Disclaimers: These folks ain't mine. Fraser, Vecchio, and Kowalski belong to Alliance, and David Lynch holds Cooper's tag. I'm just borrowing them to keep them warm for a while, and no money is being made off this venture. I am putting them all in some pretty compromising positions, so if you're not happy reading about boys touching boys, don't go any further. Rated NC-17. Archive anywhere, just please keep all credits and disclaimers intact.

Series: Border Patrol - Twin Peaks/due South

Spoilers: Anything and everything from due South and Twin Peaks. This series takes place after both show finales. Also spoilers for "One Ray, Two Ray; Old Ray, New Ray" - its predecessor slash series. However, for those unfamiliar with some or all of those three things, this can stand pretty much on its own. Any knowledge required is pretty much given in the first episode.

The Border Patrol series is dedicated fondly to Anagi. Since I horribly mutilated the "Mountie must be happy" rule with the ending of "One Ray, Two Ray," I hope this series can make it up to her.

Special thanks to Tiriel, who took my ramblings and rewrote them into a coherant, official sounding letter. Also to Trina and Leanne. My three wonderful beta readers.

Timing: In the Twin Peaks world, this takes place right after the final episode. In the due South world, this begins three years after "Call of the Wild", a little more than two years after "One Ray, Two Ray" ended.

This Chapter's Pairings: Kowalski/Vecchio, Cooper/Albert, some implied Cooper/Truman

Chapter One: The Letter

In which Kowalski loses another partner, Cooper receives an invitation, Vecchio goes to the library, and Harry and Albert have coffee.

by Barbara J. Webb

Special Agent Dale Cooper

c/o Sheriff Station

Twin Peaks, WA, 99139

Agent Cooper,

As you are no doubt aware, there has been an increasing concern in both Canada and the United States about criminal offenses occurring on both sides of our shared border. These issues, such as drug trafficking, weapons smuggling, and the fleeing of justice by fugitives from both nations, have been further complicated by the multi-jurisdictional nature of these crimes. Therefore, in the spirit of cooperation our countries have long shared, the US and Canadian governments are launching a new agency, the United Canadian-American Border Patrol Service, which will have as its purview all law enforcement matters that cross US-Canadian lines of jurisdiction.

Your recent work in Twin Peaks on the Renault matter has brought your name to our attention, and, on further examination, your entire service record has proven to be outstanding.

We are therefore pleased to extend to you an invitation to join us in Toronto on April 2 for an informational meeting and personal interview. We hope to then offer you the opportunity to become one of the first members of this exciting new law enforcement team. Enclosed, please find the organizational information about travel and lodging arrangements. We look forward to meeting with you in person. Any questions or concerns should be addressed to the project director, Inspector Benton Fraser of the RCMP, care of RCMP headquarters in Toronto.

Yours faithfully,

The UCABPS Candidate Selection Committee

* * * * *

Ray Vecchio

There was an air of taut apprehension in the bullpen of the 27^th district, a palpable thickness in the air as Ray Vecchio came down the hall. An angry, raised voice coming from the office of Lt. Welsh mad the cause of the tense silence obvious to anyone with ears. This happening, of itself, was not so unusual; people getting yelled at in Welsh's office was a part of everyday life at the 2-7. The element of the situation that held everyone in the usually bustling room enthralled was the fact that, this time, it wasn't the Lieutenant doing the yelling. Well, nearly everyone. One head in the room was bent studiously over the desk it belonged to - so close to the desk the nose attached to that lovely face was practically touching, profile all but hidden behind the carefully shined name-plate that read 'Det. Ray Kowalski.' And this just happened to be the head, the face, the man Ray was here to see.

Vecchio hesitated beside the Civilian Aide desk where his sister, one of the few people in the room making no attempt to pretend she wasn't completely focused on the fireworks coming from behind the closed office doors, sat absently filing her nails. "What's going on, Francesca?"

"Detective Sykes is in there, giving Harding an earful because your boyfriend's a psycho."

"Great." Continuing across the room, Vecchio moved to stand at the leather holster-clad shoulder of the man bent over in forced focus. "Hey, Kowalski."

The head jerked up at the sound of his voice, grey-green eyes fixing myopically on Vecchio. "What?"

"Don't you have your glasses? Or should I find you a magnifying glass?" A fairly innocuous question: trying to gauge Kowalski's temperature, to see if there was anything going on he needed to be worried about.

A shrug and a twitch of that gorgeous head. "Don't need 'em."

So far so good. Kowalski seemed cool enough that Vecchio could risk a more dangerous question. "What's up with your partner?" Another shrug, and the detective bent back down to his paperwork - a less encouraging response. "Come on, whad'ya do to him this time?"

"What, you think this is my fault?" He had whipped around to look up at Ray again, eyes glinting diamond-hard. Stanley Ray Kowalski with his back against a wall, and no way did Ray want to get numbered among the bad guys here.

Besides, Kowalski's raised voice had dragged a good half the room's attention over to them, and Ray had no desire to get into a shouting match in front of the entire 27^th district. "Easy there, Stanley. I don't know what's going on; I'm not trying to say anything. Just asking a question."

"Well maybe I don't like that question." Shoving his chair back hard enough to leave a scratch in the wall where it hit, Kowalski shouldered Vecchio aside on his way to slam some folders into a much-abused file cabinet.

Competing for volume was the crash of Welsh's door being flung open as Sykes stalked from the office, through the bullpen, out the door. Following more slowly, Lt. Welsh radiated only slightly less tension. His gravelly voice cut over the mutters that had risen in the room at Sykes' angry departure. "Detective Kowalski."

The blonde took a breath, spun around to face his superior. "It wasn't my fault, sir. I can explain-"

"That won't be necessary. Detective Sykes has been removed from this case at his request, which means you're responsible for finishing those reports. I want them on my desk before you leave tonight."

"But-"

"I would advise you to keep your mouth shut, Detective, as I am very close to suspending you until you can learn to play well with others."

Sometimes Kowalski did seem to know what was for his own good, and like most detectives at the 2-7, he had learned quickly just how far it was safe to push Welsh. Despite the fact it had been over four years since Ray Vecchio had been a Detective under Welsh's supervision, he could still recognize the warning signs of Welsh almost ready to pop, and let out a relieved sigh when Kowalski closed the cabinet drawer - albeit with an almost insolent care - then went back to his desk without so much as meeting Welsh's eyes.

Only then did the Lieutenant seem to notice Ray standing there. "Good evening, sir," Ray smiled.

"Vecchio."

Welsh looked like maybe he was about to say something more, but his eyes flickered over to Kowalski, and his mouth shut around any further words. It occurred to Ray that it might be better for everyone involved if there was a bit of distance between the Lieutenant and his problem detective. "If you're not too busy, I thought we might go out for a drink."

"I suppose it's possible that could be less than torturous." Tossing one last speculative glance at the blonde head once more bent with pointed studiousness over a pile of papers, Welsh checked a sigh. "Let me get my coat."

One of the immutable laws of the universe, Ray had discovered, was that there must be a cramped, dingy, hole-in-the-wall bar withing walking distance of every police station, everywhere. He and Welsh walked in something approaching companionable silence, neither desperate to suck in more of the unusually chilly March air than was necessary. Ever since Ray had become a civilian, no longer the direct responsibility of Lt. Harding Welsh, there had been a considerable easing of any tension that might once have been between them. Vecchio had always respected the man, had genuinely liked him, and now that Ray was no longer causing him professional headaches, they'd developed a simple, easy friendship. Just two guys trying to get through life, with too many bad memories of fathers, too many roads not taken, and too much familiarity with the dark, slithering evils of the world to ever sleep entirely comfortably at night. They understood each other.

It was still early enough in the evening that the bar was only half-full, mostly with cops just off their shift, and Ray and Harding easily found a spot to belly up to the bar. "Rough week, sir?"

Harding shook his head, took a long pull at the beer that had been set before him, unasked, as soon as he sat down. "Actually, it might have been a fairly quiet week, had it not been for the lunatic behavior of your replacement." When Kowalski was doing well, he was always 'my detective.' When he was behaving like a screw-up - more and more often these days, it seemed - he became 'Vecchio's replacement,' as though Vecchio himself were somehow to be blamed for the problem.

"What did he do now?" Not that Ray couldn't make a pretty educated guess. The litany of Kowalski's transgressions rarely altered from incident to incident.

"About got both himself and Detective Sykes killed. Not only did he rush headlong into an unsecured location, coming very close to ruining a bust, but he picked a fight with a rather imposing gangland figure and his associates. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he had some sort of death wish. At least, that was Detective Sykes' assessment of the situation."

That was about what Ray had figured. Always given to a certain level of fearlessness, Kowalski had lately been crossing that very fine line between bravery and stupidity. Sykes was the fourth partner in the past six months to have walked out on him. "Sykes always struck me as something of an unimaginative guy, and Stanley is occasionally given to some rather unorthodox tactics. I'm sure he just couldn't keep up."

"I'm sure." A thoughtful stare at the empty beer bottle before Welsh got it quickly replaced. Something to be said for all that bullshit about the place where people know you. "Tell me something: if you were still on the force, would you partner with him?"

"Hell no. The kid's crazy." Vecchio's beer was also nearing empty, but he shook his head as the bartender offered him another. Two years since Armando Langoustini had been put away on the shelf, and Vecchio still couldn't bring himself to break some of those survival habits Armando had developed - like never having more than one drink in a sitting.

"Crazy. You think?"

Such a simple word for the complex conflict Vecchio knew raged beneath his lover's bright-eyed, cocky exterior. But maybe not so far from the truth. "Maybe he just still half-believes the Mountie's gonna be there to watch his ass."

"Which leads to a problem, seeing as how Big Red is in Canada, and Detective Kowalski is here."

A problem. There it was. Fraser was up north, and Kowalski hadn't been the same since the Mountie had left. "Yes, sir, you could say that." Fraser had taken something from Kowalski when he'd left, and Vecchio couldn't even figure out exactly what it was, much less how to give it back to him.

"Any suggestions you might have for how I might get through to him...."

Ray couldn't offer anything. If he'd possessed any ideas of how to fix Kowalski, he would have implemented them himself. "Wish I could help you, sir."

The chirp of his cell phone made Vecchio start slightly, and he jerked it out of his coat pocket. "Yeah?"

"I'm done here. You can tell Welsh the reports are on his desk. I'm going home."

"Sure, Raymond. You want to-"

There was a click, and the dead sound of an empty line. Kowalski had hung up on him. "Your reports are done," Vecchio passed onto Welsh, "But I don't think he's going to be joining us."

"Kowalski's temper," Welsh said with a shrug, as though that explained everything.

"Yeah." Ray slid off the bar stool, gathered up his coat. "I should probably go. Maybe I can knock some sense back into his head."

"Why do I doubt that's going to happen?"

That brought a smile out of Ray as he shrugged into his coat. "What's wrong, Harding? Don't you have any faith in me?"

"The blind leading the blind."

"He's a good cop. He'll come around."

"I hope so."* * * * *

Bob

Bob did not dream. Dreams were for mortals with their delicate, fragile minds, needing so desperately their refuge, however brief, from reality. Bob needed so such escape, no such protection; his mind was not so vulnerable.

But he did sleep when it was necessary, although a part of him always remained aware. Aware of the thoughts, words, dreams of his host. This host had many dreams, powerful dreams, dreams that were still very much the expressions of his host's soul..

That worried Bob. Usually the dreams were the first thing to warp, to twist, to die. As Bob took hold of his host, he sucked the dreams away, weakened them from the inside out. Substituted his thoughts, his needs, for the dreams of his host. Until they were Bob's.

This host, this man, he was stronger than anyone Bob had ever taken. Stronger even than *she* had been. Bob would never have been able to enter this one, had he not dared to set foot in Bob's own lair, but once inside the Black Lodge, even this one hadn't been able to defeat Bob. No mortal could.

Still...perhaps Bob had miscalculated. He had thought this battle won, this mortal vanquished. This host had almost fallen to him, and Bob had revealed himself dangerously when he thought he had won. It had nearly been his downfall, especially once his host had regained his strength from the fight in the lodge, had fought back against Bob, had almost broken free.

Almost. So Bob had retreated, gone into hiding, focused all his power towards carving away his host's memories of Bob, until his host could no longer remember what had happened in the lodge, could no longer feel Bob's presence or hear Bob's voice within him. It had been a close thing, but once his host believed himself free, he had convinced his goody-goody friends that all was well.

While they relaxed, Bob slept. Watching, waiting. This host would be his, but it would take time. Fine then, Bob could be patient. For years, he had followed *her*, watched, courted. In the end, it had not been enough. *She* had been too strong for him, even as she died. And this one was stronger, true, but Bob was already inside him, and that gave Bob a foot in the door.

First, though, they would have to leave Twin Peaks. Too many people here who knew Bob, who knew his host. Too dangerous to stay, even if leaving meant going far from his source of power. There would be other places, other sinks of darkness, other wells of spirits, other doorways to the other side. And his host would be weakened, too, far from his friends, whose love gave him power, far from those who could recognize Bob for who he was.

Twin Peaks was Bob's home, the nexus of his power, but he had left before. Before he had been separated from the Mike spirit, they had traveled together, and again, when he had been seducing the Palmer man, he had left Twin Peaks. It could be done, and spirits did not survive as long as Bob had by being inflexible. The prize here was too big to ignore - the soul of this sworn servant of the light.

Yes, it was time for them to go. Pick a direction - wilderness, away from home, away from the support of job, friends, loved ones. A small obstacle, the fact that his host was reluctant to leave. Even without direct control, Bob had influence. Without giving himself away, Bob could whisper, persuade, tempt. //North// he would murmur, //North is where you must go. Away from here. North.//* * * * *Ray Vecchio

Kowalski was lucky the landlady liked him so much, since Vecchio could hear the music throbbing from their apartment before he'd even reached the top of the stairs. The former detective fumbled for his keys, knowing there was not a chance in hell his lover would hear him knocking.

The deep, resonant bass sound coming from the stereo washed over Ray as he pulled the door open, then shut it quickly behind him. No sense antagonizing the neighbors further. Inside, the music was almost too loud to be heard. It pushed at Ray's body, tried to move him in its own direction, sway him where it wanted him to go.

But he stood his ground, pushed his way through the ocean of sound into the bedroom, where Kowalski's lean body ground and glided in sensuous, earthy surrender to the demands of the rhythm. It was no good trying to get Kowalski's attention - even Ray wasn't capable of raising his voice enough to be heard over the music - so he simply leaned in the doorway and watched, waiting for Kowalski to notice him there.

No hardship there. A raw, graceful energy drove the motion of his lover's exquisite form: long slender arms curved, extended, twisted; expressive hands flew, traced patterns in the air, ran enticingly over that compact golden frame; soft pink lips moved in sympathy with the only barely comprehensible lyrics. A beautiful vision in the soft orange glow of the bedside lamp - the only illumination in the entire apartment.

Chameleon-grey eyes flickered open and fixed on Vecchio, narrowed slightly, and a tension came over the body that had been moving so freely only a moment ago. "Whaddya want? You gonna yell at me too?" Not a sound could be heard coming from that luscious mouth, but practice and necessity had made Ray an expert at reading words from his boyfriend's lips.

Defiant, angry, passionate, and Ray wasn't eager to become the new target of Kowalski's hostility. Instead of answering, he simply moved forward, pulled Kowalski against him, joined easily with the rhythm of his lover's body. His hands rested lightly on the slim hips that gyrated against his in a strong, slow pulse; his forehead pressed lightly against Kowalski's as they swayed eye-to-eye, nose to nose, groin to groin.

Little by little, the tightness drained from Kowalski, taking with it much of the nervous energy that drove the younger man to freneticism, until he had settled into something approaching relaxation dancing with Ray. Kowalski's eyes flickered closed again; his arms settled around Vecchio's neck; his body became more pliant.

A rare enough moment of sweetness, of tenderness between them, and Ray's mind couldn't help but try to ruin it, couldn't help but wonder if behind those creamy eyelids Kowalski was thinking of him, or imagining a different man in his arms - one with cool blue eyes, broader shoulders, who would be moving with greater stiffness, less rhythm, whose stiff red collar would rub roughly against Kowalski's neck and whose brown leather boots would likely be stepping on Kowalski's toes. A man who could sing like a bird, but moved like a stick.

Not that Kowalski was likely thinking it exactly that way. Probably the Fraser - ah ah ah, not a name to be spoken lightly in this house, but he'd already thought it so might as well keep going - probably the Fraser Kowalski was imagining wasn't all that stiff, didn't step on his toes. It was only human that when faced with a loss, the brain either idealized the absentee or obsessed over every fault and failing they had. Kowalski had taken the first route with Fraser, had forgotten nearly every harm - imagined or real - he had suffered at Fraser's hand, could only remember the perfect Mountie image that Fraser had managed to fool almost everyone with. Every flaw, every mistake, every problem was forgotten.

Except that Fraser had left, of course. Even Kowalski couldn't blot that one out with his rose colored paintbrush.

And that was the real root of the problem, of all the problems: Fraser's absence from the life of one Stanley Ray Kowalski.

It could have made Ray jealous, but jealousy was one of the few human frailties that had never been an integral part of Ray Vecchio's nature. He and Kowalski were good together, and no one was going to convince him otherwise, but he knew deep down that he couldn't be everything for Kowalski any more than Fraser could have been. Just as Kowalski couldn't manage to be everything for Fraser. And Fraser, the bastard, had left because of that. Vecchio's friend, Kowalski's partner, and he'd just taken off to the frozen north.

Two years of sporadic letters and the occasional awkward phone call, and Kowalski was on the edge, falling apart, dragged down by demons Vecchio couldn't begin to guess at, beyond that the key to it all was Fraser.

But he wasn't jealous. Maybe a bit resentful of the fact that, even three thousand miles away, Fraser could still disrupt Ray's life. A trace of lingering anger, perhaps, that Fraser had just abandoned them. The tender, empty hole left by the absence of his best friend - but he'd had years to get used to that one.

No jealousy. Really.

"Hey. Stanley."

No point in speaking above a whisper - the words would not be heard, but the movement of his breath on Kowalski's face got the detective to open his eyes in time to read the name. Tilting his head in, Kowalski pressed his lips against Ray's ear, the warm vibration of his voice delightfully erotic. "You call me that one more time today, Vecchio, and I'm gonna have to pop you one."

A mostly empty threat, and Ray turned his own mouth close to Kowalski's ear. "Welsh says you've been picking fights on the playground." Kowalski's eyes went hard, and he tried to pull away, but Vecchio's hands tight on his hips kept him close. "I'm not gonna let go of you, so you might as well just talk to me."

"Those guys were askin' for it. Had no respect for the badge. If Sykes hadn't chickened out-"

"Yeah, I know." If Sykes hadn't chickened out, they'd probably be scraping both detectives up on the street with a spatula, but no way would Ray ever say that to Kowalski's face. Kowalski's machismo was always better left unchallenged. "Lucky thing for those thugs; you would have ripped them a new one."

"Damn straight."

Those pretty arms were once more around his neck, as Kowalski settled back in against his lover. "One of these days, though, you're going to have to learn to get along with somebody. You been through a lot of partners lately."

"So what? I'da stayed with any of 'em if they'd just...I don't know...clicked."

If they'd just been Fraser. "Sometimes you have to just accept no one's going to be exactly what you're looking for - settle...compromise."

"You saying I don't deserve the best?"

His eyes were sparkling, teasing. Apparently, they'd eased back from the danger zone of Kowalski's temper, and into the much more pleasant realm of Kowalski's humor. "Come on, Raymond. You know that ever since I left the force they've been having to make do with lesser cops. You shouldn't rub it in."

"Since you left - that's rich. Between all the dry-cleaning on your expense account, and the lawyers they had to keep bringing in to keep draggin' your ass outta jail, they were able to hire five new detectives to take your place."

"Only because it takes all five."

"Excuse me while I laugh."

"I love it when you laugh, Stanley."

Kowalski swung playfully at Ray, and Ray caught his arm and twisted the slighter man around so his back was pressed against Vecchio's chest. This time, he was the one to close his eyes as Kowalski pulled him along with the beat. But he wasn't thinking of Fraser. Inside his head, there were only thoughts of the gorgeous blonde man wrapped tightly in his arms.

* * * * *

Harry Truman

"You wanted to see me, Harry?"

It was that smile - got him every time. That insanely perky, excited, oh-so-happy-to-be-here Dale Cooper smile that made Sheriff Harry Truman feel warm from the ends of his curly brown hair all they way down to his boots. "Yeah, Coop. This came in the mail for you."

The smile faded only slightly as Dale took the chair across from Harry, examined the thick envelope curiously, as though, like Johnny Carson, he were about to put it up to his forehead and divulge its contents without first opening it. With Dale Cooper, one could never be sure. "It's from Canada," the ever astute FBI agent commented, his thumb tracing the return address. "I wonder what it could be."

"I realize I'm only a simple small-town sheriff," Harry drawled, trying to keep the laughter from his voice, "but last I heard, the best way to puzzle out what information is hidden inside an envelope is to open it."

"Right you are." Cooper's eyes twinkled with laughter as he used the letter opener from Harry's desk to neatly slice into the envelope. How long had they possessed this easy camaraderie - from the beginning, when Dale had faced Harry over Laura's dead body and first dazzled the man with his baffling mix brilliant deduction and blind intuition, or had it come later - the first time Cooper had apologized to him for Albert's behavior, or that first shared slice of cherry pie, when Harry had shared with him the secrets of the Bookhouse Boys, or when Harry had watched him hold the dying Leland Palmer in his arms, calming him, telling him to go into the light. Harry couldn't remember when it had first happened, but now it seemed Dale could almost read his mind, always alert to the subtle humor lurking behind Harry's gentle brown eyes.

Dale's eyes scanned over the cover page with their usual proficiency. "Interesting." He continued reading, moving on to the packet of stapled papers that had been behind the cover sheet.

"What?" Usually a patient man, Harry had discovered long ago that it usually took a gentle reminder that not everyone could read Dale's mind to prod information from the special agent.

"Oh, sorry, Harry." Dale passed over the letter, and Harry took it in as Dale finished flipping through the packet.

Invitation. Canada. Border Patrol. "What is this?"

"A new agency, apparently. An experiment." Looking up at Harry, Dale's lips spread into that vague, dazzling smile that usually preceded a revelation or intuition that would send Harry's head spinning. But all Dale said, very quietly, was "North."

The way he said that, the far-off look in Dale's eyes: it worried Harry in that vague way Harry had been worried about Dale lately. Ever since the Black Lodge and Windom Earle. "You're not actually considering this, are you? You'd leave...the FBI?" Leave Twin Peaks. Leave.

There was no immediate answer - an unusual response in and of itself, but it was the answer itself, spoken hesitantly, without Dale's usual calm surety that sent Harry's heart into a choking rhythm. "Unthinkable, I suppose, except that I'm thinking about it. Lately, I've been dreaming - the need to go somewhere had haunted my thoughts. North. There's something for me there, Harry. Something I need to find, to discover."

"What is it you think you're going to find?" Harry had long ago given up arguing or questioning when Dale started talking about visions and urges, but he did still try - vainly in some cases - to understand.

"Harry, I have no idea." There, back in place, was the familiar Dale Cooper cheeriness. "But I don't believe I can ignore the fortuitous timing of this letter, surrounded by my own recent dreams. I have to accept this invitation."

Harry had always known the day would come when Cooper would leave Twin Peaks. After all, he had only come here to investigate a case, and while the Laura Palmer murder had spun out of control, become bigger, spread, led to other criminal conspiracies, and had kept Dale here long enough to draw Dale's psychotic former partner here like a spider to a web full of flies, there had always been the small, quiet place in the back of Harry's mind that had known eventually the FBI would have some new assignment for Dale that would require him to go elsewhere. Which left only one question.

"You think you'll be coming back?"

"Whenever I need someone I trust to watch my back, a good friend to talk to, or just a damn fine piece of cherry pie."

It was the best Harry could ask for. "Good luck then."

"Thank you." Simple sincerity and honest affection. This was Dale Cooper, and Harry was going to miss him horribly. Twin Peaks would be a darker place without him.

* * * * *

Ray Kowalski

He was hunting Fraser. No, that wasn't right. Something was hunting Fraser, but it wasn't him. Only it was him, in that weird blending of self and other that sometimes occurred in dreams.

Fraser didn't know he was being stalked, didn't know his danger, didn't know the darkness that was coming towards him. Ray knew, could see, could feel, but couldn't tell him, because he was there with the darkness, not with Fraser. Hunting. Searching.

No, not for Fraser. For something...but Fraser was in the way. Would be in the way. Would try to help, to save, to rescue...rescue? But there was no one but Ray and Fraser and the darkness, no one to rescue.

And it was cold, so very cold. Canada cold. Only even Canada hadn't been this cold, this dark - not even close to the cold of Fraser being up ahead, chased by the dark, alone and without Ray to help him, to rescue him.

But, no, wait, Fraser was there. Ray could see him. Only he wasn't alone. Wolf - big, black, hunting Fraser. But Fraser didn't seem to notice, didn't seem to care. Maybe thought it was Dief, or something. Didn't see his danger. Didn't see...

Didn't see...couldn't see...was dark and cold. Snow, Ray was in the snow, tangled in it, couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't see....

Fraser's voice, calling to him. "Ray, Ray...."

* * * * *

Ray Vecchio

"Ray! Hold *still*, Raymond." Vecchio managed to get a solid grip on Kowalski's thrashing form, his hands pressing down on narrow shoulders, one knee pinning Kowalski's thighs under its weight. Somehow, Kowalski had managed to pull the overs up so that he was naked from the chest down, his face and arms tangled under the blanket. With a bit of determination, he managed to free the pretty blonde head from its prison, which seemed to calm Kowalski down. "Another dream?"

"Wow, you sure do still got it in the detective area, don't you Vecchio." Rolling away from the concerned hands of the Italian in his bed, Kowalski padded naked into the kitchen.

Ray got up to follow, knowing full well how limited were their refrigerator options - milk, beer, Yoo-Hoos. The last of the Surge cans still sat empty on the table next to pizza boxes that neither Ray had felt like clearing after dinner. They were long overdue for a grocery run - hence the pizza ordered that night - but just hadn't quite been able to work it into their schedules the past couple days.

If Fraser had been there, he would have brewed some sort of freaky tea made with whale mucous or something equally gross that would have calmed Kowalski down, put him back to sleep, made it all better. Fraser could always make it all better. Not, Ray imagined, that Kowalski had suffered from these dreams back when Fraser was here. But if he had, Fraser probably would have been able to fix things.

"Raymond." He kept his voice soft, neutral.

"What?" Kowalski spun so fast his head only barely missed banging against the edge of the freezer door. "Whaddya want?"

The ex-cop leaned in across the bar counter, close enough to look interested, not so close it was invasive. "You okay?"

The question was basically a rhetorical one. Ray knew both the answer Stanley would give, and the answer that was true. "Sure. I'm great." The refrigerator crashed shut with a great deal of force. "Wish we had some fucking orange juice."

"You wanna talk about it?"

A knee jerk question - almost pointless. If it had to be asked, the answer was obvious. Kowalski always wanted to talk about it, deep down, but if there was no information immediately forthcoming, it meant there was going to be some work involved getting him relaxed enough to spill. "Just had a dream. Nothing to talk about. Just a dream."

An excuse that was starting to get tiring. "This is the fourth time in two weeks you've woken up like that. What's the deal?"

"I don't wanna talk about it. Can't you get that?"

Of course, sometimes calming Stanley down was less a matter of being soothing, and more a matter of simply giving him a target, something he could knock his head against until he'd expended all that nervous energy. "Sure, I hear you. But what kind of stupid you think I'd have to be to believe you when you say it's nothing?"

"Hey, your kind doesn't seem to be working - why don't you try something else?" Ray's weight shifted back and forth in almost a fighter's dance; he looked edgy, trapped, cornered.

"Well, what would you suggest, Stanley?"

A sparkle and a flash in the eyes, and for a moment, Ray thought Kowalski was about to tell him just where he could go, but then the fuzzy blonde head drooped and the tense shoulders slumped, as all the fight seemed to drain from him. "Nuthin. Never mind. I don't care."

This was the part Ray didn't know how to handle. Anger, aggression, irritation, even the occasional bitchiness, were standard Kowalski reactions to things he didn't like, but this defeat seemed completely foreign coming from the usually fearless detective. "Why don't you just come back to bed?" Soft, persuasive, calm.

"Sure. Fine. I'll be there in a sec."

Vecchio shrugged, pushed back from the counter. "Okay." Retreated back into the bedroom, still convinced that if Benny had been here, he would have known somehow a better way to handle this. Would have told one of his stupid, charmingly witty Inuit tales that would speak along that perfect bond Fraser and Kowalski had shared and fix everything. Because that was what Fraser did, and Ray Vecchio had never been as good at it as Benny.

Face it: Vecchio's life had been a mess before Fraser had showed up, and Fraser had somehow managed to put it all together and bring some sense to it, albeit in that senseless Mountie way of his. And he'd done that for Stanley too, Ray was sure. Now it was just the two of them, and the first real trouble had poked its head up from the sand, and neither Ray nor Stanley knew what to do with it.

Deep down, Ray suspected they were both still waiting for - expecting - Fraser to show up out of nowhere, as he was wont to do, and give them his lunatic opinion that would somehow - because the laws of reality operated differently around Benton Fraser - make everything work out. Now Timmy was in trouble, and Lassie was nowhere to be seen.

And Ray was maybe still a little bitter about that. Bad enough that Fraser had just up and left him, but he had hurt Raymond too, had abandoned him. Now Kowalski was floundering, and Ray was pretty sure that was Fraser's fault, Fraser's doing. By not being here, Fraser was bringing pain to the man Ray loved. And why? Because Fraser's needs had always come first. Fraser always got his way. Ray refused to be hornswoggled like the rest of the world into believing in the always self-sacrificing Benton Fraser image - he knew better. Fraser always got his way, always got what he wanted, and damn anyone who might get hurt in the process.

He was settled back in their bed, his arms folded behind his head, when Kowalski finally came back in. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good." Kowalski climbed back in, spending much more time fussing with the covers than was absolutely necessary. "I'm good."

Draping an arm loosely across Kowalski's chest, Vecchio rolled against him, brushing light fingers across the hair ends he could just barely reach. "So what's this dream about, keeps waking you up?"

Kowalski's body was practically humming with tension, but he seemed to have tired of running from the question. "It's just...uh...just this dream like I used to have, sometimes. Only...only different."

"Different how?" Not that Vecchio had the first clue what the dreams Kowalski used to have were like, but Vecchio knew how to run an interrogation, and sometimes you just had to go with your gut which tidbits would get you answers, and which questions would close off your witness.

Treating his SO like a murder suspect was probably not the Dr. Joyce Brothers approved way of dealing with an issue, but you had to stick with what worked. "Different cause this time they got Fraser in them. That kinda different."

"What, you never used to dream about Fraser?" Just enough tease in his voice to keep the conversation from getting too heavy. Kowalski balked when it got too heavy.

"Not when - not when I used to have these dreams. I was, like, ten or twelve or something. Long time ago."

Kowalski's voice had fallen to a sort of distant, almost hollow sound. Like a kid trying to carry on an academic discussion of the monsters in the closet. "What were the dreams like then?"

For a moment, Ray thought maybe he'd pushed a bit too hard, taken too much of a chance, when Kowalski pushed his arm off. But Raymond simply rolled over onto his stomach, his chin resting on crossed arms, staring through the headboard into some childhood nightmare. "I had 'em for a while. Mom and Dad, they used to worry 'bout me sometimes, cause I couldn't sleep very well after. In fact, they ended up sending me to this doctor - Dr. Briggs, I think was his name - and he was able to hypnotize me or something and made 'em go away.

"That was after I actually described them to Mom. Told her what I was dreaming. Bout all these people - bad things happening to 'em. Guess it was part of why I always wanted to be a cop - these dreams I'd have of people getting hurt, and me not able to help 'em, but in the dream I always wanted to, and couldn't.

"But, you know, I was a kid, and after I went to that doctor the dreams stopped, and I always figured I just grew outta them."

Childhood nightmares - Ray had gone through his own share of those, and knew they were nothing to scoff at. His had mainly involved crashing noises and the bellowing, drunken voice of his pop, and only his father's death had finally exorcized them from his psyche. "So what happened in the dreams? People you know got hurt?"

"Huh-uh. Never knew the guys. But it was always really bad. Like, uh, once I dreamed about this guy who pushed this woman out a window, and I remember watching her fall, only it was in this dream, so it took forever, and I was falling with her, only watching her too. Kinda freaky. Or this other time I was with this guy who goes into an airport - O'Hare, I think, and shoots some people, and every time someone got shot, it was like I could feel it. Or this other time, I was out on the street with this guy who thought these people were after him, so he just starts shooting, cause he thinks all these people around are bad people, but I know they're not, only he can't hear me cause it's a dream."

Now Ray was slightly confused. "So now you're dreaming about Fraser shooting people?"

"No. No." Several quick breaths, as Kowalski tried to find some level of calm. "It's like, like Fraser's the one who's going to get shot. Or something. I dunno. Only in the dream, it's like I'm the one doing it, or like I'm not able to stop it or something."

"Stop what?"

"The thing in the dream. The thing that's going after him."

Ray stroked his fingers through Kowalski's soft, sleep-flattened hair. "It's only a dream, Raymond."

"I know that. I know that. Not like I'm crazy or anything."

"Well, maybe a little bit crazy."

"Fuck you, Vecchio."

A bit of the Kowalski sparkle was back in his voice, and that just sent warm tingles all through Ray. He slid a bent leg across the small of Kowalski's back, took a gentle, but firm hold of Kowalski's hair and pulled his head back slightly. "What was that, Stanley?"

"You heard me." An attempt to turn over was easily halted as Vecchio slid the rest of his weight over Kowalski, and the pretty blonde realized too late the vulnerability of his position.

"Now where you gonna go?" But he didn't have Kowalski pinned as well as he might have liked, as Kowalski pushed up with the hands that had been under his chin, moving fast enough to dislodge Ray from his superior position.

Not that he was fighting very hard, as Kowalski rolled over to sit on top of him, pressing Ray flat onto his back. Tonight he was in a generous mood, happy enough that he'd shaken Kowalski's dream-inspired angst that he was willing to let Kowalski win.

Two years together, and his desire for this effusive, mercurial, quicksilver man hadn't dimmed in the slightest. The relationship wasn't perfect - nothing in this life was perfect - but it was as damn close as Ray thought any two people could get. They laughed, fought, played, fucked, matching passion for passion as the days marched on. For every bad moment of Kowalski or Vecchio losing his temper, for every fight, for every moment of panic when Raymond was working late and the phone rang, there were a hundred quiet evenings on the couch reading, and delightfully hoarse throats from cheering on baseball games; a thousand dazzling smiles from across the room, and whispered I love you's in the morning stillness.

The only thing they lacked - the only thing Ray could think of that could possibly make it even better - was freedom from Fraser, from the memories of Fraser, the pain, the need, the hope he might come back. Two years, and there had been barely any contact with the Mountie. Only the occasional postcard or ultra-brief phone call, just enough to see that the door was still wide open, tearing at Kowalski in a painfully obvious way, and at Vecchio on a somewhat more subtle level. Something there had been left unfinished, some connection unsevered, and it had blighted what might otherwise have been flawless.

But those were familiar thoughts, and as quickly shoved aside as they had been to go through Ray's head. Smiling down at him, obviously looking to clear his mind with some raw, physical adventure, Kowalski was part of the here and now, not the dark, chaotic past. Demanding his immediate, absolute attention, his ass tantalizingly close to Ray's eagerly growing erection.

"It's the middle of the night, Kowalski." Ray wrapped his hand around his lover's cock, stroking it into solidity. "Surely you can't be horny."

"What, you gettin' old on me, Vecchio? Slowing down?" Sliding back just enough that he could press Ray's hard-on against his own, Kowalski leaned down until his face hung mere inches above Ray's. "Hate to give you a heart attack or something."

"I'll show you heart attack." An easy undulation of Ray's hips sent Kowalski moaning. Leaning down, he sucked Vecchio's lower lip between his teeth, chewing lightly. That earned him another round of warm friction against his cock.

It was always a heady feeling, the easy control Ray could take during sex. An absolute sensation junkie, Kowalski was like a cat Ray had once known, who would roll over on its back the minute anyone came near, hoping to get its tummy rubbed. Ray could make Kowalski scream, could make him moan, could make him beg.

Tonight, though, Vecchio only wanted to make him come, to drive these nocturnal demons away with explosive pleasure. He worked a hand in between their bodies, taking both erections in hand.

Kowalski closed his eyes, moving his hips in time with Vecchio's strokes. His breathing became quicker, and he released Vecchio's mouth. Ray couldn't close his eyes, caught by the beauty of that face, the focused expression as his climax approached, the first hints of sweat dampening the roots of the hair at his brow, the brief flickers of grey-green as even Kowalski's eyelids couldn't hold completely still for any length of time.

Two years together, and Vecchio recognized every twitch, every hitching breath, every tense muscle that signaled Kowalski's impending orgasm. Two years, and Vecchio was able to time his own to match. Two years, and they went spiraling together over the cliff, gasping and panting, skin against skin.

And when Kowalski eased back into sleep, surrounded by the warmth of his lover, Vecchio allowed that to be another mutual release, sending thoughts, fears, worries all flitting away - at least until daylight.

* * * * *Albert Rosenfield

The door was unlocked - it seemed that, despite everything, Coop still had it in his head that Twin Peaks was a safe little town. Albert had been involved with too many autopsies per capita here to ever accept that belief as anything but evidence of mental deficiency, but if Cooper insisted on keeping these bad habits, then Albert was more than happy to take advantage of them. He swung the door open without knocking.

"Hello, Albert." Before he'd even stepped through the door. Ten years, and he still couldn't figure out how Cooper did that. Albert hadn't even called to tell Coop he was coming back to this black, horrid little town.

Never a man to equivocate, Albert closed the door behind him and got straight to the point. "What's this I hear about you leaving the Bureau?"

Any normal human being, in the middle of packing, would look rumpled, disorganized. Albert certainly would, but then he often felt rumpled next to the constant slick perfection that was Dale Cooper. Today, Dale looked as clean and pressed as any man could in a flannel shirt and jeans; his suits were laid carefully across the bed - wrinkle free, of course, and his half-packed suitcases, arranged on folding racks around the bed, were as neat and tidy as a military barracks. Inhuman, that's what it was.

"Nothing's set in stone yet." Cooper continued working, after a brief welcoming smile for his fellow agent. "I talked it over with Gordon, and...well...." Cooper took a deep breath, stood up straight to face Albert. "Albert, I needed a change, and this opportunity was timed very favorably. I won't lie to you; I'm giving it serious consideration. Of course, I'm going to wait until the informational meeting to decide, but it's calling to me. A change of scenery, change of pace - maybe even real wilderness."

Albert knew Cooper would keep talking forever, given half a chance, and while under normal circumstances he would sooner have clawed his own eyes out than interrupt this beautiful, eloquent man, today his patience was fairly short. Not that this obnoxious little town had ever brought out Albert's patient side. Idiots and fools, deserving so much less, oblivious to the rare gem they were about to lose in the person of Dale Cooper. "Excuse me while I wipe a tear from my eye, and then we can cut this sentimental journey short. You're actually leaving the FBI to go play friendly with the Canadians?"

"That's the heart of it, yes."

Practically inconceivable - the mere thought of Cooper leaving the Bureau - how could that happen? "What are you thinking?"

"I already explained - I know how you hate it when I repeat myself." There was a tension in Cooper as he returned to the work of folding and stowing clothes.

Damn this infuriating man for dragging Albert to this northern pit over and over again. Damn him for being able to just walk away. And damn him for making Albert stand here and sound like a native dullard, mindlessly repeating himself. "You're leaving."

"A question, Albert." Cooper's voice had taken that short, snappish tone that Albert had never heard the usually eternally patient man take with anyone but him. It was something Albert had always taken as a sign of affection. "Is this really about me leaving the Bureau?"

That wasn't anything Albert had been expecting. "What else would we be talking about?"

Something in the back of those soft brown eyes seemed to fade, and Cooper let out a deep sigh. "Never mind. If you don't know, then I -"

It was one of those things that happened when he was around Cooper - one of those inexplicable occurrences that came out of nowhere. Albert refused to feel responsible for the action as he grabbed Agent Cooper by the shoulders, dragged the man close, cut off his sentence by the application of his mouth over Coop's. The universe simply operated by different rules around this man.

He hadn't learned that soon enough. Years ago - so many years ago - before he'd understood just how special Cooper was, he's made the inestimable error of turning away from opportunity. He'd been offered a chance for heaven, and had turned it away before he'd even known what he was giving up.

What were they talking about? What were they ever talking about? What fantastical bridges of communication had they ever been able to build? Albert with his innate directness, always centered in the here and now, needing so desperately to be able to make everything logical, rational, sane. Cooper, who without even trying, squeezed all the juice from sanity like it was a grape at a French wine festival. Turned it into something else, full of riddles and dreams and omens that always sounded so plausible coming from him that even Albert had found himself made into a believer.

If only he knew what exactly it was he now believed in.

A crazy man, in this crazy town, and Cooper had set Albert's sense of reality so on end that he was certain it was all going to collapse around him if Coop went away.

The kiss ended; Cooper pulled his head back enough for Albert to see that lunatic grin of pure Cooper happiness. "Do you have any idea how my heart is racing right now - how it does that every time you kiss me?"

Coop's heart was racing. Only fair; Albert's stomach was trying to do back-flips. "Color me shocked." Once more, he sought Cooper's mouth with his own. Everything was always easier if Cooper didn't talk - the world only started to get nutty when Cooper spoke.

One of the innate paradoxes of Albert's existence: there was nothing he so much loved and feared as when Dale Cooper started talking.

When Coop's arms slid around his waist, two perfect white hands moved up his back, Albert's own heart started going so fast he thought blood was going to start spurting out his ears. The remarkably special agent leaned against Albert, tilting his head to an angle more accommodating to the insertion of Albert's tongue deeper into Coop's warm, inviting mouth. How long had it been since the last time they were together like this? A month, a year, a lifetime? Predictably, Albert's brain was operating at less than its usual efficiency as blood rushed to other parts of his body.

Overt sentimentality had never been one of Albert's failings, but there was something about Cooper that had always inspired the most awkward of thoughts. Desires. Needs. And now the knowledge that Cooper was leaving burned inside Albert like a flare, taking every unspoken, half-perceived craving that had haunted Albert for years now, focusing them into an overwhelming lust, driving him to do the almost unthinkable - push Cooper down on the bed in a display more appropriate to the local lumberjacks than to an urbane, refined FBI agent like himself.

Cooper didn't seem to mind. In fact, if Albert's understanding of body language was accurate, the way Coop's leg was wrapping around Albert's, the way his carefully trimmed nails were digging into Albert's back seemed to imply a certain approval of Albert's tactic. The always expressive tongue stroked Albert's with an invitation as easy to read as if Cooper had spoken the words aloud. One more time together, before Coop went away. And even if Cooper hadn't said it, Albert had known this man for so very long, could read him so very well, and this desperation, this passion was unusual.

It could only mean that Cooper believed this could very well be the last time. What that meant, Albert was in no condition to deduct, but he was fairly confident that Cooper wasn't just going to Canada to look around. Coop had made his decision.

The clothes on the bed were the innocent victims as the two FBI agents rolled over once, twice, again - Dale on top, then Albert, then Dale. Locked together in their embrace, neither man was entirely aware of his position relative to bed, ceiling, or the rest of the world, only that he was pressed tightly against the other.

Cooper didn't seem to notice or care that his carefully pressed suits were being rumpled. In fact, he was the one who pushed the clothes, piece by piece onto the floor as he and Albert traversed the width of the bed. "You're making a mess, Coop." A risky business, talking like that. Not only did it invite Cooper to answer, but Albert had found the most unbalanced things came out of his mouth when he tried to talk during sex.

"If you like," Dale responded, his lips soft as they moved against Albert's, "We could stop and pick them up. And this." Cooper's foot against the heel of Albert's shoe sent it flying across the room. "And this." Albert's jacket was slid back from his shoulders, dropped over the side of the bed.

"No, I don't think that will be necessary."

The last time. This was the last time. Albert was losing Cooper - had lost him, long ago. His own fault, his own mistake. This was only the final downstroke of a blow that had been years in coming. One from which he wasn't sure he would ever recover.

* * * * *

Ray Kowalski

"You wanted to see me?" It wasn't in Ray's nature to be timid, but there had been something in Welsh's voice over the cell phone that had the hairs on the back of his neck pricking. Something that seemed even stronger as he came into his Lieutenant's office, a thickness in the air that made him wary.

"Yes, Detective. Please come in."

Kowalski debated sitting, decided to stand. Welsh's unusually quiet voice, the way he wasn't looking at Ray, the vague reference to something important -- something of which Welsh had been unwilling to discuss in detail over the phone -- was making Ray entirely too fidgety to sit still. Better to stay on his feet, where he could shift his weight and bounce a bit less obviously. "So what's the deal?"

Saying nothing, Welsh handed him a piece of paper. Ray's eyes skimmed down, picking out words that registered in his brain, forming a tableau of information. Canada. Border Patrol. 27th precinct -- history of association. Members of your department -- best qualified -- at your discretion. Canada.

Inspector Benton Fraser. "What is this?"

"Have you become illiterate in the past couple days, or are the words simply too large?"

Dropping the letter back onto the desk, Ray shrugged, unable to check the somewhat insolent toss of his head. "What's it got to do with me?"

Welsh was wearing that resigned, almost sad look that came over him when he thought his employees were being exceptionally slow. "They want me to send someone from this district to participate in this new program. Considering you are my officer who's worked most closely with the Canadians in the past, I would offer you the transfer first."

Welsh was offering him the transfer. An invitation sent to the 27^th district. Because of their past relationship with the RCMP. "Thanks, but I think I'll stay."

He turned to leave, but the Lieutenant's gravelly voice stopped him. "Ray."

"What?"

"You know Fraser's involved with this."

"Well that's just great! Am I done?"

"No."

Ray could feel his entire body slump around that word. So much for an easy escape. "Look, I don't really wanna move to Canada. Do I just got a sign on my head or something that says 'drag me to Canada?' Cause those Canadians - they just can't seem to get it through their heads that I like it here in the US of A."

"Last I checked, I'm not a Canadian citizen, and I seem to be the one offering you this opportunity."

"Oh, that's right." Wasn't Fraser offering. Damn Mountie couldn't even bother to request Ray directly. If Fraser wanted him there, why hadn't he asked for Ray? "Still doesn't change anything. I don't wanna go."

"Detective, lately your performance has been, at best, erratic. While this has gotten worse lately, your work has suffered ever since Constable Fraser departed. Now, I'm offering you an opportunity to escape before I'm forced to take more serious measures."

The threat hung in the air. Ray knew he hadn't been completely together lately, but he was sure he could pull things in. And if he hadn't gone to Canada when Fraser had asked him to, he certainly wasn't about to go now when Fraser didn't even want him there. "I don't need to transfer."

"You sure? What about your performance?"

"I shall endeavor to do better, sir."

"You've been living with Vecchio too long. Starting to sound like him."

The edge of his lips twitched up just slightly at that, despite the churning anger still settled in Ray's gut. "Am I done?"

"Go on. Get out."

* * * * *

Harry Truman

The FBI pathologist was the last person the Sheriff had been expecting to see sitting in a booth at the Double R diner. Harry gave serious thought to turning around, going right back through the door. Since the first time they'd met, Harry had learned to be wary of Albert's cutting tongue, and even if he had, with time and patience, come to see the very worthwhile human being that lurked below the sharp, cool exterior of Agent Albert Rosenfield, tonight was a bad night. But it would be impolite not to say anything, and, in truth, the agent looked almost as dejected as Harry felt. "Hey, Albert."

The pain and sadness that had been etched across Albert's face as he'd sat staring into the depths of his coffee were immediately washed away by the cool, snide half-smile that was the expression most familiar to Harry. "What do we have here? Sheriff Taylor running around without deputy Barney on his heels?"

The last time they'd seen each other, Albert had given Harry smile and a bear hug. Tonight was obviously not going any better for him than it was for Harry. Against his better judgement, knowing full well that Cooper's departure that day had shortened his temper enough he might end up punching an especially caustic Albert, Harry slid into the booth opposite the agent. "Just stopped in here for a cup of coffee. Didn't expect to see you."

"Well, the line dance was over, and I just didn't feel like staying around for the midget toss." So far, the conversation was going about as Harry had expected it would, and he still wasn't sure what exactly had possessed him to set himself up for this.

Except that Albert shouldn't be here. Cooper was gone, had left early that afternoon, and Albert was still sitting in Twin Peaks. True, Harry didn't have Cooper's blinding intuition or god-like perception, but he was still really good at noticing things as out of place as Albert Rosenfield in the Double R. A basic curiosity was holding Harry here. Well, that and the fact that without Dale in town, Harry really wasn't all that sure what else to do with his time. So much had changed in these past few months; the face of Harry's quiet little town had erupted into chaos, and only in Dale's presence had Harry ever been able to make sense of it.

"I expected you would have left with Cooper."

"Since he was going to Canada, and I am not, I thought it was time to cut loose the apron strings." Albert set his coffee cup down, actually looked up at Harry for the first time since he'd sat down. "Is there something you're looking for here, or are you simply trying to make my last night in town as tiresome as possible?"

Now it was just plain stubbornness kicking in; Harry was determined to get a normal, human conversation out of Albert; he'd seen it happen, knew it could be done. He would not rise to the bait, would not allow himself to be driven off. Maybe the peace they'd found with each other had departed with Cooper, but Harry was determined to salvage something out of the disaster of Dale's departure. "Does that mean you're leaving tomorrow?"

Albert looked, for all the world, like he wasn't sure how to answer that question. "Do you ever feel like you're talking into a vacuum?"

Score one for Harry. He'd managed, just a little, to throw Albert off his stride. Best now to press forward, try to hold his advantage. "I guess you saw Cooper before he left."

"That was, in fact, the entire purpose of my visit here."

"Did you notice anything different about him?"

Albert snorted, took another sip of his coffee. "Cooper's always been different. Part of his charm, I suppose."

"No, that wasn't what I meant. Did he seem different from the normal Cooper?"

"Normal Cooper. Now there's two words you don't often hear in the same sentence." Harry lifted his eyebrows, silently repeating the question. "All right, all right. Nothing struck me as being outside the usual parameters of weirdness." Taking another long sip, something seemed to spark in the recesses of Albert's eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"Ever since that thing with Windom Earle and the Black Lodge, there's just something. I can't put my finger on it, but-"

Albert's sharp voice cut Harry off. "What about the Black Lodge?"

"Cooper went in, after Annie and Earle. He got her out, but - and that's another strange thing. When Annie left to go back to the convent, he just let her go. Didn't try to stop her. And since then it's almost been like he's forgotten about her. I don't understand this." Of course, there'd been that snap - right after Cooper had woken up after they'd rescued him from Glastonbury Grove. When he'd seemed, well, mad. But then it had been gone again, and Doc Hayward had said it had probably just been an after-effect of the stress combined with the drugs the doctor had given him. And Cooper had seemed fine again.

Almost.

"So let me get this straight. Coop went into the Black Lodge after Windom Earl and Annie Blackburn, Coop and Ms. Blackburn came out again, and you're only now starting to think there's something odd going on here?" Albert waved his hand as Harry started to answer that, cutting him off again. "Sorry, this is just...." The sentence trailed off, but it almost sounded to Harry like Albert had been about to make a personal confession. Before he could think about what that meant, Albert had started talking again.

"Agent Cooper mentioned nothing of the Black Lodge in his report to the FBI. In fact, it sounds like his entire report as to the end of Agent Earl is a work of fiction - a fact I find worrisome. While he has been known to indulge in the occasional flight of fancy, I have never known Cooper to intentionally falsify official documents."

It was almost impossible for Harry to wrap his mind around. Cooper had lied to the FBI. "What did he say in his report?"

"That Earle had been found dead of a drug overdose. Somewhat lacking in drama, but considering Earle's history with stimulants and consciousness altering substances, not difficult to believe."

Cooper had lied to the FBI. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Give the man a prize." There was a distracted note to Albert's sarcasm, and Harry couldn't find it in himself to be offended, when Albert looked almost as disturbed by this information as he was - in as much as Albert ever really looked disturbed.

Cooper had lied to the FBI. "And now he's left."

"This needs looking into, but I'd like a bit more information before I turn this into an official inquiry. Can I count on your cooperation, Sheriff Truman?"

If the situation had been any less serious, Harry would have been tempted to laugh at the pained look on Albert's face when he'd asked that question. "Of course, Albert. You know we're always happy to cooperate with the FBI." Although he couldn't keep from relishing Albert's discomfort when he continued. "I guess this means you'll be staying another day or two."

"Break out the moonshine and the corn-cob pipes, and let's have us a hay ride."

* * * * *

Ray Vecchio

This was the part of being a detective that Vecchio had always hated - the grunt work. Hours in front of a computer screen or microfiche, file after file whirring by as he searched for the information he needed. The situation was, if possible, even more revolting now that he was doing it in his spare time and not because of a case.

But something had clicked the night before last, when Kowalski had been talking about his dreams: some fragment of half-remembered information that had raised a flag in the back of his mind, dragged him here to the library to search through piles of twenty-five year old newspaper articles. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for, only that some switch had been thrown and wouldn't turn off until he found out why.

The why came more quickly than he was expecting. An article about a mafia hit - now that he'd found it, Ray could remember his ma talking about it in hushed tones, trying to keep the discussion away from prying ears of the younger children. He'd been sixteen at the time, proud as a peacock that he was being included in the 'adult' conversation. Probably why he still remembered this.

The moll of some middle-aged hotshot don had been pushed out a fourteenth story window. The window - and the apartment to which it was attached - had belonged to the young, attractive heir apparent of a different family. Talk in the neighborhood couldn't decide whether she'd been banging the guy, or if there was some more nefarious message being sent by her death. The whole thing had settled down in a matter of days - she hadn't been the first and wouldn't be the last to die, but it had been one of the first times Ray could remember his ma talking openly with him about neighborhood business.

And here it was, in black and white, a twenty-five year old article describing an event that had apparently given the young Stanley Kowalski nightmares. No shock. The entire ordeal had been fairly gruesome.

Except the papers had all reported that she'd jumped. Her system had been loaded down with all sorts of drugs; both the reporters and the police investigation had come to the same conclusion - no doubt with some gentle encouragement from interested parties - that it had been a suicide. Only those in the neighborhood, those in the know, had dared to voice what everyone suspected.

Somehow, an eleven-year old boy on the other side of the city had known it too. It didn't take finely honed detective's instincts to recognize something strange about that.

It only took a bit more searching to find the other two articles, where the other dreams Kowalski had described were immortalized on plastic. In the O'Hare shooting, nothing seemed unusual. Details in the article matched what Raymond had said. Easy enough.

The shooting in the street kicked off another warning light in the back of Ray's mind. The original front page article talked about the shooting, but there was no reference to why it happened. That information Ray finally was able to find in the trial coverage - in a paper from six weeks later - sandwiched on page eight between movie listings and used car adds. Paranoid schizophrenic, according to court psychologists. Thought everyone in the street was after him, trying to kill him.

What was his working theory here? A sensitive, warm-hearted kid somehow hears about these violent crimes, and they give him nightmares. Straightforward enough. But then how had he known that the woman was pushed? Lucky guess - coincidence? How had he known about the guy's delusions? An eleven-year-old reading page eight: the nightmare had waited the six weeks until he could find the guy's motivation?

Something here didn't make any sense, and he couldn't even blame this one on Fraser, beyond his usual belief that the world had made a lot more sense before he'd met the Mountie. All right, so that was unfair. Before he'd met Fraser, Ray had always looked for the easy explanation, the quickest solution. Even if there were a few elements that didn't quite fit, he'd always just wanted to find the easiest answer and move on.

But Fraser had changed that. Hadn't let him get away with that. Had made him a better detective, and maybe even a better person. He wished there were some way to check the timing on these dreams Kowalski'd had. Just to assuage his curiosity. Because he wanted to know, and there was something here that was just a little bit odd. Because Kowalski was having dreams about Fraser now, and if....

What was he thinking? This was crazy. Just dreams, and he was weirding out. Worried about Fraser because - what - he thought Kowalski was having some bizarro psychic experience?

On the other hand, would it hurt anything to look up this doctor of Kowalski's? Maybe have a talk with him? Probably what Fraser would have done. And a little bit of non-life-threatening detective work would be a bit of fun.

* * * * *Dale Cooper

Had Leland Palmer ever known that he was possessed? Bob had been a part of Leland for so long, Dale knew he couldn't judge the man's relationship with the spirit as anything comparable to his situation now. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if Leland had guessed, had known. How much of the man he'd known had even been Leland, and how much had been Bob?

Dale liked to believe he was stronger than Leland. Sometimes, he knew. It was a struggle to remember. Sometimes he didn't, couldn't. Sometimes, when Bob slept, that part of Cooper that knew Bob, that remembered the horror of the Black Lodge slept also. And that was the most horrifying part of all of this mess, that Cooper couldn't even trust his own mind.

When Bob was awake, though, Cooper knew. When Bob was awake, Cooper fought. With every battle, he knew he was fighting, not only for his own life, his own soul, but for the lives and souls of others. The lives of those he would kill if Bob ever started to win these battles.

But with every battle, he grew a little bit weaker. With every fight, Bob came closer to winning. Cooper knew he needed help, needed something. But even when he fought against Bob, when he struggled to regain himself, he was still not completely in control. Couldn't even get so far as to pick up the phone to call Harry or Albert, or Gordon, or anyone who might have been able to help.

He had fought alone, in his room at the Great Northern in Twin Peaks. He fought alone, here and now in his hotel room in Toronto. And then when the fight ended, he forgot everything until the next time Bob woke up and wanted something.

And he was losing. Inch by inch, Bob was taking control. All he could do was watch - when he could even remember what was happening. It was the most frightening situation Dale had ever been in, and he had yet to see a way out.

* * * * *

Ray Vecchio

Kowalski was in a fine mood when he got home from work that night. He tossed his coat over the back of a chair and plopped down on the couch next to Ray, casually propping his feet up on the coffee table, right on top of the copies Ray had brought home from the library. "What're you doing?"

"Nothing important." No sense trying to explain anything he'd found until Ray was sure of what it was exactly he'd found. "How was your day?"

"Sucked."

A common enough complaint these days. "Welsh partner you with someone yet?" A tap of Kowalski's thigh got him to lift his legs long enough for Ray to retrieve his papers.

"No." Kowalski was up again, moving into the kitchen. Conversations with an agitated Kowalski were more likely to give one a strained neck than watching a tennis match. "So get this: he wants me to go to Canada."

"Why would Welsh want you to go to Canada?"

A clink and a hiss - Kowalski was opening a beer. "There's this...uh, this new agency thing. Joint Canadian-American thing. They wanted someone from the 2-7, and Welsh thought maybe I should take it."

"What's that about?" If Kowalski hadn't gone because of Fraser, what could possibly be going through Welsh's head that he thought Kowalski might go just for a new job?

"Guess he thought that since Fraser's in charge, I'd want to go."

Ray wasn't sure he'd heard that right. "Fraser's what?"

"He's in charge. Of the thing. Keep up."

Kowalski came back to perch on the corner of the couch, beer in hand, and Ray tried to get his brain back into focus. "So let me get this straight - Fraser's invited you to -"

"Huh-uh. Fraser didn't invite me. Fraser sent a letter to the department, saying Welsh was supposed to send somebody. Welsh's choice. Only it wasn't even Fraser, it was the Canadian government or something."

"Okay, fine. You've been invited - by the Canadians, or Welsh, or somebody to go work with Fraser again. And you're upset because...?"

Blazed across Kowalski's face was his "what are you, stupid?" expression. "What, are you on Fraser's side now?"

"I don't understand how the sides are being divided up here." There were times when conversations with Kowalski were almost more trouble than they were worth. "Why don't you explain to me what the problem here is."

"Fuck you, Vecchio. If you can't figure it out-" And Stanley was off again, back into the kitchen.

Ray counted to ten. No sense both of them being irrational - those conversations never fixed anything. The world really only moved forward if one of them kept his feet on the ground. Fortunately for all involved, when Kowalski was agitated, he tended to run off at the mouth, and if Ray just kept quiet, Kowalski would usually fill in the missing pieces all by himself.

This time was going to be no different, it seemed. "I hate it here, you know? The job - it's not - ever since Fraser...." Vecchio turned around on the couch so he could see Kowalski while he spoke. "It's...uh...different. Than it used to be."

Hardly news to Ray, but it was the first time in two years Kowalski had voluntarily spoken about how things had changed since Fraser left. "How is it different, Raymond?"

Kowalski was leaning against the bar, his back to Vecchio, his shoulders hunched in on himself. "I miss him, sometimes. Well, lots of the time. Not like - you know," he added quickly. "Not like, cause I've got you and all, but I still - I miss him."

"That's allowed. I miss him too."

"But it's like, um, like I don't know - no, that's not right. Yeah, like I'm not me anymore. Kinda. I mean, without Fraser, I'm not me - or I'm a different me, only I'm still not really the old me, cause I'm here with you, only I'm still working your job, which I like, but I wasn't me before, except for with Fraser, cause I was trying to be you."

Ray didn't know if he should be worried that he was actually able to follow most of that. "You don't know who you are anymore."

"Right. Before, I always felt the most me when I was with Fraser. Even though I was pretending to be you. Only now I'm not doing that anymore, but I feel like I'm trying to pretend to be me. Only I don't really know how to do that. Especially since I still kinda feel like it's your job I got, not mine."

For the first time, Ray was getting a glimpse at what had been tearing at Kowalski. And he still didn't know how to fix it. "That's a tough one."

"And now this - this Canadian thing, and it's like he doesn't even miss me at all."

"What, are you high? Of course he misses you."

Kowalski shrugged, jerking his head to the side in a gesture Vecchio recognized as Kowalski trying not to look hurt about something. "Then why didn't he ask me to come himself?"

That snapped the final puzzle piece in place. "Maybe he was afraid you'd say no. After all, you did turn him down last time. Maybe he didn't want to get rejected again."

"If he'd asked me...." Kowalski fell silent, giving Vecchio a sharp, wary look.

"If he'd asked you, what?" Vecchio prodded gently.

"I woulda said yes, I think." The words were practically tripping over themselves at the speed Kowalski was trying to expel them from his mouth. He looked guilty and almost expectant - like he was waiting for Ray to get upset.

Which was the last thing either of them needed right now, and Ray knew it. "So let's try something. Let's pretend for a moment that Benny's a freak." Ray took Kowalski's pet word, hoping it would fetch a smile out of the edgy blonde - which it did. "And let's also pretend that he's never been good at just straight-out asking for things. Then, let's say that maybe he knows something about the 2-7, about Welsh, and that maybe he was assuming an invitation like this sent to Welsh would get automatically extended to you."

Ray paused for a moment, letting all that process. "Then let's treat all this like Fraser wants you up there. You want to go?"

Kowalski shrugged again. "It would be leaving Chicago, goin to Canada, which I didn't want to do before."

"Before was two years ago. And it's not like then - this is a job. You get to keep your badge and your gun, and probably indoor plumbing besides."

Taking a long breath, Kowalski looked down and away from his lover. "Yeah, I want to go."

"Then I guess we're moving to Canada."

Kowalski jerked as though he'd been slapped. "You'd come with me?"

"Of course. Don't you want me to?"

"Well, yeah, but I didn't think - I mean, uh, your family and all that...."

It had never occurred to Vecchio that he wouldn't be going. "Raymond, you think I'm gonna let you go off and play in the snow all by yourself? Come on, don't be dumb."

The tension fell away from the detective, and he had that dazzling smile on his face. "Cool. Guess we're going to Canada."

"You love me, Raymond?"

"Yeah."

"Good." And it was settled.

* * * * *

Benton Fraser

The brilliant red of the Serge had always been a stirring sight for Fraser. A group of them together, properly adorning a cluster of members of the RCMP, sent a warm feeling all through his chest, especially scattered as they were through the more patchwork mismatch of American clothing. Together - not blended, not melded, differences between the people and methods still as sharp as between their clothing - but still, a unit. His unit. His creation. He had forged this new agency, given it life and charter, dug in his heels and fought for it.

If his experiences in Chicago had taught him nothing else, it was that sometimes the whole of two people could be greater than the sum of its parts, and he believed that philosophy could extend to nations as well as people. The UCABPS would be stronger for the divergent backgrounds of its officers.

Almost officers. They still had final interviews to conduct, some paperwork to fill out. Formalities, primarily. Every single one of the thirty people listening to his introductory speech had been hand picked for excellence in his or her field. An excellent turn-out, all things considered. Thirty-one invitations had been sent, and thirty officers and agents had accepted.

Ben should be proud, happy, ecstatic. One absence out of thirty-one; it was an excellent attendance.

But he'd trade every single one of the thirty faces in this room for the single one that hadn't come. Because when Fraser was entirely honest with himself, that once absent invitee was the real reason he had done all this. Rhetoric and party line aside, he'd needed more than anything to find some way he and Ray could be together again, some answer that would allow Fraser to be in Canada but still allow for Ray to continue doing the job he loved. This was Fraser's solution, his offering.

There had been no answer from Chicago.

It was still a good idea, the Border Patrol Service. Ben could stand behind it, and was proud to lead it. Even without Ray, the UCABPS could be whole.

It was only Fraser who couldn't.

A paroxysm of barking from Diefenbaker at his feet almost startled Fraser from the parade rest at which he'd been standing for the past half-hour, addressing his new command. The wolf was up off the floor, running towards the door in a manner entirely unsuited to a law enforcement animal, but any sort of reprimand died on Fraser's lips as his eyes followed Dief's direction. Had Fraser's control been even one whit less, he might have put on a display similar to the wolf's.

"Hey, Frase. I hope I'm not too late."

That wide grin, the cocky head tilt - Ray Kowalski was in fine form, and Fraser was speechless. Fortunately, Dief was still making enough noise as he tried to lick everywhere at once on the face of the other Ray, who had come in right behind Kowalski. Both Rays...here.

But even this surprise couldn't keep Benton Fraser speechless for long. "Ray, please come in."

Kowalski sauntered casually to the front of the room, but Fraser could see the way Ray's fingers were twitching, the way his jaw kept clenching - it seemed he wasn't really any more calm about this than Fraser. "I was in the neighborhood...."

"I'm so glad you chose to drop by." Fraser extended a hand to his partner, conscious of the room full of people staring at them, but Ray would have none of it. Instead, he pulled Fraser into a rough hug, held him tightly for a moment, then stepped back with an effort Fraser could almost feel.

"It's good to be here."

Fraser couldn't quite bring himself to release Ray completely; he kept one hand resting on Ray's shoulder as he asked the only question in the world that mattered. "Will you be staying?"

"If you'll have me."

The words hung in the air for a moment, and then Fraser turned to once more face his new command. "Everyone, it is my privilege and pleasure to introduce detective Ray Kowalski, formerly of the Chicago Police Department, who will be joining me...." He glanced quickly at Ray, an unspoken question. The answer came in a quick wink from the detective. "Who will be joining me here as my partner."

Fraser's partner. Always.