Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story, much to my sorrow. The only profit gained is in the warm fuzzy feelings I get when playing with our favorite Canadian and his friends.

Author's Notes: I'd like to thank the Academy. And anyone who bothers to read this story.

Story Notes: PG-13 because Ray uses one or two four-letter words. Violence and Angst abounds. Ray K/Fraser pre-slash if you squint really hard. 7350 words.

This was not good.

Finding yourself standing over what looked to be a very dead guy and having no clue how you got there... Not a good thing. Ray stared down at the body and blinked stupidly. Everything leading up to this moment was a blank, a black void.

Ray glanced at his hands, no blood there. That was good, because on the guy lying at his feet - yeah lots of blood. Most of the blood was on the lean man's right shoulder. He'd taken a hit that must have gone clean through because there was a puddle growing beneath him. The shoulder didn't look so bad, bleeding... true. Would have hurt like a mother fuck except, this guy wasn't gonna feel it.

In the guy's forehead, about an inch above his left eyebrow, there was a perfect circle oozing a single trickle of dark red fluid. The bullet hole was from a small caliber gun, a Baretta probably, one of those little sub-compact things that fit real nice into a woman's handbag.

Ray checked his hands again. No gun. Dead looking guy - Yep, he had a gun. As a matter of fact, he had Ray's gun. Ray shook his head in confusion and tried ignore the really bad feeling he had creeping along his spine.

Crouching at the guy's feet, Ray raked his gaze over the vic. Booted feet lead to long denim-clad legs. The man wore a plain white t-shirt that made the blood on his right side seem obscenely bright. His arms were flung out from his sides so that he looked as though he was being crucified on the concrete floor.

The guy's face seemed calm, peaceful even. If not for the blood, he'd have looked like he was sleeping. His dark blonde hair was in disarray, standing on end as if he'd been running his hands through it only moments ago.

Ray stared at him. And he stared some more. When Ray finally realized that he was looking into his own face, he wondered idly why it wasn't freaking him out at least a little bit.

Rising slowly, Ray allowed his focus to widen. He found himself in a warehouse of some sort. About fifteen feet away there was another body, a burly bruiser of a man who had undoubtedly worked as a bouncer in the not so distant past. He too was covered in blood, but his wounds were more graphic. He'd taken two rounds to the chest, evidently from Ray's gun. The result was a meaty, blood-filled crater to the left of his breastbone.

Over the second body leaned a woman. Her long dark hair curled down her back in luxurious waves. She was stunningly beautiful, so much so that Ray checked carefully for a halo or wings. After all, it seemed that he was dead, could this be an angel?

But as Ray watched, he revised his thoughts. Somehow, he didn't think that angels went to the trouble of wiping down a pistol before placing the weapon in a dead man's hand. The woman -

Victoria.

The name popped into Ray's mind. The woman's name was Victoria, he was suddenly certain of it. And the man... the man with the gaping chest wound... Ray had shot the man.

Ray had a flash of sensory memory in which he felt fire rip through his shoulder as his finger squeezed the trigger of his gun. Ray had shot the man who shot him, then... Ray struggled to remember. Then as Ray had turned...

Large luminous eyes had looked at him and a beautiful, kissable mouth had smiled at him... And Ray remembered the ice in her voice as Victoria had put her pretty, dainty little pistol to his head and shot him.

That same little gun now lay in the lax hand of the dead bouncer.

Victoria stood and nodded. As she turned and began to walk away, Ray looked from one body to the other, surveying her handiwork. The tableau before him seemed straightforward enough. It looked as though Ray and Mr. Bouncer had killed each other. The only thing that kept Ray from believing it himself was the vivid memory of Victoria's smile and the remembered scent of her perfume as she pulled the trigger.

But there was also the wound in the dead Ray's shoulder to consider. The small caliber gun hadn't blown through the scapula. Nor had the wound been caused by Ray's weapon, otherwise there would have been more damage. The bloody but non-lethal wound to Ray's shoulder indicated that there was a third gun involved, a third gun that Ray could not immediately locate.

The investigation would not miss that fact. Fraser would not miss it.

As if thinking of him had brought him into being, Fraser abruptly burst through the double doors. Victoria froze but a moment later she veered left and sprinted toward an alternate exit. Fraser took off after her. She didn't get far.

As Victoria reached the other wall, Ray Vecchio stormed through the second doorway, followed by two uniformed officers. Vecchio caught the fleeing woman by the arms and shook her. "Where is he?" Vecchio growled in her face.

Victoria wailed. "I didn't do anything! Barry caught us together. He was mad with jealousy. I couldn't stop them!"

"No!"

Ray was transfixed. He watched in numb fascination as Fraser dashed across the room. The Mountie was a blur of red as he slid on his knees beside the lean, blonde figure on the floor.

"Ray." The word hissed from Fraser's lips in a near whimper. His pale face was ashen, nearly gray in a way that had Ray more than a bit concerned.

"Frase?" Ray knelt beside his partner, trying to offer comfort. The fact that he was also kneeling beside his own unmoving body was something Ray chose not to think about.

"Ray." Fraser's hand trembled as he reached out and placed three fingers to the carotid, looking for a pulse. "God," Fraser gasped. He simultaneously yanked his hat from his head and yelled at Vecchio, "Get an ambulance. NOW!"

Fraser placed his head against the wiry chest and listened. Ray watched in horror as blood from the wounded shoulder smeared across Fraser's temple and dampened his hair. A moment later, Fraser jerked away. He tilted the blond head back, pinched the nostrils closed and began to breathe air past the still lips.

"Fraser?" Ray said. As he watched, Ray could see the slender chest rising and falling with each breath Fraser forced into the lungs. "Fraser?" Fear niggled along Ray's scalp and his chest began to ache. Now he was freaking out. This was beyond weirdness.

The edges of Ray's vision began to gray out and pain tore through his body. Fire coursed through his veins, radiating from his shoulder. Ray gasped, his agony flashing white-hot. Then everything abruptly went black.

-

Ray opened his eyes. He was disoriented for a moment, unsure of where he was or how he had gotten there. Florescent lights overhead and institutional beige carpets underfoot gave Ray his first clue as to his current location.

Jerking his head up, Ray found himself looking out a window and into a dark rainy night. The lights in the room reflected off of the black glass, creating a mirror effect. In the surface of the glass, Ray could see several chairs, a boring, well-worn couch and a coffee machine on a table in the corner.

Vecchio was sitting on the couch with one arm draped gently over Stella's shoulders. Lieutenant Welsh sat in one of the chairs as he carefully turned a Styrofoam cup in his hands. Fraser stood less than a foot behind Ray, staring out the same dark window. He was in uniform, though the hat was perched on a chair some feet away. Fraser's posture was tense, though not as ramrod straight as if he were on guard duty. Instead he was at parade rest, a stance Ray knew the Mountie could hold for a countless number of hours.

Ray examined his friend in the reflection for a full minute before he realized what was wrong with the image. Fraser, decked out in his fire engine red, was a thing a beauty. His face was a neutral mask, and he was so still that he barely seemed to breathe. The reflection Fraser made against the black backdrop was perfect, a recruiting campaign waiting to be made. Because - and here was the wrong part - there was nothing else to mar the image.

Ray's reflection was not there.

Gasping at this revelation, Ray spun around and looked into Fraser's face. Ray saw no recognition in his partner's eyes. Fraser seemed to be looking right through him, as though Ray wasn't standing in front of him.

A crisp female voice called calmly over a loud speaker, "Code blue, O.R. three. Code Blue, O.R. three. Code Blue, O.R. three."

If Ray hadn't been staring right at him at that precise moment, he'd have missed Fraser's reaction completely. But as it was, Ray had a front row seat. He'd never seen Fraser... sag like that. Oh the guy's posture was still straighter than Ray's ever was, or could ever dream of being. But compared to Fraser's usual -shoulders back, chin up and we're off! - this was ... this was... Ray didn't know what this was, but it was bad.

Seeing Fraser... deflate like that was stranger to Ray than having lost his reflection. When a single drop of moisture tracked down the Mountie's otherwise impassive face, Ray got really freaked out. "Frase?" Ray called softly. "Fraser you're scaring me here buddy."

Fraser took a breath and straightened until he was as stiff and unmoving as a statue. His face resumed its blank stony appearance. Ray swallowed hard at the unexpectedly flat look in Fraser's eyes. The normally bright, intelligent blue twinkle had been squashed into a hard plastic emptiness, like the eyes of a doll.

"Fraser?" Ray couldn't keep the tremor from his voice. "I don't wanna be dead, Fraser. Tell me I'm not dead."

Reaching out, Ray grabbed Fraser by the arm. The Mountie felt solid and warm and real. The serge beneath Ray's fingertips was thick and scratchy and ... and there. Ray tugged hard at the cuff but Fraser seemed not to notice. And yet, the familiar sensation of that heavy wool was a balm to Ray's frazzled nerves.

Within seconds of meeting Fraser, Ray had gotten his first tactile experience with the red serge. Over the two and a half years that had passed since, Ray had touched it countless times, in endless pats on the back and friendly gestures. But never before had Ray found the uniform to be so alluring. Mesmerized, Ray spent several minutes petting Fraser's wool-covered arm. Ray's fear and confusion vanished as quickly as it had come.

"They took Kowalski to operating room three, didn't they?"

Fraser did not turn toward the voice that spoke behind him. But Ray did, looking at the Lieutenant over Fraser's shoulder without loosening his hold on Fraser's forearm.

Fraser didn't answer but the Lieutenant kept talking as though he had. "Code blue is not good. But it's been a while now since they called it. If they were unable to revive him, we'd know by now. They'd have sent someone to tell us."

Silence hung in the air for a long moment.

"This is not your fault, Constable." Lieutenant Welsh's tone was firm, broaching no argument.

Of course Fraser argued anyway. "She knew. She shot Ray knowing it would hurt me." Fraser's voice was quiet but icy cold. "Ray went to that warehouse trying to protect me... to protect me from her."

"Do you think so?" Welsh asked. He shrugged. "Maybe Kowalski had no idea what he was getting into. The Metcalf woman may have snuck up on him."

Fraser shook his head. "Ray knew. I showed him a picture once. He knew."

"Yeah," Ray whispered. "I knew."

With a heavy sigh, Ray resumed the gentle stroking of Fraser's serge covered arm. He wasn't sure which of them he was trying to soothe but Ray thought maybe it was working for them both. "I think I was trying to arrest her, Fraser," Ray said. "If I could take her in, you wouldn't have to. Or maybe, maybe I wanted to help her get away so that you couldn't. Maybe." Ray rested his forehead against the Mountie's shoulder. "I can't really remember too good."

Ray closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts. When he opened them, the room had changed. Fraser was still standing in front of the window, but now there was daylight streaming through the glass. Turning, Ray saw that Welsh's chair was empty and Vecchio was gone. Stella was sitting on the couch with a weeping Barbara Kowalski in her arms. Ray's dad was slumped in a nearby chair, hunched over in defeat. He looked old, a fact that startled Ray a bit.

The doors to the waiting room opened and a young man entered. He approached Ray's parents and spoke to them gently. "Mr. And Mrs. Kowalski? Your son is out of surgery."

"Oh, thank god," Ray's mom cried.

"He's in intensive care," the young man continued. "If you'll come with me, I'll show you the way. Dr. Honeycutt would like to speak with you about your son's condition."

Stella asked the question that lurked in everyone's eyes. "Will he make it?"

"You need to speak with Dr. Honeycutt," the young man said.

Stella nodded and helped Ray's mom rise from the couch. The small group followed the aide, with Fraser bringing up the rear. When they reached a set of double doors labeled 'Intensive Care' the young man ushered Stella and Ray's parents ahead. Then he placed a restraining hand on Fraser's elbow.

"I'm sorry," the aide said. "Only the immediate family is permitted beyond this point."

"Hey!" Ray bristled. "Fraser's family."

No one heard him. The Mountie's jaw clenched and for a moment Ray thought Fraser might punch the guy. But a heartbeat later, the aide had disappeared behind the doors, leaving Fraser to stare mutely at the sign that barred his way.

"Hey," Ray said, trying to offer his support. "We don't need them, right? I'm here with you."

Fraser abruptly spun on his heel and strode in the opposite direction. He walked quickly through hushed corridors until he reached the stairwell. By the time Fraser reached the stairs themselves, he was moving at a full run. The Mountie raced down the stairway, whipping around the banister at the turn of each flight.

Ray followed.

For the first time ever, Ray had no trouble keeping up. Fraser was fast, Ray knew that, had always known it. And the Mountie was running as though the devil was at his heels. Yet Ray kept pace, moving down the stairs shoulder-to-shoulder with his friend.

They reached the bottom of the stairwell and Fraser burst through the door into the lowest level of the hospital. This was the cafeteria level and there were several people standing around. Fraser ran past them. He rushed through another set of doors and veered right, then left. The hall ended at a small storeroom filled with canned vegetables and boxes of dried potato flakes.

Fraser ran into the storeroom and slammed the door behind him. He stood there for a moment panting. Then without warning he reached forward, grabbed a metal shelving unit and heaved. The metallic clatter and clash of falling cans echoed loudly in the room. With a growl, Fraser lashed out, sweeping boxes and cartons off of shelves with one arm.

Nothing was safe from Fraser's wrath. He vented his frustration on anything that wasn't bolted to the ground. Within minutes the room was in chaos. Fraser stood among the clutter and gasped for air.

"Feel better?" Ray asked. "Quite a temper you've got there, Frase." Ray tilted his head and eyed his partner carefully. "But you know what? I think I already knew that."

Fraser surveyed the destruction around him without comment. With a heavy sigh, he bent over and pulled one of the toppled shelving units upright. In typical Fraser style, the Mountie methodically went about restoring order in the room.

"You should let off steam more often," Ray told his friend while he watched Fraser work. "You want to keep everything bottled up, buttoned down, nice and neat. But life is never as tidy as we wish it could be."

The room took slightly longer to clean up than it had to ravage. But Fraser quickly had things set right once more. By the time he left the room, there was no sign that there had been anything amiss.

Fraser returned to the waiting room and Ray followed. Vecchio greeted Fraser with a concerned tilt of his head. For a moment it looked like Vecchio would try to get Fraser to talk to him, but Stella rushed into the room before he could start.

"Ray," Stella said to Vecchio. "I need you to take me to Ra- Stan's apartment."

"Sure babe," Vecchio immediately agreed.

"What for?" Ray frowned. They all ignored him.

"Why do you need to gain entry to Ray's apartment?" Fraser asked.

Stella sniffled. "Ray's in a coma."

"Coma?" Ray cried. "This is too weird."

Stella continued. "They've removed the bullet from his brain but now he's comatose. It doesn't look good. The doctor wants to know if Ray has a DNR."

"DNR?" Ray asked. Thankfully Vecchio asked the same question so Ray was able to get an answer.

"A signed and witnessed medical request to halt resuscitation efforts should the case be deemed terminal," Fraser replied flatly.

"Ray has a living will," Stella added. "That much I know. He was always very gung ho about that. He said he didn't want to be a burden. But a DNR is different and I'm not sure if he has one."

"Can't this wait?" Fraser asked.

Stella shook her head. "The doctor needs to know now. Ray's already flat-lined twice." She dabbed carefully at her teary eyes. "They're not sure he'll make it through the day without another crisis. The doctor needs to know."

Fraser nodded.

"You want to come with us?" Vecchio asked.

"Thank you kindly, Ray. But no," Fraser told him. "I'll wait."

Stella frowned. "Ray's parent's are with him. There's nothing you can do."

"I can be here," Fraser said quietly.

"That means a lot to me, Frase." Ray placed a hand on Fraser's arm and squeezed gently. As Stella and Vecchio left, Ray looked into his friend's face and sighed. "You belong in that room with my mom and dad. You mean as much to me as anyone. I hope you know that.

You know that, right Frase?" Ray asked. "I never came out and said it in so many words. But I think you understood what I meant to say while we were adventuring."

Ray sighed again and wearily leaned his forehead against Fraser's shoulder. "God I'm tired," he moaned. "Dying really takes it out of a guy, I guess." Ray closed his eyes and snickered at his own bad joke.

A moment later, Ray blinked awake to find Turnbull standing in front of him. The goofy Mountie was weeping quietly as he handed a pile of clothing to Fraser. "Thank you kindly, Turnbull," Fraser was saying.

"I've brought you some sandwiches as well as the clothes, Sir," Turnbull sobbed.

"Very thoughtful, Constable," Fraser said. He began tugging at his serge coat, removing the lanyard and belts, as he quickly shed the uniform.

"Anything to be of assistance, Sir," Turnbull assured him. "Detective Kowalski has always been a good friend to me."

"Yes," Fraser agreed.

Quick as a flash, Fraser had shimmied out of his uniform and changed into jeans and a comfortable shirt. He ate the food Turnbull supplied, barely glancing at it as he did so. For a time, the two Canadians stood side by side in the waiting area, Fraser silent and stoic, while Turnbull whimpered softly.

Stella returned. She'd changed clothes as well and Vecchio was trailing behind her with a worried look on his face. Ray recognized the irritation in Stella's body language. Something had upset her.

She stopped in front of Fraser had shoved a thick envelope at him. "Here," she said. Her tone was sharp and almost snappish. "The doctor wants to talk to you."

Fraser looked at Ray's ex-wife blankly.

Stella shook the envelope, making the edges flutter. "He's waiting for you. Go."

"Family only," Fraser said slowly.

"Yeah," Stella heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Except you. Because these documents all have your name on them as decision maker."

"Oh," Ray winced. "Yeah. I kind of forgot to tell you about that Frase."

Fraser eyes grew wide for moment then he grabbed the paperwork from Stella's hand and hurried toward the doors.

"Don't abuse the trust he's placed in you, Constable," Stella called after him.

"Yeah right," Ray tossed over his shoulder as he followed Fraser into the hall. "You're the only one who has never let me down, Fraser. I know you won't start now."

The intensive care ward really creeped Ray out. It was strange to see himself lying so still in the bed. The room was quiet except for the beeping of monitors and the obscenely loud hiss of a respirator. Ray frowned and wondered why he wasn't gagging on the tube that was shoved down his throat.

Ray stepped closer to the bed to get a better look. His other self was pale and had medical tape stuck all over his face. A tube in one nostril was taped in place and the respirator was fastened to his neck with more adhesive. There were two small strips covering his eyes so that his lashes were gummy. It looked... itchy and damned uncomfortable.

The skin on Ray's arms started to crawl. A spidery scratchy sensation raced along his limbs, making him twitch. He didn't like this. He didn't like looking at this poor guy buried in tubes and I.V.s and crap.

Ray turned away, refusing to look at the pathetic form. Out of sight, out of mind. Ray immediately felt better. He moved to the opposite wall, getting as far from the bed as he could.

In a chair beside the bed, sat Ray's mother. With one hand she desperately held onto her husband. With the other, she wiped at her eyes with a ragged looking tissue. There was a man in a white coat talking.

"Though the science of the human brain has advanced greatly in the last decade," the doctor was saying. "There is still much we don't know. I can't tell you when your son will wake up. I can't tell you if your son will wake up. A coma is the body's way of shutting off the unnecessary power so that all the energy can go toward healing."

"That's good, right?" Damon Kowalski asked.

"Especially with a trauma to the brain like this, yes," the doctor replied. "If he weren't already in one, we'd probably have placed him into a drug induced coma to prevent intra-cranial swelling. But with an induced coma, we know how to pull a patient out of it. In your son's case... "

Ray's mother sobbed quietly and buried her face in her husband's shoulder. "He could die," she whispered.

"Yes," the doctor responded. "But he's survived the first twenty-four hours. That's a good sign. I just want you to be prepared for every possible scenario. Your son could be in this state for days... weeks... perhaps years. Until he does wake up, there's no way to gauge the level of damage that's been done.

The bullet was located in the left prefrontal cortex," the doctor explained. "This part of the brain allows us to interpret logic, process abstract ideas and relate those ideas in a language format. People with damage here can have difficulty finding the correct word when speaking. Their judgment seems impulsive and they may be emotionally erratic. It may be difficult to concentrate and attention spans are greatly reduced. Conversely, when these patients do focus on something, they can become dangerously obsessive."

"Doctor Evers," Fraser said with a frown. "Ray has been demonstrating all of those symptoms, for as long as I have known him."

The doctor seemed to find that information very interesting. "His medical records indicate that he's had a couple concussions, but those were both located in the occipital area." The doctor turned back toward Ray's parents. "Could your son have suffered a trauma during birth or as a small child?" he asked.

"Raymond was always a clumsy kid," Ray's dad said. "Always covered in bumps and bruises and scrapes. He got into lots of fights too."

"He fell." Ray's mother leaned forward anxiously as she spoke. "When Stanley was very small, just before he turned two, he fell down a flight of stairs." She looked up at her husband. "Remember Damian? We didn't take a picture with his birthday cake because he still had that awful knot on his forehead."

"How long was the lump there, Mrs. Kowalski? Do you recall?" the doctor asked.

Ray's mother shrugged. "I'm not sure, a long time. The doctor said to just keep an eye on him. I knew he wasn't acting right, he wasn't himself, you know? But he was just a baby and the doctor said he'd be fine."

Doctor Evers nodded thoughtfully.

"Is that important, Doctor?" Fraser asked.

"Possibly," the physician said. "We could be looking at new damage compounding the old injury. On the other hand, the detective's brain may have adapted, developing new connections and neural pathways. Considering how young he was at the time, I believe the latter to be likely. A child's mind is an incredibly flexible thing."

Ray huffed a small laugh. "So I'm not stupid," he said. "Just brain damaged." Ray frowned. "I don't think that makes me feel better. Either way you look at it I'm unhinged."

He grinned at Fraser, waiting for the usual reassurances from his friend. But Fraser continued to frown at the figure in the hospital bed, ignoring Ray completely.

"For now," the doctor was saying. "Your son's condition has stabilized. In the morning we'll start trying to wean him off the respirator."

"What if he can't breath on his own, Doctor?" Fraser asked.

"I understand that the detective left a living will," Doctor Evers replied. "If he is unable to manage without the respirator, then I'd recommend you read it. You'll have some decisions to make."

Ray's attention was totally focused on Fraser. He watched the blood drain from Fraser's face and thought, for a moment, that he saw Fraser sway just a bit. Ray reached out and grabbed the Mountie's arm to steady him. "Hey," Ray said. "Hang in there, Fraser. I'm not gonna up and quit on you. Don't you quit on me, okay?" Ray rolled his eyes. "What am I saying? Benton Fraser? The world's most irritatingly determined Mountie would never give up.

Don't give up on me, Buddy," Ray whispered. "I've sorta gotten used to you believing in me. You did when no one else would you know."

As it turned out, Fraser got himself all worked up for nothing. He'd sat at Ray's bedside all night, taking turns with Ray's mom at holding his hand. The next morning, the doctor came in and flipped a switch. The respirator hissed once more with a pathetic sound like a tire going flat. But the lean body in the bed didn't skip even one breath.

"He's breathing!" Ray's mother cried. "Oh thank god! Thank god." She burst into tears.

Ray's dad choked up a bit as well. It was weird for Ray, watching his parents cling to each other with such tearful joy. Ray turned his back on them and found Fraser staring quietly out the window. The Mountie was obviously trying to give Ray's parents some semblance of privacy.

For a moment, Fraser went blurry. Ray blinked hard and tried to focus on his friend. He reached out, only realizing that his fingers were numb when he saw them touch Fraser's arm and couldn't feel it.

"Fraser?" Ray whispered. "I feel funny."

Ray shook his head and the fuzziness disappeared abruptly. But the room had changed again. Fraser was sitting in a chair at the bedside and he was reading aloud from a hardcover book.

"Savage though he was, and hideously marred about the face," Fraser read. " - at least to my taste - his countenance yet had a something in it which was by no means disagreeable. You cannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils."

Ray listened to the hypnotically soothing sound of Fraser's voice. The words were familiar, the story something Ray could almost place. But it was the overall theme itself that Ray recognized. The story was talking about two men, finding friendship and sharing possessions. The characters shared a bed, like Ray and Fraser had during the coldest days of their quest. Ray wondered if the story was about an adventure. He had the distinct feeling that it was.

Fraser paused at the end of the chapter, holding his place in the book with one finger. Fraser closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It's a good story, Fraser," Ray told him. "It's true, isn't it? That closeness that comes from sleeping in a bed together, we know all about that. Don't we?" Ray smiled.

Fraser sighed and squeezed Ray's hand.

Ray ran his fingers across Fraser's brow, just because he could. "You look tired, Frase," Ray told him with a shake of his head. "Really tired."

Ray was still waiting for a response when the door opened and Vecchio blustered in.

"Hey Benny," Vecchio said. "How's he doing?"

Fraser shrugged. "The same. The doctor said we should talk to him, give him some sensory input to process."

Vecchio nodded. "So you're reading to him."

"Yes," Fraser nodded. He held up the book by way of demonstration. "Moby Dick."

"That right there is a damned boring book, Benny," Vecchio chuckled. "I'll give you a hint. The whale did it."

Fraser came really close to smiling. "It's an adventure," he said. "I thought perhaps Ray might like that aspect of it."

"It doesn't end well," Vecchio replied.

"True," Fraser said thoughtfully. "I suppose I'm hoping Ray will wake before we get to the end of the story."

Vecchio shrugged. "Stop where ever you want. It's not like Stanley knows either way."

Fraser eyed Vecchio warily. A frown darkened his face. "You think Stella is right," Fraser accused. "You think Ray is gone."

"Listen Benny," Vecchio said cautiously. "I don't know the guy all that well. He and I, well we came to a mutual agreement to get along for the sake of the other people in our lives. But if his own mom can't feel his spirit in this here body, then yeah. I gotta say he's probably gone."

"But I feel his presence all the time, Ray," Fraser said urgently. "I keep thinking I'll turn around and he'll be standing right beside me."

Ray felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Because sure enough, there he was standing at Fraser's right side. His almost lifeless body lay silent in the hospital bed, but Ray stood at Fraser's side. Now that Ray thought of it, he'd been at Fraser's shoulder almost constantly from the moment he'd been shot.

It was a little creepy that Fraser could sense him on some level. Weirdness to the extreme. But at the same time, it felt right. It felt like this was exactly where Ray was supposed to be.

Vecchio sighed. "What do you suppose Stanley would say about that, huh?" Vecchio twitched to one side, obviously attempting a lame Stanley Kowalski impression. "'Yo, Benny,' he'd say," Vecchio drawled.

Fraser shook his head. "Ray never calls me that."

"Okay then," Vecchio tried again, flailing his arms dramatically. "Yo Ben..."

Fraser smiled sadly and shook his head. "Not Ben either. I don't think Ray has ever called me Ben."

"Why not?" Vecchio asked.

Fraser shrugged. "I'm not sure," he answered with a frown. "I never told him he could I suppose."

Vecchio crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. He was doing a really good job of distracting Fraser. Vecchio was way better at it than Ray had ever been able to manage. "So what does Stanley call you?"

"Fraser," the Mountie answered immediately. "Or Frase. If he's really drunk or suffering from hypothermic delusions he'll call me 'Benton Buddy'." There was a quiet, thoughtful pause. "I should have told him he could call me Ben," Fraser added softly.

After a long silence, Vecchio cleared his throat. "Listen, Benny," he began. "About the arraignment tomorrow..."

Fraser glanced up and frowned.

"She's being charged with the previous murder, fraud, and theft of the diamonds," Vecchio told him. "She's violated about a dozen of her parole requirements too."

"What about Ray and Mr. Dinozzo?" Fraser asked pointedly.

Vecchio shrugged.

Fraser stood, his body coiled with tension. "She shot Ray. I know that she shot him."

"Yeah," Vecchio nodded. "You know that and I know that, but there's no proof. Ballistics says that Stanley is the one that got Dinozzo. The gun found in Dinozzo's hand is the one that tagged Kowlaski. They were both positive for G.S.R."

"Ray was shot twice," Fraser argued in a cold voice. "She has to pay for what she has done to him."

"There's not enough evidence to make it stick, Benny. Not without Stanley to testify against her." Vecchio patted Fraser's back as the Mountie processed this new information. "It sucks rocks and I'm really sorry."

Fraser cracked his neck. With a sigh he said, "Thank you, Ray, for telling me."

Vecchio shrugged. "I didn't think you'd want it sprung on you in the courtroom tomorrow."

Fraser nodded.

"You need anything?" Vecchio asked after a long silence.

"No thank you," Fraser replied. "I'll see you in the morning, Ray."

Vecchio eyed the Mountie warily for a moment before he turned and left the room. Fraser followed him as far as the hallway. When Vecchio had gone, Fraser carefully closed the door and turned back toward the bed.

"God," he gasped quietly. Rubbing at his temples with one hand, Fraser slumped against the hospital room door.

"Frase?" Ray whispered. "Are you okay?"

"I'm so sorry, Ray." Fraser's voice was so low that Ray would not have heard it had he not been so close to the Mountie's side. "There will be no justice for what she's done to you." The dark head bowed and Fraser's shoulders began to shake. "I have failed you," he choked.

"No," Ray argued. "This isn't your fault. You haven't failed me."

"I'm sorry," Fraser whispered again. Seeming to collapse in upon himself Fraser wrapped his arms around his middle and began to cry. Silent tears ran down his face as his body shook with the convulsive force of his sorrow.

"No, no, no," Ray chanted. He wrapped both arms around his friend and held him tight. "Fraser, no. Don't do this to yourself. This is not your fault."

But Fraser didn't reply. His shuddering intensified, his breath coming in broken gasps, as he stumbled to the bedside. Still hugging himself tightly, Fraser bent over the figure lying in the bed. He rested his forehead against the sheet-covered shoulder and sobbed.

"I miss you, Ray," Fraser whispered.

Ray tried to reassure his friend. "I'm right here, buddy. I'm here."

Fraser heaved a deep sigh. He seemed to pull himself together a bit, though he did not move away from the bed. With one elbow propped against the mattress, Fraser turned his head enough to look into the slack face before him.

"This is so very hard," he said. "I've never had to do this, to wait like this. Each loss in my life has been sudden, unexpected. The pain was sharp and quick. Even my grandmother's illness, by the time she saw fit to notify me of it, was so acute that I could not return home quickly enough to do anything more than mourn her.

But this," Fraser gasped. "This slow helplessness, this impotent vigil, is killing me, Ray. It is agonizing to watch you fade away a bit more each day. The hurt is deep and endless, inexorable. It is as if I'm bleeding to death through a pinprick in my heart."

Ray bent over Fraser's back and hugged him hard. "I'm sorry, Frase. I don't mean to hurt you. You know that, right?"

"I should let you go," Fraser continued. "But the truth of the matter is that I don't want to. I can't, I won't." He turned, burying his face in the crook of Ray's neck, causing the next words to be muffled. "I would tether you to this earth if I could, Ray, bind you to my side so you could not leave me."

"I won't leave," Ray promised. "I won't."

"You aren't helping matters, Yank."

Ray jerked upright and glared at the man standing in the room. He was an older man, with bright eyes and a familiar chin, if that was even possible. Around his neck was a frayed scarf and on his head, a weird furry hat. It took a moment before Ray realized that Fraser was still quietly weeping and had obviously not heard the old guy speak.

"You shouldn't be here," Ray said with a frown. This guy was making him seriously nervous.

"Neither should you my boy."

Ray swallowed hard. After being invisible for so long, having this stranger speak to him was a bit unsettling. "Who are you?" Ray demanded.

The old guy seemed annoyed. "Come now, Yank. After working with my son all this time one would think you'd know who I am."

"You're Fraser's dad?" Ray gasped.

The guy beamed. "I am."

"You're dead."

The old guy frowned. "As Benton so often feels the need to point out, yes."

Ray glanced at Fraser. But his friend hadn't moved. His breathing had deepened and he seemed to be falling asleep, half standing, half leaning against the hospital bed.

"I'm almost afraid to ask this, but am I dead?"

"Never be afraid to ask a stupid question, my boy." The old guy brightened. "The obvious can sometimes be a misleading clue in any investigation."

Ray pondered that for a second before replying. "I don't follow you."

"Not precisely, no," the guy continued. "The Borderlands aren't the same for everyone. I'm sure you have a path of your own to pursue."

"Listen," Ray sighed. "Evidently understanding Fraser-speak doesn't translate into dead-dad- Fraser-speak because I've got no clue what you're talking about."

The old guy's face softened as he said, "You can't stay here, Yank. You need to find your place in this world."

"My place is with Fraser." Ray straightened, standing his ground.

"Well yes," Fraser's dad agreed. "In this world." He gestured at the room around him. "But it's the next that I'm talking about. Your lingering won't do Benton any good. Believe me, I've tried. More often than not, he resents the intrusion.

Truly," the old guy continued. "It would be best for all concerned if you moved on. Let Benton put all of this behind him and get on with his life."

"'Get on with his life'?" Ray gasped. "'Put this behind him'? You're his father. How can you not know?" Ray turned and gazed as his dozing friend. He shook his head sadly. "Fraser has lost so many people in his life. Everyone he's ever loved." Ray turned back to glare at Fraser senior. "Never once has he 'put it behind him'. He carries it around everywhere he goes, making it harder and harder for the next person to get through to him."

"You got through," Fraser's father stated.

"Yeah," Ray answered. "But I had to deck him to do it." Turning back toward his friend, Ray smiled affectionately. "He's not so hard to know once you get past the old-fashioned Mountie stuffiness."

"You got through," the old guy repeated. "So will someone else."

Ray shook his head. "No," he argued. "This will be one too many hurts. He won't let it happen again."

"Not much to be done about it now, son." The old guy stepped toward Ray, reaching out to take his arm. "Come along."

Ray flinched backward, stumbling into Fraser. "Touch me and I'll clock you," he yelled. "Swear to God. I'll bust you in the mouth so hard you'll have to undo your fly to eat Jell-o."

"There's no reason to be crude." Fraser's dad got a sour look on his face. "Besides, you can't have Jell-o in the after-life. The cohesive properties don't function properly, won't get solid enough to suspend the fruit chunks. And without the fruit, what's the point after all?"

"Your own personal hell, eh?" Ray glared. Anger was making his head hurt. His temples throbbed and Ray could feel his blood pressure rising. He had a sudden urge to hit a nearby wall.

"You don't belong here anymore, Yank."

"Leave me alone," Ray growled. "Leave us both alone."

The old guy shook his head. "Come along now. I think I know what is best for my son."

"Bullshit," Ray swore. "You've never done what's best for him. Never once in your miserable life."

"Perhaps," Fraser's father smiled. "But this isn't life any more."

That was it. Ray snapped. "Bastard," he hissed. His right arm rocketed outward as Ray's fist flew at the old guy's face. But there was no contact. The expected crunch of knuckles on flesh never came.

Momentum caused Ray to spin around and fall to the floor as his vision went red with rage. Somewhere far away, Ray could hear a beeping sound, like that from an alarm clock. The throbbing in his head grew.

"That's it boy," the old man's voice whispered into Ray's ear. "Fight for it."

Ray screamed in frustration and launched himself at the grinning figure. But the solidness of linoleum beneath Ray's feet was gone. The world tilted and whirled. Colors shifted, bleeding together into a bright smear. The beeping became deafening and Ray suddenly realized that he was gasping for air.

Anger vanished. In its place came fear, confusion and pain. "Help me!" Ray cried out. "Fraser, help me!"

"Ray! Ray! Ray! Ray!"

Ray wheezed as his lungs filled. "Fraser?" he croaked.

"Ray?" Fraser was looking down at him.

Ray was lying on his back staring into wide, blue eyes. His body ached everywhere and there was an annoying itchy spot in the crook of one arm. "Frase?" Ray's voice scraped from a dry throat.

"Hi Ray." Fraser grinned one of those big whole face grins that were so rare.

"Hi Frase," Ray tried to respond but it came out sounding more like "Hea' Fer."

"I'll get the doctor," Fraser said. But as he started to move away, panic speared through Ray's body. He whimpered in distress.

"Hush," Fraser soothed. He ran a hand through Ray's hair, petting him as though he was Diefenbaker. "I'll be right here, Ray. I'm just going to call for the doctor. I won't leave you."

Ray took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He focused everything he had on making sounds into comprehensible words. "'M awl'right, Ben," he said softly. "Not gonna leave you either."

There was a feather-soft pressure on Ray's cheek that felt suspiciously like lips kissing him. But Ray's eyes were closed and he was too tired to open them to check.

-

The End.