Stage 2: Audience
by Te
July 1999

Disclaimers: They don't belong to me, but I can pretend...

Spoilers: Small one for Ladies' Man.

Summary: Fraser is alone.

Ratings Note: R, for themes.

Author's Note: Spike asks, Spike receives. Well, Spike entices and 
I pounce, but you get the idea. Sequel, of sorts, to "Spotlight." A 
little less than two days have passed. In this AU, "Mountie on the 
Bounty" hasn't happened yet, but "Ladies' Man" has. 

Acknowledgments: Spike wants, Spike gets... especially when she helps 
me take a wandering draft and make a story out of it. *smooch*.

*

Fraser stares at the phone that was supposed to ring twenty minutes 
ago and... aches.

It's late Saturday morning and in only five minutes he and Ray will 
be late for their lunch reservation.

//"Christ, Frase. What are we, dating now?//

And he'd had an answer he wanted to give for that, but in the end 
he'd merely calmly explained how grateful Mr. Montoni had been for 
their help, and how it was customary for such imagined debts to be 
paid with gifts.

And not how he sometimes dreamed of just feeding Ray, fingers to soft 
mouth and wet...

But the phone hasn't rung and the Consulate is dim and silent even 
for itself. Fraser's work on the Montoni case meant Inspector Thatcher 
had had to take Turnbull with her for the U.N. event.

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face at the thought of Turnbull 
meeting an entirely new and unsuspecting group of people.

It lasts until Diefenbaker reminds him of the food they're missing. 

He wishes he didn't know what Ray is doing.

He remembers walking into the precinct yesterday with the clarity of 
a brand on the mind. The usual tired smiles and greetings, the usual 
careful blankness in response to the usual casual predation from 
Francesca.

And then there had been Ray, and the slow, easy smile on his face, 
and the dark circles under his eyes.

And the bruises on his arm, his throat...

//"Ray, what happened --" And he knows before the question has been 
even half-spoken and blushes.

//Teasing smile, easy and so calm. "Never knew you were a voyeur, 
Frase."

//And he blushes again. Because the bruises on Ray's arm are 
fingerprints. Large, blunt, male fingerprints.//

Ray had caught the look in his eyes and the calmness in his smile 
evaporated faster than alcohol on skin, leaving a chill beneath 
Fraser's skin. Maddening.

Ray had run a quick hand over the bruises and then looked a 
half-angry question in Fraser's eyes.

And Fraser had done his best to erase whatever mistake had been in 
his eyes and not said another word until Ray offered the neutrality 
of a difficult fraud case.

Periodically, Ray would meet Fraser's eyes for seemingly no reason 
save to remind him that he was staring. Helplessly. 

//"Let this one get away, too, eh son? Gave another man your duty?"//

And he's close enough to himself to realize that raspy voice is not 
*truly* his father's, but once the words are said there's nothing he 
can do about them. 

After his shift, Ray had wordlessly driven him back to the Consulate, 
fingers beating a fast, brutal tattoo on the wheel. When Fraser had 
tried to ask "who is he?" the only thing that had come out was "would 
you like some tea?"

And Ray had smiled at him then, the baffled white flash of a tired, 
wary animal and said he'd already made plans.

Saturday, twelve-fourteen p.m., and every bone in his body knows that 
the... person who used Ray so... so...

//Did he fight?//

Fraser knows, and there's something *living* -- or at the very least 
motile -- that wants nothing more than the clench in his jaw, the 
as-yet-stifled swing of his arm that would knock papers, glass to 
the floor. 

He can see the scatter of debris. Can almost see how the small 
treasure of the lamp would almost explode from the first set of 
cracks.
 
Fraser feels all this, and knows the words that will lash him when 
he's finally back in control enough to hear them... and yet the 
still, silent phone holds his attention with an easy arrogance of 
power.

Diefenbaker growls from beside him.

"You were watching the doughnut on Detective Huey's desk, Dief. You 
did not see his eyes."

Fraser thinks the whine is almost the perfect pitch for the last 
exclamation of an individual who has been argued out. There is a 
certain rough economy to a lack of words.
 
//Ray walks to the water cooler, nearly languid with the lack of his 
usual bright, sparking energy. As he brushes past Fraser cannot help 
but inhale, deeply and quietly.

And barely holds in the snarl at the scent of... skin. Flesh that has 
daubed, rubbed Ray all over with its own dark, acrid scent. It hadn't 
been noticeable over the bitter coffee fumes and the underlying musk 
of the station itself, but this close...

This close it's inescapable.//

"You. Have. No. Claim. Here."

The voice comes from directly behind his right ear, and this time 
it wears the full regalia of his father, his ghost from regulation 
Stetson to regulation boots.

And the quiet something that always rests behind his father's eyes 
is so close to the surface this time that no part of him can pretend 
it's not death itself. It had been in Beth Botrelle's eyes, too, and 
probably always will be. 

He'd offered Ray nothing that night but a stiff hand on his shoulder 
and now.... "He's my partner." Clay pigeon of a sentence.

Humorless snort. "Barely." 

//"You just can't stop *picking* can you, Frase?"//

Ray needs that from him, craves the pressure of reason if for no 
other reason than to have something to push against, but Fraser has 
never been able to say it. His memory can repeat the question in so 
many different tones of Ray now that there's no point in denying 
anything.

He waits.

"You're just going to sit here pretending not to think about him 
getting abused by some stranger --"

"Would it be better if I knew who it was, *Dad*?"

"I didn't raise you to have a smart mouth, Benton."

"You didn't raise me." The words are worn things, and come out with 
no fire. Were you allowed to be angry at ghosts for not remembering 
what was said from visitation to visitation?

"Are you just going to sit here and hate? This... this *lethargy* of 
yours is unclean, son."

"So the bruises are mine, then."

"If you're foolish enough to claim them."

Do exit lines come with age?

Foils, son, foils.

And then he is alone with Diefenbaker and the phone and all 
the questions Ray didn't ask yesterday about his behavior, the 
accusations he, perhaps, didn't care enough to make.

When the stranger slept beside Ray, if the stranger stayed once he'd 
taken what he'd wanted, again...

When the stranger slept beside him, would Ray lie awake and wonder at 
Fraser's inconsideration? It's not as though Fraser didn't know he 
was staring and accusing in his turn. Will Ray think about all the 
things Fraser should have said and grow resentful? Weary?

Will he watch the front door stay closed?

Will his clock tick past a dozen empty seasons in a heartbeat?

Will he let it build within him? Will he nurture the quick bright 
hurts until they form the blade? 

Their blade. 

A partnership begun in deceit, ended in same.

Will he mourn? 

Or... will he fight?

Fraser breathes deep, desperate to catch some wisp of responsibility, 
honor he can borrow. His vision clears of all but the foyer itself, 
his uniform has been abandoned for what Fraser has known as recreation 
wear whether the playmate was Innusiq or a wounded bear. 

Fraser stands before the door to America and narrows his eyes in 
preparation.

Questioning growl.

"Today we hunt, Diefenbaker. Today we hunt."

End.