was hardly a surfeit of locks to work with. In any event, when I had broken in I considered the bottles inside as an exciting new challenge. So as not to disturb the levels I took only the smallest sip of each before replacing them.

My grandfather, however, was not to be fooled. Perhaps my clumsy use of the picklock was what gave me away, in any event he marched me to the liquor cabinet and sat me down in front of it--and the next thing I remember, other than how angry he was, was being violently ill. I spent the next two days asleep, and the next month apologizing.

[ In short he was traumatized, and the result - t-total Fraser - was the man that sat before him today. ] I was drunk only one time following that, but not on hard liquor. [ But that was another story, and much less distant in its personal elements as a tale of childish folly, and Fraser was eying the second bottle, bringing it up to his lips. ]

[Ray notices that pinkness creeping into Fraser's skin, like the warmth of the alcohol spreading about him with quick effect. It's likely the strength of the burn just as much as any drunkeness, but it's amusing all the same, keeping that smile lingering as he eyes the other up. Ray knows it'll be a good few minutes yet until anything starts taking proper effect, but he can't judge his friend's tolerances based on one shot alone.

The question, rhetorical or not, still gets a shrug, modest as if it's something he's proud of. This is one of the very few things he can do better than Fraser, so he figures he's allowed to have some pride in himself for it, and Fraser doesn't seem to be judging. In fact, he's got that look. The innocent Canadian look he's so damn good at adopting, all naivety and confusion like he's still learning about the world beyond the tundra, even now. It's cute. Good. Makes Ray feel like he's of some use, even if it is only when it comes to alcohol.

The story keeps Ray quiet, listening with his head tilted as he idly deposits the empty bottle aside. There's something melancholy about listening to Fraser speak of his family, especially his mother, and Ray doesn't interrupt. Only speaking at the very end to voice his opinion.]

No wonder you don't drink. Hey-- [Sharply, as though trying to grab Fraser's attention just before the drink is taken.]

Toss it to the back of yer throat and swallow it straight down. That's what me and my buddies used to do. Used to sit in the park after school and drink 'til sunset. Sometimes one of us would steal from our dad's stash. Other times we'd get Cliff- this hulk of a kid, never got IDed- to get us our stuff. Just the cheap shit, y'know? Like beer, hard cider or the type of spirits that tasted like paint stripper. Those were the sort y'didn't want lingerin' in your mouth any longer than they had to, heh.

I remember one time I got home late and, I dunno, I musta stank of the stuff, cause wow, my dad just started layin' into me. Shoutin' about how dumb I was and whatta waste and and and y'know he coulda shouted at me all night and I wouldn't have cared, but then he said what a disappointment I was and... and I guess that hit harder than any fist ever could. And he was right. I knew it right then that I'd done shit with my life while I'd been sittin' around drinkin'. What sorta son does that?

[And in short, Ray was also traumatised. Mostly by much of his and his father's arguments, but also alcohol. He still drank the stuff though, even if it wasn't usually to excess.]

[ That seemed silly! How was he supposed to taste it if it never even touched his tongue? But if Ray said that that was what was to be done then he believed him, and he'd try. If he could rely on anyone to be a reliable teacher it was his friend and partner--and Ray trusted him, after all. He'd taught him to swim despite his dearest protests. Well...after he'd gotten him in the water.

But then before he could drink it, Ray was returning the storytime favor, and Fraser was far too invested in hearing anything sentimental from his partner to break it up with a fit of coughing. Ray rarely spoke about his past. Fraser knew that most of that was because 'his past' meant 'Stella'. His posture shifted toward Ray on the bed, an open, conversational gesture. Welcoming. He was listening.

As Ray finished speaking, the tip of Fraser's tongue ran a circle under his top teeth, and he reached forward, placing his hand on Ray's knee, meaning it to be a comforting gesture rather than an overfamiliar one. ]

A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery--James Joyce.

If I learned anything from my own childhood experiences it's that no matter how indulgent our parents are with guidance, our mistakes are invariably our own to make. You learned from his disappointment, Ray, but you might just as easily have ignored the sentiment, chosen not to care. You didn't. You absorbed his wisdom, even if at the time he may have been too blind or stubborn to acknowledge it.

[ His gaze softened, and Fraser settled back, removing his hand and instead bringing the bottle to his lips. He took a moment to establish his own calm center, and then he took the shot of alcohol as indicated, knocking it neatly against the back of his throat and swallowing. Fraser grimaced again - a fierce grimace, eyes watering - but at least this time he didn't cough and choke his way through it. He couldn't imagine ever getting used to it, making a habit of it. He couldn't. But today was a special occasion. The burn in his throat from the vodka, the sweetly aromatic taste of the rum on his tongue--if he was toasting the oncoming absence of his best friend, he might as well do it the traditional way.

Besides, the alternative was that Ray drank alone, and that was clearly the worst of many terrible ideas. ]

You're a good person, Ray. A good detective. You hardly give yourself enough credit, and I know that though it may be as difficult for you to believe it as it is for him to admit it, your father is eminently proud of the man you've become.

It took me until after my father's death to reconcile our differences and forgive him for his mistakes; in the end, I was forced to acknowledge what few comprehend until it is already too late: that as much as he was my only father and I resented him for it, I was also his only son, and therefore in parenthood was I the model for his mistakes--his relationship with me the price I paid for his insight.

I regretted not telling him while he was alive that I forgave him his faults--all of them. But not all such things can be forgiven. Ray...[ He thought of a story Vecchio had told him once about his father. ] Ray would tell you that there's such a thing as crossing a line, and love doesn't excuse everything. That it can't. [ Wryly: ] He'd call my optimism 'typical.'

[Fraser's a good listener when he wants to be. All attentive and polite and Canadian as he shifts towards Ray that little bit more, all open and interested body language. It's nice to see, if a little odd. After all, no one listens to Ray, and how can he blame them? He's rarely got anything worth saying, Stella had told him that plenty of times in the past.

And not only does Fraser listen to Ray's rambling, he also listens to his advice, knocking that drink back with more precision and suffering just a little less for it. Ray prefers to let the alcohol linger if it's good quality stuff, let it settle against his tongue, wash up against the roof of his mouth and slip easily down his throat, but he was used to the burn and he'd rather not let his friend have to suffer through more choking fits. Especially not when he's going to carefully compliment Ray on top of it all.

This is why Fraser's always been worth keeping around despite his tendency to be really damn annoying. He's still one of the most supportive and understanding people Ray's ever encountered, and it doesn't seem to be a Canadian thing so much as a Fraser thing. He wishes he could return the favour somehow, but him trying to voice his support of his friend usually ends in awkward mumbles or poorly worded sentences that come out more offensive than appreciative, so instead he shrugs, head lowering slightly but a smile curling just barely at the corner of his lips.]

Startin' to ramble, Fraser. Sounds like we need to cut you off those bottles or you'll start spoutin' Inuit stories before the speech tonight. Pretty sure Vecchio would prefer you standin' at the aisle rather than propped up, huh?

[Although Ray's picking up what appears to be a brandy and swilling it down easily. One more for the road. Or wedding. Or whatever.]

[ Fraser knew it meant the world to Ray then. It was that little smile, the fact that he didn't mention a single word more on the topic. Talking about feelings was never easy; Fraser knew that. It applied to both of them. No, stories were all well and good - Fraser found stories easy so long as they weren't directly about him - but when it came to feelings, actual feelings, it was like a hand came down on his metaphorical shoulder and a ghost was shaking its head at him out of the corner of his eye.

In general, though, he simply didn't hold still long enough to have them--or have people have them about him. Fraser moved. He kept up his pursuits, he chased his men, he walked until he could let exhaustion in and slept the sleep of the dead and then walked some more. In fact, he'd never felt like he'd sat still or stopped his mind for thirty-four years.

And then he'd come to Chicago, and all that had changed. His work had begun to mean something, but he'd also had paperwork and office chores and actual standing still, and it was mindnumbing and depreciating in a way he found he couldn't bear. Why then, did he stay? Why not take the transfer back? Why subject himself to such humiliation and waste in the prime years of his life?

Why? Because for the first time in life he'd had a partner - a real partner - a person on whom he could depend, and they were doing good - real good - sometimes to hundreds or thousands of lives at a time. And even with the chores and the humiliation that feeling of self-worth had blossomed, and it was all because of Ray. The first Ray. Canada had become a holiday, a place to go for fresh air, and Ray had been his partner, and of course Fraser was distraught when he'd lost him out of the blue because Ray had been the first person he'd clicked with. His first partner.

It said something that in all the time he'd been a Mountie, there had been no man or woman whom he'd have considered a trusted friend and equal, someone he could rely on to find him in a blizzard or rescue him from drifting to sea on an ice flow. Well...there was Diefenbaker, but he'd been a pup for most of that time; he'd spent more of his life in America now than he had in the Territories. Ray had been that man, true, but he hadn't known what partnership was until he'd met Ray Kowalski. They fought like a married couple, but they were partners--tied to each other at the waist, my fate is your fate, partners.

Fraser smiled that secret smile back and cracked open one of the cans of coke, nodding it toward Ray. See? he gestured. I'll try and be sober. ]

I'll be fine. Fairly recently I discovered that I'm actually remarkably adept at standing upright.

[ Canadian humor. ]

[Partners.

It was a nice word to dwell on.

Ray had been through a few in his time with the department but they'd come and gone and while he still kept in touch with most, he'd never been too concerned with the lack of connection. Partners come and go, that's just how it is, but Fraser... Fraser was more than that. Fraser stayed when he didn't have to, in and out of work. The two of them would follow one another wherever life took them, even if it meant Ray hauling ass to Canada and winding up staying there for months on end just to go on a very unofficial adventure. An adventure that drew them even closer thanks to daily perils and far too many close calls.

Perhaps that's why he'd even followed Fraser all the way to his ex-wife's wedding. Preferring to see his childhood lover marrying another man than risk spending a few days alone and self-pitying. For the moment it didn't seem like a poor choice, but he might change his mind once the ceremony started. Or, even worse, when the first dance began. Stella dancing with another man was far, far worse than her kissing another man. Kissing was just lips against lips, anyone could do it. But dancing about rhythm and closeness and really feeling out your partner. He and Stella danced well together. Vecchio shouldn't be allowed to interfere with that.

And there he goes again with all that depressing Stella nostalgia. The sooner he realised it was over the better.]

Hardeharhar.

[He doesn't get it, but he's pretty sure it's a Canadian joke. Canadian jokes are the worst.]

How long we got? I'm tempted to go drown myself in the bath. Only need an inch to drown, right?

[Even if he doesn't drown himself, he's very tempted to sit the ceremony out and sulk alone in his room. Maybe cry for several hours. Crying sounded pretty good. If he drank enough alcohol he might even weep out whiskey and be able to drink his own tears.]

Well actually, Ray--

[ He opened his mouth, had gotten as far as 'actually' before he realised he was going to stop, and managed to bite down on saying anything else.

Actually, he was going to say, Even if you did managed to get into the bath ass up it'd be difficult to actually force yourself to drown in an inch of water. And then he'd talk about the human instinct to live and...he'd be rambling again in no time at all. So he swallowed all of the titchy tiny can of coke dutifully, set the empty can aside, and started again. ]

I can see the headlines now. Detective found drowned at ex-wife's wedding to former cop. [ And despite being more grim, it was actually a very lighthearted comment for Fraser. ] Of course they'd have to leave out the fact that you had once been undercover as Ray Vecchio, if only for the sake of clarity.

[ Ray was flagging on the alcohol front, he noticed, nowhere near the challenge Fraser had set, but then he hadn't counted on their talking for most of it. They'd have to get up and change soon. In fact--he checked his watch. ] Fifteen minutes.

And really-- [ Fraser added, shifting his weight off the end of the bed. ] --I should have thought you'd had enough of almost drowning, Ray.

[ Maybe what he needed to do was start getting changed now before the time got away from him. He wasn't like Ray. For one thing, special occasions like this called for him to be in his full dress uniform, and even at best speed it would take him most of ten minutes to get changed into it. He climbed off the bed, showing his back to Ray while he began to strip, and truly--there were just some things you could do when another man had seen you rolling naked in the snow to get clean, and even after months 'apart' this ought to be one of them. What was he going to do? Ask the man who had shared a six by twelve tent with him for three months to hide in the bathroom?

Still, this was no strip show. Fraser was business-like, efficient. Off came the leather jacket and the longsleeved shirt underneath it. The jeans were trickier; he wore them far too tight, and a minimal amount of squirming was required to get loose. And then in just his underwear, he was digging into the protective plastic sleeve that preserved his best uniform, each button gleaming, the leatherwork buffed and oiled and polished until it shone. ]

[Fraser does so well at not correcting Ray. It's like he's actually learnt something from all their time together. He even tries to make a joke of it all which is practically amazing considering only seconds he ago he was likely going to lecture Ray on the intricate details of drowning.]

Yeah. I'm totally done with drownin'. That is not somethin' that ever needs to be a thing. Water and me are not buddies.

[The whole drowning thing isn't something he tends to think on too often, shoved away at the back of his mind long ago as yet another dumb thing where he followed Fraser into danger with very little argument. But he'd never forget that feeling of running out of air, of his body all but shutting down, of the revitalising burst of breath from Fraser... Buddy breathing. Well, Fraser sure was a buddy.

Buddy enough to be casually stripping down in front of him, but Ray doesn't even bat an eyelid. They've shared too much time together rolling in snow, changing, sleeping and bathing to ever have Ray feel awkward about Fraser undressing. In fact, Ray watches, staring at those perfectly white boxers and shaking his head slowly before finally kicking his own ass into gear.]

Y'know I had to buy a new suit for this, right? I spent actual money to get it and everythin'. I mean I figure I needed a new suit anyways but I dunno... Maybe I won't wear it again.

[He's off the bed and reaching for his own carefully hung and protected suit, unzipping the case to stare at the deep black fabric within.

It was just as much a mourning suit as a wedding suit and would suit either occasion perfectly. Every time he wore it he was going to be reminded of this day. The day Stella married another and became a Vecchio rather than a Kowalski. Not exactly the sort of memory that would install the usual confidence that suits were meant to give.]

Whatever. Not like I ever wear 'em anyway.

[Suits are an occasional thing for him, not an every day item, unlike the casual wear he's currently starting to strip out of after tossing the suit carelessly aside onto the bed, narrowly avoiding a pizza box.]

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