FIC (Due South): "Like a House on Fire" (Fraser/Kowalski) - 2002. Part 1/3

[bethbethbeth]

Content information / possible warnings - highlight to view (may contain story spoilers): Graphic sex in later installments. Arson.

Soundtrack: Boomtown Rats: Like a House on Fire. Great Big Sea: Clearest Indication, Shine, Ordinary Day, When I'm Up. Rufus Wainwright: One Man Guy. Jann Arden: Waiting in Canada. Sarah Harmer: Silver Road. Bryan Ferry: You Do Something to Me. John Lennon and Yoko Ono: Starting Over. Ella Fitzgerald: Our Love Is Here To Stay. Our Lady Peace: Life.

Thanks to Sihaya Black and Betty Burch for patient beta, and to AuKestrel for helping us see the story through new eyes.


Like a House on Fire
by Beth H. and Kellie Matthews
(c) 2002

---

Everyone at the 27th District who'd had even a peripheral involvement in the LeBeau case was aware of the newly revised extradition treaty between Canada and the U.S. The recent amendments to the international accords meant that Henri LeBeau, a career criminal who was Canadian in name only, was going to be bound over to face trial in Saskatoon, instead of in Illinois where his latest run of 'alleged' crimes had actually been committed.

Even if it hadn't been for the inexplicable lack of any real cooperation from the Canadian authorities during the course of the CPD's six-month investigation, losing LeBeau to the Canadian justice system would have grated. But to have spent half a year calling in favors and rooting around local landfill sites for illegally dumped toxic waste, only to have the perp sent up north and out of their jurisdiction for what would probably amount to nothing more than a slap on the wrist was wrong. Wronger than wrong.

And yet there Ray sat in the uncomfortable chair that faced Welsh's desk offering to escort the prisoner up to Saskatoon so he could be turned over to the Canadians.

"I said I'll go, Lieutenant."

Welsh narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Overcome by a sudden overwhelming urge to find closure, Detective?"

"Yeah, something like that," Ray muttered.

"Curious, because I seem to recall someone who looked a lot like you in here yesterday stomping around and yelling that there was 'no fucking way' the Canadians were going to get their mitts on LeBeau."

"Come on! This is my case, or at least it was my case before it was yanked out of my hands." He leaned over, flattening his palms on the case reports stacked at the edge of the lieutenant's desk. "I just want to make sure LeBeau's taken care of before I sign off on this thing. Give me that, at least."

Welsh sat for a long minute, just looking at Ray, his deadpan expression giving no indication what he was thinking.

"Lieutenant . . ."

"It's that important to you, Kowalski?"

He nodded, feeling an odd tension in his jaw.

"All right, you've got the delivery duty. And, Detective," Welsh continued, before Ray even had a chance to release the breath he'd been holding, "let's make sure all the i's are dotted and t's are crossed on this one. I don't want to see you back here until you've given our Canadian friends depositions, case notes, and anything else they think they might need to make these charges stick. Word is they're making every effort to assign an early court date. I'm sure you can find something to occupy your energies up north between now and the start of the trial."

"Yeah," he said, a little surprised by how quickly Welsh had agreed. "I can. . . um. . . I'll think of something."

"I'm certain you will."

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

"Forget about it. Just do good up there."

Ray picked up his files and started to leave the office. Before he reached the door, he heard Welsh add, "Kowalski? Say hello to Consta . . . Corporal Fraser for me when you see him."

The office door closed behind him, and Ray returned to his desk. Sure, he could pass a message on from Welsh. Easiest thing in the world. Except for the fact that he and Fraser hadn't actually seen each other in almost two years and probably wouldn't see each other this time, either.

Fraser. His former partner. His . . . friend.

They still talked on the phone every once in awhile. Wrote letters less frequently. Sent stupid presents for birthdays and for Christmas. Well, he sent stupid presents; Fraser usually sent something useful.

But still. . . it had been almost two years.

A week after the conclusion of their arctic adventure, Ray had finally checked in with his lieutenant. He hadn't really been sure if Welsh still was his lieutenant, considering how long he'd been incommunicado, but after a long pause, Welsh just said he'd been holding a detective spot open for him at the 27th and that Ray needed to get his butt back to Chicago sometime this millennium if he was still interested in being a cop.

At first, he had debated with himself whether he'd take Welsh up on the offer or not. It felt good to be asked. It felt better than good, and he couldn't imagine working under a more stand-up guy than Harding Welsh. But there was something about being in Canada that felt right to him, more right to him than the thought of returning to Chicago, anyway.

He'd figured maybe he would bring the subject up that night at dinner, see if Fraser had any thoughts about stuff he could do up there - maybe something the two of them could do together - if he gave up on the whole being a cop thing. But before he could even mention Welsh's offer, Fraser had announced that he'd received notification of his new assignment and that he had to start making arrangements to relocate to a small town in north-central Saskatchewan.

"Exile over, huh?" Ray had asked with a forced smile.

"So it would appear," Fraser had replied, answering Ray's smile with one of his own, although no less forced if Ray was any judge. "I had thought that perhaps they might actually have been thinking in terms of sending me back to the Territories, as I had once requested, or back to. . . well, I'm sure that despite its location and relative isolation, there will be ample opportunity at Lac la Rouille to make a difference, so I really have no cause for complaint."

"Yeah, sounds like your kind of place, Fraser," Ray had said, a bit absently. "So, um . . . I guess I've got to get back to reality, too. I talked to Welsh today. He wants me back at the 2-7, but . . ."

"Oh? That's . . . that's wonderful, Ray," Fraser cut in, sounding something less than enthusiastic.

Ray cocked his head to one side and frowned at Fraser for a second, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess." He fiddled with his fork, then looked up again. "You think you'll ever be heading south again? I mean, for a visit or whatever. Or are you just going to forget about Chicago like it was some kind of bad dream?"

"No," Fraser had said, shaking his head emphatically. "I'll certainly miss . . . well, that is to say, there are a number of things I'll miss from my time in the States."

"Yeah?" Ray asked.

Fraser nodded, but didn't elaborate, and Ray hadn't pushed. He knew better than to try to get Fraser to talk when he clearly didn't want to. And that had been that. They'd gone back to Chicago, Fraser staying just long enough to get his things and attend the big farewell party Frannie had thrown for him, her brother, and Stella. Frannie had ended up sniffling her way through most of the evening. Ray had felt like that too; knowing that two of the most important people in his life would be out of it the next day hadn't exactly put him in a party mood, so he'd ducked out early and spent most of the night staring at the ceiling over his bed.

He hadn't given Fraser a going-away present. He couldn't think of anything he'd want, or need. Fraser hadn't given him anything either, except that as they stood, oddly awkward, at the Air Canada boarding gate the next day, Ray had put out his hand for a farewell shake, and Fraser had taken it, and then pulled him into a hug, which had surprised the hell out of Ray. From the embarrassed look on Fraser's face when he let go a moment later, it had surprised him too. Then they'd called the flight and Fraser had to go - and again, that had been that.

And now was now. He thought about the logistics of this trip to Canada. The tickets were already arranged, Welsh had already cleared him, and he didn't have a partner he'd be leaving in the lurch, though he'd been working with Elaine a lot after she'd transferred back to the division six months ago. When you were going for detective it helped to have someone to show you the ropes, and Welsh thought Ray was a good mentor. Whatever. At least he and Elaine got along, which never hurt. Most of his cases had been cleared so he could work on the toxic waste case anyway, so there was nothing standing in the way except maybe finding someone to watch Spot for a few days, and Frannie was an expert turtle-sitter.

Saskatoon. He looked up at the map of North America on his bulletin board, located Saskatoon, and mentally estimated the distance between it, and the little red map-tack at Lac la Rouille that he'd put there two years ago after Fraser pointed out his new posting. It looked like around five-hundred miles, give or take a bit. Barely in the same province. He sighed. Nope. Not this time.

* * *

Fraser lay on the couch, watching the Blackhawks kick the collective asses of the Toronto Maple Leafs. Diefenbaker whined in sympathy from across the room, but Fraser had long since stopped caring about the state of Toronto hockey. He leaned over slightly, reaching for the open bag of Old Dutch Ketchup Flavoured Potato Chips, but it was just beyond the reach of his fingertips.

"Come here, Dief . . . bring me the bag."

Diefenbaker whined and looked pointedly at Fraser.

"I'll give you one if you bring me the bag," he said after a moment.

When Dief didn't move, Fraser finally managed to stretch enough to grab the bag himself. "Fine. I just thought you might want a little exercise. You're getting soft, you know."

Diefenbaker barked.

"I do not have pot/kettle issues," Fraser snapped.

Dief trotted over to the door and barked sharply. Fraser sighed. "Would you stop that? Believe me, after two years it's really gotten old. No, Ray is not going to be here any moment."

Dief barked again. Fraser threw the remote at him. Dief easily sidestepped the missile and Fraser sighed as he realized he would have to get up and get it so he could use the mute. He was sick to death of Canadian Tire commercials. As he sat up, someone knocked at the door. He frowned, puzzled. It was Saturday. The Episcopalian Ladies' Assembly delivered on Mondays. The Catholic Ladies' Assembly came by on Wednesdays. In general, he never saw anyone at all on weekends. Maybe one of the groups had held a bake sale today and were bringing leftovers? He looked down at his sweats, which were reasonably clean. The hole in his sock wouldn't show if he was standing. He went to the door as he was, picking up the remote on his way.

Opening the door, he took one look at the person on his stoop and dropped the remote again. It bounced off the mat and out the door. Dief tried to shove past him, barking insanely, but Fraser was frozen in place.

Ray grinned at him. "Fraser! Buddy!" he exclaimed, wrapping him in a hug.

The contact was a shock. Literally. It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him, let alone so intimately. In fact, he realized with an odd sense of deja vu, that time had been Ray, too. Almost on auto-pilot he returned the hug, and then Ray stepped back to look at him. He felt his face go hot, wishing he'd put on something more presentable. But how could he have known?

"Ray, what are you doing here?"

Ray shrugged. "Well, I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd stop by."

"Ray, there is nothing in the neighborhood," Fraser said, still trying to wrap his brain around the idea that Ray, Ray Kowalski, was standing on his front stoop.

Ray grinned. "Canada's a neighborhood."

Fraser frowned. "Please don't say that anywhere near a representative of the tourism board or the next thing you know we'll be seeing it on t-shirts."

Ray studied him for a moment and his smile faltered a bit. "So . . . is this a bad time?"

"God, of course not, Ray. Please, come in." He looked behind Ray and saw six bags of varying sizes stacked up on the steps. "Can I help you bring your packages in?"

"Might as well, seeing as how most of them are for you. Soon as I said I was heading up this way, everyone started handing stuff over to me 'just in case' I saw you."

"For me?" Fraser asked, still feeling rather as if he were in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

Ray nodded. "None other. Everyone said to say 'hi.' And I mean everyone. The only reason I'm not bringing you a pizza is because I managed to convince Sandor it wouldn't be any good by the time I got it here." He picked up a bag and looked at Fraser pointedly.

Suddenly realizing he was still keeping Ray outside, Fraser stepped out to pick up one of the bags. Diefenbaker, seeing his chance, darted out and leaped up, his paws on Ray's shoulders. Ray yelped, teetered, and then went down on his backside, hitting the sidewalk with a solid 'oof.' Diefenbaker started licking his face, whining and vocalizing. Ray tried to fend him off, and finally put his hands on Dief's muzzle and held him still.

"Enough with the licking, mutt!" he said clearly into Dief's face. "I'm glad to see you too!"

Dief apparently felt he'd done his duty in welcoming Ray, because he let Fraser reach a hand down to brace Ray to his feet. Ray picked up several bags and followed him into the house. Setting down his parcels, he glanced around the room, and then back at Fraser.

"So . . . um . . . you're feeling okay, right?"

Fraser realized Ray must be interpreting his shock as illness. "Yes, of course, just surprised to see you, that's all. Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"

"I . . . kind of wanted it to be a surprise. Plus I wasn't sure it would work out and I didn't want to make plans I couldn't keep, you know? I figure you're not exactly company-ready, so if there's a motel around, maybe I could use your phone to call and get a room?"

Fraser shook his head. "Nonsense, Ray. Of course you'll stay here with me."

Ray glanced around again. "You have a guest room?"

"I have a spare room," Fraser equivocated. He did. It was full of the arctic travel gear from their adventure together, and the heat wasn't on, but he had one. He would, however, put Ray in his room, since the bed was comfortable, and he'd sleep on the couch.

Ray smiled. "That'd be great. How about dinner? I drove straight through today and I'm starving."

"Straight through from where?"

"Saskatoon. Had to escort a prisoner."

"Ah, Mr. LeBeau?"

Ray looked surprised. "You've heard about him?"

"I keep up," Fraser said. There wasn't a lot else to do. "A member of one of our more infamous biker gangs, I believe."

Ray nodded, grinning a little. "Yeah. Hard to wrap my mind around that one. Canadian biker gangs. Go figure. At first when they told me that, I was thinking bikes you know? Like Schwinns. The whole case was kind of a deja vu, what with the toxic waste and Canadians and all. Could've used you on the job. It wouldn't have taken near as long to wind things up."

Fraser turned away, making a show of turning off the television. "I'm sure you handled it competently on your own."

"Competently yeah, but without our old . . . pizzazz, you know?"

He sounded a little wistful, and Fraser turned in time to catch a flash of that same expression on his face. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who missed their old partnership. Which he did. Desperately. Having Ray here was almost painful, but it was a pleasurable kind of pain. "I'll just go change, and we'll go get something for dinner. There's an excellent little café just down the road."

"Mathilde's?" Ray asked.

Fraser stopped, halfway to his bedroom. "Yes, actually. How did you know?"

"I stopped there to see if anyone could point me at your place. I tried the RCMP post but the guy there wouldn't tell me where you lived even after I got out my ID. Said it was a violation of your privacy. I think maybe he thought I was a hit man or something. But there was a group of old ladies at the café who were happy to tell me how to find you. They were kind of funny, all excited that I was coming to see you. I barely got out of there with my cheeks unpinched. You'd think you never had a visitor before."

Fraser felt his face getting warm again. "That was probably Maude Johannsen and her bridge club friends. They often commandeer a table on Saturday afternoons." He didn't tell Ray that the reason Maude was acting like that was because it was true. He hadn't had a visitor the entire time he'd lived here. Maggie had planned to come once, but ended up having to cancel due to a search and rescue operation up near Peace River, and their schedules hadn't coincided since. "Anyway, if you'll excuse me I'll be right out."

Ray nodded, and turned his attention to Diefenbaker, who had been sitting at his feet gazing up at him adoringly. Fraser rolled his eyes and headed for his bedroom. Opening his closet, he found himself reaching toward the back, pulling out his dress uniform. The plastic shielding rustled as he peeled it off. He hadn't worn it in ages, there was never any reason to do so, here, but somehow with Ray here it just seemed right. Placing it on the bed, he got out clean underclothes, pulled them on, and then stepped into the jodhpurs.

He pulled them up, settled them, and went to fasten the fly, only to find that the edges wouldn't meet. He frowned, staring down at the gap between the edges, and reflexively tried again. They still wouldn't meet. He tightened his stomach muscles and the gap narrowed slightly, but didn't vanish. Could the cleaner have shrunk them? He hadn't worn them since they had been cleaned, so he wouldn't have noticed.

Irritably he got out his other dress uniform. He knew it fit. It had last been cleaned in Chicago and he'd worn it since then, though it had been quite a while. He knew he'd gained a few pounds but it ought to fit. Taking the pants from their hanger, he pulled them on, only to find that, like the first pair, he could not fasten them. Determined, he sucked in his stomach, yanked on the wool, and managed to wrestle them closed. They cut into his waist painfully, bringing the truth home with a shock. It wasn't the uniform. It was him.

He looked up into the mirror, seeing himself as Ray must have seen him. He needed a haircut. He needed a shave. Worse, he was badly out of shape, thanks to regular meal deliveries by the local church ladies' groups and no regular regimen of exercise. He'd never had to worry about that before, so he hadn't here either. Apparently he should have. Good God. How the hell had he let this happen?

Once he thought about it, it was perfectly obvious. His position at La Rouille required much less physical activity and more vehicle time, and when combined with the fact that Dief ran free during the day in the woods behind the detachment, it meant he was getting out very little. It had happened so gradually he hadn't realized it, even though he should have. It shocked him to realize just how oblivious he'd been to what he was . . . and wasn't. . . doing. It was as if he'd turned off part of his brain when he'd left Chicago and not turned it back on until he'd seen Ray again.

Obviously it wasn't just that Canadian clothing sizes were different from US ones, as he'd thought last time he bought jeans. And when he'd asked Sally to order him two of the newer style uniforms she must have . . . adjusted the measurements for him without mentioning it. Face burning, he unfastened the jodhpurs and stripped them off, changing into a comfortable pair of jeans, a henley, and a baggy sweater, and headed back to the living room.

Ray was standing by the end table holding the beer-bottle Fraser had emptied earlier, staring at it with a slightly perplexed expression. When he saw Fraser, he put it down hastily. "That a good brand?" he asked.

"It's decent," Fraser said. "Shall we go?"

Ray nodded. "Yeah. I think we've got a lot of catching up to do."

Once outside, Fraser started to head in the direction of the blue Ford rental parked at the curb, but he stopped short when Ray put a hand on his shoulder.

"Mind if we walk? After driving all day I'd like to stretch my legs."

Fraser turned around slowly, unwilling, for some reason, to lose the touch of Ray's hand against his arm. "Of course we'll walk, Ray. I don't know what I was thinking." What had he been thinking? Perhaps this unexpected visit still had him a bit off balance.

Ray grinned. "Maybe seeing me, you just automatically think about riding shotgun, like I'm a Rorschach test. See Ray, think car. Don't know what that says about your psyche, but . . . ."

Fraser smiled back at his former partner. "While I'd hardly characterize you as having any real similarity to an ink blot, there may be something to your hypothesis."

They headed up the street, settling immediately - instinctively - into the rhythm they'd grown accustomed to in Chicago. Fraser launched into a running commentary about the prevailing theories of the function of free association and its relationship to literary metonymy, but he was barely conscious of the words coming out of his own mouth. Ray's presence had nothing whatsoever to do with his inclination to drive instead of walk. Try as he might, he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually chosen to leave his pool car behind to reach any destination, even somewhere so ridiculously close as Mathilde's.

For God's sake; what must Ray be thinking of him? He took a quick glance in his direction, hoping to ascertain, without being too obvious, just how disappointed his old friend was with the state he'd let himself get into. However, while Ray was looking directly at him - a fact which, in itself, made him feel inexplicably awkward - the expression on his face was neither chastening nor pitying. It was just - happy?

Fraser's monologue tapered off as he tried to determine what might have brought the broad smile to Ray's face. However, this just seemed to increase the size of Ray's smile. His grin grew even wider, then he shook his head and threw his arm around Fraser's shoulders.

"Running out of steam? Don't stop now - not while you're on a roll; I've missed this too much."

He'd missed rambling discourses on language and psychology? Surely that couldn't be what had made Ray look so joyful. He furrowed his brow and inclined his head questioningly.

"Missed you," Ray said. "It's been too long, you know?"

"I do, indeed," he replied, although it surprised him a little to find that just being with him could still make Ray this happy after a two-year hiatus, but he wasn't about to look that particular gift horse in the mouth. He had missed Ray. Just how much he'd missed him was only now beginning to become clear to him. Being with him even for something so mundane as an early evening walk to a café, was bringing him more pleasure than he could remember feeling in . . . well . . . years.

Then Ray's arm eased off his shoulder and moved down around his waist. The gesture was casual, nothing that Ray hadn't done many times in the past. However, the memory of the spare tire that had been reflected back in the mirror when he'd had finally stopped to take a long, hard look at himself made him stiffen and pull back slightly from Ray's touch.

Ray dropped his arm immediately and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Kind of chilly," he commented.

"Yes, well, it is November, Ray," Fraser said. "How were the roads? Had they been cleared after Wednesday's snow?"

Ray nodded. "Yeah, mostly. There were a few scary spots, but I made it in one piece. Anyway, who cared if there were a couple of bad patches on the drive, right? I was on a mission."

"You were?" Fraser asked, interested. "What mission would that be?"

Ray reached out as if he were going to ruffle Fraser's hair, then let his hand fall, sighed and shook his head. "Coming here, Fraser. Seeing you."

Fortunately the chill air gave him an excuse for pink cheeks, because his face felt remarkably warm. That warmth seemed to spread inside a little, as well, easing coldness he hadn't been aware was there until now. They reached Mathilde's and went inside. He was uncomfortably aware of the eyes on them, Maude Johannsen's coterie in particular, but Ray didn't seem at all put off by the curious glances he garnered. He just sat down in the booth across from Fraser and grinned. "I take it you guys don't get a lot of out-of-towners?"

"Not at this time of year, no," Fraser admitted. "Very few people come here after the first snow unless they have no choice. I'm sure they're curious to see who would voluntarily make such a trek."

Ray grinned at him. "Well, I've always played by my own rules." He fished his glasses out of his pocket and put them on, then picked up the menu and studied it.

Fraser blinked. "New glasses, Ray?"

Ray looked up at him and smiled ruefully. "Yeah. Even blinder than I used to be. I made the mistake of taking Frannie with me to pick out frames and she talked me into these."

Fraser studied the effect of the wire-framed lenses on him, and smiled. "They're very fetching, Ray."

Ray snorted. "Fetching. Yeah. So what's good here?"

"Everything, actually," Fraser said, oddly reluctant to recommend any of his usual favorites. Just then Tilda came up to the table, standing next to Ray, looking at him curiously for a moment before she turned her gaze to Fraser.

"Well Corporal, what'll it be tonight? The usual?"

Fraser thought about his uniform pants and shook his head. "No, thank you Tilda, I believe I'll just have a green salad tonight. No dressing."

She frowned, studying him closely. "You taking sick there, Benton Fraser?"

He flushed. "Not at all! I . . . ah . . . I ate earlier," he lied. "But my friend had a long drive today and is in need of sustenance."

"Is that right? Where'd you come in from, young man?"

Ray looked up from his menu, his eyes widening a little as he took in the resplendence that was Mathilde. She was in pink tonight. Pink angora sweater. Pink circle skirt. Pink artificial nails. Pink ankle strap platform sandals. Pink cat's-eye glasses with rhinestones sparkling at each corner. Her pink wig had been tormented into a four-inch beehive. Her vast, motherly bosom and ample hips were swathed, as usual, in a pristine white apron which really did not complement the outfit at all but no doubt saved a great deal on dry-cleaning costs.

Ray smiled, but it wasn't a mocking smile. "Drove up from Saskatoon, ma'am. Today that is. Flew in from Chicago yesterday. Escorting a prisoner."

Tilda pressed a hand to her chest. "A prisoner? How exciting!"

Ray laughed and shook his head. "Hardly. Not without Fraser there, anyway. Things just haven't been the same since he's been gone."

"So you knew our Corporal Fraser in Chicago?" Tilda asked with a pointed look at Fraser.

Fraser realized he'd been remiss and hastened to correct it. "May I introduce my former partner, Ray Kowalski? Ray, this is Mathilde Johannsen, the proprietor of this establishment."

"Please, call me Tilda," she said, putting out a hand, making it clear that Ray was not to shake it. "Everyone around here does."

"It's a pleasure, Tilda," Ray said, gamely kissing the air above her hand, then sitting back. "So, what do you recommend?"

"Well, everything's good, honey, but Benton here is particularly partial to the chicken fried steak, with mashed potatoes and gravy."

"Yeah, huh? You in the mood for that tonight, Fraser?"

He was. Just the thought of Tilda's chicken fried steak was making his mouth water, but he couldn't bring himself to order it. It might taste wonderful but he was suddenly all too aware that not only had every serving he'd eaten over the past two years contributed to his waistline, it had probably lined his arteries as well. This was getting ridiculous. Everywhere he turned this evening, there was another reminder of just how oblivious he'd become to everything but his job.

Suddenly, Fraser wanted to look anywhere but at Ray. He dropped his gaze until his eyes lit on the menu. Just the thing. He reached across the table and slid it toward him. He was fairly certain he had the selections memorized at this point, but he felt a sudden need to raise some barrier between himself and Ray's gaze - and the menu fulfilled that purpose admirably.

"Tilda serves rather generous portions, Ray, but please order what you want. The steak is excellent. For my part, perhaps I might try something new tonight." He scanned the items quickly, almost desperately, for something he hadn't had. Cottage cheese? Apparently he'd spoken those last words out loud, or so the looks of surprise on Ray's and Tilda's faces would seem to indicate.

"You sure you're feeling well, Corporal?" Tilda asked.

"Frase, I thought you hated cottage cheese."

"Ah. Well, no. . . that is to say. . ." Not for the first time this evening, Fraser found himself fumbling for words, but Ray's timely interruption brought his struggle to a halt.

"Okay, that means you still hate it." Ray grinned. "How about if we share the steak. We can do that, right, Tilda?"

"Of course, honey." But then she frowned. "You sure that's going to do you? You look like you could use a little more meat on your bones, if you don't mind my saying so."

Ray laughed. "My mom didn't call and tell you to say that, did she?"

"Your mother sounds like a very sensible woman, Ray," Tilda sniffed. "You tell her I said so next time you talk to her."

"I'll do that," Ray agreed, then turned back to Fraser. "So we'll share the steak, yeah? What veggies come with that, Tilda?"

Fraser looked up in surprise; Raymond Kowalski was actually asking for vegetables?

"We have corn, peas, carrots, or courgettes."

"Um . . . Fraser?"

"Zucchini, Ray."

"Oh. Okay. Yeah, that sounds good. The steak and two orders of . . . uh . . . courgettes. That ought to do it."

"If you're both sure that's it." Tilda didn't look convinced, but both men nodded. She finally shrugged and smiled at them. "I'll just get your order started."

She patted Fraser's shoulder, then started to walk toward the kitchen, pink skirt swaying from side to side with each step. Halfway to the kitchen she stopped, looked over her shoulder, and called out "Remember to save room for dessert, boys," before winking at them, then disappearing behind the swinging saloon-style doors.

Ray settled back in his seat. "Nice lady."

"She is, as is her sister." Fraser nodded in the direction of Maude.

"You're kidding. They're sisters?" He turned his head slightly to get a better look at the foursome who were still playing bridge. "You're talking about the one by the window? Wow! Maude's all kind of Chanel and pearls. And Tilda's so . . . what's the word I'm looking for?"

"Colorful?" Fraser offered.

"Heh." Ray laughed. "Sort of an understatement there, Fraser, but it'll do."

"They are very different on the surface, Ray, but they both have good hearts. The Johannsen sisters were the first to welcome me when I began this posting. I really don't know what I would have . . . well, that's not important."

Oh, just wonderful. A few seconds more and he'd have been complaining to Ray about how few people had shown any interest in getting acquainted with him when he first arrived. Or three months later. Or at all.

The arrival of dinner brought a halt to his self-indulgent train of thought. Tilda had clearly decided that one already over-abundant meal wouldn't suffice for two grown men, since the platter she placed in the middle of the table contained twice the normal serving of food. She set a clean dinner plate in front of each of them, and chuckled as Ray's eyes widened.

"Now, are you sure I can't get you boys anything more here?"

Ray glanced in Fraser's direction, silently mouthing the word "More?"

"I'm sure this will be more than adequate, Tilda," Fraser said. "Thank you kindly."

"You're very welcome, Corporal. And if you want anything else, all you have to do is ask."

After Tilda left the table, Ray couldn't contain his laughter. "This is food for one? One what? One Scout troop?"

"I did warn you the servings were rather on the large side," Fraser said, feeling somewhat defensive.

"That you did." Ray laughed again and shook his head. "Okay, let's give this a try."

He reached for one of the steak knives Tilda had placed next to the platter and cut a substantial piece of meat and lifted it slightly. "This okay for you?"

"You don't have to serve me, Ray. I'm perfectly capable of getting my own food."

Before he'd even finished the sentence, Fraser could feel himself start to blush for what must have been the tenth time that day; it was all too apparent just how capable he was of feeding himself. However, Ray didn't react to his words at all except to place the food on his plate and start to cut a piece for himself

"Not exactly a burden, you know, Fraser?" he said.

They began to eat. After a few minutes, Tilda waved to them from across the room and raised her eyebrows in a questioning manner, in answer to which Ray gave her a 'thumbs up.' Satisfied, she returned her attention to another customer, which left Fraser and Ray free to return to their conversation.

"So. . . what have you been up to lately?" Fraser asked, trying to find an innocuous subject. "Are you seeing anyone?"

Ray smiled a little, his gaze focused on something over Fraser's left shoulder. "I'm kind of . . . between innings. You know how that goes." He shrugged. "Sometimes the Crystal Palace or Red Dog doesn't turn your crank any more and you want a little down time."

Fraser took a sip of his tea to ease the tightness in his throat. It certainly sounded as if Ray had quite a busy social life, if he was needing 'down time' from it. He nodded, pretending he knew what it would be like to need that, and forged on, trying again for a less painful subject. "Who's your partner these days? Anyone I know?"

Ray looked at him blankly for a moment. "Partner? Oh, um, well, I've kind of been working with Elaine lately."

"Elaine?" Fraser asked, surprised. He must somehow have missed some important news. "I didn't realize she'd been promoted to detective."

"Well, she hasn't been, yet. Welsh figured I could . . . show her the ropes, so to speak." Ray offered the boxing metaphor with a little smile.

"An excellent choice," Fraser said smiling back. "And I'm sure your partner doesn't mind sharing the caseload."

Ray coughed and concentrated on cutting a piece of meat. "Yeah. Well, something like that. What about you? You got a faithful sidekick up here?"

Fraser looked away. "As officer in charge I don't do much fieldwork any more, and I don't really have a partner as such."

"Yeah, you're the boss, but you've got somebody you work with a lot, right?"

"I've worked with a variety of good officers in the past two years," Fraser said.

Ray looked at him for a moment, then glanced around the café, and then looked at Fraser again. Fraser could almost see him analyzing the situation, his mind making connections, readying itself for one of its illogical leaps. Sure enough, a moment later, Ray nodded.

"Hard to get people to stay here?" he asked.

Illogical, but stunningly accurate. "As you say. Because of the location of the detachment, our turnover rate is rather higher than we'd like."

Ray nodded. "Yeah. I figured that. But you stay." There was a question implicit in his statement.

"I do. The people here deserve to have their needs seen to."

Ray frowned a little. Opened his mouth. Closed it. "Yeah. Yeah, that's true. So you like it here?"

"It's a very pleasant place," Fraser said equivocally. He certainly wasn't going to complain about the incredible monotony while sitting within earshot of some of the biggest gossips in town. "What about you? How are things in Chicago these days?" he asked, in a somewhat desperate bid to focus Ray's attention elsewhere.

"You know how it goes. It's a job, and you do what you gotta do. Work, work, work. Catch bad guys. Fill out more paperwork than should be humanly possible. Like you said, people deserve to have their needs seen to. It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it." He grinned disarmingly with a slight shrug.

Fraser was pleased to hear that. He'd been concerned that Ray was still feeling ambivalent about his career when he'd turned down a promotion the previous year, but although he still tended to downplay his own role, it seemed he was aware just how much of a difference he was making to the city of Chicago and its inhabitants. He was, however, more interested in Ray's life outside of work.

"Is there anyone new in your life?" he asked carefully.

Ray picked up his glass and took several swallows of his water, then set it back down and wiped his mouth neatly with his napkin. "Well, there's the two new guys who took over for Huey and Dewey. Danny Gamble and Mark Proctor. They're pretty good guys. Neither of them smell like bacon bits and fish, anyway, which is a big plus in my book. Elaine's back, but I already mentioned that. We got this new aide - a guy. It's weird to have a guy getting the files and stuff. I keep expecting Frannie and her half-shirts, you know? Speaking of Frannie, she sent you this . . . ."

Ray dug in his wallet for a minute and handed Fraser a small photo of Francesca with two babies. Fraser studied the photo, trying to see if he could find a resemblance between the children and any of the adults he knew. He couldn't. "They're very . . . ." He stopped, not quite sure what he ought to say.

"Generic?" Ray asked with a grin. "Yeah. Babies are, I've noticed. All that stuff about 'oh, he looks just like his mommy' is kind of a load of bullshit if you ask me. At least until they're old enough to not look like Mr. Potato Head any more. But she's happy and that's all that matters, right?"

"Indeed," Fraser said fervently, relieved that he didn't have to find something vaguely complimentary to say.

"Excellent, dude!" Ray said, drawling the word out.

Fraser snickered. "Would you be Bill, or Ted?"

"I'm blond, that makes me Ted. You're stuck being Bill. Hey, that's actually appropriate, since the actor's Canadian and all. Wait . . . ." Ray stared at him, eyebrows lifting in exaggerated surprise. "You just recognized a cultural reference more recent than 1950-something. What's going on here?"

"Satellite television," Fraser said ruefully. "I'm afraid I've been corrupted."

Ray looked at him for a moment, and then pushed his not-quite-empty plate to the side. "So, talk."

"I thought that's what we've been doing."

"No, I've been running off at the mouth, and you've been sitting there going 'ah' every so often to keep me yapping. What about you? What have you been getting up to, work-wise or whatever?"

Fraser leaned forward and speared a third piece of the leftover steak. "Nothing so exciting as you've been engaged in, I promise you. This is a rather small community, as I'm sure you've noticed, and very little of a criminal nature occurs on a regular basis." He didn't want to admit that most of his workload these days consisted of writing speeding tickets and making drunk-driving arrests.

"Yeah, I get that," said Ray. "But there's got to be something juicy. Come on, Fraser, give!"

"Honestly, there's nothing to tell," he said firmly, willing Ray to just let the subject rest.

"Nah, I'm not buying it," Ray said, laughing. "You trying to tell me crimes don't just come hopping into your lap, like they used to in Chicago? Come on, come on, c'mon already. Start talking."

"Damn it, Ray, there is nothing to tell. Nothing! Don't you understand that, for God's sake?"

The vehemence with which Fraser spoke surprised even him. Ray looked away for a moment, but then turned back toward Fraser with a neutral expression on his face, apparently willing to pretend that he hadn't just been snapped at by his friend for asking a perfectly reasonable question.

Maude's group wasn't quite so adept at pretense. All four women had turned toward the unlikely sound of his raised voice, and they were still gazing with some interest in his direction.

Fraser closed his eyes and dropped his head slightly. "God, Ray. I'm sorry."

Ray frowned, then gave a quick little nod. "What-say we pay the bill and head back to your place? We'll make some tea, you can open your presents, then maybe we can get some sleep. That sound good?"

Fraser just nodded, not trusting himself to say more. Mortified didn't even begin to cover the way he was feeling at the moment.

Ray glanced quickly around the room. With a quick glance of his own, Fraser noticed with relief that only Old Man Fitzhugh, a fixture at the luncheon counter since Mathilde's first opened for business, was still staring at them with rapt interest, but the smack Tilda applied to the back of his head as she walked past was enough encouragement for him to return his attention to the slice of apple pie cooling in front of him.

Tilda approached, a large white paper bag in her hand, as they slid out from the booth. Fraser looked down, then rubbed a finger across his eyebrow before hesitantly starting to speak.

"Tilda, I'm . . . I'm really terribly sorry if I caused a scene, and if . . . ."

"There's no scene here, Benton Fraser," she interrupted, removing her glasses and letting them dangle from the pink mother-of-pearl chain she wore around her neck. "Just another quiet Saturday night as far as I can tell."

Fraser might have argued the point, but Tilda raised her eyebrows at him in a quelling manner strangely reminiscent of his grandmother, and the rest of his apology died on his lips.

Ray looked back and forth between the two of them, then reached into his pocket for his wallet, but Tilda laid her hand on his forearm. "Don't you worry any about the bill, Ray. Benton here has an account."

She took the bag she'd brought out from the kitchen and placed it in Ray's hands. "I'm not letting you boys rush out of here and miss the best part of the meal, so I've wrapped up what's left of tonight's special dessert in case either of you get peckish later on. It's your favorite, Benton, the flan tart with mixed berries."

Fraser began to protest, but Tilda waved off his objections. "You'd be doing me a favor. There's not much call for adventurous cooking around these parts, and you know how I hate to see good food go to waste."

"Yes, ma'am," Fraser acquiesced with a wry smile at Ray.

Ray was chuckling as they walked out of the restaurant. After they were about halfway down the walk, he said, "Man, I'd put on those pounds my mom is always after me about if I lived here."

Fraser felt his face go hot and looked down, clearing his throat. "Yes, well, she's an excellent cook."

Ray was quiet for a moment. "Frase . . . I didn't mean . . . ."

"It's quite all right, Ray."

Ray looked at him assessingly. "Kind of snuck up on you, huh?"

Fraser shrugged, still not looking directly at his friend, as they turned up the path to his house. "More like ambushed in a dark alley and taken prisoner," he muttered.

Whatever Ray might have replied was lost as he unlocked the door, and Diefenbaker ran outside and jumped up on Ray, barking enthusiastically.

"Jeez, what's up with you!" Ray said, wiping wolf spit off his face with his free hand. "Didn't we get the slobber part of the reunion out of the way a couple hours ago?"

Fraser took the bag in one hand, simultaneously pushing Diefenbaker down with the other. "Diefenbaker! Get off Ray! It's not a wolf bag, after all."

Leading the way inside, Fraser took some paper napkins from a stack sitting on the coffee table in the living room, and brought them over to Ray. "I'm afraid this display has rather less to do with Diefenbaker's admitted fondness for you than for the bag Tilda pressed on us as we were leaving."

Diefenbaker barked again, this time at Fraser.

"Well, you should have thought of that before the incident that got you banned from Mathilde's. If you're still hungry, why don't you take yourself outside and hunt for something, or have you somehow forgotten you're a wolf?"

Diefenbaker took one last wistful look at the tantalizing bag, then trotted to the open door, deliberately stepping on Fraser's foot as he passed.

Ray snickered. "Dief's the same as ever."

"Perhaps," said Fraser, carrying the bag into the kitchen. "Or perhaps he's just taken a cue from me and has foregone all efforts at self control," he muttered to himself.

Setting the bag on the kitchen counter, he had only managed to turn halfway around before a sudden odd feeling came over him. He wasn't sure whether what he was feeling was anxiety or exhaustion or some other wholly unidentifiable sensation, but whatever it was, it seemed to have robbed him for the moment of the ability to move.

He leaned on the counter, hands pressed heavily against the beige-tiled surface, and stared blankly into the stainless steel sink. He could hear a faint inner voice - a particularly irritating inner voice - telling him that he had company and that Ray must surely be wondering why he was taking so long, but for once, politeness gave way in the face of this sudden and inexplicable paralysis.

It was tempting to stay in the kitchen rather than return to the living room and face whatever probably unanswerable questions Ray was sure to have for him. Though of course, staying would be only a temporary shelter at best, since Ray would soon come looking for him. He rejected, outright, the third option - that of slipping out the kitchen door and into the night - as too melodramatic by far. He snorted, briefly amused at himself. As if he wasn't already being incredibly melodramatic. Self-indulgent. Ridiculous. Unfortunately even that realization didn't bring him any closer to stepping away from the counter.

The decision of what to do next was taken out of his hands in the next moment when Ray walked into the kitchen, boot heels making a hollow sound on the scuffed linoleum floor.

"You making tea, Fraser? Because I wouldn't mind a cup if you are."

Automatically, Fraser reached for the kettle on the back burner and started to fill it from a blue jug of filtered water.

"Hey, where can I dump this stuff?"

He turned around to find Ray standing in the middle of the room, holding up two empty beer bottles in his right hand and with an old pizza delivery box tucked under his left arm.

"There's a recycling bin," Fraser said, indicating the hutch to the right of the back door. "And the container beside it is for the . . . um . . . cardboard box."

Ray placed the bottles carefully on top of the pile of glass and metal, then turned back to Fraser. "What about garbage? There's something kind of curly and green here that might have actually been food at one point, although I wouldn't bet on it.

He lifted the lid of the box, and Fraser peered inside. "Ah. Yes, that once was something much like food. Anchovy and pineapple pizza, to be precise. The garbage can is under the counter there. Dief has a regrettable tendency to get into it if I leave it out."

"I guess Dief has more sense than to eat anchovy and pineapple pizza, huh?" Ray said, making a face as he tipped the greenish slice into the garbage can and slammed the lid shut, then stuffed the box in the bin. "What made you order something that disgusting?"

He paused for a moment, and then as happened all too frequently when he was around Ray, his id took control of his vocal cords. "I was homesick, Ray."

"Yeah?" Ray said, cocking his head to one side. "You got a lot of anchovies and pineapples up in the Yukon?"

"In point of fact, no. As I'm sure you're aware, pineapples are found primarily in tropical regions, and although the north has been experiencing a particularly mild . . . ."

"Fraser."

"Sorry." He leaned back against the edge of the sink and crossed his arms over his chest. "I was homesick for . . . Chicago."

Ray didn't say anything right away, and Fraser began to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could remember quite vividly standing on a frozen reservoir in Chicago and sharing his feeling of homesickness with Ray. That uncharacteristic admission had been followed almost immediately by a chain of events that had all but ripped his world apart. Ordinarily, he wasn't a superstitious man, but he worried for a moment that the simple act of putting a name to part of what was churning away inside would draw unwanted attention from the universe.

However, this time there was no dead body being pulled up from a hole in the ice. There was only Ray, nodding slowly, then reaching over to touch Fraser's arm briefly.

"Yeah, I get that. I think I get that. Me, I've been drinking enough tea over the past couple years to float a caribou."

****

"Where do you want to start? Biggest to smallest, or smallest to biggest, or just random, or maybe alphabetical order?" Ray asked after they had settled onto the couch with mugs of tea.

"Excuse me?"

"Your presents," Ray said, nodding at the assortment of parcels leaned against the far wall. "What do you want to open first?"

He looked at the packages, and felt an odd warmth in his chest, and a tightness in the back of his throat. "I . . . why don't you choose for me, Ray?" he said quietly.

Ray looked at him, then at the packages, and nodded. "Sure. Sure, I can do that." He went over and started dragging things over to the coffee table, handing Fraser a light-weight box wrapped in what appeared to be the Chicago Sun-Times Sunday comics from the previous week. "This one's from Welsh."

Fraser ripped open the wrapping, and opening the box, lifted out a dark blue baseball cap with the words 'Chicago Police Department' blazoned across it.

"He said that was to remind you of auld lang syne," Ray said. "And that I was supposed to tell you that any time you want to come back and liaise, you'd be more than welcome."

"That's very kind of him," Fraser said, pretending to study the cap closely so Ray wouldn't notice he was blinking rapidly.

"Kind, hell! More like self interest. Our solve rate's gone way down since you left. This is from Mort."

This time the wrapping was a large, blue, felt-like disposable towel of the type often used in the morgue, taped down with surgical tape. Inside were three books. "Criminal Poisoning: An Investigational Guide for Law Enforcement, Toxicologists, Forensic Scientists, and Attorneys; The Poisons and Antidotes Sourcebook; and Dead Reckoning The Art of Forensic Detection," he read out. "I'm sure these will be extraordinarily useful should we ever have a murder to investigate," he said drily.

Ray cocked his head. "You almost sound like you'd like that."

"Of course not!" Fraser exclaimed, horrified. "It's just . . . well, the closest anything's come to requiring actual police work in months was when a fire broke out at Stevensen's Art Supply three days ago. However, Constable Zhertak's preliminary report indicates that all available evidence points to this being nothing more than an unfortunate accident."

Ray leaned back against the couch and studied him with narrowed eyes. "But you don't think so, do you?"

Fraser shrugged. "No. However, I'm not sure I can justify reallocating human resources based on what's really nothing more than a hunch on my part."

"You've got a hunch about this?"

"So it would appear."

"Jeez, go for it then! What the hell else has anybody got going on? Your Mounties too busy judging quilting competitions?"

"No, not this month. The quilting competition isn't until January." Fraser said, deadpan. For a moment he saw outrage start to spread over Ray's face, and then he suddenly looked at Fraser keenly. Fraser couldn't keep a corner of his mouth from twitching upward, and Ray shook his head, laughing.

"You almost had me there! Good one. Okay, seriously. Would it hurt to do some checking? It's not like you to just let it go. What triggered your hunch?"

"I'm . . . not sure," he said, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to identify what it was that had made him suspicious. He remembered Constable Zhertak standing in his office, having come straight from the scene, discussing the probable cause. There had been something . . . something . . . . He found himself inhaling deeply, searching for a long-gone scent. "A smell. There was an odd scent lingering on Constable Zhertak's clothing."

"Accelerant?" Ray asked quickly.

Fraser frowned. "Possibly. In all honesty I can't remember exactly what it was, just that it seemed both familiar and out of place."

"Then you've got to check it out."

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt."

Ray nodded. "Yeah. Never hurts to check. Okay, so, next up, Elaine sent you this." He handed Fraser a small, flat parcel.

Fraser tore open the handsome gold gift-wrap to find . . . "A first-aid kit?"

"There's a card, I think," Ray said, nodding.

"So there is." Opening the card tucked into the small case he started to smile. "'If you get beaten up in Canada anywhere near as often as you did in Chicago, this will come in handy. Love, Elaine.'" His throat wanted to close up, and he had to clear it. "How thoughtful of her."

"Elaine's a nice girl. Woman, I mean," Ray amended sheepishly. "Anyway. Want the big one now?" At Fraser's nod, Ray handed over a large, soft, parcel wrapped in a white plastic garbage bag that smelled faintly of baby powder.

"From Francesca?" Ray nodded, and Fraser undid the twist-tie that held the bag closed and pulled out a large afghan blanket. It was knitted in a sort of mottled shade of green, not very expertly, and was distinctly lop-sided. He noticed that there was some sort of pattern on it in brown yarn, and shook it out to try and determine what it was. After a moment he looked back at Ray, somewhat perplexed. "A . . . dog? With horns?"

Ray laughed. "That's what I thought, too. She poked me with her knitting needles and informed me that it was a moose."

Fraser looked at it again, trying gamely to see the correct animal. Dief whined. Fraser choked back a laugh. "No, Diefenbaker, I promise I won't tie antlers to your head."

Dief made a satisfied-sounding noise. Ray handed Fraser a small, cylindrical package.

"This one's from Huey and Dewey. Along with free passes to the comedy club if you're ever in town."

Fraser opened the package and looked at the can in his hand somewhat perplexed. "Mixed nuts?"

Ray chuckled. "It's probably their way of describing themselves." He looked at the can. "Any cashews in there?"

Fraser automatically began unscrewing the lid to check, and then as he removed it, he gasped in surprise as three long, narrow snakes leapt out of the can and writhed on the floor. It took him only a moment to realize he'd been taken in by the gag-gift, but Diefenbaker leapt up, snarling and barking and pounced on one of the 'threatening creatures' and shook it madly in his jaws, only to stop suddenly with a perplexed look on his face and let the mouthful of fabric and spring-steel fall to the ground.

By that point Ray was laughing hysterically, and Fraser couldn't help but do so as well. After several moments they finally managed to control themselves, aided by gulps of cooling tea, though Fraser found himself giggling again as Dief gave an offended whuff and turned his back to them.

"Think he'll ever forgive us?" Ray whispered.

"Us? Probably. Huey and Dewey, never," Fraser whispered back. "I'll have to get him a treat tomorrow to make it up to him."

Ray clapped his hand to his forehead. "Treats! Duh! Frannie sent a care package of treats and toys for him, but I forgot it out in the car, sorry. I'll go get it."

He returned moments later with two boxes. One he put down on the floor with a grin. "Go for it, guy," he said as Dief started to rip and tear at the wrapping, then he turned to Fraser, holding out the second box. "This is from me," he said, quickly, shoving the box toward Fraser with a slight flush on his face.

Fraser took the box. The paper was scarlet. The color of his dress uniform tunic. He tried not to think about that as he opened it, carefully. And stared at what the paper had hidden. "Ray!"

Ray looked at him with an odd smile. "It's a GPS. I, um, saw it in the Hammacher-Schlemmer catalog and thought of you. This way you always know where you are, even if there's no sun or stars to look at to find your way."

Looking down at the GPS in his hands, he knew Ray was waiting for a response, would surely believe his present had been unwelcome if he remained silent, but he was unable to speak. He couldn't find the words to express just how apt this gift was, how greatly he was in need of . . . something just like this.

The uncomfortable silence continued. He knew that if he were to turn and look at Ray's face right now, he'd see nothing but concern there, but that was the last thing he wanted to see. For God's sake. Five hours since Ray had shown up on his doorstep, and he'd done little but act like he was brain-damaged, making the possibility of them having the kind of reunion he'd sometimes allowed himself to fantasize about over the years even less likely to occur, assuming 'less likely than no chance at all' was even a valid category.

He rubbed his thumbs along the edge of the unit, noting its similarity in size and weight to the television remote control which was buried somewhere amidst the stack of old newspapers. Beside him, Ray began to tap his fingers impatiently along the edge of his mug, but he didn't speak, giving Fraser more time to say something. His continued silence was ridiculous. Surely a simple acknowledgment, some indication of how much he truly appreciated these gifts - Ray's in particular - wasn't beyond his capabilities.

"Thank you," he finally said, still looking down, appalled at the difficulty he'd had with even such a punctilious expression of gratitude. "It's all . . . it's wonderful, Ray. This especially."

"Yeah? " Ray said, sounding for all the world like he did right before he started to lay into someone in an interrogation. "'Cause if you're just saying that to be polite, I could take this back where I got it and maybe get you a miniature inukshuk from the airport instead."

Fraser glanced up at Ray and saw the grin on his friend's face. He tried to respond in kind, to make something about the day seem normal, but the small laugh he attempted sounded harsh even to his own ears. Choked. Almost a . . . sob. He swallowed once, hard, driving the unnervingly intense emotion back down inside.

Then, unexpectedly, he felt the touch of Ray's hand against the back of his neck, and he was almost undone. He squeezed his eyes tightly and dropped his head again, hoping as he had when he was just a small child that if he closed his eyes, he would become invisible.

More silence, then Ray spoke. Softly. Almost tenderly. "Things aren't going so great here, are they, buddy?"

Another half-laugh, half-sob. "What makes you think that?"

"Call it a hunch," Ray said, even more gently, his hand rubbing the back of Fraser's neck in a soothing motion.

"You, ah . . . ." Fraser cleared his throat, still unable to look at Ray. "You've always had amazingly accurate hunches."

"Yeah," Ray said simply. "You want to talk about it?"

He shook his head, fast, and firmly. "No."

"No?" Ray asked, not sounding shocked, or angry, but only as if he wanted to be sure.

"No, not . . . yet."

Fraser felt rather than saw Ray nod.

"Yeah. Okay. Not a problem." He sat quietly for a moment, and then yawned, stretching ostentatiously. "What say maybe we turn in early? I'm pretty tired from the drive. Funny how just sitting in one place all day can wear you out."

Fraser snorted. "Yes. Yes, it is. Let me show you where the bathroom is, and you can wash up."

"Sold!" Ray said, standing up and lifting the smaller of his travel bags. "Think I could take a shower? It'd be nice to get some of the road-dirt off."

"Certainly," Fraser said, trying with a vague frisson of panic to remember when the last time he'd cleaned the bathroom was. Last week, after bathing Dief. Right. Okay. It should be livable. He had the uncomfortable sensation that his grandmother's ghost was standing at his shoulder glowering at him. Fortunately, unlike her, Ray wasn't known for excessive fussiness. It suddenly dawned on him that he also needed to change the bed linens, and he was so rattled that he suddenly had absolutely no idea if he even had any clean sheets, or if his extra set was wadded up in the laundry basket. With some trepidation he opened the linen closet to get Ray a towel, and was relieved to see his spare sheets folded and on the shelf, thank God.

As soon as Ray was safely ensconced in the bathroom, he dashed back to the linen closet to get the fresh sheets and quickly made the bed. He wasn't able to find any clean pillowcases, but after a careful inspection of his pillows, he concluded that the lower one was spotless and perfectly acceptable for a guest's use. Once the bed was made, he straightened up the rest of his room a little. Fortunately it was already neater than the living room, where he spent most of his time, and ate most of his meals. He then retrieved Ray's second bag and placed it at the foot of the bed. With a quick look around, he decided that the room would do, and headed out to get their mugs and take them to the kitchen to clean up. He put them in the sink, with the other dishes that had accumulated since the night before.

Shaking his head, he grabbed the dishwashing soap and turned on the hot water. A moment later, a startled yelp from the direction of the bathroom made him shut the water off just as quickly and dash across the house to the bathroom door.

"Ray?" he called out.

There was no answer, though he could hear the sound of the shower. For a moment he hesitated, but the lack of response overruled his natural reserve. With a perfunctory knock he opened the door. The bathroom was full of steam, the shower was still running. There was no answer from behind the navy blue shower curtain.

"Ray?" He said, a little louder, a little more concerned. "Ray?"

To his relief, at the third repetition the curtain opened and Ray looked out, wet, soapy, and puzzled. "What's up, Fraser?"

"You . . . ah, yelped. I was concerned."

Ray smiled. "Yeah, I did. Sorry, I didn't know you could hear me. The water went cold for a minute there and I just about froze my nuts off before it decided to be hot again. I forgot that the plumbing in old houses sometimes does that. Don't worry, I'm fine."

"I'm terribly sorry," Fraser said, feeling his face heat as he realized he'd been responsible for the sudden change in water temperature. Living alone, he was no longer used to having to think of such things. "I thoughtlessly ran water in the kitchen."

Ray shrugged, and smiled. "No problem. Wasn't the first time I've had a cold shower, probably won't be the last," he said with a wink, pulling the curtain back into place.

Fraser stood for a moment longer, staring at the space where Ray had just been, seeing not the embossed stripes of the blue vinyl curtain, but instead Ray's wet, naked body. He certainly seemed very fine. Fit. He meant fit. Very. Fit. He shook his head, frowning, as he pulled the door closed and went back to the kitchen to see if there was enough water in the sink to at least wash the dishes. He could rinse them after Ray finished. And doing dishes should keep his mind from straying to inappropriate paths.

Fraser had finished the dishes and was wiping crumbs and old cooking-spills from the counters when Ray emerged fifteen minutes later, clad in a pair of gray sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair towel-dried into a wild tangle.

"So, uh, where am I sleeping?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and yawning widely.

"I have the room all ready for you," Fraser said, rinsing the sponge under the tap and drying his hands. "I took the liberty of putting your bag in there already."

"You didn't have to do that," Ray said. "But thanks. Lead on, Macbeth."

Fraser somehow resisted correcting him, and led him past the still-steamy bathroom to his own room. "Here you are."

Ray looked around, then looked at Fraser. "Never thought I'd see you with an actual guest room. Guess you figured Maggie'd need a place to stay when she comes to visit, huh?"

Fraser nodded. He knew Ray well enough to know he'd have a fight on his hands if he told him whose room it was. And in any case, he would have put Maggie in his room had her visit actually occurred, so it wasn't a lie. Not really. "Sleep well, Ray. I'll see you in the morning."

Ray nodded and headed for the bed, then stopped and looked back at him. "You turning in?"

"Not just yet," Fraser said. "It's a bit early for me, though I understand that between the drive, and the time difference you're quite worn-out."

"You sure you don't want me to stay up?" Ray offered, a faint frown creasing his forehead. "Because I could. Just give me some coffee."

"I'm sure, Ray. We'll have plenty of time to talk once you're rested. And in any case, there's a hockey game on."

Ray grinned. "Oh, well, why didn't you say so? I mean, hockey being the national religion and all, I wouldn't want to keep you from attending services. Night, then. See you in the morning."

Fraser nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind himself. He could hear the faint creak of the bed as Ray got into it. He stood there in the hall for a moment, eyes closed, then sighed soundlessly and headed back to the living room. He turned on the television, found the game, and turned the sound down most of the way, but not so far that Ray couldn't hear it a little. He remembered that when he'd first moved to town, the intense quiet of the nights after years in Chicago had made it somewhat difficult to get to sleep. Hopefully the sound of the television would act as white noise for Ray.

Half an hour later he found himself yawning, despite the excitement of the play. The game was on tape delay, and he had inadvertently learned the final outcome when he switched channels during the first intermission. Not even Jarome Iginla's sparkling play this evening could make up for his knowledge that Calgary's defeat was already assured. He got up and went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and relieved himself. As he started to step out of his jeans so he could change, he belatedly realized that he had failed to get a blanket, or anything else to wear from his room before putting Ray to bed in it.

"Proper preparation my ass," he muttered under his breath. It looked as if he was going to spend the night on the couch in his clothes. Without a blanket. With a sigh he turned off the television, took off his shoes and stretched out on the couch, using one of the arm-cushions for a pillow. He had to tuck his knees up a bit, since it wasn't a particularly long couch. It was also rather too narrow for a grown man. An all too grown man.

God. How could he have let this happen? He thought about Ray, who seemed to be happy, healthy, and enjoying his life, and it was obvious that he'd somehow let his own life slip out of his control. It shocked him to realize that. How had he let himself get so. . . isolated? Why hadn't he noticed, for God's sake? He rubbed his thumb across the bridge of his nose and shivered a little. The house seemed strangely chilly, but he could hear the furnace running so he knew it was on. He hoped Ray was warm enough.

It was strange how alone he could feel with someone else in the house. Unbidden, he remembered sleeping with Ray night after night under the white dome of a tent as they meandered across the arctic in search of a myth. Remembered sleeping with Ray in a hammock on a frozen cliff, in bedrolls in a female suspect's back yard, in twin berths on a ship in the Great Lakes, and in an unfurnished apartment in Chicago as they guarded a gentle, exploited savant. Never before had there been a closed door between them. That seemed, somehow, to symbolize everything that had gone wrong in his life since he'd left Chicago behind. Since he'd closed that door.

Heat burned in his eyes, stung his nose, tightened his throat, and he spread his hand across his face, as if that could contain his pain. After a few moments he felt something nudge his hand, heard a soft whine, and smelled slightly-stale breath. He lowered his hand to find Dief staring at him, for once not looking superior, or disdainful, but with real concern and affection in his eyes. He had something trailing from his mouth, and after a moment Fraser couldn't help but give a choked-off laugh as he realized that Dief had brought over the hideous afghan that Francesca had made for him.

"Thank you," he said softly as he pulled the afghan over himself.

Dief whuffed, and lay down next to the couch, his head just within reach of Fraser's hand. Taking the hint, Fraser reached down and ruffled his fingers through Dief's thick fur, and scratched his ears.

* * *

The first time Ray awoke, it was to the kind of darkness and silence that he hadn't encountered since his travels in the far north. Way warmer though, he thought contentedly, nestling beneath the down comforter and slipped back off to sleep. The second time he woke, the house was still quiet, but the weak morning sunlight had finally started to push its way in through the bedroom windows.

He reached over to the bedside table for his glasses, and took a look at the alarm clock. Eight-thirty? That would be . . . ten-thirty, his time. Man, he hadn't slept this late in months. Knowing Fraser, he'd already been up for hours, keeping quiet for his sake. Well, no reason that he had to tiptoe around in his own house. Now that Ray was really awake, there was no reason to stay in bed . . . except that he was really kind of liking the whole idea of being in Fraser's bed.

That was something they were going to need to talk about if he could ever force himself to leave the warmth of the bed and get up and dressed for the day. No way was this a guest room, not unless all Fraser's houseguests smelled exactly like him. It was probably weird to be able to pick your ex-partner out of a line-up by smell alone, but he'd had an intensive training period. First there had been the Quest. Spending that much time in close-quarters with someone who didn't have regular bathing opportunities tended to make you pretty familiar with the way he smelled.

Then, as soon as they'd returned from their adventure, Ray had helped Fraser get himself sorted out for his move to Saskatchewan. It all happened pretty fast. Too fast for Ray to get around to unpacking his own things from the trip. Or maybe not too fast, exactly. Ray just hadn't wanted to unpack, hadn't wanted to put that particular experience in one of those boxes marked 'done' he seemed to have been collecting over the years.

After Fraser had left town for good, though, there really wasn't any good reason to keep a set of duffle bags packed and ready by the front door. He started to unpack and then about halfway through the first bag, he came across one of Fraser's henleys crammed in with his own things. He was about to throw it into the laundry pile with the rest of his clothes, but as he took it out of the bag, the lingering scent of Fraser on the shirt triggered such a feeling of loneliness in him - an almost physical hunger for his friend - that he couldn't bring himself to wash the damned thing and remove what seemed to be the last link between the two of them.

The henley sat draped over a chair in the bedroom for a few days, but one night after an absolutely crap day when he was really missing Fraser, he took the shirt to bed with him and wrapped it around his pillow before going to sleep. Totally adolescent move, but it helped a little. Made him feel not quite so alone. A few days later, jerking off with his face buried in that shirt-wrapped pillow, he realized that his behavior was a little obsessive even for him, so he'd tossed the shirt in the hamper, but he was never going to forget that Fraser scent. No way did he want to, either.

Ray wallowed for another minute. Turned his face into the pillow and inhaled deeply. Yeah, that was Fraser all right. He felt like he'd come home or something. Yeah. That was it. That was the thing that had been off, been missing, for two years. He was supposed to be with Fraser. Or Fraser was supposed to be with him. Either way, same thing. They weren't supposed to be in different places, damn it.

He took another sniff, pulling the pillow into his arms, nuzzling it a little, feeling that early-morning wanna-get-off kind of glow starting, and . . . oohkay. No. That was kind of a wrong thing to be feeling while sniffing Fraser's pillow. A little too enthusiastic. Fraser would probably not appreciate having to do that kind of laundry. He guessed that was his body's way of saying 'hey, been too long!' Maybe he should do something about that later in the shower.

Speaking of Fraser, what kind of nitwit put the guest in his own bed? Freak. He'd probably figured that Ray wouldn't have taken the bed if he'd known it was his, and he was right about that. Or at least he wouldn't have taken it all by himself. But no matter how long Fraser droned on about politeness and etiquette and whatever the hell else, he wasn't putting Fraser out of his bed tonight. How bad could the other room be?

He threw the covers off and sat up, planted his feet firmly on the floor, then took off his glasses for a second and scrubbed his face with the flat of his palm. He put his glasses back on and then took a pair of sweat pants from his bag and tugged them up over his hips, pulled on a sweatshirt, and opened the bedroom door.

He stood in the narrow hallway for a few seconds, listening for a sign that Fraser was up and about. Apart from the soft hum of the furnace, the house was still quiet. Not even a sound from the wolf, which maybe meant that Fraser'd taken Dief out for a walk or something.

Ray glanced at the closed door on the other side of the hallway. The real guest room. He shook his head and sighed. Maybe he should just move his stuff over there now. Make it harder for Fraser to raise any dumb objections later on. He walked the few steps separating the two rooms and turned the door knob.

Okay. He knew Fraser was used to roughing it, but this was nutty.

The room was cold from being closed up, and there wasn't a stick of furniture in it. The only things in the room, in fact, were a few cardboard boxes and the arctic camping gear they'd used on their trip. Nothing else, not even a bedroll on the floor, so he was pretty sure Fraser hadn't slept in here last night.

Ray walked out into the living room. The first thing he saw was Dief, sprawled out on the rug, with a single open eye fixed on him.

"Hey, boy," he said quietly. "Where's our Mountie?"

Apparently not willing to move any more than necessary, Dief glanced to one side and made a sound that was almost a moan, and Ray followed the direction of his gaze.

Fraser. Still fast asleep on a couch that looked to be at least a half foot too short for him. He had his face half buried under his right arm, probably to block the light. Ray noticed yet again that his hair was longer than he'd ever worn it in Chicago. At the moment it was a tousled mess - covering his forehead, curling around his ears and the back of his neck. He nearly reached out to smooth it back to a more familiar configuration, then realized what he was doing and stopped.

As he watched, Fraser shifted a little uncomfortably in his sleep. Looked like he was shivering a little, too, except the thought of any conditions being too cold for Fraser short of a full-scale blizzard or a dunk in the Beaufort Sea was almost too weird for him to contemplate. But . . . people change. Or maybe he never really had been that impervious to cold, just damned good at ignoring it.

The slight trembling continued. Ray could see that Fraser's sweatshirt had hiked halfway up his chest sometime during the night, exposing pale, smooth skin all the way around. His left arm was curled protectively around his stomach, as if he were trying to warm himself. He took a step closer and saw that the goofy-looking moose afghan Frannie had made for him lay crumpled on the floor next to the couch. Okay, the least he could do was cover him up a little.

He knelt down and lifted the afghan off the floor, rested it on his knee, and sighed. He hadn't disregarded anything Fraser had said - or half-said - the night before. Fraser was unhappy. Really unhappy. And he felt rotten that Fraser was feeling so bad about his life and hadn't been able to say anything to Ray about it before this. But none of that altered the fact that all he wanted to freaking do was just stand here and look. Just like he'd been wanting to do for the past two years.

And changes or no changes, looking at Fraser made him feel . . . good. He was feeling that same spreading warmth he'd felt a few minutes earlier while snuggling Fraser's pillow, that groin-tightening, skin-flushing tingle. Suddenly it hit him. He dropped the afghan again and found himself staring at Fraser open-mouthed. This wasn't just a generic, horndog urge to get his rocks off first thing in the morning. This was directly related to his feelings for Fraser.

How could he not have known . . . this? He knew he'd missed Fraser. Missed him every damned day. He honestly couldn't remember a day going by in the past two years that he hadn't thought of Fraser at least once. Kind of like the way he used to think about Stella. Or maybe exactly like that.

Holy shit. Considering all of the frickin' clues he'd had staring him in the face, how could it have taken him this long to put all the pieces together? Some detective he was. For God's sake, he'd slept with Fraser's shirt wrapped around his pillow, and he'd gotten turned on! What was that? Just some giant coincidence? How could he have not figured out that something more than missing his partner was going on? What kind of a moron was he?

He guessed he was just so used to thinking of Fraser as his friend and partner that the other stuff had kind of slipped in under his radar. Thinking that took a little of the 'hey stupid!' sting away, in any case. He shook his head, then stood up. Okay. Afghan. Feed the wolf. Make coffee. Worry about the rest of this later.

Easier said than done. He laid the afghan over Fraser and automatically started to tuck it around him a little, but when his fingertips brushed against Fraser's side . . . God, that was enough to put all thoughts of fixing breakfast for the wolf on the back burner, at least for the time being.

Connection. Warmth. Fraser's skin against his own. Whatever it was that was feeling so good here, he wanted more of it. He spread his fingers on Fraser's side, slowly. Told himself it would only be for a second or two, no longer than it would take to feel the rise and fall of Fraser's breath just once. But the second or two became a minute, and that minute showed no sign of ending, and Ray was still kneeling on the rug watching him sleep when Fraser blinked his eyes once and was suddenly - immediately - awake.

"Ray?" A small frown creased his brow. "Is something wrong?"

Ray yanked his hand away, wondering what Fraser would say if he replied, 'yeah, your ex-partner's gone completely insane.' "No, no problem. I was just . . . um . . . the afghan. It'd fallen on the floor, so . . . ."

"Ah, I see. Thank you then." Fraser looked around, and his eyes widened suddenly. "Good lord, Ray! I had no idea it was so late!" he said, sitting up, the afghan falling off again as he scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, leaving it looking kind of surprised.

Ray shook his head. "I just got up myself, Fraser, don't worry about it. I was just going to go see if you had any coffee, and maybe feed Dief."

"You certainly don't have to take care of Diefenbaker for me, and I do have coffee on hand, if you don't mind instant."

"Have I ever minded instant?" Ray asked. "So long as you've got sugar, I'm good."

"Not a problem." Fraser stood up and headed for the kitchen. Ray, following, couldn't help but notice the rear view, which he'd once overheard Frannie raving about as 'one of the greatest tushes on earth.' Yeah. Soft. Round. Grab-able. He shook his head, smiling.

"Something amusing, Ray?" Fraser asked, glancing back at him.

"Huh? Uh, no. Just . . . happy to be here."

That drew a smile, a slightly embarrassed one, but a smile. It was nice to see. Fraser got out the jar of coffee, and then picked up the teakettle and emptied it, refilling it with fresh water before putting it on the stove.

"Hot water coming up," he said as he reached to turn the burner on, he paused for a moment and looked at his sink, and then back at Ray with a tiny smile. "Unless you'd rather just use the tap?"

Ray laughed. "Nah, not today. I'll wait for the real stuff." He glanced around. "What have you got around here for breakfast?"

Fraser hesitated for a moment. "Well, I'm afraid that you've caught me slightly understocked. I had planned to do some grocery shopping today."

"No problem," Ray said. "I know I surprised you so beggars can't be choosers." He suddenly remembered the tart they'd brought home from Mathilde's last night, and looked around for it. It wasn't on the counter. Of course it wasn't. It was in the fridge. He swung open the refrigerator door and surveyed the fairly pitiful contents of Fraser's refrigerator.

He wasn't kidding he needed to go grocery shopping. He had a third of a quart of milk, three sticks of butter, the tail-end of a block of cheese, several plastic containers of what might be leftovers but judging from the interesting colors of the contents opening them might be best left to a HazMat team. Half a loaf of bread, an industrial sized jar of peanut butter, and several bottles of beer. That appeared to be it. No tart, though. Definitely.

It suddenly dawned on Ray that he'd gone to bed quite a while before Fraser had. And Fraser had probably gotten hungry and eaten it while he was watching that hockey game Ray had heard faintly through the door. "Well, no problem," he said quickly, not wanting to make Fraser feel guilty for not sharing by mentioning it. Besides, they shouldn't eat dessert for breakfast anyway. "We can take my car and head to the store, pick up some stuff. Bagels. Fruit. Yogurt. Okay?"

Fraser nodded. "Certainly. I'll just feed Dief, and then we can go."

Yawning, he got a can of dog-food out of a cupboard and opened it, spooned its contents into a large metal dish, added a scoop of kibble from a covered twenty-gallon plastic bucket by the door, then mixed it all together before putting it down on a plastic mat.

To Ray's surprise, Dief hadn't appeared as soon as the can was opened. Fraser seemed a little surprised, too.

"Dief?" he called. "Diefenbaker?"

In answer, they both heard a low groaning sound. Fraser went to the kitchen door and looked out. Ray followed. Dief hadn't budged from his place on the rug near the couch. Fraser frowned.

"What's wrong, Dief?"

Dief groaned again. Ray had never seen Dief look green before, but he definitely did now. Fraser crossed the room quickly to kneel beside the wolf. "Dief? Are you sick?" He put a hand on Dief's side, and incurred a yelp. He looked up at Ray, fear in his gaze. "Large dogs can sometimes get intestinal torsion. I've got to get him to the vet as soon as possible. Would you go in the kitchen and get a large trash bag from under the sink, and then spread it out in the back of the Suburban? The keys are on the hook by the kitchen door."

Ray nodded and headed into the kitchen. As he leaned down to get a garbage bag out of the cabinet, something under the kitchen table caught his eye. A piece of brown paper bag. Shredded. He looked closer, and saw crust crumbs, smears of purple and red, a dollop of some creamy substance. Oops. Unless Fraser had taken to eating dessert under the table without a fork, he'd just mentally convicted his best friend of gluttony based on circumstantial evidence.

"Um, Fraser?" he called out.

"What?" Fraser called back, still sounding a bit panicked.

"I think I figured out Dief's problem. C'mere."

A moment later Fraser was in the doorway. "Ray, we really don't have time for . . . ." His voice trailed off as Ray pointed under the table. He ducked down, studied the evidence, sighed, and shook his head. "Oh for God's sake!" He went to stand in the doorway, staring at Dief with a scowl. "Diefenbaker!"

Ray, standing next to him, had to put his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Fraser sounded exactly, exactly like his dad always had every time he'd called Ray on the carpet for some transgression or other, that perfect parental combination of disgust, dismay, disbelief, and disappointment, all mixed with a healthy dose of annoyance.

"You are a disgrace to your species," Fraser said severely. "Ray was looking forward to that! What have you got to say for yourself?"

Dief whined apologetically, eyeing Ray. Fraser nudged Ray with his elbow. "Say something!" he hissed.

"What? Uh. . . Dief, that was pretty uncool. Don't do it again," Ray managed to say with a mostly-straight face.

Fraser shook his head. "All right. You are going out in the dog run, because we both know the effect that rich desserts have on your digestive system, and I am not cleaning up after you. Come on. Up. I know you can walk."

Dief reluctantly got to his feet and waddled toward the kitchen. Fraser went to the back door and unlocked it, letting Dief out and then walking barefoot across the snow-spotted yard to let him into an area partitioned off with chain-link fencing. When he came back he brushed the soles of his feet off on the mat with a little shiver. "I suppose I should have put my shoes on."

"Yeah, you'll probably catch your death of cold," Ray said with a grin. "Like anybody ever died from a cold. We need to get something warm down you. You know what I was thinking? Do you have any oatmeal? Like we had on the adventure?"

Fraser looked thoughtful, and then nodded. "Yes, I believe I do."

"Perfect! We've got breakfast."

"I could make bannock.1" Fraser offered tentatively.

Ray grinned, remembering all the times on the trail that he'd made the oatmeal while Fraser put together bannocks, and cooked them in a little shortening in the cast-iron skillet. "Oh, man, that would be so cool. The kind with raisins?"

"If you like," Fraser said.

Fraser opened a cabinet and got down a familiar-looking tin of oats. Ray grinned and gave him a thumb's up as he got out a church-key to pry up the lid. Ray opened cabinets until he found the pots and pans, getting a pan out for the oatmeal and the cast-iron skillet for the bannocks. Using a mug to measure, he put water in the pot, took off the teakettle, which had just started to whistle, and put the pan on the same burner. Fraser used the same mug to measure the oats into the water, and Ray got the salt off the back of the stove and shook a little in.

Handing Ray a wooden spoon to stir with, Fraser got out a bowl and the flour and soda and raisins and started on the bannock. Remembering that Fraser would need some melted butter, Ray cut a piece of butter into their all-purpose mug, and stuck it in the microwave to melt while Fraser put everything else together. Periodically stirring the oats, he watched, and when he had everything ready, handed Fraser the teakettle to pour hot water into the dry stuff to make the dough.

"You got shortening?" Ray asked, suddenly realizing the bannocks were nearly ready to cook and he hadn't prepped the pan.

"In the cabinet next to the stove," Fraser said, kneading the raisins into the dough.

Ray found the can, dug out a spoonful and dropped it into the skillet, putting it on a medium flame. Three minutes later, Fraser dropped several irregularly-shaped pieces of dough into the melted shortening and they both watched as it puffed and browned, with Fraser turning the pieces with a spatula now and then to brown both sides evenly. Removing those three to a paper towel to drain, he put in the second batch. Ray tasted the oatmeal.

"Needs about five more minutes," he announced.

"Good timing. Why don't you make your coffee? I'll watch the stove."

Ray nodded and went to get another mug. "You want some? Or tea?"

"Tea please," Fraser said.

Ray nodded and found the tea in the cabinet he remembered from the night before. He put Fraser's tea to steep, made coffee for himself, and then got down bowls and plates for their meal. Fraser scooped oatmeal into the bowls, put three bannocks on each plate, and they took everything to the table and sat down to eat.

The first bite of oatmeal brought a flood of memories. He chewed, swallowed, and grinned. "I haven't had this in two years. Never thought I'd miss it, but I guess I did." He picked up a bannock and bit into it, feeling the crisp surface yield to his teeth, enjoying the tough, chewy inside with its sweet bursts of raisin. "These too," he said around his bite. "By the time we got back to civilization I thought I'd never want to see either again, but you know, they kind of grow on you."

"They do. I'd almost forgotten how good they are, myself," Fraser said, tearing off a chunk of bannock with his fingers and putting it in his mouth, clearly savoring it.

As he watched Fraser chew, Ray remembered how shocked he'd been at first, watching Fraser eat on the trail. He used his fingers, even for things like oatmeal, scooping with two fingers, licking them clean after each bite. When they had meat, he often ate it Inuit fashion, putting the whole piece to his mouth and slicing off the bite with his knife closer to his lips than Ray liked to think about. Until then, he'd never realized before what a sensualist Fraser was, and it wasn't just food, either. Sometimes he'd catch Fraser absently stroking the fur of his parka, or working oil into the dog's harnesses with slick fingers moving like he was giving a massage. In Chicago he'd really kept that part of himself under strict control. Now Ray thought he had an inkling as to why. Given half a chance, and no reason to control himself, Fraser. . . didn't.

Some bad part of him wondered if Fraser didn't just need some other outlet for that side of his personality. It was beyond him why Fraser hadn't been snapped up by now by some sturdy Canadian woods-babe. He was sure they had those here, he'd seen a whole bunch since he got to Canada, strong-looking, attractive women in jeans and flannel who reminded him annoyingly of Janet Morse. When Fraser had first landed here he must have been the primest catch on the market, but here he was two years later, clearly without any names on his dance card. Ray just didn't get that.

Now that he thought about it, it wasn't like Fraser had ever had much - well, any - action in Chicago, but Ray had always put that down to there not being anyone his 'type' there. It had been pretty clear that Chicago women had definitely not been Fraser's cup of bark tea. Of course, they hadn't gotten around to having that heart-to-heart talk yet, either. Could be that there had been somebody recently, and it hadn't gone well, and that was part of why Fraser was so miserable. On the other hand, Ray kind of thought that Fraser would have mentioned a girlfriend if he'd had one.

Fraser looked up suddenly. "Is something wrong with your food?" he asked, concerned.

Ray shook his head. "Nah, just spacing out."

It took them only a few minutes to finish eating, and then Fraser collected the dishes and took them to the sink.

"Can I help?" Ray asked.

Fraser shook his head. "Nonsense, Ray, you're a guest. Sit and enjoy your coffee."

Ray shrugged, and picked up his mug as Fraser ran a sink full of soapy water and started washing up. "So what's there to do for fun?"

"There's a great variety of recreational activity hereabouts: hunting, fishing, hiking, pleasure-boating, cross-country skiing, skating, even dogsledding," Fraser said, looking over his shoulder with a grin. "Though I suspect you probably wouldn't consider that last recreational."

"Not on a bet," Ray agreed. He thought about Fraser's list, and realized every one of those activities could be done alone. "But I meant of the more social variety," he said. "Music? Clubs? Theater? Movies?"

"Well, there is an amateur theatrical group in town, and there are frequent performances by local musicians, and if you want more diverse offerings, the drive to Prince Albert isn't bad most of the time."

"Prince Albert?" Ray thought for a moment, remembering the map in his office. "That's what, two and a half, three hours from here?"

Fraser nodded. "About that, yes, in good weather." He dropped his dishtowel, squatted to pick it up, then stood again.

Ray found himself watching Fraser's butt through the whole sequence. He'd never thought he'd say it about anything Frannie-related, but she was so right about that. He was still trying to figure out how to weasel some information out of Fraser about his social life when the doorbell sounded.

"Would you mind seeing who's at the door, Ray?"

"Sure. No problem."

He took one last look at Fraser's backside, biting his lip to keep from laughing at what a freak he'd become as he went out into the living room to answer the bell.

He was still grinning as he opened the door, but the grin changed to a slight frown as he recognized the caller. Ramrod straight in his blue uniform, clean-shaven, dark blond hair buzzed almost to the scalp, the guy looked like a recruiting poster for the RCMP, if the RCMP had started recruiting from the Aryan Nations to beef up the ranks.

"Constable Zhertak," Ray said, leaning against the door frame.

Zhertak's eyes flickered down, then back up, a slight sneer forming as he took in Ray's casual attire and bare feet, but he gave a single nod of acknowledgment. "I see you managed to find your . . . friend," he said, an odd tone coloring his words.

"Yeah, I did. Thanks for all your 'help' yesterday."

Zhertak's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but his expression remained otherwise neutral. "I'm sure you can understand . . . ."

"Yeah, whatever. So I guess now you're looking for Fraser?"

"Indeed. I need to have a word with Corporal Fraser, if it wouldn't put you out too much to tell him I'm here."

His words were perfectly polite, but Ray found himself bristling a little anyway. If this snot was who Fraser had to work with everyday, no wonder his job was pissing him off. Or at least it would piss Ray off. Hard to tell with Fraser. He used to have a pretty endless capacity for putting up with shit - or at least more than Ray did. Whatever. For all he knew, Zhertak was the nicest guy in the world and he just hadn't noticed yet.

He stepped back and opened the door a little wider. "Come on in. We're letting the heat out."

Zhertak took two steps inside, then looked around the living room and came to a stop. "Perhaps I should just wait here."

Ray glanced around the room. It looked a hell of a lot better than it had the night before, but if Zhertak didn't want to go any further into the house, that was fine with him. Anyway, he was pretty sure he didn't really want to share the sight of Fraser's backside in jeans with anyone, and for sure not with Zhertak.

"Perhaps you should. I'll get Fraser."

He shut the door behind Zhertak, then returned to the kitchen where Fraser was just hanging the hand towel to dry over the edge of the sink.

"Let me guess," he said, smiling broadly. "Ray Vecchio is in the neighborhood and has dropped by for a cup of coffee?"

Ray grinned. "Close, but no cigar. Nah, it's your buddy Zhertak, all dressed up in Mountie blue and looking like he needs a hell of a lot more fiber in his diet."

Almost instantly, Fraser's expression grew serious. He went out to the living room, with Ray following closely behind, and extended his hand in greeting to the man waiting by the entryway.

"Constable, good morning."

Even before Fraser had finished his greeting, a startling transformation began to take place. Apart from the sweater, which was folded up on the couch, he was still wearing the clothes he'd slept in the night before and his hair was barely pushed off his face, but the guy who stood before Ray was the self-assured and exceptionally focused Benton Fraser that he'd been back in Chicago. For a second, Ray wondered if he was just seeing what he wanted to see, but no, Zhertak was standing a little straighter, his fingers twitching at his side like he thought he ought to be saluting or something. All trace of that annoying smugness had disappeared, at least for the moment, and nothing remained but a serious Mountie making a report.

"Good morning, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you and your guest so early on a Sunday morning, but we've just had a report of a fire at Dixon's Masonry, and as I passed the turnoff to your house, I recalled that you'd expressed an interest in the earlier incident, and I thought I should stop and inform you."

"Yorkton relay phoned the detachment?"

"Yes, right after they'd received the initial report. I passed by on my way here, and Dave seems to have everything well in hand. Fire Control's just waiting for Helen to arrive from Hull Lake with an additional unit."

Fraser, still nodding, pushed some magazines aside on the coffee table and Ray watched in shock as he picked up a cell phone. He started to punch in some numbers, then held the phone under his chin, waiting for his party to answer, while he slipped his jacket on and started zipping it up.

'Ray? Perhaps you'd see if . . . ."

"Diefenbaker?" Ray asked, guessing Fraser's next move.

"Yes, if you don't mind. We'll meet you out front."

"No problem. Be back in a second," Ray said, heading into Fraser's room where he shucked his sweatpants and yanked on socks, jeans, and boots, then swung back through the living room to lift his own jacket off the hook by the door and shrug into the sleeves as Fraser suggested to Zhertak that the fires might be related. He headed out back to parole Dief from the dog run, letting Zhertak's claim that the two fires were just 'a freak coincidence' fade into silence as he closed the back door behind him. The wolf whined gratefully, a properly chastened look on his face.

"It's not me you've got to convince," Ray told him. "You just worry about apologizing to Fraser. He wanted some of that tart, you know?"

Dief barked twice, tossing his head back.

"Don't give me that. You were not just trying to help. Besides, you know how much he worries about you. He thought you were really sick."

Ray looked sternly at the wolf, but when Dief put his head down on his foot and whined, he gave up. Being a parent was a lot harder than it looked. "Come on. We've got work to do."

By the time they got around to the front of the house, Fraser had already locked the front door and was waiting for them with the engine running. Zhertak was nowhere to be seen. Ray assumed he'd headed to the scene under his own steam. He let Dief into the cargo compartment in the back of the SUV where he flopped down on top of a coil of rope and some other emergency equipment. Out of habit Ray almost offered to drive before realizing that since he had no idea where they were going, it probably wasn't a great idea.

Three minutes later, watching Fraser handle the Suburban like he'd been born in the driver's seat, he realized it was also completely unnecessary. "You drive a lot up here?" Ray asked.

Fraser spared him a glance as he turned a corner and Ray could see smoke rising some distance down the road. "Yes. The detachment mandate encompasses both community and what you would probably think of as state patrol functions. We work quite a few accident scenes." His expression tightened a little.

Ray nodded. "Saw my share of those when I was a uniform. They're always tough. What else do you get a lot of up here?"

Fraser's shoulders slumped a little. "Numbers are relative, of course, but statistically domestic violence, property crime and assault are our most common offenses. A good percentage of which also involve alcohol or drugs. It's strange, but I actually had less contact with those aspects of policing in Chicago than I do here, even though you would think it would be just the opposite."

"Well, you said yourself it's not real exciting up here, and you know when some people get bored, they start drinking, drugging, and beating on each other for fun."

Dief suddenly yipped, startling Ray.

Fraser shot a glare back over his shoulder. "You can hold it for three more minutes, we're almost there. And next time you're tempted to make a pig of yourself, remember how you feel at this moment."

Ray stifled a snicker. Then he hoped Dief actually could hold it. He didn't relish being in the car if he couldn't. The plume of smoke got thicker and heavier as they drove, and Ray started to smell it even with all the windows up. Finally they pulled up in front of a graffiti-marked warehouse, one section of which was badly charred, flames still licked feebly here and there. Two small fire trucks were on the scene, pumping water onto the smouldering mess. Zhertak was there, standing well back, like he was afraid he'd get his uniform dirty.

Fraser set the brake, got out, and went around to let Dief out. Dief immediately ran for the nearest patch of grass. Fraser shook his head and started towards the fire trucks. Ray got out, staying on the sidelines so he didn't get in anyone's way. A small crowd had gathered to watch, and Ray instinctively scanned the faces, knowing if Fraser was right and it was arson, that the arsonist might well be in the crowd. No one looked particularly guilty, though a lot of people looked excited. He guessed that was normal. This was probably more excitement than they got all year.

Too many years as a cop had Ray itching to do something, even if it was just helping out with crowd control. But this was Canada, and the crowd was too polite to need much in the way of policing . Everyone stayed at least fifty feet back from the fire - the only exception being one gawky teenage boy in an oversized grey sweatshirt who'd started inching forward to get a better look the minute the firemen turned their heads. Ray grinned. Apparently being a teenager trumped being a Canadian, although he could see the kid move back into the crowd as soon as he noticed Zhertak looking in his direction.

The death glare of that guy was enough to scare just about anyone into hiding. What was up with him? It was a relief when Fraser waved him over. He picked his way through the tangle of hoses, to find Fraser still talking to one of the fire crew.

"Ray, this is Dave Byrnes, head of our fire control unit. Dave, Ray Kowalski, my former partner from Chicago."

Byrnes removed one of his kevlar gloves and tucked it under his arm, then extended his hand to Ray. "Good meeting you . . . Kowalski, was it? You got any family around here? Name's kind of familiar."

Ray smiled. "Could be. I saw a street with my name on it this morning. Maybe I'm Canadian after all. So . . . you guys find out anything about the fire?"

Fraser shook his head. "Not yet, although the prevailing opinion of the fire unit seems to be the same as Constable Zhertak's - that this is nothing more than a coincidental occurrence."

"You know how it is with some of these older buildings," Dave said to Ray. "Wiring troubles, building materials not up to code. Must be the same in the big city."

Ray was tempted to say that down in the 'big city' the arson guys sort of liked to check things out before they decided a fire was just an accident, but he swallowed the words back down and just nodded.

Dave turned back to Fraser. "Anyway, like I was saying, Corporal - you can dig around in there if you want, but there's no way I'm letting anyone except my own people in there until tomorrow, not even you. Fires are tricky buggers. You never know when they're gonna jump back up and bite you on the ass. Really ought to be left to the experts, if you ask me."

Ray glanced over at Fraser, sure he'd offer some kind of argument that would get Dave to change his mind, but he just nodded once and said "Of course. I understand completely."

Okay, he really didn't get this at all. Fraser'd seemed pretty driven when Zhertak brought the news of this latest fire, and now he was just going to let it go? Ray was wondering if maybe he should say something when he happened to look down and see Fraser's index finger curl in slightly and his thumb extend in the direction of the building.

If this had been anyone else, Ray wouldn't have thought anything of it, but Fraser was just about the least twitchy guy he'd ever known in his life, apart from that eyebrow thing, and nothing he'd seen in the past day pointed to a change in that behavior, at least. Something was up. Oh yeah, something was definitely up. Just because he didn't have a freaking clue about what was going to happen didn't mean a damned thing. Partnering Fraser had always been like this . . . this not quite knowing and knowing completely, all at the same time. God, this was cool - just like old times. It felt almost like waiting for a kiss, a nearly sexual tingle of anticipation.

Then Dave started saying something about a cousin who used to live in Milwaukee in the seventies, and wasn't that pretty close to Chicago?, and maybe Ray knew him . . .but Ray was barely listening, all his attention focused on Fraser. And Fraser looked as if he was listening with great interest to Dave's ramble, except Ray knew - he knew - that Fraser wasn't really paying attention to Dave either. No, Fraser was with him, focused on him, and Ray could almost hear Fraser saying, 'Wait for it. Wait for it, Ray.'

Sure enough, a second later, Diefenbaker - apparently recovered from his ordeal of greed - appeared from out of the blue and made a mad dash past the tape, past the fire engines, and through Dixon's open front door.

Dave whirled around and stared after him. "Jesus! What the hell was that? Don't tell me that was that animal of yours, Corporal."

Ray bit down on his tongue to keep from laughing. He should have known better than to think Fraser would just let it rest. Hell, he never let anything just rest. Then Fraser, who was already on his third apology to Dave for Dief's behavior, met Ray's gaze and. . . oh man, all of a sudden Ray didn't know whether he wanted to laugh at the knowledge that Fraser'd sent the wolf out on a recon mission or because of the sheer freaking joy of knowing he was in total synch with Fraser again for the first time in way, way too long. It buzzed him, made him want to grab Fraser and kiss him senseless . . . which meant it was probably good that there was a shitload of people standing around watching.

He was dimly aware that there was some kind of Keystone Cops routine going on nearby, with three of Dave's guys all trying to get into the building at the same time and succeeding only in getting themselves wedged in the narrow doorway, but he just couldn't take his eyes off Fraser. And he wanted to say something, maybe 'See? I can wait for it.' or 'Oh yeah, I got it.' or maybe even 'Are you feeling this? Are you feeling what I'm feeling?' and what he was feeling was a kind of warmth that had nothing, and everything, to do with fire - but just then, Dief leaped out through an open window and immediately slunk over to hide behind Ray's legs, and the moment passed. But it had been there . . . and it had felt great.

Fraser knelt down on the ground next to Ray and took Diefenbaker's face in his hands, forcing the wolf to look at him. "You are not to enter buildings without my permission. Is that clear?"

Dief gave an indignant moan in response and wriggled back out of his grasp, tucking himself even more tightly behind Ray's legs. Fraser shook his head and stood up, wiping the mud off the knees of his jeans as he did so. "Once again, Dave, I must apologize on Diefenbaker's behalf. Honestly, I don't know what gets into him sometimes. Ever since he saw a news report in Chicago about a police dog rescuing a litter of kittens from a burning building, he's been impossible in settings like this." He looked down at Dief. "Delusions of grandeur."

Dave frowned. "The wolf watches the news?"

"Generally speaking, no, he doesn't. He finds it disheartening. However, stories about animals hold a special fascination for him."

"Yeah, I get that." Dave nodded. "When I was a kid, we had a dachshund named Sparky who'd come running into the family room every time Alberta Game Farm came on the television. What the hell . . . no-harm, no-foul, right?" he said as he reached down to pat Dief on the head.

With as much dignity as he could muster after being compared to a dachshund - and sparing not a glance for Dave - Diefenbaker got up from the ground and loped off in the direction of the Suburban.

Fraser sighed. "Perhaps this would be a good time to take our leave, as well. Ray?"

"Right behind you," Ray said, instinctively knowing Fraser wanted to go check out the other crime scene.

Fraser turned to look at Byrnes for a moment. "Dave, If you find you require any assistance from the RCMP this afternoon, feel free to call on the services of Bose Zhertak . . . ." Dave glanced doubtfully in the Constable's direction. ". . . or contact me, of course. Let me give you my cell phone number."

After the number was recorded, they took their leave and began to walk to the car, where Dief was waiting impatiently. As soon as Fraser started the engine, Ray started to chuckle. "So what did he find out?"

"Dave Byrnes? You were there, Ray. As yet, there's no . . . ."

Ray shook his head. "You know I'm not talking about Dave. I'm talking about the Pie Pig back there."

"Diefenbaker?"

"Do you see anyone else in the back of the car?"

Fraser tensed almost imperceptibly, and his eyes darted to the rearview mirror. "Thankfully, no."

Okay, he'd forgotten that along with the coolness of being with Fraser, there was usually a big serving of weird on the side. Of course, that weirdness could be kind of cool in itself, at least when the two of them weren't under fire or sinking in a ghost ship or something.

Ray grinned. "Fraser. Back to earth, here. Dief. Information. Give."

The corner of Fraser's mouth quirked up in a grin of his own. Oh, yeah. Now they were back to the kind of stuff he'd missed.

As they turned the next corner, Stevensen's came into view. Fraser pulled into the empty parking lot and shut off the engine.

"Well, Ray," he began a bit hesitantly. "You must understand that while Diefenbaker's olfactory receptors are far more numerous than our own, he hasn't yet mastered the ability to catalogue accurately all the odors he detects, particularly odors of a chemical nature. However, it would appear that the same unusual smell that I encountered earlier in the week is also present at Dixon's."

The look on Fraser's face as he finished speaking was glum, almost as if he was resigned to the likelihood that his former partner's response to this information would be one of complete disbelief, but Ray just nodded and unbuckled his seat belt.

"Okay, let's get at it, Fraser. Let's see if a second sniff around here turns up anything."

As they approached the yellow tape which still cordoned off the art supply store from the general public, Ray started to chuckle. "Hey, Frase. Tell me in advance so I can prepare for this. Am I about to be arrested for trespassing or operating out of my jurisdiction or something?"

Fraser paused for a moment, almost as if he were considering these exact options, then he smiled and very deliberately raised the tape so Ray could pass underneath.

After forty-five minutes of digging around in the still-sodden mess left by the fire crew, Ray had to get outside and get some clean air in his lungs. Fraser swore he could detect 'that scent' he'd noticed on Zhertak in several places in the building. The only thing Ray's 'olfactory receptors' could detect was the acrid smell of smoke that still blanketed everything inside the ruined store.

He moved over to the sidewalk and leaned up against a telephone pole, taking in the sight of the store in front of him. A few minutes later, the view got a lot whole lot better looking when Fraser walked through the front door. Pretty as a picture - too bad he didn't have a camera on him to capture the image. Ray shook his head. This was his idea of art? He was getting to be as big a freak as Fraser.

He started to smile at the thought, but in the next instant his smile turned into a frown.

"Ray?" Fraser called, a slightly worried note in his voice. "Is something wrong?"

"Nah, just . . . I don't know. You got a tagging epidemic going on up here in La Rouille?"

"Not that I'm aware of." Fraser started to turn back toward Stevensen's, following the direction of Ray's gaze. "You're referring to the graffiti low on the south corner of the building? Unwelcome, of course, but I wouldn't characterize a single instance of graffiti as an epidemic."

"Neither would I, but I'm pretty sure I saw the same tag back at Dixon's and in the same place, lower right in front of the building."

Fraser's eyes narrowed. "Hmm. Perhaps we should . . . ."

"Yeah."

The two men walked over to the right side of the store, joined by Dief a moment later. Fraser knelt down on the ground and started to lean in to the stucco wall, but was stopped short by Ray's hand on his shoulder.

"You going to lick that?"

Fraser's face started to flush, but he met Ray's gaze with a determined look. "I was hoping to ascertain the source of . . . ."

"No, I figured that, but you're not the only one with a tongue here, you know."

Fraser's eyes widened, and Ray could feel the blush rise on his own face, when Fraser swallowed hard and said, "Are you trying to tell me that you were about to volunteer to lick the wall?"

"Hell, no," Ray laughed. "Dief. Come here, guy."

Ray pointed toward the mark, and without a single whine of complaint, Diefenbaker ran his tongue gingerly over the rough stucco. Ray was about to congratulate himself on finding the perfect solution to the problem when the wolf turned his head toward Fraser and started to lick his face more enthusiastically than a mere expression of affection would warrant.

"Diefenbaker!"

Fraser's automatic protest almost went unheard under the sound of Ray's gasps of laughter. "God! There is just no way to keep gross things away from you, is there? So. . . what does . . . what does it taste like?" he asked, still laughing too hard to take a proper breath.

"Spray paint."

"That's it?" Ray looked up at Fraser, still giggling. "Spray paint? Not some colorful extract of a South American bug that's been smuggled into the country?" he asked, pulling a typically Fraserish explanation out of thin air.

"Ah. You'd be referring to the cochineal, no doubt."

"The whatsit?"

"A tiny reddish-brown insect which lives on prickly pear cacti and which has been used as a coloring agent since the time of the ancient Aztecs. But no, I don't believe cochineal is one of the ingredients in this particular brand of spray paint."

Ray wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, and laughed again. "Heh. Welcome back to the Discovery Channel."

Fraser grinned, then sat back on his heels and stared at the graffiti for a few seconds. "I find myself at something of a loss here. Is this a word?"

"Sort of. A tag. You know, like . . . like a trademark or a company logo or something. It's like the tagger's signature."

"Ah. Can you make any sense out of the . . . tag?"

Ray tilted his head to one side and squinted. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so. See this here at the end? The two vertical lines? I think this is supposed to be one of those Roman numeral twos. And before that? A couple of letters. An 'M' in the middle."

"I see. And the first letter would be a 'Zed?"

Ray grinned. "On my planet it would be a 'Zee,' but yeah. That's what it looks like to me: ZMII."

Fraser pushed himself up off the ground and stood back a bit, eyes slightly narrowed and focused on the wall, as if by force of will alone he could make himself see what Ray had seen in the graffiti marks. After a moment, he nodded his head in satisfaction. "How likely is it that the 'Z' and the 'M' are the initials of the tagger? Off hand, I can't think of anyone in the vicinity with those particular initials, but it would provide something to go on, at least, if the first name begins with a 'Z'."

Ray nodded. "Yeah, the trouble is it's usually a street name or gang name we're talking about, not someone's real name. Whoever's doing the decorating, though, probably wants to be known by this tag. The thing is, it's a little weird seeing it attached to a crime scene. Tagging's vandalism, and yeah, it's a low level crime all on its own, but you don't really see it used as the signature for other crimes."

"The what?"

"Huh?"

"You said 'the signature' - that these tags look like signatures."

Ray frowned. "What? Yeah, I guess so. It's just that . . . well . . . when you came outside just now I was zoning a little, just taking in the scene, and the tag kind of jumped out at me like it was an artist's signature on a painting or something. Probably doesn't mean anything, though."

"No, you might be onto something," Fraser said emphatically, a peculiar brightness coming into his eyes. "Let's go back over what we know. Two fire scenes, possibly connected and the results of arson, with similar graffiti marks placed where artists have traditionally signed their works. Add to that the fact that both businesses - Stevensen's Art Supply and Dixon's Masonry - are enterprises related to arts media."

Ray nodded his head. "Okay. So we've got arson, art, some kind of stinky accelerant, and a tag with ZM in it."

He looked at Fraser. At the same instant, they both spoke. "Zoltan Motherwell."

"In the immortal words of Yogi Berra, 'It's deja vu all over again,'" Ray muttered. "Nah, that would be too weird. What would Motherwell be doing up here?"

"Even if he still bore a grudge for the part I played in his arrest and incarceration in a facility for the criminally insane, the term of his sentence won't be up for . . . ." Fraser paused to calculate. "Seventeen years, three months, and fourteen days."

"Yeah? Well that's something I can check on. You got your cell phone with you, right? I left mine at your place."

"Of course." He took the phone out of his jacket and handed it to Ray.

"Thanks. I'm going to call Chicago, if that's okay. See if Elaine can get us some news about Motherwell." He started to punch in Elaine's home number, then stopped. "Call's going to be expensive. I'll pay for it."

"Don't be foolish, Ray. Even if the call wasn't related to a case in my jurisdiction, you're welcome to anything I have."

"I am, huh?" He grinned as he finished entering the number, and dragged his brain out of the gutter. "Good to know." Elaine answered her phone with a cheery 'hello' and he started talking in a rush. "Elaine? Ray. Could you . . ."

"Ray? Where are you? I thought you were visiting Fraser!"

"Yeah, I am."

"Oh, okay. Good. I guess I just didn't expect to hear from you. Did you give him the presents?"

"Yeah, I did, don't worry."

"Is he there right now?"

"Yeah, he is."

Elaine sighed, and he could visualize her shaking her head. "Well, put him on! I talk to you everyday; you can wait. Come on!"

"Okay, hold your horses. Jeez." He turned back to Fraser with a grin, holding out the phone. "She wants to say hi."

Fraser took the phone, and Ray tapped his foot a bit impatiently as they exchanged greetings.

"I'd like to thank you for your gift," Fraser said. "That was a very thoughtful gesture." He paused, then started to chuckle. "Ah. Oddly enough, no. Neither Ray nor I have been in any physical peril in the past 24 hours." He paused again and met Ray's gaze. "Yes, he is, isn't he?"

Okay, whatever he was or wasn't, what he wanted to do right at this moment was yank the phone back out of Fraser's hand and put an end to this conversation. In fact, the urge to do so was so strong, he had to jam both his hands into the pockets of his jeans to keep from doing it. What the hell was wrong with him? Yeah, they had business to take care of, but this was Fraser's turf, not his, and if he wanted to take a couple minutes to talk to an old friend on his own damn phone, there was nothing wrong with that.

The trouble was, it felt wrong. In fact, it felt just like when he'd been given this really cool Erector set for his eighth birthday and his dad made him give his cousin Billy a turn before he even got to play with it. He could still remember yelling "It's not fair!" over and over again until his folks couldn't take it any more and sent him up to his room for the rest of the day. Crappy birthday. He never even got to eat any of his cake.

"Ray?"

He looked up and saw Fraser holding the phone out to him. "Oh. Thanks. Okay, Elaine? Can you check something out for me?"

"Ray Kowalski, cast your mind back a whole two days to Friday morning. Did I or did I not say I'd be over at Daniel's this weekend?"

"Oh. Oh, shit. Sorry, babe."

"I am not your babe, Kowalski," she said in exaggerated annoyance. "Anyway, lay your questions on me; me and Daniel are in weekend date limbo at the moment, so it's cool."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're coming down the home stretch in Trivial Pursuit."

"You're what?" Ray put two fingers over the mouthpiece and whispered, "Did she tell you she's on a date? They're playing Trivial Pursuit." He grinned.

"Ray?" Elaine asked. "You still with me? I didn't catch that last."

"Yeah, sorry. Okay, can you check and see if either Zoltan Motherwell or Greta Garbo have been released recently. You need a case number?"

"Believe me, I remember them. Are you sure that's really her name?"

"I'm sure."

"No problem, then. Right after I finish squashing Daniel like the Trivial Pursuit bug he is, I'll see if their names flag anything, make a few phone calls."

"Great. I'll give you a call back later this afternoon, okay?

"Anytime, Ray."

"Yeah? Sure I won't be interrupting any . . .um . . . trivial pursuits?

"In the words of a friend and colleague - hardy ha ha ha. Nah, call anytime. We'll try to keep our unbridled passion bridled for a few hours."

Ray laughed. "Cool. Thanks, Elaine. Later."

He shut off the phone and handed it back to Fraser. "She says she'll check their status and see if either of their names have come up on any recent reports. We can call her back in an hour or so; she should have something for us then."

"I thought she was on a date."

"She is, but she's a cop, just like you and me. Case comes first."

Fraser shot him an odd look, and then began to smile. "A cop. Yeah," he said.

Ray looked at him just as oddly, he was sure. "Yeah, what? You're not making any sense."

"Yes, I am. For the first time in a while."

Ray shook his head, watching Fraser fondly. "For those of us not living in your head, what sense are you making?"

Fraser's smile got bigger. "I'm a cop."

Ray got it. He grinned back. "Yeah, Fraser. You're a cop." He reached out and slung an arm around Fraser's shoulders, hugging him. "A damned good one. So listen to your hunches, okay?"

Fraser had tensed a little as Ray put his arm around him, but he relaxed some as he nodded. "I'll endeavor to do so,"

"Good." Ray said.

Man, touching Fraser felt good. Felt right. He didn't want to stop. Which meant he probably needed to. With a last squeeze he started to let go, but as he did, Fraser brought up his own arm a little tentatively and put it around him. Ray looked at him, startled, but trying not to show it, not wanting to spook him. Fraser looked back, still smiling, though his smile was slowly fading, turning into an intense, curious expression.

Dief butted their knees with a whine, and they both looked down, startled. Dief pushed his way between them, forcing Fraser to step back, shaking his head. "Oh for heaven's sake, Diefenbaker. Learn to share."

Covering his disappointment, Ray leaned down to ruffle Dief's fur. "It's okay, we like you too." He straightened up and looked at his watch. "So, we done here?" he asked, feeling a little breathless and hoping he didn't sound like he was having an asthma attack.

"Done?" For a moment Fraser's gaze was almost like a caress, and then he looked down at Dief and frowned. When he looked back at Ray, his expression was normal again. "I believe so. For now, at any rate"

"We got time to do a little grocery run?" Ray asked, his stomach reminding him how bare the cupboards were at Fraser's house.

"Of course. We'll run by Robinson's Trading and stock up."

"Perfect. Pemmican ho!"

Fraser grinned and motioned him toward the Suburban, Dief bringing up the rear.

***

God, it felt good to be using his mind again, Fraser thought. To feel like he was not just existing from day to day, drifting. Even more than that, to be working with Ray, their duet in harmony again. It was amazing. It wasn't just policework he'd missed - his time in La Rouille had not been completely without professional satisfaction, though it was by no means what he was used to in Chicago. No, it was partnership he'd missed.

Not just any partner, either. If that was all he wanted, there was Constable Zhertak, or his predecessor Constable McKay, or her predecessor Constable Minogue, or any of his former colleagues. He could spend all day naming off former personnel. The list seemed well-nigh endless. No. In just a matter of hours, it had become crystal-clear that it was Ray he had missed. Pure and simple.

He'd known, of course, that he missed Ray. Terribly. He'd been accustomed to spending a good portion of every day with Ray, both working, and socially. To go from that, to nothing at all had been. . . well, he strongly suspected that it was akin to what divorce must feel like. That comparison had seemed all the more apt, considering the fact that since the day they'd met he had been plagued by certain highly inappropriate, or, at any rate, inexpressible feelings toward his partner. Fortunately he'd managed to keep them under strict control, at least externally. Internally . . . they had definitely not helped ease the separation.

When he'd left Chicago he had assumed that time and distance would lessen the attraction. He'd been wrong. He thought about Ray all the time. Missed him. And the attraction had never lessened. That had been made even clearer earlier in the day after he'd sent Dief in to investigate the scene of the fire. He'd turned to find Ray watching him, eyes bright with amused comprehension, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and his lips curving in a faint smile he was trying valiantly to suppress. He'd looked - incredible. Beautiful. Their gazes had caught, and held. Fraser had known he should look away, but couldn't bring himself to as those long-suppressed feelings had reasserted themselves with a vengeance.

Ray's eyes had widened, his lips had parted as if he were about to speak, and then Dief had bounded out, whining excitedly, and the spell was broken. He'd looked away, only to find Constable Zhertak staring at him with a frown that let him know that the fact he'd just been staring at Ray like some sort of lovesick bovine had not gone unremarked. His face had instantly gone hot and he'd knelt, ostensibly to check and make sure Dief was all right, but in reality to regain his composure and draw the somewhat battered shell of his dignity back into place.

Only now, home once more, without prying eyes to worry about, could he relax a little, and watch Ray for a moment as he found places for the groceries he'd insisted on paying for. It struck him suddenly that Ray had not seemed uncomfortable with that extended eye-contact, and had not looked away. He usually became prickly and defensive when someone stared at him, but this time he hadn't. Even when he'd appeared about to speak, his gaze had held steady, not wavered. And it had seemed to Fraser that there had been an oddly familiar expression in Ray's eyes. Almost . . . longing?

No. No, it was ridiculous to think that. Pure projection. Wishful thinking. But, still. . . Ray had not looked away. And then, at Stevensen's, Ray had put his arm around him. He could still almost feel the weight and warmth of that, and the surprising, full-body response he'd had to that simple touch. He couldn't believe he'd actually been daring enough to return the gesture. And Ray had not seemed perturbed by that, either. He wondered, with some irritation, what might have happened had not Diefenbaker interrupted.

"Man," Ray said, straightening up, a stack of plastic containers in his hands. "I don't know what these used to be but I think they're beyond hope. I vote we not even try a salvage operation but just pitch them as is."

Fraser looked at the stack and felt a momentary pang of conscience, which he ruthlessly suppressed. Ray was right. Some things were beyond salvage and he'd be better off just starting over, fresh. "An excellent plan, Ray," he said, going over to open the cupboard which hid the trash bin. "A clean sweep, as it were."

"Yeah." Ray said, dropping the containers into the bin. They thunked satisfyingly, and Ray dusted his hands together. "There. You know, between the price of fresh produce, and Zhertak's nonstop frowny-face of doom, I'm beginning to understand why you might not be too happy up here."

The casual comment, offered with a half-smile, carried far more weight than it should have. Fraser turned away abruptly. "I'm afraid neither Constable Zhertak, nor the cost of living is to blame for my poor attitude. I've achieved that entirely on my own."

"Somehow I doubt that," Ray said sharply. "That's not the Fraser I know and love. What's going on? Is it the job? Or is it . . . personal?" His voice gentled on the last question.

Fraser picked up the teakettle and filled it, just to have something to do. "It's nothing, Ray, I'm afraid that I'm simply feeling a little envious."

"Envious? Of who?"

"You," Fraser admitted, placing the kettle precisely on the center of the burner and turning on the heat. "Everything seems to be going so well for you."

There was a moment of silence, then Ray spoke. "Me?"

He turned around to find Ray staring at him.

"Things are going well for me?" Ray asked incredulously. "On what planet, Fraser? Welsh can't find anyone who'll partner me for more than ten minutes, and my social life consists of yakking with Sandor when he brings my Friday pizza."

Now it was Fraser's turn to be incredulous. "But. . . you said. . . you were busy at work, and that you needed 'down time' from your social life."

Ray flushed, clearly embarrassed. "Yeah, well, I am busy at work, but that's because I have to do twice as much work as a guy with a partner. And as for the other . . . I didn't want to sound like a complete loser, okay? And I did need a break from doing the whole 'go out to the bar and think about picking someone up and taking them home and not doing it because they aren't who you want to begin with and God knows where they've been, anyway,' routine."

Fraser sorted through that, finally figuring out what Ray had said, and found himself oddly . . . glad. "Oh," he said. "Why can't Welsh find you a partner?"

Ray laughed softly. "Because you spoiled me for anybody else, Benton Fraser. Anyway, don't envy my great life, okay, because it's not so great."

"No, I'm sorry. . . I didn't realize . . . ."

"No apologizing," Ray said firmly. "How could you realize anything when I wasn't really being honest? I should know better than that. Friends don't lie."

"No. No, they don't," Fraser said, making a decision, frightening as it was. But if Ray was going to be honest with him, how could he not be honest in return? "And you're right. Things aren't going well here either. I find I'm in a rather similar position, actually, well, save for the being busy part. This job has been a nightmare, I'm little more than a glorified traffic-cop. Whatever skill I may once have had at my job is atrophying from disuse, and though I realize it's hard to believe, I have even less of a social life here than I did in Chicago. I don't fit in." He closed his eyes for a moment, head down, trying to stop himself from just blurting out any more of this . . . crap.

Ray reached out and put his hands on Fraser's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Fraser. Benton. Ben. You fit in one place, just right."

The progression of his name, first familiar, and warm, then less familiar, but warmer, brought his head up rapidly, eyes open, to look into Ray's eyes, just inches away. They stared at each other for a moment. For several moments. He was acutely aware of how close Ray was. Of the fact that he could actually feel the faint movement of air as he breathed. Of how close his lips were. Of what he had just said. What Fraser knew he meant. In Ray's eyes, he could see a similar awareness. And then suddenly Ray blinked, and turned red, and stepped back, his hands falling, then lifting again in a sort of helpless shrug.

"I. . . uh. . . sorry about the invasion of personal space there. Don't know what I was thinking. Um, I'll just go. . . call Elaine back. Yeah. See if she has any information for us yet. Use my phone, it'll be a local call. It's in my suitcase."

He dashed for the other room as if there was someone with a flame-thrower on his trail, leaving Fraser to stare after him a little bewildered, more than a little aroused, and wondering what, exactly, Ray had meant. In retrospect, his reaction seemed to make the simple statement more meaningful than it might otherwise have been, but after a moment's consideration he shook his head. More wishful thinking. He was too old for that sort of nonsense. He had to stop letting his imagination run away with him like that. He needed a clear head, needed to follow Ray's example and concentrate on the case. The teakettle's whistle shocked him out of his daze and he took it off the burner, turning off the flame, as he heard Ray approaching, already talking on his phone.

"You did? Yeah? And he's still in the nuthouse? Damn it. I was sure we had . . . wait! What about her? Garbo? Yeah, I'll wait."

Fraser opened a cabinet and took out two mugs, holding one up and looking at Ray with lifted eyebrows. Ray nodded, and Fraser kept listening as he made two cups of strong instant coffee, adding sugar to Ray's. Finally Ray spoke again.

"Her too? Well, hell. Nah, it's good information even if it wasn't what I thought. What? He does? Huh, go figure. You wouldn't think they'd let 'em have Net access, would you? Anyway, thanks. And Elaine, have a good time with Daniel, okay, and tell him I'm sorry for cutting into your date. Yeah. Bye." He flipped the phone closed and tucked it into his jacket pocket, then looked at Fraser with a rueful half-smile. "Both Motherwell and Garbo are still in the nuthouse, so no go on that idea. I was so sure. . . damn. I guess my hunch-maker needs a tune up."

"Not necessarily, Ray. You're forgetting the two."

Ray's brow crinkled. "The two what? Elaine already checked both of them out."

"The numeral two," Fraser clarified. "You said the tag read ZMII. That might imply a copycat, rather than the original, might it not?"

Ray stared at him. "You know those skills you were worried were disintegrating?"

Fraser nodded.

Ray grinned at him. "They're not. Trust me. Hey, you got a computer to go with that cell phone?"

"Actually, I do, but my laptop had a drive failure last week and I had to send it in for repairs, however I do have a working computer at my office," Fraser offered, feeling a sudden need to get out of the house and into a location where they weren't . . . alone . . . together.

"Great!" Ray said, brightening. "Elaine says Motherwell has a website. Maybe we might find something useful there."

"An excellent thought," Fraser said, relieved.

"Pitter-patter then, Fraser, let's get at it," Ray said, taking a step toward the kitchen door before stopping, staring at the mugs of coffee on the counter. "Think we've got time for the coffee?" he asked longingly.

"Not to worry, Ray," Fraser said, opening the cabinet again and getting out two travel mugs. He carefully transferred the coffee from the ceramic mugs to the stainless ones, put on their caps, and then handed them to Ray. "There."

Ray looked from Fraser to the mugs and then back again, shaking his head. "We really corrupted you in Chicago, didn't we? TV, cell phone, laptop, travel mugs. Next you'll be telling me you have a cappuccino machine in the cupboard."

"Don't be silly, Ray. That's at the office," Fraser said blandly as he opened the door and motioned for Ray and Dief to precede him out to the Suburban.

Ray started to laugh, and then looked at him narrowly as he settled into the passenger seat and put the cups on the dash so he could buckle up. "You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all," Fraser said, letting Dief into the back and then taking his place behind the wheel. "Constable McKay was originally from Vancouver. She'd gotten homesick for what she called 'proper coffee' and in an effort to help our retention rate, I got one for the detachment office."

"Huh," Ray said, thoughtfully. "Did it work?"

Fraser sighed, pulling out of the driveway and onto the street. "Unfortunately it didn't prove to be sufficient incentive."

"She left?"

"She requested and was granted a transfer to a more urban detachment on grounds of hardship."

"Hardship!" Ray said indignantly. "Working with you isn't a hardship! What was she, a lesbian or something?"

"Excuse me?" Fraser said incredulously, staring at Ray in astonishment as he stopped at the stop-sign.

Ray blushed and looked chastened. "Sorry. Not P.C. there. Its just, most women would kill to work with you, you know? So I thought maybe . . . ." he let his sentence trail off and shrugged.

Fraser turned onto the main road and shook his head. "I'm sure Constable McKay's sexual preferences didn't enter into the matter. She simply wasn't comfortable in such a rural setting."

Ray nodded. "Yeah. I get that. So do you, I think," he said with a knowing look.

Fraser nodded. "I wrote her a letter of support."

Ray shook his head. "Why am I not surprised? Hey, I just had a thought. If we're going to your work, can I be the acting liaison?"

"I'm afraid we haven't time to file the paperwork," Fraser said, suppressing a smile as he "It'll have to be unofficial this time."

Ray sighed. "No fair. You get all the cool titles."

"Liaison is a cool title?"

"Better than detective."

"I disagree. Liaison always sounds faintly. . . sordid."

Ray chuckled. "Yeah, that's what makes it cool."

Fraser shot him a look, and Ray's smile widened. "Li-ai-son," he murmured throatily, giving the word a faux-French inflection. "I mean, you just know when you say it that people are thinking: 'Yeah, I'd like to liaise with him all right.'"

"Ray!"

Ray grinned back, unrepentant. "You know I'm right."

"What you are is incorrigible."

"That's my middle name."

"I thought. . . ."

"My other middle name," Ray said with a look. "God, I've missed this," he said with a soft sigh.

"As have I," Fraser admitted.

Ray reached over and patted his shoulder, leaving his hand in place. It felt heavy and warm even through his coat. They exchanged a look, and then they both fell silent, sipping coffee from their mugs as Fraser drove. The quiet lasted several miles, and he thought about what it might mean that Ray had left his hand there. About his words, and deeds. Perhaps he wasn't deluding himself. Finally, in the back, Dief whined. Fraser glanced in the rear-view mirror to see him looking worriedly from himself to Ray and back. "It's all right," he said softly.

Ray turned and looked too. "Yeah. Sometimes quiet's okay, you know? Just means you don't have to always be shooting off your mouth to be comfortable with someone."

Dief made a sound suspiciously like a snort.

"That will be quite enough out of you," Fraser said severely. "You haven't exactly taken a vow of silence yourself."

Ray laughed, and then shaded his eyes. "That's it up there, isn't it?"

Fraser nodded, seeing the national and provincial flags waving in the wind up ahead. "Yes. You were here before, as I recall."

"Yeah. I think Zhertak thought I was a stalker or something. Hey, you know, if he's always that suspicious, he'd know if there were any new faces in town, right?"

"He would," Fraser allowed. "But then, so would I, and there aren't. Well, aside from you," he said, pulling in to his assigned space in the small parking lot. "So, should I arrest you for arson?"

Ray held out his wrists as if ready for cuffing. "Well, if you really want to, sure, but I warn you, I've got an iron-clad alibi. I spent the night with a Mountie."

A feeling of deja vu shook him. Ray in his office at the Consulate, in trouble, coming to him for help. Trusting him to help. That feeling was quickly followed by an odd surge of embarrassed arousal. Was Ray . . . flirting with him? He looked into Ray's eyes, and what he saw there made him bold. "Yes, well, be that as it may, since you weren't actually sleeping with said Mountie, he would be hard pressed to verify your alibi."

Ray sighed and snapped his fingers. "Damn. Blew that one," he said with a wink and a grin. "Guess tonight I better make sure my alibi is solid," he said, and then he opened the door and got out.

Fraser stared at him for a few seconds, completely stunned, but as Ray walked around to let Dief out he scrambled to unfasten his seat belt and follow. He had no idea what to say. Had no idea what to do. Had no idea. . . about anything at all. But he had what felt like a foolish smile on his face as he escorted Ray into the detachment.

* * *

Ray had a hunch. A completely non-case-related hunch. One that had been getting stronger ever since he'd looked up to find Fraser staring at him back there outside of Dixon's. One that had set off more flashing lights and sirens in his head than a Vegas slot machine when Fraser put his arm around him outside Stevensen's. But he knew better than to try and make a case without any solid evidence, so that was what he was after now. Real evidence. Something he could touch. And there was really only one way he knew of to get the kind of evidence he needed, so he did it. And his first foray had just gotten a pretty strong positive response - if Fraser's big goofy grin was any indication.

Once inside the bunker-like detachment building, Fraser introduced him to their dispatcher, Sally Cardinal, a Cree woman in her early fifties who bore a startling resemblance to Sophia Loren. She was a lot friendlier without Constable Jerklike hanging around looking at him suspiciously and offered him a home-made oatmeal cookie. He almost took one, but then Fraser declined and he decided it wouldn't be very nice to eat in front of him when he was actually making an effort, so he thanked her, kindly, and followed Fraser back to his office.

"Hey, no storage boxes?" he said, looking around in mock amazement. "What's the world coming to?"

"Well, I did try, Ray, but Sally said they were a fire hazard, and since her significant other is the La Rouille fire control supervisor I'm afraid I had to do as she said," Fraser said with utter nonchalance, leaning down to turn on his computer. "Why don't you have a seat, I'll go get a second chair."

Ray sat, and was still chuckling softly when Fraser wheeled a second office chair into the room and maneuvered it around the rest of the furniture to park it next to Ray. From his vantage point behind the desk, it suddenly dawned on him that the setup of the office looked awfully familiar. "Hey! This is Welsh's office!"

Fraser looked at him blankly. "Excuse me?"

"You've got it set up just like Welsh's office. Couch in the same place, chairs in the same place. Blinds."

Fraser looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time, his expression thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, I can see the similarity. How odd."

"Hey, it makes sense to me. Welsh is a good guy, and you and I spent a lot of time in that office. Probably reminds you of . . . ." Ray barely managed not to say 'home' and scrambled for a replacement ending. "Well, reminds you of then."

"Indeed," Fraser said, looking around again with a faint smile. "So, did Elaine give you the website address or do we need to search?"

"Nah, I got it," Ray said, typing, as Fraser sat down, scooting up next to him so they could both see the screen. It was kind of distracting having Fraser so close that Ray could actually feel the warmth of his body there. He ended up mistyping the address twice. Fraser cleared his throat, and Ray blushed a little and typed more carefully and got it, finally.

"Burnitdown-dot-org?" Fraser asked. "How. . . original."

"Yeah, well, the guy's got a fixation. That's why he's in the looney bin."

"Mental health facility."

"Looney bin," Ray repeated.

"Ray."

Fraser's voice had that faintly annoyed tone that Ray loved to provoke. He turned his head to grin at him and found they were practically nose-to-nose. And Fraser was looking amused, not annoyed. His eyes were bright with it, and his mouth curved upward, and they were so. . . close. . . and then Fraser's gaze dropped a little, just a little, and Ray knew he had to be looking at his mouth and he found his own gaze moving lower, to that slightly lopsided smile, and he knew if he leaned forward even just a little he could . . .

A deeply offensive crappy-tinkly version of an old Doors tune began to play through the computer speakers, and he snapped his gaze back to the screen, feeling heat in his face, and elsewhere as he scrabbled for the mouse to see if he could figure out how to turn it off. Fraser reached past him and turned the sound off on the speakers. Ray sighed in relief. "Thanks. Couldn't handle that."

"So I see," Fraser said.

Damn him, he still sounded cool and calm and not at all rattled. Ray snuck a sideways glance at him, though, and his face was a little pink. Okay. Okay, good. Not just him, then. He returned his gaze to the screen and looked at the options. Home. Duh. Links. Maybe. History. Nah. Wait. . . there. That was what they wanted."He's got a message board! Perfect!" he said as he hit the button. The next screen asked him if he was registered. He clicked 'no' and it directed him to a registration area. "Crap."

"It's all right, Ray. I believe it's an automated script generated by the software. Give it a screen name."

"Like what? Harry Callaghan? Paul Kersey?"

Fraser smiled. "Those might tip our hand. Hmm, how about FH451?"

Ray had typed it in before it dawned on him what he was typing, and he grinned and nudged Fraser with an elbow. "Bradbury. Smart. I like it."

"Thank you, Ray."

"What do I put for location?"

"I suggest any place other than Canada or Chicago."

"Good idea." He typed in Arizona. "Occupation?"

"I suppose 'arsonist' might be a tad obvious," Fraser mused.

"Just a little. Librarian."

"Excellent choice."

"Age?"

"Twenty four."

"Why twenty four?"

"Old enough to have a job but young enough to still be reckless."

"Works," Ray said, putting it in. "Pretty nosey for a piece of software," he commented as he clicked on the button to complete the registration.

"Marketing research, probably."

Ray stared at him. "Marketing? For an arsonist?"

"For the company that makes the software. There you are. The registration was accepted, you can now continue to the message board."

Ray nodded and watched as the page loaded. "Bingo. Archives."

Fraser nodded and leaned closer. Really close. Ray could hear the soft sound of an indrawn breath, could feel his hair stir a little in the faint current of air. Then Fraser . . . sniffed. Not as in sniffled. Sniffed. Breathed in smell. And then he did it again. "Are you smelling me?" Ray asked, not daring to look away from the computer screen.

"I was, yes. You smell very nice."

He smelled nice? He. Smelled. Nice. Fraser thought he smelled nice. He was still staring at the computer but his eyes wouldn't focus. And he had to know, once and for all. "Fraser, are you flirting with me?"

There was a fraction of a second's hesitation before Fraser replied. "Yes."

Ray had to suppress the urge to leap to his feet and pump a fist in the air while whooping loudly.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Fraser asked softly.

Ray shook his head, grinning. "Nope, no problem at all." He leaned back in his chair, his shoulder brushing Fraser's chest.

"Good," Fraser said, without any hesitation at all this time, his hand coming up to rest on Ray's shoulder.

Ray couldn't stand it any more. He turned his head. Fraser looked. . . looked like somebody had turned a light on inside him. He smiled. Fraser smiled back. Ray licked his lips. Fraser closed his eyes for a moment, and drew in a long, slow breath. Oh, yeah. Yeah. On the same page. Finally.

"Excuse me, sir, but could I see you for a moment?"

Startled, they both jumped a little. Zhertak was standing in the open doorway, regarding them with a sour expression. Fraser moved his chair back a small amount, and ran a thumb across his eyebrow. "Of course, Constable, what can I do for you?"

Zhertak's gaze slid to Ray, and back to Fraser. "In private, sir?"

Fraser nodded and stood up. "Ray, see what you can find in that archive, and I'll be right back."

Ray watched him go, wanting to go after him, instinctively sure Zhertak was going to bitch about something - probably him. The guy seemed to have had it in for him ever since he'd rolled into town. Ray didn't know if he didn't like Americans, strangers, him personally, or was just an asshole on general principles. Of course, considering his build, it could just be the steroids.

He turned his attention back to the screen, clicking through the archive to get a feel for the tone of the board. Most of the messages seemed to be from a bunch of people who were way too in love with the sound of their own keyboards, all going on for page after page about how the world had to go through a new baptism of fire. The rest of the posters didn't have a philosophical agenda, as far as he could tell. They just thought that fire was pretty or something.

Most everything came back to fire, though, one way or another. Every so often, someone posted an 'exciting offer' for a long distance calling card, but they were chased off pretty damned fast by the regulars. Matter of fact, the only off-topic poster who didn't get this treatment was someone named 'Omega.' He didn't seem to post anything except random quotes from poems and songs, but people seemed to like his stuff, given all the "Yes!" and "Okay!" responses that always followed his posts.

The responses to his posts all came from the same eleven people, too. No, twelve, including 'Little Nero,' who'd just started posting last Tuesday. Right before . . . right before the fire at Stevensen's.

Ray looked around on top of the desk for something to write with. Nah, nothing there. He pulled open the center drawer and started fishing around for a pen or pencil. Empty Kit Kat wrapper. Packet of Fig Newtons. Half a dog biscuit. Rubber duck.

Rubber duck? Aw Jeez. He'd wondered where the duck he used to keep on his desk at the 2-7 had got to. Looked like Fraser took it with him when he left.

Okay, there, a pen. As he pulled it out of the drawer, he started to get a creepy feeling, like he was under surveillance or something. He looked over toward the office door, and yeah, there was his buddy Zhertak staring at him with his hands in the desk, then looking pointedly at Fraser. What did he think was going on? A daring theft of the state secrets that Fraser had stuffed into a cookie for safe keeping?

Ray really wanted to pop him one, but Fraser moved into the doorway of his office and stood between him and Zhertak, then looked at his watch. "Ah. Just look at the time. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Constable."

"Are you certain you wouldn't like some assistance?" Zhertak asked, peering around Fraser and looking at Ray.

"No need," Fraser said, ushering him out toward the front door. "It wouldn't be fair to keep you any later than I already have on your day off. Have a pleasant afternoon, and I'll see you bright and early tomorrow."

Sally looked up from her budget report as Fraser shut the front door behind Zhertak, and grinned, but said nothing before returning to her work.

When Fraser returned to his office, Ray leaned back in the chair and smiled. "The Iceman Goeth."

Fraser looked blankly for a moment, then nodded in recognition. He leaned back in his own chair and shook his head. "Do you know, Ray, until you arrived, I had managed to fool myself as to how disagreeable that man is."

'Yeah," said Ray. "But me being around isn't improving his personality, is it? No one can be that big a pain in the ass all the time."

Fraser sighed. "I have to admit, he's not generally so . . . well, he's not generally quite this annoying. But the truth is, all too often I find myself wishing I could put some of Meg Thatcher's practices to good effect, perhaps see my way clear to sending him out to pick up my dry cleaning occasionally."

Ray chuckled, but Fraser leaned forward in his chair and frowned. "Ray, I . . . I wasn't quite that insufferable, was I?"

How could he think that? "You mean because Thatcher . . .hell no, Fraser. Never." He reached over and placed his hand on Fraser's arm." "Never, you hear me? Anyway," he said, after a pause. "She was way more insufferable than you."

Fraser glanced up at Ray and started to laugh. "Thank you kindly, Ray. I think."

Ray squeezed his arm again. "Freak," he said affectionately. Okay, sitting next to Fraser, hand on his arm, laughing together. Yeah, this was good. Maybe even better than in Chicago because Ray really couldn't remember a whole lot of sitting around laughing and touching each other back then. Why not? Why the hell not? He glanced back at the computer screen and shook his head. Yeah, okay, maybe he remembered why not. It was because they were usually too busy with their cases to pay attention to anything else when they were together. And because, well, maybe even back then some part of him had known if he got started touching Fraser he might not. . . stop?

Fraser looked out the door of his office, and under his hand Ray felt him sag a little. "Actually, though, I suppose I should have let him stay. After all, this has now become an official investigation."

Ray looked at him and frowned. "We don't need him. We're partners. A duet. We always solved stuff just the two of us, why change now? It might jinx us."

Fraser looked back at him intently, and Ray felt himself turning red. "And, uh, maybe I don't want to share you, okay?"

A long look passed between them, unbroken until the front door to the detachment opened and a trio of giggling young girls dashed in, all talking excitedly to Sally about their victory against Prince Albert's girl's hockey team and grabbing at the oatmeal cookies Ray and Fraser had turned down earlier. None of the girls showed the slightest interest in wandering back to Fraser's office, but both men quickly turned their attention back to the website archive.

"Okay, Fraser," said Ray, clicking back through the screens he'd been looking at while Zhertak had Fraser out of the room. "Take a look at this. Most of the threads are political rants, art appreciation, that sort of thing. But these here - the ones started by this Omega guy - are just, like, poetry and songs and stuff. Now, on this message board, off-topic posts usually get people flamed . . . ."

"Flamed?"

"Yeah. You know, you get an inbox full of people cursing you out, insulting your dog's family tree, that sort of thing."

Fraser smiled. "I'm familiar with the definition of 'flame,' Ray. I was just struck by the appropriateness of the term in this particular situation."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Okay, so like I was saying before you were struck - Omega's getting the 'net equivalent of a bunch of bobble head dolls nodding at everything he says, and everyone who responds has been a regular on the board for a long time, except for this Little Nero, who just started replying to Omega's messages last Tuesday."

"The day before the first fire took place."

"Yeah."

"Interesting." Fraser leaned forward and held his hand over the mouse. "May I?"

"Sure," said Ray, but he held his hand there a moment or two longer than was absolutely necessary so that Fraser's fingers brushed against his as he was moving his own hand away.

He laughed to himself. This was as bad as being thirteen again and taking Stella to horror movies just so he'd have an excuse to put his arm around her. Actually, back then, the idea of daring to touch any girl, much less The Stella, seemed a hell of a lot more scary than Linda Blair's 360 and pea-soup projectile vomiting , so maybe this wasn't quite as bad. When he was a kid, it used to take just about the whole film before he could get himself to 'accidently' brush his hand against her elbow or her shoulder, and half the time he couldn't even tell whether she noticed or not. No way was Fraser not noticing, not if the grin on his face was anything to go by.

"Hmm."

"You find something?"

"Not precisely. I'm just considering the use of the pseudonym 'Omega.'"

"Yeah," Ray said, drawing up closer to Fraser. "It's got to be Zoltan Motherwell. Last letter of the Greek alphabet like Zee's the last letter of our alphabet. And 'omega' - makes sense that a guy who's all about bringing an end to things would pick a name that usually means 'the end.'"

Fraser turned toward Ray. "I wasn't aware you were familiar with Greek, Ray."

"I'm not. I'm familiar with sitting on my butt in church during sixteen years of Easter services. Huh."

"What is it?"

"Alpha and Omega. The beginning and the end. I'd forgotten until now, but there was this Obrzed Swiatla - this service of light - every year on Holy Saturday. Used to scare the crap out of me when I was little 'cause they'd turn off all the lights in the church and we had to sit there in the dark, thinking about the darkness of a world without God.. I, um . . . I really didn't like the dark much back then. Anyway, as soon as everyone started to freak out in the church, they'd light this really huge bonfire."

"And?"

"So, then they'd light this candle off the bonfire, and the candle was decorated - Alpha and Omega, the cross, that kind of thing. I used to draw pictures of it in Sunday school."

"This seems to have made quite an impression on you."

"Yeah, well like I said, I really didn't like sitting around in the dark."

Ray wondered for a minute whether he should be feeling more embarrassed about telling this story than he was, but Fraser just nodded. "Anyway, it's got that fire connection again."

"Indeed it does, as do the poems Omega is posting. Take a look at the Tuesday night poem, Ray."

To show the lab'ring bosom's deep intent,
And thought in living characters to paint,
When first thy pencil did those beauties give,
And breathing figures learn from thee to live,
How did those prospects give my soul delight,
A new creation rushing on my sight?
Still, wond'rous youth! each noble path pursue,
On deathless glories fix thine ardent view:
Still may the paint's and the poet's fire
To aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire!
And may the charms of each seraphic theme
Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!

"Who's that? Shakespeare?"

"No, actually it's a poem by Phyllis Wheatley, who was . . . well, that's not important at the moment. What is important is that not only does the poem refer to fire - in this case, the 'poet's fire' - but it also alludes to paint and pencil. Looking at Omega's choice of poems, it appears that each work contains both a reference to fire and some form of art media. Although . . . ."

"What?"

"I seem to have come to an impasse with the next poem. I can't place the author or the art medium to which the poet refers."

"Let's see."

Fraser clicked on the post in question and shifted slightly to the right so that Ray could get a better view of the screen.

He read the first few lines - You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain / Too much love drives a man insane / You broke my will, oh what a thrill - and started to laugh.

"What's so amusing, Ray?"

"Nothing really, except we finally hit some poetry I do recognize. Jerry Lee Lewis, Fraser - 'Great Balls of Fire.'"

"Ah. And its connection to an art medium?"

"I don't know, unless . . . okay, Dixon's Masonry. That's what got set on fire the night this was posted, right?"

Fraser nodded.

"Okay, simple. It's rock and roll. Stone, rock . . . you know?"

Fraser looked pained. "I believe I 'get it.'" He frowned thoughtfully. "You know, Ray, if Omega's messages really are some sort of arsonist's primer, then judging by the interpretations we've seen, it seems to me that we're dealing with someone with a rather literal mindset. Juvenile, one might even say."

Something about that nagged at Ray, but he couldn't quite tease it out of his subconscious. He knew better than to try too hard, though, because then he'd never get it. "Okay, so let's take a look at the most recent stuff from Omega," he said to distract himself. "See what his next suggestion is."

Fraser scrolled down and found a post dated earlier in the day. He brought up the window and read aloud.

"'Outcast, a horror to his kind,
At night he to the forest fled.
There, the birch-bark made fire for him,
The brown fern made a bed.
The river murmured lullaby,
The moisty mosses breathed of balm,
The clean stars carried light to him,
Unterrified and calm.
Aye, as they would have served a saint
Freely all served the guilty guest'. . ."

Fraser paused, his forehead furrowing.

Ray sensed weakness and went for the kill. "Okay, who's that by?"

Fraser's frown deepened. "I feel I ought to. . . it's very familiar, yet I can't seem. . . ah!" His face brightened. "Yes, of course. Grandmother's correspondent from New Zealand. Blanche Edith Baughan. I believe the work is called 'On the Just and the Unjust.' As I recall, she was quite a proponent of penal reform."

Ray snorted. Fraser rolled his eyes. "Penal, Ray. As in prisons."

"Spoilsport," Ray said with a grin. "So, he's talking about guilt."

"Indeed. And fire, yet again."

"But we still have no idea how the copycat decides what fires to set."

"Yes and no. We do know that, as I said, he or she is very literal-minded. So, what's in the poem that we can work with in a literal fashion?"

Ray read the poem again, and felt his stomach clench. "Oh, shit. He's gonna set a forest fire?"

Fraser frowned. "Hm. I don't think he's quite ready for something that large yet, although I suppose we can't discount the possibility. I think I'd best make a call to the park officials and let them know to be on the alert. However, I do think he's still working up to something on that scale. So far his targets have all been local, and relatively small."

Ray read again. "I don't know, Benton. Not much there. Birch-bark, brown fern, and moss? Pretty basic stuff. I don't think a campfire is going to get this perp off. Not after two buildings. What are you looking at me like that for?" he asked, looking up to see Fraser staring at him in surprise.

"Benton," he said.

"Um. . . yeah." Ray felt his face getting hot. "That okay?"

"Very much so," Fraser said, then he cleared his throat. "Birch-bark, brown fern, and moss. You're right about that not being much to work with."

"Anything you can make from that stuff get made around here? Anybody use it for anything? Maybe a florist?"

Fraser frowned again, and his gaze lifted, looking over the computer, at the. . . wall? Ray looked. Didn't see anything but a weird-looking picture of dragonflies. It was pale brown, with darker brown patterns in it, repeating, almost geometric, kind of like those snowflakes that kids make by folding paper and cutting with scissors, only it didn't have holes in it.

"Birch-bark bitings!" Fraser said suddenly.

"Huh?" Ray asked, feeling lost.

"It's an artistic endeavor indigenous to this region, Ray. First Nations women once used them as beading patterns but in the last decade or two the bitings themselves have become prized as an art-form. That's one there on the wall."

That explained that. "So it's made from birch-bark?"

"Yes, it is, and quite flammable. In addition, we have one of the region's foremost practitioners and teachers of the art living right here in town. Her English name is Hannah Moss."

They stared at each other for a moment.

"Moss." Ray said.

Fraser nodded.

"Hot damn."

"Exactly."

"You think he'll hit tonight?"

"Quite possibly, since he's had time not only to select a target but also to do at least some rudimentary planning. He seems to act within twenty-four hours of the time that the poem is posted, and the poem did say 'at night.' You realize, though, it may not be a 'he' at all."

"Yeah, true. Maybe we've got ourselves another Greta. In which case. . . you got a vest around here? And a spare?"

For a moment Fraser looked like he was going to protest that, but then seemed to think better of it and he stood up and went to the door of the office. "Sally?"

Sally turned around. "Yeah, Corporal?"

"When you have a moment, would you get two Kevlar vests out of inventory and bring them in?"

She frowned. "We got a problem? There's nothing on the wire about any A&D's in our area."

"No, not that I'm aware of. It's simply a precautionary measure. Speaking of which, please alert the Forest Service to double their firewatch until further notice. We have reason to believe we have an arsonist operating in the area and there is a chance he might move to a larger target."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I'll get right on it."

Fraser came back to the desk. "I'll call Hannah and let her know we're on our way over to check for anything suspicious."

Ray nodded, and scooted his chair a little so Fraser could get to the phone that was on his side of the desk. Which put his crotch about eight inches from Ray's nose. He manfully resisted getting closer. It was Fraser's office, after all, and the door was open and there was all that glass. Plus he figured that soon as he did, Zhertak would pop up again. So, save it for later. Save it for sometime private, when they had time. Lots of it. He decided to make himself useful and print out the messages to start an evidence file. Turning back to the computer, he sent the first two files to the printer, and then got a popup telling him there was a problem. He sighed.

"These things hate me," he complained. "Make it print."

"I see some things never change," Fraser said, pausing with the phone handset in one hand as he leaned over to turn on the printer, his groin brushing Ray's shoulder.

He shouldn't. But it was pretty much irresistible. Ray tilted his head, looking up, and Fraser froze, looking down, as the back of Ray's head came into contact with his fly. Fraser's tongue flickered across his lips as faint color rose in his face. Ray gave him his best wicked smile, and then slowly rolled his head a little, as if he was easing out a stiff neck. The faint blush went bright pink, and Fraser coughed, reaching for Ray's hair, then quickly snatching his hand away before he could make contact and stepping back to put several inches of air between them.

"Ray!" he hissed.

"What?" Ray said innocently. "I've got a sore neck."

"I see," Fraser said. "Perhaps I should get you an aspirin. Or some liniment."

"Nah, that's okay. It's better now."

"That's too bad."

Ray stared at him. "Huh?"

Fraser smiled almost as wickedly as Ray had done earlier. "I simply thought you might enjoy a . . . massage later." Suddenly, as if taken aback by his own comment, he flushed darkly again, one hand splaying out across his stomach in a nervous gesture. "I . . ah. . . that is. . . I mean. . . ."

Ray held up a hand, cutting off his babbling. "Hey, you never know, Benton, it might get sore again. So just keep that idea for later, okay?"

Fraser looked a little surprised, and then still blushing, he nodded and turned away, dialing the phone with singular concentration. Ray shifted his attention back to the computer and started printing again, listening to Fraser's half of the conversation. It was kind of funny only hearing half, and pauses, because he could sort of fill in the other half from his imagination.

"Yes, good afternoon, this is Corporal Benton. . . ah, yes. Yes, ma'am. Indeed. Yes it is. I did, actually, I was wondering if my partner and I might stop by and speak to you for a few minutes. No, not about the tickets, you know you have to deal with the Crown on that score. What? Oh, no, certainly not. No, I meant, well, frankly I misspoke, he's not precisely my partner, although he used to be when I lived in . . . . Yes. Yes, he is an American. I see. Certainly. Yes, we'll be right over. Can I. . . oh. I'm sorry to hear that. Yes, I could do that. Anything else I can bring you? Well, then, good bye." He hung up the phone and turned to look at Ray. "She said . . . ."

Ray interrupted. "She said you should come over and bring that weird American guy so she can get a look at him, and she asked you to pick up something at the store for her on the way, right?"

Fraser looked a little startled. "Actually, yes. How did you know that?"

"I'm psychic. What'd she get a ticket for?"

"Speeding. She drives like the proverbial bat out of hell," Fraser said with a grimace. "And it's not just a ticket. It's eleven, in the past eight months. She's had her license revoked, which is why she's asked me to stop by the store. Her daughter, Mary, was supposed to come yesterday morning and drive her out to the Reserve for her regular weekend visit but she's ill and unable to come, so Hannah's stuck at home and bored and is dying to meet you, and she's nearly out of coffee."

Ray stood up. "Well, we can't let that happen to the nice lady. Caffeine deprivation is not a pretty thing. What are we waiting for?"

"One last thing. I need to send an email, it will only take a moment. If I may?" He nodded at the chair Ray occupied.

"Oh, sure, no problem." Ray exited the chair and Fraser took his place.

"I thought it might be prudent to alert the RCMP Technical Security branch about the existence of this website so they can begin a threat and risk assessment," Fraser said as he typed at his usual super-speed. "We may not be the only community affected by Mr. Motherwell's literary efforts."

Ray nodded. "Yeah, good call. From the looks of it, there's a dozen other wackos who may or may not be playing this game."

Fraser finished his email, and shut down the computer. "As you say. Now, we can go see Ms. Moss."

Ray nodded, and headed out with Fraser at his heels, and nearly ran into Sally who was carrying two Kevlar vests.

"You want these now, Benton?" she asked, holding them up.

"Yes, thank you Sally." He reached past Ray and took them, then extended one to Ray. "Here you are. We can just duck into the men's room for a moment and suit up."

Ray nodded and let Fraser lead the way. The men's was a single-seater, but large enough to accommodate both a prisoner and a guard. Ray locked the door out of habit and then peeled off his sweater and settled the familiar weight of the vest around himself, over his t-shirt, tightening the Velcro straps until it fit. That done, he looked up to find Fraser standing there, still holding his vest, with an anxious look on his face.

"What? What's up?" Ray asked.

Fraser shook himself a little and seemed to snap out of whatever he was in. "Sorry. I'll just wait for you."

"Wait for me, why?" Ray asked, frowning. "Just put the vest on so we can go play Mr. Coffee for the nice lady."

Fraser looked at him, then looked down, two little spots of red burning on his cheeks. "Yes. Yes, of course. Would you mind holding this for a moment?" he asked, holding out the vest to Ray.

"Sure." Ray took it, and Fraser turned around, facing away from him, and slowly lifted his own shirt, pulling his arms free but leaving it bunched around his neck. Then he reached back a hand somewhat awkwardly.

"The vest?"

Ray didn't understand why Fraser was acting so shy all of a sudden, but he knew he was going to have a hard time getting it on like that, so he ripped the straps open and slid it around Fraser's torso for him like he was a little kid.

Fraser stiffened and pulled away, holding the vest in place as he quickly did up the straps and then awkwardly yanked his henley down over it. Clearing his throat, he turned back to face Ray and gestured at the door. "Shall we go?"

Ray followed him, wondering what stick he'd got up his . . . okay. He wasn't going to think about that right now. He stopped at the drinking fountain for a minute to gulp down a few swallows and take a minute to recover from his wayward thoughts. Fraser went on to the door and stood there waiting. Straightening, Ray headed for the door and on the way past Sally's empty desk he saw Dief with his paws up on the desk-top, straining to reach something . . . a cookie. After this morning, he was stealing sweets? Stupid wolf. He shot a glance over at Fraser, who was digging in his pocket, probably for his keys. At least somebody in the family had some sense. He slapped his hands against the counter hard so it would vibrate. "Dief!"

Dief's paws hit the ground and he shot a guilty look at Ray.

From the doorway, Fraser frowned. "What's he done?"

"Nothing," Ray fibbed, realizing Fraser couldn't see Dief from where he stood because the counter was too high. "I just wanted to get his attention so he'd come with." He reached over and opened the little half-door to let Dief out from behind the counter, even though he could probably jump it.

"Good thought," Fraser said, nodding.

Dief nosed Ray's hand as he fell into step beside him. Ray looked down with what he hoped was a severe expression. "Behave or I'm telling dad," he whispered. Dief thumped his tail against Ray's leg and looked chastened. Ray had seen that look on him often enough to know better. "I mean it," he growled.

"You mean what?" Fraser asked, puzzled.

"Huh? Oh, um, just reminding Dief who's boss, you know?"

Fraser frowned faintly, still looking puzzled. "Ah. All right then." He glanced at Diefenbaker, but the wolf avoided his eyes. "Shall we go?"

* * *

Listening to Ray charm Hannah Moss, Fraser's thoughts kept returning to that moment in his office when Ray had. . . well, flirted was far too mild a word. Though it was nearly impossible to wrap his mind around the thought, that had been an out-and-out proposition. He was simultaneously eager and terrified. No one had touched him with honest desire in so long he'd nearly forgotten such a thing existed. And he'd been. . . Lord. . . thirteen, the last time he'd touched another man with sexual intent. Though he could hardly call himself, Steve, Mark, and Innusiq men at that age.

The contest had been Mark's idea. . . he was competitive about everything. He'd even brought a tape measure to see who could get the most distance. Innusiq had seemed rather bemused by the whole idea. Both Mark and Innusiq had drawn the line at kissing, though. Mark had wrinkled his nose and declared that 'girly stuff.' Innusiq just thought it was disgusting. Only later, after Mark and Innusiq had gone home, had Steve suggested they try that, too. Ben could still, after twenty six years, recall that first kiss. Or perhaps not the first one, which had nearly resulted in mutual nosebleeds, but the ones after that. He had a feeling that Ray would be far, far better at it.

"Hey, Benton, what's the goofy smile about?" Ray asked.

Suddenly wrenched out of dreamy speculation and firmly back into Hannah Moss' living room, Fraser looked around a bit wildly. The woman was nowhere to be seen. "I . . . ah. . . where's Ms. Moss?"

"She went to go get the coffee," Ray said, looking at him oddly. "You power napping there?"

Fraser stared at him, unable to keep his eyes from focusing on Ray's mouth. "Ah, not . . . exactly."

Ray's eyes narrowed, and then widened, and he started to grin. "Not exactly?"

Fraser nodded. Ray's grin broadened. "You know, I'm really starting to look forward to getting home tonight."

His mouth went bone dry, and his heart-rate skyrocketed. He wasn't quite certain whether the sensation was anticipation or fear. Perhaps both. Probably both. He took a deep breath. Definitely both.

"Here you go, Mr. Kowalski, your coffee," Hannah said, coming out of the kitchen with two mugs. You sure you don't want a cup, Corporal Fraser?"

Fraser cleared his throat. "Yes, ma'am. But maybe some water?"

"Sure thing." She handed Ray one mug, set the other down on the coffee table, and padded back into the kitchen in her shearling slippers. She was a small, stocky woman, but graceful. He knew she was a prize-winning dancer, so that wasn't too surprising. He heard water running, and watched Ray as he sipped his coffee with an expression of abstracted pleasure. He wondered if Ray looked like that when . . . for God's sake, he admonished himself. Show some self control.

Hannah returned with a glass of water, which he took and gratefully sipped. "Thank you, ma'am."

"You wanted to talk to me about something?" she prompted, taking a seat on the couch next to Ray, too close to Ray, and picking up her coffee before turning to him with an attentive expression on her broad face. "Is something wrong?"

Fraser`s hands curled into fists and he shook off the urge to tell her to move. "I'm sure you've heard about the two fires the community has experienced in the last couple of weeks."

"Hard to miss that, eh?" Hannah asked wryly. "Most excitement we've had around here in years. Strange to have two so close together that weren't just house fires from somebody's candles or stove."

"Frankly we suspect the timing may not be coincidental."

Her dark eyes narrowed shrewdly, drawing parallel lines between her brows. "You think they was set?"

"We have no irrefutable evidence of arson at this point, however the fact that both fires affected establishments connected to artistic endeavors is somewhat concerning."

"Uh-huh," she said, looking around the room, at the stacks of bitings carefully pressed under heavy books here and there. "Am I next?"

"Not necessarily, although the possibility can't be ruled out. We were wondering if you've noticed any suspicious activity of late. Particularly any unusual odors."

"Odors? You mean like gasoline or paraffin?"

"More like perfume," Ray put in. "This perp starts fires with perfume."

Something clicked suddenly in Fraser's mind. He spoke without thinking. "Aftershave," he corrected. "I'm quite certain it was Calvin Klein's CK."

Ray looked at him sharply. "You didn't tell me that before." Ray looked annoyed. "What, working up here by yourself all this time make you forget that partners is sharing?" he asked pointedly.

Fraser flushed. "Honestly, I only placed the scent just now."

Ray thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. "Okay. You're off the hook this time."

Hannah cackled and slapped Ray on the thigh. "I like you. You don't let him pull crap."

Taken aback, Fraser was about to protest when Ray shook his head.

"It goes both ways. He doesn't let me pull any crap either. That's how come we're good together." He looked at Fraser and winked. Fortunately Hannah couldn't see that because of the way they were seated. Fraser felt a smile curve his mouth, and he nodded.

"Indeed, we are."

Hannah nodded. "Yeah, that's a good way to be." She looked at Ray. "I bet you miss working together."

Ray sighed. "Yeah, I could really use Fraser back home. So, Hannah, about those smells," he said in a deliberate change of subject. "You notice anything?"

"Nope, I haven't smelled anything funny lately. Haven't noticed a thing out of the ordinary. Of course I keep pretty busy, even if I do have to get folks to take me places when I need to go," she said with a pointed look at Fraser.

Fraser tried not to smile, and shook his head. "Hannah, you know the local speed limits as well or better than I do."

"Yeah, but nobody ever enforced 'em around here until you came," she complained.

Fraser was trying to come up with a reply that didn't damn his predecessors when Ray spoke in a faux-confidential tone.

"Hey, y'know, you got off easy, you just got tickets. Fraser arrested me once. Handcuffs and all."

Hannah's eyes widened. "He did?"

"Yep. In between almost singlehandedly bringing down two different international terrorists."

"Ray, don't exaggerate," Fraser said repressingly, trying to shut him up.

"I'm not. There was the guy on the train with the impromptu thermonuclear device and then the guy in the nuclear sub with the nerve gas."

Hannah looked up at Fraser, then at Ray. "A nuclear submarine? You don't mean that one they caught up north, 'bout two years back, do you?"

"That's the one," Ray assured her.

"I read about that in the papers! It was even on The National! I had no idea that was our Corporal Fraser!"

"Yeah," Ray said. "I'd give my right arm to have him back in Chicago."

"My goodness! I can certainly understand how you'd want him back. He's really wasted here, isn't he?" She looked over at Fraser. "I, ah, I'm sorry about the speeding. I promise I'll try to do better if I get my license back."

"I'm very happy to hear that. As for the matter at hand, we're going to have someone make regular checks on you until we have this situation resolved, and I want you to call us immediately if you notice anything even slightly suspicious."

She nodded. "I'll sure do that. I hope you find this guy. I know Nancy and Todd Stevensen were just devastated. They've got insurance, thank God, but it's going to take a lot for them to get back on their feet. And I'm sure Ralph Dixon's pretty upset, too."

"We'll do our best." He looked at Ray. "I think we need to go to the trading post and see if we can find out if anyone has recently started buying unusually large quantities of aftershave."

Ray nodded, standing up. "Thanks for the coffee."

Hannah laughed. "No, thank you for the coffee. Before you go, come over here. I want you to have a souvenir."

She lifted a book off of a stack of bitings, and began laying them out across the table. Ray followed, after a questioning glance at Fraser, who nodded encouragement.

"Pick one."

Ray shook his head. "No, these are your work, I can't just take one."

"Don't insult me, Yankee," Hannah said firmly. "Take one."

Fraser watched as Ray carefully perused all the offerings, and then hesitantly pointed at one of the smaller ones, an oval which held shadowy images of spiders. "I like that one."

Hannah's face lit up. "That's my favorite! Nobody ever wants my spiders."

"Spiders are cool," Ray said with a grin. "They eat mosquitos."

"Smart boy. I knew I liked you!" Hannah said, picking up the biting and slipping it into a protective envelope before extending it to Ray. "There you go. Enjoy it."

Ray took it gravely. "I will. I promise."

As they headed out to the Suburban, Ray looked at him curiously. "How'd you know it was CK? No offense, but you're not exactly the cologne type."

"Generally true. However, the explanation is really quite simple. I was once beset in Marshall Fields by a cologne-wielding sales clerk. Some of the fragrance got on my uniform and it lingered for weeks despite several trips to the dry cleaner. I doubt I'll ever forget what it smells like."

Ray chuckled, shaking his head. "I think I've had run-ins with that clerk myself. Okay, so that explains part of the mystery, but how come you didn't just figure Zhertak was using it himself when he came in smelling like aftershave? And how did you know it was aftershave not cologne?"

"Well, the process was entirely subconscious, however, I suppose if I were to break it down, I would say there were two main factors. The first being the strength of the scent, which was clearly quite concentrated since I could detect it over the other fire-related smells. The second being that Constable Zhertak strongly favors something called Drakkar Noir, and while he has on occasion come into work smelling faintly of Charlie, which is a favorite of Amelia Maslow, or Halston, which I believe is Darlene Adler's preferred scent, he has never, in the entire time he's worked here, smelled of CK. And I suspect that our culprit is using aftershave rather than cologne because there's more alcohol in an aftershave, thus making it a better accelerant."

"Huh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. And you did all that without knowing you were doing it? Wild."

"It's not at all unusual. You do the same thing all the time," Fraser said, unlocking his door and then tossing the keys to Ray so he could do the same.

Ray caught them, and looked at him dubiously as he did so. "I do?"

"Certainly." Fraser opened the door and slid into the driver's seat as Ray got in on the other side. "Your subconscious receives data, interprets it, formulates a plan, then delivers the result to you as a 'hunch' which your conscious mind can then choose to act on."

"Hey, I like that. Next time somebody asks me if I'm acting on a hunch I'm going to remember that. Wait, hang on a second here. I can buy that you know what CK smells like because of a perfume-wielding clerk, and that you know what Drakkar Noir smells like because Constable Workout likes to drown himself in it, but how come you know what Halston and Charlie smell like?"

"I was forced to share my apartment with Francesca Vecchio for several days," Fraser said, starting the engine and reversing out of the driveway, then heading back toward town.

"That'd do it," Ray said, then he frowned. "Hey! You bunked with my sister? How come I never knew this?"

"You knew all about it, Ray. Or should have, after reading the files."

Ray frowned. "Oh, a Vecchio case." He frowned thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the dashboard. "Carver?" he asked after a moment.

"Indeed."

"Oh. Okay. So it was all innocent-like?" Ray asked.

"Rather more innocent than Francesca would have liked, I'm afraid," Fraser said with smile, feeling only a slight pang of outraged chivalry.

Ray snorted. "I bet." He glanced out the window at a passing car, and his frown came back as he swivelled around to look back the way they'd just come. After a moment he turned back to face forward. Fraser glanced at him, trying to keep an eye on him and the road.

"Is something wrong?"

"Hmm? No, nothing." He was still frowning. After a moment he cleared his throat. "Um. . . you know that thing where your subconscious receives data, interprets it, formulates a plan, then delivers the result as a 'hunch'?"

"Yes."

"I'm having one of those now. Turn around."

"What?"

"Turn the car around. That kid in the beat-up Gremlin we just passed. I saw him at Dixon's. He was mighty eager to get a look at that fire."

"That's hardly a damning. . . ." Fraser began, then he cut himself short, checked the mirrors, and cranked the wheel around, making a U-turn. He knew better than to doubt Ray's hunches.

Although the roads were practically deserted, which was of course quite common for a Sunday afternoon in the region, the young man driving the orange Gremlin appeared to take no notice that he was being followed. The Suburban was, in fact, the only other vehicle on the road, but the steady 50 kph speed Fraser maintained was certainly nothing that was likely to draw the driver's attention

Fraser glanced over at Ray, certain that he'd be frustrated that it wasn't him behind the wheel of the car, but Ray just looked back at him and smiled.

"Nice maneuver back there, Fraser. You have been getting some driving practice in lately, haven't you?"

That much was true, Fraser thought, sighing inwardly. All due to far too much time in the car and far too little time on his feet. However, he was aware that Ray's comment hadn't been intended as a criticism of how soft he'd become of late, but instead had been meant as nothing more than a compliment about his driving skills. He found himself feeling inordinately pleased by Ray's words - more so, perhaps, than was warranted by such a relatively small thing - and the pleasure he felt showed in the smile he returned to Ray before returning his attention to the road.

"I thought, perhaps, you were missing being behind the wheel."

"Thought I was just itching to go after a suspect at 31 miles an hour? No way, Fraser. Believe me, it's better for my rep to just be a passenger here."

"Ah, so would this be an example of 'anti-style' in driving?" he asked drily.

Ray glanced over, looking a bit worried as if what he'd said might have caused some offense, but Fraser just grinned to let him know that he understood no insult had been intended.

After a second, Ray nodded and leaned back. "Anyway, if driving at a crawl was anti-style - and I'm not saying it is, okay? - it would be just right for going after a guy driving a Gremlin. Jeez, talk about the ultimate anti-style car."

Fully aware that Ray's comment was meant to get a rise out of him, Fraser tried to recall everything he had ever read about Gremlins to see if he could retrieve an odd story, perhaps involving another pursuit, in which the car had played a pivotal role. Unlikely that he would come up with anything, since he was forced to agree with Ray's negative assessment of the Gremlin, but he'd missed this old and familiar game of finding an unlikely story to suit every occasion. From Ray's expression - a perfect mixture of challenge and amusement - it appeared that he, too, had missed it, and was just waiting for Fraser to 'take his turn.' He thought perhaps something would come to mind in a moment, but before it did, Ray shifted quickly in his seat.

"Okay, heads up. He's got his turn signal on. Just like you figured, he skipped the first turn off. But if he heads up, um, Sawmill Road there, he can circle back around to Hannah's place, right?"

"It certainly appears that's what he's intending to do."

"So, what's the game plan, this being your turf and all?"

For a moment, Fraser felt unaccountably dispirited at the thought that so much time had passed since they'd last worked together that Ray had to ask what he was planning to do instead of knowing instinctively. But that disappointment passed in the next moment when he realized he didn't actually have any plan of action. He laughed to himself: how silly was it to resent Ray's inability to read his mind when apparently nothing was there for him to read in the first place?

"Perhaps we might . . . talk to him?"

Ray laughed. "That talking thing work up here? I used to have a Canadian partner who did a lot of talking at suspects down in Chicago, but I figured it was the shock value of somebody in the big bad city offering polite conversation that got everyone to cough up the goods."

"Oddly enough, I used to be just like this Canadian partner you describe. Recently, however, I've found it more efficacious to just threaten to kick people in the head."

"More efficacious, huh?" Ray grinned. "Heh. I'll bet it's just a posture."

Fraser smiled back. As he eased his foot off the accelerator to keep his speed consistent with the decreasing speed of the Gremlin, he glanced automatically in the rear view mirror.

"Oh for God's sake."

Over the rise, he could see the RCMP vehicle assigned to Constable Zhertak accelerating towards them, its lightbar flashing garishly. He looked back at the Gremlin, which had almost begun its turn onto Sawmill, and could see the young man turn to look over his shoulder, then cut the turn signal, take a sharp left turn, and speed off in the opposite direction.

"Son of a bitch!" Ray yelled as he watched the Gremlin drive out of sight. He turned around to see the car behind them and slammed his hand on the dashboard. "What the hell is he doing here?"

"I have no idea, but I'm certainly going to find out."

Fraser pulled off the road onto the shoulder by the turn off. He unfastened his seatbelt, got out of the car, and started to walk back to Constable Zhertak's car, which had now come to a stop thirty feet behind his own. He could hear the passenger door of his Suburban open and knew that Ray was getting out of the car, but he didn't hear Ray's footsteps following him, only the low growl of Diefenbaker from the back seat.

By the time he reached the car, Constable Zhertak had put the vehicle into park and was standing beside the driver's side door at parade rest.

"Corporal Fraser."

"Constable. I'm rather surprised to encounter you here. I thought you'd gone home for the day."

Zhertak shifted uneasily in place. "Yes, sir. I had planned to do so. But I happened to run into Dave Byrnes, who told me that one of his people, Angela Smith I believe, had found evidence of breaking and entering through the back entrance at Dixon's, and I thought you'd wish to be informed."

"And was it just a happy coincidence that brought you to this particular stretch of road?"

"Well, sir . . . not precisely."

Fraser raised his eyebrows questioningly, but remained silent as Zhertak flushed before his gaze.

"I returned to the office and asked Sally for your whereabouts, but she only knew that you had requested kevlar vests and then departed. I . . .I grew concerned and . . . well, I went into your office to see if you had left any indication as to your plans for the afternoon. There, I discovered computer printouts with references to fires highlighted and your Rolodex opened to Hannah Moss's address and, well . . . ."

"Didn't it occur to you to simply call me?"

Again, Zhertak flushed. "I'm afraid that in the heat of the moment, my concern overcame my common sense, Sir. I was quite worried that you were heading into a potentially volatile situation without backup."

Fraser instinctively glanced back over his shoulder at Ray, who was still waiting patiently by the car with Diefenbaker. There was his backup. Ray. However, he was forced to admit that as an RCMP officer and his second-in-command, Constable Zhertak deserved to be kept informed about all cases affecting the La Rouille region, particularly one as potentially life-threatening as the current arson investigation. It had been unprofessional not to share information pertaining to developments in the case - or even that there was a case at all - with anyone but the man he considered his true partner.

It was understandable that Constable Zhertak was uncomfortable with the involvement of someone he thought of as an outsider in something he believed to be of official interest only to the RCMP, even if his attitude toward Ray - and by extension, toward Fraser himself - was rather offensive. And regardless of his own desire to work exclusively with Ray as he had in the past, he couldn't deny the fact that it was that very desire which was responsible for Zhertak's untimely arrival on the scene - and the subsequent loss of their suspect.

"I appreciate your concern, Bose, and I apologize for not bringing you up to speed sooner in the investigation. However, perhaps in future, you'll endeavor to contact me before taking any action?"

"Yes, sir," he said stiffly. "It won't happen again."

"No, I'm sure it won't." Fraser sighed, and looked in the direction the Gremlin had gone. It occurred to him that he should at least try to make Zhertak feel as if he were part of things. "If you insist on giving up your day off, as it appears you do, perhaps you wouldn't mind doing me a favor."

Zhertak leaned forward, his expression unusually eager. "I'd be pleased to, sir."

"Would you radio Sally and ask her to log in to the database and pull the registration records of a 1973 Orange Gremlin, last year's style license plate number RBY 414, PV type, which expires in October of next year."

"Um . . . I may have to go back to the office to find that information."

"Is there a problem with your radio?" Fraser asked, glancing at the car.

"No, sir. It's just that Sally was threatening to take a baseball bat to her monitor when I stopped by the office."

Fraser shook his head, smiling a little. He was quite familiar with Sally's opinion of the antiquated computer she had to use. "Ah. Then perhaps you'd be so good as to go through the paper records with Sally, assuming you don't have to charge her with felonious assault upon the computer first."

Zhertak giggled, then evidently recalled the precarious footing he was on with his superior officer and wiped the smile from his face. "Will do, sir. I'll call you as soon as we get the registration information."

"I appreciate it, Constable. I'll speak with you shortly."

"Indeed. And again, Corporal, I want to apologize. To you and to your . . . to the detective."

Fraser nodded shortly, and Zhertak headed back toward his car. Fraser thought of something else. "Constable?"

Zhertak turned quickly, hurrying back. "Sir?"

"I'd like you to stop by Mrs. Moss' home before you return to the detachment. I was going to ask you and Constable Traynor to alternate with us doing drive-bys to check on her throughout the night, however the more I think about it, the more I think that may not be enough. I'm concerned about her safety, and I think the detachment budget can cover putting her up at Marie Richard's bed and breakfast for the night, so I'd like to ask you to take her back with you and get that set up."

"Certainly, sir. I'd be happy to."

Zhertak hurried off to his car, got in, and drove off toward Hannah's, as Fraser walked across the graveled shoulder to join Ray.

"Everything okay?" Ray asked. "It didn't look like you had to read him the riot act or anything."

"Actually, he was quite contrite - and he offered a very gracious apology to both of us."

"Yeah? He say why he'd been dogging our heels?"

"As a matter of fact, he . . . ." Fraser stopped speaking and looked away.

"What? He what?"

"It appears he was . . . worried about me."

Ray started to chuckle, and Fraser could feel his face turning red. "Ray, I hope you don't find it amusing that my own subordinate evidently believes me to be incapable of doing my job without a minder."

Ray shook his head, then placed a hand on Fraser's shoulder. "I don't know. . . it doesn't feel like that to me. It's more like. . . he doesn't want to leave you alone with me for some other reason." His eyes widened suddenly. "You know what? I'll bet he's got the hots for you!"

Fraser frowned, shaking his head. "I'm sure you're mistaken, Ray."

"Bet I'm not!" Ray said, a little too emphatically, but a moment later he shrugged. "I don't know, maybe. Hard to say. Just. . . why wouldn't he?"

"Even if that were true, why in the world has he been acting in such an insulting manner toward a friend of mine? Surely he'd . . . ."

"He's jealous," Ray interrupted.

"He's . . . ah, I see."

He frowned some more. The whole idea seemed highly unlikely. After all, since he'd arrived, Bose Zhertak had dated virtually every eligible woman in town before settling into a somewhat precarious equilibrium between Amelia Maslow and Darlene Adler. All things considered, he certainly didn't seem to be of the appropriate persuasion.

On the other hand, Ray, who was now professing a far more than platonic interest in him, had once been married. On the other other hand Ray could well be projecting. Although even that thought was a little disconcerting. He'd grown so accustomed to being solitary that the idea that someone - possibly two someones - had . . . feelings for him, was all but inconceivable.

His tongue darted out to wet his suddenly dry lips, and Ray's fingers followed the path of his tongue along his lips. He swallowed hard, and Ray pulled his hand back, but then he touched his wet fingertips to Fraser's cheek.

"Don't flip out on me here, Benton, okay? It shouldn't be that surprising. Back in Chicago you practically had to beat people off with a stick."

Fraser closed his eyes. "Yes, well, I should think it's apparent that things have . . . changed since I was in Chicago."

He felt Ray's hand slide around the back of his neck. "They haven't changed as much as you think. There was always more to you than just a pretty face." Ray's fingers curled in to the too-long hair at the back of his head. "Later, okay? We'll talk about this later. Anyway, what did you tell your boyfriend that we were going to do next?"

"Ray! He's not . . . ."

"I know. " Ray grinned and bumped Fraser's arm with his own. "Just yanking your chain. What's next?"

Fraser shook off the dazed feeling that Ray's touch had left in its wake and nodded. "I think we should go check out Sawmill Road and see if there's any evidence that our arsonist may have been there before."

He opened the door of the Suburban and got in, and a moment later Ray was back in 'shotgun' position. Just as he started the engine, his cellular phone began to ring. He got it out and thumbed it on.

"Corporal Benton Fraser speaking."

"Ah. . . hello, sir," came Bose Zhertak's voice, sounding unusually hesitant.

"Is there a problem, Constable?"

"She says she won't go."

"Mrs. Moss?"

"Yes, sir. She won't leave."

Fraser shook his head, well aware of Hannah's stubborn streak. "We'll be right there."

"Thank you, sir."

The drive to Hannah's was blissfully short, although Fraser could feel Diefenbaker's mocking stare on the back of his head the entire way. Ray got out of the car and after he closed the door, Fraser looked back at Dief with a scowl. "I'll thank you to mind your manners," he hissed. "Or have you forgotten that I still control the can-opener and kibble scoop?"

Dief looked worried. Fraser felt rather reprehensibly smug. He got out, and they walked up to the front porch where Zhertak was standing next to an angry-looking Hannah Moss. Under other circumstances it might have been amusing to see the six-foot-two-inch constable completely intimidated by the five-foot-if-that Hannah Moss, but these weren't other circumstances.

"Is there a problem?" he asked politely, looking from one to the other.

Hands fisted on her hips, Hannah shot a glare at Zhertak and nodded. "You bet there is. This idiot just come strolling up to my door, telling me I've got to go with him for my own good!"

Ray suddenly seemed to have developed an itchy nose. Fraser strongly suspected he was grinning behind his hand. Fraser was having a hard time not doing so himself. "Perhaps Constable Zhertak didn't make my suggestion clear," he said smoothly. "We simply thought it would be prudent if you stayed away from the premises until our suspect is caught. We wouldn't want you to be come to any harm through our negligence."

Her glare was suddenly aimed his way, and he felt a moment of empathy with Zhertak.

"Your suggestion? This was your idea, Benton Fraser? I guess you're the fool, then. If you think I'm in danger, then so's my house, and I'll have you know that I've lived in this house for thirty years, and I'm not going to run off and leave it for some lunatic to burn down! My kids were born here, my husband died here, and this house has kept me safe for all that time. I'm not leaving it unprotected, you got that?"

He cleared his throat. "Ah, yes, ma'am. I think the point is clear. However, it wouldn't be unprotected. We would have someone coming by to keep an eye on it at regular intervals."

"Yeah, and what about when they're not coming by? It's an old house, Corporal, well-aged pine, with paper insulation. It'll go up like a torch if it's lit and by the time Dave Byrnes rousted his crew and got down here it'd be all over but the crying. Nope. No way am I leaving. I'm here. I've got four fire extinguishers and a garden hose. I'm staying."

She glared from him to Zhertak and back, apparently leaving Ray out, since he hadn't said anything. Zhertak shot him a look that said plainly 'See? She's nuts!' and Fraser resisted the urge to sigh. "I understand, Mrs. Moss. We'll work around it. Would you be willing to have someone from the detachment stay with you tonight?"

Hannah thought about it, and nodded, grudgingly. "Yeah, I suppose. It's not like I don't have the room. And it'd be nice to have some company."

"Excellent. Constable Zhertak, if you'd be so good as to go on back to the detachment and see to that other matter we discussed I'd be grateful. Once that's done I'd like you to bring Constable Traynor by, she can stay here with Mrs. Moss overnight. Ray and I will stay here until she arrives."

"Why don't you just have her drive over?" Zhertak asked, looking puzzled.

"'Cause we want things to look normal around here," Ray cut in. "You put an RCMP cruiser in the driveway and there's no way the perp will show his nose again. Any unfamiliar vehicle, really, doesn't even have to have gumballs on top, and he'll spook."

"Gum. . ." Zhertak looked confused for a moment, but then he nodded. "Ah, yes, I understand. All right. I'll go look up that information for you, and then I'll get Arden. . . er, Constable Traynor, and bring her back. . . in my personal car, not the cruiser."

Fraser nodded. "Excellent idea, just in case he's watching the traffic in the area."

Zhertak excused himself, looking suspiciously relieved as he hightailed it for his cruiser. Fraser turned back to find Ray with his hand on Hannah's shoulder.

"You okay?" he was asking softly. "You look a little upset."

"Well, of course I am!" she snapped, then she softened. "Sorry. I shouldn't snap at you. I know you're just doing your job. It's just. . . ." Her face crumpled a little. "I hate to think that someone around here hates me so much."

"Now, see, it's not really you," Ray said. "It's just that this guy thinks he's got instructions to torch some kind of art that had to do with wood, and your stuff fits the bill. So, it's not personal. It's not that somebody doesn't like you. It's just this weird game he's playing with this other guy, and this other guy is in a mental ward so that tells you he's not playing with a full deck to start with."

Hannah looked slightly confused. "Who's not? The guy in the mental ward or the guy who wants to burn down my house?"

"Well, if you ask me, both," Ray said. "But for sure the guy in the mental ward. Hey, aren't you a little chilly, standing out here with no coat?"

Hannah rubbed her arms.. "Now that you mention it, yeah. Come on inside." She opened the door and ushered them inside. "You boys hungry? I made a big pot of beef-barley soup that I was going to take up to Mary's but since I'm not going now, it'll last me forever. I'll get it out and warm it up, make some biscuits, and we can have an early supper." She turned and headed for the kitchen.

Fraser opened his mouth to refuse, only to have Ray catch his eye and shake his head, scowling, before he called out.

"Yeah, that'd be great! We never got lunch today."

Fraser waited, eyebrows lifted, and as soon as Hannah had disappeared into the kitchen Ray put a hand on his arm and pulled him close, lips nearly against his ear.

"Fraser, moms deal with stress by cooking," he whispered, "and she's a mom. Just go with it. She needs to do this."

A surge of warmth went through him at the feel of Ray's breath and his face lightly touching his hair, which, oddly, evoked a shiver. He tried to convey his understanding of Ray's words, but nothing came out of his mouth except a strange choked-off little sound. Ray pulled back a little, looked at him, and then smiled wickedly and leaned back in.

"You like that?" he whispered, his lips brushing Fraser's ear.

Fraser closed his eyes and nodded. He couldn't possibly form words. The warmth spread through him like wildfire, pooling in his groin.

"I'll remember that," he said, still in a whisper. "Later." His tongue flicked out in a rapid tease before Ray drew back, cleared his throat, and not-very-surreptitiously adjusted his trousers.

Fraser swallowed thickly, and echoed Ray's tug. It was several seconds before his voice returned. "Ray. . . ."

"Yeah?"

"I'm . . . looking forward to later."

Ray's smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds. "Me too, Benton. Me too."

---

Click here for part 2

Comments

[rose_malmaison]

I'm really enjoying this but part two is missing! The link goes to part three here at the dream width page. I've tracked the story down at your site though. Loving it, especially the dialog. I feel very sorry for poor Fraser but I can tell that Ray is going to make things right.

[bethbethbeth]

I'm so pleased you're enjoying this story!

(And thanks so much for the heads up about the wonky link. I've fixed it now, so all should be well!)

[rose_malmaison]

Great! I'm reading it on my iPad and it's easier to read here on dream width.