Author: Desiree Armfeldt
Title: This is How We Learn to Light a Fire
Fandoms: due South
Characters: Benton Fraser/Ray Kowalski (pre-slash)
Rating: Teen
Length: ~3600 words
Angst-to-hope ratio: Low
Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters, I don't own them, I derive no profit from their use.
Bookkeeping notes: Also fills the "Comfort" and "Family" challenges, as well as the "estrangement" square of my hc_bingo card (amnesty period).
Summary: Fraser and Ray go camping and talk about their fathers (among other things).


The national preserve isn’t true wilderness, but it’s closer than a city park, at least.  From the spot where Fraser and Ray are camped, they can’t see or hear the highway.  Light pollution still dims the stars, but not nearly as much as in the midst of Chicago.  Fraser feels muscles ease in his chest and shoulders that he’s not usually aware of clenching.

He sets down his armful of scavenged deadwood and starts laying it out inside the ring of stones they’ve made.

“Let me do it?” Ray asks, to Fraser’s surprise.  “See if I remember how?”

“I had no idea you knew how to make a campfire.”  Fraser sits back to cede the task to Ray.  “I thought you’d always lived in the city.”

Ray gives a one-shouldered shrug, ducking his head to the side. 

“Yeah, but my dad used to take me and my brother camping.  Mom stayed home, I don't know if it was a male-bonding thing or if she just didn't like sleeping on rocks and getting eaten by bugs.”

As he talks, Ray selects sticks and larger pieces of wood from Fraser’s pile.  The way he arranges them is somewhat ramshackle, but he clearly has a grasp of the basic principles, at least: ample kindling below, larger pieces balanced so as to allow for plenty of airflow.  The structure could be improved, it’s not ideal, but it should be sufficient to catch a good fire, so Fraser keeps his hands firmly on his knees and refrains from offering almost certainly unwanted advice. 

“So, your father taught you to build a fire?” he asks instead.

“Yeah.  Well, except he was a city kid, too, and his family didn’t do the camping thing.  Not sure if they didn’t have the money for vacations, or if it just didn’t occur to them that roughing it in the woods was something people did for fun.  So, Dad had to kind of figure everything out from scratch.  How to put up a tent, how to make a fire. . .” 

Ray pauses, leaning in close to inspect his work with a frown of concentration.  For a moment, Fraser wonders if he’ll overbalance and sprawl headfirst into the pile of wood, but no, this is not one of Ray’s clumsy moments.  One knee drops to anchor him as he reaches forward to adjust the logs with long, dexterous fingers: trying to improve the air circulation below, Fraser guesses.  There’s something almost feline about the lines of his moonlit silhouette.

“Those first couple of times when I was little were kind of, um, improvisational.”  Ray rocks back on his heels again and reaches for another log.  “Probably having two antsy kids along didn’t make it any more of a picnic.  Anyway, I mostly learned from watching him make stuff up as he went along.  So, I never really learned it, like A-Z, the fire thing.  And it was always kind of a coin toss; sometimes it just wouldn’t take, even though it seemed like I’d done everything right.  I was better at it than my brother, though, even though he was older.  I was kind of proud of that.”

“I’m sure your father was, too,” says Fraser softly, and he is sure, despite the fact that he’s met Damien Kowalski only a handful of times and never exchanged more than a few words with the man.

Ray does another semi-shrug, but then he nods.

“Yeah.  I think so.”  He sighs.  “It was easier back then.  When I was little.  Get a fire to light, hit a ball, change the wiper fluid, buy Mom flowers for Mother’s day.  Back before I was a screw-up.”

Fraser opens his mouth to reply, but Ray shakes himself like a dog shedding water and says, more energetically, “Never mind.  C’mon, let’s fire up this puppy.”

He holds out his hand, but frowns when Fraser passes him a piece of flint and a flat steel strip.

“What the hell is this?”

“Flint and steel,” Fraser answers before he can squash the reflex.

Fortunately, Ray’s snort of exasperation is tinged with amusement rather than real anger.

“This ain’t the Boy Scouts, Fraser, and we didn’t just step off the Mayflower, either. Don’t you have any matches?”

“Actually, yes.”  Fraser hands them over without arguing.  This is not the moment to discuss the relative merits of different firestarting methods.

“Waterproof, right?  In case we get caught on a sinking ship again?”  Ray flashes him a sidelong grin.

“Indeed.  Since the Henry Allen, I’ve also started carrying a set of small tools: screwdrivers, allen wrenches—”

“All in there?”  Ray flicks his index finger against Fraser’s belt pouch.  “Next time we fall in the water, you’re going to sink like a rock.”

“They’re really not that heavy,” Fraser protests, though he knows Ray’s only teasing.  “Not compared to my boots, for instance—or yours, for that matter.”

“Fine, okay, so now you’re prepared for underwater electrical repair.  What else you got in that belt pouch?”

“Oh, any number of useful items.”

“Such as?”

“Well, a small supply of pemmican.  Gauze and butterfly bandages.  Antibiotic salve—as you’ve seen.”

“That moose blubber stuff?”  Ray wrinkles his nose.  “What else?”

“Needle and thread of course.  Ah. . .”  Fraser pauses for thought, suddenly realizing that the list of items he’s willing to name to Ray is rapidly running short.

“That it?”

Fraser doesn’t want to lie, and Ray wouldn’t believe him anyway.

“No.”

“What else?”

“Nothing important.”  That’s exactly the wrong thing to say; he knows it as the words are leaving his mouth.  He can practically see Ray’s ears prick forward and his nostrils quiver at the scent of prey.

“Oh yeah?  Like what?”

“Really, Ray, I hardly think—”

“Yeah, yeah, blah blah blah.”  Ray waves a dismissive hand, which abruptly darts at Fraser’s pouch.  Fraser only barely manages to dodge out of the way, nearly keeling over backwards as a result.  Ray is on him instantly and they scrabble together on the ground, half-wrestling, Ray’s nimble hands feinting and swooping for the prize, Fraser doggedly defending his property while being careful not to actually hurt his opponent.

The tussle ends when Fraser pins Ray on his back with both wrists at his sides.  He’s using no more force than will make the point, but Ray only struggles for a moment before going dramatically limp and flapping one hand against the ground in a tapping-out gesture.

“Okay, okay, truce, I give up.”  He’s laughing as Fraser pulls him up to his knees.  “Just hand over the damn matches so I can get this fire going, or else we’re never going to eat.”

Ray slaps at his arms and back to dislodge the dirt he’s accumulated from rolling on the ground.  Fraser reaches over to pluck some twigs and leaves out of Ray’s disheveled hair.

“Hey, that’s my hair,” Ray protests.  But he makes no attempt to bat Fraser’s hands away.

“Unless dead leaves are some new fashion statement of which I’m unaware. . .”

“You wouldn’t know a fashion statement if it crawled into your boot and died,” says Ray cheerfully as Fraser relieves him of the last of the detritus.  “And, you know, this is why some of us prefer to sleep inside, Nature Boy.”

When Fraser lets go of him, Ray shakes his head rapidly, like a dog shedding water, then rolls his shoulders and settles into a relaxed slouch.

“C’mon, matches, before I die of waiting.”  He snaps his fingers several times, then holds out his hand expectantly.

Fraser is nearly overwhelmed with tender protectiveness for his partner—so capable, so tenacious, and yet, like all humans, so vulnerable to the elements, to predators, to hunger. . .

“Ray.”  He catches Ray’s wrist, which causes Ray to give him a startled glance.  He puts the flint and steel into Ray’s hands.  “Let me show you how to do it this way.  It—it’s a useful skill to have.  In case of emergency.”

Though Ray seems confused by the urgency of Fraser’s tone, he just shrugs and says gamely, “Okay, whatever oils your engine.”

Ten minutes later, Fraser is beginning to regret acting on his impulse.  Ray is hunched tensely, his curses becoming less and less quiet, and the pile of tinder remains stubbornly smokeless.  The graceful hands are clumsy at this unfamiliar task, and Ray’s frustration is only making things worse as he grips too tightly, strikes too hard and too straight, knocks the steel out of his own grasp and shakes his stinging fingers.  Fraser remembers the weight of stones in a child’s cold hands, the way the dark seemed to press in and every rustle of leaves became a bear about to burst out of hiding.  Tears of frustration.

“Ray.  Ray.” 

Ray’s head whips up, and Fraser bites his tongue to keep from repeating his partner’s name again, which would only feed his anger.

“Would you like me to—?”

“I got it, I can do it,” Ray snaps, but the slump of his shoulders says otherwise.

“I know,” says Fraser, hoping he sounds sincere rather than patronizing.  He does know Ray is capable of doing this.  He also knows exactly how long it can take to figure out the trick of it the first time, without help.  “I think if you just—”

He breaks off automatically, then realizes that Ray hasn’t actually interrupted him.  Ray is looking at him, waiting for the end of the sentence.  And now, apparently, wondering if Fraser’s bag of marbles has developed a sudden leak.

“What?” Ray asks.

Fraser opens his mouth, then shuts it again.  He knows how to strike a spark, but it’s difficult to describe in words what Ray is doing wrong, and even more difficult to follow verbal instructions about such a physical task.

“Perhaps it would be easier if I. . .”  Fraser scoots around to squat behind Ray, then puts his hands on Ray’s.  Ray’s back is startlingly warm against Fraser’s chest.  Maybe he’s not wearing enough layers.  “You want a shallower angle, but not too shallow.  Like this.”  He holds Ray’s hands in the appropriate positions, mimes the striking gesture.

This close—embracing Ray, for all practical purposes—Fraser can feel the tension in Ray’s shoulders, arms, and hands as he tries to mimic the motions Fraser demonstrated.  Stone rings on metal, but no spark.  With a grunt of frustration, Ray strikes again, and again.

“Stupid fucking—” he mutters.  He’s coiled to spring, though there’s nowhere he can go without either shoving Fraser to the ground or walking straight through the pile of wood.

“Here, let me—put your hands on mine.”

Ray relinquishes the flint and steel, and cups his hands loosely over Fraser’s as Fraser mimes the proper technique again.  A second time, and then Ray’s hands close around his and moves them, imitating.

“Yes,” Fraser murmurs.  Four-handed like this, it’s too clumsy to actually work, like trying to start a fire wearing mittens.  But Ray’s catching the rhythm now, the angle.

Fraser presses the flint and steel back into Ray’s hands and rests his own on his thighs as he peers over Ray’s shoulder.  Ray touches stone to metal tentatively, then sharply, with a quick flick of his wrists.

A spark jumps, startling them both: Fraser draws a sharp breath, and Ray jerks back against him, rocking them both back on their heels, nearly keeling them over into the dirt.  Fraser braces, balances as Ray leans eagerly forward.

“Did it—look, it’s smoking—is it—?”

“There, there!  Blow on it!  Slowly, slowly. . .steady. . .yes, yes.  Now you need to feed it, here.”  Fraser presses some small twigs into Ray’s hand. 

Still blowing a steady stream of air to nourish the juddering flame, Ray eases the twigs in, and the fire obligingly devours them.  In short order, it’s strong enough to catch the first kindling-sticks, and with a bit more coaxing, the bark on one of the logs starts to burn.  Soon, flames are licking up its sides, spreading to its neighbors, and the undersides of the logs start to glow orange.  Fraser lets out a breath of relief.

“It worked,” Ray says softly, with a wide-eyed look of astonishment that makes him look like a teenager.  A more innocent teenager than Ray probably ever was, in reality.  The illusion is hardly dispelled by Ray’s whoop of triumph and the way he leaps up, waving his joined fists in the air like a boxer after winning a match.

Keeping half an eye on the fire—it wouldn’t do to have it suddenly die now—Fraser watches his friend’s victory dance with a fond smile.  He sometimes envies Ray’s exuberant physicality and his apparent ability to lose all self-consciousness, to lose himself in the moment.  Ray’s grin flashes brightly in the growing firelight, and Fraser feels his own smile broaden in response.

As abruptly as he jumped up, Ray drops to the ground next to Fraser again.

“Time to break out the hot dogs?” he asks.

“We should give the fire some time to start forming coals,” Fraser says.

Ray gives a grunt of agreement but starts rummaging in the bag of supplies anyway.  He opens up the package of hot dogs, finds a couple of long sticks, and manages to string two hot dogs on each without ripping the meat apart.  Then he lays the sticks carefully down so that the meat rests on a flat rock.

“Hey Frase?”  Ray is tossing bits of bark into the fire, not looking at him.  “Thanks.  For being patient.  I know I can be a pain to teach.  I mean, my dad always. . .”

Fraser winces sympathetically.

“Fathers don’t always make the best teachers for their own children,” he says.  “My own father, for example, believed that one explanation was sufficient, and often superfluous, and after that, it was all a matter of putting in the effort.”

Ray looks at him curiously.

“So you learned to teach yourself?  Or get it right the first time?”

“I. . .yes, one or the other.”  Fraser suddenly finds it easier to look at the fire than at Ray.  “And. . .I suppose I also learned to expect everyone around me to do the same.”

He forces himself to glance up and sees that Ray is still looking steadily at him with eyes that gleam in the firelight.

“Nah,” Ray says, giving Fraser’s knee a gentle mock-punch.  “You just forget to slow down sometimes.  But you’ve got the patience of a rock when you want to.  Like I was saying.  You’re like my dad that way.”

“Your father?” Fraser echoes, confused.  “But I thought—”

“Oh, dad has a temper, don’t get me wrong.  And he can be a stubborn asshole.  I didn’t get it from nowhere, you know.”  He flashes a grin that’s an odd combination of cheeky and self-deprecating, but then his expression turns sober.  “We fought all the time, especially when I was a teenager.  Well, and after that.  But he’d spend hours showing me how to change a hubcap or riffle-shuffle a deck of cards or grill a steak.  Never said more than he had to; knew just how much to explain.  Mostly he’d just show me.  Or he’d watch me screw it up for a while and then just reach in and adjust my grip or tap on the nut that needed tightening or whatever.  Never got frustrated when I didn’t get it.  He’d take as long as it took.  Only time we really got each other, when he was teaching me how to do something with my hands.”

Ray looks down at his hands, which are currently peeling the bark off a stick.  Fraser remembers his father’s hands knotting rope, loading a gun, skinning a rabbit, gentling a sled dog.  He remembers his father’s funeral: a sea of red uniforms; an endless succession of old men clapping him on the shoulder and saying words he barely listened to.  And standing in an abandoned warehouse, surrounded by enemies, arguing with his father’s ghost.

“Ray, I know I’m hardly in a position to offer you advice, but if I may?”

“What?”

“Don’t wait until your father is dead to make peace with him.”

Unlike Lieutenant Welsh before him, Ray doesn’t dismiss the suggestion out of hand.  Instead, he nods, sighs, and says, “Yeah, I know.  You’re right.  It’s just. . .it’s hard to talk to him.  I never know what to say.  In some ways he knows me better than anyone in the world, but in other ways he doesn't get me at all, it's like I'm a space alien, or he is.”

“I sometimes wonder if it’s our differences or our similarities that make us more opaque to each other.  Especially in families.”

Ray snorts softly.

“Sounds like you and your dad didn’t always get each other either?”

“You could say that,” Fraser admits.  “People have often told me I’m just like my father, and I’ve never been sure whether to be proud or terrified.”

“You think it’s true?  That you’re like him?”

“I don’t know.  Well, in some ways, obviously.”  Fraser cracks a wry smile as he tugs at the cuff of his tunic.  “I like to think I share his sense of justice, his principles, his unwillingness to leave a job half-done.  I’m told I share his stubbornness.  I hope I. . .sometimes I worry that I have as much trouble listening to other people as he did.”

Fraser can see that Ray hears the apology in that, but his only reply is to give Fraser’s knee a friendly squeeze.

“How about your mom?” he asks as he pokes a stick idly into the fire.

“I barely remember her,” says Fraser.  “I was young when she died.  Six years old.”

“Shit, that's rough.”  Ray shakes his head sympathetically.

“I miss her, though.  Or I remember missing her.  I know my father missed her terribly.  I think. . .I knew that, of course, at the time, but I don’t think I really understood what that meant, as a child.  We didn’t talk about her, and now I don’t remember, and he does. . .did. . .  I sometimes wonder if that made it even harder for us to understand anything else about each other.”

Ray puts his hand on Fraser’s knee again and leaves it there as they both stare into the fire for a while.  Fraser reflects on the subtle but profound difference between two people not talking to each other, and two people who just happen not to be saying anything at the moment.

“Listen,” Ray says.  “You should come have dinner with me and my parents next time I go.  Shit, I don't mean that the way it sounded, not like a substitute or anything.  Just, my mom likes feeding people and she likes meeting my friends, and sometimes it's easier talking to your parents if there are other people around and, hell, I'm just putting my foot in my mouth here, but what I mean is, I'd like to have you there.”

“I'd like that,” says Fraser quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.  Thank you.”

Ray has a wide variety of smiles.  The one that creeps over his face now is the relaxed, intimate one like a secret shared with just one person.  It makes Fraser’s throat ache.

“Okay,” says Ray.

“Okay,” Fraser echoes.

“So, uh. . .”  Ray looks at the fire, then at Fraser’s hands, then cuts a sidelong glance at Fraser’s face.  “You going to tell me what else you got in that pouch of yours?”

And Fraser finds that, yes, after all, he is.

Out of the pouch, he draws a deck of cards, which he presents to Ray, who looks baffled.  However, when the next item is a packet of M&Ms, Ray’s eyes gleam with dawning understanding.  A cassette album of The Clash follows, and a recipe for chicken casserole (dictated to Ray over the phone by his mother and relayed to Fraser for transcription because Ray’s hands were full), and a handful of American quarters (handy for parking meters, jukeboxes, and vending machines).

Finally, Fraser draws Ray’s glasses from the pouch, and Ray laughs out loud.

“So that’s why I can never find the damn things?”

“Not in general, no,” Fraser assures him.  “But you left them on your desk when we left this afternoon, and I thought you might need them, so I brought them along.”

Fraser offers him the glasses, but Ray waves them away.

“Nah, hang onto them, I’d just lose ‘em out here.  You can give ‘em back when we’re in the car.”

Still grinning, Ray turns to reach for the hot-dog sticks.  He obviously thinks that was the punchline, and why shouldn’t he?  But Fraser fishes the last item from his pouch, and Ray obediently holds out his hand again.

Fraser places the condom on his outstretched palm.

Ray blinks down at it once, twice, three times.  The fire snaps; a chunk of wood falls in a shower of sparks.  His eyes lift to meet Fraser’s.  The look they share tells Fraser everything he needs to know.

Ray’s fingers curl around the green foil packet.  He slips it into his pocket, then tips Fraser a wink as he passes him his dinner on a stick.