Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

Author's Notes: Written for the ds_flashfiction community back in 2005.

Ray flies in with a Canadian North at quarter to three in the afternoon. I wondered if I would recognise him right away, but of course I do. To say that I am happy to see him would be a vast understatement, and I can tell by his face that the feeling is mutual. We hug, a little longer than we have before, with both arms instead of just one.

He has aged, gained a little weight, gained a few lines across his forehead and around his mouth. I have lost weight, I know, and my hair is greying where his is receding. I can see how age will treat us differently.

I look at him until I can't look at him anymore, and then I do what people do when they try to contain their emotions in airports - I fuss over his bags, insist on carrying them, while he plays his part too, and protests - and both of us are speaking too quickly and stumbling over our words.

Yellowknife Airport is quite small. In a bigger place I wouldn't feel as self-conscious, but there are fewer than fifty people surrounding us. A few families are greeting relatives; tourists are talking excitedly while looking for the exit. I finally hoist one of his sports bags over my shoulder and we start out towards the parking lot where my car is parked.

I ask him if he had a pleasant flight, and we make conversation. He is walking on my right side and slightly behind me. Every two seconds I look at him out of the corner of my eye. It's hard to understand that he is here now, finally. It has only been three weeks since he sent that letter.

I look at his crumpled jeans and his huge winter coat which really is a bit excessive - it is early summer and just over ten degrees Celsius. It makes me smile.

When we step outside he stops for a minute and turns his face upwards. The sky is clear and pale blue. "Whoa, Fraser, that's... That's a whole lot of sky." It is. The air is very clear here.

He teases me about my car, which admittedly is no beauty: It's an old pick up pickup which I bought used. It's dented and scratched and the doors are different colours.

As soon as we're inside the car and have slammed the doors, I turn towards him and tell him how glad I am he sent that letter. He looks happy and a little uncomfortable. He tells me he is glad I answered.

I don't want to make him uncomfortable, so I don't say anymore. For all its shortness, I know it wasn't easy for him to write. I also know that it took more courage to actually send it than I could have mustered

The airport is on the other side of the city from where I live. Instead of turning right off Old Airport Road I continue down Franklin and 50th Avenue, to give him a sense of the city. He looks out at the houses and stores, and the cars passing by. Finally I turn right, and we drive out of the city and the suburbs, and onto a gravel road. I tell him that quite often in the winter this road is covered by snow and I have to take the dog sled to work. He laughs and says that he isn't surprised. Water and sky and brown earth are rushing past his profile.

He doesn't seem apprehensive about the sparsity of our surroundings, and I have to remember how he last experienced Canada. Yellowknife has a population of nearly eighteen thousand; it has shops, bars, hotels, a library. He was probably preparing for a hut out in the middle of nowhere.

I own a small one-storey house twenty kilometres east of Yellowknife, built on the shore of Great Slave Lake. It came with a small piece of shoreline, a boat dock which I don't use, and a shed big enough to house a team of sled dogs. It also has electricity and indoor plumbing. I made those compromises only half knowing what I was hoping for.

Ray looks at my home appreciatively. I give him a tour of the grounds, showing him the dogs first. I point out some of Dief's offspring among them and Ray laughs but looks pleased when I list off names like Brando, Blanche, Malloy and Dubois. I show him my snowmobile and as expected he is completely fascinated with it, which halts the tour for nearly half an hour.

We get the bags from the back of the truck, and I bring him inside and show him the hall, the storage room and the big bathroom. I hesitate for a moment before showing him my bedroom which is the first door on the left in the hallway. It has a double bed and a fireplace, and a connecting bathroom. Ray goes quiet, but he takes his time looking at the room. He studies the pictures I have standing on the mantelpiece. Two of them are of him and me. I considered taking them down for his visit, but then I thought that if I did that I would also have to rename all my dogs and put away the cd player I bought, and take all the light bulbs out of their sockets.

And I wanted to be honest with him this time, not even lying by omission.

He goes to my bed and stands leaning against it, appearing to be lost in thought. He touches the heavy blanket with his fingertips. I move, just shifting my weight, and he jumps. I pretend not to notice. I ask him to follow me, there is someone waiting to greet him in the living room.

Dief has grown very old, lately. He sleeps most of the day and no longer has the energy for long excursions. He kindly allowed me to take one of his daughters into the house, to train as a new colleague. I told him to rest assured that it did in no way change his status as my oldest and fondest friend. He just laughed at me.

He assures me that he is very content, and I can only believe him when I see all the pups he has fathered and think of all the good, hard work he has done in his lifetime.

He greets our guest like a reclining king, staying on his blanket and waiting for Ray to approach him. Ray kneels down and kneads his hands through the thick, unruly fur on his neck. Dief's tail is thumping against the floor boards, and Ray leans in to put his face against his fur. It is obviously a very moving reunion.

I busy myself with Mackenzie to give them a little privacy. She is only two years old and hasn't yet learned from her father's example; she is straining in her collar to get to Ray - bursting with a not very graceful, but ultimately charming enthusiasm.

I prepared the meal earlier in the day, because I guessed - rightly - that I wouldn't have either patience or focus to cook once Ray had arrived. I serve him stew and home made bread, and cold beer because it is a special occasion. We talk about a lot of things. I tell him about work and admit to having felt lonely, and he says the last year has been lonely for him, too.

He splays his fingers out on my table and inspects his hands and says that he has been lonely for more than just one year, with his eyes carefully focused on his fingers tapping gently on the table. His nails are worn down unevenly and I wonder what kind of work he did to make them look like that.

I imagine him living his life down in Chicago, doing all the things which we used to, but doing them alone. But that isn't even entirely true, at least not for all of the five years we've spent apart. That is just my jealousy wanting to erase some things, someone, from Ray's life.

We skim over the subject of Maria, because it was a two-year-long relationship and that has to be acknowledged, but we don't dwell on it because it is not what is most important now.

We share fond memories of our endeavour to find the hand of Franklin. We stay silent about our decision to part afterwards. I don't think either of us wants to explore that tonight.

It seemed like the only possible conclusion to our friendship at the time. I know I can only speak for myself, but I didn't see another way. Circumstance had brought about a natural end to our partnership and I guess we were both too, I don't know, conventional, fatalistic, frightened to challenge that.

He tells me he thinks he is done being a detective, and he sounds so serious saying it that I know he is telling me something else by that, too. I want to tell him that if he wants to stay he could - there are other opportunities, I've looked into it - but maybe I am moving ahead a little too rapidly. He has only been here for just over five hours and I don't want to push him. I shouldn't assume that he came here feeling as certain, as decided, as I do.

I offer him coffee. We put away the leftover stew, and put the dirty dishes in the sink. I feed Dief, and Mackenzie, who is still too excited by Ray's arrival to stay still long enough to eat. I boil water and get out the coffee and tea while Ray takes her out and plays with her.

I hesitate before putting Smarties and cream on the tray with the two mugs. It feels almost too intimate, having remembered for so many years exactly how he likes his coffee. If I wanted I could even count out the exact number of chocolates; pour in the exact amount of cream.

I have two chairs on my porch. One of them I sit in almost every night, with a mug of tea and Dief by my feet. The other one has only been occupied a few times, by Woodhouse; my working partner, or Debbie; an elderly woman from Yellowknife with whom I have struck up an acquaintance. I place the tray on the floor between the two chairs and put Ray's mug on the armrest of what I have always thought of as his chair.

I keep a couple of blankets and extra fleece shirts and hats in a box under the overhanging. The mosquitoes and black flies are always more aggressive at dusk, and it is important to cover up in order to avoid bites. I put on a hat and a shirt and cover my legs with the blanket. Somewhere out of sight Mackenzie is barking and Ray is shouting something -it sounds as if he is egging her on, which she no doubt loves.

A few minutes later Mackenzie comes storming around the corner of the house with a stick in her mouth, and not long after Ray follows. He looks happy and exhausted. He is flushed and sweating, his limbs loosened with the exercise - and I feel the first true taste of physical desire for him, for his body, since his arrival. Still it is comfortable, pleasant, but I remember being agonised with it, during our trip and before, with both of us fighting against it.

He climbs the step of the porch, and I can tell that he has noticed, but neither of us acknowledges it - not yet.

He laughs at the idea of covering up "Like a couple of old grandpas," but when I point out a few bites already on his bare underarms and neck he accepts the fleece and the blanket. He doesn't comment on the Smarties and cream, but he smiles wide and warm - something he does more than he used to. It suits him.

We stay mostly silent, watching it darken, the details of the rocks and vegetation around us disappearing into shadows. I hear the screen door creak and then a loud sigh, and then Dief comes and lies down by Ray's feet. Ray looks really pleased with that. Mackenzie is nowhere to be seen but I know she isn't far away - she is much more domestic than Dief was at her age, and doesn't stray very far.

We stay out almost until eleven o'clock. We're in June and with the blankets and shirts it is quite comfortable. But I suspect we also stay out long because of what is to come. Because once we get inside it will be time to go to bed, and I know Ray noticed that I hadn't made up a bed for him. I am wondering if maybe I was a little too bold in deciding against that. But, if he asks me, I will offer to sleep on the couch.

It is he, eventually, who stretches and yawns and declares that it is time to go to bed. He doesn't sound tired, though. He sounds breathless and a little nervous. Dief gets up with a hrmph and wanders off into the half-dark, clearly showing his disdain for the complexity of the human mating rituals.

We go inside and Ray gets his toiletries from his bag while I brush my teeth and wash my face - and we both act so normal that it seems anything but. But neither of us wants to break the illusion quite yet.

Only when we get into bed - one bed, a double bed - do we stop pretending that this wasn't, after all, known from the start, expected with equal parts anxiety and anticipation. And in the end, our first kiss is only a little awkward, because both of us knew that it was just a matter of time, of when - not if.

I want to touch him, and now I can.

Afterwards, he lies still for a while, looking up at the ceiling. I watch the pale arc of his ribcage still moving rapidly and the furry outline of his throat and chin.

"You're staying?" I ask, but it isn't really a question.

He looks at me; he smiles that new, warm, wide smile that maybe is for me.

"Yes. I am."

I want to kiss him, and I can.

I already know that Mackenzie will be his dog more than mine. I already know he will want to swim naked in the lake, until he feels how cold it is. I know that he will want to play his music loud because here he can.

I will try to persuade him to join me on my long walks in the area, even though I already know he will prefer to go out on the sled in the winter.

He will like the Caribou Carnival better than the Solstice Festival, because the Carnival has snowmobile races, while Solstice has "kids and knitting, Frase, c'mon".

And I think we will be very content.