FIC: "Cold Heart" 1/2 (Due South/Twin Peaks Xover Fraser/Vecchio, Fraser/Cooper NC-17 Slash)

[dmarley]

Title: Cold Heart [Download the podfic 83.6 MB]
Author: Dorothy Marley (dmarley)
Fandom: Due South/Twin Peaks crossover
Pairing: Benton Fraser/Ray Vecchio, Benton Fraser/Dale Cooper
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content
Content Notice: ( skip) None for this story.
Length: 19,702
Date Completed: February 5, 1999
Disclaimer: Benton Fraser and Ray Vecchio belong to Paul Haggis and Alliance Television. Dale Cooper belongs to David Lynch and Lynch/Frost. They are being used without permission, and without profit. No infringement on the rights of the owners is intended.
Notes: This story takes place in the very early part of the first season of Due South, and some years after the conclusion of the events of Twin Peaks. This is primarily a Due South story, and refers only obliquely to events in Twin Peaks.
Thanks to Anagi, Carol, coolgrin, and Joanne, beta-reading goddesses, for all your help, patience, and support. Thanks!

Summary: Fraser is acting strangely, and an unexpected visit from a man from his past only makes Ray more determined to discover what's wrong.

"Cold Heart"
by Dorothy Marley

-----

Winter in Chicago. Sub-zero temperatures, accompanied by a persistent, freezing wind that whipped a chilling mix of snow, sleet and freezing rain onto the already soaked streets of the city. The natives hustled quickly on their way in the dark, wrapped in coats and scarves and hats, telling one another this was the worst winter in a century.

Benton Fraser, standing by the open window in his tiny kitchenette, was having no luck feeling the cold. His soft red flannels offered very little protection against the bitter wind, but still he couldn't feel it. He put a hand on the glass, spreading his palm over the fragile, cracked pane, pressing until he could hear the protesting creak of the stressed fractures. No cold.

Beside him, Diefenbaker whined quietly, pressing a damp nose to the back of Fraser's calf until he could feel the wet spot soaking through his thermals. One hand dropped, mindlessly clenching the thick fur, a brief squeeze that quieted the wolf, and sent him trotting back to his bed. When he'd gone, Fraser raised his hands, lifting them to the buttons that fastened his underwear, undoing them one by one, pushing the soft flannel aside, peeling it off his body until he was naked, the long johns crumpled at his feet. Still not cold.

He stepped forward, splaying his hands on the glass again, leaning his weight on the icy panes. A gust of wind blew in from the alley, spattering a wet drizzle of ice and snow over the windowsill, the stove, the floor, and Fraser. He shivered as the blast hit him, and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead on the chipped, peeling wood of the window sash. The snow and sleet continued to whip in, striking his bare skin, raising goosebumps on his chest and legs, slicking him with cold, wet water. He felt himself start to shiver again, and this time it didn't stop. His teeth began to chatter, and he turned his cheek into the cold glass of the windowpane, feeling his skin begin to grow numb, opening his eyes to see the blue tinge on his hands, and arms. Cold. So cold. Finally.

-----

Ray Vecchio was, at seven in the morning, already having a very, very, bad day. Breakfast at the Vecchio household was never what one could call a peaceful affair, and this morning tempers had run as hot inside as it was cold outside, as if the heat of words could provide an antidote to the unforgiving, frigid gloom. The result had been, to put it mildly, a lively start to the day, and the start on a massive headache for Ray.

Two aspirin helped ease the throbbing in his temples, and by the time he pulled up to Fraser's building, already ten minutes late, the throb had eased to a dull ache, only to return when he failed to see Fraser's unmistakable profile anywhere in front of the building. Today of all days.

No sooner, though, had he killed the engine and reached for the door handle than Fraser was there, striding out of the rickety front door with his hat tucked under his arm, his dark coat flashing its red lining as the wind hit him full force. He wavered for a second, then steadied himself and crossed the sidewalk to the car, greeting Ray with his usual brisk politeness.

"Good morning, Ray."

"About time," Ray grumbled, conveniently overlooking his own tardiness, and started the engine. Fraser shut his door and scrupulously fastened his seat belt, then sat up straight in the seat, practically sitting at attention.

"I do appreciate you stopping for me," Benny said presently, once Ray had yanked the Riviera into the sparse traffic and headed downtown. "I could walk to the Consulate from here, but . . . ."

"In this weather?" Ray interrupted, relieved to finally have something to disagree with. "I know you come from the backside of nowhere, and I'm sure this is just a little cold snap to you, but no human being should have to be out walking in this. Not even you."

"Thank you, Ray," Benny said after a thoughtful moment, leaving the question open about what, exactly, he was thanking Ray for. Ray might have suspected from anyone else that the courtesy was sarcasm. If, that is, Fraser had a sarcastic bone in his body.

They drove on in silence for a while. Not that Ray wasn't used to keeping up his end of a conversation, but for once Fraser seemed disinclined to do his own share. The Mountie wasn't a chatterbox, by any means, but Ray had gotten used to receiving, at the least, meaningful noises in exchange for his verbal gambits. Today, though, Benny was quiet, staring out into the bleak, gray streets. He was, as always, perfectly groomed from the top of his meticulously combed hair to the tips of his polished boots, but it struck Ray, suddenly, that he looked tired. And it was a shock.

In the few scant weeks he'd known the other man, Ray supposed that it was possible that he hadn't yet had a chance to see him in all his moods, but he also would have supposed that two people tended to become well-acquainted pretty damn fast when they'd been under fire together as many times as he and Benny had been. But even after that last harrowing ride across the Yukon landscape, after the long, exhausting chase through the snow with almost certain death on their back, Fraser had never wavered, never faltered. Ray had begun to think, after that day, that the Mountie might darn well be indestructible. To see the dark lines drawn under the bright eyes, the sag at the corners of the firm mouth, was unsettling. Ray was almost embarrassed, feeling oddly awkward, as though he'd walked in on him in the shower, as though he'd seen something private, and personal. Something that was none of his business.

None of that explained, though, why the next words out of his mouth were, "You okay, Benny?"

Fraser's head snapped around, the smooth, brisk motion so characteristic that Ray was suddenly sure that he was imagining things. But he didn't answer right away, staring at Ray as though carefully weighing his motives in asking. "I'm fine, Ray," he said at last. "Why do you ask?"

Why, indeed? "No reason," he lied. "You just--just look a little peaked, you know."

"Oh." Fraser turned to face front again, his gloved hands folded primly around the rim of his hat. He stared straight ahead for a moment, then glanced at Ray, then back front again. "I didn't sleep well last night," he finally offered, saying the words as though testing each one, judging if Ray would accept them. It was a patent evasion, Benny's painfully calculated attempt to make the words seem casual more revealing than an outright lie. And now Ray was curious.

"Something on your mind?" he asked, but even as he asked, he wondered if he might already know.

Fraser's hesitation was almost palpable. Instead of answering, though, he turned back to the window. He looked out for a long time, then slowly tugged off one glove, pressing his hand to the chilly, fogged glass of the window. "I barely feel it," he said presently, and there was something odd in his voice, something that Ray had never heard before. He spread his fingers against the window, watching the flush of warmth slowly drain from his fingers, turning them pale with cold. And now Ray was beginning to get scared. "The cold, I mean," Fraser went on, unconsciously interrupting when Ray was about to speak. "It seems . . . unreal."

Okay. This was definitely entering the Weird Zone. "What? Not freezing your ass off nine months out of the year? Being able to go outside without insulating every square inch of skin?"

Slowly, Benny turned to him again, letting his hand slide back into his lap, then calmly working the glove back over the whitened fingers. "Yes," he said simply. "That's exactly what I mean." He shook his head, trying to explain. "I'm so used to it. So used to being . . . insulated, as you say." He cast his gaze back again, looking up into the snow-laden sky. "When you feel the cold, it means that you're alive. It's when you stop feeling it that you die."

Well, Ray didn't need to feel anything to start worrying now. He began to have the suspicion that he was lost somewhere far behind this conversation, that Fraser was trying to tell him something, something that he was somehow failing to understand. And he was afraid of what the consequences of that failure might bring.

"Fraser, are you okay?" he asked again. "I've never seen you like this before."

Fraser looked vaguely startled, as if unaware until that moment that he was behaving in any way oddly. "I'm fine," he said again. "Honestly, Ray. I'll be fine."

Ray wasn't convinced, but the finality in Fraser's tone was sufficient to close the subject. Nonplused, he groped for a new one. "Before I forget," he said presently. "You may have to get your own ride home tonight. God knows when I'm going to get loose."

"A new case?" Benny inquired, seeming relieved at the new conversational sally, eager to pursue it and leave his own problems behind. Nevertheless, the question made Ray scowl.

"I wish," he said darkly, and gave a martyred sigh. "Nah, one of my old cases is coming back to bite me on the butt. Some Fed thinks he's got a pattern crime, so naturally I'm supposed to waste an entire day of *my* case time holding his hand while he 'reviews' my case."

"Was the case solved?"

*Would you like some salt for that wound?* "No," Ray snarled. "But only," he added defensively, "because the perp had the bad misfortune to step in front of a train. I was this close to nailing him, and the next thing I know they're scraping him off the rails with a spatula."

"Suicide?" Benny suggested thoughtfully, glancing over at him with his bright, curious eyes, the tiredness seeming to drop away at the sniff of a new problem. "If he suspected that you were closing in, he might have been driven to despair. It's not an uncommon--"

"Maybe," Ray interrupted, more to stop the flow of explanations than to endorse the theory. "But this guy had way too big an ego to go erasing himself. At least I thought so."

"Murder?" was Fraser's next offering, and Ray was beginning to get irritated.

"Yeah, I thought of that, too," he said shortly. "You know, I did investigate this case."

The other man held up an apologetic glove. "My apologies, Ray. I'm sure you thoroughly explored all avenues of the crime."

"Thank you, Fraser. Your confidence warms my heart. Maybe you'd like to explain that to the Feds when they show up to rake the fine-tooth comb over my ass today."

For some reason, that innocent statement seemed to make Fraser pause for thought. "I gather that your interactions with the Federal Bureau of Investigation aren't the most cordial."

Understatement of the year. But Ray was so relieved to be back on familiar ground, back to the verbal tennis games he'd always enjoyed with Benny, that he easily subsumed the flicker of annoyance at the Mountie's naivete. "Well, duh. The Feds hate having to sully their lily-white hands with local law enforcement, and the feeling is, believe me, entirely mutual."

"Hm."

Ray waited. "What, 'hm?' What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Fraser said mildly.

"No. That was a definite 'You're out of your freaking mind and I'm too polite to say so because I'm Canadian' 'Hm.'"

Now Fraser was patient. "That's not true, Ray." He paused. "However, I will say that my own personal interactions with the Bureau have been nothing but positive."

Ray gaped at him. "Get out of town. Since when does the FBI get up to the butt-end of nowhere in Canada?"

"Since a federal fugitive chose to flee to the Territories some years ago. The Bureau and the RCMP agreed to work jointly to apprehend him, and I worked closely with several of their agents. I found them all to be highly professional."

"Yeah, well, that's because they were probably terrified of getting stuck up there forever if they didn't cooperate. Down here, it's totally a different story. I wouldn't trust a fibbie if he said the sky was blue."

"If you say so, Ray."

The discussion of inter-agency cooperation was, thankfully, cut short by their arrival at the Consulate. Fraser got out and settled his hat firmly on his head, then leaned in through the open door. "Thank you kindly, Ray."

"Don't mention it. I'll call you later. Now shut the door, it's freezing out there."

-----

Ray made good time the rest of the way to the station, despite the increasingly treacherous streets, and slid his car neatly into the parking garage a mere twenty minutes after he was supposed to have been at work.

It was difficult to admit it, even to himself, but the morning's conversation with Benny had rattled him. Fraser was always so, so . . . imperturbable. It had shaken him to hear him talk that way, to hear the distant, wondering abstraction in his voice. For the first time, Ray began to wonder if Fraser was, in fact, truly as pleased to be here as he claimed. That wasn't saying very much, admittedly, considering that Fraser had practically been exiled here, forced away from the only real home he had. But he'd never spoken of it that way, never complained about his isolation, or about the circumstances that had obliged him to move in the first place. But now Ray had to ask himself, knowing Fraser as he did now, if he were miserable, would he even complain? Would he mention it at all, even to his supposed best friend? The answer, Ray realized sadly, was probably 'no.'

The way his day was going, Ray wasn't in the least surprised when Elaine informed him that the FBI agent was already waiting for him. "I showed him your desk and the coffeepot," she said. "Told him you'd be in soon. That was half an hour ago."

"You left him with my desk?" Ray was appalled. "You allowed a Fed to sit at my desk, alone, unsupervised, for half an hour?"

"What, you've got Jimmy Hoffa stuffed in your bottom drawer?" Elaine shoved a stack of reports into his hands and pushed him towards the squad room. "Anyway, he's just sitting there. He hasn't touched a thing. Now go on."

Ray obeyed meekly, glad, actually, for the chance to focus on his work again, to avoid having to think anymore about his conversation with Benny. He caught himself just in time to keep from smiling as he walked up to the waiting Fed.

The other man turned as Ray approached, and rose to his feet, setting the coffee mug on the corner of Ray's desk, next to a half-eaten jelly doughnut. He looked, Ray thought wonderingly, like J. Edgar Hoover's poster boy. *I'll be damned. Fraser's secret FBI twin. I'll bet every agent in the Bureau wants to be this guy when they grow up.* He was about Ray's own height, maybe an inch shorter, with black hair slicked neatly back from a smooth, only faintly-lined face, his dark brows and coffee-colored eyes standing out against his pale skin. His suit was black, and perfectly pressed, a small FBI pin adorning one lapel. His face was well-scrubbed and clean-shaven, every inch of him neat and impeccably clean.

"Detective Vecchio?" the Fed asked politely, and Ray nodded, lifting a hand to grasp the one the agent extended. "Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Dale Cooper."

"Ray Vecchio," Ray responded, deliberately eschewing any other title in the face of that impressive recitation. Cooper's hand gripped his firmly, but briefly, then he let him go and sat down.

"I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, Detective," he said briskly. "I realize that you have your own work, and it's very good of you to spare me a few hours for this case."

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Ray didn't mention that it wasn't Dale Cooper, or the FBI, that had coerced his cooperation, but rather a direct order from his Lieutenant, one that couldn't be circumvented or ignored. But he didn't disabuse the other man of that, recognizing the speech as an effort to bridge the inter-agency gap, and willing for now to at least meet him halfway. The more they cooperated, the faster he could get his butt out of here.

"Normally, I wouldn't impose on your time," Cooper was going on, "but I happened to be in the area for an evidence techniques seminar, and I thought it would be best to take the opportunity to meet with you face to face."

"You always this thorough?" Ray asked, and got a brief, genuinely pleased smile from the other man.

"I try very hard to be, Detective."

They worked on the case until midafternoon, and slowly Ray's annoyance began to fade. Whatever Cooper's reasoning, he had to admit that the guy was sharp. Furthermore, once he'd looked over the case, he'd accepted Ray's theory of the crime without much demur, which went a long way to smoothing any ruffled feathers. But Cooper's earnest face had begun to grow glum as the hours passed, and Ray realized that whatever he had been looking for, he hadn't found it here.

They shared a very late, hasty lunch together in the squad room, eating sandwiches at Ray's desk. While Ray was still fighting his way through a pastrami on rye Cooper had nibbled the last neat bite of his tuna fish and returned to the files. As he opened the folders, he reached in his breast pocket and produced a micro-recorder, flicking it on with a practiced thumb as he turned the pages. "Diane," he said into the recorder, seemingly oblivious to Ray's presence on the other side of the desk, "it's 2:43, CST. I'm at the 27th District in Chicago, and I've spent the last several hours reviewing the Crosetti case with Detective Vecchio. It's not here, Diane," he said gravely, with regret. "Although there are undeniable similarities in the case, the crucial signature is lacking. I am satisfied that the man suspected by Detective Vecchio was indeed guilty of the crimes committed here, and that the case was closed when he met his untimely death. Please tell Albert that I will be faxing the forensic and autopsy reports later today, but I am confident that he will agree with my conclusions." He snapped the recorder off and returned it to his pocket, then resumed his inspection of the files. "This really is too bad," he mused.

"What, that I solved the case? Sorry to burst your bubble," Ray said, making sure his voice reflected every bit of the fact that he was not sorry at all.

At least Cooper had the grace to look abashed. "Sorry," he said. "I only meant that this leaves me with that much less evidence to support my own theory of the crime." He shut the file and leaned back, passing a tired hand over his eyes. Ray watched silently, recognizing that look.

"Tough case, huh?" he said, and surprised himself with the sympathy in his voice. Not, he told himself firmly, sympathy for the Fed who'd tied up several hours of his life, but sympathy for a fellow cop who'd run into another dead end. Ray knew all too well how that felt.

After a moment, Cooper nodded. "It's been . . . difficult," he said presently. "We were pinning our hopes on our perpetrator having done this before." He turned, gazing pensively out over the crowded, bustling squad room. "God help us if he's just getting started."

Ray kept silent. No cop wanted to be the first on a serial murder. Too many of them took years to catch. Too many of them were never caught. Ray had seen what it could do to a cop's life, to his career, to have that one case, that case that he could never solve, the one that, ten years later, he'd still get his coat and hat and pound the pavement, just to track down one more pathetic lead, hoping to get it out of his head. "I hope you get him," he said presently, the best comfort he could offer.

"We will," Cooper said with quiet confidence. And Ray believed him.

-----

It was beginning to get dark. Finally. Fraser paused briefly by a window on his way down the hall of the consulate, granting himself a moment to look out into the falling dusk. Back home, it would have been dark hours ago. Darker. Colder.

Back home. It was a phrase he hadn't allowed himself to think for a long time. The Yukon, he corrected firmly. The Territories. Just names, just places. Not home, not anymore, and certainly not a place that he should be getting homesick for. Not at all. Ironic, that he worked so hard to overcome something that most of the people he knew didn't even understand. Even the other Canadians at the Consulate, most of them from Toronto, or Ottawa, were oddly puzzled to hear him speak so wistfully of ho--of the Territories' harsh, clean climate. Even they thought Fraser ought to be grateful to be living here in "civilization," to be able to take advantage of the modern conveniences of a big city, to enjoy the warm summers, the relatively milder winters. *As for all that,* he thought with a sudden, unexpected savageness, *they can stuff it.*

Downstairs, the clock in the lobby chimed the hour, and Fraser felt some of the tension leave his body. Just one more hour, and he could go home. Walk home, and the thought was more than a relief. Without conscious thought, his hand lifted to the cold glass, his fingertips pressing briefly to the chilly pane. But no sooner had his hand touched the glass than he jerked it back, shocked at the almost sensual rush he'd gained from the contact with the freezing air outside. Like last night, at the window, standing naked in the snow and sleet until he was almost frozen. Stupid. But at the time, he'd only known that it was somehow something that he needed, something he desperately wanted. To feel the cold, to feel it and know that he wasn't, to know that he was alive. Self-destructive, foolish, but it had helped, somehow. He'd slept the night through for the first time in weeks. For the first time since he'd come to this noisy, numbing city.

As he stood there, staring out at the falling snow, he heard the front door close. Reluctantly, Fraser detached himself from the window and went to the head of the stairs, descending to the anteroom. It wasn't, technically, part of his job, but he'd been raised to be helpful. In his experience, anyone attempting to deal with Jasmine was going to need all the help they could get.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, however, he very nearly collided with the lady in question herself, and they spent a long moment apologizing before she got her breath back and put a hand on his sleeve.

"I was just coming to look for you," Jasmine said, and pointed to his office. "There's someone here to see you."

Fraser felt his brows go up. "To see me?" he repeated. "Who?"

For a second, Jasmine looked surprised that he'd ask. "I don't know. He just asked for you, so I put him in your office."

Fraser gave up. "Thank you kindly, Jasmine," he said, and went on his way.

The door to his office was open, and he strode in without hesitation, turning automatically to greet the man who was just rising to meet him. He drew breath to speak, and then the breath left his lungs without a sound, the oxygen sucked from his body as though a ghost had stolen it right out of his mouth. For all he knew, that's exactly what had happened. It wasn't possible. Not here. Not now.

"Hello, Ben."

Slowly, Fraser became aware that he was standing with his mouth still open, looking, he was sure, like a caricature of surprise. Well, he was surprised. And with good reason. "Dale?" he said wonderingly, and took a step forward, letting his eyes roam up and down, seeing for himself that it was truly him. Tall, slim build, blue-black hair, soft brown eyes, pale skin, strong jaw . . . Dale Cooper. A man he'd never thought he'd see again.

Aware of his shock, Dale looked down, then raised his eyes again, lifting his chin. "I'm sorry if I surprised you."

"No," Fraser said, without thinking. "No, don't be sorry," he added quickly. "I'm very glad to see you," he said truthfully. "It's just a little . . . ." He groped briefly for the right words. ". . . unexpected. I thought you were in San Francisco."

That got a faint smile. "Well, the last time I saw you, you were in Tuktoyaktuk. I think we're both a little far from home."

His father always used to say that the blows you didn't expect were the ones with the most power to hurt. "Yes," he said quietly, and saw Cooper's smile fade.

"I'm sorry about your father," he said presently, covering up the sudden pained silence. "I wrote to you, but the letter came back."

Fraser wasn't sure what to say to that. "Thank you," he said, somehow unable to prevent the words from coming out stiff, and forced. He swallowed, trying again. "I appreciate the thought," he said, and that sounded better.

Another silence began to stretch between them, painful and awkward. *It didn't used to be like this,* Fraser thought, and shunted aside the brief flood of pain. Used to, the time they had spent together was filled with silences, some of them lasting hours, or even days. Long, comfortable, warm silences, the kind that came when there was nothing that needed to be said. But now, the silence was because there was nothing to say.

This time, it was Fraser who cracked the uncomfortable stillness, unable to bear the taut quiet of the room. "You wrote," he reminded, "but how did you find me here?" *And why?*

"I called the RCMP territorial offices," Cooper said, without apology. "They told me you'd been transferred here." He hesitated. "I was going to write again, but then this seminar came up, and I decided I should try to see you in person." He paused, and searched Fraser's face briefly with his eyes. "I hope I haven't made a mistake."

"No. Not at all. It's very kind of you to take the time."

This time, the silence was interminable. More than once, Fraser thought he should draw breath to break it again. Say something, anything that would bridge the gulf that had slowly spread between them. They were more uncomfortable with each other now than they'd been when the conversation started, each word somehow pushing them farther and farther apart, until they were left standing here, stiff and hurt and confused, neither of them entirely sure how they'd come to arrive at this place. Fraser stared mutely at the man standing not two feet away from him, and realized only then that they hadn't so much as touched each other this whole time, not even a handshake. And now it was too late.

Finally, Dale bent and retrieved his coat from the back of the chair. "I need to be going," he said. "I have a meeting early tomorrow."

"Of course. How long will you be in town?" As if either of them could pretend now that it mattered.

"Two more days. I'm staying at the Plaza, downtown."

Fraser only nodded. "Perhaps I'll see you, then."

"Maybe." Cooper waited, then nodded. "It was good seeing you again, Ben," he said formally.

"You, too, Dale."

They stood, unmoving, long past the point where it would have been appropriate for one of them to leave. Fraser was close enough to see clearly into the other man's eyes, and he knew that what he saw had to be reflected in his own. Pain, confusion, sorrow . . . and regret. He wished very much, suddenly, that they could have the last few minutes over again, that he could come into this room and not do the things that had caused this terrible, anguished reticence. *But then again,* he reflected with more than a touch of bitterness, *when have we ever been anything else?* A perfect match, two cool, reserved, restrained men, friendly and amiable enough to those they met, but at their cores, each of them as cold and emotionless as ice. It had taken them long enough to realize it.

"Good-bye," Cooper finally said quietly, and in that one word erased all the insincere promises that their other parting words had made. And Fraser was grateful. It was over, and he was glad.

"Good-bye," he answered, and stepped aside to let the other man pass, careful that not so much as the edge of his coat brushed him in passing. Better that way, safer. He watched him leave, watched the door close behind him, listened until he heard the sound of the front door unsealing and then closing again. Only then did he cross to his desk and sit in the chair, staring sightlessly at the wall, gazing silently at nothing.

-----

If Ray had hoped that the day's work would shake off Benny's strange mood, the hope was dashed the instant that Benny answered the door of his so-called office. He greeted Ray warmly enough, or at least with nothing more and nothing less than his usual politeness, but there was something in the set of his mouth, in the creases of his eyes, that told Ray in no uncertain terms that, for once, the calm courtesy was nothing more than a front. Trouble was, Ray had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do about it.

*When in doubt,* he told himself, *eat.* "You hungry?" he asked Fraser, helping the Mountie into his coat as they walked to the front of the building. "There's a new place just opened up the street. Francesca says they've got a clam sauce to die for. My treat," he added quickly, when Fraser hesitated.

But the other man shook his head. "Thank you kindly, Ray," he said, "but I'm really not hungry."

*I'll bet,* Ray thought, but didn't say out loud. He could almost feel the tension coming off him, had felt it in the brief brush of his hands across Fraser's shoulders while helping him put on his coat. Whatever was bothering him, it had him strung tighter than a lute, including, Ray would have bet, his stomach. But Ray had yet to find a problem so dire that a plate of warm pasta wouldn't, if not cure, then at least give a person a full belly on which to be miserable. So, when courtesy failed, use guilt.

"Come on," he said, putting his best wheedle into it. "I've been wanting to go for ages, and tonight Ma's out with the girls doing the church supper. If you don't go, then I'll have to take you home, and then come all the way back here, and by then I'll have starved to death."

He saw the indecision in Fraser's eyes, guilt wavering with misery, and then Benny closed his eyes and nodded, once. "Very well," he said, with only passable graciousness. "But only so long as we don't stay late. I have to pick up Diefenbaker before eight."

"Not a problem," Ray assured him. "We'll even bring him a doggie bag."

The restaurant was so close that there was no point in driving, but it was a bitterly cold walk. Ray kept his head down, mouth and nose wrapped against the blowing snow, gloved hands buried in his pockets, but Benny walked as though he were taking a summer stroll, disdaining to even cover his face, his only concession to the weather to keep one hand firmly on the brim of his Stetson to prevent it from blowing away. By the time they reached the door of the little bistro, Ray felt like a popsicle, but Benny seemed invigorated, a rosy glow to his cheeks that was only partly from the cold.

They were so early that they were able to take a table right away, the host giving them their pick of the restaurant. Ray wasn't surprised when Fraser asked for a seat by the window.

"You miss it, don't you?" he heard himself say, and wondered what the hell he thought he was doing as Benny looked up, startled.

"Miss what?" he asked, but something in his tone told Ray that he understood damn well.

For an answer, Ray gestured out the window, to the blowing wind, and the driving snow. "Home," he supplemented succinctly, and saw Benny's face go still, his eyes locked with Ray's. He said nothing, though, and Ray forged on, knowing he was digging himself deeper with every word, but committed all the same to uncovering whatever it was that was troubling his friend. "Look," he said. "I know I've said some stuff about that Godforsa--about where you come from. And I'll admit it, I don't understand how any human being could choose to live somewhere where they measure the weather by how many seconds it takes to get frostbite." He sighed. "But that doesn't mean you can't miss it, I guess."

Fraser didn't speak for a long time, busying himself tearing the rolls the waiter had brought into tiny pieces, scattering the crumbs on his plate without actually eating any of it. It was a gesture completely unlike him, nervous and pointless, and it did more than any amount of words could have done to convince Ray that he was on the right track. "Thank you, Ray," he said at last. "That means . . . a great deal to me."

"Hey, what are friends for?" Ray asked, and smiled. He waved a hand. "So, tell me about it."

That seemed to startle the other man. "About what?"

"Home. Inuvik or Tuktoyaktuk, or wherever."

"Ray, I--"

"What? Look, I want to hear. Tell me what's so great about this place."

"Well, nothing, I suppose," Fraser said. "Nothing that would interest you, I wouldn't think. Anyway, you've been there," he pointed out.

Ray was tempted to lean over and smack him. "Hello," he said, exasperated. "I was there for all of what, three days? And we are not talking about things that would interest me, here. We're talking about *you,* Fraser. I want to hear what *you* think."

That seemed, for a long moment, to utterly confuse him. "You want to hear about my home," Fraser said slowly.

Ray opened his mouth to say, *No, not really, but that's not the point,* then realized that maybe the absolute truth wasn't the best thing. "Yes, I do," he said firmly, and realized as the words left his mouth that maybe they weren't so far from the truth after all. He would like to hear about it, hear about the place that had produced a man as unique as Benton Fraser.

So, finally, almost reluctantly, Benny started to talk. At first he did little more than recite a mind-numbing list of facts, statistics, and geographical data, but Ray soldiered through, nodding at appropriate intervals, until finally the guidebook data ran out and Fraser was forced to turn the talk to himself. He seemed a little at a loss at first, but just when Ray would have prompted him, he began to tell a story about the first place he remembered living, about a winter when the snow fell so deep that he and his parents were buried for nearly two weeks. In the end, his father had had to dig a snow tunnel to get them out, and Fraser remembered a winter of playing games in that cold, luminous haven. The memory seemed so clear to him, so vivid, that Ray realized that it was probably one of the few memories he had of his mother. And so he sat completely still, listening, willing Benny to go on, to talk. But when Fraser had finished the story, he fell silent, and Ray felt his heart sink.

"I'm sorry," Fraser said presently. "I've had . . . Let's just say it hasn't been a good day." He looked down at his untouched food, lifting a fork to push at the gently steaming pasta, then putting it aside as though it nauseated him. "If it's all the same, I don't feel much like talking anymore."

"Hey, it's not a rule," Ray said, but he was disappointed. "You don't have to talk," he went on, covering his worry manfully, determined that this wasn't going be a stiff, silent meal, the two of them sitting here staring at their pasta until it was time for Fraser to pick up his wolf. "I'm Italian, I can talk *and* eat." And he proved it.

-----

The warmth had started to creep through Fraser about halfway through the saga of the Vecchios. It was still with him now, a happy glow that persisted even through the chilly walk up the street to his apartment. Diefenbaker trotted docilely beside him, but mostly, Fraser noticed, because that was the only way to keep his canine nose pushed against the bag Fraser carried in his right hand. He'd eaten about half his food, in the end, despite the sick, cold clench in his stomach, and he'd been surprised to find that the warm, sauce-smothered pasta had actually seemed to ease the sickening tightness in his belly. No wonder Ray swore by the stuff as a cure-all. He'd brought the remainder home for Diefenbaker, and Ray, for once, hadn't even complained about paying good money for a meal that was going to be half-eaten by someone with four legs and fur.

He hadn't complained, either, about carrying on what had basically amounted to a monologue for most of the meal. Fraser had found the rapid-fire patter of information surprisingly soothing, the narrative following a complex tangle of relatives, friends, and neighbors that made the machinations of the di Medicis seem like a child's game. It was all very quick, very hot, tempers flaring and cooling, feuds being born, played out, and buried within the space of hours. So unlike home, where everything moved so slowly, where patience and persistence were the only means of survival. The Vecchios, he reflected with a smile, would explode from frustration within a week.

The good feeling lasted almost all the way home, until he mounted the stairs and turned down the hallway towards his apartment. The apartment was dark, and silent, and Fraser sighed, feeling a little piece of the warmth bleed away as he stepped into the cold, empty space. Such a contrast to the warm, soft light of the restaurant, the silence a strained emptiness after the animated rise and fall of Ray's voice. He knew it had been a mistake to accept the invitation, as pleasant as it had been. He'd known even then that he'd have to come back to this lonely, barren place in the end.

He fed Diefenbaker the remainder of the pasta, and then helped him clean the remains of slinging strands of marinara sauce from his fur. That accomplished, he forced himself through his nightly routine, undressing for bed, lighting the lantern, and settling in to read the next of his father's journals. But before long, he set the journal aside, turning slowly, almost against his will, to look at the cold dark outside. Ray had warmed him tonight, for a while. But it hadn't lasted. It never lasted.

The chilly air struck him as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Diefenbaker whined inquiringly from his cozy spot on the rug, and received an absent stroke of Fraser's hand as he passed him, moving around to the window overlooking the fire escape.

This was crazy. He knew it, even as he leaned his arms on the cracked sill, breathing in the crisp air, feeling the prickle of cold on his skin. Crazy, and stupid. But before he could talk himself out of it, his hands were fitting under the sash, throwing the window the rest of the way up with a protesting squeak of warped wood. He propped his arms on the sill, leaning his head out to breathe in the lung-burning air, feeling it shiver through him. The snow fell thickly on his head and back, and he bowed his head, letting it whip around him, chilling him to the bone.

Peace spread through him with the cold, the turmoil in his mind clearing as his body numbed, his thoughts dropping into slow, sluggish torpor. This was what he needed. To lose the quick, loud pace of the city, to forget the sharp-edged buildings with their stifling warmth and windows that wouldn't open. The snow was soft, and cold, and clean, the flakes drifting down to settle on the frozen earth, and he let his thoughts follow, sending them down in the frigid dark, where they would sit, quietly and peacefully, and bother no one.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, how long he'd been aware of the soft knock on his door before Diefenbaker's short bark alerted him to the door finally opening. Fraser whirled clumsily from the window, realizing already that it was far too late to step away, to hide what he'd been doing. Ray would be . . . .

It wasn't Ray.

After what seemed like a year, Dale stepped the rest of the way into the apartment, shutting the door carefully behind him. He stood for a second, his dark eyes reflecting a moment of rare uncertainty, then he spoke quietly. "Hi."

It took a moment for Ben to find his voice. "Hi."

Dale looked around. "So. This is where you live?"

There were a lot of things Ben could have said to that. "Yes," seemed to be the best.

Putting his hands in his pockets, Dale turned to face him. "I'm sorry about this afternoon," he said quietly, his breath hanging in the air between them.

Ben cleared his throat. "So am I." He took a step towards the door, away from the window, feeling the heat from the room wash over him. For the first time in weeks, it felt good. And he realized with a shock that it wasn't because of the warmth. It was Dale. Because of what it meant for Dale to have come here, tonight, after that disastrous meeting.

"I should have called," Dale was saying. "At least given you some warning. I'm sorry."

"No," Ben said quickly. "No, that's not necessary." He let his voice soften. "You should know that."

Dale nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting in a brief, sad smile. "I must have forgotten." He turned to face Ben. "This afternoon . . . ." he said slowly. "That was a mistake, Ben. I handled it all wrong."

"So did I," Ben admitted. "I was just surprised to see you."

It took a while for Dale to answer. "I came here to see you," he said. "The seminar was just an excuse, in case . . . ." He swallowed. "I'm so sorry, Ben. I'm sorry I--"

Fraser met him halfway, sliding his arms gratefully around the strong, slim back, feeling the familiar weight and shape of Dale's body, even through the thick coat. He closed his eyes, drinking in the warmth of the embrace, trying to ignore the sudden ache in his chest. It had been so long.

Cooper's breath was hot on Fraser's neck. The heat radiated from his body, pulsing softly against Fraser's skin, tangible even through the flannels. Cooper swallowed again, his lips parting, and he lifted his eyes to meet Fraser's.

*I'm sorry,* he mouthed soundlessly, the heated puff of air from the silent words striking Fraser's cheek like a brand. He leaned closer, mouthing the words again, *I'm sorry . . . .*

His kiss was scalding, stealing Ben's breath, burning his mouth as though he'd placed his lips over a hot coal. A pair of scorching hands lifted to caress his back, trailing a searing path of fire over his shoulders, the frigid skin throbbing in the wake of the hot passage. It hurt. God, it hurt. But now the fire was also melting him, turning his stiffened muscles to liquid, hot and cold flowing together through him until he was no longer capable of knowing which was which, until he no longer cared.

-----

It was almost midnight. Fraser lay next to Cooper on the narrow mattress, both of them flat on their backs, staring up at the ceiling. The narrowness of the bed forced them close together, their bodies touching, damp skin sealed to damp skin. But the distance between them was as wide as the frozen sea.

"I shouldn't have let you leave me."

Cooper didn't answer for a long time. "I wouldn't have let you make me stay."

To that, Fraser had no easy answer. "Maybe--" He stopped, then continued on anyway. "Maybe I should have gone with you."

"No." And now Cooper's voice was soft with regret. "No," he said again, turning his head, his eyes glittering darkly in the light from the street. "We did the right thing, Ben."

"Then, or just now?"

He didn't hesitate long. "Then."

That killed the conversation for a while. "I'm sorry," Fraser said at last. "We shouldn't have done this."

"No, we shouldn't have."

They pushed themselves away simultaneously, rising up from their respective sides of the bed in grim unison. Fraser found his jeans and a shirt and put them on, silently helping Cooper retrieve his clothes, then sitting and watching as he dressed. "I really am sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry that things between us didn't . . . work out."

Cooper paused, his half-knotted tie wound around his hand. "So am I," he said, and returned to the window, using its reflection to adjust the knot. "I meant what I said," he continued presently. "I have no regrets about what happened in Tuktoyaktuk. It was . . . we were what we needed to be then. For each other." He finally turned away from the window, clean and perfect, armored once more. "That month, with you," he said softly, "was one of the happiest times I've had in my life. I've had very few, and the memory is something that I'll always treasure. But--"

"But we don't belong together," Fraser finished for him. "Not any more."

"No." Cooper looked away. "I'm sorry."

"So am I."

The knock on the door brought Fraser to his feet, Cooper moving to his side. "Expecting anyone?" he asked, and Fraser shook his head.

"No," he said honestly, but he knew, already, who it would be this time. Fraser went to let Ray in.

The other man started talking as soon as the door cracked open, crossing the threshold at full steam. "Thank God you're up. Get your coat and come on, we're gonna be late as it is. The--" Ray stopped, finally processing the presence of another human being in the apartment, and stared.

"Oh, Ray, this is--"

"We've met," Cooper interrupted smoothly, and stepped forward to hold out his hand. "Good to see you again, Detective."

Ray shook the offered hand, but Fraser didn't think he really realized what he was doing. Fraser, too, was feeling a little nonplused, and he was sure the look he turned to Cooper was full of benign confusion.

"I met with Detective Vecchio earlier today, to discuss a case," Cooper told him. "I didn't realize he was a friend of yours."

"You two know each other," Ray stated. There was an odd flatness in his voice, and Fraser felt obscurely guilty, although he knew, rationally, that there was no reason to be.

"The case I mentioned this morning," he explained. "Agent Cooper was the primary agent."

"Ah. I see. Well." Ray looked around, as if uncertain how to proceed. "Well," he said again. "I guess you two want to catch up. Sorry for--"

"Actually, I was just leaving." Cooper's coat was hanging over a kitchen chair, and Fraser handed it to him as he turned to retrieve it. "Thank you." He shrugged into it and looped his scarf over his neck, feeling in his pocket for his gloves. "It was good to see you again, Ben."

"You too, Dale." Fraser held out a hand, praying that Dale would take it, unable to hide a smile of relief as the warm, slim fingers slid over his. "Take care," he said, and saw the answering flicker of a smile on the other man's face.

"I will," he said softly. "You do the same." The smile broadened. "Don't go jumping off any more cliffs, all right?"

"I won't. I learned my lesson." Fraser gave the hand one last, strong squeeze, and then let him go. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye." Cooper turned, and nodded to Ray. "Good-bye, Detective."

"So long. Good luck on your case."

"Thank you."

Fraser kept his eyes fixed on Cooper's back as he left, not daring to look at Ray until the door had closed behind him. For perhaps the first time in his life, he didn't trust his own face, didn't know for certain if he really wanted anyone else to see what he was sure was writ large on his features. But he couldn't avoid Ray forever, and after a long moment he thought he'd managed to school his features into the proper expression of mild inquiry. Only then did he turn to face his friend.

"Well?" Ray said, clearly waiting for something, and Fraser was so rattled that he couldn't even trace the conversation back far enough to guess what it might be.

"Well, what?" he asked cautiously.

"Are you coming with me or not?"

Hoping his relief wasn't showing as much as he felt, Fraser headed for his closet, reaching for his coat before he even thought to ask where they were going.

"The jewelry case. We got a stakeout on the security guard's place." Ray paused. "You don't have to come, you know. It's optional."

"No, not at all," Fraser said quickly. Anything to get out of this place, away from the cold dark, away from the memories. "I'd like to come along."

"Good."

Ray was uncharacteristically silent on the drive to the stakeout, taking the turns and lights with almost decorous caution. Fraser didn't question it, though, merely enjoyed the luxury. He was glad, anyway, to have some time to collect his thoughts, time to think over the whirlwind of emotion and action that had begun that afternoon when Dale Cooper walked back into his life.

"You want to talk about it?"

Fraser started at the question, Ray's eerie segue from his own thoughts doing nothing to ease the sudden panic in his throat. Still, he managed to answer, if not suavely, at least without his voice cracking. "Talk about what?"

Ray sighed. "Never mind," he said, but the traces of anger in his voice showed that he minded very much, and Fraser was suddenly sorry for deflecting his well-meaning query. But he said nothing.

They arrived at the street where the stakeout was supposed to take place, and Ray eased the Riviera into an inconspicuous spot and shut off the lights and engine before finally speaking. But the words were the last ones Fraser expected to hear. "I'm sorry about barging in," he said presently. "I didn't know you weren't alone."

He knew. Fraser felt his face flame. He should have told him, from the start. They were friends, weren't they? There was no reason for him to be ashamed of what happened. No reason at all. "Don't worry about it, Ray," he forced himself to say, then felt sick as his lips began to shape the lie anyway. "We were just . . . catching up on old times. You didn't interrupt anything."

"Yeah." Ray sat back, propping his chin in his hand, staring up at the darkened window of their subject's apartment. "Sure."

-----

Sure, he hadn't interrupted anything. Ray slid his eyes to the right, taking in the solid, unmoving profile next to him. *Yeah, right.*

He wasn't sure which hurt more: the fact that Fraser hadn't told him, or that the Mountie actually thought that he wouldn't know. Okay, so maybe it wasn't any of his business, but that didn't mean that Fraser had to lie about it. On the other hand, what was Benny supposed to say? "Hi, Ray, sorry, could you step outside for a second while I finish saying good-bye to this guy I've just been screwing?" Only with more words. And more politely.

The little snort of laughter was almost inaudible, but Ray saw, out of the corner of his eye, Fraser react to the sound, turning his blue eyes briefly away from the building to regard Ray with polite inquiry. When it became obvious that Ray wasn't going to add anything more, he returned his attention to the window. Good. The last thing Ray wanted, right now, was to have a heart to heart with the man he'd thought he knew.

*Okay, Raymond, what's really bothering you? That Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Perfect Police, has, apparently, a sex life? That underneath that perfectly coifed hair, behind that clean-shaven manly jaw, and those firm, stern lips, is a man who sweats up the sheets just like everybody else? Or is it because he doesn't, quite, do it just like everybody else? Because he did it with another guy?

*Or because he just turned your world upside down.

*Face it, Ray. You're shocked. You, Mr. "I'm a tough Chicago cop who's seen everything." Almost everything.*

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him, to maybe even make a joke about it. *Hey, Benny, nothing to worry about, I been there myself, nudge nudge. And that Cooper's a nice-looking man, even if he is ten years older than you, can't blame you for that. Might have taken a run for him myself, if I'd known . . . .*

No.

Perhaps an hour passed in silence. Diefenbaker dozed off in the back seat, muzzle mashed against the upholstery, paws twitching as he fell into wolfish dreams. Ray stayed still in the front seat, eyes fixed with determined dutifulness on the darkened window. Waiting. But Fraser remained quiet, his face set in pensive silence. Finally, Ray had had enough.

"You can tell me, you know." He hadn't meant the words to sound so harsh, the sharp bark of them ringing loudly in the chilly, still air inside the car. Fraser jumped, and then turned to face him, his face set in surprise.

"Tell you what?" he asked curiously.

Ray made an exasperated noise. "Whatever it is that's been eating you, all right? You've been walking around like your dog just died--no offense, Dief--you've been saying all this weird stuff, weird even for you, and now I come in find out that and you and some strange Fed have been--you know," he finished helplessly, hoping to God that Fraser did know, that he wouldn't have to say it out loud. Because if he did, then a lot more than Ray's thoughts on Cooper were going to come out, and that was something neither of them needed.

In the sudden absolute silence, the sound of Fraser delicately clearing his throat was like a gunshot. "I see." He paused again. "You know."

"Hey, I am a detective, all right?" Ray knew he sounded defensive, but he didn't care. "I come into a room still smelling like sex, I see a bed that looks like it sustained a direct hit in Desert Storm, and I see two people standing there with guilt written all over their faces. I drew my own conclusions," he finished wryly.

The look on Fraser's face would have been funny, if it hadn't also been so stricken. "And it doesn't--?"

"Of course it bothers me!" Ray exploded. "I didn't say that." He swallowed, turning away. "I'm worried about you, Fraser. It's not like you."

"I'm sorry, Ray. But I thought that--"

"I live in the nineties, all right? Two consenting adults, I don't much care, except when both the consenting adults are standing there, just after having sex, being so polite to each other that it hurts." And that, he realized with relief, was the truth. And it felt good. So good that he felt all right to go on. "Something went wrong, didn't it? It didn't work out like you thought it would."

Fraser closed his eyes, looking away. "Can we not--?" He swallowed. "I'd rather not talk about it, Ray. Please."

"Sure. Whatever you say, Benny. Fine with me. No skin off my nose. Don't mind--"

"Ray, there's nothing to discuss." Benny looked down into his lap. "It was a foolish impulse."

"See?"

"See what, Ray?"

"You, having an impulse. It's not like you," Ray insisted.

"Perhaps it's just not what you think of as 'like me,'" Fraser countered, and Ray had to admit that he had a point. Of sorts.

Another silence settled over the car. Ray tried not to appear as though he were sulking, and occupied himself by watching Benny from the corner of his eye. Fraser continued to stare up at the window, but Ray would have bet a whole lot that his attention was miles, miles away.

"We met in a hardware store in Moose Jaw. The ax aisle." Benny waited, but Ray couldn't for the life of him think of anything to say to that. After a moment, Fraser went on. "It would have been about six years ago, I suppose. I was leaving my post, preparing to return to the Yukon for another assignment. Dale was on vacation. His brother had moved to Canada some years before, and he had hoped to get in touch with him. We struck up a friendship, and I invited him to come back to the Yukon with me. He accepted, and we spent a week in the wilderness, camping. We became good friends, and continued to correspond over the next several years."

"So that's when you . . . ."

"No." Benny almost bit off the word, then cleared his throat apologetically. "No." He opened his mouth to speak again, then hesitated before going on. "A few years after we met, Cooper found himself in pursuit of a federal fugitive, one Casey Grady, a multiple murderer who was also responsible for severely wounding Cooper's partner. Dale traced Grady to the Northwest Territories, and when he realized where Grady was heading he asked especially that I be assigned to the case. We tracked him for weeks, through the snow and the storms, and Cooper and I nearly lost our lives more than once. But we found him."

He stopped, falling silent until Ray spoke again, gently prompting. "What happened?"

Fraser turned his head away, staring out at the falling snow. "He'd gone to ground in a cave, high up. The approach was almost impossible. He held us off for almost a day, and a storm was building. I knew we had to bring him down before dark, or be forced to retreat from the weather."

"So what did you do?"

"It was Cooper's idea. He remained below, and I backtracked along the valley and climbed the ridge. Cooper gave me an hour to get started, then began an assault from below, exposing himself as a target to distract Grady while I climbed down to the cave and surprised him. Unfortunately, I had been delayed by falling into a hidden stream, and by the time I had subdued the prisoner it was too late to start back. I was also in danger of succumbing to hypothermia."

"And let me guess. Cooper kept you warm, right?" Ray knew it sounded snippy, but he couldn't seem to help it.

"Well, yes, he--" Fraser broke off, and gave Ray a rare look of mild exasperation. "I was nearly frozen, Ray. We bundled together to share body heat. It was nothing we hadn't done before. And that was all. Well, almost."

"Uh-huh."

The exasperation was stronger now. "Nothing happened, Ray. Nothing of any substance, anyway." Fraser waited, then said impatiently. "He kissed me, I kissed him back, that was all." He paused again. "Clinically, I suppose it could be passed off as a response to our situation. Two people, having just survived great physical hardships, risking their lives to capture a dangerous felon, coming very close to being killed themselves. It's very common, very understandable, to respond to such circumstances by seeking physical intimacy. At least, that's what I told myself at the time."

"Let me guess. You were lying through your teeth to yourself."

"I wasn't sure. After all, we'd spent nearly an entire week together, all those years ago, alone in the forest. We'd camped together, shared our sleeping bags, bathed in streams together. Days of close physical proximity, and we'd felt nothing. But this was different.

"I could feel his body heat next to me, could feel it soaking into me, keeping me warm. I was so cold, and he was so warm. I wanted that warmth. I wanted him. But it was cold, and we weren't alone. And I wasn't sure if his kissing me had meant any more than just a temporary longing for comfort." In the back, Dief whined softly and nosed his way to the front seat, jumping up to stick his nose under Benny's hand. Oblivious, Benny continued. "In any case, we had a job to complete, and we set out the next morning with our prisoner. It took a week to reach the nearest post, and during that time Cooper and I never spoke of what had happened. That night, we stayed at the post, in the duty officer's cabin, while he was on a call." Benny looked away. "We never questioned what would happen, what did happen." He took a deep breath, and went on. "Dale left the next morning, but some weeks after the case was over, he came back to Tuktoyaktuk, where I was living at the time. We spent a month together there." Fraser paused. "And when the month was over, he went back to San Francisco."

Ray waited. "And that was it? The last time you saw him before now?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Ray surprised himself with the gentleness in his voice. Maybe it was the pain in Fraser's voice, maybe the too-controlled impassiveness of his face. But Ray suddenly wanted to know. Wanted to help. "Did you fight? Break up badly?"

"No. Nothing like that. Maybe it would have been better if we had fought. It might have been easier to understand then." Fraser shifted in the seat, trying to find the words to explain. "You see, when we met, Cooper had just been involved in a very difficult case, the murder of a young woman that turned out to be just the first in a series of terrible, brutal killings. It would be another year before there was even a second victim, and before it was over the case nearly cost him his life . . . and his soul. When he returned to the Territories, he'd been through trials that would have killed a lesser man."

"Hell of a time to get posted in the far North," Ray put in dryly.

"I think Cooper wanted it. He seemed to welcome the physical hardships, the grueling labor, the hours spent tracking through the snow. It was an escape for him, something he needed. And it was cold."

"Exactly my point."

Fraser took his time replying, almost visibly gathering his thoughts. "Have you ever experienced hypothermia, Ray?"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"It's a peaceful death, in the end. At first, the cold is miserable, frightening. You fight for air, struggle for every breath, for every heartbeat. But after a while, after the cold has soaked through your entire body, after it reaches your heart, it becomes . . . restful. Soothing. The cold can be painful, but after a while the cold itself can numb its own pain. It's a fascinating experience. You become warm again, but it's a warmth without pain. And so long as you stay cold, you stay in that safe, warm place."

"Until you die."

"Until you die," Fraser agreed equably. "But if you don't die, then you have to come back. You have to be warmed up again, revived. And there's nothing--nothing so painful as feeling those frozen limbs come back to life." Fraser rubbed his own hand briefly, as if remembering. "Eventually," he went on, "there comes a moment when it's actually far more painful to live, to be warm again--to feel again--than it is to die in the cold." He paused again, looking away, idly stroking his hand over the thick fur of Diefenbaker's neck. "Dale and I could never get past that moment."

It took Ray a second to get it. "I'm sorry, Benny," he said quietly. "Really."

"It's all right, Ray. It was a long time ago."

*Yeah. Three hours,* Ray thought, and couldn't seem to stop himself from adding, out loud, "So what was tonight? Farewell fling?" He was sorry as soon as the words left his mouth, sorry as soon as he saw them strike Fraser like so many thrown darts, the other man flinching as if Ray had struck him. He could have bitten his own tongue out. "Benny--" he started, but the other man cut him off.

"I was lonely, Ray," he said, and the quiet words cut through Ray's gut like a sharp knife. Fraser took a deep breath. "I was lonely, and it was cold, and he . . . ." Fraser wouldn't look at him. "He was there." Now Fraser's eyes were turning to him, clear and bright. "We made a mistake. And now it's over." He cleared his throat again. "It's getting late, Ray. I have to be at work early tomorrow. Excuse me." And before Ray could say anything, could force a single word past the sudden constriction in his throat, Fraser had opened the door and was gone, Diefenbaker trotting at his heels.

Continued in "Cold Heart" (2/2)