Just as Benton Fraser felt the frigid pall of unconsciousness squeeze across his struggling form; at the very moment he began to relent to the disconcerting silence that had overtaken the panicked voices all around; and during what he thought to be a cruel, excruciating ache of finality that, even in his present state, scared the hell out of him; he heard a voice: clear and concise.

"Son, open your eyes."

Dad?

"I realize you're in pain, but you'll have to trust me." The voice waited. "Just… open your eyes, Benton."

If Ben's dead father was here, there were several options as to his own physical or mental state. He preferred not ruminate on them at this juncture, so slowly, obligingly, the younger man opened his eyes, unsure of what to expect. Certainly not the amount of breathing room his father had elected to afford him.

This was new. Instead of the two inches and distress with which Bob Fraser was so fond of surprising him, Ben squinted to find his dad a good two feet away, his right hand resting reassuringly on his son's leg. The gesture felt warm. Benton couldn't remember the last time his father had showed him reassurance or love physically. Even his grandparents, though warm and loving in their own way, didn't make a habit of hugs or, really, any physical shows of affection. On a normal day he'd feel rather awkward about it, but the warmth felt nice.

Dad's hand was ON his leg! TOUCHING his leg…

Ben began to breathe even harder, his gut twisting, still in tremendous pain. This could only mean…

"Calm down, son. You'll hyperventilate." Bob Fraser removed his hand, and watched curiously as it was scrutinized as though it were a flesh-eating bacterium.

"But, Dad…" Ben swallowed hard, moving his eyes from his dad's seemingly solid hand to his almost-sympathetic face. "You… You're—"

"Still dead."

"You touched me." Each word now came as a low whisper, almost grated out.

"You looked cold," Bob answered once more with only the hint of a raised eyebrow.

"I… I don't feel dead, Dad. It hurts." The younger Fraser felt his voice break he looked down at his tunic. Blood still seeped from around the knife. Suddenly he gasped in pain and looked back up at his father helplessly. He felt embarrassed. Vulnerable. Weak.

"You're not." Not helpless, vulnerable, weak? Was his dad psychic now? Ben didn't know why that thought irritated him. It was temporary, though. He was tired.

"I'm not what, Dad?" He closed his eyes again, exhaustion and dizziness overtaking him.

"Dead! You're not dead, Son. Look around you."

"I'm tired, Dad. I hurt, and I'm tired, and I'm fairly sure I'm at least mostly dead. I don't feel like looking around." If he could sigh without the knife inside of him radiating pain all the way down to his toes, this would have been an opportune moment, if not for himself, but to get his point across. At least his dad was all-the-way-dead. If he wanted to conduct an environmental survey of the premises and report back, he was welcome. Ben wanted the pain to go away first. Despite whatever integrity was at stake during his final minutes, he didn't feel like opening his eyes.

"Son, you are more stubborn than a mother moose. Do I have to physically move you?"

That worked. He knew his dad could touch him. He'd felt it. His eyes flew open. And sure enough, there was Robert Fraser, his eyes roughly three inches from Ben–who lurched in surprise.

"Don't… don't do that, Dad!" he panted, then rubbed his eyebrow with his left thumb. "Are you trying to scare me to death while I'm dying?" He stared upward at his father's blank expression and thought he saw a twinkle. Hmm.

"Oh." He squinted. "Are you?" he asked incredulously.

"I don't know. I don't often have the opportunity to try new things in the Borderland."

Ben's eyes grew a little wider. "So…" He finally glanced to his sides. This wasn't the alley. If he was physically with his father, he could only presume he was indeed in the Borderlands with his father, yet this… most certainly wasn't his closet at the Consulate either. And he hadn't died yet, he hoped, because he was still hurting quite badly. Staring at the view to his left, he cleared his throat.

"Um, Dad… not to be overly thick, but…"

"Yes, you're in the Borderland."

"I figured. How?"

"No idea, son." Oh, helpful already.

"But I'm not dead yet, and you're most certainly—"

"Oh, very dead," Bob Fraser supplied eagerly.

"Your present state is—"

"Much better than yours, son. And I'm dead. I was shot. I have no blood pressure. Speaking of which, I think yours is dropping…"

Ben felt dizzy and there was a white flash for a moment. He thought he saw fluorescent lights above him. Blurry faces.

"He's waking up."

"Stay with us, Benton. Can you hear me?" He didn't know the voice talking to him. He tried to concentrate. They were in a vehicle. The pain was worse. His thoughts were growing increasingly stilted. Difficult to breathe…

"Benton, keep your eyes open. We're taking you to a hospital." He tried to say something. Perhaps he managed to moan. So cold… The vehicle hit a bump in the road and the pain worsened until he could no longer stay conscious…

"You tried, Ben."

He looked up, expecting to be in an ambulance, but saw his father once again.

"Tried? I tried? I just lay there and did nothing, Dad!" Ben's hands clenched into fists as he moved his tongue across his lower lip in frustration.

"That kid really got you, Son. You're doing the best you can." Bob looked down earnestly for a moment, likely taking in his son's horrendous appearance.

"I wish I could do something. I feel…" Ben trailed off. He couldn't finish his sentence. He felt ashamed.

"You feel helpless, yes." His dad waved a hand dismissively in the air, then continued before any objections could be made. "Only one thing to be done about that. Get up."

"But, I…" How? He still had a knife in him, he was bleeding, he hurt like hell, and he was pretty sure he was in shock. Even in the Borderlands that would be inconvenient. Ben looked down at the knife and back up at his dad with a look of bewilderment, then asked simply, "Do you have a spare coat? Mine seems to be soaked through."

There was a pause, both men staring at one another, before Bob answered.

"Sorry, son. These are your Borderlands. I don't know how stable they are, but everything here is what you make of it."

"Ah." Ben looked around. "That would explain the, ah…"

"Squalor?" Bob suggested.

"I was going to suggest 'lack of Northwest Territories,' but that term would suffice." He really couldn't place a finger on the quiddity of the setting. He must be assimilating to his new (well, not so new anymore…) environs if his version of the Borderlands looked so, so… Well, his father wasn't wrong. Everything around them was lacking, well… Just lacking. He'd much prefer to be in the Yukon. Some snow would at least explain this biting cold that was wracking his body with constant painful shivers. Even the sky was under-decorated: no sun of which to speak; overcast without distinguishable clouds. It was daytime, so there were no stars and the moon wasn't visible. The horizon was flat. There were no mountains, and only the occasional dying tree littered the filthy asphalt landscape. In the distance, Ben could make out some dilapidated tenements standing out against what seemed to be a nearly endless vacant parking lot on or in which he was lying at the moment. A cheeseburger wrapper tossed and skirted itself past him. It seemed to have more of a destination in mind than he had.

"Need a hand?" Sheathed in an arctic glove, strong fingers reached down and grasped his forearm.

"That would be appreciated." With some hesitation, Benton Fraser embraced his father's hand, gritted his teeth against the pain in his gut, and began to haul himself upward.

Ray woke up halfway to the hospital in the ambulance. He guessed he'd drifted off when the sedatives kicked in. Maybe when the adrenaline wore off... Of course the almighty EMTs would get pissy when he tried to sit up. He tried again anyway.

"You need to remain lying down while the vehicle is in motion, Detective," a female voice shouted in his ear as he wiggled under the gurney restraints.

Ray tried to bring his hand to his eyes to rub them, but instead smacked himself in the face with a wrapped ball of uncoordinatedness. Oh, right. He remembered messing up his hand pretty effectively now that it was throbbing like hell.

Lowering his arm halfway, he glared up at the woman who had her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes were intense. Intense, huh? Yeah? Well he could do intense. Ray stared at her. Intensely. She didn't break, so he intensified it up a notch. Nothing.

"How's Fraser?" He relaxed his head and put his arm all the way down, suddenly all knotted up inside picturing Fraser on the asphalt. Images flew through his head like a comic book movie. Like when they'd show a montage of spinning newspapers. His world was muted, though. Shit. Had he heard them say they were "losing him?" Ray's heart started pounding again. He was kind of glad those sedatives didn't work all that well. His heart should be pounding. God, he felt sick. No one answered immediately, or maybe his heartbeat was just too loud in his ears, so he looked around frantically and asked again.

"You need to calm down!"

"Don't tell me what I need! I need to know how my partner is!" Ray fought against the belts on the gurney again. They weren't for restraining criminals—just seat belts so passengers didn't slide onto the floor. He tried to undo the Velcro with his not-totally-screwed-up hand. He felt trapped under the blanket. Claustrophobic.

"You have to leave those on, sir." The guy said it this time. Ray wanted point out that the EMT wasn't belted to a bed.

So, looking at the man seated on the other side of him, Ray tried to stop shaking as he spoke. Tried to look calm since the guy was also seated next to a box full of drugs that could easily be manhandled into the I.V. that had been stuck into Ray's arm while he was dozing. He tried not to look scared to death that his friend might actually have been stabbed to death. Ray was a cop. He could pull that off.

But the EMT had to go and look sympathetic. Real macho. Ray couldn't help it. He couldn't break the stare into the guy's eyes. Ray knew if he moved his eyes at all, tears would come spilling out. He wanted to tell the EMTs he'd kick them both in the head if either of them so much as spoke, because that would probably open the floodgates too. Threatening them would lead to more sedation. Probably heavier. So he just stared. He didn't speak at all. He shut his mouth. And the guy stared back. Ray could feel tears welling up, pricking at his tear ducts, so he opened his eyes wider, challenging them. Challenging those tears to go the hell away. No one had answered his Fraser question, so either they'd seen him die and didn't want to make Ray more upset, or they didn't know.

The EMT broke eye-contact so Ray stared at the guy's ear instead. Where his eyes used to be.

To hell with it. He blinked and tears slid down his face as he shook, expressionless.