Some nights are made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness."
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Ben sat by the window, staring out into the snow drifts beyond the milky window panes of the Canadian consulate. He'd been in Chicago for so long he'd almost forgotten what real, northern snow smelled like. Benton Fraser had forgotten a lot of things about the Yukon. He'd forgotten how simple life was before heading south. There hadn't been Inspector Meg Thatcher, no Ray V or Ray K, no Francesca, and no Victoria to play his heart strings as easily as he played guitar chords.
Dief laid on the plush, consulate carpet at Ben's feet. The half wolf looked up at his human companion. He could sense the Mountie's loneliness so he laid his head on his keeper's knee. Dief's brown, amber shot eyes rolled around to look up at Benton's blue-green ones.
"I know, I shouldn't wallow." Ben sighed, scratching between the wolf's ears. "What am I supposed to do, Dief, life does not fall into place for some people." A turned ear and a skeptical groan from the wolf disagreed.
"Well, Victoria is definitely out of the question, she's long gone, Francesca, well, we won't even go there, so that only leaves Inspector Thatcher, and her feelings toward me are vague at best." Benton shrugged, mildly irritated with his white, furry friend. Equally irritated, Dief pulled away, choosing to lay on the carpet at Ben's feet. "Fine, be that way, wait until the next time you have a problem." Benton pushed himself up from the arm chair, his arms crossed over his chest. Snow lazily drifted towards the ground outside. "I don't know why I bother talking to you anyway, you choose a mate based on how she smells." Benton lamented, more irritated at himself than at Diefenbaker.
"The wolf has a point, Son, you haven't even bothered to sniff the wind for a potential mate in ages." Fraser Sr. spoke from out of the closet. He wore his dress uniform, an apple in one hand and his hunting knife in the other.
"Wonderful, comments from the peanut gallery." Ben groused, his thumb smoothing one eye brow.
"I heard that, I'm dead, not hard of hearing." Bob Fraser waved the roughly twenty centimeter, stainless steel blade at his son.
"The two of you will be the downfall of me yet." Ben shook his head as if the brush away the fog.
"You talk to the wolf and me because you spend too much time alone, Son." The elder Fraser popped a wedge of apple in his mouth. Benton didn't know any other way to be; to exist. By nature he was solitary. As a child his father had been mostly an absent widower. As much as his grandparents loved him, Benton had still been an only child.
"Things are done differently here in Chicago, Dad, I find myself unequipped to deal with the dating world here." Benton shoved his hands down into his uniform pants pockets. Bob Fraser and Dief looked at him doubtfully.
"Then go back to the Yukon for Pete's sake, the women there are simple enough, I mean if Buck Frobisher can find a wife, any dumb cluck can." Bob blustered, his son had always been stubborn. "Besides, you aren't getting any younger you know." Benton could have wrung his father's neck, if he hadn't already been dead.
"I'm going to quit talking to either of you." Benton threw his hands up in disgust.
"Life is what you make of it, and you are making yourself lonely." Bob Fraser shook his gray head. Benton just stared out the window at the piling snow. How was it supposed to be for him; a Mountie? Where did he find a woman he had anything in common with? The few he had met had been married. Benton pinched the bridge of his nose, a groan of disgust escaping his throat.
"How can I be lonely, I will always have the two of you to talk with." Benton shrugged and walked away.
A Few Hours Later
Turnbull hummed to himself as he cross referenced Inspector Thatcher's files by date and content. Fraser ambled out into the Inspector's office, looking for someone to talk to who didn't speak bark or wasn't dead.
"Good afternoon, Constable Fraser." The lanky, blonde Mountie greeted him with a broad smile. Fraser greeted him in kind, but with less enthusiasm. "Fine weather we're having, don't you think, very reminiscent of home." Turnbull persisted, oblivious to the pensive expression on the older Mountie's face.
"What, weather, oh yes, fine weather." Fraser fiddled with one of his crest emblazoned buttons. "Turnbull, have you ever though about why you're alone?" The question sounded trivial the moment it passed Fraser's lips. Turnbull was doing good to be a sentient being most days.
"Alone, Sir, never, there are over a million other people in this fine city." He answered earnestly.
"By alone I meant, alone, in the sense of having no one to greet you at home at the end of the day, no one to remind you to take out the trash." All he got for his efforts was a confused expression from the junior Mountie. "Never mind." Fraser pulled on his hat and coat before telling Turnbull he was going out for a walk. Just as the door opened, Dief decided to join the crowd.
"You are not invited, stay here." Fraser sent the puckish wolf back down the hall towards his office.
Two days of snowing non-stop left the windy city with man-made snow drifts and sheets of ice along the sidewalks. Everyone bustled up and down the sidewalks swaddled in multiple layers, some black or gray, others of pink and green. Fraser pulled the collar of his wool, navy, pea coat up to shield the back of his neck. Around his neck hung the scarf Francesca had made him; white with a red maple leaf at each end. She'd been so happy he'd liked it. The Civilian Aide had been secretly knitting the scarf for months. She stuffed it in a drawer every time Fraser walked into the Chicago police department's bull pen. The Civilian Aide was always baking him cookies, inviting him to diner or hanging on his sleeve like a loose thread. Francesca had tried every enticement known to woman to have him for her own. The Mountie wouldn't hurt her feelings for all the gold in Fort Knox, but he wished she would leave him alone.
Walking along aimlessly, past restaurants, stores, and shops of all kinds, the Mountie found himself outside of a Chinese restaurant. On the sidewalk sat an older man playing a bamboo flute. He sat on a plastic milk crate, his eyes closed, the cold wind blowing through his thinning gray hair as he played the strange sounding notes. Passersby tossed loose change into a coffee can at his feet. Fraser stopped to listen, closing his eyes to free his imagination from reality. He saw fog, rising in the jagged peeks of mountains the Mountie had never seen. Light gray clouds obscured the early morning sunrise, but not the weak sunlight. The flute's dulcet tones spread out before Fraser like the landscape he saw in his mind's eye. With the music he could see ancient trees unfurled, birds and monkeys taking refuge in their branches. Steep cliffs dropped hundreds of feet to twisting water ways below. Like an eagle, the lonely Mountie soared high above the world. Everything beneath him lay still, silent, peaceful. Beyond the green valleys and gray cliffs below lay a yellow and blue horizon as raked, thin clouds scattered across the distance. No cold to bother, no loneliness to haunt, only the thrill of fresh experience greeted Fraser. On wings he spun and soared with the scales of the music. It's sharp notes reminded him of the taste of mandarin oranges, rich on his palate and tangy at the tongue's tip. A sadness crept into the music, clearing all the images from Fraser's mind. He felt as hollow as the bamboo the old man's breath of life glided through so easily. The tune turned lower, darker, heavier, more mournful. Cold, crystalline tears brimmed along the fringe of Fraser's dark lashes. He let them have their course, unashamed to be moved. His father, he knew, would see only weakness in the liquid salt drops trailing down his face and landing on his wool coat. Even with his feet planted, standing at military rest, the feel of a body colliding with his nearly knocked Fraser over. Startled back to the present time, the red clad Canadian looked around for whom ever had hit him.
"I'm very sorry." Fraser apologized, kneeling to help the lady at his feet. While he'd listened to the music the bleak daylight had faded to dark. He supposed it had been difficult to see him in the dark.
"It is I who should be sorry." The black wool warmed figure spoke. Fraser held out his hand to help the stranger to her feet. He froze. Looking up at him were the most perfect, almond shaped, jade green eyes. Long, dark lashes fanned out to frame those eyes. Blush pink lips formed words Fraser didn't hear. He saw only jade green eyes, long, raven black hair and exquisite features set in porcelain skin. When she shook her head the Mountie realized he'd missed some cue for action on his behalf.
"I'm very sorry." Fraser repeated, coming out of his trance. Long, straight locks of the woman's hair blew across her piercing eyes.
"Thank goodness for snow." A smile spread across her face, accompanying a slight, Asian accent.
"Let me make it up to you, let me buy you some Oolong tea or something." Fraser hadn't yet let go of the slim but firm hand he held.
"That would be lovely, thank you," She paused for him to supply his name. It took the stunned Canadian a few minutes to think of it. Together they walked into the warm restaurant.
"Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police." He spat the mouth full out with it's usual speed as he held the door for her. Usually at this point he would have went on to begin to tell why he was in Chicago, but stopped, his mouth agape. No one cared why he was there just now, especially him.
"My name is Ling." She introduced herself as she took off her overcoat and scarf at the door.
A sleepy eyed Mr. Kane, owner of Kane's Dinner Box, greeted them, taking their coats at the door. He seated his only customers at a small table for two. With a tired sigh, Mr. Kane brought his only customers menus and took their drink orders. Ben ordered in conversational, Mandarin Chinese. Eyes bright in surprise, Ling met Fraser's gaze as he looked at her over his menu. Mr. Kane was no less surprised. He began chattering in the same, quick, paced language. He shook his head as Fraser answered more slowly. The restaurant owner walked back to the kitchen shaking his head.
"A Canadian who speaks Chines in Chicago, quite a surprise." Her soft voice sounded like sweet piano tones.
"My grandparents were librarians, as a child I could always depend on a book to keep me company. In the Yukon, where the winter days are dark nearly around the clock, and so cold your lungs burn, there simply aren't many forms of entertainment for a young boy." Fraser's gaze seemed to see something a million miles away as he spoke. His sad smile spoke volumes.
"You must miss it very much, you speak of it so fondly." Without thinking, Ling laid her hand on Benton's.
"I do, miss it terribly, sometimes, although there isn't much back home for me." Fraser pulled his eyes, and his hand away from Ling's. In awkward silence they retreated into their menus for a while. Fraser thought about what home meant. He missed the simplicity, the order of nature, the ease having a single purpose gave him. No one waited for him there. What was home without people, without someone to fill the hollow space?
"Here you go, something special, for ordering in Chinese." Mr. Kane, an older man, with dark, smiling eyes, set a feast before his guests. He backed away a few steps, bowing as he went before turning to go.
"It all smells delicious." Ling sighed as she inhaled the scent of spicy hot noodles, honey chicken with ginger root, crab Rangoon and a handful of other delectables. Quietly they ate for a moment. Mr. Kane brought steaming cups of Oolong tea and left the pot for them.
"So, do you stand on the sidewalk with your eyes closed often?" Ling asked, her eyes smiling at him over the rim of her cup. Fraser pulled on the lobe of his ear, blushing slightly.
"No, no I don't, as a rule." The Mountie smiled, letting it pull his face into a broad, honest countenance, more so than usual.
"You looked so peaceful, standing there listening to Kwai Chang playing, you must have been a million miles away." Ling leaned on one fist, her face tilted to look at Fraser quizzically.
"Beautiful." The word popped out of his mouth like bread from a toaster.
"What's beautiful?" Ling asked, wondering if the man across from her was still in possession of all his faculties.
"You, you have beautiful eyes, they're such an unusual color." Fraser didn't feel self-conscious or clumsy telling her that. Usually it was an effort to give a compliment, especially to an attractive woman.
"Thank you, my mother was European and my father is Chinese." Ling spoke, suddenly taking an interest in her tea. Blush crept up from the high collar of her cable knit sweater to her cheeks.
"When did she die?" Fraser leaned forward, hoping to take away her pain.
"When I was eight." Ling cleared her throat and took a deep breath. "How did guess?" She wondered aloud.
"You said 'was', my mother 'was'." The Mountie explained, "but you said your father 'is'."
"Oh, I didn't even realize." The young woman shrugged.
"I didn't intend to pry, if I've hit upon a sensitive spot, I'm sorry." Fraser kicked himself for being so observant all the time.
"Here, let me read your tea leaves." Ling waved his apology away, changing the subject. Fraser handed over the small cup, leaning close to see what she saw. Ling let the dark leaves settle, allowing them to fall as they chose to.
"You have made a long journey because of honor-family honor." That was true. Fraser had tracked down his father's killer. "Now you suffer exile because of your honor." Ling had hit the nail on the head again. "I see that you are always alone, even when others are with you, and this brings you sadness." She'd sensed his melancholy. "The spirit of your father follows wherever you go, his presence is a strong influence in your life still." Fraser looked around the dining room for his father.
"That is certainly accurate." He said, sighing in relief when the elder Mountie couldn't be seen. Ling smiled as Fraser looked around, he was the strangest man she'd ever encountered.
"I see you are very kind and loyal, especially to your friends, but you don't have very many. Someone has hurt you, now you keep people at a distance, despite your loneliness." Fraser moved to sit beside Ling. Her soft voice, with it's barely perceptible lilt, drew him closer. She could smell the leather of his belt, the spicy, warm scent of his aftershave and a hint of Irish Spring soap. Fraser leaned on his left elbow, peering down into the brackish bottomed cup.
"How do you tell all that from those tiny leaves?" He shrugged one shoulder. It took Ling a second to focus. The gentle quality of his speaking voice and the electric tingle she felt when she looked into Fraser's spring blue eyes took her by surprise.
"It's an ancient, Chinese method handed down in my family." A mischievous twinkle in her eye teased her Mountie companion.
"You'll have to teach me how sometime." Fraser put his right hand on the back of Ling's chair. She could almost feel the warmth of his body.
"I'd be happy to." The words came out without much help from the young woman's brain. With soft, gentle fingers the Asian-American traced Fraser's jaw line. He let the feel of her finger tips tickling his skin warm the cockles of his heart. It had been too long since he'd had the touch of a woman, looked into a pair of new, innocent eyes, or felt the urge to lean in and press a kiss to her full, pink rose lips.
"Do you have someone special, Constable Fraser?" Ling spoke, breaking the spell. She played with the circular, jade charm on her long necklace. Her black, ribbed turtle neck felt like a straight jacket. Ling wanted to let the stranger in red get close, but she feared the fade of their initial blush. She knew Fraser would treat her well, but what would happen when he had to chose between her and being a Mountie? Both of them would end up hurt.
"No, I don't have anyone special in my life." The Mountie took a deep breath, sighing deeply as he repositioned himself beside Ling.
"Why?" Her one, three letter question had so many answers yet none at all. Fraser opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again.
"That's difficult to answer." The loneliness he'd let loose of began to creep in around him like a heavy fog. Ling took Fraser's hand in both of hers. It was bigger than hers, with square, rough knuckles. His fingernails told of time playing guitar. She put her left thumb against Fraser's right thumb.
"Can you put someone first, ahead of your duty?" She laced her through his. Fraser thought hard, wondering if he could do what his father hadn't. Would his children know him as something other than a visitor?
"I want to try." He looked into Ling's hopeful eyes. She pulled the back of his hand to her cheek, actively memorizing the sound of his voice, how he smelled, and the way his hair curled in duck tails behind his ears. Ling wanted him to try. She had seen such sadness in Fraser's face as he listened to Chang play. The way he let tears gather at the brim broke her heart. Ling knew how alone and foreign Fraser felt. She grew up being not completely American and not wholly Asian. She'd lived torn between worlds, much like Fraser felt now. Chicago wasn't home, but neither was the Yukon.
"I have to go home, Fraser, my father is waiting for me." Ling released his hand. Her jade eyes laced the luster they'd had before. The young woman scooted her chair back to get to her feet.
"I would very much like to see you again, Ling." The Mountie sounded desperate. He couldn't go back into the cold after she'd eased the hard freeze in his soul.
"I know where to find you, Constable Benton Fraser." She bent down and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
"Ling, I don't even know your last name." He stood up to follow her to the door. Blowing snow curtailed the entrance, obscuring Fraser's view. The streets were nearly empty outside. Even Mr. Kane had packed up to go home for the night, his coat over a bar stool.
"Did the young lady leave?" Mr. Kane inquired, his eyes hopeful.
"Yes, she left." Ben responded, his heart lying in pieces along the bottom of his soul. "I don't even know her last name." The Mountie spoke very low, mostly to himself.
"Here is your fortune cookie, perhaps it will change your luck." Mr. Kane handed Fraser the mildly sweet cookie.
"How much do I owe you, Sir?" Fraser retrieved money from his hat. The old man just shook his head, refusing to accept payment. He'd watched the magical moment between Fraser and Ling. It didn't seem fair to have him pay money for it.
Fraser bid the restaurant owner a good night in Mr. Kane's native tongue and prepared to go out into the near blizzard weather beyond the warm lights and rich smells of the restaurant.
"Do not forget to read your fortune, Mr. Mountie." Mr Kane called after him. Benton stuffed them down into his pocket and tipped his hat to the older gentleman with a sad smile. Alone again, Fraser walked back to the consulate. A fierce wind blew in off the lakes and snow hammered the Canadian's face, stinging his skin. No one walked the streets in the dark. None of the usual street people tried to hustle for a night's living. Neon lights pushed back the enveloping darkness around Fraser. He could hear the high, lonesome sound of police sirens somewhere in the distance. The shrill, piercing sound reminded Yukon native of dark nights spent listening to wolves howling. The mournful quiver of their voices sent a chill down his back. Fraser pulled his collar a little closer around his neck. Quickening his pace, the Mountie made his way against the wind.
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