ds_flashfiction | Amnesty Challenge: Proof of Life by Arrow (Documentation Challenge)

Title: Proof of Life
Author:

arrow00
Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Rating: R (language)
Wordcount: 1,817
Categories: post-COTW AU, FT, angsty, dire lack of sex
Notes: Epistolary. I would use a handwriting font
but I find them unreadable.

Proof of Life

By Arrow

October 11, 1999

Dear Ray:

I realize you've only just left, but I find I wish to begin corresponding as we discussed without delay; otherwise, I fear we will fall into, as you said, 'cards at Christmas and birthdays.'

Dief wouldn't stand for that. He's already mourning the—I'm sure—profound emotional connection he had with your willingness to slip him unhealthy foods while I wasn't looking.

Things have occurred much as you had reassured me. I'm somehow still in good odor with the RCMP. They've offered me three possible postings, one of which is near Whitehorse, in an area very much like the one I grew up in before we took to traveling. Did I ever mention my grandparents were itinerant librarians? I used to have a penpal in Whitehorse, actually, a girl named Peggy Liston. We wrote to each other all our most secret thoughts.

I don't know when I stopped writing her. I remember telling myself, one day after my father visited, that I needed to learn to be strong and not need anyone anymore to

Well, I suppose I should tear this up and begin again. But I'm feeling reckless today, and I will leave it as is. You can choose not to respond, of course, if the overly emotional content disturbs you. But since we've parted, I've felt odd and out of sorts.

I'll take the posting near Whitehorse. It's a very small contingent; I would be one of three mounties posted there. I'd be in command—did I mention I got promoted? I believe it happened right before you returned to Chicago, but I can't remember.

Take care of yourself, Ray. Please be careful when you return to active duty.

Sincerely yours,

Benton Fraser

///

November 8, 1999

Dear Ray:

I don't know how quickly mail travels between our two points, so I'm not sure if you possibly received my last letter and just didn't wish to respond. But, as I said, you might not want to, and that's fine.

I'm in my new quarters outside of Whitehorse. I can almost see the Alaskan border from here. Dief has been hunting rabbits in the thick snow—a welcome return, I think you'll agree, to his natural state.

Not to get too maudlin, but seeing the beauty here around me, I wish you and I had had an opportunity to have our adventure as we planned. ~~I'm sorry I~~ Well, perhaps some day we will.

Constable Rivers, my second in command, is a very earnest young woman with a not-so-secret passion for collecting antique bottle caps. She has them lined up in a neat row on her desk. She's been trying to get me to go into Whitehorse with her—apparently one of the only perquisites of being stationed here is having ready access to the large mall in town. But there is altogether too much to do here. Mainly, getting my quarters in ship-shape and going hunting with Dief to stock up for the real winter that's coming.

I haven't mentioned Constable Fleur because he's a bit of an enigma. He seems to enjoy his nights very much, because he often appears at work still wearing the clothes he left in. However, when I asked him about his lady friend, he gave me a strange look and then went to overhaul the coffeemaker, which is an ancient device I believe was in use during the Great Depression.

They won't allow me to bring in a tea kettle. I'm told it would short out our antiquated electrical system, although it could be because I mentioned bark tea is my favorite.

Have I written enough inconsequentialities? I'm trying, Ray, not to tell you how very much I miss your companionship.

I suppose I'd better sign off now, leaving me,

Sincerely yours,

Benton Fraser

///

November 15, 1999

Dear Ray:

I promised myself I wouldn't write again without hearing from you, but I think we both know I'm terrible at keeping promises these days.

Please write me, so at least I know you are alive and well. That's all I care about.

I hope you are well.

Yrs,
Fraser

///

///

November 22, 1999

Dear Ray:

I received your postcard, and am relieved to hear from you, although I admit to being a little confused as to your intent. Although you checked the box next to "Having a great time," I noticed you seem to have something against elephants, nor do you, apparently, wish I were there.

Not, of course, that I wish I were back in Chicago, if only because Dief and I have both slimmed down markedly due to our recent change in diet. The pizza delivery here is terrible.

I'm sure you realize I'm joking.

You will be proud to hear I brought in a miscreant yesterday who was responsible for the theft of moving van full of "Light-Up Frosty the Snowman" lawn ornaments. The owner wanted the items to be listed as artwork in the charges so the penalty would be steeper, but I refused. Especially in light of the fact we just recently solved a real art theft case: entry was gained into the University of British Columbia Museum of Anthropology located near Vancouver, B.C., and fifteen objects, including twelve pieces by the renowned Haida artist Bill Reid, were stolen.

We'd received a fax about the theft, but never imagined the perpetrators, or perps, as you call them, were in the vicinity. But then I recognized the stern of one of Reid's famous war canoes sticking out of the back of a pick-up truck, and it was all over but for the arrest, which turned a bit sticky when the perpetrator produced a sawed-off shotgun.

He would not listen to reason, and since Constable Rivers was with me, and hadn't yet pulled her weapon, I gave my warning, and then was forced to shoot.

I know you have shot men in the line of duty, Ray, so you'll understand if I wish to say nothing further on that score.

It's American Thanksgiving next week. May I wish you a happy one, and hope you are in good company? Give my regards to Lieutenant Welsh; I regret I never had a chance to say good bye to him in person.

Yours, as always,

Benton Fraser

///

December 7, 1999

Dear Fraser,

I wasn't going to write you back. I was still too pissed off about you not coming home to Chicago with me when the shit hit the fan.

Seriously, do you really think anyone would give a good goddamn that Thatcher caught us in delecto in your pup tent? Could Welsh care less? He's been like a dad to me since I was a rookie. Hell, he knew about me before I knew about me, seeing I was with Stella back then and didn't even realize why I was having a little too much fun working Vice.

So fuck you, anyway, for ducking out on me.

Okay, so I said my piece, and once you've finished steaming maybe you'll pick this up again and finish reading.

I'm sorry you had to shoot that guy. There's no crappier feeling on this planet than hurting someone, even if you have to, and I know you had to, buddy. I guess he died, huh? I've only seen you shoot once, but I bet you're still a crack shot.

You must be feeling like ten tons of shit right now. I'm sorry. If I'd been around to back you up, maybe you could have done your thing and talked him right into putting down that shotgun.

It kills me I'm not your partner anymore.

Stop writing to me about Frosty the Snowman and start telling me how we're going to get out of this. Because I'm not mad anymore, but it's not getting any better over here. I got no pride, you know that. This sucks, us being apart.

RK

///

December 21, 1999

Dear Ray:

Thank you for writing to me. Your letter was a revelation.

Christmas fast approaches. Last Christmas I was with you. Of course, you probably remember how poorly things went the time we were shopping at the mall. I wonder if that's why I still don't like malls very much?

I'm lonely without you. I'm sure it's the height of presumption to complain about it when I was the one that left, but my heart doesn't seem to care.

My co-workers have been treating me strangely lately, giving me sideways looks. I imagine they've noticed I'm distracted and somewhat heartsick. Constable Fleur even brought me a gift—a wooden sculpture of two men wrestling, Greco-Roman style. I'm not sure he realizes how suggestive the pose is, or how inappropriate I find such a gift. But I was somewhat cheered imagining your reaction to it.

I know I'm not supposed to write about unimportant things, but all the most important won't travel down my hand to the paper. If I could, I would tell you those three minutes in my pup tent were the most dizzying, the most exalted of my life. I think about them often, and imagine the scenario turning out differently.

But, as I told you back then, I can't afford another fall from grace.

No, that's not true. The real truth is, I could do it. I would ask for permanent assignment in Chicago if I knew, if I truly believed we could continue to work together and still be in a relationship. But until you wrote me about Welsh, I imagined only the worst—that we would return, only I would be blacklisted by Inspector Thatcher and forced solely to fulfill insipid Consulate duties, and Welsh would support her, because of the fraternization regulations I'm sure exist in your Chicago P.D.

I couldn't bear to be in Chicago without any real work to do. You saved my sanity every time you swung by in the GTO to pull me into another case.

I love you, Ray, but even if we were together, even so, it wouldn't be enough.

Now you know how selfish I am at heart.

I can't write anymore. I can only ask that you forgive me.

Fraser

///

December 31, 1999

Fraser,

I tried calling as soon as I got your letter, but they told me you went out on a long patrol starting a week ago.

Still running, huh?

Well, guess what? I'm not standing for it. You showed your hand, and it's a doozy.

I'm sending you a ticket. Take some vacation days out of the giant stack you must have saved up and come out here. Talk to Welsh. Talk to the new guy that took Thatcher's place. Talk to me.

Just get your ass over here.

RK

P.S. I'm SERIOUS.

P.P.S. I love you too. Don't you know that?

P.P.P.S. Tell that Fleur to keep his grimy paws to himself. GODDAMNIT.

///