basingstoke: crazy eyes (Default)
At least my stories are. Or, one is.

"Could, Would, Will" (Due South, Fraser/Vecchio) has been translated into Russian and Japanese.

Whee! If anyone wants to tackle any other stories, other languages, etc, I am *entirely* in favor of this project. Just let me know and I'll be happy to help.
basingstoke: crazy eyes (Default)
The Divine Comedy: Five things that never happened to Benton Fraser.

For Speranza, for her birthday. (yeah, it took a little time.)
basingstoke: crazy eyes (Default)
Keller was wrapping a fishing fly. "I feel better about myself now that I have a useful craft with which to fill my time."

"Are you running a high fever?" Beecher asked.

"Nope. He showed me the way." Keller pointed to the new guy, Fraser.

*

Yeah. Watching Oz tapes while trying to finish a Special Secret Due South story. Wheeeeeeeeee!

fic!

Mar. 30th, 2002 03:06 am
basingstoke: crazy eyes (Default)
Due South crossed with the X-Files.

fun times. )
basingstoke: crazy eyes (Default)
Want to finish this. I doubt I ever will.

*

"Fraser, do not sing. Do *not* sing. The dogs will start howling."

"Ray, that's simply not true. They've never howled when I sing at home." Fraser grinned in Ray's general direction. With the shades and the Stetson, he looked kind of like a country rock star, or maybe a secret agent Mountie.

Fraser. Ben Fraser. He took his tea shaken, not stirred.

"They're in the barn then. Except for Dief, who is deaf, if you'll recall." Ray pulled on the rein, keeping the horse on the path. The head of Fraser's horse kept even with the shoulder of Ray's, so it was up to him to keep them going the right way. He was pretty sure that Fraser could figure out where they were, cataracts or no cataracts, but he didn't want to have to find out.

The dogs in question trotted behind the horses, leashed to Fraser's saddle: two of Dief's daughters by their best husky bitch Queequeg. Dief himself was running up ahead of them.

"Yes, I realize that Dief is deaf, but he's also a surprisingly good critic of modern music," Fraser said.

"Fraser!"

"He's rather good at reading lips and judging rhythm." Fraser was smiling in a lips-twitching way that meant he was two heartbeats from busting a gut.

"Quit pulling my leg. I'll fall off the horse," Ray said, and then Fraser laughed, a-hee-hee like a kid.

Ray reached one hand back. Fraser grabbed it--okay, he could see that much, he wasn't *totally* blind yet--and squeezed it, and said, out of the blue, "Seven years, Ray. What do you want to do?"

Seventh anniversary. They counted from the first kiss since they didn't have any kind of official ceremony. "I dunno. What is that, paper?"

"Traditionally, wool or copper. In the modern system--desk sets, but I feel that lacks a certain je ne sais quois." Fraser interlaced their fingers.

"Wool. I could get you a coat."

"And I could get you one, Ray."

"So we'd both be warm."

"Indeed." Fraser tugged on Ray's hand, bringing his horse even with Ray's. "Or we could buy a blanket, and then we could share it."

"See, I knew you were the smart one." Ray lifted Fraser's hand and kissed it. "We're almost into town."

Town was about thirty buildings and an airstrip. For about the first year, Ray thought he would die from acute movie theater and Chinese takeout withdrawal, but... it passed. He still missed it, but he was content. Funny how that worked.

Of course, sleeping with Fraser every night didn't hurt.

They kept themselves going financially a couple of different ways: Fraser's pension plus Ray's IRA took care of the essentials, and then they bred and traded dogs to locals they trusted. Fraser had worked as a guide before the cataracts got bad. They both worked on the local search-and-rescue team--Fraser blind with Dief was still better than just about any guy alone--but they didn't get paid for that. It was just good for the soul.

Today they were going to trade two promising racing dogs to Joe Carver in return for future plane rides to pretty much anywhere.

"I'll get the mail while you go see Joe," Ray said, releasing Fraser's hand. Those two could chit-chat until the snows came in about racing and hardware and dog food and stuff. Ray didn't care about all that technical mumbo-jumbo; he just liked dogs.

Fraser nodded. "Meet you at Ruth's in an hour?"

"Sure." Ray reached over and squeezed Fraser's elbow before turning right at the intersection.

The post office was a few houses down. Ray tied up his horse in one of the parking spaces. Sally had her feet up on the counter and was reading when Ray came in. She glanced up. "Hey, Yank."

"Hey, Sally. Any mail?"

She snorted and swung her feet down. "Been a month, Yank. Of course you've got mail." She disappeared into the back room. "The Mountie's fishing hooks came in and you got a whole stack of mail from Chicago. Smells all pretty, too."

Sally came back in with an armful of packages and envelopes, holding one envelope to her nose. "Who you writing to that smells so pretty?"

Ray grabbed the envelope. "Give me that!" Sally grinned and he sniffed at it. "Hey, this ain't perfume, this is cologne."

"What's the difference? It's all stink that makes the bears eat you." She sat back down and reopened her book: _A Brief History of Time_ by Stephen Hawking. Ray shook his head and looked at the letter.

Ray Vecchio. "Ray Vecchio?"

Sally looked up. "Are a lot of Yanks named Ray? Because it seems like there's a lot of you."

Ray shrugged, eyeballing the letter. It was addressed to Fraser, so he didn't open it; sure, he'd have to read the letter to Fraser anyway, but it just wasn't okay to go opening your partner's mail willy-nilly. Ray shoved the letter to the bottom of the stack and turned to leave.

"Yank!"

Ray looked back. "Yeah?"

"Go see Constable Monroe," Sally said. "She's in town and she was wanting to see you."

"Okay. Thanks, Sally." Ray headed out the door.

He stuck the mail into his saddlebag. He'd look at it later, over coffee at Ruth's diner.

The RCMP post was catty-corner behind the post office. Ray tried to avoid going in. Constable Monroe was a good cop, but she had a case of hero-worship for Fraser bad enough that Ray was concerned with Fraser's virtue. Not that Fraser would cheat on him purposefully, but--women tried crazy things around Fraser. He'd seen it. And Fraser had a heck of a time saying no.

So Ray tried to stand between Fraser and Constable Monroe whenever they were all in the same place together, and so far, that had worked. Ray opened the door.

The post looked deserted. It was really just a one-room office that Monroe used whenever she was in town; she drove a big circuit. "Anybody home?" Ray called.

He heard a thump. A couple of boots swung down to eye level, and then Monroe dropped to the floor. "Good afternoon, Ray!" she said cheerfully.

Ray didn't ask. He didn't want to know. "Sally said you were looking for me and Fraser?"

She nodded. "You have some visitors, or rather, Constable Fraser does.

*

Awkward break. The visitors are Frannie and Turnbull.

Thought I'd give a little more closure to the eye thing. Fraser's happy, the big dip.

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