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Title: Luckier than most, with your memories and ghosts
Fandom: due South
Pairing: F/V pre-slash
Rating: G
Word Count: 1457
Summary: If someone wishes Fraser a happy Victoria Day one more time, he might have some sort of fit.
Notes: Set shortly after "Juliet is Bleeding." Victoria Day is a Canadian national holiday which is "celebrated on the last Monday before or on 24 May, in honor of both Queen Victoria's birthday and the current reigning Canadian sovereign's official birthday, and [which] is also considered an informal mark of the beginning of the summer season." Beta'd by inseriatim.
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine and I am making no money off this.

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"Happy Victoria Day, Constable!" Turnbull said cheerfully when Fraser walked in the door. Fraser started, his heart racing.

It served him right. He had been careless about a major national holiday and now he was unprepared. How had he failed to remark the date on his calendar, or notice the Union Jack flying beside the Maple Leaf outside the Consulate? "The same to you, Constable."

Inspector Thatcher poked her head out of her office. "Constable Fraser! Could you get me a cup of coffee?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, and Happy Victoria Day, Constable."

Fraser took a deep breath. "To you as well, ma'am."

The phone rang. "Canadian Consulate, Constable Turnbull speaking. Happy Victoria Day!"

Fraser swallowed a nervous giggle and went to his desk.

By lunchtime he could barely sit still in his chair. He had even had to redo some W-6A forms. (He supposed it would have been easier to open his unused bottle of white-out, but--no.) Then he heard Ray's car pull up outside. Oh dear. He shot to his feet, racing down the steps and out the door. He slammed it behind him. "Ah, Ray, there you are!"

Ray gave him a strange look. "Is everything okay, Fraser?"

"Of course, Ray," he said, trying for innocent and landing somewhere between manic and simple-minded. "All that paperwork has simply given me a hearty appetite! Where shall we go for lunch?"

Ray's eyes narrowed. Damn. Ray had probably noticed by now that Fraser's vocabulary shifted towards the Edwardian when he was anxious. Fraser hurried towards the car anyway.

Too late. Behind him, Turnbull opened the door and called, "Happy Victoria Day, Detective!" Fraser shut his eyes in defeat.

When he opened them, Ray's eyes were wide with understanding. Fraser's rush of remorse was expected but painful. Then Ray hurried forward and put a hand on the small of his back. "Come on, Benny," he said gently, and Fraser swallowed. "Let's get lunch."

Ray was still watching him concernedly when their burgers and fries arrived.

"I'm fine. Honestly."

"No, you're not."

"I think I would know if I wasn't fine, Ray. Tell me, how is the McKellar case coming?"

"You can talk about her if you want to, you know."

He did want to, but he didn't think he could. Besides, Ray was the last person he had the right to talk to about Victoria. "About who?"

Ray sighed. "You know, Fraser, there are things I find more unnerving than talking about feelings."

Fraser's mouth was dry. There's nothing more unnerving to men than talking about feelings, he'd told Ray, and Ray had heard him. He'd thought about what it meant. At the moment, Fraser actually resented that. "Name three."

"One, thinking about my parents having sex," Ray said promptly. "Two, the Precious Moments theme park."

"What's that?"

"You know, Precious Moments. They make those scary little figurines of the kids with big teardrop-shaped eyes, you know? I saw you looking at them on my mom's Christmas tree last year. The theme park has life-sized ones. Larger-than-life-sized."

Fraser shuddered. "Ah."

Ray gave him a long look. "Three, not having a damn clue what is going on in your head right now."

"Actually, right now, I'm imagining your parents having sex in the Precious Moments theme park. You're right, Ray, it's extremely unnerving."

The corner of Ray's mouth quirked up. "And that's my warning to back off, huh?"

If he knew Fraser wanted him to back off, why didn't he? Fraser took a bite of his hamburger.

"I talked to you about Irene," Ray said quietly.

I wish you hadn't, Fraser thought. It was spiteful and untrue; he had been relieved and grateful that Ray still wanted to talk to him. "And I was honored by your confidence, but the cases are hardly comparable. Would you like some of my French fries? The cook uses Yukon Gold potatoes, a relatively new cultivar released in 1981 by Agriculture Canada and the University of Guelph in Ontario. Their soft, buttery flesh is ideal for--"

"Not comparable? The hell they aren't," Ray interrupted. Fraser could feel the sad, frustrated lines of Ray's collarbone and shoulders beneath his own skin. "Come on, Fraser, you care about justice at least as much as I care about my house, and I spat on it. I was a lousy cop, I let my anger do the talking, and I got two people killed. You think I don't know it must make you sick to look at me? But you do anyway, right? Because we're friends. You think I'm gonna do less for you?"

And then, just when Fraser was shaken enough to say something, Ray gave up. He sighed and slid out of the booth. "Listen, you ever want to talk, I'm here, okay? About whatever. I'm gonna go pay for lunch."

This was why Ray always lost to Fraser in a battle of wills. It was why Ray could never summon a waitress, too. He demanded, again and again, that someone listen to him, hear him, but it was clear as hockey-rink ice that he didn't believe anyone would. He barely believed anyone would notice he was in the room. He had no idea that Fraser could no more tune him out than a radio could change its own channel. He didn't know, because Fraser had never told him. Fraser had never told him anything.

Fraser was worse than his father, because he did hear Ray. He heard him, he saw who he was, and he ignored it. He'd been right here and Ray was still alone.

He pushed back his plate. He had what he wanted, didn't he? The conversation was over. But as usual, victory was unpleasant and unsatisfying. He didn't look up as Ray came back towards the table, a couple of dollar bills in his hand for the tip.

Ray slid back into the booth, his feet brushing Fraser's for a moment. He reached for one of Fraser's fries.

"I don't feel sick when I look at you."

Ray's eyes flew to his, narrow and scared. "Yeah? How do you feel, then?"

"Lucky." It was a pale word for the fierce gladness he felt.

"Lucky?"

"They were aiming for you." He let the edge into his voice deliberately, and hoped Ray could hear it.

Ray just looked confused.

"Sorento and Zuko. Both times they were aiming for you, and they missed." It was the terrible truth, the reason he could barely look at Detective Huey. That was what had made him an outsider, not his foreign uniform or Ray's cold shoulder--he hadn't been able to share their grief or their regret.

Ray blinked, his lips curving in surprise. He leaned forward. "I feel lucky too, Benny. No matter what happened or what you did, you're alive and you're here and that is all I give a crap about, okay?"

You deserve better, Fraser thought. But it was a cheap answer, and unlike his father, he couldn't pretend not to know it. Ray deserved him, just as Victoria had. "I failed her," he said, his gaze holding Ray's. "She was the only woman I ever loved and I didn't--I couldn't see her past the beating of my own heart. Not now, and not then. She was nineteen, Ray." So damn young. She could have poured herself into any mold, but he'd chosen for her and now it was too late. He had no right to expect Ray to sympathize with that, not after everything, but Ray had asked and Fraser owed it to him to answer.

"And how old were you? Twenty-four?"

"I should have--" He didn't know how to express what he had failed to do. It was too much willful blindness, too many awful decisions, all clouded by his own stupid need until he couldn't find the edges.

Ray's mouth twisted softly. "Yeah, Benny, I know." He slid his hand across the table until the tips of his fingers touched Fraser's arm. What was Ray thinking of? Irene Zuko, maybe, when she was young and burning, with her whole life ahead of her. "She's still out there somewhere, you know," Ray said. "She's still alive. She could work things out."

Fraser was still. He had never considered that. He'd believed she was broken, that he'd broken her for good, because she was part of him and he'd broken himself. But he and Victoria weren't trapped under the Yukon snow anymore. In Chicago, it was spring--nearly summer.