Life, Liberty, and . . .

Disclaimers: I write this stuff for love. You couldn't pay me enough to do this for money. They belong to Alliance.

Acknowledgments: Crysothemis and Te graciously beta- read this. Maxine Mayer provided completely necessary moral support.

"Frase," Ray asked across the last of the mu shi pork, "I know you're Canadian and all, but you do smile when you're happy, right?"

Fraser assumed this was another of Kowalski's forays into bait-the-Canadian, of asking rhetorical questions merely because Ray knew that his partner would answer. He could have deflected the question with a harmless circumspect story. Instead, he put down his chopsticks, leaned back against the vinyl-covered cushioning of the booth, and resigned himself to playing the straight man yet again. "Yes, Ray. Like most Canadians, I do smile when I'm happy."

But instead of smirking, Ray frowned at him. "So what's wrong? Why you so glum?"

"Ray?"

"You still miss Vecchio? Is it me?" Ray's voice sped up, "If I'm the problem, you can talk to Welsh, there's plenty of other guys in the department--"

"Ray," Fraser tried to break in. It hadn't been a game after all. Usually he was far better at diverting such personal questions, but in the two weeks since meeting Kowalski, the man kept catching him off guard. Thank goodness he wasn't, so far as Fraser knew, a criminal.

"I can't ask for reassignment, 'cause I'm Vecchio, and he's happy with you --"

"Ray." Fraser added with a bit more emphasis, but the other man's words just accelerated over it, skidding away, leaving his interjection broken on the ground like a pedestrian in one of those hit-and-run incidents so common in this city.

"He's real happy," and Ray's volume and speed increased, "real happy bein' yer partner, he's grinnin' ear-to- ear every morning knottin' his fuckin' Italian silk tie-"

Now Kowalski had entered the realm of the personal. Fraser forced himself to speak over the other man's words, adding emphasis to each repetition, rather like (he imagined) maneuvering squad cars into a roadblock. "Ray. Ray. Ray!"

"What?!" The monologue screeched to a stop.

"I'm not unhappy." //Please step away from your car with your hands in the air.// Calm. Confident. Authoritative.

"Bullshit, Fraser." Ray gestured rudely with his pancake. "Yeah, you never lie, okay, you're not unhappy, but but but -- you're not happy either. I know, okay? I know what not happy looks like, I see it in the mirror before I shave every day, okay," the stream of words slowed, "and you look like it."

Fraser looked away, across the lunch-time crowd, silent.

After a moment, Ray spoke again, "Not that you don't look good. I mean, you're the Mountie pinup poster boy, right, but. . . Maybe you've got a girl up North, you're missing her, or missing the lichen or somethin'.. . . Maybe it's none a' my business. Uh, just, just forget I said anything, okay? It's none a' my business."

The words trailed off, Ray noticed the pancake in his hand and discarded it into the remnants of the meal. Sat back, pulled out enough cash to pay for the meal. He stopped, banged his wallet on the table. "My mistake. It's Vecchio's business, so it is my business. I can't stand this. So I'm asking you, what's wrong?"

Fraser ducked his head, bringing one hand up to touch his eyebrow, feeling weak for needing the brief refuge that the gesture provided. He searched for the words that could reassure Ray, describe his feelings, and allow him to retain some dignity, some slight privacy, as he opened his heart amid the formica tables of the cramped restaurant.

The Mountie lowered his hand to his thigh, parade rest. "Ray, there is nothing wrong. I do miss my home and the people there. But Diefenbaker and I have a place here, for now. With you. I'm content. I'm fine."

That was, thankfully, the end of the conversation for the afternoon. But that evening, Ray turned off the car beneath a streetlight in front of the Consulate. While Diefenbaker marked a nearby fireplug, they sat in the car. Ray kept his hands on the wheel, and his gaze out the windshield. Instead of saying, "See you in the morning, seven, right?" as he had every previous evening, Ray said, "Okay, so you're content. Good, that's good. But that's not the same as happy. And I bet you've got a killer smile, Frase." He paused. "Everybody's got a right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That's what America's about."

Fraser retrieved his Stetson from the dashboard, and turned it in his hands while he considered. Instead of saying, "Thank you for the ride. Yes, I'll be ready at seven," he answered, "That's valid." He opened the car door and stood as the wolf trotted back to them. He couldn't resist a last word, "But I'm not American. Goodnight, Ray."

Benton Fraser, RCMP, spent the evening as was usual. Still in uniform, he received Turnbull's account of daily business before the man left the Consulate. He filled out his 10989B report and slipped it into his superior's in basket. Then, official duty done, he changed out of uniform and make a simple meal in the kitchen. No spices except salt, the way his grandmother had cooked. It tasted terrible, but it reminded him of home. He shared the meal with Diefenbaker, in silence. He tidied the kitchen. He washed some of his few clothes in the sink, and laid them on the folding stand to dry. He spot-cleaned the red serge he'd worn that day. He sniffed it delicately, but decided that it could bear another week before it required dry cleaning. He hung it carefully on a hanger to air out. He ironed his other serge tunic and jodhpurs for the morning. He wiped his boots and Sam Browne. Thankfully, there was no mending that could not wait until he took his clothes to Mrs. Wong's dry cleaning and alterations shop. Sewing was one area in which he accepted any help he could get.

He walked up to the bathroom, through the stately paneled halls of the Consulate, empty and quiet now. He urinated, washed his face and hands, and brushed his teeth. He made one last round of the Consulate before retiring to his room, personal duties done. Then, finally, he set up his cot and climbed into his bedroll. He usually read until bedtime.

This evening, he didn't open his book. Instead, Fraser turned off the light immediately and lay wide-eyed in the darkness.

The pursuit of happiness, Ray had said. His partner was correct: contentment was not happiness. Duty certainly was not happiness. Fraser was so unused to thinking in these terms that, offhand, he couldn't imagine how he might pursue his happiness. It felt . . . bewildering, like learning that in the city it was actually more polite to not acknowledge each person he passed on the street. But while he was in America, perhaps he should try pursuing happiness. It would be a new experience, a bit like riding the elevated trains. Part of adjusting to life in this strange, strange place, the city. Chicago.

It would take some work. As long as it didn't interfere with duty. . . . It would certainly require him to overcome several of his habitual ways of thinking, but broadening his mind was nearly always a positive experience.

Fraser closed his eyes. He had just enough self- awareness to realize that the quest would also require courage, although he couldn't imagine why it frightened him. Pursuit might be the single activity at which he excelled. He had successfully hunted all manner of beasts and men, from caribou to killers. It was a simple matter of understanding one's quarry, of persistence, and of patience. If he set his mind to it, he could catch anything.

He would have to discuss the matter with Ray in the morning.

END