| Before the Dawn |
[Jan. 12th, 2012|02:23 am] |
Sometimes you can love someone so much, that you're willing to do almost anything for them. The power of a love like that can be frightening.
Fraser is up before the sun. It's the first time in a long time that he has been, truth be told; but sleep has been elusive and unsettled tonight, and rather than break Meg's peace, he's decided to dress in jeans and a shirt and sit outside on the balcony watching the city, and its attendant mountainous landscape, rise slowly from its slumber.
He misses the quiet -- the real quiet, that is. Even at night in a place like this, there's still so much noise; ambient electricity and cars and the occasional Life Flight chopper. Though the Territories are not precisely silent, and hold other sounds alien to most city dwellers, it is home, what he knows, what he grew up with: the howling of the winter winds, the shuddering of the windows in their frames, the creak of wood expanding and contracting, the sounds of mice in the walls, the snap and hiss of young wood sap in the stove...
It's not warm out here, but he's not a man who's unused to the cold. What would his life have been like, he wonders not for the first time, had he managed to get on the train? Why is he asking himself this question, when he already knows the answer?
She betrayed him, and in doing so, forced him to betray himself. She shook him to his core, tore out his heart, and then asked him to go with her. And yet, he'd wanted to. Oh, God, but he'd wanted to. Standing there on the platform, it had seemed like the only thing left in the world that made any sense. He'd already abandoned his principles. She was offering him a chance at something different, something unbound, wild and free. Something he'd never allowed himself to have. And all it meant was taking that last, final and inexorable leap... destroying himself in the process. Destroying everything that was the carefully constructed persona he'd spent so long creating, living in. Benton Fraser would have been no more.
He would have wept, if he'd had the strength. Instead, he just came to hate himself for even thinking it was an option. Even his dead father had seen that and known there wasn't any point in rubbing his face in it. The bullet that still resides in his spine even now was reminder enough.
For all that he hates himself for falling so hard, for falling so far... he still can't hate her. He has only himself to blame, after all, for not listening to the warning signs, for letting his best friend down, for so casually turning his back on even his job at the moment he got ... what was the phrase? Oh, right. Laid.
Ben pinches the bridge of his nose. Some demons, he's beginning to realise, can never be fully exorcised. |
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| Buried |
[Nov. 28th, 2011|09:31 am] |
Fraser's unsettling interview with Bonasera is over, but there's so much that still continues to plague him about it. In an attempt to stave off the encroaching memories he'd long thought firmly shut away, he dives into paperwork and staff rosters, hoping the generally soothing and familiar terminology will help. It's only marginally successful: so much of what he's familiar with is familiar no longer, and he's still growing accustomed to his newly elevated and highly unwelcome status as Sergeant.
Every once in a while he finds himself thinking he's hearing her voice again in the same room, however, and he glances up as though expecting to see her standing once more in front of him: a dark-haired, dark-eyed vision of passion tainted with vengeance.
For a while he considers calling Meg and telling her he's not coming home tonight; but he knows better. She'll know either way that something is bothering him, and it's likely best that he spends his darker hours in her presence than wallowing in self-recrimination alone. The rest of the day passes with interminable slowness, and it's almost as though Diefenbaker understands his human's low mood, opting to spend most of it lying near his feet (and sometimes on them), behaving himself rather unusually well. It's a mercy when he can reasonably take it upon himself to leave the Consulate at last, and step outside into the bracing fresh air, his curiosity about De Luzio's earlier interview all but lost to the emotional turmoil he's had to deal with this afternoon.
Rather than trust himself to cook, or to ask Meg to take that task upon herself, he stops on the way home that evening before arriving at their shared Vancouver apartment with dinner.
Not Italian. |
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| In passing |
[Nov. 3rd, 2011|04:28 am] |
There are any number of reasons Fraser's chosen to spend his lunch time away from the Consulate today, despite the potential for trouble to find him, or for fans and tourists to stop him to talk or ask for a photograph. Perhaps it's something to do with his latent anxiety about the investigation that he's launching-- aware that it's an investigation of his own workplace, and in secret to boot-- or perhaps it had something to do with Tisdale's glance that made him uneasy, or perhaps it's because he's just felt more cooped up since his return from the Territories than ever before, surrounded by concrete, steel and glass.
Whatever the reason, he's determined that he needs to get-- well, maybe he can't precisely describe Chicago's air as fresh-- but he certainly needs to walk off some of his somewhat nervous energy, or at least find some sort of distraction. Even if that means he ends up traversing the city's sewer system again.
For now, however, his original goal of lunch seems reasonable; and if something bizarre were to happen between the time he leaves the Consulate and the time he gets back, he's unlikely to complain. |
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| A place and a time |
[Oct. 28th, 2011|10:21 pm] |
Fraser's been resisting going by his old cubicle since he was promoted meteorically to Sergeant for a couple of reasons, not least because he'd been hopeful, if temporarily, that his promotion was a mistake. The developments of the last week however have left him in little doubt that this position is going to be of at least a few months' duration-- and if he's going to finally nail down what on earth is going on here, he's really going to need those hated stripes on his sleeve.
Much to his chagrin.
He doesn't intend to be the kind of sergeant who sits in his office all day. He doesn't want to be a stranger to these people for whom he has to be responsible, so he aims to be accessible, using the cafeteria and personally learning as much about each of the individuals under his command as possible. Having a photographic memory is helpful. Now, if only they'd stop disappearing every time he made an appearance...
Diefenbaker curls back up under the desk and rests his head on his paws as Fraser takes his seat back in the old cube. He's surprised it hasn't been reassigned already. He'd cleared it out before he left for Old Crow over six and a half months prior to today. Except, that is, for the Blackberry he'd been issued and promptly left in the bottom desk drawer, which he reaches down for now.
He sets the box on the desk before him. So much has changed in the last 13 years. Technology certainly has made a significant leap, and though he's more than capable of catching up, it never fails to surprise him just how different things are here. He wonders if that feeling-- a mixture of wonder, marvel, and not a small sense of loss-- will ever abate. |
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| In Brief |
[Jun. 27th, 2011|02:28 pm] |
The assorted pages of his very first security briefing seem to glare back at him accusingly from his desk: challenging him to correct, to revise, to subtract or add to them. He's arrived earlier to the Consulate than usual in order to type up, format and print the paperwork-- for once leaving Diefenbaker in Vancouver with Meg (largely because the wolf was being particularly stubborn this morning).
He's had some considerable time to think about how to approach the Consul-General on this topic. Much like Sgt. Platt, she's quite likely to cut short any stalling or his usual clueless tactics. She knows what it means when an officer plays dumb. He's going to have to work harder than usual to sell the naïvete he so excels at. As for the overwhelmed angle? He doubts he's going to have to make any pretense on that front whatsoever. This is going to require some finesse, and perhaps even some verbal sparring.
He really misses his father's journals: they've provided valuable insight at times for him, giving him a perspective he often hadn't considered. But they're lost to him forever, and that loss has rarely been more keenly felt than now.
He blows out his cheeks as he skims over the text of his briefing once more, for what seems like the thousandth time, then checks his watch. Time to go. He stands and gathers his documents, then opens the door of the office (not his office: it feels like a shoe that's too large for his foot) and heads down the hallways of the Consulate to meet with the Consul-General. |
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| Strategy |
[Dec. 22nd, 2010|10:05 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
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Fraser takes a moment after Constable McBride has left, with the advantage of a closed door between him and the rest of the Consulate, to sit at Platt's -- his -- desk, and slowly lean forward until his forehead lands upon its smooth wooden surface with a soft thunk.
It's the first opportunity he's had to be alone since he got the unwelcome news of his sudden, meteoric promotion. He's half-expecting his father to show up and interrupt his attempt to put his jumbled thought processes into some kind of order. He's also anticipating Tisdale coming by at some point, as the Consul-General had implied earlier. Either way, he's unlikely to be left alone for very long.
Deep breaths. First things first. Consider the knowns first, then consider the variables and the uncertainties.
Fact: Sergeant Platt had suspicions about Tisdale, but they were more of a gut feeling.
Fact: His superior officer-- correction, his former superior officer-- was not an idiot. With that caveat, however, even the best officers have been blindsided or distracted enough not to be able to chase down leads. Platt had likely tried to communicate that to him before, but he'd not picked up on it.
Fact: Sergeant Platt is no longer at the Consulate, for reasons as yet unknown. Fraser decides he needs to ascertain what those reasons were-- they could well be tied to his suspicions.
Fact: Fraser is now in charge of the Members of this posting.
Fact: Which also means he has an unprecedented level of security access and authority that he has previously never even thought possible.
Fact: Corporal DeLuzio here has a background entirely unsuited to the posting-- but very much suited to investigating criminal activity, and that cannot be coincidence.
Unknowns: Why the promotion? Platt clearly had no hand in it, and Fraser doesn't blame him. He doesn't deserve it, hasn't earned it. It's clear the Consul-General was unhappy about his mulish refusal to accept it, but that means little. But it was clearly engineered, and if anyone at the Consulate could be considered an opportunist, Tisdale would certainly fit the bill. But why? Is he anticipating more press interest in him as a result? Why is he so invested in the media attention for someone like him, anyway?
It's entirely plausible, he thinks, that his own projected naiivete has played a large part in his promotion. Getting rid of the Sergeant in favour of someone like himself, who has made his innocent, clueless, squeaky-clean image an art form would appeal to Tisdale. Believing Fraser to not be all that smart, much less suspicious, Tisdale would feel more secure doing ... whatever it is Platt suspects him of doing.
On the other hand, Platt might well have engineered the promotion, despite his misgivings. Platt understood him, saw through him disconcertingly well-- and a good CO knows how to use his subordinates' strengths. Fraser's advantage is in fact the best cover he could hope for. Or, and this was perhaps more likely, Sergeant Platt had seen to McBride and DeLuzio's assignments here for the purpose of launching an investigation, and then been faced with a transfer elsewhere before it could be enacted.
Politics has never been Fraser's strong suit, or his favoured one. But he's rapidly coming to the conclusion that he's going to need to learn-- and fast. He lacks Platt's contacts and his experience.
Then again, he's never let a little thing like experience get between him and politics when the call of justice has required it. Something is wrong here. Something very wrong, and he's got the tools to fix it. He just needs to figure out how.
Fraser lifts his forehead from the desk, oblivious to the large red mark that now graces it. He then frowns at the Stetson on his desk and reaches out to pull it towards him, then flips it up to remove the envelope the Consul-General gave him earlier. From its heavyweight paper folds, he extracts the badges of his new position and sets them carefully on the desk. He gazes at them once more for a long moment, then, from the pocket of his uniform belt he takes a small sewing kit before unfastening his belt and unbuttoning his red tunic.
He will resent every stitch-- but at least he feels now that these stripes present a purpose; an opportunity to do something constructive. It just won't be the kind of purpose Tisdale had in mind. |
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[Nov. 30th, 2010|07:11 pm] |
Fraser's stint in Old Crow has been a welcome one; a chance to reconnect with the landscape of his home in a posting to which he's far better suited than that of a desk job in a skyscraper in the middle of a bustling city. Six months however passes far more swiftly than he would have preferred, though he's in no doubt that Diefenbaker is looking forward to returning to Chicago more than he is.
Chicago is not what it was to him before he came here. If he is honest with himself, he thinks at many points on his journey back to the Windy City, he has a distinct sense of foreboding about it. Much of what endeared him to the city in the first place is not present in this time and place. Even the mood of the city is different in an intangible way that defies definition, and though Meg has done as much as she can to allay his anxiety, spoken and unspoken, there's a definite sense of unease about dealing with Tisdale once more -- an unresolved unease that he needs to get to the bottom of.
He pauses, his pack slung over his shoulder, gazing up at the towering building that he will once more, for a while at least, call home. He's relieved to see the lack of press presence at the doorfront this time, though he's still easily recognised by many of the passersby -- it's not as if he's difficult to miss, given his distinctive red serge, after all.
Diefenbaker licks his chops and whines, breaking into his reverie. He turns and looks at the wolf disparagingly. "What are you complaining about?" he asks. "You've done nothing but mope since we left six months ago, and you're telling me you're still unhappy?"
"Rrrrrf," the wolf replies, as if that answers and explains everything. Perhaps it does. Fraser looks back at the building.
"I know," he says simply, before he starts walking again to head inside. He hopes Sergeant Platt is in a favourable mood. Given that he's never encountered his superior officer in anything approaching it, it seems unlikely, but Fraser's not known for his pessimism. A brief pause by his assigned quarters to drop off his pack -- and at least attempt to ask Diefenbaker to stay put -- and a few more minutes later sees him at the Sergeant's office door, rapping on it politely. |
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| "More than kisses, letters mingle souls." |
[Sep. 21st, 2010|08:32 pm] |
Mail delivery in Old Crow is just about as unconventional as everything else in the small Canadian town that huddles alongside a small stretch of the Porcupine river. Once a week, provided one is fortunate and the weather conditions are favourable, a plane will drop off a bag to be picked up and taken to the sorting office, which is less of a sorting office and more like an extended shed. The small office's hours are from 1pm to 4pm only, and given the more immediate responses afforded by e-mail in today's climate, the workload is less letters and more parcels sent by friends, from orders online, or for what few businesses there are in the town including medical supplies. When the weather is less friendly, the mail can take up to two weeks.
One person alone is charged with the delivery, which means that on the occasions Mr. Cohn is sick, and even when he is not, someone not officially employed by Canada Post must step in. Constable Fraser, unsurprisingly, has applied himself to do just that. From the moment he arrived in Old Crow, he went about familiarising himself with the system and made it a point to hand deliver the packages as a means of introducing himself to the people who call it home.
And so it is today, as he sits in the small office and sifts that early afternoon through the small batch of official correspondence for which e-mail cannot suffice. As he does so, without even seeing the envelope, his fingers brush across a familiar grade of paper; a slightly denser weight than those used by other organisations or companies. He pauses to push it upward and out of the pile to confirm his suspicions, and is rewarded immediately with the crest he knows and bears so well.
His feelings on the contents are mixed: he's known her posting would be arriving, certainly, but the anxiety of where her posting would take her is brought to the fore strongly once again with the presence of the evidence in his hand.
On any other day, he would go to each place in order -- some sort of emergency or urgent delivery aside -- including his own residence. But this letter, this particular one, he will set aside to be delivered last of all. Not because he does not think it urgent, but because its deliverance will require a significantly larger investment of his time than his route will likely allow, regardless of the outcome.
As a result, it's something of a long day for Constable Fraser. |
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[Jul. 28th, 2010|02:04 pm] |
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Sunrise is not at what one might call a sane hour in this part of Canada; indeed, sunrise officially begins at around 2:45AM. Fraser, for his part, has been long accustomed to the long days of summer and extended hours of darkness in winter, so the light streaming in through the minimal window coverings seems not to bother him-- or even the wolf, who is sprawled near the door, snoring. |
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| Foundations |
[May. 26th, 2010|08:31 am] |
Benton Fraser is not an idle man. The period of his enforced inactivity following his gunshot wound was barely tolerable, even with Meg's company. His is a restless nature, always seeking to engage, to do. Inactivity is a kind of death, a defeat-- and it also means he has too much time to think. His latest state of mind is almost directly attributable to that period of convalescence, and in no small part due to the subsequent dressing-down his CO gave him not too long ago.
In an attempt to once more exorcise those demons from his conscious thoughts, he has set about beginning the work of their cabin's construction in his off days when he's not on duty in Old Crow. But he's set himself another task, and for this he makes a journey to Inuvik.
Though this world is different, its topography is not drastically changed, especially in the remote areas that, like Inuvik, were his childhood stomping grounds. The people do not know him, and this is another brief sadness to him; in his time and place, everyone knew everyone else by first name. Now it is an industrial centre of trucking companies that exist for the ice road that's formed across the glacial terrain every winter, allowing them to haul vast loads across frozen waters to the oil drilling platforms and outposts in the North.
The hike is a welcome one, however. It takes him the work of some hours to find the spot, and he's gratified to find that the hilltop is still secluded and yet harbours a grand view of the Territory's impressive vistas. Rocks and shale are still in abundant supply.
With a resoluteness and purpose entirely in character for Benton Fraser, he begins the work of reconstructing his mother's cairn.
She has not existed in this world as anything but a piece of fiction, though she was anything but fictional to him. And even if she is not here amongst the living, she still remains in his affections; and in his opinion, she still deserves the dignity of a lasting memorial from the one member of her family left in either world-- her first child, and her last. |
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| Changes |
[May. 24th, 2010|08:54 am] |
[takes place a little after Meg's departure for Depot, and before his new assignment in Old Crow, YT]
Fraser hasn't been back to the Consulate since the night he departed in haste to find Meg the night he was shot. In the interim, he's been recuperating, restlessly, and anticipating his reassignment to the Territories. Getting dressed-- especially into his ceremonial red serge, which he has deemed necessary for his exit assessment-- is still something of a chore; he remains a touch stiff in his left shoulder as tendons and muscle tissues continue to heal. But at least he's mobile, he reminds himself, as he's had far too much prior experience with crutches to want to revisit that mode of self-transportation any time soon.
Despite Hourani's offer to pack up his things in his small quarters, he'd repeatedly declined; she'd already put herself out for him enough in his opinion, and he's certain his C.O. is about to ream him out for dragging her along with him that night-- almost a month to the day at this point. It's not as if there's much in the way of his personal effects to deal with-- he has very little, after all, apart from clothing. The bulk of what he has to pack consists of the fan mail he's received and has been as yet unable to answer.
He sets the boxes down on the desk and begins to sort through the bundles (organised by date received, need for response, country of origin, etc), and tries not to contemplate Sergeant Platt's inevitable interrogation. Much. |
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| A statement issued to the local Chicago press |
[Apr. 29th, 2010|02:32 pm] |
I would like first of all to express my deepest and most sincere gratitude to the people of Chicago and those from around the world who have sent me their well wishes for a speedy recovery after my recent hospitalisation. I am equally, if not slightly more, grateful to the surgeons, nurses and the peace officers who ensured my ongoing health.
It is no secret to those who know me that I am still greatly ill at ease with the level of attention my presence garners here. With that topic broached, I was made aware during my hospital stay that there is some not inconsiderable speculation as to the identity of the woman who has been at my side during my convalescence.
Her name is Margaret Thatcher, formerly (and soon to be once again) Inspector Thatcher of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
She is also my wife, of some four months prior to my shooting.
I am certain that many will wonder why I was not forthright about such a fact at the time of our engagement, or at our wedding. The answer is twofold: At the time, Mrs. Thatcher was involved in covert work that required her identity to be kept secret. And secondly is for a more personal reason, and that which I hope you will understand, and that is the need for privacy with regard to my personal life.
I make this statement now not to advertise my relationship with Mrs. Thatcher, nor to invite further public scrutiny, but rather to address and dispell the rumours and gossip and replace them with facts. I have been constantly touched and affected by the outpouring of friendliness this city's inhabitants and those beyond have afforded me, and am confident that such respect will be extended to Mrs. Thatcher in an appropriate manner as she returns to her career of choice with the RCMP.
I thank you all kindly for your consideration, your affections and your time as I move to my next posting back in Canada.
Benton Fraser
Constable, Royal Canadian Mounted Police |
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| Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. |
[Mar. 23rd, 2010|12:40 pm] |
In just the few years he's been in Chicago, he's been hospitalised a ridiculous number of times: a knife wound to the leg; a gunshot wound to the back, another gunshot wound to that same leg ...
The longest of his enforced convalescences was the injury his own friend accidentally inflicted upon him over four years ago now. That scar is a silent testament to his biggest personal failure to date-- his failure to live up to his own standards, his failure as a friend. The emotional scars left behind have never entirely healed.
He'd thought he'd never quite recover from that, and he'd surprised himself with the level of bitterness and self-recrimination he'd worked up as a result of it. But he did, and he has, and now ... now he has a different kind of failure to deal with. In this, he has not lost the woman he loves, for which he is profoundly grateful.
Mired as he is in the throes of medicated sleep, his thoughts still churn and twist in the void, though they're sluggish and disjointed. |
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[Nov. 25th, 2009|08:43 pm] |
Fraser has only been present at this convention for four hours, and already he's managed to return a lost child to his parents, spotted a fault in the temperature regulation controls for the sauna during a rather enthusiastic tour of the hotel facilities, assisted a wheelchair-bound attendee in the absence of such from the hotel staff, and assured many more staff that Diefenbaker really is rather harmless, as long as one doesn't leave their lunch out where he can get to it: though it's quite possible that his baleful stare is indeed the undoing of many.
His internal apprehension about the event has not dissipated, but he reminds himself that much like his Consular duties back in Chicago, his presence is in fact serving a greater good-- in this case, a well-respected wolf charity. It's equally fortunate, he thinks, that the convention organisers have been considerate enough to put him up in an entirely different hotel than that of the event-- a far less expensive one, at his own insistence. It might perhaps be a delusion of security, for he is becoming rapidly aware how resourceful fans can be.
Diefenbaker, on the other hand, is in his element. It's been an effort to keep the wolf in sight; for as much as he is independent and capable of taking care of himself, Fraser's concern is more to do with the possible effect of the overindulgent nature of his legions of admirers on his internal organs. |
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[Sep. 25th, 2009|09:33 pm] |
It was strange-- even though he was aware of the possibility-- to come back to the Knight Estates on Friday evening to the rooms he and Meg share, to find them distinctly devoid of her presence. For a brief time, after he has checked voice messages and even email to be sure she has not left any urgent missive that might require him to ... well, to interfere ... he resolves to go back to Chicago, but he checks that impulse after further thought; after all, if she does indeed require his interference, better he stay close at hand, where she knows he will be.
Instead, he opts to change from his working uniform into his casual attire of jeans and shirt, before he heads to the workshop. He's got a bookcase to finish.
Even aware as he is that she is quite capable of taking care of herself, he worries. She is operating in a different capacity these days, taking chances and acting alone without the benefit of the law behind her, only her own guile and a unique super-intelligent car as backup.
A car with an overly-impressive array of technology at its disposal.
She'll be fine. And if she's not ... he'll know. Somehow. He'll know.
For now, he'll try and lose himself in the process of assembling the laquered pieces of wood into their final form. |
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[Sep. 3rd, 2009|10:44 pm] |
It's been something of a day, certainly, but for once, it's not involved walking around in a sewer or hiding in a closet, or being in the back of a garbage truck with another man's fiancée. This afternoon heralded his sudden presence at the wedding of someone he's never really met, and a woman who thought for several minutes he was that man he's never met, which was all kinds of awkward. And now, after his work hours have concluded, and he has avoided Christian Tisdale's relentless schedule, he has quietly scheduled a meeting with the organisers of a convention off the Consular premises at a local coffee house several blocks away.
Fraser pauses to check that his brown working uniform is in order, sliding a hand over the front to ensure it lies flat and that his buttons are in place. Then he notes the ring-- the wedding ring-- on his left hand, and pauses, looking at it in the mirror, then looking down at the newly cast Canadian gold around his finger.
A question he never thought would enter his head does so anyway: Should he wear it to this meeting, or even to this convention? He has been made acutely aware of his public, celebrity status in the last few months, and the mail he's been receiving ... well, it's clear that he is incredibly popular, for many reasons, and some of them might even be innocent ones. The media interest is just beginning to taper off, especially now that he has been here for several weeks. Meg's work is important work, and he knows well that in order for her to do that job effectively, she needs to be out of the public eye. If news of his lost bachelorhood gets out, he's all too aware of what backlash it could create - and if she is at any point engaged in some kind of undercover work, it could very literally put her life at risk.
Even with that rationalisation, he cannot help but feel the guilt weigh heavily on him as he slides the gold circlet from his finger. It's not necessarily right, but if her safety depends on it, then he has to do what he has to do.
It doesn't help.
The ring is wrapped carefully in a sliver of soft doeskin and tucked into his pouch before he turns to Diefenbaker.
"Your adoring public awaits," he says, moving towards the door.
"Rrrf." |
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| The shape of things to come |
[Aug. 20th, 2009|10:25 pm] |
Fraser enjoys woodworking, but unlike most people, Fraser's skill is not acquired as a hobby; in the Territories, one's ability to work with rather than against one's immediate environment can be the difference between life and death. Under those circumstances, one must be able to identify in the dark or in a blinding blizzard what kind of tree one is interacting with: understand each type of wood's particular grain for creating shelter, its relative softness, its density for creating a raft; whether it will stay dry more easily to catch an ember for a fire, whether its sapling will bend adequately to make a bow, if it will bear edible fruits, if it is diseased, and be able to hear the sap running in its trunk.
Fraser can do all these things and more besides thanks to his Inuit mentors while he was growing up, and to his extensive, voracious appetite for absorbing information. But it is a different thing to use those skills in another way, when one is not on a hunt, or needing to survive. When one can take the time to truly appreciate and handle the wood and shape it into something that will last forever, barring accident or fire, it's more than just a hobby; it is an investment of the self, and the creation of a very personal legacy.
The wood he works with now is a fine cherry, aged for a year, and the shavings that fall from the hand plane are like slivers of autumn at his feet.
Surrounded in this small workshop by the traditional tools of the trade, Fraser feels, despite his great personal distance from the country he was born in, very much at home. |
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| Through the blackest night, morning gently tiptoes, feeling its way to dawn |
[Aug. 15th, 2009|07:52 pm] |
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Despite the relatively late night, Fraser is, as always, an early riser, waking in much the same position in which he and his fiancée had fallen asleep. He finds himself reluctant to move, afraid that he might wake her from what he knows is a much-needed rest, but it becomes clear in short order that her sleep is deep; so he resolves simply to press a gentle kiss to her temple before withdrawing from their bed. |
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[Aug. 2nd, 2009|10:49 pm] |
It's the third week of Fraser's posting in Chicago. In that time, he's already managed to foil a purse snatching (and then get the snatcher some work as a mechanic for the owner of a cat rescue), investigated a poisoning, given approximately twenty-three interviews, attended five photoshoots, eight private functions, given eight public school lectures and been an escort to the Consul General at three 'diplomatic' dinners, although the number climbs to twelve if he counts the number of dinners at which she was not actually present, and he was in fact the point of interest.
What Meg suggested this weekend sits ill with him; the idea that he may be a front for something he would never consent to, whether it be in principle or by the rule of law.
It is with some distinct measure of relief, therefore, that he absorbs himself in the morning's more routine work-- background checks and applications for various classes of visas. Even as he does so, he is searching for an opportunity-- one that will give him a legitimate reason to rebel against Tisdale's arduous public schedule. |
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| been this way before (but not this time) |
[Jul. 29th, 2009|04:45 pm] |
He may be in something of a hurry, but Fraser won't rush when it comes to taking care of his responsibilities. The tack is removed and taken care of in short order, despite the staff on hand's wish to intervene, and the horse finds itself the subject of his impeccable attention to grooming.
He's not sure entirely what to expect when he gets back to his and Meg's appointed rooms-- but for once, the unexpected is something to look forward to, not steel himself for. |
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