COTW:2 - part four

(or: There's Nothing For Nobody and Everyone Wants to Be Someone)

*This is stupid. Leaving hospital early to go chasing after some criminals in the great North - on dogsleds - just once is bad enough, but twice is getting ridiculous.*

He shifted his position in the snow, one hand against the sled as support. After several, cold, moments, two figures in red appeared through the trees, weaving their way quickly to Frobisher's side.

"Report," the older man told him, as the cadets stood ridgedly to attention.

*Like someone shoved a flagpole up their - *

"Detective?"

He blinked, his thoughts rattled by the sudden appearance of Turnbull. The hyperactive Canadian puppy blinked at him, his uniform perfectly pressed, head tilted slightly to one side.

"Are you feeling alright, sir?"

"Yeah," he said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the 'sir.' "Look, Turnbull, these cadets of Frobisher's - they are, uh, you know . . ."

Turnbull's head bobbed up and down eagerly. "Oh yes sir. Sergeant Frobisher has been training them for weeks. I realise that this is not their official posting as yet but the Sergeant is renowned for producing the finest officers the RCMP has seen since, well -"

"Detective."

Thatcher's voice. He had to admit that she had softened since he last remembered, unless time away had crystallised her memory into a real Ice Queen. Now however she was all business, her hair hidden beneath a Stetson, shoulders dwarfed beneath red serge, and still managing to look unbelievably attractive.

"Detective?"

Louder. He jumped, his thoughts unhappily disturbed. Had he dozed off or, as he hoped, was this just a daydream?

"Sorry. I, uh, you were saying -"

She shuffled forward til she was crouching by his sled, her voice low. "Sergeant Frobisher has found the location of Muldoon's meet. There are at least a dozen Red Cell members in sight, and there may be at least that many again hidden within their trucks. I suggested waiting for back-up -"

He shook his head. "No way. It won't take them long to realise we're here and they'll move on before back-up can get here. What are we, like a thousand miles from the next outpost?"

"Not quite," she told him, her voice strained, "but Sergeant Frobisher does agree with you." She began to move, carefully, back to where the older Mountie was watching over the hill, beckoned for Vecchio to follow.

In the valley below were ten or fifteen dark figures, busy in their tasks, with three on the perimeter, their eyes searching the surrounding scenery. They seemed to be disinterested in their job, and why not, the likelihood of any attack small at best. The last thing they would expect would be a dozen Mounties on sleds coming over the valley to take on twice their number of heavily armed terrorists.

"I guess we have the element of surprise," Vecchio muttered softly, and a heavy hand clapped down on his back.

"That's right," Frobisher beamed, "We've got them right where we want them."

Ray managed to resist the urge to bury his face in his hands. He turned, caught Francesca's eye, and in another moment his sister was beside him, clutching his arm as she peered over the rocky incline.

"I want you to wait here."

He was instantly met by a ferocious glare, but came prepared.

"Look, Franny, you're here, you're in Canada, Ma would kill me if she knew that much. But you're not getting into a firefight, okay?"

"What about you?" she hissed back. "Mister Speedy Gonzales."

"I'll be okay. Look, Franny -"

"Oh god!"

Her eyes widened horribly, her grip on his arm suddenly tightening to blood letting strength. He winced, but followed her eyes over the rocks . . .

"It looks like we found Constable Fraser," Frobisher said, brightly.

Thatcher squinted. Four figures were approaching the small camp, three walking straight, the fourth wriggling under the grip of his six foot captor. "Kowalski's with him," she said, and perhaps Ray was mistaken but he would swear later he heard disappointment in her voice.

Frobisher was beaming. "Good thinking," he said, apparently directing his comment to the distant figure of Fraser. "Create a distraction."

This time Ray couldn't resist. His head disappeared into his arms with a muffled groan.

*

"We're gonna die. We're gonna die. We're gonna die. We're gonna -"

Kowalski's incoherent ramblings were brought short thanks to a sharp punch in the stomach. He doubled, gasping, trying to buck free from the grip of his heavy-set captor.

Fraser winced, but restrained himself from trying to help. A figure was cutting across the snow, coming from between the two tall backs of a pair of lorries. Familiar. He felt his stomach roil at the sight, stopped his hands from curling into fists.

*The first lesson of a captive: don't let them know what you're thinking.*

"I might have known it would take more than a fall to kill a Fraser." Muldoon took several steps forward, coming within inches of his prisoner. Fraser felt the grip around his arms tighten, a warning from the man holding him. "Why come back here, Constable?"

Fraser said nothing, biding his time.

"No. Let me guess. You Mounties have got to go get your man. Or is this something more?" Muldoon cocked his head to the side, but looked disappointed. "No. I don't think it is. You'd think a man - no, a Mountie - would have more to say to me. Maybe not. Maybe you're not your mother's son for nothing - but then she never really had a chance to plead for her life."

Instinct got the better of him, and Fraser kicked back suddenly, driving an elbow into the stomach of his captor. Suddenly released, he rose, started for Muldoon when a sudden cry brought him to a stop.

Kowalski's lip was bleeding, his eyes clenched tight shut as a second blow to his ribs drove him to his knees. Fraser spun round to yell at Muldoon, but found himself facing the barrel of a gun.

"One more move . . ." Muldoon did not finish his thought.

There was a noise, the sound of several startled yells, the growl of engines. Barely two hundred metres away half a dozen sleds were pouring over the hillside into the valley, two riders on each, a flurry of red serge and Stetsons.

Fraser acted quickly to take advantage of the moment. Turning, he lashed out at his captor with one fist, caught him soundly across the jaw but didn't wait to see the man hit the ground. Kowalski had obviously reached the same conclusion, using his arms to pull the larger guy from his feet, then smacking him across the back of the neck to send him unconscious. Fraser spared him a glance to make sure he was holding his own, then turned back for Muldoon.

The older man was gone.

A sudden flurry of gunfire sent both Kowalski and Fraser flat against the dirt. Fraser turned his head so he could catch his partner's eye.

"Are you alright?"

"Just great, Frase." He grinned. "Cavalry's here."

"Yes." Fraser twisted, spotted the military truck to his left. "I think we should head for cover."

"Yup."

In synchronisation, the two men rose to their feet, made a dash for the truck, their backs hitting the canvas cloth at the same time. From around the corner, one of the terrorists seemed to be having the same idea and came around the side of the truck to have Kowalski's fist meet his face. There was a thud as the stunned terrorist hit the ground.

"Yowch!" Kowalski rubbed his knuckles.

"Constable Fraser!"

A flash of red from the side of a truck opposite, an arm in serge beckoning. Fraser nudged his partner, caught sight of a flush of white hair.

"That way," Fraser told his partner. The blonde nodded, still massaging his hand. The hidden figure let loose a volley of covering fire, and in the initial moment of shock Fraser and Kowalski made a sprint for the opposite truck. In his haste Kowalski slipped on a patch of ice, almost landed on his butt had a hand not reached out and grabbed him.

"You okay, son?"

Panting, the blonde met a familiar pair of blue eyes, returned the grip with surprising strength. "Yeah, thanks."

"Sergeant Frobisher!" Fraser blinked, surprised, as the older man untangled himself from Kowalski.

"Got an encampment south of here. Heard you were in trouble. That Inspector of yours is around somewhere, and the Italian fellow."

"Ray?"

Frobisher nodded. "Not looking that good. That sister of his though, think she's been distracting the troops."

"Franny's here?" Kowalski asked.

"Out of the line of fire." Frobisher glanced over his shoulder, where a small group of terrorists were quickly being disarmed by half-a-dozen fresh faced cadets. "It should be over quickly. Catch 'em by surprise, easily overwhelm them . . . Look out -"

The three men pulled back quickly as a dark figure suddenly appeared from around the corner on a sled. Bullets ricocheted off the side of the truck.

Frobisher gave Fraser and Kowalski an appraising look. "Either of you armed?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Oh well." He turned, drawing up his rifle and firing a short round in the direction of their attacker. He must have succeeded in hitting the engine, for there was a sudden burst of flames from the front of the vehicle, and the sled toppled, depositing its rider in a flurry of snow and smoke.

"Looks like this is pretty much over." Frobisher shouldered his rifle, watching a couple of cadets grab the fallen figure, handcuff his wrists.

Kowalski followed Frobisher as they strode out from the truck. The battle, such that it was, seemed to be over. The six trucks stood abandoned, and several Mounties were rummaging through their contents. In the distance, several dark figures could be seen struggling to run, but cut a distinctive mark against the white snow, and each was pursued by a splash of red. A few dozen metres away Thatcher was busy supervising the imprisonment of a group of terrorists, their hands cuffed, shuffling, casting dirty glances at each other and the Mounties surrounding them. Dief, blending almost perfectly with his environment, darted through legs and barked indiscriminately at various goons.

"Sergeant Frobisher!" Thatcher straightened, walked towards them to shake Frobisher's hand. "A smooth operation," she congratulated him. "Your troops were completely professional."

Kowalski could have sworn he saw Frobisher's chest swell with paternal pride. "Well, they've trained hard. You seem to have everything under control here -"

"Kowalski!"

From out of nowhere Vecchio suddenly grabbed the blonde's arms. Kowalski swung back, met his eyes, briefly checked him over. Dark eyes underlined by bruised smudges, skin pale and pulled tight across his cheeks, grip suffocatingly tight.

"You look like hell, Vecchio."

"Yeah?" Ray shot him a look. "You don't look so good yourself, Kowalski." He could feel the skinnier man shiver beneath his touch, released his hold. "Where's Fraser?"

Kowalski glanced back over his shoulder, and was greeted by an empty space. Frowned. "Dunno. He was here but Muldoon -"

"Muldoon's gone too."

"Oh hell. Fraser's -"

"Gone after him.

"You know Vecchio this finishing my sentences crap is going to get old real quickly."

The Italian glared at him. "I have to stop him. Benny's gonna -"

"Do something stupid?" Kowalski finished smugly. He stopped himself, realising that the bickering was getting him nowhere. His mind, still sluggish from the cold, finally caught up with Vecchio's words. "What do you mean, *you* have to stop him?"

"He's my partner, *Stanley,* long before you got here, he's my friend and if anyone -"

"No!" he snapped back, furious, within inches of popping the guy. "You left, Vecchio. Remember? You left to go get a promotion and you left me to carry the can! You stopped being his partner the moment you left him alone in Chicago! Go back to Vegas!"

And before Vecchio could react, Kowalski turned and ran.

*

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Fraser was trying very hard to ignore his father. He concentrated on running, feet pounding against snow, but the job was almost impossible when the ghost was floating beside him.

Fraser Snr. fluttered as his metaphysical presence passed through a tree. "Well?" he demanded, arms folded, feet hovering several inches above the ground.

Fraser kept his head low, could hear his own breath, but could no longer block out his father. "I'm going after Muldoon."

"And you don't think you should have waited for some of Buck's cadets to come help you?"

"I can bring him down alone."

"You mean you want to." The ghost shook his head. "I told you, son. Muldoon is a dangerous man."

"He murdered my mother. Your wife."

"And you can still bring him to justice."

"Isn't that what I'm trying to do?"

His father raised an eyebrow, giving a pointed look at the gun Fraser had taken from one of Muldoon's men, the gun now clutched in one gloved hand. "With that?"

Fraser caught a glimpse of a dark coat through the trees, pressed onwards, and suddenly found his father gone, left behind. He muttered something beneath his breath, shot past another clump of trees and suddenly found himself in a small snowy clearing, struggling to come to a stop before -

Too late. He felt his foot slip on ice, lost touch with the ground, and then felt himself plummet through layers of darkness. Rotten planks of wood snatched at his clothes, left splinters and scratches on his skin, but before he had time to register the pain his feet hit the ground hard. Rolling to lessen the impact, Fraser could not prevent the breath from leaving his body, and he came to a gasping, shuddering stop, on his knees in the semi-darkness of a small cave.

An abandoned mine, he realised, catching his breath. Very abandoned. The air was stale, trapped for an unknown quantity of years. The sudden breeze from the hole above stirred flurries of dust and fine grit that sparkled in a shaft of light.

But he wasn't alone. Too late, Fraser remembered his weapon, but found it missing from his hand, turned to meet the barrel end, pointed straight at his forehead.

*

He shouldn't have said that to Vecchio.

Kowalski knew that, and deep in his heart of hearts felt sorry for it. If he had time, he might have resolved to apologise to the Italian.

But time was one thing he didn't have. Muldoon was gone, Fraser had disappeared after him, and Kowalski had the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that if he left them alone somebody was going to get hurt. Something bad was about to go down, and he wasn't ready to let it.

*Vecchio can try and take Fraser but I'm sure as hell not losing him to Muldoon.*

Unfortunately Muldoon and Fraser weren't the only ones missing from the battle scene.

Whether it was his inexperience in the snow, his reckless crushing of the undergrowth, or the fact that the world had a tendency to spin if he turned his head too quickly, he didn't hear the snap of twigs before it was too late. A figure suddenly appeared from the trees before him, and he couldn't stop himself, ploughing straight into the man's line of sight.

"Hold it right there."

Kowalski stopped dead in his tracks. He froze, unable to raise his eyes away from the barrel of the gun that was pointed straight at him.

"Well lookee here." The man before him was perhaps seven foot tall, with thick shoulders, one arm marked by the lurid flash of a red scarf. He gave Kowalski a grin. "I got myself a catch."

"Um . . ." Stanley swallowed, trying to search for Fraser without moving his head. The Mountie, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be seen, and he was alone, lost in a forest he didn't know where and facing down an armed and desperate terrorist.

Alone. And probably very likely to die.

"You can’t kill me," he said, weakly. "I’m a cop."

"You think those Mounties are going to let me leave here? Always get their man, don't they. Well I need a hostage and you'll do nicely."

His hand inched marginally towards his gun, hidden beneath his jacket, but the weapon before him twitched warningly. "Actually, that's not their motto. I, um, I dunno what their motto actually is but that's a mis, a thingy, a misno, uh mistake. Stereotype thing." Despite his hesitations his voice did not tremble.

"Yet I find myself strangely not caring." The dark man raised the gun slightly, aiming for Kowalski’s forehead. "Maybe you're just slowing me down." And then his finger tightened, closing around the trigger, and Kowalski closed his eyes, and there was the sound of a gunshot echoing around the canyon . . .

A moment later, Kowalski opened his eyes to see the man lying on the floor, rolling, fingers trying to stanch the flow of blood from his shoulder. Stan turned to find the source of his saviour, and scowled.

"Vecchio."

"A simple thank you would do." Ray grinned at him, slipping his gun into its holster. "Where’s Benny?"

"He went after Muldoon." Kowalski stared at him. "I thought you were with Thatcher."

"I got bored." Crossing over to where the terrorist lay, Ray gave the man a cautious nudge with his foot. "You’ll be okay," he told the man, "I barely clipped you." The man glared at him, gritting his teeth.

"What do we do with him?"

"The Ice Queen is right behind me. She’ll pick him up. We have to go get Fraser." Vecchio glanced at Kowalski. "Right?"

Stan nodded. "Right. And, er . . . thanks. And, er, I'm sorry about what I said. If I forget later, or get killed."

"Hey, any friend of Benny’s . . ." Ray sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe you were right. You’re okay, Kowalski."

"Yeah, er . . . you too. Not that that makes us partners, or anything."

"Not even friends."

"No."

"Good."

*

"Stand up slowly, Constable."

Cautiously, Fraser raised his hands. As Muldoon took a step back he rose, suddenly, bringing one hand up to knock the gun from Muldoon's hands, one foot connecting solidly with the other man's knee. Muldoon stumbled, and Fraser snatched the weapon from him, then punched him across the face, sent him back against the wall.

There was the sound of rotten wood creaking at the impact, and dust showered the two men in wood grain and dirt.

"Well." Muldoon wiped one hand across his lip, examined the blood with a look of surprise. "It seems you have me, Benton Fraser."

Tightening his hold on the gun, Fraser took a step back, kept the weapon levelled at Muldoon's chest. He stayed silent, watching his opponent with dark eyes and clenched jaw.

"Well? If you're going to kill me, then don't take all day. It won't be long before we're interrupted."

As if on cue, there was the sound of skittering stones, and two shadows dropped from the ceiling, the first landing lightly on his feet, the second landing heavily on his knees and cursing softly in Italian.

"Frase."

"Benny."

Kowalski helped Vecchio to his feet, before both turning to watch their friend. Cautiously.

"Put the gun down, Benny."

His fingers tightened around the trigger, face pale in the light from above.

"You're wrong," Muldoon said, keeping his gaze locked on the Mountie. "He does want to do this. You can see it in his eyes."

"Benny -"

"He killed my mother," Fraser said, levelly. "Wouldn't you do the same?"

Ray considered this for a moment. "Yeah," he admitted. "I would."

Kowalski shot him a 'what-the-hell-are-you-doing' look, but the Italian ignored it.

"But I'd have you to stop me, Benny. You'd be there to tell me some Inuit tale, about how revenge doesn't do anything to all that hate and anger and hurt inside except make it grow stronger, until it eats you up inside."

"He's right."

Another voice. Fraser Snr. appeared in the shadows, watching Muldoon watch his son. He was still wearing the furry hat and old-style uniform from before.

The mine was becoming uncomfortably crowded.

"You don't want to do this. You don't want to make the same mistake I did thirty years ago."

Fraser's voice was dry. "The only mistake you made was in failing."

Kowalski and Vecchio exchanged looks. "Who's he talking to?" Kowalski whispered, but Ray could only shrug.

"You really believe that?"

"He killed mom. Your wife." His eyes narrowed, gaze returning to Muldoon. "And he enjoyed it."

*Your mother was a pretty woman, Benton . . .*

Muldoon returned the look with a cool, collected smile, palms open and turned towards him.

"Fraser." Kowalski, anxious, Vecchio leaning against his shoulder. "Come on, Benton-Buddy. You know you can't do this. This is what he wants, don't you get it?"

"He needs to be stopped -"

Soothingly: "And he will be, Frase. But if you kill him, it's gonna be all over. Not just for him, but for you to, and for me, and for Vecchio."

"He's got a point," Muldoon admitted, his voice gravelly, watching Fraser with hooded eyes. "You think the RCMP let murderers into their ranks?"

*But when I shot her, she dropped, like a big ol' sack of potatoes.*

"I don't care." Fraser's voice trembled for just a moment. His shoulders could be seen to tighten beneath his coat, jaw clenching. "The RCMP stopped caring about me three years ago."

"But it still means something to you. To me. We're Frasers, son, we don't give up on our duty that easily."

"What about us, Benny?" Ray asked him, his voice strained. "Me, and Kowalski, and Franny, and Ma . . . Family, Benny. You can't just up and leave when I just got back."

"I . . ." Fraser hesitated, childlike. "I wouldn't leave you, Ray. Any of you -"

"You think you'd be respecting us if you do this? You think I could stand it to have to come visit you in prison? Benny, I'll say it was self-defence if you want to, you know I'd do anything for you, but it doesn't make it right. It won't make you feel better -"

"But he killed my mother. He tried to kill you."

"But he didn't, Benny. And I don't want to lose you over this."

"I can't go back to Chicago without you," Kowalski told him, quietly. "It'd feel . . ." searching for the words, "feel like I died and I didn't get anything done. I need you."

"You should listen to them." Fraser Snr. looked at his son sadly, dark eyes tired. "I should have had someone to tell me this, Ben. Buck wasn't there for me, wasn't there to stop me from making a mistake."

"He *murdered* her -"

"And he destroyed me. I don't want to see him do the same to you." The ghost took a step forward, into the light, his image translucent yet startlingly real.

Kowalski and Vecchio's confused reaction was nothing compared to Muldoon's. His eyes widening, he suddenly pressed himself against the wall, his entire body rigid, eyes fixed on the dead man before him.

"You - who the hell -"

"Remember back," Fraser Snr. said calmly, stepping up to him and ignoring the sudden whispering from the two detectives. "Twenty-nine years. Six-Mile Canyon."

The blood from Muldoon's face drained suddenly as realisation dawned. "But you - you're dead -"

Kowalski exchanged a confused glance with Vecchio. "Is that -"

"Uh, yeah."

"But -"

"Yeah."

Air pushed out through his teeth. "Woah."

Father stood next to son, facing down Muldoon, who was struggling to make himself part of the rock face.

"Hello dad."

"Hello son." Fraser Snr. tilted his head slightly, studied Muldoon's look of horror. "Cross a Mountie and he'll hunt you until the grave. Or beyond."

"You won't shoot me -" For the first time, Muldoon had genuine terror in his eyes. "You wouldn't -"

"No." The ghost looked down at his gun regretfully. "I doubt phantom bullets will work. It would make things easier, though." Glanced at his son. "Then you wouldn't have to."

"Dad -"

"I can't just stand here and let Muldoon destroy you, Benton."

Fraser blinked, hard, cheeks damp. "He killed her . . . he's a murderer . . . Dad, you tried -"

"Why do you think I'm still around? I made a mistake, Benton. Yes, Muldoon deserves to be punished, but not like this. Not by you."

"I can't -"

"Yeah, you can." Kowalski, quietly. "Just put the gun down."

"Stan -"

"We need you, Benny."

"I . . ." He cut off, shoulders trembling beneath cloth. After a long, incredibly tense moment, his eyes closed, his arms dropped, the gun loose in his hands.

"Well done," Fraser Snr. told him, quietly.

It was another moment before Fraser raised his head, met his father's eyes. "Thank you."

Then, as one, both men turned, let loose two punches that smacked the back of Muldoon's head against the rock wall and left him bloodied and sinking unconscious to the ground.

Fraser let out a long breath, slipping the gun into his belt and turning to face his father. Kowalski and Vecchio remained silent, watching the scene unfold from a respectful distance.

"You're fading."

Sadly. Fraser Snr. looked down at himself, at the rock face visible through him. Then back up, catching his son's eyes. "I've solved my last crime. I caught my last man, no reason to hang around."

"I, uh . . ." The words caught in the back of his throat. "I thought you were permanent."

The ghost gave him a sad, wistful smile. "Oh son . . . nothing's permanent."

There was a sudden movement behind him, the sound of a breeze brushing against invisible chimes, a shaft of light spilling into darkness. And a figure, a woman, dark hair loose around her shoulders, cream skin pale against the folds of her clothes. Father and son stood together, the ghost taking a hesitant step forward, into the sun.

"Caroline?"

Uncertain: "Mom?"

The woman smiled, the light playing across her hair, dust and dirt aglow, sparkles carried in the breeze. She stepped forward, noiseless, until she was within a breath's distance of her son, her hand lifted to softly touch his cheek, his tears, stroke his hair. Fraser stood motionless, afraid of losing her, afraid of losing that moment, trembling gently.

And then her touch was lost. She reached out to take her husband's hand, pull him gently into the light. His father's eyes were fixed upon her, and he was silent as he followed, the two ghost stepping into sunlight. There was the gentle, melodic sound of delicate bells, a warm brush of air, and then they were gone, and shadows returned.

There was another, long silence. Vecchio was the first to regain feeling in his legs, taking a step forward to touch Fraser's shoulder nervously.

"You okay, Benny?"

A slight pause. Fraser seemed to uncoil, his shoulders slumping, voice tired and vulnerable. "Yes. I'm glad to see you, Ray."

"You too." Ray let his grip slip to take hold of his friend's arm, gently.

"I want to go home." Childlike.

Kowalski's head dropped, studying the floor for a moment. He barely succeeded in hiding his disappointment from his voice. "Sure, Fraser. We'll speak to Thatcher, go up to your dad's cabin -"

He shook his head. "Not the cabin. Not Canada. Home. To Chicago."

Kowalski immediately broke into a huge grin, plastered across his face, but Vecchio retained more reserve.

"You sure? I mean, Benny, a lot's happened over the past few days and -"

"I'm sure." Fraser turned, and his expression was one of resolve, a gift of clarity. "The Territories are where I grew up, where I spent my childhood, where I have memories of my parents, together. But Chicago is where my family are."

This time Vecchio joined in with the grin.

"Told ya."

"Both of you," he continued, addressing Kowalski as well, "and Francesca, and Inspector Thatcher, and Mrs Vecchio, and Detectives Huey and -"

"Yeah, okay Fraser," Kowalski butted in. "We didn't ask you for a list."

"Ah. Sorry." Fraser ducked his head, then looked back up, lifted his gaze to meet Vecchio's. "I thought I was homesick for the Yukon but I was wrong. I know what I missed, and now that's back in Chicago."

Vecchio flushed, then grimaced, his grip on Fraser's sleeve tightening suddenly. Kowalski grabbed him, hand under his shoulder.

"You okay, Vecchio?"

He flashed them a less than certain grin. "Think I might have pulled a couple of stitches when I jumped."

"You mean when you fell."

Fraser was about to give an instinctive tut, but broke off, spotting the physical contact for the first time, assessed the two men in a new light.

"You two are getting on?"

"He saved my butt," Kowalski admitted, reluctantly.

"I now own his life," Ray added, with a small, smug smile.

"I'm just waiting for the chance to return the favour."

"Constable Fraser!"

Two faces looked down on them from above. Thatcher's face was framed by tendrils of escaped roots, and as she shifted position a scattering of loose dirt fell onto the watchers' shoulders.

"You alright, Benton?" Frobisher asked, his voice loud and echoing around the cavern.

"Yes, sir. Detectives Kowalski and Vecchio are with me."

"And Muldoon?"

Fraser glanced down at the heap of man slumped against the wall. "Yes," he said, with a note of finality. "We got our man."

*

It was another few minutes before a small team of cadets arrived to help the four men out of the abandoned mine. Muldoon was taken away into custody, along with the remainder of his gang, the members of Red Cell, and the lone terrorist who had tried to shoot Kowalski. Frobisher disappeared to organise the round-up, and Thatcher was busying rallying some cadets into taking control of the weapons, leaving Ray, Kowalski and Fraser making their way back to the snow sleds. Dief wound their way around their ankles, as though the touch was reassurance that all three of his pack-mates were still present.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Kowalski flashed his friend a grin. His skin was still pale, his hair damp, but his cheeks held the beginnings of a healthy flush. "Yup. Could do with a hot shower and something to eat though." He glanced at Vecchio, who was now leaning heavily on Fraser's arm, limping. "Not sure about you."

"I'll be okay."

"Ray, you shouldn't have left the hospital."

He waved a dismissive hand vaguely. "Yeah, Benny. I was gonna leave you to the care of *this* guy."

Kowalski returned the mock-insult with an exaggerated scowl. "Huh. Like you can talk."

There was a moment of silence, three pairs of feet crunching snow.

"Uh, Fraser . . ." Kowalski hesitated. "About what happened . . ."

Vecchio ducked his head. "About your dad . . ."

Fraser flushed, the tips of his ears turning an unnatural pink. His free hand ran across his eyebrow. "Yes. Ah, I'm not sure if I can explain . . ."

"Yeah, well, that's just it. Maybe it would be better if -"

"We didn't talk about it," Ray finished. "Some things are just . . . ah, better left just unreflected on."

A small smile. "I understand. Thank you."

"S'okay." Kowalski looked down at his feet, kicking his shoes against a clump of ice. "You know, about me and Vecchio . . . seeing as we'll be both in Chicago now, I can't go by Ray anymore."

Fraser blinked. "I can tell the difference."

Ray laughed. "Yeah, Benny, but I think other people might find it confusing to call us both Ray all the time."

"And you can't call me Kowalski. Or Stanley," he added as an afterthought, glaring at Vecchio. "But, um, you called me something in the mineshaft . . ."

Fraser frowned for a moment. "Stan?"

"Yeah." Kowalski shrugged. "It's, uh, it's not my first choice, I guess, but when you say it, it sounds . . . well, it sounds okay."

A smile. "Stan, then."

"Yup." He returned the smile, tearing his gaze away in an embarrassed fluster to look away at the sleds. "Look, ah, I'm gonna go see if Turnbull's got anything to eat. Give you two some time to catch up." He threw them another grin, then broke away to head towards a group of cadets, attentive to the instruction of the Chicago Constable. Fraser heard him give a final: "Jeez, they think he's God!"

Another moment of silence, Fraser supporting his friend with one arm, concentrating on their destination - the valley side that housed the remainder of Frobisher's troops. The sun was warm against their backs, a momentary remainder of the light in the mineshaft, shimmering against the snow.

"So . . ." Vecchio turned to look at his friend, a small smile playing about his lips. "You and Thatcher ever hit it off whilst I was gone?"

Fraser's expression was one of pure incomprehension. "Ray, I assure you, the relationship between myself and Inspector Thatcher is purely one of a Constable and his senior officer . . ."

"Oh please. You don't expect me to believe that. You and the Dragon Lady? What about in the egg factory? Or on the train?"

His cheeks flushed slightly. "Ray, I have never mentioned anything about -"

"Oh come on," he teased. "You're going that pink colour. Clashes with your shirt. If you haven't been seeing Thatcher, then there's got to be someone else."

Fraser cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Ah."

"Ah?"

Silence.

"We can talk about this, right?"

"Ah . . . no."

"Come on, Benny!"

"Well, Ray, I can honestly tell you that there has been no-one in that sense since . . ."

"Since . . ." he prompted.

"Well, since the last time there was anyone in that sense."

"Ah."

Fraser gave him what, for a Mountie, could be considered a dirty look. "Now Ray, that's not fair."

"What?!" Ray affected a mock hurt look.

"Ray, we should really get you to a hospital . . ."

"Now you're trying to change the subject!"

A small sigh. "Ray, you're injured, and it's been a long day. The camp is only over this hill and then -"

"Fraser!"

A dark haired, brightly clothed shape hurtled down the hillside, skidding on the snow, rushing to grab an extremely astonished Fraser around the waist, embrace him in a tight hug.

"Franny?"

Ray's voice was a mix of complete shock, and more than a little horror. To Fraser's credit, the Mountie was flushed red up to the tips of his ears, returning Francesca's embrace a little awkwardly.

"I was so worried . . ." She pulled back enough to look at Ray. "Are you alright?"

He pulled back enough to glare at Fraser. "I think I'm gonna be better when I find out just what my best friend and my sister have been up to whilst I've not been here."

Fraser suddenly turned a severe shade of purple and took great interest in his boots. "Ah . . ."

"Fraser!!"

*

And so life continued . . .

Detectives Huey and Dewey did realise their dream of opening a comedy club. Unfortunately, the club was a flop after the opening night, when the only one-liner that the two detectives knew was one about a fish with no eyes. So they returned to their jobs, amid much mockery from their fellow officers.

Constable Turnbull returned to Chicago, and remained at his post, although he continued to communicate with Frobisher's troops, and Francesca swore she once caught him answering fan letters, despite his denials.

Inspector Margaret Thatcher remained at the Consulate for three more months, but thanks to the capture of Muldoon received her promotion, and was transferred to Ottawa, where she became a leading diplomat between Canada and other world powers.

Francesca Vecchio returned to Chicago, but decided that she could not get over the hat issue and remained as Civilian Aide for several more months.

Lieutenant Welsh stayed behind his desk, because that was where he belonged.

Fraser, Kowalski and Vecchio returned to Chicago. Ray, after a brief visit to hospital, returned to the 27th Precinct and resumed his work, partnered alongside Stan Kowalski. They continued to bicker, but their friendship was a true one.

Constable Fraser also returned to the Consulate, where he was promoted into a specially created position in an effort to link the forces of the RCMP with those of the Chicago PD. Upon the insistence of his two friends, he finally found himself a new apartment, which Francesca promptly decided to decorate.

And Dief? Well, Dief resumed his snack food addiction, gained five pounds, and was forced onto a strict diet of Health Plan, whereupon he spent the next two months in a permanent sulk.

The End.

These characters are not mine, I only borrowed them and promise to put them back when I'm done! Comments appreciated.

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