Disclaimer: I don't own these people or this half-wolf; who sues my purse sues trash.

Author's Notes: My awesome betas were simplystars, ainsleybee and akamine_chan.

Story Notes: This is an angstfest, truly.

This is a Story That I Tell Myself

Dief sits unusually close to me by the campfire and even, to my surprise, rolls over on his back. He seldom presents his belly for petting unless he's exhausted or upset, and I take the rare opportunity to bury both hands in his softest fur, revel in the warmth, but cannot resist chiding a little: "You can't be that tired. You weren't even pulling a sled. Just a stroll, really."

He gives me his most sarcastic look. Ah, option B, then: upset.

"Well," I say. "Yes. I-as well-yes. But it wouldn't have worked. It's for the best."

He has, to my relief, nothing to say to that.

*******************************************************************************

After Muldoon there was--hubbub and bureaucracy, giving of statements and signing of statements. I was strangely numb, reciting details that ought to have moved me, wrecked me, as dully as though I were placing an order for lunch. ("Yes, that's right, he killed my mother. Yes, he did confess to that. Caroline. C, A, R..." ) Finally, on about the fifteenth reiteration of yes, indeed, he had killed my mother, I turned to Ray, who had been (quietly, for Ray) at my elbow since the mineshaft, and said something that...I'm not entirely sure what I said. It was along the lines of "Yes, he certainly did kill my mother, gather ye rosebuds while ye may, extra mushrooms please, E-X-T-R-A-" And then I think I giggled.

Ray's eyes got wide and he put a hand on my questioner's arm (one dark-suited lawyer in a long procession of them-I'd long ago lost track of whether they were affiliated with the RCMP or the US Marshals or someone else.) He walked her swiftly out of the room, talking over her protests, "He's not going anywhere, he'll be here tomorrow, come back tomorrow, bye."

I have vague memories of Ray and Turnbull setting up a tent, just barely within sight of Frobisher's detachment. I don't recall helping at all.

Turnbull took his leave in a courtly and ornate style, with compliments regarding the chase, and florid fellow-countryman expressions of "how nice to be back in the motherland." I believe he may have bowed.

Once he was gone Ray waved me into the tent and, from somewhere in our pile of Frobisher lendings, dug up a bottle of bourbon.

He handed it to me, and I tried to wave it off. But he tilted his head at me, said, "Hey, we're out in the wilderness, you know wilderness, I do what you say. You're fucked up, I know fucked up, you do what I say."

At the time this logic seemed unassailable, so I took a swig. Once I'd recovered from the horrible taste it did, indeed, seem to calm the odd feeling that I was shivering without actually moving. Is it possible for one's internal organs to shiver?

"Why?" I said, and he blinked at me. I realized that I hadn't actually had any ending in mind for that sentence, which was vaguely disturbing, so I said the first thing that came to mind, "Why did you set up so far from the encampment?"

"Thought you might need to make some noise," he said.

I opened my mouth to say, "That's just silly," but what came out was, in fact, a small noise, followed by another and another, unintended and unstoppable. He nodded, not looking at me, and stepped out of the tent, zipped it closed. I burrowed down into a sleeping bag to muffle myself, with limited success.

When I was done I must have drifted off, because the next thing I remember was waking to a feeling that a good deal of time had passed, and to an unfamiliar voice outside the tent saying, "Might I speak to Constable Fraser?" followed by a familiar one saying, "No, but you might fuck off."

I tried to make myself care about the unconscionable rudeness of this, but instead I smiled and went back to sleep. I roused slightly when Ray came into the tent, fumbling around in the dark and cursing softly, but he quieted and I was gone again.

When I emerged from the tent the next morning, having had more sleep at one stretch than I could remember getting in months, he was again sitting outside the zippered door, scowling at anyone who came near--a guardian gargoyle.

"Thank you for-" I attempted, and he waved an "it was nothing" at me.

"I'm sorry about-" I tried, and was waved off again.

Perhaps I was never again to be allowed, or required, to finish a sentence. It was an oddly restful thought, and I surprised myself with a snort of laughter. Ray peered at me carefully, probably to see if I was still unhinged, then smiled, and we went in search of breakfast.

The next few days of repeating the same information, over and over, to bureaucrats of differing nationality and status, were tiring (and tiresome) but considerably less benumbed and surreal.

Finally, the legalities began to wind down, and when we retired, that fourth or fifth evening, to our tent in the exurbs of Frobisherville, I found that I now had time and energy to think, "What next?" Except that I couldn't. Oh, I could think the question, but it called into being no plans or possibilities, no options at all, simply echoed in my strangely quiet brain.

"Fraser," Ray said, and I was glad to hear something besides that reverberating question.

"Yes?"

He flicked on our little battery lantern, made some thrashing eel motions in his sleeping bag until he was over near mine. "I was talking with some of the cops from the States, and they said they'd held off reporters as long as they could, that they were starting to trickle in."

"Well, we can dodge a few, surely."

"Yeah, but the cops seemed to think that the trickle was, like, just the little warning wave before"-he made an enormous FWOOSH sound, swept his hand through the air-"that giant Japanese thing."

For one strange moment I entertained the idea that he was talking about Godzilla, then-"Oh. Tsunami?"

"Yeah. A tsunami of reporters."

"Oh my."

"You know, Frase-if you-you could probably write your own ticket with the Mounties now, anyway. But-if you worked the press right-you could be a real star, like, their poster boy."

"That sounds-that sounds horrible, Ray."

He grinned. "I figured you'd think that. Just thought you should-know your options, is all. So. Should we get the hell out of here?'

And something about the gleam of his grin when he said it, his proximity (very near me, he'd scooted over very near me) triggered a memory; something I'd not considered seriously because he'd been cold and exhausted and not himself when he said it, but-why not ask?

"Ray, in the crevasse-do you remember what you said?"

He paled suddenly, even with his windburn. "No-shit, Fraser, what'd I say? I was out of it, you know that, I-"

"Nothing bad, Ray," I said with some confusion-what could he possibly have thought he said, to trigger that reaction? "Just-an idea for an adventure."

I sketched in some background on the Franklin expedition. He seemed to be calming down from whatever that oddness had been, and, encouraged, I wormed halfway out of my own sleeping bag to free my hands, to keep talking. (The influence of both Rays-it had grown, over the years, increasingly difficult to talk with my hands still.)

I ticked off needed supplies on my fingers, waved in the general direction of the doomed expedition's presumed remains, jerked a thumb toward the camp's temporary canine quarters to assign Dief the captaincy of our as-yet-imaginary dog team. I was positively Ray-like in my gesticulation; I was giddy. It felt so good to be making a plan, one that wasn't a reaction to a horrible crime or a fulfillment of some dreary paperwork requirement; one that, despite being neither unpleasant extreme of law enforcement work, still had Ray in it.

Ray seemed to be enjoying all my waving and babbling; the unaccustomed paleness had left him, he was smiling and nodding, we might actually do this, and I was-I was excited. It had been so long, I realized, since I'd been truly excited about anything. I'd thought, if I'd thought about it at all, that this was just a byproduct of maturity, of seriousness about one's work; but it turned out that it was a matter of light pollution and noise pollution and just-pollution. I'd been flattened, as it were, by Chicago, but now I could breathe and hear and see the stars, and the best part of Chicago had come with me, was right next to me looking happy and excited too; flushed, even.

Physical affection has never come easily for me; I am untutored. But just then, just then I felt as if I had never been this close to anyone and this happy, this sunny at the same time, and I threw an arm around my friend's shoulders, easily, as if I did that all the time, and I squeezed, and said, "Let's have an adventure, Ray."

"Let's start it now," he said, and kissed me.

There was a moment of true shock, but just a moment; and then all that was in my head was some garbled version of "Oh, I see, of course"; a complicated case suddenly resolving itself into clarity, lock tumblers falling into place under the pick, so many things I'd known without letting myself notice.

I was apparently too busy having an epiphany to do anything with my lips, because Ray pulled back (taking the chapped warmth away, and that was very wrong) gave me a look that never belonged on that face, guilt and embarrassment and--shame, said, "Jesus. I'm sorry. I thought you were-I thought we were on the same-just-forget that happened, okay?"

And that would have been the time to apply rationality and brakes, to say, "Ray, that was wonderful, just-I am not at my best, give me some time to think." But that was not what I did.

Instead I looked at him, flushed with panic and windburn and--desire, I could let myself see that now, and I thought fiercely, "No one could be expected to resist this, no one," and wondered who, exactly, I was arguing with, and--forget that happened?

"No," I said, and pulled him to me; clicked off the lantern and kissed him back.

He was rigid in my arms for a moment (in my arms, he was in my arms) and then he relaxed, leaned into me, opened his mouth.

We kissed for a long time, halfway out of our bags, hands in hair and clutching in the backs of shirts. Then Ray gasped "Skin," I said yes and we broke apart for an agonizing minute, unzipping the bags to flatness and zipping them to each other, flinging off clothes.

I made it down to nearly naked and lost nerve, because perhaps I was presuming; but when Ray joined me in the bag and pressed up against me he'd stripped completely. He was so hot against my thigh that I hissed with the delight of it and shed my last layer, flailing the boxers off awkwardly in the confined space.

Then we were touching, all over, and I was so close, just from that, that I was shivering, teeth chattering; Ray thought, I suppose, that I was cold, when I could not have been less so, had not been this warm in years. But he pulled me even tighter against him, wrapped arms and legs around me; I buried my face in his shoulder and rocked my hips against his, gently and then not, and came.

He tangled his fingers in my hair, said "Been a while, huh?" He sounded amused, and I suppose I should have been embarrassed, but I felt too good. "S'okay," he said, and took one of my hands, guided it slowly down his slickened belly to his cock, twined his fingers with mine and showed me what he liked.

We scarcely slept, that night-short little stretches of bliss-limp unconsciousness scattered among hours of exhausting each other, hands and lips everywhere, his mouth to my ear whispering instructions and imperatives. Sometime deep in the dark I heard him fumbling though supplies, and he pressed into my hands what proved to be condoms and lube.

Frobisher has a truly astonishing supply officer, I thought, and then had a moment of panic that I was expected to-"Ray," I said.

"Mmmm." He was biting gently down my chest, worrying a nipple; it was difficult to remember what I wanted to ask.

"Ah-Ray-I don't know what I'm-I haven't--Ray."

He lifted his head, finally.

"Ray, have you done this before...with...?"

"I am so not talking about that right now," he said. "Just-you don't need to worry, okay? You're not gonna hurt me," and he was correct, for the next few hours.

After the last scrap of sleep I woke, finally, to early morning light dulled by the blue nylon of the tent.

I had a minute or two alone, during which I felt nothing but stunned; the night's events seemed scarcely possible. I rolled to my side to look at Ray, and yes, we were sharing a bag, and that motion woke him.

Had his waking look contained even an iota of his customary guardedness, of wariness, I might have been all right, briefly; whatever it was that was happening, it might have continued for a few days. But there was none of that, none. Ray woke up looking at me, and his expression was-new, was relaxed and undefended and happy in a way I'd never seen from him before.

And the realization that this look was because of me, that I was somehow responsible for it, and was therefore responsible for its maintenance, its continuation--for his happiness-was the most terrifying thought I had ever had.

I shot out of the shared bag on pure reflex, as if I'd discovered a snake in it, and was backed up against the tent wall before I could stop myself.

Ray's expression-"changed" is not really an adequate description.

I do not, I believe, want to find an adequate description.

After-changing, he gave me his more customary smile, the one so quickly gone it was almost a flinch, and said, calmly, "Well, I guess that answers that question."

"Ray," I said. "I, I'm so sorry, that was-wonderful-"

He held up a palm.

"It was," I said stubbornly. "It's just. The problem is-" but I didn't--don't, truly--know what the problem was, just that it was. Finally I said, weakly, "I'm not good with...people, Ray."

"Huh," he said. "Yeah," and climbed out of the bag, started dressing, then turned toward me and said, "No. That was me, I fucked up, here, should never have said anything, just...sorry."

He finished pulling clothes on while I tried to think of anything at all to say, and then started gathering the rest of his clothes together. It dawned on me, finally, that he was packing.

"Ray, no," I said. "We can still have an adventure. We can-can't we just go back to normal?"

"I don't think we were ever there, Frase," he said, "and no, we really can't."

He began throwing his things into a pack with unnecessary vehemence, and seemed, finally, to be working his way up to (expected, deserved) anger. "This did not start for me last night, do you get that? This has, this has been happening for me, and I can't be here, I gotta get out, go home."

He pulled the straps tight, shrugged into his pack, and said, "Do me a favor, okay? Don't be in touch."

I must have flinched, looked stricken, something; because he ducked his head and said, "Hey. No. I don't mean never, I just-I couldn't take it, for a while. Give me a few months, I'll call you, all right?" (And that was my--that was Ray, unable to be truly vicious even when it was entirely warranted.)

He walked over to me, booted me gently in the side. "You can tell me all about Franklin's mummy hand," he said.

"Sure, Ray," I said, and he unzipped the tent and left.

I'm not sure where he slept for the next couple of days, while he was making arrangements, or who it was who finally drove him to the airport. But he sought us out, Dief and I, before he left.

He hunkered, buried his face in Dief's fur, then looked him in the eyes and spoke to him emphatically for a long time. I tried not to eavesdrop, but I gathered it was something about the necessity of making sure I did not do stupid things.

He stood up and looked at me. "I'll be fine, Ray," I said. "We'll be fine. Dief and I."

"Yeah," he said, and gave me a hug, and it was a strange inversion of that first hug, bracketing my time with Ray. The first time I knew nothing about him, not even who he was, and he flung himself at me with startling enthusiam; this last time I knew, perhaps, most things about him, and he gave me a stiff and somehow formal hug, barely bumping a shoulder.

The idea of a long and complex expedition lost its appeal with his departure, but the necessity of fleeing before the oncoming wave of reporters remained. So I arranged some leave, and Dief and I packed up and took off, just walking into the wilderness.

*******************************************************************

Dief yawns now and looks pointedly at me, and I say, "A bedtime story? Don't be ridiculous, you're hardly a puppy." I seem to have told Ray all my stories, and I cannot quite bear to repeat any of the ones that he listened to with that peculiar expression, unique to him, which somehow combined intense boredom and amusement at how bored he was.

So I rub Dief's belly, and we sit quietly, watching the fire, and I'm wondering about everyone back at the precinct, how their lives are now and will be in months to come. I will not, I think, be checking in with them. I do not wish to be asked what happened up here.

It occurs to me, then, that I could give Dief a new story; that here in the cold and the quiet, with no one else to hear, there's no reason not to make everything come out right, for everyone. But Dief's almost asleep already, so I start very softly with "Detectives Jack Huey and Thomas Dewey realized their dream of the One-Liner."

And I am almost whispering by the time I get to my favorite part, "We set off, Ray and I..."