ppauthor: bghost
fandom: due South
character: Francesca Vecchio, Benton Fraser
pairings: Francesca Vecchio/Benton Fraser
rating: Mature
word count: 4598

AN: This was going to be funny, when I first thought of it, honestly! Two clichés... alternative universe, and drunk Fraser... plus Frannie gets her man! Honestly, what's not to be giggly about? There must be something wrong with me, because somehow it veered right off into the land of angst, and ended up much darker than I'd have imagined. It is a complete short story, although there are some threads left hanging. Comments appreciated. (Including suggestions as to what the hell is wrong with me, and how can I get it fixed?)





Frannie didn’t often go to bars, and no matter how much her brother teased her, she rarely tried to pick anybody up. She might have been hurt by the fallout from her marriage, but she wasn’t a complete idiot. She was never looking for a one night stand, she was looking for love. Stupid though that was. Stupid as she knew it to be.
She was only at this bar because Lollie from work was planning a hen night for Samantha... and she didn’t know why she was bothering, because she was only temping at the office, and didn’t even know any of these women. She’d probably be gone in a month, if her previous job record was anything to go by. She was just... lonely, she supposed. And going out on a Saturday night with the girls, even these girls who she hardly knew, had to be better than sitting at home listening to the radio, and the clatter in the kitchen as Ma prepared the ingredients for tomorrow’s big family meal.

She sighed. None of the other women noticed her mood. They didn’t know her well enough, or care enough. Damn. She should have stayed at home. At least then she could have been lonely in private. Nothing worse than being lonely on a night out with the girls... girls you didn’t know, or even particularly like.

Idly she glanced round the room, wondering how she could make her excuses and go, when she saw him. She actually gasped. He was just so... Beautiful. Not a word she’d normally associate with a man, but... beautiful. Not in a ‘girly’ way, not at all. He was all man. Black leather jacket, jeans, scruffy old boots. But he was... jeez. He was like the statue of a saint, porcelain skin, dark hair... no, more like a fairy tale. Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair nearly black...

And like Snow White, he looked lost. Sitting alone at the bar, with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand.

Beside her Lollie nudged her arm. “Fuck me,” she said, “look at that.”

“Him,” Frannie said, her tongue thick. “Look at him.” She didn’t like the tone of disrespect, but she understood the reaction. The man shouldn’t be sitting in this bar, not alone. He was going to be eaten alive.

No sooner had she thought it than Lollie proved her right, getting to her feet and looking smug. She sashayed across the room, making sure her hips swayed in all the right ways. The man looked up from his drink, startled, seeming to respond politely. Lollie bent over him, leaning on the bar, displaying her cleavage. He was so pale that even at a distance his blush was visible. He took a nervous gulp of his drink, and looked away.

Carla from accounting sniggered. “Wonder if he’s a virgin.”

“Not looking like that he isn’t,” Alice said. “Maybe he’s queer.”

“Maybe he’s just out for a quiet drink,” Frannie snapped, feeling inexplicably protective of the man. The other women looked at her.

“Oh, jealous much?” Alice smirked. “You don’t stand a chance. What Lollie wants, Lollie gets.”

Yeah, Frannie thought. She knew she was pretty, but she had to work on it. She’d just had her hair permed, and she wasn’t sure it suited her. Lollie’s hair was naturally curly, or so expertly done that it might as well be. Lollie was the type of woman men went after. Blonde, and busty, and all curves in the right places and... Yeah, Frannie wasn’t in this guy’s league. She blinked back at the man, whose glass was now empty. He was turning it, and turning between his two big hands. Lollie was sliding onto the stool next to him. She leant close to his ear, seeming to ask him a question. His face froze, and he pushed his chair back, standing. He seemed to be apologising, actually backing away. Lollie turned on her chair, so that the women on her table caught full sight of her expression... shocked, and angry. The man put his head down, and made to the door.

Frannie never was sure what on earth possessed her, but before she knew it she was on her feet following him, completely oblivious to the astonishment of her colleagues. She made it out the door before it had completely swung shut, and her heels were clacking on the sidewalk too loudly in the silent street. “Stop,” she called, and winced. What was she doing here?

The man stopped, hunched up, but didn’t turn. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I told you, I can’t...”

“I just wanted to check if you were alright.”

He turned then, and his eyes widened for a moment. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you were somebody else...”

“Yeah,” she said. “Lollie.” She squirmed a little bit. Close too he was even more beautiful. Under the stark light of the street lamp his skin really was that fair, his hair really did look like silk, and his eyes really were that... that vulnerable and sad. They were blue, she noticed, dazed. Somehow she had expected them to be dark. “I’m sorry about Lollie. She comes on a bit strong sometimes...”

“Please, don’t apologise for your friend. I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm.”

“She’s not... she’s not really my friend. I’ve only worked with her a couple of weeks. Not even sure why she asked me along tonight.”

The man nodded, looking slightly flustered. “Uhm... well, thank you for...” His brow creased a little. “Why... why did you follow me?”

“To see if you’re alright.”

“Ah, yes. Yes,” he said, “I’m alright.”

Oh... it suddenly hit Frannie. The man was slightly drunk. Not very drunk, but definitely tipsy. His diction was clear, he was walking fine, but... Frannie had learned early in life the signs to look for when a man was drunk. Even despite that, he didn’t seem alright.

“You sure?” Jeez, she thought, if it was the other way round, if she was a man and he was a woman, she’d offer to see him safely home. At the very least, she thought, she should call him a taxi.

“I’m fine, honestly,” he said, “but thank you kindly for asking.”

For the first time she laughed a bit. “You’re not from round here, are you?”

“I’m Canadian,” he said, staring at her as though she was a mind reader. “What gave it away?”

“You’re far too polite,” she said, and smiled. One thing was for sure, he was anything but a mean drunk. “Listen, there’s a taxi rank round the corner, I’ll wait with you while you call a cab.”

“Good Lord,” he shook his head. “There’s no need for that. I’m only staying five minutes from here.” He smiled gently. “You really don’t have to worry, I’m a big boy.”
Oh God yeah, she thought appreciatively, then blushed at where her mind was taking her. She was as bad as Lollie.

He was still staring at her. “You’ll... you’ll want to be getting back to your friends,” he said.

“Nah,” she replied, impulsively. “They’re not really my friends. Like I say, I only been working with ‘em a couple of weeks.”

“I should...” he glanced up and down, puzzled, blinking a little bit too quickly. “I should make sure you get a cab,” he said.

“I’ll walk with you.” She flushed. She must look like a man-eater herself. It happened, sometimes she came on a bit too fierce, but she never meant... never meant any harm by it. For some reason with this guy though, she couldn’t flirt. He seemed too... raw somehow.

Fortunately he didn’t notice anything amiss, and with a sigh he began to walk again. He slowed down his pace so she could keep up with him. For a while there was silence.
“So,” she said again. “You’re really not okay, are you?”

She didn’t expect a reply, not at once, so it surprised her when he stopped walking, and looked at his feet. “No,” he said to the ground. “No. I’m not.”

Before she could stop herself her hand went out to him, to his leather clad back, and she was stroking a circle between his shoulders. He was tall, but for some reason she felt motherly, as though he was a kid coming back broken hearted from some childhood sorrow, way back when the worst thing that could happen was that your best friend didn’t want to play with you anymore.

Of course, there were worse things that could happen to a kid, she thought, remembering Pa. Worse even than being hit, was watching your brother get hit for you.
Ray, she thought, her throat clenching with the realisation. This man reminded her of Ray.

“What is it,” she said gently. “What happened?”

“My...” He looked away from her, as though he was ashamed. “My father died.”

“Oh God,” she said, “I’m sorry.” When her father died, she’d been heartbroken and relieved at the same time. This guy just looked heartbroken. He must have got on with his Dad. She sort of envied him that. “When? When did he die?”

“Almost two years ago.”

She blinked, puzzled, but kept up the gentle pressure on his back. Somehow she was standing in front of him now, her arm around him. Her hand had slipped under his jacket, to the soft fabric of his shirt. He was warm against her palm, and she could feel the thud of his heart as he stepped nearer, and dipped his head toward her hair. She smelled whiskey breath, and grief.

“Did... did you only just find out?”

“No... but... I only just...”

“What?” She glanced up at him, face close. His mouth was beautiful. His lips parted, and for the first time she noticed a crooked tooth. It made her heart catch. A glimpse of pink tongue. Oh, God...

Then his face twisted, and he shut his eyes, pained. “I only just got out of prison.”
Her hand froze against his back, and her heart stammered in her chest. Oh God, she didn’t know anything about this guy...

He backed off, abruptly, bringing his hand up over his eyes. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll... I’ll go now.”

“No, stop...” She knew she was being stupid, but somehow she trusted him. “I mean... you don’t have to tell me anything, but...”

He dropped his hand, and stared at her intently. “You... you shouldn’t trust me,” he said, as though he could read her thoughts. “I’m... dangerous.”

“No,” she said, firmly. “No, you’re not. You’re a little bit drunk, and a whole lot sad, and you made some mistakes.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Yeah... I robbed a bank.”
That surprised her so much that a grin quirked the side of her face. “You don’t look the type.”

“Neither did she.”

Ah. A she. She should have known there’d be a ‘she.’ Her mouth dried up. She had no idea what to say. She looked at him, trying to figure out what to do next, when he startled her by reaching out his hand, like a child, and taking hers. His hand dwarfed hers, was dry and warm. Blunt fingered, rough knuckled and calloused. Whatever he’d done in prison, it had been hard on his hands. She found herself stroking the sandpapery skin.

“Laundry,” he said, reading her mind again.

She stared. “Laundry? Don’t they have machines for that?”

“Yes, but there are various jobs they use for... I suppose punishment.”

She lifted his hand, stared at the scarred knuckles, illuminated by the intermittent light of cars flicking past them in the dark. Then she looked back up at his face. He smiled, mirthlessly. “I got in a lot of fights.”

“You must have been good at it,” she said, part of her mind observing this bizarre conversation as though it was happening to someone else. “They never got your face.”

“No,” he said. “You’re right. I was very good at it. They got me from behind with a two by four once, and a couple of times they pushed me down the stairs. The guards tazered me, of course. And then...” His face became uncomfortable, as though he wondered why he was spilling his guts to a complete stranger. “But I found that if I started enough fights I’d be put in solitary, and I preferred that.”

“I thought solitary was a punishment.”

“For most, perhaps.” He sighed again. “I’ve spent a lot of my life alone. And I preferred it to...” He grimaced. “I didn’t like prison.”

She wanted to hug him, but she didn’t know how. Instead, she tugged his hand, took a step. Obediently he started walking again, like a child, although he was leading the way. After a few more turns they stopped. He glanced, apologetically, at the hotel. “This is me,” he said. “Come inside, I’ll get reception to call you a cab.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But... later? I mean... if you need to talk?”
He nodded again, and led her inside. He ran to a halt again in the lobby, looked up and down, baffled, as though he didn’t know what to do. “We could, er... we could sit in the bar.” Frannie was about to agree, when she remembered he was already a little tipsy.

“We could sit here in the lobby.”

He glanced around, nervously. “We could.”

Ah, she thought, remembering Joey, the first time he came out of prison. He might be anxious in wide open spaces. “Or,” she said, and there was absolutely no come on intended in this at all, “we could go to your room. You know, just to talk.” She squeezed his hand. “You look like a guy who needs to talk.”

He simply nodded, again, and walked mutely to the elevator.

One wall of the elevator was mirrored, slightly darkened, so that their reflections looked tanned and shadowed in the glass. She glanced to her side, watching his reflection rather than him, shy at his close proximity. His eyes were closed, but he was still holding her hand. His throat was working as he swallowed. She knew what that was. He had a lump in his throat, old grief. She felt it sympathetically in her own throat, and tried not to audibly gulp.

The elevator pinged, and the doors opened. He walked again, leading her down the corridor. When he got to his room he leaned his head against the wood for a moment, and for a moment it showed that he was drunk. Then he pulled himself together and unlocked the door.

Not a particularly nice room. Not a particularly nasty room. Just... blah.
Probably better than what he’d had in prison though...

And, oh God. She’d just gone into a hotel room with a convicted felon. If Ray found out about this, he was going to kill her. If... if this guy didn’t kill her first.

She stared at him as he sat heavily on the edge of his bed. He’d finally let go of her hand. His head was hanging, and his hands were loose between his thighs. He looked forlorn, and strangely childlike. He wasn’t going to kill her.

“What...” she found herself, idiotically, sitting next to him. It was like she couldn’t help herself. “What’s your name?” She should have asked him that ages ago, she realised, and shook her head.

“Benton,” he said. “Benton Fraser.”

“Pleased to meet you, Benton Fraser,” she said, and nudged him, grinned. Anything to lift him from whatever pit he was sunk in. “Francesca,” she put out her hand. “Francesca Vecchio.”

“Francesca,” he said, and shook her hand. “A beautiful name.” And then he smiled, and...
Oh, Jesus Lord God, it felt like the big dipper, like the world just dropped out from under her. That smile was... Oh God. It was beautiful. What she wouldn’t do to see it again. She felt herself flush, and then, to her shame, realised that her knickers were damp. She was tingling... down there. Tingling, and clenching and...

She should get out of here.

“I...” his smile faded, and her heart started to slow down. “I’m sorry about being like this. It’s just been... difficult.”

“I’m sure,” she said. “You wanna tell me about your Dad? You guys close?”
His face took on that pained look again. “No,” he said, “not really. I... disappointed him.”

“Because of the bank thing?”

“Even before then. I was never... never good enough for him, I suppose.”

He glanced at her sideways, and she found herself transfixed by the shadow of his eyelashes against his cheeks. She clenched her hands into a double fist, wanting to trail her fingers across his skin, to see if it was smooth, or rough, cool or warm. Oh... damn. She was wet... Surely he could smell that? Or was that her imagination?
He carried on talking.

“My mother died when I was young,” he said. “I don’t remember much about that time. But... when it was over, he...” Benton closed his eyes. “He left me with my Grandparents, and went back to work.”

“What did he do?”

“He was a Mountie.”

“You mean like... those guys with the horses? The Musical Ride?”

“Well, that’s pageantry,” Benton looked sour. “The RCMP are very good at pageantry. But for all that, they’re just policemen.”

“Hey,” she said, defensively, “my brother’s a policeman.”

He looked at her, and a little mischief rose in his eyes. “And here you are, talking to a bank robber.”

“Fair point,” she said. “So... if he was a policeman, why did he leave you? I mean, couldn’t he have got a job somewhere and looked after you himself?”

“You’d think so,” he said, staring back down at the carpet. “He said he had to move around for work. But... when I was about ten, he remarried. Had a daughter. Maggie.” His face turned bitter again. “He stayed for her.”

“Jeez,” she said. “That musta been hard.”

“Yes. And...” he shrugged. “I didn’t make it easy. I did everything I could think of to piss him off.”

“That’s why you ended up a bank robber?”

“Yeah. Who knows? If things had been different, maybe I’d have been a Mountie.” He laughed. “It’s what I wanted when I was a kid. It’s what my sister did.”

“You get on with your sister?”

“I never met her.”

“Not even at the funeral?”

“They didn’t let me out for the funeral.”

“Oh, Benton,” her heart ached for him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Well, I’d not have been welcome anyway,” he pointed out. “The place would have been crawling with Mounties. My Dad’s friends were as disappointed in me as he was.” He rubbed a thumb across his eyebrow, looking puzzled. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. It’s just... I’ve not really talked to anybody,” he huffed out a laugh, “ever. Nobody’s ever listened before. And...” he looked at her apologetically. “I just realised, I think I’m drunk.”

“It’s alright.”

“Not really. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Her hand found its way onto his thigh, and squeezed. Not sexual, she told
herself, just friendly... He was blinking down at her hand, and she removed it quickly, as though she’d touched a coal. “You can talk to me.”

“Somebody shot my Dad,” he said, slowly. “Out on the ice. The RCMP said it was hunters, just let the damned case drop.”

“Somebody killed a cop, and they didn’t go after him?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Didn’t make sense. So... when I got out, I went to my Dad’s friends, tried to get them to help. Gerrard was no help, told me the trail was cold. And Frobisher... Buck.” His voice went tight. “He couldn’t even look at me. He looked like... liked I’d stabbed him or something. Said... said I broke my Dad’s heart.”

“You loved these guys, didn’t you,” she said, gently.

“When I was a kid,” he admitted, “I saw more of them than I did of my Dad. Sometimes... sometimes I’d imagine one or the other of them was my real Dad, and one day they’d tell me, bring me home with them. Buck had a daughter. I wouldn’t have minded her being my sister. It was just my Dad... that he betrayed my Mom like that. After leaving us alone so long. After leaving me... I suppose I’m spiteful. I held a grudge.”

“You were a kid.”

“I was a brat,” he nearly smiled. “I was always running away.”

“Were your Grandparents cruel?”

“Oh no. They loved me. They were just...” he laughed. “Victorian.”

“So...” she swallowed. “So then what happened?”

“Well, I managed to track down a flight manifest,” he said. “Lucky for me the guy who flew these guys in was a slob. He’d written it down on a burger wrapper, can you believe, and it was still there. So... I was able to track the guys to Chicago.”

“What guys?”

“Oh, the hunting party, from the day my Dad was shot.”

“So, one of those guys shot your Dad?”

“Looks like it.”

“And have you found him yet?”

“No.”

She swallowed, trying not to betray her uncertainty. “What are you gonna do when you find him?”

“Make my father proud,” he said, and blinked. “I wanted to kill him, not my father, the murderer, but...” He shook his head. “I’m gonna turn him in. I know what prison’s like. He won’t like prison.” He bit his lip, and dropped his head, murmuring something.

“What’s that?”

“Maintain the right,” he said, nonsensically, and then, abruptly, started crying.

“Oh, Jesus, Benton, Benton,” she said, and put her arms around him. “It’s alright, I’m here...”

He turned, hugged her convulsively, and sobbed on her shoulder. She squeezed him tight, and her arms again were under his jacket, against his shirt, and... She was meant to be comforting him, but instead she was... oh shit, she was taking advantage. Somehow she was straddling his lap and... oh God, she was shameless. Her skirt rode up her thighs, and she could feel herself wet again. Stop, stop Frannie, she pleaded with herself, and then... then she felt his erection pushing up against his jeans, and he was rocking against her and...

Oh, she was lost. One hand still squeezing him to her she slipped her other to his belt buckle, and undid it. With a gasp he stood, forearm under her ass, so that she was hanging off him like a monkey while he spun round to the bed. She grunted as he threw her on the coverlet, and was barely conscious of her actions as she kicked off her shoes, and started tearing her blouse off. He was staring at her hungrily, toeing the boots off his feet, shunting his way out of jeans, socks, stumbling against the edge of the mattress and bracing himself with his knees as he pulled his shirt and jacket up over his head. Then he was in white tee-shirt and boxers, and she was completely naked, and she didn’t even know how they’d got there. He was pulling off his shirt, and kneeling between her legs now, and she was tugging his boxers down over his hips and...

Oh God, what was she doing? He was big. Not porn big, but bigger than Joey had been, and Joey had hurt. And... she’d never seen a foreskin before. Her mouth went dry, and she shamefully flooded, dampness darkening the fabric between her legs. Even frightened as she was, she was so ready, so... oh what was she doing, her legs were wide open, and her knees up, and her hand was on her clit, and what must he think of her, what must he think...

He was staring at her, hungrily, tracking the movement of her fingers, and she withdrew her hand, closed her eyes, humiliated, feeling tears running down the side of her face, dripping into her ears. Then...

She gasped, and her whole body clenched at warmth, and a tongue between her legs, flicking her, just where her finger had been. She started to squirm, and then she felt his big hands on her hips, gently but firmly holding her still. His tongue descended, exploring, and his face must be soaking, she was so... she was so wet. She’d never been this wet before, but it had been so long, so long since anyone had been there... She felt her hands grasping his hair, and her pelvis pushing against his face, and then one of his warm hands left her hip, and he shifted up, the other hand moving up to her breasts. She felt rough, calloused fingers tracing the crinkles of her slick labia, and then a finger swooped inside. Two, then three. She clenched around him, and cried out as his thumb circled her clit, and his hand squeezed her breast, and she came, calling out his name.
Still shuddering as the spasms pulsed through her she opened her eyes, and he was looking at her, as though she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. She pushed herself up, and gathered him toward her, so that he moved along her body, and then he was kissing her face. His mouth, his chin, his nose were wet with her, and she felt herself beginning to ache for him again as his tongue slid over her teeth. His erection was pressing against her, and she knew it wasn’t safe, knew they should do this some other way, but she was so open, and so wet, and he was so beautiful... It felt like she was drunk too. Helplessly she moved against him, and he slid in, filling her. He was huge in there, bigger than Joey, but it didn’t hurt at all.

“Oh God,” he said, and started moving, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, and clung on, and pushed, and grunted, and sweated and squeezed, until she was coming again, and then... Then he reared above her, full spasm, eyes shut and buttocks clenching beneath her hands. He made a sound like weeping, and collapsed, covering her in warm sweaty muscle and salty flesh. She shifted slightly, and he rolled, slipped out of her, and lay exhausted by her side.

She thought, for a moment, that he had done the ‘man’ thing and fallen asleep. Then she realised he was crying.

Oh God, she thought, knowing she’d made a terrible mistake, but not sure exactly how it had happened. She barely knew this man, knew he was broken, didn’t know if she could fix him, but somehow...

She had been trying to help him, but somehow ended up using him, using him when he was vulnerable, and grieving, and drunk. He’d not had sex in years, she thought, remembering prison. Of course he had no choice when she threw herself at him. But... what could she do? What could she possibly do?

She realised, with sinking horror, as she cradled him through his tears that she was in trouble. She was in so much trouble.

Somewhere between sympathy, and a shoulder to cry on, and listening, and sex the worst thing that could have happened had happened.

She’d fallen in love with him. She didn’t know how he’d feel when he woke up in the morning, naked and covered in the stink of their come. But even if he walked away and she never saw him again, she was gone. Lost completely.

Oh dear God. She was in love.