Title: The Seeing Red Affair

Author: Princess Golux

E-mail: princessgoluxyahoo.com

Website: https:www.mere-device.com

Fandom: dS/SG-1/MfU

Type: slash, AA, AU, Crossover

Pairings: BF/RK, NS/IK

Series: Maintain the Right series #1

Rating: PG-13 (for violence, m/m relationships implied)

Spoilers: Oblique references to a number of dS eps, particularly MOB & COTW. This is AU for MfU after 4th season.

Warning: angst, and MfU character death implied/discussed.

Archive: Pretty much anywhere, just drop me a line. J

Disclaimer: Alas, all these characters belong to other people; also, I am making no money from this.

Notes: This is the first in a dS/SG-1 series. It's the jumping off point. Jack and crew are not, however, in the following story. The SG-1 crew will show up in the next one, I promise! I absolutely have to thank Iris & David for the betas!

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Act 1:

"I found you bleeding all over my nice tundra."

"And the search continues for the whereabouts of Sergeant Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and his personal and professional partner Stanley Raymond Kowalski, formerly of the Chicago Police Department. The two officers disappeared over the Alaskan wilderness early this morning after heroically foiling a hijacking attempt. It appears that, at some point during the struggle with one of the suspected hijackers, all three men fell or jumped out of the airplane. There were no eyewitnesses to their actual fight, but sources say that multiple shots were fired. It is unknown at this time whether any of the three men were wearing parachutes."

"A joint task force consisting of Canadian and US forces are searching for possible survivors..."

The sound clicked off.

Illya Kuryakin pocketed the small remote and wiped his face, not caring that his motion streaked blood from his hands over everything he touched. The dark one wore the red uniform of the RCMP; therefore the dying one must be the Chicago cop.

"It is not our concern, Trev'van." Illya muttered; his speech was slurred with fatigue. He could hear Mother Russia clearly in his thick voice and cursed to himself. He should not be operating on cops or Mounties or anyone else in this state.

But there was no one else to do so, not anymore.

He picked up the red healing device again. The lean cop had frostbitten fingers, dirty blond hair, and necrosis invading two gunshot wounds to his abdomen and another to his arm. Illya had been working on him for almost an hour now, and the other man needed his care. The healing device wouldn't be able to save the critically wounded man; all it could do was stop the damage from spreading any faster, shore up critical systems for a while. The dark one had no gunshots that Illya could see; his was strictly a case of exposure.

Time to switch patients. Illya could lose one of these men, or he could lose both of them.

Time to choose.

Illya made sure the dying man was as stable as he could be for the time being and prepared to save the Mountie, ignoring the voices in his head.

-------------------------------------------

Benton Fraser came awake slowly, his mind automatically calculating the damage to his body. Fortunately, he'd had an inordinate amount of practice in that particular exercise. His mental checklist revealed no immediately dangerous wounds, just the familiar feeling of overexposure to inclement weather. Practically standard operating procedure for being lost in a snowstorm. Fraser dismissed it.

His first coherent thought was for his partner. Ray had been shot, at least twice. The ride down in the blizzard had been a nightmare; he remembered holding tight to Ray, praying that both the snowing and the bleeding would stop and that the single parachute would slow their descent sufficiently so as to enable him to find aid when they touched down. His awakening senses initially seemed to assure him of some type of familiarity. But as he opened his eyes, his first overwhelming relief was quickly followed by disorientation.

At first glance, the room seemed like a hospital room. Machines and white walls, crisp linen and sterile air. But the machines were wholly unfamiliar to Fraser, unlike anything he'd ever seen. There was no sharp scent of antiseptic in the air. And the room seemed a lot bigger, more like an open-air triage tent with thick stone walls. His bed was a modified gurney, complete with wheels, but it seemed just a little bigger than any other gurney he'd ever been on. And frankly, Benton Fraser had ridden a gurney or two in his day.

Propping himself up on one arm, Fraser scanned the room. More machines, a few more gurneys, yet more machines — ah. He spotted another form, halfway across the room; various machines hooked up to it. He forced himself up and made his way slowly over to Ray's side.

Once there, he stood, at a loss for his next move. Ray was clearly still injured, but it was just as clear that someone had taken care of him. His wounds were cleanly bandaged and an intravenous bag fed a thin stream into his arm. Ray's thin face was pale; all the lines Fraser knew so well stood out, deeply creased from recent pain. Even his hair, jagged yellow on the pillow, seemed to have lost most of its characteristic defiance.

Fraser touched it, wanting the spiky texture to comfort him. But it was limp and sweat-soaked and offered no resistance - wholly unRaylike. Fraser's heart skipped, making his breath stutter for a moment in fear.

Fraser had no idea where they were. He could see white walls beyond the steel doors, but he would not leave Ray. And Ray needed the machines. Therefore, here they would stay. QED.

Besides, Fraser had the suspicion that he might just fall over if he let go of Ray's gurney. So he didn't bother. They were safe enough for the time being. He could just stand guard over his partner, stand watch for him. He put out his hand again and stroked the soft wet hair, taking comfort in the nearness of Ray, surrendering coif notwithstanding.

Fraser continued petting Ray's head and watching his chest rise and fall, the proof of Ray's continued survival mesmerizing and soothing him.

Yes. They could stay for a while.

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"Shut up, Trev'van." Illya was tired and sore. He watched the tender infirmary scene unfold on the monitor in his command and control room. Illya knew this script too well. The blonde kid was going to die. The other one would probably become a liability at that point. Almost certainly, in fact, if Illya was reading all the clues correctly.

"So you've told me. Repeatedly." Illya scowled once more at the monitor. At least he'd had time to get a shower. The last thing he would want to have to do would be to have the upcoming conversation covered in the blonde cop's blood. The Mountie would probably react badly to that. And Illya really didn't want to have to kill him, at least not until he'd gotten some sleep. Extra adrenaline would just make him twitchy.

Just give him the choice, Illyushka.

Illya stopped. "You are dead," he said sternly. "Therefore you do not get a vote."

He swept grimly out of the room, headed for the infirmary. "Besides, this is all your fault anyway."

The voice laughed. Stubborn Russian.

Illya paused before the door to the infirmary and pressed his hands to his head. "Both of you," he snapped, "be silent."

He glared into the air around him. "It hardly advances your collective cause to have this nice young man realize just how crazy I really am, da? If he thinks me mad, what are the chances he will be able to believe in you?"

There was blessed silence. Illya nodded firmly. "Good. Now stay quiet and let me do the talking."

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"Awake at last, Sergeant Fraser."

Fraser turned too quickly and had to close his eyes against a surge of dizziness. A moment later a strong hand took his arm and guided him to a chair. He breathed deeply, restoring his blood pressure, and opened his eyes to take his first good look at his hitherto unknown host.

The man was lithe and competent-looking. He had ice-blue eyes and ice-blond hair. He looked to be about 35 or 36, although something in his assessing stare made Fraser believe he was much older. His voice was soft, almost feminine and he spoke with a lilting Russian accent worn away by age. He had probably not been back to Russia in decades.

He was dressed in a smart black suit, his white shirt unwrinkled and open at the throat. There were calluses on the hand that had helped Fraser to his chair. Those hands knew both armed and unarmed combat.

Fraser could smell shampoo and soap; the man had showered within the last half-hour. The blue eyes appraising him were red-rimmed - obviously a lack of sleep - but Fraser detected grief in the set of his mouth as well. A recent loss?

Fraser began to ask a question, then frowned and asked a different one. "How do you know my name?"

The man reached inside a pocket. Fraser tensed. Gun? Taser?

Ah. Remote control. Fraser relaxed slowly. The other man hit a button and a disembodied voice started mid-sentence.

"forces say they cannot continue the search for the two missing police officers until the winds die down. Hope is dwindling, however, for the possible rescue of Sergeant Fraser and former Detective Kowalski. Candles are being lit in prayer throughout Chicago, Toronto, and Ottawa today, as families pray for."

The voice clicked off.

"They think we're dead?" Fraser asked. It seemed inconceivable. Surely, even if no one else believed in their survival, Ray Vecchio at the very least would realize.

The man rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sergeant." He curled his lip; no one would mistake it for a smile. "You disappeared completelyout of an airplanethousands of feet over a frozen tundrain the middle of a blizzard."

Sarcasm really brought out the Russian accent, Fraser noted absently.

"It's not official yet. You are still designated as 'missing.' But no one can get within a hundred miles of here right now. Gale-force winds are defeating aircraft and ground transportation alike." He looked at Fraser, no expression on his face. "You and I are the only ones who know that you are still alive."

Fraser felt a growing alarm. In Fraser's experience, people saying that sort of thing, to him in particular, generally meant they were homicidal maniacs. In fact, generally speaking, he almost always got into these kinds of isolated and dangerous situations because of homicidal maniacs.

He kept his voice calm. "That sounds like a threat."

The man's gaze didn't waver. "It is merely a fact."

"Who are you?" Fraser kept his body relaxed through force of habit. Homicidal maniacs, in Fraser's experience, liked to see you panic. "And where am I?"

He expected an answer to the first question but not the second. Maniacs liked to gloat; he'd foiled many a crime because of that, but they rarely gave away important information like the secret locations of their inevitably poorly hidden hideouts.

He was therefore somewhat surprised by the lack of pride in the answer to the first question, and even more surprised to receive an answer at all to the second.

"I am Illya Kuryakin." The man cocked his head and frowned a little. He had a strange look on his face, as if he was listening to something only he could hear. Fraser was not at all reassured by this look, seeming as it did to weigh heavily against the other man in the "is-he-sane" question.

Of course, given his own predilection for semi-public conversations with dead relatives, that could be the mythic "pot/kettle" issue that Diefenbaker was forever accusing him of.

Whatever the cause, his host's next words were almost apologetic.

"I did not mean to seemhostile."

"No, not at all." Fraser lied politely. If the voices in Mr. Kuryakin's head were chiming in on the Fraser/Ray side, that was quite all right with him.

"As for where you are? " The small blond man grimaced and looked around. "We are currently fifty feet below a mountain in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness."

The Alaskan wilderness he would have guessed, there having hardly have been the time to go elsewhere. Under a mountain?

"It's quite lovely." Fraser lied politely again.

This time Illya gave a small but real smile. "No, it isn't. It's white and cold up there and white and sterile in here."

The smile twisted wryly, became almost a grin.

"This is not a cheerful fortress. But at least it's not cold.

The smile made him look younger and shyer and much, much less crazy. In fact, as the conversation progressed, he began to seem very nearly sane. Fraser began to believe that he could get Ray out of this if he played his cards right. The first thing was to find out what this man wanted from them.

"How did we get here?"

"I found you bleeding all over my nice tundra. I had a moment of weakness," a small shrug, "and here you are."

Ah. A reminder that they owed this man their lives.

"We thank you for your kindness." Fraser finally asked the question preying on him. "How soon can weget out of your way? We wouldn't want to presume on your hospitality. When will Ray be able to travel?"

Illya Kuryakin lost his smile. "It is not good, my friend."

Fraser willed himself not to panic at his host's immediate return to seriousness, but he couldn't help struggling to his feet. He suddenly needed to be as near to Ray as possible.

Illya crossed around Ray and physically indicated problems as he verbally listed them. "His colon is pierced in several places. Shrapnel from one of the bullets nearly severed his liver. One of his kidneys is irreparably damaged. His stomach is punctured. His spleen is shot — literally." Illya shook his head.

"On top of all these injuries, you both were in the storm for too long before I found you. He has developed necrosis inside his stomach and within part of his large intestine." He contemplated Ray for a moment then shrugged. "At least the arm wound is fairly negligible."

Fraser took a step back and collapsed in the chair again. He looked like he had been shot himself. All the blood in his was face draining out; he looked shell-shocked.

Illya continued on, his voice steady. "I can probably wake him up for you to say your good-byes, but his chances are extremely slim. I have done almost all I can at this point." He turned to walk away.

My god, Fraser thought. Don't you feel anything? You just told me that you could do nothing to help my dying partner, you bastard, and with no more feeling than.

No. That wasn't what had been said. He had said

Fraser, seizing the linguistic loophole presented to him as if clutching a life preserver called out sharply to the retreating Russian.

"Almost?"

Illya didn't respond verbally, but he stopped moving towards the door.

Fraser pushed. "Slim. Not non-existent?"

Illya didn't turn around, but Fraser could see an internal struggle tensing the muscles in his back and neck. His sweat began to smell ever so slightly more acrid and his pulse edged up a notch. Fraser's heart leapt and he climbed to his feet again.

There was something there. There was some kind of hope there for Ray.

Fraser began to advance on the smaller man. "What aren't you telling me, Mr. Kuryakin?" He knew from the way he moved that the Russian was well trained in combat. But Ray needed him, and if he had to resort to violence to save him, then by gosh he would do just that.

He gathered his resolve. If he couldn't verbally convince Illya to tell him what he was holding back, he would just have tokick him in the head.

Illya whirled around to face his advance. His eyes were cold and he stood his ground as the Mountie advanced. "You do not need to know the things I am not telling you, Sergeant Fraser. They would not ease your mind." Fraser drew level to Illya, who looked into his furious eyes and did not flinch. "My secrets are too big, Sergeant Fraser. They are not available for a momentary or temporary solution."

"I would appreciate the chance to make that choice myself."

As the argument gained shape and direction, the two men stood toe to toe. Fraser towered over the smaller Russian, but Illya met his furious glare squarely, refusing to be intimidated.

He shot back. "It would not be your choice. It would be Ray's. Once this information is on the table, you will cease to have control of the outcome."

Oh, Fraser thought grimly, you really don't know me very well, do you?

"The knowledge that I possess would present Ray with choices that could conceivably change your relationship with him, possibly forever. In fact, it could change both your whole life and his."

Fraser arched a brow. "And his death would preserve the status quo exactly how?"

Illya dropped his voice, his accent even thicker.

"Sergeant Fraser, beware. You are choosing to create a whirlpool in your life, driving your vessel directly for the straits. You will find yourself between Scylla and Charybdis."

The pain in the other man's voice was palpable. Fraser took two steps backward. He looked at Illya, really looked at him. For the first time in years, Benton Fraser truly began to fear for Ray Kowalski.

Always before there had been some way to beat the odds, even if he'd occasionally had to carry Ray up a mountain on his back. Whether lost below the ocean on a sinking ship or crossing the border on the wing of a plane, they always won through in the end. That's what they did; they were heroes and they were a duet. Winning through, together, despite the odds - that had always been the essence of their partnership.

Fraser set about to make an appeal. He prepared to use every non-verbal trick at his command to back up his plea. Aware of the theatricality of the moment, he lowered his head slightly, then looked back at Illya.

"Ray once attempted to end our partnership," Fraser said after a long moment. "He pointed out that I can, at times, be a bit overbearing." He grimaced ironically. He was gearing up to be as overbearing as possible — Ray would understand.

The heat was gone from his voice. He pled for Illya's understanding with his eyes, with his body, with his voice. He could feel his posture straighten. Ray called it his "Hero Mountie" act; the way that he would convince his partners to endanger themselves in "wildly bizarre ways." He had always preferred to believe in the power of sincerity. Whatever the truth, he hoped to God it would work on Illya.

"He pointed out that I had developed a habit of acting first and explaining later. This always seemed to work for me before Ray. In fact it had worked exceptionally well with my first partner."

He frowned, momentarily distracted, then put that thought away for later.

"Ray wasfrom anyone else I'd ever worked with. Others either treated me as an idiot savant, refusing to listen to my reasoning and then claiming full knowledge and support of my ideas when the job was done, or they simply pointed me at a job and got out of my way. I had taken to simply acting when the heat of the moment arrived. I found it was easier to beg pardon later than to beg for permission before."

Fraser shot a look at Ray, then looked back at Illya. "Ray challenged me. He would listen. Not always graciously - his nature was too raw for that. But he would listen. And he would also demand that I do things his way on occasion. He forced me to respect his instincts."

Fraser stepped forward again, bringing himself back to Illya's space. "My father once said to me, A partnership is like a marriage.' If there is information that Ray needs to make the most important decision in his life, then I need to get it for him, for he is clearly incapable of pursuing you or your truth. And yes, even harder for my particular disposition is that I must also then trust in whatever decision he makes. Ultimately it must be his decision. I know that. It took me a very long time with Ray, but I know that now."

"Please," he added, helplessly. "Ray's death, if that is what is to belet it be Ray's decision. Not mine. Not yours. His."

So long as it is the correct one. Fraser added silently, not taking his eyes from Illya.

Illya's eyes grew vague for a moment, and then his mouth set in a cold, angry line.

"It seems I am outvoted." He said at last.

Fraser had no idea what that meant, but his heart began to beat again.

Illya stalked over to a nearby table, resentment pouring off of him. His voice was almost sulky.

"Let us wake the sleeping beauty and see what his decision will be."