What Dreams May Come
by Ariana and Duranee

He tapped his foot impatiently on the marble floor, thinking to himself that it was just too cruel for a place where people went to get money was as lushly decorated as this. Three of the four tellers were busy, and the last had closed her window to finish some paperwork. Rafe glanced at the clock to note that only two minutes had trickled by since he looked at it last.

Nothing to do but think about things, things he didn't want to think about. Things like yesterday, when he'd slammed Blair up against the lockers and...

He shook his head sharply, banishing that image. Rafe stared hard at the busy teller, trying to send a mental message somewhere along the lines of 'Open the damn window already!'. He was irritable anyway, his sleep interrupted by alternating dreams where Jim took him apart slowly and where Blair continued that scene in the locker to an entirely different ending. The swings between self-loathing and lust had given him a fatigue migraine and nearly black smudges under his eyes.

He had today off, and he intended to spend it all tinkering on his car. If he could forget everything, with his head deep inside his beloved Mustang, *without* seeing Jim or Sandburg at all, then he'd be happy. Or at least less depressed about how fucked up his life was and how badly it was hurting his friends.

Another glance at the clock. Ninety seconds had passed. He sighed, hoping that Mitch would wait just a little while longer; Rafe didn't want that engine going to anyone else. He stretched his neck, feeling a small pop and started forward as the last window finally opened up.

The woman was hispanic, with a sweet face that smiled brightly at him. "I have to go take care of something, sir. If you don't mind waiting just a moment?" She left the window without waiting for him to answer.

Shaking his head at himself, her and life in general, he leaned an elbow on the counter, glancing at the nameplate by her window. *Her name is Lorena?*

He grinned suddenly, deciding that he'd be nice and polite to her. Anyone with that name was well worth treating gingerly. He looked around and when his eyes lit on the front door, the grin faded away.

Looking even more determined than the last time Rafe saw him, Sandburg swung open the door to the lobby. Rafe gasped inaudibly when those expressive blue eyes came to rest on his face. Resolve glittered in those depths, along with a touch of sorrow and a very slight shading of uncertainty. He watched as Blair took a deep breath, and did the same himself, bracing for another round of unpleasantry.

The consultant walked over to him, his eyes fixed on Rafe's. It didn't look like he was even acknowledging the rest of the bank or its customers at all, coming to a stop just a few feet away from him, leaving enough room to not crowd the detective, but close enough for a low conversation to carry no further.

Sandburg's mouth was still faintly bruised from yesterday. The long-sleeved shirt that he wore over a tshirt hid the marks that Rafe knew he'd left on his shoulders after his brutal treatment of the other man. He looked away, quite frankly surprised that it had been Sandburg, and not a homicidal Jim, that had tracked him down today.

"From the look on your face, I can see that I'm not the one you expected to see." Blair smiled briefly, but it died a quick death as he took in the tension radiating from the man at the counter. "Rafe, we need to talk."

"I know. Sandburg, I can't tell you how sorry I am." The words spilled out of him in a soft tone, banks having the same odd ability as churches to stifle voices down to respectful whispers. "I was completely out of line and whatever happens next, I deserve it ten times over. I'm sorry, man, so sorry..."

Blair stepped closer and laid a hand on his arm briefly. "Rafe, man. It's okay. You're not the only one to blame, here." Another smile. "You may have noticed that I have this tendency to push a little too hard sometimes. Hell, Jim could probably write his own dissertation about inquisitive anthropologists by now." And very gently, in a voice laced with concern, he said, "But that was pretty out of character for you, Rafe. We're worried."

That touch jolted through him, although he remained perfectly still. The warm touch of Blair's skin against his was oddly comforting, yet burning at the same time. Rafe drew away slowly, making it part of the motion of looking back to see where the teller was.

Blair let his hand fall. He looked uncertain for a moment as to what to say next, then evidently decided on something neutral. "So, what're you doing here?"

Rafe debated actually answering, then what to say. If Sandburg got him talking, he'd eventually start drawing out more and more and it would be harder for Rafe to not let anything slip. Hostage negotiators were especially adept at such a skill, but Blair Sandburg put many of them to shame.

Add to that the other man's legendary stubbornness, and Rafe knew he was in trouble.

Still, the guilt of yesterday prompted him to answer, even if it was reluctantly. "Getting some cash for a new engine."

"New engine?" Blair's eyes widened a little in sympathy. "Oh man! That's gonna cost a fortune! What happened to the old one?"

"Nothing. A friend of mine has an engine that needs a home and I told him I wanted it." Rafe's features relaxed a little, "Just doing some upgrades on my car."

"Upgrades? On what?"

Rafe smiled a little, unable to suppress his pride. "'69 Mustang Mach 1."

"Oh wow," Blair said, his mouth twisting up in an admiring smile. "That's a kick-ass car."

"Oh, yeah," the other man said, his grin widening. "I got her a few years ago. My cousin used to test drive for a racetrack, he got her there, and sold her to me when he went into the Air Force."

"Pony?" Blair asked.

"Of course not," he joined Sandburg in laughter. "Performance over pony, as Jordan says. He replaced the original engine with a 289 high-per, rebuilt the tranny-"

"Standard or auto?"

Rafe made a face, "Standard, definitely standard. There's a lag when an automatic transmission shifts gears, and Jordan and I prefer to have total control of the acceleration. As it is, she'll punch up to over 130 in less than five seconds."

Lorena came back in time to look curiously at Blair as he whistled softly. "Wow. And you're upgrading *that*?"

"Yeah," he said. "Mitch has a customized Winchester that's shaking his car to bits. I'm swapping my high-per and $300 for it and he's going to help me hoist it in. The only catch is that I have to meet him at his garage in about a half-hour, or someone else is going to get it."

Blair watched him fill out the withdrawal slip. "Can't have that, can we?"

"Not even," he replied as Lorena counted out the bills. "That sucker's *mine*."

The shorter man laughed and lifted his hands, "Hey, I'm not gonna stand in your way. I *know* better!"

The teller slid the receipt slip over to Rafe and he took a pen out of his pocket rather than use the cheaper one strung on a chain by the window. "By next week, I hope, she's gonna be able to burn some serious miles."

"So you're here to get the cash for it," Blair nodded. "Why didn't you just go the ATM?"

Rafe shrugged, "Don't have an ATM card."

Blair lifted an eyebrow, "You don't? Why not?"

He took the slip and signed his name in quick, neat strokes. "It'd be too easy for me to spend money. If I have to wait in line forever, I tend to reserve it for things I really want."

The other man just nodded, watching Rafe as he stuffed the small stack of bills in his pocket. They moved aside for the next person to be serviced and Blair gave Rafe an odd look when he went over to the counter off to the side that supplied deposit slips. "What're you doing?"

Rafe glanced up from the receipt, the pen in his hand poised over some figures. "Huh? Oh. Just balancing things out."

"Right now?" he asked. When Rafe nodded absently, he added in a mutter, "And I thought Jim was anal about that."

"If I don't, I'll forget."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, his old grin and some of his energy back again. He came over to lean against the counter while Rafe pored over the numbers, rebudgeting several little things he now decided weren't that vital to get in the near future.

After a few minutes, he saw Blair stiffen a little in his peripheral vision. "Um, Rafe?"

The nearly inaudible whisper was iced over with tension. Rafe glanced up curiously to see Blair's eyes were fixed on the other side of the bank where the teller's windows were. His puzzled eyes followed Blair's gaze, even as he asked, "What is it?"

"Now, call me paranoid after hanging out with Jim and the rest of Major Crimes for so long, but I was sure I saw...." His voice trailed off, but his words were suddenly unnecessary as one of the other customers fired three rounds into the ceiling.

Every muscle and fiber snapped to alertness, his body lunging forward to grab Sandburg and they hit the deck together before his mind quite fully recognized what was happening. The robber was perfectly calm, watching everyone that had fallen around him into various sprawls more than a little remiscent of worshipping. Rafe's arm was slung over Blair's shoulders, and he squirmed forward a little more, instinctively shielding his friend's body with his own.

Pale brown eyes regarded everyone that huddled in terror on the ground, then turned to the panicked tellers. "You know the drill, get going." And to emphasize the unspoken threat, his gun arm came down to rest the elbow casually in his other hand, the nine millimeter still pointed upwards. Lorena and the other women hastened to follow his orders.

"Rafe-"

"Sssh," the hiss of exhaled air was barely louder that the word it cut off. Rafe was staring at the robber, sizing up the situation. He'd gotten control of the crowd quickly, quelling any hysterics with a cold gaze and a casual step towards the civilian. His eyes roved all over, never leaving any one point unseen for more than a few seconds.

The muscular man had no mask or other concealment for his face; that fact made Rafe's blood turn to ice water. This guy didn't care who could identify him, which meant either he was insane or he was planning to kill everyone. Neither one boded well for anyone.

Worst of all, when Lorena finally pushed a bulging cloth sack onto the counter with shaking hands, he made no move to get it, only motioned her and the other three out to the main floor area. He hadn't even bothered to make sure none of the women had pressed the silent alarm, which Rafe was certain at least one of them had.

All this flashed through his SWAT-trained mind in less than a second, making him dead certain about two things. First, whoever he was, he was after something bigger than just petty cash. Second, it was unlikely everyone would leave this building alive.

A low moan from beside him caught his attention. "Man, whatever I did to piss you all off, I'm sorry already. I mean, I know there's such a thing as karmic justice and all that, but do you think you could spread all the retribution and atonement out over a couple of other lives?" Sandburg was muttering to himself softly, cursing his incredibly bad luck.

"I mean, there are hundreds of gods out there, not just counting the contemporary religions, and if we throw a few ancient civilizations into the mix, there's hundreds more. I must have pissed each and every single one of them off. Past, present and future incarnations of various cultures' beliefs..."

He was taking another breath to continue the tirade when Rafe finally managed to interrupt him. "Maybe it's the oxygen deprivation," Rafe said, amazed at Sandburg's train of thought. "Did you take a single breath in there? Christ Sandburg. And I know they call you a trouble magnet, but this is ridiculous. Do you have any friends willing to hang out with you anymore?"

"You're not gonna tell me that's why you're making yourself scarce?"

"Sssh," he hissed again when those eyes darted their way.

"I didn't think I needed to tell anyone in here to keep quiet, did I?" the gun was held in a loose grip by his leg and his glare snapped back over to a woman that was sucking her breath in hitches, her face wet with the tears she struggled to stop.

While the man's attention was otherwise occupied, Rafe reached under his shirt and carefully undid a few straps. Blair looked at him oddly, then his eyes widened as Rafe managed to slide a lightweight Kevlar vest out from under his clothes. "Oh man," he breathed as Rafe edged it over to him. "I can't believe you're wearing that off duty."

It was a small design, one that Blair hadn't seen before. Basically just two panels front and back, it was tied on. Not heavy enough to stop literally *anything*, but enough to keep the wearer alive through one shot, possibly three. "Me and everyone else in SWAT that's on call wears it off-duty," he whispered back. "Put it on."

"What? First of all, how? Second of all, why're you giving this to m-ph!" Rafe's hand firmly shut him up.

"Just do it. I have an idea."

And Blair couldn't say anything, because their whispered conversation had attracted the wrong attention. Blair carefully worked the vest under his body and shirt, taking advantage of the miniscule cover Rafe's larger body provided. The man watched them for a moment, then Rafe's guts went to lead as he started to walk over to them.

Staring at the two men, he mildly asked, "Didn't I say something about being quiet?" There was absolutely no expression on his face as he fired another round into the floor not six inches from their heads. The ricochet off the marble sent a chip to bloody Rafe's cheek and bounced deafeningly around the bank. "Last warning. Shut the fuck up now, or you can be silent for all eternity."

The bullet was bad enough, but it was the absolute lack of expression in his eyes that made the threat that much more chilling. Because it wasn't really a threat, it was more a statement of fact.

Rafe ducked his head down, not daring to maintain what might be perceived as a challenging eye contact. A quick glance to his side assured him that Blair had followed his lead, casting his eyes down to the floor just under their noses.

"Good, I'm glad I won't have to remind either of you." Rafe heard the steps as he walked back to the center of the main area, the better to be able to watch everyone at once.

Keeping his motions careful and quiet, he motioned Blair to put the vest on. The other man mouthed //how?// and a glare shut him up and got him to try to maneuver it on.

The next hour was spent on a cold marble floor. Blair had somehow gotten the vest on under his tshirt, while Rafe watched the gunman. The first police cars had pulled up in response to the silent alarms about forty minutes ago, and Rafe knew by now that his friends in SWAT were more than likely in place.

Which worked out perfectly for what he had in mind. Another shot fired made him flinch and Sandburg gasped. The robber was glaring at the woman that had been crying earlier, a few tracks of blood trickling down her neck from the hole in her forehead to stain the collar of her blouse. Rafe's eyes narrowed in fury.

"Now, if anybody else has a problem keeping quiet, they can get similar help." He looked around for anyone stupid enough to volunteer, then relaxed again when everybody went dead silent once more. A few minutes later, one of the phones rang.

The robber seemed completely unsurprised by the sudden sound. He walked casually over to the phone on one of the desks, sitting with one hip on the edge of the desk as he answered it cheerfully, "Byers, Frohike and Langley, how may we disservice you today?"

Rafe listened closely.

"No, no, I have no intention of killing any of my hostages..."

*You fucking liar!* he thought.

"Well, you might say I'm making a statement. I got hired to do something a rich man wasn't man enough to do on his own, and then he goes and cheats me. I'm just looking to get paid..." Another pause, then the man laughed. It was a gentle, warm sound that washed smoothly over everyone and sent icy creeps up Rafe's back. "I can't reveal my employer's name, though I'd like to kill him myself. Professional courtesy, you know?"

Rafe nearly groaned. *Professional what?* he wondered.

"My demands? Quite simple, really. My employer has... interests... secured here. I want them. They're in safety deposit boxes, so you'd better send someone in that knows how to open them." There was another pause, and Rafe saw him smile coldly. "I don't know which ones; you'll just have to open all of them until I get what I want. Do it, and do it soon, or I will kill a hostage to get your attention. Then I'll kill another if you're moving too slow. Get the pattern?"

He nodded sharply after a time. "Fine. And I'll work my way around the room, so I can be sure to get everyone's name in the right order. Did you want to know who I kill before or after they hit the floor?"

"Aw, man," Blair whispered, the blood leaving his face. Rafe reached back, and Blair's hand crept out to take his, their fingers going white as both men squeezed hard to reassure each other.

"I'm glad you see it my way. You have ten minutes." He dropped the phone back on its cradle, tapping the muzzle of the gun thoughtfully against his lips for a moment.

Rafe swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Sandburg," he breathed, turning his head enough to conceal the bare movement of his lips. "Yesterday was... inexcusable. And I'm sorry - you have no idea how much, but I hope you can imagine it."

"What-"

He quieted as Rafe shook his head, "I know about you and Jim."

Blair's mouth snapped shut.

"Nobody did anything to make me leave; I just panicked and ran. Make sure they know that. Make sure he knows that."

Blair paled as the meaning behind Rafe's words hit him. "Oh shit, man. What are you thinking?"

"Just keep quiet. Don't attract his attention."

"Rafe-"

The other man turned his head to fully face him, "What'll it do to Jim if you're carried out of here?"

Blair flinched, but came back with, "What'll it do to him if *you're* carried out?"

*Nothing,* he thought with an internal cringe. Forcing out the words he didn't want to consider, but he knew were true, he murmured, "He'll get over it. He won't get over you." Rafe smiled faintly, "Major Crimes is my family, too. Remember that." He gathered his courage and stood.

"Rafe!" Blair hissed frantically.

The detective took a step towards the robber, freezing as the gun leveled at his head. He sent a prayer for just a little help up to whoever might be listening. Keeping his voice low and calm, he said, "They're going to bluff you."

Behind him, he could almost feel Blair vibrating with barely-controlled tension and fear. The robber only looked at him with cool eyes, "Your loss if they do."

Rafe nodded. Once the uniforms had sent out the alert, including the tidbit about Sandburg's car being parked right out front, a massive response was a given. Banks would never let any situation, where one of his men was in danger, go without his personal supervision. Ellison would be here too, if he wasn't already.

As much as he wanted Jim -or Blair- for himself, he knew better. They had each other, and Rafe decided that the greater crime would be to let anything happen to Sandburg. Not having Jim wouldn't hurt nearly as much as having to watch Jim lose the man he loved.

*Rafe,* he thought cynically, *you really need your head examined.*

The gun didn't shift at all. He took a deep breath, "They'll play you along as long as they can. Cops don't care all that much for a bunch of pencil-pushers."

"Then you know for a fact you're going to die. Trying to get it over with?"

He laughed nervously, shaking inside despite his bravado. "No. I want us all to walk out of here."

"It's good to want things."

*No, it's not.* He thought briefly of Jim, then gave himself a mental shake and went on. "If I help you, will you let them go?"

"No."

"Look," Rafe tried again, "You don't need all these people to get what you want. You just need me."

Those eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do I?"

Behind him, he could hear the faint, muffled sounds as Blair bit his hand to keep quiet. "If you let them go, the police will know you're willing to deal. They'll be willing to deal with you in return."

The mercenary-turned-robber looked him over. "You're a little butch to be a damsel in distress."

Rafe took a deep breath. "I'm a cop."

Time and space froze. Everyone stared at him, unsure if he was stupid or just suicidal.

The merc blinked, then leaned forward. "Okay, you've got my interest. Go on."

His legs almost gave out in short-lived relief. The gun was still pointed at him, held in the casual grip of a man who smiled with dangerous amusement. The weapon had lowered a little, but was still aiming somewhere between his heart and his liver. "Let them know you've got me," he said, trying not to watch the black circle of the muzzle. "They'll do all they can to help civilians, but they'll bend over backwards for a fellow cop."

Strangely, the merc nodded after a long pause. "Makes sense."

Heartened a little, he went on. "I'm unarmed, and I'll cooperate. You can let them go."

The man seemed to actually consider, then shook his head. "No. Without them, I'd have to keep you alive. I lose bargaining power. They stay."

*Damn!* Those flat eyes allowed for no argument, so Rafe tried a different tack. "Okay. Then let's get this going. You gave them ten minutes-"

"Good memory," he said sarcastically.

"-so the sooner they know, the faster they'll move."

The robber nodded, and Rafe relaxed a little. Trying to negotiate with someone as dangerously unpredictable as this man had demonstrated was a balancing act that made him dizzy. The gun dropped a little more as he leaned over and reached for the phone. "What's the number?"

Rafe shrugged, then brought his hands up quickly as the nine millimeter snapped back up to his face. "Wait! I know the number - I just don't know which captain's out there. You want the right one, don't you?"

The merc glared icily at him, then slid off the desk and stalked forward. Rafe stood his ground, trying to not flinch when the merc jerked him forward with a fistful of his shirt and jammed the muzzle painfully into his throat. "Fuck with me," he growled, "and you'll watch your friend die after I shoot out your knees."

The cop's face went cold as all the blood left it. The robber knew to use Blair against him - he'd likely figure out how to use him against the cops outside as well. Against Jim. His initial idea, still relatively formless, snapped into crystal clarity.

If Sandburg died, it would kill Jim. Rafe couldn't let that happen.

The internal shivers stilled as his resolve hardened into something both fluid and stronger than steel. A kind of peaceful balance that comes with accepting a decision evened his voice and he replied, "I wouldn't do that. I want everyone to get out of this."

The merc frowned, puzzlement tracing over his face before it hardened again. "Come on," he said, yanking Rafe roughly forward. A muscled arm was hooked around his neck and the robber walked them both to a window. The gunman stayed behind him, using the smaller man as a shield.

His first glance outside found Simon almost instantly, his old captain drawing his sight with the magnetic ease of familiarity. Simon's eyes widened in outrage when he saw Rafe and the gun pressed to the side of his neck.

Rafe's eyes skipped up, looking around at the surrounding buildings.

"Well?" the man asked from behind him. The gun nudged imperatively.

"Just a minute, hard to tell who's ranking out there..." Rafe's gaze was focused up, skimming from window to window, eaves, rooftops... all the likely sniper positions.

He saw a shooter on the roof across the way, about thirty feet to his right. A small sigh of relief escaped him; with his fellow snipers in place, everything would work. Rafe couldn't quite tell who it was, the angle of the sun was wrong for that, but it didn't matter; he and all the SWAT marksmen had promised...

The gun jabbed his neck again, tearing his mind back to the deception at hand. "Come on."

"The ranking captain's name is Banks," he replied, his eyes straining to see the half-hidden sniper. "Give me a second to remember his number..."

Instead of trying to recall a number that was permanently engraved in his memory, Rafe gave a report to the shooter with the scope. All the snipers could read lips, to an extent, and Rafe made sure to form each word clearly, //Thirteen hostages. One gunman, very professional. Doesn't know procedure too well. He's killed one hostage already, and he will kill more...//

There was one other thing. It was a promise he and the other sharpshooters had made, none of them lightly. Each and every one of them had been behind the scope in some nasty hostage situations and there was a silent agreement that if any of them were taken hostage, they'd do whatever needed to get the criminal into the line of fire.

Equally solemn and unspoken, was the vow that in that instance, the shooter would take the shot given. Even if it was through a friend.

He exhaled slowly, feeling nothing but calm with his next words. //My vest is off. Take the shot.//

The robber jostled him impatiently, "The number?" He was standing behind Rafe and slightly to the left, right arm still around his throat. The shooter was up and to the right; the line of fire and high powered rifles SWAT used made it a perfect shot. The cop braced himself.

"His cell phone is, um, 583-4298." //Now!// he mouthed at the shooter. //Take him out!//

The sniper didn't fire.

The gunman pulled him farther to the left, off to the side, to get to another desk phone. Rafe's vision reddened as he glared up at his colleague, nearly screaming in frustration as the perfect shot was lost. A friend, a partner that had given his word - and the son of a bitch had broken it. There was no reason, aside from cold feet, for the promise to be broken and that enraged him.

Rafe was still standing between the merc and the sniper, the dimness of the bank's interior making the shot twice as hard, but not impossible. Why was the shooter still hesitating?

His eyes drilled up at the other man as the merc made the call. //Take the shot// he ordered, his irritation plain on his face.

He distantly heard the man behind him talking to Simon, still felt the gun at his neck, and knew he was almost out of time. There was still a clean shot to take out the gunman. Through him.

Still nothing.

Rafe's anger flared, //You asshole. Take him out. Sandburg's next-//

His spine suddenly frosted over with the immediate certainty that something was terribly wrong. He didn't care.

Rafe scowled at the reluctant sniper, his lips forming the words again. //Don't you dare break pact! Take the shot and end this. TAKE THE FUCKING SHOT!//

He saw the hole appear in the glass, the edges spiderwebbed, and felt a hard punch drive all the air out of his chest. The grip on him convulsed and loosened and Rafe didn't realize he was falling until his knees cracked hard against the floor. The dull heat in his body began to burn, turning into a ripping fire. He pitched forward, moving slowly through the thick air that resisted the desperate gasp of his lungs.

He couldn't see, he couldn't hear, he couldn't think. He could only *feel* everything inside - the grating of shattered bone, the agonizing shift of torn tissues, the hot gush of blood that was everywhere.

His mind scrabbled frantically, dashing back and forth amidst the scarlet cables of pain lashing through him. It paused long enough to note the cool marble beneath his cheek, then one of the cables snapped it away, sending him into a merciful blackness where there was no pain. None at all.

When Rafe awoke, he was cold. Winter whipped across the world that stretched empty around him. He shivered violently, his thin clothing no protection in the wilderness.

All around him was ice and snow as he trudged against the wind. The ground was uneven and irregular under the deceptive blanket of white and he stumbled and fell often. The edges and jags under the surface dug into him, cutting deeply and those wounds ached with a fierce burn.

He huddled his bleeding hands close to his chest, trying to ignore the matching gashes on his legs and body as he limped onward. After countless falls, he was nearly out of his mind with pain and cold and loneliness.

*Hurts too much,* he nearly whimpered. *Make it stop.*

Another fall, another cut.

This time he just lay there, exhausted and in pain. All the cuts bled and burned with a sullen fire, making patterns of red on the snow.

He watched in tired fascination as the red froze and turned bluish white. The icy tinge crept inward until it reached the blood still trickling sluggishly. The burn faded and cooled, turning into a chill as the blueness continued to his skin, then began to cover it. The pale flesh tone faded, to be replaced with smooth, blue ice.

The pain, external and internal, cooled and retreated from the transformation. It left him to breathe in relief at last, a beginning smile at the freedom from the constant ache.

It was still there, but it was quiet. It was bearable.

He struggled to his feet, watching the ice as it claimed the rest of him. He found it odd that he could still move about as normal, when he was obviously not any more, but it didn't matter. In the face of relief, it didn't matter. He couldn't feel anything any more, and pain no longer held any power over him.

Rafe tried to take a few steps, amazed at the ease with which he moved, at his invulnerability to the cold. A smile touched his lips without meeting his eyes and movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. A white shape, amidst the whitness, darted just out of vision. Curious, he followed it, trying to focus on the shape that dodged identification almost playfully.

He stopped when he saw something that didn't fit his new home. It was a light, completely out of place in this gray formlessness. The light was a golden glow, like sunlight, like spring, like warmth... It drew him to it, a moth to a flame. He ignored the raging winds and turned to head that way, his curiosity about the light outweighing that about the winter ghost.

Suddenly, somehow, he found himself walking into the bullpen. Major Crimes was having a busy day, but not, from the grins and easy camaraderie, a bad one. The arctic was forgotten as he stepped back into the bullpen, the department that was his second home, what had felt forever like his real home.

"Rafe!" the joyful shout came from behind him and Brown was right there, grinning broadly. "We missed you, man."

*I missed you all, too,* he replied, unable to keep from smiling as Brown clapped a hand on his shoulder.

The smile vanished as Brown jerked it back. "Damn! Rafe, you are *freezing*! C'mon over here," he led Rafe over to Simon's office, with its ever-present coffeemaker. Taggert was there, and he was grinning too as he gave Rafe a cup of steaming coffee.

"Glad to have you back," the big man said, dropping decorum long enough to smack him between the shoulderblades, knocking him a step forward.

Rafe was grinning like a fool now, and fool he had been, to leave his family. What had he been thinking? To avoid getting hurt? No chance of that now; all thoughts of Jim and Blair were as coolly distant as he.

He curled his ice-hands around the cup and brought it to his lips, taking a deep breath to smell what flavor Simon had cooked up now. His forehead creased in a frown as he realized he couldn't smell it. How odd.

With a small shrug, he drank it anyway, bringing the cup back down immediately to stare into it with suspicion. There was no warmth or flavor in the coffee.

To his shock, the creamy brown liquid began to blur to pale blue. The same pale blue as the ice he was now made of. The cup dropped from stunned fingers to shatter on the floor, its sides already frosting over.

"Rafe?" Joel's voice was puzzled. Rafe looked at him, his mouth opening to say something and stopped. Taggert's arm was blue nearly halfway up his forearm. "Hey, what's happening? Why'd you drop your coffee?"

Rafe's eyes were wide and fixed on the ice crawling up Joel's arm. Didn't he even realize what was happening to him?

*What I've done to him,* came the horrified realization.

On his other side, Brown's arm was solid ice up to his shoulder, the dead paleness climbing slowly up to his neck as he smiled and laughed over coffee with Simon. Nobody noticed that either.

Joel reached out with his other hand and Rafe flinched from him, backing away. His head was shaking slowly in disbelief. Brown and Simon saw the look of nauseated fear on his face and came over. He backpedaled to avoid contact and tripped over the wastebasket behind him. Simon lunged and caught him as he fell.

"What the hell is wrong?" Simon's frown was coasted between irritation and concern, "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Rafe shoved himself away, hastening to put a buffering space between them and himself. Joel's arm was dead past his elbow now, the chilling blue already on Simon's arms and chest where he'd caught Rafe. Henry was giving him a half-smile, the other side of his face an ice sculpture. When they continued to approach, he turned and fled.

He jerked the door open and barreled out into the bullpen. His panic blinded him and he slammed into someone, falling in a sideways twist to the floor.

"Oh shit, Rafe. Sorry about that, are you okay?" Gentle hands tried to help him and he looked up into Blair's eyes. Patches of leprous blue were already appearing in areas where Rafe had touched him.

He scrabbled away, desperate to keep from touching anyone else. In a flash, he was on his feet and racing for the elevator.

With a soft ping, the doors opened, but there was no car beyond them. A blizzard slapped him in the face, making him stagger back. Beyond the door was the tundra wasteland, waiting for him.

He looked back to the bullpen, to Jim now standing there with his slowly freezing lover. They started towards him together, their faces holding mirrored expressions of deepest, warmest concern. Of care. Care that would destroy them.

And Jim was suddenly close, reaching out to him.

Rafe spun around and plunged into wild winter that shrieked around him. He ran on, trying to outrace the pain that seemed a permanent part of his soul. He ran on until he collapsed, only then daring a look back to see that the bullpen and all his friends were gone and he was alone again. All around him, the winter's rage doubled.

Drawing himself into a shivering huddle, he watched the storm around him, rubbing his frozen hands together. It was more out of habit, and a way to try to comfort himself, than out of actual chill. He didn't feel the cold at all, since he was ice too.

The tremors came from being all alone, a hurt that was worse than dying. The storm, angry at his lack of feeling, tripled its intensity.

*Please, please, please,* he begged silently. *Someone end this.*

Another gust that nearly knocked him over. The arctic that had once been his friend and armor was now his bane.

*End this,* he pleaded. *End me.*

The infinite howl was the last thing he heard as he shattered and blew away.