DISCLAIMER:  There once was a big company named Alliance who owned this
nice little show called DUE SOUTH.  There once was a fanfic writer who
liked to play with the characters of said show.  This writer didn't make
any money from playing with these nice characters, so Alliance said "let
it be so."  There was benevolence and everyone lived happily ever after.

NOTE:  Old Jake is a real guy, he does actually speak like that, and
he's pretty cool too! The Duck Lady is also quite real.  :)  As a native
of New Orleans, I must stress... WE DO NOT HAVE A SOUTHERN DRAWL OR A
PARISIAN ACCENT!  Sorry, just got finished watching Heaven's Prisoners...BLECH!

SPOILERS:  Mask, COTW
WARNINGS: angst...I REFUSE to issue a Thatcher warning!  I'm a die-hard
Meg fan. SETTING:  post-COTW, probably about 5 years later

Portrait in Red

copyright 1999 by M. Megan O'Neil 

	Fraser took in the scenery around him with the eyes of the newborn.
Growing up in the wilderness of Inuvik, he was awed by the vibrant color
and decadance of this cosmopolitan city, even though he had read many
books about it.
	He walked around Jackson Square, his senses picking up the pungent smells
of seafood, bodily fluids, incense, and alchohol.  He heard the gutteral
slurred speech of the natives and saw the contrast of the garish, colorful
street performers and the commanding elegence of the aged architecture.
Even Chicago did not have this combination of sophistication and earthiness,
though Ray Vecchio would probably vehemently disagree.  He smiled at
the thought of his friend in one of his Italian tirades. 	Dief padded
beside him, whining in complaint.  Fraser turned and looked at his furry
companion.  "Yes, I know it's hot.  It's not actually the heat, it's
the humidity." The wolf growled in annoyance, flicking his tail.  Sighing,
Fraser said, "Well, I did warn you New Orleans was quite hot, even in
September.  I offered to leave you with Stan or Mrs. Vecchio."
	More barks.  "Well, you were the one who wanted to try gumbo, so I refuse
to feel sorry for you."
	The sight of a grown man holding a conversation with a wolf might have
been considered odd anywhere else.  Considering the fact that an old
lady wearing a Louis XIV ballgown and carrying a duck skated past Fraser,
no one threw him a second glance. 	He sat on a bench, admiring the architecture
of the St. Louis Cathedral.  Briefly, he considered the irony of a Canadian
Mountie vacationing in New Orleans, but the truth was, he needed a change
of scenery for a few weeks.  He and Ray Kowalski had spent the last four
years searching for the Hand of Franklin.  At least, that's what they
were searching for on the surface.  Somewhere in that frozen barreness,
the quest for a missing legend turned into a search for their future.
Stanley Raymond Kowalski had found what he was looking for and had gone
to Alberta to hunt down Maggie MacKenzie with Fraser's blessing.  Short
of Ray Vecchio, Benton couldn't think of a man more deserving of his
sister's affections. 	Benton himself had known what he had wanted long
before their oddyssey in the Yukon and had possessed and lost it on a
snowy night of moonlight and howling wolves.  Sometimes his nostrils
still picked up that wild, spicy fragrance which had enveloped him in
all the beauty and sensuality of its owner.
	And now he was on a vacation before assuming the duties of Inspector
of the Canadian Consulate in Chicago.  While proud, he was also saddened
that he would no longer be stopping crime around Chicago with Ray or
Ray.  He would miss both men's unique senses of humor and streetwise
cunning.  However, he knew he could always see them whenever he wished.
In fact, after his week in New Orleans, he would be on a plane to Miami
to see Ray Vecchio's new house.
	"Hey!  Why you in m'seat?"
	"Pardon?"  Ben looked up to see an old black man scowling down at him.
"Pardon nothing.  I say why you in m'seat?  Ain't got no call to take
Ol'Jake's seat!"
	"Ah!  So sorry."  Benton pushed over to allow the old man to sit next
to him.  Jake strummed a few scales on his bass.  Fraser listened with
interest as the soulful strains of the blues came out.  "You're very
good, sir."
	His response was a gravelly chuckle.  "Sir?  Ain't from 'round here
these parts, are ya?"
	"No sir.  Canada.  I am a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."
"Hehheh."  Jake started on "Blue Moon Bayou."  "So what dey call you?
Dudley Do-Right?"
	Fraser blushed slightly.  Although he was used to the nickname now,
at times it still stung.  "No sir.  Benton Fraser."
	"'Dat's a mountful, yeah."  Fingers moved over the strings to pluck
out sweet, jazzy, soul.  His sharp eyes looked over Ben.  "You stick
out like a sore thumb.  Being down here, 'dat's sayin' sumpin."
	Benton wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or complimented.  Old Jake
broke into the chorus of "Marie Laveau."  Tapping his feet to the rhythm
of his guitar, Jake grinned at the younger man's staidness.  "So, what
you here fo'?"
	Not quite used to such inquisitive conversation (perhaps it was the
way of this city), Ben tripped over his words.  "Ah-well, ah--that is-"
	"Spit it out boy!  I'm gonna die 'fore you ever get 'round to it." 
Resisting the urge to salute, he managed to say, "I'm here on vacation.
To sort out a few things, as it were."
	Jake chuckled, never breaking the rhythm of his fingers.  "You come
to da right place, dat's fo' sure.  Dis city, it's got the hoodoo on
it."
	Dief whined in annoyance.  Here they were in New Orleans, a city which
held more goodies than Alpha's friends Ray and Ray, and Alpha had the
nerve to just sit there and chat with a human who had the audacity not
to offer him so much as a beignet!  Dief tugged on Alpha's pant leg.

	A wrinkled, old hand rumpled and scratched his ears.  The wolf growled
in contentment.  On the other hand, this pampering wasn't so bad.
	"Your dog, he's wantin' to git movin."
	Benton scowled at Dief.  "Yes, well actually, he's a wolf, and he's
just being rude.  He merely wants something to eat."
	Waving his hand in dismissal, Jake smirked.  "Ah, dat's dogs.  I gotta
play and your dog gotta eat."
	Sensing the conversation was over, Benton waved goodbye to Jake and
tugged at Dief as they started to walk around the French Quarter.  He
was amazed at the contrasts of this city which was more European than
American, from the homes of families tucked away on side streets to the
sensuality and Bacchanal revery of the strip clubs and bars on Bourbon
St.
	He found himself strolling down Dauphine, going in and out of the various
little galleries.  Even with all the books on great art his grandparents
had provided, it was still a thrill to see beautiful pictures up close.
Benton wandered into a little place called Le Petit Galerie, fascinated
by the different types of paintings, from the antebellum scenes to that
ridiculous little blue dog that was evidently all the rage down here.
A young woman came up behind him.  "May I help you?"
	Ben turned, almost tripping over Dief.  "Ah, no thank you.  I was just
admiring your artwork.  You see, I'm just visiting this city.  Your jazz
paintings are fascinating." 	She laughed, determined to put this handsome,
skittish customer at ease.  No one was going to be uncomfortable in her
shop.  Looking at him again, she grinned.  Too bad she was married. 
Grabbing his arm, she started to show him around, speaking in the odd,
slurred accent of New Orleans.  "Lawd.  They're not my paintings.  I'm
just a dealer.  The jazz ones are pretty good.  They go for $750.  Let
me show you some more."
	She led his to the other room.  Benton's eyes took in everything.  "You
have quite a collection.  I see you have a few street-"  His voice caught
in his throat.  	It was a large painting, about the size of a large wall
mirror.  The model was gracefully reclining on her side, her head turned
to gaze out a window.  Her beautiful ivory nakedness was laid bare to
human eyes, with only a blue scarf draped over the soft curve of her
hip to cover her most intimate beauty.
	The owner grinned at Benton's reaction.  "Beautiful, isn't it?"
	He nodded dumbly.  His heart was racing, out of control---a runaway.
She looked even more beautiful than his fertile imagination could ever
have dreamed up.  Her long slender legs and softly curving hips which
had set his heart ablaze; her softly rounded breasts.  He smiled as the
memory of retrieving a hairpin came flooding back. 	Fraser inhaled sharply
as his eyes travelled over her lovely body to that exquisite face, the
long dark waves tumbling over her shoulders like a chocolate river. 
Those crimson lips were as beautiful and soft as a Yukon snowfall.
	Ah!  But those eyes!  If the artist had painted nothing but those eyes,
Benton would have known her.  Those eyes were ultimate beauty; those
smoky, dark orbs which crackled with anger, passion, and fire.  /Ah,
Meg, you're still the loveliest woman to walk down the pike./
	"Wh-where did you get this?"  She looked so young.
	The art dealer ran a hand over the bottom of the frame fondly.  "In
Paris.  I have a friend there and while I was visiting her, she introduced
me to an artist named Jean-Paul Damiens."
	Fraser briefly remembered hearing the name.  She continued.  "Anyway,
I decided to buy some very good street scenes from him.  While I was
doing that, he should us some of his earlier works.  I fell in love with
this one."  She smiled.
	Benton touched one beautifully painted leg.  "She is absolutely beautiful."
/God, Meg, where are you now?/
	"I know."  Laughing, she walked around him to straighten another frame.
"Wish I looked that good naked.  He told us it was someone he used to
know, a Canadian girl." 	He smiled at the thought of a young Meg Thatcher
gleefully shocking her elders by posing nude.
	Benton had no idea where she could be now.  He only wished for her safety
and happiness.  He wanted this painting.  He needed it.  It was all he
had left of Meg, along with his memories.  "How much do you want for
it?"
	The dealer frowned.  "Well, I hadn't planned on selling it-"
	"Please!  That is, the model reminds me of someone I knew.  I have the
money.  How much do you want?"  If it took begging to get this painting,
he would break his pride and beg.
	A few minutes of uncomfortable silence passed.  The woman sighed.  From
her few minutes of talking with this quiet guy, she got the feeling that
he did not ask for much. She also figured the model reminded him of an
ex-lover who had broken his heart.  What the hell?  Who was she to deny
someone's request?  She had had a print made of it anyway. 	Benton could
see she was not going to bend.  He didn't blame her.  Dejectedly, he
motioned to Dief.  "Thank you anyway.  I'll be going-"
	"Wait!"  She held up her hand.  "$1000.  And that's a bargain."  Seeing
a beautiful smile spread across his boy-like face made her day.  Everybody's
wishes should be so simple. 	Benton pulled out his traveller's cheques.
"No.  I'll pay you $1500.  It's worth every penny."
	After getting over her surprise, she laughed uproariously.  "Offering
to pay me more?  That's a first!  What are you, Canadian?"
	Handing her the check, Fraser grinned, feeling happier than he had in
a long time. At least he had this small reminder of Meg, however petty
it might seem.  	"What is the name of the painting."
	Her brow creased in concentration.  "Let me think.  He said he named
it after her. Mary...Marie--"
	"Margaret?"
	Her eyes widened in surprise.  "That's it.  'Marguerite.'  How did you
know." 	His smile was gentle.  "Lucky guess I suppose.  She looks like
a Margaret."  	Depositing his check in the cash register, she asked,
"Where do you want it sent?" 

					****

	Ben looked around his new apartment with pride.  It was simple, yet
not quite as spartan as his Racine St. flat had been.  He personally
felt he could have continued living in his office, but Ray and Ray had
quite vehemently insisted that an RCMP inspector needed a decent place
to live.  After much arguing between the three friends, they had finally
settled on this one-bedroom apartment.  Before, he had felt rather foolish
paying rent when he was quite comfortable in his office.  Now he was
grateful for his two friends' insistence.  The light from the fireplace
lit up the portrait of a young woman now sitting above the mantle.  Her
eyes were turned toward the painting's sunlight, lost in hopes and dreams.
Benton smiled as he put out the fire.  "Sleep well love, wherever you
are tonight. Good night Meg."

					****

	Her screams echoed in the room and the whip came down hard across her
back.  Meg bit back tears.  Someone had betrayed her and she would die
alone, abandoned, and forgotten. She would die doing the right thing
in a wrong world.  She had no regrets, except perhaps one.  The perfect
ivory flesh on her back was ripped to shreds as dark crimson stripes
wove patterns of anguish on her body.  Meg prayed the Catholic prayers
from her childhood, hoping for death with honor.  She saw the rich crimson
flowing on her rope-lacerated hands and remembered.  She managed to smile.
"Red suits me."
	The world went dark.