On a strip of land dividing the Pamlico Sound from the Atlantic Ocean, Renfield Turnbull had built a fire.

He possessed a mastery of the routes to this place, such as they were, beyond the physical. Time was malleable, so far as it existed here. He could change it. Route it in one place, freeze it in another. Slow it here, speed it there, connect one place to another. It was a Hell of a skill for a man who couldn't seem to use any of it on himself.

He sat by his fire, which still burned; the ocean still moved, the beachgrass still waved on the breeze. Only a small ring of sand fell under the timestop.

"Yes, you can," he commented to someone who wasn't quite there. "Before you say it."

Ray Vecchio jerked, and appeared perplexed with his own seated position when he appeared in the sand.

Renfield shuddered and looked at the sand beside him. "Hello."

"Ren?"

Renfield was of the correct age range to probably pass for his younger brother. He lacked the scarring about his head marked in the pattern of hair, and lacked enough inside knowledge of their lives to truly put up a charade, but he did not correct the assumption in the immediate.

He didn't look up. He knew that Ray was taking in the impromptu surroundings with wide eyes. Trying to figure out if it was a dream, perhaps. He knew the whispered wow in amongst the confusion and the jarring sensation of apparently waking up where he didn't belong. He knew that he wore the tracks of tears, the evidence of current upset and that they were clearly not anywhere close to Ray's settlement. Even as only friends, he knew Ray would recognize these things on a Turnbull. He only clutched his tea to his chest a long moment before nodding.

"Yes, Ray."

The space of sand he'd chosen to examine was suddenly filled with Ray Vecchio. His eyebrows up, perfect green eyes taking him in, abject loss as to what the Hell was happening written upon the most beautiful face.

Renfield shut his eyes.

Personal concern seemed to override even explanations. "What's wrong?"

"This part is never simple." It was strained. Abbreviated. Less than he had meant to say in the breath, but all he could find. Renfield prised his eyes open, took a breath, and let it out.

"Oh, man, that's never good." Ray huffed a gentle laugh. "Look, if you're Death or something, you got the wrong guy. I don't have time to die. I've got stuff to do."

Renfield was being teased. He wanted to bat it away.

"I--" He bit his lip; took a breath in through his nose, and then let it out. He tipped his look back to Ray, and pressed on some manner of composure. "The simplest explanation is that you are dreaming. It is not entirely true, but it will suffice. I am not-- not your Ren."

Confusion was apparent on Ray's face; he opened his mouth, and Renfield spoke out of turn.

"I'm not from your universe. Which one does not matter. What you need to know is that Corporal Chase is in need of your assistance."

Ray was looking at him now like his own Ray did, sometimes, when he couldn't fathom who it was he was truly sitting beside. As though that made things unsafe; as though he had to guard. Renfield understood. The name seemed to hold his attention more than the impossibility of the dream, or of Renfield himself.

The man knew when he was being held away from questions. Something far more important offered in lieu of understanding; Ray would not ignore it. Renfield ached. Ray sighed.

"Okay. So you got me. If this is an elaborate charade to get me to go into the light or something, I'm gonna be unhappy. What happened?"

It never stopped surprising Renfield, the ease with which people called to him would simultaneously accept and reject the realities of the multiverse.

Reaching a hand behind himself, Renfield summoned a travel mug of coffee from nowhere to offer out as though it had always been there. Ray eyed him, a look Renfield knew soul-deeply as suspicion as to where the thing came from, but he was beyond caring now. Taking it, Ray brushed his fingers.

"I have... visited with Corporal Chase in this manner three times," he offered as Ray sniffed the mug. Green eyes lit up in momentary surprise; the sip taken went without comment, and Renfield regretted, quietly, that he couldn't give his customary wow. "This time I... shared something with him."

Ray gestured with his mug, dropping his voice. "Tell me what happened."

Renfield's eyes sought the sand again. Ray sipped the coffee.

Renfield got a hold of himself.

"What I told him proved to be massively triggering. He displayed severe dissociation before appearing to... to descend into deep flashback. He will not accept touch. At least not from me." Renfield held a hand up to the dawning urgency in Ray's eyes. "He is not here, or left alone. I... had to see to it that you were not disoriented."

"You're tellin' me I'm sharing one of Mike Chase's dreams." Ray shoved the coffee mug into the sand and stood up. No bullet wounds to ache him. "Sorry, Ren, but I'm definitely disoriented. Tell me where I gotta go."

Title borrowed with love to J. Michael Straczynski.