Disclaimer: No clever money-making strategies here.

Story Notes: A post-CotW, angsty-fuzzy fic.

Ray's not used to having to hold himself together in hospital waiting rooms.

Part of it's probably 'cause he hasn't been in the waiting room much. Hell, he hasn't been in hospitals much. He smashed himself up a lot when he was a kid, but mostly it got handled with ice packs. And yeah, he'd gone to hospitals -- broken his arm once, shot a coupla times, and poisoned once, which he'd never been able to hit anybody for. Point is, though, that he's never come to a hospital with any working brains, what with the adrenaline and pain. He's never had to worry about anybody else -- people always worry about him.

Damn, he's had it easy.

It doesn't seem like Fraser has it bad, but then it doesn't seem like anything. He doesn't have instinct here, two floors down from the operating theater. His gut doesn't have anything to go on; it's just floating there, feeling kind of swimmy and nauseous, and maybe Ray really is going to throw up in a minute if he doesn't give it something to chew on.

For the last half hour he's been staring at the wall in front of his face. It's white -- white like snow, white like ice, and he think that maybe after this he doesn't ever want to see white again. He'll just lock himself up in a little black room and forget about...

What? What? White? Snow? The quest -- he's gotta forget about the quest, 'cause it's gonna get them both killed, even though this...this isn't Canada's fault. He can't blame it on Canada, and he doesn't want to think about who to blame it on.

There's blood on his sleeve; he can feel it stiffening up. Maybe it's not just the sleeve, either -- he can't remember all the places he might have touched Fraser, when he still hadn't realized that Fraser's blood was real, when he'd thought that much blood couldn't possibly fit in a person. Fraser would say he had poor spatial visualization, if he was here, which he isn't.

A nurse passes by, and she's giving him these worried, frightened looks, like maybe he's insane and that blood on his shirt's from his gun. It's not, he wants to tell her -- it's not, he's my partner, he's my buddy, I took a bullet for him and he'd take a bullet for me, you don't get it! -- and the next time she comes by, the words pop out of his mouth: "I'm a cop." Damn, his voice is hoarse, and he sounds like maybe he's been crying -- which maybe he did, in the back of the sled on the way here.

She looks like she wants to bolt, except that's the thing about Canadian nurses -- they're even more polite than the rest of them. Maybe even more polite than the Mounties. "Ah...are you?"

"Yeah. In the States."

"I see."

"My partner's in the OR."

"The Mountie?" she asks, checking some chart on her neat wooden clipboard.

"Yeah, him. Look, can you..."

She stares at him for a moment, then chews her lip. "Are you family?"

He avoids her eyes. "Hey, us cops, 'slike a brotherhood, yeah?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't let you see him if you -- "

"Then don't take me there, you don't gotta take me there, just gimme his prog -- prong -- "

"Prognosis?"

That hurts, because normally it's Fraser finishing his words for him, and Fraser's...not here, and this stupid nurse isn't anything like him -- she's white, not red; aseptic, not suppressed; frightened, not...not...

He swallows hard. "Yeah, that."

"I'm afraid they don't have one yet -- he's still in the OR, you see, we can't know what -- "

"You got somethin' about him on that chart?"

"Yes, of course."

"Lemme see."

"It's not very informative, I'm afraid," she warns him, and it sounds like she's upset about that -- but she hands it over, and that's the main thing.

He doesn't know exactly what happened; they never told him. He's glad, he guesses, that they were paying attention to Fraser rather than him, but that doesn't make him any less clueless. He knows that Fraser lost a lot of blood, and that at some point he lost consciousness -- lips moving frantically inside the gas mask, trying to say something...to him? He doesn't know -- but he needs more, now, to give his head something to chew on.

He reads:

Bullet entry: #1 b/w ribs 5 + 6 #2 below sternum #3 right quad Bullet exit: #1 below scapula #2 no exit #3 deflected by femur -- exit right quad -- possible fracture Internal hemorrhaging; blood loss; hypothermia Possible anoxia -- brain damage? TO OR

Ray stares at the question mark after "brain damage" for a long time. Anoxia? That's, what, that happens when your brain doesn't get enough air, Fraser told him that on the trail -- and hadn't they said he'd stopped breathing? Hadn't Ray thought there was less fog coming from Fraser's side of the sled? That was what the mask was for --

"I, uh -- I think I'll come back for that later?" the nurse proposes uncertainly. He nods, dazed, and she leaves.

Brain damage. Fraser can't have brain damage, because Ray'sthe idiot, the one that can't think coherently to save his life. Fraser's brain can handle --

Not that it matters, Ray tries to tell himself, because Fraser's lungs are going to be seriously fucked up. Between the first and the second bullet, Ray's surprised Fraser's heart's still working. But the lungs, the lungs are definitely busted, which is probably why he stopped breathing. That's wrong, too -- Fraser's always the one with the unbreakable wind, who chides Ray's smoking habits, who waits patiently when the cold air aggravates Ray's tar-damaged lungs. Ray doesn't even know what they do with collapsed lungs, but they're obviously doing something; and Fraser was always tough, even before the quest.

But he can still die.

And even just thinking about that -- Fraser dead, cold in a coffin, still and bone-white -- gives him a jolt, and he grits his teeth, trying not to attract attention to himself. But somehow...somehow, he can't stop himself from looking back at those dark scribbles: "brain damage?"

What does that mean, anyway? He shouldn't be thinking about it, he knows he shouldn't, because it'll be a lucky thing if Fraser is alive to deal with any brain damage.

But he thinks about it, because he can't help it.

Fraser without, say, a handy Inuit story. Fraser unable to smell which way's north. Fraser unable to talk to Dief. Fraser not knowing who Dief is.

There's sweat on his face, now; he's starting to panic. Calm down, calm down, calm the fuck down --

But what if Fraser doesn't remember Ray?

What if --

What if he's a vegetable for the rest of his life, just lying there, eyes shut, for years, until just one day he --

"Detective Kowalski?"

His face is wet, and he tries to tell himself it's just sweat. "I -- I'm not a detective here. Don't got the -- jurisdiction."

The nurse blushes. "I wasn't sure if -- never mind. I -- the Mountie's in the ICU, if you want to see him."

"He -- he's alive?"

"Yes. They told me he's doing surprisingly well, actually."

Nothing surprising about it. Mountie can handle anything. "He awake?"

"No, but so far that's just the drugs. He should regain consciousness soon."

Ray leaps up, almost knocking her over. "Where is he? Show me where -- "

"Room twenty-one."

He's down the hall before she's even finished speaking; halfway there he turns, running backwards, calling back to her: "Thanks you k -- I mean, thanks, thanks!" His brain is whirling, and he can't figure out why it even mattered how he thanked he, but he can't bring himself to care because the room numbers are flashing by him -- 19 -- 20 -- 21 --

Outside the door, he stops short -- and a completely irrational fear fills his head, leaving no room for anything else.

What if Fraser dies?

Right now, while Ray's watching?

Is it possible? Well, yeah, yeah, the guy took two bullets to the chest, he's in definite danger of doing that. Just -- you know -- fade out. Go to sleep and never wake up.

Or maybe -- maybe he'll wake up first. Open his eyes and look up at Ray -- probably he'll smile, the bastard -- and then, then he'd do it, and Ray'd have to watch, and hold his hand, and beg for him to come back, and Fraser wouldn't. Wouldn't be able to.

Fuck.

He doesn't think he can take that. He's already got an IMAX playing in his head -- gunshot, impact, Fraser's blood, his own screaming: "Officer down! Officer down!" -- constantly replaying and replaying -- and if this is driving him almost crazy, that'll push him over for sure.

Fraser's not immortal, a voice mutters to him in his head. He'll die if you put a bullet through him. And you gotta watch. You gotta watch, even if you do go nuts, 'cause he's your friend and he'd do it for you.

And yeah, that works, competition works, especially when there's a buncha guilt thrown into the mix. So Ray grits his teeth and barrels through the door too fast -- and then he's in, breathing too hard, only three feet away from Fraser.

Fraser's alive, still, chest rising and falling rhythmically, and so Ray comes a little closer, nervous -- like a wrong move now might be the last straw, and he doesn't even know the difference between a wrong move and a right one. He's afraid Fraser might die if he so much as breathes wrong, because Fraser's -- well, fragile, which wasn't exactly the first word Ray would've ever used to describe him: closed eyes, pale face, limp hair. Ray's close enough to smell him, now, and Fraser smells like -- like --

Say it, don't, God, please don't say --

-- the scene of a murder: blood, sweat, the smell of whatever the EMT's use to keep their equipment clean. Ray's stomach churns violently, and he has to make himself focus on the pulse in Fraser's throat, proof that Fraser's alive, dammit, and while he's standing there watching, Fraser's eyes open.

A spike of panic goes through Ray's brain: this is it, this is whatsis, Murphy's Law. Fuck, Fraser, you can't --

Ray stares into Fraser's drug-dilated eyes, and Fraser smiles, and smiles, grins, even, and -- refuses to die.

"'Lo, Ray," Fraser says, and he sounds pretty out of it -- sleepy, and not in any noticeable pain.

"Hey, Fraser," Ray whispers, and his voice is shaking, but what'd he expect?

Fraser looks down at himself and pokes at the bandages on his chest. "Hm. Got shot."

"Yeah. Yeah. You're gonna be okay, thought, you're -- "

"Stupid."

"Stupid?" Ray asks, suddenly uncertain; is Fraser calling Ray stupid, for thinking Fraser can recover from --

"Of me," Fraser elaborates, and yeah, that's Fraser all over -- naw, perp with a gun didn't have anything to do with it, it's just Fraser's own stupidity.

"'Snot your fault," Ray says, trying to sound soothing. "You did what you had to do, 'swhat you always do."

Fraser blinks up at the ceiling, sniffs. "Hospital."

"Yeah, this is a hospital, where'd you expect to end up?" Whoa, whoa, back off, Ray, keep your issues to yourself today. Better yet, the rest of your life.

Fraser rolls his head around to face Ray. "Sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

"Dunno. Sorry."

Ray rubs his face with one hand. "Look, you didn't do anything wrong, you just...well, you kept me alive, so I can't be hacked off at you."

Fraser doesn't look convinced, which is normal -- goddamn skeptical Mountie, Ray thinks happily -- but he also looks too tired to talk, which isn't. "Uh," Ray says uncomfortably, "maybe I should -- "

"Don't go," Fraser interrupts, and for a moment he almost look like himself -- eyes focused, daring, mouth set in a hard determined line -- but then he sags back, and the determination is gone. "'M cold," he explains weakly, hoarsely.

Ray moves closer. "You need anything?"

"Nuh," Fraser grunts, eyelids drooping, and Ray takes that to be a no.

Ray doesn't know what Fraser want; he wants, desperately, to help, but he hasn't the faintest idea how to making a dying man comfortable.

"'M fine. Stronger," Fraser mutters, and okay, that's kinda weird -- but right, maybe not dying, but --

"I don't know what to do," Ray blurts, and it's shockingly loud and embarrassingly...young, really, like he can't handle his life on his own. Maybe right now, he can't.

Fraser's eyes snap open -- because, being Fraser, he's gotta help Ray if he needs help, never mind that Ray's trying to help Fraser. "Tell me...a story."

Ray blinks. "'Bout what?"

"Quest."

And this is weird, because Fraser's the shaman or tribal elder or whatsis,while Ray can never think about an event long enough to get it across to anybody else. Besides which, Fraser was there for the entire quest anyway, so what's he need Ray to tell him about it for?

But Fraser's gazing at him expectantly, and -- well, why the hell not? Ray can do stories -- he's heard enough of them, anyway. And it's just Fraser listening, anyway -- just sleepy, maybe slightly unhinged Fraser -- so he'll try it.

Ray plops down on the floor and starts talking.

~((*))~

"Fraser!" Ray's not screaming, no he's not. There's a fucking blinding blizzard raging all around him, and he can't see jackshit except this suffocating white pressed up against his face, and he certainly can't find camp, because this damn thing blew up out of nowhere and surprised Fraser, surprised Fraser and probably blew out the fire Ray'd spent half an hour trying to light. Ray's lost, and freezing to death, and starting to choke on the snow in his face, and alone, but he's not panicking, because Fraser told him that panic kills men and if nothing else he's gotta prove that stupid stubborn Mountie wrong.

("Were you afraid?" Fraser asks quietly.

"No," Ray replies, too fast, and he sounds too defensive even to his own ears.

"Oh dear. I'm sorry, Ray, I didn't realize -- "

"Hey, shaddup and listen to the story, okay?...")

"Fraser!" Ray shouts over the wind. "Fraser, say something, I can't see -- " and Ray's not even sure if he could hear Fraser, even if Fraser shouted. He doesn't know if Fraser can hear him, and despite everything, he's starting to believe that this blizzard is just impossible to beat. Impossible. Impossible...

Ray should never have come to Canada. Fraser may be a freak, but he's also a SuperMountie-freak, with magic SuperMountie-powers, 'cause that's apparently what you need to hack it up here. And Ray? Ray's just your average geeky Polack. No freakishness, no superpowers. Ray belongs in Chicago, where there's heat and hot water and quilts instead of shared body heat and smelly sleeping bags and cold -- cold seeping in despite it all.

And Fraser probably doesn't need him here anyway.

("I did want you there," Fraser protests muzzily. "I did. I wanted to show you..."

Ray studies the peeling skin around the his thumbnail, "Yeah?"

"You believe me?"

"Yeah."

"Yes," Fraser sighs happily, and closes his eyes.)

And then something warm is pressing up against his leg -- Ray can't distinguish the white fur from the snow but he reaches down, twists his fingers into it, gropes around until he finds something that feels like Dief's head and pats it.

He can't see Fraser, but he knows that Fraser'd follow Dief if Dief went out to play in a blizzard, or if he went to look for Ray in a blizzard, which is more likely. A moment later, he can hear Fraser in his ear -- "Ray, what -- you're unhinged, absolutely unhinged -- " and Fraser sounds pissed; Ray can't remember the last time that happened. Maybe a part of his head thinks that he should be a little worried about that, because Fraser wouldn't get angry for no reason, and wouldn't even get angry about anything that's not going to get them killed.

He can't really catch the moment of transition, but one moment he's standing and the next, he's in Fraser's arms -- Fraser's carrying him, through the wind and the snow and isn't that a song from somewhere? and then Fraser throws him into the tent.

It's quiet, then, and dark -- until Fraser lights the lantern, and even if it's not warm it feels warm, with the mellow flickering light reflecting off the tent's walls and Fraser's tired, relieved face. "'M an idiot," he says shakily -- it's an apology of sorts, he thinks, or maybe he just feels like an idiot. Fraser doesn't respond, though -- doesn't even look at him, and Ray keeps looking at the flickering light on Fraser's cheek until his silence sinks in properly. "Maybe I...I should just..."

"I wish you wouldn't say things like that," Fraser snaps. "It seems kind of futile, all this business of keeping you alive, if you don't stay here."

Ray blinks. "Okay," he agrees, and that's that.

~((*))~

It's not snowing today, for a change -- the sun's out, the temperatures going up -- or so Fraser says, Ray's not admitting it yet -- and the sky is blue, a deep deep blue that Ray's sure he's never seen before. And the sky isn't just above him, isn't just flat; it seems curved, coming around and around and touching the ground, encasing him. It's just him and Fraser and the sky -- and Dief, if Dief's people, which he is.

Fraser's stopped; he's just standing there, looking at the horizon, looking really happy -- and if this is his home, well, he has every right to be.

"See what you mean, 'bout walkin' in the sky," Ray says, softly.

Fraser smiles, distantly, like he's not really listening, like he's remembering something nice. Then he looks around at Ray, grinning, and says, "Freak."

("I was watching my father," Fraser explains, enunciating deliberately.

"Yeah, sure -- y'know, it's okay to slur, you're fulla drugs."

Fraser contemplates this. "Have you seen my father?" he asks, still very clearly.

"I -- yeah, I've seen pictures," Ray offers cautiously.

"Ah." Fraser closes his eyes again.)

~((*))~

Ray stumbles out of the tent to piss, curses a fair amount when the cold air gets in his pants, and is about to get done with his business when he catches a glimpse of Mountie-red.

Ray jerks his head around; there's an elderly Mountie standing a little behind him. The man clucks. "Shouldn't be so ungrateful. Keeps your prostate healthy, you know."

Ray blinks. He's fairly certain that he should be maybe a little freaked out, but he really can't do freak-out before coffee. "Who're you?"

"Robert Fraser, RCMP."

"Ah,"Ray says, and proceeds with his business.

Robert Fraser shakes his fur clad head. "You've been talking to Benton too much."

You're telling me," Ray mutters, before turning his back on the guy and unzipping the tent flap. Fraser wakes up and grunts a little -- probably Ray just sent cold air up his back.

"There's a mad Mountie," Ray thinks to mention, wriggling into his sleeping bag, "outside the tent. He says he's you dad."

Fraser's up, wide awake, the old rod back in his spine. "What?...is he, by any chance, wearing a fur hat?"

Ray snuggles deeper into the sleeping bag -- Fraser looks like he's gonna go charging out, and Ray knows from his limited experience that he's gotta get as deep as possible before the flap opens. "Ummm...yeah. So?"

"IMPOSSIBLE!" Fraser shouts, and bolts out of the tent.

Ray winces, mutters "Crazy Mountie," and promptly dozes off.

("You, Maggie, Buck 'n' me," Fraser tells Ray, inexplicably.

Ray feels that some explanation of that event's called for. "Uh, well, I never saw him again. Probably just dreaming or something."

"Mmmmmm no. Yes. Um...beavers..." and Ray's now certain, once and for all, that those drugs are really messing with Fraser's head.)

~((*))~

"Oh, shit, shit, shit."

"Language, Ray."

"Fuck that, I don't got a gun!"

"True."

"What'm I supposed to do?"

"Keep your head down and your eyes open."

(Fraser's out; he's snoring a little, chest rising, falling, rising. Ray looks at his hands, which are starting to clench a little, and keeps talking, voice echoing in the quiet room.)

There's six of them, and Ray's already seen them pack more than ten kilos of white stuff into their truck. Four of them have guns, good guns, in shoulder holsters. Fraser has one gun; Ray has no gun, and he's convinced that the only reason Fraser's calm is 'cause he doesn't grasp that fact. "I'm a better shot and you know it, Fraser -- gimme the gun, okay, gimme the gun and I'll finish it in five minutes."

But Fraser shakes his head.

"C'mon, Fraser, I'm givin' you logic, here, I thought you were all about the logic!"

"I'm not denying that, Ray -- certainly you are a batter shot than myself, and certainly you could finish it in, I think, less than five minutes; but to give you my gun would be quite clearly against regulations."

Ray gapes. "Didn't you learn anything in Chicago?"

"Of course. A number of matters were made apparent -- "

"Well, you do what you gotta do in the field, and fuck regulations all the rest of the way to Inuvik, yeah?"

Fraser looks hurt. "I've served in the RCMP for most of my adult life; I do know how to shoot."

"Yeah, I'm sure you do, but you see them semi-automatic rifles? The four of them against your RCMP regulation pistol mean you don't got room to miss."

"I won't miss."

"Can't you just admit that there's something I do better'n you?"

"Why, of course, Ray, and I have done -- but your particular skills aren't necessary at this juncture."

Ray looks away from Fraser; he's too ticked to even look the stupid stubborn Mountie in the eye. "Necessary, my ass...no, not necessary, but safe, okay? You know what safe means?"

Fraser sighs. He says nothing for a minute, keeping his eyes on the perps, before saying, "You know, you need to learn to defend yourself comfortably without a gun."

If Ray wasn't so scared and jittering right now, he'd laugh. "What, you want me to make like SuperMountieFreak back in Chicago? 'Excuse me, sir, but if you'd just hand over that gun I will refrain from harming you?' You know how many times you scared the shit out of me like that? Me 'n' Vecchio both, thanks a lot for giving me something in common with him -- "

"I apologize, but it remains a fact that I -- "

Ray sighs and scrubs at his face. "Whatever. Just -- whatever, shoot, let's go."

("I tried," Ray whispers to Fraser, who's still asleep. "I tried. You wouldn't listen to me, why wouldn't you -- ?" Ray looks down, tries to unclench the fists he's made in the fabric of his pockets. "It's not your fault. It's not. I just -- I feel like I shoulda done something...")

Fraser aims -- Ray sees he's aiming for the tire, and immediately he figures out the plan: shoot the tires out -- the sound of the tire blowing'll cover the shot pretty good, considering Fraser's got the silencer on -- which means the guys'll have to change the flat, and while they're distracted with the flat Fraser 'n' Dief 'n' Ray'll sneak up on 'em before they can get at those guns. So it's an okay plan, Ray admits grudgingly -- but it all depends on hitting the wheel.

Fraser checks his trajectory for a final time, and shoots.

And misses. ' Well, he's hit the tire but -- shit -- he's only just grazed it -- damn -- and the tires leaking slowly, not making any noise at all -- fuck -- and so the shot just sounds like a shot out of an RCMP regulation pistol with silencer, clear as day -- shit fuck -- and so they've heard it, and you've gotta love the way their semi-automatics beat it out sometime when you're not on their wrong side -- shit fuck damn shit fuck -- !

"Shoot, Fraser, shoot!" Ray shouts frantically, and Fraser's up, Fraser's getting into position, getting a better angle -- but he's not moving right, he's not sure of himself, he's hesitating --

(--Ray gripping the edge of Fraser's bed, hard -- his fingers are going numb -- )

BANG! and Ray's first desperate thought is I'm hit, I'm hit, I'm hit so bad I can't even feel it -- because he knows that sticky warm sickening wetness, he's been shot before, and he's the one standing here unarmed --

-- but it's Fraser who's been hit, Fraser who's falling because there's a bloody hole in the leg of his pants, in his leg, and he can't stand -- and as Ray watches, he takes at least one more right in the chest --

(He's alive -- he's alive -- )

-- he's not wearing the good vest -- too heavy for travel -- close range -- semi-automatic --

God, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead --

-- and Ray's moving fast now, grabbing the gun that falls from Fraser's weakening fingers, and maybe it's completely hopeless now but Ray's always been the man with the gun, the man with a vest, the man with the radio for backup, the man catching Fraser when he falls. He's gotta do this now, even if Fraser's dead --

(He's alive -- breathing -- alive, dammit!)

-- and one two three shots, bing bing bing, three men down --

--God, bleeding out on the snow, freezing and bleeding to death, not supposed to happen --

-- and four, five, six shots, bing bing bing, and the last of the bastards falls and it's quiet, so quiet, so quiet...

Ray crawls over to Fraser, drops the gun; he can't see, he can't see Fraser, and he puts his hand out to feel, to say...goodbye, to say see ya soon, because without Fraser Canada is lethal, to just touch, because he doesn't know what else to -- he can't --

-- and his hand lands on Fraser's mouth.

And there's blood there, but he's breathing, still breathing, he can feel it on his hand.

Ray yanks his hand away, blinks hard -- and then he's holding Fraser, holding him up, and he knows that he's supposed to be saying something comforting -- "You're gonna be okay," or any of that shit he can't tell Fraser, because he doesn't know. So instead all that's coming out of his mouth is "Officer down -- officer down -- officer fucking down" even though he's probably miles from the nearest radio and even farther from the nearest RCMP station and nobody can hear him, let alone help him --

-- except Dief, who's finally shown up, finally come back from wherever the hell he was and shouldn't have been. Dief's pushing his nose into Fraser's face, whining getting more and more distressed, and it's giving Ray some sort of fuel or something because he's screaming now -- "Officer down, officer down, officer down" -- screaming himself hoarse, wishing so hard that somebody, anybody, would hear, because Dief can't.

But it's Dief with the common sense, Dief who drags them all back to the sled, Dief who sets the dogs off on God knows what course --

-- and Dief who licks his face to get his attention when they've finally, miraculously, arrived at the hospital -- the only hospital, probably within a twenty mile radius from wherever they'd been.

("Dief, you're fucking amazing," Ray says with some wonder, and takes a moment to wish that the hospital allowed half-wolves in -- and then he really loses it.)

~((*))~

The doorknob clicks when it turns, and Ray wipes his face hurriedly. "Detective -- I mean, Mr. Kowalski -- you have to leave now, the doctors are coming to check on him and I really shouldn't have left you here..."

"'Sokay," Ray says immediately. He checks Fraser's breathing again, and then follows her out. The nurse's nerves look to be in almost as bad a state as his -- and suddenly it occurs to Ray that he's persuaded a Canadian nurse to break a rule with nothing but his own geekish charm. Ha. "Hey -- what's your name, anyway?"

She glances around furtively. "Ah, Charlotte."

Ray tries to muster up a convincing grin. "Well, thanks, Charlotte."

They're back in the waiting room, right where they should be, but she's still jittering. "Oh, it was nothing really, I just...um...well, I...."

Ray can't keep his grin from turning wry. "Right, I know -- I got a knack for looking pathetic."

Charlotte looks distressed. "Oh, no, sir, I don't -- that is to say, I didn't intend -- "

Ray laughs a little, trying to convince the knot of fear in his stomach to let go, already. "It's okay. It's not your fault -- I get that all the time."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I got two settings -- tough 'n' whiny. And if ya like me now, just wait 'til you see me being a cop." Charlotte blushes, ducking her head. "Hey, don't take it like that -- I was just yanking your chain, okay?" Ray draws back from the reflexive flirtation, suddenly desperate for normal conversation, because for eight months he hasn't had one. Fraser's his buddy, Fraser's his pal, but normal he is not.

Ray's freakishness tolerance is pretty high, but yesterday -- two days ago, maybe, he'll never know -- and today are completely off the charts. He needs something routine, for god's sakes.

"Look," Ray says, putting out his hand, "Let's start over. I'm Stanley Raymond Kowalski, former detective and current partner of Const -- "

"Your name," starts Charlotte, looking up at him suspiciously, "is Stanley Kowalski?"

Ray grins. Now this is routine. Greatness. "Trust you Canadians to know my name and not Steve McQueen's."

"I know Steve McQueen! He's -- "

"Yeah? Well, you're better'n Fraser, then. So yeah-- my dad had this thing for Brando, right? But me, I..."

~((*))~

He's swimming through a see of methanol and...copper? No. Blood. He's been hurt. Shot -- yes, he remembers. Shot because of a truly asinine mistake -- he should be dead. He should be.

But Ray was here earlier...looking far too tired to be dead, so he's not. And Fraser had been playing his father's role, well, why can't he get up? And why does his chest still hurt?

He must be alive, then.

Having come to this conclusion, he groans inwardly -- the only way Ray could have gotten them both out alive is by shooting every last one of those men dead. God, I'm sorry Ray. Sorry. So sorry. So fucking sorry...

Ah. Must be on drugs, too; well, he supposes it follows.

"Benton?" says a voice above him -- his father's voice. He can't see him, though -- maybe...?

Ah. No. His eyes are closed; he hadn't noticed. He doesn't bother to open them. "I'm alive, Dad."

There's a rustle -- he keeps telling himself that that this is absurd, but it's at least a very elaborate hallucination, speaking for his strength of imagination. "Well, I knew that, son -- you're not allowed out 'til you produce some offspring. "He smiles -- laughing, he's certain, would be more painful than it's worth. "It's too late for that."

"Well, it can't hurt to try. And if you won't, maybe Maggie's still viable -- you think?"

"I haven't," he replies, making sure his breathing stays slow and even, "though to ask."

He shakes his head. "You're not to ask a woman that, son. They don't really appreciate it."

"No?" He should play along -- his father has never, in all his years living and dead, acquired himself enough tact to say the correct nonsense to anyone near death. For this, he is secretly thankful.

"Let me tell you something -- in all the years I knew your mother, I never inquired about...that."

"Is that so?" Fraser murmurs. He's exhausted, he realizes -- or perhaps it's just the drugs -- but either way, he's finding himself unable to keep up his own end of the conversation. His hearing fades out and in, and he gives a half-hearted lunge after his consciousness. "How...nice for you," he mutters, in case his father's said something more.

There's no reply for a moment and then...well. It's very probably more impossible than anything else about this scenario, but Fraser thinks he can feel his father's non-corporeal hand brush through his hair.

"I'll go tell the Yank you're all right, then," his father says quietly, and while Fraser's processing this, he vanishes with a soft silent pop.

Huh Fraser thinks, before he goes under, I doubt that will go well.

~((*))~

Ray's moved on from freaking out. Did that a while ago, actually. Nobody's panicking over Fraser -- seems he does as good at regrowing his lungs as he does everything else - so Ray's not, either. Charlotte left a while ago, too, because surprise! she's actually got a job, here. So Ray's got no adrenaline at all left in his system, and he's just about nodding off in the hospital chair when -- "

"He'll be all right, son."

"Unh," -- and whoa! That's not a doctor, that's -- that guy! The Mountie guy! From that dream he had! Or daydream, or hallucination, or whatever the fuck it was. The one who said he was Fraser's dad -- but that's just stupid. He's probably just one of Fraser's COs. The Mountie's looking at him kinda weird, like Ray's supposed to do something besides grunt, so Ray does. "Do I, uh, know you?"

The Mountie holds his hand out for Ray to shake. He seems friendly enough, anyway. "Bob Fraser, RCMP. We've met before, but I suspect you don't recall."

Ray's got his hand halfway out of his jacket pocket before he actually processes the name. "You -- " He jerks upright, glances around to see if anybody's around to see him and put him in a straight jacket. The place is deserted, though -- weird -- so Ray takes his chances and looks back at...Bob Fraser. He doesn't dare to look the guy straight in the eye, 'cause if Ray does he might just disappear and that'd be even more confusing. Not that what's going on now isn't. "Aren't you dead?" he blurts.

"To put it bluntly, yes -- "

"I am all about the blunt, old man, you just lay it out for me before I kick you in the head."

" -- I was going to say that it's more comfortable than you might expect, but I suspect the realization that you can't kick me in the head should persuade you."

Ray stares Bob down for a minute, to no effect. "Look," he says, grinning nervously, "I'm not -- crazy, okay? Least, I wasn't last time I checked. I don't get visits from my dead father like, uh, whatsisname."

"Hamlet, and that'd probably be because your father isn't, in fact, dead."

"How d'you know that?"

"I'm dead."

"...okay." Ray is not nodding off anymore, not even a little -- he's jittery and nervous and he really, really wants to hit something. Maybe the Mountie. Except if he did try to hit the Mountie, something wouldn't work with it and then he'd be even more out of the loop than he already is. Damnit. His heel starts bouncing -- it likes to go for walks all by itself when he's thrown off like this -- so he gets up and starts pacing. "Okay. So, I've met you before."

"yes."

Ray whirls around, absolutely certain that he's gonna think this guy out of his head and he'll just vanish, like vampires do in sunlight. Or something. "Care to tell me when?" This'll work, because there was no last time -- last time'd just been a dream. Pretty weird dream, not what he'd usually give his brain credit for, but what else could it've been?

"Outside your tent, early in the morning, a few months ago. A very brief altercation, if I remember correctly."

"If you remember correctly." Ray feels a smirk spreading across his face, wonders who the hell he's trying to impress, and wipes it off. "Ghosts have much of a memory?"

"No worse than yours."

"Mine's pretty bad," Ray tells him fervently. "I probably won't remember any of this." Definitely. 'Cause Ray is going to make a special effort to forget. Not that it's going to be a big effort, or anything, but it'll be a special effort, and now that's starting to get too close to what Stella told him back in junior high, so he's just gonna stop thinking about that. "Maybe you'd better tell me when I'm actually awake."

Bob looks confused. "Awake?...oh. You're not dreaming, son."

"Yeah? And I'm supposed to believe you? You've got a bloused -- no, a vested interest in me thinking you're real, 'cause if I say you're not, you're not. ...Right?"

Bob scratches his nose. Hey score one for Ray -- he's managed to stump a ghost. It's easier than having a coherent argument with one, anyway. Ray wonders who's to blame for the rapid-fire randomness. "Would you," Bob suggest finally, "believe Benton, if he told you?"

Ouch. Ray's suddenly not just jittery, he's really really pissed off, because Jesus! who's this guy think he is, fucking with their trust thing like that? "Hey, I trust him. You think I don't trust him? He trusts me, I trust him, we are like this -- "Ray crosses his fingers and shoves them into the goddamn Mountie's face. "So don't even -- "

"You didn't trust him to make that shot."

Ray's fists clench. He's gonna hit him -- never mind that he can't punch a ghost, he's gonna do it and put his fist in the wall, and break his knuckles wide open, and that'll be just as good. "That's not -- that's different," he hisses through gritted teeth.

"Making the shot was at least possible. My existence, on the other hand..."

"Hey, I'm talkin' to you, aren't I?"

"Proving absolutely nothing. You're clearly speaking to me under the impression that you're hallucinating."

Great. Now he's got himself a psychoanalyzing ghost. "Look. You could be a figger of my -- "

"Figment."

" -- figment of my imagination -- " He hates messing up words when he's freaked -- "and I'd never know. There's nobody here to ask if they can see you or not or what. But if Fraser can...see you, or talk to you, or something..."

"And he can."

"Then I'll believe him. 'Cause Fraser doesn't lie. Not to me, anyway."

"Just like he didn't lie to you about that shot, eh?"

"I do not want to hear about that goddamn shot!" Ray shouts. Maybe it's a little surprising that no one hears him, but he's not really thinking about that. "That's abilities, see, and I'm better at it. Okay? That's it. I coulda missed too, but the -- the probability's better. That's what I was thinking, that's all I was thinking, so you can just drop that bone, okay?"

He looks up at Bob, to see what he's got to say about that -- but the Mountie's gone, and even though that's what Ray'd been aiming for in the first place he doesn't feel like he's won. After he thinks about that for a bit, he realizes it's 'cause he's gonna have to ask Fraser now, and won't that be a bundle of laughs -- "Hey, Fraser, chat with your dad much?" which of course Fraser's gonna deny, just 'cause it sounds stupid.

But Ray's got other ways of figuring Fraser out. He's a detective, yeah? He's got his detecting ways of figuring Fraser out, or he wouldn't know jackshit about him, even after three years of Inuit stories.

~((*))~

He's so tired. He can't remember being this tired, ever. Maybe once.

He opens his eyes to check his surroundings which, comfortingly, haven't changed. Except...someone's breathing. Someone's in this room. Someone, staying deliberately out of sight. Well, perhaps not so deliberately, because it's no feat to stay out of Fraser's current view of four square feet of ceiling.

He rolls his eyes around a little, trying to locate his visitor without moving his head. And there -- there's his father, standing by the door and looking inexplicably smug. But his father doesn't breathe, Fraser reminds himself -- though Fraser can't figure out the mechanics of his voice, and there's no point in attempting to do so when logic is so clearly a moot point, his father certainly doesn't breathe.

"Oh my god," Ray whispers, from somewhere low behind Fraser's head. Ah. Ray breathes. Ray's his visitor, then.

"'Lo Ray -- "

"Oh my god," Ray repeats, louder this time.

"Ray?"

Inexplicably. Ray gets up and does an interesting little frenzied dance across the room. "You -- you -- you -- "

"I -- ?"

"You looked at him!" Ray ejaculates, jabbing a finger at -- Fraser's father? "You looked at him, right there, I saw you -- for God's sakes, you coulda told me you had a habit of socializin' with dead people -- he's dead, I said, I couldn't be talkin' to him I said, but -- Fraser! Say it! 'I see dead people." Say it, Fraser! C'mon!"

Oh dear.

Epilogue

So Ray's driving and Fraser's riding -- which is cool, okay, that's the way things used to be, so Ray's good with the general idea of this. Only problem is, the dogs hate him, which the GOT never did. Except for Dief, the dogs've all decided that he doesn't have any idea what he's doing, so they keep scattering all over the tundra-side, suggesting all their different ideas of where to go.

"Stay! Stay, damnit! Shit!" The sled tips dangerously. "Fuck you! Fuck you all to hell 'n' back!"

"You've got to assert yourself, son," Bob tells him helpfully. "They don't respond well to aggression."

In the sled, Fraser his laughing silently -- Ray can see his shoulders shaking, even if Fraser trying his best to keep him from noticing. He scowls down at Fraser's hat, and cuffs him to the side of his head, which only makes things worse -- Fraser collapses off the side of the sled with helpless giggles.

"Aw, shaddup," Ray mutters absently, and hauls on the reins. "Stoppit! Stop! Stop -- okay, screw that." Ray dismounts, kicks the brake through the snow, and then shuffles away, leaving the dogs and both Frasers behind. Once he's put a fair distance between him and them, he plops down in the snow and glares back. "I'm sulking," he shouts, in case they hadn't noticed.

The dogs look around uncertainly. So, okay, maybe they all have different ideas f where they wanna go, but they all wanna go, which they don't seem to be doing. This, they think, is a problem. Sometimes Ray scares himself with his understanding of canine psychology.

Dief, who's leading, growls irritably at the rest of them -- and bang, there they go, lining up all neat and tidy and nice. Well, geez.

Ray gets up, brushes snow off his pants -- it'll soak him through eventually if he doesn't keep brushing -- and walks up to and around the team. Feeling kinda stupid, he grabs their muzzles roughly as he passes them, like he's seen Fraser do about a hundred times before. "You listen up," he tells them, "'cause I'm not gonna take this shit, okay? You're gonna listen to me, 'cause I got the brakes, see? You make me pissed, I put the brakes on, you get stuck. Simple, see? I'm a simple kinda guy."

"Hardly," Fraser says, but Ray ignores that.

He gets to Dief, and scratches behind his ears. "Thanks, Dief." Dief groans, shakes himself a little, and Ray takes the cue and rubs into the knot of muscle that's developed in front of his hindquarter. It's a worrying thing, and it gives Dief some trouble when the temperature gets down around negative twenty -- but they'll be in town again soon enough and Fraser'll probably insist on taking him to the doctor.

Dief noses at Ray's other hand; Ray de-mittens and holds his hand out for Dief to lick. So what if he's been making compromises with a half-wolf? He's still holding on to his one rule: tongues off the ears, thank you kindly.

"You spoil him," Fraser complains as Ray remounts.

"Whatever. He's the only halfway-normal person around here."

"Half-wolf," Bob corrects.

"No, he's certainly not a normal half-wolf," Fraser muses.

"Whatever," Ray breaks in. "Jesus. I think I'm gonna lose my head." He pulls the brake out; the team looks back at him instead of bolting, and he grins. "Go, Dief," he shouts, and they're off. "See, they listen to me! They like me now! Me 'n' the dogs are best buddies -- "

"Oh, you've lost it already, son," Bob assures him.

Bob has got to stop calling him that, or Ray is gonna know the reason why.

--fin