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

Author's Notes: I have finally seen the pilot and season 3, yay me!

Story Notes: Set after the series ended, so no true spoilers though there are general references to things in the show. The entire series contains medical/injury references, some violence and will contain slash.

This story is a sequel to: Long Journey Home 4/?

Fraser knew where he was; the pungent smell of antiseptics, the sounds of machinery, even the soft turning of magazine pages; it was a hospital. From the crushing weight of pain and exhaustion he was the patient. Eventually, the scent of cologne penetrated the leaden sluggishness of his thoughts; Ray.

Relief must have sent him back under the edge of consciousness; time had passed, there were more voices--doctors. Fraser wanted to listen; he was the patient after all but surely that wasn't English, French, Inuit, Cantoneseonly Ray's voice seemed at all comprehensible. He should say something, do something but breathing was difficult enough.

Ray would be guilty over shooting him; Fraser remembered Ray's guilt, like he remembered that he would recover that he would walk again--and that struck him as odd, this memory of things that hadn't happened yet. Wasn't he here because of Ray's bullet in his back? And didn't it hurt less the last time around? But if he were in the Chicago hospital, with the burden of Ray's guilt to carry, why did it seem like he'd been here finished this, checked it, put it in the box marked done?

He twitched with the effort to move, to speak, and the pain lying in wait bloomed over his body, in his joints, down his arms, hammering at his head. His faint croak cut off the soft voices in the room, like the scream of pain it was supposed to be.

"Benny!" Ray's voice was suddenly close enough to smell old coffee and the jostling of his bed made tears of pain leak from Fraser's unwilling eyes. He struggled to open them, he had to see Ray, try and understand where he was, when he was. "Jesus, Benny, you in there? C'mon Benny"

The light was blinding; the dark and light blurs took their time before the resolved into Ray's receding hairline and strained face. Fraser still couldn't move, not so much as a finger, but even his mute blinking seemed enough to break the damn on the tears in Ray's greenish eyes and let them fall. Fraser felt the warmth of them on his cheeks, the first thing that didn't hurt since he returned to consciousness.

"He's back, he's awake," Ray was yelling, noise rattling in Fraser's head like gunshots. Ray's tie was rumpled and it wasn't the one Fraser remembered from the hospital after Victoria's escape. Why he should remember, disturbed him. Ray's face was brilliant with relief, Fraser was glad to give him that but couldn't' summon the energy for a smile. "Bennythank God--"

Predictably, doctors shining lights into his aching eyes, trying to manipulate and prod at Fraser while he grunted then subsided into glassy eyed agony until they gave him something for the pain replaced the treasured sight of Ray Vecchio's face. Words still seemed beyond him but the tears must have told them enough. He went back under, thankfully, in a very short time.

"Corporal? Benton?" The insistent voice pulled Fraser awake again. The face hovering at the edge of his vision was vaguely familiar--the neurologist, he thought, though he couldn't remember the woman's name. Something French, she was Quebecois.

"Yes," Fraser whispered.

"Do you remember what we were doing?"

"Consciousness and orientation." That was easy enough, though Fraser was less sure where they'd paused or how long ago that had been.

"Yes, that's right, lets try and finish this, shall we? Who is the current Prime Minister?"

"The Right Honorable Jean Chretien," Fraser breathed, caught his breath and went on. "Though I'mnot very sure that's an effective orientation question, he has been Prime Minister for seven years."

"Hmm." Another mark on his charts. "What's the last date you remember?"

Fraser stumbled on that one, as well as several others, such as where he lived. A storage room in Chicago? But that had never been home; Canada was home, maybe his father's cabin, even though he'd never lived in it. He hadn't been back to Inuvit since he was fifteen. Even if his memory was working properly, Fraser wasn't sure he could tell Dr. Fauil where his home was.

The hostel was full of shivering Japanese college students, bouncing from room to room, getting laid and partying late but it was cheap. Ray lay half in his sleeping bag; the one from the adventure and rated to 30 below, not a 50-degree room with a bed and a chair and a locker for his stuff. There wasn't anything he could do but lie there and sweat.

Maggie had thrown him out of the hospital in a cloud of security goons, only stopping to whisper in his ear that Fraser was still alive. He couldn't tell is she was glad or pissed about it. Ray had lost his lunch on the sidewalk, found the nearest bar and shut his brain down for the rest of the day. That was three days past and he was still waiting for the restraining order. Hadn't come and maybe, maybe he wasn't going to get screwed--just this once. Maybe they didn't have those kinds of laws in Canada, with everyone being so polite and all. Maybe they'd have to make a special law just for him--the Stanley Raymond Kowalski Asshole Law. Ray rolled onto his side and scrubbed at his tired eyes.

He couldn't sleep, not with the last music he heard being Fraser's silence. Everytime he shut his eyes that was what he heard. Silence.

He'd gotten used to silence, looking for the hand. But that had been a good silence--a Fraser silence. Funny thing was, Fraser didn't talk much in the North West Areas, but Ray had to clock him one to get him to shut up on Chicago. Ray squeezed his eyes shut and hunched into the sleeping bag; they'd been buddies for two years and he never figured out that Fraser talked when he was unhappy. Didn't even see that he was unhappy until he saw Fraser where he belonged, in the cold and the snow and talking with his eyes, not just his mouth.

"God, I suck," Ray muttered. Fraser happy had been why he didn't say a word when the adventure was over.

He'd been running a line, the whole time he was freezing his ass off; set it up all the way through the whole quest, talking about take-out and DVDs, about donuts ('cause Ray wasn't above getting Dief on his side), hot showers and indoor plumbing. Ray was working it; pulling out all the stops to get Fraser to come back with him, to come home--to Chicago. But then he got hit with the clue bat, somewhere near the arctic sea, and he shut his trap. Fraser nodded, sometimes, while they were feeding the dogs and Ray was going on about art house theaters. Fraser agreed about Chinese food, when they were eating caribou fat and pemmican but his eyes were on the aurora above them, on the long, smooth line of the snowfields, on the dogs running ahead of the sleigh and he was happy.

In the airport, with the noise and the smells he'd never noticed before, Ray hugged Fraser, smiled, and said they were buddies, best partners and didn't ask him to come back with him. 'Cause Chicago wasn't home, not for Fraser. Ray closed his eyes, windmilling his legs to throw of the sweltering bag and rubbing at the ache in his chest. Putting Fraser in Chicago was like putting a wolf in the zoo. It wasn't right, Ray couldn't do it.

That was okay. It was okay. Fraser wrote him letters and Ray even tried to write back; crappy shit and he figured Fraser couldn't even read it, with his handwriting. It was okay though. 'Cause Fraser was home and he was home and it was cool. He had figured if he told himself that often enough, he'd believe it.

It wasn't his alarm, it wasn't his phone but the damn ringing wouldn't stop. Memory hit and Ray jerked awake, sprawled over his sleeping bag in his old longjohns. The hostel, the hospital, Fraser. He rolled off the thin mattress and flung himself at the phone with the unfamiliar ring.

"Yeah!"

"Kowalski." Vecchio's voice on the other end. "*You are such a pain in the ass, you know that*?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever--they gonna let me come back?" Ray hopped from foot to foot, the floor was freezing and he shoved his free hand under his pit, dancing in place in his long underwear. "Can I see him? How's he doing?"

"*Better,*" And Ray could hear something in Vecchio's voice, relief, like the first time you saw the sun after a winter up here. "*He's awake, Kowalski, talking sometimes. Awake.*"

"Oh--oh, jesus, Vecchio," Ray yanked the locker open with a squeal of bent hinges and fumbled for his jeans, nearly dropping the phone and dizzy with relief. He was gonna convert, go back to Church, be a good Catholic boy because he believed in miracles again. Fraser was alive, he was here and Ray--he had to see him, open eyed, awake here. "I gotta see him, I gotta see him, Vecchio. Please--" he'd kiss Vecchio's Italian shoes if he had too. "--help me get in there. I gotta see Fraser."

Ray panted into the phone through the long silence and was about ready to beg when he heard Vecchio sigh and snort.

"Figured," Vecchio muttered. "*Figured that. You can come back, gotta have an escort though and Kowalski*--"

"Yeah? What? What?" Change spangled to the floor, spilling out of Ray's pockets as he hopped into his jeans with the phone trapped against his shoulder. His belt slipped through his fingers twice before he could get it fastened. "Anything, I swear--Vecchio--"

"He asked for you. Don't screw this up."

TBC

End Long Journey Home 5/? by XTricks: x_tricks2000@yahoo.com

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