Work Text:
As harsh as the North is on a person (on a childhood, on a relationship...), it is harsher and less hospitable still on many things a southern-grown person might take for granted. Particularly, fruit. And more so: berries.
Not that they were absent entirely from Fraser's youth: there was always a greenhouse in the communities they traveled to. If not when they arrived, then his grandparents would be sure there was when they left. He tended many a bed over the years -- earth and dirt and shit between his fingers, on his face, scrubbed thoroughly after and inspected and sent back out to scrub again -- but come harvest, if it came to be they were still there, Martha would insist that the fruits of their labor be returned to the locals. "Their need is greater, Benton, and don't forget it. Hard work and service are their own reward."
Fraser would watch the dark greens, the heavy yellow-orange squash, and -- favorite and worst of all -- the small red strawberries disappear.
While Martha was loading and Fraser watched with longing, he'd feel a hand land on his shoulder, and George's gruff voice whisper "Here," and a few plump morsels would be slipped to him, sly and all the sweeter for it.
The result being: he has, as Ray would say, a Thing.
Ray has a thing too -- one with a much less interesting history, he said once when they were discussing it (back on the original trek, when they hadn't yet settled where -- or whether -- they'd settle down, or even declared for sure that it would be together ).
"I'm Polish, Fraser. I'm a divorced Polish cop, ex cop, whatever the fuck I am --" whatever the fuck we are , said his eyes, as he glanced through his lashes at Fraser. "-- so yeah, I've had some times with booze, y'know? Like it a little too much, it's a little too easy to reach for when things get hard, the usual."
That was all.
(Moving to a new country is hard, Fraser knows. Moving to a new climate is hard. Moving to Canada's far north is… hard .)
(They're hard, often, together, slide and thrust and slick and yes, this is why, this is worth it. But it's not enough.)
The problems start when the town Fraser is assigned to is dry. Ray cannot believe it, at first -- "We tried prohibition, it didn't work. Didn't they watch any gangster movies??"
Fraser starts to explain the difference, explain how the white man's water devastated the north and its peoples, how they have to respect the cultural autonomy of the indigenous population, how things are different here.
But he gets called away, a manhunt requiring all hands, and when he comes back -- a day and a half later -- there is yelling, there is fucking, and there is a promise of a ride-along license, or something , and the lesson is forgotten.
Ray doesn't forget the need, though, nor his contact in the North's loose network of cargo carriers (both legal and otherwise), and the next winter there is a deterioration -- of his work, of their ease, of his appearance -- and then there is a discovery: a crate and a half of novelty vodka.
There's a lull in the argument, while Fraser sits on one crate and stares at the other, Ray leaning against the far wall of the shed, eye swelling, nursing his knuckles
"Why flavored?"
"What?" He's too tired to remember he wasn't ever going to talk to Fraser again, of course, too trained by practice and desire to respond, regardless of circumstance.
"Why flavored vodka? I would have thought you'd gone with something more... traditional."
Ray snorts. "Miscommunication. I say kryjomy , guy hears creamy, this is what I get. What I wanted, but not quite good enough. Like always, hah."
Fraser glares at him then, the argument -- earlier subdued -- resumes. It's only later (Ray next to him in bed, bandaged hand scratching Fraser's side) that he realizes Ray meant himself , not the north. That Ray believes himself inadequate. Fraser pulls his beloved closer, and starts planning.
They make it through the winter. It's an uneasy truce, but both their knuckles and their prides heal, for the most part, and then it is the danger and sun and thaw of spring and everyone is too busy for drink or fight.
And then, then it is summer, and there is green, and breath, and day, and joy -- and harvest. Carefully tended, quietly traded for, and Fraser leans on a few more favors and social obligations than he means to, but he can't feel guilty, not when his knife and hands and stove get stained sticky sweetly red. Jar after jar after jar gets filled, while bottle after bottle is emptied, repurposed, boiled down from danger, into delight.
Ray comes back when Fraser's almost done (he'd been gone, a trapping trip gone wrong he'd had to go rescue, and perhaps Fraser hadn't been quite as clear with his directions as the tourists may have liked, but it was summer, nothing was likely to kill them, and besides, he knew Ray could handle it when they called in for help).
He comes back, and he sees Fraser, sweaty and messy and red-stained (hands and lips and chin, because the taste is still the sweetest he's known, forbidden and familiar and he can still feel George's dry, rough fingers wrapping around his as she showed him how to keep his treasure hidden from sight), sees the jars and bottles, neat and jumbled both. He asks, joking (sort of), who Fraser killed, but Fraser smiles, and pulls him close, and places a jam-dipped finger in his mouth. Ray draws him in, and tastes... not booze, not a berry, but something complex, compelling, and he wants more, and says so.
Fraser laughs, as he rarely does, and indulges Ray again, finger sliding between red lips, and says, there's enough, there's more than enough, and it will last, all through winter.
And so will they.