Disclaimer: Due South and all its characters are the property of Alliance Atlantis and some other people who are not me. I'm not claiming to have invented these guys, I just like playing with them.

Author's Notes: Big thanks to Bluster and my girl Iulia for beta-reading; all the good things here are to their credit, everything else is mine.

Story Notes: This story is mildly AU from before "Burning Down the House," and sharply so after "Dead Guy Running."

The streets were quiet as he walked home, and his steps were steady. The closing shift at Casey's had gotten used to letting him hang around while they cleaned up and closed the bar. If Jennie was walking home, he'd walk with her; she liked having the company of a cop at night, even a cop who spent five nights a week drinking himself into a stupor before her eyes.

By the time he walked home, the rest of the drunks had gone, and he had the sidewalks to himself. The hour between the last call and locking up gave him time to clear his head, usually in the form of a nap, slumped over on the bar, so he didn't have much to worry about. His don't-fuck-with-me swagger had been perfectly honed since he was seventeen, and he used it every night, a defense as solid as the gun nestled close against his ribs.

Still, he kept an eye out. The guy who came around the corner in front of him, two blocks from his building, was the kind of guy he'd never have given a second glance, any other time. But it was three in the morning, and there was no earthly reason for a guy old enough to be his grandfather, dressed up like he was heading to a funeral with an old-fashioned hat on his head and flowers in his hand, to be out walking around. Even less reason for the old guy to stop in his tracks, and then walk over to him, right up into his face, and lay a hand on his arm and say, "Stanley Raymond Kowalski, as I live and breathe."

Ray squinted at the guy, but it was nobody he knew, not even in the sense of those dimly-recalled people his mother was always showing him off to at church when he was a kid. He tried to pull away, but the guy was cagey, the way old people are, and he tightened that hand down on Ray's arm, holding him fast. Ray could smell him, that old-guy smell like he was halfway dead already, and he was fighting down a panic he didn't understand as he said, "Who the hell are you?"

The old guy smiled and shook his head. "Manners, Stanley Raymond, manners, my boy. It's not who you are, it's what you know. And I know you, my boy. I know where you're coming from," and Ray couldn't help but glance back in the direction of Casey's, which drew a wheezy laugh from the old guy. "Well, yes, the bar, but I meant before that; I know where you come from, and I know where you're going. I know what's slipped away from you," and Ray thought of Stella, and his parents, and his last four partners, and Sparky, his home and the kids he'd imagined having, his last car, his stolen bike, Jennie waving him goodbye as her girlfriend picked her up at the back door, and Jesus Christ, what hadn't slipped away? The old man's grip loosened a little, and he rubbed his thumb over Ray's arm in what Ray imagined was supposed to be a comforting gesture, given the little smile that accompanied it, but it just freaked him out worse. "Which is everything," the old man summed up. "But I know what's coming for you, too."

Ray stared at him, but the old guy just smiled mysteriously, and Ray said, "Oh yeah? Prove it." The old guy tilted up his shaggy eyebrows, and Ray, feeling himself slip into the spirit of the thing, said, "Please."

An approving nod. "Very good, my boy, very good. You've lost love, you've lost your dreams. Your Stella, your partners, your friends, they all left you. I'm sorry about your dog, son. You've lost just about everything that holds you in one place. But that's for the best, Stanley Raymond, because the next thing that's coming for you is going to take you away forever. Do you understand me, my boy? I'm telling you, it all ends. You wake up every morning, and you think, this can't go on, I can't do this forever, and I'm here to tell you, you won't."

Ray tried again to pull away, because the old guy was freaking him out, plus he was losing feeling in the fingers of his right hand from the guy clutching him so hard. "What are you saying?" He was nearly shouting, and his voice echoed in the quiet street. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

The old man shook his head, and pressed the flowers he was holding to Ray's chest, like he was laying them on a casket. "You're not long for this world, my boy. Sometimes you just have to hear it from someone else before you know it's true."

And then he let go, turned and went back the way he came, his hands empty. Ray flung the flowers away, and they landed against the brick wall, looking like--like flowers that had fallen on the sidewalk, not like anything. He jammed his hands into his pockets, shook his head, and headed for home, chin down and shoulders hunched, walking fast.

Ray took a shower when he got back, to save time in the morning, he told himself, though he wouldn't be able to wake up without one. He probably didn't need to scrub his arm where the old guy had touched him until his skin was bright red, nor his chest where the flowers had pressed, his throat where they had tickled. He washed his face over and over until Ivory soap suds drowned out the smell of the old guy and the musty funeral stink of flowers, lingering in his nose, and then he went to bed.

When he woke up in his dingy dark apartment, he felt like he hadn't slept at all, muscles aching and head pounding, and he thought, like he did every morning, *This can't go on, I can't do this forever.* When he stumbled into the shower and found all the surfaces still wet from the night before, he remembered, and turned the water up to scalding, trying not to shiver under the spray.

That day they offered him an undercover job, long term, working across town to cover a cover for another cop. He told them he'd have to think about it and went out for a walk, but the truth was he knew his answer before they'd finished the question. They could have asked him to spend six months on Halsted Street in daisy dukes and four inch heels, and he would have said yes. It didn't matter who he had to be, so long as he could be someone who had never stayed late at Casey's, and never ran into an old guy who called him by name, and told him he was going to die.

Canadian, they said at the briefing. A brilliant officer, they said in his file. Kind of strange, they said when he asked around, and you might want to wear a vest.

What nobody said was, gorgeous, and you might want to wear looser pants. There were a lot of other things he wasn't ready for (kind of strange?) but that was the first one to hit him, square between the eyes--okay, square between the thighs, whichever--but he'd been covering that stuff for twenty years, he wasn't going to screw up now.

Still, when Ray stepped in front of Fraser a few hours on, the muzzle of Greta Garbo's pistol looking as big as a cannon at point blank range, he found himself regretting that this was going to be it. He would've liked a chance to get to know the Mountie better.

Except she didn't go for the head shot, and Fraser said his name, and anyway, that weird shit that one night, that hadn't happened to him, not the him he was now. So he settled into Vecchio's life, with Vecchio's partner, and got nice and cozy. He wasn't going anywhere. Pretty soon, he managed to forget about that crazy old man who'd accosted him, and when he did remember, he didn't think about it much at all.

Fraser seemed to be obsessed with Ray's ear. Even after he gave up on telling ear anecdotes, he insisted on taking Ray back to the Consulate so he could cover it in mucus ointment and change the dressing.

Ray rolled his eyes. "I don't have a car, Fraser, not one I can actually drive."

Fraser knew that, of course--he'd been there when Kuzma bashed in the rear window with his head while Ray was trying to cuff him-- but he managed to look surprised anyway. "Well, Ray, it's only ninety-seven blocks to the Consulate."

Ray stared at Fraser for a second, totally fascinated by the way he managed to make that sound reasonable. When Fraser started to squirm, Ray shook his head. "No, Fraser, no way. If I'm hurt so bad you have to have a look at it, I am not walking ninety-seven blocks first."

Fraser turned up the reasonable look a notch or two. "Now, Ray, an injury to your outer ear hardly--"

"And anyway," Ray added, "how come you gotta look at my ear? Can't I take care of myself?"

He could see it, he could see Fraser think, *Well, no,* but he didn't say it, which was good, because Ray didn't really want to slug Fraser in the middle of the bullpen after the day they'd had. "Of course you can," is what Fraser said instead, smart Mountie that he was. "Naturally, for my own peace of mind, I'd like to ascertain that your injury is not serious, but if you don't wish to accompany me to the Consulate, I'm sure you're quite capable of attending to it yourself, despite the fact that you can't actually see the back of your own ear in a mirror. And I'm sure that you'll be alert to the warning signs, should any complications develop, and immediately seek medical attention, long before any serious infection could set in, requiring, for instance, partial or total amputation of your ear."

Ray scowled at Fraser, who smiled encouragingly.

"The foul-smelling greenish pus and painful swelling will doubtless be sufficiently noticeable to ensure that you seek help."

Ray sighed. He'd lost the battle, but he wasn't giving up on the war. "I'll come back to the Consulate with you, Fraser," he said, and when Fraser got that little satisfied look, he said, "but we're taking a cab."

Fraser raised his hands in surrender. "Understood, Ray."

Ray sat down on the sofa in the back parlor, and flipped on the tv while Fraser was in his office tracking down whatever gross substance he was going to put on Ray's ear. Dief sat near Ray's feet, eyeing the sofa, but finally gave a wolfy little grumble and settled in on the floor. Ray changed channels for a minute til he found hockey - Eastern Conference finals, not his first choice but better than a lot of things. Dief seemed to agree, his ears pricking up.

Fraser walked in behind them a minute later, and made one of his little Canadian `hm' sounds when he saw the tv. "Ray, I'm going to need you to hold still."

Ray grinned and turned to look back at Fraser. "It's okay, Fraser, Eastern Conference. It's all academic, I'm not going to get worked up over this."

That got him an "Ah," and Fraser came and stood right behind him, and said, "Diefenbaker, thank you for your forbearance, it will save a great deal of work for Turnbull." Dief acknowledged that with a little growl, staying focused on the game.

Ray was watching the game, too, until Fraser's hand settled on his shoulder. "If you'll just tilt your head forward, Ray." He did, and kept his hands in his lap and his eyes on the screen, even though he wasn't seeing much of the action, while Fraser unwound the goofy-looking bandage from around his head. He'd used nearly all the gauze in the first aid kit, but like Fraser said, he couldn't see the back of his ear in the mirror, so he'd been at a loss to use tape without sticking everything to his hair.

Fraser had good hands - gentle, even when whatever he was doing hurt like hell - and Ray gave in to temptation and closed his eyes. It was just Eastern Conference hockey, anyway.

After a while, Fraser's hand landed on his shoulder again, and Ray jerked his head up and his eyes open. The second period was starting, and they were tied, 1-1. "Come on, Fraser, have a seat. We can watch the rest of the game."

Fraser came halfway around the couch, smiling. They didn't generally hang out at the Consulate, unless Ray was, for instance, under suspicion of murder, and he realized that Fraser must like having the chance to hang out at his place, even if his place did have brocade chairs and pictures of the Queen all over it. "In that case, Ray, perhaps I should make tea."

"Tea?" There he went again, making something completely insane sound perfectly reasonable. "Look, Fraser, look at the television. Does that look like ballet to you?"

Fraser, obediently, looked, even though he knew perfectly well what was on. "No, Ray. It looks like playoff hockey."

"Uh-huh. Okay, is it an episode of Masterpiece Theatre?"

Fraser's eyebrows went up, but he looked again, carefully, like it might be Masterpiece Theatre disguised as hockey. "No, Ray. I don't believe the CBC airs Masterpiece Theatre in prime time during the NHL playoff season."

Ray nodded. "Right. So since it is hockey, we do not drink tea while we are watching it. We drink beer."

Fraser frowned. "Actually, Ray, I drink tea. And you are, as you know, in Canada, so perhaps you should do as Canadians do."

"Oh, no." Ray had finally figured out what was wrong with that argument, after hours spent arguing helplessly with Turnbull, and he'd been hoping to have a chance to use it. "See, you try to pretend like you're a regular Canadian, but the truth is, you're the kind of Canadian that winds up living way the hell outside of Canada." Fraser looked just faintly hurt by that, and Ray said quickly, "Which is good for me, because if you'd stayed in Canada, I'd never have met you, but the thing is, and I know this for a fact because I have seen the commercials, regular Canadians do not drink tea while they watch hockey. They drink beer."

Fraser stared at him for a moment, and Ray had a sneaking suspicion that he was trying not to laugh, which made him feel like he was trying not to laugh, too. Finally, Fraser said, "I concede your point, Ray, that beer is the typical beverage of choice among my countrymen when watching sports. However, we have none on hand."

"Oh." Ray could see where this was going now. "But you have tea?"

"We have tea. And cookies. And something Turnbull persists in referring to as `honey in the shape of a bear'."

Ray bounced to his feet. "Well, in that case, lemme give you a hand."

Fraser smiled, and that was worth drinking tea any day. Plus, those cookies weren't half bad.

Ray didn't mind when the game was still tied halfway through the third; close, desperate games were more fun to watch than meaningless blowouts, and nothing was closer or more desperate than a tied playoff game, even if it was Eastern Conference. He didn't mind when it went to overtime, either, because he'd gotten all comfortable on the couch, and Fraser had taken off the serge and rolled up the sleeves of his undershirt and was almost sort of slouching, and they were having a good time.

By the start of the third overtime, though, Ray had fallen into a daze, staring grimly at the television and waiting for someone, anyone to score. He didn't care who won. He hadn't cared three hours ago, either, but now he cared less, and still he couldn't stop watching; he had to see how it ended.

Except he dozed off, and woke up at the sound of cheering, and after staring blearily at the tv for a moment, he realized he could just find out tomorrow who the hell won the game. Like he cared. Even Dief had given up and taken off somewhere.

Ray switched off the tv and looked over at Fraser. He had his head curled around so his cheek rested on his shoulder, and he was sound asleep. Ray kept still for a minute, watching him sleep, lost in the dark shine of his hair, and the curve of his neck that was pretty until you realized how much it was going to hurt in the morning. "Hey, Fraser."

His head jerked up, and he blinked at Ray like he had no idea where he was. "Yes?"

"You gotta get to bed."

"Ah," he said, and then, "Right you are." He blinked a couple more times, looked back toward the tv, and then, right there while Ray watched, went back to sleep. Except this time he had his eyes open.

"Fraser?"

"Yes," he said, "I'll be with you in a moment."

Ray tilted his head and smiled, studying his partner. Fraser had gone away and left the answering service on. That was probably a good talent to have, working here, but it couldn't be much more comfortable than the neck contortion; the couch just wasn't that soft. Ray stood up, went over and laid one hand on Fraser's shoulder. "Come on, buddy, wake up."

"I'm wide awake," Fraser said, to Ray's stomach.

Ray rolled his eyes and tugged a little. "Come on, Mister Wide Awake, just walk with me a little and I'll stop bugging you."

Fraser's eyes sunk shut as he got to his feet, so he didn't look quite so much like a half undressed Mountie Ken doll anymore, and he leaned against Ray as they headed across the hall to his office. Dief, curled up on the cot, jumped off when they came in, and flopped down on his blanket. Ray guided Fraser onto his cot, and as soon as he was down, Fraser rolled over, buried his face in his pillow, and made a little snuffling noise. Ray grinned, and wished he had a tape recorder. Fraser would never believe he'd made that sound.

Without thinking, Ray reached out in the dim quiet room, and ran one hand over Fraser's hair, smoothing it where it had gotten momentarily messed up when his head hit the pillow. He pulled his hand back after a few seconds, when he'd memorized the feel of it under his hand, and just then, Fraser turned his face out of the pillow and said, "Ray?"

Ray froze. He hadn't thought Fraser even knew he was there, he was so out of it. "Yeah?"

Fraser yawned and snuggled down into his cot. When he spoke, he sounded sleepy. "Could you lock the doors?"

His stomach went all warm and fuzzy, and just for once, with nobody to see but Dief, Ray smiled just as much as he wanted to at Fraser. "Yeah, buddy, I got it covered."

Fraser nodded, rolled over again, and snored. Ray shook his head and slipped out into the hallway, closing the door carefully behind him. He locked the back door, then walked through the silent Consulate, shutting off lights.

The place looked sort of like a house, by the layout, but it was too big and echoing and spooky in the dark. Too quiet, too, in this neighborhood where nobody lived. Ray knew his place, with the constant shouting of neighbors and the traffic noise, probably drove the Mountie crazy, but this place was just dead. He felt kind of bad, leaving Fraser alone in the creepy empty building with only Dief for company, but then that was how it always was. Just usually Ray didn't see it.

Somehow it wasn't a very comforting thought, but Ray locked the front door - new lock, he noticed, harder to pick, so at least Fraser was safe in there - and let himself out before he did something stupid like spend the whole night sitting in Fraser's desk chair watching him sleep.

He was halfway to his usual parking spot before he remembered that he didn't have a car. He turned back and looked at the dark Consulate, but he knew for a fact he couldn't let himself back in, and he didn't have the heart to make enough of a racket to wake Fraser.

Ray shook his head, looked up and down the quiet, cab-less street, and struck out in the direction of his apartment. It'd give him brag points on Fraser tomorrow, anyway, on top of the snoring thing which he wouldn't believe anyway.

He had to walk through a few blocks of office buildings on the way, places where everything was shut down and ghost town quiet after five. It was barely past midnight, but it could be three in the morning just as easy. It made him think of that night on the way home from Casey's, and for a second, he thought he was just remembering.

Then the old guy, in his dark suit and dark hat, carrying his funeral flowers, put his hand on Ray's arm. Same fierce grip, same musty smell, same stupid feeling of panic pounding in his chest. Only the ache in his ear, throbbing fast with his pulse, told him this was any different. "Raymond Vecchio," the old guy said, and tapped his thumb along his nose. "I still know who you are, my boy. A little trick with names won't put me off, and it won't put off the thing that's coming for you, either. Anyone who cares to look can see who you really are."

"Nothing's coming for me," Ray said, but even to his own ears it sounded dumb.

The old guy smiled and shook his head. "I think I know better than you, my boy. I'm close to it myself, I can see these things. You're going to walk right on out of this world and into the next, soon enough, and there's no use fighting it. It's coming for you. Best you can do is be ready."

Ray tried to pull away, but the old guy held on, just like before. Ray tightened his hand into a fist, but he knew he wasn't going to fight. As steadily as he could, he said, "I'm not going anywhere. I'm good where I'm at."

The old guy nodded. "You've got something to lose, now, don't you? But it doesn't make a difference, whether you want to go or not. There are some things you can't escape. I won't speak to you again, my boy, but you'll have one more warning." He tilted his head, and took his hand away from Ray's arm to adjust his hat, as he pressed the flowers into Ray's open hand. "You'll know it when you see it, Raymond, don't you worry about that."

And then he strode off around a corner and was gone. Ray stared for a moment at the flowers in his hand, thought about throwing them down and heard Fraser's voice in his head, something about littering, only takes an extra second... He walked up to the corner and tossed them in a garbage can. There was a cab, miraculously, idling at the light, and he trotted over to it.

When the driver asked where to, Ray didn't have to think about his answer.

"Casey's."

He got the regular nod from the bouncer, and a squeal of delight from Jennie, when she stepped up to the bar to pick up an order and spotted him sitting in what had been his regular spot, drinking his usual. He smiled back as best he could, but it was a relief when she had to dash off again to serve the table customers; he managed to finish his first beer and start another before she came and sat down beside him.

"Ray, what brings you here? We thought you'd dropped off the face of the earth!"

He was feeling a little better, by then, if only because the place served as a reminder of how much more his life used to suck. Even with a crazy old man delivering messages from beyond, now was a step up from the same time a year ago. Which was kind of sad, when he thought about it, so he took another drink and smiled crookedly at Jennie.

"Got transferred, that's all. Other side of town. Got to wondering if you were getting home at night okay." He had, too, in the cab, on the way over. Not a lie, Fraser, so there. Except Fraser was safe and snug asleep at the Consulate, and Ray was probably never going to tell him about any of this, so why did he bother?

She smiled back with something that looked like fondness, but maybe it was just the beer hitting him a little faster than he thought. "Yeah, Ray, I'm doing fine. Lily--you remember her?-- Lil still picks me up every night I work late. She takes good care of me."

Ray nodded. He remembered Lily. "That's good," he muttered.

Jennie's eyes narrowed, and she reached out and lightly touched the neatly-taped bandage on his ear. "How about you? Somebody taking care of you? You look better than you did, last I saw you, apart from this."

He remembered Fraser's hands on his ear, and smiled for real, a warm feeling running through his stomach that had nothing to do with the beer. "Well, not somebody like Lil," and he threw in the hint of a leer that went with acknowledging that two attractive chicks of your personal acquaintance were Doing It but being too much a gentleman to actually say anything, "but, yeah, new job, new partner. He watches out for me."

Jennie smiled. "That's good." She glanced in the mirror, rolled her eyes, and stood. "I gotta go work, Ray, but you stay put, okay? Don't go disappearing on me again."

He nodded obediently, and ordered another, and thought about the likelihood of his disappearing. Even without the crazy guy and his predictions, he was a cop, and he was running around after Fraser, who was out of his mind, so his odds of biting it were way higher than average. If not for the union, he wouldn't be able to get life insurance at all, these days, he was such a bad risk. Not that it mattered much, since he had nobody to leave behind. Well, aside from Fraser.

Funny how that hadn't changed, as long as he'd known the Mountie; every time he thought he was going to die--it happened way more often than it used to--he felt that uncanny old guy's grip on his arm and knew he wasn't going to get away from this, and in the few seconds he usually had, he always found himself thinking, *Okay, this is it,* and Damn. Fraser. Could've... But he didn't think, at moments when he wasn't about to die, what he could be doing. Too dangerous. Some things you just had to leave be; some things it was better to regret not doing.

He had another drink, instead, and thought about the fact that he might never come back to Casey's, might never see Jennie again. That would probably be okay--she had her girlfriend to watch out for her, after all, and she was doing all right. He'd told Jennie about his job, so she wouldn't expect to see him again, wouldn't worry or even wonder why he didn't come around.

She woke him up by shaking his shoulder, gently, and he blinked sideways at her and slowly unfolded himself from the bar. She smiled. "Hey, we're ready to lock up, and Lily's here." Ray nodded, and picked up his coat, trying to think of the shortest route to his place from here. Jennie tugged him toward the back door, which let out on the alley. "Come on, we'll give you a ride. Paybacks for all the times you saw me home safe."

Ray knew he should argue, but he was tired, and not looking forward to navigating halfway across the city on foot at three in the morning. God knew who he might run into. "Yeah?" he muttered, "Like settling up my tab?"

Jennie nodded, shoving him more or less gently into the backseat of Lily's Honda. "Exactly, Ray."

He waved to Lily, who waved back in the rearview, looking amused. "Where to, Ray?"

He blinked at her. "Casey's?"

She rolled her eyes, and Jennie turned in her seat, looking amused and a little worried. "That's where we are, Ray. Where to?"

"Oh." For some reason, he wanted to say, Canadian Consulate, but it was dark there and the doors were all locked. He managed to remember his address and spit it out before the girls decided to take him to the emergency room instead.

When they got there, Jennie walked him to the door, and hugged him good-bye. "You take care, Ray. Stick close to that partner of yours, okay?" She winked, and gave him back a startlingly accurate version of that leer from earlier. "You never know how things might turn out."

Ray stared blankly--he'd never even hinted--and then nodded. She shook her head, giggling, and jogged quickly back to the car, and Ray climbed the stairs and let himself into his quiet dark apartment, stumbled to his bed and fell into it, fully clothed. He was asleep before his body had quite forgotten Jennie's embrace.

When Ray woke up, his gun was jammed painfully into his ribs--he hadn't even gotten his jacket off, nevermind his holster--and his right arm was throbbing. It felt like he'd taken a punch, or maybe several of them, right above the elbow. He shifted onto his side, and reached under his coat to pull his holster around.

Instead of moving the gun, though, he pulled it out, and looked at it for a second, feeling the cool weight of it in his hand. Yeah, this was the right time. He opened his mouth, and tilted his wrist back, so the barrel went in upside down, the sights clicking over his bottom front teeth to press down on his tongue. The tip of the barrel pressed against the roof of his mouth, choking him a little, and his wrist twinged a little from the weird position, but it wouldn't last much longer, all he needed was just a motion of the fingertip, just a little pressure.

Ray yanked his hand out of his jacket and flipped onto his back. His gun, still snapped into the holster, lay heavy on his chest, half reassuring him that that had been some kind of dream, half a threat, pressing down so he could hardly breathe. He didn't dare to touch it again, and stared up at the ceiling instead. Just a dream, he told himself. He pressed his hands to his face, blocking the light, trying to breathe evenly. Not real, just a crazy dream. After a minute, his breathing slowed down, and he opened his eyes, raising his hands to stretch. The sleeve of his jacket sagged, and he spotted the bruises on his arm, and remembered.

That was real. He swallowed hard against the memory of the taste of gunmetal in his mouth, against the memory of the old man's words, against the clear connection. He pressed the fingers of his left hand against the bruises and they hurt, the way that bruises do, and he tried to tell himself to stick to the facts, reality, what could be proven. An old man knew his name-- both of his names, his real name, whichever one that was--and had said he was going to die. Didn't have to mean anything, though, that was a leap, that was unsupported by the evidence.

The numbers on his alarm clock, flashing in his peripheral vision, proved one thing, inescapably: he was about to be late for work.

Fraser turned up at the station around lunchtime, like usual, and came and sat down by Ray's desk after saying the standard round of hellos. Ray was fiddling with paperwork, so it took him a minute to notice that Fraser was kind of staring at him.

Ray looked down at himself. His t-shirt showed the bruises on his arm, though they weren't much to look at if you didn't know where they came from. He was doing paperwork, which was kind of weird, but not weird enough to tip Fraser off. He tilted his head a little, thinking, and Fraser leaned a little in response, and then Ray remembered his ear. He hadn't bothered to try and bandage it up after he showered, just smeared some not-quiteexpired Neosporin over the spots where the blood had dried into scabs, so he guessed it was probably looking pretty gross, especially by Mountie standards.

Ray spent a few minutes deliberately moving so Fraser couldn't see his ear, wondering if he could provoke his partner into either asking about it or grabbing his head and making like a Discovery Channel segment on monkey grooming rituals. But Fraser just went on shuffling papers and squinting at him, so Ray gave in. He stood up, waving for Fraser to follow him, and headed straight for the bathroom. It was empty, so he stationed himself by a sink and pointed to his ear. "Go for it, Fraser."

"Ah," Fraser smiled his understanding. "Thank you, Ray. I wasn't sure if you'd be willing to let me look at it again."

Ray shrugged. "It, um," and Fraser wrapped one big hand around the back of his neck, tilting his head and then holding it steady as he ran one finger around the edge of Ray's ear and, okay, maybe this had been a bad idea. "It felt better, last night," he mumbled, staring down at the sink as though his life depended on it.

"Hm," Fraser said, and then took his hand away from Ray's ear, pulling out his handkerchief and reaching past Ray to wet it, but all the time his left hand stayed on Ray's neck, and Fraser's thumb moved slowly back and forth along his hairline. Ray closed his eyes as Fraser began dabbing at his ear.

"It's healing very nicely, Ray," he said after a moment, as though Ray had done something to accomplish that. "There's no sign of infection, and the bleeding seems to be completely stopped. I could..."

"Yeah," Ray said quietly, without opening his eyes, "thanks, Fraser."

"Ah. Very well, Ray." Fraser took both his hands away, which wasn't exactly what Ray had wanted, but it was probably for the best. He opened his eyes, watching Fraser dip a clean corner of his handkerchief into the ointment, and then closed them again as Fraser smeared it over his ear, taking a deep breath through his nose. He was getting used to the smell of the stuff, which was sharp and sort of funky but at least nothing at all like flowers or old people. It wasn't a dying smell.

Ray rubbed at his nose to keep from touching his gooey ear, while Fraser put the cap back on the small jar and tucked it away in his belt pouch. Ray waited for Fraser to step back--he had Ray almost pinned against the sink--but he didn't move, looking away for a moment before his eyes came back to Ray. The bruises on his arm, this time. He touched the blue-black spots lightly, and said, "Did you make it home all right, Ray? You seem a bit under the weather today."

"Yeah," Ray said. For a second it was on the tip of his tongue to tell Fraser everything, about the old guy and how he was maybe going to die, about the smell of flowers, about that thing Jennie had said. His mouth was open to say it, and then with a sick lurch of his stomach he realized he'd wind up telling Fraser about the dream, and he swallowed all the words, even though they choked him a little. When he could speak, when he could force his voice out with the necessary casualness, he said, "Yeah, it was nothing. I made a stop on my way back, and it lasted longer than I expected, that's all."

Fraser looked him in the eye then, his eyes just slightly wide, and Ray realized that Fraser thought he'd gotten lucky last night. The fact that he didn't want Fraser thinking that was a smaller surprise, but he knew he couldn't say anything without giving himself away, so he just stared him down. Then Fraser stepped back, turned away, and said, "Oh, I see. I'm sorry, Ray. I didn't mean to pry."

Fraser's hair fell forward a little as he ducked his head, and Ray just couldn't bear him not getting it, not seeing what was right in front of him, for another second. He took a quick step forward, bringing himself up against Fraser, and then another, driving Fraser back against the door of the first stall. Fraser's chin jerked up, his lips parted like maybe he was going to ask Ray what the hell he was doing, but Ray didn't give him the chance, covering Fraser's mouth with his own, sinking his hands into that soft dark hair and holding the Mountie still. Fraser's big hands settled warm on his back, and Ray ground himself against the Mountie, already hard, and damn all those layers of uniform anyway. Fraser's mouth was already open, welcoming Ray inside, and Fraser tasted like he smelled, fresh and warm and clean.

The door slammed open, and Ray startled back, hitting his hip on the sink, since he was still standing right in front of it. Fraser, a couple of feet away, was watching him with a worried look, and Welsh, standing in the door, threw up his hands. "Of course you're here, where else would you be? When you're finished having a staring contest in the bathroom, detective, constable, I have work for you to do. Police work. You remember what that is?"

Welsh took off, and Ray made to follow, but Fraser's hand--big, warm, just like his dream, or hallucination or whatever the hell that was--landed on his bare arm, only resting on his skin, not holding him hard enough to really feel it. "Ray--"

"It's nothing, Fraser, I'm fine." He didn't look down at the front of his pants, he could feel the effects of stark terror, knew he was decent and then some. His heart was pounding like he'd just run ninety-seven blocks flat out, but even Fraser couldn't hear that, not from where he stood. "Come on, we got work to do."

Fraser stared at him, his eyes dark, looking deep, but Ray turned his head away and headed out the door, and Fraser dropped his hand and followed.

Next morning, with the perp locked up and a confession signed, Ray had nothing to do but paperwork. That meant he spent a lot of time getting coffee and deliberating in front of the candy machine, and then a lot more time slowly sucking down one M&M after another, savoring the taste of the candy shell giving way to chocolate, washing it all down with awful lunch room coffee before starting over with more candy. Last night he'd spent a lot of time trying not to sleep, afraid of dreaming, and now he had to keep himself wired to stay awake. Sugar, caffeine, sugar, caffeine. He was jittering like a bug by nine in the morning.

In between candies and coffees, he filled out a few blanks on the forms, but he couldn't help thinking that if he was going to die, this wasn't really how he wanted to spend one of his last mornings on earth. Catching bad guys, yeah, filling out paperwork about them, forget it. Somebody could figure it out after he kicked it, right?

A Stella-like voice in his head pointed out that it'd cause so much confusion that Pierson would probably walk on one technicality or another, and then there was Fraser, telling him it only took an extra, well, couple of hours, but then it was his duty as an officer of the law...

He crunched down the last of the M&M's and settled to his work, dotting the i's and crossing the t's. It didn't take so long, when he was focused, when he reminded himself that he might not be here tomorrow to do this, and the morning was only half-gone when he handed everything over to a shocked-looking Frannie to be copied and filed everywhere it was supposed to go. He hesitated beside her desk, even though her wide-eyed look was kind of irritating. "Is everything there?"

Frannie looked even more startled. "Uh, you'd know better than me, bro."

Ray shook his head impatiently. "You handle the paper, Frannie, you know what goes in the files. Is everything there? I don't wanna forget something."

She gave him a weird look, but checked. "Yeah, Ray, it's fine, everything's here."

Ray nodded and reached into his coat. "Okay, then," he said, "As long as I finished my paperwork first." He drew the gun, smooth as smooth, careful not to point it toward anybody he didn't want to shoot, not easy in a crowded room but he knew how. The barrel slipped easily into his mouth, all the way to the back. Easier to get the angle without cramping his wrist, standing up like this. He glanced sideways at Frannie, and she was sitting very still, watching him. He winked, to let her know it was okay, thinking he should've written a note, stuck it in with the paperwork or something. Too late now, though, so he closed his eyes and eased the tip of his finger down on the trigger.

Frannie waved one hand before his eyes. "Ray? Ray? Jesus, go take a nap or something, are you coming down with something?"

Ray stepped quickly back from her desk, raising one hand to rub at his eye, his elbow pressing against his holstered gun, and wondered how much of that had even happened. He brushed away Frannie's hand, still reaching toward him, and muttered something, he had no idea what, as he headed back to his desk.

Ray picked up a pen to chew on--the plastic turned bitter and hot under his teeth and on his tongue, but even that was better than the memory of his gun in his mouth. He waited til he started shaking, and then waited til he stopped--he might be going crazy, but shock was still shock--before he started flipping through his files. No leads, no leads, need Fraser, waiting to hear, no leads. He glanced at the phone, thinking about calling Fraser, but he knew the Mountie escaped the Consulate as early as he could every day, and there was no use calling him up and bugging him, even if something in him was convinced that talking to Fraser would magically fix this.

Eyes still on the phone, he remembered the thought that had crossed his mind, about how he oughta have left a note, Frannie's frozen look. And even if it was just a hallucination, he could imagine how some people would feel, if Welsh had to make the call, had to tell them he'd kicked it, and they had no idea, hadn't even spoken to him in months. He swallowed hard, trying to get his stomach to settle, and reached for the phone. It seemed to take forever to punch in all the numbers to charge an out-of-state call to his home phone, and then he listened to the ringing, and hoped he hadn't got the time change wrong, hoped somebody would pick up.

"Hello?"

He couldn't help smiling a little, and glanced quickly around the room to see if anybody was watching, but he was okay back here in his little corner. "Hey, Mum."

"Stanley? Stanley! Are you all right? Is the job over?"

He winced. Not that he'd lied to them--he was undercover, they shouldn't try to get in touch--but it had been such a convenient excuse, it felt like lying. "It's actually not, Mom, but I'm okay to call right now, so I thought I'd see how you're doing."

"Oh, we're fine, dear, we're just fine, don't you worry about us. What about you? Are you seeing anyone? Are you eating?"

"Yeah, Mum, I eat okay. Food groups and everything. They got me working with this guy, he's a freak about stuff like that, he's good for me."

"Oh, do you have a partner again?" She sounded almost as delighted as if he'd said he was dating; his mum had always taken his cop partnerships pretty seriously. Made him wonder if maybe she knew something, but she never let on, and he suspected it was just the fact that he had fewer close calls with somebody watching his back. Or he used to, when the somebody was somebody other than Fraser.

"Yeah, Mum, they gave me a partner. He's a good guy. You don't have to worry about me."

"Stanley, that's wonderful. But you know I'll just have to worry for your partner as well as you. I'll be praying for you both, now."

Ray looked down at the desk with a helpless half-smile. Yeah, he should have known better than to tell her not to worry. "Yeah, well, his name is Fraser, and I'm sure he'd appreciate it. Needs it, putting up with me."

"Oh, Stanley," she said, but she didn't argue with him. His divorce wasn't the first messy breakup she'd watched him through.

Ray nodded, took a deep breath, and went out on a limb. "Is, um, is Dad there, Mum?"

Silence for a moment; this was way outside the usual script for their phone calls, but he had to try, today. Then, in a suspiciously thick voice, she said, "Yes, dear, just a second," and he heard her set the phone down, and, faintly, *Your son wants to speak with you, Damien.*

A couple of long minutes later, he heard his dad's voice. "Yeah?"

The bottom dropped out of Ray's stomach, and he reached for the poor chewed-up pen, just to have something to do with his hands other than clutching the phone so hard he was probably about to break it. "Hey, Dad."

"Son," he said, and even that was something. Another long silence, and then his dad said, "How's work going?"

Ray dropped the pen. "It's all right, y'know. Ups and downs. How's Arizona?"

"Hot, mostly. Dry. Nice for the car, and your mother's arthritis."

The... the car? The car? Ray took a deep breath, and pulled out the same unconcerned voice he used to chat up drug runners without getting capped. "You still got that GTO, Dad?"

Silence, and then, "Yeah, Ray. I've still got the goat."

Ray. And his dad had kept that car. He didn't, couldn't, say anything, and his dad added, "Got a Mustang to fix up, Danny's helping me with it. Kid's got good hands, reminds me of you at that age."

Danny was all of twelve, but Ray knew praise to hear it, and felt a stupid grin growing on his face, safe out of sight. "That's great, Dad."

Noncommital grunt. "Well, son, I don't want to run up your phone bill. Don't you worry about the car, though. It's not going anywhere."

Ray swallowed hard. "I won't worry about it, Dad."

"All right. Here's your mother again."

Ray made it through his goodbyes, somehow, on autopilot. Swore up and down that he'd call again when the job was done, and not before in case it wasn't safe, that he'd see about coming down for Christmas, that he would eat his vegetables and say hello to Fraser and be careful and wear a sweater.

As soon as he was off the phone, he got up and headed out of the bullpen. Somebody stepped into the bathroom just ahead of him, so he changed direction and slipped into the supply closet. He leaned his forehead against a carton of printer paper, wrapped his arms around his stomach, and took a few deep breaths.

Ray had his eyes shut tight, but light still flared red against his eyelids when the door opened. He straightened up quickly, speaking even before he looked. "I'm good, Fraser."

Fraser stood in the doorway, looking him over, and after a moment he nodded. "Of course you are, Ray."

Ray nodded back, and stepped forward, and Fraser didn't move away, so that Ray was right in his space, and Ray needed, more than anything, something to hold on to. He reached out and caught Fraser's lanyard, his hand gone instantly white-knuckled, and Fraser's face had an understanding look on it. Ray tugged him back into the supply closet, and Fraser shut the door behind them.

The kiss was clumsy at first, in the dark, and Ray couldn't let go of the lanyard, but Fraser held on right back, and his mouth was sweet, and he murmured, "Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray," until his voice actually cut through and Ray opened his eyes.

He backpedaled into the supply closet, slamming the door in Fraser's face, catching only a glimpse of his puzzled look before he was back in the dark, alone. He took a few deep breaths, until he realized that he'd already had too many adrenaline kicks today to get another one, and then he opened the door and stepped out quickly, careful not to collide with the Mountie. "Come on, Fraser, we got work to do."

He set off down the hall, and Fraser only made him wait a second before there was the sound of footsteps right behind him, the solid presence of his partner at his shoulder. Ray nodded to himself as he walked down the hall. He could keep it together, he wasn't going crazy. He could do this.

Dinner was quiet, and the drive to the Consulate was quieter. Ray pulled up at the curb and waited, staring out the windshield, for Fraser to say good night and see ya tomorrow before he shut the door. He opened the door, Dief hopped out, and Fraser bent down. Ray was already nodding his good night back when Fraser said, "Would you like to come inside, Ray?"

It took a second to convert the nod to a shake. "Not tonight."

Fraser didn't move away, stayed leaning into the passenger door, until Ray finally looked up. Fraser was looking at him, strangely hopeful, and Ray couldn't take it.

"Not even for cookies, Fraser," he said, flatly, returning his gaze to the street, so he didn't have to see the hope disappear. The door swung shut, closed as quietly as a car door could, and he went on staring at the street for a while after that, until he could be sure Fraser was inside the Consulate, so he didn't have to watch him, letting himself into that dark quiet building with only Dief to keep him company. When he finally did glance up, there was a light on, dim and lonely, at one of the windows. Ray put the car in gear and started driving.

He didn't want to go home - his own apartment would be as dark and cold as the Consulate, if not as silent - and he couldn't muster up the enthusiasm to go drink or fight. So he drove, winding through familiar streets. He wondered if Fraser could walk the way he drove, turn on his legs like Ray turned on a car, and just lose himself in motion, when he was too tired and empty to go anywhere, or to be there when he arrived. He thought about turning back toward the Consulate, knocking on the door and asking Fraser why he liked walking so much, and then he shook that thought off. One thing would only lead to another, and he'd be spilling his guts to Fraser before he knew it, and Fraser didn't need to know this shit. Ray would've been happier not knowing it himself, so there was no need to go sharing. He shook himself, trying to convince himself he didn't want to be where Fraser was right now, and took a look around for the first time in a while, trying to see where he was.

Around the corner from Stella's, as it turned out. Ray pulled over, and stared at the steering wheel. He should go home, he shouldn't bug Stella when he was like this, any more than he should bug Fraser.

On the other hand, if he was going to die, why not? That thought carried him out of the car, around to her building, up to her door. He knocked, and then just leaned against the doorframe, a little of the starch going out of him as he realized he had no idea what to say. His usual Stella spiel--trying to get in the door, trying to get into the bedroom, trying to get her to admit how much she missed him and how wrong she'd been--seemed not only stupid, but way too much effort.

Then Stella opened the door. Her hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, and she was still wearing the silk shell from her work outfit, but she'd lost the skirt and nylons, replaced them with a ratty pair of gray sweat pants that puddled over her bare feet. He recognized them; he'd gotten that faded-out grass stain on the knee playing catch at a PD picnic, years back, and the paint smear across the thigh was from when Stella had decided that they--meaning he--could redecorate the living room without professional help.

Stella didn't say anything until he dragged his eyes up from her pants--they'd been hers long before they'd split up, but he'd never dreamed she would still have them, still wear them when she was home alone at night--to her face, and then she smiled a little. "You look tired, Ray."

He smiled back, feeling the weight of the past few days lighten a little, just knowing she could see it on him, even if it wasn't her job to care anymore. "Takes one to know one, Stell."

She rolled her eyes. "It really doesn't, Ray, but you have a point. Come on in, I need a break from these briefs anyway." Like one of those Chinese finger traps; as soon as you stopped trying, it was the easiest thing in the world. "Yeah," he said, and followed her to the couch. There were two unopened bottles of spring water on the coffee table with the papers, and a halfempty one with her pen balanced on the open mouth. She picked it up, setting her pen aside, and offered him one of the full bottles. He took it, more to have something to do with his hands than because he was thirsty. He'd drunk enough coffee today to float a freighter.

"So what's going on, Ray? This isn't like you."

He could lie, he could joke, but instead he itched at his mostlyhealed ear, and then opened his bottle of water. "I been doing a lot of thinking lately, that's all. You know how I get when I'm undercover a long time, I just start thinking about stuff."

She nodded, she remembered the all-night talks they'd had when he'd come home from one job or another, full of weird thoughts that had to stay trapped inside his head while he wasn't him. It wasn't a bad excuse. Ray reached out and traced the edge of the grass stain. "It wasn't all bad," he said quietly. Not asking her to agree, just saying.

"No," she said, "It wasn't bad. It was just... over, when it was over. Things change, things end. We both had to move on."

Ray met her eyes again as he took his hand back, and he knew why he was here: it was the same reason he'd called his parents, the same reason he'd gone back to Casey's. He had to make sure he was square with Stella, and he knew, too, that he was. "You did that a lot better than me, huh, Stella? You never really needed me like I needed you."

Stella looked away, but he knew she wasn't going to bullshit him. "I suppose I didn't, Ray," she said softly, her eyes steady when she looked back at him. "It was certainly easier for me to recognize that we were over than it was for you."

He shrugged. "I got there, though. I'm okay, now, Stella. You don't have to worry about me."

Stella frowned, then, her eyes turning sharp. "It's your day for telling people that, isn't it, Ray?"

He took a sip of his water, turned his eyes down and didn't look up. "My mum called you?"

Stella's voice was a little sharp, not really angry but not letting him get away with anything. "She wanted to know what was going on with you, had we talked, were you seeing someone... I told her the operation you were working on had achieved some measure of stability, and that work was much better for you now that you'd found a partner you could work well with. I told her you really are all right."

Ray nodded, staring down at the couch, searching for the right story to tell and the right way to tell it, and then Stella, Stella who'd known him forever, better than anybody, said softly, "Ray, just tell me, just promise me..."

He nodded jerkily. "I'm good, I'm fine." He took a deep breath and met her eyes, steady on, because she knew he'd never lied to her, never looked her in the eye and lied. "I'm not going to do anything stupid, Stella. I swear to you, that's not what this is." Just dreams, nothing more. He'd never do that, ever.

She pursed her lips, and he knew that if Cross-Examiner Stella got into his face he didn't stand much more of a chance than she ever had against Interrogation Room Ray. But she wasn't his wife any more, and it wasn't her job; she nodded once, and said, "I believe you."

They sat awhile in silence, until Stella said, "Ray, it's not... it's not Fraser, is it? You and he..." Because Stella, of course, knew him better than anybody, even now. He remembered one of those all night talks, when they'd had a few drinks to celebrate him coming home, and he'd been unable to stop talking about the gorgeous actor in some show he'd caught on public television. The dark hair, the blue-grey eyes, the almostperfect smile... Stella had met Fraser.

He shook his head. "No, it's not that. I mean, for me, but not. For him. I mean. I haven't said anything, I'm not saying anything, this doesn't have anything to do with that." Just dreams. He wouldn't do that.

Stella nodded, but her lips were tight with worry, and she looked even more exhausted than when she'd answered the door. Ray felt it too, needed to be back behind the wheel of his car, needed to be out of there. He stood up, and Stella stood, too, and he knew she wasn't going to ask whether he couldn't stay a little longer, or tell him to come around again sometime. She looked like she knew he was never coming back again. "Sorry," he said quietly, "looks like we never can just talk."

"Looks like," she said, quietly, and she followed him back to the door. She kissed his cheek as he stepped out, and he squeezed her hand, and as he turned away, she said, "Ray."

He stopped, turned back to look at her, and she said, "Stick close to Fraser, okay?"

He nodded, because even now he'd agree to just about anything Stella said if she said it sweet like that, and it wasn't til she'd locked the door and he was on his way down the hallway that he stopped to think, and then he really stopped, stood there halfway to the stairs, his eyes fixed on the wall. "Why does everybody say that?"

But the wall had no answer, and Ray knew for a fact that you couldn't linger in the hallway for more than seven minutes without somebody coming to move you along, so he beat feet and headed for home.

It was too early to go to bed when he got back. He fed the turtle, and then laid down on the couch, turned on ESPN and hit the mute button. He stared at the screen for a while as his apartment got darker, and then he closed his eyes and tried to see his future.

It was another thing, like thinking too much, that he'd always done on long undercover jobs; when it got too hard, he would lay down and think about later, about wrapping up the case, going home to Stella, getting back to his own life. From there his brain would coast along, and he'd see his kids, Stella's brilliant career, his own peaceful and healthy retirement... Like a fairytale, like an old movie, it would play out behind his eyes, and lull him to sleep.

He'd done it a few times before on this job, though he never could see the Vecchio gig ending. He could always see working with Fraser, though, solving cases together, hauling in the bad guys so good people could put their kids to bed at night. Sometimes he could see putting Fraser to bed. Hell, sometimes he could see the kids. It was the same kind of fairytale, a little more far-fetched, but it always worked just the same.

Ray started small, closed his eyes and imagined going in to work tomorrow morning, seeing Fraser, doing that interrogation they had lined up, getting it out of the way before lunch, then checking out the information after. He tried to see how that was going to go, but his brain wouldn't cooperate; anything past having lunch with Fraser just stayed vague. He could sort of see getting home tomorrow night, could sort of see getting up and doing more of the same tomorrow, but he couldn't make it come clear. And beyond that, beyond a few days of the same old same old, he couldn't see anything, just an endless glare of brightness, like that light you were supposed to walk into, except it was everywhere, and he knew for certain he was going to get lost in it, and never find his way to where he was going.

Ray opened his eyes, and stared at the comforting dinginess of the ceiling until he remembered to get up and go to bed. He was too exhausted to worry about what kind of dreams he was going to have, and soon slept.

Everything had been going great. He and Fraser were doing the duet thing like gangbusters, needing nothing more than a glance or a gesture to know what the other was doing. They'd chased three of the FBI's most wanted out to this warehouse, had them nailed, nowhere to go, backup on the way. Everything had been going really well, right up until they wound up out on this little ledge, pinned down with nothing but a piece of corrugated tin for cover. There had been a mistake there someplace, but Ray wasn't sure where, and didn't have any mind to figure it out right then.

He was hunkering, and his arm ached so bad where the old guy gripped it that he could hardly hold his gun. This was it. He'd lost his sunglasses somewhere and was squinting against the white glare of sunshine off the lake, reflecting everywhere. Fraser was breathing hard beside him, and maybe he could've but he never had, not for real, and this was it.

Fraser touched his knee, and Ray got the feeling he'd been saying something while Ray wasn't listening. "We have to jump, Ray."

He laughed, and the tin made the sound seem hollow and hardedged. "You want to jump?"

"Yes, Ray, I believe we have no other option. If we try to wait for backup, they'll almost certainly shoot us."

Ray leaned out and took a couple of blind shots, and then ducked back as they returned fire. Fraser was probably right. Hell, of course Fraser was right. He was always right, right? "I can't swim, Fraser."

Fraser gave him a funny look. "The quality of the water alone will likely kill us, Ray, if we don't die on impact."

"Oh." He rubbed his eyes with the back of the hand that held the gun, keeping it pointed away from Fraser, and shrugged. "Well, as long as I don't have to swim."

Fraser was staring at him. Ray looked away as he holstered his gun and snapped down the catch, and wondered if he had some kind of sign on his forehead. "On three, then?"

Fraser shook himself out of the stare and nodded. "One--"

He got up and started running for the edge, waiting for a bullet to hit his back, Fraser at his side, and threw himself into the glare of white. He was falling, and Fraser was yelling somewhere a little above him, and right before he hit the water, he realized he wasn't going to wake up.

He hit the lake like a concrete wall, all the breath knocked from him and he was still falling, through the dark cold crushing water. His mouth filled with liquid, choking hard as any gun, and he struggled uselessly against the pull of the lake until something started dragging him backward. When his head broke the surface he realized it was Fraser, holding a handful of his shirt back and holster. He tried to hold still then, remembered it was important not to fight when somebody was trying to save you.

He dragged himself up the ladder at the water's edge, when Fraser had towed him to it, and leaned with his hands on his knees, coughing up water and catching his breath. Fraser stood there a minute and then started pacing, which couldn't be comfortable in waterlogged boots, always coming back to stand next to Ray. Still staring, so that sign on his forehead hadn't washed off in the water.

He hadn't died. That hadn't been it, just like none of the other times had. Which meant it was still coming, he was still going to have to wait for it, and his arm still ached. Ray spat into the water, cold lake water taste brightened a little by blood, and Fraser said, "Ray, what is wrong with you?"

Ray stared down at the water for a minute, until the words seeped in, and then he looked up. "I just jumped off the roof of a warehouse into Lake Michigan to keep from being shot at, Fraser. Gimme a minute. We're not all superheroes, y'know."

Fraser rolled his eyes. "I'm not a superhero, Ray, despite what you may think of the uniform, and I am not referring to the result of our most recent scrape, as I assume you would have told me if you had suffered any significant injury."

Ray looked away from Fraser's eyes, almost angry, almost something else that made him think things he shouldn't now that they weren't about to die. Almost able to see the truth, if Ray wasn't careful. "Yeah, I'm all right, Fraser."

Fraser sighed. "No, Ray, you're not, and you haven't been for some time. Why on earth didn't you argue with me up there?"

That was so stupid Ray had to look up. "What?"

"You heard me, Ray. Why didn't you argue when I said we had to jump? You don't know how to swim, and by rights we ought to have died in the fall, or been injured too badly to reach shore. It was suicide, Ray, and nonetheless when I said jump, you said on three."

Ray blinked. "You were right, though. We would've got shot waiting for backup, and we jumped and we're okay."

Fraser waved toward the warehouse, and now that Ray looked, there were a half-dozen cruisers pulled up. "We could have waited, Ray. We likely should have waited; the other officers would have had an easier time of it had the miscreants been busy keeping us pinned down."

Ray shrugged. "Okay, Fraser. So next time we wait."

Fraser's eyes were steady on him, but for once the Mountie had nothing to say.

Ray stood a while, shivering in the breeze off the lake, until he felt Fraser at his shoulder. He could feel his partner's warmth, radiating to him from a few inches away, even though Fraser ought to be cold, too, soaking wet in his serge. Ray shifted back, not quite a step, but closer to Fraser, and Fraser eased forward, and Ray could feel warmth against his arm, his back. He stared at the lake, and tried to believe this was enough, close enough, warm enough, but he kept shivering. Fraser's arm came around him, and Ray turned in that half-embrace, pressing closer, tilting his head and searching, until his mouth met Fraser's, so hot he couldn't help shivering all over again.

Fraser's other hand came up, resting on his back, steadying him, circling him, so that he could forget, until Fraser started to pull him closer at the same moment that a breeze gusted off the lake. Ray pushed away, too hard, stumbling back and falling, sitting down so hard on the gravel that his teeth clacked.

Fraser just stood there, staring at him like he'd gone nuts, holding his Stetson in both hands. Ray opened his mouth to ask what had just happened, and then shut it again. None of that had happened, none of it, and his heart could slow down any time now. He looked out at the lake, wishing Fraser would go see how the arrest was going or something, but instead he heard the crunch of boots on gravel coming closer, and then Fraser crouched down at his side. Ray gave in and looked over.

Fraser looked almost pained. "Ray," he said, "what's wrong?"

Ray wanted to get mad at Fraser, safer that way, but the best he could manage was, "C'mon, Fraser, you never fall asleep with your eyes open?"

"Not under these circumstances, Ray, nor do I become disoriented upon waking."

Disoriented, ha. Panicked, scared shitless, that would be more like it. Fraser was being polite, though. Ray wracked his brain, trying to guess what Fraser was getting at. "You think I got narcoleprosy or something, Fraser?"

Fraser did the thumbnail-to-eyebrow routine, mouth quirked in the way that meant Ray had said that wrong. He waited for Fraser to correct him, but he just straightened up and said, "I don't think you're any kind of leper, Ray." He held out his hand, and Ray took it, allowing himself to be pulled upright. Fraser didn't let go right away, even though they were standing so close, even though Welsh was walking toward them. "But I do think you're sick, and you ought to see a doctor."

He let himself be tucked into the back of a car, and when they got to the Urgent Care, he solemnly swore to Fraser that he would go inside and get checked out, so Fraser could go back to the Consulate and get out of what had to be about thirty pounds of wet wool and leather. He obediently filled out forms and answered the nice nurse's questions, and sat quietly in the empty exam room, waiting for the doctor.

She ran him through all the regular tests, and he answered all her questions, and then when they were just about done, he mentioned the dreaming thing. "It just kind of freaks me out," he explained, because she was giving him this Look, "because, y'know, I'm in the middle of something and then it seems like stuff is happening that's not really happening, because I'm dreaming."

She frowned harder. "Does the content of these dreams disturb you, Detective?"

Ray forced himself to smile, with that tired eye-crinkle that would explain why it wasn't such a great one. "Hey, doc, I could be dreaming about running through a field of daisies with my wife, it's still a problem if it happens in the middle of a case."

The doctor nodded, squinting at him from behind her glasses like if she looked hard enough she could see what he saw. Ray kept his eyes steady, then glanced away, because he knew perfectly well how incriminating it looked to be too freaked--or too determined--to make eye contact.

"So, uh," he said, "I dunno, I guess I'm basically dozing off in the middle of things, standing up, talking, working--you got any idea what that is?"

He could see her realize that she only had so much time and an endless line of patients waiting. "Have you been sleeping well, Detective?"

"Uh." He shrugged. "Not so hot, I guess. When I do sleep, I wake up feeling tired anyway."

She nodded, scribbled a note in his file. She'd already forgotten he existed, which was fine. He could tell Fraser he tried, didn't matter if he knew beforehand it wasn't going to do any good. "It could be sleep apnea," she said, absently, like it made no difference to her. "That's when you stop breathing for short periods in your sleep. If you think that's a problem--if your wife has noticed, for instance--you should probably be evaluated by a sleep specialist."

"Stop breathing?" His voice went kinda high there, catching her attention, and he cleared his throat, but he was already imagining that, having a dream he just didn't wake up from, never waking up, just wandering off into whiteness. "Could that be, um, fatal?"

She frowned. "Not normally, but as I said, you should have it checked out."

Ray accepted the pamphlets she gave him, but stuffed them into his pocket unread as he started walking. He couldn't shake the thought that it wouldn't be such a bad way to go.

Anyway, it didn't matter right now. He had things to do before he slept.

Ray squinted at the few pages, wracking his brain to think of anything he might need to change. It was pretty solid, though. He'd just updated his will a few months ago, when he had to fill out new insurance forms and remembered that he had to get Stella off his next-of-kin. He'd made Welsh his executor, so all the identity paperwork could get taken care of quietly, and he'd left all his personal stuff to Fraser, his savings to his niece and nephew, not that Allie and Danny would need it, trust fund kids that they were.

"Hey," he said, and Barry looked up with a helpful smile. "Can I add a, um, a request, like?"

"A codicil? What about?"

"My funeral. Can I say in here how I want stuff done, or don't want it?"

Barry nodded, like guys came in and asked stuff like this all the time, which, considering that he did wills for probably half the cops and firefighters in Chicago, maybe they did. "What did you want to request, Mr. Kowalski?"

He stared down at the edge of Barry's desk and rubbed his nose with one hand. Smelled like lake, mostly, and a little bit like the doctor's office. He shifted in his seat--he really should've changed, instead of just toweling off, but he didn't have anything clean in his locker, and didn't want to go home before he got this squared away--and finally said, "I don't want any flowers, okay? No flowers, if I die."

Barry tapped his pen on the desk. "No flowers," he repeated, and then shrugged and wrote it down. "All right, we'll add that in. You understand it won't be legally binding on your executor, and people will want to do the usual things."

Ray nodded, shook his head, nodded. "He'll take care of it, if it's there. I just don't want any flowers, okay?"

Barry nodded again. "That's fine. Let me just type this up, and we can get the codicil witnessed and notarized, all right? Then you'll be all set."

"Okay, okay, yeah. That sounds good." Barry tapped out a few lines, and hit some buttons, and the printer spit out another sheet of paper. Ray snatched it up and read it over, but it was pretty plain language. Barry pointed to where he was supposed to sign, and Ray did, quickly, and then Barry showed him out to the waiting room where he had his secretary sign as a witness, put a stamp on it, and made Ray a copy.

Ray tucked the page into his damp jacket pocket, checked that his pocket still held his keys, and headed for his car.

Ray walked in the door and stood still for a while in the middle of the apartment. He ought to do something about the turtle. And the mess. He'd hate for Fraser or his mom, or both--now there was a weird thought--to have to clean this place out. It had been a long day, though, and his clothes were still kind of damp. He ought to change them first. He toed out of his boots, and walked to the couch in his wet socks. He spread out his damp jacket along the back of the couch, and then, after a moment staring dazedly toward the bedroom, he sat down. He thought about turning on the tv, but settled for putting his feet up, and slouching down further.

The new position made his gun dig into his side, and Ray closed his eyes briefly as he pulled it from the holster. He sat up, swung his feet down, and broke down the gun, his hands working automatically, independent of his brain, just like driving, as he checked for water damage. He'd have forms to fill out tomorrow, for firing his weapon. Should've done it today, but Welsh had told him to go get checked out and just come back tomorrow, so he wasn't going to sweat it. Nobody was going to walk on a technicality if he hadn't filed that form before he died.

He stared down at his hands, the clip lying on the table with the spring and the slide and the bolt, barrel in his left hand and grip in his right. Left the clip lying there when he reassembled it, and slowly, slowly, bent his arm back, the gun rising to his face. He kept it pointed away from himself, because he wasn't stupid and he wasn't going to go like that, but he brushed his lips along the side of the barrel, felt the hardness of it against his skin. He remembered how it felt in his mouth, how it tasted, and parted his lips a little, touching the tip of his tongue to the steel.

Ray jerked back, awake, except he'd been awake the whole time; he was still holding the gun a few inches from his face, the clip safe on the table, but he wasn't safe, he wasn't safe at all. He set the gun down at the far edge of the coffee table and sat back on the couch. The taste of gunmetal lingered in his mouth, and he knew that the next time he stuck a gun in his mouth, it would be the real thing.

Ray had to sleep, he was going to be a space case tomorrow if he didn't, but he stayed on the couch for a long time, staring at the gun and waiting.

Welsh caught Ray before he even got to his desk, and didn't say a word about him coming in late. "C'mere, Vecchio."

Ray followed him to his office, and dropped heavily into the seat in front of the desk. "What's up?"

Welsh sat down and frowned for a moment, and Ray thought he was going to hear it about the day before, but then Welsh shook it off and picked up some papers. "Got this for you yesterday, but it looked like you had your hands full."

Ray flipped through the pages, then flipped through again. "Transfer."

Welsh nodded. "They figure Vecchio's safe now, so you can go if you want."

Ray stared at the sheets, but he was remembering different pages in his hands; his will, and Welsh named as his executor, so he wouldn't get Vecchio dead, one way or the other, if he kicked it in the middle of the job. "I can get my own name back?" His own life, whatever that meant, whatever was left of it.

Welsh nodded. "If that's what you want, Detective."

Ray felt a smile on his mouth, and let it stay, made no sign of how strange it felt there. "Thanks, sir." He started folding the pages, neatly, in half and in half again. "Can I, uh, think about this?"

Welsh nodded again. "Take a day or two, think it over, talk to Fraser," Ray flinched, and he knew Welsh saw, but the lieu didn't say anything about it. "You got anything hot on your desk?"

Ray shook his head. "Desk's clean as it's been in a while."

"You got nothing to worry about, then. Take the time, think it over." Ray nodded and stood, tucking the papers into his pocket, his legs already going without his brain. Yeah, he could stand a walk now. Then Welsh said, "Kowalski," and he stopped short of the door.

"You're a good detective, and the 2-7 would miss you if you decided to go," he said. "But I know how it is. You can only stay under so long before you start drowning."

Ray nodded. "Thanks," he said again, quietly, and then he was walking.

He wound up in an alley about eight blocks from the station, staring at the corner made by a brick wall and a bright green dumpster. It was as good a place as any, and he didn't really want to look at the lake right now, all things considered.

He was done. Vecchio didn't need him anymore, the 27th didn't need him anymore, he even had Welsh's blessing. Not even a little trick with names to hide behind now, all he had to do was sign the forms and he was back to plain old Stanley Raymond Kowalski. He could just go, no strings, no ties. Nothing to hold him in one place and nobody to miss him when he was gone, except...

Dief appeared suddenly, dodged around him, sniffed the corner he was staring at, and then came back, shoving his snout into each of Ray's hands before sitting down at his feet, whining.

...Except Fraser. And Dief.

Dief barked, and Fraser, standing right beside Ray, said, "Yes, I take your point."

He had to square things with Fraser. Fraser was the only one he really had to prepare for this at all, and he couldn't do it. Everyone else, it was easy, those were all ended things, behind him, and he could look back and knot up the loose threads and keep going. But him and Fraser, this duet, this thing wasn't finished. It was going to stop, but it wasn't finished, and there were so many loose ends he could never gather them all up, nevermind tie `em into a knot, even if he had gotten the badge for that in Scouts, twenty-some years ago.

He stared at the brick and the steel for a while, thinking about the way they met, at right angles, green and red opposite colors, he'd learned that in school a long time ago. He was going to go away, leave everything behind, now, when he had something to lose, and there was nothing he could do to make it right with Fraser beforehand, that was a job too big, no matter how long he had.

There was something he could do, he realized. To make it, if not right, then less wrong, after. For Fraser, and it was Fraser who'd still be here, Fraser he ought to worry about. Once it had happened, Ray wouldn't be able to feel bad about it anymore.

He turned on his heel, careful not to collide with Fraser, and headed for the street. Fraser and Dief kept up with him, and didn't ask any questions, and soon they were back at the station.

Ray lead the way to his desk, rifled through his files until he found the blank forms for Weapon Drawn and Weapon Fired, which he could fill out pretty much in his sleep. Fraser stood over him for a minute, watching, and then took his hat off and sat down on the other side of the desk, and Dief, instead of running off like usual, stretched out across the end of the desk, so Ray couldn't go anywhere without stepping on his tail. Fraser started sorting papers from the inbox as Ray filled out his name, Vecchio, Raymond A., and his badge number, slowly and neatly, forming each letter perfectly while he tried to think of a way to do what he needed to do.

It'd be easier if he could just think of someone, if there was just anybody, anywhere in the Chicago PD, who he could imagine partnering Fraser after he was gone. He considered every detective he knew, personally or by reputation, but couldn't come up with a match. Most good cops had partners. The ones who didn't--maybe it'd work, he and Fraser had worked out well enough and he hadn't kept a partner this long since he was straight out of the Academy. But he couldn't think of anyone he'd trust Fraser to; even a decent cop wouldn't understand him, or they'd ignore him, shove him out of the work and leave him sitting at the Consulate til he went crazy. Crazier.

Ray wracked his brain, even considering his own former partners, though none of them would work with Fraser if anybody mentioned the name Kowalski while they were setting it up. Good thing he was still Vecchio til he signed the papers, then.

There was his first partner, Edwards. He'd stuck with Edwards a year and a half til they reassigned him to somebody even greener than Ray. He'd been a good partner, but he'd also retired a few years ago, Ray remembered. He hadn't gone to the party.

They'd reassigned Ray right away, to Kelley. Janet Kelley. That lasted until Kelley's husband became convinced that they were sleeping together, and left her. Kell had sworn up and down she didn't blame Ray, but she'd taken a leave of absence and then a transfer and never spoke to him again. Stella had been nice enough not to say the same stuff as Kell's jerk-off ex, but he knew she'd been thinking about it.

What with waiting for Kelley to come back and being an absolute bastard to everybody in sight, Ray hadn't had another partner after that until he transferred, too. D'Amico. Solid guy, they worked okay together, until D'Amico applied for transfer six months in. Ray had spent months trying to get him to explain why, and by then it was pretty obvious.

Ray stared down at the half filled out form, and thought he should maybe rule out all his former partners. Thinking of Fraser working with any of them was uncomfortably like thinking of Fraser sleeping with Stella.

Welsh's door opened before his brain could run very far with that one, and Ray looked up at the same time Welsh spotted him sitting at his desk with Fraser, when he was supposed to be going for a walk and hashing out his transfer. He held perfectly still, trying not to look like he hadn't told Fraser anything yet and was scared Welsh would blow his cover. Welsh frowned at him, and came over to the desk. Ray remembered to breathe, swallowing hard against his suddenly dry mouth.

"Vecchio?" Fraser looked up, at that, but Welsh hadn't said Kowalski, so he might still be okay. "Thought you were out doing some footwork."

Ray shrugged, and leaned back in his chair. "I wasn't getting anywhere with it, remembered I had some paperwork to do."

Welsh looked downright puzzled, but said only, "Well, Detective, there's no such thing as having your desk too clean."

Ray nodded and went back to his paperwork while Welsh turned ninety degrees and started bellowing at the rest of the squad room. Ray got the feeling Fraser was watching him, but he kept his head down. He had forms to fill out.

He'd finished both by the time Huey and Dewey slunk out of Welsh's office, snapping at each other about some dead pirate they were investigating. Ray shook his head--about time somebody who wasn't him had to work a case like that--and looked up to see Welsh watching him again. The lieutenant jerked his chin toward the door, and Ray got up and followed him in, stepping carefully over Dief's tail.

He shut the door behind him, and stayed there, standing, one hand on the door knob. Welsh stood closer to the desk, watching him while Ray stared at the floor. "Kowalski?" he finally said, gently, like Ray was laid up with a bullet in him.

"I haven't told him yet," Ray said. "I'm trying to figure out-- what happens to Fraser if I take the transfer? Does he get to pick somebody else to work with, or is he just going to get stuck with some random jerk all over again?"

Welsh's eyes narrowed, and Ray wondered if Welsh thought he was calling Vecchio a jerk, instead of himself, but he just said, "You haven't talked about it with him at all?"

Ray shook his head, and Welsh shook his head right back.

"Look, Kowalski, it so happens I talked to Thatcher before I got a chance to talk to you. Red's being offered a transfer, too. Back to Canada."

Ray's heart started to pound. Fraser was going back to Canada? That would be really it, then, he'd be done, completely done, Fraser wouldn't even be around to see... "Fraser's going home?"

Welsh shrugged. "I think it was Ottawa."

Ray looked back to the floor. Ottawa was practically as bad as Chicago--big city, and he'd met Thatcher and Turnbull, he knew that Mounties weren't necessarily better than cops for Fraser to work with. He belonged back in the Arctic, him and Dief. Still, maybe Ottawa was the first step back there, right? And Fraser was a big boy, he could take care of himself, he could work his way back to the Yukon if he wanted to.

Except, if that was true, why the hell was he still in Chicago after all this time? Ray looked up, toward his desk, to see Fraser watching him through the blinds. He didn't look away, even though Ray had caught him peeking, and Ray thought maybe that was part of the answer right there, staring him in the face. He had to do something about that, while he still could, or Fraser might not even take the chance to go as far as Ottawa.

The thought of it, the weight of Fraser's gaze, made him tired, though. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough. "Thanks," he said, to Welsh. "I'll think about that. I'm gonna go now."

Welsh nodded. "You do that, Detective."

Ray nodded once more and turned away.

He walked two blocks, his legs on automatic and his brain barely on at all, before he realized Fraser had missed his turn. Ray stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing people to step around him. "Fraser," he said, pointing, "the Consulate's that way."

Fraser tilted his head, squinting at Ray for a second before he finally said, "Well, Ray, there are actually many possible routes I could take to the Consulate. Today I've chosen one that is somewhat less direct."

Ray met Fraser's steady gaze for as long as he could, and then turned his back, looking down at the gutter, the cars passing on the street. Finally, he faced forward and started walking again, and Fraser and Dief moved with him. "I guess today you're taking a route that goes right through my apartment, huh?"

"I think that's quite likely, Ray."

Ray kept walking. There was no use arguing.

They passed the alley he'd hung out in earlier, and Ray glanced down it. He spotted the flowers on the ground at the same time he heard Fraser, beside him, take a deep breath through his nose. Ray was closer, and dodged down the alley, around to the far side of the dumpster.

He didn't have Fraser's super-senses, so he didn't smell it until he saw it: the funeral smell of the flowers was almost hidden under the bright copper stink of blood splashed over the bricks, shot-hot gunmetal gleaming with spit on the barrel. The old guy was neat and tidy in his suit with his hat in one hand. The other hand was lying in his lap, holding the gun as tight as it had held Ray's arm. The mouth he'd wished quiet was hanging open, showing three broken teeth, spattered with blood. Hard to control the recoil when the bullet was passing through your brain.

Ray stood there, his own mouth hanging open. He could hardly breathe for the gun in his mouth. Fraser grabbed him with both hands, one on his face, making him look away, the other on his chest, shoving him back to the opposite wall, and then down to sit on the ground. The hand on his face moved to the back of his neck, forced his head between his knees, but there was no more air there than anywhere else, and Ray struggled up against Fraser's grip. He couldn't help looking, his own eyes feeling as dry and wide as the old guy's, staring back at him. Fraser ran one hand over his chest, down his side, til he found Ray's phone and took it from his pocket, and then he disappeared.

Dief took Fraser's place, stepping in front of Ray, blocking his view, pushing closer and closer until Ray could pretend that the reason he couldn't get any air was the wolf on his chest. He coughed and spat on the ground, but he couldn't get his mouth clear. From far away, Ray heard Fraser say that Detective Vecchio was securing the crime scene, and wondered if he even knew how many lies he was telling in that one sentence.

Dief refused to be shifted from his spot, even when Fraser came back, though after a while he laid down, so Ray could see past him again. There were a half dozen people in the alley, taking pictures and bagging evidence and the body. Fraser was hovering, looking at stuff, sniffing. He licked the back of the dead guy's hand, and Ray thought about telling him how gross that was, but there was no need, not in front of the other guys.

After a while, Dief stood up, and then Fraser was pulling Ray up as well, walking him to a blue-and-white, and climbing into the backseat beside him. They did this way too often, but this time instead of dropping him at the Urgent Care, the car pulled up in front of Ray's apartment building. Fraser got out of the car and walked him up, one hand on his back like he might fall.

Dief slipped into the apartment ahead of them, and headed over to the turtle tank. Fraser dropped his hand, and Ray walked to the couch. He sat down on one end, sideways, to watch the wolf and the turtle, staring at each other. Fraser probably thought they liked each other, some great friendship across species. He probably thought it was like them, one of those things. "What's it called, Fraser? When you say something is something else but they're not the same at all?"

Fraser sat down on the couch, behind him. "A metaphor, Ray?"

Ray nodded, the couch sliding soft against his cheek. "Yeah. It's a metaphor."

He could almost see it, today. Dief's stare into the turtle tank didn't look hungry, just watchful, and Ray could imagine being the turtle, walled off behind glass, sticking close to the heat lamp because his body just couldn't keep itself warm. Kinda funny, because Dief was designed by nature to do nothing better than keeping himself warm, and if the turtle just knew that, and could get outside the glass, and trust Dief not to rip him right out of his shell, he could be warm too, without the lamp, without the glass locking him away.

That was the thing about metaphors, Ray thought. They weren't the same at all.

Fraser, maybe for the first time in the history of the world, picked up the remote and turned on the tv, flipped channels til he found the hockey game. Eastern Conference finals again, Ray saw when he glanced over. Shaping up to another all-night slugging match. "Sorry, Fraser," he muttered. "Haven't got any tea."

"Well, Ray, we aren't in Canada at present. I'm sure whatever you have would be fine."

Ray groped backward with one hand. He got Fraser's wrist, and worked up to the remote from there. "Haven't got anything," he said quietly, and clicked off the tv. He tossed the remote onto the coffee table, and returned his hand to his lap.

After a while, Dief stopped staring at the turtle and laid down in the glow from the tank. Ray could hear Fraser talking, behind him, but the words didn't string together into meanings, and Ray was too tired to try to make them. Fraser appeared between him and the tank, blocking his view, still talking. He looked worried, his eyes dark and riding the edge between fear and anger, all that Mountie concern focused on Ray like laser beams. Looking at Fraser made Ray's chest ache, like Dief was sitting on it, even though he could breathe okay now. He closed his eyes and let the sound of Fraser's words drift around him, and that was easier, and hurt less.

When the pain exploded across his face, Ray wasn't sure what had happened. For a moment he thought he should ignore it, that it couldn't be real, couldn't have actually happened. Then he opened his eyes, and saw Fraser, shaking out his hand and rubbing at his knuckles. His jaw was set tight, his eyes hard. He looked grim, like he'd do it again if he had to. Ray raised his fingers to his face, and lightly probed his cheek. The skin felt hot, when he could bear to touch it, and his cheekbone throbbed. "Fraser," he said, still not quite believing it, "you hit me." A slap, technically, but backhand, knuckles to face, so it might as well have been a punch.

Fraser nodded, like he hadn't been sure Ray would pick up on that.

Ray scrunched his nose and squinted and made stupid hit-assessing faces, buying time, but once he'd figured out that Fraser hadn't actually smacked him all that hard, he still didn't get it, and had to ask. "What'd you do that for?"

The grimness in Fraser's face slipped a little. "I warned you that I would, Ray, repeatedly. All you had to do to stop me was open your eyes."

Ray mustered up the best glare he could pull together, which wasn't so hot, because he was never real good at being mad at Fraser even at the best of times, which this definitely wasn't. "That was not buddies, Fraser."

"Neither was ignoring me, Ray."

Ray had to admit Fraser might have a point there, and gave him a short little nod to say so. "So what'd you want to say that I needed to pay attention for?"

Fraser ran a hand through his hair. "Actually, Ray, I was hoping you would talk to me."

Ray closed his eyes, burrowed the side of his face further into the couch. "I'm still listening, Fraser," he muttered, "don't hit me again."

"I won't, Ray. If anyone ought to be hit at this point, it should probably be me, to even the score."

A hundred words clogged Ray's throat, and he swallowed all of them even though it almost made him choke. He just shook his head. He'd given up on squaring things with Fraser, that was never going to happen.

"Ray," Fraser said, and Ray knew without looking that Fraser was looking concerned again, and shut his eyes harder. "Ray, who was that man in the alley?"

Ray shivered, because now there was just one word in his mouth, and the word was me, but that was dumb. It wasn't him; he was right here. "I don't know, Fraser," he said, finally, but his voice was barely a whisper. His whole life was made of lies, but it was harder to lie to Fraser than anybody.

"It upset you to see him, Ray. Did you know him?"

He shook his head again, but this time the truth slipped out of him. "He knew me, though. He'd talk to me on the street. Last time I saw him, he said he wouldn't see me again." A message, he'd said, and Ray would know it when he saw it.

"Ah," Fraser said. "And, naturally, his suicide--"

The gun was hard in his mouth, heavy and cold, and Ray reached out blindly and managed to get his hand on the serge. "That's not--" It came out a whisper, a lie, but he forced his voice louder. He had to make this true. "It's not like that, Fraser. That's not how it goes. I know how it looked, but it's not, it can't be, he'd never--"

Silence, and he opened his eyes again, to a terrible sadness in Fraser's eyes. "Ray, there was blowback on his hand, and when the gun was bagged, the officer checked; only one round had been fired. In the absence of compelling evidence to the contrary, we must assume that he shot himself."

Ray swallowed hard, shaking his head, but some things were true. Some things you just had to hear from somebody else before you believed them. He clenched his fist, crumpling Fraser's tunic, pulling it all out of alignment.

"Ray--"

"I know, Fraser. I saw it. I know." Ray turned his face away, so he could look at the dark tv screen, instead of Fraser's eyes. Fraser moved closer, pushing Ray back a little so he could sit on the couch, and Ray didn't let go of his tunic. They were reflected, dark and blurry, in the tv screen, by the light of the turtle tank and the evening glow from the windows. Ray almost disappeared in the reflection, just a dark lumpy shape curled into the larger shadow of the couch, but Fraser stood out, his face pale between the red of his tunic and the dark of his hair.

If Fraser wanted him to talk, he should probably talk. Fraser probably had ways of making him, and they probably involved Inuit water torture. Or ice torture, or whatever the Inuit did to people who pissed them off. "Fraser, why are you still in Chicago?"

"What do you mean by that, Ray?" Fraser's voice was soft, soothing, like Ray was a caribou Fraser was trying not to spook right off a cliff.

"I mean, why are you still here? You always say it's for reasons that don't need exploring, but let's explore. And I know about the transfer offer, so don't tell me it's because you can't leave."

Fraser was quiet for a little while, long enough for Ray to close his eyes and settle in to wait. "I wouldn't have said that in any case, Ray," he said quietly. "Though it's not the sort of work or life I'd have chosen for myself, I've enjoyed being in Chicago, and the partnership--"

"Vecchio's gone, Fraser. You're still here."

He felt a hand flat against his calf, warm and steady, and couldn't be bothered to tell Fraser to knock that off. "I wasn't referring to Ray Vecchio, Ray. I was referring to you."

He pushed away the part of him that was happy to hear that, pulled his hand off of Fraser and crossed his arms. It was no good, not now. "Yeah, Fraser, but," he waved a hand loosely around the apartment, trying to indicate his whole life with a left-hand sweep, "y'know. I'm Vecchio, for now. Same thing."

Fraser shook his head. "It's not the same at all, Ray. You're not Ray Vecchio, no matter what you're called at work."

And maybe it really was that simple, for Fraser. Ray thought this not-really-undercover job was probably the worst head-trip he'd ever worked, but for Fraser acted like it was just a little trick with names. "Yeah, I know I'm not Vecchio, Fraser, but I'm pretending to be, and you're pretending like I am, to keep the real Vecchio safe. It's not like we're regular partners."

"You've never truly pretended to be something you weren't, Ray. Not with me." Fraser was giving him that look, again, like he could see Ray, really see him. It made Ray feel stubborn.

"Just because I never made you believe I was Vecchio, that doesn't mean you know everything, Fraser. I've hidden stuff from you, there's stuff you don't know."

"On the contrary," Fraser said, and how the hell could those three words sound sexy? Ray's heart started beating faster. "I don't believe you've hidden much from me at all."

Ray moved closer, steadying himself with a hand on Fraser's knee, feeling like he was moving in a dream. "How'd you know?"

Fraser smiled a little. "I always knew, Ray." For a second, he thought Fraser meant about the dying, but no, he wouldn't be smiling, wouldn't settle his hands on Ray's hips and pull him even closer. "Nearly from the first day we met. I'm a Mountie, we notice these things."

Ray felt his mouth curving a little as he looked down at Fraser looking up at him. "You know if I wasn't crazy in love with you I might have to pop you one for saying stuff like that. I thought you said you weren't a superhero."

Fraser just smiled wider. "Understood, Ray."

Ray licked his lips, and he could almost taste Fraser's smiling mouth. "You never said anything."

Fraser shrugged. "Neither did you. I assumed you had good and sufficient reasons."

Ray nodded, breathless. "Okay, okay, you got a point." And he did. Five minutes, a few days, what difference did it make if Fraser was okay with it? If he was about to die, why not just live like he was about to die?

He swallowed again, and leaned forward, setting his hands gingerly on Fraser's shoulders. Fraser pushed up off the couch to meet him halfway, and when they kissed Fraser's mouth was warm under his, welcoming. He had to taste, and found that Fraser tasted mostly like spit and mint, but distinctly like himself. Ray smiled a little against Fraser's mouth, and leaned in closer, settling to this familiar pasttime, learning the hard and soft and give and take of his partner's mouth. His tongue slid, rough and slick, against Fraser's, tasting him back, and Ray flinched away from the unexpected flavor of blowback.

Fraser didn't say anything, just watched him intently and rubbed at the back of his neck while Ray took a breath. *Not me,* he thought, swallowing hard against the bitter taste, Not me. He smiled a little, for Fraser, leaned forward and laid his cheek against Fraser's. He could hear Fraser breathing in his ear, could feel the rush of it, warm and damp and just a little unsteady. Fraser's hand was still solid against the back of his neck, not pushing him anywhere, just holding on.

Ray ducked his head, and licked along Fraser's jaw. It made Fraser's head tilt away, but the sound he made was more like a moan than anything else, and he was exposing his throat, so Ray went for it, pushing the high collar of the tunic down, mouthing along the back of Fraser's ear and down his throat. He tasted a little bit like soap, but mostly like Fraser, like he was made of snow, if snow could be warm, and breathe raggedly under your tongue. This time, when Ray flinched away, it was because Fraser's hand under his shirt crossed a ticklish spot on his ribs. Fraser looked worried, but Ray leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose before straightening up to struggle out of his t-shirt. He got stuck with the shirt over his head, because he forgot to take his holster off first, and Fraser had to untangle him. When he tossed the shirt away, it skidded past the end of the couch, and thunked hard on the floor, and Ray was glad he was always careful about the safety.

Ray settled his weight against Fraser - let him be the one who couldn't breathe, for once - and Fraser pulled him into another kiss, this time with both hands in Ray's hair, holding him steady. Fraser's tongue pressed into his mouth, and then Fraser breathed into him. Ray pulled away, the inch or so he could with Fraser holding onto him. "What the hell was that, Fraser?"

His lips dragged against Fraser's when he talked, and he could feel Fraser's smile, on his lips and everywhere else on his body. "Buddy breathing, Ray. You seemed to be having difficulty earlier, and I had been wanting to offer you assistance."

Ray kissed Fraser's goofy grin, and tried the buddy breathing thing on him. They went back and forth that way for a while, Ray getting all scratched by the wool and shiny buttons on Fraser's tunic. He didn't mind--he kind of liked getting scuffed up doing something fun, instead of the usual--but even with gravity on his side, between Fraser's serge and pumpkin pants and his own jeans, there were still way too many layers in the way. He managed to get one hand under the serge, onto the buttons of Fraser's pants, and pulled back a little. "Fraser, can I, uh..."

Fraser tilted his head back, and Ray grinned when he realized he had to catch his breath before he could answer. "Anything, Ray. Anything you want."

Ray grinned. "Gonna hold you to that," he muttered, pushing the serge aside. He slid to the floor, between Fraser's legs, to get at the buttons on Fraser's pants. Once he got them undone, he looked up, and realized Fraser had stopped breathing, and was holding perfectly still, biting his lip, watching Ray.

Ray shook his head and climbed back up onto the couch, wrapping one hand around Fraser's dick--hard and hot, even through his shorts, and nearly as big as he'd been imagining all this time-- as he did. "Hey," he whispered, hooking his thumb into Fraser's mouth to hold it open as he forced a breath through his lips. Fraser gave the air back, and Ray rewarded him with a squeeze, which made Fraser pull his mouth away and moan.

"Okay," Ray said, wiggling his thumb a little in Fraser's mouth, where it was trapped, hot and wet, between his tongue and cheek. "Now do I have to do everything, or will you remember to breathe if I get on with what I was doing, there?"

Fraser took a deep breath, his mouth moving like he meant to say something, but finally he just nodded. Ray grinned. Speechless, and Fraser wasn't even out of his shorts yet. He should've done this months ago. He tugged his thumb free--Fraser sucked hard for a second, resisting, and Ray couldn't help thinking hot tight dangerous thoughts. He quickly pulled his hand away, swiping his wet thumb across Fraser's cheek before he slid back to the floor.

Fraser was definitely remembering to breathe as Ray tugged down his pants, and even managed to lift his hips as Ray carefully pulled down his boxers. Ray smiled as he wrapped one hand around Fraser's cock, just as gorgeous as the rest of him, and ignored the throbbing of his own, still trapped in his jeans. It'd been almost as long for him as it probably had for Fraser, and he knew for a fact that the only way to make this last more than about thirty seconds was to keep his pants on.

Ray moved forward, closer, closer, resting his elbows on Fraser's bare thighs. He stroked, slowly, lightly, with one hand, the other on Fraser's hip. He nudged Fraser's dick with his nose, which made Fraser laugh a little, and Ray grinned but didn't look up, inhaling the smell, licking his lips.

He licked slowly, tongue flat and hard, across the head of Fraser's cock, already leaking like crazy, and rolled the bitter clear fluid around his mouth. It was a good taste, but he wanted more. Tightening his grip on the base of Fraser's cock, Ray opened his mouth and took him in. For a moment, he let the head rest in his mouth, and then slowly, remembering to breathe since Fraser was in no position to bail him out, he worked further down, til his lips touched his fist and he could feel Fraser's pulse throbbing in his throat. He swallowed around Fraser's cock, and rode out the helpless thrust of his hips, choking a little but not enough to matter.

Still, it was obvious, from the hand that settled in his hair and held on just a little too hard, and, when he listened, from the voice murmuring his name, steady and breathless, that Fraser was too close for him to mess around. Ray didn't mind. He went at it full speed, alternating depth and suction and working one hand between Fraser's legs. Ray moved his trigger finger to the spot behind Fraser's balls--not too much pressure, just a crook of the fingertip--and just like that, Fraser jerked hard into Ray's mouth and gasped. Ray had to back off to avoid getting choked again, and used his hand to stroke Fraser through it as the salty hot fluid spurted in his mouth. He swallowed, and swallowed again, his eyes prickling, but it was good, really good. Fraser tasted good.

Ray finally let go, resting his forehead against Fraser's belly, letting his mouth hang half-open while he caught his breath, and then Fraser's hand slid out of his hair, and he was being pulled up onto the couch again. He wound up nearly in Fraser's lap, one hip against Fraser's thigh, hauled in close, bare chest to scratchy wool and hard buttons. For a moment, Ray was just held there, in Fraser's arms, and about the time the word hug crossed his mind, Fraser's mouth grazed his cheek, and then settled on his mouth. Ray smiled, when he could get his mouth to work that well, into Fraser's mouth, Fraser's tongue swiping over his, and Ray knew Fraser could taste this, because this was real, Fraser's sex in his mouth. Ray sucked at Fraser's tongue, and Fraser moaned and landed one hand, perfectly, on Ray's dick, still straining inside his jeans.

Fraser pulled back, looked him in the eye, and even this close his blue eyes looked dark, almost black. "Ray," he said, pressing his hand down, making Ray arch up into the contact, "I want you to f--"

Ray buried his face against Fraser's throat, pushing helplessly against his hand. He didn't even last long enough for Fraser to finish the word, nevermind making it a reality. Fraser moved fast, unbuttoning and unzipping, and Fraser's hand was on him, around him, stroking him, before he was finished. Ray slid down, limp, to lie across Fraser's thighs, and eventually opened his eyes again, to see Fraser smiling at him, licking two fingertips. "Next time, then?"

Ray would have come again, right then, if he could. As it was, he nodded, and laid his head back down. His eyes kept closing, and he kept forcing them open, trying to focus on Fraser's face, trying to stay, but Fraser murmured, "It's all right, Ray, I understand." Fraser put one hand, two fingers wet and slick, in his hair, petting him.

With a smile--of course Fraser understood, should've figured Fraser would understand--Ray closed his eyes for good.

The pain only registered for a second, and then there was the much scarier sensation of being flung upward, out of his body and into an endless empty light. He looked down, and saw himself, lying on the floor. He'd fallen awkwardly from the couch. His head was cocked back, his hair darkening wetly as the pool of blood spread from the back of his head. His mouth hung open, showing he'd broken three of his teeth, and there was blood spattered over his lips. One arm was flung across the coffee table, hanging awkwardly in midair, and after a second the muscles of his hand let go, and the gun fell to the wooden surface with a bang.

Ray woke with a start, staring around at the bright-white glare, his arm aching above the elbow and numb below, the taste of blowback and blood filling his mouth so he could hardly breathe. It was only the panicky pounding of his heart that told him he was alive, and he knew that wouldn't last.

After a moment, he realized that the reason he was having so much trouble breathing was that Fraser was wrapped around him, and that his arm hurt because it was trapped under Fraser's shoulder, and that the white was just a combination of morning sunlight through the blinds that he hadn't closed when he went to bed and the fact that his eyes weren't focusing right yet. He lay still, eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe evenly, trying to forget what he'd seen. Trying to ignore what it meant, but he knew that, and knew there was no escaping it. *No time left,* he thought, remembering his own eyes, already dead, No more time. After a few minutes, Fraser shifted and rolled away, leaving Ray cold and squinting in the too-bright room as his arm went pinsand -needles. He realized he had no interest in falling asleep again, and rolled quietly out of bed.

The rest of the apartment didn't get so much sun in the morning, so it was dimmer, normal looking. Just his apartment, nothing odd about it, until he got to the couch. Fraser's serge and uniform pants were draped across the back, where they wouldn't get too wrinkled, and his undershirt and suspenders and Sam Browne and holster were all set neatly on the couch. Their boots stood side-by-side at the coffee table. Ray tried to remember Fraser undressing him, but there was nothing. Hell of a thing to forget, he thought, and tried to smile, but shivered instead, seeing the floor, dry and clean, and the coffee table, neat and empty. He picked up his t-shirt off the floor, nearly dropping his holster on his foot, and pulled the shirt on. It didn't make him feel any warmer, or less naked, but it was something. He carried his holster over to the kitchen, and hung it on the back of a chair.

He made instant coffee with hot water, crunching candies while he stirred, and then chugged the almost-hot drink. He hoped the sugar and caffeine would pick up where the panic wore off, because there was no way he could stay awake on his own. Ray was contemplating a second mug when his brain caught up with him. Maybe he was still going to die, but he also still had his very own personal naked Mountie asleep in his bed. Who needed coffee to stay awake? He dropped the mug into the sink with a clatter and headed back to the bedroom.

Ray took the shirt off again, dropping it on the floor as he picked up the covers, all kicked off the bed. He crawled up next to Fraser, covering himself with the blankets, and lay still on his side, watching him sleep and trying to get warm. Fraser was beautiful when he slept, more human. Even under the morning sunlight, his skin still looked like snow, warm snow.

Ray gave up on the blankets--he knew perfectly well it wasn't that kind of cold that shook him, deep in his gut--and moved closer to Fraser, curling up close but not quite touching. He tucked his head against Fraser's shoulder, and licked the skin there, curious. Tasted less clean, kinda sweaty, but still Ray thought he could detect the Arctic on Fraser's skin, like he carried it around all the time, a full-body tattoo of the north.

He licked again, and Fraser mumbled in his sleep, something that sounded like *Stop it, Dief,* and rolled onto his side, facing away. Ray grinned. If the wolf could be deaf when he felt like it, why not Ray? He scooted closer, hooking one leg over Fraser's to be sure he didn't roll himself right off the edge of the bed, and snugged up against Fraser's back. He was warm-- Mounties were probably bred for that, like wolves and sled dogs-- and when Ray leaned his face against the back of his neck, he found Fraser smelled almost as good as he tasted.

Just when he'd gotten comfy, Ray felt Fraser tense, and leaned harder against him. When he didn't relax, Ray shifted up and licked the back of his ear. That made Fraser twitch, at least, and Ray moved back so he could roll over. He was smiling, and looking a little confused. "Ray?"

Ray grinned back, and ducked his head to lick Fraser's jaw. "I think Dief's on to something with the ear-licking."

For a second, Fraser just looked at him, and then Ray found himself flipped onto his back and pinned down, getting his ear licked by one very determined Mountie. Ray struggled, as best he could while laughing his head off, but he had no leverage. Anyway, Fraser had a killer weight advantage, and Ray was finally starting to feel warm.

He squirmed down a little, and pushed up far enough to lick across Fraser's collarbone, and then lower. His tongue caught the crinkled skin of a hardened nipple, and Fraser jerked away with a little gasp. Ray looked up, and Fraser was looking down at him, surprised. Ray smiled. "Why should wolves have all the fun, huh?"

Fraser blinked a couple of times, and as his breathing slowed down, he said, "Why indeed?" After another second, Fraser laid down beside him.

They were quiet a while. Ray lay still, trying to keep warm, and thinking about what he needed to do today. He had to do something about getting Fraser back to Canada, first off. He tried, for a minute, to think of some clever way to trick him into it, and then he thought, what would Fraser do? It took him a minute, but he figured it out.

"Hey, Fraser," he said, snuggling closer again, "you know what I wanna do?"

He looked over, and Fraser was looking back at him, curious. "What would you like to do, Ray?"

"I wanna go to Canada. Like, way up north, the Territories, your kind of Canada. Will you come with me, show me around?" Fraser was staring at him like he didn't know what to do with that, and Ray dropped the cherry on top, giving him a flash of wide eyes, not enough to be totally obvious, just a hint. "Please?"

Fraser looked as shocked as if Ray had slugged him. More, maybe. "I--of course, Ray, but--"

"Welsh told me to take some time off while I'm thinking over this transfer thing, so now's good." Ray rolled onto his back, unable to keep looking Fraser in the eye. The ceiling, blank white and bright in the sun, reminded him of what he was headed for, and pushed him on. He had to do this, and he had to do it now. "And I bet Vecchio's got a ton of vacation time saved, and what's his is mine, for now."

"Approximately two months," Fraser said, but it was obvious his mouth and his brain weren't really on the same track. "Ray--I-- why?"

Ray grinned, turning his head to meet Fraser's gaze. That was dead easy. "`Cause it's Canada, Fraser. And not, like, Toronto. Serious hard core Canada. I want to see it. I want to see where you come from, okay?"

Fraser blinked a few times, but he was frowning a little now, not like he disagreed but like he was finally managing to wrap his brain around the idea. "I suppose--" he muttered, and then stopped.

Just a little push, and he'd be there. "Come on, Fraser, you must have even more vacation time than me."

Fraser nodded, but didn't spit out a number, which must mean he was actually thinking too much to talk. "I suppose I could," he said finally. "I'd have to go in to work today, and--"

It was Ray's turn for the stunned face. He pushed up on one elbow, squinting at Fraser, *who are you and what have you done with my partner* on the tip of his tongue, except Fraser might not get it. "Wait a minute, Fraser. You weren't going to go to work, otherwise?"

Fraser glanced pointedly behind him at the clock, and Ray looked. Okay, maybe seven was late, for a Mountie. "Answer the question, Fraser."

He blushed a little, and Ray realized that the blush extended further than he'd have thought. Without thinking, he reached out and ran his fingers over the pinked skin on Fraser's breastbone. Fraser cleared his throat. "I, ah, told the inspector yesterday that I expected to be liaising with you all day."

Ray laughed, so loud it echoed a little off the blank bedroom wall, and Fraser smiled uncertainly at him as he caught his breath, clutching one hand against his belly. "Jeez, Fraser, and you didn't even know--"

Fraser smiled, then stopped smiling. "I--well, Ray, you--"

Ray stopped smiling, too. "Yeah," he said, "yeah, well." He blinked a couple of times, trying not to see, trying not to let Fraser see, but if he thought about it, it was probably too late for that, and maybe that would work in his favor. "Just need to get out of the city a while, right? See some snow and some caribou and, uh, polar bears, and I'll be all better." He wondered how it would happen. He could still taste the echo of blowback in his mouth, but he didn't like that answer, didn't have to believe it, even if Fraser did.

"It's not really the season for seeing polar bears," Fraser said, hesitantly, like he didn't want to disappoint, "and the Northwest Territories aren't actually the best locale for that in any case."

"Okay, so we'll do polar bears some other time." Ray crossed eaten by a polar bear off his mental list. "But I want to see where you're from, way up there in the Arctic, okay?"

Fraser nodded. "I'll have to explain to Inspector Thatcher..."

"Just tell her you need some time to think about the transfer thing, Fraser, and it's not like you have urgent duties here that Turnbull can't take over, aside from the liaising stuff which Welsh has already let us off of. I mean, how hard can it be to pick up her dry cleaning and play statue?"

Fraser winced. "There's actually a reason she doesn't send Turnbull on errands, Ray." But he sat up. "If I'm to get her approval for this, I'll need to be on time," he said, glancing at the clock. "I won't have time to take Dief for a run."

Ray scooted into the warm spot Fraser was starting to vacate. "I'll take him. Sleep some more, we'll go to the park, it'll be cool. Can we leave today?"

Fraser smiled, and ran a hand over Ray's hair. "I'll see what I can do."

Ray tried to stay awake, but it was just like being a kid trying to wait up and catch Santa; he crashed instantly. When he opened his eyes next, Fraser was leaning over him in full uniform. He smiled, blinking his eyes into focus--for a second it looked like Fraser was wearing a fur hat, frowning down at him from an old and worried face, but when he got his eyes working right it was the Stetson and a smile--and Ray pushed up on one arm for a good morning and good bye kiss.

Fraser stayed bent over him after the kiss was finished, and then he did frown, just a little. "You do know, Ray," he said, setting his hand on Ray's cheek, "that there's no question of me taking the transfer."

Ray smiled into Fraser's fingers, but his stomach twisted cold. Fraser would take the transfer, or a better one. Ray wasn't going to let him be stuck here, after. They'd stay in Canada as long as they had to, Ray would die in Canada if that was what it took, but he wasn't leaving Fraser in Chicago. "I know, Fraser," he said, with his best undercover smile, "you don't have to lie to her, just tell her I have to think about it and you have to convince me."

Fraser frowned more at that, and Ray thought he was going to ask, thought he was going to have to lie straight out, but then Fraser pulled himself together, and said, "I love you."

Ray smiled for real, and the ice in his stomach melted a little, and his mouth was full of the taste of Fraser and toothpaste. "Was that hard to say?"

Fraser gave him a startled smile. "A little, but no less sincere for all that."

"Yeah, Fraser. I know." He let him twist, just for a second, until he realized Fraser wasn't going to get the Han Solo thing, and then said, "I love you, Fraser."

Fraser nodded. "I'll be in touch, then, when I've spoken to the airline."

Ray nodded back, rolled over, and buried his face in the pillow Fraser had slept on. It seemed like bad luck to watch him leave.

He couldn't get back to sleep, of course, not now that he was half-willing to. The bed, the whole apartment, was too cold without Fraser there. Ray had gotten to the point of being curled into a ball with all the covers pulled over himself, when he heard running feet and then Dief landed with a thump beside him.

Ray pulled the covers down far enough to look at the wolf, who looked back at him for a moment, then cuddled up to the edge of the covers. It wasn't the same as having Fraser around, not by a long shot, but the shivers that had been threatening to overtake him went away, and after a while Ray sat up. "Okay, Dief, thanks. Go sit with the turtle, I'm taking a shower." Dief followed him, though, til Ray turned him away at the bathroom door, and even then he whined before he finally backed off.

Ray showered fast, and as soon as he was dressed, Dief was back to following him around. He stood in the kitchen, chugging more instant coffee and refusing to share his candy. "No way, Dief. Chocolate is poison to dogs, you know that."

Dief grumbled, but stayed.

"Okay," Ray muttered, walking around, tracking stuff down. Fraser had put his jeans in the dirty laundry heap in the bathroom, and he had to dig the transfer offer of the pocket, smoothing it carefully. The print had worn off at some of the creases, but it didn't look like this was the part he had to file anyway. Still, he made sure to take it with him when he left.

Dief made nice with Barry's secretary, who seemed to be used to people coming in with dogs, but Ray guessed that was part of the business. When Barry came out, Ray apologized for dropping in, but he said, "Don't worry about it, none of my clients are good at making or keeping appointments. I'm thinking of doing away with them; I could be the Walk-In Urgent Care Attorney."

Ray grinned, and followed him into the office. He didn't bother to sit down, and Barry looked at him curiously from behind the desk. "I just need to add another code-thing on my will."

Barry didn't bother telling him the right word, just opened the file in front of him and picked up a pen. "Okay, Ray, what did you want to say?"

Ray took a deep breath. "I want to be buried near where I die. I mean, if I die somewhere away from Chicago, I want to be buried there."

Barry looked up at that, eyebrows high. "Relocating, Ray?"

Ray shrugged. "I'm going on vacation in Canada with my, uh," he was leaving, he was never coming back, why the hell not? "My boyfriend. And I don't want him to have to worry about hauling my carcass back here, if something happens. I want that in writing, so he won't have to argue with anybody about it."

"Ah," Barry said, nodding calmly, back into cool lawyer mode. "That's probably wise."

Ray waited for some kind of response to the "boyfriend" thing, and he must have had a waiting-for-it look on his face, because when Barry looked up again, he smiled. "Ray, you put him in your will three months ago. Naturally in your line of work you have to be discreet, but I understand."

"Oh," Ray said, "Yeah. Okay." Boyfriend, he thought, a little dazed. What a weird word.

Welsh looked surprised to see him again, but Ray just laid out the pages on his desk. "I'm accepting the transfer," Ray said firmly, not looking down at Dief even when he sunk his teeth into the sleeve of Ray's coat.

"Okay," Welsh said after a minute. "Okay." He pulled out a couple of forms and set them down, and Ray signed his own name, his real name, for the first time in months.

He took off the holster, pulling the gun out to set it down separately. It dropped the last half inch from his hand, because he almost couldn't let it go, even though he knew he should be nothing but glad to see the last of it. Hands steady, no hesitation, he set the badge next to it, and then the wallet with all his Vecchio ID. He tried to tell himself that none of this stuff was his, just props for a job, that turning it in meant nothing, but he knew better than that. That was his gun, his badge, his wallet, a him he wasn't going to be anymore. Ray stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from snatching them back.

Welsh unlocked a desk drawer, and took his old wallet out of a sealed evidence back, slid it across the desk. Ray didn't bother opening it, just stuffed it into his pocket where it belonged, and at least his pocket wasn't empty, at least he was somebody.

"It's been a pleasure working with you, Kowalski. Someone will be in touch about your next assignment, once the paperwork is done and the Feds have cleared this."

Ray shrugged, ignoring how it felt different without a holster. "Me and Fraser, we're going to Canada for a while. I'm not sure when I'll be back, but I got the vacation time, I'll do the paperwork when I figure out who to give it to."

Welsh looked startled, and said, "You and Fraser are going to Canada."

Ray nodded, shifting on his feet, then making himself stop. If he could tell Barry, why not Welsh? But that word wouldn't come anymore, he'd thought about it too much on the way over. "Yeah, me and Fraser, uh, together."

"Together," Welsh repeated, and he rocked back in his seat, eyebrows up a little, and Ray knew he didn't have to use any funny words. Welsh was a cop, he got this. "So I shouldn't rush to get your badge back for you."

Ray shook his head. "Like I said, I'm not sure I'll be back."

Welsh's eyes narrowed. "You said you weren't sure when, Kowalski."

Ray nodded, too fast, his fingers curling in his pockets, safe out of sight. "Yeah, that's what I meant."

Welsh stared at him a while longer, and Ray knew what he was going to say long before he said it. "Well, Detective, you just stick close to Fraser up there."

Ray nodded. It was one of those things, you couldn't question it.

Ray meant to just get the hell out of the station, but Dief took off down the hall in the opposite direction. Ray took a few running steps after him, and made it around the corner just in time to see the door to the basement stairs swinging shut behind the wolf. He stopped, then, in the hallway, and thought about just letting him go. He could wait in the car or something, Dief would turn up eventually. Murphy's Law went double for Dief, and Ray knew exactly where the wolf would have gone. Just thinking about the morgue turned his stomach right now, nevermind going down there.

Ray looked around, trying to decide what he was doing, and, hell, Frannie and Dewey stepped out of the lunch room, arguing about something or other--pirates, sounded like. In another minute one of them would spot him, and they'd find out and Frannie would spill the beans and Fraser would find out, and...

Ray dodged down the hallway, headed for the stairs at a run. As soon as he was through the door, he was yelling. "Dief! Come on, we got places to--"

His foot caught on the third step, and just like that he was pitching forward toward the concrete floor at the bottom of the steep old stairs. It happened fast, so he only had time to think Jesus, Kowalski, what a-- before everything stopped.

He still fell, a little, hitting his knees on the fifth step, and Mort scrambled down after him, one big hand wrapped around Ray's arm, just above the elbow. "Ray, are you all right?"

Ray wrapped both sweating hands around the railing and shook his head. His arm hurt like a son of a bitch where Mort had caught him, and his guts hadn't really gotten with the not-splatteredon -the-floor program just yet. His heart was pounding, and he couldn't breathe right.

Mort didn't let go of his arm, and after a while, he said, "Come on with me, Ray," and hauled Ray up. Old guys, always stronger than they looked. Ray managed to unclench one hand from the railing, and trailed the other along it as Mort pulled him downstairs. They went past the morgue entrance, to a small room with a couple of tables and some filing cabinets. Ray sat down when Mort moved him in front of a chair, and stayed there, staring at the floor, until a cup of coffee appeared in front of him. He opened his mouth to take a sip, and words slipped out of him.

"I should be dead."

Mort, sitting across from him, huffed into his coffee, sounding amused or maybe annoyed. "You think so?"

Ray glanced up at Mort, old eyes studying him like he was laid out on a table. "It's the one thing that's sure, isn't it? Dying?"

"Death and gravity, Ray, but here we are. You think you were supposed to die just now?" Mort laid one arm flat on the table, and rolled up his sleeve, and Ray's stomach turned when he saw the numbers. He'd seen tattoos like that before, people his parents knew. No one ever spoke of them, his mother had slapped him once, a little, for staring. He couldn't stop staring now, but Mort wasn't offended, just tapped one thick finger against his forearm and said, "Every day I see this, and I know: I was supposed to die. And here I am. Nothing is certain, nothing."

Ray shook his head, though he half-expected to get smacked for contradicting. "Everybody dies, Mort. You know that."

"Oh, well." Mort waved his hand, the motion exaggerated by the flapping of his half-unrolled sleeve, shooing Ray's words like flies. "Everyone dies, what does that mean? Everyone is born, too, but that doesn't mean everyone comes into the world the same, destined for the same things. I read once that death is the last great adventure. There's nothing certain about it."

Ray stared at Mort's arm, and slowly rubbed his own, where bruises would rise by morning, if there was a morning. "I'm going on an adventure, Mort. Going to Canada, with Fraser, that'll be like an adventure, huh?"

"Everything is an adventure with that one, Ray." Ray breathed something like a laugh; if he asked, maybe Mort at least would tell him to get the hell away from Fraser if he wanted to live another day. "You have a good time, it'll be good for you."

Ray nodded, and stood up. "I gotta find Dief, Mort. Thanks for, uh. Thanks."

Mort nodded, and rolled down his shirt sleeve. Ray finally managed to tear his eyes away, and when he looked out into the hall, Dief was sitting there. He got all the way to the doorway, but Dief didn't move, watching Ray like he was waiting for something. Ray stopped, took a deep breath, and turned back. Damn wolf.

Mort looked up from refastening his sleeve with an inquiring smile.

"They brought in a guy," Ray said, slowly, forcing the words. He didn't want to know, he had to know. He was down here, alive, for a reason, wasn't he? "Yesterday. Suit, gunshot..."

Mort nodded. "Yes, I was sad to see Mr. Maly again under such circumstances."

Ray's guts twisted. A name, that made it worse somehow. "You knew the guy?"

Mort made a so-so gesture. "He found his way down here once, a few years ago, and introduced himself to me. He was quite taken with the dead, and he was harmless and had noplace else to go, so I let him stay a little while."

Ray swallowed hard. "Did he, uh, he say anything to you?"

Mort frowned at Ray, intent, then nodded, slowly. "He told me the numbers on my arm, clear as if he read them," and it went without saying there was no way that happened. Mort shrugged, his frown disappearing. "The doctors called it schizophrenia, but maybe he was on to something. I can't say he was wrong about anything he told me."

Ray nodded again, turning to follow Dief down the hall. Death might not be certain--if anyone would know, it'd be Mort--but Mr. Maly... he'd been onto something.

Ray bought a hot dog from a corner cart, and Dief drooled after it all the way to the park. Ray broke off a piece as he sat down on a bench, and held it where Dief could see it. "Bark once for yes and twice for no, Dief. We didn't go see Welsh today."

Dief, smart wolf, barked once. "Did we go see Welsh?"

He barked twice.

"Did we go see Barry?"

Dief looked puzzled. Ray sighed. "Did we go see the lady who fed you mints off her desk while I wasn't looking?"

Dief barked twice.

"Did we go see Mort?"

Dief wagged his tail, but when Ray waved the hot dog at him, he barked twice.

"Good. Did we sleep late, and come straight to the park after?"

Dief barked once, and Ray tossed him a piece of the hot dog. He looked at the other piece, and then back at the wolf. "Are you just telling me what I want to hear, Dief?"

Dief tilted his head, and stared at Ray like he didn't understand the question. "Yeah," Ray muttered, "I don't know what I want you to say either." Ray flicked the other half of the hot dog into the air, a quick motion of the wrist, and Dief made it disappear with a snap of gleaming teeth.

He managed to make it back to Fraser's office without either Thatcher or Turnbull noticing him, and hesitated a second in the doorway. Fraser was filling out paperwork, had stacks of forms piled all over his desk, his hand flying, and his face set in a frown that meant he was either concentrating really hard on what he was doing, or really pissed off. When Ray stepped inside and shut the door and he still didn't look up, he figured it was the first one.

Ray knocked on the inside of the door, and when Fraser finally looked up, an irritated look probably meant for Turnbull breaking into a grin, he held up the deli bag. "Brought you lunch, figured you might not remember to go."

Fraser grimaced at his desk, and Ray added, "Or if you did remember, I thought the Ice Queen might have you chained up in here."

Fraser's lips pressed together, like he was trying not to laugh, or trying not to agree. Ray set the bag down in the middle of the page Fraser had been working on, and pulled up the stack of storage boxes that Fraser had okayed the last time he wanted something to sit on. Fraser moved all the paperwork, neatly crossing the stacks so they'd stay separated, and then opened up the bag. He pulled out the bottle of tea, sandwich, bag of chips, and pickle, and then frowned at Ray. "You didn't get anything for yourself?"

Ray shook his head. "It's early for me, Fraser, I just woke up. I can't stand anything more solid than coffee for a few more hours." The food would taste like sawdust, he knew, and watching him try and fail to eat it would do nothing to reassure Fraser. Still, Fraser handed him the chips, and he knew better than to argue. Better this than the sandwich.

Fraser ate quickly, like he was starving, but still neatly, and Ray crunched through the bag of chips, because he knew Fraser would call him on it if he didn't. They actually tasted okay, salt and grease scouring his mouth. He stole a sip from Fraser's tea to wash them down, earning himself a smile.

Fraser glanced around, and said, "Where's--" just as something crashed outside the office, tailing off into a series of smaller banging noises, and Turnbull started shrieking. Dief's barking, a stranger's voice complaining, and Thatcher's yelling completed the Consulate Disaster Symphony, and Fraser set his sandwich down and stood up, looking grim. Ray tossed the rest of the chips on the desk.

"Maybe I should--"

Fraser nodded. "I think that would be best."

Fraser stepped out of the office first, drawing fire from the screaming horde, covering Ray while he snuck out the back. By the time he got to the car, Dief was waiting by the passenger door. Ray pointed, two fingers because this was serious. "You interrupted Fraser's lunch, buster."

Dief had the decency to look ashamed.

"Back seat," Ray said, unlocking the door, "And no donuts."

Dief deserted him for the turtle as soon as they got back to the apartment, leaving Ray to check his phone messages. There was just one, from Fraser. He must have left it while they were out.

"Ray," he said, sounding much less harassed than he'd looked half an hour before, "you must still be sleeping. I've arranged our tickets as far as Yellowknife. The flight from Chicago to Edmonton leaves at eight thirty, so if you pick me up from the Consulate at six we should make it in time. Call me if you want advice on packing."

Ray listened to the message a couple more times, and then looked around the apartment. Fraser wasn't coming back here, would never see it again, until after. Ray saved the message, so he could listen to it again if he wanted to, and then pulled out the phone book. He had a lot of packing to do, to say nothing of the turtle.

He'd boxed up the kitchen and taken the contents of the fridge and freezer down to the dumpster by the time the knock on the door came. He opened it, and there was Jennie, her hair in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a UC sweatshirt. "Hi," he said, with a smile that almost felt real, "come on in. The turtle's over here."

Jennie followed him across the apartment, and knelt down to peer into the turtle tank, hardly seeming to notice Dief. "This is so cool of you, Ray, I can't believe you thought of me. Lily's wanted a turtle for ages, but we never get around to it. She goes on about how they're so significant in native mythology, the foundation of the world and all that, but I think it's just because she's allergic to everything with fur."

Dief backed away a little, and Jennie finally noticed he was there, and smiled. "Sorry sugar." She scratched him behind the ears, turning Dief into an instant puddle of wolf-goo. "I'm not, but if I get any of your hair on me, Lil won't be able to breathe and she'll make me do all the laundry again."

Dief barked, and headed over to the couch, where he sat and watched Jennie adoringly from a safe distance. Jennie went back to checking out the turtle. "So why do you have to get rid of him? Is he too high maintenance?" She glanced over at Dief, and added, "Or do these guys not get along?"

Ray ran a finger across the glass of the turtle's tank. "Nah, they get along great. Best buddies. But I'm going away, up to Canada, and that's not such a great place for turtles, he wouldn't be able to hack it up there, not like Dief."

"Canada?" She said it with a little nose-wrinkle, and he remembered that she'd said once that Chicago was as far north as she was ever going, for love or money. "What's in Canada?"

He smiled, and the expression came almost easily to his face, if only for Jennie's sake. "My, uh, my partner? You know how you said you never know?" He shrugged, and said, "Now I know."

Her jaw dropped, and her eyes went huge. "Ray, you're shitting me."

He shook his head. "He's Canadian. Dief goes with him, actually. So we're going up there, probably not coming back."

Jennie hugged him. "Ray, that's great. I mean, wow, moving to Canada, but, wow!" Ray nodded, and smiled, and Jennie stepped back. "Are you sure you're okay with it?"

"Oh, yeah, it's... it's been a long time coming. Just, we're leaving today, so I'm kinda--" Ray waved his arm around the apartment. "Trying to get everything squared away, he's stuck at work, it's a little crazy."

"Oh, wow. Do you need help with anything?"

Ray looked around. "Uh, do you want any CDS?"

He helped Jennie carry most of his cDs and all the turtle stuff down to Lily's car, carefully seatbelting everything in place. Jennie gave him another hug before she left. "You're sure you don't mind if we call him Ray Junior?"

Ray grinned, fighting the impulse to take his turtle and run. "Nah."

Ray did reach into the tank then, and pulled the turtle out, but he planted his feet, made no sudden moves, and held him out to Dief, who was sitting on the sidewalk watching them. "Say bye, now."

Dief touched his nose to the turtle's head, and gave him a very careful lick. The turtle, weirdly, didn't pull into its shell, didn't seem to mind at all. One of his legs, dangling in midair, kicked out, whacking Dief lightly on the snout, like a friendly punch on the arm. Ray petted the turtle, and then put him back with steady, unconcerned hands, and shut the car door. "Thanks for taking this stuff, Jen, I owe you."

"No, Ray, this is really great." Jenny's ponytail bounced around with her enthusiasm, so Ray nodded. You had to believe a ponytail like that. "Keep in touch, okay? Write, if you can't call."

Ray nodded. "I'll send postcards, you can put `em up at the bar."

Jennie grinned. "Send one for Junior, too, we'll put it up in his tank."

Ray grinned back, trying not to think of a picture of glaciers, taped to the glass, turning yellow under the heat lamp. He waved until Jennie was out of sight around the corner, and then he looked down at Dief, who was still staring after the car. "He's not coming back, buddy. You're gonna have to deal."

Dief laid down on the sidewalk, and put his head on his paws. Ray watched him mope for a minute, and then said, "Okay, well, come upstairs when you want. I gotta call Fraser."

When he got back up to the apartment, though, the phone was ringing. He grabbed it just as the machine picked up, shutting the message off. "Hey."

"Ray, I thought I'd somehow missed you again. I didn't have time to ask, earlier, did you get my message?"

Ray was tempted to recite it back to him word for word, but 1) that was pathetic, and b) Fraser might think he was making fun of him. "Yeah, I got it. I should pack warm stuff, I guess?"

"Yes, but don't bother with a coat, we'll buy you a proper one in Edmonton, we have a few hours there."

Ray nodded, watching the door, waiting for Dief to come back. On cue, he nosed it open and slunk through, and came over to sit on Ray's feet.

"Fraser, I think I broke your wolf. I gave a friend of mine the turtle to watch while we're gone, and now he's just sitting here, looking depressed."

Fraser didn't sound too worried about Dief, kind of amused. "I thought they were mortal enemies, Ray."

"No, Fraser, course not. They're buddies, they're tight. It shouldn't work, but it does." Like me and you, but he didn't say that part out loud. If Fraser didn't see it, he didn't.

"Ah," Fraser said, "I see," and it sounded like he actually did.

Ray reached down and scratched Dief behind the ears, but he obviously didn't have the pretty girl touch, because Dief just went on sitting there, looking like he'd been kicked in the teeth. "Well, I guess a trip to Canada will cheer him up, right?"

"Ah," Fraser said, again, in a different way, and cleared his throat. "Actually, Ray, I was calling to ask if you would drop Dief at the Vecchios' before picking me up from the Consulate. Francesca has kindly agreed to watch him, and spare him a stay in quarantine coming and going."

*Fraser, you can't leave him, don't you know you're not coming back?* But he couldn't say that, had to stick to what he could say. "Fraser, he can't stay here, he's a wolf, he belongs up north."

Fraser still didn't sound too worried. "Well, Ray, why don't we leave it up to Dief? He's certainly a wolf who knows his own mind. Ask him if he wants to accompany us to Inuvik on holiday."

Ray sighed, and looked down at Dief, enunciating carefully, holding the right answer firmly in mind. "Hey, Dief, wanna go to Inuvik?"

Dief jumped almost straight up into the air, pushing off from Ray's ankle and throwing him off balance. By the time he'd steadied himself on the counter, Dief had vanished.

"Ray?" Fraser said, when he got the phone back to his ear, "Ray? What did he say?"

Ray stepped cautiously out of the kitchen, and spotted the tip of Dief's tail, before that disappeared too. "He's, uh. He's hiding under the couch, Fraser."

"Ah." Ray could get to hate that word. It wasn't even a word. "Well, Ray, that seems fairly definitive."

Ray knew better than to ask Fraser to make Dief come along; all he'd get would be a really long lecture on how Dief didn't belong to Fraser, how they were friends and Dief was free to do what he liked. "Yeah," Ray said, rubbing his shin. "I'll drop him at Frannie's. I was gonna call you, too, Fraser, I wanted to ask if you put a name on my plane ticket."

There was a long pause, and Ray could almost see Fraser, tilting his head, trying to work out the answer Ray wanted to hear. "Yes, Ray, I did."

"Yeah," Ray said, trying to sound cool, like this was nothing, just something he forgot to mention, "I figured. I just wondered if you could make mine Kowalski, `cause I talked to Welsh and I got that okayed. So I can use my own name, go on a real vacation, instead of pretending to be Ray Vecchio taking a vacation."

"Yes," Fraser said again, "I see the distinction," although this time it kinda sounded like he didn't. "I can call and change it."

"Thanks, Fraser. So, uh, pack warm stuff but forget the coat, and I'll see you at six, right?"

"Perfect, Ray. I'll see you at six."

Ray hung up the phone. He thought about trying to talk Dief out from under the couch, but figured it was probably better to let him work up to it on his own.

Instead, Ray packed. Everything that didn't go in the duffle-- almost all his socks, long sleeved shirts, jeans, sweats, underwear--went into garbage bags, to be dragged down to the St. Vincent's drop off. The cDs he'd kept back from Jennie, and his LPs, went in a box marked `Stella'. The chili pepper lights, after he'd stared at them for a moment and turned them on and off a few times, went in a plastic bag and then the duffle, carefully padded with socks. He kind of liked the thought of Fraser having them, wherever he was. After.

Five rolled around pretty fast, and Ray got the car packed and then came back up to negotiate with Dief. He was still under the couch, staring toward the spot where the turtle had been. Ray moved into his line of sight, laying on the floor, and Dief looked away. Ray reached out, quick, like a sucker punch, and closed one hand over Dief's muzzle, making him look. "Give it up, Dief, there's no future in it. He's a turtle. He'd never make it--" Dief, very deliberately, closed his eyes. Ray sighed.

"Okay, okay." Dief opened his eyes again. "You're staying too, you're going to Frannie's. Jennie works at a bar, called Casey's, it's over there." Ray pointed in the general direction. "About five or six miles. You remember what Jennie smells like?"

Dief shook off Ray's hand, and gave him a small bark, and a tail thump. "You can't go in the apartment, but maybe if you visit Jennie at the bar she can bring the turtle around, you can hang out or something. Okay? Deal?"

Dief scrambled out from under the couch and trotted over to the front door, tail waving. Ray muttered, "Dumb wolf," to the floorboards, but he didn't mean it. Dief licked his hands while he was locking up, and he knew he was forgiven.

Ray pulled up in front of the Consulate at five fifty-eight. A cab pulled up right behind him a minute later, and five minutes after that--just when he was starting to seriously consider going in and dragging Fraser out--the door opened. Thatcher and Fraser both came out, Fraser carrying a huge backpack and dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, Stetson in hand. He walked Thatcher to her cab, and Ray watched in the rear view as he bent over to speak to her, fighting down a stupid stab of jealousy. Fraser wasn't going to stop being polite just because Ray was there.

Finally, the cab pulled away, and Fraser came over. Ray popped open the back door, and Fraser set his bag next to Ray's and then climbed in the front seat. He smiled at Ray, and Ray wanted to-- what the hell, he was never coming back here, Thatcher was gone, God knew where Turnbull was, and who the hell cared?--Ray leaned over and kissed him. He felt Fraser startle, and then he started to kiss him back. Ray remembered to pull away, eventually, because the gear shift was digging into his side. "Hey," he muttered, moving back into his own seat, licking his lips for the lingering taste of Fraser. "Hi."

Fraser smiled. "Hello, Ray. My day is suddenly improving."

Ray thought of the empty apartment he'd left, echoing and dim, and said, "Yeah, mine too. Hey--" he shifted, reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet, "Look, check this out. I'm Ray Kowalski." He flipped it open, and showed Fraser his driver's license, the real one, with the picture that was nearly old enough to get a license itself, him with stupid hair and ugly glasses and a weird smile, not like the too-perfect ID pictures on all his Vecchio stuff.

Fraser smiled. "It's very nice, Ray." Ray waited, realized that it was like saying boyfriend to Barry, he was waiting for something to change, now that Fraser knew that he was really him. But Fraser just went on smiling, because Fraser really had always known.

Ray flipped the wallet shut and tucked it back in his pocket. "I don't know if you get this, Fraser. In America, this is a big thing, showing somebody your driver's license picture, this is bigger than letting them see you naked."

Fraser's eyebrows went up. "Is that so?" He leaned forward, pressed a brief kiss to Ray's mouth, just long enough to make him smile into Fraser's lips. "I suppose reciprocation is appropriate, then." He pulled out his own wallet and opened it up, offering Ray his license.

Ray stared for a minute. "Fraser? Is that actually you?"

Fraser chuckled. "I assure you I wouldn't carry it if it weren't. I'd just come off a long patrol, and the photographer was about to fly out."

Ray stared some more. He couldn't stop; it was so horrible it was almost hypnotic, like a picture of a train wreck. "The beard is kind of cute. Y'know, scruffy."

Fraser really laughed, then. "Ray, I look like a hermit who's just been dragged out of his cave."

Ray grinned. "Yeah, but still hot, Fraser."

That got him a blush, and Ray turned and faced forward. "Okay. I guess we got a plane to catch, huh?"

Fraser was shifting around distractingly in his seat, his hips all over the place as he jammed his wallet back into his jeans. "That we do, Ray."

Traveling with Fraser was a surreal experience. Everything happened on time. Everyone was nice. They got the exit aisle seats, and there were no crying babies. Ray wondered, halfseriously, most of the way to Edmonton, if he'd actually missed dying and was in some weird kind of heaven, especially when he woke up from a nap to find Fraser's flannel shirt was draped over him. Fraser was reading the in-flight magazine, and acted like he had no idea how it had gotten there. Ray just stuck his arms through the sleeves and buttoned up.

He and Stella had always fought on the handful of plane trips they'd taken, in whispers and glares. By halfway through the flight whoever was more miserable wound up pretending to sleep, face turned away, and the one who was more furious sat glaring out the window. He and Fraser shared the armrest by holding hands. They didn't talk; there was nothing much to say. Ray wondered if that was it's own kind of finished thing, not ended but complete, when you got to where you didn't have to say another word to the person. Maybe he'd been wrong; maybe he and Fraser weren't as much in the middle of things as he'd thought, a couple of days ago. Of course, wherever the hell they were, it wasn't the same as where they'd been then. Ray smiled into the darkness outside the window, and when he squeezed Fraser's hand, Fraser squeezed back.

He dozed, somehow, on the way from Yellowknife to Inuvik, tucked in among sacks of mail and crates of canned fruit, wrapped in his hugely puffy coat from the camping store in Edmonton. Fraser came back from his seat beside the pilot, a smile on his face that made Ray understand how you could say a person was glowing. "We're here, Ray."

Ray pulled his coat on properly, picked up his bag, and let Fraser help him out of the plane. They walked to the edge of the airstrip, and Ray stopped dead and stared.

The sky was uniformly pale grey, and huge. That kind of sky in Chicago had always felt like a blanket, reminded him of the forts he'd made with his brother, forever about to fall in on them. Here, it was something else, something he didn't have words for, flying out in every direction. It was like a whole different world.

The sun came out, setting the sky and the snow ablaze, bright white, and Ray squinted against the glare as Fraser took his hand. His hand was warm in Fraser's, and his face was warm under the sun, and Ray knew.

"Hey, Fraser," he said, "do you know any metaphors about love and death?"

Fraser squeezed his hand but was silent for a minute, til Ray looked away from the shining snow, over at him. "Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm," Fraser said, quietly, looking into Ray's eyes, like he meant it, "For love is strong as death."

Ray felt his smile widen, til he thought his face would crack in the chilly air. "Yeah, that's good, Fraser, that's a good metaphor."

Fraser's smile crinkled, a little confused. "Actually, Ray, it's a simile."

Ray shook his head, looking back to the sky. "Don't argue with me, Fraser, I know a metaphor when I hear it and that's a metaphor." His whole life was shining bright before him, and he finally knew what he was seeing. This whiteness before him was a blank canvas, and Ray knew one thing for sure. "They're not the same at all."

Ray smiled and stretched, careful not to dislodge the turtle lying on his stomach or stray off the sleeping mat that he'd placed between the Hudson's Bay blanket and the cold wooden floor. Just like old times, except the cat had been a lot cuddlier than Junior.

His smile slipped a little as he cracked his eyes open, and stared up at the grow light. Even augmented with the string of chili pepper lights, wrapped around the stand and one side of Junior's tank, it wasn't the same as the sun.

He hadn't seen the sun since they went down to meet his parents in Chicago for Christmas, and not because the weather had been bad since they got back. The weather, according to Fraser, had actually been uncommonly fine for the past few weeks. The problem was, there was no daylight. At all. Because this was January in the Arctic. It turned out Ray didn't do so well in the dark.

The grow light, which heated Junior's tank when Ray wasn't borrowing it, had been a Christmas present from Fraser to Ray. Agreeing to use it had been Ray's gift to Fraser that kept on giving. He couldn't really tell if it was helping, but when he'd said that to Fraser, he'd gotten kind of a funny look. "Well, Ray," he said, "you're awake and having this conversation with me, and wearing pants. Two weeks ago you wouldn't have gotten this far."

Ray hadn't gotten as far as pants yet, today. And he wasn't sure that lying on the floor under the grow light was technically much different from still being in bed, but he had his fingers crossed that Fraser would think so. Symbolically crossed, anyway. His actual fingers were resting on Junior's shell, making sure he didn't take a header onto the floor.

The door opened and closed again quickly, and the draft reached Ray about the same time as Dief. The wolf threw himself down at Ray's side, and Ray cracked his eyes open again to see him lay his head down next to the turtle on Ray's stomach, not quite touching. Ray shifted one hand to give Dief a scratch hello.

He didn't hear Fraser crossing the room, just looked up to see him dropping to his knees at the edge of the blanket. He reached across Ray to warm his hands by the light, and without looking down, said, "How are you doing today?"

Ray looked away from Fraser's face. He'd learned, by now, not to lie on questions like that. "Not so bad," he said after a minute, having given it some thought. "Still dark, still sucks."

When he glanced up, Fraser was nodding. "What were you thinking about?"

Ray felt an almost painfully intense burst of gratitude for the grow light and the blanket all of a sudden, because for once he didn't have to say, "kitchen knives," or, "walking into the snow," or, "sleeping forever."

He gestured around at his setup on the living room floor. "I was remembering when I was a little kid, I would do this. January, February, when the afternoons started getting long and sunny but it was still too cold to play outside, I'd come home after school and lay down in a patch of sun on the carpet, and the cat would lay there with me, and we'd zonk out til dinner."

Fraser smiled, then, and ran a hand through Ray's hair. "That sounds nice. Though I understand the light works better if you have your eyes open."

Ray smiled back, feeling warmed. How long since he'd seen that look on Fraser's face? "Details, details," he said.

Fraser settled a hand on his shoulder. "I want you to come outside with me, Ray, just for a few minutes."

Ray blinked, trying not to let his resistance show on his face, but going outside meant way more than pants, it meant another pair of socks, sweaters, boots, parka, hat, gloves, and he'd have to wash first or everything would stink, and...

Fraser saw it on his face, or maybe already knew. "Just to the doorway," he said, softly, "boots and bring the blanket, all right?"

Ray nodded, because no way was he gonna let Fraser down, not today when he'd smiled. He sat up and moved Junior back into his tank, carefully repositioning the light. Then, pulling the blanket around himself, he padded toward the door, watching his feet move across the floor. He had woolly red socks to go with his long johns, so he looked like he was wearing footie pajamas. That's why he'd been on the floor in the first place, having his little pajama party, he'd figured he might as well work the look.

Fraser steadied him as he stepped into his boots, and then stood checking him over for a minute. Ray spread his arms a bit, but Fraser shook his head, tucking the blanket closer, and then pulled a toque off one of the hooks by the door and pulled it onto Ray's head. It was blue and red striped, with a half-andhalf pom-pom. Ray didn't bother glaring at Fraser, because there was no way around looking like a five-year-old at this point, he didn't have to throw a tantrum on top of it. Instead, he clomped over to the door and let himself out. Fraser followed close behind him, caught him before he moved more than a step from the door. "Just here," he murmured, close to Ray's ear. "Watch."

He leaned back in the circle of Fraser's arms, though wasn't sure what he was supposed to be watching until he realized that he wasn't just imagining things--the sky off to the south was blue, not black. He waited, almost holding his breath, until the sun appeared, and then, squinting against the glare, he kept watching until Fraser pushed his face aside. "I can't have you burning your retinas, Ray."

Ray looked at Fraser--Fraser in daylight, smiling, and how the hell long had it been since he saw that?--and didn't need to look at the sun anymore. Fraser's smile widened under Ray's eyes. "You made it," he said quietly, and Ray nodded. He hadn't been sure he would, and he knew Fraser hadn't been sure either.

He leaned forward and kissed Fraser, under the sun, just at the corner of his mouth where Fraser could be mostly spared the taste of his breath. "C'mon," he muttered. "Let's go inside, Fraser. Take a shower, huh?"

Fraser gave him a warm look, and Ray thought that maybe getting as far as pants was overrated. He didn't look back as they went inside, nor out the window, even though it was his last chance for a glimpse of the sun until tomorrow's noon. It seemed like bad luck to watch it go.

End That Good Night by Dira Sudis: dsudis@yahoo.com

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