Rated NC-17 for graphic m/m sex. Any recognizable characters belong to Alliance and the Pauls. Fraser and Ray belong to each other. Not us. *sigh*

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.

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Like a House on Fire
© 2002 Beth H. and Kellie Matthews

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