Title: Lay Me Down
Author: luzula
Fandom: due South
Pairings: Bob Fraser/Caroline Fraser, hints of Bob Fraser/Buck Frobisher
Rating: PG
Length: 1000 words
Summary: It wasn't easy to go out and get drunk in a town where you represented the law.
Notes: Set some time after Caroline's death, so this is not a particularly cheery fic. Thanks to spuffyduds for the beta!


It wasn't easy to go out and get drunk in a town where you represented the law.

Bob was determined to do it, though. He had the day off, and it was no one's business if he decided to drink himself into oblivion.

There was a momentary stillness when he came in the door of the bar, heads turning and glances directed his way. These were rough men, loggers and miners, the lot of them, and Bob had no doubt that some of them had reason to be wary of him.

But he wasn't in uniform, and he muttered to those closest to him, "Not here in an official capacity." They nodded, but still looked wary.

It was strange how he still felt as if he was doing something forbidden when he went out to drink. His parents didn't drink at all, and Bob was well aware of their opinions on the evils of alcohol. He'd done some furtive drinking in his teens, sneaking out with the other boys to get mouthfuls of someone's home-brew. It had tasted horrible, but no one had let on, of course. At Depot he'd quickly learned to drink sociably with the other cadets--it was the thing to do, and Bob had learned that along with all the skills of being a Mountie.

But he wasn't after being sociable now. Bob ordered a whiskey at the bar, and looked around at the crowded room. He headed towards a corner, and one of the small tables cleared itself for him.

Bob's mouth twisted. That bad, huh? But it was just as well--he wasn't here to talk. He downed half the whiskey, and the burn of it was welcome.

He and Buck had only been in this town a month, long enough to be known, but not long enough to know anyone. He'd done his duty, no one could say he hadn't, but his heart wasn't in it. His heart was--

He tipped his head back and drank the rest of the whiskey, and stood up to get another.

Bob wasn't a rowdy drunk, never had been, and he got quietly and thoroughly sloshed in his corner. Funny how he'd thought this could make him forget. Instead, it was like the whiskey laid him open--couldn't everybody see it on him, raw and fresh as if it'd happened yesterday?

Maybe there was a kind of tact in this rough crowd after all. They looked away when a man's pain showed on his face.

He needed more to drink. Bob stood up, steadied himself on the table until the room stopped spinning enough that he could get to the bar, and ordered another whiskey.

It was a kind of forgetfulness, maybe, when you got to a certain stage. Thoughts slipped away like smooth silvery fish from the grasping of his clumsy brain, but that didn't change his mood.

"Bob?" a voice said. Bob blinked and tried to focus.

"You're drunk, Bob. Come on." A hand on his shoulder.

"I'm...I'mma Mountie. You just--"

"So am I. Come on." An arm under his shoulders, and he was dragged unceremoniously up. Bob leaned heavily, but came willingly enough.

The blast of cold air when they exited the bar momentarily sobered him. "Buck?"

"This way," Buck said, and turned him, then manhandled him until his coat was on.

"Can walk on m'own," Bob muttered.

"I'm sure you can," Buck said, but didn't let go. Bob relaxed against him. He could trust Buck. Not like--he fumbled for the thought, but it was lost in murky waters.

"Can't remember," he told Buck.

"Does it help?"

"No."

They were silent for a while. Bob shivered in the cold and felt his teeth start to chatter.

"We're almost there," Buck said, and then there was a door and warm air on his face.

"Sit down. I'll get you some water." Bob sat still until a glass of water materialized in front of him.

"Not thirsty."

"You drink this glass of water, or I swear I'll pour it over your head. Come on."

Bob drank.

"Good. Now let's get your boots off." Buck kneeled down and got his boots off efficiently, then pulled his coat off, too. "Time for bed."

Bob sat there while Buck tugged his sweater off, then his flannel shirt, until he was down to his undershirt. Then the room tilted over as Buck pushed at his chest and he fell backwards on the cot. Bob blinked at the ceiling as Buck unbuckled his belt and tugged off his trousers, leaving his longjohns on.

"Come on, scoot up."

"Huh?"

Buck sighed and hauled him further up the cot with a grunt of effort. "Lord, you're heavier than you look."

"Sorry," Bob muttered.

Buck's hand went still on his shoulder, then squeezed it. "Not your fault. Let me get the blankets."

The weight of the blankets settled over him, and Buck pulled them up to his chin. Bob lay there on his back, alone with his drink-addled mind.

"Buck?"

"I'm here," Buck said, rummaging around the other end of the room, then came closer again. "You need anything?"

"Don't...don't want to be alone," Bob heard himself say.

"All right," Buck murmured. He went back to his side of the room. There was the scraping of furniture being rearranged, and then Buck's cot was up against his. Bob closed his eyes, listening to the familiar sounds of Buck taking his clothes off. Then Buck settled into his cot, and Bob rolled up next to him, as if they were out on the trail and had to lie close for warmth.

Buck was warm and heavy and familiar, and Bob pulled at the blankets, trying to arrange them closer around them.

"You've got stubble," he mumbled as his fingers brushed Buck's cheek. He didn't know why this should be surprising.

Buck snorted softly. "You're drunk, Bob. Go to sleep."

Buck slung an arm around him, and Bob drifted into heavy, dreamless sleep.