I thought that I was broken up with love, until I learned that he'd survived. The night had been pressing down on me, the weight of darkness on my eyes. Insomnia. It sounds so insignificant, that word, clinical. But it was my sole companion, broken by dizzy dreams that kept me from complete collapse. Night after night after day after night, thinking of everything we had put each other through. Thinking of his voice, of his lips, of his hands tangled in my hair.

In the instant of forgiveness he was gone. For one bright moment my heart had been glad, so glad, when he came to me, finally, running along that platform, arm stretched out, leaving everything behind.

But then that shot, that swift short stab through the air, meant for me, don't I know it. And his look of desolation as he fell.

That bullet pierced my heart, and it never did heal.

Oh, I thought I loved him. Lying in the dark, tears dribbling to my ears, my hands cupped to the arch of his cheeks, fingers tipped to the soft of his lips, kissing empty air.

Then I learned that he'd survived.

And oh, it was so cruel, so sour in the core of me, coiling like vomit. The thought of him still living there, in Chicago of all places, my man of the barren snows. He had held me from death, had bled his heat out into me to save me from the storm. How could he... how dared he survive without me? I could never have survived without him.

It washed back over me then, an ice borne flood, an endless desolation, and oh God, I remembered him leaving me, leaving me to justice, leaving me to law. And I had nothing but the wish for death, ten long years, ten years... and all my hopes were blasted by the snow.

God, how I hated him. I hated him as much as I loved him, as much as I hate and love myself. And to see his name in the paper, a hero, saving children, and statesmen, and little kittens from trees... for him to be living a life without me, for him to be a paragon, to show no pain... how I hated that. He should have bled for me. He should have bled and died for me. He should have bled for me like I bled for him.

I know it, I know it now, how much he bled. But all that I could see was how much I didn't matter to him. How his life went on and on without me, and I was naked in the storm.

...

Fraser was standing in his shirt sleeves at the Vecchio's kitchen counter, chopping ingredients, a look of earnest concentration on his face. Dief lay beneath the table, making plaintive yips.

"No, I'm sorry Diefenbaker, but you can't have any. Not yet... I'm attempting to prepare a culinary delight here, and you're not helping." Fraser glanced at the wolf, and fixed him with a schoolmaster's gaze. "Don't look at me like that. You're not exactly wasting away, you can wait till dinner is served." Dief turned onto his side, displaying his belly, letting out a yearning groan. "Oh please." Fraser clucked his tongue dismissively. "Now you're just embarrassing yourself."

"How's it going in there?" Ray stuck his head through the door, "I don't smell anything yet."

"Well, your mother's recipe says preparation time twenty minutes, but I must be doing something wrong, because this is taking a lot longer than expected."

"Let's see..." Ray stepped into the kitchen, and looked at his friend's progress. "Fraser," he pointed to a white tray with little mounds of herbs dotting it at regular intervals. It looked like a post modern artwork which someone with more money than sense would put on a sterile wall."Fraser, what's this?"

"Ah, yes," Fraser rubbed his eyebrow with his wrist, trying to keep onion off his face. "Well, the recipe calls for 'pinches' of several different herbs, and unfortunately though I know the term I'm not personally acquainted with what constitutes a pinch, hence the..." he gestured at the tray helplessly, "hence the experiment."

"Awh Fraser, all you have to do is bung the ingredients in a pot, add herbs to taste, let it simmer, then when it's done stir it through some pasta al dente and dollop it onto plates."

"It does sound easy when you put it that way." Fraser frowned, furrowing his brow. "However, 'to taste' is another exercise in imprecision, and cooking pasta al dente seems to be tricky since there's a narrow window in which to get it right..."

"Your Grandma never teach you how to cook?"

"On the contrary, she did, many good and nutritional things, and she taught me where to find food in nature, and the medicinal values of certain roots and herbs. It's just that I have discovered that most people don't appreciate her particular style of cooking. Though she did teach me how to make a very nice omelette."

"Your Grandma taught you how to boil roots and stuff?"

"Yes Ray, she did. Lichen, and mosses, fungi, barks, berries and so forth."

"And what to look for under rocks?"

"Yes Ray, she did."

"She sounds like a Strega."

Fraser glared pointedly at his friend. "I can assure you Ray, my Grandmother was not a witch."

"I meant it in a good way," Ray insisted.

"In a good way?"

"Yes."

"Okay then."

Ray watched with a smile on his face as Fraser continued to chop conscientiously. "Go on already, pour the veggies in the pan." Fraser bit his lower lip as he slid chopped onions, tomatoes, mushrooms and courgettes into a frying pan. They sizzled as they hit the olive oil. "Very good Fraser," Ray said "now, a pinch of oregano... awh jeez, Benny..." Fraser's hand was hovering uncertainly over the little mounds of experimental pinches. "Like this," Ray grabbed his friend's hand, brought it down over the oregano and closed the fingers in a pinch. "How hard was that? Now bring it over the pan, and voila..." he let go of the hand, and Benny released his fingers, allowing the herbs to fall into the sauce. "Now, do that again for your other pinches, tear up your basil, and just wing it when it comes to the pasta al dente."

"Thank you Ray."

"You're welcome." Fraser glanced hopefully at Ray. "Could you demonstrate a dash of red wine to me?"

…

"That smells really good." Frannie was in the kitchen doorway, wearing far less than was strictly wise and rather more makeup that was strictly necessary. Fraser had in the past considered telling her that she was pretty enough she didn't have to go to such lengths, but he suspected that his compliment might be misconstrued. Frannie was Ray's sister, and he didn't want to hurt her. Beneath that man eating exterior he suspected she had a vulnerable heart that had been hurt too many times.

And besides, dressed like this, with that predatory grin on her face, she scared him.

"Thank you kindly," he said, pouring pasta into a colander. Whether it was al dente or not he didn't know, but it certainly seemed cooked.

He was, however, very proud of the sauce.

The pasta drained he proceeded to empty it into the deep pan. He twirled carefully until the pasta was completely coated in glistening red. He shredded basil and sprinkled it in (he had been growing more confident with imprecisions by the minute) shook a medley of Italian cheese into the pan, ground pepper (to taste) then turned and started to serve the meal.

"Hey, everybody in here now!" Frannie's voice took on a hectoring tone as she called the family to the dining table. Ma Vecchio was the first through the door. It had been hard for her to give up her kitchen, even for an afternoon, but the dear boy had been so keen to cook for her. She walked straight up to Fraser and pinched his cheeks. "Oh you good boy, it smells delicious." She didn't mention, of course, that the pasta looked a little over done. A good sauce, and the love which had gone into the preparation would make up for that.

"Thank you Mrs Vecchio."

"Ma, Ma," she said, "call me Ma," and took the plate from Fraser.

"Yip!" Diefenbaker danced up on his back legs and got a face full of pasta. The contents of the plate slid on the floor, and Diefenbaker ecstatically wolfed it down.

Fraser looked at the ceiling and muttered. "You pay, and you pay, and you pay..."

…

Fortunately Ma Vecchio's recipes tended to the generous side, and despite Diefenbaker's infraction Fraser had cooked more than enough for everyone.

"Not bad for your first time out Benny," Ray conceded. He had been a bit nervous when Fraser had declared his ambition to cook for the family, but all things considered it was quite good. Better than the last meal Benny had cooked for him. Ray looked down at the pasta and had a quick flash back to bugs that had been scooped out from under a rock. For a moment he didn't feel too keen about the pasta... He shook the memory, and carried on eating. No need to make Benny feel insecure.

Benny was looking anything but insecure. He was beaming at the children with baby Connie on his knee, who was attempting, messily, to feed him. He had tomato sauce all over his face, and when he bent his head to kiss the baby she opened her mouth and started to suck his chin.

Frannie was gazing at them adoringly, and forgetting to eat.

"Do you not like the food, Francesca?" Benny looked anxious for a moment.

"Oh, yes, of course I do!" Frannie twisted pasta onto her fork, and ate like a trooper. "It's delicious."

Ray knew his sister, and could tell that she was thinking more about how delicious the cook was, and less about the meal.

He couldn't resist it. He plucked up an olive, and threw it at her head.

"Ray!" she turned towards him angrily, tore of a piece of bread and threw it across the table, hitting him in the eye.

Ray leant forward to grab a chunk of cheese, but his mother caught his hands before he could wreak any more havoc.

"Children, children," she said, "no fighting at the table. What must Benny think?"

Frannie and Ray scowled.

"He started it."

"She makes me behave like a child!"

"If you two don't behave I'm going to have to send you to your rooms."

The actual children at the table were besides themselves with laughter. Benny just looked puzzled.

It was a very good meal.

…

Meg Thatcher was processing paper work, and cursing the invention of the computer. It was supposed to be a labour saving device, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth. She would have asked Turnbull to help (he was actually quite good on the computer) but at the moment she didn't think she could stand him in the room with her. He simply refused to shut up about ice hockey and curling. Bad enough that she was stuck at a desk without him standing behind her providing a running sports commentary... She'd finally snapped at him, "I know I'm a Canadian, but I'm also a woman, so could you keep the boy talk to your free time?" And he'd made the mistake of admiringly stating, "yes Sir, I know that you're a woman..." For a moment she missed it, then her jaw dropped at the implication. She stared up at him with derision. He blanched when he realised what he'd said, but it was too late.

"Dismissed."

And he was going to stay dismissed until she could shake the creepy crawlies.

Well, when Ben... Constable Fraser... Ben, (she cleared her throat blushing at her own thoughts) when Fraser got here she would leave him with the computing. He'd probably whiz through it in no time flat.

Perhaps, she thought, she was being unfair to Turnbull. He was an odd little man, but she sensed no malice in him. After all, his comment had not been intended as a come on... the poor man wouldn't know how to make one. And she was sure that she'd made Fraser uncomfortable enough without meaning to. She'd certainly made herself uncomfortable.

Damn... she was thinking of him that way again...

There was a knock on the door. Perhaps Turnbull bringing her a cup of coffee in an attempt to ingratiate his way back into her good books. Well, she'd show mercy. It had been a mistake, that was all.

"Come in," she said, not looking up from her desk.

The door swung open, and she heard footsteps. She pursed her lips, and carried on typing for a moment longer. Making him wait would remind him who was in charge. Then she realised that the figure who had walked in wasn't talking. And she couldn't smell any coffee... It wasn't like Turnbull not to talk.

Looking up she saw the figure of Benton Fraser standing in front of her, in his brown uniform, hands folded solemnly behind his back. He looked at attention.

"At ease, Fraser," she said.

"Yes Sir, thank you Sir," he said, and did not move.

She sighed... this was probably her fault. He must be feeling quite uncomfortable around her at the moment. The more she thought of it the more she realised that she really should forgive Turnbull... just recently she had been the queen of inappropriate with Fraser. She had pretended that they were going out together for goodness sake, without warning him in advance, in order to shake a rapacious work superior. But didn't that make her Fraser's rapacious superior? Of all people she should know how uncomfortable unwanted sexual attraction could be. What a position to put him in. She cringed with embarrassment, thinking of the time when he had paint on his face, and she'd practically shoved that woman out of the way. What a fool she had made of herself... "we wipe our own personnel."

Oh dear. To quote Fraser. Even the way he didn't swear was so charming.

Stop thinking of him like that!

"I'm glad you're here, Constable," she said coolly, "I need somebody to type these files for me onto the computer. It's rather time consuming, and I have other duties to attend to..."

"Yes Sir."

She pushed her chair back and stood, moving round the table to give him room. He brushed against her as he took his seat, and she blushed right to the roots of her hair.

Oh, she really would have to apologise to Turnbull.

"Thank you Fraser," she said, crisply, betraying none of her dismay in her voice. As she left the room she heard his improbably swift typing.

She decided to take a break and go for a brisk walk.

She couldn't be out of there fast enough.

…

There was a tap on the door, and Fraser looked up. A rather dejected looking Turnbull was poking his head into the room.

"Inspector Thatcher's gone out, hasn't she?"

"Yes, yes she has."

"I'm afraid I rather offended her." Turnbull sniffed. "I said something rather silly... well then, I often say something rather silly, I suppose I am a bit silly, but this was particularly silly. Sillier than usual." Turnbull sighed. "I'm so silly."

Fraser blinked. All he could glean from this conversation was the repetition of the word 'silly'.

"I'm sorry... what are we talking about?"

"I've ruined my career," Turnbull moaned.

"I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding..."

Mercifully at this point the phone rang.

"Canadian Consulate, Constable Benton Fraser, liaison officer speaking."

"Yeah, hi Fraser, it's me."

Ray usually didn't bother phoning Benny at work. If it was important he would normally just turn up and drag him off to wherever the fire was.

"What is it Ray?"

"We've got a guy at the station, he's in bad shape, says he needs to speak to you."

"Now?" Fraser looked at the heap of papers he still had to transcribe to the computer. He would be glad of an excuse to get away, but his conscience had to be sure it was merited. "I'm rather busy."

"I really think this guy's in trouble. Why don't you just ask the dragon to let you go and liaise? It's what liaison officers do, isn't it?"

"She's not here."

"Even better. Whatever you're doing you can leave it to Turnbull."

Fraser eyed Turnbull, who was looking abjectly at the floor.

"All right Ray, I'll be there."

He hung up the phone, rubbed his forehead, then made to leave the room. Seeing Turnbull's downcast expression he paused for a moment. He didn't really know what Turnbull was worried about, but he sought to reassure him. "I'm sure it will be all right," he said. "The Inspector is a reasonable woman."

"Thank you Constable. I hope I'm still in the employ of the Canadian government when you get back."

"Uhm... do you mind taking over here while I'm gone? Perhaps the Inspector will be impressed by your diligence and decide to overlook whatever... silliness you may have been involved in?"

"Thank you." Turnbull straightened, like a man before his execution bravely facing down the firing squad. "I'll do my best."

Fraser nodded, paused by the door momentarily, wondering if he was doing the right thing leaving Turnbull in charge. No help for it... He made his way from the Consulate at a medium trot, heading to the station house. He didn't know who this man might be that Ray was talking about, or what he might have to say to him, but if he was in trouble he wanted to help.

…

I watched him, as he ran down the steps of the Consulate, straightening his hat. I knew where he was going. I knew more about him now than he ever could have guessed. He didn't know it then, but he was running straight into a wall, a car crash of a day.

You know, I could have almost pitied the man, but I wasn't yet ready to forgive.

So I stood, arms folded, as all around me pedestrians went about their business, unconcerned. I might as well have been invisible for all that any single one of them would care. Still in solitary, always alone. Cold in the wind of a Chicago winter's morning I stood and watched him go.