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      	  It's a Dog's Life 
 by Queue  

 Author's Notes: Beta'd by the splendid and bodacious estrella30, who
totally blew off work/sacrificed her precious time on the job to do a
lightning-fast yet still thoroughly kickass readthrough. 

 Story Notes: Written in November 2005 for the It's a Dog's Life challenge
on ds_flashfiction. The rating is for language and character illness/hurt;
no one dies, either in the story or in the sequels I have yet to write.

 

 "Benton Fraser speaking."

 "Fraser."

 Ray, in the middle of the working day. Worrying. His voice on the other
end of the line has a tone very different from its usual offhanded
immediacy, an admixture of distress and forced calm. I've heard this oddly
alien voice from him on only three or four previous occasions in our years
together, but the memory of those instances - of what it took to make Ray
sound like that - makes my blood run cold. The thrumming shock of pleasure
that hearing him sends through my body - even after all this time, a small
miracle - transforms abruptly to a sudden dryness in my throat, and I have
to swallow several times before I can answer him.

 "Yes, Ray, it's me. What is it? What- " 

 "Fraser, thank God. Thank God. Where in the fuck have you been?"

 Something is definitely wrong. "Out on patrol, Ray, with Constable Jonas
and the Depot trainee. You know that. I told you where I was going before
I left the house yesterday. Have you been- "

 But he's talking over me now, in a torrent of words even more rushed than
usual. Whatever calm he acquired before he rang me has vanished, swiftly
and completely. 

 "Fraser, I been trying to reach you since this morning early, but you
must've been in a no-service area, because I couldn't get through until
right now, and Jesus, it happened so fast, and I had to make a decision
right there, so they're operating on him, because the vet said there was a
chance that would fix it, which he wouldn't commit himself but I'm pretty
sure the chances otherwise sucked bigtime, so I honestly think it was the
best bet, but Dief looked like shit when I brought him in and they've been
behind that damned door for fucking hours and I swear the smell in this
place is gonna drive me nuts in about one more minute tops- "

 Even through the hollow ringing in my ears, I'm aware that his voice has
been rising steadily over the last several words, aural evidence of his
deep worry both for Diefenbaker and for me. I search for something to say
to soothe him and come up empty, so I resort to a tactic that has worked
for us since the earliest days of our partnership.

 "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray."

 The familiar mantra stops the flood of speech on the other end of the
line in mid-sentence. In the sudden silence, I hear Ray inhale and exhale
several times, deeply and raggedly. The audible sigh that follows is equal
parts apology and exhaustion.

 "Yeah. Sorry. Sorry. Thanks. Can you...can you come?" 

 "Yes. Constable Jonas can hold down the fort." I look inquiringly at
Inigo Jonas as I jog past the front desk; I don't know what he sees in my
face to make him agree with such unquestioning dispatch, but I'm grateful
for it, whatever it is. "Where are you?"

 "Doc Kayak's." 

 David Kayakjuak is the large-animal veterinarian in our area. Kenn Harper
specializes in smaller animals, including dogs and wolves, but the house
in which he both lives and works is on the other side of town from our
cabin. David's clinic and recovery stables are just down the road from us.
The significance of this is not lost on me, and as I swing into the
driver's seat of my Explorer and fumble the keys into the ignition I am
aware of an increasing shortness of breath, along with a visceral need to
be with Ray for whatever is coming next.

 "I'll be there as soon as I can manage, Ray. Fifteen minutes at most."

 "I love you", he says in response, and the line goes dead.

 My God.

 *****

 I walk into the front room of David Kayakjuak's house fourteen minutes
later. David's usual clientele is more comfortable in a paddock than in a
residential home, so he doesn't have a standard veterinarian's waiting
room; his parlor serves that purpose for the owners of the few small
animals he sees. Like everything else associated with him - indeed, with
every medical professional I've known - it smells like a combination of
anesthetic, industrial cleanser, and the varying sharp odors of sickness
and death. 

 Ray is on a sofa in front of the fireplace, head buried in his hands. I
pull a straight chair over and sit in front of him, close enough that our
knees touch. I don't yet reach for his hands; mine have begun to shake.
The acrid tang of his fear is strong in the air. 

 As soon as I sit, he begins to speak. His voice has leveled out into a
muffled monotone, as disconcerting in its own way as was the earlier
distress.

 "You know Jack Pierrot's pickup truck finally gave out on him, right. And
he bought a monster of an SUV, which it's not like he could actually
afford it, but Jacky's like a big kid and not much with the impulse
control, and he's got a thing for toys with engines" - Ray lifts his head
from his hands and tries to grin at me, then drops it again - "and he
swiped Maria's credit card for the down payment and that's all she wrote."

 I do know this. I know all of this, and I know Ray knows I do. But that's
not why he's telling me, so I stay silent, sitting in front of him,
looking at the top of his beloved head and waiting for my ears to stop
ringing. My hands have stilled, so I reach out and pull his away from his
face and take hold of them. He doesn't look at me again, but his long
fingers tighten around mine.

 "So he and Maria had another fight last night - that's what Steve
MacDonald said when he came by to take the report, anyway - and Jacky
solved it like usual, by driving into town and getting shitfaced at Sal's.
And the fight must've been a bad one, because even with what Jacky can put
away he was so gone at the end of the night that Sal made him sleep it off
in the back, figuring she'd drive him out here this morning. But he woke
up early and found his keys and took off. Only he was still drunk, which
is, I gotta say, not too much of a shock given that I guess he matched Ed
shot for shot and wound up drinking him under the fucking table- "

 I've got to stop him. I want to give him the time he needs to tell me the
story, but I can't manage it: I need to know now. I raise our joined hands
and shake them once, hard, in his line of sight. "Ray. Please. Tell me
what happened."

 He starts. His head comes up, and I can see his eyes lose their glaze and
sharpen on my face. 

 "Yeah. Okay. What happened is that Jacky lost it in a skid at the bottom
of the hill near our place and spun out into a tree. And Dief- Dief was in
the way. Jacky's in the hospital with a couple of broken legs and a
concussion. Dief got sideswiped by the back of the SUV and thrown into the
ditch on our side of the road. Could've been worse - not a direct hit -
but still bad news. His pelvis is broken and he's got a concussion too,
but Doc Kayak's more worried about his insides; he was hemorrhaging bad
when I got him in here, blood coming out of his mouth and- and- " Ray
chokes and his face twists in pain, and I abruptly realize that his
earlier monotone, like the calmness in his voice when he first called me,
represented his effort to shield me from the strength of his fear. Ray
would protect his family from everything bad in the world if he could, an
impulse that extends even to our own intimate lives. We wrestle with this
constantly, and I'm certain the current situation - whatever its outcome -
will force us to do so once again.

 Ray tries to get enough breath to continue his narrative, his chest
heaving with suppressed sobs and his mouth working. But I hush him,
freeing one hand from his white-knuckled grip and laying it along the side
of his face. More details are unnecessary. I've got what I need. 

 "I know, Ray. I know. I know. It's all right. It's not your fault. It's
all right. All we can do now is wait. It's all right, Ray. I love you. It
will be all right."

 At that his face crumples completely and he bows his head over our joined
hands, crying without making a sound. It's more relief than anything else,
I think - relief that I'm here, relief that I don't hold him responsible
(and I don't, not for a minute, but it doesn't surprise me that he feared
I would), relief that someone has finally told him it's going to be all
right. 

 Of course, I am somewhat concerned that it might not actually be all
right. Concerned...is that how I feel? Now that I think about it, the fact
that I'm concerned rather than outright fucking terrified indicates just
how thoroughly I've disassociated myself from the idea that Dief might be-
that Dief might not- that Ray and I might have to- 

 The ringing in my head intensifies, and I find myself abruptly incapable
of rational thought. A blessing of sorts, considering where my thoughts
were leading. I bring my free hand up to stroke Ray's head and back,
absently noting that his hair is even more experimental than usual (he's
undoubtedly been running his fingers through it, a sure sign of emotional
upheaval), passing my hand over the familiar muscles of his neck and
shoulders. He quiets even further under my touch, his sobs coming more
slowly and his deathgrip on my hands loosening a bit, but stays bent
double over our hands, shivering minutely even in the heat from the fire.
I reach for the passive stolidity that allowed me to get through what Ray
called my "toy soldier" stints at the Consulate and allow the repetitive
motion of my stroking to lull us both into an almost hypnotized state. All
we can do now is wait.

 *****

 I have no idea how much time passes before the door of the parlor opens
again and David Kayakjuak pokes his head in. The high-pitched creak of the
hinges jolts both Ray and me from our self-preserving stasis, and we turn
toward David simultaneously. Neither of us tries to stand. I suspect that
neither of us could manage it.

 David's face is ordinarily rather difficult to read - more by nature than
for professional reasons, since large-animal owners don't tend towards
sentiment where their livestock is concerned and therefore require a good
deal less in the way of cautious bedside manner than might an average
veterinarian's clients. This makes it all the more reassuring - and more
shocking - to see that he wears what for him is an enormous smile. I'm
swamped by a rush of incredible relief before he even opens his mouth, and
much of what he says after the first sentence is lost as the ringing in my
ears grows ever louder.

 "Dief's going to be all right ... pelvic fracture turned out to be only a
crack, so a couple of weeks off his feet should ... took the gall bladder,
of course, but we've got good drugs for that kind of thing now ... some of
the blood turned out to be from cuts to his mouth and a couple of teeth
knocked loose, though of course ... -trol's probably out of the question,
but then Dief's not exactly young any m- ... unbelievably lucky, really
... keep him here for a couple of days to make sure we're out of the woods
... -ton? Corporal Fraser? Ray, is he all right?"

 The ringing in my head has intensified to the point of actual pain. I
open my mouth, thinking nonsensically that doing so will equalize the
pressure, as in an airplane cabin, and am as startled as Ray and David by
the deep, seemingly endless groan that emerges from my throat. In that
moment, everything I've put off feeling since I heard Ray's voice on the
other end of the cellular connection aeons ago - from the first flash of
worry at his tone to the stark, terrible fear of losing my lupine
companion of so many years in a DUI accident involving a friend - crashes
in on me at once. The ringing cuts off abruptly, and with it goes my
ability to remain seated upright - to remain upright at all, in fact. I
crumple forward without volition, only dimly aware that my eyes are
streaming tears and my hands - freed of Ray's at some point during David's
recitation - are clenching spasmodically. I am falling, helpless.

 Ray catches me. His strong, wiry arms come around me, holding me close to
his chest, cradling me. He shifts me from my chair to the couch and turns
us, dancer-quick even off his feet, so that I am cradled by his legs as
well. He surrounds me with his warmth, with his scent, with the sound of
his rapid heartbeat and his deliberate breathing. "He's fine", I hear him
say to David above my head. I would answer David myself, but I'm shaking
too hard to form words - and Ray's right, I'm fine. Or I will be, which
amounts to the same thing in the end. 

 Many people believe that just before one dies, one sees a panoply of
images from one's life flash by - what Ray might call one's "greatest
hits". I've never been convinced of the truth of this, despite my father's
obdurate silence on the subject. Still, I'm not entirely surprised to find
that as I simultaneously rejoice in Diefenbaker's survival and acknowledge
- for the first time - my dread of his inevitable death, my mind's eye
presents me with snapshot after mental snapshot of him over our life
together. As a panting puppy, as a young dog, as his current self;
bounding ahead of me over the snow, scenting around the ruins of my first
Chicago apartment, dipping a paw into the fishing hole Ray and I carved
through the ice; running alongside the sled team on our third Iditarod,
sitting with Ante as I play cards for air, sleeping in front of the fire
in the cabin. It is a gift of sorts - a reminder of what we've shared, of
how much we have experienced, and of the fact that Diefenbaker's death
would not - and will not, when it does in fact arrive - change anything
about his place in my life.

 "Fraser?"

 For a brief, timeless moment I see double, Diefenbaker young and running
superimposed over the Native weavings on David's parlor walls. Then the
image of Diefenbaker vanishes and I am back in my own skin, lying in Ray's
arms on David's couch, overjoyed and exhausted and feeling embarrassingly
weak. I'm relieved to find that I'm no longer shaking. Behind me, Ray
stirs, and I feel him draw breath to speak. 

 "Whew. Man. That was way too fucking close. I don't know about you,
Fraser, but I'm thinking maybe once we spring the wolf out of here we lock
him in the back room for the next couple of years and never let him out of
our sight. Totally treat him like our teenaged daughter, ground him for
life, whatever it takes ..."

 He doesn't require a response to this, I know. It's the first step in his
way of coming down from an adrenaline high, of reacting to the successful
escape of danger. The second step? I want it, too - I want it suddenly and
with a ferocious hunger, and for a moment I have to tense my muscles to
physically restrain myself from turning in his arms and simply taking him
now. I'm fairly certain he wouldn't resist me, despite the fact that
noises elsewhere in the house make David's continued presence clear - and
remind me that it's David's house we're in, not our own. Somehow, telling
myself once again about the documented connection between brushes with
death and autonomic nervous responses does nothing to calm the fever
that's rising in me.

 In the end, it's only my bone-deep need to see Diefenbaker - to ascertain
for myself that he's survived, that he's still here - that stops me from
molesting my partner in public. "Diefenbaker", I say to Ray from where I
lie basking in the comfort of his body. "Yeah", he replies, chuckling deep
in his throat, and I know he's thinking along the same lines, as is so
often the case. Diefenbaker, and then home, and love, and the
reaffirmation of life.

 Yes.  
  

End It's a Dog's Life by Queue 

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