Disclaimer: I do not own Fraser, RayK, or Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Author's Notes: For China Shop and Sage in recognition of all their hard work to get the due South Match challenge up and running. Thanks to SecretlyBronte and Keerawa for pulling beta duty on this story.

There was a lot to hate about life out on the quest for Franklin. Ray made up lists in his head, sometimes, because it beat thinking about all the other stuff he really couldn't let himself think about. And the bad thing about cruising around in a dogsled for eight hours a day was that Ray had a lot of time for thinking. Hence, the lists.

Item #1: Being Bored. There wasn't much to look at, given the fact that they were sledding across an icy wasteland, and the only thing he could do in the sled was talk to Fraser, who usually couldn't hear him over the wind anyway. The boredom got really bad, sometimes. So much so that little things started to seem really exciting, like when a pale smear of clouds would appear on the horizon. Ray would stare at the clouds for hours, try to make shapes out of them in his head. Rabbits, dogs, the GTO, polar bears, donuts, pirate ships and the starting lineup for the 1976 Chicago Cubs all put in an appearance when there were clouds in the sky. But a lot of the time he was stuck with perfectly clear blue skies, flat and calm like the surface of a lake. So clouds really jazzed him up; cloud days were good days.

And rocks. He'd developed a sudden and passionate love of rock formations.

Yeah. Sometimes he thought he was going a little nuts.

Item #2: The Cold. He thought he'd been prepared for it. Because, yes, he and Fraser were crossing the Arctic. In March. So the cold was kind of a given. And he'd gotten a crash course in low temperatures and hypothermia when he and Fraser fell out of the plane and climbed a mountain, so he thought he'd be able to handle not being warm for a couple of months. But no. No, the thing about the cold was it went on and on and on. Hours of it, like being stuck in a meat locker. Except there was no getting out, no latch to spring or door to unlock, no warm world waiting outside. The best he could hope for was to be less-cold, like at night, in the tent. But the days? Cold.

Item #3: The Wind. The wind was only #3, sure, but it was gaining on "cold" and "bored" with a bullet, because the wind made his skin ice up if he left any part of himself exposed. And even when he was bundled up in thirty layers of scarves and parkas and mittens and gloves and snowpants, he could feel it cut like a blade through all that insulation. Even his eyeballs froze, sometimes, or at least it felt like they did. And the wind was loud, too; it chased away all other sound, even the shussssh of the sled runners against the icy snow. At night he could hear it whistling around outside their tent, driving him crazy. If the cold and the boredom didn't get him, the wind would.

He was even a little afraid of it. He had dreams where the wind would rip their tent to shreds and blow him and Fraser and the dogs away, send them all tumbling across the snow and over the edge of the ice, down into the cold, dark sea. He'd wake up shaking and panting, and then he'd stick bits of tissue in his ears to block out the sound of the wind.

Item #4....well, okay, item number 1-3 were enough, because once he got thinking about how cold and bored he was, and how windy it was in this weird, silent place, he usually stopped working on the list. This was supposed to be fun times, him and Fraser out on a grand adventure, and he really didn't like dragging things down with stupid list-making. Even if it was a good distraction.

It was easier to avoid making the lists at night. They'd stop the sled, unpack, dig out a ground-hole, put up the tent, secure and feed the dogs, and then Ray'd make dinner while Fraser did Fraser-stuff, like go scouting, or plot their course on the map using a bunch of funny old brass instruments. He'd sometimes try to show Ray what he was doing, but Ray would just shrug and stir the dehydrated chili.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. We're going northwest. Greatness."

And Fraser would frown, look back down at the map, and sigh. But he'd eat Ray's cooking, and then they'd crawl into the tent and zip their sleeping bags together and curl up against one another to get warm. Which was a little weird, maybe, but Ray sure as hell wasn't going to complain about the extra heat, even if having Fraser so close to him all night sent him into a list-making frenzy.

Fraser liked to read before going to sleep. Ray didn't totally get it because he was pretty exhausted by the end of every day, and Ray was just sitting in the sled counting snow hills and freaking himself out most of the time. Fraser was the one who had to mush the team and navigate and shoot game and keep them both alive, but he still stayed awake for an hour or so every night writing in his journal or reading a battered paperback novel by the flickering light of their tent stove.

"Hey, Fraser?" Ray finally thought to ask one night, when the wind had died down a little and he was feeling warm enough to roll over and look at Fraser, shadowed by the stove's feeble light.

"Yes?"

"Whatcha reading?"

Fraser glanced up at him, and then looked back down at his book.

"One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez."

"Oh."

Fraser went back to reading, and Ray rolled onto his back and stared up at the blue nylon ceiling. "It any good?"

"Yes it is, Ray. I think it's my favourite novel."

Silence again, and the faint howl of the wind, which sounded like it was trying to get inside their tent.

"Uh, so, what's it about?"

Fraser sighed, and Ray felt a little guilty for interrupting the guy's reading. It wasn't like Fraser had a ton of time to himself these days, what with Ray always hanging around and tripping over stuff or falling off the sled and screwing up.

"It's the story of a Columbian family and, on a larger scale, the story of Columbia itself through one hundred years of war, struggle and death."

"Sounds cheery."

"Well," Fraser shifted a little in his sleeping bag, "it wasn't intended to be a particularly uplifting novel, no. But it does have moments of warmth and compassion, and it provides a great deal of insight into the human condition."

"How does it end?"

"Pardon me?"

Ray repeated himself carefully. "How does it end?"

"Ray, despite common perception, the conclusion of a story does not truly indicate whether it is a comedy or tragedy."

"Fraser. How does your book end?"

"Well," and Fraser hesitated a little, "it concludes with the death of the last member of the family, and then the town and the family's home dissolves into a whirlwind."

Ray snorted. "Yeah, okay. Doesn't sound like a fun read. I like stuff that's a little more upbeat, y'know?"

Ray heard the soft, slippery noise of Fraser turning over in their polymer sleeping bag, He'd closed his book and set it down, too.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with your taste in novels."

Ray figured that was probably a nice way of saying, Hey, wow, I didn't even know you could read! Not that Fraser was a snob, but it wasn't like Ray had ever gone around with his nose buried in a book back in Chicago. He couldn't blame Fraser for sounding a little surprised.

"Yeah, well, I like stuff that's happy, stuff that's got a little humor, a little romance. I figure, the world sucks enough already. Why read about it, too? That's what the newspaper is for."

"That's a fair point," Fraser said, and it sounded like he meant it, a little. "But I think balance is important, even when reading for pleasure. After all, love and contentment are that much more valued when one has known disappointment and suffering."

"You speaking from personal experience there, Frase?"

Ray had meant it as a joke. Honest to god, he really had. But as soon as the words were out of his mouth he felt like the world's biggest asshole. Fraser drew in a sharp breath and his face shifted into misery, his eyes growing sad and distant. Right on cue. That happened whenever Ray brought up the subject of love. Which he tried not to do, because Fraser wasn't really comfortable talking about that stuff.

"Hey, look, Fraser, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"No, Ray." Fraser put his hand on Ray's shoulder.

Ray could feel the heat radiating off Fraser's body in their shared sleeping bag.

"Perhaps my personal experiences have made me inclined to see life as, at best, bittersweet. And that does have an impact on my taste in reading material."

Smooth, Ray thought. Fraser could talk a good game when he wanted, make everything sound logical and semi-sane, whether it was jumping off a building or driving a burning car into a lake or, hell, reading sad stories to cheer himself up. But Ray wasn't really fooled.

"You think if you were happier you'd like happy stories better?"

"I'm not unhappy, Ray."

Ray shook his head and slid down a little in the sleeping bag, which just so happened to bring him closer to Fraser. Now they were touching all along his side, Fraser's body next to his. Felt natural, that way.

"But you're not real happy, either."

He didn't need to see Fraser rub at his eyebrow. He could feel it.

"I'm happier now than I have been in a very long time."

Okay. That was good. And ... kinda sad. "Hey, wait, that's not good. I mean, isn't that just another way of saying you were really miserable before, and now you're just a little less miserable?"

Fraser laughed, and that? That was one of Ray's favourite sounds. Worth putting up with the wind for, even.

"No," he said. The laughter drained from his face, replaced with a more thoughtful expression, and Fraser shook his head firmly. "I'm not less miserable. These past few weeks have been the happiest of my life. Sharing my home with you has been extremely gratifying, Ray. And I wasn't unhappy in Chicago. Homesick, perhaps, and a little unfulfilled by my work at the Consulate, but on the whole it was a valuable experience that I treasure. I wouldn't have traded my time in Chicago for anything."

Ray rubbed his foot against Fraser's. Even through the layers of wool and cotton, it felt good. "That's nice of you to say. Ditto."

"Ditto?"

"I'm a reader, Fraser, not a poet. I'm just glad you went down there. And I'm glad we're up here. Together."

Fraser rubbed against his foot against Ray's, and a warm glow spread up through Ray's body.

"Even if the experience is a little bittersweet?" Fraser asked gently. Ray smiled to himself. Fraser wasn't stupid. He probably knew all about the list-making.

"Hey, that's life," Ray said, scooting over so he could look at Fraser's face.

"I thought it was literature."

Ray smiled. Fraser's mouth was so very, very close. "Nah. It's balance."

Ray couldn't hear the wind anymore. And Fraser's mouth was warm.

.the end.