It's a Wonderful Christmas Carol    The Due South Fiction Archive Entry 
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      	  It's a Wonderful Christmas Carol 
 by pir8fancier  

 Disclaimer: Thanks the Alliance guys, Frank Capra, and Charles Dickens

 Author's Notes: Thanks to zelda for the beta.

 

 Ray is shadow boxing around Interrogation Room No. 2. His feints,
thrusts, and jabs are particularly graceful and beautiful today. I can
hardly hear his feet touching the floor. His ex-wife has just left the
room, armed with enough evidence to, essentially, "throw away the key."
Solving cases where children are the victims always puts an extra spring
into Ray's shadow box of victory. The suspects are now well on their way
to being finger-printed and remanded for custody, and while Ray and his
ex-wife are at loggerheads about everything else on the face of this
planet, on these sorts of cases they are one. The hard and almost feral
scowl on her face as Ray relates the evidence and the extent of the
criminal activity matches his own. Only seeing them together thusly do I
possess an inkling of why these two such disparate souls ever contemplated
any sort of union. Their passion is/was perhaps the only thing they have
in common. 

 "Nail their balls to the wall, baby," Ray crows as she gets up to leave.

 "I will, Ray," she answers in cool amusement. He raises his hand in
search of a high five. She hesitates just a second before returning the
gesture with a resounding smack of palm to palm. Nodding at me in
approval, she murmurs, "Good work, Constable. Later, Ray."

 With that she is gone. A year ago, Ray would have relayed all our
evidence, but not without peppering the exchange with endless pleas for a
dinner date, a drink after work, a cup of coffee. Which she'd reject out
of hand. His despair would escalate with every rejection but he wouldn't
give up. Finally she would snap and say something unspeakably cruel. He
would deflate, continue in a monotone until the end, watch her click,
click, click out of the room in her expensive high heels, and then head
for the nearest bar.

 Something has changed lately. She doesn't quite trust it, obviously, that
hesitancy evidence enough of that, but he has finally, in modern vulgar
parlance, moved on. He no longer badgers her for a date every time she
walks into a room, and florists have ceased loping through the bullpen,
staggering under the weight of outlandish flower arrangements that
everyone knows are for one desk and one desk only.

 Now there is nothing more than a minute sigh when she leaves the room,
and then this victory "dance" with his imaginary sparring partner.
Sometimes he'll keep it up for fifteen minutes or more, depending on how
vicious the crime, how satisfying the "collar." I love watching him. I
could do it for hours, Ray's constantly disparaging remarks about his
physique, how he's nothing more than a "skinny Polack," notwithstanding.

 Sometimes, Ray is just plain unhinged. He is beautiful.

 I supposed we all crave what is unfamiliar. What I wouldn't give to have
an hour in that lithe, catlike body. He is slender, wiry even, but I envy
that. My own considerable bulk--much more suited to surviving in the cold,
I grant you; Ray would not last a minute in the dead of a Canadian
winter--seems leaden, heavy, clunky next to him. 

 The "dance" always ends the same. Ray will inch toward me, jabbing to the
left or right of my head to assure me that he's not "aiming" at me, and
then he will end it with a light punch to my bicep. Just a glancing blow.
It's more of a caress, really, and has been increasingly so as the months
of our partnership have advanced. Today is no different. He lingers in
front of my chair one second too long, his face just a tiny bit too close.
Some days I have the wild notion that he is going to kiss me.

 But he wouldn't. He doesn't. No. He is not that foolish.

 We have been ignoring this for months and there is nothing to suggest,
thank god, that we will not continue in the same vein. 

 The mental intimacy that defines a successful partnership was, with a few
spectacular glitches, a given within only a few hours of our first
meeting. And while my partnership with the real Ray Vecchio was just as
professionally gratifying and inarguably my best friend, in a personal
context he doesn't have a patch on this Ray. Or my Ray, as I refer to him
in the privacy of my mind.

 It is a perfect relationship. We live in each other's pockets, so to
speak, but there is no danger of it getting messy. Certainly, there is no
danger of getting shot in the back by your best friend as the only way to
stop you from committing the worst mistake of your entire life. No. It is
safe. Contained. And except for the occasional lapse where the physical
threatens--like now--it is, and I think it always will be, the most
gratifying relationship of my life.

 Ah, there's the glance, the buff of his knuckles against my arm...

 Dear. God! He did it. He swiped across my mouth with his and even that
brief touch...

 I suppress the violent urge to slap his face and scoot my chair away
immediately. "I must go," I manage to eek out in between labored breaths.

 An equally out of breath Ray shoves me back in my chair. He couldn't look
more hurt than if I had slapped him.

 "Nope. You're not going anywhere. We're talking this out. Now." 

 I have at least thirty pounds on Ray, and yet with seemingly no effort he
shoves me and my chair into a corner. Slinging himself along the backside
of a second chair, he effectively pins me.

 "Do you really think this is the appropriate..."

 "Can it, buddy," Ray orders. "Yeah, it's fucking perfect, in fact. No
distractions. No buttons you got to sew on Thatcher's dress shirts, no
silver to polish, no Canadian bullshit to shovel through. I think this is
a damn fine place." His face is close enough that I can smell stale coffee
on his breath. "We talk about the mating habits of fruit flies and the
gestation periods of caribou and seals. Last week I got a lecture on the
anecdotal evidence that moose jizz is an affective pallawhatsis for
arthritis. Would like to meet the sick little Inuit pervert who made that
startling discovery. Every fucking animal in the animal kingdom is getting
some but us. Time to talk."

 I know this Ray face. This Ray will push and push and push until I
literally want to wring his aggressive little neck. With as sarcastic a
gesture as I can manage, I bade him to speak first.

 "Okay. Okay," he huffs, trying to get his bearings. His hands grip the
upper lip of the chair so hard that the white of his bone threatens to
poke through his skin. "First things first. Aside from that duet thing we
do. Which I know you're good with. The, uh, physical part. It's not the
men fucking men thing is it? Because it don't bother me none, and I kind
of thought those vibes I was getting from you were that you were jake with
it. And like jake with me. With it. I mean the concept. Like you weren't
gonna start stuffing my desk drawers with anti-queer propaganda. Don't
have a lot of, okay, no experience, in that area but, fuck, sex is sex,
and you make me hot."

 Half of this is said with his face averted but then he looks me full on,
and I know what it costs him to say that. I reach out with what comfort I
can give him.

 "No, I am not disgusted by your attentions. Our attraction is mutual."

 The tension in the room abates considerably. I am, after all, the law
enforcement official who lost his virginity to a bank robber. My fatal
attraction to physical beauty is well documented. The fact that Ray is
male is immaterial. I was a tad confused in the beginning, I will admit,
as I have always considered myself heterosexual, but given the intimacy of
our professional and social relationship, could physical attraction be
anything but a foregone conclusion? I did mention that Ray is beautiful,
didn't I? 

 "You know that," I remind him rather tartly. "Granted, I am somewhat
naive, Ray, but I am a fully functioning male and, as you so eloquently
pointed out, a veritable expert on the sex lives of mammals. I would have
to be dead and buried not to notice that we are physically attracted to
each other."

 "Yeah," he agrees, although reluctantly. "Okay. Yeah, I thought, you
know, so we smelled each other and liked what we smelled. But then I'm
thinking that don't mean nothing. I see tons of people lining up to get a
whiff of the Benton Fraser pheromone chuck wagon but none coming home with
barbeque."

 "I am a picky eater," I say rather primly. That gets a bark of laughter
and he leans in to kiss me again. I avert my face. "Why now?"

 All the goodwill I generated with my wee joke evaporates.

 "Why now? Why now?" Ray repeats, and, with that manic energy that so
defines him, he leaps out of his chair and begins pacing the room. "Why
not now? And don't tell me that you give a flying fuck what people say
about you either because you're in fucking exile because you didn't care
so much. You're a man without a country because you were going to do what
was right by your lights hell or high water. That's one of the parts of
you makes me loves you to death, you irritating motherfucker, so don't you
dare tell me you care what people think of you. And just so you know.
We're on the same page on that. If I gave a flying fuck what people
thought of me I wouldn't dress like this and use shit on my hair so that
it looks spiky and cool and I'd still be married to Stella."

 I open my mouth to deny all of this, but he has temporarily silenced me
because all of that is true, but none of it matters. Then I counter with,
"Why can't things stay the same?"

 "Like this?" He spread his hands in frustration. "This sort of
half-thingee-ma-bob-thing where everyone thinks we're fucking because
we're that close and we are that fucking close except we're not fucking?
Christ, I want to just pop you," he wails and balls his fists. A
first-class primer in "Ray" would include entire chapters on the
importance of his hands. That he wears his heart on his sleeve is obvious;
however, if I want a guide to his soul, I watch his hands. "Why not now?"
he repeats. "I guess it's cards on the table time. `Cause I want more. I'm
done with Stella, over and out. This half-assed shit was good for a while
`cause I was still really hurting over Stel and that wouldn't have been
fair to you. I think in some ways it will always hurt, but you know, good
to go now. Never thought I'd say that but I'm saying it. You know me,
Frase. I don't do half-assed. Full throttle, pedal to the metal Kowalski.
That's me. And call me stupid, but I can't for the life of me figure out
why you're so goddamn content with jerking off--alone--in the charming
privacy of your `office'." This is said with as much snide as Ray can
muster; which is quite a lot. "And don't tell me you don't `cause I see
the hard-ons, I can fucking smell you. Does that really work for you?"

 "It... suffices." I blush. Barely suffices, but I make it suffice.

 "Christ on a raft, that's the most pathetic thing I've ever heard. Fuck
suffice, Frase. Tell me. You gotta tell me why. I want to live with you,
man. Wake up in the morning to find you next to me, want a home with you.
Fuck you fast Saturday night. You fuck me slow Sunday morning. Spend our
weekends together, argue about the dishes and whose turn is it to do the
laundry, and let me tell you it's always gonna be your turn. You know,
have a life together. We're good; we're so good. Don't you know good when
you see it?" He has returned to his chair and has my hands in his, kissing
my knuckles with these tiny delicious pecks.

 "I..." How am I going to say this gracefully? Those kisses are extremely
distracting. I move to pull my hands away, but he compromises and
continues to grip my hands, but brings them away from his mouth. "I think
you and I are very bad at love. Neither of our relationships has been a
rousing success. You're right. We are good. It's so good I don't want to
spoil it. My way... It's safe."

 Even though I truly believe this, it does sound hollow and facile when
actually voiced into the open air. No matter. I imagine things will be
uncomfortable for a week or two, and then we will return to the status
quo. Ray will just have to "get with the program." As he is so fond of
telling me about a hundred times a day.

 Ray drops my hands in shock and stands up. I can tell by the minute
clenching of his fists that he is on the verge of laying into me.

 "You are so fucked up," he whispered.

 "Do not swear at me," I snap, because now I am angry. Which is a
dangerous thing, because Ray has adopted a posture I know all too well.
His body language is primed for violence. The fists. That imperceptible
shudder of his shoulder blades and hips. We have fought before and both of
us are fierce fighters. I have more heft, but Ray is faster. If fists
start flying, we will both be seeking bone and blood.

 "You think I'm gonna start robbing banks and asking the Vecchios to put
their house up for bail money?"

 Now I have to control myself, because I am dying to silence that mouth,
to end this. Why can't he understand that this is easy? That what we have
doesn't entail hurt and humiliation? 

 "Never figured you for a fucking coward, Fraser. Learn something every
day. Can't believe you're the guy who will leap off a four-story building
without giving it a single goddamn thought. Look, you know what? It was
that Victoria chick and Stella who were lousy at love. You and me? We are
great at love." He thumps himself in the shoulder with a closed fist.
"Yeah, I was a whackjob with Stella and did kind of stalk her, but you ask
her. Ask away. Ask her if she didn't feel loved. I was great at loving
her. Maybe I loved too much. And maybe we got problems because we love too
much, but it seems to me that the people who really got shortchanged here
were Stella and that bank-robbing bitch."

 Now it is my turn to grip the top of the chair, because if I don't I will
beat him to a bloody pulp. How dare he?

 "All right, Ray, I give you that. You were such a success at love that
for years you single-handedly supported no fewer than twenty florists in
the greater Chicago area in your sad attempts to win your wife back." What
a perfectly vile thing to say. "I'm sorry," I apologize. "Maybe I'm the
one who is a failure at love. Satisfied? After all, Ray, my track record
couldn't be more abysmal. I was willing to sacrifice everything I had
worked for, everything that was of value to me for the sake of one woman.
A woman I knew a total of three days."

 Ray is silent for a few moments and then says in a deep voice. "Don't
give me that three-day shit. I knew within three days of meeting Stella
that I loved her. That just proves to me that you're great at love and
fuck her, Benton. Fuck her and fuck Stella."

 All of a sudden his posture crumples and the aggressive swagger vanishes.
But his eyes remain fierce and dangerous.

 "Okay, Fraser. We'll play it your way. We'll be safe. So safe you won't
know what hit you. No lunches, no pizza, no Chinese on Friday nights while
watching the game. Finito. Doneski. Safe. S. A. F. E.," he spells out.
"We'll still lee-a-son," he makes it sound like some variant of the
bubonic plague, "and work on cases and have one of the highest solve rates
in Chicago. And we won't love each other. You'll see. You'll see how good
we were at love. Fucking gods at it. The love train has run out of gas as
of this second. Mark my words. You think you're stubborn? You ain't met
American stubborn until you've met me. Be afraid, Fraser. Be very afraid."

 As is her wont to interrupt at the most importune times, I swear that
woman has a divining rod for awkward, Francesca pokes her head in. "You
guys done in here?"

 "You better believe it," Ray mutters.

 ***********************

 Ray is true to his word. While I thought the first week was bearable, the
second week grim, the third week, well, the only word for it is bleak. He
is polite, professional, and says nothing to me that doesn't pertain to a
case. I talk endlessly about our workload in an effort to engage him, but
he remains aloof. At one point, he snaps at me, "This is Ray unplugged.
This is the unlovable Ray. Get used to it."

 The physical loss of him is terribly hard to bear. I didn't realize how
much we touch each other. It used to be nearly constant, and most of it
astonishingly innocent. As the child of grandparents whose love was mainly
manifested in hot nourishing meals and treatises on the best way to skin a
rabbit--not heartfelt embraces--I had always been a person with whom a
firm handshake was as affectionate as it got. Ray changed all that. He is
the sort of person who pushes into your space, and it's your job to tell
him to step back. I realize I never told Ray to step back. Ever. He used
to lay a hand on me and I would lean into that hand, ostensibly to hear
what he was saying, but in reality to grab a bit of his warmth. To steal
just a bit of that irrepressible joie de vivre, both the physical and
mental. Of all people, Ray somehow touches the nascent child in me who
longs to be touched and hugged. Who, while appreciating the finer points
of how to sharpen a hunting knife, really would have benefited from and
appreciated much more the random embrace just for the sheer hell of it. 

 Now when I get within two feet of him he backs off, both hands up in
warning. Inexplicably this has resulted in my being cold. Physically. All
the time. An extra Henley, a Canadian's best friend, does nothing to
assuage the chill. It's like Ray was some sort of fire by which I warmed
myself, and now the fire's gone out with no way to revive it. I find
myself moving toward him unconsciously in an attempt to get warm, even
knowing that the hearth is stone cold. 

 The denizens of the 2-7 don't quite know what to make of it all. You'd
think since the unplugged Ray is a lot less volatile (in fact, in contrast
he is almost catatonic), everyone would be happy, but it doesn't work that
way. Halfway into week two, Lieutenant Welsh drags the two of us into the
office and demands to know what is going on and what ever it is to stop
it. 

 Ray looks him flat in the eye and says, "This is the unplugged me. Thank
Fraser."

 Naturally, the lieutenant doesn't know how to respond to such a bizarre
statement, and turns to me in question. I cough, while valiantly
struggling to manufacture some sort of appropriate answer.

 "Is our solve rate the same?" Ray barks. The Lieutenant nods. Ray says,
"Yeah, well. Fiddle-dee-dee then." At that, he get ups and exits the room,
leaving the lieutenant and me with our mouths hanging open.

 Francesca seems to have come to the conclusion that this situation is of
my making. She has stopped in her endless attempts to seduce me and is
sometimes actually snippy with me. A fresh coffee of cup appears
mysteriously on Ray's desk several times during the day, and I suspect it
is due to her ministrations. She is not exactly nice to Ray, but she never
walks by his desk without laying a brief hand on his shoulder. Ray doesn't
so much as raise his head, but I know he appreciates it because he doesn't
say anything to her about damaging the merchandise.

 Add to this horrible state of affairs is the fact that Diefenbaker has
stopped talking to me. He, too, believes that this is all my fault. My
attempts to explain the detente between Ray and myself truly have fallen
on deaf ears, and he is slowly switching his allegiances to Ray. Indeed,
Dief is the only "person" to whom Ray is still "plugged." A donut is
always waiting for him at the precinct, and the banter continues between
them unabated. The day when he will refuse to come home with me is, I
fear, not far off.

 We continue like this for several weeks. Late fall stretches into early
winter. Christmas is just around the corner. Francesca browbeats everyone
into donating for the office Christmas tree. As usual, Ray donates twice
as much as everyone else. Not usual is that he helps Francesca put up the
Christmas decorations with nary a whimper. It truly doesn't seem like
Christmas without Ray complaining mightily about the tackiness of the
ornaments that Francesca favors and how tinsel gives him hives and
Christmas lights migraines. He decorates that tree without a word. It
leaves all of us a little unhinged.

 One early Saturday evening I find myself standing in front of a Catholic
church with particularly stunning stained glass windows. I can hear the
muffled sounds of a choir trying to keep pace with a truly execrable
organist. I have become something of an expert on the architecture of
Chicago, as I spend my free time (which is now sizeable) walking the
length and breadth of the city. Dief will not accompany me on these long
walks. I am alone. I slip in through the door and find a seat at the back.


 The vestiges of my stern Presbyterian youth is always shocked at how lush
the Catholics are in their homage to God, especially now that Christmas is
near. The church is decorated for the holiday; large pots of poinsettias
grace the altar and brightly-colored silk banners span the nave,
trumpeting the birth of the Savior. I stay far past the conclusion of
mass, relishing the beauty of the stained glass aglow from the shine of a
hundred lit candles. 

 I have to admit Ray was right. I am grief-stricken at the absence of all
those things that I have come to realize signified how much we love each
other. We do do love well. Small things. Sweetening Ray's coffee with
candy, even though I disapprove heartily of both, being neither a sensible
beverage nor an acceptable source of energy. Ray installing TIVO because
it's apparently the only venue for accessing curling competitions, and if
that isn't a commentary on the sad state of American sports I don't know
what is. And Ray hates curling. Bowling with teacups he calls it. But
he'll watch it with me, and I will pour him a cup of coffee heavily laced
with Smarties during half-time. And... Oh. Dear God. I ache from the loss
of all this.

 But. But. What is the alternative? I concede one point. The other? No. I
cannot vouch for Ray, but my last and near fatal foray into love has shown
me how utterly horrible I am at it. I would not be good for Ray. My love
did not save Victoria from her own sociopathic tendencies, while only
encouraging me to abandon the dictates of friendship, duty, and honor. 

 An elderly worshipper, one of those old women with a black scarf
permanently tied tight under her chin, begins to blow out the candles. In
between puffs she casts me menacing glares, silently ordering me to leave.
Finally, capitulating to her hostile stares, not very Christian of her I
must say, I step out back into the cold December air. The bullet in my
back begins to ache. How appropriate.

 ***********************

 The nadir is reached Christmas Eve.

 I had been invited by the lieutenant to the 2-7 for a glass of
celebratory champagne. I debated for hours whether or not to go, but
ultimately felt it was my duty. When we arrive, no sooner do I open the
door to the precinct than Dief hightails it down the corridor to the
bullpen. When I enter the room, Ray is lounging against his desk. Alone.
Dief skids across the floor in a frantic attempt to greet him. Ray must
know I am there, but he doesn't look up as he ruffles Dief's ears. He has
abandoned his trademark jeans and tee-shirt for an outfit that must be a
holdover from his marriage. It has Stella Kowalski's manicured
fingerprints all over it. The black turtleneck and gray flannel trousers
suit him to a tee; he is stunning, but he is not my Ray.

 All of a sudden I cannot stand this. Ray was, once again, right. Canadian
stubborn has nothing over American stubborn. I will scream, break
ornaments, and upend file cabinets if I stay in this room one more second.
I call to Dief. He ignores me. I call again. He sits back on his haunches
and gives me a cool, silent look, daring me to call his name again. 

 I flee out the door.

 My father is standing at attention in front of my desk when I return to
the Consulate. He has forsaken the privacy and safety of his closet cum
wilderness, and he is wearing his uniform. Even as a ghost he still wears
it with a noble grace that was in no small part a primary reason I wanted
to be a Mountie. As a small child, I half believed he was an angel because
only someone blessed by God could wear a uniform with that much love. At
the time, the fact that he was devoting all of his time and energy to
serge and a lanyard when by all rights some of it should have found its
way to me was lost on me. 

 Now? Ignorance is bliss comes to mind.

 The combination of unplugged Ray, Dief's rejection, the sum hell of the
past few weeks, and my rage was almost impossible to contain. There are
some things that cannot be borne and this is one of them. This man, a more
perfect metaphor for abandonment couldn't possibly exist, had no right to
be here. I don't want a single lecture, no laundry lists of my failures,
no comparisons between me and him. I have had, for once, enough. I hold up
a hand and shout that, shout "Enough," with so much force that I wouldn't
have been surprised if they'd heard me in Toronto, but to no avail.

 "Here in official capacity this time, Son." He grabs my hand.

 I can tell immediately from the smell that I am back in Canada. The heavy
overtone of car exhaust is gone, as is the sharp smell of cement. People
tell me that you can't smell cement, but I can, and its brittle odor never
leaves me. This air is so sweet. I inhale deeply and shiver in delight.
Pine. Smoke. Snow. Oiled leather. Tea? Ah yes, there's a teapot on the
corner of the desk.

 I am sitting at a desk in full uniform. An older me. My hair and eyebrows
are nearly white, and while the flat of my hand is still broad, the grip
on my fountain pen sure and steady, the skin around my fingers seems to
have shrunk. Based on the crowned epaulet sewn expertly on the shoulder of
my uniform, I have advanced far beyond my expectations. I am an inspector.
Oddly enough, this shocks me more than pleases me. I cannot fathom what I
must have done to achieve such an exalted rank. My office befits my
station: the desk is quite large, engulfing the computer lodged on one
end, there are numerous chairs for visitors, and a lively fire fills the
grate. Heavy, ornate drapes frame large windows. There is the distinct
absence of file cabinets and, to my relief, no cot. No, this is the office
of someone important. But for the epaulet, I would have naturally assumed
this belonged to my superior officer. A dog, not Dief, is dozing by the
fire. My dog?

 I turn to my father, mute, my eyebrows hitting my hairline in shock.

 "Yes, that's you. Your future you." my father confirms. Despite being a
ghost, his hand rests very heavily on my shoulder. Although logically, if
you think about it, I suppose I am now a sort of ghost as well. We stand
there for several minutes, watching this older me fly through what seems
like an enormous amount of paperwork with a click of the mouse here, a
signature to a form there, that certainly would have made me proud had it
been me. Or I am proud of me. As it were.

 "I'm back in Canada? As an inspector? I must be near retirement," I add
idly.

 "No, Son. You're not that old. Fifty, I think. They," he makes a
fluttering gesture with his hand, "were kind of vague about the timeline
considering it was an emergency situation, but I'm pretty sure they said
fifty."

 I stare at him. Then I stare at the older me. I do not look fifty. I look
sixty if a day. There is an exhausted purse to my lips, and my frown line
has a settled, permanent crease to it.

 "I... I look older," I finish lamely. "How did I rise so far? That is
most unexpected."

 "Shocked me as well. Do not give me that mulish look, young man. After
you returned to Canada, your career took off, which up until that point I
have to admit wasn't exactly anything to write home about. Your mother was
willing to cut you some slack. That Victoria nonsense and all that. I
wasn't so sure, but I must say, you silenced all the critics. You married
your job. This time in a way that was almost psychotic. And for you that's
saying something. Due for yet another promotion, I hear."

 I stare at him again.

 "Word gets around," he shrugs. 

 Always stinting with his praise, why didn't these near compliments bring
the anticipated flush of pleasure? Perhaps because his inflection on the
phrase "married your job" was so marked that it was fairly drowning under
the scorn.

 "You aren't proud of me?" I ask quietly. I'd repeatedly fallen short in
his eyes. Not even being made an inspector seemed to have made a
difference. What did one more failure matter?

 "I'll let your older self do all the talking."

 My older self picked up the phone. "Constable Higgins, I asked for those
files two hours ago."

 A mere ten seconds later, a young man entered the room, his arms filled
with manila folders.

 "Sir?" the clearly overwhelmed constable intoned. His uniform was
wrinkled, one cheek marked with soot.

 "My inbox, Constable. Like every single time I ask you. I shall be done
with them in two hours. Come fetch them then. If you can find your way
here. Based on the length of time it took you to retrieve these files, I
feared you had gotten lost between the file room and my office. I nearly
sent out a search party. Next time, use a map."

 Since I was currently just a wisp of corporeal past and apparently
limited to only observation and little else, I could do nothing. But in
another circumstance, I would have privately pulled this young man aside
and suggest that he apply for a transfer immediately before his career was
irretrievably ruined. Based on this minute exchange, I could only imagine
his personnel file would be thick with detailed lists of his shortcomings.
I know all too well the "always a constable, never a corporal" scenario.
Or at least I used to know it. Intimately. 

 The future me hadn't bothered to look up during this dressing down, just
kept relentlessly scrolling through files on the computer. Inspector
Thatcher's pointed slights at me were child's play compared to the
nonchalant rudeness of the man behind the desk. I hadn't bothered to even
acknowledge this person's presence with a simple thank you. My fixation on
the computer screen kept me from seeing the grimace on the other man's
face as he piled the files into the empty inbox. This man hated me, the
older me. A request for a transfer was, no doubt, filled out and just
waiting to be sent.

 "Sir?" he coughed.

 Finally, I looked up. 

 "Yes." There is no question on the end of that "yes."

 "It's Christmas. Constable Arens and I were wondering. Do you think we
could... We'd like Christmas dinner with our families, and my father's
made a special trip from Ottawa to see the children..."

 The request died on his lips.

 "This may surprise you, Constable, but I make it a practice to look at
the calendar every day. I am perfectly aware of what day it is. You wish
to finish early?"

 "Yes. Sir."

 I went back to my screen. "You will take it as vacation time. And take
that uniform to the cleaners. You appear in it again without a proper
press and I'll make a note of it in your file."

 With another "Sir," he was out the door, the compliance and hatred
implicit in that simple word. I didn't like this man either. I was always
somewhat hidebound and a tad too fanatical regarding duty, but I was never
rude, nor cruel, nor did I ever wield what little power I had just for the
sake of wielding it. I knew the man with the ramrod posture commanding
this desk and yet I didn't. Based on this small exchange, I did know that
it would take me little to despise him.

 The next two hours were a repeat of the first. A relentless and
methodical back and forth between paper and computer screen. Each time a
folder was finished to my satisfaction, the papers were methodically
aligned so that all sheets were nestled neatly in the middle of the
folder, and then the folders were piled in my outbox for eventual
retrieval by the unfortunate Constables Arens and Higgins. There was no
phone call yelling at me to fuck the paperwork and get my ass to the
dinner table. No one asking where in the hell was I, time was a wasting.
Christmas only came once a year and if I didn't get a move on my dinner
would be fed to the wolf. Pitter patter, let's get at `er. I didn't merit
one phone call. 

 "I do not look happy," I comment and hug myself, because, unfortunately,
the ghosts of a previous world do not benefit from the fires of their
future; I was cold. A near-permanent state these days.

 "No, Son. I would say you are fairly miserable. Successful, but
miserable."

 Given my previous predilections, it seemed prudent to ask. "Do I live
here?"

 "No, although you might as well. You have a computer hook-up to your
apartment. Your usual pattern is to leave here around seven and then do
three more hours of paperwork. If previous Christmases are any indication,
it will be business as usual."

 "Maggie?" I whisper out the name of my sister.

 "Given up on you. You're dug in pretty deep, my boy. Pretty deep."

 Finally, the pen was put away and a jacket removed from the closet.

 "Chi," the older me orders the dog awake.

 The dog is old, stiff with arthritis, and she struggles to her feet.
There is no answering wag of the tail, indeed, the tail is tucked firmly
between the legs, and even more horribly there is no hand reaching down to
fondle an ear. The dog looks warily at the toe of my older self's boot.
Afraid. 

 Dear God, not only am I sort of superior that I abhor, I have become the
sort of man who kicks dogs. This, more than anything I have seen, sickens
me. It is all sickening, but this is unbearable.

 "Ray," I mumble, because his fate must be better than this. It has to be.
"Let me see Ray." I will see him and it will be all right. Ray will have
found someone; another intelligent, sexy blond, but this one will
appreciate him for the person he is. He will not be the American
counterpart of that twisted, bitter man who resents the families of his
co-workers and kicks his dog when no one is looking. 

 For the first time in my memory, my father looks uncertain. 

 "No, Benton. That's not wise."

 "No, you listen," my ghost hands grab him by the shoulders, and there
must be some sort of corporeal unbalance because while I can feel his
hands on me, my hands grasp nothing. "I must see Ray. You've denied me God
knows everything else in my life, do not deny me this," I demand.

 "More tears are shed by answered prayers," he warns and reaches for my
hand.

 I am in Ray's kitchen, with no sign of my father. That it is the same
kitchen only ten years grimier does not bode well. There is the usual
stack of old pizza boxes; take-out containers are spilling over the top of
the garbage can; and something new: a mountain of empty liquor bottles.
Ray stumbles in from the living room, a half-filled bottle of Jack Daniels
in one hand, a black magic marker in the other. 

 "God fuck you merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay, for fuck all, fuck
all, fuckfuckfuck all happened on this day, to save us all from fucking
nothing..." He stops in front of a calendar, crosses off a big X on the
box labeled the twenty-fifth, and drops the marker on the floor. The floor
is dotted with black marks, and I gather between the marks on the floor
and the empty bottles of liquor that this is a nightly ritual. 

 If my future self is a cruel mockery of my present self, Ray's future
self is true tragedy. The physical hallmarks of severe alcoholism are
impossible to ignore; the bloated girth, the puffy face, the cheeks
mottled and red from broken capillaries. There is nothing of his natural
grace and beauty left. He He staggers toward the table. I reach out to
grab him, to stop him from falling, but he is practiced at this and
reaches the table without crashing to the floor. As my hand passes through
him he shivers. No sooner does he sit down than his mother phones and
leaves a lengthy message, wishing him a Merry Christmas. Throughout her
entire message he screams at the phone, "Shut the fuck up." Eventually his
downstairs neighbor begins pounding on the ceiling with a broom for Ray to
keep it down, and the three of them go on like this for several minutes. I
have entered bedlam.

 Finally, his mother hangs up (I suspect the tape ran out), Ray stops
yelling, and the neighbor stops pounding the ceiling. He swigs the liquor
directly from the bottle, and if anything smacks of complete and total
alcoholism it is this perfect disregard for the nicety of a glass. When he
is done, he removes his holster. I am shocked to see that he's still
wearing his gun. Then I see the box of bullets on the table. He mumbles
something that sounds like "show time." Even in his extreme inebriation he
loads one bullet into his revolver without a fumble. Then he spins the
chamber. Dear God. No. No. Brings it up to his head. No. No. NO!

 I grab for him.

 The noise is deafening. 

 My hand connects with a door jamb. I am back at the precinct and that pop
was not the roar of a gun, but the report of a champagne bottle. People
are laughing and squealing, and good naturedly jostling each other out of
the way to fill their glasses as the gushing champagne douses everyone
within reach. Ray is playing with his eggnog, seeing just how far he can
tip the glass back and forth before it spills over the rim; the activity
of someone counting the seconds before he can leave without creating too
much hoopla. The frivolity around him touches him not. He is where I left
him, alone, backed up against his desk, a non-stop grimace marring his
fine features. But miracles of miracles, it's not too late. It's still
Christmas Eve, our time. He's still young and slim and I hope to God he's
still mine.

 Ray does not see me, but Dief does and his black snout pushes up against
Ray's hand, spilling Ray's eggnog.

 "Hey, Wolf. Watch it," he grouses and then spies me clutching the
doorframe.

 I open my mouth, but I can't say anything, nor can I move, apparently.
He's across the bullpen in a flash.

 "Hey, hey, you okay?"

 I am about as not "okay" as they come. I hug him tight and can only shake
my head, mouthing "Sorry," into his hair. 

 "Okay, buddy, okay. We're out of here. Get you to my place and you tell
me all about it." He pulls away from me just enough to sling a supportive
arm around me and then steers me out of the bullpen into the hallway. We
are nearly at the front door when he stops and looks at me. "Fraser, are
we on the same page here?"

 I nod gratefully and put my head on his shoulder. "Yes, Ray."

 ******************************

 There are things that need to be said. Several things actually, but most
of them can wait until morning. Two things cannot, however; I must be
honest with Ray before we go any further. One is more of a warning,
something that I feel is only fair, and the other is a confession. I would
love to appropriate the glory that will be us on my shoulders, but if not
for my father's meddling, I do not know that I wouldn't have pushed my
point to the next logical step: to request a transfer, and then a plane
ticket home, and then a series of posts where I intimidated and terrified
those around me, until I reached that final denouement in that truly
horrifying office where I was hated by everyone around me, even my dog.
That snippet into our potential futures was so real, the man I could so
easily become; nothing more than a plane ticket to Ottawa away. And Ray's
alcoholism? Yes, a hard but necessary truth we both must face. Regardless,
our fate together cannot be worse than our future apart. If Ray can face
saddling himself with a potential abuser of animals, I can face the
potential of his drinking to excess. I move my leg so that our knees touch
while we drive to the apartment in silence. The warmth of his leg is
bliss; I sigh happily as he pushes back. 

 I wish I could say that I had had the courage to bring up these two
burning issues on the drive home, but apparently my cowardice knows no
bounds. Ray is fitting the key into his lock when I still his hand.

 "Ray, stop. You have to know before, we, ah, proceed. My experience, my,
ah, sexual experience has been limited. Extremely limited. As in one
person. As in Victoria, so you will have to forgive me. Not only do I lack
depth of sexual experience, but my, ah, never have I with, you must
understand, a male, of male gender. I cannot but feel that you will be
disappointed, but I..."

 Ray is grinning at me.

 "Frase, will you chill? When we drafted you for that baseball game
against the 1-9 last spring, the one where you'd never picked up a bat in
your life, you were up at bat, what, four times?"

 "Yes, I believe so."

 "You doubled your first time up and homered the last three times. And the
game of golf at that really boring forensics conference in Arizona last
November? The conference where I nearly stuck a fork into my head and
yelled, "Forensic this, you boring assholes!" Having never picked up a
golf club either, I might add, deja weird, what was your score?
Seventy-three?"

 "Seventy-two. I wasn't pleased with my overall performance, but there was
quite a wind, if you recall."

 "Yeah, I recall." he rolls his eyes. "We won't even talk about my score.
And I took lessons for an entire year. Stel had visions of me making nice
with judges on the greens. Har de har har. Kind of backfired when I asked
them what Clash concerts they'd been to. So believe me, I'm not worried.
Anything physical and you're all over it. If they were to hold the sex
Olympics tomorrow and you were Canada's contender, I'd have no doubt you'd
walk away with nothing less than a silver." He claps me on the back.
"Okay? It's not why we're here anyways."

 Ray is possibly the most physical person I have ever met. The hand on
one's shoulder, the high fives, the constant feel of him, his intrinsic
warmth, his easy sexuality, that hum he gives off, the smell of his
arousal, earthy and pungent. If Ray is not a highly sexed individual, I am
a Latvian bricklayer. I give him a look.

 He holds up his hands in surrender. "Busted. Yeah, I'm a horn dog. Admit
it. But I ain't worried. We got the duet thing always happening in the
background. Remember? We'll be good together, and if we're not, we'll
figure it out. Don't have a ton of experience in that area either, like
none, but hand jobs I figure we both got that down, and how hard can a
blowjob be? Typical. You already got a leg up on that one, Mr. Oral
Fixation My Mouth Is Always Good to Go."

 My continued trepidation must have shown on my face.

 "So kiss me. Right here. Right now," he demands.

 Oh. Oh. Ray plugged back-in!

 All of a sudden it is a million degrees in his hallway and my mouth is on
fire and I lurch forward because Ray really does have the most beautiful
bottom lip that deserves to be licked and tasted and nibbled on and how
could I forget about sucking it and the memory of his thigh tucked against
mine and what about that top lip of his because it is equally lovely and
so sweet and I love him so much that...

 "Whoa, Nellie," and Ray is holding me back slightly, panting hard. "A
ten. From the Russian judge," he laughs weakly and smiles. Is there anyone
with a smile more adorable than Ray Kowalski's? I think not. I lean
forward to kiss him again, only to be stopped by a firm palm on my
shoulder. "We got to get this inside. Being busted on Christmas Eve for
public indecency sucks a million different kinds of ass. Trust me on this
one. Been there, done that. Officer, please don't write that ticket." He
turns around to open his door. I still his hand.

 "Ray, one more thing..."

 He huffs in extreme exasperation and rolls his hands for me to get on
with the show.

 "As much as this pains me, I must confess that I didn't come to this,
this epiphany about us on my lonesome." There it was out.

 "Fraser, if I haven't said it before, read me loud and clear. You are a
fucking freak. I don't care how we got here..."

 `No, no, you don't understand," I insist. "I nearly ruined this." I run a
shaking hand along his jawbone. "Us. I just couldn't see it and I want to
say how sorry I am. How much you mean to me. And how stupid, stupid I was.
You were right, absolutely right, and if it weren't for... Sorry, I'm so
sorry. But it wasn't me, it wasn't me and I can't take credit..." I
whisper and hope he understands and leaves it at that because how can I
possibly explain what happened tonight and not sound like a total lunatic.

 He takes my face in his hands and then demands, "Look at me. I don't give
a flying fuck how we got here..."

 "You are too generous..." I drag my mouth across the breadth of his palm.

 "No, I'm not. I'm a selfish bastard who's gonna use every trick in the
book to get you into my bed. So figure you're talking Fraser voodoo. More
than the usual level."

 I nod.

 "Fucking-a, Frase. You know, you Canadians could take a page from the
Americans on this one. We keep this shit contained at places like Roswell.
We don't spread it around like air freshener the way you guys do."

 I cannot let that generalized slur pass however much it tars me with the
lunatic brush. "I doubt that Canadians at large..."

 "Yeah, yeah, got it. Yet another episode of Twilight Zone You Got Nothing
On Benton Fraser. Gotta confess, Frase, I got enough of your weird voodoo
in my life, I don't want any more. You've already got me talking to deaf
wolves." At that, Dief makes a satisfied whuff. "Yeah, I'm talking about
you, fur ball. Christ," and he runs an agitated hand through his hair. "We
got into a twenty-minute debate yesterday on whose donuts were better: Mr.
Kim's or Krispy Kremes. Forgetting the numero uno fact that I'm talking to
a wolf on a steady and constant basis and he's talking back to me on a
steady and constant basis, the topics are really weird."

 "Yes," I agree. "I've noticed that most of my conversations with
Diefenbaker do border on the surreal. And food centric. Although that's
hardly a surprise given his gargantuan appetite. I assume he was towing
the corporate line." I give him a rather disapproving glare.

 "Oh yeah, you got it. Krispy Kremes all the way. When the revolution
comes, dog, you're gonna be canine toast. Shit, here we go again." Ray
closes his eyes briefly. "Weirdness. Twenty. Four. Seven. Something tells
me that it really doesn't matter to the guys in the white coats if you
think the wolf talks back or you only pretend the wolf talks back. End
result's the same. Fail the yearly psych exam. Hola, whackjob."

 "The limited nature of those tests..."

 "Fraser, quit it. I'm good with this. I don't care if you called in the
pope or your dad..."

 At that I start.

 Ray cocks his head and looks down at Dief.

 "Called in the big guns, did you?"

 Dief gives me a look of pure scorn, as if to say, "Well, look what you
gave me to work with."

 "So got that little dad voodoo thing going?" Ray asks, as cool as you
please.

 "You know about my father?" I am shocked, hoping that that little secret
was, well, still secret.

 Ray cuffs me gently on the side of the head. "Fraser, do we need another
lesson on what Ray does for a living? Detective. Remember? You spend a lot
of time locking yourself in closets. Probably only a couple left in the
entire frigging city that you haven't tried..."

 "Now, really, Ray. That's a gross exaggeration..."

 "Okay, maybe there are ten you haven't checked out. Ten max. Whenever you
barricade yourself in, I hear plenty of one-sided conversations where
you're yelling at someone called `dad'. Like I need to be a brain surgeon
to figure this out? If you talk to Dief, talking to your old man is weird
but not that weird. Still in the minors of the weird ballpark. The wolf
thing? That's major league weird. It is too, and if you drool on my dress
boots I'm telling Santa you were a bad wolf this year, so zip it. And
since we're on the subject of weird, just so you know. The Canadian
wilderness in your office closet thing? We are never, ever going there,
because I already told you that my TIVO subscription will not cover any
more of your voodoo. So let's get this straight: your father finally steps
up to the plate and does you a big favor--and I really don't want to know
how he does this favor--rights some wrongs in the process, and bingo we're
doing good. We're..." and here all his bravado fails; his voice begins to
waver. He tightens his hand around my jaw. "Here... Now, we got greatness.
Let's just go with that, okay? Please, Frase? Just go with this."

 It was both a plea and an offer. I'd be a fool to turn down either.

 I nod yes.

 "See this here, Fraser?" In a 180-degree turnaround, Ray holds up his key
with his usual flourish and style, grinning from ear to ear. "For the
third and final time, I am putting this key in the lock. You try to stop
me, I will, I swear to God, kick you in the head. Time to go for the gold,
Frase."

 Ray gets off an O Canada before I shove him against the wall and silence
him with a kiss.

 ***************************

 Ray's low baritone wakes me up. He is singing Christmas carols and shadow
boxing around the bed. The rhythmic tap of his stocking-clad feet beat a
soft tattoo against the hardwood floor as he circles the room. His tatty
wool robe is tied loosely around his hips, but I can still make out the
lithe and tight balance of his body as he moves, punching the air in
sharp, quick jibes. The dull quality of the light tells me it's still
early, not much more than seven. 

 "Deck the jails with the asses of criminals. Fa la la la punch, la, la,
la punch.

 Tis the season to slap the cuffs on. Fa la la la punch, la, la, la punch.

 Follow me to get printed and booked. Fa la la punch, la la punch.

 Your lying thieving goose is cooked. Fa la la la punch, la, la, la,
punch."

 "An interesting rendition of an old classic. It's cold. Come back to bed,
Ray."

 "Frase," he says in his tortured, pre-coffee voice; however, there is a
smile on his face. "Didn't mean to wake you. Waiting on the wolf. Was
determined..."

 A sharp, and to my ears, rather disappointed bark comes from the
direction of the open window. Ray lets down the fire escape, and I hear
the scramble of Dief's paws as they fight for purchase on the icy steel.
He leaps in through the window and moseys forward in a dejected amble.

 "I told you so. Put that pout back where it belongs, buster," Ray warns.

 That gets something between a growl and a grumble.

 "Idiot wolf thought he heard Mr. Kim rolling up his storefront. Which I
told him wasn't happening on Christmas day. Which the stupid fur ball
ignored. Which means maybe next time he should listen to me and not that
bottomless pit pretending to be a wolf stomach..."

 That gets a definite growl as Dief makes his way out the room.

 "Jeez, he's so grumpy first thing in the morning. How do you stand it?"

 "I get an inordinate amount of practice," I deadpan.

 "I mean, I could understand if it was coffee... Good thing I stocked up
yesterday." Ray yells, "Under the tree in the white bag, you pig in wolf's
clothing."

 A distinctive thud follows, exactly the sort of noise you'd hear if a
rampaging wolf had knocked over a Christmas tree in search of a bag filled
with day-old donuts.

 "The tree?"

 Ray stuck his head around the corner of the jamb. "A goner," he confirms.
Even though it's still quite dark, I can see his eyes widen in alarm.
"Oops. Guess the extra sugar was a bad idea. Hey, don't give me that look.
It's Christmas."

 Yes, it's Christmas. And I'm not fifty and bitter and angry and Ray is
with me and he was right we have so much capacity for love and dear God
what did I do to deserve such happiness?

 I pat the bed. "Come. You must be freezing."

 "One more round." He circles the room, and when he reaches the bed he
throws one last punch. As usual, the caress that had always masqueraded as
a punch lands on my bicep. But this time his fist is open. He grasps me,
and pulls me forward. Instead of the kiss I am expecting, he rests our
foreheads together and mumbles against my mouth, his voice husky, as deep
as I've ever heard it, "Merry Christmas, Frase. Love you."

 "I love you, too, Ray. Merry Christmas."

 Then his mouth finds my ear. "The Americans are planning an upset," he
whispers in between licks and sucks. "Don't get too attached to that
medal."

 O Canada!

 Fin.

  
  

End It's a Wonderful Christmas Carol by pir8fancier 

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