Author: Desiree Armfeldt
Title: A New View Through An Old Glass
Fandoms: due South
Characters: Benton Fraser, Ray Kowalski
Rating: Teen
Length: 2010 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.
A/N: Another in the long list of stories I just couldn't find a decent title for...suggestions welcome!
Summary: Ray's a little drunk; Fraser takes him home.


The wedding is lovely: festive without being overly extravagant, and infused with unique touches that reflect the personalities of bride and groom.  Elaine and Curtis (I have only met him once before, but he seems a good man and obviously adores her) move through the ceremony with grace and delight, and when they share their first kiss as husband and wife, the church resounds with a standing ovation.

The reception is a celebration of the best sort, full of genuine joy and good cheer.  For my own part, I enjoy the food and the conversation, but knowing relatively few of the guests, and not being much of a “partier,” I am content to sit back and watch for much of the evening.  Perhaps that sounds solitary, but surrounded by music and merriment, I feel anything but lonely.  I smile at Elaine dancing with Francesca’s barely-walking little daughter. . .Lt. Welsh ensconced in a comfortable chair with a plate of petites-fours, listening with apparent fascination to a tale told with gusto by Elaine’s tiny grandmother. . .Several of the bridesmaids swooping down in an obviously pre-planned maneuver on Elaine’s partner from work, who seems startled but not displeased by the onslaught. . .Turnbull politely but fiercely arguing the relative merits of curling and baseball with an increasingly bewildered Huey, until Francesca separates them with a firm hand and steers Turnbull off into a corner for what appears to be a rather more intimate ‘conversation’. . .

And Ray, who appears to be having the time of his life.  Though he knows only a few more people here than I do, that hasn’t stopped him from chatting, laughing, flirting, and dancing his way through the guest list.  Not to mention drinking, but he carries his liquor well enough that only as the party is winding down do I realize he’s passed beyond tipsy and into. . .well, the term ‘lit-up’ seems singularly appropriate.  His flushed face glows; his movements are grand and loose, without a trace of his habitual tension; his easy laughter invites participation.

When I approach him, he grins and pounds me on the back as delightedly as though we’ve been separated for months.

“Fraser!  Buddy!  You having a good time?”

“Indeed,” I assure him.  “But we need to go home now.”

“Why?” he demands, his voice splitting the difference between curiosity and whining.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that inebriation brings out Ray’s inner six-year-old.  I find this more amusing than anything else, though I hope he doesn’t prove too stubborn, as a fight would only embarrass both of us.

“Because the party’s over,” I explain, gently rotating him to draw his attention to the emptying room and the knot of guests retrieving jackets and purses.  “See? Everyone’s going home.”

“Huh.”  He thinks this over, then nods grudgingly.  “Yeah, okay.”

I steer him across the room to make our farewells to Elaine and Curtis, and then to the coatroom to collect his windbreaker and my hat.

“Ray, I’m going to have to ask you to give me your keys.”

He squints at me in confusion, apparently far gone enough to have trouble sorting through my syntax.  But he understands well enough when I hold out my hand: he shakes his head and jams his hands in his pockets as though he thinks I might try to wrestle the keys from him by force. 

“Unh-unh.  You’re not driving my car.”

“Well, you’re certainly not driving it in your current condition.”

I’m expecting a protracted argument, but Ray just snorts.  “‘Course not.  I’m drunk, not stupid.  Get us a cab.”

Despite the lateness of the hour, cabs are still plentiful on the streets of Chicago; it doesn’t take long for me to flag one down.  However, the cabbie eyes Ray dubiously.

“You gonna puke in my car?” he asks.

“Nah, I’m good, I’m great.”  Ray waves away his concern with an expansive gesture that causes him to stagger against me.  I steady him with a hand under his elbow.

“He’ll be all right,” I assure the driver, who frowns, but lets us onboard.

Even with traffic relatively light at this time of night, it will take at least a half an hour to drive to Ray’s place.  It will take me a further hour to walk home, but the air and exercise will do me good, and tomorrow being Sunday, I can sleep in a little to make up for the late night.  It’s worth the extra time to make sure Ray gets home safely, and honestly, I would do it simply for the pleasure of his company.

Even in his current. . .state of mind.  Just at the moment, Ray is splayed loosely—one might even say, lushly—against the seatback, staring out the window in apparent fascination, and singing.  Fortunately, at a volume more or less suitable for the confined space.  I don’t recognize the songs: they sound like 1980s-era rock, but my knowledge of popular music is limited, as is Ray’s ability to carry a tune.  They’re love songs, that much is clear, and his store of them is apparently inexhaustible. 

It makes a strangely pleasant accompaniment to my unspooling thoughts about the wedding just past, the walk to come, Sunday plans. . .
          
Ray interrupts his own song mid-measure to say, “Wow.  Forgot what it feels like.”

“Being drunk?”  Though I’ve never witnessed it first-hand before, I’m fairly certain this isn’t the only time Ray has overindulged since I’ve known him.

But he shakes his head.  “Being drunk happy.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”
          
“Mostly only drink when I’m sad,” he explains.  “Since. . .I don’t know. Long time.  Before Stella.  Last time I was drunk and happy. . .I don’t remember when.  Used to be all the time.  Why I drank.  Celebrate.  Have fun.  Get happy.”

“You don’t need alcohol to be happy,” I can’t help chiding him, though it’s not my business and debating with the inebriated is a singularly pointless endeavor.

“No, no, see, that’s the thing.  You have to be happy to start with.  Then, if you drink, you get happier.  Drink when you’re sad, get sadder.”

“If that’s the case, then why do you drink when you’re sad?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Ray’s face scrunches into the most earnest frown I’ve ever seen on him.  He ponders the question for a long while, before shaking his head and declaring, “No clue.” 

With that, his head flops back against the seat.  There’s a finality to the gesture, like the period marking the end of a paragraph.  Only it turns out that this wasn’t Ray’s last word on the subject after all, because after a moment, he adds, “Maybe I should stop.”

“That might be for the best,” I concur.

“Don’t want to be sad any more.”

“I don’t want you to be sad, either.”  I hope Ray can hear the sincerity behind the banal words. 

The truth is that I sometimes worry about him.  I have seen the dark moods, the insecurity, the weariness that lurk under his exuberant exterior.  It’s the human condition, of course: even the most privileged encounter pain; even the most contented souls suffer now and then.  But it’s also human to wish our friends happy, and though I do what I can for Ray, I wish I could do more.

But I’m not equipped to tell him any such thing, even if he were equipped to hear it in the spirit it was meant.  The best I can do is lay a friendly hand on his shoulder and hope that reassures him that, at least, he doesn’t have to face the world alone.

“I’m sick of it,” he says decisively, startling me out of my rambling thoughts.  “Done.  Not gonna be sad any more.”

“No?”

“Nope.”

“Good.  I’m glad,” I tell him.

To his surprise, Ray turns sideways in the seat, takes my face between his two hands, and stares searchingly into my eyes.

“Are you?” he asks, so intensely that I wonder if this is how it feels to be on the receiving end of one of his interrogations.

“What?” I stammer.

“Are you glad?  Right now?  Are you?”

He’s so earnest—the question seems so important to him—that I take a moment to seriously reflect on my own state of mind.  It isn’t a word I would usually think to apply to myself—but why not?  Is it so foreign to my nature?  Or to my circumstances?  That seems ungrateful and melodramatic.  I may be in exile, but I enjoy good health, financial and physical security, meaningful employment, and the knowledge that I make a positive difference in people’s lives every day.  And right at this moment, with a beautiful evening behind me, sharing this ride and this conversation with Ray. . .

“Yes,” I tell him sincerely.  “I am glad.”

And if it hadn’t already been the truth, the brilliance of his smile would make it impossible to feel any other way.

“Good.  I’m glad too,” he says.  “I’m glad you’re glad.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re glad I’m glad.”

Ray bursts out laughing as though this is the funniest joke he’s ever heard.  Still chuckling, he pats my cheek affectionately.

“I’m glad you’re glad I’m glad you’re glad. . .I forget.”

“That’s all right,” I assure him.  “It’s not important.”

“Bzzt!  Wrong.  It’s very important.”  He shakes his head so hard he loses his balance; I grab his shoulders to steady him before he can topple sideways into the cab window.  He twists around to grasp mine in return, facing me square-on at the risk of tumbling into my lap.

“You have to be glad.”  He stares intently into my face.  “Can’t be glad if you’re sad.  Not buddies.”

“Don’t worry.  I’m not sad.”

“Good.  Don’t be sad.  Don’t ever be sad any more,” he insists.

What a simple, staggering thought.  He makes it sound so easy.  I wish it were that easy.

“I’m. . .not sure I can promise that.”

The look of disappointment on his face almost makes me take the words back, but I can’t lie to him.  I cast about for some comfort to offer, or some distraction to lighten the mood, but drunk though he is, Ray is faster off the mark than I am.

“Okay, okay, tell you what.  One day at a time.  Like the AA guys say, right?  Can you do that for me?”

I swallow down a sudden lump in my throat.  I’d undertake any number of things for his sake that I wouldn’t do for my own, and I suspect he knows it.  This assignment—challenge—gift. . .

“Yes, I can.  I will,” I promise.

“Attaboy.  C’mon, now, gimme a smile.”

I try to oblige, but it’s like being told to smile for the camera: I can feel that the expression I produce is strained and self-conscious.  Ray’s reaction confirms it: he wrinkles his nose and makes that buzzer noise again. 

“Try again.  A real smile.”

That intense, almost comically earnest look of his.  A swell of affection overwhelms me, and I suppose it must show on my face, because Ray grins in delight.

“Oh yeah, there you go!” he crows.  Then, to my astonishment, he lurches forward to plant an emphatic kiss on my mouth.

The smell of alcohol and sweat is nearly overwhelming; the kiss itself is over before I can process the experience.  Ray’s triumphant grin is glorious to behold.

“Ding ding ding,” he croons.

The cab banks hard around a corner, throwing us both leftwards; Ray loses his precarious balance and sprawls against my shoulder.  I clutch him protectively, which he seems to take as an invitation: he shifts into a more comfortable position, snakes one arm loosely over my lap, and snuggles down with a contented sigh.

“Happy new year, Frase,” he mumbles into my neck.

I don’t point out that New Year’s Day isn’t for another five months.  I simply settle my arms more snugly around him as the taxi bears us on through the night.