Mountie Dreams & Stranger Things
May. 20th, 2004 05:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zarahemlaGood thing you don't read fanfic, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gypped, cause this would freak your shit up.
Title: Mad Love (the Mountie Dreams remix)
Author: Zara Hemla (shutupmulder@yahoo.com)
Site: http://if.lightquencher.net/
Fandom: Due South
Rating: R
Summary: Kowalski and Fraser have a deja vu moment.
Remixes EA Karras's Mad Love, with some "Mad World" thrown in for good measure.
Mountie Dreams (and stranger things)
Chicago sucks the life out of you in February. It's so fuckin' cold that your bones freeze and then it feels like you're held together with kelvinated wires. And my poor car, probably built to purr around the curves of Highway 1 in sunny California, can't hack it. The heater takes hours to warm up, and even then it only blows a very thin stream of semi-heated air.
Which is why I'm cussin' up a storm as I shiver and lean on the horn outside the Canadian Consulate. Fuck's sake! Fraser said to be here at six a.m., and Fraser is never late, but here it is, six-ten, and who is still sitting outside, freezing his ass to the seat of his GTO? Yours truly, that's who.
Six honks later, the huge door finally cracks open and I stare into the abyss, trying to spot a flash of red. We were supposed to go down and look at some warehouse records, and Benny doesn't like to, y'know, actually be inconspicuous or anything. But for a long moment no one appears, and I'm starting to scout for a parking space so I can pull over and see what the hell is keeping him, but then I see him come out, carefully close the big door and try the handle to make sure it's fastened tight.
The reason I didn't see him at first is because he's wearing jeans. And that leather jacket, with tails of a dark green shirt poking out over his back pockets. It's a nice change from that red jacket which always covers up his ass. Which I only mention because he has a really nice one. I stare for a minute but I lose my train of thought as he turns around and shuffles toward the car in his scuffed-up boots, hands in pockets. Benny looks miserable.
Not just regular old Mountie-miserable, but flat-out, about-to-cry, my-favorite-grandma-just-died miserable. Haunted miserable. And another thing -- he's alone. I get a flash. Maybe Dief is sick. Or ... maybe he's dead. Maybe his legendary nose failed him right before he got hit by a semi. Oh geez, oh geez, this could be bad.
Fraser stops right by the door and looks at me for a minute. His usual blank mask is completely gone, and I can see something lurking in the back of his eyes, something cold and wounded. I just motion for him to get in the car, and he does, and then I can't stand it anymore and I have to ask him: "Benny, what the hell is wrong? Is Dief okay?"
"He's fine." Benny sighs and leans back against the leather seat, closes his eyes. "I left him inside. I'm tired of his constant questions."
All ... right, I'll just let that one go. I start the car and we pull away from the curb, headed down to the lake and the warehouse. The silence grates on me and I start tryin' to push radio buttons, lookin' for something, but Benny stops me with a hand to my wrist. When I look up though, he still has his eyes closed.
"Not today, Ray. I can't stand any more bad rock music or sports commentary. Okay?" He's gonna feel guilty about the nasty tone in a minute, so I just let the radio go with no comment. And sure enough, a minute later I hear a soft, "I'm sorry." His breath huffs white and clouds his window.
"No problem, Frase," I say and I take a left. The warehouses begin to rise around us, all the same, all flat and white and ugly. I turn another corner and realise that I think I'm on the wrong street.
Dammit. I pull over to the side of the road and begin rooting in the glovebox, looking intently for the paper with the directions on it. When I find it and look up again, Fraser is watching me. Our faces are about two inches apart. And something shakes loose inside me and starts heatin' me up like an electric toaster. I stop feeling the cold, and my heartbeat speeds into double time. My breath freezes in my throat. And he knows it too -- I can see it, for a minute he looks like he's gonna smile, but then his eyes darken again.
Not sure what to do, I fumble backwards, take a long look at the paper. Number 17899, it says, west on Industry Way. And here we are, going in the wrong direction. Shit.
I'm about to put the car back in gear and Fraser stops me again, this time with a word: "Don't." He's extremely unsettling today, and I can feel him watching me, and I don't know whether to make a joke out of it or just lay my hands on him somethin' serious. I grab the steering wheel and wait, lookin' out the windshield at the flat grey sky because I
can't look at him.
"I had a dream about you last night," he says. His voice is stifled and rough, as though he's been screaming all night, and I know it wasn't a good dream. Whatever it was, it gave Benny the screamin' heebie-jeebies, and if you know Fraser, you know how hard that is to do.
But I joke it up anyway: "Did it involve me and three Bulls cheerleaders?" Trying to lighten it up, knowing it's gonna tank. That's me, the forlorn jester. I'll joke when I'm dying.
"No." One low syllable and I know it's gonna be bad and I have no way of stopping it. "I killed you. I slit your wrists and drowned you. And you thanked me for it."
It throws me for a loop, and it sounds very familiar. Something, something ... it tickles the back of my brain. Fraser is still talking, a painful monotone.
"You were in the bathroom about to slit your wrists. And I came in and held you under the water, then I cut you, so --" and he makes a slicing motion up the inner arm of his leather jacket. "And as you bled to death, I held you down. Then I panicked for a moment and when I turned around you stood there, dripping blood onto the floor, and you thanked me, you kissed
me on the mouth and you thanked me for killing you. You tasted like blood."
"Shit," I say involuntarily, not because of the dream -- don't they have nightmares in Canada? -- but because of the image, the familiar sequence of events. I can't believe Fraser is so upset, hasn't this happened before? Cops have dreams like that about their partners all the time, like pregnant women who dream of giving birth to otters or something. Case in point -- but I look up and he's starin' at me like he's expecting me to throw him out of the car right there.
"Frase," I say. "I had the same fuckin' dream about you, only it was a week ago. I was sittin' in my bathroom about to slit my wrists for some damn reason, I don't know, and you came in --"
His eyes get even bigger, but I see some of the pain drain out of them. It's always good to know you're not alone.
"You had the same dream? And you didn't tell me?"
"Well I admit it scared the shit out of me at the time, but you know, then daylight came and it was all right. It's no big deal, cops have lots of dreams like that. One time -- seven, eight years ago when I was a rookie, my partner, his name was Scoville -- I dreamed that I put him in a box and set it on fire. Hasn't this ever happened to you before?"
He's slumping in relief, hands unclenching and laying peaceful on his thighs. "No, never. I had nightmares after my father died, and after Vic -- Victoria, but those I could explain away."
"It just comes from workin' so closely," I say. "Maybe it means you're tired of me, you need a break." It's a good suggestion -- I mean hell, Benny could always use a vacation -- but he gets all huffy and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.
"I don't need a break!"
"Fine, fine, you don't need a break. Then, mister I'm-So-Well-Adjusted, why don't we get down to the warehouse?"
He sits up straight, restoring his posture, looking so relieved and Fraser-like that I have to grin. "All right."
I stop with my hand on the keys and turn to eye him consideringly. "Though I don't believe I had any dreams where my partner kissed me." I'm baiting him deliberately, wanting to see where this is going, wanting to see what he'll say. And he stops smiling again at the dreadful memory.
"It was awful. Your mouth was so cold, and you looked so angry -- livid -- dead. I think I'll remember it forever."
I feel guilty about having put that look back on his face. I have to fix it -- no, let's not kid ourselves, I want to fix it. My way. "Don't worry," I say, rushing headlong toward something that looks a lot like joy, putting a hand on his warm shoulder and letting the other angle his face toward mine. "I'll give you a good memory to replace it with."
This time, when my face gets about an inch from his, Fraser does smile.
--end--
Note: It was extremely difficult for me to find something that EA Karras had not co-authored with someone, so I chose this story (and its prequel). I realised, reading them over, that it's possible they are meant to be AU, but it never really says, so I took the liberty of interpreting them my way.
Note 2: So which do you like better, Fraser in uniform or out of it? Let me know! shutupmulder@yahoo.com.
gypped, cause this would freak your shit up.Title: Mad Love (the Mountie Dreams remix)
Author: Zara Hemla (shutupmulder@yahoo.com)
Site: http://if.lightquencher.net/
Fandom: Due South
Rating: R
Summary: Kowalski and Fraser have a deja vu moment.
Remixes EA Karras's Mad Love, with some "Mad World" thrown in for good measure.
Mountie Dreams (and stranger things)
Chicago sucks the life out of you in February. It's so fuckin' cold that your bones freeze and then it feels like you're held together with kelvinated wires. And my poor car, probably built to purr around the curves of Highway 1 in sunny California, can't hack it. The heater takes hours to warm up, and even then it only blows a very thin stream of semi-heated air.
Which is why I'm cussin' up a storm as I shiver and lean on the horn outside the Canadian Consulate. Fuck's sake! Fraser said to be here at six a.m., and Fraser is never late, but here it is, six-ten, and who is still sitting outside, freezing his ass to the seat of his GTO? Yours truly, that's who.
Six honks later, the huge door finally cracks open and I stare into the abyss, trying to spot a flash of red. We were supposed to go down and look at some warehouse records, and Benny doesn't like to, y'know, actually be inconspicuous or anything. But for a long moment no one appears, and I'm starting to scout for a parking space so I can pull over and see what the hell is keeping him, but then I see him come out, carefully close the big door and try the handle to make sure it's fastened tight.
The reason I didn't see him at first is because he's wearing jeans. And that leather jacket, with tails of a dark green shirt poking out over his back pockets. It's a nice change from that red jacket which always covers up his ass. Which I only mention because he has a really nice one. I stare for a minute but I lose my train of thought as he turns around and shuffles toward the car in his scuffed-up boots, hands in pockets. Benny looks miserable.
Not just regular old Mountie-miserable, but flat-out, about-to-cry, my-favorite-grandma-just-died miserable. Haunted miserable. And another thing -- he's alone. I get a flash. Maybe Dief is sick. Or ... maybe he's dead. Maybe his legendary nose failed him right before he got hit by a semi. Oh geez, oh geez, this could be bad.
Fraser stops right by the door and looks at me for a minute. His usual blank mask is completely gone, and I can see something lurking in the back of his eyes, something cold and wounded. I just motion for him to get in the car, and he does, and then I can't stand it anymore and I have to ask him: "Benny, what the hell is wrong? Is Dief okay?"
"He's fine." Benny sighs and leans back against the leather seat, closes his eyes. "I left him inside. I'm tired of his constant questions."
All ... right, I'll just let that one go. I start the car and we pull away from the curb, headed down to the lake and the warehouse. The silence grates on me and I start tryin' to push radio buttons, lookin' for something, but Benny stops me with a hand to my wrist. When I look up though, he still has his eyes closed.
"Not today, Ray. I can't stand any more bad rock music or sports commentary. Okay?" He's gonna feel guilty about the nasty tone in a minute, so I just let the radio go with no comment. And sure enough, a minute later I hear a soft, "I'm sorry." His breath huffs white and clouds his window.
"No problem, Frase," I say and I take a left. The warehouses begin to rise around us, all the same, all flat and white and ugly. I turn another corner and realise that I think I'm on the wrong street.
Dammit. I pull over to the side of the road and begin rooting in the glovebox, looking intently for the paper with the directions on it. When I find it and look up again, Fraser is watching me. Our faces are about two inches apart. And something shakes loose inside me and starts heatin' me up like an electric toaster. I stop feeling the cold, and my heartbeat speeds into double time. My breath freezes in my throat. And he knows it too -- I can see it, for a minute he looks like he's gonna smile, but then his eyes darken again.
Not sure what to do, I fumble backwards, take a long look at the paper. Number 17899, it says, west on Industry Way. And here we are, going in the wrong direction. Shit.
I'm about to put the car back in gear and Fraser stops me again, this time with a word: "Don't." He's extremely unsettling today, and I can feel him watching me, and I don't know whether to make a joke out of it or just lay my hands on him somethin' serious. I grab the steering wheel and wait, lookin' out the windshield at the flat grey sky because I
can't look at him.
"I had a dream about you last night," he says. His voice is stifled and rough, as though he's been screaming all night, and I know it wasn't a good dream. Whatever it was, it gave Benny the screamin' heebie-jeebies, and if you know Fraser, you know how hard that is to do.
But I joke it up anyway: "Did it involve me and three Bulls cheerleaders?" Trying to lighten it up, knowing it's gonna tank. That's me, the forlorn jester. I'll joke when I'm dying.
"No." One low syllable and I know it's gonna be bad and I have no way of stopping it. "I killed you. I slit your wrists and drowned you. And you thanked me for it."
It throws me for a loop, and it sounds very familiar. Something, something ... it tickles the back of my brain. Fraser is still talking, a painful monotone.
"You were in the bathroom about to slit your wrists. And I came in and held you under the water, then I cut you, so --" and he makes a slicing motion up the inner arm of his leather jacket. "And as you bled to death, I held you down. Then I panicked for a moment and when I turned around you stood there, dripping blood onto the floor, and you thanked me, you kissed
me on the mouth and you thanked me for killing you. You tasted like blood."
"Shit," I say involuntarily, not because of the dream -- don't they have nightmares in Canada? -- but because of the image, the familiar sequence of events. I can't believe Fraser is so upset, hasn't this happened before? Cops have dreams like that about their partners all the time, like pregnant women who dream of giving birth to otters or something. Case in point -- but I look up and he's starin' at me like he's expecting me to throw him out of the car right there.
"Frase," I say. "I had the same fuckin' dream about you, only it was a week ago. I was sittin' in my bathroom about to slit my wrists for some damn reason, I don't know, and you came in --"
His eyes get even bigger, but I see some of the pain drain out of them. It's always good to know you're not alone.
"You had the same dream? And you didn't tell me?"
"Well I admit it scared the shit out of me at the time, but you know, then daylight came and it was all right. It's no big deal, cops have lots of dreams like that. One time -- seven, eight years ago when I was a rookie, my partner, his name was Scoville -- I dreamed that I put him in a box and set it on fire. Hasn't this ever happened to you before?"
He's slumping in relief, hands unclenching and laying peaceful on his thighs. "No, never. I had nightmares after my father died, and after Vic -- Victoria, but those I could explain away."
"It just comes from workin' so closely," I say. "Maybe it means you're tired of me, you need a break." It's a good suggestion -- I mean hell, Benny could always use a vacation -- but he gets all huffy and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.
"I don't need a break!"
"Fine, fine, you don't need a break. Then, mister I'm-So-Well-Adjusted, why don't we get down to the warehouse?"
He sits up straight, restoring his posture, looking so relieved and Fraser-like that I have to grin. "All right."
I stop with my hand on the keys and turn to eye him consideringly. "Though I don't believe I had any dreams where my partner kissed me." I'm baiting him deliberately, wanting to see where this is going, wanting to see what he'll say. And he stops smiling again at the dreadful memory.
"It was awful. Your mouth was so cold, and you looked so angry -- livid -- dead. I think I'll remember it forever."
I feel guilty about having put that look back on his face. I have to fix it -- no, let's not kid ourselves, I want to fix it. My way. "Don't worry," I say, rushing headlong toward something that looks a lot like joy, putting a hand on his warm shoulder and letting the other angle his face toward mine. "I'll give you a good memory to replace it with."
This time, when my face gets about an inch from his, Fraser does smile.
--end--
Note: It was extremely difficult for me to find something that EA Karras had not co-authored with someone, so I chose this story (and its prequel). I realised, reading them over, that it's possible they are meant to be AU, but it never really says, so I took the liberty of interpreting them my way.
Note 2: So which do you like better, Fraser in uniform or out of it? Let me know! shutupmulder@yahoo.com.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-21 09:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-21 09:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-21 12:20 pm (UTC)(Gay Murderous Mounties sounds like a musicale. "Oh ... I'm a gay murderous mountie ... and I love the color red ... I love to slice people's heads off ... and grind their bones to make my bread ....")