The Caroline might not be the newest, or the sleekest, or the fastest ship in the service. But it's home, and it carries Fraser and Ray safely through the stars, and they reach their destination every time—Ray going about his business at his station on the bridge, in the tiny galley, in the engine room or cargo bay, in his quarters. And Fraser? Fraser is in all of those places at once, and in none at all.

“Whaddaya know?” Denny Scarpa smiles at Ray across the little table in the galley. “Usually a full moon screws me up, but tonight I’m lucky.”

Ray tosses down his cards in disgust. “Lotta full moons out in space, probably cancel each other out. Frase?”

The servo arm folds Fraser’s cards. “I’m sorry, Ray.”

“Yeah,” Ray sighs. “Knew you wouldn’t be able to beat her, even if you did count cards.”

Denny’s smile widens, like a cat with a saucerful of cream. “Counting cards? I’m flattered.”

“Ah, he wouldn’t do it,” Ray admits. “He’s Canadian.”

“Really?” Denny shuffles the deck expertly, making the cards dance in her graceful hands. “Canadia Colony’s on the outskirts of the system, isn’t it? Not a whole lot of Canadians become integrated ship’s pilots, I bet.”

“Ah,” Fraser temporizes. “Yes, well. It’s true my previous postings had been rather more… hands-on. If you’ll excuse me, I believe there’s a transmission coming in--”

“You gonna deal or what?” Ray asks, drawing Denny’s attention back to himself. “C’mon, c’mon, I only got another eighteen hours before we dump you with the Feds on Allenton, so you better deal if I’m gonna learn anything good by then.”

Denny deals.

::

Before

The dream was always the same. He was running, the scenery around him a dull, meaningless blur. All the light in the world was hanging out the door of the transport ship, holding out a hand to him. Victoria was saying something, screaming it, but he couldn’t hear it over the pumping of his own feet on the ground. The wind whipped her hair around her beautiful face, and he could almost make it before the vessel took off, his fingers closing around hers when the pain struck.

He woke with a start, alone in his hospital room, his body nearly immobile on the bed.

They said Integrated Pilots didn't sleep, didn't dream. Fraser looked out the window into the starry night, and waited.

::

Every time their ship docks at a port, Ray makes friends. He has a knack for it, a quicksilver wit and charm, when he chooses to apply them. Even when they are in deep space, Ray maintains contact with old and new acquaintances, chatting with Levon, playing long games of chess via the subspace channel with Albert, hassling Sandor into telling him where the nearest decent takeout places are wherever he and Fraser happen to be.

“Fortuna, yeah, we’re gonna hit Fortuna. Whatcha got for me?” Ray asks.

“Aw, that’s a hole in the wall, Ray!” Sandor protests. “What am I, a magician? You ain’t gonna find good pizza on Fortuna, Ray, I’m sorry. No can do.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whaddaya got, Sandor? Quit jerkin’ me around.”

Sandor heaves a massively put-upon sigh. “There’s nothing, Ray. I’m telling you there’s nothing. And even if there was something, how should I know where you’d find it? You’re the Johnnie, you figure it out.”

Fraser skims his data banks. “I believe the local specialty involves eels, Ray. Apparently, it’s quite delicious.”

“Shut up,” Ray says, pointing two fingers in the general direction of Fraser’s nearest sensory lens. “Did I ask you? I did not ask you, Fraser, and do you know why? Because you always come up with stuff like eels. I am not in the market for eels, Benton-buddy, you got that?” He leans closer to the viewscreen, intent. “Give it up, Sandor.”

“They’ll kill me,” Sandor mutters, closing his eyes. “One of these days, they’re gonna kill me, for giving away all the underground joints to a freakin’ Johnnie.” He sighs. “Ask for Yune at the port. Korean food. Order anything but the eels.”

“Thank you,” Ray says, politely, and smiles his very sweetest smile, the one that always seems to flood Fraser’s sensors with light.

Sandor rolls his eyes and cuts off the transmission.

::

Before

"It's important to remember the consequences to this choice, Constable Fraser," the physical therapist had told him. There was a frown on her pretty face, and she looked down at Fraser soberly as he lay in his stark hospital bed.

"Of course," Fraser had told her, schooling his face into perfect, polite good cheer, though it felt like it took all of his precious few resources to do so. He wouldn’t need to worry about that for long, if his request was approved.

"Your injury is quite serious," Jill continued, her manner brisk and frank. "But you could recover. It would take hard work, dedication, physical therapy and a lot of time in the regen tank, but you could very well walk again. I've seen people recover from worse, given the drive."

Fraser turned his face away. "But it might not work."

"No," she told him. "It might not. And it's not my job to tell you which choice to make, Constable. I'm only here to give you information." She sat on the side of his bed, startling him, and swept a lock of her blond hair behind her ear. "If you go into the Integrated Pilot Program, you'll be physically incapacitated for a span of years. Despite the machinery designed to maintain your body, there is an inevitable amount of muscle and tissue atrophy."

"I understand that—"

"—and if you go in as you are now, that might be the deciding factor in your physical recovery."

"I won't need physical recovery if I am accepted into the Program," he had snapped.

"True. But you might want it some day. And when that day comes, it might no longer be an option."

::

“Constable, Lieutenant.” Welsh nods at them from the viewscreen.

“Hey, boss,” Ray leans back in the Johnnie-seat, where he had been reviewing the logistics for the delivery of remedies to combat the epidemic on Elios Colony. “Any word on the ambassador gig?”

“Would it kill you to toss in a ‘how are you doing,’ Kowalski?” Frannie strolls onscreen and perches on the edge of Welsh’s desk. “No social niceties.” Her gaze moves off of Ray and darts nervously around, in no particular direction. “Uh, hey, Fraser. How you doing?”

“You better answer, Fraser,” Ray grins. “‘How you doing’ is, uh, what do you call it—" he snaps his fingers triumphantly "—pivotal to modern civilization.”

“Hello Francesca,” Fraser says politely, but he only succeeds in making her look more unsettled as her eyes dart about, automatically searching for the source of his disembodied voice. "I trust your family is well?"

"Oh, you know," she says, shifting uncomfortably. "Everyone's good, Ray is, is good—"

“If we may return to work, Ms. Vecchio?” Welsh says heavily.

“It’s called being sociable,” she sniffs. “You should look into it.”

Welsh rubs his forehead wearily. “I have been afflicted with subordinates too effective to lose, yet too temperamental to bear."

"I think the word is 'eccentric' sir."

"I'll bear that in mind, Lieutenant. Now if I might impose upon you to do your jobs…"

Ray winks at Fraser's sensory lens—a curiously unprofessional gesture he is partial to, that seems to have grown on Fraser nonetheless—before he turns back to the Captain. "Yes, sir."

::

Fraser kept it a closely guarded secret at first, but the fact is, he finds his new partner utterly charming. Ray has a way with language far beyond what Fraser's command of the Federation-approved Compendium of World Languages ever yielded. He catches on to slang in whatever corner of the System they happen to be in, manages to make the locals feel at home with him. He doesn’t bother with the even tones and strictly kept bland façade Fraser always strove towards before he became Integrated—Ray is a man of quick wit and quicker temperament, and he lets each thought and emotion parade across his face, perfectly clear to anyone who cares to look. And his body—Ray moves his body in a constant state of gracefulness, a constant easy awareness of his position in space and time, perfectly cognizant of where he is, perfectly balanced on his center of gravity. His feet are quick, his hands gesture as sharply or smoothly as the thoughts he means to convey. He is in constant movement, never stopping, always thinking, walking, talking, fighting, dancing.

He has complete mastery over that which Fraser failed at so completely: his physical self.

::

“It doesn’t make any sense, Fraser!” Ray paces across the bridge. His body is taut with coiled tension, his steps staccato-sharp as he moves. He is frowning in concentration, with that rare focus he gets when he’s wrestling with a case. “They got no motive, they got no means, they got no money!”

“Still,” Fraser observes, “it would appear they somehow found the necessary resources for the job.”

“Maybe,” Ray says, distracted. He executes another series of paces across the bridge, does a neat 180 degree turn, paces back again, and halts mid-turn, inspired. “Or maybe the resources found them.”

::

“Go, go, go, go, go, go!” Ray yells as he runs onboard, and Fraser is already closing the entrance and lifting off, making Ray stumble.

There is shooting behind them, but Fraser has raised the shields, which deflect most of the damage. He puts on an extra burst of speed, leaving the unexpected crowd of pursuers behind.

“Fucking Kuzma, the little freakshow!” Ray heads for the medbay, yanking off his virulently green-spattered shirt, and grabs a medkit. “Double-crossed me. No way did those goons know I was coming unless they were tipped off, no way! Head off to Second City, Fraser, and call it in to Welsh. Damn.”

“Will you be needing medical assistance, Ray? I can have the medservo—”

“Nah, I hate that thing,” Ray says. He’s swabbing the wound—grazed by a bullet, it appears. “S’just a scrape, anyway, and if you’re gonna get shot, what better place to land than a vat of regen fluid, huh?” He looks up at the sensory lens embedded in the corner and winks. “Don’t worry, I’ll heal up good, make sure I still look pretty for you.”

“Nonetheless,” Fraser covers up his amusement with his gravest tone. “Your wound could benefit from additional attention. Let me see.”

Ray angles his bicep toward the lens and Fraser zooms in on the injury.

“All right,” Fraser grants. “It does look fairly superficial.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Ray grins. He slaps on some dermaseal and squints critically at his work. “Whaddaya think, Frase? Still pretty?”

“Still pretty, Ray,” Fraser agrees. “We should be arriving at Second City in two hours; Captain Welsh has already been advised. Would you like me to patch you in so you can report directly to him?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ray sighs. “Just lemme grab a towel. Frannie will never let me hear the end of it if she sees me calling in with regen fluid in my hair.”

::

Before

"Well, this isn't what I'd envisioned for you, son," Bob said, hands neatly clasped behind his back, uniform pristine. "Grandchildren, for one thing. Being corporeal, for another. One of us certainly should be." He put his hand through Fraser's water glass thoughtfully.

"Thank you for your insight, Dad."

"No need for sarcasm, son," Bob sniffed. "It's the sign of a weak mind."

A nurse bustled in, scanning Fraser and studying the readouts on his diagnostic device. "Everything looks good, Constable," he said cheerfully.

Bob peered over the man's shoulder, eyes narrowing over the display. "Hmm. Strong red blood cell count; well done, son."

"Thank you kindly," Fraser sighed.

"Uh, you're welcome?" the nurse said.

"For looking in on me," Fraser added hastily. The last thing he needed was for doubts to arise about his mental state that might disqualify him from the Program.

"Right," the nurse said. He tapped at the diagnostic device a few more times. "I'll just go check on my next patient."

Bob watched the nurse go and resumed his diatribe without missing a beat. "We come from a long line of Frasers dedicated to their duty, son, a duty that has always been carried out in the flesh. And we stayed corporeal the old-fashioned way: right up until our deaths. Oh, there was an incident with your aunt Beryl back in the day, but that turned out to be a surprise instance of somnambulism. Still, I suppose the young need their little rebellions."

"Dad, I hardly think this is—"

But Bob was gone.

::

“Queerest thing, Fraser.” Ray wanders into the galley, running a hand through his rumpled hair, making it stand on end. There is a pillow crease on his cheek, already fading, and his gait is slow and comfortable. “I dreamed about you last night.” He smiles when he sees Fraser’s already initiated the sequence on the coffeemaker and has the machine pour out a cup.

“Oh?” Fraser has the servo dispense Ray’s customary ration of sweetener.

“Yeah.” Ray sips his coffee, scrubs at his hair again, distracted, and sits down. “I was wandering the ship—got up out of bed and went to the galley for a drink of water, then just kept going. The infirmary, engine room, cargo bay, bridge, looked out at the stars… I turned around, and you were standing there.”

Fraser is perplexed. “Standing there, Ray?”

“Yeah, you know, standing. Like a person. Like you weren’t inside the ship’s guts no more.”

“What… what did I look like?”

Ray shrugs. “I dunno. Just a guy. I didn’t really notice. Didn’t know who you were, so I asked you, I asked you what you were doing there.” He pauses thoughtfully, as if remembering, and takes another sip of his coffee. “You said… you said, ‘Don’t you know me, Ray?’ And as soon as you said that, I did. Your voice, it sounded just like you, like I’m used to hearing over the speakers.”

“Ah. Well, as you know, the voice synthesizers are calibrated to mimic the tones and inflections of the individual—”

“Yeah, I know.” Ray shrugs again. “So I guess that’s what my unconscionable—uncon—” He holds up two fingers. “Don’t tell me! Unconscious.” He frowns, shakes his head. “Subconscious! Was telling me. I’d know you anywhere, Fraser, just as soon as you talked to me. Weird, huh?”

It is rather odd, Fraser supposes. But it doesn’t feel odd. It feels… nice. Reassuring, to know someone in the universe truly knows him, will always know him. “Thank you, Ray,” he says, touched.

Ray snorts. “For telling you my dream? You’re unhinged, you know that?” He takes another, deeper drink of his coffee, and smiles fondly up at the lens. “So where we heading today?”

::

Before

He came to consciousness suddenly, like a light switched on, and his first awareness was of data.

He was data, in its purest form. He was a string of words and numbers, he was the central unit that processed an infinity of knowledge. There were facts and algorithms, star maps and trajectories, the unfathomably complex working of a maze of ship's systems, languages and statistics for every planet in the known galaxy—a compendium of every scrap of information that might be useful in his duties.

There was no pain. Its absence was almost shocking; he'd been living with it for so long. Not just his recent injury--all the little aches and pains that came of an active life, all the ways Fraser had pushed and punished his body over the years—it was as if they had never happened.

He sifted through the ship's systems, the complex binary codes, the rich flow of data, like a child at the beach carding fingers through the sand. He was so much more than he had ever been.

Fraser almost expected the ghost of his father to appear, as inappropriate and taxing as ever, with pointless observations about the inconvenient lack of up or down in space, or some adventure he and Buck Frobisher once had catching stowaway caribou smugglers on a mining ship.

He never came.

Eventually, Fraser stopped expecting him.

::

It happens so gradually Fraser almost doesn't notice when Ray starts spending more time in the closet.

The supply closet down by the galley houses cleaning solutions, a few dry goods, and a motley collection of mismatched pots and pans Ray keeps for those rare occasions when an extended stretch of time journeying through dead space and his boredom coincide long enough to compel him to cook something more elaborate than the galley servo's usual selection.

"Wish you could eat," Ray always says when he dishes up his creations. "It's no fun cooking for one, Benton-buddy. I'd even make you pemmican. That's like, the national food over in your hometown, right?"

But spending longer than it takes to root out the odd saucepan isn't really the norm for Ray.

"I gotta ask you something, Fraser, and you gotta be honest with me. Do I look like a crazy person?"

"I beg your pardon, Ray?"

"A crazy person. You know. Touched in the head. Crazy. Off my rocker."

"You have always seemed quite sane to me, Ray," Fraser says cautiously. Except now, he carefully doesn't say.

Ray leaves off, muttering to himself.

There are sometimes muffled sounds coming from the closet, as if Ray is speaking. It usually ends with a few mysterious thumps and a clatter, and Ray storming back out of the closet.

It's mystifying, but it's really none of Fraser's business.

He does rather wish there were a viewing link inside the closet, sometimes, but that's neither here nor there. Fraser comes to accept it as another one of Ray's little mysteries.

::

"You never talk about it," Ray murmurs. He's slouched down in his chair, hat tipped low over his eyes, surveying the street as he waits for Ramirez to appear for their scheduled meet.

"I beg your pardon, Ray?" Fraser asks. He is busy sorting data and analyzing possible outcomes for the meet, a series of possible events branching off in multiple directions to account for every possible occurrence. Of course, Fraser knows better than anyone how impossible it is to really predict the outcomes of human behavior. Still, he believes arming himself and Ray with additional information can prepare them to make the best decision at any given time, regardless of the circumstances.

"What made you do it?" Ray looks up at the sky, and Fraser can almost imagine he can see the Caroline, serenely floating just beyond the cloud cover. "What made you decide to get canned?"

"It was a unique opportunity, Ray. I get to experience the galaxy in a way that—"

Ray shakes his head. "Yeah, sure, but that's just noise. Tell me something real."

Fraser is taken aback. "That is real, Ray. I'm not sure what more you wish to hear. As you know, the Integrated Ship's Pilot program is very rigorous. Once accepted into the Program, it's rare for pilots to leave."

"But you didn't exactly dream about this when you were a kid, did you?"

"I—"

"Later, Fraser," Ray sits up abruptly. He darts a quick glance up at the sky and smiles in Fraser's general direction. "Got some company."

Ramirez is sauntering near, accompanied by two of his bodyguards. Fraser activates the recording devices and stands by in case Ray needs him.

He doesn't really know what he would have answered, anyway.

::

Before

"Hey," Elaine stood awkwardly at his door. "Brought you some bark tea. How are you feeling?"

"That's very kind of you, Elaine. Thank you."

Elaine neared his bed, and Fraser accepted the silver warming flask she pressed into his hand. Their fingers brushed, and he yanked his hand away, doing his best to ignore the hurt look she quickly masked.

Surely it was clear he was not meant for this? Perhaps there was simply something fundamentally wrong with him, some flaw that prevented him from learning to connect this way.

"I take it you've heard about my request to be transferred to the IP program?"

Elaine shrugged. "Ray was pretty vocal about it, yeah. He's really upset, Fraser, but… you have to do what's right for you." She looks down, then back up at him, honest concern and the dying echoes of something more in her gaze. "Is it?"

"Right for me?" Fraser looked away, out the window. It was night, and the stars were there, a bright promise. An elsewhere to be. "I think so, yes."

::

As the first notes of music start up, Fraser separates a fraction of his attention from the asteroid belt readings, the supply inventory and the systems check to focus on the feed coming from the bridge. When Ray plays that music, it’s because there will be dancing.

And there he is, swaying his hips, gently, the way he always does at the start. “Warming up, Fraser,” he says, when asked. “Gotta loosen up first, gotta feel the music.”

Fraser doesn’t “feel” the music in the sense of detecting vibrations in his body, but he can hear it, and he can enjoy its aesthetic virtues, and he can see Ray move to it, bend to it, dance to it.

Fraser absently marks his place in the systems check, to focus more of his attention on Ray’s dance. A soft, Latin-flavored song plays, a woman’s mournful voice singing in Portuguese, and Ray sways, turns, and dances his way around the ship’s bridge, the most spacious location in Fraser’s cramped little ship. Fraser puts the asteroid belt readings on automatic. Ray moves across the navigation area, gliding past the viewscreen with its field of stars. Fraser notes his place in the inventory roster, to resume later, and devotes all his attention to Ray, watching him until he dances himself out.

::

"Fraser, we never do anything fun," Ray says one day, speeding along on their way to Racine.

"Fun, Ray?" Fraser asks. It's not exactly something he signed up for when he entered his current position.

"Yeah, fun. You know, what people do to relax?"

"I rather thought our chess games…"

Ray snickers. "Those are brain fun."

"Isn't brain fun, by definition, the only kind I'd—"

"Failure of imagination, Fraser." Ray walks up to the display screen at the Johnnie station and pulls up some starmaps. "Here," he says, pointing. "Right by Racine, there's Vega. They've got four moons, and there's a festival when they're all in the sky. Which happens…" Ray checked a few references. "In a week. We'll be done with the Racine job by then. Make a quick stop, then head off to the next assignment. What do you say, Benton-buddy? Go soak up a little local culture?"

They land the ship just as the festivities are commencing. The celebration is outdoors, under the light of the four moons. The locals sing and dance, and Fraser listens and observes the goings-on. Ray enthuses over the home-brewed beer, sings and dances along with them, brings strangers up to Fraser's bay doors to make conversation with him.

After some encouragement, Fraser agrees to a special display of his own—he lets Ray back aboard and surrenders the controls to him, feeling the ship twist and turn, leap and fly, spinning through the air in a dance as joyous as that of the human dancers on the ground. When they land, they are greeted by cheers and applause.

From then on, Fraser is more willing to listen when Ray claims some fun is needed.

::

The first time Ray brings a woman on board, Fraser doesn’t think anything of it. After all, Johnnies sometimes do bring companionship on board their ships, and pilots are used to turning a blind eye to the goings-on in their quarters. It's unusual for Ray, true. Ray hasn’t brought anyone on board before throughout their partnership—or duet, as Ray calls it.

Still, Fraser supposes, Johnnies are only human, and subject to the needs and wants of the flesh. Perhaps this woman is special, and Ray wants to bring her to his home. Perhaps he’d like her to meet his partner.

Instead, Ray takes her to his quarters without so much as a greeting to Fraser. Their coupling seems… enthusiastic. Both Ray and his companion are quite loud, loud enough to filter clearly through into the hallway. Fraser dampens the hallway monitors, but he can still hear them enjoying each other.

::

“Hey, Fraser,” Ray says, looking up at the sensory lens in the corner. He’s sitting in the tiny galley, eating the (likely ill-gotten) pizza he brought back from his overnight stay with some planetside friends.

"Yes, Ray?" Fraser says, his voice as smooth and even as the very best synthetic sound replicators can make it.

Staring at his pizza like it holds deep secrets of the universe, Ray pulls another slice out of the stasis box, long strings of cheese trailing. “You ever miss anything from when you weren’t jacked in?”

“Ah. Like pizza?” Fraser asks.

“Pizza, cannoli, arroz con dulce, whatever. Feeling the sun on your face. The smell of the ocean, or, ah, throwing a snowball. Dancing.” Ray folds over his slice of pizza and stuffs it into his mouth, biting off the end. His eyes close in bliss as he savors it.

Fraser never ceases to be amazed at the aesthetics of Ray’s face. It is a face made to be in motion, smiling, scowling, laughing, flirting. When Ray is at rest, his expression lax and easy, Fraser sometimes wishes he could still draw as he used to; the comfortable feel of paper in his hands, the scratch of a pencil as an image slowly took form. He never wishes that when Ray is in motion, though. Fraser’s skills would have never been enough to capture Ray’s grace and mutability.

“There are—” If Fraser still had an eyebrow to rub, he is fairly certain he would be rubbing it. “I find my current state to be vastly rewarding, Ray. The access to such vast amounts of data, as well as the capacity to analyze and interpret it so quickly and efficiently, for example. The freedom to move about throughout the galaxy under my own power. The sensation of flight alone, is, I assure you, quite--”

“So, nothing, then,” Ray says, oddly intent. He is frowning down at the remains of his pizza, looking as if he’d like to interrogate it, as well. “You don’t miss anything.”

“Well, Ray, I prefer not to think of it as—”

“You are so full of shit, Fraser.” Ray shoves himself away from the table, his chair scraping. He slams the stasis box shut, tosses it in a cupboard, and leaves.

No, Fraser thinks. He’d been fairly competent as an artist, but he never could have hoped to capture something so wild and unpredictable as Ray in motion.

::

When at last Ray returns to the ship, his hair and clothing are in some state of disarray, but Fraser is relieved to note Ray looks otherwise unharmed. His gait is weary, and he nods a brief greeting to Fraser at the entryway lens, but doesn’t speak. He showers, dons one of the brief pairs of shorts he generally sleeps in, and heads straight to his cabin.

It is late by the hours they’ve been keeping on the ship, but Ray’s vital signs indicate he is not yet sleeping.

“Ray,” Fraser says, softly, the equivalent of knocking on his door. He doesn’t turn on the sensory lens in Ray’s cabin, leaving Ray his privacy. “Perhaps I should have—”

“Nah,” Ray says. “I’m a pushy guy. You miss stuff, you don’t miss stuff, that’s your business. You don’t owe me anything.”

“No, I…” Fraser gathers his thoughts. “I do. I owe you a great deal, Ray. You are my partner, and my friend, and you have been my companion on this long journey so far from anything familiar, and I—I suppose… I suppose if I haven’t missed much it is, in great part, because of you.”

“Me?” Ray’s voice is incredulous.

“Yes, you,” Fraser is firm. “But I will admit… I was very fond of bark tea.”

Ray is silent for a long moment, then snorts out a staccato burst of laughter. “Bark tea, huh?”

“And pemmican,” Fraser admits, ignoring the laughter. He is pleased Ray’s voice seems more animated. “A warm fire on a wintry day. And while I still enjoy works of literature, the feel of a book in my hands, turning the pages…”

“A book?” Ray asks. “Jeez, Fraser. Nobody reads books anymore.”

“I did.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you did. If there’s a book still to be found in this galaxy, you’d be the one to find it.”

Fraser is not entirely sure if that is a compliment, but he decides to take it as one. “And I really… an integrated pilot is just not a suitable companion for a social animal such as Diefenbaker.”

“Your dog?”

“Diefenbaker is half wolf.”

“Oh, yeah, you told me that. Bet he misses you, too.”

“Well, a very good friend is looking after him, as much as Diefenbaker ever allows himself to be looked after. I suppose he’s grown shamefully lazy by now. Ray’s family—Ray Vecchio’s family, that is—had a terrible tendency to overindulge Dief.”

“So you miss him.”

“I was accustomed to his presence, yes.”

“You miss him.”

“I greatly enjoyed his company.”

“You miss him.”

“He was a very loyal companion.”

“You miss him.”

“I… miss him. Quite badly, some days, even after all this time. It was very difficult to say goodbye. He was injured at the time, and most disapproving of my decision. I explained that it was really for his protection, but I’m afraid he felt I was abandoning him. He said—well. It was a long time ago.”

“Your wolf said something?”

“Ah. Well, that’s not important.”

“Oh.” Ray pauses. “Hey, Fraser.”

“Yes, Ray?”

“Thanks for telling me that.”

“Oh,” Fraser says, at a loss. “You’re welcome, Ray. Good night.”

“G’night, Fraser.”

::

Before

Frannie came with Dief to see him off, her eyes and nose suspiciously red. She looked around his small ship, Diefenbaker at her heels, and watched him paw at the berth where Fraser's body was concealed, whining softly at the back of his throat.

"Thank you for coming, Francesca," Fraser said, and watched her start.

"Um, sure, Frase. I just—I wanted Dief to see you off and everything. He's been so sad lately." She darted a careful glance at Dief. "D-O-Gs really mourn the loss of their masters, you know. He's been missing you. But we'll take good care of him."

"It's all right, boy," Fraser said, but Dief couldn't hear well, and there was no way to make him understand.

A low growl started in Dief's chest, until he was baring his teeth at the banks of machinery and wiring cutting him off from Fraser.

Frannie wiped at her eyes discreetly, and knelt down to pet the wolf. "Come on, Dief. I'll take you home."

::

The second time Ray brings a woman on board, Fraser is mildly surprised to see that it’s someone new. Ray has always struck him as the monogamous sort. Still, that lifestyle is notoriously difficult for Johnnies to maintain, due to the constant travel their jobs require.

The first woman had been small and blonde. This one is tall and slender, with mocha skin and a wide smile. She leans in confidingly as she and Ray enter the ship, dropping her head on his shoulder, twining her hand in his. Ray smiles.

Fraser is unsure what to make of it when she stops coming by.

::

“You know, Ray, I have—that is to say, my file in the systems records has a likeness—I mean.” Fraser stops, frustrated.

Ray frowns. “Spit it out, Frase, while I’m young.”

“Ah. Well, I was replaying the recording of our conversation at breakfast some time back, when you described your dream which—”

“Whoa.” Ray holds up one hand. “You replay our conversations?”

“Well, I… they have… they make soothing background noise when I am sorting through other duties.”

“Huh. Never been told my voice was soothing.”

“Well,” Fraser allows. “I suppose it might be something of an acquired taste.”

Ray’s eyes narrow, and he squints up at the lens. “Are you making fun of me, Fraser?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Ray.”

“You don’t dream.”

“All the more reason.”

Ray grins, his smile spilling sunlight in the cramped little bridge. “Okay, Fraser,” he says. “I’m gonna let you get away with that, but only because you already said you like my voice.”

“I believe I actually said it’s soothing.”

“Oh yeah? Maybe you better replay this conversation to make sure.”

Oh, dear. He never should have let that slip. Ray seems to make him careless, sometimes. He must watch himself more rigorously. His initial impulse seems even more ridiculous now. Certainly there are images of Fraser stored in his databanks, as a part of his official records, but they are hardly secret. If Ray wanted to, he could have found Fraser’s likeness at any point in time. The fact that he has not simply means he does not care to, for whatever reason.

After all, it is hardly relevant to their interactions what Fraser used to look like. He can’t think what silly little vanity might have compelled him to offer Ray a glimpse of Fraser’s likeness. He never considered himself a vain man, but he is aware there were some who tended to consider him attractive. What relevance such a thing could possibly have to Ray, though, completely escapes him.

"So, uh, what were you saying before?" Ray asks, turning back to his perusal of the Becker file.

"It was nothing important," Fraser says.

::

Fraser's first posting as an Integrated Pilot was in the central worlds, near Second City. His mind and body had been integrated into a small patrol ship, equipped with all the necessities for himself and one crewmember. There were also accommodations for transporting guests or prisoners if need be, but those were spartan at best.

He was given the traditional courtesy of naming the ship he was bonded to. Once he was fully integrated into the ship's systems, the shell of his body embedded deep with the machinery in the heart of the bridge, once he got over the first spell of wonder at the dozens of computer systems springing to life at the slightest brush of his mind, the vastness of space beyond the port he was docked at, waiting for him… once that first dizzying rush was over, he named his ship. The ship's former pilot, now retired, had named it the Valiant, but Fraser chose, after careful deliberation, something more reminiscent of home.

"The Caroline, huh?" his new partner said, dropping his bags in the cargo hold and dusting off his hands. "Someone you used to know?"

"Yes," Fraser said. "A long time ago."

His mother's name. One last spell of sentimentality before he put such things away for good.

"Fair enough. I'm Lieutenant Chang Da," his partner said. He stood slim and arrow-straight, his dark hair neatly slicked back from his face. "Reporting for duty and ready to take off. I take it you've gone over the details of our assignment?"

And so it went. Fraser would always be grateful to Lieutenant Chang. He was reassuringly professional throughout the entire year of their partnership. His laserlike focus was always unswervingly on the job, and thus never strayed towards Fraser himself. If Chang had any questions about Fraser's life prior to his current state, he never asked them. If Fraser wanted to rush in on his pursuit of criminals, Chang was as eager to capture them. He treated Fraser as an extremely efficient machine, and Fraser was glad of it. No further connection was ever made, needed, or sought.

If sometimes Fraser felt a little… lonely was clearly not the word for it, of course. He had so much information at his disposal now, so much work to fill his time, so many critical systems to monitor and maintain, so much data to analyze, so many assignments to take on. His life was at last made completely subservient to his duty, and that was as it should be.

But when Lieutenant Chang departed a year into their partnership, promoted to a more prestigious posting for the career advancement he'd obviously been working so arduously toward, Fraser couldn't help wondering how it was possible to have gone so much time in such intense circumstances and small quarters with him and never really get to know the man at all.

Perhaps that was part and parcel of his new state. It was, after all, what he'd been looking for. Distance. Space.

Fraser now had all of space.

::

It's the simplest kind of mission where it all goes wrong. There's no way of predicting what happened—Fraser has sifted through the data countless times—but if he ever wished he could change anything, he would wish he could change this.

Ray was only meant to be gone overnight, escorting the recently captured Jake Danvers to the Second City main precinct, then undergoing debriefing. A brief stay, and he'd be back onboard with Fraser, off to their next assignment.

Fraser takes advantage of the time to make an unscheduled stop at Saturn, compiling more information for his private analysis of a particularly fascinating ring. He doesn't even think to wonder why Ray never calls in.

The databurst comes unexpectedly, waiting for him in his private messaging system at Second City headquarters. When he opens it, Muldoon's weathered faced fills the screen.

"Benton Fraser," Muldoon smirks. "Chase a man to the ends of the universe for a misdemeanor, just like your daddy."

Fraser hardly thinks a bioweapons trade qualifies as a misdemeanor. He is only grateful he and Ray were able to detain him and prevent the sale Muldoon had planned. Word of his later escape from the authorities during a prison ship transfer had infuriated Ray.

"And you're not where you're supposed to be—complicates things a bit, but we'll find you soon enough. Or you'll find us. Now, we have a score to settle, and I believe I have something of yours." Muldoon holds something up—a flash of silver dangling from his fingers.

Fraser augments the image, but it only confirms what he already knows, and he leaps into action, repeatedly hailing Ray to no avail, attempting and failing to access Ray's vital signs or emergency signal, triangulating possible sources for the databurst, reviewing his files of the Muldoon case, creating and discarding possible rescue plans, attempting to trace Ray's whereabouts. Ray.

"So," Muldoon claps his hands briskly. "The ground rules. You have twelve hours and the entire known galaxy to explore. This stays off official channels; no calling the cops. Anything happens to me, your friend gets killed. If you get to your Ray first, you get to keep him. If I get to him first… well, I don't think I'll keep him, but I do have a few ideas. So let's see how good you really are. Not much time left." His image abruptly flickers off, and there is a dull thumping sound from the now stark white screen. There will be no visual clues, so Fraser must concentrate solely on the auditory.

“Where’s your ship?” A man’s voice, utterly calm, utterly smooth. Fraser runs it through the voiceprint ID database, hoping for a match.

He hears Ray take a breath, pictures him grinning. “Beats me,” he says. “He’s got a wanderlust, that one. Could be anywhere.”

“All we want is the ship,” the man says. Carlyle Deacon, the ID comes up, mercenary, ex-military, interrogation specialist. Fraser works faster.

“Whyn’t you hit me some more?” Ray says. “I’m starting to like it. Could you maybe take off your shirt, flex a little? Oh, yeah, that’s good, bite your Iip like that, I like that.”

Fraser resists the urge to dial down the volume on Ray’s ensuing screams. There might be a clue to his whereabouts in the background.

He needs to find Ray, but all his lightning-quick calculations fall short. He can't solve a case like this alone, not without his Johnnie, not in the short timeframe given. Witnesses must be tracked down and interrogated, and those tend to speak more freely when approached in person. Physical evidence must be tracked down and examined on the spot. For the first time, Fraser regrets his lack of a physical body.

Setting up a chain of untraceable relays in case Muldoon is monitoring his communications, he sends an encrypted call for assistance even as he continues sifting through data, analyzing the case.

Fraser has been cut off from the people he was closest to before his new life, his second chance. But now he needs help, needs it to be lent him quickly and quietly. He can't lose Ray.

The viewscreen bursts into life, and a familiar face peers out. "Benton?" Maggie asks.

::

Muldoon has been clever at covering up his trail, but there are still bits of evidence scattered throughout space, breadcrumbs strewn across stars. Fraser thinks perhaps Ray was responsible for some of those.

Maggie cites a family emergency and is given leave from her work patrolling the very routes of Canadia Fraser himself had covered once, so long ago, and their father before them. She travels directly to Second City and investigates the site of Ray's disappearance. She is quick and precise, a credit to her teachers. Maggie follows Ray's trail with dogged efficiency, questions leads and reports back to Fraser.

::

Fraser, meanwhile, is seeking information of his own.

He accesses databanks above and beyond his authorization level, investigates all known associates of Muldoon, sifts through information on every aspect of Muldoon's career over the last few decades to re-familiarize himself with the cases. Muldoon is ruthless, pure and simple. Fraser hadn't known, but it seems clear he can be vindictive as well. Fraser accelerates his work, concerned about Ray. He hasn't had any further word from the kidnappers.

"I think I know where they have him," Maggie reports. "But it's not going to be easy. We can't go in there stupid."

"No," Fraser agrees. "We have to—Ray always says to remember backup."

"Is there anyone else you know?" asks Maggie. "Anyone else you can ask? We'll need someone else on the ground for what I have in mind."

"I… yes," Fraser says. "Yes, there is—I'll make contact. Will you—"

"Of course," she says. "You and Ray helped me find my husband's killers. Anyway, what are sisters for?"

::

"Fraser?" Elaine frowns, confused. "Are you all right?"

He's had no contact with her since he became an Integrated Pilot; it's the first he's seen of her since she stopped by to say her goodbyes. She wears her green Central Planetary patrol uniform, her hair neatly pulled back from her face, and her gaze scrutinizes the Caroline's little bridge; the only image being broadcast to her. She would have had to rely on identity authentication to know the encrypted hail was from him.

"Elaine," Fraser says. "Please. I need your help."

::

They have tracked Carlyle to the ordinary little backwater planet of Turen. Fraser stays in orbit, hiding behind a convenient moon, and carefully sets up an untraceable set of relays to contact the small outpost his sensor sweeps revealed.

He hails the outpost and waits for a reply.

There is a pause, almost long enough Fraser fears they've come to the wrong place after all, and Ray is lost. His time is nearly up.

But Muldoon's face swims into view, and Fraser never thought he'd be relieved to see him. "I believe you've been looking for me," he says.

"So you made it," Muldoon says, amused. "Impressive, but I can't say I'm surprised. Like father, like son, going to any lengths to catch a criminal."

"I'm not here for justice, Muldoon," Fraser says. "I just want my partner back."

"You know, if you weren't your daddy's son, I'd almost believe you," Muldoon says.

"A trade, then," Fraser says. "My partner for myself."

Muldoon seems amused. "Oh, Benton. It's a shame, but now that I've finally got your attention, it seems you don't really have anything I want."

"You're rather quick to say that," Fraser says.

"You're a second-generation pilot for that little tin can of a ship, boy. I've got better transport in my spare garages. You can keep your little ship, and I'll keep your little friend."

"Why do you want him? He's nothing to you."

"But he's something to you, isn't he, my boy? And he did help you put me in prison. Sometimes even criminals do things for sentimental reasons, you know. Find me something worthwhile to trade, and you just might make me change my mind." With that, Muldoon cuts off the transmission.

Fraser is tempted once again to simply pinpoint Muldoon's exact location and blast it from the face of the planet, destroying every trace of the man who had killed his mother in cold blood. He won't risk Ray, but it's so tempting to think of Muldoon wiped clean from the universe, as if he had never existed, all his deeds undone. He can't have his mother back, but he won't let Muldoon take away anyone else Fraser loves.

The man won’t trade, won’t even entertain the notion of negotiating. Fraser hails the others. It’s time to set their plan into motion.

::

The attack is clean and precise. Elaine has entered Muldoon's compound from the rear, while Maggie took the side. Fraser stages a distraction, firing dangerously near what he has determined to be the munitions cache. When Muldoon's men come running, he dispatches the special-issue tranquilizer gas bombs Elaine had procured. Maggie reports to be well on her way to the place they believe Ray is being held when Muldoon appears in a light craft of his own, bearing down on the Caroline like nothing matters more than its destruction.

His men are on the ground, passed out, and Fraser can hear shooting from Elaine and Maggie's commlinks, but their vital signs are still strong. He fires a warning shot across Muldoon's craft, but the man won't stop.

“Holloway Muldoon,” Fraser calls out. “This is your last chance. Surrender yourself and your men, turn over Lieutenant Kowalski, and we will be as lenient as possible with you.”

Muldoon laughs. “Somehow I don’t think leniency is in the cards for me, boy. And I told you, I already have what I want.

"Then you refuse to discuss the matter further," Fraser says.

"I do have one more thing to add."

At that, four more ships appear, decloaking on the horizon, and begin to shoot at the Caroline, damaging her shields.

Fraser leaps into evasive maneuvers and manages to fly under the belly of one of the ships, close enough to launch a pulse to jam its sensors. Flying blind, the ship veers off.

Two more swoop at him, and before he can evade them, both go down, their engines sparking flames. The fourth ship shoots at him, but begins listing to the side, a similar burst of flames lighting up its engine just as the Julia flies into view, descending from its hiding place above the cloud cover, weapons now targeting Muldoon's ship.

"Are you all right?" Chang Da appears onscreen, intent on the monitors at the Johnnie-station of his sleek new ship.

Fraser runs a systems diagnostic—there is light damage, but nothing that can't be repaired by the servos. "I'm fine, thank you kindly."

"Thank me?" Chang Da grins. "Hell, I couldn't say no. This is the first time you've ever asked me for anything."

"And I know what it’s like to lose a partner," Regina, Chang Da's new pilot, chips in with her smooth voice. "The Julia is entirely at your disposal."

"Regina wants to keep shooting," Chang Da reports, "But I think we'd better just round these guys up and get your man out of here. We'll have enough to explain to headquarters when they find out about this."

Muldoon's ship attempts to flee, but the Julia cuts it off, and Fraser can hear Maggie's shout of triumph on the ground.

"I've got him, Benton! I've got Ray! Is it safe to bring him out?"

It's surely a reflection of the damage sustained from the shots fired at his ship, and not his piloting, that he veers the slightest bit unsteadily as he lands. "Yes," Fraser says. "It's safe now."

::

"What did I tell you about waiting for backup?" is the first thing Ray says to Fraser as soon as he's back safe aboard their ship.

"You were in trouble, Ray" Fraser says firmly. He won't hear of Ray doctoring himself on this occasion—his injuries are many, some quite severe. The medservo is diligently attending to Ray as Fraser flies them through space as quickly as he can, headed for Second City and a safe port. There is some damage to the ship's systems, but nothing that can't be repaired. The damage to Ray was something Fraser had been much more concerned about.

"I was in trouble, yeah," Ray glares when the medservo pokes at his ribs again, checking for possible fractures. "I was in the way. But it was you they wanted. If I'd wanted you to waltz into their trap, I woulda asked you to. And anyway, I wasn’t—uh, I mean, I didn't feel like I was alone."

"Well, as you can see, I am perfectly capable of fending for myself. In any case, I… well, I did have backup."

Ray blinks one wide blue eye, the other swollen nearly shut. "You?" he asks. "Benton Fraser actually asked for help?"

Fraser thinks of and discards a dozen possible answers, then settles for the truth. "It was you, Ray. I couldn't risk anything going wrong, it was—it was you."

"Who did you—" Ray coughs, holding his ribs. "Who—"

"Maggie," Fraser says. "Elaine. And my former partner, Chang Da, and his new pilot Regina. They were all quite anxious to help."

"You're a smart guy, Fraser. I owe you. And I gotta buy all those people a drink."

"They were happy to do it, Ray."

Ray's mouth twitches upwards in a quickly aborted smile—the injuries on his face too painful to sustain it. But he sits back and lets the medservo continue its work without further argument, and Fraser thinks they're going to be all right.

"I won’t forget this," Ray murmurs as he drifts off into an exhausted sleep.

Fraser doesn't think he'll ever be able to, either.

::

Ray is neither more nor less cautious than usual. His encounter with Muldoon left physical marks that have since faded thanks to regen, but he appears to have taken the emotional cost in stride. Fraser catches him gazing at his berth sometimes, an inscrutable look on his face, but other than that nothing much seems to have changed. Monitoring Ray's sleep patterns has showed no variation from his sleep prior to the kidnapping, no apparent bad dreams or night terrors, no bouts of insomnia. He still dances. To all appearances, he is as himself as ever.

::

The first time Ray brings a man onboard, Fraser is deep in the midst of a series of standardized systems diagnostics, and barely notices Ray wave the man in and accompany him to Ray’s cabin. They aren’t particularly loud, so it isn’t too difficult for Fraser to ignore them altogether.

For some reason, though, he doesn’t want to.

He turns his attention back to the diagnostics, noting the series of delicate calibrations that will be necessary to streamline the thought-matrices. He's halfway through the first one, noting an unusual subroutine that needs purging, when he finally gives in to temptation. Fraser activates the receivers embedded in the walls of the hallway leading to Ray’s cabin, one by one, slowly amplifying the sound, but each receiver yields nothing. Perversely, the lack of information from each one only serves to drive Fraser further, activating each receiver along the hall until he has reached the last one, at Ray’s very door.

Surely reason must take over at this juncture. Beyond that door… beyond it are Ray and his guest, and it would be the height of rudeness to invade their privacy. As a common courtesy, Fraser keeps the receiver in Ray’s room off at all times. It is programmed to be activated only if Ray addresses Fraser directly, in which case the system opens the channel and delivers the message to Fraser.

It isn’t prying to increase the volume slightly on the receivers outside Ray’s door, though, is it? They really are being very quiet, nothing at all like Ray’s pairing with the first woman he brought. There is dead silence, and Fraser could almost believe there is no one at all in Ray’s cabin, no activity whatsoever. He increases the volume on the outside receivers just a little more, just another decibel or so, until he hears a quiet sigh.

“Good,” says a low voice. “That’s good.”

There is more silence, silence stretching out endlessly, and Fraser thinks, would it be so terrible, so very terrible, if he were to activate the receiver inside Ray’s cabin? Perhaps the silence is a bad thing; perhaps something has gone awry. Perhaps he should check up on Ray. There is a viewing lens there as well, of course, and perhaps he could even--

From inside the room, there comes a sharply choked-off gasp.

“You hear that?” someone whispers.

Fraser thinks, for one endless moment, that the voice is addressing him, and suddenly the constant low clamor of ship’s systems and communications that is always in the background of his awareness goes still as he experiences a flash of blind panic at being caught out. He dampens all the receivers and dives into the driest, most tedious databank maintenance he can think of.

::

Fraser concentrates the majority of his attention on the lazy path as he drifts through the stars. In space, it is perpetual night, and there is the vast appearance of peace. It reminds him of the tundra. Millions of bits of information are constantly in play, being recorded and analyzed by Fraser's systems, his brain wired in as the central processor of the complex web of computers that run his ship—his new self.

His better self.

He drifts through space and endless streams of data, and puts order to the chaos of information. He has found his place in the universe.

Out here in this remote posting, the galaxy seems empty, but Fraser knows it is teeming with life. And if it's cold, Fraser's body can no longer feel it. And if it's lonely, well. He can't really feel that either.

::

Even with Fraser's resources, it isn't easy acquiring the gift he has in mind for Ray. But he'd determined for Ray to have it, so Fraser takes the time necessary. Treating it like another case, he searches down any hint of the piece, follows up his leads, and questions new ones as they arise.

It takes too long to be in time for Ray's birthday, but when he finally has it, he quietly presents it to Ray, slipping it in amongst the morning newsfeed Ray is sleepily perusing, and awaits Ray's verdict. If Fraser had breath to hold, he'd be holding it.

"Holy fuck," Ray says reverently, his eyes suddenly wide-awake, pulse spiking on Fraser's sensors. "Cecilia Puente. Did you—is this for me?"

"Do you like it, Ray?"

"Like it?" Ray shakes his head, still incredulous. "Are you kidding me? This is amazing, Fraser! How did you even get this?"

"I thought perhaps you'd like to dance to it," Fraser ventures.

Ray blinks. "Dance to it, Fraser? Like, here?"

"Well, yes, Ray. This is your home, after all." Fraser thinks there might be something wrong with his voice circuits.

“You don’t, uh, you don’t mind? When I dance?”

“Oh, no,” Fraser admits. “I love it when you dance.”

“Yeah?” Ray grins then, almost shyly. “You never told me that. All this time, I figured, you know, I figured you just put up with me.”

Fraser has no real answer to that. To dispel the awkward silence that results, he plays the opening song from the collection he'd acquired for Ray—the elusive artist's famously missing last recording. The music seems to fill the little bridge, and Ray unconsciously starts to move his body along to the sweet, sultry tones.

He smiles, and his face takes on that rare look of peace he only gets when he dances, softly happy. “You know me," Ray says, and between one beat and the next the line between moving and dancing is blurred into nonexistence. "No one’s ever known me the way you do. I thought I’d hate it, but I don’t. I love it. I love that you know me that well.”

“And you know me, Ray,” Fraser whispers.

“Do I? Cause I, uh, I wanna think so, but, you know…” Ray stops mid-dance and waves a hand in the air, taking in the walls, the sensory lens, the placidly blinking banks of lights. “Can a guy like me ever really know a guy like you?”

“You do, Ray,” Fraser says firmly.

"Yeah." Ray tilts his head thoughtfully, and drifts into another corner of the bridge, arms raised as if waiting for an invisible dance partner to appear.

Ray dances all the way through the collection twice, and Fraser carries them through the stars and into the next day.

::

Ray wakes up one day, wanders into the hall in nothing but his sleep shorts, and changes everything.

Fraser watches his progression through the ship, all rumpled hair and sleep-heavy eyes, and wants to… he wants. He wants to do more than he ever has, with Ray. More than he'd ever thought he'd want again, after Victoria. He wants to breathe in the soft sleep-scent that must be clinging to Ray's skin, kiss the jutting point of his shoulder, the stubbled edge of his jaw, touch the firm skin over his chest and biceps. He wants to learn the secrets of Ray's mobile mouth.

How can this be?

Fraser was meant to have evolved past all this. He is safer now, better. He is pared down to his essence, his duty, and his mind is made large, fast and efficient, dizzyingly complex equations spilling out like child's play to him.

His hormones are carefully regulated, his sex drive nonexistent, his petty passions and whims no longer of interest or relevance. Fraser is no longer a prisoner of his own body… how can he be one to Ray's?

Fraser says nothing, begins a thorough systems check and analysis of his body. It doesn't feel like an urge of the body, though. When he thinks on it, it's almost as if touching Ray's body would be some kind of conduit to his mind, his self. It makes no sense. None of this makes any sense. Fraser wishes he could seek someone's advice—Quinn's wisdom, his grandmother's solid common sense, even his father's nonsensical ramblings. But he's cut off from all of them now, and there is no one to explain all this. Who could explain all this? How Ray woke up one morning, wandered down the hall, and changed Fraser's entire life.

::

“I think about you,” Ray whispers softly, in the dark.

Fraser stops computing the best trajectory for their upcoming journey to Talos and sifting through the datastreams on the Mullins case. He still doesn’t turn on the lens in Ray’s cabin.

“I think what it would be like, what you might look like, what you might like to do, you know. If you’d like me to touch you, how you’d like me to touch you, if we could—I dunno, just hold each other. I miss that.”

Fraser makes an infinitesimal error in the Talos to Second City trajectory calculations, plotting a course that would take them directly into a sun. As soon as he realizes this, he deletes the file hastily and saves all the other data. He pictures Ray lying on his bed, sheets kicked off from his sleekly muscled legs, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t turn on the lens.

“You ever think about that, Fraser? Miss holding someone, holding someone’s hand? Maybe you were never a big hand-holder, I dunno. Not a touchy-feely kinda guy. Me, I—you know. I gotta have touch, I gotta have talk, I gotta have contact, or I go nuts.”

Ray is silent for a long moment, long enough that Fraser thinks perhaps he’s finally fallen asleep. He doesn’t check Ray’s vital signs.

“You can pretend I’m dreaming, if you want. Talking in my sleep,” Ray says quietly. There is a slight rustling, as if he is shifting on his bed, and he falls silent.

Fraser listens to the silence for the rest of the night, unable to go back to his work, fearful he’ll make another error that would crash them into a sun.

::

“Think I’m going crazy, Ben. Frase. Fraser.” Ray shakes his head, runs his fingers through his hair. “Stupid. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think—I think something’s really wrong with me. It’s like this isn’t enough.” He touches the bulkhead, long fingers drawn across the smooth, featureless surface. “Why isn’t this enough?”

"I don't—"

"And the crazy thing, the really crazy thing, is I think maybe it's not enough for you, either." Ray narrows his eyes. “Am I wrong? Tell me if I’m wrong, Fraser, I couldn’t live with myself if I fucked this up.”

“You’re…” Fraser hesitates. “You’re not wrong,” he admits. “I think… I think you’re very beautiful, Ray.”

Ray lets out a long gust of air, like he’d been holding his breath. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He stands up and shrugs off his shirt in one smooth, economical motion, tossing it on the floor. Kneeling, he undoes his boots and tugs them off, setting them aside. He rises and removes his trousers, the slick fabric of the uniform slithering down off his golden thighs, his well-made, slender calves. Stepping out of the pool of fabric, he kicks it aside to join the shirt and stands there, clad only in his underwear.

He is slender, finely made, with long, defined muscles and a wiry build. His skin is golden, lightly dusted with hair a few shades lighter than that on his head. He lets Fraser look at him, angling his face up at the nearest sensory lens, meeting Fraser’s gaze. If Fraser had breath to hold, he would hold it. Ray truly is beautiful, more beautiful even than Fraser would have imagined. His mouth is soft and pink and open, and his breathing is slightly unsteady. Fraser idly notes Ray’s vitals indicating a spike in his heart rate.

“This is it,” Ray says, diffident. “This is me. You okay with that?”

Okay? This is so far from okay, it’s in another solar system. It is dangerous, Fraser thinks. It is such a very dangerous game they are playing.

He doesn’t answer.

“You can have it,” Ray whispers. “Whatever you want, you can have it. Just tell me.”

Fraser still doesn’t answer. What could he possibly say to such a vast offer? There is a universe of possibility in Ray’s wide blue eyes.

“Or maybe…” Ray shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, huh?” He turns, scoops up his clothes, clutches them awkwardly to his nearly bare body. “Just forget it, Fraser. I’m sorry.”

“No!”

Ray blinks. “No?”

“Keep… keep going.”

"Um, yeah," Ray says slowly, putting down his bundle of clothing. "Okay. So, okay." His hand flutters down towards the waistband of his underwear, flicks hesitantly at the fabric, then away. He laughs nervously. "I could be committed for this."

"I don't want you to do anything you don't want, Ray," Fraser says. "But if you do… I would very much like to see you."

::

"Wow," Ray says, afterward. "This is new."

"What is, Ray?"

"Afterglow by myself. This is one of the best parts, Fraser, do you remember that?"

"Afterglow?"

"Afterglow." Ray nods soberly. "You know, lying there with the other person, floating on the happy post-sex hormones, all glowing and beautiful. That's when you tell each other your best secrets."

“I used to see my father’s ghost,” Fraser says, abruptly.

“What?”

“His, ah—I thought, perhaps… I thought quite likely I was mad, of course, but I did think—he used to appear at the oddest times, Ray, and give me, well, horrible advice. And be distracting, and make a general nuisance of himself. But at least I felt like he cared enough to be there, to try to make up for—he wasn’t around very often, when he was alive.”

Ray tilts his head, listening intently, and opens his mouth as if to say something, but Fraser hurries on with his story. He's never told anyone before, and he's afraid if he doesn't get it out quickly his courage will fail him.

“My father didn’t want me to become an integrated pilot. But I didn’t know—I don’t know if it would have made any difference in my decision, but I can’t—I can’t see him anymore. He isn’t here, with me. At first I thought he was angry with me. Then I thought perhaps he was staying away to make a point. But time went on and he never came, not once, not even in my dreams. And I, I miss him. He was with me for over a year, and I suppose I thought he always would be. But I was wrong. And I really don’t know if it would have made a difference, if I’d known that.”

::

"I couldn't save her, Fraser," Ray says, looking out the viewscreen at New Salvador, where the forest fires in the northern continent are finally ending.

"I know, Ray."

They'd evacuated as many people as they could, along with the two other patrol ships that had been posted close enough to arrive in time to assist.

"There were too many people onboard."

"I know, Ray."

"And she was just—she was too slow, and I grabbed the kid but she—she couldn't—and it was so fast, Fraser. It was all over so damn fast, and she was just gone."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

::

“Hey, Fraser.” Ray’s quiet voice over the ship’s comm channel is unexpected at this late hour. At this point in the ship’s cycle, Ray is usually deep in REM sleep. “You ever think what you’ll do when your term of service is over?”

Fraser turns on the sensory lens in Ray’s cabin, sees him lying on the rumpled bed, twisted sheets kicked down to his feet. His body is long and lean, gleaming palely in the darkness of the cabin, clad only in a pair of sleep pants. Ray is looking up at the lens curiously, and Fraser realizes he hasn’t replied yet, distracted by his appraisal of Ray. “Well, Ray, I suppose I’ll renew my contract,” he says. “With any luck, my record will prove meritorious enough to be granted a long-term posting out in deep space. The Canadia region would be optimal, of course, but that would depend on what ships are currently assigned to the area—”

“So you like it, being jacked into the ship. You figure you’re gonna stay in the box, there.”

“I—yes, well. It seems to be what I’m best suited for.”

Ray frowns. “I heard about your record, buddy. You were a good cop. A great cop. You really think you’re better in the can?”

“Ah,” Fraser says. “Well, I don’t—”

“It was that Metcalf chick, wasn’t it? I read the file. She fucked you up, shot your dog, fucked up your partner, got you shot in the back—”

“I suppose I did want to feel… less,” he admits, then pauses. He has not admitted as much to anyone, has never admitted it, though of course everyone knew, everyone involved in the whole sorry mess had guessed. Ray Vecchio had almost come to blows with him when he got word of Fraser’s request to enter the Integrated Ship’s Pilot Program. Francesca, Captain Welsh, Detective Huey, Mrs. Vecchio, even Fraser’s physical therapist had all made their objections clear, but… but it had been for the best. Fraser still maintains it had been for the best. Surely that has been made evident over his term of service so far. The Program had taken a calculated risk on him, and he intends to live up to the faith they’d placed in him. “My mind, I’ve been told, has always been my best feature, so…”

Ray closes his eyes. “So you wake up in the hospital, fucked six ways from Sunday, and you figure, this is love, huh? This is what it is to be human, to roll around in the mud and fuck things up and get hurt and hurt other people. And you figured, why go on? Why be a part of that, if you don’t have to? If you’re smart enough, and good enough at your job, and knowledgeable enough about deep space and the criminal element, if you can swing a posting as an Integrated Pilot, boom. It all goes away, just like magic. No one’s gonna touch you ever again, with you safe in that box.”

“Ray! That’s hardly—”

“Hey, you’re not the first to think it, buddy. That’s why they screen so hard, all those evaluations, all those questionnaires, all those tests and scans and psychological profiles. Don’t want an army of the broken-hearted. Unless they’re really fucking talented, the kind that’ll focus, that won’t detonate.”

Ray has a way of making Fraser wish he still had a body to fidget with—he almost literally itches to tug his ear, lick his lip, straighten his collar… he feels he needs more breathing room, when he really doesn't need any breathing room at all.

“I get that." Ray scrubs a hand through his hair. "After Stella left me, I thought—it felt like dying. Like a part of me was being hacked off, ripped off, and I couldn’t—I didn’t know what to do. Kept banging my head against the wall, kept thinking she’d change her mind, because who am I without her? Been in love with her since we were kids. All I ever wanted was to be her guy, and suddenly I’m nobody’s guy. She don’t want me to be her guy anymore, so who am I? I’m the ex-Ray Kowalski, I’m the shambles, I’m the leftovers. Tried to give her the best of me, and now there’s nothing left.” He looks away from the lens, turns his face up to stare blindly at the ceiling. “And hey, you know the rest.”

“Ray, it wasn’t like that. You had fifteen happy years with Stella, but I—I’m not suited for passion. I don’t… handle it well.”

“You’re not supposed to handle it Fraser!” Ray sits up, agitated. “It’s supposed to feel like that! It’s supposed to be out of control, crazy, fucking freefall out of orbit piss your pants cry for your mother crazy, Fraser, and what makes you so special you get to miss out on all that? You get to just skip being human, Fraser, is that it?”

“Ray,” Fraser says, bewildered. “I don’t—”

“Yeah, I know you don’t, Fraser. I know you don’t.” Ray sighs, runs a hand through his rumpled hair. “I’m sorry. I’m all screwed up from the job today. I’ll go back to sleep now.” He lays back down, deliberately, fishes up the sheet from the foot of the bed and pulls it over himself, covering his body. He closes his eyes, but his heart rate doesn’t slow, and his respiration continues to be agitated.

“Ray,” Fraser ventures, “Do you want—like the other night when—or perhaps a cup of tea—that is, I could make you—”

“Fraser.” Ray doesn’t open his eyes. “Just cut the feed from the lens, okay? Can’t sleep with you watching me like that.”

“Oh. Oh, of course. I’m sorry, I’ll just…” Fraser is strangely reluctant to cut the feed. He wants to see Ray lying there, watch over his sleep, watch the lines of tension in his face smooth out. “Good night, Ray.” He cuts the feed.

::

"Ah, damn." Ray stumbles into the ship, hair awry, clothes slightly askew. Night has fallen on the surface of Rigel, and the little planet is shrouded in darkness on the side Fraser is docked at. "It's too late. Too fucking late. Knew it."

"Ray?" Fraser asks. "Are you all right?"

Ray laughs, a sharp, unhappy sound. "Not all right, buddy. Not nearly all right."

"Is something wrong? Are you hurt?"

Ray's hand drifts up towards his chest, stutters idly in the air before him, drops again. "There was a time, Fraser. There was a, a fucking window, and I let it go. I missed it."

"A window, Ray?" Fraser searches his archives of their past conversations for any references to windows that might shed some light on this rather puzzling conversation. "I'm sorry, this isn't making any sense to me."

"It's not supposed to." Ray shoves a hand through his unruly hair, spins around in a quick 360, and drops his hands. "There was a window, after Stella, but before this. I coulda—I coulda met someone. Gone out and met someone, somewhere in this whole damn universe I coulda fallen for. Coulda made myself fall for. But the joke's on me, 'cause it's too late now. He who hesitates, Benton-buddy." His hand comes up again, flaps around. "I coulda fucking tried to be normal. Have something real, have a goddamned shot at being happy. Why don't I get a shot, Frase?"

"Ray, I don't—"

"You don't get it," Ray says flatly. "I know. I know that, Fraser. It's ripping me up inside, is all."

He turns and weaves unsteadily down the hall to his room, refusing to answer any more of Fraser's questions.

::

"Life is weird, Fraser. I never knew it could be so damned weird. A guy thinks he's a normal guy, maybe a little bit of a freak, but who isn't? And then he signs on to be partners with a ship, and flies all the way from the Sayid Pass to the Digna Oupost on the wing of said ship just to catch some guys said ship saw littering, and freaking falls for said completely unhinged ship, and starts seeing—"

"Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray."

“And suddenly, the guy is—" Ray cuts himself off, spins around and looks right at the berth where the husk of Fraser's body is concealed. "You probably think I’m disgusting, don’t you? Think all of us meat puppets are disgusting, squalid. Shitting and pissing and puking and coming and blowing our fucking noses and getting sleep crusts in our eyes. The whole lot of us, too dumb to come in out of the rain, get doped up and jacked in and shoved into a berth like any reasonable person would.”

“Ray, that’s not—”

“But I can’t do that, Fraser, I cannot do that.” Ray shoves a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture of frustration. "Hey, I’m not saying I judge you for it. Me, I did the next best thing. I figure, I lock myself up in a tin can out in deep space, nobody but a glorifed circuit board for company—no offense—"

"None taken."

"And then I’ll be safe, right? My heart will be safe. But the thing is, this is not safe for me, Fraser. This is the exact fucking opposite of safe."

"You wanted an adventure."

"Yeah, I did. I do. But Fraser, we gotta be on the same page here. The adventure—the adventure is you. You know that, right?" He stalks to the end of the bridge and back again, pacing like he's caged. "I can't—I don't even know what's right anymore, Fraser. You gotta tell me what's right. If you could just--"

Fraser wonders for a brief, vertigo-inducing moment, what if things were different? What if he hadn't burned the capacity to love out of himself with Victoria ? "We have our duty, Ray. We're fortunate to be able to make a difference."

Ray spins around, a fist shooting out to punch the bulkhead, and stops short just in time. "You are just like your father sometimes, Benton Fraser, and believe me when I say that is not a compliment!"

"I beg your pardon, Ray?"

"Game over," Ray says. "Stella was right about me." He paces, short staccato steps away and back towards the console. "I can't do this anymore. You gotta let me go, Fraser, and you gotta let me say goodbye."

"It won't be that simple, Ray." There are still another eight months left to their partnership agreement. Fraser can't imagine how Ray plans to get out of them. Processing a transfer request can take months. Fraser will have months to make it up to him. Surely they can part as friends.

"Oh, yeah? Watch me." Ray is tinkering with the console's controls.

"Ray? Ray, what are you doing?"

"I think they call it closure, Benton-buddy," Ray says, and keeps working. "Or dissolution of a partnership due to extraordinary circumstances. Take your pick. All I know is, I can't stay here, with you, with the pieces I'll get, because I am not that noble. I am not that good a person."

"Please, just think about what you're doing. I can't prevent the alarm beacons going off if you tamper with those systems, Ray. They're a failsafe for a reason. If you breach the safeties, the authorities—"

“I don’t care! They can do what they want, Fraser, I do not care. I gotta see you, Fraser, you gotta let me look at you just once before I go away. I fucking dream about you, and I don't even know what you look like. Hell, if I go away, I don’t care where I’m going.”

“Ray! You mustn't say that!”

He keeps working, feverishly, brilliantly, hacking through the system’s defenses, hacking through Fraser’s defenses, bypassing safeties and failsafes and backups.

Fraser is too shocked to even contemplate—it is unthinkable, monstrous, it is the very deepest violation, it is—it is astonishing, the lengths Ray will go to. Fraser is frozen, doesn’t even think to counteract him. At last Ray stands up, grimly, and strides up to the box. One last touch of his clever, slender fingers and the casing shudders, once, and lets him wrench it open.

Fraser looks at the body, pale and wasted, frozen, pierced by a network of ports and cables, useless. The slimmest tether to the world of men, the only thing keeping Fraser from being completely at one with the ship, completely free. It is a sad, shriveled thing, and Fraser cannot stop looking at it in sick, twisted fascination. That used to be me, he thinks. I used to live there. So much better to be free among the stars, no longer prisoner to the baser needs of the body, that sad, pathetic, hormone-driven body.

Ray is staring at it, transfixed. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “You’re like Sleeping Beauty.”

“I’m not asleep, Ray.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. He looks up, suddenly, at one of Fraser’s sensory lenses embedded in the ceiling, meeting Fraser’s gaze. “I used to think loving someone was waking up with them every morning and thinking they were the most beautiful person in the universe. But I was wrong, wasn't I? It doesn't have anything to do with that at all.” He looks down again, something soft in his expression, reaches out a hand as if to touch the frozen, sallow cheek, hesitates, the hand paused in mid-air. “Or was I right? Can I—can I touch you, Ben? Will you let me touch you before I go?”

“Ray, I—it’s just a body. It doesn’t feel—”

“I feel,” Ray says. “I’ll feel for both of us.”

“You can—yes,” Fraser says, helpless to deny him, lets him sully himself touching that dead thing, that pallid husk.

Ray completes the halted movement of his hand, sets gentle fingers on the body’s cheek, trails them down the sightless face. He is still for a long moment, head bowed. “Thank you,” he finally says. He backs away, touches the controls, lets the heavy cover slide back into place, shutting the body away again. It slides back into its berth, a smooth and perfect glide, machinery soundlessly efficient.

Ray just stands there. “Take her into port,” he finally says. “They’ll be waiting for me.” He turns away, sits back in the Johnnie-seat, looks out at the unending field of stars.

Fraser sets the course.

::

It takes two days to get to Gralios, the nearest port. Ray sits in the Johnnie-seat the entire time, gazing at the stars, his face unreadable. He takes no food or drink, only rises briefly to visit the head, his steps slow and distracted. He makes short answer to Fraser’s remarks, lets Fraser’s attempts to reestablish some degree of normalcy fade into nothing.

“Maybe I could do it,” Ray finally says, still looking out at the stars. “Like you. Maybe they’d take me, after they're done with me. Lay me down, hook me up, let me drift the stars. Maybe if they find what that thing is, that thing that makes me need you too much, that made me need Stella too much, maybe they can fix that part, I dunno, burn it out or something, and let me—”

“No!” Fraser cries, horrified.

“Just drift among the stars,” Ray says, softly. “I get why you did it, now.”

::

Before

"Take a look through history, what do you see?" Fraser's new partner asked, strolling aboard the Caroline with several heavy-looking bags hung about his person. The man was tall with a slender runner's build, blue eyes and a shock of unruly blond hair exuberantly spiked on the top of his head.

Fraser pulled up several historical databases, both standard Old Earth and several of the more prominent colonies. "Any particular period of history?" he asked.

"Nah, the whole shebang," the man said. "Partner, Fraser. Partners." He leaned forward, patted the hull of the ship, and grinned. "Lewis and Clark, Abbott and Costello, Vargas and Patel. Like you and me, buddy. A one-two punch."

"Well, Lieutenant Kowalski," Fraser said. "That's a very… interesting perspective."

"Ain't it just?" Ray smiled, satisfied, and tugged at the various straps binding his luggage to his body. "You and me: greatness, Fraser. I just know it. And call me Ray, willya?"

Ah. Fraser had rather hoped, when he'd received word of his new partnership, that Lieutenant Stanley Raymond Kowalski would prefer to go by his first name. "Of course... Ray." He hadn't spoken the name out loud in well over a year.

"Great!" Ray grinned again, another mercurial flash of white teeth. "So, where can I stash these?"

::

They try to match Fraser up with a new partner after Ray leaves, but for once in his life Fraser finds that duty is not enough. The choice to stop living inside his body had lost him people, but finding Ray had helped him build new connections, learning to reach out and ask for help, strengthening old ties and even finding a sister when he thought he had no living family left.

He isn't certain if he can do all these things without Ray there, but he finds he doesn't want to.

Perhaps it's time to think about what he does want, and stop running from his fears.

::

"Fraser," Huey says in his deepest, gravest voice. "We're on your side here. But you have to remember, these aren't the kind of choices you can just toss off."

"Yeah," chimes in Gardino. "There are some pretty serious consequences."

"Consequences," echoes Dewey, frowning at a data display. "Serious, important, large—"

"Big," says Gardino.

"Big consequences," Dewey finishes airily. "You gotta remember, if we unhook you—"

"If we disconnect you from the system, your files say you might not be able to walk again," Huey says gently. "You know that, Fraser."

"Have you really thought about this?" Gardino asked.

Fraser has done nothing but think about this for some time now.

"It's a big job, separating an IP, is all," Dewey says. "And recovery is a pain in the ass."

"I'm aware of all that," Fraser tells them. And he very much is. He knows his prospects are uncertain.

"So what'll happen," Dewey insists, "if we spring you, and you can't get back on your feet again? And your place in the queue for ships is lost, and you gotta lie around waiting for something to open up for another year or two, or maybe forever if they don't accept you back. You thought about that, really thought about it?"

"Yes," Fraser tells them firmly. "I have. But I think… I think there are some choices that cannot be made based merely on logical thought. There has to be something more."

"Leading from the heart," Gardino says sagely, opening up his instrument case. "It's when we make our stupidest, best choices. You are in for a ride, Fraser, my friend."

Huey smiles. "Let's get to work, boys."

Fraser can't smile yet, but he is certain he will soon. He is making a monumental, possibly irreversible decision, and it's both terrifying and exhilarating.

::

The universe is shaky, amorphous. Sounds are strange and jarring in his ears, colors both sharper and duller, outlines fuzzy. Fraser blinks awake, looks around his little recovery room, then down at himself. His body is pale and withered, thin where he used to be padded with muscle and fat. He can feel the pressure of the body-warm regen fluid against his skin, where he's submerged in it up to his neck. He moves his hand a little, an awkward half-pass that makes his fingers trail in the thick liquid.

"It's about time, son," Bob Fraser says, standing by the side of Fraser's recovery unit.

"Dad? What are you doing here?"

Bob sniffs. "You don't think I'd let my own son lock himself away and float around the galaxy all on his own, do you? I was on sentry duty, son. Watching out for you and your partner. He's a good man, though I think I might have led him to question his sanity. Most unfortunate business."

"But I thought you'd left. You never said a word, not even goodbye."

"Well, of course not! Who could get through the electrical interference in your brain? It's hard for a man to compete with the chemical soup they had you stewing in."

"You didn't leave me."

"A Mountie never leaves his post early, son." Bob's face softened, the hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "And he always gets his man."

::

Before

After Fraser was accepted into the Integrated Pilot program, there was an intensive round of preparation. Fraser applied himself to the process, and achieved what he is told were impressive scores on all aspects of testing.

"You gotta listen to me, Fraser," Ray Vecchio had told him, bursting into Fraser's room at the IP facilities one night, trailing security personnel until Fraser waved them off. "I know you're sore that I shot you, okay? I am sorry that I shot you."

"No you're not," Fraser said, looking out the window.

"What did you say?" Vecchio's voice was unsteady, and his reflection swayed briefly.

"You're not sorry." Fraser looked back at his friend dispassionately. "I made the wrong choice. I was following her, Ray. I was going with—"

"No! No, you were chasing her!" Vecchio gestured emphatically. "You would have caught her, Benny, and you woulda put her in jail where she belongs, and I just missed, okay? I missed, because the transport was moving and you were running, and I—"

"You didn't miss," Fraser said. "And you're not sorry." He met Vecchio's struck gaze. "In the old days, they used to tame horses so people could ride them; so they would become domesticated and be faithful companions. You know what the process was called? Breaking the horse."

"What the hell are you saying, Benny? You saying I wanted you to stay so bad I'd rather shoot you than lose you? Because that is not fucking true. And if you do this thing, I lose you anyway."

"Contact between Integrated Pilots and former close personal acquaintances is discouraged," Fraser agreed. "I am told it can be… unsettling for all parties."

"Unsettling," Vecchio snorted. "Yeah. Had a friend, now I got a tin can."

"It doesn't mean the contact is forbidden, Ray. In any case, this is my choice. I've made my decision."

"You've made the wrong decision, Benny. The universe is gonna keep spinning, and you can't hide away from it forever."

"Oh, I don't know, Ray," Fraser turned his head back towards the window. "My specific skill set and expertise might be particularly suited to the kind of missions I'll receive in my new posting."

"You're not gonna change your mind, are you? You doing this to spite me? If you're that angry with me, take a shot. C'mon, take a shot. It's on me. Take your shot, but don't do this."

"Tell Francesca… tell Francesca I'll understand if she, too, prefers to stay away," Fraser told the window.

It was a long time before Ray walked out, but when he did, his footsteps had a ring of finality that Fraser had been half expecting for months.

He never came back.

If Fraser had known they'd have that effect, he might have said those damning words about the shooting sooner. He might have.

::

After he resigns from his post as Integrated Pilot, he is given the best medical care available, of course, as per his contract. His body is eased out of the depths of the ship and rehabilitated, gradually coaxed back into being able to function on its own, free of the machines that had been part of him for three years. He has to learn to breathe again, to eat again, to drink again. He has to learn to sleep.

He is almost afraid to, at first—afraid to be prey once more to the dreams that had plagued him, afraid to close his eyes outside the safety of his berth. But when he finally does, he finds he no longer dreams of Victoria, of that terrible day. Perhaps it is because he has someone else to dream about now.

There is physical therapy to learn to walk again, and long hours in the regen tank, fluid all around him. He floats peacefully, the green liquid skin-warm and viscous around him, thoughts of Ray keeping him company. There are no guarantees; he'd been told from the start. He'd known his body might betray him yet again when he asked this much of it after such a long period of uselessness and stasis. But he is determined. He's been bred to be determined. He is as relentless with his body as he'd ever been on the chase of a suspect. And in the end, he wins.

He walks out of the clinic and into the sunlight of his little corner of Second City, lays eyes on his old home once again.

He has to gear himself up for the visit that follows: he'd told no one he was coming. But when Mrs. Vecchio opens the door to see him, she cries as if he were her own son, and hugs him so tightly he thinks his still-fragile body might not be able to take it. She ushers him into her home, same as she always had, exclaiming over him, and for the first time in three years, he feels the dampness of tears in his eyes. He clings to her and she pats his back soothingly, rocks him like only mothers know how, and he cries all the tears he hadn't, for Victoria, for himself, for the people he'd let down or shut out when he left, for his father and Diefenbaker, for Ray Kowalski who had the courage to love him even as he was and paid the price.

He doesn't know how long he weeps into her warm, soft shoulder, but when it's over he feels cleansed. Light and airy, as if he could still, somehow, fly.

The rest of the Vecchio clan welcome him home: Frannie hesitant but happy to see him once more in his body, introducing him to her husband and baby; Tony self-absorbed but pleased for him; Maria's smile gently approving as she pauses from wiping her youngest child's face clean of jam. And Diefenbaker.

Fraser had been almost afraid to see him, his faithful companion of so long. Dief had been so angry, and then he'd been so silent. Fraser never knew if Dief had stopped talking to him or if being transferred into the ship's systems had somehow broken Fraser's ability to hear him.

But there he is, sitting regally at his perch on the living room sofa. When he sees Fraser, he sniffs in something like disdain, and Fraser hears the faintest tinge of a huffed out "Well!"

"It's good to see you, boy," Fraser says, and the telltale wag of Diefenbaker's tail lets him know he is soon to be forgiven, if he hasn't been already.

::

By the time Ray Vecchio comes by, the family has pumped Fraser for information about his adventures as a ship, he's played with Diefenbaker and the children, and has been fed to within an inch of his life. Ray bustles in, yanking off his coat, and turns with a smile on his face that freezes and shatters the moment he sees Fraser.

Fraser clears his throat, a strange, rusty gesture. "Hello, Ray."

"I—I heard," Ray finally says. "Frannie told me. But I didn't—"

"Ah. Well, it would seem you heard correctly. And it would also," he says with difficulty, "seem you were right. I shouldn't have—"

"Shut up Benny," Ray tells him. "It's so damn good to see you."

::

"Francesca," Fraser says, when he is finally able to take her aside. "May I have a word with you?"

“Fraser!” Frannie looks startled, a blush rising to her cheeks. The baby in her arms fusses slightly, and she shifts to accommodate her, smiling down at the little face, then back up at Fraser. “Wow, I'd kind of forgotten how—I mean, it’s good to—how have you been? Are you—are you doing okay?” Are you happy? she doesn’t ask, her emotions clear on her face, as always.

“I’ve been fine, Francesca, thank you. I trust you and your family have been well?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, sure. I mean," she gestures back at the house with all its perpetual bustle. "Maria’s busy with the kids, you know, and Tony’s still the same, and Ray’s been doing real well, got married to a nice girl and living in Flora, but he visits, and, I mean, he had to come visit now, right? You're not mad I told him, are you?" Her face is shadowed for a moment, then brightens. "His wife's not Italian, but you can’t have everything, huh? And you met my guy. I've got a good job, got a couple of kids, so Ma can die happy now. And I’m… I’m happy too. You know? I’ve got something real.”

“That’s… that’s wonderful, Francesca. I’m very happy for you.”

Francesca smiles.

"And I wanted… to thank you." Fraser's hand makes its way to his eyebrow, half surprising him. He'd forgotten the little gestures his body used to make. "You never… you were always… you were the one person…"

Frannie nods. "It's not that Ray didn't want to, you know that, right? He asked about you all the time. It was just… it was hard, you know? I know I didn’t always handle it as smooth as Welsh, but… but it was good to know you were out there, you know, chasing down perps and helping people and… and being Fraser, even if you weren't."

It's an abortive, uncoordinated move, but Frannie seems to understand, and she reaches out to take the hand Fraser had tried to offer.

“Thank you," he says.

::

"So you're the one," Stella sighs. "Oh, Ray." She sits back behind a sleek desk, its surface flawlessly neat, in her comfortably appointed office. With a nod, she bids him to sit, and he perches ramrod-straight in the visitor's chair.

"I’m, ah, sorry to trouble you, Ms. DuBois," Fraser says. He'd been uncertain about contacting Ray's former wife, but his searches so far seem to have come up blank. He tugs his collar. "I was wondering if you would be so kind as to assist my search for some information. It’s a sensitive matter, of course, but I’ve been trying to locate your ex-husband.”

"Why?" she asks bluntly.

"Well, I… I had hoped…" Fraser runs a thumb across his eyebrow, the gesture all but forgotten by his mind, but apparently remembered by his body. It's oddly reassuring. "I had… hopes," he finally says.

Stella tilts her head, looking at him thoughtfully. "There's nothing wrong with him, you know. He's not damaged or any kind of emotional risk. I made that clear when I pleaded his case with the authorities. He just has too strong a heart, that's all. He loves fully, completely, with everything he has."

"Yes, I—"

"It was too much for me, but if he could find someone that would match him in that kind of intensity, Constable Fraser…" She shakes her head. "If you joined the Integrated Pilot program because you felt too little, Constable, I don't know that it's advisable for you to see Ray at all. But if you joined it because you felt too much, well." She opens a desk drawer and withdraws a data chip. "In any case, it's not my decision to make."

::

::

Before

"Nice digs," Ray had said that first day, when he'd emerged from storing his bags in his quarters. He had donned his blue Outer Rim patrol uniform, the Human Interface designation sitting on his lean chest, just above his heart.

He walked directly to the bridge, keen eyes analyzing the panels with their screens full of information. Taking the measure of the place, Fraser assumed.

He tried to look at it as if through his new partner's eyes.

The Caroline was a small ship, a bit rickety if truth be told, but it was solid where it mattered. Fraser made sure the servos kept it clean and neat—everything was in its place, all systems functioning at peak efficiency. The smooth Human Interface Officer's chair--or Johnnie-seat, as it was more typically called--sat up by the viewscreen, looking unexpectedly forlorn without Chang Da.

Ray turned from his perusal of the viewscreen, tilting his head as he looked at the area where the Integrated Pilot's physical bodies were traditionally housed in this model of ship. "So you're Fraser, huh?" Ray asked.

"I… yes." No one had addressed him in this way; Chang Da always spoke directly to Fraser's nearest sensory lens, not his berth. It was a ridiculous gesture, as Fraser's body was hardly Fraser by now. The ship was his body.

"Hey, don't mind me while I look around, okay? You just sail us on out of this port."

"We're not due out for another few hours, Ray. Are you sure there's nothing else you'll need before we leave? I'm afraid we've been posted to a rather remote patrol circuit."

"Yeah, well, remote sounds like a good place to be. I'm set if you are." Ray's face clouded over momentarily, then he grinned, surprisingly bright. It changed his face somehow, though Fraser couldn't put a name to it. "You don't mind music, do you, buddy?" He produced a data chip from his pocket and waved it in the direction of the nearest sensory lens so Fraser could get a good look at it.

If Fraser could have, he was rather certain he would have blinked. "Ah, well, it's not exactly standard procedure…"

Ray rubbed the back of his neck. "How long's it been since you listened to music?"

One Standard Old Earth year, three months, and eight days, Fraser calculates instantly. He'd played a song for Victoria.

"Yeah, that's what I figured," Ray nodded at Fraser's silence. He waggled the chip in his fingers. "What do you say we take a walk on the wild side?" He inserted the chip into the nearest data feed and the bridge was filled with a startling swell of music, a man's voice skipping through the lyrics in Punjabi.

"I think… yes," Fraser said.

Ray grinned again, acidic-sharp but pleased, and swung his hips a little. "What did I tell you, Fraser? Greatness."

::

It’s a beautiful day on New Hope. It's a small, out of the way colony, a step away from outright banishment, but perhaps that's why it reminds Fraser of home. He soaks up the sunshine, lets it sink into his skin, tilts his face up to the bright blue sky and watches the fluffy clouds drift. He shoulders his pack and nods his thanks to the transport officer, then steps off the platform and onto the main street. Diefenbaker follows, nipping at his heels like a pup.

Fraser kneels to pet him, ruffling the thick fur. Dief whines happily and leans into the caress. “Me too,” Fraser tells him. He takes a deep breath of the fresh, sea-tinged air and rises, making his way down the street.

“Excuse me,” he tells the desk sergeant at the small precinct. “I’m looking for First Lieutenant Ray Kowalski. I understand he’s currently stationed here.”

The desk sergeant narrows her eyes in speculation, the jerks her head to the left. “Through those doors, down the hall, third door to your right.”

“Thank you kindly.” Fraser follows her instructions, entering a large room with officers of various ranks going about their business. He finally finds Ray jacked into a debriefing pod at the far end of the room.

Ray looks asleep, his face peaceful as seen through the clear pod cover. His eyes are flitting in apparent REM stage, the lines on his face smoothed out to nothing and the set of his mouth relaxed. Fraser finds a chair and sits next to Ray, waiting for him to awaken.

Time seems to pass slowly, an eternity for him to wonder if he's made the right choice, come to the right place. The past thirteen months have been difficult, but Fraser has had a goal in mind. He's had Ray.

The blinking lights above the precinct debriefing pod indicate Ray is about to wake up, swimming his way back through layers of consciousness. Fraser sits nervously by, Diefenbaker having long abandoned him in search of treats to be garnered from his friends at the station.

When Ray finally opens his eyes, Fraser is taken aback by the clear, soft blue of his gaze. He has never laid eyes on Ray before, not really. He fell in love with a man he had never seen for himself, only through the camera links fed through to his cerebral cortex—never touched save the odd, coldly professional touch of the servo arms—never heard with his own ears. This moment in time suddenly feels incredibly fragile, loaded with meaning. Does Fraser believe in love at first sight?

Yes, he does.