Disclaimer: AA ownes 'em. I don't.

Author's Notes: Um. References to possible character death. Inspired by one of Manna LaDroit's wonderful stories and, somewhat, by 'It's a Wonderful Life' and numerous other ghost stories.

Story Notes: This is a ghost story, so there is some disturbing imagery, horror elements and so forth. There are also displays of grief. I can't really say anymore without damaging the story tension. Not related to my 'Taking out the Trash' or 'Long Journey Home' work. Spoilers for various episodes: Mounty on the Bounty and Strange Bedfellows for sure.

Dream Lover, Part 1

*he was so cold. so cold. there had been nothing but darkness for so long. no hope and his strength was gone.*

Ray needed him and it was that which drove Fraser out of a murky, cold darkness and goaded him until the familiar outlines of the 27 bullpen developed out of the silence like a photograph in a developer. Once there, though, Fraser stood motionless and silent next to the scuffed door to the men's room.

Something was terribly wrong. Fraser patted his face then slid a hand over his close cropped hair, worried. He couldn't feel any bandages, or suspicious swellings but he seemed . . . colorblind. The familiar landscape; hallways, the busy clutter and noise of beat cops, suspects, victims and detectives was drawn from a muted palette of grays, dull browns, dark shadows and harsh whites. The wall beside him should be a particularly unappealing shade of olive green, instead it was an equally unappealing medium gray. Perhaps it had been repainted but, if so, there should have been the harsh smell of chemicals. In fact, he could smell nothing at all. Not to mention the people walking briskly by without so much as an excuse me as they bulled into his personal space were equally colorless and bland; gray skin, gray hair. They looked like extras from a black and white movie, nearly silent, without distinction and oblivious to him. Then, a young woman in a pair of handcuffs walked right through him with no more than a shudder.

"Oh, dear," Fraser said clutching his hat. "Oh, dear.

Dad?" He called hopefully, after taking refuge in the men's room. Two officers chatted over the urinals and--Fraser turned resolutely away from them--there was no sign of a mountie in dress reds in the huge, smudged mirror over the sinks, let along two. In a few moments, he door swung shut, and he was alone. "Dad?"

There was no answer and Fraser scratched his eyebrow irritably, "Of course not," he muttered. He couldn't think of a more urgent need for his father's advice than now and there was no sign of Fraser Sr. Though the world around him seemed muted; sounds dull, scents absent--he licked the wall curiously--tastes dull, he remained in brilliant Technicolor. Red as blood, white as snow, black as coal; a fairy tale prince--or, now, the ghost of one.

"I wonder what happened," Fraser murmured to himself, staring at the reflection of the empty bathroom in the mirror. He couldn't remember dying.

That galvanized him and he headed back to the bullpen, only temporarily halted by the disturbing necessity of walking through the restroom door because, as a ghost, he couldn't open it. If he was dead, where was Ray? Was he all right? Alive? Dead and as confused as he?

Ray had no experience with the afterlife, if he were dead, Fraser needed to find him so he wouldn't think he was alone.

Walking through people was a disturbing experience; Fraser bumped into--into--Huey and got a brief jolt of painful color and sound before Huey jumped away with a shudder, rubbing his arms. A sense of tired sorrow and irritation washed through Fraser in an overwhelming flood, then faded quickly away along with the colors and sounds of life. Fraser edged his way through the familiar crowd, murmuring unheard apologies and excuse me's as he went. He managed to avoid contact with anyone else, though he felt like he was trying to dance to one of Ray's CDs in the process.

Finally, there was Ray's desk with his head bent low in the pool of harsh white light from his tiny desk lamp. Fraser stumbled to a halt. Ray's hair was rumpled, lying haphazard and flat and the color of pale ashes. His skin was drawn in delicate shades of gray and white and the bracelet on his arm glinted like trapped stars.

"Ray?" Fraser breathed, hoping, longing for his partner to look up. To see him. Ray was alive. "Ray?"

Ray didn't look up.

"Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray--" Fraser's voice rose, increasingly desperate as Ray sat unmoving.

"Vecchio!"

Ray jumped, Fraser jumped--though it sounded like Welsh was bellowing from the bottom of a distant well--and Welsh leaned against the door to his office, scowling. "In my office, please, detective."

"Yes, sir," Ray answered in a reedy voice and shoved his chair back, standing motionless for a moment with his fingers resting against the stained edge of his desk.

"Oh, Ray," Fraser reached out but flinched back as Ray nearly walked through his hand. Ray looked, even to Fraser's dead eyes, terrible. No doubt the stark black shadows under his eyes were exaggerated by Fraser's new state but the heavy stubble, the exhausted features and the stricken look in Ray's face were unmistakable. Around the bullpen, even the handcuffed suspects avoided looking at his grief-ruined face. "I'm so sorry, Ray," Fraser whispered. "Im so sorry."

Ray walked into Welsh's office, shoulders slumped and without any of his maddening, joyous energy. He looked deader than Fraser felt.

With almost no complaints from his conscience about eavesdropping, Fraser walked through the lieutenant's glass door to stand his usual corner and listen. He needed to stay by Ray.

"Ray, siddown," Welsh was saying once Fraser shivered his way through the door. Ray shook his head and folded his hands behind his back, where--out of sight--they began to tremble. "Ray--"

"Don't take me off the case, sir," Ray pleaded hoarsely. "Don't."

"You know I have to, Kowalski," Welsh sank onto the corner of his desk, in arms reach of Ray and Fraser was startled to see the honest grief on the man's face. "It's procedure--"

"Fuck procedure!" Ray shouted, loud enough to rattle the blinds and disturb the rhythm in the bullpen beyond the glass walls. Fuck that, sir! What the hell am I supposed to do, huh? Sit staring at the damn walls? What else do I got to do? I can't just stand by and do nothing!"

"It's procedure," Welsh's voice rose, riding over Ray's broken ranting. "And you're too close to the case and exhausted and in no shape to help the case or Constable Fraser!"

Ray was whipping his head back and forth, protests and pleas stumbling from his mouth so quickly that Fraser didn't think even Welsh could understand them. The lieutenant gripped Ray's arms and shook him gently; Ray's body knotted up instantly, ready to fly apart and Fraser longed to put a hand on his shoulder, do something to settle him.

"Listen to yourself, Ray, listen--" Welsh said quietly. "Think. You know it--you need to step back and let us help. The whole division, half the people in the city, are tearing up the streets to solve this case. No one's going to get away, we'll find him."

"Fraser's . . . my partner," Ray said desolately. "He's--he's my partner. I--I can't--oh, god."

Welsh pushed him gently back into a chair as Ray seemed to collapse into himself, knees buckling. Fraser discovered that the dead weren't immune to tears as he watched Ray suddenly begin to weep hoarsely, wrapping his arms around his head like a child afraid of the dark. Welsh kept an iron grip on Ray's shoulder, tissue-box in one hand, and waited.

Fraser dropped to his knees, the crumpled brim of his hat in one hand, intangible throat aching. He leaned as close as he could, as close as he dared. "Ray, Ray, Ray--" he breathed Ray's name like a prayer, hoping to bridge the horrible divide between them, if only for a moment. "Ray--it's all right. It's all right, I won't leave you, I swear I'll never leave you. Ray, Ray, Ray . . . you need to rest. Let them--let them help you. I'm here Ray, I'm here."

"Oh god, oh, fuck--" Ray groaned, voice thick. "If Frase were here . . .."

"He'd tell you what I am," Welsh said quietly, offering the Kleenex. "Let your friends-- and his--help you both."

"Ray," Fraser licked his lip nervously and reached out, trying to touch Ray. His hand, normal looking in his eyes, settled on Ray's colorless skin. *Light, brilliance, heat, sound, raw smells* tore at him, overwhelming, too painfully much and--grief, guilt and pain laid Fraser out like an avalanche.

*his hands were raw. the walls crushing against him were stealing his body heat. he was going to die here and no one would even know.*

When he came back to himself, Fraser discovered he was standing just inside the doorway of Ray's apartment. The bewildering stink of foul water and cold stone overwhelmed him for a moment, then faded away. He rubbed his forehead with a shaking hand and struggled to orient himself. Gray walls, black shadows and the blinding white square of Ray's living room window. It took him a moment to pick out Ray's more subtle shades of gray where he sat slumped on the couch, staring at the floor between his boots, jacket still on.

"Ray--" he sighed, chest aching even though he surely didn't have a chest anymore. Fraser's dulled hearing gave him no warning when Diefenbaker exploded out of Ray's bedroom in a frenzy of barking.

"Jesus!" Ray was on his feet, gun in an experienced two-handed grip, eyes wild as Dief barreled towards the front door still barking loudly. "What? What?!

There's nothing--" Ray yelled at Dief, voice raw. "Dief, he isn't there!"

"Dief?" Fraser said hopefully. Perhaps Diefenbaker could see him, perhaps someone could. But the wolf barreled through his legs, sending him tumbling into the floor as the same shock of overwhelming sensations rushed through him. Smell had been the strongest and fierce conflicting needs; protection, fear, loss. Fraser scrambled out of the way, panting as he struggled to stay on the floor not in it as Dief snuffled at the door then clawed it with a wail.

"Stop it," Ray was shouting. He lunged at the wolf, roughly grabbing his muzzle and forcing him to look at his face, colorless eyes gleaming with tears. "Stop it! He's not coming back! He's not coming back!"

Dief crouched submissively in the face of Ray's wild misery. Ray threw himself back into his couch, gun dangling in his hand, expression blank. Fraser stayed huddled on the floor, against the kitchen counter and wondered if it was going to be like this forever. He couldnt even touch anyone.

The white hot light outside faded slowly. Dief crept onto the couch and curled up, watching Ray with worried eyes. Ray didn't move. Neither did Fraser.

No one could hear him. No one could see him. Fraser didn't dare touch anyone, the slightest brush overwhelmed him; filled him with something he didn't understand, couldn't endure. He watched Ray's tears slide down his face, gleaming like mercury in the light of the dead world he inhabited now. He couldn't even help Ray.

"Why am I here?" Fraser let his head thunk back against the side of the counter, which seemed solid enough now. His curiosity finally stirred, his intellect--dead or not-- demanded answers. Fraser sat up, looking around at his strange, distorted, dulled world. He was sitting on the floor not in it and, reaching warily, he could press his hand against a leg of the nearest stool not through it. He distinctly recalled licking the bathroom wall earlier. Wincing a little in anticipation, he pulled back, made a fist and punched at the leg. His fist passed through it and he detected a faint tactile sensation, vague but there and he grinned in triumph.

Ray was moving around finally, pulling off his jacket, putting his gun on the coffee table while Dief followed him around, ears pricked somewhere between hope and worry. The half-wolf was hungry. Fraser scrambled to the other end of the counter, sitting on the floor between the two stools, with his legs crossed and trying to figure out what was going on and what, if anything, he could do now. The thought of being an eternal, helpless, voiceless, observer was simply intolerable. There had to be a reason why he was here not . . . elsewhere. Heaven. Hell. Valhalla. The Underworld. Nirvana. There had to be a reason.

He stroked the floor, struggling to feel the grain through his dulled senses. Was this the way it was for his father? This bland half-life? Fraser stared down at the gleaming brass buttons of his dress reds, the crimson wool the only brilliance in his world. Was he going to spend the rest of eternity in his dress uniform? "This is hell," he groaned.

Fraser discovered that it was easier, or at last less distracting, to move through objects at speed, while slow touches allowed him some vague sense of contact. Also, the longer he touched something the clearer his senses became. He rested his hand on one of the discarded take-out napkins for a few moments, the stains that were at first faint echoes regained color, scent, texture; coffee and sweet-and-sour sauce. Fraser leaned down and licked it, just to taste something, even leftover Chinese food. Fruit and sugar, salt and soy sauce; then he was slumping against the floor, overwhelmingly exhausted and watching the color bleed out of the corner of the napkin as his hand fell away from it. It took him long moments to push himself back upright and just lean against the counter, panting for air he probably didn't need.

"I'm dead," he said while Ray's boots and Dief's toenails pattered around the kitchen. "I'm dead."

Then he wondered. "How?"

Obviously, from Ray's state and from the overheard discussion at the station, his death was due to some sort of foul play. Fraser wasn't surprised, he never expected to die peacefully. And, it was an active case, therefore his murderer was still at large. Not then, a simple death from zigging when he should have zagged--he smiled slightly at the familiar phrase he'd learned from Ray. Someone had murdered him. Fraser sighed, one would think he would remember his own murder. It was rather embarrassing, actually.

*water he could not reach. dank, cold air, heavy with mold. all he could do was scrape and scrape and scrape. and pray. "ray," he breathed in the cold. "ray."*

The heavy clomp of Ray's boots dragged Fraser, shuddering with bitter cold, back to Ray's apartment. A bottle clattered onto the coffee table beside the gun.

"Oh, Ray," Fraser said, aching. Ray's dinner was a bottle of Luksusowa vodka.

Ray dropped with a grunt to his couch and fumbled for the remote. The television shrieked on, the piercing electronic squeal sent Fraser lurching through the counter between the kitchen and living room with a pained shout. Curled on the floor, Fraser clutched at his head as the incomprehensible scream of the television went on; while Ray flicked casually through channels, Fraser jerked on the floor, head hammering. Sounds poured out of the television, screams and voices in a hundred different languages, the maddening hiss of static scraped at Fraser's raw nerves and the light flickering in the other room was a blinding as sheet lightening.

"Ray, Ray, Ray, stop--please--stop," Fraser groaned, bootheels digging into the floor, eyes squeezed shut against the disorienting lights. Finally, Ray settled on a channel and Fraser's torment eased enough that he was able to push himself up on shaking arms. Leaning on the counter he looked into the living room where the eerie light from the television washed out detail and color like an old-fashioned, half burned, movie print. Ray was nothing more than a over exposed white, fuzzy blur. Dief glowed like a fluorescent light and light and sound from the television streamed into the room almost like a solid thing. He could still hear the odd cacophony of noise from the television, obviously, Ray was seeing and hearing something completely different.

Fraser walked warily around to the living room beginning to feel a real fear at the incomprehensible strangeness of his . . . afterlife. He'd been alone before, for much of his life, in fact. He knew how to survive without the hand of another but this was, as he stood in the shadow beyond the antic light of the television watching Ray drink, very different. Survival wasn't at stake, he was already dead. This was not the frozen logic of the tundra and he was like a child standing outside a candy store window; forever separate, trapped behind an invisible barrier from everything he wanted.

"Ray," his voice was a shaken whisper, horror swelling in him as Fraser realized him might spend forever like this. "Ray, help me."

Ray's face contracted in a sudden spasm of grief--as if he'd somehow heard Fraser's desperation--and he coughed up a mouthful of vodka, falling back against his couch with a raw sound like a sob. Dief whined and licked Ray's wet face. "Frase, god, Frase--what am I gonna do? I can't do this no more. I can't--where are you Fraser? I gotta find you. Gotta help--" Ray pulled in another mouthful of vodka, wincing. "Fuck Welsh."

"I'm sorry," Fraser said helplessly, watching as Ray sucked on the lip of the bottle, long throat working as he drank and cried.

It was some time before Fraser realized that something--someone--in the television was screaming for help. No more able to resist that dead than he had alive, Fraser tore his gaze from Ray's suffering and edged into the angle of light spreading from the television to peer into it. The light pressed against him, he could feel it like powder snow, he had to work to wade through it and when he bent over a woman's terrified face was staring from the box of the television, hands pressed to the curved glass of the screen.

"Hello?" he said cautiously, skin itching in the light of the television. The woman's halfmad eyes met his.

"Oh, god!" She wailed as Fraser automatically catalogued the cut of her blouse, the dark shoulder length hair, the Asian tilt--Korean, he suspected--of her eyes. "You--you can see me! You can hear me! Oh, god, oh, god--help me! Help me, please don't go-- please--!"

"Yes," Fraser scraped his thumb across his eyebrow and set his hat on the floor beside his mirror polished boot. "Yes, ma'am, I can hear you. You're on, or rather in, my partner's television. I'm afraid I don't know the channel."

She hammered on the glass, Fraser could hear the faint tinks, she wore an engagement ring but no wedding band and had a small, distinctive birthmark on her cheek just below her left eye. "Help me, help me. I'm trapped, he won't--won't let me out! Please."

"Understood," Fraser said, gathering all the assurance he had left. He'd worry about how to help her later. "Please, can you describe where you are? And your name? Are you being held against your will?"

"Oh, thank god," her head fell to the glass--it was very much as if she were just on the other side. Perhaps--perhaps he could simply reach her, reach through the glass and pull her free. He reached out, hands going disturbingly translucent in the light of the television, shivering weakness swept Fraser but he pushed on. He was nearly there.

"Annie Kun, my fianc--"

Fraser touched the screen, a hot shock shot through him and Annie Kun's image snapped away and the light contracted into a white dot. It swelled back into a shadowy, flickering image, very different from the one before. Fraser's arm was numb from the shoulder down and he couldnt move, muscles locked into painful stillness. Behind him, Ray gave a bewildered, drunken grunt. Fraser couldnt even turn his head to look at him.

Out of the darkness of the screen, a white blob resolved into a limp hand. Bloody, nails blackened, scraped; strong fingers, a broad palm but Fraser didn't recognize it until he saw the shine of old scar tissue across the knuckles. It was his hand. The pale, dirty edge of a Henley deeper in shadow confirmed it. Almost nothing else was recognizable except the close press of some kind of wall . . . stone, no, Fraser strained to see . . . concrete.

"Fraser!" Ray yelled and threw himself forward, blazing through Fraser's intangible body. Fraser hardly heard his yell over the burn of his life scorching through him. He threw himself back and the faint image on the screen flickered out.

*he shoved his shaking fingers into the space as the brick he'd dug out of the plug tumbled down his back to splash into the water at his boots. half set mortar squished in his fingers, then he stubbed them on another layer of bricks above the first. no. no. he was too dry to weep.*

Ray was still yelling his name, clutching at the television when Fraser came back to himself. He was too tired to move for long moments, lying half in the couch. Only when Ray flung himself back into the couch did Fraser have the energy to crawl aside, terrified of another touch. The couch creaked softly and Dief uneasy whines made Fraser push his way to his knees, searching worriedly for Ray.

"Ray. . . "Fraser whispered. Ray was rocking back and forth, staring with wide, horrified eyes at the staticy screen, long hands wrapped around his face below his nose. A faint keen escaped from between his fingers.

"What was that?" Ray whispered, tears welled in his eyes spilling over his hands. "What was that? I'm going nuts. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Fraser, what was that? I can't-t see that, I can't--oh, god, I--stand that. Please no, no."

"Ray, it's alright," Fraser sat on the edge of the couch, leaning as close as he dared. Ray had seen something. He'd seen and hope flared hotter than almost anything Fraser had felt since he died, despite the tremor of pained exhaustion in his limbs. "Ray, Ray, Ray--listen to me. Hear me, I'm here, Ray.'

Ray fumbled for the bottle but his hand fell on his gun instead. His fingers wrapped around the bleak metal and Fraser leaned closer, redoubling his efforts in horror.

"Ray no! Ray, I'm here, don't--"

"I can't--every time I close my eyes--Fraser--" Ray's voice was shaking as much as his hands.

"Ray, I'll never leave you."

"I'm all alone Fraser. Don't got nobody--nobody--"

"I'm here, please listen. Hear me, Ray. I'm here. You're not alone. Don't do this--"

"All I can think is I lost you, never gotta listen to an Inuit story again." Ray closed his eyes. "And never found you--you're gone, just gone and there ain't nothing in the world gonna change that."

"Ray," Fraser swayed close, closer, breathing in Ray's ear, the gun gleaming horribly in Ray's hand as he brought it to his face. Dief was moaning and had shoved his nose into the skin of Ray's neck on the other side. "Please don't make me see this. Don't make me live with this."

"Don't make me live like this, Frase," Ray whispered. He nestled the barrel of the gun against one of his closed eyes. "I can't live like this."

"No!" Fraser snatched for the gun, fingers passing uselessly through the barrel. Slow. He had to go slowly even as his screaming panic demanded he do something now. He shifted his attention to the small safety switch just above Ray's knuckle and rested a fingertip on it. "Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray. You're not alone. You're a good man, Ray."

"It's like half of me is gone too--all the g-good stuff."

The echo of his words, warped but there, gave Fraser a desperate flicker of hope and he kept talking as he felt the slow bloom of sensation--smooth, metal, cold--under his hand.

"I love you, Ray."

"I love you so damn, much, Frase. I can't live with nothing again." Ray's finger tightened on the trigger and . . .

the . . .

safety . . .

switch . . .

clicked against the trigger.

Ray jerked the gun away from his face, staring wide-eyed at it, until Dief launched onto his lap in a frenzy of barks and sloppy face licks. Fraser pulled himself away from the couch barely in time, struggling to remain alert, watching Ray's pallid face, but the weakness pulled him under.

*he would have collapsed, if he could, but the narrow space kept him standing. he was so tired. so cold. he'd tried, until his hands were raw, until the blackness and heavy air left him faint. he'd tried. and failed. he could feel dull hunger and knew he'd been here for days, trapped in the wet dark. he knew ray must be looking, the 27 would be looking. if they didn't find him, he'd die. having faith in someone else--anyone--was so hard.*

As soon as he was aware of anything, Fraser hauled himself up, knees buckling, to search the couch. He nearly sobbed in relief, it was empty--and unbloodied--Ray's gun was lying precariously balanced on the edge of the coffee table with the empty bottle of vodka. The living room window was stark black and Fraser had to assume that meant nightfall. He made his way into Ray's bedroom, caring neither for the closed door or for Ray's privacy. He had to make sure he was all right.

Ray was curled in a painful looking knot in is bed, little visible beyond his unkempt hair. Dief was snoring at the foot of the bed, lying on Ray's restless feet. Fraser walked around to kneel beside Ray, wishing he could reach out and stroke that wild hair, try to soothe the misery visible even on Ray's sleeping face.

" never listen," Ray muttered, eyes shifting restlessly as he entered a dream state. " gonna pop you, I swear. Always gotta argue."

Fraser winced. The words were too painfully familiar and he brought a hand up to his jaw, remembering Ray's punch and the heartsick pain it had brought. He could almost smell the water again, feel it dragging heavily at his dress serge, see Ray flailing in front of him.

Bewildered, Fraser stared at Ray in front of him, dressed in soaking clothes and yelling. They were standing at the water's edge, the lake rolling nearby, and Fraser glanced over to see a smudgy sketchwork of trees, police cruisers--the back-up that arrived just as they'd leapt to almost certain death. The sky was a watercolor blue, the city a mass of running colors. Where was he now? In Ray's dream? Fraser looked at the blurry world, only Ray and himself were vivid and sharp.

"How come you always gotta be right, huh?"

"Of course, I'm not always right, Ray." Fraser heard himself snap, words he remembered far to well, leading to an ending he couldn't bear to repeat.

Ray was beside himself with rage, blue eyes--oh, so good to see them after the washed out ghost world of before--glittering, hands jerking threateningly near Fraser's chest. Ray looked wild, alive and he was yelling again.

"I'm sorry, Ray." Fraser blurted. He wasn't going to repeat history, even in a dream. Even in Ray's dream. If it was Ray's dream; with him here wasn't it his dream as well? And Fraser didn't want to dream of Ray hitting him.

Ray stared at him, mouth open. "What?"

"I said--" he cracked his neck, turning his hat in his hands. "I'm sorry. We should have waited. You were right."

"Oh," Ray blinked several times, his hands sinking, then he looked around rubbing his neck with a flush. "Okay, yeah. It's no problem, Frase. We all got bad days huh? Even Mounties."

Fraser licked his lips, beginning to realize that he could talk to Ray here. "Yes, yes, that's quite true. Perhaps, especially me."

Ray's beloved mouth quirked and he shoved his hands into his pockets. "You, huh? Especially? So, why'd ya--" Ray jerked his head back towards the building they'd jumped off of.

Fraser's fingers twitched with the urge to touch Ray, hold him but held back and offered Ray the answer he deserved, the truth Fraser should have said months ago. He stared at his hat. "I--wanted--I didn't want to--disappoint you, Ray." He stole a quick glance up to see Ray watching him closely, face open and alive here in this dream like it never was in the waking world. It eased the flood of pent up words. Ray loved him, in this dream, and Fraser could see it on his face.

"It was my idea to come in the first place," he said hurriedly. "I was sure, so sure, we could handle the situation. I got us into it, I felt responsible for getting us out."

"You always are," Ray grinned, he'd moved closer, so close that Fraser could almost smell his breath. "Always sure you can handle everything ain't ya?"

"Yes, Ray."

"And it's not true huh?"

"No, Ray."

"And I know it." Ray whispered, hands coming up to cup Fraser's face.

"Yes, Ray." Fraser breathed, shivering at the faint warmth of Ray's hands on his skin. "You always have."

Ray's mouth touched his in the watercolor dream of Chicago, a kiss that was endless, dream perfect, dreamily vague. There was no shock of painful color or sound, no jolt of emotions. Fraser dropped his hat to clutch at Ray's waist.

"Ray," he didn't want to stop. Fraser just wanted to live here forever in this dream. But, duty still called. Even in death, he discovered he couldn't free himself from his responsibilities. "Listen."

"Hmm?"

The soft thrum against his throat--weren't Welsh and half the Chicago PD watching?-- nearly made Fraser give up on his duty on anything but wringing more pleasure from this moment. Instead he leaned back to catch Ray's drowsy blue eyes. Around them, the dream city was fading away, dissolving into gray calm. "Ray, listen, listen--it's important."

"Sure, Frase."

"I love you." Fraser blurted. "Never--never forget that. I love you I won't leave you. I haven't left you. Remember that. And--"

All he could see was Ray's eyes, everything else was fading into a deeper sleep that Fraser couldn't follow.

"Ray! I'm--in a narrow space, concrete, and water at my feet, bricks above--freshly mortared bricks. Remember! Water, bricks, concrete! Ray!"

TBC (122104)

End Dream Lover 1/2 by XTricks: x_tricks2000@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.