The fiery brand of pain in his left shoulder, combined with the soft sobs of a woman, coaxed him to consciousness.

White, he decided, then closed his eyes again. The world was too damned white.

"Ben?" Her voice was sweet and her fingers cool. "Ben, darling, are you awake?"

"Vicki." It came out cracked and dry.

"Here," she said, sliding a straw between his lips. "Have a little of this."

Sipping on the straw seemed a Herculean feat, but the cold wetness that filled his mouth gave him incentive to do it again.

"Slow down," she warned, moving the straw away. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "My God, Ben, I thought I'd lost you."

"I'm okay," he said automatically. In truth, he was far from okay. The pain might be centered in his shoulder, but it radiated into his chest and back. His throat was sore and it hurt to breathe.

"Okay? You could have been killed. What were you thinking?"

He opened his eyes again. The hospital room, he realized, wasn't white. It was merely bright. Bright and cheerful, no doubt decorated to help speed a recovery along. It rather turned his stomach, so he looked at her instead.

Her curly, dark hair was gathered haphazardly in a ponytail. Her eyes were swollen, her normally ivory skin was blotchy and red. Here, in this place that stank of sterile astringent and suffering, she was like an autumn breeze: cool, clean and utterly lovely.

She was also furious.

"You said you were just going to ride along. You promised." She stood, clutching his bed rails. "When I told you I didn't think it was safe, you said you weren't going to be in any danger. 'It's just research.' That's what you told me and look what happened." She drew in a long, watery breath. "You could have been killed."

Ben started to reach out to her with his right hand, then changed his mind when he noticed the tangle of IV lines running into his forearm. "It was just research, babe. This whole thing was a fuck up. A stupid accident."

"An accident that could have cost your life." She swiped away her tears with the back of her hand. "You listen to me, Benton Fraser. I love you. You're the only thing that matters to me in this world. I'm not going to lose you because of research. You want to get a better understanding of the RCMP? Interview more of them. Watch another hundred hours of training films. Visit the Depot again. Whatever. But no more riding along, Ben. Promise me."

God, his shoulder and head hurt. He wanted to shut his eyes again and back away from the pain, but she deserved an answer.

How could he tell her no? The book was important. It was the third of a vastly popular, enormously successful trilogy, and he wanted it to outshine the other two. Vicki, however, had to be his first priority and he knew that this was the culmination of her worst fears. Fuck. He'd been shot. It just seemed impossible.

"Ben?" She looked so tired, so fragile.

They'd been together two decades. Despite parental objections, they'd married during their third year at the University of Toronto and he'd never regretted it. Vicki was a good wife, a wonderful companion and his best friend. He knew he'd scared the shit out of her with this. Hell, he'd scared the shit out of himself.

"I promise," he groaned, the pain suddenly too much to bear.

"Here," she said, making sure the button for the PCA was in his hand. "Push this for morphine. I should have waited to bring this all up."

"S'okay," he said, hitting the button.

"Close your eyes," she whispered. "I'll be here when you wake up."

********

"Sergeant Fraser?"

He felt his eyelids, gummy with sleep and suffering, being peeled back, A bright pinpoint of light flashed at him, making it impossible to focus.

"Sergeant Fraser, do you know where you are? Do you know what day it is? Do you know who I am?"

"The hospital, no, and Doctor Turnbull," he answered, his voice weak and reedy. When he attempted to draw a deep breath and try again, a fresh flare of pain in his left shoulder stopped him.

"For heaven's sake, Turnbull, my son was shot in the shoulder, not the head."

"Nevertheless, Inspector Fraser," the doctor replied primly as he edged out of the room, "it's standard procedure to ascertain a patient's mental status following a trauma."

He cleared his throat. "Dad?"

"Thank God, Benton." His father's voice boomed through the small hospital room, too big, too hearty, but comforting just the same. Bob grabbed Benton's right hand and squeezed tight. "You had me worried there, son. You've lost quite a bit of blood."

"Is Maggie all right?" Constable Maggie Fraser, Benton's younger half-sister, had been with him when he'd finally tracked down the Dent Brothers.

"She's fine," Bob assured him. "She'd down in the cafeteria with your mother getting some coffee. They'll both be up soon to fuss about, I'm sure."

"And the Dent brothers?"

His father's voice went cold. "Those two worthless pieces of flesh are on their way to jail as we speak."

"Good." The Dents' crimes were horrendous and numerous.

"I'm proud of you," Bob said. "You and Maggie. You two did some damn fine police work. Damn fine."

"Thank you." He gritted his teeth against a wave of pain.

"Enough for now," Bob said, pushing the call bell. "We'll get you something for pain and you can sleep a bit."

He was in no position to argue; he hurt so damned much. When the needle slid into his thigh, he noticed his father was still tightly holding his hand.

"Rest now, Benton. We'll have plenty of time to talk later."

 ********

Lasagna and lilies, he thought, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to open his eyes.

"His eye lids are waggling, Ray. Look. His eyelids are waggling."

"Geesh, Frannie, back off a little so the guy can breathe."

Lasagna, lily perfume and wet, expensive tweed, he amended as he forced his eyes to open the rest of the way. "Hi, Ray."

"Hiya, Benny. You look like shit."

"I think he looks wonderful," Frannie gushed, leaning over the side rail of his hospital bed, giving him a much too clear view of her half-buttoned blouse. "Hi, Frase. You're awake."

He licked his dry lips. "It would appear so."

"Frannie, go down to the gift shop for a few. I need to talk to Fraser."

"What? You're the only one who gets to talk to Fraser? Who died and made you King of the Visitors?"

"Frannie." Ray's tone brooked no argument.

"Fine, but I'll be back." She paused at the door. "I'm glad you're going to be okay, Fraser."

"Thank you, Francesca."

"Man, Benny," Ray said after Frannie left, "it was like deja vu all over again."

"Excuse me?"

Ray's voice dropped to a near whisper, his green eyes troubled. "One minute, we're chasing the Dent brothers and you're running and running and the next, you drop like a stone. It was a little too much like last time."

"Like last time when the incident involved a certain woman's getaway and a train station?" he asked. The reminder of his foolishly misplaced heart and questionable loyalty caused him nearly as much pain as his shoulder.

"Yeah," Ray said with a tight smile. "Except this time, I wasn't the triggerman."

Victoria Metcalfe had been out of their lives for nearly three years now, but he supposed that if he and Ray Vecchio continued to worked together for another twenty years, the subject would still be a sore one.

Not wanting to discuss it further, he asked, "Where's Dief?"

Ray laughed. "He's hanging at my house. Angie, Ma and Marie's kids were stuffing him full of lasagna the last time I checked."

"Ah." He tried to summon a smile to match Ray's, or at least a token protest, but the pain was overwhelming. "The Dent brothers?"

"In custody," Ray said with a sharp, feral look. "One of them is in the prison hospital."

"Oh."

"Look, Benny, there's no reason for you to put up the brave Mountie front for me, okay? I've been shot myself."

"I seem to recall our adjoined hospital suite."

"I know it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch," Ray continued. "Hit your pain button there."

He pushed the button and waited for the morphine to carry him away. "Ray?" he said, suddenly panicked.

"Don't worry, Benny. I'll guard your unconscious body from my sister."

That wasn't his fear at all. Something, something important, was off kilter. Something just beyond his reach, but before he could try to gasp it, he was pulled into drug induced sleep.

********

"Don't die, Fraser. Don't die. Do not fucking die."

The mumbled litany woke him. The room was cool and dim; the pain in his shoulder was hot and bright.

"Don't die, Fraser. Don't die. Do not fucking die."

He wondered how long Ray had been repeating the phrase for it had an almost prayer-like rhythm. A chant of sorts. Perhaps a mantra that Ray had designed to, well, keep him from dying.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the low light. There, hunched against the window looking out, stood Ray. "Don't die, Fraser. Don't die. Do not fucking die."

"Ray." His voice, hoarse and weak, seemed to strike Ray with the force of cannon blast.

The blond spun around. "Fraser?"

"Yes."

"You're awake. You sound like your throat's sore." Fraser nodded. "Yeah, well, that's on account of the tube the doctor had down there for the operation to get the bullet out. The nurse said you could suck on some ice when you came around. You want some ice?"

"Please."

"Yeah, stupid question, right?" Ray used a plastic spoon to scoop a few ice chips out of the cup on the bedside table. "I mean, when don't you want ice? And snow. It's your thing."

Ray's hair was smashed flat on one side and his light colored sweater had several brownish stains that Fraser suspected were blood. At least three days worth of stubble graced his cheeks and his movements, though somewhat frantic, seemed weary and un-Ray like.

"Where's Dief?"

"With Maggie. They'll be back up later."

"How long?" he asked around a mouthful of melting ice chips.

"How long you been out of it?" Ray asked. "Well, it's Friday. You got shot on Wednesday morning, so a couple of days, give or take." Ray rubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. "You got shot a couple of days ago. You want more ice?"

"Thank you, no." He tried to sit up, but the pain was too great.

"Wait," Ray said, slipping his arm under him and helping him adjust. "You got too many things sticking in and out of you to be doing much on your own right now."

"Are you all right, Ray?"

"If you mean did the Dent brothers put a slug in me, too, no they didn't and I'm fine. If you mean did finding you in the snow in a pool of blood and having to use the fucking snowmobile to get you back to the post and having to watch them helicopter your ass to Medicine Hat to keep you from checking out for good, freak me the fuck out? Then yes, and I'm not fine."

"Ray, I'm so sorry." He was. He could now see the absolute exhaustion and grief hanging on Ray, dragging him down. "Truly, Ray. I'm sorry."

Ray slammed the Styrofoam cup of ice on the bedside table, his sorrow burned up in a flash of rage. "I did not come all the way to Canada to watch you die, Fraser. You get that?"

"I -"

"No, you listen to me." Ray placed his left palm over Fraser's heart, careful even in his agitation not to jostle the IV lines or the dressing. "I gave up my job, my apartment, my goddamn car to be here."

"I know, Ray, and I thank you."

Ray shook his head. "The point is, Fraser, that I didn't leave Chicago, I didn't come to live in fucking Little Igloo on the Prairie, so I could watch you die. I did not."

He covered Ray's hand with his own right hand and squeezed it. "Why, Ray?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you do it? Leave everything and come to Canada?"

Ray turned his hand in Fraser's and threaded their fingers together. "You know why, Fraser," he said softly, his anger gone as quickly as it had come. "You've always known why."

He did know and though they'd never spoken of it, or done anything concrete about it for that matter, he'd always known. He opened his mouth to tell Ray so, but all that came out was a thin moan.

"Shit," Ray said, pushing the call bell. "You're hurting."

Within moments the nurse was injecting morphine into his IV port. Ray, he noted with satisfaction, never moved away, never released his hand.

"Ray?" he said after the nurse had left the room.

"Yeah?"

"I'm not going to die."

"Promise me. I mean it."

He was suddenly gripped tight by fear. Something about Ray's words was wrong. They were somehow Ray's and yet somehow not Ray's.

"Don't go, Ray," he begged, already slipping from full consciousness. "Be here when I wake up. Please."

"I'll be here. I swear."

********

She was sitting at his bedside, the morning light that streamed in from the window illuminating her, giving her an ethereal, almost Madonna-like quality.

They'd talked, years ago, of filling their home with children. "Our kids would be stunningly beautiful, Ben." Vicki had never been one to stand on false modesty. "And they'd be frighteningly intelligent." He'd thought so, too.

They'd waited, however. Waited until she'd made junior partner in her law firm, waited until he'd sold his first novel, waited until their house in Glen Lawn had been remodeled, waited until their lives had settled into a comfortably efficient groove.

One day they'd stopped talking about dark-haired brilliant daughters and blue-eyed talented sons and started talking about small dogs and trips to Europe. Then they were both thirty-eight and their lives were full, almost too full, of one another and their pursuits.

Ben rarely regretted not having children. He had Vicki, after all, and his career and their friends and a summerhouse. Today though, as she sat in his hospital room, glasses balanced on the bridge of her straight nose, he wondered how different things might have been if they'd opted to have a baby rather than a Lexus five years ago.

"Hey, you're awake," Vicki said, her voice washing over him, sweet and clean.

"Not for long, I'm sure," He smiled.

"That's to be expected." She set her book on the night stand, slipped her hand between the bed rails and threaded her fingers through his.

Her hand, the hand he'd been holding for more than half his life, felt somehow alien, somehow wrong. It was too smooth, too small. Too feminine.

"Ben? Are you all right?"

He wanted to release her hand, to push away her unblemished, uncallused hand, but how would he explain something so ridiculous?

"Ben?"

"Sorry, babe. It must be all the morphine they keep pumping in me. It's fucking with my head, I guess." That seemed as reasonable an explanation as any.

"The doctor said once you start eating, the IV comes out and you'll start on a different kind of pain medication."

The best he'd been able to manage was a few sips of water. The nurse had been after him to try Jell-O and broth, but the mention of food made his stomach roll over. Vicki looked hopeful, so he swallowed his vague nausea. "I'll try later."

"All right," she said, temporarily satisfied. "Meg Thatcher called last night."

"Oh?" Meg Thatcher was his sounding board and agent. A big player in publishing, Meg had taken him under her wing years ago. Her unflagging faith in his writing had been his lifeline when he'd been devastated by rejection at the start of his career.

"You've got it, Ben," she'd say, her beautiful shark smile in place. She'd turn to Vicki and say, "Don't give up on him, Vicki. He's got it. Just hold on."

Under her tutelage, he'd had a few minor successes. Then five years ago, "The Mountie," the first book of his trilogy climbed the New York Bestsellers List and Meg had Ben Fraser on the talk show circuit.

"They'll love you, Ben," Meg had told him as he readied for The Tonight Show. She'd turned to Vicki, "He's smart. He's pretty. They'll love him."

They had.

"Did you tell Meg I was fine?" Ben asked.

"She'd already called the hospital and browbeaten everyone she could get a hold of, so she knew. She did say that she's going to lecture you on how to stay out of the line of fire when she gets back from Chicago."

"I'm certainly looking forward to that," he said, rolling his eyes.

"I'm sure you are," Vicki said. "She called to say she'd had the chance to look at the first two chapters you'd sent her and she was blown away."

"Really?" He possessed a healthy ego, but praise from Meg was as essential to him now as it had been when he was twenty-three and they'd struggled to live on Vicki's law clerk wages.

"She said it's going to be better that the last two."

"Yeah?" He tried to sit up a bit higher and was surprised by the stab of pain in his shoulder.

Vicki narrowed her eyes at his discomfort. "Meg said she'd like you to live long enough to finish the book."

It occurred to him again that he could have died. "I'm sorry, babe."

"Every time I think I'm okay, I remember how you looked. All the blood. You could be dead."

"But I'm not. I'm not dead."

"I know. I know." She cleared the tears from her throat. "You look like you're in pain. Let me get the nurse."

"Okay. Thanks." He used the opportunity to pull his hand from hers.

********

"Your father was absolutely beside himself when Buck Frobisher called and said you were being airlifted to Medicine Hat." Ellen McKenzie-Fraser, blonde and softly rounded and scented like Jean Nate, cocked a conspirator's smile at her stepson. "Honestly, Benton, he was quite frantic."

"Dad was?"

"Indeed he was," she assured him then offered him a water bottle filled with Gatorade.

"No, thank you, Mom," he said. Bob and Maggie had been at the hospital earlier to visit before reporting to the station. Ellen had been left behind to coddle Benton.

"You really need to try and put something more substantial than sips of water in your system, son," she said, putting the bottle back on the bedside table. "Doctor Turnbull isn't going to take that IV out until you start eating and drinking."

"I know." He just couldn't. The bite of Jell-O he'd tried last night had tasted like dirt. "I'll try later."

She wiggled the small finger of her right hand in the air. "Pinkie promise?"

Despite the pain, Benton chuckled. He'd been a frightened eight-year-old when Ellen had coaxed him out of his grandparents' root cellar with a pinkie promise of peanut butter cookies.

Benton's mother, Caroline, had died of ovarian cancer when he was only six. Bob, overwhelmed and grief stricken, had left Benton in the care of his own aged parents.

Two years later, Bob had breezed back into their lives with a new and very pregnant wife in tow. He and Ellen had come, Bob had informed them, to take Benton with them to his new assignment.

Benton had been terrified. He'd barely remembered his father and Ellen had been a complete stranger. His grandparents' home might have been a strict and stifling one, but it had been all he'd known.

So, he'd run away. Ellen, seizing her opportunity, had waddled behind him to the cellar.

That day she'd waged and won her first battle in the campaign to win Benton's heart. In truth, it hadn't been a difficult war to win. The boy had been starving for affection and Ellen had been a loving woman. Long before her baby was born, Ellen had become a mother.

As an adult, Benton appreciated how very lucky he was to have had Ellen in his life. She'd turned what could have been a cold and lonely childhood spent with George and Adele Fraser into something magical. She'd made his early years a place where a boy could be a child and child could grow to be a man, secure and loved.

Ellen, smelling of Jean Nate and peanut butter cookies, had mellowed Bob and befriended Benton. She'd been a beacon of light in what could have been a dark childhood.

He knew that and he loved her.

Yet now, as she pressed her plump hand against his forehead, it felt wrong. The hand that had, during his boyhood, fed him, comforted him, tucked him in at night, felt fleshy, moist and somehow grotesque upon him.

He couldn't help it; he flinched.

"Benton?" Her gentle concern both shamed and disgusted him. "Are you in pain, dear?"

It was as reasonable an excuse as any for the strange thoughts plaguing him. "Yeah, Mom. I am."

"I'll call the nurse."

He was pathetically grateful when Ellen's hand left his face.

********

She'd always touched him entirely too much.

Her hands were lovely: perfectly formed, beautifully manicured and never had they reminded him more of little claws, grabbing and scratching at his flesh.

He attempted to gain a modicum of perspective. In truth, it wasn't actually Francesca's hands that, on occasion, drove him near to madness. No, it wasn't her hands, it was her eyes.

From the day Ray Vecchio had brought him home to meet the extended Vecchio clan, Francesca had been watching him, cataloging him with those eyes.

Her eyes were big, brown and artfully made up in the way actresses could accomplish and Inuit girls could merely aspire to. Her eyes followed him, filled with mindless adoration and frightening hope.

He mostly liked Francesca. She had a certain sweetness, a certain innocence that her somewhat slinky mode of dress could not disguise. She possessed a generous heart and a kind nature. She was also the youngest sister of his very best friend.

"So, Fraser," she purred, practically scampering over the bed rails to run her sharp hands about him. "I brought you some homemade broth."

"Ah," he said while attempting to discreetly move away from her without dislodging his IV, monitor leads and dressings. "That was most kind of you, Francesca."

"It was no trouble."

"It shouldn't have been," Ray interrupted from the doorway. "Angie and Ma made it."

"Then please convey my gratitude to both your wife and your mother, Ray."

"They were happy to do it, Benny. I told them you weren't eating the hospital stuff, so they thought something homemade might tempt you."

"That was very thoughtful," he said.

"Just try and get some down, okay?" Ray slid into the chair Francesca had abandoned while trying to climb closer to the Mountie. "Jesus, Frannie, back off, all right? Give the guy some oxygen."

She swung around to face her brother, her lovely little hands balled into fists on her hips. "Look, Ray."

"Look nothing, Frannie." He glanced at his watch. "Aren't you supposed to open the store pretty soon?"

Francesca nodded reluctantly. "I'll stop back after work, Frase."

"That's good of you to offer, Francesca," he said, anxious to find a reason to keep her away, to keep from being plucked at by her hands later in the day. "However, it's not necessary. I'm sure that after a day of running the bridal shop, you'll be much too tired."

Ray must have heard the desperation that Benny struggled to keep from his voice, for he threw out a lifeline. "Yeah, Angie and Ma want to come up this evening, Frannie. I need you to watch the kids."

"Ray." She all but stomped her foot.

"Frannie, it's nobody's fault that Tony and Marie were on vacation when Benny got hurt. We all have to pitch in, right?" His tone was mild, but his demeanor was steel.

"Right," she said, picking her jacket up off the back of Ray's chair. "You're right. I'll see you tomorrow, Fraser."

"Thank you kindly for stopping by," he said to her retreating back.

"She doesn't mean any harm, Benny."

"Of course not." He closed his eyes. "Just the same, thank you, Ray. I find myself easily exhausted."

"The Dent brothers tore your shoulder up pretty good there. It's going to take a while to heal."

"Yes, I realize that." He didn't know how to explain to Ray about the strangely disjointed way he was feeling. He wasn't sure he wanted to try.

"One thing you've got to do," Ray said, indicating the blue and white checkered thermos Francesca had brought, "is eat. For a guy who'll lick chewed gum and shoe soles, you've become a picky eater."

"I'll try," he said, not at all certain that he would. The thought of eating, of ingesting anything was revolting. He grimaced. "Right now, I believe I'll ask the nurse for something for discomfort."

********

The hushed shuffle of shift change woke Fraser.

Ray, head bowed to his chest, hands folded across his abdomen, was precariously propped in the chair next to his bed. A florescent shaft of light from the hallway shone on the spiked gold of his hair and cast his sharp features into soft shadows.

Fraser was quite sure he'd never seen anything as welcome or as beautiful. He'd asked Ray to be here when he woke up and there Ray was. A sweetness he hadn't felt in much too long swirled up inside him.

So much had changed in the past few months. Never had he believed that after chasing Muldoon across Canada and thwarting the man's nefarious plans at Franklin Bay, that Ray would choose to stay.

Ray, who was city fit, Chicago tough and completely American, had stepped outside his so-called comfort zone to accompany him on an adventure and then on to Fraser's next posting. It was more, much more, than Fraser had ever thought to have. A friendship such as the one he shared with Ray was rare indeed.

Then yesterday, Ray had declared, perhaps not in words but declared just the same, that he intended to be with Fraser not for a season, but forever.

"Hey," Ray said, stretching, then leaning up against the bed rails. "You're awake."

Fraser nodded, the sleepy smile Ray gave him filling him too full of giddiness to speak.

"You doing okay?" Ray asked, reaching out to touch Fraser's hand. Fraser nodded as Ray slipped his fingers about his. "It's a lot to put your head around, right?" Ray said, indicating their joined hands with a jerk of his head. "I mean, I've been, you know, thinking about this, about us, for a long time." When Fraser remained silent, Ray hurried on. "Not that's all I've been thinking about, because if you're not good with this, I'm good with that." Suddenly angry, Ray went on, "I should not have sprung this shit on you while you're hurt, Fraser. That was fucked up . I get that. I'm sorry. My timing sucks."

When Ray would have pulled away, Fraser tugged tight, refusing to let go. "No, your timing is perfect, Ray."

"Yeah?" Smiling again, Ray relaxed, leaving his hand in Fraser's. "All right, then. Okay. So, we're good?"

"Yes, Ray. We're good."

"Listen, Fraser," Ray said, his mouth set in a serious line. "The night nurse was telling me you wouldn't drink enough for them to yank out your IV." When Fraser would have protested, Ray held up his free hand. "She wasn't being a tattling Chatty Cathy or anything. I asked her why you've still got that thing in and that's what she said. I figured the quicker you get that out, the quicker we can go the fuck home."

Ray looked haggard and his distaste for hospitals was well established. Perhaps he'd been selfish to ask Ray to stay. "Ray, it's not necessary for you to be here. I do little more than sleep. You should go back to the house and rest."

He forgot sometimes how quickly Ray's demeanor could change, flashing from coaxing compassion to frustrated fury in less than the span of a heartbeat.

"You fucking don't want me here?"

"Of course I want you here, Ray," he said. "I just thought you could rest more properly at home. I know there are numerous things that require your attention there."

"Stop," Ray said. "Just fucking stop, okay, Fraser? Nothing needs to be, uh, tended to except you. You start drinking and eating and getting better, then we'll both get the hell out of here. Got it?"

With an inward sigh of relief, Fraser said, "Yes, Ray. I've got it."

"Okay then. For now, I'm the lead dog in this partnership. What I say goes, and I say that I stay here, and you drink whatever crap it is that they want you to drink."

He didn't want to argue. Ray appeared so exhausted, so brittle, that Fraser feared he would shatter. Still, the mere act of putting a straw to his lips had caused Fraser to break into a cold sweat earlier. Ray really didn't need to know that, so Fraser said, "I will, Ray. I promise, but later."

Ray squinted at him. "Why later? You hurting?"

"No," he lied. In truth, his shoulder, and surprisingly, his lower back were throbbing. "I'm tired."

"Go to sleep then," Ray whispered. "I'm right here."

Fraser obediently closed his eyes and despite the pain, began to drift off. His last thought was that Ray's hand, always so firm and strong, felt suddenly as light and fragile as a paper fan.

********

At first glance, Angela Marie Giralomi wasn't much of a match for Raymond Vecchio.

Plump, petite and sweetly homely, Angie was more typical of the women of Ray's mother's generation than Ray's own. More comfortable in the old neighborhood surrounded by family than at a Chicago PD function surrounded by Ray's superiors, Angie was a far cry from the elegant, slender WASP that Ray had confided to Benny that he'd always imagined on his arm. Angie, a nurse who volunteered at a women's shelter and truly believed that prayers could bring about miracles, was not, at first glance, Ray's kind of woman.

They'd been divorced for three years when Benny and Ray had teamed up. The marriage, according to Ray, was best left in the past.

Benny hadn't been so sure.

"Your former wife," he'd said after the three of them had crossed paths for the first time, "is a lovely woman."

"Angie?" Ray'd said, popping the Riviera into reverse to pull out of the 2-7 parking lot. "She's okay. Not a knock-out like that new ADA, Kowalski."

Benny had frowned. "I didn't mean lovely in a purely physical sense. I meant she is a kind and thoughtful person."

Ray had pulled into traffic before turning his head to look at Benny. "Angie is good people. Her mom died when we were kids. She must have been fifteen or so. Anyway, she used to work at her old man's grocery store everyday after school. Played hell with trying to date her. She helped raise her kid brother and sister, too. Never complained though. Not once in all the time I've known her."

"Very admirable," Benny had said.

"Yeah. She's a good woman," Ray'd replied absently.

Over the next few months, Benny had watched as Ray sporadically took out women who more correctly fit his ideal than Angie had. He'd looked on as Ray dated then discarded.

Teresa Powers? "She's a complete workaholic." Stella Kowalski? "Still hung up on her ex." Chris Young? "Too self absorbed."

"Ray," Benny had asked one evening as they sat in Ray's favorite Chinese eatery, "is there something in particular, and I don't mean just physical attractiveness, that you're seeking in the ladies that you date?"

"Sure," Ray'd said, putting his menu down. "I want someone I can be proud to be seen with."

"Other than physical attractiveness," Benny had reiterated. He himself had understood how little physical beauty truly meant.

"Then I guess I don't know," Ray'd hedged then relented under Benny's stare. "Okay, I want someone who understands me, you know? Someone who understands where I come from and where I want to be."

"Hmm."

"I guess I want what my old man had. Someone who'll love you no matter what. Someone who'll always be there, no matter how many times you screw up." Ray'd laughed bitterly. "Of course, I won't be a dick to her, like my old man was to my Ma. If I ever find her, that is."

A month later, Kaye Vecchio had slipped on an icy sidewalk. She'd been lucky to sprain an ankle and bruise a knee rather than break a hip, but the doctor had banished her to two weeks of bedrest and light household duties for a month after that.

"I can't just lay around for six weeks, Ray," Kaye had argued as she lay on her bed, leg elevated, ice packs in place. "Who's going to cook and clean and shop?"

"Frannie can do it," Ray'd said.

"Frannie's working eighty hours a week at her bridal shop," Benny had pointed out as he readjusted Kaye's pillows.

"Okay," Ray had said, "then Marie can."

"Marie," Kaye had answered, "has a job, three kids and a husband to take care of. She doesn't have time. And you're working all the time."

"I'll hire someone to come in then," Ray'd said, nearing the end of his patience.

"That won't be necessary," Angie had said, coming into Kaye's bedroom. "Tony Junior let me in. Hello, Ray. Hi, Benny." She'd dropped the armload of magazines she’d been carrying on the corner of Kaye's dresser. "Hello, Ma. How are you feeling?"

Kaye had opened her arms in greeting and Angie leaned forward to kiss her. "Angie, I knew you'd come."

"I came as soon as I heard. How are you feeling, really?"

"Better now that my favorite daughter-in-law is here."

"Ma," Ray had started.

Kaye had shot her son a hard look. "You were stupid enough to divorce her, not me." She'd patted Angie's cheek. "She's still my daughter, I'm still her Ma. Now, you boys shoo. Go back to your work. Angie will take care of everything, won't you, dear?"

Angie's slow blush and gentle smile gave Benny a glimpse of what must have attracted Ray to her all those years ago.

"Angie," Fraser had commented as the two men slipped into the Riviera, "is truly a lovely woman."

"Yeah," Ray had answered thoughtfully.

"The kind of woman who might understand a man such as yourself, Ray. A woman a man could be proud of and proud to be seen with."

"Don't start, Benny,' Ray had warned.

Angie had stopped by every morning on her way to the clinic and every evening on her way home during Kaye’s recuperation.. A week into Kaye's recovery, Ray started driving Angie home in the evenings. Two weeks into Kaye's convalescence, Ray had started dating Angie. A month after Kaye was back on her feet, Ray and Angie were married in the Vecchio living room.

"We can't really remarry in the Church," Ray had explained to Benny. "As far as the Church is concerned, Angie and I have been married all along."

"Perhaps you have," Benny had ventured.

"Yeah, well, perhaps you're right." Ray had agreed.

So, it had been no surprise to Benny to find Angie Vecchio standing at his bedside.

"Hello, Angie." His voice was weak, weaker, it seemed to him, than it had been days ago.

"Hi, Benny. I was downstairs in medical records, so I thought I'd pop in for a minute."

"Thank you."

"Benny? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, although he wondered about the bright edges around his vision.

"I’m glad. Ray has been a little lost without you." She smiled her gentle smile. "We all have been."

"Surely not," Benny said, trying to remain calm as the bright edges began to shoot across his line of vision.

"Surely so, Benny. Don't think I don't know you helped me and Ray get back together. Don't think we don't know that you helped Ray decide to stay at the 2-7 rather than go on that long undercover thing he was offered." She hugged him briefly. "You're a part of our family, Benny."

He wanted to tell her how important she and the Vecchios were to him, how much they'd done for him over the last three years, but the lights were bright, bright and somehow loud.

Angie cried out as Benny started to go into convulsions.

********

Ben would always see Meg Thatcher as his guardian angel.

Brash, bold, grating and aggressive, Meg was more the stereotype of a modern career woman than a Renaissance cherub. It was, however, her belief and drive that had saved him from becoming an insurance salesman with a closet full of unfinished manuscripts or a grade five teacher wishing he'd gotten a degree in something other than English Lit.

Life without Meg's divine intervention would have been very different indeed. He'd still have Vicki, of course, but he didn't kid himself that Vicki hadn't come to love, to need all the amenities that his success had brought them.

His guardian angel, decked out in the latest version of the feminine power suit, had sent Vicki on her way five minutes ago and then stationed herself at Ben's bedside.

"I'm serious, Ben, you've out done yourself. These chapters are amazing."

"Like it, do you?" He smiled at her. She'd always been his biggest fan and defender, next to Vicki, but he'd never seen her so enthused about a project. About anything, actually.

"Like it? I'm in love with it." She shook at red-tipped finger at him. "No more riding with the Mounties, though."

"No more," he promised. "Between you, Vicki and the bullet they dug out of my shoulder, I've been shown the error of my researching ways."

"Good." She flipped though the typed pages of his new manuscript. "It's so bold. So completely unexpected."

"It is?"

"The way you changed the Mountie's sidekick. Unorthodox and a little dangerous to say the least. Since the readers loved the Mountie and his partner in the previous two books, I would have talked you out of changing characters had you told me about it." She shook her head. "And I would have been absolutely wrong. They're going to love this new guy. Not that the trilogy was stale. It wasn't, but this just gives it so much sizzle. The chemistry between these guys, God!"

"Excuse me?" He had no idea what she was talking about. His head was beginning to throb, and the room suddenly had a sickeningly sweet odor that he couldn't identify.

She stopped flipping pages and began to read: 

"This is pure gold, Ben. The heat between them, the Mountie and the cop as lovers, as coconspirators in a crime, the whole thing is just so outside the bounds."

It made no sense. He knew he'd never written what she was reading. Why would he have changed characters? Why would he have made the Mountie's name his own? It made no damned sense. Why didn't Meg see that?

He would have told her, wanted to tell her, but the sweet smell filled his nostrils and his mouth and his eyes and his ears, and he was sure he was suffocating.

Meg, who'd never seen a seizure before, screamed for the nurse.

********

Renfield Turnbull and Benton Fraser had known one another from boyhood.

Both sons of career Mounties, they'd each been dragged from posting to posting, adapting as best they could to the ever changing scenery and faces around them. Their paths had crossed often enough that, despite Benton being Renfield's senior by two years, they'd become friends.

They'd kept in contact over the years as Benton went to the Depot and Renfield to University. Renfield had hosted a party for Benton when he'd been promoted to sergeant three years ago and Benton had been an usher at Renfield's marriage to an American girl last year.

The two had been childhood playmates and adult friends, but never had they been patient and doctor before. Benton found it rather disconcerting.

"You say you're having pain in your lower back?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been experiencing this pain?"

"Not long," Benton said, shrugging his right shoulder. "A day, perhaps."

"Why didn't you say something earlier?" Renfield asked, flipping through the lab slips on his clipboard.

"It didn't seem germane," Benton said, feeling somewhat stupid. "I suppose I thought my back hurt because I'd been laying about for several days."

"That's actually the reason I came in," Renfield said, frowning at some of the numbers he found. "Doctor Norman is supposed to be supervising your case over the next week. Francesca and I are going to Chicago for a short holiday. It seems my brother-in-law is finally getting ready to tie the knot again. He's coming up from Florida so the family can meet his intended."

"You needn't have interrupted your plans for me, Renfield."

"Don't be ridiculous, Benton. How could I leave before I checked on one of the famous Frasers?" He laughed. "My dad is thrilled. Not that you're injured," he added hastily, "but that he can brag to all his cronies at the Depot that his son is treating one of the legendary Fraser Clan. Besides," he said, glancing at his watch, "Francesca and I still have time to make our flight."

Benton blushed. "The legendary Fraser Clan? That's just silly, Renfield."

"That's what they all call you. Your family is a Mountie legacy. 'Bold, brilliant, beautiful.'"

Groaning with embarrassment, Benton said, "Please tell me that you're making all that up."

"Can't do that since it's all true." Renfield put the clipboard down on the bedside table. "Listen, Benton, some of your lab values are a little off. I'm ordering some blood work to be drawn as well as another EKG and a few other tests."

"What is it?"

"I don't think it's anything major, but I'll like to run some tests to be sure."

He knew better than to argue. "All right."

"In the meanwhile, I want you to drink and try to eat so we can get that IV out. You're far enough away from your surgery that you should be off the parenteral fluids."

Feeling lightheaded, Benton nodded. "I'll try."

"You have to do better than try. You have to do it."

He nodded again, wondering about the ringing that had started in his head.

"And you have to let the nurses get you up and walking. I know you feel weak and you're in pain, but moving around will help build your strength back up. I'm not saying you need to run up and down the hallways, but start by sitting up in the chair for an hour or so this afternoon."

He could see Renfield's lips moving, but the only thing he could hear before the hot twitching darkness swirled him under was the off-pitch gonging of church bells.

********

Fraser had been thirteen when he'd shared his very first kiss with Mark Smithbauer.

It had been a clumsy, fumbling encounter filled with clicking teeth, wet tongues and the naughty, forbidden playfulness that young boys revel in.

That winter, on a nest of blankets in the corner of Mark's father's barn, the boys went from fumbling to finesse as they learned to kiss and caress one another into orgasm.

"God, Ben," Mark would whisper each time they'd hunkered down in the quiet darkness, "you're so damn pretty."

He'd always thought that he should be a bit outraged at the adjective. After all, shouldn't Mark have found him handsome rather than something so girlish as pretty? Living in George and Adele's home, however, where frivolous things like physical beauty were of no consequence, Fraser had secretly treasured Mark's observation.

Fraser's grandparents had moved shortly after the thaw that spring, and he'd left Mark Smithbauer and his boyhood affair behind.

Seven years later, Mark and Fraser collided again. Mark had been a rookie with the Toronto team and Fraser had been a cadet at the Depot. A chance meeting on the street had led to a weekend where together they'd perfected more than kisses and caresses.

"God, Ben, you're so damn pretty," Mark had whispered as he'd pushed into Ben's hot, tight body. "You're just so damn pretty."

Exhausted and sore, they'd shared a farewell kiss in the hotel room and then shook hands goodbye in the hotel lobby.

Fifteen years later, they met again in Chicago. Fraser had done what he could to help Mark, they'd made love a dozen times and said goodbye once more.

As they hadn't spoken since, seeing Mark standing at his bedside where Ray usually stood, jarred him.

"Mark?"

"Hi, Ben," Mark said, sitting down in Ray's chair. "I heard about you getting shot."

"You did?"

"It was all over the news," Mark said, standing up again to pace around the bed. "'Mountie brings down weapons ring.'"

"Ah."

"Not that it's the first time I've read about your exploits. It's just the first time I've actually been close enough to drop in."

"Close enough?"

"I'm mentoring a kids' hockey camp about ten miles from here."

"So you came to see me?" Frankly, he was stunned.

"I've always wanted to, Ben. When we were thirteen or twenty or thirty four." Mark ceased pacing and grabbed tight to the bed rails. "I've missed you."

"You have?"

Mark leaned close and cupped Fraser's face with both hands. "You were always so damned pretty, Ben."

"Break it the fuck up," Ray cried, hurrying into the room. "Christ Almighty, Fraser, I go down to the cafeteria and I come back to find," he stopped in his tracks, his eyes growing wide in amazement, "Mark-fucking-Smithbauer pawing all over you."

Mark straightened up. "What's it to you?"

Fraser spoke at the same time. "It's not as it appears, Ray." Although from the angry hurt in Ray's face, he feared it was.

Ray pointed his coffee at Mark. "I'm his partner, that's what it is to me." He swung to Fraser. "And it looked like you were about to, uh, suck face with some ex-jock."

Fraser's brain and stomach began to roll within him as the penny dreadful farce continued to play out.

A few years ago, before Ray Kowalski had become the centerpiece of his universe, Fraser would have welcomed gladly Mark's unexpected declaration. There was a time, not far gone, when he would have viewed Mark's presence as heaven sent.

Not that he'd ever felt about Mark as he felt about Ray. Mark had been his playmate, his friend, his lover. Ray was, well, Ray was his everything.

Stinging yellow spots circled his sight line as he watched Mark and Ray threateningly size each other up. Mark, big, muscular and cocksure, and Ray, sparse, lean and cocksure, were each saying something loud and quite possibly stupid, but he could hear nothing more than the roar of the ocean thundering in his skull.

The scene before him was so painfully ridiculous, Fraser would have laughed his horror aloud had the sudden tingling in his hands and feet not turned to popping, sparkling spasms.

The last thing he saw before the shining darkness crushed him, was Ray, eyes bright with fear, reaching for him.

********

This bobbing above everyone and everything was unnerving. It was a peculiar feeling, really, consisting of equal parts peaceful buoyancy and frightful drowning.

It reminded him of the day he and Vicki had spent frolicking in the Mediterranean Sea off the shore of Barcelona. They'd slipped like fish beneath the warm, salty waves, giggling as their fair skin crisped in the afternoon sun.

Perversely, it reminded him of the time he and Victoria had huddled in a crag on the lee side of a mountain, a blizzard raging upon them. For a day and a night and a day, they'd clung together against the raging cold.

Before he could ponder any longer the difference between the coconut-flavored tanning lotion on Vicki's shoulders and the gunmetal tang on Victoria's fingers, his attention was drawn to the flailing form below him.

Grand mal, he observed dispassionately, even though he clearly recognized the seizing man on the bed as himself.

"Five milligrams diazepam IV push STAT," a doctor called out. The health care team gathered about his bed watched in vain. The diazepam had no effect. "Okay," the doctor said, "five more milligrams now."

Ah. So, he'd crossed the line from grand mal to status epilepticus. That wasn't good; it wasn't good at all.

Even as the doctor attempted to thread an airway down his still twitching body's throat, he could see why Francesca Vecchio was so enamored of him. Mark was correct--he really was damn pretty.

Fast losing interest in the drama below him, he considered trying to float out of the room when he heard the doctor declare, "That's it. That's it. He's stable."

As if someone had pulled the plug on the bathtub drain, he was sucked and swirled back down.

********

It was juvenile, Ben supposed, but he'd never gotten over the rush he felt when he walked into a room with Vicki.

Having the most beautiful woman in the place on his arm was heady stuff and he enjoyed it as much at thirty-eight as he had at eighteen. A man of similar social class would judge Ben's success on his net worth. A man a few rungs beneath Ben might judge his success on the size of his house or the make of his car. A man who aspired to be a writer might judge Ben's success on his latest novels' rank on the best sellers list.

Every man, however, whether young or old, wealthy or destitute, quick-witted or dullard, would look at a jewel like Vicki adorning him and know that Ben had succeeded.

From the schoolyard to the graveyard, all men understood and admired the stealth of a hunter who could bag and keep a stunning woman. No man would ever admit it, of course, and especially not to a woman, but there it was.

A man wanted a gorgeous woman and he wanted other men to envy him. Ben's father had said that often enough.

Or had he?

Maybe what his dad had talked about was wanting justice; Ben couldn't really recall at the moment. He knew his dad had talked to him about something ad nauseam.

His chest itched, really itched, but each time he attempted to lift his hand to scratch, he felt a tug about his wrists, so he tried to think about something else.

Like Victoria and her magnificent hair. He loved to let the soft, fragrant mass drag across his bare chest when they made love. Vicki didn't keep her hair long anymore; she hadn't since her days working as a law clerk, but that didn't detract from her looks. She was so beautiful that every man wanted her.

That was, every man who wasn't Ray Vecchio. For some reason, he'd never been tempted by Victoria. He'd never comprehended what Benny saw in her. Truthfully, had it been any man other than Ray, Benny might have hesitated to leave her with him in an empty house overnight.

Not with Ray, however, and not because Ray Vecchio was his best friend. Their friendship should have been the most important thing, the deal breaker so to speak, but it wasn't. The only reason Benny had known Victoria was perfectly safe in the Vecchio home that night was the wisp of distain he'd spotted in Ray's eyes when he'd looked at her, and the dull ring of disgust he'd heard in Ray's voice when he'd spoken to her.

Ray had never been drawn in by Victoria's lovely lies. Ray, when he'd looked upon her, had only seen a criminal, a thief, a killer. But then, Ray had never seen Vicki sitting at the kitchen table studying for her bar exam. Ray had never seen Vicki dancing barefoot on the grass while the Talking Heads blared from the car stereo. He'd never seen her wrapped in pale blue sheets, her white skin gleaming in snowy moonlight.

God, his chest itched.

Ray's only vision of Victoria was devastatingly dangerous, dragging them all toward destruction.

Ben wanted to laugh aloud at his outrageous alliteration, but his mouth and throat were jammed full of something hard and soft, and his chest stopped itching and started to burn. It burned like a mother fucker. Electricity popped through him and he wanted to pull away, to pull the fuck away, but he was tethered and there was no way to escape.

"Clear!"

He heard it as plain as day as the electricity pierced him again and again. He wanted to scream but there was nowhere for the air to go.

"Clear!"

He fell back into quiet darkness.

********

His eyes shut, his body lax, his limbs tingling in a not quite unpleasant way, he pushed off and allowed himself to drift.

Like waves, their voices lapped at him, then faded away.

"Please, Ben. Please don't leave me," Vicki Fraser begged, her breath warm on his cheek. "What would I do without you?"

"You're worrying the stuffing out of Mum and Dad," Maggie Fraser scolded, her serge scratching against his arm. "You're worrying me, too, big brother."

"Christ Almighty," Ray Vecchio said, his cologne wafting over him. "Ma, Angie and Frannie said a half dozen Rosaries after Mass today. They've lit so many damn candles that I'm afraid Saint Michael's is going to burn to the ground. You need to get better already, Benny."

"Don't die, Fraser. Do not fucking die." Ray Kowalski's voice broke and his roughened fingertips brushed over his lips. "Even if you end up with some Eskimo chick or Mark-fucking-Smithbauer instead of me, don't die, Fraser. Do not fucking die."

He considered telling them that their concern was unnecessary. He was fine, after all, but the current he was riding didn't slow down.

"Benton, you make me proud. You always have. Make me proud one more time, son. Pull out of this." Bob Fraser's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're all I have left of Caroline. I can't lose you, too."

"You can't die," Meg Thatcher insisted. "We've got a dozen bestsellers left in your head, Ben. Talent like yours, well, an agent could wait a lifetime and never be lucky enough to find it."

"I picked out a dress last week." Francesca fretted. "I mean, you haven't asked me yet. Or even dated me, but I just know I can make you see we belong together, Benny. I just know it."

"In case you're wondering, your little blond boyfriend is home feeding your dogs. He's a strange guy," Mark Smithbauer mused. "I'm pretty sure he hates my guts, but he called and asked me to sit with you while he ran some errands today. He said he didn't want you to wake up and not find a familiar face. Strange guy. You sure know how to pick them, Ben."

He wanted to tell Mark that he did indeed know how to pick them. He might not have friends and family thick upon the ground, but those he had were faithful and supportive. He could count on them.

Or could he? Perhaps he was alone more than in the company of others or he'd been disappointed more often than satiated.

Or maybe he hadn't.

Everything was so far and so close and everything was crystal clear and foggy dim. It was a jumble of perfect sense. When he thought he might have a grasp on it, it slipped away.

Just as well for he couldn't be bothered as the stream he floated upon began to pick up speed.

Their voices continued to reach out to him, louder and softer, nearer and farther. They were a cacophony that produced a sentence here and there that he could decipher.

"But why?" Ellen asked. "He was doing well. Perhaps not well, but he was doing a little better. At least, he was looking a little better."

"The wound became infected," Doctor Turnbull said. "Despite our efforts, the infection quickly spread into his blood stream."

"Yes, yes, I understand that," Vicki said impatiently, "but you'd said that the antibiotics were working."

"The antibiotics did appear to be working initially. However, the infection had begun a chain reaction that resulted in some major organ shut down."

"And that's why he had the seizures?" Ray Vecchio asked.

"That, and an unfortunate reaction to the antibiotic. It's not all that common to have an allergic reaction of such magnitude, but anaphylactic shock does and did occur."

"So, now he's got a tube down his throat for breathing and needles in his arms for medicine. Jesus," Ray Kowalski said. "Is he going to live? I mean live like the guy he was, with his brain and his body working right?"

"No one can predict with absolute certainty what the outcome of any treatment will be."

A rumbling drowned the voices as the current continued to gain momentum. Fast, so fast, no longer a peaceful meander along the past and the present. Instead, a breakneck rush toward something. Something huge and strong and wet.

It was a waterfall, he realized, plunging feet first into the abyss.

********

A First Nations man, hair long and loose, glided toward him from the pines that lined the river bank. "It took you long enough, brother," the man said.

"You were expecting me?" he asked, uncomfortably aware of his near nudity. He gathered the ends of his hospital gown tightly.

"For quite some time." The man's voice was soft, but carried easily over the roar of the waterfall. "You're as stubborn now as you were when we were children."

"Do we know each other?" He ran his knuckle over his eyebrow, grateful to find himself hardy and hale rather than broken and bruised. Indeed, instead of being sopping wet and nearly drown on the rocks, he was safe and dry on the riverbank, the spring sun shining down upon him. It was quite remarkable.

"We know each other," the man confirmed. "No matter who you choose to be, I know you."

"Who I choose to be?" He shook his head at the cryptic remark, then studied the man before him.

The man was handsome, about Fraser’s own age and height and was garbed in an animal-skin robe. The arrogant tilt of his head, the proud stance sparked something in Benton's brain and he was suddenly flooded with conflicting memories.

The man, this boy, had been friend, mentor, lover and enemy to him.

"Eric?" he asked.

"In the flesh," Eric said, then laughed. "Well, more or less in the flesh."

"Where are we?"

"A better question might be 'who are we.'" Eric turned and began to walk back into the woods. Benton hurried to follow. "We're in the Borderlands."

"Are we alive or are we dead?"

"Neither. Both." Eric shrugged his broad shoulders and continued through the trees. "Do you care if you're alive or dead?"

"Of course," he answered quickly.

"Really?" Eric asked, moving deeper into the forest. "Why?"

"Because... because... " he faltered. "Because... "

"Because, because. Because you're here. Because you're queer. Because." Eric mocked in a singsong voice.

"What?"

"Enough for now, brother. We're here."

He was about to ask exactly where it was that they were when a small clearing came into view. "Here," Eric said, indicating a sweat lodge that was nearly hidden in the foliage beside them.

"Strip," Eric commanded, then dropped his robe and stretched. His bronzed body was thickly muscled and beautifully familiar to Benton. "Come on, brother." Eric fell to his knees and crawled into the structure.

Fraser fumbled with his modesty and his hospital gown for a moment before freeing himself of both and climbing in after Eric. The smoky heat in the sweat lodge slammed the breath out him. He struggled dizzily until he was sitting cross-legged across the fire from Eric.

"The first time I brought you into a sweat lodge, you fainted," Eric smirked.

"I was only ten, Eric."

"Back then you could move very fast. Can you still move fast?"

Could he? Fraser closed his eyes. He was a child racing through the underbrush, Quinn trailing behind him. He was a college boy sprinting toward the finish line, Vicki cheering him on. He was a young man at the Depot hurling through the obstacle course, intent on beating the record his father set. He was a grown man running alongside a train, reaching out, reaching out for something, for someone...

He opened his eyes. "I believe so, yes."

"That's good," Eric said, then sprinkled herb laced water on the hot stones that ringed the fire. The cloying smell made Benton's stomach reel. "You're not going to faint, are you?"

"No," he managed, swallowing hard against the bile rising up in his throat. "No."

"That's good, too," Eric said, drizzling more of the offensive liquid on the rocks.

"Why are we here, Eric?" he asked.

"You're here to learn and to choose," Eric smiled. A memory washed over Fraser of Eric writhing beneath him, naked and musky, as they ground toward orgasm. "I'm here because you need me."

"Ah." He rubbed his hands over his face. "That really tells me nothing."

"I'm not here to tell you anything, brother. I'm here to be your lead line."

"And I'm a pony?"

"A tether then, so that you can find your way back."

"From a vision quest?"

Eric inclined his head. "Call it what you will. It's your journey of discovery."

"Precisely what is it that I'm supposed to be discovering?"

Eric poured out another ladle of water on the hot stones, and the lodge was filled with a thick, fragrant fog. "This," he said.

********

Fraser stood on the roof of the Yellowknife Public Library.

Wet, heavy flakes of snow fell through the air, obscuring the lamp-lit street below him. Despite the harsh weather, he was comfortably warm in his bare feet and hospital gown.

"Eric? I can't see anything."

"Then listen," Eric's voice said in his head.

He listened for a moment, but could detect nothing other than the icy whistle of winter wind. "I can't hear anything, either."

"Brother," the disembodied voice was tinged with impatience, "listen and look with your heart."

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered to himself. Since this entire ordeal had started, and he couldn't pinpoint when exactly that was, he'd been one step behind and one space out of sync. It had left him feeling stupid and God, how he hated feeling stupid.

Resolving to find both the right answers and the correct questions, he opened his heart to look and listen.

The snow began to whisper to him.

********

He was twelve years old. His beauty and natural grace were trying desperately to catch up with his adolescent body. His grandmother, as neat and sturdy as her blue work dress, stood in the kitchen of their tiny cabin peeling turnips.

"I'm sorry, Benton," she said, not unkindly, "but it's out of the question."

"Grandma," he said, wincing at the whine in his cracking voice, "all the other boys in the village have done it."

"All the Indian boys, perhaps." She rinsed the vegetables and placed them in a black iron pot. "Their culture has different requirements. It's not the same for you."

Benton was all too aware it wasn't the same for him. He wanted so much to be the same, to not stand out. In a village filled with Native boys, his own fair skin and blue eyes were like a bright flag that drew almost as much unwanted attention as being the son of a Mountie or the grandson of eccentric librarians.

"Grandma," he tried again.

"Benton," she said sharply, "there's no point in discussing this further. Your grandfather and I have decided there will be no caribou hunting. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am." His tone was carefully bland, carefully polite.

"Good boy. Now, if you would please stoke the fire, I'd appreciate it. I need to get the turnips boiling."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, already planning his escape. Tonight, after his grandparents were asleep, he'd sneak out. He wasn't going to be the only twelve year old without a kill under his belt.

As he fed tinder into the stove, Benton wished for the millionth time that his mother was here. He barely remembered her, but he knew she would have understood how important it was for him to be more like Eric or Innusiq. His mother wouldn't have laughed if he told her he wanted to go to college or that he wanted to be a writer some day. His mother would have understood, had she lived.

A crow's cry filled the air and he found himself kneeling in the snow on the library's roof. He touched his face and found it wet with the tears of long ago.

"Eric?"

"Look and listen, brother."

Benton opened his heart. The snow began to whisper again.

********

She felt slender, but strong in his arms.

Her hair, neatly pulled up to comply with regulation specifications, smelled clean and lemony. Jean Nate, if he wasn't mistaken. When he would have released her, she clung tight for a moment more.

"Your cab is waiting," he said, somewhat embarrassed at their public display.

She kissed his cheek. "We just found each other. I hate to leave so soon."

Putting an arm's length between them, he took a moment and drank her in. He was absurdly proud of the picture she made. The bright hair and red serge were welcome dashes of color in the otherwise gray parking lot behind the 2-7. Her blonde hair must have come from her mother's side, but her blue eyes were pure Fraser. He'd seen that exact shade of blue in his grandfather’s eyes and his own mirror.

"You can always call me when you want to talk, Maggie."

She laughed. "Not so easy to do since you don't have a telephone."

He considered telling her that she could reach him via Ray Kowalski's cellular telephone, but a small and petty part of him didn't want to share his newly discovered sister with Ray anymore than strictly necessary. If Ray wanted to chat up someone's sister, he could talk to Francesca.

"You can leave word for me at the Consulate."

"And you could call me."

"I will."

"Promise?"

"I promise," he said sincerely, then tucked her into the airport bound taxi. Maggie turned to wave at him through the rear window as the car pulled away. She looked suddenly very young and very alone to him. Most days, he felt the same.

Dief woofed at him.

"Yes, Dief. It would appear that we now have a family."

He had family. All these lonely years, he'd had Maggie and she'd had him and they'd been alone and unaware.

It could have been so different, he realized, had his father done the right thing and acknowledged his relationship with Ellen MacKenzie, Maggie's mother. He could have lived in a real family. He could have been a girl's big brother and a stepmother's son.

Growing up with Ellen and Maggie, he would have had a glimpse into the mystifying world of women. He could have experienced their softness and learned a bit about relating to them. They might have been able to tease the awkwardness from him.

Perhaps he would never have had to leave Canada. Perhaps he would be settled now, more connected with those around him. Perhaps he could have avoided his disastrous entanglement with Victoria.

Instead, he'd been cheated. They'd all been cheated out of so much. God, he wished that Bob had married Ellen.

The crow plucked at his hair.

"Is that absolutely necessary?" Fraser asked. He was sitting cross-legged on the roof, snow filling his lap, his skull and heart a bit sore.

"There is more, brother. Listen and look. Time grows short."

He opened his heart again.

******

Fraser stood in the dark, propping his shoulder against the building that housed the 2-7 while he waited for Ray to finish whatever it was Ray had to finish before they could go get something to eat.

Ray.

Fraser pressed his lips together tightly against the bubble of hysteria that threatened to pop out. Whoever the lanky blond upstairs was, he wasn't Ray Vecchio. With his father's dubious encouragement, Fraser had proven that obvious truth beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Brown leather jacket creaking, he shifted to lean his sore back against the brick. Most of the time, he was able to ignore the dull throb near his spine where torn muscles had knitted and a bullet lay. Today, however, had been incredibly difficult.

He'd left the Territories nearly forty hours ago. Since then, he'd endured numerous hours of air travel and layovers, capped off with miles of walking from O'Hare, only to end his journey at a burnt pile of rubble where his apartment building had once stood. That, unfortunately, had been the best part of his day.

Arriving at the police station to discover Ray Vecchio, his best friend, had been replaced by a pale, blue-eyed stranger had shaken his world at its core. Everyone he'd come to know in Chicago, from Welsh to Turnbull and from Huey to Elaine, acted as thought nothing had changed. Perhaps for them, nothing had. Perhaps for them, Detective First Grade Vecchios were as interchangeable as snowmobile parts. Put a shield in a man's pocket, stand him next to a Mountie and send him off in a green Riviera to solve crime, and one Ray was, apparently, just the same as another.

It was not, however, even remotely the same to Fraser.

Here in Chicago, in this terrifyingly alien place, Ray Vecchio was his anchor. Sarcastic, streetwise and more suave than he gave himself credit for, Ray Vecchio had helped Fraser pick his way through the confusing maze of city life.

Dief huffed at him, then wandered around the corner.

"I realize you're hungry, Diefenbaker, but I don't think complaining is going to hurry him along." He shifted again on the wall, trying to find a comfortable place.

Ray Vecchio. Fraser sighed. The most important thing that Ray had given him was a purpose.

After solving his father's murder, Canada no longer wanted him. Despite their brief kiss, Inspector Thatcher had made it more than clear that she'd be happy to see the last of him. Ray, unlike anyone else, needed him. Somehow, Ray Vecchio, who had been surrounded by familiar guideposts--his family, his job, his friends--had completely lost his way. Fraser had helped him find his path again.

Ray was gone and he should've seen it coming. That cryptic last call from Ray should have prepared him. It had been as if they were speaking in a secret code that Fraser had no way to decipher. The call had also sparked the memory of another puzzling conversation he'd shared with Ray while in the hospital, following the Victoria incident.

"Sometimes," Ray had confided, "a guy gets tagged by the brass for a job he doesn't want."

He'd nodded. As a police officer, he'd learned that all too well.

"Sometimes, Benny, a guy gets tagged, and he can't say no because he needs a reason to say no. The job is important so he can't just say no because he wants to. He needs a damn good reason that he can't let them make him disappear. Maybe he's got a wife and a couple of kids. They can't make a man disappear when he's got real obligations like that, right? Otherwise, though, it's open season on the guy."

A year ago, Fraser hadn't grasped exactly what it was Ray had been talking about. Now, however, he understood perfectly. Somewhere along the line, Ray had been tagged. He hadn't wanted to be, but he'd lacked a compelling reason to say "no".

It seemed impossible, but Ray, his best friend, was gone. In his place was a stranger who, while surely a good police officer, made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't explain. A man who made him... well, almost itchy, in a way he'd never experienced before.

He wanted Ray Vecchio, the real Ray Vecchio, back. As he waited in the dark, he wished Ray Vecchio would have possessed a reason to say no. He wished Ray Vecchio had a wife and children.

********

Fraser was sprawled on his back on the library roof. Snow was falling upon him and a large crow clawed at his left shoulder. "Stop that, Eric. It hurts."

He tried to sit up, but was too weak and dizzy. As the pain increased, he reached out to push the crow from him, but found nothing save an open, bleeding wound in his shoulder.

"Eric?" Snow filled his mouth as he spoke. He couldn't hear his own voice over the wind. "Eric?"

Eric's voice was strong in his ear. "You're almost out of time, brother. Hurry."

"I'm so tired."

"Do it now. There may not be another time."

His eyes fluttered shut and with supreme effort, he opened his heart. The snow whispered to him.

********

Ray Kowalski, fine boned firecracker that he was, was unlike anyone Fraser had ever known.

Even amid the sparking electricity of Chicago, Ray had caught his eye. Here in the white wilderness, Ray was the brightest spot as far as his eye could see. Each night, as they sat across the campfire from one another, Fraser watched in awe as Ray glowed.

Merely looking at Ray hurt him sometimes. The pain started behind his breastbone and radiated out until breathing a breath or dreaming a dream was excruciating.

Just the same, Fraser never chose to look away.

Throughout the first two years of their partnership and the first five hundred miles of their adventure, Fraser couldn't precisely say why that was. In fact, it wasn't until now, as the end of their partnership and their adventure were rapidly approaching, that he permitted himself to even think about it.

Here, as they lay in the darkness of their tent, sleeping bags pushed together seam to seam, he listened to Ray's soft snoring and allowed himself to understand. Somehow Ray, with his shield-like swaggering and his vulnerable bravado, had unwittingly snared his heart. He was in love with Ray Kowalski. It was simple, foolish and true.

Ray snuffled in his sleep for a moment, then settled down. Fraser couldn't see him through the midnight pitch, but he turned to face him just the same. Eyes opened or closed, in the light of spring or the dark of winter, he knew already exactly what Ray would look like.

Fraser needed no illumination to see the long fan of lashes or the shock of dark rooted hair or the lean, sharp angle of bones to know the precise appearance of Ray's face. He hoped that long after Ray had returned to Chicago, long after the brightest spot on his horizon and heart had gone, he would be able to recall each minute detail of Ray.

He hoped the light of his memory would never dim.

"Fraser?" Ray's voice reached him on a sleepy puff of air.

"Yes, Ray?" he whispered, although there was no one, save the dogs, to disturb.

"'S late?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Go to sleep. Your turn to drive tomorrow."

"Yes, Ray."

How long, he wondered, would it take for him to become accustomed to being alone again? He'd been alone before of course, so it wasn't as though he was incapable of the adjustment.

He'd been left alone after his mother died, after Mark moved away, after leaving the Depot, after arriving in Chicago, after Victoria climbed aboard a train, after Ray Vecchio had gone undercover, after his father's ghost had faded. He'd been alone, save Diefenbaker's companionship, most of his life.

Ray's rhythmic breathing filled the tent.

All those other times, he'd pulled himself together and gone on. This time, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he could go on without Ray, shining and sparring beside him. He wasn't sure if he wanted to.

What he did want was for Ray to stay in Canada. He wanted Ray to be with him, to want to stay with him from this moment forward.

He wished Ray Kowalski loved him.

********

"Ray," Fraser moaned, staring up blindly. He tried to open his eyes, then realized with a start that they were open--he could see nothing because his face, along with the rest of his body, was covered in snow.

"Get up, brother."

"Can't," he said, the pain in his shoulder and the blanket of snow holding him down.

"Get up or all is lost."

"Can't," he said again, wondering how Eric could even understand him while he spoke with a mouth full of snow.

"Now!"

Calling upon reserves he'd been previously unaware of, Fraser struggled to his knees. Using his right hand to clutch his aching shoulder, he clumsily stood. His hand quickly became slick with blood.

"Over here, brother." A large crow perched on the ledge of the library.

"Eric?" He staggered toward the bird. "Eric? You are Crow? The light bringer?"

Ignoring Fraser’s question, Crow regarded him with shiny, flat black eyes. "What did you see?"

He stood close to the ledge, then leaned back, not trusting his balance. "I saw myself. Myself as a boy and as a man."

Crow nodded. "What did you see?"

"I saw people that I care about."

Crow fluttered the snow off his gleaming feathers. "What did you see?"

"I saw my past."

Crow cocked his head. "What did you hear?"

"I heard my thoughts at the time."

"What did you hear?"

"I heard the voices of those I love."

"What did you hear?"

"I heard..." He thought hard for a moment, no small feat while his life's blood was saturating his hospital gown. "I heard... my desires. My desire for things to be not as they were. Not as they are." His feet and hands were growing numb. "I heard... My wishes. I heard my wishes."

Crow cawed out a proud laugh. "Good, brother. Very good." With a flick of his wing, the bird urged Fraser to look over the edge of the library roof. "You have seen and you have heard. Now you are ready to learn."

Gingerly, Fraser peeked over, but saw nothing save the snow covered street.

"Closer, brother."

Fraser leaned further forward and slipped hard.

Like a red streaked snowflake, he tumbled end over end toward the street below.

********

Fraser sat cross-legged in the sweat lodge, the fire between him and Eric burning low and intense.

The pain in his shoulder was gone, he was naked, whole and warm. Before he could speak, Eric dashed a handful of dried herbs on the fire and commanded, "Look."

Within the flames, Fraser saw Vicki, serene in her sorrow, sitting beside his hospital bed. "How?" he asked Eric as images rushed through him, leaving his thoughts both clearer and more confused.

"You and the Metcalfe woman are always destined to meet. The only question is--"

"Is when," Fraser interrupted with certainty.

Eric nodded. "She went to Toronto when she was eighteen."

"If I'd gone to university instead of the Depot, we would have met when we were teenagers." He rubbed his fist across his eyes. "If my mother had lived, I would have gone to university."

"Had you met the woman there, her life and yours could have been much different."

Despite the heat in the lodge, Fraser shivered. To have Victoria unsullied, untouched by evil and darkness, to have the tenderness without the agony. God, to have his mother still alive.

"Brother."

"Yes?" he answered and looked back into the fire. Within the flame, his father, small and ancient, stood beside his bedside. For the first time that Fraser could recall, his father's brown uniform and spine were both devoid of starch.

"I was very angry with him when I met Maggie in Chicago."

"Yes."

"So many years wasted. I'd been alone for so long and I didn't have to be. She didn't have to be." He stopped to think, to remember. "I wanted my father to have married Ellen."

"You wanted?"

"Yes. No. Not wanted," he said slowly. "I didn't just want it. I wished it."

Eric nodded encouragingly. "You wished?"

"I wished that my father would have married Maggie's mother. If he had, all our lives would have been--"

"Better?" Eric offered.

Fraser held his tongue for a moment. A childhood filled with Ellen's gentleness, with a baby sister dogging his footsteps, with a father who'd found a reason to come home rather than a reason to stay away.

"Different, at least," Fraser allowed.

Eric grunted, then threw a second handful of herbs on the fire. "Look."

Within the backdrop of flames was Ray Vecchio. The sleeves of his fine jacket were pushed up and he leaned against the rails of Fraser's hospital bed.

"I was completely lost when I landed in Chicago. Ray Vecchio made a place for me in his life."

"He did?"

Fraser laughed. "Perhaps not completely of his own free will, but yes, he did." He rubbed absently at his now throbbing shoulder. "I was so angry. I was on my way to becoming bitter and disillusioned."

"He saved you."

"In his way," Fraser agreed. "You see, Ray was like a brother to me. When he went undercover, I was alone again."

"And?"

"I hadn't wanted him to disappear." Jumbled bits flashed through his mind: Kaye Vecchio's recovery, Ray and Angie's joyful reunion, Francesca's successful bridal shop and Fraser's own secure place in this volatile, loving family. True memories or false memories, he wasn't sure, but they warmed him just the same. "I wished Ray would have had a reason to stay."

"If he had stayed?"

He thought of Angie, glowing and round with Ray's child. "If he had, all of our lives would have been... " It suddenly struck him as imprudent, perhaps even dangerous, to tell Eric life would have been better. "Our lives would have been very different."

Eric tilted his handsome dark head, looking very much the Crow for a moment. "You are a difficult man to please, brother."

To tempt seemed more accurate to Fraser, though he couldn't say why. Warmth trickled down his chest. His shoulder was bleeding again. His time, he knew, was growing very short.

"Eric?"

"Yes, brother?"

"Isn't there something else, rather someone else, you want me to look at?"

Eric gave an exasperated sigh. Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but for an instant Eric appeared more dog-like than bird-like.

"Eric?" he prompted.

Begrudgingly, Eric threw dried herbs on the fire. "Look."

There in the flames, seeming neither serene nor starchless nor finely clothed, was Ray Kowalski. He was leaning over the railings of Fraser's hospital bed, his eyes closed tight, his palm planted firmly over Fraser's heart.

"Ray," Fraser whispered, wanting nothing more than to reach out to him. "Ray and I met at a time when I'd thought I'd lost everything. Everyone."

"He understood loss."

"Yes," Fraser said, thinking of Stella. "From nearly the beginning, Ray and I were a sturdy match. A duet, if you will."

"But his friendship wasn't enough for you, was it, brother?"

Fraser was quite sure he didn't care for Eric's sly tone. "Ray's friendship," Fraser said, "would be enough for anyone. He's a good man, a fine police officer." Absurd tears pricked his throat. "He is my partner."

"But it wasn't enough for you," Eric insisted. "You wanted more."

"No," Fraser said firmly.

"Didn't you?"

"No," he said again, then shook his head. "Yes. I wanted more." He clearly recalled staring through the winter darkness and seeing, with his heart, Ray's sleepy face. " I wished Ray would love me."

The firelight shone on Eric, highlight the contours of his brown flesh. "Your wish certainly made your friend's life... much different."

Not better? Fraser thought bitterly. "In what way?"

"He gave up his rightful path to stay with you. He works now as a shopkeeper rather than a 'fine police officer.' He will have no wife, no children, no legacy or anchor of his own to the world."

"Ray is a grown man with free will. Stay or go, that's his own choice."

"Is it?" Eric said, inclining his face toward Fraser. "Or was it your choice, brother?"

"My wish," Fraser said, a quiet horror gripping his belly. Was it possible? Could his wish have forced Ray to give up the life he wanted, the life he should have had, to live the life Fraser wanted?

Could he have that kind of power? Could his desires, his secret and unspoken wishes, have the power to change the course of others' lives? It didn't seem possible. Here he was, barely able to sit erect for the pain in his shoulder. He could scarcely control himself; how could he control the fate of anyone else?

"Why?" he asked, years of discipline schooling the panic from his voice.

"Why do you have such power?"

"Precisely. Why should the wishes of one person, in this case me, wield such power?"

Eric smiled, his canines gleaming white. "This is your corner of the universe, brother. All things, all events, all people, circle about you." He ran his thumb along the side of his nose and winked. "Who else should wield such power?"

The thick splatter of blood dripping onto his thigh distracted Fraser for a moment.

"You wander the Borderlands now, brother," Eric warned.

Fraser swirled his index finger in the red puddle forming on his thigh. "And I must return."

"You must choose," Eric corrected.

"Choose what?" He rubbed his finger and thumb together, seemingly mesmerized by the hot, sticky fluid between them.

"You're not usually so obtuse," Eric growled.

"I'm not being obtuse, Eric." Fraser's voice shone with sincerity. "I merely want to be absolutely sure of all my options. It's important, after all, that I make a wise and informed decision."

With a long suffering sigh, Eric said, "Any of the paths you have seen. Choose any of the four you have seen."

Fraser looked up, his vision wavered briefly with his pain. "Any of these paths? You're offering me the opportunity to choose my mother's life or death? To decide if my sister has a father and her mother a husband? You're giving me the chance to decree whether or not Ray and Angie Vecchio's child is ever conceived? I am to select Ray Kowalski's life journey? Whether he follows me or establishes his alone?" Fraser lifted his bloody index finger and drew a straight line across his forehead. "No matter which I choose, the other three remain left with unfavorable results, don't hey?"

"Do they, brother?"

"That's the question, isn't it, Eric? If I choose to awaken in the hospital bed with Vicki sitting beside it, does that mean Ray's baby, or for that matter, my own sister, are never born? If my mother lives and I marry Victoria, does it necessarily follow that Ray Kowalski will lead a happier life without me in it?"

Fraser wondered, too, what would become of the half-wolf pup who grew to become Diefenbaker if he wasn't there to throw the animal out of the bear pit. Then, he dipped his finger into his blood a second time and drew a line from his left cheek, across his nose and over his right cheek.

"Are you preparing for battle, brother?"

"Perhaps I am," Fraser said, feeling surprisingly stronger. "I wonder, Eric, if there isn't a fifth scenario offered in my corner of the universe."

"What would that be?"

"I wonder if that fifth alternative is that I merely cease to exist. That I don't go on with any of the paths shown to me. That instead of waking, I die in those hospital beds."

Eric's eyes, all at once upturned and glowing, sharpened. "Death, my brother, is the outcome of every man's life."

"True enough," Fraser said. "I have to wonder, however, if my choice isn't much simpler than you've presented it. If my choice is merely between two options-- truth and death."

"Hasn't man's only choice ever been between truth and death?"

"Yes, and his dilemma is to discern what is the truth. A man must be very aware, very careful of the information given him. He must be especially suspicious of who is providing him information, of who is giving guidance, if you will."

"Always the Mountie, brother?"

"Apparently not," Fraser said, thinking of his life as a writer in Toronto, "but maybe I am ever the seeker of truth." He flashed a tight smile at Eric. "Are you attempting to distract me?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Maybe to keep me from examining who you are. Or rather, what you are. You led me to believe that you are Crow."

"I never said I was Crow."

"No, you never said it. Instead, you acted in such a manner as to suggest it. You tricked me, didn’t you?"

A beautiful brown coyote sat across from him where Eric had been. Whether Eric's form had changed or Fraser was finally seeing with clear eyes, he wasn’t sure.

"Who I am doesn't really matter though, does it, brother?"

"I suppose not. Although, technically, shouldn’t you be Raven rather than Coyote?"

"One tires of birds," Coyote shrugged. "My form doesn’t really matter."

"No, because the choice still remains between truth and death."

"Then choose."

"I think... no, I believe that only one life is my real life."

"So you think. So you believe."

"No. So I know." Fraser drew a third and final line from his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, over his lips, to the tip of his chin. A surge of energy trembled within him. "One is truth; the rest are death."

"Or you're unhinged. Or all are dreams and matter not at all."

"Or perhaps I'm to sit here and listen to you yammer while my time slips away, and I never draw breath again."

"Perhaps," Coyote allowed on a huff of laughter, then casually lifted his left hind-leg to scratch his throat.

"Your silence would be much appreciated," Fraser said, concentrating on the flames.

Lemon yellow licked at him.

The taste of lemon yellow candy on Vicki's mouth the first time he kissed her. Sitting in the church pew on Sunday morning, the lemon yellow scent of Ellen's Jean Nate spicing the air. The Vecchios' baby swaddled in a soft, warm lemon yellow receiving blanket. The Chicago sun striking Ray's stiff gelled hair, casting it lemon yellow for a moment.

Which was true? The love and trust he saw burning bright in the eyes of Vicki Fraser or Bob Fraser or Ray Vecchio or Ray Kowalski?

What made the most sense? Which scenario was the most logical? That Victoria Metcalfe would choose him? That she would be selfless rather than selfish? Or that Bob Fraser would have chosen to put his child before his grief? That a son and daughter could be more important than his thirst for justice?

That family and friends would be more important to Ray Vecchio than career advancement? That he would be content with a neighborhood girl for a wife and a Canadian for a best friend? Or that Ray Kowalski would love him? That he would leave his work, his world and his dreams behind to become of part of Fraser's?

Fraser didn't know. He just didn't know.

Cool blue washed over him.

Which was real? The cool blue gown Vicki wore on their sixth anniversary? The cool blue of the globe Bob and Ellen gave him on his eighth birthday? The cool blue mums in Angie's wedding bouquet? Or the cool blue of Ray's eyes as he declared, "You've always known why, Fraser." Which cool blue was the true blue?

Any of the events could have happened. Or could not have happened. Each life seemed equally possible and impossible.

He didn't want to die; he knew that much. It wasn't that he feared dying; it was that he wanted to live. He wanted desperately to keep living the life he had. Whichever life that was.

They were all good lives, fantastic lives, really. Each was gloriously tempting--a faithful wife, a real family, an adopted family, a true partner. One of them, just one, was his.

Logic failed him and although he'd learned somewhere along the line to applaud those with a strong sense of instinct, he knew his own was sadly lacking.

If he couldn't use logic and had no instinct, how could he determine which life was his?

Red hot pain fired through him.

His shoulder had been shot by the Dent brothers during his ride along with the RCMP. A hunting knife had plunged through his thigh while he apprehended a criminal. A bullet had pierced his back as he attempted to flee with a criminal. His body had been pummeled with a pipe as he stood alone against a crime boss.

No, none of these lives were without some degree of suffering. The pain disappeared as quickly as it came.

It didn't much matter to him that none of the lives were all sparkle and pemmican. One of those lives belonged to him and he meant to claim it. Or die trying.

If he couldn't rely on logic or instinct, what could he use to solve this puzzle?

He'd wanted, he'd wished, and somehow, Coyote had played upon his desires.

"You would wish your mother dead?" Coyote asked.

"There is no guarantee that my mother would be alive in any life. Now, please be quiet," he said, never taking his eyes from the flame. "Besides, I can't wish someone alive or dead."

He couldn't, Fraser realized. He didn't have the power to wish anyone alive or dead or to change the past. If he couldn't use logic or instinct, then perhaps he should let his feelings be his guide. Which was the life that felt right? Which was the life he wanted?

Where would he be satisfied? In a harried city such as Toronto or in a harried city such as Chicago? Living as a sergeant posted in Yellowknife or as a corporal posted in Yellowknife?

A suburban mansion, a city apartment, an official barracks or a snug cabin, which was his home?

Which was his path? A life spent writing novels or serving the law?

Did he want the unconditional respect of Bob Fraser or Ray Vecchio? Did he want to wake up each morning in the arms of Vicki Fraser or Ray Kowalski?

Perhaps the question wasn't what did he want, but who did he want?

Who was the person he couldn't live without?

"You would choose for your sister to be fatherless?"

"I believe I've already requested your silence," he said. "Anyway, my sister being fatherless was never my choice. It was a result of decisions made by her mother and our father."

It had never been his choice; he'd been a mere boy when his father had begun warming himself in Ellen MacKenzie's cabin. He regretted Maggie's loss, but he hadn't even been able to prevent himself from growing up essentially fatherless. Indeed, there was every possibility that young Maggie had seen more of Bob than young Benton had.

"You would throw away Ray Vecchio's second chance at happiness?" Coyote sounded a bit strained to Fraser. "You would willingly expose him to danger?"

"Quiet, please," Fraser said. "And Ray lost Angie, and subsequently went undercover with the mob because of decisions he'd made, not decisions I made."

Ray and Angie Vecchio had started turning the wheels that separated them long before he'd even left Canada. Eventually, the motion of those wheels had flung Ray far from him. None of it had been his choice, none of it had been within his control.

"This one," Coyote spat as Ray Kowalski's image flickered within the fire. "You profess to love this one."

"Yes."

"You would choose to use your love to manipulate his weakness and insecurity to suit your own purpose? You would entice him away from the world and people to whom he is kin? You would take him from his path and destiny?"

"Why are you so afraid that I'll pick Ray Kowalski?" he demanded. "You accuse me of wanting my mother dead. That's a horrible thing to say and completely untrue. It was a terrible tragedy. Beyond terrible, but my life went on and my father and I lived with what was dealt us. You say I wanted Maggie to grow up without a father. That's ridiculous. Still, she grew to be a fine woman despite or maybe even because of her childhood. As for Ray's second chance at happiness, there's no limited chances at happiness. If not Angie, then someone else." He drew an unsteady breath, his strength waning again. "So, tell me. Why are you so afraid that I'll pick Ray Kowalski?"

Coyote laughed. "Is it me that fears it? Or is it you, brother?"

"That's just silly."

"Is it, brother?" Coyote said.

Was it?

He could live with his mother's death and his father's absence and Ray Vecchio's abandonment. He could; he was nearly certain that he had.

Could he, however, live with Ray's death or Ray's absence or Ray's abandonment? Hadn't he worried every morning since they'd gone in search of the Hand of Franklin that this would be the morning that Ray squinted at him over the dog sled and said, "You know what, Fraser? I'm tired of frostbitten balls. I want to go back to Chicago."

He'd been blind.

Ray had shown him in ways both great and small that he wanted to be wherever Fraser was. Ray had proven he could adapt with grace and style to whatever obstacles came his way. Ray wasn't the sort of man to be manipulated unless he wanted to be. Ray wouldn't run away from Chicago and the 2-7, but he was certainly capable of running to Canada and Fraser if he so desired.

No, Ray was neither a weak nor foolish man. Ray was emotional, strong, cagey, wonderfully jaded and ridiculously innocent, and Fraser wanted another chance to bask in Ray's light.

"I choose Ray."

"I thought you might," Coyote said. "You're sure this is the right life?"

"It doesn't matter if it's the right life or not," Fraser answered solemnly. "It's the life I want." The life worth dying for.

Coyote was once again in the human form of Eric. "Death, absence, abandonment, these can come into any life."

"I know. Ray is worth the risk."

"Then go, brother. Live your life. I suggest, however, that you not wait for a bullet to set you on the right path."

"I won't," Fraser promised.

"Good." Eric threw a branch on the fire. With a whoosh, the fire flared up and then all was darkness.

Fraser could hear Coyote howl.

********

The sled dogs howling awoke him.

Within the tent it was cold and inky black. Cobwebs of a nearly forgotten dream pulled at Fraser, but he shook them off..

Fraser couldn’t see through the midnight pitch, but he turned to face Ray just the same. Eyes opened or closed, in the light of spring or the dark of winter, he knew already exactly what Ray would look like.

He needed no illumination to see the too long fan of lashes or the shock of dark rooted hair or the lean, sharp angle of bones to know the precise appearance of Ray's face. He hoped that long after Ray returned to Chicago, long after the brightest spot on his horizon and heart had gone, he would be able to recall each minute detail of Ray.

"Fraser?"

God how he loved to hear his name in Ray's mouth then feel it breathed across his skin. "Yes, Ray?"

"'S late?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Is something the matter?"

"No, nothing," he lied. It was surely only the result of the floating, cheese-cloth strands of his dream, but he felt strangely disjointed, strangely urgent.

"Go to sleep. Your turn to drive tomorrow."

"Yes, Ray." His stomach lurched and churned with a volatile mix of dread and excitement, exactly as it did just milliseconds before he flung himself off a building. "Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"Nothing."

He heard Ray shuffle about in his sleeping bag. "What, Fraser? And don't give me that nothing bullshit."

"Ray." He cleared his throat. "Ray," he started again, "I know why you came to Canada. I've always known and while I should not encourage it, for your sake of course, and I by no means deserve it--"

"Cut the crap, Fraser." Ray sounded weary. "Say what you have to say. I can take it."

"I hope so," he said, suddenly encouraged. "I don't want to wait until one of us is shot or stabbed or frostbitten or any of the other things that can lead to crisis, to let you know that I feel the same. I want your corner of the universe to be my corner of the universe and my corner of the universe to be yours."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Fraser answered with certainty.

With a thump, Ray landed on top of him.

"About freaking time," Ray moaned, licking and biting his way along Fraser's jaw while unzipping his sleeping bag. Fraser found Ray's mouth with his own while Ray miraculously shimmied out of his sleeping bag and into Fraser's. "I'm thinking if we're going to share the same corner of the universe for a while--"

"A very long while," Fraser said, slipping Ray's shirt off. "Perhaps forever."

"Okay, right, forever," Ray agreed, "then we should start by sharing a sleeping bag."

"I like the way you think," Fraser said, divesting them both of their long-johns.

"I knew that, Fraser."

"Ray, you've always known."

fin