ds_flashfiction | Midsummer Amnesty 2008: Anywhere But Here by Petra

petronelle.livejournal.com posting in

Title: Travelled on his looks (2200 words)
Author:

petronelle
Fandom: due South/DCU
Summary: For reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture, Benton Fraser is on a rooftop in Blüdhaven, New Jersey, a city which Ray describes as having "all the charm of a pig farm in July without the damn bacon."
Characters: Fraser, Ray K., Dick Grayson, Tim Drake
Rating: All ages (some cursing)
Notes: For Jack, because there are only so many characters who crossdress for justice, and they ought to have a chance to commiserate now and then -- although this is not one of those chances either. Thanks to

sageness for beta reading.

For reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture, Benton Fraser is on a rooftop in Blüdhaven, New Jersey, a city which Ray describes as having "all the charm of a pig farm in July without the damn bacon." While most cities -- which, in Fraser's personal lexicon, is a term defined as "a community of more than 200 people" -- meet this standard to some extent, the difference between Chicago and Blüdhaven is evident from the first step onto the sidewalk -- unpleasantly squishy -- and the first breath of air -- poor enough quality to make Ray cough.

Neither the omnipresent refuse in the streets nor the smog, however conducive to impressive sunsets, have mollified the first impression. Nor has every Blüdhaven resident's assertion that however bad their community is, Gotham is worse in every particular and generality. The graffiti on the walls in this city would make an ancient Roman blush.

Fraser and Ray came to New Jersey on the trail of what are somewhat strangely, to Fraser's ear, known as "white slavers," considering how many slave-takers in the past have been white. It is not a situation in which they technically have any jurisdiction, but considering the people with whom they are working to solve the crime, jurisdiction has ceased to be a going concern.

Ray has told Fraser repeatedly that in Gotham, the next major city down the seaboard, the vigilantes have a certain de facto acceptance, and that the police there consult with them regularly. That has not helped Fraser become accustomed to the presence of the young man in the mask who is staked out nonchalantly beside him, however brilliant his smile is in the streetlights.

"Really, it's a good thing 'Robin' was available," 'Nightwing' says, and he's grinning at Fraser again as if that will make Fraser any less likely to initiate a citizen's arrest. "'Batgirl's' not as good at undercover."

Working outside the strict boundaries of the law is hardly beyond Fraser's conception of duty, and he has adapted his methodology to accept that in an unfamiliar environment, the best ally is one who knows the territory. He still has his reservations, despite the fact that 'Nightwing' is exceedingly fit. One of them has to do with his chosen ally's choice of allies.

Though 'Robin' is a perfectly reasonable name for a young person, Fraser has severe doubts that it is on the birth certificate of the young man standing on the shadowed street across the way from their current vantage point. Apart from anything else, they have not seen him without some form of costuming obscuring his identity, and while Fraser, of all people, respects the value of a uniform, any such thing which requires either a mask or heavy eye makeup serves a different sort of purpose than one which does not.

Whomever he may be under the eyeliner and/or mask, he is extremely skilled at walking in four-inch spiked heels even on Blüdhaven's uneven pavement.

"It does take a certain panache," Fraser agrees, watching 'Robin' cock a hip that he does not, to most appearances, possess naturally. "Though I find that it is easier to dissemble when adopting a feminine role than one which is more similar to my own."

'Nightwing' laughs and Fraser readjusts his estimation of his odd companion's education, at least in the verbal spectrum. "I haven't done it in years -- don't think I could really pull it off anymore." He turns and manages to make it very clear, despite the disconcerting white lenses in his mask, that he is looking Fraser over with the eyes of a detective or, at minimum, a tailor. "Were you going for 'East German athlete,' or what?"

"Substitute art teacher."

"Not gym teacher?" 'Nightwing' shakes his head and looks back toward 'Robin', who is adjusting an earring. "You must be pretty good."

It's not a phrase that Fraser would ever comfortably apply to his efforts at obfuscation. "I suspect that my success at the time was due more to the sheltered nature of the people I intended to deceive; it was a Catholic girls' school."

"That sounds less stressful than the time I had to dress up as Marie Antoinette," 'Nightwing' says, and he manages to make his rueful smile entirely audible. "The stays alone -- trouble, three-o'clock." His tone and posture go immediately from indolent reminiscence to complete alertness. The car coming down the street -- slowly, clearly looking for trouble -- is one of the black sport utility vehicles that the witness statements mentioned.

Fraser makes a mental note of the license plate as it is highlighted in the headlights of an oncoming car. As the vehicle pulls to a stop, 'Robin' shifts his posture slightly, adopting a distressingly vulnerable-seeming pose. Fraser would worry about him but for the fact that he knows Ray is just around the corner, and that he is certain enough of 'Nightwing's' morality to trust that he would not send his comrade into danger.

"Here we go --" 'Nightwing' says, half to himself, and 'Robin' steps away from the car abruptly.

Two men get out, looking menacing and as though they are about to grab 'Robin.' "Chicago -- oh fuck," Ray says, brandishing his weapon. Watching him dither in the face of miscreants makes Fraser deeply uncomfortable and, for once, homesick for Chicago, where the only thing that truly gives Ray pause is Stella Kowalski.

'Nightwing' takes a hissing breath and leaps off the roof.

Fraser follows a split second later, and has enough time before he hits the awning for a deep and soulful envy of 'Nightwing's' method of descent, which involves some sort of grappling hook and looks exceedingly useful for this environment.

The first person 'Nightwing' attacks is not the two men, who have backed off from Ray's gun, but rather Ray. "No guns, I said," he snaps, as Ray's weapon goes skittering away along with his glasses.

Fraser crosses the street in time to surprise one of the attackers sufficiently to get handcuffs on him. 'Robin' disables the other with a well-placed kick to the instep and a followup to the ribs.

"I'm making a citizen's arrest," Fraser says, and that's when the wheelman in the SUV takes off, leaving his cohorts and their prospective abductee on the sidewalk.

Diefenbaker is in Chicago, shedding on Constable Turnbull's pants. It had seemed the most practical solution at the time, but given the difficulty of following a car in an unfamiliar city, Fraser feels the lack immediately.

"They won't get far," 'Robin' says, his voice light enough that Fraser wonders suddenly and with a certain guilty sting if he is even old enough to hunt caribou.

Ray says irritably, "Sure, you said no guns, but what the hell was I supposed to do, jump out of the alley and yell 'Boo'?" He is shaking his hand, likely overexaggerating the amount of damage 'Nightwing' did to him while disarming him.

"That was up to you," 'Nightwing' says, and his voice is sharp and businesslike, showing no hint of the amusement or charm he'd displayed while he was talking to Fraser earlier. "I gave you the parameters."

"Well excuse me, Mister Spandex-Face, but that's not how I work." Ray stomps down the sidewalk and retrieves his weapon, and his glasses. He holsters the former with his normal care and shoves the latter into his pocket with his usual disregard for their integrity.

"Hey," one of the men from the SUV says, "do we get our rights read to us here, or what? I don't see no Bat-signal."

Ray gives Fraser a sardonic look. "You said you were taking them in, Fraser, you do it. I'll see if I can figure out how to call the pathetic excuses for cops this armpit claims it's got." He drags out his cell phone, jabs it with his finger, and thrusts it back into his pocket. "Stupid service areas." He starts off for the corner, apparently in search of a pay phone.

Fraser looks at the bound criminals and starts the recitation. When he looks up again, both 'Nightwing' and 'Robin' have entirely disappeared. He assumes that they have not been abducted by the white slavers, but there is no proof one way or the other.

Ray comes back approximately a minute later, scowling. "Did you see where they went?"

"No. I suspect that's something of the point." Fraser glances toward the roofline, but their erstwhile companions have well and truly gone.

"Well, I hope one of them's got the sense to call the actual law enforcement authorities around this joint." Ray looks down the street, but there are no sirens audible, nor anything else. "I'm not looking forward to sitting around this neighborhood with Tweedledum and Tweedlemoron here for god knows how long."

Fraser folds his hands behind himself. "Well, patience is certainly an important trait, Ray. Among the Inuit, it is said that --"

The story is interrupted by the sound of running footsteps. A young man dressed as a police officer is pelting toward them. "Hey, can I help you guys out, or is this some kind of private party?"

"Ray Vecchio, Chicago PD," Ray says, showing his badge.

There is a police siren several blocks away, coming toward them.

The young man shows his own badge. "Dick Grayson, Blüdhaven PD," he says, and looks at the handcuffed men. "What's up with those two?"

"A citizen's arrest," Fraser says, and Officer Grayson smiles.

At that point, Fraser is certain that to tell the story would be redundant, but similarly that omitting to repeat it all would be a flaw as grievous as openly introducing Ray Kowalski to Francesca as if they had never met. He reiterates the story, replacing 'Robin' with a young woman for narrative continuity.

Grayson nods as if it all makes some kind of sense without the intervention of vigilantes; he must have taken years to develop this sense of calm in the face of such stories. "Right," he says.

"And this is your beat, or what?" Ray asks, his tone venomous. He misses the implications of the look Fraser gives him entirely. It is the sort of frustrating incomprehension Ray normally exhibits in terms of emotional response, rather than communication in what must be termed the field, for want of a better phrase.

"That's my building," Grayson says with a wave of his hand that could indicate any of twenty structures. "I was trying to get to sleep -- you know how it is -- and I saw the scuffle."

"And the fuckin' capes?" one of the criminals says, snorting.

"Can and will be used against you, asshole." Ray makes a threatening fist. "I didn't see no capes around here."

The police car Fraser had heard previously arrives and Grayson goes over to talk to his colleagues. Once one of the officers from the vehicle has come to get the alleged abductors to their feet, Fraser puts his hand on Ray's shoulder and says, "Don't be so hard on the rookie." He is certain of his conclusion, but there must be a significant reason for the dissembling, and it would not do to interfere. This is even less his territory than Chicago.

Ray rolls his eyes. "You say that now. When we've been sitting in their bullpen all damn night filling out paperwork because Dennis the Menace over there just happened to see what went down and has a question or three about who the fuck was that masked man anyway --"

Grayson comes over to them. "I've asked the officers to bring another car so you don't need to walk back to the station," he says, "but we'll certainly need your statements."

"Of course," Fraser says. He can see Ray tensing out of the corner of his eye and puts a hand on his shoulder. The contact does nothing to stop Ray from gritting his teeth, but it does make him unclench his fists. "Given that I'm technically the arresting -- citizen -- it would be my pleasure to comply with the regulations."

Grayson smiles at them both. "You'll certainly help keep those two off the streets if you're willing to do it. Thanks -- and I'll see you back at the station."

"He can take care of the damn collar for all I care," Ray says, shaking his head.

Fraser lowers his voice and watches Grayson walk toward the car. The grace in his movements is as clear an identifier as his facial features, to say nothing of his physique. "In a manner of speaking, Ray, I rather believe he already has."

Ray frowns, looks at Fraser as though he's expecting some sort of parable to come out of this, then quite visibly comes to the same wholly logical conclusion that Fraser has already reached. "Oh. Huh."

Fraser smiles and squeezes his shoulder before letting go. "Quite."

"Well -- fine." Ray sticks his thumbs in his jeans pockets. "Let's go make this thing legal."