I hope this letter finds you well. It's been several weeks now since we saw you onto your plane, so I expect you've adjusted again to Chicago easily. The city always seemed newly strange to me every time I returned, but I suppose that was to be expected. Going back home is much different.
Diefenbaker and I have been adjusting, also. The cabin here is homelike already, and the people in town seem like good folk. It's everything I could have asked for in a post.
Dief has been standing beside me and reading as I write this -- making quite rude comments, I might add; if I've told him once I've told him twenty times how irritating that is, but he ignored my advice, as he does so often.
At any rate, Dief wishes me to tell you first, that he has kept your secret from me; second, that he would appreciate it if you could send him some donuts or perhaps pizza, as he finds our cuisine rather bland; and third -- well, his third point concerns me, and I take some issue with his statements, so I won't bother writing it down.
I hope to hear from you soon.
Your friend, Benton Fraser
Fraser, I'm not good at this sort of thing, at letters and stuff. I don't know what to say. To write, I mean.
Chicago is Chicago. It's the same it always was. Except for you guys being gone, I guess. Work is work, and I'm ... me.
I don't know if you expected this to be one of those dear diary things where I tell you everything I do in my day, but I'm not going to do that, because that's stupid. There's nothing to tell anyway.
I read your letter a couple of times, but I still don't get it. You write like it's in code or something.
Dief I understand. Dief says what he means. Maybe you should take a cue from him.
You write stuff down, and I know you're saying something else, but I don't know what. You tell me what Dief's saying, and I know you're thinking stuff, too and you know I have a secret but you don't ask what it is and you talk about Chicago and home, and I know you're saying something else again, and then you say you couldn't ask for anything more, but what does that mean, anyway? Nothing.
If you were here maybe I'd know what you mean, but you're not, so you gotta help me out. Just - fucking say what you wanna say, Fraser. Because otherwise I think I'll have to kick you in the head.
Tell Dief I can't mail any take-out, but I'll think of him next time I get some.
I'm not sure what it is you want me to say. I didn't purposely write that letter to annoy you. And I'm not sure what exactly you can complain about in my correspondence that doesn't occur in yours as well. You're talking in circles, saying nothing of substance -- at least I'm making an effort.
If you don't want to write, you don't have to. Nobody's forcing you, after all. I simply thought it might be a good way to keep in touch.
You want a letter with substance? You wanna do the sharing thing? Fine. I'll start.
Chicago sucks. It doesn't feel like home, it just feels like a place where I happen to be stuck. Work sucks, too, because I'm being an asshole to everybody and nobody really appreciates it much. Not to mention Vecchio and Stella right there smooching it up all the time. And you're not here anymore, and I'm not Vecchio anymore, and I'm not me anymore, either, not the me I was before, so I got no idea what I'm doing.
You know what I told Dief before I left? I told him I didn't want to come back. I wanted to stay there with you guys.
There. That's what's going on here. Tell me what you want now, Fraser. Everything hunky-dory there? You happy? Maybe you have a secret, too. You lonely? You wish things had gone different?
Maybe you are happy. You got your home, and your best friend, and your wilderness. Maybe that's all you need.
You know, I always thought it was kinda stupid when Stella used to write in her diary, but maybe it's not. Feels good to get stuff off your chest.
In one of your letters, you told me you were bad at this sort of thing. I understand how you felt, because I feel the same way now. There are things I want to say to you, but I don't know how to go about it, how to form the words. It's -- not easy for me, either. It's very difficult, in fact. This is already my third draft.
Your last letter caught me by surprise. I didn't expect any of it. But honestly deserves honesty in return, so -- you're right, of course.
I miss you terribly. I did wish for other things. But if wishes were horses, as my grandmother would say - anyway, I couldn't ask you to do anything differently.
Ray, I hope you know how I feel. I hope you know that I am here, that you are always more than welcome. My home will always have room for you.
I suspect if I do not seal this envelope immediately, I will find some excuse not to mail this letter at all, so I must stop here.
Yours, Benton Fraser
Find yourself a phone and call me as soon as you can, you know the number. I wanna hear your voice before we do this. And there's things we have to talk about, talk about for real.
P.S. Yours? I like that.
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Fandom: due South
Title: The Contents of a Small Box Stored in a Large Trunk in a Yukon Cabin
Author: Pearl-o [email] [website]
Details: Standalone | PG | 5k | 07/21/04
Summary: Someone admits something under duress.
Notes: Written for the ds_undercover challenge.
Disclaimer/Other: Not mine. Not mine at all.
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