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

Author's Notes: See part 1

Story Notes: Spoilers for 'Mounty on the Bounty' and 'Strange Bedfellows' for sure. This is a ghost story so there are references to possible character death and displays of grief as well as some horror and violent elements.

This story is a sequel to: Dream Lover 1/2

Dream Lover, Part 2

"Frase? Concrete?" Ray mumbled then turned over, away from Fraser's intangible hand and sank into deeper sleep. Fraser could barely push himself into a corner where he could be sure Ray wouldn't stumble on him before he went back under again. Above his head, the dreamcatcher spun in the still air, twisting wildly back and forth until it was a blur of white net and leather wrapped wood with the eagle feather steady in the center.

*he could keep struggling, knowing that the chances of success were almost impossible. or he could give up. he was tired enough, dehydrated enough, no longer hungry. no one would blame him for giving up now. he wanted to sleep, knowing that sleep meant death. he could give up or . . . *

The sound of Ray vomiting into the trashcan next to his bed was the next thing Fraser heard. White daylight was streaming into the window and, for the first time, Fraser found himself glad he couldn't smell anything. Dief groaned, dropped off the bed--Ray cursed weakly, then bent back over the trashcan--and fled into the living room. Eventually, Ray seemed temporarily done and lay, arms trailing on the floor, on the bed moaning to himself. He became quieter, until Ray was silent so long that Fraser assumed he'd fallen back to sleep. There really wasn't anything for Fraser to do, so he simply sat on the floor and watched.

He had to look away, blushing--though it was ridiculous to blush now--as Ray stumbled naked from his bed and staggered into the bathroom, scratching at his buttocks. Fraser didn't follow him there, neither wanting to watch Ray struggle through his personal routine nor willing to risk the close confines of the bathroom. He trailed Ray to his dresser, then to the kitchen, talking softly, hoping something was getting through.

"You have to eat, Ray," he murmured. "Ray, Ray, Ray--eat. Drink water. No--not coffee. Ray!"

If arguing with Ray was exasperating, having to stand by and do nothing was maddening. Ray drank his coffee and vomited it back up within five minutes.

"Water, Ray."

"Jeeze--guess it's water today," Ray muttered then stuck his whole head under the kitchen tap. Fraser watched him drink with satisfaction. Something was getting through, maybe. As much as usual, anyway. After that, Ray stood in the middle of the kitchen, Dief dancing at his feet, and stared haggardly at the coffee table where his gun lay.

"Leave it alone," Fraser begged. "Please, Ray, leave it alone."

But Ray shook himself, picked up his gun and went back to his bedroom. Fraser scrambled after, dodging Dief who seemed equally worried. Ray was locking it into his gun box, hands shaking.

"I can do it anytime I want," he was muttering. "I always got an out."

"Ray, not today, not today," Fraser whispered. "Dief needs you."

"Anytime, but not today. Dief needs to go for a walk."

Fraser shadowed Ray as he dressed in yesterday's clothes, which probably had been yesterday's clothes yesterday, grabbed a jacket and took Dief outside. The daylight was painfully brilliant, Fraser put on his hat to little effect but managed to keep Ray in sight. Ray groaned himself, fumbling his sunglasses onto his face and walked slowly towards the nearest park.

From the crowds on the street, it was sometime in the afternoon and Fraser had to dodge and dance his way around people who couldn't see him. It was tremendously awkward. He caught up with Ray in the wider spaces of the park. The leaves and grass underfoot were obsidian black, the sky was glowing white and Fraser had to keep his back to the sun it was so overwhelmingly brilliant. The people and animals were gray and white and black figures, oddly vague against the fierce life of the plants and sky and sun. Afraid he'd get lost, Fraser kept his attention firmly on Ray.

Clearly too hung-over and exhausted to walk far, Ray found the nearest bench and sank down, staring at the concrete between his sneakers. "Go on, Dief, do your thing."

The half-wolf whined and nudged his head under Ray's hand until he sighed and began to pat him. Sitting next to Ray on the bench, casting no shadow, Fraser saw some of the harsh edge ease out of Ray's mouth and looked at Dief gratefully. Dief braced a paw on the bench, reached up and slobbered all over Ray's face, panting wolf-laughs at him.

"Ugh!" Ray swiped at him with a broken laugh, pushing Dief back down. "Keep that up, Dief and I'm gonna puke on ya." Dief cocked his head, yipped and darted away. Fraser watched Dief's luminous form as he sniffed around some black leafed bushes covered in shiny white flowers. With Ray beside him the day seemed--not normal--but almost comfortable. After a few moments, Dief returned, sniffing around Fraser's boots--he drew them warily away--then sat at Ray's feet with a soft, unhappy howl.

Ray didn't seem to have the energy to rise, he sprawled on the bench and stared across the grass. "He's gonna be stuck in that damn Serge forever, Dief. W-when we find him it's gonna be one of those fancy assed f-fun--funerals . . . oh, fuck, oh, fuck . . . and they're gonna put him in the Santa suit."

Dief whined, Ray breathed raggedly, and Fraser sighed. "Yes, I imagine I'll be buried in full regalia." He looked down at himself with a wry smile, his coat was as bright as blood, buttons like golden stars in his black and white world. "The Serge does seem inevitable."

Fraser wondered idly if anyone in the RCMP would feel anything other than relief at his death. They'd finally get rid of the ugly reminder of the RCMP's stained honor. The thought made his Serge seem particularly uncomfortable.

"That's not fucking fair," Ray whispered. "Frase did his time as a toy soldier." Suddenly, Ray was hunched in on himself, hands buried in Dief's fur, voice a shaking whisper. "Oh, god, I wanted to take that suit off him so bad. Peel him outta it one button at a time an' make him wear me."

Fraser's breath caught as he discovered that his ghostly body had urgent--if equally ghostly--impulses. "Ray--" he groaned, cursing his cowardice, Ray's cowardice, whatever it was that had kept either of them from speaking of this while he was alive.

"I don't wanna think of him in that red straightjacket," Ray's voice sank lower still, a faint whisper. "I--I want him to be--h-happy. W-want him to be comfortable. God, fuck, fuck . . . want him to be with me." Ray's voice broke and he buried his face in Dief's fur. The half-wolf had offered the same comfort to Fraser in the past and stood steady as Ray muffled his sobs in coarse white fur.

"Ray," Fraser said. "Ray, Ray, Ray--remember. Remember. I love you. I'm here. I won't leave you."

"I know he loved me, dammit," Ray groaned. "But I want him to hold me."

"I want to, Ray. I want to hold you," Fraser buried his face in his hands and cried. Ray exhausted himself and Fraser regained his self-control wondering if being dead somehow undermined one's dignity. Of course, he was soon to be food for bacteria and insects so dignity did seem a little much to expect.

"I wish he coulda gone home," Ray whispered, hands shoved in pockets, staring north. Dief whined, nudging at Ray's hand, and Fraser followed Ray's gaze, he would have liked to see home one more time. Though, he guessed he could now except he wasn't leaving Ray. Not like this, perhaps not ever. "I wish he could be--buried in jeans and that sweater he likes so much."

Fraser discovered he rather wished it too. Ray turned back to the entrance of the park and Fraser trailed him, running a thoughtful hand down his Serge; lanyard and high collar, false pockets and uncomfortable wool pants. Thankfully the dead didn't seem to itch. Did he really have to wear the Serge forever? Fraser wrenched suddenly at the collar, Velcro ripping, no he didn't. Ray stumbled to a halt, looking around in confusion.

"Frase . . .?"

"Ray, I'm here," Fraser said immediately, hoping there was a moment of closeness, of communication. "Remember."

Ray shook his head and walked on, shoulders hunched around his ears. Fraser pulled the lanyard free, stuffing it into a pocket then went to work on the Sam Browne and his buttons. Fraser finally pulled free of the Serge, lightheaded, delighted and with fine disregard for the sacred uniform Fraser bundled it up in his hands and threw it as hard as he could.

"I don't have to wear it," he laughed, both Ray and Dief cocked their heads in identical gestures of listening, making Fraser laugh again. "I don't.

He glanced back only once, stirred by a faint guilt, to see the red splotch of his Serge, oddly crumpled, as if it had caught against an invisible wall. It was horribly disrespectful to leave it there, Fraser wavered and nearly turned back to fetch it. He didn't have to wear it, he could just carry it. No. He squared his shoulders and marched on, leaving it behind. He was dead and could finally be free of all the pointless, humiliating, responsibilities the dress Serge represented. He ran, smiling, to catch up to Ray and Diefenbaker.

At the apartment, Ray went back to bed after fighting his torn shades down over the bedroom window. Fraser sat in front of the blank television and struggled to recontact Annie Kun while listening for any sign that Ray was having a dream he could join him in. No matter how he struggled, how slowly or carefully he pressed the buttons on the television, he couldn't turn it on. He frowned at the empty curve of glass, seeing not so much as his own reflection, let alone someone who he could talk to, someone who he'd promised to help. Sometime in the afternoon, the phone began to ring; Welsh left increasingly insistent messages that Ray call him. Fraser was torn between trying to wake Ray, even though he clearly needed the sleep, and the hope that Welsh had some news about . . . about his murder.

Pounding on the apartment door finally dragged Ray, in T-shirt and wrinkled boxers, out of bed sometime in the late afternoon.

"Your phone seems defective today. When's the last time you ate, Detective?" Welsh shoved a to-go container into Ray's hands, without waiting for an answer. Fraser watched him catalogue the current state of the apartment; vodka bottles, trash, clothes scattered over the floor, without any sign of surprise. Ray, shoulders drawn up with tension, set the container on his cluttered counter.

"Ain't hungry, lieu," Ray muttered, face torn between hope and fear. "What'ya here for?"

"You should eat, Ray," Fraser said, shifting uncomfortably at Welsh's presence. He felt underdressed in his Henley; Ray didn't seem at all troubled at wearing nothing but his undergarments in the presence of his superior. Then again, Ray had never kissed Welsh on top of a train.

Welsh grunted, walked into Ray's kitchen, found a bowl and dumped the food into it. It was clear wonton soup and Fraser nodded in satisfaction, it was a good choice for a chancy stomach. "Sit, detective," Welsh set the bowl on the counter. "Eat."

Ray glared, Welsh crossed his thick arms and waited. Eventually, Ray sat and started to eat. Fraser was glad to see Welsh wait until Ray had about a third of the bowl under his belt before bringing up whatever had brought him here.

"We found something," Welsh said and Ray's head shot up, spoon clattering into the bowl, forgotten.

"Did ya find him?" Ray's face was agonized, clearly he knew Welsh wouldn't have waited with that kind of news for Ray to eat soup, but he couldn't stop himself from hoping. The naked desperation in Ray's face made Fraser ache and he fisted his hands at his side to keep from trying to touch him. Welsh shook his head.

"Found his coat--the Serge," he said.

Fraser blinked startled.

"Where?" Ray barked. "When, dammit, when?"

Oh, not in the park, Fraser prayed. It would do nothing but throw the investigation off if they'd somehow found his ghost Serge in the park today. He shouldn't have left it.

"This morning, Kowalski," Welsh and held up a hand when Ray jumped up, clearly intending to get dressed and go. "It's already in evidence."

"I gotta see it, lieu--sir--I gotta," Ray babbled, grabbing a pair of stained pants from the floor. "Was there--blood--what'd it look like? What's the damage? Was he--?"

"It's got a fair amount of damage," Welsh said. "But no bullet holes and not enough of Fraser's blood to prove he was dead when it was removed."

"Where?" Fraser asked.

"Where?" Ray begged, wild eyed.

"Some kids found it at the run-off outlet near 76th and Camden," Welsh folded his hands and nodded at the cooling soup. Ray grabbed his spoon and began to shovel it back as Welsh started to speak again. "They recognized it as a mountie uniform and brought it back to the Consulate, hoping for a reward."

"That means Frase's gotta be--" Ray stumbled to a halt, snapping his fingers sharply. "Uh--wait a-minute. Gotta remember--remember somethin. He's gotta be there-- someplace wet and--and small."

"They need to follow the currents into the sewer system," Fraser said urgently. "The strongest ones, since the Serge is so heavy."

"Oh, oh--" Ray leaned back and jabbed Welsh with his finger. "So, all those pipes, they got currents and stuff right?"

"We're searching the system that drains into that run-off pipe," Welsh said patiently.

"Only the strongest ones are gonna carry that coat, it's fucking heavy when it's wet." Ray ate more soup with something like a real appetite. "I'm gonna be there--bring Dief, maybe he can smell something."

"No," Welsh said and Ray's head snapped up, eyes blazing with fury. "I'm keeping you updated as a courtesy Kowalski and trusting your word that you won't go running into an investigation that isn't yours."

Ray shoved the bowl aside with a black scowl.

"It's all right Ray," Fraser said soothingly. "I'm quite sure the detectives assigned to my case are perfectly competent." He might take a look down near 72nd and Camden later himself, just to satisfy his curiosity, of course.

"Ray," Welsh said soberly. "It's been nine days. Nine days since the nut-case left us his little present and told us he'd put the toy soldier away in a box." Ray flinched violently but Welsh went on inexorably. "Even if Fraser were uninjured, there's no way he could still be alive."

"Oh, dear."

*the serge with its shiny buckles and brilliant color was doing nothing but making him a giant target. knees weak with the effects of the drug, he struggled out of the coat and flung it into the filthy water. echoes and light in the darkness drove him on, until he staggered on an unseen obstacle and fell, splashing loudly in the dark. the hunters heard him.*

Fraser was still standing, swaying slightly, next to the counter but Welsh was gone. Time had clearly passed. He looked frantically for Ray, relaxing only when he saw his taunt back over by his stereo player. The machine clicked softly and Fraser winced in anticipation of some new assault on his senses but only soft music poured out. Ray stepped back, then again, then made a graceful half-turn and Fraser realized he was dancing.

He'd seen Ray dance before, of course, most notably with Stella, his ex-wife. Now, Ray danced alone, one hand folded across his own belly, the other hovering in mid-air. His eyes were closed, face tipped slightly to one side while he moved with sleek grace. Fraser was drawn closer, stumbling to a halt at the end of the couch like a wallflower to shy to reach out to what he wanted. Ray's face was worn, exhausted, grief-stricken and so beautiful.

"Ray," Fraser breathed, caught in his hopeless longing. "Ray . . ."

The Serge was the only spot of color in the great hall, despite that--because of that-- Fraser felt invisible, unnoticed. Of course, he was supposed to be invisible, he was in familiar parade rest, standing by the double doors that led . . . somewhere else. He'd been standing so forever, traces of glittering dust had gathered on his shoulders and he felt stiff and immobile. He slid his eyes sideways to see the carved wooden mannequin, chest painted red, pink rogue staining its cheeks, standing guard on the other side of the door. Did he look like that? Was he that? No matter, it was his duty and he should be proud . . . but he wasn't. He was tired. Was this another dream? And whose?

The dancers spun endlessly into and out of his vision, he was nothing to them except a pretty decoration, a symbol. Two dancers caught his eye, they always did, spinning and swaying in the center of the ballroom, lovely as two spirits made flesh. Ray danced, slim and elegant in a crisp tuxedo, with Stella in his arms like a fairy tale princess in ivory satin and pearls. The two of them certainly seemed suited, everyone said so, both were blonde and slight, with a certain elegance that even Ray's heavy framed glasses couldn't detract from. Fraser's blood pounded hot, trapped in the shell of his duty, following the line of Ray's back as he turned away and towards him again. Ray's face was so softly sad, wise to the strangling pattern of dance and duty and lies. His eyes rose, met Fraser's, blue as winter. Fraser jerked suddenly not invisible, not a statue, Ray saw him.

Galvanized by the look on Ray's face, by his compelling eyes, Fraser stepped onto the dance floor, struggling past the faceless couples keeping him from Ray's side. No matter where he turned, Ray and Stella seemed to always sweep away just before Fraser reached them. "Excuse me," he muttered, pushing past grasping hands, soft voices asking for a picture, a kiss, his honor, his life. "Pardon me, please!" He wanted to scream and finally he did.

"I'm not a *toy soldier!"

The crowd fell away, the floor clear and Ray was standing there. He was dancing alone now, arms outstretched and lonely. Fraser stepped forward and discovered that by some miracle he fit perfectly into that waiting embrace. He'd never danced before, it was so easy, so easy with Ray. Ray's body lined up against his and his face turned to Fraser's with a soft smile.

"Ray," Fraser's voice shook and he spread his hands over Ray's thin back, feeling heat and the thrum of a beating heart. "Ray, do you see me?"

Ray opened his eyes. So blue, like the skies of home, discovered anew in the prison of a foreign city. "Yeah, Frase, I see ya."

"I love you." Fraser whispered. "Ray, I love you."

"Yeah, I know." Ray smiled again and gently drew off the strangling noose of the lanyard.

"What are you doing?"

Ray's smile tipped, sly and sweet. "I'm gonna take this thing offa you and you ain't gonna be wearing anything but me."

"Please," Fraser said, breath hitching, blood rushing to his skin like water rising wild under spring ice. "Please, Ray."

A gunshot crashed through the room, and Fraser jerked in Ray's arms, back knotted into sudden agony. He'd abandoned his duty. He had to run, he had to run now.

"Fraser!" Ray's voice was distant already, the ballroom gone, only dark stones and foul water to be seen. "Fraser!"

"Ray!" Fraser skidded to a halt as terrified as a rabbit in a wolf's jaws. The curve of a concrete tunnel was cold against his back _83&C_ was spray painted on the arch above his head. "Ray, look. Can you see me?"

"Frase, Frase--I see ya!" Ray's voice, distant but there. "Don't run away from me."

He couldn't run, he couldn't move. Above him was the scrape and clunk of brick, wet mortar fell onto his cramped shoulders. There was water at his feet but he couldn't reach it. Thank god he'd abandoned his Serge, in this tight space, he would hardly be able to breathe. "Find me Ray, god, please, find me!"

ray, ray, ray

"Oh jeezus!" Ray was yelling, flailing and staggering in the center of his apartment, Dief was barking at his feet and Fraser staggered away from him, knees weak and so terribly cold. "Jeezus--oh, god--this is crazy."

Ray scrambled to the counter, digging into the mess and dragging out a pen. Fraser barely had the strength to step out of Dief's way, never mind try to figure out what Ray was doing. "What was it? What was it?" Ray scribbled something onto a used napkin, grabbed his coat--paused, then ran back to his bedroom for his gun and a flashlight then ran out the door, Diefenbaker at his heels, still barking. "Frase, I see ya. I see ya."

It was almost impossible to stay with Ray's car. Fraser kept slipping into the seat, fading away. He was stunningly tired, his body aching with a terrifying cold that seemed to be creeping in from the ends of his fingers and from his feet, stealing closer and closer to his beating heart. His imaginary beating heart, he understood he was dead, he did. Shivering, holding carefully to the seat with numb fingers, Fraser wondered if ghosts had only a short time in the world before they faded--froze--away like this. That didn't explain his father though. "I love you, Ray," he gasped, teeth chattering. Fraser wanted Ray to hear him. He wanted those words to be the last thing on his lips, in his heart. "I love you."

"I love you, Frase, and I'm gonna find you," Ray muttered, hands slapping his steering wheel as he swung through a red light. "I ain't gonna leave you out there, even if--if you're dead. That ain't buddies."

Fraser recognized the smell before Ray even stopped the car. Foul water. They were somewhere at the edge of the city, the lake slapping quietly against a rocky shore in the darkness. Not too far off, a collection of search lights, along with a few blue-and-whites revealed where the CPD was searching. Dief jumped out of the car with a soft whuff and Ray crouched down to rub his ears. "Gotta be quiet, Dief, we ain't supposed to be here and if Welsh finds out I'm listening to a damn dream . . . ."

Ray sighed then slipped and crunched his way from the street, over an embankment-- sliding down a grassy slop to where a series of enormous concrete pipes jutted out from the earth. Fraser followed silently, worried now that Ray might get injured here and there would be no one to help him. "Be careful, Ray."

Ray flicked on his flashlight, muttering about proper preparation under his breath. The concrete outlets had heavy iron grates but, clearly, they'd been partially pried up long ago. Ray slipped inside, splashing into the shallow stream at the bottom of the pipe with a curse. Fraser walked through the grate and Dief wiggled under it with a sigh. "Right," Ray scanned the roof of the pipe with his light, rather than watching his footing.

"Ray--"

"Yeah!" Ray hooted, then froze as echoes fluttered through the pipes like bats. Above his head in light blue paint _88&D_. "That's gotta be 88th and Dermont. Gotta be, gotta be and we gotta go . . . that way."

"No!" Fraser hurried after him. "Ray, Ray, Ray, that's the wrong direction! The numbers go this way. This way!"

Ray slowed, halted, shook his head then went on with Fraser chasing after, struggling to get through to him. They were going the wrong way, Ray was going to get lost in here and Fraser couldnt do a thing to correct him.

_88&C_

Fraser fell silent as Ray hooted--quietly this time--and turned. They traveled inland a ways, the drainage tunnel got dryer then Ray crouched down beside Dief with a sigh. "Listen, Dief--" he gripped Dief's muzzle. "You gotta find him. Look for, look for mud right? Mortar--the stuff between bricks." Dief wagged his tail hopefully. "Jeeze, listen to me talking to the wolf. There ain't no donuts down here but we gotta help Fraser."

"I'm not just lying in a tunnel," Fraser said, irritated. "I'm in something--"

"Small," Ray muttered. "Cold, water at my feet. Bricks."

"Yes, Ray, yes."

Ray shivered and stood back up, swinging the flashlight over the sides now, as well as the top and still ignoring where he put his feet. The tunnels got more complex, iron ladders bolted to the sides of walls led up to manhole covers. "Huh." Ray turned a corner and tripped with a yell, splashing chest deep into a suddenly deep channel. Fraser tried, uselessly, to grab the flashlight. It only flickered, dimming as his hand passed through it and leaving him with a painful buzzing in his hand.

"Shit!" Ray flailed, managing to catch it before it sank into the dark water. Fraser watched him fling himself at a ladder and cling to it, teeth chattering. Ray's eyes were wide and frightened as he stared at the smooth black water. He couldn't swim, Fraser remembered, and the Henry Allen hadn't given Ray any more confidence in the water. "Jeeze, Frase, this sucks."

"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser snapped. "Next time I'll be sure to die in some more accessible spot! The Hilton perhaps!" Ray burst into startling, slightly hysterical, giggles as if he'd heard Fraser.

Dief was whining and dancing on a narrow ledge along one side of the tunnel that paralleled a long, fairly deep niche in the side. Ray pulled himself back to his feet and sidled along the ledge, shushing Dief as he went. Fraser tried to follow, he tried but--he couldn't stand, he couldnt move, his body felt cramped and frozen. He slumped back against the freezing concrete that seemed to be crushing all the strength out of him. The light grew dim, Ray was leaving him . . . leaving him behind. Fraser was out of strength, he couldn't follow. "Ray--I'm sorry, Ray. I can't go any farther."

"Fraser?" Ray's voice was so far now, so far away. The light flickered, bright, dim, bright as Ray swung the flashlight around. "Where are you? What the--what the hell is that?"

Dief started barking, wild barking and Ray was yelling. Fraser was so cold breathlessly cold and the light was gone. There was water at his feet, too far to reach, his feet too numb to feel it anymore. He vaguely heard thumping, rhythmic thumping, above his head but it didn't mean anything. There was only dark, and cold.

Epilogue

Fraser had never had any urge to dream of hospitals before yet here he was. The lights were too bright and his body wracked by savage pins and needles, alternating with a violent chills. "Oh, dear," Fraser struggled to open his eyes, groaning at the stabbing white light.

"Frase?"

"Ray?" Was that faint waver his voice? Fraser blinked and blinked until finally all the multi-colored blobs resolved into a shock of startled hair, stubble that had graduated to beard status and bloodshot blue eyes. It was Ray in all his beautiful disarray, breath pungent with coffee, lines of worry and exhaustion carved deep around his mouth.

Ray's eyebrows shot up hopefully. "Hey, buddy, can ya see me?"

"Yes," his voice was cracking like a bad radio, Fraser wheezed weakly, trying to clear his throat. Ray was there with a pink plastic straw and tepid water, which Fraser sucked down until Ray pulled it back, full of the tormenting memory of desperate thirst with the sound of water all around himself.

"Greatness," Ray's voice was shaking. "Ya know me, right?"

"Ray."

"Yes!" Ray's smile broke free, triumphant and he shook his fists in a victory roll over his head. "Score for the home team! I knew it! Knew you'd make it!"

"Ray?" Fraser rolled his heavy head to the side to keep Ray in his sight. The hospital was full of color; mint green, ice blue, the ugly pink plastic that was so uniquely medical. Beautiful. Everything was beautiful. If this was simply another dream, Fraser was still content.

"Yeah, Frase?" Ray's grin was brilliant and his eyes were as blue as home.

"I'm not dead?"

Ray's expression went serious then and he leaned next to Fraser, elbows on the mattress, so he didn't have to fight so hard to watch him. "Nah, you're good, you're good Frase. I figure you did that thing, you know, played dead."

"Hibernation," Fraser whispered. Yes, that made sense. Perhaps. He remembered the cold and the dark and trying to measure his own strength against his chances of escaping on his own--and coming up short. He also remembered a different world, dark and frightening; Ray with a gun in his hand, abandoning his uniform in a public park, promising Ray that he'd never leave. Fraser had been so sure he was dead.

"That's it," Ray smiled. "You ain't dead Frase, you're still stuck with me."

"Understood," Fraser watched Ray watch him. "What happened?"

"You got--" Ray stopped voice shaking. He had to look away, staring at the wall over Fraser's head as he poured the words out like he was rushing to get it over with. "kidnapped by some nut-job and he . . . put you in a fucking pipe a-and bricked it up and dared us to find ya."

"You did," Fraser breathed. Dief barking, he remembered that. "You did, Ray."

"Nine days, Fraser," Ray's eyes were wide, full of the memory of fear. "You were in there for nine days."

"You found me, " Fraser said, feeling himself fading away again. "Ray--"

"Fraser?"

"Remember," he breathed. His had was so heavy but he strained, lifting it, managing to brush Ray's cheek with bandaged fingers. "Remember, I'll . . . never leave you."

Ray blinked at him, startled, then caught Fraser's sagging hand in his own. Fraser slid his thumb down, stroking over Ray's mouth. "Frase?"

Everything he remembered might have been a dream, the hallucinations of a dying man. Probably were, in fact. It didn't matter if what he remembered was real, it mattered that there were words unsaid and Fraser couldn't imagine why they had to remain so.

The words he needed to say, the words he should have said months ago were easy now. So easy. "I love you, Ray."

Rays expression was luminous, like in a dream, like Fraser knew it could be, open, alive and Ray loved him. Fraser could see it, here, now, awake and alive. Ray loved him.

END (122004)

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

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