Title: To Be Continued Right Now
Fandom: due South
Rating: PG
Length: ~900 words
Content notes: A Fraser/Kowalski riff on the end of "A Likely Story".
Author notes: none
Summary: “You wanna drop the damn Mountie mask some time, might get you somewhere good.”


Sometimes, Ray thinks he has no idea at all who Benton Fraser is. Like, who he really is underneath all that… stuff. Sure, there’s enough things there to see, but it’s all layers. Like body armor, maybe, to protect something that needs protecting, whatever that is, or like masks, to distract people from what’s staring them in the face.

For example, that uniform. It’s hard to look at Fraser and not just see “red”—hell, half the 2-7 just calls him “Red” as a nickname when he isn’t in the room, and even to that old Italian lady he’s “Mr. Redcoat”.

Ray thinks it’s got to be the most uncomfortable thing in the history of clothes, and yet Fraser wears it day in, day out, rain or shine. Sometimes Ray’s impressed Fraser can actually move in that thing at all—himself, put him in a shirt that goes with a tie and he feels cramped.

Then there’s what Ray can only describe as “being Canadian”. Or maybe it’s “being Fraser”; you can’t be sure with these things. That completely sincere expression when he tells Ray “that’s just logic”, or “we do our jobs so good people can sleep at night”. Every so often, Ray thinks it’s complete pretense; it has to be. Nobody who’s been doing law enforcement for that long can be that naïve.

And then, of course, there’s those ridiculous stories he tells. Like the one just now, about the princess and Lou Skagnetti and cakes covered in things that not even Diefenbaker would eat. He could have just answered Ray’s question with a nod or “I don’t know”, it was one of those rhetorical ones anyway, but no. It’s got to be a story. At least his sense of timing is better than usual, in that they’re not being shot at left, right and center in between sentences.

Thing is, Ray has grown rather fond of the stories, so he can’t resist playing along just for the hell of it. So he smiles at Fraser when he talks about a smiling princess, howls along, looks sincere when Fraser places his hand over his heart. Chuckles when the story ends (and frowns a bit too because, wow, that is one hell of an odd place to end a story) and some dubious-looking spaghetti appear under his nose.

Ray grabs the grill and tugs at the tangled mess, trying to lift off a piece that’ll fit in his mouth. Fraser does the same at his end of the pile of pasta, and Ray smiles faintly because it’s almost like a Mountie version of “Lady and the Tramp”, but that in turn makes him think of Luenne and he doesn’t want to go there.

He manages to get a piece that rolls into a small ball of starch and puts it in his mouth. It tastes like salt and not much else, and Ray wonders for a second when exactly cooking questionable food over open fire in an inner-city park became an acceptable way of spending an evening.

He looks sideways at Fraser, who in turn is staring into the fire and poking it with a stick. And maybe it’s the ghost story, or maybe it’s something else, but he realizes how lost Fraser looks, how out of place. He’s chosen Ray to share this poor approximation of the wilderness with for the pure and simple reason that there is no one else around.

Fraser turns his head, no doubt because he felt Ray’s gaze on him, and there’s something in his eyes that makes Ray’s heart ache.

He’d suspected, yes, as you would with the way Fraser doesn’t realize every female pair of eyes is only capable of seeing him whenever he enters a room. But he’s never seen it quite so clearly.

He swallows, the ball of pasta suddenly dry in his throat, and looks at his feet. Fraser shifts and goes back to poking the fire and tearing bits of spaghetti off the grille.

Ray clears his throat.

“You know, Fraser, maybe if Lou Skagnetti had actually told the princess one honest thing about how he felt... things might have gone different.”

Fraser blinks at him, wearing that damn Canadian mask again. “I don’t know what it is you’re talking about, Ray,” he says with complete sincerity.

It’s moments like this that make Ray wonder how it’s always him and never Fraser that gets punched in the face. He can think of better things than punching that face right now, though.

“Oh, come on, Fraser,” he says, and two seconds later he sits down next to Fraser, slings his arm around him and kisses him on the mouth.

“How did you…” Fraser’s voice is unexpectedly soft, not Fraser-like at all.

Ray smiles a broad smile and kisses him again, softly, on the lips.

“You miss home so bad you’re making campfires in the middle of the damn city. You could have gone home weeks ago, when they offered you that transfer. Come on, there had to be a reason for that. So. It ain’t a girl, it ain’t your job at the Consulate, and I’m sure you wouldn’t miss taking down Chicago’s Most Wanted either, given half a chance. Doesn’t leave that many reasons.”

When Fraser responds with a blank stare, he adds, “You wanna drop the damn Mountie mask some time, might get you somewhere good.”

And Fraser… smiles, his whole face lighting up in a way Ray has never seen before, and then he pulls Ray closer and kisses him back while the spaghetti fall into the fire.