Disclaimer: Not mine, all spoils go to Alliance Atlantis.

Story Notes: Follow-up prequel to Socks.

"Well, shit."

Fraser looks up briefly and considers admonishing his superior officer for the use of profanity -- instead, he nudges Dief, who is sleeping on his feet. Dief rolls over, grumbles, and promptly passes out again.

"That's just -- "

Fraser frowns at Dief for a moment before turning his attention back to his paperwork. He really does have to get this finished today, if he wants to devote all of his attention to the next case -- and besides, perhaps Dief's permitted his share of lethargy. Yesterday had been exhausting; God knows how many miles they'd had to cover before finally catching up with the two men. Well, a man and a boy, really, because Leonard could hardly have been more than fifteen -- but in any case, he'd resisted arrest as well as any recalcitrant man Fraser's ever arrested, well-aided by a large bag of fish guts. Quite possibly his father had brought him along for that sole purpose, as Henry Montgomery hasn't the build he'd had in school. And though Fraser realizes that Leonard shouldn't be considered responsible for his actions, or the bruises over Fraser's ribs and back, it's not his place to decide. He need only fill out the paperwork correctly, and someone with greater wisdom in these matters will take over from there.

"How did they manage to get stranded there?"

Oh dear, Fraser thinks, and then immediately takes it back. It's not that he resents the tourists who get themselves stranded in enormous, predictable blizzards. He does realize that they are Americans, who likely do not have access to his methods of determining impending inclement weather -- not even, perhaps, the local radio station, which has been panicking over this storm and its probable effects on the local caribou population for more than a week.

"What do you mean, they've got a kid? Who brings a kid -- "

He is nothing but understanding. He can see exactly how these Americans always manage to almost kill themselves in avoidable situations.

" -- into the uncharted regions of the Yukon? ...Yeah, yeah, look, you just give me the coordinates and I'll get it taken care of. Yeah..."

And it's only almost because of him -- him, Benton Fraser, though why he keeps saving them he'll never know. Surely survival of the fittest applies even here. Surely --

"Fraser -- got some Yanks freezing out on your territory. You got the time to -- "

"Certainly, sir."

~((*))~

"Yes, Diefenbaker, I'm quite aware that you were napping, and also similarly aware that I had paperwork of possibly epic proportions to complete, but we must..." Fraser trails off, realizing that Dief can't even see him properly through the blowing snow. He, of course, can hear Dief whining, which is just the best sort of situation for Dief to be in.

Fraser's situation, on the other hand, is rather more dismal. It's mostly the wind, he decides; the wind is blowing in every direction at once, north east south west by turns. He can already see how it would throw a man with less directional skill off his course, how it's making him doubt his own feel of the lay of the land. Americans don't stand a chance against it -- and of course, of course he's glad to have this chance to help, of course he's not sulking. He's not wishing that, as would normally be prudent, he could go home, shut up all the windows, light a small fire and just stay put for three days. He's just -- well, that is to say, he's only --

-- managed to lose Diefenbaker.

No, he's not actually lost. No. He's just indistinguishable from the snow. He is, after all, meant to live and hide and sneak about in the snow. He's just a little bit ahead, perhaps, because his legs are better adapted to walking through the drifts -- a meter away, perhaps, at knee level --

-- except he's not.

Fraser straightens, feeling oddly shaken and off his stride. Diefenbaker will be fine, he tells himself firmly. He's a creature of the snow. He will not freeze to death. He doesn't need the help of any human, Mountie or friend or not, to survive here.

Strangely, that doesn't seem to help -- but there's nothing to do for it now.

He keeps walking, even though he can't actually see where he's going -- his feet have walked this area without his mind's aid before, enough to remember its every detail, though at those times he'd been willingly preoccupied rather than effectively blind. His feet know that there -- there's a crevasse, to the left, and here's a short sharp slope up leading deceptively into a long sharp slope down. Here's a dwarf willow grove, preventing the snow from packing, which he shouldn't walk on. There's a rock face, which he shouldn't walk into, but which would make a nice site for a lean-to if the snowmobile gets water in its engine and strands them. His feet take everything as it comes, avoiding some, making note of others -- and really, Fraser thinks, feet aren't as blind as people generally think they are.

And now he's getting close enough that -- yes, there they are, a dark blotch against all that cold whiteness. Fraser knows in that area, there are gigantic flakes of rock that fall from the rock face and bury themselves in the snow, invisible to all but snowmobile runners. They're lucky -- they've been able to radio in, which means they glanced off the rocks in the best direction possible. Either of the wrong ways would have kept them out of contact: to the south, there's a cliff-edge, and to the east there's a narrow crevasse enclosed by rock walls. Dumb luck has half-saved them already; all Fraser has to do is meet it halfway.

He takes another step --

-- and then he's falling, going down hard -- and of course: the snowmobile tracks have frozen over and compressed the snow too much, but what good that knowledge does him now he'll never know -- now that he's already fallen, now that he's plunging off -- which direction? which direction? everything's scrambled --

-- and then he's landed painfully, with ice trying to pierce his back and sides and neck, eight feet down a column of glassy snow.

Dammit.

~((*))~

It could be worse. If he'd fallen off the cliff, he'd be dead now. At least now he's still alive -- but for how long? It's too tight here to move, and he can't reach his pack, no matter which contortion technique he uses. He can't reach the rope he brought -- and so he's trapped. And though the concept of an igloo is sound, the similarity ends where the crevasse opens, where he came in: the ice just takes his body heat and reflects it away, up and up and into the falling snow that won't even use it, bleeding him away little by little.

Fraser looks up, wishing the slight chance that someone would come wasn't so slight. Anyone. Anyone who knows how to get someone out of a crevasse without falling in himself. His father, perhaps...

A small face appears above him, and Fraser tingles with relief and dread and cold. The child -- of course the child would have less difficulty walking through the snow, being more streamlined. "Mommy! It's one of those men. With the funny hats. The policeman. He's stuck in the hole -- Mommy -- "

Fraser moves, just a little -- he's too sluggish to do anything more, and all he needs to do is show her he's alive. She peers down at him, fascinated and anxious all at once. "Hi," he calls up to her, not knowing if she can hear him over the wind.

"It's cold here. I don't like it. Do you like it?"

"I like it well enough," Fraser replies, trying to stay calm, tactfully omitting that at times, he fears his home just as much as any Yank.

"But you're stuck!"

"That fact had not, in fact, escaped my notice." Fraser wriggles his toes, clenches and unclenches his hands, trying to dispel the persistent feeling of numb stiffness. "But you're here, and you're going to get me out, so I'm not terribly worried."

"I don't know how."

"That's all right; you just go back to your snowmobile, and I think you'll find a rope there -- you just bring that here and I'll tell you the rest."

Her face vanishes from the edge of the crevasse, replaced by yet more snow. He's not at all worried that she'll come back, mostly because he can't afford to worry, and partly because he knows she thinks he's her only chance at survival. He's only worried that she won't come back in time.

Fraser closes his eyes, and tries to walk the fine line between rest and sleep.

~((*))~

"And then I pulled him out! Well, I unstuck him. And then he climbed out. And then -- "

Fraser watches the little girl, whose name seems to be Stephanie or Simone or -- something starting with an "s", anyway -- from outside the door. He's knee-deep in snow, and though he knows it would be polite to go inside and engage in the social niceties, he very much wants to stay here. Going inside means warmth, and warmth is one of the things he can't handle in public right now. At least here, his feet are numb, and that's almost better than what he knows is waiting for him at the cabin, in front of the fire, in his overstuffed armchair. He could almost stay here forever -- except he can't feel his feet at all. Not even the slight scrape of sock, or a twinge of general pain. And he knows that if he doesn't move fast, he will lose his feet -- if he hasn't lost them already.

So he ignores the talk in the station -- ignores the chuckles, the murmurs of "Fraser had to be saved by a little Yank girl? Don't believe it --", the friendly worried smirks aimed in his direction -- mutters his intentions to a passing fellow Mountie, whose name he can't quite recall, and walks back to his own snowmobile. He shouldn't be on his feet. He shouldn't be walking on them -- but just what other choice does he have? There's no other way to get home. Now is merely the time to be glad for the numbness.

When he has to nudge a furry body from the front seat, as always, he doesn't quite register it -- and then when he does, it only means that now is the time to be glad for the numbness and Dief, because he's just too...damn...tired...to be overjoyed.

~((*))~

Fraser groans when his eyes open, because he is not a 2:00 A.M. person, and certainly the number of things demanding his attention isn't helping the matter.

The first is the lamp, which he thoughtlessly left on the night before. That is easily remedied.

The second is a pair of feet, which appear to be attached to his legs, though he can't quite remember what they feel like. He tries to wiggle one of the bloated toes, and -- ah. There. He probably shouldn't have done that, but at least it's obvious that they're there, now.

The third thing is banging on the door very loudly; its voice sounds very like that of Henry Oakfield, to whom Fraser may or may not have muttered the night before.

Fraser groans again, turns the lamp back on, and stares at his feet. They stare back, blistered and pink and painful and beaten.

"Fraser! Fraser, goddammit, get out here, I do not want to have to kick this door down -- "

Fraser should probably get out there before Henry hurts himself. Walking, though, seems like an insurmountable challenge -- until he spies a pair of thick socks, laid out to dry in front of the fireplace perhaps two days ago.

He crawls over to them on his hands and knees, slips them on, and opens the door just as Henry batters through it.