Finally Due South returns.
Title: Crowded Home
Author: americanjedi
Fandom: Due South
Beta: primroseburrows
Rating: PG
Summary: Its vacation time for the boys, IN SPACE! Ray meets Stevie. Dief and Fraser meet Auntie.
Benton had heard stirring in his closet -- muttering, banging, sounds like power tools. Luckily Baker was off on shore leave, or else things might have gotten really embarrassing. Seeing the (maybe) ghost of the (maybe) murderer who had given his life for him was one thing, but this was starting to get him to question his sanity. He would be infinitely grateful when his own shore leave came up and he would be free to visit the mother ship, and hopefully Langoustini. The man had always made him feel vaguely unsophisticated, like there were forces far beyond his ken at work. But Benton had to have faith in people, in the absolutes of good and evil.
More importantly, he believed Langoustini wanted to believe. If he had to he could use that, do like Kowalski told him to, do what he had to in order to find out about his father. He wasn’t quite used to the idea yet, but he was willing to try.
***
Ray lay on his sofa, just the heels of his flight boots hanging off the edge, with a turtle resting on his chest. The little guy had been run over on the street -- cracked right open like a walnut, poor little thing -- and hadn’t quite gotten over the trauma of it. He could get that. He was sure he’d feel the same way, if he’d been run over, just marching across the road, minding his own business when BAM, some kid that doesn’t know how to drive pops out of nowhere and mows him down. Hadn’t even stuck his head out of his shell once since.
And Ray couldn’t just leave him. He was just a little brown-green (didn’t want to think about the rest of the colors) lump floating out in the middle of the afterlife. Didn’t think anyone would mind anyway, him picking up a lonely turtle. All in one piece now, but still plenty traumatized. He let the turtle take his time, Ray wasn’t going anywhere, or at least he hoped he wasn’t. Besides he hadn’t exactly expected a turtle to play fetch with him, he had picked him up because Stevie needed a home.
Ray’s digs weren’t really fancy, but it seemed he wasn’t really going anywhere for now. The only place he could go was down, and he preferred Purgatory, thank you. It was a nice enough arrangement, as long as he didn’t mind installing his own hardware, laying down the wood floor and setting down the footprints for the quick step, foxtrot and, his favorite, the waltz. He was thinking of adding a garage, but for now this was enough. More than enough, more than he’d thought he’d get.
He ran his finger carefully down the turtle’s shell, he wasn’t sure if the turtle felt it, even cared that he was petting him, but it made Ray feel better. “Life sucks, huh, little guy?”
The turtle didn’t respond, but Ray thought he’d probably agreed.
Ray was taking a couple weeks off so to speak, from saving the Mountie’s butt (and he knew he had been spending too much time with Frase if he was censoring his own internal monologue) just him and the turtle. It helped his guilt a little that the Mounties were off on shore leave too. Although Frase was probably the only soldier in the galaxy, with the possible exceptions of Fraser the Elder and Frobisher the Crazy, who had to be practically threatened with a kick in the head to get him out the door. In the end Ray had held up the secret carrot. That Langoustini would be a help -- and he’d better too. Ray’s hands were tied, which was something that Frase just didn’t get. The guy was too smart, anything Ray could give him, well, he’d know that Ray got it direct and where Ray got it direct from. His only wild card at the moment (other than the fact he was, well, dead and still wandering around in a manner of speaking) Langoustini, who was played by the agency’s own agent, The Suit, and The Suit would be able to launder the information.
Blue skies weren’t exactly shining again, but a bit of a vacation from pointed looks would be nice. Not that he expected any blue shining skies, they probably stopped shining when Ray had signed up for the War, only space up there, and space was basic black. All things considered though (mostly that Ray had expected to wake up in a very hot place and he’d give you a hint, he wasn’t talking about Arizona) things weren’t too bad. For Officer Kowalski’s only son, and for Fraser who sometimes acted like he didn’t have the good sense to get out of the way of a transport if he thought he could save a puppy in the process, a vacation might be just the thing. Stupid Moutie.
Frankly it would be a nice, just Ray Kowalski and his pet turtle-- no keeping big red out of trouble, no more construction, no more worry.
He wished he could still taste beer.
***
“Fraser!”
Baker threw his arms around Benton as soon as he stepped off the ship, “Fraser!” He jerked as Baker squeezed him, getting a face full of the smell of healthy sweat, leather and sugar. “What are you doing still in uniform? You’re on shore leave!” Baker was bounding around him in a circle, pulling a little on a square of cloth here or there, straightening his tie. Being overwhelming.
At least Ray was intangible.
“It’s the brown one,” Benton said by way of self defense. It was odd to see Baker out of uniform, the leather coat, the neat slacks. His hiking boots weren’t even laced up. And his hair was dyed reddish blond again. “Oh, ‘it’s the brown one,’” Baker rolled his eyes and held up a finger. “Not good enough. We’re going to have to get you into civvies. Then I’m taking you out on the town.”
Baker looked like he could be anyone, a civilian, a tourist, a dock worker. It was in the very least disconcerting. So was the constant reminder that the War was over, Benton didn’t need to be armed, didn’t need to constantly be watching the people around him for possible guerilla fighters, for enemies. In fact it was prohibited for one of Her Majesty’s soldiers to carry a weapon on their person, other than a utility knife, while on shore leave, or outside their post except when acting as a personal guard or courier… Baker had asked him a question which Benton had missed. He was about to ask him to please repeat himself when Baker just grinned at him and looped an arm around Benton’s neck in what was beginning to accept as a mark of Baker’s cultural heritage.
“Don’t worry boss,” Baker said affectionately, “I’ll make sure to only introduce you to the good girls. If I introduce you to one of my favored ladies you might stroke out from blushing to hard.”
Benton’s gratitude went without saying.
***
Auntie Dubois was quintessential, like a Frenchwoman from an old film from the nineties, intensely Québécois. Not very popular in wartime, but Auntie didn’t seem to mind. For a woman who sat so still, so posed, she had enough authority to be almost well- daunting at the very least. The immensity of her hair, like Marie Antoinette’s, he thought absently, the immaculate shimmer of her whatever she had put on her face and the gold of her clothing had put Benton into a sort of thrall. Almost exactly like a frightened rabbit. Baker had to jostle him sharply out of it.
Her long fingers held a glass as she lounged in the booth of The Mandarin, her fingernails curiously unpainted so her could see the fragile pale pink curve just above her nail bed. It made her seem more human. There was something intrinsically artistic about the way she sat there, posed; the gold of her dress against the warm orange of the seats, the warm lights against the paleness of her tightly curled hair piled over her head.
“Call me Auntie, everyone else does. It is one of those, what do you call it, nicknames? This is what I get for a life of public service,” she said, Benton wasn’t completely sure if she was actually irritated, or if she viewed it as a sort of joke. “You are friends of monsieur Langoustini, oui?”
There hadn’t been smoking in most of the public places in ship port though for quite some time, but the scent of tobacco clung very lightly to her clothing, and he could almost imagine her holding a cigarette between two fingers. A white grey arabesque of smoke rising in a pillar beside her face and the tactile beauty of an oil based flame as she cupped her hand around her lighter, the small flame flickering in the spaces between her fingers as she lit her cigarette. Baker barked a sharp laughed and bumped Benton again.
She took a careful drink, slowly, casting a plainly predatory eye over Benton, making him blush, and then over Sergeant Baker. The two of them smiled at each other slowly before she extended a hand to Baker. He bowed over her hand, kissing it, doing inappropriate things with his eyes. Benton cleared his throat; he could feel the flush spreading up his face. True, in nightclubs such as this he imagine romance was likely, or whatever it was that Baker had in mind. “Yes,” Benton said quickly. “He is a friend of ours, of mine really.”
“A dangerous man, the Bookman, friend or not,” she took another sip of her drink. “He and his wife will be in later. Blonde girl, kind of young, cold sort of girl, lots of money. They like to come out, entertain, be entertained. You know,” she waved one hand.
“Of course,” Baker said, grinning wolfishly.
“You come visit me late,r darling, I work in Scarpa’s office as an aide. You can’t come see me at work of course, but I like it here at the Mandarin, even if monsieur Dewey smells like fish.”
“Oh, I’d love to talk to you later,” Baker smiled.
“Baker,” Benton pulled on his friend’s arm. He was starting to look like he might slip right in next to Auntie, but they had things to do
“Be careful,” Auntie Dubois said, stretching outrageously for the benefit of Baker, and possibly a few of the other men in the club. (Benton tried to squash such uncharitable thoughts.) “Le diâble est aux vaches.”
Benton leaned over toward Baker who held up a hand to forestall him, “I’ll explain later.”
***
Benton found it odd to be wearing civilian clothing, it was too loose. He tried wearing layers, tucking things in, but it didn’t really help. The décor in Langoustini’s office didn’t help much; it only made him afraid to bump into something and leave a smudge. The furniture and carpet that took away his footsteps and the high set of book shelf that rose behind Langoustini’s desk like a buttress, a cliff face, a mahogany tidal wave was all there for a single purpose, intimidation. The wall of books (real books made out of paper) looming behind the expensively groomed bookman was meant to convey one thing. That Armando Langoustini had money, that Armando Langoustini had power and that Armando Langoustini had a force of will that had put him in command of the Iguana family quietly and completely in a few short years.
But despite Langoustini’s shadowy reputation the man had been kind to Benton each time they had previously met. And Ray had told him to come here. Ray was an impossible man to pin down, he had spent his whole life posing as anything to anyone and doing it so well-- with Benton’s experience with people how could he possibly expect to be able to decipher even a seed of truth from Ray’s heart. It took a great deal more skill than he had to pin Kowalski down, but despite that, or maybe because of it Benton was put completely at the man’s- ghost’s- Kowalski’s mercy.
“Did you get my e-mail?” Benton said.
Langoustini was tapping his long fingers on his desk, “Yeah, the dead Mountie thing, like I couldn’t have guessed. Do you have any idea how many dead Mountie things get pushed across my desk? There was a war on. I do not have time for this; I am a very busy man.”
Benton felt the brim of his helmet bite into his palms, “He was my father. I would appreciate your assistance in this matter.”
“I thought he died in an accident,” he leaned back sharply, his voice going hard.
“There are recent developments,” Benton told his helmet. “And I’m in no position to find the proof, but you, you could help me. Get me information. At least send me in the right direction.”
“All right, ” he said. “All right.”
***
Ray liked old music: Justin Timberlake, Kanye West, the Black Eyed Peas, stuff his parents had danced to when they were dating. He had read up a little on turtles--not really touchy feely creatures, but Stevie got all sad if he was left alone so sometimes Ray took him out, set him on his chest, gave his shell a little pet. The feel of little turtle claws pressing through his t-shirt made him feel a little sentimental. He was starting to get pretty mellowed out, and the knock at his door almost knocked him off the sofa.
“Uh, yeah?”
There was a silence on the other side of the door. Maybe Ray was spending too much time with Frase that he recognized the man’s loaded silences.
“Agent Kowalski?” Fraser said, which put a weird kinda thrill in him, like he was respected or something. Like he was official.
“Yeah, Frase?”
There was a long pause, “May I come in?” Of course Fraser would be big on Proper Grammar, Ray heard his third grade teacher from a thousand years back saying, 'I don't know, can you go to the bathroom?' and embarrassing him in front of everyone. Weird the things that stuck.
Ray looked around his apartment; it was pretty neat, it could be worse, “Yeah, sure.”
There was another long pause, “Could you unlock the door?”
“Already unlocked.”
“Oh!” Fraser said. “Sorry!” He opened the door and peered in, “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” Ray was lying with his heels stacked and his hand resting on the top of the turtle’s shell. He tried not to feel too nervous about having Fraser visit him in his new place.“You okay? You need something?”
“No, I- I- I heard music coming from the closet,” Fraser kept moving from one foot to the other in front of his hung up clothes, the uniforms and the civvies.
“Oh! Sorry!” Now Frase had him doing it. He hopped up, tucking Stevie up close against his chest, heading for his ipod player. “Didn’t know you could hear it through the walls.”
“Not at all,” Fraser said politely.
“I’d offer you a drink, some of that leaf and twig stuff you like, but it’s a little different this side of the closet.”
“No, please! Let me excuse myself,” Fraser said and was back out the door before Ray could get to the speakers.
“Well Stevie,” Ray said. “That was interesting.”
Author: americanjedi
Fandom: Due South
Beta: primroseburrows
Rating: PG
Summary: Its vacation time for the boys, IN SPACE! Ray meets Stevie. Dief and Fraser meet Auntie.
Benton had heard stirring in his closet -- muttering, banging, sounds like power tools. Luckily Baker was off on shore leave, or else things might have gotten really embarrassing. Seeing the (maybe) ghost of the (maybe) murderer who had given his life for him was one thing, but this was starting to get him to question his sanity. He would be infinitely grateful when his own shore leave came up and he would be free to visit the mother ship, and hopefully Langoustini. The man had always made him feel vaguely unsophisticated, like there were forces far beyond his ken at work. But Benton had to have faith in people, in the absolutes of good and evil.
More importantly, he believed Langoustini wanted to believe. If he had to he could use that, do like Kowalski told him to, do what he had to in order to find out about his father. He wasn’t quite used to the idea yet, but he was willing to try.
***
Ray lay on his sofa, just the heels of his flight boots hanging off the edge, with a turtle resting on his chest. The little guy had been run over on the street -- cracked right open like a walnut, poor little thing -- and hadn’t quite gotten over the trauma of it. He could get that. He was sure he’d feel the same way, if he’d been run over, just marching across the road, minding his own business when BAM, some kid that doesn’t know how to drive pops out of nowhere and mows him down. Hadn’t even stuck his head out of his shell once since.
And Ray couldn’t just leave him. He was just a little brown-green (didn’t want to think about the rest of the colors) lump floating out in the middle of the afterlife. Didn’t think anyone would mind anyway, him picking up a lonely turtle. All in one piece now, but still plenty traumatized. He let the turtle take his time, Ray wasn’t going anywhere, or at least he hoped he wasn’t. Besides he hadn’t exactly expected a turtle to play fetch with him, he had picked him up because Stevie needed a home.
Ray’s digs weren’t really fancy, but it seemed he wasn’t really going anywhere for now. The only place he could go was down, and he preferred Purgatory, thank you. It was a nice enough arrangement, as long as he didn’t mind installing his own hardware, laying down the wood floor and setting down the footprints for the quick step, foxtrot and, his favorite, the waltz. He was thinking of adding a garage, but for now this was enough. More than enough, more than he’d thought he’d get.
He ran his finger carefully down the turtle’s shell, he wasn’t sure if the turtle felt it, even cared that he was petting him, but it made Ray feel better. “Life sucks, huh, little guy?”
The turtle didn’t respond, but Ray thought he’d probably agreed.
Ray was taking a couple weeks off so to speak, from saving the Mountie’s butt (and he knew he had been spending too much time with Frase if he was censoring his own internal monologue) just him and the turtle. It helped his guilt a little that the Mounties were off on shore leave too. Although Frase was probably the only soldier in the galaxy, with the possible exceptions of Fraser the Elder and Frobisher the Crazy, who had to be practically threatened with a kick in the head to get him out the door. In the end Ray had held up the secret carrot. That Langoustini would be a help -- and he’d better too. Ray’s hands were tied, which was something that Frase just didn’t get. The guy was too smart, anything Ray could give him, well, he’d know that Ray got it direct and where Ray got it direct from. His only wild card at the moment (other than the fact he was, well, dead and still wandering around in a manner of speaking) Langoustini, who was played by the agency’s own agent, The Suit, and The Suit would be able to launder the information.
Blue skies weren’t exactly shining again, but a bit of a vacation from pointed looks would be nice. Not that he expected any blue shining skies, they probably stopped shining when Ray had signed up for the War, only space up there, and space was basic black. All things considered though (mostly that Ray had expected to wake up in a very hot place and he’d give you a hint, he wasn’t talking about Arizona) things weren’t too bad. For Officer Kowalski’s only son, and for Fraser who sometimes acted like he didn’t have the good sense to get out of the way of a transport if he thought he could save a puppy in the process, a vacation might be just the thing. Stupid Moutie.
Frankly it would be a nice, just Ray Kowalski and his pet turtle-- no keeping big red out of trouble, no more construction, no more worry.
He wished he could still taste beer.
***
“Fraser!”
Baker threw his arms around Benton as soon as he stepped off the ship, “Fraser!” He jerked as Baker squeezed him, getting a face full of the smell of healthy sweat, leather and sugar. “What are you doing still in uniform? You’re on shore leave!” Baker was bounding around him in a circle, pulling a little on a square of cloth here or there, straightening his tie. Being overwhelming.
At least Ray was intangible.
“It’s the brown one,” Benton said by way of self defense. It was odd to see Baker out of uniform, the leather coat, the neat slacks. His hiking boots weren’t even laced up. And his hair was dyed reddish blond again. “Oh, ‘it’s the brown one,’” Baker rolled his eyes and held up a finger. “Not good enough. We’re going to have to get you into civvies. Then I’m taking you out on the town.”
Baker looked like he could be anyone, a civilian, a tourist, a dock worker. It was in the very least disconcerting. So was the constant reminder that the War was over, Benton didn’t need to be armed, didn’t need to constantly be watching the people around him for possible guerilla fighters, for enemies. In fact it was prohibited for one of Her Majesty’s soldiers to carry a weapon on their person, other than a utility knife, while on shore leave, or outside their post except when acting as a personal guard or courier… Baker had asked him a question which Benton had missed. He was about to ask him to please repeat himself when Baker just grinned at him and looped an arm around Benton’s neck in what was beginning to accept as a mark of Baker’s cultural heritage.
“Don’t worry boss,” Baker said affectionately, “I’ll make sure to only introduce you to the good girls. If I introduce you to one of my favored ladies you might stroke out from blushing to hard.”
Benton’s gratitude went without saying.
***
Auntie Dubois was quintessential, like a Frenchwoman from an old film from the nineties, intensely Québécois. Not very popular in wartime, but Auntie didn’t seem to mind. For a woman who sat so still, so posed, she had enough authority to be almost well- daunting at the very least. The immensity of her hair, like Marie Antoinette’s, he thought absently, the immaculate shimmer of her whatever she had put on her face and the gold of her clothing had put Benton into a sort of thrall. Almost exactly like a frightened rabbit. Baker had to jostle him sharply out of it.
Her long fingers held a glass as she lounged in the booth of The Mandarin, her fingernails curiously unpainted so her could see the fragile pale pink curve just above her nail bed. It made her seem more human. There was something intrinsically artistic about the way she sat there, posed; the gold of her dress against the warm orange of the seats, the warm lights against the paleness of her tightly curled hair piled over her head.
“Call me Auntie, everyone else does. It is one of those, what do you call it, nicknames? This is what I get for a life of public service,” she said, Benton wasn’t completely sure if she was actually irritated, or if she viewed it as a sort of joke. “You are friends of monsieur Langoustini, oui?”
There hadn’t been smoking in most of the public places in ship port though for quite some time, but the scent of tobacco clung very lightly to her clothing, and he could almost imagine her holding a cigarette between two fingers. A white grey arabesque of smoke rising in a pillar beside her face and the tactile beauty of an oil based flame as she cupped her hand around her lighter, the small flame flickering in the spaces between her fingers as she lit her cigarette. Baker barked a sharp laughed and bumped Benton again.
She took a careful drink, slowly, casting a plainly predatory eye over Benton, making him blush, and then over Sergeant Baker. The two of them smiled at each other slowly before she extended a hand to Baker. He bowed over her hand, kissing it, doing inappropriate things with his eyes. Benton cleared his throat; he could feel the flush spreading up his face. True, in nightclubs such as this he imagine romance was likely, or whatever it was that Baker had in mind. “Yes,” Benton said quickly. “He is a friend of ours, of mine really.”
“A dangerous man, the Bookman, friend or not,” she took another sip of her drink. “He and his wife will be in later. Blonde girl, kind of young, cold sort of girl, lots of money. They like to come out, entertain, be entertained. You know,” she waved one hand.
“Of course,” Baker said, grinning wolfishly.
“You come visit me late,r darling, I work in Scarpa’s office as an aide. You can’t come see me at work of course, but I like it here at the Mandarin, even if monsieur Dewey smells like fish.”
“Oh, I’d love to talk to you later,” Baker smiled.
“Baker,” Benton pulled on his friend’s arm. He was starting to look like he might slip right in next to Auntie, but they had things to do
“Be careful,” Auntie Dubois said, stretching outrageously for the benefit of Baker, and possibly a few of the other men in the club. (Benton tried to squash such uncharitable thoughts.) “Le diâble est aux vaches.”
Benton leaned over toward Baker who held up a hand to forestall him, “I’ll explain later.”
***
Benton found it odd to be wearing civilian clothing, it was too loose. He tried wearing layers, tucking things in, but it didn’t really help. The décor in Langoustini’s office didn’t help much; it only made him afraid to bump into something and leave a smudge. The furniture and carpet that took away his footsteps and the high set of book shelf that rose behind Langoustini’s desk like a buttress, a cliff face, a mahogany tidal wave was all there for a single purpose, intimidation. The wall of books (real books made out of paper) looming behind the expensively groomed bookman was meant to convey one thing. That Armando Langoustini had money, that Armando Langoustini had power and that Armando Langoustini had a force of will that had put him in command of the Iguana family quietly and completely in a few short years.
But despite Langoustini’s shadowy reputation the man had been kind to Benton each time they had previously met. And Ray had told him to come here. Ray was an impossible man to pin down, he had spent his whole life posing as anything to anyone and doing it so well-- with Benton’s experience with people how could he possibly expect to be able to decipher even a seed of truth from Ray’s heart. It took a great deal more skill than he had to pin Kowalski down, but despite that, or maybe because of it Benton was put completely at the man’s- ghost’s- Kowalski’s mercy.
“Did you get my e-mail?” Benton said.
Langoustini was tapping his long fingers on his desk, “Yeah, the dead Mountie thing, like I couldn’t have guessed. Do you have any idea how many dead Mountie things get pushed across my desk? There was a war on. I do not have time for this; I am a very busy man.”
Benton felt the brim of his helmet bite into his palms, “He was my father. I would appreciate your assistance in this matter.”
“I thought he died in an accident,” he leaned back sharply, his voice going hard.
“There are recent developments,” Benton told his helmet. “And I’m in no position to find the proof, but you, you could help me. Get me information. At least send me in the right direction.”
“All right, ” he said. “All right.”
***
Ray liked old music: Justin Timberlake, Kanye West, the Black Eyed Peas, stuff his parents had danced to when they were dating. He had read up a little on turtles--not really touchy feely creatures, but Stevie got all sad if he was left alone so sometimes Ray took him out, set him on his chest, gave his shell a little pet. The feel of little turtle claws pressing through his t-shirt made him feel a little sentimental. He was starting to get pretty mellowed out, and the knock at his door almost knocked him off the sofa.
“Uh, yeah?”
There was a silence on the other side of the door. Maybe Ray was spending too much time with Frase that he recognized the man’s loaded silences.
“Agent Kowalski?” Fraser said, which put a weird kinda thrill in him, like he was respected or something. Like he was official.
“Yeah, Frase?”
There was a long pause, “May I come in?” Of course Fraser would be big on Proper Grammar, Ray heard his third grade teacher from a thousand years back saying, 'I don't know, can you go to the bathroom?' and embarrassing him in front of everyone. Weird the things that stuck.
Ray looked around his apartment; it was pretty neat, it could be worse, “Yeah, sure.”
There was another long pause, “Could you unlock the door?”
“Already unlocked.”
“Oh!” Fraser said. “Sorry!” He opened the door and peered in, “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” Ray was lying with his heels stacked and his hand resting on the top of the turtle’s shell. He tried not to feel too nervous about having Fraser visit him in his new place.“You okay? You need something?”
“No, I- I- I heard music coming from the closet,” Fraser kept moving from one foot to the other in front of his hung up clothes, the uniforms and the civvies.
“Oh! Sorry!” Now Frase had him doing it. He hopped up, tucking Stevie up close against his chest, heading for his ipod player. “Didn’t know you could hear it through the walls.”
“Not at all,” Fraser said politely.
“I’d offer you a drink, some of that leaf and twig stuff you like, but it’s a little different this side of the closet.”
“No, please! Let me excuse myself,” Fraser said and was back out the door before Ray could get to the speakers.
“Well Stevie,” Ray said. “That was interesting.”