Across the Great Divide

The pinks and purples of dawn were already fading from the sky when Fraser slipped silently from his sleeping bag and out of the tent, into the chill morning air. Ray wouldn't get up for at least another half-hour, as he preferred to stay snuggled deep in his down cocoon until sunlight struck the camp. And that was fine with Fraser; as much as he enjoyed Ray's company - they wouldn't be here together otherwise - he also cherished the stillness, the quiet time he had to himself to relish the stark beauty of the land he'd missed so badly over the past years. Time to feed the dogs, and start the camp stove, and watch the first rays of sun illuminate the snowy peaks around them.

He strapped on his snowshoes, then walked up to the top of the rise they'd tucked the tent behind for shelter from the wind, the crust of snow crackling and crunching underfoot. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean, cold air. How different from Chicago it was - and how lucky he was that he was able to share this with Ray. It was like experiencing it again for the first time, viewing his beloved north country through Ray's eyes, and he took great pleasure in seeing Ray's delight in their journey of adventure and discovery.

This morning, he knew, they'd have to get moving early. Their intended route led under an obvious avalanche path just out of camp, a narrow and steep gully that would become more and more unstable as the snow that covered it warmed in the sun. That was one of the reasons he'd chosen this spot to make camp; it would have been folly to cross it when they'd arrived late in the afternoon the day before, but the cold temperatures of the night would have re-frozen and stabilized the layers of snow.

He looked out at the route they planned to take. The avalanche chute was clearly visible from the top of the rise, gleaming in the new-risen sun, soft and sparkling and dangerous. Lifting his binoculars to his eyes, he scanned the trail where it passed just below the gully. "It ought to be safe for the next few hours," he murmured to himself.

"It isn't," said a voice next to him, and he nearly dropped his binoculars in surprise as he turned toward the figure that stood there. It wasn't Ray, of course. He would have heard him wake and unzip the tent, had it been Ray, and although Fraser could see no more than blue eyes between the figure's turned-up parka collar and fur-lined hat, he could tell it wasn't Ray.

The man wore the same sort of clothes Fraser himself wore, so perhaps he was a fellow RCMP officer. There was something familiar in those eyes, in the man's bulk and the set of his shoulders. Fraser's first thought was of his father, who had turned up so frequently in unexpected places over the past several years that Fraser had ceased to be startled by his appearances. But his father's ghost had been put to rest, or so he'd thought, with the capture of Muldoon.

Then the man pushed his collar down, and Fraser stared. He might have been looking in a mirror; it was himself.

"You're me," he said, bemused. He reached out his hand, to test whether his doppelganger was really there or just some strange apparition, but the other man smoothly evaded his touch. "I mean, you look - you're not - are you me?"

"Not yet," said the other Fraser. His mouth was set in a grim line. "Not ever, if I can help it. If we can."

"I don't understand."

"You're probably skeptical - you are skeptical. I was, so you are." The other Fraser ran a thumb over his eyebrow and nodded, apparently to himself. "Right. The point is that Ray is going to get up and offer to feed the dogs, and you mustn't let him."

Fraser glanced toward the tent, which showed no signs of any movement. In the two weeks since they'd begun their trek north, Fraser had always finished the morning chores before Ray had awakened, every single morning. It was part of their division of labor: Fraser fed the dogs and Ray made their own breakfast, Fraser started the snow melting on the stove and Ray cleaned the dishes. Ray rolled up the sleeping bags and took down the tent, while Fraser put the dogs into harness and loaded up the sled. It suited both of them, working together on their individual tasks. There was no reason to believe that this morning would be any different.

"Ray doesn't generally feed the dogs," he began, but his double cut him off.

"This morning, he will. And then Pierre and Jean-Paul will get into an argument, and Diefenbaker will chastise them, and Pierre will run off with Jean-Paul in hot pursuit and Dief running after both of them. And Ray will follow." The other Fraser extended a gloved hand toward the packed trail that led northward, up onto the flank of the slope above them and across the avalanche chute. "And that will set off the slide."

"My God," whispered Fraser. The absurdity of receiving a warning from himself - his future self? - was put aside for the moment, because he could see it in his mind's eye: The dogs, racing through the snow. Ray, feeling responsible, running after them with long strides, yelling at them. He'd be caught up in the moment, would forget about the danger that Fraser had pointed out the previous afternoon, would rocket after them, would loose the deadly snowslide. "My God," he repeated. "You're telling me that if I don't stop him, Ray will be killed in an avalanche?"

"No," said the other Fraser. "You will."

Ray always woke when Fraser got up, no matter how soundlessly Fraser moved, how careful he was to avoid bumping into Ray as he slid on his outer clothes and exited the tent. When they'd started out on their quest - actually, it was before that, when they were still on Muldoon's trail - Ray had opened his eyes when Fraser had risen, and each successive morning Fraser was obviously and painfully trying to keep even quieter, until finally Ray had decided to spare him and pretended to be asleep. Probably it didn't fool him. But it was no big deal, since nearly always Ray fell asleep again in a matter of minutes.

But this morning as he lay in his sleeping bag he thought he heard Fraser talking to someone, which was ridiculous. Ridiculous because there was nobody around within a hundred zillion miles, and ridiculous because the only voice he heard was Fraser's. Maybe he'd gone crazy and started talking to himself. Except that idea was even dumber, because all the crazy seemed to have gone out of Fraser when they'd come north. Or maybe it was just that what was crazy in Chicago was normal here: eating pemmican and sniffing at the wind and all that, it made sense when there was nothing around but snow.

Whatever it was, it kept Ray awake. Even after Fraser went silent he couldn't seem to get back to sleep; might as well get out there and give Fraser a hand, Ray decided, so he pulled on his parka and snow pants, shoved his feet into his boots, and emerged into the white world. The sun was up, but the camp was still in the shadow of the mountains, and it felt like the inside of a freezer, cold and crisp.

Fraser looked up from his task - dumping a load of snow into the pot on the camp stove - and gave Ray an odd look. Probably amazed he was up this early, thought Ray, and he grinned. "Couldn't sleep in, so I figured I'd make myself useful." He looked around for a job he could do. "You haven't fed the dogs yet?"

"I was about to -"

"No, I'll do it," said Ray, pleased that he'd thought of a way to help. Fraser did too much of the work out here, and it was past time that Ray began pulling his weight. He grabbed his snowshoes from where they sat next to the tent flap, and started to put them on.

"No!" Fraser got to his feet in a swift and uncharacteristically graceless motion; the bowl he'd been using to scoop snow clattered unceremoniously to the ground. Ray shot him an annoyed glance. "It's just - I don't mind doing it, I'm used to it, and the dogs are used to me."

"So it's about time they get used to me, then," said Ray as he finished locking the second binding. There, all set. He strode out toward the camp stove, which radiated a pleasant heat through the chill air. "You mix about half of the dry stuff with the meat stuff, right?" Reaching out, he grabbed the pot of water from the stove, not even feeling the warmth through his thick glove. "Is this enough water for them?"

"Yes, Ray, but it's really my chore, you shouldn't -"

"It's only your chore because you do it all the time." And hell, feeding dogs, he could do that. He'd done it a few times together with Fraser, and it was straightforward, nothing complicated at all. It wasn't like packing the sled, which Ray had tried once; the resulting luggage pile was only a little lopsided, and his knots were lumpy but solid. But Fraser had taken one look, shaken his head, and then taken it apart and repacked everything - in half as much time as it had taken Ray to pack it all it in the first place.

"I don't mind doing it," said Fraser.

"Neither do I," Ray replied cheerily. Looping the pot handle over his arm, he reached for his poles.

"But it's not your -"

"Quit it, Fraser." His voice came out more sharply than he'd intended, but he plowed on. "You're always like this."

"Like what?"

He gestured with a pole. "Like this. You want to do everything, and okay, you can do everything, you've been doing it since you were three, but we're out here on this adventure thing together, and I need to learn to do it, too. I got to know how. I mean, what if something happened to you?"

Fraser's eyes widened, and his tongue stole out to lick his bottom lip - a sure sign that wheels were turning in his mind. "That's a very good point," he said slowly.

"I'm happy you see that." Ray turned to go out to the line where the dogs were tied - again, something else that Fraser always took charge of setting up. But Fraser put out a hand.

"Wait, I'll - let me help."

"You just said -"

"I'm just going to help, Ray, that's all." He strode over to the canvas bag which contained the dog food and pulled two sacks from it. "It will be easier with both of us, and the sooner the dogs are fed, the sooner we'll be on our way. All right?"

Ray frowned. He felt a bit like Fraser had maneuvered him into a corner, which seemed to happen more often than not. Fraser made up his mind, and all you could do was hang on. But he was right; it would be quicker with the two of them working together. Finally he nodded. "Okay. Let's get those puppies fed."

There was something about working alongside Ray that always felt good, that felt right, like pieces slotted into place to make a perfect machine. He'd noticed it in Chicago when they'd worked on cases together - he'd nod, and Ray would throw him his gun, or Ray would tilt his head a certain way and he would know to run around the building to intercept their quarry.

Now they were working in tandem to feed the sled dogs, and Fraser wondered why they hadn't done it like this before. Well, yes, Ray enjoyed sleeping late, and he enjoyed his morning solitude, but together they were remarkably efficient. At this rate they'd get camp packed up and be on their way nice and early, before the snow-filled gully became too unstable.

He glanced up at the gully as he added dry kibble to the fresh meat Ray had already put in the dish, then set it in front of Dawson. He still wasn't quite sure what to make of the…apparition. Whatever it had been. It had been an odd experience, seeing himself, hearing his own voice tell him that they were in danger, and it had unsettled him greatly, even though intellectually he was sure it could only have been his own subconscious playing tricks on him. He couldn't have been in two places at once, after all. Perhaps it was the stress of the constant challenge to outwit the terrible impartial forces of nature that had brought his fears to the fore in this way.

He had accepted what his double had said in the way that one accepts things in dreams. Even as he listened, nodding and agreeing and evaluating, he had always been aware of the absurdity of the situation, always aware that it must have been a vision. But Quinn had taught him long ago that true visions came from the heart, and that despite their apparent absurdities, they held many truths that could not be seen clearly with the thinking mind.

Certainly the possibility of an avalanche had kept him from sleeping well the previous night. He had fixated on it, on the idea of a disaster, on the fear of losing Ray, and perhaps that had sparked the morning's vision. And when Ray emerged from the tent, a full half-hour earlier than usual - well, it had seemed as though his "future" self's predictions were coming true.

Which was ridiculous, of course. Time travel was illogical, an impossibility. But still, he had not let Ray go off alone to tend to the dogs; and it was gratifying to be working together again, their old duet.

An angry bark caught his attention, and he looked up. Pierre was snarling at Ray, and Ray was -

"Don't release him, Ray!"

"He's all tangled up," Ray called back. "I'm just - whoa, easy, don't - fuck!"

Pierre was loose and growling at Jean-Paul, knocking away his dish, and Ray was trying to intervene, and Fraser looked on helplessly because damn it, he was too far away, at the other end of the line of dogs, and by the time he'd dropped the sack of food Dief was already trying to placate them both, but Ray didn't understand. There were three dogs tied to that section of line, Jean-Paul and Pierre and Laurent, and as they squabbled with each other the line twisted and pulled at its anchors.

Ray wasn't as in tune with the dogs as Fraser was, he didn't understand, and he released the anchor and reached down to wrap Pierre's line around his wrist. "No!" yelled Fraser, but it was too late; Pierre took off and the other two dogs followed, all of them wrapped together as though in harness by the web of lines, and Ray was entangled in it as well, giving a startled yelp as he got dragged along behind, snow spraying into the air as he flailed and tried to work free.

For a moment Fraser watched in horror. Then he sprang into action, telling Dief to help Ray, not that Dief needed the encouragement as he leapt after them. Of course Fraser took off immediately after them as well, but running in snowshoes was awkward, and the dogs were faster, as they headed northwest, along the trail, across the avalanche path.

He hesitated for a bare second, thinking of what his double had said. His subconscious, his vision, his hallucination; his self from the future, who had got the details frighteningly right, Jean-Paul and Pierre and Dief and Ray, Ray, Ray who was calling for him, screaming for him, and none of it mattered, he had to go after him, the thin crust of ice on the surface of the snow crunching under his feet as he ran after them, heedless of the danger.

It was too early in the day for the slope to go, he told himself as he raced across the gully, following Ray's voice. Ray's voice, the crunch of snow, the whistling of the wind, his own labored breathing ringing in his ears; then all the noises were overtaken by the rumble as the snow giant woke from his slumber, taking enormous earth-shaking strides down the side of the mountain, great steps that thundered in Fraser's ears, bearing down on him, louder and louder.

And then there was only silence.

Ray's face felt hot and cold at the same time, burning and freezing, wet and raw, and as he blinked his way into consciousness he became aware that the strange raw rasping on his right cheek was Dief, licking at him and barking in his ear.

"Hey!" he tried to say, but it came out thin and reedy. Not enough air in his lungs. Instinctively he ducked away from that hot and sandpapery dog tongue, tried to put up his hands to push Dief away, but it was like moving through quicksand - through snow, he realized, his arms were under the snow which lay chest-deep all around him. His right shoulder hurt like crazy every time he tried to move it, so he concentrated on his left arm, wiggling and lifting until his hand broke the surface. Dief had already backed off and was running back and forth, barking, moving downhill across the jumbled surface of the snow to a spot about thirty yards away, digging at it until the snow flew, then racing back to where Ray was slowly pulling himself out of the snow.

"Fraser!" he yelled, but there was no answer other than a bark from Dief. Fuck. He'd have to dig himself out on his own. Maybe Fraser was still back at the camp with the other dogs. Yeah, who was he fooling. No way Fraser would have hesitated a moment, not with Ray being dragged across the snow like that. Fraser would have come after him, Fraser would have been caught like he'd been caught, was probably under the snow right now, where Dief was frantically digging, and he had to get up, get him out, good God, Fraser…. Ray tried to heave himself out of the snow but nothing happened, he went nowhere, and as he slumped back down he felt the first icy tendrils of fear creep into his heart. Fraser, God, Fraser… no, stop thinking about that, he told himself. First things first.

His right arm was still trapped. At least, he thought it was; although his shoulder felt as though it was on fire, he couldn't really feel anything below his elbow. He ran his left hand down his arm until he encountered the tight tangle of Pierre's lead line, squeezing against his forearm - shit, no wonder he couldn't feel it. He needed to cut himself free, but his knife was back at the camp.

Okay, think. Knife. Something sharp. He scrabbled at the snow above his arm until it was visible, the leather cord disappearing down into the snow. "Hey, Dief, give me a hand. I mean, some teeth."

Dief ran back to the spot he'd been circling and barked again, urgently. He dug at the snow, looked up at Ray, barked again. "Yeah, I get it," said Ray. "But you got to get me free first, or I can't help get him out of there." His voice cracked and wavered. God, please let Fraser be okay.

After one last dig and snuffle at the distant spot, Dief raced back to Ray. "All right, Dief, come on. Pretend it's a donut." Dief gave him a look that said he knew it very well was not a donut, that he knew exactly what was at stake here and he would appreciate Ray taking it seriously, then bent to gnaw at the leather line. Sharp teeth scraped and tore at Ray's jacket sleeve, but beneath it his arm was past all feeling, and as soon as the cord had parted he pulled at it with his left hand, freeing his arm from the tangled web that had held him down. Somewhere under him were the bodies of the three dogs that had pulled him across the snow, and wasn't that a horrifying thought, Jean-Paul, normally so sweet-tempered, and Laurent, who was always so eager to pull the sled, and - no, no, he didn't have time for this, he had to rescue Fraser.

Flexing his right wrist, he immediately felt the blood begin to flow into his arm, a sharp bright tingle of pain that he instinctively knew was good pain, the pain of numbed tissues coming back to life. "Okay, buddy," he told Dief. "Let's get Fraser out." But it was hard enough to get himself out; his right shoulder wouldn't support his own weight - dislocated, he'd bet - and he ended up wriggling out of the snow like a worm, then awkwardly supporting himself on Dief with his left hand to stand upright. The snowshoe had been torn off his left foot - he had no idea where it had gone - and he struggled to make progress through the snow to the spot where Dief had been digging.

The hole was several feet deep, which was testimony to Dief's amazing digging skills; the snow was thick and had been compacted by the slide into something solid and lumpy, more ice than snow. He needed the shovel, but that was back at the camp.

Dief whined and nudged at his right foot. His remaining snowshoe. Right. Taking it off required some effort, as his right hand was still only gradually regaining feeling, and he couldn't support his weight with his right arm. Gritting his teeth, he got it unbuckled with his left hand, then he lay on the edge of the area Dief had excavated and started scooping out snow as fast as he could.

"Come on, Frase, come on," he muttered, barely aware he was even talking. His teeth were chattering, the cold sinking down into his bones from where the snow had forced its way under his clothes, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered, not the snow melting against his skin, not the burn of pain in his shoulder, none of it. Fraser was the only thing that mattered, somewhere under this snow, and he dug frantically, Dief helping on the other side, until his improvised shovel struck something hard and he dropped it to scrape away the snow with his hands.

Hands. It was a hand there, reaching out, but it wasn't the hand of Franklin, it was the hand of Fraser, damn it. Reaching out, reaching up for the surface that had been so far above, too far above.

Taking a deep breath, Ray plunged both hands into the snow. He was close now, and he didn't want to hurt Fraser by inadvertently hitting him with the edge of his snowshoe, so he scooped the snow in double handfuls, flinging it away, Dief barking a constant stream of encouragement into his ear.

Rolling down into the hole, he followed the hand to the arm, the arm to the shoulder, then, oh, God, Fraser's head, and he hesitated. From the angle of his neck Ray could tell that all his urgency hadn't mattered; and maybe Dief had known all along, because Ray couldn't imagine him leaving Fraser for a second if there had been a chance, any chance at all. Even so, he couldn't resist pulling off a glove, feeling for the pulse he knew would not be there. God. Fraser.

Gently he brushed the snow away from Fraser's cold, cold face. His eyes were closed, long lashes catching the snowflakes that fell from Ray's fingers, and that was a mercy, because then Ray could pretend that Fraser was only sleeping, that in a moment those eyes would open and Fraser would tell him sharply to get up, to get moving, to get warm, to get…

God oh God oh God.

Dief pushed against his leg, settled against his body, a warm weight. Then Dief lifted his head and howled, and Ray howled with him.

White.

Cold.

Pain.

And then abruptly there was no pain, although it was still white and cold, and Fraser pushed his hands through the snow that covered him, emerging under the bright blue sky.

He squinted up at the sun, which was higher than it ought to have been, then scanned the landscape. No sign of Ray, or the dogs, or the camp. No sign of the slope that had stretched above the trail; instead he was on a ridge that looked vaguely familiar.

"I told you being dead wasn't all it's cracked up to be," said an irritable voice behind him, and this time he knew it was his father. Now he recognized where he was: it was the Neverland, the same place he'd ended up when he'd taken the tetrodotoxin extract from the Bouga toad during the Van Zandt case. An existential de-militarized zone, his father had called it.

So the vision had been a true portent of the future. The realization was like a hard, heavy stone in his chest, sinking through him, leaving him gutted and hollow. He was dead, and Ray was alone.

He was dead.

Sighing, he looked out over the white landscape. "Hello, Dad."

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, son." Fraser turned, and his father nodded crisply. "That's better. And what in the world did you think you were doing down there?"

Fraser felt his face getting red. It didn't matter that he was nearly forty; when his father's voice held that disapproving tone, he always felt like a ten-year-old, caught misbehaving. He cleared his throat. "Ray was in trouble."

"Damn right he was in trouble. And now he's in more trouble without you to take care of him. Honestly, would it kill you to think for a minute? Er, metaphorically speaking, of course."

"Of course."

"At least you appreciate the gravity of the situation." He shook his head. "But I'm surprised at you, Benton. Crossing an avalanche slope like that, after everything I taught you about safety in the snow."

"You never taught me anything about safety in the snow, Dad. You were never around."

"Are you going to start with that again? Oh, well. But I'm making up for it now, aren't I?"

"Whether I want you to or not," muttered Fraser.

"Don't get fresh with me. Now, you might remember - if you were paying attention, which I doubt - that you're here because you have questions."

"I thought I was here because I was dead."

"That, too. But now you have to decide just how dead you plan on being." He waved a hand off to the side, toward - Fraser blinked in surprise - a door. A door in the middle of the snowy Neverland, with light streaming from the gap beneath it.

"I have a choice?"

"You always have a choice, son. But more than that, you have obligations to fulfill. You left your partner in the lurch. The Yank won't survive without your help."

He was right, thought Fraser despairingly. They'd been partners, a team, a duet, and they had depended on each other in so many ways. He should have been more insistent on teaching Ray survival skills; Ray had learned a lot, adapted well, but all of the abilities he'd developed were in the context of their partnership, and he'd have a tough time in the Arctic on his own.

And God, but Fraser missed him already. Softly he said, "I've failed him."

"Yes, you have. Well." His father coughed. "That is, if you don't go back."

A spark of hope ignited in Fraser's chest. "Go - I can go back? Do you mean to say that I'm not really dead?"

"Oh, you're dead, all right. As a doornail," said his father, looking grimly satisfied. "But you can go back for him, the same way I went back for you. If you want to."

"If I - of course I want to!"

"Are you sure?" An eyebrow lifted. "It's not an easy road, you know. You're welcome to join me and your mother. He'll be here soon enough. Probably he'll be here soon whether you help him or not. Frankly, I'm amazed the two of you didn't end up here years ago."

Privately, Fraser agreed - not that he was going to give his father the satisfaction of hearing him say that. Jumping from buildings, diving into lakes, being shot at by what sometimes seemed like every criminal in Chicago; they'd endangered each other's lives in wildly bizarre ways, he and Ray, and sometimes it had surprised him that they had survived it all to end up here in the Northwest Territories on the trail of Franklin.

Well, survived it all up to now, anyway.

"All right," said Fraser. The stone in his gut was beginning to dissolve, and in its place he felt an odd lightness, a yearning to get going, to get started, to make this happen. It was a second chance, and he'd be a fool not to take it, both for Ray's sake and for his own. "How do I do it?"

"Go back to him?" Fraser nodded. "You didn't listen to me, did you. It's all in here," his father said, thumping his own chest lightly with his fist. Then he reached out and tapped Fraser's chest. "In your heart. When you're dead, space and time have no meaning. Just go to him. No matter which direction you go, your destination is the same. Your heart knows the way."

Ray had no idea how he managed to make it back to the camp. Without snowshoes, he sank deep into the snow with every step. He staggered and fell, got up, fell again. Had it not been for Dief urging him on, snuffling at his legs and tugging at his sleeve, perhaps he would have chosen to just lie there, let the cold claim him. Certainly he would not have found the camp without the wolf's help; his eyes were filmed with tears of pain and grief, and he saw nothing in front of him but a haze of white.

It hurt, it hurt so much, in his shoulder and in his soul, and when he stumbled into the tent he simply lay there for a few minutes, not bothering to remove his boots and zip the tent back up until Dief nipped sharply at his legs and barked. "Okay, okay," he muttered, laboriously working the buckles with his left hand. Finally they were off, and he crawled the rest of the way in. Dief followed, and he didn't have the heart to shoo him out. Fumbling for some ibuprofen, he found the tablets and swallowed them dry, then closed the tent flap.

Dief tugged at his clothing, reminding him that he needed to take off the wet layers - can't get warm until you're dry, right, pull off the parka, slide down the overpants, layers slowly coming off until he was down to damp skin, shaking, shaking - then he toweled off as best as he could with his spare long underwear and slid into his sleeping bag, Dief curled up by his side.

Time passed. Ray wasn't sure how long he lay there in the sun-warmed tent, snuggled against Dief's heat, but after a while he stopped shaking, stopped feeling bone-cold and raw. He opened his eyes to see Dief regarding him, looking as though he was waiting for something. "Time to get up?" he said, and Dief barked once as though in agreement. "Yeah, okay. Got to get up, okay."

He dressed himself carefully, wincing every time his movements placed stress on his right arm. First order of business was to get his shoulder put back together. That was something he knew how to do, at least, although the First Responder course he'd been required to take as part of his police training had been some time ago. What he needed was to brace himself against something so Fraser could pull on his…oh, fuck, he thought, burying his face in Dief's fur. Fraser.

Dief let him sob into his neck for a moment, then pulled away to stand expectantly by the tent door. "All right," said Ray, wiping at his face with his left hand. "It's going to have to be you, I guess. Let's get this over with."

Once Ray got things set up, it didn't take long. He laid out a tarp on the tamped-down area in front of the tent, looped his long underwear pants around his upper arm, lay down on the tarp and pushed the ends of the pants toward Dief. "Gently, okay? None of this running across the tundra crap." He felt a little silly talking to Dief, expecting him to understand, but hell, Fraser had done it all the time, and maybe Dief did understand him because he grasped the ends firmly with his teeth and pulled with just the right amount of tension. Ray dug his heels into the snow, to set himself in place, and gritted his teeth against the pain as Dief pulled. He felt a snap and a moment of intense agony, forcing an involuntary scream from his throat as the bone slid into place; then he collapsed with relief and just breathed heavily for a moment, and Dief trotted back and nuzzled his arm as though to apologize for the pain.

It still hurt, and Ray knew he wasn't supposed to use it for a while, but that just wasn't going to happen. Too much to do. The remaining dogs had started barking as soon as he went back outside, and although they'd quieted down when Dief had run over there and barked right back at them, Ray knew he needed to finish feeding them. Fortunately the path between the tent and the dogs was tamped down enough that he could negotiate it without too much difficulty. But even if it wasn't physically painful, just the act of doing alone what he'd been doing with Fraser only hours earlier was emotionally agonizing, and when the dogs had been fed he sat for a while on the ridge above the tent, just staring into the distance.

What was he going to do, he wondered. He ought to retrieve Fraser's body, at least, bring it back to somewhere it could be buried, given a proper ceremony, a proper stone. It was cold enough, it should do okay. The maps and the compass were in Fraser's pack; he could probably figure things out enough to get himself oriented, pointed back south toward civilization. Not that he really wanted to go back to civilization, at this point. But it seemed pointless to continue.

The quest for the Hand of Franklin, that was just an excuse, really. Seeing Fraser in his element, happy, sniffing snow and hunting caribou, that had been something. The look on Fraser's face, like he was filled to bursting with joy from just being there - from just being there with Ray, pointing stuff out, showing him the glory of the north. Fraser had been so happy, and even though Ray was not exactly fond of the cold and the sleeping on the ground and the eating pemmican, Fraser had been happy, and that had made Ray happy as well. That was the worst thing about it, that Fraser had finally been free, finally been out in the Northwest Territories he loved, and then it had all gone to shit.

The kicker, of course, was that it was Ray's own damn fault. If he hadn't insisted on helping with the dogs. If he hadn't tried to untangle the lines. If he hadn't - oh, hell, no use thinking about it. Make a plan, that was what he needed to do.

He looked across the snow toward the slide path. Didn't look like much now, just a jumbled-up hill of lumpy mashed potatoes. He ought to tromp out there and start digging, get Fraser out of there, but just thinking about it brought an icy hand squeezing at his chest, squeezing the tears out of his eyes to be whipped away by the cold wind. It was going to be the hardest fucking thing he'd ever done. He couldn't tackle it, not yet.

So instead he went back to the tent and sorted through Fraser's stuff, and yeah, that was nearly as hard. But he found the maps and the compass and the logbook in which Fraser, Mr. Anal-Retentive, had insisted on recording each day's progress and position and weather information, and thank God for that, Ray thought fervently, even though he'd laughed when he'd first seen Fraser taking those careful notes.

"Documentation for the ages," Fraser had told him. "You have to understand, if we succeed in our quest and we want to be taken seriously, we need to have a clear record of our own Northwest Passage, as it were."

Looking at the logbook, Ray wondered whether that had truly been what Fraser had been thinking about. Maybe he'd been thinking of a calamity like this one, except maybe he'd been thinking they'd both get killed - hell, that would have been more likely. Either something crazy would have happened and they'd both fall off a cliff or have a helicopter fall on them, something like that, or Ray would have done something dumb, like get a polar bear pissed off at him, and Fraser would have done everything he could, forgotten about his own safety to rescue him. Because that was the way Fraser was, that was buddies, that was partners. And either Fraser would have saved him, or they'd both be polar bear chow, and maybe he was thinking that some future nutjobs out here would be mushing through the snow and they'd find their camp, and find the logbook, and figure out that once there were these two guys out here, a Mountie and a Chicago cop, looking for the Hand of Franklin.

Fraser would have done everything he could. Fraser would have saved him if he could have, and maybe he did, maybe Ray was alive only because of some sort of weirdo mystical shit that Fraser did, a sacrifice to the avalanche gods. But whatever had happened, Ray was alive, and Fraser was…under the snow. Ray owed it to him to get him out, bring him back.

He dug out the extra snowshoes from their gear - another thing Fraser had insisted on. He'd rolled his eyes and commented that one pair was bad enough, he hated the damn things, but Fraser had been right, as usual. Grabbing a coil of rope, he strapped the shovel on his back, muttered, "Weight forward, heels up," and marched back to the avalanche path.

He had tears in his eyes as he scrabbled at the compacted snow that had shattered Fraser's body as it had tumbled him down the gully. "I'm so sorry, Frase," he whispered brokenly as he worked, hardly aware he was speaking. As the hole deepened he put aside the shovel and began scooping away the snow with his hands, pulling away the ice that had formed from the moisture around Fraser's clothing, chanting, "So sorry, didn't mean it to happen, didn't mean to leave you out here, you know?"

"I know, Ray," said a voice from somewhere behind him, and holy fuck, what the hell was that? Gasping, his heart racing, he turned around, because that was Fraser, that was Fraser's voice, but nobody was there. Nobody was there, and when he turned back to his task, Fraser's body was still cold and lifeless before him.

"I'm going crazy," he whispered to the air; but nobody responded.

It was like a door closing in his face - it was a door closing in his face, he felt the rush of air as it slammed and he was knocked backwards by the force of it. Dizzy. Fraser looked around; he was no longer standing on the snow. Instead he was - and he marveled at the absurdity of it - in his office at the Consulate.

Although it wasn't really his office, not quite. He was looking at his closet door, the door which had once led to his father's not-quite office, and he suspected that was the one that had slammed in his face. When his father had disappeared and left him alone there in the Neverland, he'd focused his thoughts inward, toward his heart, toward Ray and the affection and care he felt toward him, and found himself looking on as Ray dug fiercely at the snow, muttering to himself.

When he heard Ray's self-recrimination he had to say something, and of course it shouldn't have been surprising that Ray had reacted with such shock. But then he saw what Ray was doing - saw his own body - and that was the surprise. Oh, he'd known he was dead, intellectually, but this was that gut-level confirmation, seeing Ray, seeing himself, and it hit him like a punch in the jaw, sent him reeling backwards into…into his office, apparently.

He opened the closet door a crack, and there was Ray, packing the sled. Fraser felt a wave of affection sweep over him as he looked on; Ray was so intent, his energy so focused, and it was a pleasure just to watch him. Then Ray piled the tent on top of the cooking gear (wrong, because you needed to start your load with the largest items) and strapped the sack containing the dog food on the side (wrong, because the weight needed to be equally distributed on both sides of the sled). The knots weren't bad, although he would have used a double diamond rather than a bowline, but of course it was unlikely that Ray knew the double diamond. Perhaps he should step out and say something, he thought.

Then he saw Ray step away and stoop to the ground, and…oh, dear. There was his body again, and once more he felt that shrinking back, that unpleasant reminder that the flesh he seemed to inhabit was not truly flesh, as the door closed of its own accord in front of him. He felt faintly ill; apparently the lack of an actual stomach didn't keep him from becoming nauseated at the sight of his own corpse. Although when he thought about it, it wasn't so much a physical reaction as an emotional one. He'd have to work on controlling his reaction if he were to help Ray on his journey.

And he wanted to help Ray, wanted to see him again. Just the knowledge that he could open the door and be with him again filled Fraser with warmth. The alternative was unthinkable. He put his hand on the doorknob again and took a deep breath, preparing himself against the nausea, then paused.

Perhaps he should first investigate the place he had found himself in. Ray would be all right on his own for a few more moments, at least. He might not have packed the sled correctly, but none of the mistakes he'd made were likely to be fatal; somehow Fraser felt he'd know it if they were, if Ray were on the brink of something horrible. He'd feel it in his heart - that was where everything was, according to his father, who although frequently wrong about just about everything, admittedly had a lot more experience at being dead.

His father had inhabited - if that word could possibly be used in a situation like this - an office like the one he'd had while a sergeant in the RCMP. Of course he'd been a lot like Fraser himself, living his job, identifying first as a Mountie, then as a man. So it wasn't surprising, thought Fraser, that his not-quite-heavenly abode was his own office, where he'd both lived and worked, spent the most exasperating and rewarding years of his life.

He looked around the room. It seemed to be in order, more or less, although when he lifted the phone curiously all he heard was a busy signal. Light streamed from under the door to the hallway, and instinctively he knew it was the same door that he'd seen in the Neverland, the door to…whatever really awaited him, after death. After he'd seen Ray through to safety, fulfilled his obligation, as his father so unromantically put it.

Obligation. As if looking after Ray was an obligation; as if he'd do anything less for his partner, for his friend. It wasn't an obligation, it was going to be a pleasure. Just thinking about it made him yearn to step outside and see Ray again.

When he strode back to the closet door and opened it, Ray was…just finishing putting up the tent? That seemed peculiar, to be making camp only minutes after packing it up. But the sun was low in the sky, and this wasn't the campsite near the avalanche path; in fact, they were in a clearing in the sparse forest they'd traveled through the day before, a day that seemed terribly long ago, now. And this meant two things: that time passed differently in "here" than it did out "there," and that Ray had turned back.

Fraser felt oddly disappointed that Ray wasn't carrying on the quest. Granted, he himself couldn't be there, but Ray was the one who'd proposed the idea in the first place, and it was a shame he felt he had to give it up just because Fraser was no longer accompanying him. Maybe he felt that his Arctic skills weren't up to the challenge; understandable, considering that at the moment it looked as though he was finding simply setting up the camp stove a bit of a challenge: he was bent low over it, fumbling with the gas connection and muttering curses. Well, Fraser could help with that. After all, in some sense, that was what he was here for.

Great, thought Ray bitterly as the gas hose connector fell off the end of the camp stove a third time. Stupid piece of junk stove, should have known Frobisher would have given them the one that didn't work. Fraser and his Mountie magic had probably been the only thing keeping it going. His gloved fingers slid off the knurled knob as he tried again to tighten it. "Stupid piece of junk," he repeated aloud.

"I believe you'll find that the propane valve is reverse-threaded, actually," Fraser said.

"Yeah, right, I knew that," said Ray. At least his wool hat was pulled down enough and his collar high enough that Fraser wouldn't see him turn red, because yeah, he did know that, it was stupid of him to have forgotten. Trust Fraser to…holy fuck, thought Ray as his stomach suddenly did a double backflip, right off the high-dive board. Fraser. Holy…

He gulped. Without moving his head, he slid his eyes to the side. Yeah, there was something there, something dark and bulky against the white of the snow. Slowly he turned his head. "Fraser," he breathed.

God, he looked good standing there in his parka and hat, looking somehow shy and determined at the same time. "Hello, Ray."

He looked good, but there was something weird about him, and as he spoke, Ray figured out what it was. His breath. Or rather, his lack of breath; Ray's breath puffed out white in front of his face with every exhale, but there were no such puffs of white in front of Fraser's mouth. Which made sense, considering…Ray stole a glance toward the sled and the carefully-wrapped bundle which lay next to it.

He turned back to Fraser, who was still standing there looking good and not exhaling white puffs of breath. "Fraser," he said carefully. "You're dead."

Fraser ran a thumb over his eyebrow. "Well, yes, Ray, I realize that."

"You…you realize that. O-kay, what do you mean, you realize that? What does that mean?" He could hear himself getting louder with every word, shouting into the still and frigid air, but it was crazy, he was crazy, something was seriously weird here. "You're standing here talking to me, and you're dead!"

"It's…complicated."

"You are not kidding, it's complicated. Jesus." He paced a few steps toward the sled, turned back to Fraser. "So am I imagining this? Are you, like, something my subconsciousness dreamed up? Because I can get that. Hell, I've been talking to Dief, I must be going kind of loopy."

"I talk to Dief," said Fraser, looking slightly affronted.

"Exactly," said Ray. Come to think of it, where was the wolf? When he'd unharnessed the dogs, Dief had nosed around the campsite for a few minutes, then disappeared into the forest. "Hey, Dief!" he shouted.

"He can't hear you."

"Yeah, right, he's deaf. When he wants to be. Maybe he can read my lips from over there. Dief, here boy!"

Sure enough, after a few seconds Dief bounded out of the woods, heading straight for Ray. He stopped abruptly about ten yards off, a cloud of snow scattering from his paws that made Ray think of the GTO cornering too hard on a slushy Chicago street.

"Hello, Diefenbaker," said Fraser. Dief's ears went back and he made a funny little whine in his throat.

"You see him too?" asked Ray.

"Of course I -"

"I was talking to the wolf," Ray said pointedly. Diefenbaker looked at him and gave a short bark of assent that sounded almost like a question. "Yeah, I don't know, either."

Slowly, Dief approached Fraser, sniffing and whuffing. Then he reached his front leg out to where Fraser was standing very, very still, and pawed at Fraser's leg.

It was…bizarre. Dief's paw didn't hit Fraser's leg, but it didn't exactly go through it, either; instead, it was almost as if there was a Star Trek force-field around it, like when you held two refrigerator magnets the wrong way against each other and you couldn't put them together because they just kind of slid sideways against each other without touching. It must have freaked Dief out, too, because he made that funny whine again and then ran over to Ray and nuzzled against his leg. Ray could practically see Dief's relief at finding it solidly there, something real to rub against.

"That was weird, huh," Ray told him. He looked over at Fraser, who was frowning at his own leg. "He sees you, but I guess you don't smell right or something. And he can't touch you."

"Of course not," said Fraser, nodding. "I'm dead. I couldn't touch my father, either."

Ray blinked. Fraser was making even less sense than usual. "You couldn't -?"

"I mean, when he was dead. When he appeared to me, much as I am appearing to you."

"Wait a minute. Your father appeared to you after he was dead?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Usually he just came around at inappropriate times and gave me bad advice."

"So you're saying that being a ghost runs in your family."

"I suppose so. I hadn't thought of myself as a ghost, exactly." Fraser gave a shiver that clearly had nothing to do with the cold.

"So what are you, exactly?"

Fraser lifted his chin. "Why, I'm your partner. Just because I'm dead doesn't mean our duet has to come to an end."

"Oh, it doesn't, does it." Ray shook his head in disbelief. Apparently Fraser had so much weird in him that it didn't even stop at death; he had to be a weird ghost, too. He took a few steps toward him and cautiously poked out a hand. No wonder Dief had freaked out: according to his eyes, his hand was touching Fraser's arm, but all he felt was air. Experimentally he waved his hand back and forth, finding nothing despite the evidence of his eyes. "So, like, you're haunting me now?"

"Please, Ray, I wouldn't call it haunting," said Fraser. "I'm just here to help you with my knowledge of Arctic survival skills."

"Survival, yeah, that's a good one." Ray snorted; then without his conscious volition, almost without him realizing it, the snort turned into a sob, because yeah, Fraser hadn't survived, and it had been his own fault, his own fault, damn it, damn it all to hell. He buried his face in his hands and let the tears flow.

"Ray?" came Fraser's voice, tentative and soft.

"I killed you!" Ray's face was wet, the tears freezing on his cheeks, catching in the short scruff of his beard and turning to ice. "It's my fault, Fraser! How can you come back and help me when it's my fault you're not really here to help me?" Like you're supposed to, he wanted to add. Like I need you to. He felt himself begin to shake, convulsions that came from somewhere in his heart and bubbled up through his whole body; blindly he stumbled toward the pile of gear next to where he'd set up the stove, and sat on it, slumping down, his breathing going all ragged and raw as he sobbed. God, Fraser. Fraser.

He could hear Fraser trying to reassure him, saying he didn't blame him, saying it was okay (but it wasn't, it wasn't okay at all); then he felt an odd sort of wind across his shoulders, like he was leaning into a stiff breeze, and he looked up. Fraser had his arms around him, to comfort him, he supposed, but it was a thin sort of comfort, just to see Fraser and not be able to feel him, not to be able to bury his face into Fraser's chest.

Dief snuffled a little and butted against his leg, tangibly reassuring, and that was something, he guessed. But he would have given anything he owned, anything he'd ever own - he'd have given his soul to have been able to lean in and feel Fraser's arms, real and solid around him.

After several days, Fraser thought he was beginning to get the hang of being dead. More importantly, although Diefenbaker still seemed a little suspicious and confused by his lack of scent, Ray seemed to have finally accepted his presence. Traveling through the north country was difficult, especially when one had little experience with the harsh conditions that persisted even as springtime slowly stole across Canada. Ray appeared to be grateful for his advice, even if Fraser couldn't actually help him with the physical labor involved.

It was a pity that he couldn't; doing everything himself was clearly hard on Ray, and it made Fraser's heart ache to see it, made him wish he was still there in the flesh if only to take some of the burden. It took Ray longer to dismantle the camp and pack it up on his own than it had taken the two of them together, and longer to harness the dogs, and longer to set up camp when he decided it was time to stop. His traveling days had become shorter, as well. The loss of three dogs meant that the remaining ones had to work harder, and that Ray had to spend more time running along behind, helping to push the sled, rather than riding. By early afternoon they were all exhausted.

"It might be wise to lighten the load somewhat," Fraser pointed out as Ray wearily unpacked the sled after stopping for the day.

"And ditch what?" demanded Ray. He ticked imaginary items off on his fingers. "You keep telling me to eat more, so I guess you don't mean to get rid of the food. I ain't going hunting, so I need to hang on to what I've got for the dogs. Not getting rid of the tent. Not getting rid of the stove."

"There's my sleeping bag," offered Fraser.

"No way. I use it on top of mine. I think last night was the first time I've actually been warm at night."

"My clothes, my…other things?"

"That's what, two pounds? Three? Or, you know, kilothings, whatever you call them up here? Not enough to make a difference."

Ray was right, of course. But he couldn't go on like this, thought Fraser; and they were both talking around the obvious. The one thing Ray could do to lighten his load significantly. "You don't have to bring back my body -"

"Don't go there, Fraser. Do not go there. I am not leaving you here."

"That isn't me, Ray." He tapped his chest. "This is me. My…soul, for lack of a better word. My anirniq, as the Inuit would say. Not the dead bundle of muscle and bone that's strapped to the sled."

Ray shook his head. "I am not leaving you here, so don't even say it."

If he had to be honest with himself, Fraser was obscurely pleased by Ray's refusal, even though it still made him uncomfortable to see his body, the unmistakable evidence of his death. No, it wasn't him, but it represented him, and Ray's fierce insistence on carrying it back was somehow warming. Of course Ray wanted to bring it back. Ray felt the same obligation he did, the same affection, and of course Ray wouldn't leave it behind.

Just as he wouldn't leave Ray. Not for very long at a time, anyway. He had to assure himself that the camp was secure, that the dogs were staked out properly with plenty of room to run, that Ray had melted enough water and prepared enough food. Even then, he found himself lingering next to Ray in front of the campfire that seemed to him to only radiate a faint hint of warmth, loath to step away and return to his office in the Consulate.

He didn't need to sleep, of course. So when he finally got up and stepped out of the world of the living, he would leave the closet door open, just a crack - just enough to look out and keep an eye on things. Nearly a day had passed the last time he'd closed the door fully; if he closed it now, maybe he'd miss something important. Maybe something critical would happen, and he wouldn't be there to help.

Although Fraser had to admit that every day Ray seemed to need less help. Every day he seemed a bit more confident about his outdoor skills; every morning the sled was packed a little quicker and a little more securely, and he drove the dogs with a surer hand, following the sometimes obscure trail indicators with ease, checking the compass against the notations in Fraser's own notebook. But he was also becoming snappish and irritable, and worst of all, quiet. He rarely talked to Fraser other than to answer a direct question, and it seemed as though he was avoiding even looking at Fraser most of the time.

It was hard to tell under the heavy layers of insulating clothing, but Fraser thought Ray might be losing weight. He certainly wasn't sleeping well, even though he crawled into the tent early each evening; he looked bone-tired each morning, his wind-burned face pale and taut. Something was wrong.

He had to say something, Fraser decided; finally he stepped out of his office just as Ray was stopping for lunch. (He had given up riding on the sled, since even though he didn't add any weight, his presence seemed to make the dogs uneasy, and Ray didn't need the added distraction.) Ray looked up from where he was setting up the stove, nodding once in Fraser's direction before returning his attention to the gas connection.

"Lunchtime?" said Fraser unnecessarily.

"Yeah." With a twist of the knob and a flick of his lighter, Ray set the stove going, a pot of snow already on the flame to begin melting. He rummaged through a sack, bringing out a thick packet which he tore open, pouring its contents into the pot.

Fraser leaned over to see the writing on it. "Ah, lentil soup. A good choice for a cold day."

"They're all cold days."

"True." Fraser squinted critically toward the sun. "Although I suspect it may get colder shortly. The high cirrus is forming streaks, which indicates a good deal of wind shear. Mare's tails and mackerel scales." He waited a moment, but Ray only gave the pot a silent stir. "That's a sign a storm is on its way. 'Mare's tails and mackerel scales make lofty ships carry low sails.'"

"Great," said Ray. "Just what I need."

Fraser watched as Ray checked over the harness fastenings and the ropes which lashed on the gear, then returned to the stove and began efficiently spooning the soup into his mouth. The warm food brought a little color to his face, Fraser thought, made him look a little less haggard, a little less run-down. But there was still an uncamouflaged weariness in his eyes that made Fraser feel helpless and impotent, trapped in his not-quite-corporeal world, unable to give his partner the true support he deserved.

"Ray," he said gently. "Are you all right?"

Ray shrugged and continued eating.

"Ray?"

Finally Ray looked over at him. "No, Fraser, I am not all right. What do you think? I'm alone in the middle of the fucking Ice Age, and oh, yeah, there's a storm coming in."

"Not alone, Ray. I wouldn't leave you alone."

"Sometimes I wish you would," muttered Ray into his soup.

A strange sort of dizziness swept over Fraser, then; it was like when he'd been knocked back into his office that first time he'd tried to appear to Ray. There was the same nausea, the sense of a force that wanted to push him away and close the door on him, but he concentrated on staying, on Ray, and after a moment it faded.

But should he stay? Was it arrogant of him to expect that Ray wanted his advice, wanted his presence? He'd just assumed…they'd been partners, and that had been the happiest time of his life, and Ray had seemed happy, too. They'd been partners in Chicago, and then partners here, journeying together, working together. Was he just being selfish, wanting that to continue?

Maybe he'd already fulfilled the obligation that his father had spoken of, by helping Ray over the past few days. Maybe all that had been necessary was to teach Ray that he could do it on his own, to be a sort of quiet safety net, making sure that his skills would get him through. Getting him to the point where he was now.

Maybe Ray didn't need him any more.

Softly he said, "I'm sorry, Ray. I thought - I thought you liked having me around. I thought we were friends."

"We were," said Ray tonelessly.

"Were. So what happened?"

"You died."

"Well, yes, but I wish you wouldn't hold that against me." Ray didn't laugh. Fraser sighed, took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair. "You're right, of course you're right. It's just that I care about you, Ray. I don't want to leave. But if you would rather be doing this on your own…"

"It's not that. Look, I love you, Fraser," said Ray, without looking at him.

"And I, you," he replied automatically. Because of course it was true; but why was Ray shaking his head?

"You don't understand." Abruptly Ray bent to scoop snow into his empty cookpot, to scour it around and clean out the dregs. He dumped the dirty snow and shoved the pot back into pack. "Look, I gotta get moving again."

"Understood." He bowed his head and let the push take him back into his office.

The problem with driving a dogsled across the vast Canadian nothingness - well, one of the many problems, thought Ray as he urged the dogs around a turn - was that there was absolutely nothing to take your mind off whatever you were trying to take your mind off. The scenery was an endless loop: snow, snow, and more snow. He was starting to wish it came in a color other than white, just to give it some variety. Every once in a while there was a patch of forest, nestled in a dip of landscape, and whoa, wasn't that exciting. Too bad dogsleds didn't come with stereos; at least that would give him something to listen to, something to think about other than Fraser.

It was like his emotions were riding the biggest rollercoaster ever invented, shooting up and down so fast that he could hardly tell where he was going. Losing Fraser had been the worst thing that had ever happened to him; then Fraser came back, sort of, and at first he'd had this wild sense of relief, like maybe things weren't all shot to hell, but now it was like everything was falling apart, worse than before. Because yeah, Fraser was there with him, every evening when he set up camp and every morning when he got going again, but Fraser wasn't there there.

Sure, it looked like he was perched there on the other side of the campfire, or standing behind him, reading over his shoulder and offering advice as Ray tried to figure out if the bearing Fraser had written down in his logbook was supposed to be on the far-off pointy mountain or the closer, more rounded one, and he still told Ray long and rambling Inuit stories that had nothing to do with anything Ray could figure out, but just looking at and listening to Fraser wasn't the same as having Fraser actually there. Actually there, where he could reach out and touch him.

Because even though he hadn't realized it at the time, when they'd been working cases together for the 27^th, he and Fraser had touched each other a lot. Hands on arms, shoulders bumping, right up in each other's personal space and beyond - that was just them, that was the way they were, and it worked. When they'd set out on this adventure it had seemed perfectly natural at night for Ray to snuggle up in his own sleeping bag right up against Fraser's, stealing a little of his warmth, taking comfort in his nearness. He hadn't been honest when Fraser had suggested dumping the extra sleeping bag. The truth was that even with Fraser's bag unzipped and spread across him like a second blanket, he was never as warm as he'd been with Fraser beside him.

The truth was that he missed Fraser's touch. And having Fraser there but not there, visible but not tangible, was the worst torture imaginable.

And that was the kicker, that was the truly shitty thing about this whole situation, and Ray hated the fact that he had nothing to distract him from thinking about it, because it was a thought he did not want in his head. Still, he couldn't keep his brain from circling around, probing at it like a tongue probing at a sore tooth, knowing it was going to hurt, helpless to stop.

It was bad enough that he had been beginning to think himself in love with his partner. But he was not going to be in love with his dead partner, damn it.

It hurt to think about it either way: having Fraser around-but-not-around, or not having Fraser at all. It all sucked, and having nothing else to think about sucked even more, and when Ray finally reached the spot on the map where they'd camped on the way up (where he'd camped with Fraser, where Fraser had been with him, where…stop it, Ray, he told himself) he had worked himself into the blackest of black moods. Jumping off the sled, he rapidly undid the ropes and began flinging his gear to the ground. Next best thing to being in the gym, he supposed. Maybe he should start punching the sleeping-bag duffel, work off some of his frustration that way.

Naturally, this was exactly when Fraser showed up, appearing behind him when he bent to grab another bag to toss it from the pile, and his instincts were such that in order to avoid tossing it into Fraser he held on even as he lurched, sending him ass over teakettle into the snow. Of course it didn't matter; the damn bag wouldn't have hit him anyway, he thought sourly as he scrambled back to his feet and brushed himself off.

"Sorry if I startled you," said Fraser.

"No big deal. But I'm kind of in a hurry here. Want to get set up before the storm."

"Yes, well. Perhaps this isn't the best place for a camp."

"We camped here on the way up," Ray pointed out.

"True, in fine weather. But it's not sufficiently protected from the west, I think. When the windspeed increases, which I expect it will tonight, you'll want more of a land feature to your west than these low rolling hills. If you continue southeast, I believe the cliffs start rising to a height -"

"Fraser. I'm stopping here. See? I've stopped. I am not continuing southeast."

"I really think -"

"I don't care what you think." And that made him feel like a real jerk for a moment, as he saw the flicker of hurt in Fraser's eyes, but he put it aside. "I am tired, and I am pissed off at the world, and I've already unloaded the goddamn sled. And I am not going anywhere but into the tent."

"But -"

"Stow it, Fraser," said Ray brusquely. "I'm sick of you hanging around, I'm sick of your advice, I'm sick of this whole fucking adventure. Now go back to wherever it is that ghosts go when they're not haunting people, because I got lots of things to do and I don't want to talk to you right now."

Fraser's eyes widened, and he disappeared; he just popped out of existence between one moment and the next, which was really freaky. Ray rubbed at his eyes. Damn, he really was tired. And Fraser was probably right about the campsite. But it was too late in the day, now, and it would take too much time to repack the sled and get going again. He'd probably fall off the sled if he tried to continue.

He set up the dog line and then moved to the harness to tend to the dogs. As he reached to untie Dief, who always got his freedom first, Dief gave a bark, and Ray looked up to see Fraser standing there again.

His lips tightened. "Damn it, I'm not kidding! Leave me alone!"

For a moment Fraser stood there silently, a strange expression on his face; then he whispered, "Sorry," and disappeared again.

Fraser paced his office uncomfortably. In the past, when he'd gone into his closet and found himself in his father's office, he'd always found him occupied with something - reading, painting, writing things that looked weirdly like official RCMP reports. What was he supposed to do when not looking after Ray?

He took a closer look at the things on his desk. Form AL-204/G: Application for Posthumous Interference. Form AL-367: Request for Extension of Spiritual Appearance. The afterlife, it seemed, was as bureaucratic as ordinary government. Or maybe the forms on his desk had been conjured up by his own subconscious as appropriate décor for his "office."

It wasn't as though he could think about anything other than Ray, anyway. It had been a blow, hearing Ray tell him to go away. Hearing him say that he didn't want his help, that he didn't want him. It tore him in half: he was there to take care of Ray, to be his partner, but if Ray didn't want him to be his partner any more, what was left for him?

Involuntarily his glance went to the incandescent strip of light coming under the door that in the earthly consulate had led to the hallway. Here it led to…Fraser wasn't quite sure. A real death, a real ending. Peace. Release. He was only putting it off by his presence in Ray's life, and if Ray didn't want him any more, there was no reason not to open that door.

He took a step toward it. Two steps. Looked over his shoulder at the door to the closet, to Ray. Three steps.

The phone rang.

He snatched it up. "Constable Fraser speaking," he said automatically.

"Don't be a fool, son. You might not be too late."

"Too late for what?" he said, but his father had already hung up. He stared at the receiver for a long moment, then put down the phone, squared his shoulders, opened the closet door, and stepped out into a blizzard.

"Ray!" he shouted into the whiteness. "Ray!" He had to be here somewhere; every time Fraser had walked through this door he'd ended up in his vicinity. It was odd, walking through the snow, feeling it not-quite-land on his skin. If he deliberately focused on his environment - if he thought, I'm walking in a snowstorm, I should be cold - he felt it, he felt cold, but as soon as he stopped thinking about it, the snow receded into the background, like a special effect in the movies, not quite real.

He took a few steps in what his gut told him was the right direction. "Ray!" he shouted again, and this time there was an answering bark from Diefenbaker. He moved in that direction, and suddenly Ray was in front of him, a stumbling, bundled-up figure, Dief at his legs chivvying him toward Fraser.

"My God, Ray," he said. "What are you - you're freezing, you shouldn't be out of the tent."

"Can't find th' tent," slurred Ray. He made as though to sit down, and Dief nipped at his ankle. "Stop that. Jus' trying to rest."

"You mustn't rest until you're in the tent," Fraser told him reprovingly. Good Lord. Ray was clearly in the severe stages of hypothermia; his eyes were glassy and his steps slow and uncertain. How long had he been out here, wandering in the snowstorm? How long had Fraser been in the deceptive calm of his office?

He should never have left Ray alone despite his insistence. This was his fault. He had to make it right. He scanned the area, looking for the tent but seeing only a screen of blowing snow. "Dief, the tent?"

Dief whined and went ahead a few steps, then turned back to push Ray in the right direction. Fraser frowned; Dief had been trying to get Ray to safety, but Ray was too far gone, not paying him the attention he deserved. And Dief himself looked terribly fatigued, snowflakes thick on his matted fur. "All right," he said. "Ray, you have to follow me."

"Don' wanna. Follow you, I get in trouble."

"Well, yes, frequently. But just this once, Ray. Come on."

"Tired."

"Of course you're tired," said Fraser soothingly. "Come on, just a little farther."

"So tired," mumbled Ray. "Lemme lean on you?" He lurched toward Fraser.

God. If only he could let Ray lean on him. If only…he put out an arm, but it was no use; Ray's hand slid right by his arm, making no contact, and Ray stumbled, fell to the ground. "Get up, Ray."

"Don' wanna." Dief barked, and nosed at him. "Go 'way."

"Get up, Ray!" Fraser put as much urgency in his voice as he could. "Come on, you're almost there. Get him up, Dief!"

Dief growled at Ray, and butted against him, but Ray didn't move.

"Ray! You've got to keep moving!"

"Wanna rest. Jus' a moment." Dief squirmed up against Ray, trying to push him to his feet, and Ray wrapped his arms around him. "Mmm. Warm." He looked up toward Fraser. "Help warm me up?"

Fraser squeezed his eyes closed. Ray's plaintive voice was breaking his heart. It was almost palpable, the feeling in his chest of being broken, torn apart, destroyed. If only he could help warm him, if only he could do something, anything. If only he could give Ray his body heat, the way he'd kept Victoria alive on Fortitude Pass; Ray was worth ten of her, a thousand of her, and he deserved Fraser's warmth far more than she ever did. He bent down to brush the snow from Ray's face, but his hand passed across Ray's brow without visible effect, and something clenched in his gut. He forced himself to speak softly. "What possessed you to leave the tent?"

"Had to take care of th' dogs. Respons'bility. You taught me."

"I…oh, Christ," said Fraser, his voice cracking. It was true, he'd often told Ray that the dogs were of paramount importance. They tended to the dogs before they took care of themselves. And it was a sensible priority, because the dogs were their transportation. Like caring for the engine of one's vehicle, he'd told Ray. And Ray had taken his lesson to heart - but oh, at what cost?

Ray mumbled something, and Fraser bent closer. "What?"

"Love you, Fraser."

He swallowed. "And I you, Ray."

"Uh-uh. Not what I mean. Love you. Never got th' chance. Too scared to tell you."

Fraser stared. Did he mean…? Ray had a soft smile on his face, a sort of nostalgic look, and his eyes were closed.

"Always wanted. Kiss you. Scared."

"Ray. Ray. Get up. You have to get up."

Ray's eyes fluttered open and he reached out for Fraser. "Wanna kiss." God, so much openness, so much love, and Fraser couldn't help it, he bent down, reached out.

No contact. Nothing.

"Stupid Mountie,' said Ray, his face twisting with frustration. "I remember now. Can't touch you. Hate it. I hate it," he repeated, and he looked up at Fraser, his eyes bright and suddenly lucid. "Doesn't matter. I'm gonna die, too. See you then."

"No," whispered Fraser. He couldn't do this, couldn't stand by unable to help, unable to intervene. He was not going to watch Ray die. He stood, screamed. "No!"

…and he was back in his office, the door slamming shut behind him.

He slumped into his chair, his face in his hands. Oh, God, what had he done? The few minutes he'd spent away from Ray had turned into hours, maybe even days; enough time for things to go horribly wrong. Ray was dying, and it was Fraser's fault, and just thinking about it made him feel as though there were a thousand knives in his chest.

And the door had closed with such terrible finality, throwing him forcefully into his office…oh, God, thought Fraser, what if that meant that his opportunity was over? That Ray had died?

He'd failed. He was supposed to have kept Ray alive, and he'd failed.

Fraser stole a glance at the other door. If Ray was indeed dead, he thought - and it was painful to even shape his mind around those words - perhaps he waited there, in whatever afterlife came after this half-life.

But it wasn't a comforting thought; as much as he wanted to see Ray again, to be with Ray again, this wasn't how he wanted it to happen. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. And with Ray's final confession to him…oh, that hurt, thinking of the lost opportunities. Ray hadn't been the only one to keep his feelings secret. If he had only known.

With a heavy heart, Fraser rose and started toward the hallway door. The irrevocable step that would take him out of this and on to whatever awaited him in death. He hoped Ray would be there, at least. Maybe they could have in death what they had been both too frightened to grasp in life. If only they hadn't run out of time.

Time.

Hand on the doorknob, he froze.Space and time have no meaning, his father had said. He remembered the first time he'd closed the door on Ray's morning preparations, then opened it a few minutes later to see Ray setting up camp for the evening. Other times, he'd spent long hours in his "office" only to find that mere seconds had passed for Ray. What if time didn't just flow at a different speed on the other side of the door - what if it moved in a completely different manner?

Every time he opened the door, it opened to a different place - the place where Ray was, where his heart wanted to go. Space, indeed, seemed to have no meaning. But what about time?

Wild hope fluttering in his chest, Fraser let go of the doorknob and turned to stare at the closet. That door had always opened to Ray, wherever he happened to be. But what defined when it opened? What if the apparent passage of time on the other side stemmed from his own expectations?

If time as well as space had no meaning, there was no reason that time had to pass at all, thought Fraser with growing excitement. And that meant that there was no reason time couldn't pass backwards. With mingled trepidation and hope, he stepped to the closet door.

Take me to Ray before the storm, he thought. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

No storm. And there was Ray, carefully unfastening the sled harness from the dogs. My God, thought Fraser, joy welling up in his heart, it had worked. It had worked.

Dief barked in greeting, and Ray looked up - and scowled. As Fraser took a step forward, Ray's expression blackened. "Damn it, I'm not kidding! Leave me alone!"

Fraser hesitated. True, it had worked - he was there, before the storm, before Ray made the fatal decision to leave the tent. But this was clearly too soon after Ray had asked him to leave him alone. There was no appealing to him in this state, no way to make him see reason, to make him move his camp now, before the storm, or at least to prepare for it better. He'd have to return to his office; maybe he could try it again, somehow manage to time his arrival for later.

Suddenly, it hit him. Not for later.

For earlier.

"Sorry," he whispered, and slipped back into his office.

The pinks and purples of dawn were already fading from the sky as Fraser watched himself slip silently from the tent, strap on snowshoes, and hike the short distance up the ridge. It was strange, watching himself, remembering. Even stranger than seeing himself dead, still and lifeless, because this earlier self was alive and moving and yet not him, not him now.

The man he watched had been him, only a short time ago. But it seemed as though an eternity had passed since then, and although he tried to recapture how he must have felt that day, what he had been thinking when he had woken up and stepped into the cold, he found it impossible to recall. So much had happened since then.

His other self lifted the binoculars to his eyes and gazed at the trail where it crossed the deadly slide path, and Fraser followed with his eyes. How innocuous it looked, sparkling there in the sun. Enough to make even an experienced outdoorsman think…

"It ought to be safe for the next few hours," the other Fraser said to himself.

He stepped up next to him. "It isn't."

Strange and yet familiar, to see the shock on his own face. "You're me - I mean, you look - you're not - are you me?"

"Not yet," he said. "Not ever, if I can help it. If we can." This had to work. He had to make himself understand. He looked his earlier self in the eye, willing him to believe, and the words came tumbling out: Ray, the dogs, the avalanche.

But he could see the skepticism, the uncertainty in his own face, and he remembered then how he had felt. His own subconscious trying to give himself advice, he had thought. He could see it in the lines around his eyes, in the way his mouth twitched at the corner. His earlier self hadn't been able to accept that it had been real.

And there was nothing he could do to change his own mind, he knew. The thought was like a fist closing around his heart. This had all happened before, and nothing had changed - and that implied that nothing would change. That it was all an endless loop, anchored on one end by Ray's death and on the other by his own, that all of this was for naught. There was no way to break the cycle. He'd have to return and accept his fate - the fate of them both.

As he reached for the door that only he could see, he paused for a moment, looking back. His other self was bent over the stove, starting to melt snow for water. The tent was still and silent, but in a moment, Ray would emerge, and the drama would begin to play itself out, just the way it had happened before.

Unless - Fraser realized with a sudden burst of clarity - unless Ray didn't emerge from the tent.

Unless Fraser could keep him there.

Ray always woke when Fraser got up, no matter how soundlessly Fraser moved, how careful he was to avoid bumping into Ray as he slid on his outer clothes and exited the tent. When they'd started out on their quest - actually, it was before that, when they were still on Muldoon's trail - Ray had opened his eyes when Fraser had risen, and each successive morning Fraser was obviously and painfully trying to keep even quieter, until finally Ray had decided to spare him and pretended to be asleep. Probably it didn't fool him. But it was no big deal, since nearly always Ray fell asleep again in a matter of minutes.

But this morning as he lay in his sleeping bag he thought he heard Fraser talking to someone, which was ridiculous. Ridiculous because there was nobody around within a hundred zillion miles, and ridiculous because the only voice he heard was Fraser's. Maybe he'd gone crazy and started talking to himself. Except that idea was even dumber, because all the crazy seemed to have gone out of Fraser when they'd come north. Or maybe it was just that what was crazy in Chicago was normal here: eating pemmican and sniffing at the wind and all that, it made sense when there was nothing around but snow.

Whatever it was, it kept Ray awake. Even after Fraser went silent he couldn't seem to get back to sleep; might as well get out there and give Fraser a hand, Ray decided. He reached for his parka, which was what he was using as a pillow, folded under his head.

"Go back to sleep, Ray," said Fraser, and Ray looked around, startled. Fraser was sitting cross-legged at the head of his sleeping bag, taking off his parka.

"Didn't hear you come back in," he said. That was strange - he'd heard Fraser talking, way outside somewhere, but he'd missed the sound of the tent zipper? Maybe he'd dozed off without realizing it. "Was there someone else out there?"

Fraser looked uneasy. "What - why do you ask?"

"Thought I heard you talking to someone."

"Ah. Just, er, talking to myself." He did the thumb-over-eyebrow thing that meant he was worried, or upset, or something.

Ray grinned. Maybe there still was a bit of crazy left in Fraser, and that was a weirdly comforting thought. "Well, I'm awake, anyway, so I figured I'd make myself useful. You fed the dogs yet?" He sat up in his sleeping bag and began to pull on his clothes; Fraser made an odd sort of half-lunge toward him, reaching out a hand as though to keep him from getting dressed, but just before touching him he stopped short and snatched his hand away.

"No! I mean, yes, the dogs - the dogs are all right," said Fraser. He glanced nervously toward the tent door.

"Well, I can do something else, then. It's not fair you do all the morning chores."

"I thought we'd, er, sleep in today."

"Didn't you tell me we had to get moving early?" Ray frowned; he was sure Fraser had said something yesterday about getting going before it got too warm. "Want me to get breakfast going?"

Fraser was staring at him with a wild sort of look, almost like he was afraid of him. Like he thought Ray would suddenly turn into a polar bear, or something. "Jeez, Frase, relax," he said, reaching out to pat Fraser's arm - and Fraser shrank back before he could touch him, as though Ray had extended a hot poker instead of his hand, and that was so not like Fraser. "All right," he said, eyes narrowing. "What's going on?"

"Ah," said Fraser. He licked his bottom lip. "Ray. I'd like - I'd like to tell you a story."

And that was even more not like Fraser, who was Mr. Efficiency in the morning. Get up early, do chores, pack up camp and be on their way - that was Fraser. Now he wanted to sleep in and tell stories? Oh, well, might as well humor the Mountie, he told himself as he folded his parka back into a pillow and laid his head back down. "All right. This another one of your Inuit stories? You want to put me back to sleep, is that it?"

A brief smile crossed Fraser's lips. "Once there were two - two warriors, who did everything together. They fought enemies together, they celebrated their successes together, they hunted caribou together. Each considered the other to be his greatest, closest friend."

Like us, thought Ray, as he snuggled deeper into his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. Fraser's Inuit stories tended to ramble, and Ray was never sure what point he was trying to make with them, but it was nice listening to Fraser's voice in storytelling mode. Deep, soothing, rhythmic. Maybe it would put him back to sleep.

"Each warrior told his friend everything. All the secrets of his heart. At least, each of them believed that the other had told him everything. But one of them held back a single secret. He was afraid that if he told it to the other warrior, his friend would no longer respect him. That he wouldn't want to be his friend."

Uh-oh. Ray stiffened with apprehension; if this was an Inuit story, Ray was a walrus. Somehow, Fraser must have twigged that Ray had been starting to think of him as more than a friend. And Fraser, being Fraser, would never think of confronting him about it. No, he had to make up a damn story. Well, that would get it out in the open, anyway.

He could feel his heartbeat getting faster, louder. Fraser could probably hear it beating out the rhythm: he knows, he knows, he knows. Carefully he pitched his voice as evenly as he could. "But the other warrior found out, didn't he."

"No," said Fraser, and at that Ray opened his eyes in surprise. "The other warrior died in a - a hunting accident. The first warrior never had the chance to tell him how he felt."

"How he felt?" said Ray sharply. He knows, he knows.

Fraser colored. "I mean, his -" Suddenly he stopped, turned his head as though he heard something. After a moment Ray heard it too, a low rumbling which slowly grew louder. "My God."

Fraser was looking off into space in the direction of the noise, his face hopeful and scared at the same time, almost like he was hypnotized by the sound. Louder and closer it came; then it rumbled away into dim echoes. "Fraser," said Ray. No answer; Fraser stared at the wall of the tent as though he could see through it, or wanted to, anyway. "Fraser!" He reached out, grabbed Fraser's arm, gave it a shake. "Fraser! What was that noise?"

Fraser's head whipped around to stare at Ray's hand, still on his arm. "My God," he repeated, his voice barely audible. "You - you're touching - Ray, Ray, I'm alive!"

And seriously unhinged, thought Ray. "Yeah, and? You just noticed?"

"Ray," said Fraser, his voice deep and warm. He lifted his head and met Ray's eyes, then smiled, and his smile was the biggest, happiest smile that Ray had ever seen. He stretched out his legs, scooted down so he was lying on his sleeping bag next to Ray. "Yes. I just noticed," he said, and then he wriggled closer, right up against Ray's body, and looped his arm around him.

And then Fraser kissed him.

Wow. Ray wasn't expecting that at all. But it didn't take Ray more than about half a second to get with the program and start kissing Fraser right back, because he'd been imagining doing this for days, weeks, even. Just imagining, because no way would he have had the guts to actually do it. But never in his dreams had he thought that Fraser would be the one to make a move, that Fraser would snuggle up to him and pull him close, smelling of snow, that Fraser's lips would gently travel across his scruff of beard, that Fraser's tongue would slide into his mouth with no hesitation at all.

A bubble of pure joy built in Ray's chest, expanding from his heart outward, all the way to his toes, a flow of warmth and happiness. He knows, Ray thought, he knows and it's okay. Better than okay; Fraser's hands ranged over Ray's back, stroking and caressing as though he couldn't get enough of touching him, and his desire was clear in the dark intensity of his gaze. Ray closed his eyes and explored Fraser's mouth with his tongue, worked his fingers under the layers of Fraser's clothes, let himself drown in the glorious feeling of Fraser's body solid against his.

"Wow," Ray said shakily, when Fraser drew away just enough that he could speak again. "So, uh. What was that noise, a moment ago?"

"The sound of everything falling into place," Fraser told him, and kissed him again.

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http://hieroglyfics.net/greatdivide.htm | written July 2006 by Isis