Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Good for the Soul
Disclaimer: they don't belong to me, more's the pity...

This fic begins during the ep "Good for the Soul" at the point where Fraser is beaten up in the alley. From there, it veers off into holiday AU-dom.

Much thanks, as always, to Kathye and Ange for beta-on-demand.

Bob Fraser was dead, to begin with. He had mostly managed to ignore his condition, or lack thereof, for going on three years, but the fact remained. He was dead as a doornail. And considerably more vocal.

"Benton? Time to wake up, son."

The son in question was sitting in Bob's office, dozing in front of the stove in his favourite rocking chair. Seeing that his words had little effect, Bob decided to employ more drastic measures. He leaned in close to his son's ear, and began to sing cheerfully, "Down on the farm, back among the family..."

"What are you doing, Dad?" Benton Fraser said, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. "Where am I?"

That was Benton, always asking the obvious. "You're in my chair."

"I fell asleep in your office?"

"No, you just woke up here. Well, sort of - it's not important. What is important is that I've got something to show you." With that, Bob pushed open a narrow door in the wall behind the woodstove, and motioned for his son to join him.

"This has to be some kind of dream," Fraser said, stepping though the door that turned out to open into a snowy forest.

"If you say so, son," Bob shrugged. "I'm dead, I don't dream." He began trudging through the trees, leaving Fraser struggling to keep up.

"Uh, Dad? Where are we going?"

Bob came upon a clearing, and stopped. "Here."

Fraser blinked as he found himself suddenly in the main room of a small cabin. A small, dark-haired boy sat on the floor by the window, drawing a picture in crayon.

"Uh, Dad?" Fraser said in disbelief, "This is impossible!"

"It turns out that very few things are actually impossible, son, in fact..." he trailed off as a tall woman entered the room, and went to sit with the boy.

"What's that you're drawing, Ben?"

"It's a picture of Dad for when he comes home. Can I stay up and wait for him?"

Caroline looked out the window at the falling snow and frowned slightly. Then she looked back down at her son and smiled. "I suppose just a little while wouldn't hurt." She gathered the child up and put him in a chair, then tucked a blanket around him. She then went to put more wood in the stove, shaking her head as she did so.

Fraser turned to his father. "She knew. She knew all along that you weren't coming home."

Bob was still staring after his wife, lost in his own thoughts. When Fraser looked back to his younger self, several hours seemed to have passed. The snow was falling thickly against the window and the boy had fallen asleep in the chair.

"Mum?" he said sleepily, as his mother tried to pick him up out of the chair.

"It's late, Ben. You should be in bed."

"He isn't coming, is he."

Caroline hugged her son, then set him back in the chair. "Ben, you know your Dad's job is to help people, right? Well, see that storm out there? Santa is out there somewhere, with all those deliveries to make, and he needs someone to help him find his way through the storm. And you know your Dad can get through any storm."

"I guess," the boy said, sounding doubtful.

"He loves you, Ben. He'd be here if he could," Caroline said, smoothing the boy's hair. "Come on, let's go bank the fire and go to sleep. It'll be Christmas before you know it."

Bob Fraser had tears in his eyes as he watched the room go dark. "I'm sorry, son. I should have been there for you and your mother."

Fraser looked around the darkened room, an unreadable expression on his face. "It's alright, Dad... I understood."

"No you didn't," Bob turned to his son, anger joining the grief in his voice. "You were four years old, how could you have? You think I don't know you, son, but I've been paying attention these past few years. Understanding is the excuse you give yourself to ignore feeling hurt."

Fraser reacted instictively to his father's tone. "Dad, just because I try to put other people at ease doesn't mean -"

"Oh, I know son. Don't rock the boat; don't make waves. Well, it doesn't take too long for still water to go stagnant." As he spoke, the forest reappeared out of the darkness. He turned, and began to walk through the snow.

Again, Fraser began to follow. "Not that I'm not enjoying this trip down memory lane, but was there a point in bringing me here?"

Bob stopped, and turned toward his son. "It'll come to you, Benton. Just don't take too long." He smiled. "Merry Christmas, son."

Fraser watched his father walk behind a tree. He didn't emerge on the other side.

"Dad? Dad!"

"I taught you better than that, Ben." The voice came from somewhere behind him. "You'll scare all the game away, yelling like that."

Fraser turned. "Quinn! What are you doing here? Wherever here happens to be, that is," he amended.

Quinn shrugged. "I'm a guide, Ben. It's what I do."

"Ah," said Fraser, still looking confused. "I seem to have lost Dad."

"Your father knows where he is. It's you that's lost."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, until the trees thinned out, then stopped all together. Fraser turned to look the way he had come, and when he turned back, they were in the hallway of the 27th, standing in the doorway to the squadroom.

There were presents piled under the Christmas tree that Francesca had insisted on setting up, and people were standing in small groups, talking and drinking eggnog. Fraser surveyed the room. There was Lieutenant Welsh, Detective Dewey with his partner in tow, Francesca and Turnbull, Inspector Thatcher... Fraser frowned. "Where's Ray?"

"Ray's not the only one missing." Quinn said, seeming to look past the room rather than into it.

"Who?"

Quinn turned his head and shot Fraser a meaningful look.

"Well of course I'm not there, I'm here." he said, impatience creeping into his voice.

"You should be."

Fraser was about to question this cryptic pronouncement when his attention was diverted by Francesca.

"Is Ray here yet?" Frannie was asking Lieutenant Welsh. Welsh's voice didn't have quite same carrying power, so his reply was lost in the general noise of the room. "Do you think he's still at the hospital?" Frannie continued, frowning and staring at the door - and right through Fraser, who had suddenly turned pale.

"Ray's not..." He shook his head, "No, if anything were to happen to Ray, someone would have told me."

"And if you weren't around to be told?"

Fraser traced his eyebrow with this thumbnail. "I don't understand."

"Yesterday is ashes, tomorrow wood. Only today does the fire burn brightly."

Fraser looked intrigued, in spite of himself. "Is that Inuit?"

"Does it matter?" Quinn shot him another pointed look. "Yes, it's Inuit. Remember it."

The station faded into darkness, and the air filled with whirling snowflakes. As Fraser pulled up the collar of his coat, Quinn began to walk away.

"Quinn! Where are you going?"

"My time here is up," he said, now walking backwards into the storm. "There's a friend of yours waiting back that way." He pointed over Fraser's shoulder. "Remember what I told you."

Quinn vanished into the storm, and Fraser began walking the direction he had been pointed. The direction that, apparently, would lead him to a friend. "Ray," he thought to himself as he trudged through the snow.

When the storm cleared, however, it was Diefenbaker who was waiting. He saw Fraser, and began to run, leading him over the snowy field until they arrived at a graveyard. Dief stopped at a tombstone, and began to whine. Fraser leaned forward, and read his own name. He straightened, and backed away from the stone and the wolf.

"Are you trying to tell me I'm dead?"

Dief said nothing.

"You'll pardon me if I find that hard to believe."

Dief pawed at the stone, and barked.

"Well for one thing, it stipulates in my Will that I'm to be buried in the Territories, and this graveyard is clearly in Chicago."

He was stared down. "What do you mean, no one read my Will? Surely someone at the Consulate... Besides, the date on that stone is December 25th, and it's only the 22nd..." A bolt of panic shot down his spine. "At least, I think it's the 22nd."

Dief began barking, and Fraser looked over his shoulder to see a man approaching. He was wearing a long coat, black gloves, and sunglasses, and the hair was unmistakeable.

"Ray! Am I glad to see you!"

Ray walked by Fraser as if he didn't exist, and stopped in front of the tombstone. "Hey Frase. It's me, Ray."

"I know who you are, Ray." Fraser said, still trying to get the other man's attention.

"Can't belive it's only been a year, ya know? Seems more like a lifetime some days..."

"Why can't he hear me?" Fraser demanded. Dief whined and lay down in the snow.

"Oh, very funny. You're deaf, and it's never stopped you."

Ray had continued speaking. "Gettin' all maudlin here, guess I should cut to the chase. I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry, and it hasn't been the same without you, and..." his voice broke, and he fell to his knees in the snow. He leaned on his hands, sobbing, then sat back on his heels. "Oh, God, Frase, you have no idea... I've tried, I really have..." he paused to wipe at his eyes, "...and I know if you were here you'd tell me some Inuit story and send me on my way but... you're not here anymore. And everything just got so empty..."

Fraser watched, frozen, as Ray rocked back and forth.

"And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for letting you die, I'm sorry for not having the guts to tell you..." Ray fumbled in his pocket for a moment, then pulled out his gun.

"No!" Fraser tried to approach Ray, but Dief was between them, blocking the way.

"And I'm sorry for not being strong enough to go on alone..."

"Diefenbaker! Get out of my way!"

Dief began barking, forcing Fraser to take a step back. Ray put the gun to his temple, and squeezed the trigger.

"RAY!!"

He was sitting bolt upright in a strange bed, an IV stuck in his hand. "Ray?"

"Whoa, Fraser, it's ok. You're in the hospital." Ray gently pushed him back down against the pillow, then hit the call button. "When you come to, you don't kid around, huh."

It took him a while to get his bearings, and by the time he had finally figured out where he was, the nurse had checked him out and was leaving the room. "What happened?" he asked Ray, who was still sitting in the chair beside his bed.

Ray frowned. "Whaddya remember, Frase?"

He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. "I heard a call for help in the alley..." he opened his eyes wide as the memory came back to him.

"Yeah, Warfield's goons worked you over pretty good. We got him for ya, though. Went to his club and busted the joint - Welsh even tagged along. Musta been one trip downtown too many 'cause we got all kinds of people waiting to rat him out. He's going down big time."

"Did he apologize?"

"Yes, Fraser, he apologized to the kid. God, you're stubborn!" Ray shook his head, but he was smiling. He stared out the window for a moment. "Look, Frase... you were right, and we were wrong, and we shoulda been there, backing you up. I'm sorry ya had to get beat up before I - before we figured that out."

Fraser experimented with sitting up on his own. He hurt everywhere. "It's alright, Ray. In the end, justice was served."

Ray stood up, exploding into his usual state of constant motion. "It's not alright! You've been unconscious for two days, and that is most definitely not alright. They couldn't even tell me if you'd wake up at all!"

Fraser swallowed, then looked at Ray, horrified. "Two days?"

Ray looked at the thin book he was still holding in his hand, and set it down on the table, suddenly looking shy. "I, uh, I didn't think you should be alone on Christmas Eve, so I've been reading to ya... they said talking might help, but I don't have that much to say at the best of times, so..."

"That was very kind of you Ray. Thank you." Fraser glanced over at the book. There was a box sitting next to it on the table.

"Yeah, don't mention it." Ray said. He picked up the box to cover his embarassment. "Oh, I found this under the tree down at the station. Has your name on it, so I thought I'd bring it by."

"Strange, it doesn't say who it's from." Going slowly to avoid aggravating his injuries, he opened the box. Inside was a picture of three people. His family, all of them together. It had been taken just before his Mum died.

He looked at the small boy in the photograph, smiling for the camera. His entire world right there, fitting neatly into one frame. It had been perfect. And then it had gone. And somehow, he realized, the frame had shrunk, until there was only room for the boy. Soon, it would crush him all together.

Ray broke the long silence. "Not what ya wanted?"

Fraser couldn't stop the tears from sliding down his face. He wasn't even sure if they were tears of loss, or relief, or even fear. Somehow, it all came together in his mind, and the prospect was overwhelming, to say the least. *Yesterday is ashes, tomorrow wood...*

"What's wrong? You want me to call the nurse?"

He shook his head.

Ray leaned on the bedrail and spoke softly. "Come on, Frase, talk to me. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad."

"I just want..." Fraser looked down at the picture, willing his hands to stop shaking. "I want to not be alone anymore. I want to come home from work and have someone to talk to other than Diefenbaker; to fall asleep in someone's arms and wake up there the next morning." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "And I really want that someone to be you, Ray."

The silence was deafening. Fraser finally found the courage to look up, and was relieved beyond measure to see Ray smiling at him. "Was it really that hard to say?"

Exhaustion hit Fraser out of nowhere. He leaned back against the pillow, and looked over at the book on the table. "I think I had help."

Ray gently took the picture from Fraser's hands, then picked up the box and set them both next to the book. Fraser watched, struggling to keep his eyes open. "I'm sorry. I'm just so tired all of a sudden."

"It's alright, Frase. You should sleep." Ray sat back down.

"Will you keep reading?"

"If you want, sure."

"And Ray?"

"Yeah, Fraser?"

"Could you... could you be there when I wake up?"

Ray smiled. "Always." He leaned forward, and kissed his forehead gently. "Merry Christmas, Ben." When he leaned back, Fraser was already asleep.

He picked up the book, found the place where he had left off, and began to read:

"For the first time the hand appeared to shake. 'Good spirit,' he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it: 'Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life.' The kind hand trembled..."

The End
(Thank you kindly, Mr. Dickens)