"--Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, New York, Quebec, Boston. And then home to Chicago again afterward, obviously."

Ray blinked, staring at Fraser. His eyes had opened again on Philadelphia, and they were really dark blue, and holy hell, he'd remembered Pittsburgh, which Ray didn't even always. He'd only played a couple of games there, while they were getting the paperwork done to send him on to Philly and complete the three-way deal. The warmth of Fraser's hand pressing down on his knuckles spread all through him, and he could feel himself smiling stupidly.

"Jesus," he said after a second, "I mean--Edmonton, Chicago, I got you too, but..."

Fraser's eyebrow arched, so what the hell, not like he had any pride left in front of this guy anyway. Ray looked down at his split knuckles, though he couldn't actually see them under Fraser's fingers pressing down and the blood seeping up through the Kleenex on his fucked-up useless hand. He shrugged and said, "Dunno why you remember where a washed-up old scrapper used to play."

Fraser laid a little shoulder on him without letting go of his hand. Ray automatically pushed back, but Fraser wouldn't quit and then they were going at it, hips and shoulders, all clean hits here aside from the totally illegal hold Fraser had on his hand, until finally Fraser slammed him solidly up against the wall and there was a throat-clearing noise from down the hall.

Ray peeked past Fraser and saw the funeral director standing there, looking well-paid yet irritated. He pulled away quickly as Fraser stepped back, jamming his own hand down on the soaked Kleenex so that Fraser had to let go of him. "Sorry," he muttered, to the suit, to the floor, not looking at Fraser and definitely not thinking about that big solid defenseman's body up against his with no pads between. "Gonna have a smoke."

The funeral director pointed, and Ray spotted the exit sign and nodded, turning quickly away and heading outside through the heavy fire door. He was hoping it was street access so he could just get the hell out of there, but it was a little garden-type thing, all walled in, just shrubs and gravel. There were some windows, but all the curtains were drawn. No escape, but at least the air smelled like Chicago instead of funeral. He could hear cars, and see the sky, and have a cigarette without scandalizing anybody.

When he stepped away from the door Fraser stepped out after him, and Ray could almost believe he was doing this on purpose. Or, hell, maybe he didn't want to go see Gardie laid out either. It had to be weird for him; Fraser had played maybe all of twenty games with these guys before their short sad playoff run ended, and it didn't sound like he'd been out golfing with them the last five months, either, but Gardie was dead and Hue was in the hospital, so Fraser had to be here, showing his team spirit like a good boy when he probably didn't even know all the fourth-stringers' names.

Fraser pulled an airsick bag out of his pocket and offered it to Ray. "It's not exactly a biohazard container, but..."

Ray shot Fraser a quick smile and took it, dumping the tissues in and flexing his hand experimentally. Knuckles were a mess, like always, but it looked nastier than it was; the bleeding was pretty much stopped. Keep the hand clean, let it scab over, fine again in a day or two, or as fine as his utterly fucked hands ever were. "Thanks," he said, quietly. Ray folded down the top of the bag and sealed it before stuffing it into his own pocket. He pulled his cigarettes out of another pocket and offered Fraser one, but of course Fraser declined. Ray would've, too, a year and a half ago, but these days he was okay with fucking up his lungs a little when he felt like it, and he definitely felt like it now.

He lit up and took a long hard drag, holding the cigarette between his teeth and staring down at his hand again, thinking about just what the hell was going on here.

Funerals, when they weren't depressing the shit out of him, made him horny, he knew that. Stella's cousin Amanda's funeral, hell, that had been one wild night, after. Stella'd taken psych classes in college, she'd explained it to him once, but he just knew that he was like one of those drooling dogs: smell funeral parlor, start thinking about getting laid. Or maybe it was just better than thinking about Gardie in a box.

Also, it'd been a long damn time since Stella's cousin's funeral, a long damn time since Stella had even bothered with him for a pity fuck or a handy guy who knew what she liked and would let her walk out in the morning without arguing, because he'd at least learned that much by now.

And Fraser was a hockey player. Played with the same team a long time, so maybe he'd gotten into a groove there, but Ray figured it was pretty much the same all over: being straight in hockey was like being straight in prison. You got around it just as fast as you could, if you possibly could, because road trips were long and lonely otherwise, and it wasn't exactly like you could jerk off in private when they jammed you in four to a room in juniors. And Fraser knew who he was, and smiled at him, kinda played with him back there, and maybe, if Ray was a hell of a lot luckier than he'd been in a long time, maybe Fraser was okay with playing. Maybe that was why he was standing here breathing Ray's smoke.

Ben stared out the window as the city rolled by at a painfully slow pace. He tugged nervously at the cuffs of his shirt, trying to ignore the sense of deja vu that washed over him like vertigo. He was wearing, from the skin out, exactly the same clothes as he had the day before; when he'd gotten to his hotel after the viewing, he had stripped it all off and turned it over to the hotel laundry. They'd returned it to him within a few hours, smelling chemical-clean and spotless but for the tiny yellowish remnant of a bloodstain on his shirt; such service was one of the little luxuries of being who he was.

He couldn't bear to look away from the window, though their plodding pace gave him altogether too much time to watch the city going about life as normal on a muggy weekday afternoon, while he was shut away behind glass in the silent confines of this limousine. The car was cool and spacious, another little luxury. Though six of them shared the passenger compartment, he had room to stretch his legs, to sit easily without drawing his shoulders in or being careful of where he laid his arms. It was also utterly, somberly, silent.

To the others he rode with, Louis had been a friend and longtime teammate, while Ben had barely known the man and, in the truth he could only speak to himself with his eyes safely averted from his teammates, hadn't even liked him much. Ben had been keeping his eyes averted all day.

All the same, the moment he'd entered the viewing and seen Louis lying still--his widow, Annemarie, one of the many wives-of-teammates Ben had met once or twice and never remembered, bracketed now by family and friends--the children, sitting silent and pale in the first row of chairs... Unspeakable truth had seemed irrelevant, and his worry at seeing Chris had vanished into nothingness and silence.

The limousine shut out all sound, and none of them spoke. All the long ride from the funeral parlor to the church, they sat wordless. If it had been his own team--his former team--he'd have drawn comfort from their simple presence, but among these near-strangers, Ben felt almost claustrophobic.

It only grew worse when the car pulled up at the church and he finally was able to open the door and step out. For a moment, until his ears caught the impossibly distant and muffled sound of traffic, Ben thought he'd gone deaf. The heavy humid air pressed down like a damp blanket, the low clouds threatening a storm that would be a relief if only it would materialize. Crowds of fans bearing flowers and signs, many of them clad in bright jerseys bearing Louis's name and number, stood to either side of the path from the curb to the doors, which had been cordoned off and was manned by uniformed police officers. They were eerily silent, and Ben's sense of claustrophobia only intensified. He'd grown up with the silence of open spaces, the stillness that came with being the only person for miles, surrounded by an endless muffling field of snow and ice. To be in the middle of the city, in the middle of a crowd, and yet hear nothing, was almost frightening. Despite the heat, he shivered as he stood on the sidewalk, waiting for the others to emerge from the car.

He glanced through the crowd, his eye catching on the pictures of Louis, cradled and clutched in a hundred hands, the news cameras, the reporters holding their microphones in dangling grips, and then he spotted Kowalski.

Ben wished he had gone deaf, then, so that he could blame some failing of his own for the fact that he couldn't hear that distinctive voice raising hell with the police officer who stood between Kowalski and the clear path up to the church. With a quick glance toward the others, all of whom were walking toward the doors now, oblivious to Kowalski's plight, Ben turned toward the spot where Kowalski stood staring in mute despair toward the church.

Ben found he could barely speak above a whisper, unable to break the stillness. "Excuse me, officer. Mr. Kowalski is a former teammate."

The officer looked startled, but said nothing as he stepped back. Kowalski shot Ben a short smile, half grateful, half embarrassed, as he shouldered past the cop and the crush of fans standing around him--indifferently, seeming to have no idea who he was--past the orange-striped sawhorse and onto the sidewalk. Fraser automatically extended a hand, intending to guide him onto the pavement with a touch on his shoulder, his back, wherever his hand might fall. Before he made contact, though, the memory of the day before, reaching out with an entirely different intent, struck him, and with it, the memory of Kowalski's satisfied smile, his cheerful, casual lie, and his hasty departure. Suddenly uncertain--some small part of him snarlingly acknowledged that he was feeling weird in direct contravention of Kowalski's instruction--he drew back, clasping his hands behind his back as he and Kowalski fell into step.

Ben stole a single sideways glance at Kowalski--he seemed to have availed himself of a quick laundering as well, dressed as he was in a familiar-looking suit--and then turned his gaze to the church doors. They walked together up the steps and inside, where it was a little cooler, and where the hush of the day felt a little more natural. Chris was standing with Louis's widow and children, as befitted the team's captain, and Welsh was on the other side, Louis's coach standing in for his parents, who were just then slipping into the vestry with tears on their faces. A knot of other players stood around Annemarie, speaking softly before going to their seats. Ben hung back, feeling uncertain and awkward in the face of the naked grief on the widow's face, the silent shock of the children, but Kowalski stepped past him without hesitation.

As Ben watched, he went to Annemarie and hugged her tightly. "Annie, I'm sorry," he muttered as he pulled back, and Ben realized it was the first time he'd heard Kowalski speak that day. "I meant to, uh. To be there, yesterday, I just."

Ben could barely see Annemarie over Kowalski's angular shoulder, just her eyes crinkling in what might have been a sort of smile. "I understand. Your--Stella called," and Ben knew a split second of fear that yesterday might be easily explained if the man were married, before vividly recalling the absence of a ring on Ray's left hand. The little shock that seemed to travel through Kowalski only confirmed it; if he were married, Annemarie wouldn't have to tell him his wife had called. A divorce, then, recent enough for Annemarie to misspeak, and maybe that was its own sort of explanation. "She said she couldn't make it today."

Kowalski nodded, shoulders slumping slightly with relief or disappointment. He hugged Annemarie again briefly, and then crouched to hug each of the children. "Katie," he muttered, "Ry." But he seemed to be able to think of nothing more to say to the children, and they only hugged him back and then went on standing quietly at their mother's side; the boy, perhaps seven years old, hastily rubbed tears from his already-red eyes. Kowalski straightened up and shook hands with Welsh, muttering, "Hey, Coach, long time."

Welsh wrapped both his hands around Kowalski's--gingerly, in deference to the bandage that graced his knuckles--and murmured, "Wish it were a better day for it, Kowalski."

Kowalski ducked his head and nodded, then moved to shake hands with Chris, muttering, "Hey, Cheli," and getting a quiet, "Ray," in response, and then moved on through the others, nodding to those he knew--"Probie--Eddie--Hack,"--and receiving equally stoic nods in return. He extended his hand without a word to Ren, who'd been dabbing at his eyes since recovering from his most recent paroxysm of weeping, and Ren shook it firmly, looking grateful that he wasn't called upon to speak in response.

Kowalski then proceeded into the church proper without a backward glance, taking a seat only a few rows from the back. It was only when Welsh said, "Fraser, you're here, good," and reached to shake his hand that Ben realized he'd simply been standing there watching the man, oblivious to all else. He quickly shook his coach's hand, and edged toward Ren, following the others as they started up the church's long aisle to take their seats in the reserved section at the front. Ren pulled out the handkerchief again before they were halfway there, and Ben thought with some relief that no matter how weird he was feeling since his encounter with Kowalski the day before, no one would notice so long as he continued to compare favorably to his younger linemate. He glanced hastily toward the vaulted ceiling of the church, but his uncharitable thought went unpunished by lightning bolts, and then they were sliding into their seats, jammed together this morning on a different sort of bench.

When the others knelt, Ben followed suit. He folded his hands and bowed his head, and wondered what he'd pray for now, if he were a man who prayed.

Ray cruised through most of the mass on a lifetime's experience of Sunday-morning stupors. The light was familiarly yellowed by the shaded lamps and the stained-glass windows, the pew he sat in worn smooth by generations of restlessly shifting seats, vaguely uncomfortable the way they always were in every church he'd ever attended. His folded hands rested on the back of the next pew at the same angle they always had since he'd finished growing, and the old waxed wood gleamed dully and smelled like it had recently been attacked by a brigade of old ladies armed with worn-out pillowcases and Murphy's Oil Soap. He mumbled along with all the rote responses, half-hummed along with all the songs he'd never known the words to no matter how often he heard them, and it was more or less like any mass he'd ever sat through, as long as he didn't look at the draped casket in the front of the church. He'd left his contacts out and his glasses in the car, so it wasn't hard to keep from seeing.

When they got to the sermon, and the priest started talking about Gardie in the past tense, Ray did pretty much the same thing he'd always done during sermons, fidgeting with the bandage on his knuckles and staring out the window. The nearest one was propped open as a concession to the heat, not that it helped, and he could see some shrubbery through the narrow opening, and a slice of overcast sky, which seemed to be darkening.

Coach's voice yanked him back to reality, though--he'd spent too many nights listening for that voice to call his name, poised to hit the ice at a word--and there was no distraction in the world that would have let him keep from hearing the eulogy. Ray closed his eyes and pretended he was getting stitches somewhere that really hurt--eyebrow, maybe, or a finger--and breathed in and out and listened to his own heartbeat. Everything else went a little numb, the way it had to.

It was easier at the cemetery; Ray stayed toward the back of the small crowd at the graveside, sweating and listening to the high whine of insects and the distant roar of a mower. The priest droned on for a while, and there was an even-more-pathetic-than-usual attempt at singing. Ray was starting to think he was going to make it through this thing when the people in front of him shifted and he caught a glimpse of Ryan standing on the opposite side of the open grave. The kid was tall for six but still tiny next to his mom, with dull reddened eyes and his dad's curly hair, pale in his little dark suit, and the whole thing finally hit Ray like a hard blow to the gut. He had to turn away, gritting his teeth and breathing hard through his nose and trying not to think about the fact that Gardie was in a box, about to get buried under the ground. It had been a long time since he'd attended a funeral. There were grandparents and great-aunts and assorted old people from the neighborhood, when he was young, before he left for juniors, and then Stella's cousin a few years back, but he'd never known her, really. It hadn't been like this.

When he dared to open his eyes again, Ray spotted a woman standing a little way away, in the shadow of one of the big shady trees that dotted the field. She was all in black--black heels, sheer black stockings, black dress that covered her knees and elbows but showed more cleavage than Ray remembered ever seeing at a funeral. Her hair was covered with a dark scarf, and she was wearing huge dark glasses, clutching a little black bag with black-gloved hands. She looked pretty, almost elegant, vaguely familiar, and then Ray spotted the corner of a steno pad sticking out of her handbag, the tip of a pen peeping out of her scarf from where it was tucked behind her ear.

She was fucking press.

He looked around for the cops who were supposed to be keeping unwanted guests away from the service, but oddly enough neither of them seemed to have noticed her standing there. In fact, it kinda looked like they were being really careful not to notice her standing there. Ray gritted his teeth harder, clenched his fists until a warning twinge shot through his right hand, and then he forced them open and took a deep breath. He couldn't just storm over there and yell at her and make a scene, or he'd be the one that had to be thrown out.

Ray crossed his arms over his chest, pinning his own hands flat under his elbows, and started fading back from the other mourners. He'd put about ten feet between himself and the rest of the crowd when the reporter woman appeared at his side, bold as you please; Ray had to shut his eyes and focus on breathing to force the anger down from his mouth, his hands, to somewhere in his belly where he could use it. Finally, when he could, he feinted toward her a little with his near elbow (not a touch, because you do not touch reporters, and you especially do not touch girl reporters) and muttered, "You are not supposed to be here, miss."

He was staring off to his right, about forty-five degrees from where she stood, out at gently rolling hills of tombstones, but he saw her red lips crinkle, shifting between a smile and a frown. Finally, her voice just hinting at a quiver, she said, "I'm not actually here in my professional capacity. Just like you, huh, Ray-Kay?"

Ray-Kay, Jesus. He tried not to look surprised, by the nickname or just the fact that she knew who he was, but her lips twisted into a bit of a smirk.

"Oh, come on, Kowalski, I'm a Chicago sports reporter, and hockey's my beat. They'd fire me if I couldn't pick you out of a lineup." Her voice sounded amused in a desperate way, like she'd rather laugh than cry.

He turned his head then, so he could actually look at her, and spotted the tears on her face. Her makeup was kind of smudged, but she didn't have any mascara tracks, and the wet trails had taken longer to form than the couple of minutes since he'd spotted her. No alligator tears, then. He remembered the way Jean-Paul had joked with him across a tape recorder for three seasons in Quebec, and decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. For now.

"Sorry," he muttered, shifting his gaze down to his feet as another tear appeared on her cheek. "You're still not supposed to be here, though."

"Yeah," she muttered back, sounding rueful, "Well, I didn't get to be a sports reporter without doing a few things I wasn't supposed to." She held out one tiny gloved hand to him. "Ms. Francesca Vecchio, pleased to meet you."

He shook gingerly, and her black silk thumb touched the gauze on his hand, but she didn't ask. Not much of a story in it now that he'd hung up his skates, he realized, taking his hand back and picking idly at the tape. He glanced toward the service again. When he strained he could hear the priest's voice. He was talking about ashes and dust, and Ray quickly tuned back out.

Beside him, Ms. Vecchio said quietly, "He was best man at your wedding."

Ray smiled tightly, fighting down the memory. He'd slept the night before in a hotel room like all the other hotel rooms of those years, and Gardie had woken him with a bucket of ice water, laughing. Even as he staggered to the can, dripping and shivering, Ray had been consoling himself with the fact that in three weeks he'd have his revenge. "Yeah," he said finally, quietly, "And I was his." Stealing a sideways glance at her, he added, "And do not try to tell me you reported on that, because you were ten years old."

He couldn't tell for certain from this side of those shades, but he got the impression she was rolling her eyes. "I was fifteen, actually, but I'm flattered. And hockey reporters start out as hockey fans, so I was following your career already, although not--"

"--In a professional cavity, yeah, you said."

Her forehead wrinkled, and Ray ran that back in his head and bit down hard on the inside of his lip when he caught it. Christ, he hated talking to press. He should have just left her alone, she hadn't been causing any trouble.

Before she could say anything people started moving, forming into a rough line to file past the casket and then heading for their cars, brushing the dirt from their hands. Gardie's sisters and their husbands and his parents went first, and then the team. Ray watched them walking away, telling himself it was all nearly over, until he heard a wail from near the grave. Bully, he realized, as he spotted the lanky defenseman stumbling to his knees, grinding his handful of dirt into mud against his wet cheeks. When he looked down at Ms. Vecchio, she was straining to see, and he stepped quickly in front of her. He was tall enough to block her view and automatically protective, because honorary Blackhawk or not, former teammate or not, these guys were family.

Stealing his own glance back, he spotted Fraser bending down to take his linemate by the arm and pull him up, offering him a folded handkerchief. There was no way the sight of a piece of clean white cloth in Fraser's hand should have made his dick twitch, under the circumstances, and he turned his back on the scene quickly to focus on getting rid of Ms. Vecchio. Nothing had ever happened that involved Fraser and a handkerchief, so Ray couldn't possibly be remembering it right then.

Ms. Vecchio looked up at him, and he thought she was pissed behind those glasses--her olive cheeks were flushed a bright pink that clashed with her makeup--but he stood his ground. If he didn't know how to do anything else, he knew how to get between an opponent and their goal. "No gawking, now, Ms. Vecchio. It's just Bully, you know how he gets, that's no news. One too many blows to the head."

She was trying to edge around him, trying to see past his shoulder, but he moved easily with her, not letting her maneuver him out of position. "Actually," she snapped, trying to deke him out, "I'd pay you a year's salary if you could find video evidence that he'd ever suffered even one concussion."

"Your salary or mine? And of course he's had concussions." She couldn't be implying something about the guy, and if she was trying to Ray wasn't going to let her. "Got his brain rattled in juniors or something, everybody knows that, doesn't matter. Hell of a player."

"Given your current salary? Let's say mine. You ever find the tape, you just let me know."

Ray stopped and planted his feet, the better to glare at her, and when he glanced back, Annemarie and the kids, the whole team--nearly everybody but the priest and some funeral home people--was gone. There was Gardie's coffin, dirt piled unevenly all over it, a last few people still filing past, and Ray forgot all about reporters and concussions as his feet started carrying him forward.

Ben woke up feeling awful. His head was pounding, the light through the uncovered windows was blinding--Christ, he'd forgotten to latch the shutters--and his tongue felt like he'd been sucking on cotton so long it had begun to decompose in his mouth. He didn't remember drinking anything, but, looking around the wreckage of the cabin he'd inherited from his father, he did remember an awful dream... anxiety, probably. It had been something about having to rush down to Chicago, talking to Chris. And there had been something else, something that didn't usually feature in his anxiety dreams...

Kowalski.

Ben dragged one arm over his face as it all came crashing back, including the jet-lagged misery of the string of variously weather-delayed and turbulent flights that had brought him home to Inuvik from Chicago over the course of twenty-four wretched hours. When he finally made it out to the cabin, he'd stumbled inside and fallen straight into bed.

He was tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, but before he left Chicago--at the earliest decent opportunity, once all the funeral formalities were concluded--Chris had gotten him alone for a moment. Ben had braced for sharp words in Chris's usual rough manner, but his captain had merely sighed, and asked him whether he'd be back soon. He'd been so disconcerted that he'd assured Chris he'd be back within the week, which left him only a few days to pack up and secure the cabin for winter. Between his delayed flights and however long he'd just spent passed out, he didn't have any time to waste lazing about now.

After reminding himself of that fact several times, and pointing out to himself that he'd played through far worse pain than he was currently using as an excuse to stay in bed, Ben finally pushed up into a sitting position. From there his body took over, and he was soon standing at the refrigerator, gulping water straight from the pitcher. When his stomach began to protest the amount he'd drunk, Ben poured the rest over his head, and stood dripping a moment before he set down the pitcher and went in search of a towel.

He changed into clean, dry clothes, thought about shaving and decided not to bother, and then came to a standstill in the middle of the cabin. Packing wouldn't take too long--left to his own devices, Ben didn't accumulate many possessions, and his father had been even less materially-minded. The moveable contents of the cabin would fit into a trunk and a few crates, and could be tucked into the jeep for the ride back into town and the airstrip. He'd meant to stay here till the last possible second before training camp started in September, though, and had a number of projects planned: mostly added weatherproofing for the cabin, to keep it secure through the winter, as he wouldn't be able to get away to visit. He'd wanted to make a batch of pemmican to take back with him, as well, and to play a few more pick-up games with the kids down at the rink in town, and...

He was staring at the stove, mentally shuffling his priorities against the time remaining, when he saw a familiar motion at knee-height in the corner of the room. He turned automatically toward it, mouth opening to speak once he made sure he was facing--but it had been some illusion, and when he turned and looked straight on, the corner was empty. His lips shaped a name he'd hardly spoken in years, but he was still alone. Of course.

He stood still until he couldn't deny to himself that he was shaking, and went to the cupboard, his hands reaching for chair-backs and the table and counter as he made his unsteady way. The only food he found was a box of crackers, doubtless stale, and some jerky, but Ben took it and went to sit at the kitchen table. He kept his eyes on its surface and ate mechanically, telling himself that whatever he thought he'd seen, the shaking that still unsettled his stomach, all of it was brought on by low blood sugar. He was still telling himself that when the click of toenails and a light nudge against his knee caused him to drop the last half of his piece of jerky under the table, and then he stopped cold.

When he bent over, the jerky was still there, of course. There was no one but him here, and no one was sitting under the table waiting for dropped food. He picked it up, but couldn't bear the thought of eating it. After a moment Ben realized that he was just sitting there, staring at a half-eaten piece of jerky, and he went to the door and threw it as hard as he could out into the grass.

Ben leaned against the doorframe for a moment, listening to the silence. A week ago, he'd been enjoying it, but now he was straining for sound--impossible sounds, any sounds. No matter how long he waited, he heard nothing but his own uneven breathing.

Ben headed back inside, and knelt before his father's trunk, opening it up and lifting out the top tray, digging inside till he found the carefully wrapped bottle of whisky. It was nearly full. He and his father had toasted with it the first time Ben saw him after being drafted by the Oilers, and his father had said once he'd never found another occasion fit for drinking the stuff. Ben sent up a heartfelt apology for the disrespect he was about to commit and pulled the bottle out, holding it to his heart as he went to the phone. He meant to pick it up and then sit at the table again, but found himsels sinking to the floor right there instead.

He pressed redial and listened to the beeping, and then a single ring.

"Lo?"

Ben looked at the light outside, and realized the arithmetic required to work out the approximate time from the angle of the arctic sunshine and the date was well beyond him, let alone remembering the day of the week. "Mark? Did I wake you?"

"Hey, Bent." Mark made an unperturbed waking-up noise. It sounded like he was still in bed; Ben could faintly hear the slide of his body against the sheets as he stretched. "What is it?"

Ben closed his eyes and swallowed hard, and, with Mark's sleepy voice in his ear, began to feel the ridiculousness of his behavior. Nonetheless, he couldn't seem to loosen his white-knuckle grip on the phone. He thought about saying I think I'm going crazy, but when Ben opened his mouth it was to say, "I miss Dief."

For a couple of beats all was silence again; down the wires, thousands of miles away in Winnipeg, Mark didn't even seem to be breathing, and Ben knew he wasn't himself. Then, in his ear, a heartfelt and wide-awake, "Shit. You're up home?"

Ben let his head fall back against the wall, closed his eyes, and said, quietly, "Yeah."

"You gonna have a drink?"

Ben's hand on the bottle was damp with sweat, and he let go and wiped it on his pants. "I was thinking about it, yes."

Mark blew out a noisy breath. "Well, do it. Drink for poor Gardie, for the wolf, your dad, the queen, but just get your ass trashed, okay?"

Ben braced the bottle between his knees and pulled the stopper free. The shrook noise and the smell hit him with all the weight of memories nearly sixteen years gone. He could see his father pouring the fine liquor into hotel water glasses, and his throat tightened up almost unbearably. Ben raised the bottle in a silent formless toast, and then put it to his lips and knocked it back, swallowing fast. He lost a trickle of liquid out of the corner of his mouth, and when he set the bottle down, he wiped his chin with one hand and licked his palm clean. Waste not, want not.

"Okay," Mark said in his ear, "that sounded like a good start." Ben heard Mark moving again, the slide of skin on sheets, covers moving around. He was getting comfortable, settling in for the long haul. "Okay. So, you just do your thing, and I'll be right here."

Nothing scared him more than the gentleness in Mark's voice; he'd never, ever been the gentle sort, even when Ben might have wished he would. Still, Mark had known how to handle things every other time he'd needed him to, so Ben swallowed his fear and took another long drink. He could feel the warmth of it now, glowing in his stomach, weighing down his limbs, easing the tightness in his chest. After another irreverent gulp, he didn't even mind the sound of a furry weight settling on the floor by the stove. There was nothing there when he lazily parted his eyelids and peered in that direction, as he knew there wouldn't and couldn't be. "Mark," he said, easily, "I think I'm going crazy."

Mark's snort of laughter brought a smile to Ben's face. "Going, Northie?"

"Who you calling Northie, Smithbauer?" It was an old argument, worn as smooth as the whisky sliding down his throat.

"Hey, I was born in an actual hospital, in Yellowknife, unlike some frigging hick Eskimo wannabes I could name."

"Inuit."

"Whatever."

Ben took another drink--the heavier his arms felt, the lighter the bottle got, which seemed a fair tradeoff--and listened to Mark moving around in the bed again. He wondered what Mark was doing on his end, to keep himself awake, and then realized that was a stupid question, and his mind's eye flashed on the slide and grip of Mark's hand, and then Kowalski's hand on him. Once he started remembering, he couldn't stop: Kowalski's even white teeth digging into one bony knuckle, Kowalski with his wolfish grin, Kowalski silent and subdued, Kowalski, walking away and away and away. He hadn't even shown up at that goddamn awful luncheon, and Ben had been watching for him, like a lovesick boy.

God, he was definitely going crazy; he'd been making do for far too long if the first friendly hand he met turned him into a stalker. He snickered, and realized he'd already drunk more than he had in years when he heard himself say, "Fucking Kowalski."

Not quite silence on Mark's end, and after a moment, Ben realized he was muffling his laughter in a pillow, and began to laugh along with him. Mark finally said, "Ray Kowalski? What've you been up to with Kowie, Bent? ‘Cause I'll grant you he's enough to drive anybody crazy."

"No, it was nothing," Ben said, distantly aware that he was giggling. He paused only to take another sip of the whisky to wet his throat, reminding himself that he'd promised Kowalski. Nothing had happened. "Nothing. He has nice hands, though."

"Not as nice as yours."

Ben carefully reached up and set the bottle on the counter above him, bracing the phone between his shoulder and ear. The leer in Mark's voice was plain; he never had been much for beating around the bush. "What are you doing, Mark?"

A snicker, and Ben knew Mark knew he knew the score. Ben shifted a little where he was sitting, letting his knees sag apart, the bones of his ankles touching the wood floor. He wiggled his toes as Mark said, "I was thinking about jerking off, actually. You?"

"Yeah," Ben agreed, running the palms of his hands up and down his thighs, relishing the friction heat. "That sounds good."

Mark's breath hitched in the middle of his chuckle, and Ben knew he had himself in hand already. Slow, for now, a light touch. Unhurried. "Now, see," Mark said, voice gone low and rough, "here I am in bed, not a stitch on, and I bet you're sitting on the damn floor up there with all your buttons buttoned, aren't you?"

Ben moved a bit, getting more comfortable, and less. He was hard in his jeans, his cock throbbing against the constriction. "Yeah," he said, running one hand over his erection, feeling himself hot through the layers of fabric, pressing hard and noticing again, as if he'd never noticed before, how the ache of it didn't lessen the pleasure. "Good kind of hurt," he muttered, pressing hard with the heel of his hand, stroking lightly with his fingertips.

Mark's unsteady breath caught, held a moment, then escaped in a shaky sigh. "You--you always liked that, huh, Bent? You and your good hurt."

Ben pressed harder, rocking his hips. His eyes fluttered shut, opened, closed again. He could hear his own breath, loud and fast, but he knew Mark was waiting for an answer, and managed a "Yes," through gritted teeth. There was a wet spot on his jeans, now, and he circled it with his thumb, his breath catching in his throat, emerging as a broken whine.

Another breathless laugh from Mark. "Jesus--Quit playing, Bent. Just--unzip--before you kill yourself."

Ben nodded, and the beeps of the random buttons he'd hit cut across Mark's quick, harsh breathing. His hands were shaking, and he had to try twice to get the button, but internal pressure pushed the zipper down almost without his help. Getting his pants down seemed beyond his capabilities, so Ben popped the button on his boxers and pulled himself free that way.

The release of pressure nearly finished him, and his hips arched up as he finally closed his fingers around his cock. He stroked himself roughly, once and twice and then he was just holding on, spurting hot on his own fingers.

Ben sagged sideways to the floor, and pulled the phone out from under himself with his left hand as he raised his right to his mouth. With Mark's distant post-coital gasping in his left ear--sounded like he'd dropped the phone, too--Ben licked idly across his palm, and then slipped two fingers into his mouth. The familiar salt taste of himself was gone by the time he heard Mark fumbling the phone to his ear again. When Mark said, "Bent? You good?" he finally remembered to stop sucking, and pulled his fingers free with a last regretful lick.

"Yeah," Ben mumbled against his hand and the phone, "I'm good."

"Yeah, you sound good," Mark rumbled, sounding barely more awake than Ben felt. "Now get your clothes off and go back to bed."

"Will do," Ben agreed, getting comfortable.

"Benton."

Maybe it was the sharp tone of Mark's voice, the one that always preceded him doing something for Ben's own good whether he liked it or not. Maybe it was the teeth that closed gently around his wrist and tugged. Either way, Ben rolled up to his knees and shoved his jeans and boxers off as he got unsteadily to his feet. The room wavered around him, and he reminded himself to be careful not to trip on Dief, and then Ben clicked the off button on the phone and dropped it on top of his pants. By some good fortune, when he pushed off from the wall toward the bed, he remained more or less upright until he hit it, and fell down on the covers again, already asleep.

On the third night after Gardie's funeral, Ray knew he had to get the hell out of his apartment. There was only so much solitary drinking he could do, partly because unlike bars, he didn't have scheduled deliveries from malt beverage distributors and tended to run out of things. Also, the stuff that hadn't happened with Fraser a few days before had reminded him of how long it'd been since anything had happened with anybody. At some point he'd gotten more or less used to the idea that Stella really wasn't coming around anymore, but he'd never quite gotten around to going out looking for someone else. He was still playing a lot of hockey, even if it was just beer leagues, and it kept him off the streets at night.

No games on Thursdays, though, so he got dressed--clean jeans, loose enough to move in, a faded blue t-shirt, boots and leather jacket, fresh condom in his pocket and a backup in his wallet--and hit the sidewalk, leaving his apartment behind for anyplace brighter, louder, and better stocked.

He picked a bar he'd been to a few times before, and by the time he'd made his way through the crowd--decent, for a weeknight--to the bar, he was pretty sure he'd picked the right place. He wasn't the oldest person there, two or three chicks had already checked him out, the music made him want to dance more than it made him want to scream, and they had Canadian beer on tap. He grabbed a seat and started in on his drink, letting the beer loosen him up a little before he tried hitting the floor. He studied the women already dancing, trying his best not to feel like a scout in the stands at a minor league game. It was late enough that people were starting to get serious about finding somebody to go home with. A lot of the women were already paired off with guys, oblivious to everything else, and he didn't really feel up to the effort of prying anybody away from their date. His knuckles had only just healed, the thin new skin still all pink and tight. He didn't need even the off-chance of a bar fight, not with a game to play tomorrow.

Still, there were lots of pretty women on the floor who were clearly still looking around, two of them dancing together in what was either a really well-thought-out bid to get the attention of just about every guy in the place, or, well, or one of the hottest things Ray had seen in a while. They were hanging all over each other.

Neither of them individually really turned his crank, though, and he had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn't actually a lucky enough guy to get both of them to go anywhere with him, so he looked elsewhere. The slender blondes, the ones who knew how to move, always caught his eye, but tonight they reminded him too much of Stella; they were nice to watch, but the idea of taking one home put a bad taste in his mouth. He washed it down with beer, ordered another, and looked elsewhere again.

Ray was idly calculating his odds with the redhead in the corner, wondering whether her glances in his direction meant she was interested, or just a hockey fan--a fan, these days, would probably mean a truly disheartening pity fuck--when a dark head caught his eye.

It was a guy, his own height but broader through the shoulders, with neat hair, dark and sleek, wearing jeans and a t-shirt and battered hiking boots. He had his back turned to Ray, talking to someone with body language that said something more like "giving directions to the library" than "picking up a date for the evening." Ray squinted briefly at him, wishing he'd turn around.

He'd tried to call Fraser, in the early afternoon after each of his two nights of solo drinking, and gotten his answering machine each time. He'd left a message the first time, saying he knew Fraser was still sort of new in town and wondering if he wanted to hang out or something. The second time, he'd just hung up. It had been pretty obvious at the funeral that Fraser was freaked out--he'd flinched from even touching Ray's arm--and in Ray's experience the thing to do when guys freaked out, after nothing whatsoever happened, was to believe even harder than usual that nothing had happened, so they could just fake being okay until they really were. Fraser really was pretty new in town, though, what with spending his summer up north, and Ray suspected that even leaving aside stuff that hadn't actually happened, he'd really like the guy, just as a guy, and as much hockey as he played these days he was still pretty short on actual friends.

And now Fraser was either avoiding him personally, or had fled Chicago for the Arctic fucking Circle, or maybe something else that had nothing to do with Ray. Maybe he just spent all his time reading to orphans and forgot to check his messages at the end of the day. Maybe at the end of the day he came here.

Ray didn't stare at the guy--he wasn't sure he was Fraser, and in fact he was pretty sure he wasn't, because this dive didn't really seem like Fraser's scene--but the women on the floor quickly became nothing more than distractions to keep him from sliding his eyes sideways for another look at the dark-haired guy. Pretty soon he did feel like he had a clipboard in hand, ticking off the prospects' faults in his mind: they were all too much like Stella or just not his type. The faux lesbians retired back to a table with three other women, giggling over brightly-colored mixed drinks.

The dark-haired guy came up to the bar, and Ray happened to be looking in his direction as he turned, and met his eye. Not Fraser, of course. Ray nodded slightly to the guy, and looked away, studying the women, as he realized that tonight was going to be a total wash; he was just going to go home, jerk off, sleep into the afternoon, and probably call Fraser again, like an idiot. At least he had a game tomorrow night. It'd been a week since he'd played, because he'd blown off a couple of games to drink Gardie to Valhalla--or, better, the Hall of Fame--and he was getting antsy for some action.

By the time the guy who obviously wasn't Fraser got to the bar, Ray had finished his drink, and was fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. He pulled out a few bills, gave the condom a rueful look--Jesus, that had been a little overly optimistic, hadn't it?--and tossed the money on the bar. The guy was almost but not quite in his personal space, and Ray gave him another quick polite nod as he sidled past him and headed out. Halfway to the door, he passed the table full of chicks, and breathed in their clashing perfumes and the smell of their drinks and, Jesus, one of them had puked at some point or something, because that sour smell underlaid all the sticky-sweetness. His stomach turned, and he changed direction and headed to the mens' room.

The place was empty, and Ray went to the sink to splash some water on his face, breathing shallowly through his mouth. He was just straightening up when the door opened, and the dark-haired guy walked in, and once again their eyes met. Ray looked away quickly--basic mens' room etiquette--but the guy said, "Hey, you okay?" His voice wasn't anything like Fraser's, all rough Chicago, startling even though Ray knew, obviously, that the guy wasn't Fraser. There was no reason to expect him to be Canadian, either, although Ray felt like he'd spent most of his adult life talking to Canadians.

Ray was so thrown, by the voice and by the fact that the guy was talking in the fucking mens' room, that he didn't immediately respond, just stood there looking down at his hands. Finally he said, "Yeah," and stepped to one side, so the guy could get past him without coming within two feet, but he didn't move away from the door, and finally Ray looked up at him, because what the fuck was this guy's problem?

He was smiling a little, in a way that made Ray's stomach twist again. "You wanna go someplace quieter?"

Ray blinked, and then shook his head quickly. "You got the wrong guy, buddy."

But the guy still didn't move, and he was still between Ray and the door, and finally Ray took a step toward him, dropping his shoulder, clenching his teeth, ready to just push past and get the hell out of here and get this night over with. Just when Ray was undeniably in his personal space, the guy arched one eyebrow and said, "You were checking me out, buddy. I couldn't help noticing." Ray had just enough time to register the alcohol stink on his breath, and then one of his hands was on Ray's chest and the other was on his jeans, making the condom in his pocket crinkle, sliding toward his fly, and Ray shoved him, hard, back against the door.

He hit with a satisfying thud, his eyes going wide, and yelled, "What the hell is your problem?"

Ray had stumbled back a step from the shove, but got his feet planted, and bounced on the balls of his feet, ready and steady. His fist was clenched tight, cocked back, his blood was pounding in his ears, and he was going to fucking murder this guy if he didn't step away from the fucking door. "What part of ‘I'm not a fucking fairy' did you not understand?"

The guy's startled look turned to something like disgust, and Ray nearly growled as he raised his fist higher, but the guy opened the door and slipped out. Ray saw, as it opened, the cute redhead, standing by the door of the ladies room. She glanced toward the dark-haired guy as he stepped through, and then looked at Ray like he was the one who'd been fucking assaulting somebody in the bathroom. He bared his teeth at her, too, and then the door swung shut again.

He turned away and aimed a hard kick at the corner of the stall, which made the whole thing shake, and then he just paced for a minute. He was spoiling for a fight now, vibrating with fury, but the door stayed shut. After a minute or two Ray knew that was probably for the best; he still didn't need to get into a fucking bar fight, after all. When he didn't have to force his hands to stay open anymore, he stalked out of the bathroom and straight to the door, taking off down the sidewalk.

He was walking fast, in long stiff-legged strides, head up and chin out, his hands stuffed in his pockets to keep him from slugging the first person who slowed his pace. His night had been fucking wrecked already, but then that fucking queer had fucking--

Ray stopped short. Somebody ran into him from behind, muttered something he'd have taken offense to on another day, and shoved past, but Ray stayed stock-still on the sidewalk, staring blindly ahead of him. That queer at the bar--that deceptively normal-looking, Fraser-looking guy--had thought Ray--

Ray bolted for the nearest alley, a bit of dark quiet space where he could lean against a wall while his guts squirmed like cats in a sack. He wrapped his arms tight around his stomach, swallowing convulsively until his mouth flooded with saliva and then he dropped to his knees, one hand on the ground and one against the wall, as he coughed and then gagged.

The path was well worn and easy to navigate, even though Ben carried a white pasteboard box in one hand and a pouch of freshly-made pemmican in the other. He didn't come up here as often as he should, nor as often as he was tempted to, but he was leaving shortly and this was not a visit he could fail to make, especially not now.

The spot was marked with a cairn of stones, a formless jumble with a perfect miniature inuksuk at the top end. From the top of the stone formation hung a chain with vaccination and ID tags, all made of stainless steel and impervious to rusting despite years of exposure to the elements.

Ben laid his offerings at the foot of the inuksuk, among the piled stones. "I should have brought these sooner," he said, quietly. "The cookies are from Chicago. Chris recommended a very nice Greek bakery. And don't worry, there's no chocolate. I checked carefully, I know it makes you sick. The pemmican is fresh. I know you never quite agreed with me that it wasn't good until it'd cured for a few months, so there you go."

He half expected Dief to materialize here, now, with these temptations offered, but of course he didn't. He was dead; Ben knew that. He reached out and fingered the cold tags. There was no blood on them anymore and hadn't been for years, but he still expected to see it every time he looked. The chain was the same one he'd hung around Dief's neck when he brought the half-grown half-wolf back from the wilds of the Northwest to his home in Edmonton. Dief had hated the tags, and Ben had chosen a chain long enough that he could slip it free any time he liked, but every time he came home, Dief was still there, still wearing those tags.

"I don't know why you stayed," he said softly. "I always expected you to be gone. You shouldn't have had to endure that." Endure her. He swallowed hard, touched the finger on his left hand that was no longer circled with metal, any more than Dief's neck was laden with tags. "You deserved better, Dief. I'm sorry." He blinked hard, but not quickly enough, and turned his face away, covering his mouth with one hand, even though he was surely perfectly alone up here. Not even Dief would see him now. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, when he could. "You should have gone, I told you you could. I wasn't worth staying for."

But Dief had stayed. Dief had always been waiting for him whenever he came home. Ben had never quite understood that, but he'd always been grateful, until the end--but he wouldn't think about that, not now, in the sunshine. This was about him and Dief, and no one else.

"Rest easy now, old friend," he said, and told himself he wasn't counting on the fact that Dief had never obeyed a direct command if he could possibly help it. He ran his fingers over the stones, and said again, "Rest easy," and then he just sat a while, in the long sunlight, as close to his best friend as he could be in this life.

Ray liked his Friday night league. Unlike Mondays and Tuesdays, Friday nights he didn't have to drive up to Milwaukee or down to Indy to find people psychotic enough to start a hockey season in July. On Friday nights he played in Chicago, a late night beer league stocked with youngsters looking to get an edge before their junior teams started training camp, a handful of stubborn old bastards like himself who just wouldn't let the game go, and a bunch of guys in between who just loved hockey too much to switch to golf. He'd go out for drinks with them after games, and it was like being on a real team again, where the other games felt like pick up hockey no matter how many times he went.

Friday nights he could get into the games, lose himself in skating hard, hitting hard, shooting and passing and sometimes just fucking around with the guys. He could feel for a little while like it was real.

He figured that was why he didn't notice the stocky man standing at the glass until halfway through the second. When he did--in the process of going over the boards and onto the bench after a killer shift, gasping for breath and mentally promising to give up smoking forever if he could just make it through the rest of the game without collapsing on the ice--he thought for a second that he was hallucinating. Oxygen deprivation, maybe. He half-fell onto the bench, his stick swinging close enough to Jacky's face to make him lean back and glare. Ray grimaced an apology as he shook his head to clear it, and didn't look over again until he'd caught his breath.

When he returned from Canada, Ben found three messages on his machine. The first was from Kowalski, and though it was perfectly intelligible, after listening to it perhaps a dozen times he was still not at all certain of what it actually meant. The second was just a hang-up click. The third was from Chris, mentioning that they'd be able to skate at United starting Monday, and that Jack was home from the hospital and would appreciate visitors. Ben elected to focus on the first part of that message.

Sunday night, the prospect of being able to skate the next morning meant he had something to focus on other than wondering what kind of game Kowalski was playing, and he put that problem firmly out of his mind.

He woke early, with the sun, and headed to the rink right away. "Hey, Mr. Fraser," the guard greeted him as he flashed his player pass. "Not quite the first one in this morning. Hope you don't mind sharing the ice."

Ben smiled at the man's small witticism even as he wondered who else had already arrived at barely six in the morning on the first day the ice was available, hoping the early arrival wasn't just one of his teammates. If there were several, he could simply be part of the group, but if there were only one...

They're your teammates, he scolded himself as he shouldered his bag through the locker room door, You could make an effort. He claimed the locker that had been his the previous season, though they weren't yet marked, and noticed as he got dressed that there was only one pile of street clothes on the bench, at an end locker that wasn't regularly assigned to anyone. He was briefly tempted to go check the empty equipment bag and see if he could find out who he'd be skating with, but tamped down on that impulse, laced his skates and headed for the ice.

Ben hesitated at the top of the tunnel before moving out onto the bench, looking up at the expanse of empty seats, the banners hanging perfectly still from the rafters, and beneath the half-lit fluorescent lamps, a single skater on the ice, the shuss of his blades the only sound in the enormous space. The new ice was perfectly smooth except for the tracks of that one man's skates, marking a path up to each line on the ice and back down.

Ray kept a discreet eye on Fraser as they stripped out of their gear--Fraser hanging his in his locker, Ray packing it all back into his bag--and headed for the showers. If that look on the ice had been anything but clinical, if Fraser was thinking about starting something, now would be the obvious time. Ray went ahead of him into the showers, listening, but Fraser kept a polite distance, and took the shower two down from his; not really avoiding him, but not making a move either.

Ray soaped up, stealing only quick careful glances over at Fraser, who, every time he looked, had his head down, eyes on the tile, washing quickly but not carelessly. Ray was soaping his hair, head tilted back to keep the suds out of his eyes, when a flash of motion drew his gaze.

Fraser had turned half away, standing with his head down so the spray hit right on the back of his neck, flexing his left shoulder to work the muscle under the hot water. His dark hair was black with water, plastered to his head, shifting at the nape of his neck where the water ran, contrasting sharply with his pale skin. Ray guessed he didn't spend much time working on the car with his shirt off, up there in North Whateverthefuck, because the back of his neck was as pale as... well, as everything else. Ray kept watching the motion of muscle shifting under skin for a few seconds longer, jealous like he'd often been of any guy with so much there there; he himself was all bones and gristle. Stella had always teased him that he exaggerated his weight as much as she lowballed hers, so between them they evened out.

He looked away quickly at that thought, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face into the spray as he rinsed his hair with quick rough motions. The hell with Stella, anyway, and the hell with remembering. What he really needed was breakfast. Ray shut off the water and grabbed a towel from the stack by the door on his way out, toweling off as he walked, leaving puddles on the rubber-matted floor. He listened behind him, but the other shower stayed on, and Fraser didn't follow.

Ray was kind of relieved, really. He'd pushed hard this morning, and Fraser had pushed him harder, so he was kind of beat. They were making some headway on the playing well together thing, which Welsh had all but told him was his real ticket onto this team. It would have made things trickier if they'd been doing the other kind of playing around on top of it.

But Fraser hadn't started anything, and now Ray was getting dressed, so, okay, they weren't doing the sex thing. Whatever Fraser had been looking at him for out on the ice, that was Fraser's business. Fine. Ray was buttoning the fly of his jeans with clumsy fingers, wondering why the hell he bought these things when he could never get them fucking done up after he'd had his hands in gloves for any length of time, when Fraser came out of the showers, with a towel around his waist. His hair couldn't be any more than finger-combed--Ray knew he hadn't taken a hairbrush in there with him--but it looked almost perfect anyway. Ray knew his own was sticking up all over the place, not so much in a cool way as in a "I just rubbed a towel all over my head" way, and shot Fraser a tight little smile as he dug through his bag, looking for the clean shirt he knew he'd brought with him. Somewhere.

He heard Fraser toss his towel down, the heavy damp thump of it against the floor, and kept his eyes down on his bag. The sound of boxers--fabric sliding over skin, the soft slight snap of elastic--and then blue jeans, a heavier fabric friction, the minute noises of necessary adjustments, and then a zip. Ray exhaled and reached down to the bottom of his bag, yanking out the neatly rolled t-shirt stashed there. He allowed himself to steal a glance at Fraser once he'd gotten the shirt over his head, and caught Fraser pulling down his own t-shirt, a glimpse of pale skin disappearing behind blue cotton knit. Something like disappointment shuddered in his gut, but Ray pushed that down--breakfast, right, he just needed some goddamn breakfast was all--as he jammed his gear into place and zipped his bag, shoving his feet without socks into a pair of beat-up tennies.

Ray looked over at Fraser again as he swung his bag onto his shoulder and grabbed his stick. Fraser was just standing at his locker, socks in one hand, the other hand raised to the empty space where his nameplate would be, soon. Ray didn't look over at the locker he'd left carefully empty, and choked back the nasty mood his hunger had put him in. "Hey, Fraser, uh..." Fraser looked up quickly, meeting Ray's eyes with a direct look that caught him off guard. Ray cleared his throat and pushed on quickly. "You wanna go get something to eat with me?"

Fraser looked down at his bare feet, and said, "Why--yes, I just need to--"

Ray was nodding as soon as he heard the yes. "Tell you what, get your shoes on, meet me up at my car, okay?"

Fraser nodded as he sat down, lifting one foot to pull a sock on, and Ray only watched for an instant before he turned away, hoisting his bag and shoving the door open ahead of him with his stick.

Kowalski took one look at Ben's truck and rolled his eyes. "Fraser, you know they pay you millions of dollars a year, right? That's US dollars, y'know. Enough to buy a car, for instance."

"Ah," Ben said, running an eye over the small black sports car whose trunk Kowalski had been perched on. "Perhaps I've been doing the exchange rate backward?"

Kowalski flashed him a short grin, shaking his head, and moved toward the driver's side of his car. "Come on, hop in, I know where we're going anyway." Ben hesitated for an instant, but Kowalski beckoned impatiently as he slid into the driver's seat, and he hurried quickly to the passenger side, noting as he did the make and model of the car.

When they'd reached the street and Kowalski still hadn't offered any small talk, tapping the steering wheel in a rhythm only he could follow, Ben ran one hand lightly across the dash, and said, "A GTO, isn't it? Sixty-seven?"

Kowalski glanced over at him, looking impressed. "Yeah. I wouldn't've thought you knew much about cars."

"Ah--" Ben considered prevaricating, but knew he wouldn't get very far with no more relevant knowledge than what the three letters stood for. "I don't, actually. I'd just always wondered why you chose that number."

Kowalski turned his attention back to traffic, still smiling, and nodded. "Yeah, that's it, sixty-seven. Me and my dad used to fix up cars, and this was the last one we did together before I went off to juniors. We worked on it day and night that summer. Six coats of jet black. When I got to Montreal there were four of us who wanted to be number nine--" Ben nodded his understanding; he himself had switched from his habitual number ten, when he joined the Blackhawks, to eight, in deference to a new teammate's prior claim. "And about the only thing I missed from home was the goat, so I picked sixty-seven. Plus I figured no matter where I played, nobody else would want that one."

Ben nodded, and refrained from remarking on the great variety of places Kowalski had played, choosing another tack instead. "You didn't miss anything else?" His own first year playing away from home had been a misery, but for Mark's company; he had missed the north so desperately, and felt so lost in the cities.

Kowalski was shaking his head. "Nah. Well, I missed Stella, but I couldn't really put that on the back of my jersey, right? And then she came out to McGill the next year and things were good, we were..."

Ben glanced over at Kowalski, who was now staring at traffic with a forbidding intensity, and held his peace, looking out the window and watching the city go by at a hectic pace. Within a few moments Kowalski was maneuvering the GTO into a street space, reversing at a breakneck speed, then coming to a hard stop. Ben sat still for a moment after he'd turned the car off, catching his breath, and to his surprise Kowalski said, quietly, "Sorry," and offered him a small shy smile.

Ben smiled tentatively back, and they got out of the car and set off down the sidewalk to the diner Kowalski had had in mind, a short distance away. They were soon settled at a table, gulping down tumblers of water in companionable silence. Kowalski switched immediately to heavily-sugared coffee, which he drank with as much alacrity as the water; Ben requested orange juice, and refrained from pointing out the counterproductivity of his tablemate's beverage choices. Kowalski seemed to perceive some censure nonetheless, and when he set down his empty coffee mug, said, "Yeah, I know, coffee's bad for me, smoking's bad for me." His right hand opened and closed, flexing habitually, drawing Ben's eye to his knuckles, marked by bright patches of often-broken skin. "Hockey's probably bad for me, come to that. Doesn't mean I'm going to stop, right?"

"Well," Ben offered, "if you've indeed chosen hockey as your particular self-destructive vice, you might consider that the others actually interfere with its efficacy."

Ray's lips moved slightly for a few seconds after Ben stopped speaking, as though he were repeating the words over to himself; after an excruciating pause in which Ben braced himself to admit that yes, actually, he had been raised in a library, and furthermore had finished college, with satisfactory grades and a major in English, Kowalski said, "Yeah, well, I like my coffee," and retreated into his menu. Ben followed suit, gladly.

They remained in silence until the waitress returned to take their orders. Ben made his selection and then listened as Kowalski rattled off two different breakfast specials worth' of selections, "And bacon. Did I say bacon? On the side." The waitress scratched something down on her pad, refilled Kowalski's coffee, and headed to the kitchen.

Ben sipped his orange juice, and looked across the table at Kowalski, who, robbed of the distraction of a menu, was again tapping out some unheard beat. Hoping to distract him before he started using the silverware, Ben said, "You know, it isn't actually possible to get up to game weight in a single meal."

Kowalski gave him a smile, and said, "What, you think I gotta gain weight?" He spread his arms, putting himself on display, and said, "This doesn't look like six foot, one-ninety to you?"

Ben very nearly choked on his orange juice. "Do they permit you to be weighed in your skates and pads?"

"Yeah, dripping wet, too, with my pockets full of pucks," Kowalski agreed, sipping more coffee. "Sounds good, though, you know."

Ben nodded agreeably, and they fell silent again, Kowalski leaning back from the table and sprawling a bit in his seat, clearly more at ease. Ben stared idly out the windows, watching people go past, not really seeing anything, until, across the street, a low loping flash of white sped by. He sat straight up, staring, only faintly aware of Kowalski bolting upright in response, but the shape was gone, and there was no way of knowing whether he'd really seen anything at all. He tore his eyes away from the window to find Kowalski looking, not at him, but out at the street, searching the scene. "It's nothing," Ben said, quietly, "I just--" But what could he say?

Kowalski looked back at him, with a small frown, and then over his shoulder, and the waitress was there with their food. It took her a few minutes of maneuvering to arrange all of Kowalski's breakfast in a reasonable manner, and when she left they settled into the natural silence of eating. Ben alternated attention to his own breakfast with moments spent watching Kowalski work through plates of eggs and potatoes and toast and pancakes and, of course, bacon. He ate quickly, with his head down, intent on enjoying his food. At one point, when Ben looked up, Kowalski was drawing his fork from between closed lips, syrup smeared on the corner of his mouth.

Ben didn't realize he was staring until Kowalski caught him at it, raising his eyebrows. "What, I got something on my face?"

"Ah." Ben looked away quickly, then back. "Yes, actually," and he tapped at the corner of his mouth, mirroring.

Kowalski stuck his tongue out, licking diligently at the spot, and Ben had to look away again, till he said, "Did I get it?"

He glanced up quickly. The corner of Kowalski's clean mouth was now sheened with saliva, and Ben turned his gaze down to his food. "Yes, that was it."

He only nodded when Kowalski said, "Thanks," and after that Ben didn't look up again until he heard the metal and porcelain clatter of Kowalski setting his silverware down. He was leaning back in his seat again, one hand resting almost protectively over his stomach, the other holding a strip of bacon which he seemed to be considering very carefully. "So, Benton Fraser," Kowalski said, in a thoughtful voice that Ben couldn't help leaning forward into, "tell me, what was it really like, playing with Wayne Gretzky?"

Ben opened his mouth, queuing up the rote answer to that question, which he'd been asked virtually every time he'd been interviewed for the entire duration of his NHL career, sparing half a thought to be disappointed that Kowalski cared, and then caught sight of the teasing glint in the other man's eye and smiled. "Oh, well, you know, about as miserable as you'd expect. It was completely impossible to get any credit for anything; all our success was attributed to the offense and nobody could spare any attention at all for the efforts of the defensemen."

The fourth morning Ray skated with Fraser at United, Hack showed up about halfway through. They were fighting for the puck--a drill had degenerated into a dogfight, for about the tenth time that day--when Fraser just suddenly went still. Ray stole the puck, skated up far enough to get the angle and put it neatly into the net, and only then looked up to see why Fraser was standing frozen at the boards.

Hack was letting himself out through the bench door, holding his catching glove under one arm, big goalie helmet and stick balanced on top of the boards. Ray skated toward Fraser, but he shook himself out of his freeze and headed over to Hack with a smile that didn't look quite right compared to the ones Ray had been seeing for the last three days. Ray followed him.

Fraser pulled one glove off, and shook Hack's hand, with a smile and a, "Hello there, Jeff."

Jeff grinned, and said, "Hey, Fraser," and then turned toward Ray, just in time for Ray to reach over, hand still gloved, and rough up his hair. Jeff grinned and ducked out from under Ray's hand, whacking him on the arm with his blocker. "Hey, Ray-Kay. I heard you were gonna be here babysitting Fraser."

Ray glanced quickly over at Fraser, but Fraser was looking out across the ice like he hadn't even heard. "Yeah, well, gotta be sharp for camp, right?" Fraser had heard Hack step onto the bench; there was no way on earth he'd missed what Hack said.

When Ray looked back at him, Hack snorted. "You wanna try taking shots on a net with a goalie in it, then? Makes it a little more challenging."

The first day of training camp was an entirely new experience for Ben. He'd never been to camp with his new team, of course, and this year the ordinary joviality of reunion after a long summer was muted by the absences of Louis and Jack. He was faintly, almost shamefully, pleased to discover that the quiet bond of loss encompassed him within its borders, and Kowalski as well, even as it excluded the dozen or so young prospects attending camp in hopes of making it onto the roster. They all looked even more nervous than hopefuls generally did, well aware that they were outside the team in this and had no way of getting in.

The quieter atmosphere suited Ben, and he found that, as with Jack and Jeff, everyone already knew that Ray would be present, and apparently found the circumstance unremarkable. All day, as they warmed up together, skated and drilled and scrimmaged, Ray was accepted among the members of the team as a matter of course. When the day's training was done and they headed, en masse, for a restaurant, Ray was invited to join them. Ben was pleased to find he didn't seem particularly surprised, only smiled and said, "Yeah, you just want me along 'cause the newest guy picks up the tab."

The others laughed, and Ray turned easily to Fraser and said, "You want a ride?" and that was that.

At dinner Ben sat beside Ray, and when the beers came around, Ray handed one to Ben, and took one for himself. Ben set it down without tasting it, and went on watching and listening to the easy conversation of his teammates, but his fingers stayed on the cool glass, and his thoughts were full of it.

He didn't drink, as a rule, especially not when there would be early practice or a game the next day, but it wasn't as if he couldn't hold his drink, nor as if he'd stand out among the crowd by doing so, since every place at the long table was graced with a glass identical to his own. He certainly didn't wish to make a scene by asking for a different beverage, nor to reject Ray's thoughtfulness in supplying him with one. He realized that if Mark had set a beer at his place, he'd have drunk it; but then Mark only would have done so when Ben actually needed a drink.

He glanced sideways at Ray, who was laughing more loudly than anyone else at the table at some story about Louis. Perhaps Ray thought he needed this drink; perhaps he did need it. Ray began to tell his own story, illustrating with wild and expressive gestures, and Ben realized that what he actually needed to do was to stop thinking quite so hard about what he was doing. The means to that end was already at hand, and Ben raised the glass to his lips and took a healthy sip.

He managed to keep a straight face, and set the glass down only a little more forcefully than was absolutely necessary. He thought no one at the table noticed, but when Ray's story had come to its irreverent conclusion, and the others were all laughing and vying to tell the next, Ray leaned over and whispered to him, "Something the matter with the beer, Fraser?"

Ben turned his head slightly, so that their faces were nearly touching, and murmured, "It's American."

The breath of Ray's choked-back laugh brushed his cheek. "Yeah, well, so's the captain around here. I mean, Chelios--born in Chicago, the lunk. What's he know about beer? But he's the captain."

Ben repressed a smile. "I understood you'd been born in Chicago, Ray."

"Yeah," he said, leaning away a little, now, reestablishing a more ordinary distance between them, his smile unabated, "But I try not to let it slow me down. Still, I guess we gotta humor the man, hey?"

It wasn't that Ray had a hangover. He didn't. The stomachful-of-water-before-bed-and-aspirin-every-other-time-you-get-up-to-take-a-piss regimen still worked as well as it had in juniors, except for the burn in his stomach that probably meant he'd counted wrong and taken a few too many aspirin.

It wasn't a hangover, anyway, and he hadn't drunk enough to have any blank spots. Things were sort of blurry here and there, but he remembered the whole night. And one of the things he remembered was sitting alone in the back of a cab, watching Fraser get further away, and thinking that he'd just done something really, incredibly, moving back to Chicago and stalking Stella, D-U-M, dumb. He just couldn't remember what the hell it was he'd done. He was hoping that when he saw Fraser, it would either come back to him or he'd just forget about the bad feeling, but all the way to United, he just kept seeing Fraser, standing there in that rumpled suit and watching him leave.

Ray was still thinking about that, and about how he was just going to casually nod to Fraser and say good morning, as he walked into the arena. He nodded vaguely to the security guy and started toward the locker room area, but he waved Ray over, looking frantic. "What is it, Sandor?"

Sandor looked around like somebody was going to beat him if they overheard, and then said, in a dramatic whisper, "They got Dewey."

Ray blinked, shook off the last of his thoughts about the night before, and processed Sandor's words. "Dewey? Tom Dewey?"

Like there was another medium-priced centerman, seasoned but not yet old, with the last name Dewey, on the market. "Jesus." Ray's shoulders slumped, and he stood there, staring at the cinderblock wall, trying to fathom the news. When he heard a familiar step approaching, he whirled, desperately, and grabbed Fraser by the shirtfront. "Fraser," he said, and then pointed at Sandor, helpless to say it.

"They got Dewey," Sandor explained. "He's in the locker room now, he'll be practicing with you guys today. They're gonna do the press conference during your lunch break."

"He's here now?" Ray noticed Fraser's wince, and realized he'd kind of shouted that. He forced himself to let go of Fraser's t-shirt, patting it back into place where he'd stretched it, feeling weirdly miserable and unable to meet Fraser's eyes.

"Ray," Fraser said, quietly, "Come on." Ray felt Fraser take him by the arm and tow him along the hallway, but instead of dragging him into the locker room and making him talk to Dewey, Fraser opened the door to a supply closet and pulled him inside.

It was dark in there, and small, and smelled like paper products and industrial cleaning supplies and damp mops. The back of Fraser's hand brushed his face, and then there was a click and the light came on. Fraser dropped the string, drawing his hand back from Ray's face. "Now," Fraser said, "Why don't you explain this to me, slowly, keeping in mind when you do that I come from the distant North."

Ray ran his hands through his hair. "It's Tom Dewey, Fraser. I hate that guy."

Fraser blinked. "Ray, he's twenty-eight years old. He's been in California and Vancouver since he was drafted. You can't have played more than eleven games against him in the entirety of your career."

Ray glared at Fraser, crossing his arms over his chest, unspeakably frustrated at being made to explain himself, especially when he couldn't find any words. "He's too small," he snapped, finally.

Fraser licked his lip, giving Ray a look he couldn't read, and then said gently, "He won't need to be big, with Jack on the right, and you on the left. You'll be playing down low, taking the abuse, and Jack will handle a lot of the forechecking, and any of the defensive pairings are big enough to back you all up. He'll use his mobility and his speed. You and he together will be a good match for quickness--"

Ray shook his head, turning away, staring at the deep metal sink, trying to blot out the sound of Fraser saying he and Dewey were a good match. "I just hate him, Fraser. I just do, it's just a thing, you can't reason it out."

He heard Fraser, shifting from foot to foot behind him, and wondered what the hell they were doing in a supply closet, why the hell they were talking about this when there was nothing they could do. He turned, sharply, to push past Fraser and out the door, to get to the locker room, get his gear on, get on with doing the thing that might or might not turn out to be his job, but Fraser caught his arm and stopped him short. "No one they got would have been Louis, Ray."

Ray wanted to hit something--the door and Fraser seemed like equally appealing options--but he pressed his open hands to the painted metal surface instead, and stared at the skin of his knuckles. "Then I would have hated anyone they got, wouldn't I?"

Fraser's hand tightened on his arm, but he didn't say anything for a while, just stayed there behind him, holding on so he couldn't do anything stupid.

Stupid. Ray let his head fall forward, coming to rest against the door with a thunk. It was nice and cool. Fraser's hand was hot. "Fraser," Ray said, wondering if there was any cool and not-incriminating way to say it. "I didn't do anything incredibly stupid last night, did I?"

Fraser was silent for a second, and just when Ray was about to start pounding his head against the door and praying to lose consciousness, he said, "You did make that toast to your home planet in a distant galaxy, to which you can never return. And I think you may have repeated it in French afterward."

One side of Ray's mouth curled up into a smile, and his felt his heart start to slow down. "Yeah, but did I do anything embarrassing?"

"No, Ray. You were a perfect gentleman." Ray did turn, then, and look at Fraser, because that was kind of a weird way to put it. Fraser dropped his hand quickly as Ray turned, because otherwise he'd have had his arm sort of around him and obviously that was not happening here.

Ray nodded slowly, on board with this like Fraser clearly wanted him to be. "Okay," he said, "as long as I didn't do anything dumb."

Fraser just shook his head this time, and Ray leaned back against the door and closed his eyes for a second, pulling himself together. "We just gotta go in there--I just gotta do this. I'm not that guy that gets a bug up his ass and won't play. I can do this."

"I have every confidence in you, Ray." Ray opened his eyes at that, because the way Fraser said it, it was like he really did. Fraser even looked like he believed it. Ray gave him a tight little smile and didn't argue, just fumbled the door open and headed out into the hallway.

When they got to the locker room door, Fraser said, "Ray," and when Ray turned around, Fraser smiled. Ray, dutifully, smiled back, though it obviously didn't look right, since Fraser winced, then carefully smiled again. Ray tried harder this time. Fraser looked worried, but cleared his face and smiled yet again. Ray gave him his biggest, fakest shit-eating grin. Fraser nodded, and they headed inside, Ray grinning so hard his face hurt.

Dewey was standing in the middle of the locker room, talking a mile a minute to everybody or nobody. When Ray walked in he looked to the door and jumped back in fake shock. "Jesus," he said, "Kowalski! Blast from the past! I heard they had you up on skates again, but I didn't believe it!"

Ray didn't think, he just jumped, that grin still plastered on his face. He came up short, hauled backward, while other hands caught Dewey as he scrambled back in actual fear, and they were dragged in opposite directions. Fraser let go of Ray in front of his locker, and Ray was surprised, when he got a look at Fraser's face, to see him looking actually angry. Ray touched his arm, lightly, just with his fingertips, and smiled. The fury seemed to go out of Fraser as if it had never been there, and he was good old Glacier Fraser again, smiling his clean white smile with one crooked tooth.

Ray took a deep breath and sat down on the bench, unlacing his shoes, and watched through his eyelashes as Fraser went over to Dewey, shook his hand, and said, "Why, hello there. Tom Dewey, isn't it? I've always wondered, are you any relation to the famous American politician Thomas Dewey?"

Dewey looked confused, and then said, "I don't think so. Before me the Deweys mostly sold fish."

Fraser just said, "Ah," and went over to his own locker, but Ray smiled sincerely and viciously as he kicked his shoes off.

"So," she said, leaning closer to him, "I understand you're single, is that right?"

Ben leaned back, trying desperately to establish a normal amount of personal space. He was sitting on the bench in front of his locker, dressed only in the t-shirt and knit shorts he'd wear under his pads and uniform, holding a pair of socks in his hand. Ms. Vecchio--Francesca, she'd said, Call me Francesca--stood before him, her legs bare and curvy and illusively long between her short skirt and preposterous heels. As she bent over him, her press badge swayed slightly, dangling from the perilously low neckline of her tiny shirt. Her skin--of which there was a quite generous portion displayed from this angle, all soft lush curves and shadows--was almost golden. She smelled faintly of something feminine and clean, so alien in the locker room as to be actually disorienting. Ben tore his eyes away, and looked down at his balled socks, his hand clenching and relaxing around them, and said, "A widower, actually."

It was a status which, in combination with his natural reserve, had somewhat protected him from attentions such as these for the last few years in Edmonton. He'd had a longstanding reputation for simply disappearing on women who pushed him, and none of them, knowing better, had been quite this blatant. "Oh, ohh, Fraser--Benton--Ben--I'm sorry, I completely--I'm so--" She reached for his hand and caught his left wrist, her thumb landing on a scar that cut diagonally across the bone at the outside of his arm. Ben's rising startled glance caught her with her other hand covering her face, blocking his view of everything but her dark curling hair. He jerked back from the touch instinctively, feeling suddenly cold and exposed in his half-dressed state, though he knew the room was warm, and Ren was kneeling unremarkably two lockers away clad in only his jock strap, searching for matching socks in the depths of his locker.

Ms. Vecchio, her hand still on his wrist, dropped down, almost sitting on her heels, and said in a calmer voice, "Hey, where'd you get that bad boy, Fraser?"

Ben swallowed hard, and forced himself to keep his composure, to resist the urge to shake off her grip on his arm. He said, "It was a bad slash." Ms. Vecchio frowned, and Ben looked away as the locker room door opened, and Ray slipped inside. He hesitated in the doorway, and when their eyes met, Ben was finally able to take a breath, closing his eyes to savor it.

When he opened them, he could see that Ray had spotted Ms. Vecchio; he was scowling down in her direction, and had stayed just inside the doorway instead of heading over to his locker. Ben looked to Ms. Vecchio, who had fallen silent and was staring up at him with an expression he had no desire to comprehend in her eyes, and smiled weakly, hoping to keep her attention on himself.

Ray, he had learned over one of their innumerable breakfasts, hated talking to reporters. Ben had thought the assertion odd, since he recalled seeing Ray interviewed on television any number of times, and he'd always seemed to be enjoying himself, or at least was much less obviously petrified by the camera than most, but then Ben knew perfectly well that appearances could be deceiving. When he looked up again, he hoped to see that Ray had made good his escape. He could always send someone to pick up his gear, and change in the therapy room or out in the hallway, where most of the prospects who hadn't been quick enough to claim lockers were currently squatting.

Incredibly, Ray was still standing in the doorway, and when he met Ben's eyes again, he nodded grimly and then stepped inside, smiling quite plausibly and calling out, "Hey, Fraser, how's it hanging?" Ms. Vecchio's head turned toward him instantly, and her eyes lit up. Ben realized then that Ray had just extricated him and Ms. Vecchio both from the wreckage of what had been meant, after all, to be a quite casual and superficial interview.

Ray was, merely by virtue of attending training camp this year, a bona fide story. A Cinderella story, Ms. Vecchio would probably call it--Ben drew another long breath, and smiled at the thought of how Ray would carry on at that headline--but it would be good for him. A story certainly couldn't hurt his chances of being signed, and would gain him fan support. It would do Ray good to have clippings again, and fans in the stands wearing his jersey. Ben could easily see where the promise of such attention would overcome even Ray's apparently hearty dislike of being interviewed.

Ms. Vecchio patted Ben on the knee, suddenly and reassuringly impersonal, and got to her feet, heading over toward Ray's locker with a pronounced swing to her hips. Ben leaned down and pulled his socks on, but went on watching Ray, who was standing facing into his locker. When Ms. Vecchio greeted him he turned, pulling off his t-shirt over his head as he did so, stretching, catlike, showing off every bit as much as Ms. Vecchio had been since the moment she entered the locker room. Belatedly realizing that a man could have more than one reason to wish to draw a woman reporter's attention, Ben looked away. Perfectly natural, of course; Ray wanted nothing to do with him, after all, and Ms. Vecchio was a lovely woman. Still, Ben couldn't resist listening.

"Ray-Kay, you're back!"

"You noticed." Ray's tone was flat, pointedly uninviting. Ben couldn't fathom why he'd made such a blatant attempt to attract Ms. Vecchio's attention when he so obviously didn't want it, unless...

His hands stilled in lacing up his heavy hockey pants, and Ben half turned, looking across the locker room to where Ray was slouching against the side of his locker, arms crossed defensively over his chest. Nothing was on display now but his tattoo, and as Ben thought it, Ray's fingers closed protectively around his upper arm, hiding even that. Ray was rattling off what he appeared to consider the facts Ms. Vecchio needed to know in a bored monotone. "--unrepresented and unsigned. No wife, no kids, no dog. You'll get my file photo with everybody else's, or else you won't." Ray's bored look remained steady as he looked up over Ms. Vecchio's shoulder, but when he met Ben's eye, he winked, almost too quickly to see.

Ben turned back to his locker and finished dressing quickly, grabbing his skates and slipping out without bothering to put them on, as Ray went on insisting that he was not giving any personal interviews. "What part of 'no, not ever,' do you not understand, Ms. Vecchio? Dot it, file it, stick it--"

Ben slipped across the hall to the therapy room, the doctor's domain, and sat down on a massage table to put on his skates. Dr. Gustafson emerged a moment later from the small room he called his office, where he usually handled suturing and any other procedures that required a modicum of sterility, privacy, or both. "Benton, good morning!"

Ben tied off his skate, and looked up. "Good morning, Doctor--"

"Ah, ah, ah." Dr. Gustafson waved one thick finger in admonition. "I have told you and told you."

Ben smiled, and started on his other skate. "Good morning, Mort."

"Much better. And how are you feeling this morning? In need of some doctoring?"

"Oh, no," Ben said quickly, "No. I'm fine."

Mort laughed, probably because players generally had to be actually unable to stand unsupported before they'd give any other answer to that question, and said, "As healthy as a horse, I suppose?"

"As healthy as a whole herd of horses, I promise." Skates done, Ben got down from the table. "I'm just waiting for Ray to finish having his hands wrapped."

Mort glanced ostentatiously around the room. "But first you are waiting for him to start?"

Ben scraped his thumbnail across one eyebrow. "Well, yes, I suppose I am."

Mort smiled and nodded as though that made perfect sense, and went to the cabinet, taking out a roll of thick bandage and a pair of scissors and laying them on the table where Ben had sat, all the while humming something vaguely operatic.

Ben was just beginning to feel a bit ridiculous when his gloves came flying through the open doorway from the corridor. He caught them both as Ray stepped through, his own gloves tucked under one arm, his hands bare. "You forgot something," Ray said, quite unnecessarily, "Not that I blame you. Our Ms. Vecchio is some piece of work, isn't she?"

Ray didn't wait for an answer, going straight to the massage table and hopping up to sit beside the supplies, raising his hands to chest height. Mort began the process of wrapping Ray's hands, and Ben drifted closer to watch. It was like magic, seemingly enormous lengths of gauze being stretched and folded and tucked around Ray's hands to become compact taped bundles. Mort hummed, and when Ben glanced up from the tangle of hands and bandages, Ray had tilted his head back and was staring up at the fluorescent lights.

Ben forgot to look away, and as Mort stepped away with the leftover supplies in hand, Ray looked down and caught him staring. Ben opened his mouth to say something, but Ray put up his white-wrapped fists. Ben raised open hands, and Ray feinted first at one, then the other, making only the lightest of contacts, gauze and tape to skin. It tickled a little, and Ben's fingers twitched, but he didn't look away from Ray's intent gaze until Mort came back to ask Ray if he thought the tape would hold.

Ben turned and shoved his gloves on, drowning the tingle in his skin under the familiar flex of leather, and behind him Ray said, "Yeah, this'll work."

Ray stood at the door to Coach's office, staring at his hands. Yesterday, they'd come out of his gloves at the end of the day with the taped bandages all soaked in blood. Today he thought they looked a little better, but a solid day on the ice hadn't done them any favors. He should've gotten them bandaged up again after he took off the day's wraps from under his gloves, but Coach had said he wanted to see him and Ray didn't think he could hold still long enough for Mort to clean his hands and make everything all pretty. His knuckles might look like hamburger, but they weren't actually dripping anymore. Anyway, he had a feeling this wasn't going to take long.

Ray closed his eyes for a second, squared his shoulders, and knocked, gingerly, with the heel of his hand. Before he'd even lowered his arm, Coach said, "Come on in, Kowalski."

Coach was sitting at his desk, and waved for him to have a seat. As soon as Ray had his butt in the chair, Welsh leaned forward. "You know I don't make personnel decisions," he said, "and you know I said I couldn't promise you anything."

Ray looked away and down, nodding, wishing he'd just say it already, just tell him to go home and get on with his broken-down life.

"So it's not exactly my place, but I wanted to be the one to do this," Coach said, and then there was a thwack of paper against the desk, and Ray looked up, to Coach's smiling face first, and then down at the contract.

"Holy shit," he said, and scooted the chair up so he could get a good look at it. Stella had made him read every contract he'd ever signed, walking him through the first ones with a dictionary and a law textbook. He knew the legalese now; it was another code he'd had to crack to play the game, like speaking French, like reading the action on the ice. He skimmed quickly; it was standard language, all the usual terms. He turned the pages, looking for the important stuff. A year for seven fifty, which was really pretty damn generous of them. An option at the team's discretion to activate him for a second year. Then Ray hit a paragraph he'd never seen before in any contract he'd ever signed.

He looked up at Welsh, who looked like he knew exactly what Ray had gotten stuck on. "Coach?"

"Yeah, Kowalski?" Coach wasn't laughing at him, Ray didn't think, or at least not in a bad way.

Ray looked down at the contract again, ran his fingertips over the words like he'd gone blind and could feel the sense of them that he couldn't see. "Coach, this is a no-trade clause on a one-year contract."

Coach nodded, not smiling anymore. "Yeah, Kowalski, I have to apologize. You'd have had paper in your hands two days ago, if I hadn't tied them up arguing for that."

Ray shook his head, feeling like he'd just gotten his bell rung. "You didn't have to--"

"I know what I don't have to do, Kowalski. But I'm the coach here and I know my players, and I know you. I want you to come and play every night, and I don't want you distracted for half the season wondering if they're going to deal you for some rookie. When I do promise you something, Kowalski, it's because it's down in black and white, and I am promising you, right now, that if you sign to play for me, you're not getting traded." Ray looked up then, and Coach met his eye squarely, and when he spoke, his voice was softer. "Look, Kowalski, I was there, in Quebec."

Ray had been there in Quebec, too, right up until he was suddenly in Boston, and he really did not want to go into it. He was just trying to figure out a good way to tell that to the man who'd just handed him a contract--a contract--when somebody knocked on the door and saved him from whatever stupid thing he was about to say.

Welsh glanced at him, and Ray shook his head quickly; he was done talking. Coach nodded to him and called out, "Come on in."

It was Fraser, holding a home jersey. Ray noticed the black patch on the right shoulder--Gardie's number eleven would be the angel on all their shoulders this season--before he saw the A on the left. "Sir," Fraser said. "I don't understand."

Welsh sat back in his seat. "It's a jersey, Fraser. It's the same design as the other guys so you know who's on your team, and it's got your name and number on it so everybody can tell who you are."

Fraser shifted uncertainly. "It's also got an A on it so that everyone knows I'm an alternate captain," Fraser said, like he wasn't sure he had that right.

"Yeah," Welsh said, sitting forward now, giving Fraser a look that Ray wouldn't have liked to be on the other side of, a look that said "Are you about to disappoint me?" Sure enough, what Coach actually said was, "You got a problem with everybody knowing you're an alternate captain, Fraser? Am I asking too much of you, here?"

Fraser almost snapped to attention, and Ray bit the inside of his cheek, hard. "No! No, of course not. I will endeavor to fulfill the role of alternate captain to the fullest extent of my abilities."

"Do or do not, Fraser, there is no 'endeavor.' Are we clear? Because I could ask Denny to take the A back if you don't want it."

Fraser actually somehow straightened up further, and he was holding on so hard to that jersey now that Ray was pretty sure it'd take dynamite to get it out of his hand, A and all. Coach knew exactly what he was doing there. "I will, Coach."

Coach nodded firmly. "Good. Then maybe you'd like to make your first official act as an A welcoming Kowalski here to the team."

Fraser turned then, and saw Ray for the first time. Ray held up the sheaf of paper that would make it official, and Fraser grinned hugely for a second, and then frowned. "Ray, your hands."

Ray lowered his hands quickly, but Coach was looking, too, so Ray laid them flat on the desk for inspection. Coach leaned over, looking carefully. "What's Mort say?"

Ray shrugged. "He doesn't think I need skin grafts."

Coach nodded, and Ray figured the state of his hands was no surprise at all. "Kowalski," Coach said, with a certain not-quite-warning tone.

"I know, Coach," Ray said quickly, not wanting to bring up the promise he'd made in front of Fraser. Even if Fraser could probably figure out Ray was in no shape to fight, he hated to have anyone know that he wasn't allowed. "Like I said before. I won't let you down."

Coach nodded, and then jerked his chin toward the door. "Get outta here, then. Go pick up your jersey, and give your agent a call. They'll be making the formal offer to you in the morning, down at the front office."

Ray nodded, and picked up his contract, holding onto the papers as tightly as Fraser held his jersey, as they walked back to the locker room together. "Teammates," he said, quietly, halfway there, and Fraser just looked at him and smiled. Ray finally realized that this was really happening, and started to laugh.

Ben's apartment had been chosen for him by someone who worked for the Blackhawks, since he had not, at the time he was traded, had much time to look for a place to live. It hadn't occurred to him to specify amenities such as 'windows that open' and complaining afterward had seemed in poor taste. It was a nice apartment in any case, with lots of windows and central air and a balcony. Ben had opened that one route to the outdoors, and was sitting at his kitchen table, in the direct path of the breeze, which at his apartment's fairly considerable altitude was constant. He had the radio on the table at his elbow, tuned to the AM station that carried the Blackhawks' games. The preseason matches weren't generally televised, and since he hadn't been chosen to go on the road trip, this was as close as he could get to the action.

It was hard to get a real sense of the game from radio commentary, but by the end of the first period, Ben was beginning to fear that his teammates were headed for another valiantly-fought loss, like the one with which they'd opened the preseason two nights before in Calgary. They'd already been scored on three times, and the announcers were quite clear on the fact that the latter two goals had been entirely the result of breakdowns in the Blackhawks' play, and not the goalie's fault at all. Every mention of Ray's line so far had been unreservedly negative, and Ben was dreading the intermission summary when the phone rang.

He knew, of course, that it couldn't possibly be Ray. Ray had barely had time to get off the ice after the end of the period, and was doubtless sitting in the visitors' locker room now, being berated along with the rest of the team for their collectively shoddy play. Ben found he had an almost premonitory sense of who was calling him, and picked up on the third ring anyway.

"Hello," he said.

"Hey, Bent," Mark replied, "I just knew if you got left home you'd actually be home. I suppose you're watching the game?"

"Listening," he replied. "I'm south of the border now, remember. They don't televise the preseason here."

"Fucking barbarians," Mark agreed. "You do know there won't be a quiz or anything, right? You could always just check the score later. Get out of the house, do something fun with your free time."

Ben smiled, and sat back down at the table, turning down the radio so that it wouldn't distract him unduly. "You know, Mark, some people who play team sports, particularly when they do so at a competitive level, enjoy keeping track of the exploits of their team, even when they are for some reason not personally involved."

Mark snorted. "Look, Bent, it doesn't count for anything--if it did, you'd be there. It's just playtime for the prospects and fourth-stringers and shit."

Ben flexed his bare toes idly against the linoleum, momentarily caught by a vivid recollection of their last phone conversation, and said, "After sixteen years, I had worked out the purpose of the preseason, actually."

Mark laughed. "Well, if you need anything else explained, just ask me, right?"

"I always do."

They both fell silent, then, and Ben winced at the radio commentator's speculation that Jeff might be replaced by his backup after his unfortunate first period. Mark said, "Why don't you come up to Winnipeg? We're on a home stand and I'm not playing in tomorrow's game anyway. We could hang out."

"Hang out?"

"We could fuck," Mark amended.

"Ah," Ben said, and considered it. Chicago was very quiet, and rather boring, with most of the team gone. With, he could admit, if only to himself, Ray gone. "No," he said after a moment, "We still have daily practices. And the Saturday game is being televised, so a few of us are watching it at Jack's place."

"Huh," Mark said, and Ben would have given even odds on him suggesting skipping the practices, but instead he asked, "How's Huey doing, anyway?"

"Oh, very well. He should be able to play the last few games of the preseason."

"Lucky bastard," Mark opined, and Ben, recalling Jack's broken voice describing the accident, didn't try to correct him.

Another little silence followed, and then the radio caught Ben's attention. "I have to go," he said, "the game's coming back on."

"Yeah, okay, blow some kisses south to your boyfriend for me."

Ben's jaw dropped, but before he could correct any of Mark's erroneous assumptions, there was a hang-up click and a dial tone. Ben sighed and shook his head and hung up his own phone with a small smile, which faded as he turned up the radio again. It was almost unbearable--though he had no choice but to bear it--being here in his apartment as the sun set, so far from his team. Even if the contest meant nothing, he hated not being able to lend himself to it. His hands curled into fists with the effort of not reaching out to touch the radio, as though that would bring him somehow closer to the action described, to his teammates hundreds of miles away without him.

Ray sat in the hotel bar, glaring at his water. Coach had ordered them all to stay in the hotel, but had stopped short of actually confining them to their rooms, as a backhanded kind of reward for pulling out a win in the end. Ray hadn't really wanted to come down, but there were some things you just had to do, and when everybody was going to the bar, you went to the bar.

Everybody except Hack, anyway, who hadn't said a word to any of them since the end of the first, when he announced he wasn't speaking to them anymore. He was in his room now, not answering the door no matter how much Ray knocked. Ray had spent a few minutes with his ear to the door, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Hack was on the phone with his wife, but he hadn't mentioned that to any of the other guys. They were all willing to buy the sulking explanation. They'd let Hack down big time, and goalies had to have a few eccentricities--hell, for a goalie, Hack was perfectly sane. Next to Eddie, anybody looked stable. Ray wondered, idly, if you only got to be a starting goalie because everybody was convinced you were completely out of your tree and the pressure couldn't actually make you worse.

Ray had had no real excuse not to come down, though, so here he was, drinking water instead of beer because he wanted the beer too badly, and they had to get up at ass o'clock to travel to... somewhere. On a plane, he thought. Ray looked up, squinting around the nondescript bar, and tried to remember what city they were in now. The other guys' jerseys had been... white. Everybody's home jerseys were white. Ray sipped some more of his water, and glanced back down the bar at Dewey, who was chatting up some overdone blonde with tits out to there, acting like he'd had a damn thing to do with their pointless win.

They'd managed not to make any more tries at killing each other, but Ray and Dewey didn't work any better on the ice than they did in the locker room or on the bus or anywhere else. Every time he tried to anticipate what Dewey was going to do in a game, he got it wrong, and when he tried to second-guess himself, he got it wronger. From the passes he wasn't getting, he had to guess Dewey was running into the same problem on his end.

Not that you could tell that from Dewey right now, with a beer in one hand and the other on that trashy chick's ass, any more than you could tell that Dewey had a baby daughter in California, and a wife trying to get things organized to move all the way across the country single-handed. Though to hand it to Dewey, Ray didn't think you could tell about the trashy blondes when he was on the phone with his wife, either. Still, the guy was a dick, and Ray didn't know how the hell they were going to pull it together on the ice.

And it was no good thinking about that week he'd spent playing one-on-one with Fraser, the way they'd clicked, like partners, like an unstoppable team of two. For one thing Fraser was still at home in Chicago, and b) this was a team, and you couldn't be a team with one other guy. He'd play with whoever Coach wanted him to play with, and if he couldn't make it work...

Ray sighed, took a sip of water, and glanced across the room at the big boisterous table full of his teammates who had had something to do with their win tonight, his road roommate smack in the middle of them.

If he couldn't make it work with Dewey, Ray thought, he'd be rooming with Sean all year. In Indianapolis. Playing for Chicago's farm team, waiting for somebody to get injured so he'd have another shot at the big leagues. Jesus. Forget the beer, Ray just wanted a cigarette. Those were off-limits too, though, so Ray took another grim sip of his water, and glanced up at Dewey again.

Dewey was getting to his feet, and the girl with him, and even as Ray was thinking, Jesus, what a fucking prick, he was standing up too, because if Dewey was taking off with his floozy then Ray wouldn't be the first to leave.

He stepped into the lobby just as Dewey and the girl got to the elevators, and Dewey spotted him from across the room, and made a little Going up? gesture. Ray shook his head, jerking his thumb down toward the other bank of elevators, and Dewey smiled and mouthed 'thanks.' Ray nodded back, and turned away. While he was waiting for his own solitary elevator, his pocket chirped. Too tired and sick of everything to even wonder who was calling him, Ray picked up. "Yeah, what is it?"

"Ah, Ray? I'm sorry, did I call too late?"

The elevator dinged, and Ray grinned as he stepped inside and hit the button for his floor. "Nah, Fraser, you're fine, sorry, I'm just..." Ray waved his hand as the words failed him, even though Fraser couldn't see.

"Ah," Fraser said, differently. "Yes. I listened to the game on the radio."

Ray leaned against the wall of the elevator. "Yeah," he said, remembering it. He hoped Fraser didn't want a play-by-play. "Hey," he said, realizing that he could safely ask, "Fraser, I got a dumb question for you."

"You're in Dallas, Ray."

Ray blinked. "How did you know I didn't know?"

"Well, it's the first thing a lot of people forget on a road trip."

Ray stepped out of the elevator. "So, you're saying this was a logical conclusion? I'm on the road and I say dumb question and you say Dallas?"

"I'd call it an educated guess."

"Educated," Ray repeated, remembering that he'd heard, somewhere, that Fraser hadn't just played college hockey, he'd actually managed to finish college. Ray, on the other hand, was only halfway certain that he'd been graduated from the high school he'd been enrolled in, his first year in Montreal. If he had, it was mainly on the strength of being a hockey player, because his French hadn't been too good yet that year. Ray let himself into his room, and headed toward his bed without turning on the light, toeing off his shoes as he went and kicking them toward the wall so Sean wouldn't trip over them. He threw himself down on the bed, and said, "Fraser, you ever think about how you got where you are?"

"What do you mean, Ray? How I came to play pro hockey?"

"Yeah. You coulda done other stuff, you went to school, you're smart. I mean, and you're a great player, so I guess it was a no-brainer."

"So to speak," Fraser said, and then, "But yes, I suppose I felt that hockey was the best use of my talents. Didn't you feel that way?"

Ray rolled onto his back and stared into the darkness, idly undoing his pants, getting comfortable on the bed. "It was just a game, when I was a kid. My dad's cousin Ed, he played a season with the USHL in the sixties. When he washed out, he came and lived with us for a year or so while he looked for work in Chicago. I was three, and he was the one who taught me to play. I did all right, considering I couldn't see shit on the ice without my glasses, but I wasn't a star or anything. Still, Uncle Ed kept buying my gear, even sent me to hockey camp in the summer." Ray stopped and took a breath, giving Fraser a chance to say something like 'oh, how interesting,' and change the subject, but he just made a little curious noise, and Ray found himself going on. It was like picking a scab, gross and irresistible.

"The summer I turned thirteen, I met this girl--Gold Coast, private school, two hours a day figure skating with a private instructor, the works. She was way outta my league, I was lying like a maniac, and I was getting away with it. I talked her into coming down for the last day of hockey camp, when you could have your parents come and watch you do your stuff, and there she was up in the stands--not that I could see, but I knew she was there. Made me nervous as hell, and it was the same for all the other kids, it was crazy.

"So I'm doing a drill, and I lose the puck. I chase it toward the edge of the ice, and I run smack into somebody, an adult. I didn't even know who it was. He caught me, kept his arm around my shoulders, and he," Ray cleared his throat, slithered out of his pants, kicking them off the end of the bed. He'd never told anybody this part before, but he wanted, here in the dark hundreds of miles away and alone, to tell Fraser. He wanted Fraser to know the truth of him. "He said, 'Jesus, kid, quit now, my eight-year-old could outskate you.' As soon as he said it, I recognized him. It was Bobby Hull. Bobby Fucking Hull, Fraser. I had his card, I had a picture of him from the paper on my wall at home, I wanted to be him, I wore number nine whenever I could get it before somebody else. And he laughed. And I didn't know what else to do, so I laughed too, and skated back.

"Stella asked me, after, what Bobby Hull said to me, and I told her he said I was gonna be great if I just kept at it. And she believed that story, and she told it to everybody else, or made me tell it, and then--Bobby Hull had to always be my idol, and I always had to wear number nine, because everybody knew he told me I was going to be a star. And I just kept lying, to everyone, and they all bought it. They all believed me, believed I was something special. I mean, me and Stella got married and I still didn't tell her the truth, maybe, I dunno, maybe that's why we're not married now, because it was all a lie. I'm just a con job, Fraser, from start to finish." And that was the truth of it; Ray didn't know how he'd fooled Coach into giving him a contract, but the jig was going to be up any day now, and Ray was going to be packing his bags for Indy.

"On the contrary, Ray," Fraser said, softly, in his ear. "Whether you lied, to spare yourself some embarrassment or a great hockey player some well-deserved censure for being cruel to children, has no bearing on the player you are. Whatever motivated you to excel, you did it; you wouldn't have an NHL career if you hadn't."

Ray blinked at the ceiling, mostly relieved that Fraser didn't get it, didn't see that even if the thing was true now, it was also a lie, and it had been a lie first, and that made the truth of it rotten all through. Maybe there was no one true thing he could say that would cut through all the lies. Maybe he would never be able to stop lying, even if he never said another word that wasn't true.

All Ray said was, "Huh."

Fraser was quiet on the other end; Ray couldn't hear him breathing, exactly, but somehow he knew that Fraser was still there. Even if he didn't get it, he'd heard what Ray wanted to tell him, and that put him out ahead of everybody else Ray had ever known, so he mustered up a smile and said, "Fraser, don't tell anybody I told you this, but Bobby Hull is an asshole."

"I'll keep it under my helmet," Fraser promised, and Ray could hear him smiling back. "Ray, wasn't Brett Hull eight when you were thirteen?"

Ray grinned. Fraser and his educated guesses again. "Yeah, he was, Fraser. Funny coincidence, huh?"

"The two of you get into fistfights every time you're both on the ice because his father..." Fraser trailed off, and Ray's smile slipped a little.

"To start with, maybe," Ray said quickly, into the silence, and it wasn't a lie, it wasn't. "Now we just fight because we always fight." Except, Ray thought, flexing one hand and then the other, he wasn't allowed to fight anymore, and the Hawks would be playing the Blues five times this year. Indy didn't sound so bad, all of a sudden, except then the phone was as close as he'd ever get to Fraser, and the phone wasn't much, just a little lump of plastic in his hand.

"I should let you go," Fraser said, just when Ray was wondering what else he could say to keep him on the line. "You'll have an early start in the morning."

"Yeah," Ray said. Fraser's voice sounded small, making him aware of all the hundreds of miles between Dallas and Chicago. Fraser hadn't seemed so far away when Ray didn't know what city he was in, when he couldn't hear the miles of echoing dark between them. "Yeah, you're right. I should, uh, I should get some sleep."

"Yes," Fraser said. "Sleep well, Ray."

"Yeah, you too, Fraser." Ray clicked off and tossed his phone in the direction of his pants, and his shirt after them both. A while after that, it occurred to him to get under the covers, and then he was just lying there in a dark, quiet hotel room, waiting to sleep.

He could hear, far away down the hall, somebody laughing, stumbling out of the elevator. The sound came a little closer, then disappeared behind a slammed door, and the whole floor was quiet again, and road trips weren't supposed to be like this, they gave you a roommate for a reason. Ray was debating putting his clothes back on, going down to the bar and getting plastered with the guys, when the door opened, throwing hallway light onto his bed.

Ray rolled away from the glare, hiding his face in his pillow, and listened as Sean's heavy unsteady footsteps came closer, pausing between the beds. After a minute, two hundred twenty pounds of solid young defenseman eased onto the edge of Ray's bed, and a big hand settled, warm and weighty, on the back of his neck. Ray kept still.

"Hey," Sean muttered, "Heeey, Ray-Kay, you awake? Whyja take off like that?"

Ray just snorted into the pillow. God, the kid was wasted. Sean shifted on the mattress, leaning over him, sliding his hand down to Ray's shoulder and rubbing one cheek against the back of Ray's neck, like a friendly cat offering comfort. "Aww, it's not so bad, K'walski, really. I mean, Dewey's--"

Ray lifted his head from the pillow, only partly because it meant pressing back into Sean's touch, to say, "Dewey's Dewey."

"Yeah," Sean muttered, turning his head, so his nose was in Ray's hair, breathing across his nape and making Ray shiver just a little, "Yeah, yeah exactly. Dewey's Dewey, man, and you're you."

Ray turned his head, so Sean's face was pressed against his throat, and shifted his hips against the mattress at the same time. He didn't need to get to sleep just yet, if the kid had something else in mind. "And you're drunk."

Sean giggled and wrapped an arm around Ray. The weight of it was more reassuring than confining, and his fingers petting idly along Ray's arm were something else completely. "Yeah, course I am. I'm legal now, and I tied the game. Big comeback goal. That was me."

"You know," Ray muttered, shifting sideways a little on the bed, so his hip was up against Sean's, "I think I heard somebody say something about that over the loudspeaker. I mean, I was there, at the game."

"Yeah," Sean said, and Ray could feel the words, wet against his skin. "I know that, man, you're on my team." Sean's hand on top of the blanket slid down to the small of Ray's back.

"Oh, is that so?" Ray worked one arm free from the blankets and set a hand on Sean's knee, fingertips finding the inseam of his jeans. "I thought you were on my team."

Sean chuckled so low Ray could almost feel it, and butted his curly head against Ray's jaw. "We're both on the same team, how about that, huh, roomie?"

Ray turned onto his side, so that Sean's hand on his back slid onto his hip, and said, "Why'd you come up here after me, anyway, kid?"

"You're on my team," Sean said. Ray moved his hand higher, feeling the flex of muscle through the denim under his fingers, waiting for any sign that Sean wasn't into this and getting nothing but the slight encouragement of the kid shifting his knees wider. "I thought, y'know, old as you are, you might need somebody to help you out. Make sure you hadn't fallen down or anything."

"Old?" Ray slid his hand all the way up, his fingers curling around the hot weight of Sean's balls, thumbing back and forth across his hard on, listening for the little hitch of the kid's breath that came right on cue. "I'm not old, rookie, you're just too young. You're probably not even old enough to wash your own hair."

Sean tugged the blanket down, his fingers sliding easily under the waist of Ray's jockeys, straight to the point and no mistaking. Ray sucked in his breath, aching, and God, it was good to have somebody else touching him. Even if it was just the kid's calloused fingertips on his hip, it was skin. "Who says I wanna wash my hair?"

"I do." Ray took his hand away from the kid and sat up. They weren't going to do this like this. "Come on, Sean-o, you're drunk, you smell, you need a shower. Upsie daisy."

Ray stood, pulling Sean up with him, and steered them both to the bathroom with a bare minimum of tripping. He turned on the light just outside the bathroom as they stepped in, so there was enough light to see by, but not so much they were both blind. Then Sean started pulling his clothes off, and Ray started helping him, and within a couple of minutes they were leaning up against the wall beside the shower, skin to skin.

Sean was leaning on him, not dead weight yet but headed there, licking Ray's shoulder in wet, sloppy stripes and rubbing his dick against Ray's hip. Ray could feel the wetness from that, cool on his skin as Sean moved, and his own dick throbbed in sympathy. Just when he got his hand onto the taps, Sean got a hand onto Ray, and Ray bit his lip and closed his eyes, trying to focus. Whose bright idea had the shower been, anyway?

Sean wasn't really jerking him off, just holding on, and even that made Ray a little dizzy. All this contact, skin on skin so close and real and warm, no chance of anybody misunderstanding anything, because you didn't need words for this, and he couldn't resist pushing into that loose grip, just once. The water falling on his outstretched hand felt about right, and Ray didn't think either of them would notice much if it wasn't. Ray turned his head toward Sean and lost track of what he was doing at the sight of the kid. His eyes were lowered, dark long curls of eyelashes on his cheeks, his face shadowed with the light behind him making his reddish hair all gold, licking diligently across the top edge of Ray's tattoo. Ray bit his tongue hard enough to help, and when he could let up on that enough to talk, he said, "Hey."

Sean looked up and smiled, open-mouthed. Ray could smell the beer on his breath, and his own mouth watered as he watched Sean lick his lip.

Then, pressing his own mouth shut, shaking himself into motion, Ray helped Sean into the shower, pushing him up against the corner where he could lean easily. Sean sagged, legs braced apart, one arm against the tile, like he'd done this before enough times to know exactly what he was doing. Ray smiled, palms sliding easily against Sean's pale skin with the water running down everywhere. When his hands got down to the kid's hips, Sean thrust against the touch, his dick jerking eagerly. Ray's smile only widened as he slid down to his knees.

There was a minute where he was conscious of the hard tile under his knees, the spray hitting his face, and then Sean shifted positions and everything lined up, his knee against Ray's side and a hard thigh under Ray's arm. Ray's hand curled around Sean's dick, hot and hard and wet-slick, and here at last was something he could open his mouth to. He licked, first, down the length of Sean's cock. The taste of him was thinned by water, but the feel was just right against his tongue, just exactly what he wanted. Sean made a breathless noise somewhere above him, above the splashing of water, and Ray opened his mouth and took him inside.

Just a little at first. The head rested on his tongue, leaking bitter-salty, and then deeper, till his lips met his fist. Sean pushed in further, a slow smooth roll of his hips, and Ray rocked with him. He loved the heat and hardness in his mouth, his stopped breath making his head feel light and his cock throb, heavy with blood. Ray knew the kid didn't need anything fancy now, just to get off before he passed out, so he sucked hard, stroking up with his hand when he had to breathe.

The sounds Sean was making slid over him like water, but he felt the end coming an instant before, just enough warning to pull back and catch the first spurt in his mouth instead of down his throat. The second caught him on the face, and then Ray was pulling himself up Sean's body, stroking him through the last of it. He swallowed without really thinking, then looked quickly at Sean's face, but the kid had his eyes shut, and hadn't noticed. His eyes opened then, and Sean got his arms around Ray, pulling him close, and, murmured, "Hey, you've got--" He licked down Ray's cheek and along the corner of his mouth.

Ray closed his eyes for a second, panting at the rough-slick slide of the kid's tongue, and thrust once, twice, hard into the groove of his hip, pulling away from Sean's mouth as he did. The kid's lips worked hungrily, separated from skin, and Ray raised his hand, dragging two fingers across Sean's lower lip and then shoving them into his mouth. The kid's eyes fluttered shut, and he was sucking hard, his teeth on Ray's skin solid points in the soft wet heat. Sean's hands slid down to Ray's ass, and he gave Ray's fingers a last lick and let go. He moved to kneel, ready to return the favor, but Ray stopped him, using both hands to hold him to the wall. "No way," he said, distantly surprised that he could form words, "you get down, I'm not going to be able to get you back up. You'll be sleeping in the tub." Sean licked his lips, watching Ray with heavy-lidded eyes, and Ray had to turn his face away from that lazy swipe of tongue, that invitation. Sean's hands pushed at him, and Ray got what he meant and turned, settling his back against the kid's chest. The kid took a lot of his weight, solid and sturdy and well-propped himself, and Ray let his head fall back against Sean's shoulder as Sean's hands found his dick.

He was close, so fucking close, and couldn't resist thrusting into Sean's hand as soon as it closed around him. Ray felt fingers between his legs and spread for them, propping one foot on the edge of the tub. He arched into the double touch, Sean's stroking grip on his cock, Sean's fingers cupping his balls and then moving back, pressing into the sweet spot, and Ray shut his eyes, and came open-mouthed, gasping, with Sean's hot wet mouth on his throat.

They stayed that way a while, while Ray struggled to catch his breath. He could feel Sean's heart pounding against his back, one big hand resting now on his stomach, fingers still making little stroking motions, the other heavy and still on his thigh. Ray raised one hand to scrub it through Sean's curly hair, which had barely gotten wet, as the kid continued to mouth at his throat. Sean made a sleepy mmmmm noise at Ray's touch, and Ray fumbled around with his other hand and managed to shut off the water. Sean's arms tightened around him, holding him in place, and Sean raised his head and muttered, "Cold," against Ray's ear.

"Yeah," Ray agreed, pushing free far enough to grab towels from the rack, Sean's hands sliding along his wet skin, patches of warmth that wouldn't quite let him go. "Gotta dry off and get to bed, now, come on." Ray had to help Sean with the towels, and then guided him back out of the shower. "Careful, buddy, the floor's wet."

They got back out to the bedroom without too much trouble, though the kid was leaning more and more heavily against him. Ray dumped Sean into the bed he'd been lying in, since it was nearer, and pulled the blankets over him, then fell into the other bed himself. It took Ray a minute to warm up, dragging the cold covers around himself. By the time he did, Sean was already snoring, and Ray smiled and licked his lips. His mouth still tasted like sex, still felt a little battered from what they'd done, and he was pleasantly worn out from it, instead of just used up like he'd felt after the game. He closed his eyes, and slipped easily into sleep.

The ringing of the phone jerked Ben from the soft drifting nonsense of not-quite-sleep, and he reached for the receiver with a sense of dread bordering on panic. No one ever felt it was imperative to wake him up for good news, somehow.

"Hello?"

There was a silence on the other end of the line, as though he'd startled the caller by actually answering, and Ben recognized Ray in the instant before he spoke. "Oh. Uh. Fraser?"

Ben rolled onto his back and willed his racing pulse to slow. It's just Ray, he told himself, nothing is wrong. Nothing was wrong at all--not now, at any rate, with four days' silence between them dissolved by a few monosyllables and his name. "Hello there, Ray. Did you need something?"

"Uh," Ray laughed, almost nervously, and Ben wondered, not by any means for the first time, whether he ought to have called Ray sometime after Dallas, after the tie in Tampa Bay or the loss in Anaheim. He'd had a sense that Ray wouldn't wish to discuss those games, but then they'd barely mentioned the game the first time he called. Still, it would have been foolish to telephone the man just to check whether he knew which city he was in. Surely if he needed to know, he could have called on his own. "I need a pizza, Fraser, I'm starving. I thought they were on my redial, but I must've called you since then."

"Ah." Ben swallowed hard and noticed that his heart didn't really seem to be slowing down. Odd. "Well, perhaps I should let you go, then."

"Oh, well--I mean, did I wake you up, should I--"

"No, no," Ben said, hastily. "I wasn't asleep. I just thought--"

"No," Ray said quickly, "No, I'm good."

"Ah." Not entirely an accident, then, and yet Ray seemed at a loss for words. Ben shifted, stretching on the bed. "Ray," he said, "I've been thinking about what you said the other night."

Ray was silent on the other end, and Ben pushed on. "The paths we take to get to where we are, and how hockey came to be at the end of mine. I grew up, you know, north of the Arctic Circle, and no player from so far north had ever before reached the NHL. The harsh conditions, small populations, and difficulties of travel make it hard to form leagues."

"Plus, six months of midnight right when the ice is the best," Ray added helpfully, drawing a smile to Ben's face.

"Only at the north pole, actually, but yes, we did have very long nights at our latitude, which didn't help matters."

Ben hesitated, but Ray said, "So don't leave me in suspense, Fraser, how'd you do it?"

Ben smiled. "I begged and pleaded to be sent south to play hockey. My grandparents were traveling librarians and I didn't attend much formal school, so my opportunities to play organized hockey were even more curtailed than most, and they insisted that I wouldn't like the city. Still, when I was thirteen, I--" Ben flinched from the memory, and pushed on quickly, before Ray could notice his hesitation, "--well, I persuaded my father that hockey was my calling, and he lent me his support. My grandparents had some friends in Moose Jaw, and sent me south to stay with them. I was enrolled in grade eight at the local school and signed up on the hockey team, and for a short time I thought everything would be all right. It was very strange, living so far south, in such a large city. But I had hockey, and I was certain that hockey would be enough; the ice and the game were the same, after all."

Ray made a sympathetically dismissive noise, as if to say he understood that the part of the game that took place on the ice wasn't anywhere near all there was to it. "Quite," Ben agreed. "My grandparents were right about me and the city. I lasted five weeks."

"And then, what, you called home and told them you hated it?"

Ben cleared his throat. "Ah. I ran away, actually. I felt that I'd forfeited the right to complain and couldn't bear the thought of going home in disgrace, so I was hiding out on the shores of Lake Diefenbaker. The people I had been staying with contacted my coach first, thinking my disappearance was something to do with hockey. Quinn tracked me down and--" Ben smiled a little at the memory, "and made me skate drills, right there on the lake, for missing practice. He drove me back to town and called my grandparents while I waited in the other room. I don't know what he said to them, but they were remarkably understanding, afterward; I stayed with Quinn until my grandfather was able to come and collect me, and all the way home he never said a word about it. The worst I had to deal with was that summer when Mark found out and teased me mercilessly. The next year, when I was fourteen, I went down to Medicine Hat with Mark, and played there. It was a bigger city, but I was much happier."

Ray was silent for a moment, and it occurred to Ben that he might well have fallen asleep just before he said, laughter barely submerged in his voice, "Y'know, Fraser, a lot of people would've just said, 'Ray, man, I missed you, good to have you back in town'."

Ben closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of Ray's voice in his ear, and said, "Well, Ray, a lot of people would have told me to shut up and get off the phone so they could order a pizza."

Ray did laugh then, sounding startled into it, and the simple pleasure of their conversation flared into a curl of heat in his belly, taking Ben by surprise. He barely caught the end of Ray's words. "--Freak, you know that?"

"Understood, Ray." He hoped he didn't sound as breathless as he felt.

"I'll see you tomorrow, anyway. Morning skate."

"Yes," Ben said, "Indeed. Bright and early."

Ray snickered again, and, mercifully, hung up. Ben hung up his own phone and laid perfectly still, practicing the words in his mind before finally daring to speak them aloud.

"I really am terribly attracted to him." The words seemed to echo off the high cool ceilings of his apartment and linger around him until he rolled over, beating his pillow viciously into submission. Less than eight hours till he'd see Ray again--in the locker room, on the ice. They might be playing together in an actual, albeit meaningless, game in a day or so, and Ben would have to try to hide this from a man who could read him on the ice as easily as Ben could read the printed page.

Ben rolled over again, again rehearsing his words before he spoke them. "Nothing ever happened," he whispered into the dark, "and nothing is going to happen. He is my teammate, and my friend, and that is all."

The chilly echo of his empty bedroom wasn't enough to freeze the memory of Ray's laughter in his ear, and Ben knew it was going to be a very long night.

Ray hesitated for a second at the top of the tunnel, blinking in the glare of full lights reflecting off ice and the roar of the United Center crowd. His contacts itched. Maybe he should--

Dewey shoved him when he tried to turn around. "Jesus, Kowalski, what are you doing? Go."

So he went, because what else could he do? Across the bench and out the door and onto the ice at United in a Chicago Blackhawks home jersey. He knew, really, that the crowd wasn't loud--there wasn't even much of a crowd yet, since this was just the warmup skate for the first home exhibition game of the season--but there was a roaring in his ears like thunder, and he'd rather believe people were screaming than that he was about to pass out. Ray put his head down, and focused on skating his counter-clockwise circle with the other guys. If he kept his eyes on the back of Denny's jersey, it helped a little. He was just skating drills with the guys, after all. No big deal.

It shouldn't feel like going back in time. It shouldn't feel like starting his rookie season all over again, just because he was wearing the same jersey. Hell, this wasn't even the Stadium; he'd never played an actual game at United before. Still, through the smooth transition from skating to one shooting drill and then another, Ray kept expecting to look up and see Gardie, grinning from the other circle.

Ray bit down hard on his mouthguard, new since his last stint as a Hawk, and forced himself to look around. There hadn't been Walgreen's ads on the boards at the Stadium. Fraser had never played on the same team as him before, and there he was, big red-edged A on his shoulder, nodding to Ray before he took his turn skating in on Eddie to take his shot. Ray risked a glance up into the stands, then, just to prove to himself that he hadn't fallen through a time warp. After all, his first two seasons in Chicago, Stella had never--

Sat in the second row beside a guy in a flashy suit, staring right at him. Ray forced his eyes back down, to his stick, the puck he was handling, but when he took his turn his shot went wild, over the glass and into the stands.

Nowhere near Stella, but he couldn't resist looking toward her again, and she was still watching him. He couldn't read her frown--bored? Disappointed? Disgusted? Some tiny part of Ray was telling him she probably hadn't even known he'd be there tonight. It wasn't like his signing with the Hawks had been front-page news, and Stella, as she had pointed out to him so many times in the past year, was the one of them who really wanted to move on. She wouldn't have been scouring the back of the sports section looking for his name.

It didn't matter why she was there, though, just that she was. Ray could feel himself coiling tighter and tighter, every muscle singing and screaming to flee or fight, but he couldn't even burn it off in an end-to-end rush, not with the Whalers doing their thing on half the ice. He just had to stand quietly with the other guys, working through another drill just for show, getting the crowd warmed up more than themselves. This time he actually fanned on the shot, and was left staring at the puck still sitting at his feet before he pulled himself together and took a weak shot at the goal. Eddie stopped it easily, yelling, "Get a grip, Kowalski!"

Ray bared his teeth at the goalie as he skated by, biting back a few choice words of French. When he took his spot at the back of the line, he caught Fraser watching him. Fraser's mouth tightened in something that could have been a smile--Ray tried to smile back--but he knew that Fraser was worried about him. Fuck, that was all he needed, to be putting Fraser off his game.

Dewey, skating up behind him, crashed him lightly, and Ray jumped, his hands clenching hard on his stick. He brought it down hard against the ice, forcing himself to remember that he could not haul off and hit a teammate in the middle of warmups. Especially not Dewey. Hue had skated with the team the day before, and Coach was hoping to put him in for a few shifts with Ray and Dewey, to see if the three of them together worked any better than Ray and Dewey and whoever was handy.

The last drill was breaking up, and Ray turned and skated hard for the bench, though usually he'd have hung around to take a last few lazy shots--it was Hack's turn to get a few minutes in the net, warming up before he spent the night warming the bench. Dewey was right on his heels, all the way into the tunnel and down. They nearly made it to the locker room before Dewey said, "Jesus, what's got your panties in a bunch? Little case of performance anxiety, there, Stanley?"

Ray whirled, shoving Dewey up against the wall, and snarled, "Fuck you, Deuce." He had one glove fisted in the front of Dewey's jersey, and Dewey just smirked as him until Ray slammed his stick into the cinder blocks beside Dewey's head. He heard it crack, felt the impact shake up his arm to his shoulder, his hand tightening harder, his mouth pulling back in a bloodthirsty grin. A little of the smugness fading from Dewey's eyes, and it was like smelling blood in the water, just fired him up higher.

He was bringing his arm back again when Coach's voice stopped him cold. "Kowalski!"

Ray stepped back and turned. Dewey took off right away, but it wasn't until Coach raised an eyebrow that Ray managed to unclench his hand and drop his cracked stick. Coach didn't look away from him, but called out, "Fraser." Fraser walked down the tunnel from behind Coach, and then came past him, over to Ray. Ray kept his eyes on Coach, didn't look at that little not-smile tightening Fraser's mouth. "Fraser, you got an A on your jersey. Take that joker in the other room and give him a pep talk. I want him either ready to play or in his street clothes by the time the puck drops. You've got twelve minutes."

Fraser stepped between Ray and Coach, blocking Ray's view. Ray shut his eyes and turned his head, just like Dewey, and when Fraser pushed on his shoulder, he turned around, walking down the hall with Fraser's hand holding a fold of his jersey.

Fraser steered him into the therapy room, and Ray went automatically to a table and leaned against it while Fraser kicked the doorstop free--awkwardly, with skates on--and shoved the heavy door shut. Gloves on, Ray clutched the edge of the table, almost shaking with the need to go, to do something.

Ray knew that what he needed, mostly, was for Fraser to just knock him down. He'd gotten like this before, too twisted up and jittery to play. Gardie had known how to deal with him--a good hard right to the jaw mostly did the trick, and what that didn't solve Ray usually took care of by hitting him back. It was a rare bad day that they'd had to hit each other more than twice. Later on, after he'd been traded away, Ray had always been able to goad somebody into fighting with him when he needed it.

But when Fraser turned around, he still just looked worried, instead of mad, and Ray was wishing Coach had sent him back here with anybody but Fraser. He'd've had a shot pissing off anybody else--wouldn't even have to try, at this point, with a lot of guys--but with Fraser he knew he didn't have a prayer. Ray could only meet Fraser's eyes for a second and then looked away, clenching his teeth, bracing hard for the blow that would be a long time coming, telling himself Fraser was going to take a swing any second now. He squeezed the table-edge till his finger joints screamed, and reminded himself about his damaged hands and his promise to Coach. If Fraser would just get with the program he could roll with it, he could take it. Just don't hit back, just this once.

Ben took a moment over getting the door shut, desperately stalling for time. This was the trouble with his alternate-captaincy; it required him to lead, and even here, with Ray, the player he knew best of all the team, he was at an utter loss. How could he diffuse this anger? It had begun as something else out on the ice, Ben was certain; there had been a horrible uncertainty on Ray's face in warmups. But with a mere twelve minutes to work in--less every second--Ben had no idea how to sort the matter out. He'd never been any good at dealing with others' unruly emotions. It was hard enough controlling his own. He turned around, and met Ray's eyes for the instant before Ray turned his face away, his jaw clenched visibly. He was waiting for Ben to do something, and Ben had no earthly idea what. Worse yet, he found himself distracted from the problem at hand, staring at the two inches of bare skin between the back of Ray's helmet and the collar of his jersey. The narrow fringe of blond hair visible below his helmet was already damp-darkened, sweat rolling down the skin.

Ben shifted his gaze down to Ray's gloved hands, gripping the edge of the table, and tried desperately to think of something he could say. Time was ticking. Ray expected him to be able to do something. Coach expected him to do something. Ben groped for any guidance he'd ever received on how to deal with moments like this.

The thoughts flashed by all at once. What would Mark do? And before he could allow himself to think it through--he was fairly certain Mark never stopped to think things through--he was saying, "Would it help if I blew you?"

Ray made a short strangled noise, almost a yelp, and turned to face Ben, shock washing the inchoate anger from his face as though it had never been, though he seemed as tense as before, if not more so. Ben tensed himself, waiting for Ray's response--anger or laughter or...

Ray cleared his throat, and said into the reverberating silence, "Uh, if you just say that again, you probably won't have to."

Mark would have taken that for assent, and never wasted time questioning his own motives, so Ben dropped his gloves and shoved off his helmet as he closed the distance between himself and Ray. They were the same motions he'd have made to join a fight on the ice, if he ever did such a thing, but Ray kept still, only watching him approach, neither reciprocating not resisting. There would be no fight here. Ray wouldn't take off his gloves unless he absolutely had to, lest he disarrange the bandages protecting his knuckles; for now he still gripped the edge of the table.

Ben moved quickly, pushing the bottom edge of Ray's jersey out of the way, unfastening the suspenders that held up Ray's pants and shoving them down around his knees. His socks were taped to his shorts, which saved dealing with a garter belt, and Ben pushed them down carefully, so as not to loosen the tape, then set his fingers against Ray's jock.

He hesitated for an instant--long enough for Ray to protest, if he meant to, but not long enough for him to lose his own nerve--and then eased the cup off and down Ray's legs. The elastic straps cut into his barely-spread thighs, and Ben didn't bother trying to get it down even as far as his knees. Time was of the essence, and Ray wasn't going to need to be able to move.

Ben shoved his own kneepads askew, and then lowered himself to kneel on the toes of Ray's skates, pinning him in place and eliminating the problem of added height differential all at once. He settled his left forearm across Ray's hips, holding his jersey out of the way and further ensuring his stillness. His hand molded around the hard curve of Ray's hipbone as though it belonged there, his thumb straying into the top of the groin crease, just above Ray's thatch of curly dark blond hair.

Ray was already panting, somewhere above him, but Ben dared not look up. He'd be distracted, he had no doubt, and he could not let Ray see his face right now, and realize how little altruism figured into his actions. Ben wrapped his hand around the base of Ray's erection, blood-dark and bobbing with Ray's breaths, shining wet at the head. He took in a deep breath through his nose, smelling Ray's sweat and musk overlaying the workaday scents of the therapy room. He'd never be able to watch Ray having his hands taped again.

No more hesitating. Ben opened his mouth and leaned in, pressing his tongue directly against the head of Ray's cock, pre-ejaculate slick and bitter on his tongue. Above him, Ray made a strangled noise, and Ben felt the expansion and tensing of muscle against his forearm as Ray took a deep breath and held it. His own erection throbbed painfully in its constriction, as every sense delivered Ray to him, pinned, trapped, unable even to breathe, utterly at his mercy. Ben lowered his jaw and slid his mouth down on Ray's cock.

He paused a moment, when the head first hit the roof of his mouth, taking another breath through his nose. He closed his eyes against the sight of his own arm, pale against the golden skin of Ray's stomach, restricting himself down to this one stimulus. It had been a long time since he'd had a man in his mouth, but some memories didn't fade. Ben worked his tongue against the underside of Ray's cock, then moved down further. He dropped his right hand to Ray's thigh, finding it another column of trembling-hard muscle under sweat-damp velvet skin, and took him all the way in. He swallowed around Ray, pressing hard with his arm against the incipient jerk of Ray's hips, and then pulled off slightly and took him in again. A third time was all it took, and Ray was climaxing in Ben's mouth.

Ben waited him out, swallowing, and when Ray was finished, he eased off entirely and breathed, coughing a little as air hit his abused throat. He felt the release of Ray's held breath and thigh muscles going lax under his hand, and stared at Ray's softening penis, slick with saliva, thinking almost giddily, I did that. Ben's eyes strayed to Ray's hands, still in place against the table edge. He'd just done that, when Ray couldn't even touch him. Ben bit down hard on his lip at another jolt of distracting pleasure-pain from his own groin, ducking his head to be certain Ray wouldn't see it on his face. He gently eased his jock back up into place, wincing in sympathy when Ray flinched.

Shorts followed, and then a scrambling moment when he had to reach under Ray's jersey to find the suspender-ends for his pants, but it took scarcely longer to put Ray to rights than it had to disarrange him. Ben got easily up to his feet, stepping back to regain his balance, adjusting his own kneepads as he bent to retrieve his helmet from the floor.

"Uh," Ray said, his voice hoarse and faint, "Fraser, d'you want--"

He looked up to see that Ray had finally let go of the table, and had his teeth set lightly around the first finger of his right glove, a questioning look on his face. Focus, Ben scolded himself, over the roaring southward rush of blood. He pulled his helmet on, fastening the chinstrap, gritting his teeth. Time. Game. Mark would-- "Kowalski, the only thing I want is for you to get out there and play like somebody Coach can't afford to send down to Indianapolis. Understood?"

Ray pushed off from the table, surprise and then comprehension flashing across his expressive features. "Gotcha, Fraser."

Ray went to the door as Ben picked up his gloves and pulled them on, and he listened to the small metal pings of Ray forcing the doorstop back into place with his skate blade. He could hear the sounds of the crowd, now, filtering down the tunnel. As he turned to follow Ray up to the ice, Ben found that Miss Thatcher's voice, belting out the anthem in what he had decided was her inimitable style, had a quite salutary withering effect.

They waited at the top of the tunnel as she finished in her customary fashion--perhaps it was deliberate? Some sort of stylistic affectation? Or was it true that she was Canadian and engaging in some subtle sabotage of her host country?--and then filed into the bench to join the others as they sat down.

Ben was staring at the ice, trying to pull himself together for the start of the game, when something tapped against his knee. He looked down, and realized it was a squeeze-bottle of Gatorade, in Ray's hand. He looked up, meeting Ray's eyes, and saw the slight uncertainty on Ray's face as he made this ordinary yet--in light of recent events--extremely thoughtful gesture. The enormity of what he'd just done struck him then, though he forced himself to nod and say, "Thanks," in an ordinary way as he took the bottle from Ray's hand. He squirted a mouthful and swished it around his mouth, replacing the taste of Ray with the artificial flavor of blue, then spat onto the floor of the bench, shoving the bottle to the floor behind his skates.

Ben kept his eyes front, watching the ice. Jesus Christ, I just fellated a teammate in the locker room during the national anthem. It was too enormous and monstrous a thought, and Ben locked it away, pressing his game face down like a lid on a boiling pot. Never think of his own desire, his thrill at Ray's helplessness to resist, never think of having taken advantage of his own small authority in this fashion...

His stomach turned, and Ben told himself it was nerves for the game at hand, and not horror of what he had just done. Beside him, he heard Ray thump a gloved hand against Dewey's side and say, loudly enough to be heard over the crowd noise, "Hey, man, sorry about that. My ex is sitting in the second row with some dick in a suit, looks like a fucking politician."

"That blonde? You were married to her? Shit, Kowalski, tough luck."

Ben bit down hard on his lip and did not close his eyes as Ray and Dewey shared a perfectly amiable laugh.

Between the pre-game show and the novel experience of actually having a good night on the ice, Ray was humming like a live wire by the time he got back to the locker room at the end of the night. Fraser had played it very cool, very professional, the whole game, which Ray was extra-impressed by given that he'd left the guy hanging. Still, he knew how to say thank you as well as anyone--he had his manners--and, hell, that had been a good game. Ray had been in such a great mood by the time he got to the ice that even Dewey wasn't bugging him anymore, and with Hue on the right they'd clicked, and bang bang, Deuce had a goal in the first, and Hue put one in in the third, which the crowd had loved.

Ray was practically dancing as he shimmied into his jeans, and he was cursing at the buttons with a smile on his face. He glanced up at movement in his peripheral vision and saw Fraser heading for the door, already completely dressed. Ray gave up on getting the last button done up to jog across the room, dodging the other guys and their piles of gear, to catch him just outside. "Hey, Fraser."

Fraser turned back, and Ray realized that that game face look he'd been wearing all night was still there. He stopped short, and stood flat-footed and still for the first time since he'd gotten out of his skates. "Ray," Fraser said, every inch a professional.

"Uh, I just wondered if you wanted to get a drink or something," Ray said, trying to read Fraser and finding it was like a wall of glass had come down between them, like trying to see through ice. He tried a smile, fishing for a response. "I owe you one."

Fraser's eyes tightened for a second, and then he smiled, mechanically, and said, "Not tonight, thank you, Ray." Fraser turned away, walking down the hall toward the players' exit, and Ray's shoulders slumped. He put his head down, running one hand through his hair, and then looked up when he heard Fraser stop. "I don't believe you owe me anything," he said quietly, without turning around, and then he kept walking. When he was out of sight, Ray turned to the wall and banged his head gently against it.

Fucking idiot, fucking stupid idiot. This was Fraser, and Fraser did not blow guys in locker rooms, Fraser had freaked fucking out the last time, and they hadn't even been on the same team then. And now...

It was obvious, when he had some blood flow in the head that contained actual brain cells. Fraser didn't do shit like that. He didn't know what had even possessed Fraser to say that, but when he did, the one wrongest possible thing to do had to be saying, "Okay, sure, yes please and thank you kindly." Forget looking in the gift horse's mouth, he'd stuck his dick in it.

Ray just stood there, leaning with his head against the wall--if he kept hitting his head against it, he'd be tempted to actually do it hard enough to hurt--until an arm settled around his shoulders, reminding him abruptly that he hadn't even put a shirt on before he ran after Fraser. "Hey, Ray-Kay," Hack said, shaking him a little, side to side. "You run out of steam already? Come and get your shirt on and come out to the bar. First round's on me, mister two assists."

Ray straightened up, smiling tiredly at Hack. "First round? All you did was sit on the bench all night, you lazy fucker."

Hack laughed, pulling Ray along, half-hugging him. "First two rounds, then, but you have gotta cover up some of this skin or we won't be able to keep the chicks off you long enough for you to drink anything, am I right?"

Ray snorted, but stepped back into the locker room with Hack. He finished yanking some clothes on, stuck his feet into a pair of shoes, and grabbed his jacket, patting the pockets to make sure he hadn't left his wallet and keys anywhere. When he was ready, Hack was still standing by the door, shooting the shit with Denny and JR. Ray walked over to him, and Hack grinned, grabbed him by the back of his shirt collar, and hauled him out the door. "That's better," Hack said as they headed up the corridor, "Now what're you in the mood--"

Ray stopped dead as they rounded a corner, and found Stella standing there. "Uh..."

She smiled nervously and Ray remembered, like hitting a wall, that he hadn't seen her since she told him Gardie was dead. It was all like a blurry bad dream in his mind; she'd come to his place at some ungodly hour of the morning, rang the bell till he woke up and let her in. He remembered her saying she didn't want him to see it on Sports Center. She knew he always watched it first thing in the morning.

Ray tried to breathe past how much he still loved her. "Hey," he said, "Stella. What's up?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right," she said, quickly. Lawyer-Stella style: he was getting the all-business ends of everybody's sticks tonight. "You seemed--off--during warmups, and I didn't see you at the funeral luncheon, and..." She trailed off, looking at him with those eyes that had never missed much, and then looking away. "Hello, Jeff."

"Stella," Hack said, with a little nod. "Long time no see. You miss New York much?"

"Chicago's home," she said, quietly, and then, "Ray?"

Ray shook his head. "I'm good, Stella, I'm fine. Thanks for," Ray waved. "Did you, uh, lose--"

"No," she said quickly, "No, I'm meeting him in a few minutes, we're going for drinks." She hesitated. "Would you--"

"No," Ray said quickly, taking in Stella's nice clothes, his and Hack's damp hair and scuffed shoes. "No, thanks, we're good, we're going to meet some of the guys."

Right on cue, Hack said, "Yeah, nice seeing you, Stella, we gotta go," and started dragging Ray away. Ray waved helplessly to Stella, and she waved back. She looked a little sad, watching him go away from her, but Ray found that, for once, all he felt was relieved.

When they got out to the parking lot, Hack tugged him into a weirdly gentle headlock, and said, "Three rounds, eh, Ray," before mussing Ray's hair and letting him go.

Ben paused in the process of getting dressed in his street clothes when Coach stepped into the locker room. Welsh stayed just inside the door, and though Ben went back to putting his socks on, he discreetly tracked Coach's gaze to the spot where Ray stood with Jack and Tom, all three of them gesturing wildly, recounting their successes of the night. Ben winced, and turned his head down, in anticipation of the call that came from the doorway a moment later. "Kowalski, Huey. Could I have a word?"

He could feel, around him, the ripple of heads turning, half-shouted conversations breaking off, but Ben kept his head down, seeing only in his peripheral vision the motion of Ray and Jack crossing the dressing room to join Welsh. Only when they'd stepped outside the door did Ben look around, to see Tom still standing alone in the middle of the room, watching the door. Barely two minutes passed before Jack and Ray came back inside, wearing identically resigned expressions. "Scratched," Jack announced into the slight hush. "Just for the road openers."

Ben let himself watch Ray, then, as he pushed past his linemates and went to his locker. The decision was understandable, he supposed; Ray had played the entire exhibition series, which few regulars had, and all of them other than Ray were youngsters. Jack, of course, was just coming off injuries and could stand the rest.

Ray looked up and caught Ben watching him. Ben tried to express his sympathy in a half-smile. Ray's mouth kept to its tight, unhappy curve, but he nodded before looking away. Ben went back to lacing up his boots, his own smile evaporating.

It had been days since he and Ray had exchanged more than the most utilitarian of words. He'd been looking forward to the convivial atmosphere of a road trip, with all its forced proximities, hoping that, even if it could not restore the ease he and Ray had shared before, it might push them past this awkward silence. He knew it was his own fault--the onus was on him, to apologize for his actions--but he hardly knew where to start, and Ray had been so carefully polite on those occasions when they spoke that Ben was hesitant to push for real conversation.

Ben slung his jacket over his shoulder and headed out of the locker room. They'd be leaving early the next day for San Jose, and he was ready to sleep.

The outside air was chilly, but not yet cold--October in Chicago was a far milder creature than its cousins in Edmonton or further north. Still, Ben shrugged into his jacket as he walked toward his truck. He was nearly there when he heard his name called, and turned to see Jeff walking toward him. "Hey," Jeff said, as soon as he was near enough not to shout, though he continued to close the distance between them, "I heard you and Ray-Kay are gonna be roomies."

Ben thought back to the locker room, scanned his memory of the faces there, and realized Jeff had been absent. "Not this trip," he said, looking down as he kicked a pebble on the pavement, trying to show only an ordinary disappointment. "He and Jack have both been scratched from the first two games."

Jeff said, "Huh," but stayed standing close by, and when Ben looked up, he was met with a peculiarly intent expression. Ben was suddenly conscious of the dark solitude of the parking lot, and the fact that Jeff had left the locker room well before him. "But you're going to later on, yeah?" When Ben nodded, Jeff said, all in a rush, "I just wanted to know if you're going to have a problem rooming with Kowalski, because if you are, I'll trade you my room, and I'll bunk with him, but I'm not going to let anybody give him shit about being how he is."

Ben blinked. Ray and Jeff did seem to be close lately, but he couldn't quite imagine what sorts of stories Ray might have told to incite this response from Jeff. "Ray--?"

Jeff looked impatient. "Yeah, y'know, his funny little habit of fucking any guy in a jersey. If you're going to have a problem with him about that--or anything--just say so now, save everybody the trouble. Because if you're going to hassle him--" Jeff bounced a little on the balls of his feet, leaning toward Ben meaningfully.

Ben shifted his weight backward, raising open hands, instinctively placating. "Jeff, I don't have a problem rooming with Ray, and I certainly don't have a problem with Ray sleeping with men." It took a moment for Ben to process the words he'd just spoken-–saying them was just something he knew he had to do, to soften the fierce light in Jeff's eyes-–and then his mind reeled, struggling to assimilate this other view of Ray, so alien to his own.

He had to admit that Jeff's summation neatly accounted for all the facts. Did you think you were special? something sneered inside him. Did you think what he did with you was different than what he'd do with anyone? Ben supposed he ought to have realized. His friendship with Mark had certainly given him plenty of opportunity to observe the casual approach to sex. Somehow, despite the evidence, Ray just hadn't seemed the type; his mentions of Stella had seemed laden with a passionate love.

Jeff was still watching him, not altogether pacified. "So what's the deal with you two, then? You were buddies before the road trip, and since we got back, it's like you just noticed he smells bad or something." Ben groped for a discreet-but-true answer to that question, and Jeff ventured a hint of a smile as he added, "Because that's not his fault. You play with Dewey that much, he sorta rubs off."

Ben smiled back. "No, it's not that. I made an ill-considered remark," he offered, which was certainly true enough. It had been rather pigheaded of him, really, to think Ray hadn't been perfectly capable of knowing his own mind. He could have said no if he had any inclination to do so, after all. "It was a misunderstanding. I'll speak to him, we'll sort it out."

Jeff nodded slowly, looking, if not convinced, at least willing to be. "I'm not saying you're some kind of asshole," Jeff said. "Just, you gotta look out for your friends, right?"

Ben nodded firmly and reached out a hand, which Jeff shook solemnly before he turned away. Ben stood a moment, still trying to absorb what he'd just been told, barely registering the sound of the door from the arena opening and falling heavily closed. He turned away toward the driver's side door of his truck, reaching for his keys, and then froze when he heard Jeff call out, "Hey, Ray, Fraser was looking for you. I don't think he left yet."

Ben walked out to the back of his truck, peering down the row, and saw that Ray had stopped in the middle of the aisle of shining cars. Ray spotted him and headed over. Ben silently cursed Jeff as he watched Ray come closer, though he had to admit he wouldn't have known how to approach Ray, now more than ever.

Ray stood a little further away from Ben than Jeff had, his hands in his jacket pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Uh, Fraser, did you actually..."

Ben scraped one thumbnail across his eyebrow, wincing. "Well, not, as you say, actually--"

Ray nodded shortly, turning his head back in the direction Jeff had gone. "Nosy fucker." Ray squared his shoulders and turned back to Ben. "Look, Fraser, I'm not gonna--"

"I'm sorry," he blurted. Ray stopped, frowning, and tilted his head, waiting for Ben to go on. "Ray, I want to apologize for the way I've been behaving. I made some extremely unwarranted assumptions. I see now that I was utterly incorrect, and--"

Ray stepped closer, and that was enough to abruptly stop Ben's voice; when Ray reached across the remaining space between them to lay a hand on Ben's shoulder, even his breath was stilled. "Fraser, are you apologizing to me for getting freaked about what we did before the game last week?"

Ben blinked uncertainly--that wasn't the way he would put it, on a number of counts--but obeyed the intonation of Ray's voice. "Yes."

Ray grinned, and his hand on Ben's shoulder lifted to pat his cheek before falling away. "No harm, no foul, Benton buddy. Long as you're done freaking out..." Ben nodded, and Ray nodded back before going on, "Then we'll just take it as a lesson learned, right?"

Ben wasn't certain exactly what they'd learned, but he supposed that could be sorted out later, so long as they were speaking to each other. It wasn't important right now. Unless...

No. Ray took a step back, reaching for his keys. "Anyway, you got an early start tomorrow. Have a good trip, Fraser."

Ben summoned up a smile to paper over his lingering uncertainty. Ray had told him what to say, and though it stuck in his throat, he said it, offering the words in place of his thwarted apology. "I'll miss you, Ray."

Ray grinned, haloed by the sodium light he was backing toward, accepting Ben's admission easily, as his due. "Course you will, Fraser. I'll give you a call after the game."

Ben nodded, and then forced himself to turn and get into his truck, rather than watch Ray, backing away.

Ray stood second-to-last in the lineup by jersey numbers, listening to the roar of the crowd. Cheli got the same wild roar he always did--hometown boy and captain and great defenseman. Fraser got good volume, and Ray pounded the butt of his stick against the wall with added force, joining in the general din of the team. JR and Denny got the standard big cheers, and then the announcer said Hue's name, and Ray's ears hurt with the white-out sound. Eddie got his goalie props. Hack had his fans too; the cheer wasn't as loud as for Eddie, but Ray could pick out a fair number of high-pitched adoring screams.

The line in front of Ray got steadily shorter, the cheers louder as Ray got closer to being on the ice. His shoulder was aching with pounding his stick, his face hurt with the grin of pride he couldn't shake, and then he was at the top of the tunnel, and a booming voice was calling out, "Number sixty-seven, Ray Kowalski!" It sounded far away to his numbed ears. Ray turned his head, scrubbing his face against his shoulder. When he looked up he had his game face on, serious little smile, because he played a game for a living, but he was a professional about it. He skated out past the camera, three strides down the blue line, and made a sharp left turn, stopping shoulder to shoulder with Daz.

On the ice now, and the cheers were deafening as he stood still under them, shifting slightly from foot to foot, looking up at the packed seats, the fans on their feet. He knew it wasn't really that loud--he was no Chris Chelios--but it was loud enough; the crowd was into it, the start of another season with their team. They might not know Ray from Johnny Draftee, but he wore a Chicago jersey with his name on the back, so they were still screaming their throats out for him. Ray kept still, feeling the crowd, and he let his smile widen just a little, lifting his chin. The announcer called out Bernie, and he skated up to Ray's side, and the cheers went up again. Ray knew they weren't really quieter, but it sounded that way when they weren't aimed at him. Then it was another wild, deafening round of cheers for, "Ladies and Gentlemen, your Nineteen Ninety-Five Ninety-Six Chicago Blackhawks!" Ray's heart pounded fast, swept up in the home opener rush, like they'd already won the game, and he knew he could ride this tide all night, playing for a team of twenty thousand, and six on the ice.

When the crowd settled a little, the announcer started up again. "We would now ask you to join the Blackhawks in a moment of silence for number eleven, Louis Gardino."

The hush after the roar was eerie, and silence beat at him almost as hard as the cheers. Ray bowed his head, and raised his left hand to his right shoulder, cupping his palm over the black patch with Gardie's number. The moment was barely long enough for the echoes of cheering to die from his ears, no time to wrench his brain from the go go go of the pre-game hype in a home opener against the Detroit Fucking Red Wings to think anything in particular for Gardie. The booming voice said, "Thank you," and the cheers started up again, only slightly subdued.

Ray squeezed his own shoulder and said, "Bye," quietly, toward the shining ice. Then he shook off the last shred of silence with another look up at the crowd and skated over to join the pileup waiting to take their places on the bench. They sat down for the Wings' entrance, grinning at the vicious boos from the stands, and then stood up again for the anthem. Ray leaned past Dewey to ask Hue, "Hey, so who all's she slept with?"

Hue snorted. "Everybody with the balls to take on the Ice Queen, man."

Ray glanced across the ice toward Meg. Figured. She hadn't gotten this job on talent. "Bitch, huh?"

Hue leaned closer, and enunciated clearly. "Cast. Iron."

Dewey snickered. "Yeah, but I hear she's got a molten core."

Ray elbowed Dewey hard as he straightened up, grinning across at Huey doing the same thing on his other side. Wingers had to look out for their center, after all. Then the anthem was starting and the cameras were headed their way, and Ray put on the usual vaguely bored expression and waited for the song to end.

During the inevitable TV timeout before puck drop--Wings-Hawks meant national TV, even in October--Ray leaned out and looked down the bench toward Fraser, who was looking out at the empty ice, nodding slightly to whatever Bully was saying to him. The way Bully's hands were waving around, it could be yesterday's special teams practice or a dissertation on modern dance. Ray liked the patient look on Fraser's face, liked knowing that Fraser was listening, even to a whacked-out mook like Ren Turnbull. Fraser looked down just then, right at him, like he knew Ray would be watching him. They exchanged smiles--the crowd was too loud to try to say anything, with seven guys between them--and then the timeout was done and they were getting set for puck drop.

The game was fast from the first minute, both teams going at each other full force because after all the getting ready, this was a real game, and a rivalry was still a rivalry, even in October. Ray's first two shifts went by in blurs of bright ice and white and red jerseys, occasional shouts from guy to guy and the sing of skates, the slap of the puck and the rattle of the glass as people got hit who weren't him. Every now and then the crowd got loud enough to register as more than white noise in the background, but mostly his attention was all on the ice.

By his third shift, the game had settled down from the crackling white-hot flashiness of a Big Game, into another good night on the job. He and Hue and Deuce were clicking, making plays, and it was just a matter of time before they put something in.

Late in the first, Ray was rushing down into Detroit's end, Dewey carrying the puck a little ahead of him, his legs a blur as he raced down the ice. Cheli and Daz changed out for Fraser and Bully, and Ray grinned as he pushed into the zone. Deuce got tied up just past the line and swung out to one side, fighting along the boards to keep control of the puck. Ray took over his usual spot just outside the crease, absorbing a few whacks from a Russkie in a red jersey, dodging the worst shoves and elbows. Deuce--small, Ray thought, regretfully, he really is too fucking small--lost the fight for the puck, and another red jersey shot it up ice.

Except Fraser was there, holding the line, white jersey bright, drawing back his stick for the one-timer. Before the puck had even connected with his stick, Ray was calculating the angle. When he heard the crack of rubber on tape and saw the black blur flying toward him, Ray dodged backward, getting clear of his opponent just far enough to get his stick out. He felt the puck hit, the reverb of the impact riding up his arm, and Ray already knew he'd nailed it, perfect deflection, even before the flashing light and the jumping crowd and the cursing Russian behind him.

He was jumping, screaming though he couldn't hear himself over the fans going wild, his stick waving in the air. Hue and Deuce were rushing toward him with open arms, but Ray was running up ice toward Fraser skating down to him. "Buddy!" Ray screamed, as Fraser's arm closed around his back, crushing them together. He pounded Fraser's helmet with his free hand. "You hear that, Fraser?" The screams were slacking off from the first burst, enough that Ray could at least hear himself, but it still sounded great. "You and me, we're a fucking duet! You set 'em up, I knock 'em in!"

Fraser was laughing at him, his teammates were crashing up against him, the crowd loved him, all of Chicago loved him. He was a hero, he was a god, he was a Blackhawk. Bully smacked him on the ass as they broke up and got set for the faceoff, and Ray fought down his smile and settled into a ready steady stance, stick blade on the ice. Even if it was the first goal of his resurrected career, it was just one goal, and there was a whole game ahead of them yet.

Still, when his eyes met Fraser's, shining bright as the arena lights, Ray winked, and Fraser winked right back. This was good. This was fucking greatness.

Ben felt a short cold rush of horror, his pulse jumping, when he realized he'd followed his man completely out of position. He was only a few meters short of the blue line in his own zone, and the Red Wings were rocketing the puck about, keeping up intense pressure. Ben whirled to start back down the ice to guard the goal, and spotted Ray standing at the crease beside Eddie, having slotted himself into Ben's position. He smiled down the ice at his friend--and Ray, watching up ice, met his gaze and smiled back.

Ben was skating toward Ray to switch into their correct positions when he heard the crack of a powerful slapshot behind him. He couldn't see the puck, moving at more than ninety miles an hour, but Ben saw Ray pivoting sideways, moving instinctively toward the sound, saw Ray's eyes startled-wide, saw the impact expressed in Ray's flying limbs.

Ray went down heavily and hard, like a caribou shot squarely in the heart. Ben's momentum was already carrying him in Ray's direction, and he hit his knees, digging in with his toes to stop his slide at Ray's side.

His eyes were closed, and he was lying perfectly still, head turned slightly to one side. Ben noticed that his own hand was bare when he extended it to touch Ray's face, and then his throat. He could detect no movement from Ray, nothing at all. Ben was reaching with his other hand to tilt Ray's head back when he was pulled away. He watched, still on his knees, as Mort and a few other men in trainer's clothes converged on Ray, one of them carrying an enormous medical box.

Ben was dragged up to his feet, almost entirely by force of the hands under his arms, though he tried to cooperate enough to get his skates down and steady. He lifted his gaze from Ray's closed eyes and blue-tinged lips to see Chris's face bare inches from his. It was Chris who was holding him up and propelling them away from Ray. "Get your game face on, Fraser," his captain whispered, harshly, "You're on national fucking television."

"He's not breathing," Ben said, feeling small and helpless as a child. "He's not breathing."

Chris shook him a little, showing no fear to mirror Ben's. "Pull it together, Mort's got him, he's going to be fine. Fraser, he's fine."

Ben nodded, composing his face to an acceptable blankness, and looked around the bright ice, the silent arena, the crowd all on their feet, hands at their sides. He remembered the crushing stillness of the crowd outside Louis's funeral, their open hands and empty faces. He had to look away from them, down at the other men on the ice. Lidstrom stood among his teammates at the Detroit bench, his hands holding his stick slightly away from his body as though he could divorce himself from what it had done, staring toward the spot where Ray had fallen. Ben watched him, the man who had taken that slapshot, fighting the foreign impulse to rush across the ice and strike him down to the ice as he'd stricken Ray. It was an accident, he reminded himself, a freak accident, a hazard of the game. Ray had gotten in the way of a shot. It could happen to anyone.

Ben shifted against Chris's lingering grip on his arm, pivoting to look back toward Ray, though all he could see of his friend were his legs, lying still, skate blades straight up and down. The rest was hidden by the cluster of medical personnel working over him. Ray's shoulder pads were lying on the ice along with his helmet, and Ben wondered if that were a good sign or a bad one. It wasn't a neck injury, after all.

"Breathe, Fraser," Chris said, close to his ear, and Ben obediently breathed, in and out, the silence of the arena filling his mouth and throat and lungs, heavy and smothering and cold. The unnatural brightness of fluorescent lights reflecting on ice and glass throbbed in his vision, dark on its periphery. Shock, he thought, and remembered Ray's wide eyes, bright and blue, alive and full of expression, falling backward. Shocked. He hadn't seen it coming. No one could have seen it coming, a puck moving faster than the eye could track, striking just so, taking him down like a bullet. Whenever Ben looked away, he saw Ray falling to the ice, over and over, so he kept his eyes on Ray's feet. At least he wasn't falling any further now.

Ray's skates twitched, and then he drew up one leg, setting the skate blade almost flat to the ice, and Ben drew in a gasping harsh breath. His eyes stung, and he turned toward Chris, trusting his captain to hide him from the cameras as he wiped his face against his arm, leaving his jersey wet. When Ben dared to look up, they'd lifted Ray onto a stretcher. Mort shifted to stand at Ray's head, and Ben could see Ray's chest rising and falling, looking strangely small and fragile in a jersey with no pads beneath.

Ben skated across the ice in the wake of the stretcher, catching a dim distant glimpse of Ray's face as he was taken down the tunnel. It was only when he saw Ray's lips moving that he heard the cheering of the crowd and realized his own heart was beating in his chest.

Ben looked around the bench, trying to return himself to the reality of the game, his job, a national television audience and a sixty-nine-year-old rivalry. Coach and his assistants had their heads together over a clipboard, speaking quickly. Most of the men looked relieved, now, though Jack seemed to be reassuring a pale and shaken Tom. Jeff had disappeared from his seat, presumably using his position at the top of the tunnel to sneak down to the locker room and keep watch over Ray. Ben looked around for Ren to find him standing quietly at his side, holding Ben's gloves and stick. When Ben met his eyes, Ren laid a hand on his shoulder and said solemnly, "We'll finish it for Ray, Benton. We will prevail."

Ben nodded, and closed his eyes, pulling himself together, extending the false calm of his expression further, deeper. When he opened his eyes, Coach was gesturing them into a huddle, and Jeff was coming over from the tunnel.

Jeff moved toward the center of the group, and said quickly, "Ray's fine, he's talking, he's pissed they're not letting him come back and play. Doc says he has to go to the hospital for tests, even if his heart was only stopped for a minute. Probably be there overnight for observation."

Coach nodded. "Thank you, that's good news." Coach looked around, focusing on Ben, and Ben straightened up under the scrutiny. "You good to play?"

Ben nodded quickly, cleared his throat and said, "I'm fine, I'm ready to go." Coach held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded, looking around at the others, assessing them silently. "All right," he said, finally, "JR, your line up front, Chelios, you and Daze on D. Fraser, sit down before you fall down."

Ben winced, but swung himself over the half-wall and onto the bench, accepting the Gatorade someone pressed into his hand and rinsing his mouth before he pulled on his gloves. The game started up again after a few more delays and an announcement of Ray's basic state of health, which was greeted with another standing ovation. Even for Ray's sake, Ben could barely bring himself to focus on the game. He played when his name was called, but on autopilot, the way he could do anything he'd learned at the age of three, without really thinking about it.

Mercifully soon, the game was over. Ben blinked at the numbers on the scoreboard, but could not attach meaning to them. He stopped trying as his teammates began to file toward the locker room, falling into line.

An assistant coach caught him as soon as he was off the bench, looking worried, and said, "You wanna go see Kowalski?"

Ben's heart jumped, but he said, quite calmly, "You're not sending Chris?"

"He's gotta stay and talk to the press, you don't. Come on, you can shower and change in the therapy room."

Ben went, docilely, but stopped short at the sight of Ray's jersey and t-shirt lying discarded on the floor. The coach mistook his hesitation and said, "We put your clothes on the bench there, go ahead and get cleaned up. I'll go check that there's somebody to drive you."

Ben removed his gloves and helmet, and then boosted himself onto a table to untie his skates, his eyes fixed, all the time, on the small heap of Ray's shirts on the floor. Throughout the game, Jeff's words--Ray's fine, he's talking, he's pissed, his heart was only stopped for a minute--had been replaying in his mind. Ray's fine, he's pissed, his heart stopped. Ray's heart stopped. Ben undressed quickly, mechanically, laying out his gear neatly on the table, his jersey and shirt and socks and shorts and other socks in a small pile. He turned his back on everything, crossing quickly to the shower, washing fast with the strongly antiseptic-smelling soap laid out in this shower. Ray's fine, his heart stopped. He dried off and dressed quickly, uncertain of when someone might return for him. Only when he was ready to go did he let himself pick up Ray's things from the floor. They were damp with sweat, and cold to the touch. Ben folded the t-shirt and jersey, and set them neatly on a table, smoothing the cloth with one hand. They would smell like Ray, but cold, and stale, and he was going to see Ray in a moment, because Ray was fine. His heart had stopped.

The door opened, and Ben turned toward it before he was called, leaving Ray's things where they were and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He walked quickly down the corridor, staring straight ahead, not acknowledging the calls of the handful of reporters gathered there, not flinching from the bright lights of their cameras. Soon he was climbing into the backseat of a very nice car.

Ben closed his eyes, and watched Ray falling to the ice over and over, blue eyes wide, until the car stopped. The driver guided him to a nurse, who had apparently been told who he was here to see. She led him down brightly lit corridors full of quiet bustle. They rode an elevator to the fourth floor, and then walked down a row of private rooms. "Here you are, Mr. Fraser," she said, stopping outside a door identical to all the other doors, "ten minutes, all right? He's supposed to be resting."

Ben nodded, and stepped inside.

Ray was lying still in the hospital bed with his eyes closed. The lowered lights cast odd shadows on his face, but the motion of his breathing was readily apparent. Ben found his own breaths matching the rhythm of Ray's as he moved closer to the bed. Ray was wearing a pale green hospital gown that made his skin look sickly. The neck gapped enough to show the top edge of a purple-black bruise creeping toward his collarbone. Ben knew he should let him rest, but said softly, "Ray."

Blue eyes fluttered open, blinking sleepily, and Ray's smile spread across his face in slow motion. "Hey, Fraser, buddy buddy, calamari."

Ben blinked. "Ray?"

"M'good. Just they gave me a," Ray waved one hand in a loosely circular motion, "dunno, something." Ray tapped his own chest lightly. "Don't want the ticker getting up to any tricks for a little while."

"Ah. Well, I just wanted to see that you were all right. I'll let you sleep." Ben made to take a step back, but Ray's hand flew out, uncoordinated but quick, and landed on his wrist, holding him fast with just a touch.

"S'all right, Fraser," Ray muttered, "I don't sleep good when they give me medicine. Stay a little. Ten minutes, right?"

"Ah." Ben moved closer, covering Ray's hand with his own. "Yes."

"M'good," Ray repeated drowsily. He shifted in the bed, winced, and settled on his back again. "This was a good night, eh, Fraser? You hear that crowd?" In the quiet after Ray's slow slurred words, Ben remembered the thunderous silence of the arena and pressed his hand harder against the warmth of Ray's fingers. "They can't get enough of us, huh? Some kind of karmic chi love thing going on there."

Karma? What had Ray done to deserve ending up here? Perhaps it was Ben's karma at work--after all, Ray had been standing in his place when the puck hit him. "That's a distinct possibility, Ray."

Ray snorted, and then winced again. "Don't make me laugh, Frase. Hurts." Ray opened his eyes properly wide, looking up at Ben, the expression of surprise he remembered replaced with a glassy calm. "Tonight was--tonight--I love you, Fraser."

Ben was telling himself he knew better even as he said it. "And I you, Ray."

Ray smiled, his eyes sinking nearly closed. "Told you, Fraser, don't make me laugh. I mean--you know what I mean."

Ben nodded. Of course he did; Ray was euphoric with sedatives and the good night he'd been having before it happened, the good night that was all he was likely to remember of this. Of course his sleepy-voiced declaration didn't mean any of the things it might, theoretically, have meant under other circumstances. "Of course I do, Ray."

Ray's fingers tightened around his wrist without real force, and then released as Ray slipped again into sleep. Ben laid his hand carefully at his side, and slipped back out to the hallway.

He was returned easily enough to the car that had brought him, and Ben rode home with a marginally less disturbing set of mental images--Ray lying in a hospital bed, Ray saying...

He found himself at the front door of his apartment with no real recollection of how he'd gotten there, and let himself in. Ben glanced at the television, and for a moment considered turning on Sports Center, but then realized that he'd be certain to see it all again from a whole new angle--Ray's injury would be highlight reel material for at least the next twenty-four hours, endlessly repeating on the television as it was at the back of his mind.

Ben left the television off, and sat down on the sofa in the dark. "He died," Ben said quietly to the empty room, and the words shook him. He squeezed his eyes shut against the repeating vision of a body falling down in a field of white, blond hair flashing bright. "Everyone dies."

He heard a small sound then, a familiar metallic jingle, and laughed as he lowered his face into his hands. "Everyone I love dies, and I go out of my mind. It's nicely literary, at least."

He didn't take his hands from his face until the licking had gone on for a count of sixty, and when he did, Dief was sitting at his feet, looking sympathetic. Perhaps dying had taught him some patience with human foibles; he'd never had any before. Ben swallowed against the tightness in his throat, and said, "Hello," just to see if he could.

Dief barked, or appeared to bark; no sound reached Ben's ears, though he'd heard his own voice clearly enough a moment before. He reached down and clicked Dief's tags together, and heard that as well. Dief spoke again, silently, and Ben nodded. "That's true, it is only fair. You haven't been able to hear me for years, so why should I hear you?"

Dief pulled away from Ben's hand, drawing the tags from his grip. The movement briefly revealed a dark spot on Dief's white chest fur, hidden once the tags fell back into place. Dief jumped, soundless except for the jingle of tags, onto the couch, and when Ben sat back, the wolf--ghost--wolf wormed his way into Ben's lap. The soft compact weight of his old friend was familiar, absent only the life-warmth that had formerly made it uncomfortable or, on occasion, desperately necessary, to sit this way. Ben buried his hands in white fur, and leaned his head against the back of the couch, determined not to wonder how or why Dief had returned to him.

"Maybe there's hope," he said softly, working his hands through Dief's fur, at last not entirely alone. "Ray's all right, and you're here, so maybe there's a chance."

Dief was still dead, of course. And even in perfect health, Ray was still the sort of man Ray was. Any guy in a jersey, Jeff had said, but then, Ben had a jersey. If he could only learn to be happy with the things he could have, he could be all right.

Dief shifted on Ben's lap, sitting up with a paw on his shoulder, and licked his face clean. Ben didn't push him away.

Ray sat in the little room Mort was using in the visitor's dressing room, wearing shorts and a t-shirt while he got his hands taped. Mort had inspected the bruise on his chest, and his ribs, back in Chicago before they left for the road trip, and again after morning skate, before declaring that he was definitely allowed to play tonight. Still, as soon as he'd finished wrapping Ray's hands, Mort poked his chest, just hard enough to hurt. Ray winced. "I'm good, Mort," he said, firmly.

Mort nodded. "Extra padding?"

Ray grimaced, thinking about it. The defensemen he'd be up against tonight would be more than happy to aim every elbow and stick and shove at his chest, knowing it'd hurt extra--but unfamiliar chest padding would throw him off a little, and he'd already gone four days since playing. He didn't need the least bit of help being off his game tonight. "Nah," Ray said, finally, "I'm good." Mort just frowned and nodded. He knew how it was.

Ray got up and headed into the locker room proper, shadowboxing as he went. He put some bounce into his steps even as the motion of his arms made his chest twinge, showing no weakness even here in his own locker room, acknowledging no pain in front of his teammates.

No fighting, he reminded himself, throwing textbook jabs at the air. No matter how much they whaled on him tonight, no matter how much it hurt and how bad it pissed him off to have a weak spot everybody knew about, he couldn't go after anyone. His fists tightened hard, tape pulling at the skin of his hands, as he thought about it.

It had been months since he'd been in a fight. He'd kept enough of a rep as an NHL fighter that most of the players in the beer leagues hadn't wanted to take him on, but every time a season started up, it seemed like there was one new guy in the mix who wanted to go. The second Friday of July, Ray had gotten into it with a twenty-five-year-old kid who'd never made it past college hockey, but not because he didn't have the right arm for it. Ray knew for a fact he was top-shelf there.

He headed over to his locker and closed his eyes, remembering the ritual exchanges of insults leading up to the big moment when the words ended and the fun began. Gloves off, helmets off, they'd faced each other, and then--wham. Ray'd gotten in a few good blows, bloodied the kid's nose in between getting his lip split and his head hammered. He'd had a good fistful of the kid's jersey, anchoring himself against the backslide of his skates every time either of them landed a blow, and the kid's fist wrapped in his jersey was a constant pressure against Ray's right side. When the fight first started he'd been aware, as he always was, of who was watching, how it looked, how much penalty time he was about to take, but once the first few punches connected, it was like the whole arena was gone, his team, the other guy's team, the refs. There was nothing in the world but him and the guy he was fighting with, just pounding fists and bloodied faces. The pain of getting hit just fed the fire, pushing the rush of fighting higher until that moment when the kid got Ray's jersey pulled over his head and he had to decide if he'd had enough. Ray had never in his life failed to slip free and come out swinging.

Ray's fists clenched and he bounced on his feet, grinning like a mad dog at the memory, and then he opened his eyes and sighed, looking at the fresh clean bandages on his knuckles.

No fighting. Right.

He started getting dressed, looking around for someone to distract him. Right on cue, there was Fraser, sitting on the bench already fully dressed. He had his head propped on one gloved fist, but Ray could see his mouth moving. Talking to himself, and not saying anything too cheerful, from the looks of him.

Ray stayed where he was, but went on watching Fraser as he taped his socks in place and pulled on his pants. As he was fastening his suspenders, Fraser made a little hand motion down by his knee that Ray recognized, even muffled by a hockey glove; he'd felt his own hand make the same gesture often enough. Ray picked up his skates and moved over to Fraser's bench, plopping down beside him. Fraser straightened up, startled; he must have been completely out of it. "Ray?"

Ray bent down to put his skates on and said, "So tell me about your wolf, Fraser." He gave Fraser the time it took him to get both feet into his unlaced skates before he looked up, and when he did, Fraser was staring at him, mouth hanging slightly open. "You--" Ray raised his left hand and made the same ear-scritching move he'd seen Fraser do a few minutes before, then looked back down, lacing his left skate. "And you were talking to yourself. And you told me you knew a wolf once, right? So tell me about him."

Whole lot of nothing from Fraser, and then he said quietly, "He died, Ray. There's nothing to tell."

Okay, so Ray was going to have to do the heavy lifting, here. Fair enough. He nodded, enough that Fraser could see, and went on yanking his laces tighter, inch by inch. "I get that, not wanting to talk about it. I had this dog once, this crazy little mutt. He was a stray. I thought I hit him with my car, see, driving home from practice one night. I got out to look for him, didn't want some poor dog lying on the side of the road with busted guts because of me, although I didn't know what the hell I was going to do if I found him. This is when I was playing in Quebec, right? I'd been there maybe a month." Fraser made an understanding sound, and Ray went on, forgetting which one of them he was trying to distract from what. "I mean, where did I think I was going to find a vet in Quebec in the middle of the night? So I'm looking, calling out, and then there he is, this little mutt standing in the weeds, just holding up one paw. Turns out I almost missed him completely, except this cut on his leg. I still didn't know what to do with him, so I wrapped him up in my practice jersey and took him back to the rink and got our trainer to have a look at him before I took him home."

Ray tied off his left skate and moved on to the right. "Stella about busted something. Hated that dog. He pissed all over me the first time he saw her, because she was speaking English. Didn't even realize it, but I'd been speaking French all that time, carryover from practice. I guess some Anglais beat him or something; he couldn't handle it. Even after I got him so he was okay with that, he didn't really like anybody but me. And then I--" Ray grimaced, hauling on his laces till his fingers turned red and throbbed. "I got traded to Boston, and Stella got a job offer back here. I couldn't take care of a dog--y'know, road trips--"

Fraser didn't make a sound, but one of his hands clenched suddenly. Ray just kept talking, remembering all the hours he'd spent lying on the floor talking to the dog, petting him, slipping in a word of English when he thought he could get away with it, calming him down over and over when he spooked.

"And he was too nuts for Stella or anybody else to take care of, forget boarding him or anything. So finally Stella said she'd take care of it, y'know? Find him somewhere to go, like I was a little kid and my old dog was going to go live on--what do parents always say? A farm?--and I just let her tell me that. Later on, when we were splitting up, she tried to bring up the dog and I just--I wouldn't even let her talk about it, I didn't want to even hear."

Ray sat up, and realized that he'd miscalculated somewhere in his little plan to stop Fraser from feeling sorry for himself, because now he was pretty obviously feeling sorry for Ray--but then he was a pretty sorry bastard, wasn't he? Couldn't even put down his own crazy scared little dog. Ray looked away, fiddling with his suspenders as he talked. "But, uh, y'know, who knows, right? Maybe he really is frolicking on a farm full of French-speaking children or something. Chasing squirrels, having a good time."

They sat there for a minute in silence, and then Fraser knocked his fist lightly against Ray's knee. "His name was Diefenbaker."

Ray looked up, squinting as he tried to remember. That name--"Like the lake?"

Fraser looked startled and then pleased. "Yes, Ray, like the lake."

Ray nodded. "François."

Fraser blinked and then said, "Because he was French," but he didn't laugh or anything.

Ray looked down again, blinking and fighting a grin, flexing his hands against the tape. "Um. Anyway, I should finish--"

"--Yes, getting dressed. Of course." Ray nodded and got up and Fraser stood too, beside him, and said, "Thank you, Ray," like he really meant it.

Ray tapped his knuckles against Fraser's chin. "What are friends for, eh, Fraser?"

He nearly told Dief to get off the bed, but there wasn't a good way to do it without drawing Ray's attention, and in any case it wasn't as if he had to worry about Dief getting soft and over-civilized. There was no longer any danger of the wolf growing up and deciding to return to the wild. Ben shifted closer to Dief, instead, running his knuckles along Dief's side in the guise of rubbing the muscle of his thigh. When he set his hand on his knee, Dief rested his head on top of it. Ben smiled, content, and went back to what he'd been doing for the past several minutes: watching Ray.

His roommate had been in a palpable good mood since before the game, his first since the slapshot incident. Ray had played his usual role with gusto, fighting for position in front of the net. Though to Ben's critical eye it had seemed that Ray was being knocked around more than usual, Ray had kept his good humor all night, appearing quite unfazed. He'd seemed to generate more energy as the night went on and his teammates--and linemates--grew weary. Though they'd only pulled out a tie, Ray had been all but dancing through the locker room, bouncing in his seat on the bus as they rode back to the hotel, humming in the elevator. Once in their room, Ray had immediately unearthed a portable CD player from his bag, and flung himself down on the bed to listen to his music. Judging by the beat--visible in the rhythmic and constant motion of Ray on and across the bed--it was the same song he'd been humming earlier.

He had his eyes closed, quite wrapped up in the music, so Ben felt safe looking his fill at Ray. The movements of his long, lean body, which after weeks of practicing and playing together in full gear seemed almost naked in blue jeans and a t-shirt, were unbearably suggestive; he appeared to be dancing lying down, his arms flung over his head, hips and legs in constant motion. Ben had given up on trying not to look, and tried instead to reduce the disquieting effects by focusing on small parts of the view.

Ray's hands, loosely curled, opening and closing in time to some element of the unheard music, were looking well. The skin over his knuckles was pink but whole, showing only slight lines of irritation from the near-constant presence of adhesive tape.

Ray's feet were still clad in white socks, arching and flexing in a steady rhythm. The tip of one toe, startlingly pink and soft-looking, protruded through a ragged hole that widened by one unraveling stitch even as Ben watched.

Ray's face was intent, eyes pressed tightly shut, his lips pursed, cheeks slightly flushed. He nodded, or made slight side-to-side motions; when he threw his head back entirely, exposing his throat, taut beneath the light caress of black headphone wires, Ben had to look away.

His eyes lighted on Ray's jeans, the thrust and roll of narrow hips and parted thighs only emphasizing the not-at-all-insubstantial bulge distorting the faded fabric. Ben's eyes lingered a shameful instant too long, before jerking away, first to Ray's still-closed eyes, fearful of detection, and then down, to his own hands and Dief's highly amused grin. He felt himself blushing brightly under Dief's scrutiny; his friend's wolfish impatience with the complications of human mating rituals had obviously survived intact. It's complicated, he mouthed.

Dief gave him a disbelieving look, and then, lightning-quick, ducked his head and snapped at Ben's thigh. Ben made a disconcerted noise, Dief dematerialized, and Ray rolled onto his side, tugging his headphones off his ears by the wires, his eyes searching Ben's face. "Fraser?"

He blinked stupidly at Ray, spread out before him, suddenly still and as intently focused on Ben as he had been on the music. "Ah," Ben said, rubbing the spot where Dief's teeth had made the barest possible contact with his thigh. "Leg cramp."

Ray smiled knowingly, almost smugly, and as Ben watched, Ray's eyes darted down to his lap, then back up to his face. Ray's smile widened further, and he rolled smoothly to a sitting position, pulling his headphones off and setting the player aside. "Gotta watch out for those leg cramps," Ray said, his voice low and warm. The heat in it went straight to Ben's groin, his incipient erection becoming suddenly actual, and he bit his lip to keep from groaning.

Ray slid off the bed, going to his knees at Ben's feet in the space between their beds, settling a hand high on Ben's thigh and kneading at the muscle. Ben bit down harder on his lip--Ray's touch felt better than good on the aching muscle, and sent shivers of arousal outward from the spot--but a low sound slipped past his lips, sparking a pleased light in Ray's eyes. "Y'know," Ray said, his hand creeping higher, "I do think I owe you one, if you don't mind humoring me."

Ben licked his lips, "Well," he said, more steadily than he expected to, "if it will make you feel better, Ray, of course."

Ray's left hand cupped him then, firm and confident, while his right hand went to the button of his jeans, but Ray never looked away from Ben's eyes. "See, now," Ray said, sounding a little breathless himself as he smiled up at Ben, "that's buddies. You're a real friend, Fraser."

Ben breathed carefully, in and out, as Ray bent his head, his smile eclipsed as his nimble hands opened the fly of Ben's jeans. Buddies, yes. That was what Ray would see, and as long as he saw nothing else in Ben's actions, everything would be all right between them. Looking down at Ray's bent head, bright hair irrepressibly spiked, as those hands slid into his opened jeans, Ben reminded himself of what they were doing here. Buddies.

Ben planted his hands behind him and leaned back on that support as he lifted his hips, allowing Ray to pull down his jeans and boxers down far enough to free his erection. Ray shifted closer, placing himself between Ben's knees, and Ben closed his eyes to hide what he felt as Ray's hand closed around him.

He felt the motion of air, cool against the blood-hot skin at the head of his cock, and shivered all the way down to his balls. In the next instant he was engulfed in the melting heat of Ray's mouth, and Ben gasped aloud and opened his eyes. Ray's lips were stretched obscenely around his flesh, his eyes closed, forehead furrowed with concentration. As Ben watched, Ray's wet soft mouth moved down his cock till it met his hand, roughly stroking. Ray's cheeks hollowed as he sucked, and Ben's hands fisted in the bedspread, his legs tensing from hip to toe and his stomach clenching as he forced himself not to thrust into the welcome of Ray's mouth.

He couldn't keep himself from a slight jerk of hips as Ray drew back, and the glancing scrape of Ray's teeth drew an actual moan from him, half-choked back, but enough to make Ray's eyes flick up to meet his. Ben had to turn his head away from that look, lewd and full of promise already being fulfilled. Staring at the blank wall, he could feel the rapid motion of Ray's ribs against the insides of his knees, Ray's sucking mouth and jerking hand. The electric sensation of gathering pleasure rushed through him, heating his belly, tightening his balls. Ben raised his hand, meaning to push Ray away, to back off, to make it last a moment longer, but Ray's teeth traced a line of pressure, leashed potential-pain, against the underside of his cock, and Ben pressed his open hand into Ray's hair, cradling the hard curve of skull as he came, gasping for breath.

He slumped back on the bed, staring dazed and uncomprehending at the ceiling as his heart raced, then looked down when he felt Ray move away. Ray was standing at the night table between the beds, balling up a tissue in one hand and wiping his mouth on the shoulder of his shirt. He smiled at Ben as he tossed the tissue into the wastebasket, and Ben gathered the strength to sit up as Ray walked over to stand in front of him again, putting his strained jeans directly at eye level.

Ben swallowed hard, and said, "You know, Ray--if you'd be so kind as to permit--"

Ben dragged his eyes up to Ray's face when he chuckled, and hooked his fingers through the belt loops of Ray's jeans. He yanked sideways and down, pulling Ray onto the bed beside him, so roughly that he bounced on impact. Ray's eyes went briefly wide, startled, and Ben kicked off the hindrance of his jeans and boxers and then, feeling a bit ridiculous in just a t-shirt, pulled that off as well. Ray was still lying as he'd landed, on his side, propped on one elbow. His eyes skimmed over Ben and his little smile returned, and Ben smiled back, moving to kneel beside Ray, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

Ray flinched, just barely, as Ben got his hands under Ray's shirt, and he abruptly remembered the bruises that must still mark him, and the beating he'd taken in the course of the game. Ben leaned closer, shifting one hand down to Ray's hip and stilling the other on his side, only pressing slightly against the quick motion of Ray's ribs to steady him. Moving quickly, hoping to hide the tenderness he felt, Ben pressed his mouth to Ray's.

Ray pulled back from that contact, too, but Ben made a low soothing wordless noise, wondering distantly if there were some rule about oral sex and kissing that he was violating. He needed to reassure Ray too much to care about such niceties, however, and sealed his lips to Ray's, licking into Ray's mouth as soon as his lips parted. Ray shifted away again--moving onto his back, propped on both arms--and Ben followed him down. He could taste himself in Ray's mouth, mingled with the taste and smell of Ray--remembered from that hot summer day, familiar from the locker room--and couldn't help moaning. He felt Ray's lips twitch toward a smile under his own, and then Ray was sucking at his tongue, kissing him back, and Ben resumed slowly pushing up his shirt, enjoying the soft hot slide of Ray's skin under his palm, the hard play of rib and muscle behind it. When his fingertips reached Ray's armpit, Ray pulled away again, this time with a high-pitched ticklish noise. Ben grinned, taking the opportunity to push Ray's shirt off altogether, and Ray quickly tossed it aside once Ben got it over his head.

Ben hesitated then, looking down at Ray. Flat on his back, Ray said, quietly, "It's not as bad as it looks."

Ben nodded, pretending to believe him. He'd heard men say the same about broken bones, and wondered if Ray had any cracked ribs under the mass of bruising that covered his skin from his collarbone to the base of his breastbone. It was purple-black at the center--where the puck had hit, where Mort had done chest compressions--fading to lurid green and yellow on the edges. There were two new-looking black marks visible in the otherwise healing periphery; Ben realized Ray must have incurred those during the game, and was suddenly savagely glad for every hit he'd laid on an opponent that night. Ben traced the faded edge of the bruise with his thumb, drawing a gasp from Ray. Ben looked up to his face, but Ray had his eyes closed, his mouth open, his head tilted back, and the look on his face was anything but pained. Ben shifted himself over Ray, one knee between Ray's thighs, his hands braced on either side of Ray's chest, and slowly lowered his head, licking the hot silky skin at the edge of the bruises, moving up the ladder of Ray's ribs, heaving suddenly harder beneath his mouth. Ben was distracted in his progress by Ray's nipple, drawn up tight, and licked experimentally at the pebbled skin.

Ray responded with a desperate noise, abruptly cut off, and a sudden scrabbling at his jeans. Ben slapped Ray's frantic hands aside, and unbuttoned him quickly, one-handed, as he shifted up over Ray to kiss him again. His moment of surprise at the discovery that Ray wasn't wearing anything under his jeans was quickly interrupted by the frantic motion of Ray's legs, thrashing his jeans down and off, breaking the kiss to gasp needy half-words that Ben understood perfectly.

Ben closed a hand around Ray's cock, already wet at the head, and stroked quickly as Ray arched up beneath him, head pressed back into the pillow. Ben looked down their bodies, watching Ray move. He was thrusting up into Ben's grip as soon as he got a hand on him, and Ben wondered if Ray would have the patience for anything more complex.

He shifted up to kiss Ray again, but his lips had barely touched Ray's when Ray groaned and pushed forcefully up against him, rolling them onto their sides. Ben slid his hand down Ray's back as he threw one leg over Ben's. Ray kept his head down, panting, as he pressed himself close to Ben, anchoring himself with a bruising-tight grip on Ben's hip, thrusting against Ben's stomach. Ben leaned his forehead against Ray's and rested a hand on Ray's wildly moving hip, and watched as Ray came.

They were both motionless for a moment, and Ben stroked his thumb back and forth across the sweat-damp skin of Ray's hip until Ray rolled onto his back, shifting away. Ben looked around for something to clean up with, but the tissues were on Ray's side, and Ray was at rest for the first time all night, his eyes closed. Ben kept still, enjoying the quiet, the rare sated feeling of a game well-played and sex on top of it.

Still, it was cool in the room, and he needed to clean up before he fell asleep. Ben reached out and laid a hand on Ray's shoulder.

It was immediately shrugged away, a reflexive, defensive twitch, and before Ben's eyes Ray went tense, the frenetic energy of the past hours returning as though it had found no release. Ben's stomach turned cold and queasy with anticipation, though he had no idea what Ray might be about to do, and all other concerns faded to insignificance as Ray pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his back to Ben, and reached for his pants.

Ben swallowed, steadying his voice to something like neutrality, and said, "Ray?"

Ray went still, his jeans in his hands, and said, "I'm good, Fraser. Just, lay off the kissing thing, okay? It's kind of... queer."

Ben stared, dumbfounded, at Ray's motionless back. "I beg your pardon?" he said, finally, rote words coming more easily than any others when his mind was blasted utterly blank.

Ray's shoulders twitched and tensed, and Ben stared at the play of muscle under skin, so much more comprehensible than Ray saying, "Kissing, Fraser. It's queer."

This could not possibly be happening. Ray could not possibly be asserting what he seemed to be, so it didn't matter what Ben said to him; this was all some sort of psychotic episode he was having. "And everything else we just did isn't?"

Ray looked back at Ben over his shoulder with an expression of pure fury. He turned just far enough to reveal his right hand, clenching white-knuckled on his jeans, and some part of Ben, not so long buried after all, knew enough to lower his eyes, to keep quiet and still as Ray turned away again, moving to pull his pants on. But without those eyes on him, without that fist in sight, Ben's disbelief reasserted itself over his good sense. "Ray?" he said, "Do you honestly mean to tell me you think you're straight?"

Ray stood up, jerking his jeans into place and yanking up the zip before he turned halfway toward the bed again. The fury in his eyes had turned cold while Ben wasn't watching, and his hands hung open at his sides. He said, "Fuck you, Fraser," in a low, fierce voice and then turned away, looking for his shirt. It had slipped underneath the other bed, but Ben didn't point that out. It would only speed Ray, silent and frigid in his incomprehensible anger, on his way out of the room. Ben moved across the bed, sat up and pulled on his boxers, using his own t-shirt to wipe himself clean and dropping it back on the floor when he was done.

"Not if you're going to be like this about it," he said, giddy with his own daring, his own small anger warming him, and Ray turned away from his duffel bag to glare at Ben. Ben watched Ray's hands, one fist clenching and releasing, and his face, the anger in his eyes sparking bright again. Ben stood up and stepped toward Ray, holding his eyes as he spoke. He felt no fear now, only his reckless anger, as light as if he were in free fall, in the moment between the leap and the impact. "I suppose I should have seen this coming, if you'll pardon the pun--"

He could see the instant Ray's control over his anger snapped; he started to vibrate visibly, shaking his head. "Fraser--"

Ben pushed on, words unstoppable as gravity welling out of him. "I just didn't realize you were flexible enough to be a slut--"

Ray's hands closed into fists and did not open again, his feet widening into a fighting stance. "Fraser, fucking stop--"

"And a closet case--"

Ray's right fist drew back slightly, and somewhere inside Ben trembled, the ground looming close. "I'm gonna pop you one, Fraser, I swear to--"

"You know, Ray, kissing boys isn't queer unless you like it--"

Ray's right fist flew back at the same time he shoved forward with his left hand, knocking the chair with his duffle bag over into the wall. After the crash there was silence, and Ben stared at Ray, bouncing on his toes with his fist cocked. "Get your hands up, Fraser," Ray snarled.

Ben just stood, motionless, waiting for the blow to fall, which only seemed to make Ray angrier.

"Get your hands up, you fucking--" and Ray stopped, biting off his words with an audible click of teeth.

Ben raised his eyebrows, and spoke in a calm voice that covered his own sick dumb shock at what Ray had not quite said. "Fucking what, Ray?"

The words were barely out of his mouth before Ray's fist was flying out, and Ben did raise his hands then, blocking the blow before it could connect, knocking Ray's fist harmlessly aside. His own hands kept moving forward, instinctively, getting hold of Ray's bare shoulders and swinging him around, up against the wall. For a bare instant, he held Ray pinned there--he had the advantage of leverage and weight, and for a second he was able to imagine keeping Ray still until he could apologize, speak reason. They didn't have to fight, no one needed to get hit or hurt, they were adults, they could sort this out rationally.

But an animal fury, wild and desperate, flared in Ray's eyes, and Ray kicked and shoved his way free of restraint, pushing Ben back one stumbling stride and then another. Ben turned away, automatically, presenting a hunched back, turned shoulder, and waited for the inevitable blow to fall.

There was only silence, and the rapid sound of Ray's breathing, and Ben realized what he had forgotten in his moment of instinctive fear: Ray was a hockey player. His honor would not allow him to hit a man from behind. Ben ducked his head for a moment, clenching his teeth and blinking rapidly, his anger and fear both decimated by simple gratitude for the trust he could place in Ray to be wholly honest in his violence.

Ben turned back, straightening up, lowering his hands, and said, softly to Ray's still-furious face, his clenched fists still in need of release, "Aim low, Ray, you'll hurt your hands less."

Ray snarled and swung, and Ben shut his eyes, turning his head aside, but once again, the blow failed to fall. When he opened his eyes, Ray had already grabbed a t-shirt out of the mess on the floor and was striding to the door, pulling it on as he went. Ben swallowed down the sick feeling of having made a terrible mistake, and said, "Ray?"

Ray paused, hand on the doorknob, and said, in a voice so low and tightly controlled that it hurt to hear, "I'm going for a smoke, Fraser. Don't wait up." He closed the door quietly behind him, leaving Ben alone in the quiet of the hotel room.

He looked around, taking in the scene. The two beds, each with the covers only slightly rumpled, the overturned chair and Ray's duffel bag, its contents scattered across the floor, their clothes in little heaps between the beds. Ray's shoes lay where he'd kicked them when he first came in, near the foot of the bed, and Ben hoped he wasn't going far for his cigarette.

He felt an impulse to set everything to rights, to erase all evidence of what had just happened, but after a moment Ben went to the foot of Ray's bed and sat down gingerly on the edge, his bare feet bracketing Ray's abandoned shoes. He thought about saying Dief's name, but he didn't want to hear himself say it, unanswered. He could feel Dief's absence, profound and inarguable, and he understood it. Before his death, Dief had often disappeared when they fought, staying away from the house for hours, even days, depending on the severity of the conflict. He'd grown more sensitive to it, as time wore on and his fears were reinforced; after this, Ben wouldn't be surprised to be left on his own for a week, perhaps forever.

Ben lowered his head into his hands, preparing himself to wait.

Ray didn't start running until he got into the stairwell. He made it down the first half-flight and stopped on the next landing to yank off his socks, leaving them where they fell, and then ran on, steadier in his bare feet. Two steps at a time, three, four, he ran down and down and down, slapping the handrails as they passed, bouncing hard off the concrete walls when he spun out on the turns.

He was running headlong on the stairs, the way his mom always told him not to, and in his mind he could see himself falling, breaking an arm, bashing in some teeth, cracking his skull, snapping some of those ribs he'd only managed to bruise so far--

Fraser had licked him there, he could still feel--

Ray ran faster, wishing he would fall, wishing for anything that would let him stop hearing Fraser's taunting voice. Do you honestly mean to tell me you think you're--

Ray burst through the fire door and into the lobby, dim and quiet, plush and posh. The desk clerk was staring at him, and a suited guy who had to be security started moving in his direction. Ray realized how he had to look, and realized as he was doing it that he was sizing up the guard, ready to pick a fight--the guy was probably carrying a gun and right then Ray didn't care, he could get a punch in, maybe, he could--

Fraser had just stood there, turned his head away and just waited--

Ray wrapped his arms around himself and headed for the door with his head down, walking fast, and nobody stopped him.

The sidewalk outside was cold on his bare feet, the air cool enough to be bracing, but he didn't need to sober up. He could stand a drink, even a fucking cigarette, but it was after last call and his wallet was back in that room with his shoes--

Fraser, behind him, saying his name--

Ray started to run again, remembering by long habit to keep his head up as he moved so he wouldn't get run into, and running, running, away from Fraser--

So fucking calm, always, Ray had never been able to get a rise out of the guy in a game, could never get him to just snap and take a swing, and tonight he'd just stood there, just stood there, just turned away--

You like it, that's what Fraser said, You're not queer unless you like it--you like it--

His chest hurt, he'd been getting hit all night, and Fraser might be a mile away now but he wouldn't quit.

Not if you're going to be like this about it, he'd said, slut and closet case, and you're queer, you like it and Ray couldn't hold it in anymore, skidded to a stop, stumbling, stubbing his toes on concrete and taking a swing at the first thing he saw, a telephone pole covered in fliers, and finally, finally, his fist connected.

Another right, and then he had to use that hand to steady himself, and swung hard, left, left, left, until the lightning-crack pain hit, rocketing up his hand to his shoulder and he was on his knees, trying to breathe.

When he could look again, Ray saw his hands, curled in his lap like dead things, bloodied and bruised and already starting to swell. He leaned back, dizzy, and the streetlight overhead glinted on something that might have been bone, and Ray shut his eyes.

It's over, he thought, wondering if he could stand up without passing out, if he could walk, wondering how he'd get back into the hotel and how he'd keep from being arrested as a vagrant when he got there. It's over for real this time, you're done and you lose, Stanley Raymond Kowalski, you stupid fucking queer.

Ben jumped when he heard it, and was at the door before he had time to try to work out what the dull thudding sound down the hall could be. He opened his door and leaned out, and his heart leaped to see Ray, and then his breath caught as he realized that Ray was kicking at Jeff's door, his hands cradled at his chest and his shoulders hunched. His head was bowed, the back of his neck looking pale and soft and defenseless under the fluorescent hallway light. He'd lost his socks somewhere. Ray was fifteen feet away, but Ben's stomach shook with his nearness.

The door opened, and Jeff said, "Ray? Jesus, what did you--" Jeff looked up immediately, straight at Ben, and his sleepy confused expression shifted into a glare. Ben remembered that dark parking lot, remembered promising Ray's friend that there wouldn't be a problem, remembered spitting the words slut and closet case in his fury. He quailed inside, and looked away from Jeff's gaze, but stayed where he was.

"S'nothing, Hack, it looks worse than it is." Ben winced, from the patently false words, from the dead toneless sound of Ray's voice. What on earth had happened to him out there? "I just wanted to sleep in your room."

Jeff's voice was soft, and kind, and soothing. Even Ben was a little calmed by it, though he knew it wasn't remotely for his benefit. "Yeah, Ray-Kay, course you can, just lemme see--"

"No! No. I just need some ice, I can sleep on the floor--"

Ben dared to look up then, at the panicky spark of life in Ray's voice, just in time to see Jeff drawing Ray inside with an arm around his shoulders. He shut the door behind them without looking up again, his attention wholly focused on Ray. When the door closed, Ben noticed the small dark smear of blood or dirt that Ray's foot had left on its surface, and had to put his head down, steadying himself with one hand on the doorframe.

When the dizziness passed, he turned back inside, set the chain on the door, and picked up Ray's shoes, placing them neatly side-by-side against the wall. He knew he wouldn't sleep, and cleaning the room he would no longer be sharing with Ray would kill a little time.

It didn't take long; no matter how carefully he folded and repacked Ray's clothes, zipping his bag again, straightening the chair with microscopic exactitude, he was left facing two rumpled beds within half an hour. Ben stood between them for a moment, deliberating, before he realized he couldn't bear to sleep on either. He peeled back the bedspread from his own bed, and extracted the sheet and thermal blanket. Leaving the pillow where it lay, shoved up against the headboard with the impression of Ray's head still visible, Ben made himself a thin pallet on the floor and lay down.

He stood up again after a moment and turned out the lamps, and the sudden furious pounding on the door startled him so badly he burned his fingers on a just-darkened lightbulb.

Ben was at the door in three running strides, fumbling the chain off and pulling it open even before the pounding had stopped. His hand was still on the knob as Jeff grabbed him by the chin and the shoulder, dragging him out into the brightness of the corridor. Jeff looked furious, his eyes steely, his hands hard, as he turned Ben's face this way and that, running a quick probing hand across Ben's chest and belly before he could pull away.

Ben stumbled back, across the threshold of his own room, when Jeff let go of him, and looked from the goalie to the door of his room, which stood slightly open.

"What the fuck happened, Fraser? If he didn't hit you, who did he?"

Ben shook his head, trying to catch his breath, heart hammering from the sudden assault that--wasn't, apparently. "I have no idea."

Jeff made an exasperated noise, and turned away, striding across the hall nearly at a run, looking over his shoulder to say, "Well, do you at least know where his goddamn shoes are?"

Ben turned and went back inside, picked up Ray's shoes from their place by the wall, and then hesitated. Quickly, he pulled on a shirt and his jeans, checked that he had his keycard, and then headed across the hall. Jeff's room was dark, but Ben could see the covers of the single large bed thrown back in the light from the open door to the bathroom. He could hear Jeff inside, speaking rapidly in a low voice, and then he reappeared, still looking furious, and went to the phone. "I have to call Coach," he said as he passed Ben, who stood still just inside the hotel room, shoes in hand.

Jeff turned his back as he dialed, and Ben summoned up his courage and went to the bathroom door.

The harsh light of the bathroom, dazzlingly magnified as it reflected off mirrors and white tiling, showed him Ray huddled on the floor beside the bathtub. His bare feet were dirty. His hands were thickly wrapped in white hotel towels, cradled between his chest and his updrawn thighs. A hand towel and a washcloth, both luridly bloodstained, were crumpled in the sink, under the running tap, and the ice bucket sat half-empty on the counter.

Ben stood in the doorway, unable to move closer, or risk drawing Ray's attention, or even to look at Ray in more than glimpses. His blond head was bowed, shoulders heaving up and down with carefully regular breaths, arms and towel-muffled hands shaking continuously in small shivers. His faded black t-shirt was soaked dark with sweat under his arms and all down his back. It wasn't until after Jeff had slammed down the phone and begun to pace that Ben managed to look at Ray's face, and saw his lips moving.

Ray woke up--sort of, woolly-brained and dry-mouthed, his arms and legs and chest and eyelids all too heavy for him to lift--with a pretty girl in a dark blue suit leaning over him. "Mr. Kowalski?"

He tried to smile, but smiling was difficult and strange, and her bright eyes faded, like he'd done it wrong. "Yh?"

"Mr. Kowalski, it's time to get off the plane, now." She tugged his blanket off him, and Ray shivered in the cool recycled plane-air, and looked down at himself. He was wearing a plain gray t-shirt and soft green-blue pants with some letters stenciled on the thigh. Scrubs, he realized after a moment. Hospital. His left hand was in an air cast with gauze underneath, his right heavily bandaged. There was a bandage around his left elbow, where the IV had been, and he flashed on a memory of sitting on a bed while a nurse worked on him, the moment of sudden dizzying relief of pain. Ray hoped he hadn't actually puked on Mort, but why should that have gone any better than anything else? He could still feel the leftovers of whatever they'd given him, slowing him down, cotton around his brain, his hands, keeping the pain away and making his stomach float sickly. He was buckled into his seat, but he wasn't sure he could work his fingers even if he could manage to lift them from his lap. Then there were pretty little manicured hands with dark blue cuffs and a gold watch, unbuckling him, and Ray thought he would usually have said something about that, felt something about that. Now he just closed his eyes and had a short, confusing dream about other hands, undoing his pants.

"Mr. Kowalski." Hand on his shoulder, small, soft, strange. Ray opened his eyes, and there was another stewardess there, beside the first one. "Come on, now, it's time to get off the plane."

Road trip, but he was the only one on this flight, no team, no Fraser sitting beside him and waking him up before final descent with a word in his ear. Nobody at all on the plane, but then who would want to ride with him, sent home in disgrace, straight from the hospital? Some strange hospital in some strange city, he couldn't even remember where. Road trips, first thing you forget is where you are. "What city?" he asked.

The stewardess didn't even blink, just said, "Chicago, Mr. Kowalski, you'll be home soon, come on now." They each took one of his arms and pulled him up, and Ray didn't have any trouble ducking, doubling over with dizziness and nausea, and had to lean his forehead against the next seat because he couldn't raise his throbbing hands. He could only feel pressure, so far, but the pain was on the horizon and moving in fast. He tried to remember if he still had T3 in the medicine cabinet from last time, or if it had gotten flushed in a move somewhere along the line.

Stella had probably tossed it when it expired, and Ray realized, suddenly, that she wasn't going to be waiting for him, at the airport or at home. She wasn't going to feed him ice cream and soup and pills till his hands healed, or take a sick day to watch daytime television with him and run her hands through his hair till he fell asleep on the couch. She wasn't going to sit beside him in the press box when he had to go to home games in a suit, or watch away games with him on TV and listen to him rant about the call-up filling in for him. She was gone, and he was going back to an empty apartment just as soon as these nice stewardesses got him off their plane. Ray closed his eyes and thought about that, and had another little dream, as he was walking, about Fraser standing by his bed, checking that he was okay and talking softly to him until he fell asleep, holding his hand.

When Ray came around again, Sandor was standing in front of him. He had Ray's duffle bag in one hand, and when the stewardesses let go of Ray's arms, Sandor grabbed his elbow. Ray blinked, and leaned on his supporting hand. "Sandor?"

Sandor smiled, looking nervous, and started pulling Ray along. "Hey, Ray. Heard you needed a ride."

Ray nodded, but didn't say anything. He focused on putting one foot in front of another, breathing in time to the throb in his hands. The way they swung at his sides seemed to make it worse, so he pulled them up to his chest and kept them still. It helped a little. They only throbbed with the beat of his heart, then, and the pulsing pressure was less.

Things got hazy for a while--Ray's eyes slid shut on acres of plastic seats and opened on a parking lot--and then Sandor was pushing him into the backseat of a car, buckling him in with his duffle bag on the seat beside him. Ray slouched in the seat so that his arms rested against his chest and closed his eyes even before Sandor got them on the road.

He was trying to think of how to tell Sandor to get to the drugstore, to ask him to pick up some pain pills--did he have prescriptions somewhere? He thought Mort had told him, but his brain was all slippery with exhaustion and drugs and nothing had stuck. His mind kept sliding away, street corners and sidewalks, Fraser in a suit through the back window of a cab. He could feel his heart beating in his hands, tried to squeeze it slower, and the half-curl of his fingers woke spikes of sharp sudden pain from his knuckles to his wrists.

Ray opened his eyes with a gasp, and then shut them tight again as his stomach turned. Sandor was saying something in the front seat, and Ray shook his head the half-inch he could manage, breathing deep and relaxing his fingers and holding as still as he could. The pain didn't go away, but it receded a little, or he got used to it. Either way, he hadn't screamed or puked by the time Sandor stopped the car.

The door opened and Ray breathed the cool outside air cautiously and then opened his eyes and nodded, and Sandor helped him out of the car and into the building. In the elevator, Ray leaned in the corner, shoulder and forehead against the walls. He was definitely awake now, and the feeling in his hands was definitely pain, and he was not going to cry in front of the security guy they'd sent to pick him up, and he was not going to puke in the elevator.

Sandor somehow knew where Ray's keys were in his duffle bag, because he pulled them out and unlocked the door, and Ray nearly ran into a wall before he realized that this wasn't that apartment--too many moves, too many homes, too much thinking involved in just getting to his goddamn bedroom. Sandor steered him right, got him to bed and let him curl up fetal around his hands, and then walked off. Ray waited for the sound of the door closing, but there was a zip, the sounds of cupboards and running water, and then Sandor was back, a squeeze bottle in one hand and the other cupped up carefully. "Here," he said, "It's Tylenol 3, with codeine, do you need to eat something with it?"

Ray felt a hot drop run down his cheek as he squeezed his eyes shut, and his whole face went hot with shame on top of the pain. "No," he managed, "um. Where'd you get that?"

"Your prescriptions are in your bag. Doc said there'd be a nurse coming around to help you with those and check your bandages. He said by the time you got home you could have more painkillers. You sure you don't hafta eat anything?"

"Yeah," Ray said, wanting to reach for the pill and the bottle except for the part where that would involve moving his hands. "Please, Sandor."

"Sorry! Right." Sandor awkwardly, nervously, stuck the pill in Ray's mouth, fingertips flinching from Ray's lips and tongue, and Ray wondered why they'd sent this poor bastard to deal with him. Fucking humiliating for all concerned. He opened his mouth for the stream of water from the bottle, swallowed and laid his head down on the pillow.

Sandor set down the bottle in easy reach--pointless, Ray thought, because he couldn't fucking bend his fingers, but also pointless to tell him that. "Thanks, Sandor," he muttered, and Sandor nodded, looking worried. Ray closed his eyes. He was a decent guy, not his fault somebody tagged him to go get the team's newest ex-member from the airport.

Sandor said something about having to leave, but all Ray heard was Coach saying You promised me, Kowalski--you promised me--you are in violation of your contract. "Sorry," he whispered, stupidly, too late, "I'm sorry," but Sandor was already gone, the lock clicking shut behind him. Ray kept his eyes closed, and waited for the drugs to do him some good.

Ben would have tried to tell himself that his teammates weren't all really staring at him, except that it would have been a patent falsehood. Jeff, for instance, was watching him with a nearly predatory intensity. The empty seat beside Ben was glaringly obvious, and the bus filled with the low buzz of gossip. Ben leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, wishing his exhaustion would overtake him.

He was beyond sleep now, though, and shutting his eyes only seemed to sharpen his hearing; over the sounds of the engine and the road and the shuffling of two dozen bodies, he caught stray words. Kowalski and hospital featured prominently, but even game and fight and the ubiquitous fuck sounded accusatory this morning. Denny's mutter of Mere de Dieu made him shiver, and Ben opened his eyes and kept them open the rest of the way to the airport.

Once there, Ben stood a little apart from the team. No one spoke to him, which was no more than he expected; six months ago, it wouldn't even have been unusual. He tried not to look at the others, but couldn't help noticing that Ray's linemates and several of the younger players had picked up Jeff's irritation and shot him sullen looks whenever they looked up from their low-voiced conversations.

Ben expected the seat beside him to remain empty when they boarded the plane, as it had on the bus; that seat had, however briefly, belonged to Ray by right as his roommate, and no one else seemed eager to usurp it. Just before takeoff, however, a body thumped into the space beside him. Ben went on staring out the window, trying to decide who he'd bet on it being, if he were a betting man and if there were anyone inside a mile who'd be interested in sharing a friendly wager with him. Chris interrupted this mental exercise by saying, "Fraser, hey."

Ben looked over at his captain, who was intent on buckling his seatbelt. "Chris," he said, as neutrally as he knew how. He couldn't quite manage good morning, so he turned his face back to the window, and watched the ground roll by and then drop away as they took off.

He watched the ground through the first banking turns of takeoff, and then was distracted by Chris's hand on his shoulder. When Ben looked over, Chris was still looking down, but he didn't drop his hand. Ben looked around, and found the rest of the team studiously not looking toward them. He sighed. "I don't know what happened," Ben said, softly.

Joanna the visiting nurse won Ray's eternal devotion with a carton of chocolate milk. Not one of those tiny things like you got at school, either; this was a whole pint in a cardboard carton, icy cold. She ripped it open and dropped a straw in, and Ray leaned over the table, his bandaged hands resting gingerly on its surface, and drank. His eyes slipped shut as he gulped down his drink, swallowing over and over till he finally had to stop to breathe. When he opened his eyes again, his stomach had stopped screaming, and he felt like he might not fall over if he tried to stand up. Joanna was standing across the table from him with her hands on his duffle bag, smiling. Ray licked his lips. "What? You said to drink it."

She smiled wider, and ducked her head, looking through the side pocket of his bag. "I did. I just didn't expect it to be a religious experience."

Ray lowered his head and went back to drinking his chocolate milk, and didn't say anything about how he hadn't eaten anything in a day or so, since before the game last night. She'd only fuss. He thought about asking her to marry him when she picked up a paper bag from the counter, and emptied more chocolate milk and some promising-looking styrofoam containers into his fridge. Will work for food, he thought, wondering if Joanna's hospital had a hockey team she'd like him to play on. No one was going to be paying him much more than that now, not after this.

Ray glanced down at his hands and let go of the straw, stealing a quick glance at the message light on his answering machine, which was flashing a little wildly. He'd heard the phone ring while he was sleeping, drifting in and out in a codeine daze, but he had no idea how many times. It didn't matter; he couldn't answer the phone if he couldn't work his fingers, and he didn't want to talk to anybody who might be calling enough to try. His agent, or maybe his lawyer, screaming about how he'd violated his contract, somebody from the team's front office wanting to notify him of his exact state of fired-ness, maybe even some fucking press, if word had gotten around that there might be a story in it. Ms. Vecchio would want to chat, maybe. Or maybe... maybe he wasn't a story at all.

Ray looked away from the phone, back down at his milk and his hands. The sharp bone-pain spiked and receded with his heartbeat, not quite bad enough yet to make him ask Joanna about the T3. He sucked on the straw some more, swallowing fast, until his stomach felt achy-full and the straw was slurping up the last chocolate drops. Ray straightened up as much as he could without moving his hands, shifting a little in his seat, his ass sliding in the soft loose scrub pants as he cocked his knees out, sliding one foot across the cool linoleum. Joanna was looking at the contents of a folder he'd never seen before, something Mort must have stuck in his bag, but she looked at Ray as he sat up. "You all set there, Mr. Kowalski?"

Ray shook his head. "Ray, it's just Ray."

"Well, Ray, why don't we go sit in the living room for the fun part?"

Ray winced. Going anywhere meant standing up, and walking, and moving his hands. "It wouldn't be better in here? With the sink and the linoleum and stuff?"

Joanna shook her head. "If you pass out while I'm working on your hands, I don't want you falling off your chair. Come on." She tucked the file under her arm, came around the table and bent to help him up. Ray carefully raised one arm to sling around her shoulders, noticing that her scrubs were bright blue and said NMH on the shoulder. He still couldn't remember where his were from. She slid one arm around his waist, pulling Ray up to his feet, levering him somehow because she was shorter than him but it wasn't awkward at all.

Ray leaned against her side, reaching his free arm out to the side for balance, and then his pants started to slide. He reached for them, his left hand almost getting down to his hip before a flare of pain reminded him. He hissed, and snatched his casted hand to his chest, and Joanna stopped, steadying him. "What--oh." Ray kept his eyes on the floor, and her hand moved across his line of sight, reaching over to pull his pants up, yanking the drawstrings tight. Then she tightened her arm around his waist, and went on dragging him into the living room.

Ray sank gratefully into the big leather armchair, leaning his head back as Joanna dropped his file on the coffee table and walked off. He opened his eyes when she came back, tugging the footstool up so she was sitting between his knees. She opened her medical kit and then looked at him, one eyebrow up. "Left or right first?"

"Left," Ray said, instantly. Get it over with, and if he did pass out, she could probably do the right before he woke up and he'd miss it completely.

She smiled like she'd known he would say that, and then Ray turned his head to the side, closing his eyes and holding his breath as she picked up his hand. She held his hand steady as she peeled back the velcro and eased the air cast away, and when she said, "Come on, breathe, you big baby," Ray let his breath hiss out between his teeth.

He swallowed, steadying himself against the pain--it wasn't so bad once you got used to it, like swimming in the Lake--and said, "So is there anything I should know in there?"

Joanna looked where he nodded, at the folder, and then back at him, before she started unwinding the gauze from his hand. "Anybody tell you what was in there when you were in a state to understand it?"

Ray remembered to breathe. In and out. "No," he said, "This is pretty much the first time I've been able to--ah--" she tossed the gauze down, and Ray snuck a look at his hand. The stitches stood out black against purple-bruised skin, and his hand was all puffy and wrong-looking. He shut his eyes and then forced himself to open them. "Uh. Form sentences. So no."

"Yeah, you keep practicing the sentence formation." She started running something cool and wet over his hand, and the tickle of it almost distracted him from the hurt. Made it harder to keep his fingers still, though. "Well, it's not as bad as it could be. You cracked your number three metacarpal, but it's not a complete fracture," she squeezed the tip of his middle finger, and Ray nodded, watching her face, only her face, "and you have bone contusions in both hands, but no other breaks." Her hands moved against his hand, and Ray's vision went all bright and sharp-edged. His stomach was doing weird things, clenching around that pint of chocolate milk, and his hand hurt so badly that the sensation kept whiting out into nothing.

Maybe he should have asked for the drugs beforehand after all.

He forced himself to breathe, keep breathing, and listen to Joanna, who was breathing without even thinking about it. Talking. To him. "Twenty-six stitches in your right hand, forty-three in the left." She paused, made a little satisfied noise, and started wrapping his hand again. Ray dared a glance down as the worst of the pain ebbed, and watched his hand disappear under clean white gauze. Familiar sight, unfamiliar hands. He had to look away, didn't let himself think about Mort never wrapping his hands for him again. "No displacement of the bones and no significant tendon damage, so no surgery required unless you manage to screw 'em up at some point in the future. You lucked out, Ray."

Ray nodded, catching his breath. Joanna was watching him carefully, and Ray looked away, up at the ceiling, until he'd pulled himself together enough to pick up his right hand and hold it out to her. "Yeah, lucky me."

Joanna tsked, but didn't ask him whose bright idea it had been to punch a telephone pole. She started peeling off the bandage on his right hand, and Ray tilted his head back and almost closed his eyes, watching through his eyelashes as she worked. She shifted position, leaning over his hand, and her knee pressed against the inside of his thigh. Ray would have moved away but he couldn't move while she held his hand, so he just kept breathing and watching. His right hand, blurred through his almost-closed eyes, didn't look as bad as his left, and the pain was nothing like it at all. No breaks, he remembered, no breaks in the right hand, Joanna had just told him. That was why it didn't hurt as bad. Ray swallowed hard and breathed, and thought that the chocolate milk was probably going to stay down after all.

She set Ray's hand back down on the arm of the chair when she finished, and Ray sighed and closed his eyes, finally letting himself relax, and then Joanna set her hand down on her knee, her fingertips against Ray's thigh. He opened his eyes again, to see her smiling at him, and was suddenly aware that he didn't have anything on under his precarious scrub pants and he hadn't even noticed that she had her knee up against his thigh, that she had shiny copper-colored hair--pulled back tight, professional, but still pretty--and big brown eyes and a knockout smile. His eyes flickered down to the v-neck of her scrub shirt, which showed a hint of cleavage, and then back up. Her smile had widened, her eyes sparkling. "Y'know," she said, "They warn us about you guys, when we do private duty--about athletes being grabby or flirty or whatever--but you've been a total gentleman, Ray. Thanks."

Ray blinked, and tried to remember to breathe. He hadn't even fucking noticed, never mind thinking to flirt. "Well," Ray said, lifting his hands a little, "I was just, y'know, playing it cool." What kind of a guy wouldn't notice a gorgeous nurse who came to his house and fed him chocolate milk?

The little voice in his head that sounded like Fraser could tell him exactly what kind of guy, but Ray was listening to Joanna today, just Joanna.

She winked. "I know, I know. You've got your bad boy rep to protect. It'll be our secret, I promise." She moved her hand off her knee, patted his leg, and stood up. "Now. How about some solid food?"

Ray was just opening his mouth to answer when the phone rang again, and he sank into his seat, pulling his legs up, his hands into his lap. "Do me a favor?" Joanna arched her eyebrows, and Ray looked down. "Unplug that thing? I can't answer it anyway."

She didn't say anything, but Ray watched her legs walking away from him--beautiful long legs that had been right between his a minute ago, although he was apparently too fucking gentlemanly to notice--and then the phone went silent in mid-ring.

It took Ben the better part of two days to screw up his courage.

Even then he might have concluded that discretion was the better part of valor, were it not for the looks Ren kept giving him. The rest of the team, following Chris's example, were civil, mostly pretending he didn't exist except when they were on the ice.

Ren, on the other hand, had been giving him the most horribly reproachful looks Ben had experienced since the last time he saw his grandmother. Every time Ren looked at him, Ben's guilt was refreshed. He only lasted a day before he felt driven to get in touch with Ray and make his apologies, however unwelcome they might be, though it took more time to find a moment of solitude and an appropriate phone.

Late that evening, after an unusually miserable meal with his team, Ben sat in his hotel room. He stared at the phone for a time, rehearsing possible courses the conversation could take. Ray was certain to be angry at him, but that could manifest in any number of ways. He might be openly furious, ready to carry on fighting over the phone, and Ben spent a moment bracing himself against that possibility. Then again, it had been Ray who ended their fight two nights ago; he'd walked away, after all. Whatever had happened afterward, Ray had had no further interest in arguing with Ben, and he might well have no more to say to him now than he had then.

In fact, Ray might simply decline to answer the phone. Even if he was for some reason amenable to speaking to Ben--not that answering the phone would necessarily indicate a willingness to discuss anything--Ray was doubtless in a great deal of pain and, if he were wise, taking very strong medication. He might already be asleep.

Perhaps that would be for the best. Ben could leave a message on Ray's answering machine, offer some preliminary apologies, make some overture, and then Ray could address the matter in his own time. Ben sat a while longer, trying to compose a message that expressed his contrition over everything that had happened. It was a great deal to cover; he'd jeopardized Ray's entire career, and put him in the way of harm. He could hardly even attempt to apologize for all that through a recorded message.

After several fruitless minutes, Ben realized that he was trying to imagine what Ray's answering machine message said, and how much time he might get to spend listening to Ray's voice. Any voice speaking to him, even if in anger or on a recording, would be welcome now.

Ben sighed. He'd been accustomed to this once; last season, he'd done just fine without friends on the team. He'd gone soft, exposed to the luxury of Ray's presence, and Ben wondered if he'd be able to readjust.

He'd have no choice, if he couldn't reconcile with Ray, and that prospect drew Ben's hand to the phone. He dialed quickly, the number long since memorized, and drew in a breath as the first ring sounded in his ear, readying himself.

At the fifth ring he exhaled, and at the ninth ring, he put his head down, cradling his forehead in his hand. He wondered, idly, if Ray were there, listening to the phone ring and refusing to answer, or if he were sleeping too deeply to hear, or if he'd gone somewhere. Images flashed through his mind--Ray insensible, Ray hurting and alone, Ray and an empty pill bottle--but they were unworthy, melodramatic and ridiculous. Ray was fine, or as fine as a man could be who'd been badly injured and separated from his team, his career in jeopardy. He simply wasn't answering his phone, likely for any of a number of very good reasons.

Most probably, he had nothing to say to Ben anyway.

Ben listened a little longer to the endless, useless ringing of the phone, and then he hung up. The sound went on echoing in his ears as he readied himself for bed, with nothing in his silent hotel room to drown it out. Ben laid still and tried to think of other things until sleep grudgingly claimed him.

Ray was lying on the couch, thinking about turning on the TV, when somebody started knocking on the door. He looked first, guiltily, toward the phone, and then to the door. Somebody had given up on calling and actually come to see him. Legal papers, maybe. Termination of contract, or notice of suit being filed.

The knocking stopped, and Ray kept still, holding his breath, but then it started up again.

Weird. They weren't pounding, like Ray would expect--the courier who'd brought the divorce papers had hammered away like he was going to kick the door down if Ray didn't answer--but they also probably weren't going to just give up and go away. They'd come all the way here, after all.

Ray took a breath, and lifted the remote off his stomach with his fingertips, dropping it on the couch as he stood up.

He was uncomfortably aware of his grubbiness as he walked toward the door. Joanna had helped him out some with getting washed up, so he didn't really stink, and he was even wearing clean sweats and a fresh tank, but he hadn't shaved or showered in a couple of days and his hair was all over the place. Then again, what better way to start his life of unemployment?

Ray held his hands against his chest and leaned one shoulder against the door to peer through the spyhole. It took him a minute to process what he was seeing, and then he sagged against the door, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Once he'd convinced himself that, really, he couldn't brush his hair even if he had time to do it, he straightened up, fumbled the lock off, only wincing a little, and opened the door.

"Ma," he said, and that was as far as he got, because she wasn't just smiling, she was beaming, opening her arms.

"Stanley, oh Stanley! My poor dear!" Ray dropped his hands, would've put them behind his back, but his mom's hands caught his wrists. She was gentle, careful; she'd nursed him through all the bruises of his first twelve years of hockey, back when he couldn't even see where he was going half the time. She knew how it was. He should've been able to pull away, but the minute his mom touched him, he was all of five years old again. He held his hands out for her to look at, and as soon as he did she shook her head and looked away, moving to hug him. Ray hugged her back the best he could, his cheek against her hair, struggling to hear what she was saying to him through the overwhelming sense that his mom was here, and everything was going to be fine now.

Ben sat on the floor with his back to the couch, his head tipped back against the cushions, his legs stretched out on Mark's soft, expensive carpet. The couch was leather, and felt wonderful against his cheek. Ben rubbed his face back and forth against it until something cold and hard touched his forehead, and then he opened his eyes.

Mark was standing over him, holding a beer in each hand, one dangling at his side, the other pressed to Ben's face. Ben reached up to that bottle, wrapping his hand as much around Mark's fingers as the cold glass.

Mark smiled and shook his head, letting go as Ben drew the bottle down to his mouth. "Feeling better now, Bent?"

Ben closed his eyes to concentrate on swallowing, and then opened them again, surveying the empty beer bottles, scattered on the floor near his feet like ninepins, though he didn't think there were quite nine of them. Post-game dehydration made this much quicker and easier than it might otherwise be. "Yes," he said, rubbing slow circles over the alcohol-burn in his belly, "Yes, Mark. Much better, thank you kindly."

Mark snorted, and sat down on the floor beside Ben's feet, his feet tucked against Ben's hip, their knees overlapping. Mark sipped his beer, and Ben took another long drink. Mark was looking at him in a way that made Ben want to squirm. He did shift in place, but it only made the stiff denim of his jeans rub against his thighs, sliding the cotton of his boxers across his groin. The slight friction made his skin hum, and he wanted to move more, feel more, but Mark was watching him. Ben went still.

Mark took another sip of his beer, never taking his eyes off Ben, and said, "So you wanna tell me what happened?"

The words welled up--all the words, so many words, after days of silence in the midst of his team, all those silent accusations unanswered--but Ben swallowed them back, sour and sharp, and washed them down with icy beer. No right. It wasn't his secret alone, and he really didn't know what had happened, entirely.

Mark's knee shoved against his, and Mark leaned closer, his arm crossing Ben's body and settling on his hip. "Come on, now, Bent. Jesus, the last time I saw you like this, your wife was dead."

Ben's heart thudded--secrets and secrets, and he might just say anything tonight if it would keep Mark talking to him, but he daren't, not while he was still able to resist. He cleared his throat and said, "She still is, actually."

Mark winced, drawing his hand back, but went on undeterred. "Yeah, and has been for years and you don't get like this about her, not for a long time. And don't say you're missing Dief, either, because that's the same all over."

It wasn't, anymore; missing Dief was a fresh, sharp pain again, after those days of reprieve. The things he shouldn't tell Mark kept piling up, and Ben tipped the bottle to his lips to find it empty. "My father," he said, a guilty rush jolting through him at the lie that ought to have been true, "A whole summer gone and I couldn't find out anything--"

"That the Mounties also couldn't find out. Ben, they're pros, your Dad was a pro. If there was anything to find they'd've found it, for one of their own. It's time to admit it was an accident, buddy boy. Time to let it go."

Ben looked away, rolling the empty bottle between his thigh and his palm. He'd tried before to explain it, to Mark, to anyone who was willing to pretend to care, and he'd concluded by now that people who didn't understand instinctively just weren't going to. It was his father. His father had been killed, had gone down into the ground with no justice, and if Ben had only been different he might have done something about it.

"Ah, fuck," Mark muttered, and dropped his empty bottle with a clink among the others, "Made it worse."

Ben shook his head, but couldn't look up, his eyes burning like his stomach; it was the beer, that was all. Mark moved before and above Ben, planting a knee between his thighs, hooking his fingers through the belt loops of Ben's jeans.

Ben dropped his beer bottle, and managed to coordinate his arms sufficiently to take some of his weight as Mark hauled him up by the jeans. His hands skidded up the front of the couch, and then Ben was sprawled on the soft cushions, with Mark kneeling between his thighs.

The look on Mark's face made Ben catch his breath, and mingled with the anticipation was relief--no need for words, no need to do anything further. Mark knew what Ben had come here for, more than just a friendly post-game drink with his friend on the opposing team. Then Mark was lunging up from his knees, one hand between Ben's legs, cupping him as he hardened. Ben pressed up against Mark's palm even as Mark's other hand caught his jaw, fingers against his cheek, the heel of his hand pressing against Ben's throat, and Mark was kissing him.

His mouth drove hard against Ben's, bruising his lips with the fierce press of teeth, and Ben opened to the assault, Mark's tongue thrusting roughly into his mouth. Ben moaned, licking eagerly at Mark's lips, tongue, teeth. Mark's hand moved over his erection just roughly enough, and Ben tightened his legs against the couch and pushed up into the ungentle caresses. He was aware, dimly, of his arms lying at his sides, leather under his fingers when he could be touching Mark. He raised his left hand to Mark's arm, but the instant he touched skin, Mark pulled away, breaking the kiss as abruptly as it had begun. He stood up, catching Ben's wrist and hauling him to his feet.

Mark kicked aside a beer bottle and then headed for the bedroom, towing Ben along as though he might get lost if Mark let go. Ben's head spun with the beer and the sudden movement, blood throbbing heavy in his groin, his mouth tingling and aching and eager for more.

Mark's bedroom was the usual sort of chaos--socks scattered on the floor, drawers and closet doors open, the bed a wreckage of sheets and pillows, the duvet crumpled on the floor at its foot--and Ben only had an instant to take it in before Mark was shoving him onto the bed. Ben hit the mattress and bounced, boneless and dizzy, and then Mark was on the bed with him, kneeling between his legs and unfastening his pants. Ben lay still, arms flung wide, and waited for the ceiling to steady as Mark dragged his jeans and boxers off him, the fabric leaving a little burn in its wake as it was yanked down. Mark's hands slid up Ben's ribs, pushing his shirt, and Ben moved his arms up when Mark's fingertips prodded at his armpits.

Mark's hands on him felt good--his skin felt awake and alive, tingling, hungry, blood humming just below the surface. When Mark's hands withdrew from him, Ben could feel the air moving on his skin, and traced the patterns with his own hands, across his chest--hard nipples, muscular ripple of ribs, belly expanding with his breath--and lower, over the hard jut of hipbones and the curly tangle of hair between. He shifted his hips, slowly, feeling the blood throb in his cock, the weight of his balls shifting between his legs when he moved. He was tempted to touch there, too, but it was much too soon yet. Ben wanted this to go on and on.

Above him, Mark rumbled a laugh, and Ben opened his eyes as Mark climbed onto the bed. Mark was naked, too, his cock standing hard and ready. Ben traced the familiar body with his eyes, and then his hands. It had been a long time since he'd seen Mark this way, or touched him, and his hands itched with eagerness. One palm flattened against the heat of Mark's skin, damp with sweat, muscle and bone hard and mobile under Ben's touch, and the other reached lower. Mark grinned, and caught both of Ben's wrists, forcing them down to the bed, and murmured, "Uh-uh, Bent."

Ben struggled under Mark's grip, half out of frustrated desire to touch, half because he knew the game. He got one hand free fairly quickly, and succeeded in unbalancing Mark enough that Mark collapsed heavily on top of him. Ben lost his breath and his tactical advantage all at once, and Mark quickly pushed up again--Ben was conscious of the feeling of Mark's cock pressing against his hip just in time for it to be withdrawn as Mark moved away. Mark pinned his hands and Ben went on struggling, writhing under Mark, shoulders and hips arching off the bed, his legs fighting for purchase. Mark held him down, pushing him into the mattress, until he became impatient with Ben, and then he released one of Ben's hands. Before Ben could relax, Mark took tight hold of his cock.

He squeezed, just once, hard enough to make Ben's breath stop. Ben went perfectly still, panting open-mouthed, pleasure-pain making his toes curl. His hips pushed up minutely, of their own accord, and Mark's hand tightened just a fraction in response. He raised an eyebrow. "My belt's just on the floor there, Bent," he murmured, his voice husky and dark and utterly sincere. "If you can't be still..."

Ben closed his eyes, remembering the bite of leather cinched tight on his wrists, when he hadn't been able to keep still, hadn't been able to resist fighting this, fighting Mark and himself and the goodness of it. He couldn't recognize good from bad, then, but this had always been good. Mark's hand was still on his cock and Ben wanted, desperately, to push up into that grip, but he knew now to trust Mark. He opened his eyes, staring into Mark's, and deliberately relaxed, loosening his muscles, letting himself sink into the mattress. Mark nodded, satisfied, and with a last burning-bruising twist of his grip on Ben's wrist, and one quick hard stroke of Ben's cock, Mark let go, lowering himself to kiss.

He wasn't so rough, now; he'd already won. Ben opened his mouth and tilted his head back, and Mark kissed him, teeth grazing Ben's lower lip, his tongue thrusting into Ben's mouth, exploring, tasting. Mark held himself above Ben, only their mouths touching, but Ben could feel the heat in the air between them, and shifted in tiny movements as he licked at Mark's tongue, welcoming.

Mark broke the kiss and pulled away, and Ben shivered as cooler air touched him. Mark set one hand on Ben's ribs and the other on his hip, and flipped him, in one forceful motion, onto his stomach. Ben felt the mattress move beneath him as Mark crawled across it, but he was distracted by the suddenly available friction, grinding his hips irresistibly against the warm soft cotton of the sheets, his face buried in the sleep-scent of Mark and laundry detergent. Ben felt a small moan of satisfaction vibrate its way out of his throat as he thrust against the firmness of the mattress, and then Mark's hand came down against Ben's ass with a sharp crack, pain flaring bright.

Mark's hand didn't lift away after the slap, his thumb moving gently across Ben's skin as the sharp sting eased into a low burn. Ben, frozen still, made a small sound, and Mark seemed to know what he meant, sliding his hand down onto Ben's hipbone. "Up," he said, and Ben pulled his knees and arms under himself, pushing away from the tempting pressure of the mattress against his cock. Mark's hand on his hip guided him up until only air touched him. Mark's knees, between his, pushed Ben to spread his legs, and air touched him there, too, one heavy eager heartbeat ahead of Mark's slick fingers.

Ben remembered to breathe, and to relax, in the moment while Mark's fingertips stroked his cleft, pressing lightly at his opening, circling against it. Then he pushed in, and Ben dropped his head, panting, forcing himself not to push back against the stretch and burn and touch of two fingers inside him. Mark's fingers moved quickly, purposefully. Ben gasped when they pulled out, and was ready when they pressed in again, bearing more lubricant.

The second time Mark's fingers withdrew, they were quickly replaced by the blunt hard heat of his cock, thrusting irresistibly inside as Ben gasped in one long breath. When Mark was buried inside him--hot and mercilessly hard, stretching and taking and waking feelings Ben hadn't felt in too long, shivers of pleasure rushing through him, tightening his balls--Ben exhaled, dizzy with sensation and hyperventilation. He shuddered with the effort not to move, and then Mark was moving, short hard thrusts that were not--quite--exactly what Ben needed, though he could hear Mark's breath coming short and ragged with pleasure.

Ben's cock throbbed, eager and neglected, tormented by the pleasure of Mark inside him. With an animal whine--desperate, heedless--Ben thrust back against Mark, canting his hips to meet him, so that the angle was exactly right, pleasure bursting through him in a sudden rush. Ben bit down on his lip, and Mark thrust again, and again, and again, until finally Ben had to open his mouth to breathe. Mark's teeth closed on the skin just beside his shoulder blade, and Ben came, gasping.

He managed, somehow, not to collapse, and Mark kept moving in him, the pleasure now almost too intense to bear as his thrusts turned erratic and wild, sensations edging nearly into pain again before he finished, lifting his mouth from Ben's skin to breathe harshly through his climax. Mark pulled out quickly when he was done, and moved away to deal with the condom, and Ben lowered himself to the bed on his side. The friction he'd craved moments ago would be too much now that it was freely available, and Ben smiled in vague appreciation of the irony as he touched one finger to the cooling wet splatters of semen on Mark's rumpled sheets.

Mark returned and laid down behind him, rubbing at the stinging spot on the back of Ben's shoulder and then running one hand down his side. "There, Bent. Now you feel better?"

Ben nodded slowly. No danger, now, that he'd say anything at all; he was too near sleep already, his skin-hunger thoroughly sated. In between one unfocused blink and the next, a compact white shape appeared in the corner of the room, and under Ben's scrutiny Dief got to his feet and tentatively wagged his tail. Ben smiled. "Much better, thank you."

"Good," Mark said, in Ben's ear, "Because it's time for me to drive you back to your hotel, so you don't miss your bus in the morning."

Ben shook his head. "Cab," he murmured. At least as many of the empties on the floor were Mark's as his, and he knew Mark would be feeling a lassitude to rival his own now, however his voice disguised it.

Mark pulled Ben up into a sitting position, and ruffled his hair when he winced. "I'll give you a pillow to sit on," he said. As he stood and went to the phone Dief trotted up to Ben, and set his head on Ben's knee.

Ben stroked his thumb discreetly along Dief's muzzle and said, "You shouldn't spoil me so."

It was weird, sitting in the passenger seat of the Goat, but Ray didn't really care. He was out of the apartment for the first time since Sandor had brought him home, even if it was just to go to a doctor's appointment. Mort had said he could start working out at United, with the other scratches left behind from the road trip, if the doctor okayed it.

Ray was feeling good, feeling great. His hands were still hurting, but not quite as bad. He'd stopped taking the T3--Joanna had given him a look when he asked not to, and made him take regular Tylenol instead, and Ray rolled his eyes and did, just to humor her--so he didn't feel all woolly and stupid now. The swelling had gone down, after four days of anti-inflammatories, so Ray could bend his fingers, if he was careful about it. He wasn't ready to put gloves on, let alone hold a stick, but he was healing, and that was enough for now.

Healing, and riding in the car with his dad. Ray glanced sideways, and caught his dad grinning as he wove through downtown traffic. He tried not to laugh, but his dad looked over at him and snorted.

Ray sat back in his seat and went back to looking at the street, still smiling. "What?"

His dad shook his head, and then jerked a nod over his shoulder, to where François was sitting up in the backseat on a well-chewed old Nordiques practice jersey, looking around wildly. "I never knew anybody who took after his dog so much, son."

Ray shook his head. "He takes after me, dad. I musta got it from somewhere else."

Ray'd dad just snorted again. "Somebody on your mother's side, maybe," he said, but Ray knew exactly where he got this crazed delight in the road and the city, because he could see it on his dad's face, behind the wheel of this car again after so long. The last time his dad had driven the Goat, Ray had been seventeen, still keeping quiet about his plans to take up Montreal's offer of a place on the team that fall.

Ray sat back in his seat, staring out the window. François whined softly, not really upset, but it was loud in the silence, rising above the hum of the Goat running perfectly. Ray twisted in his seat, cradling his left hand against his belly, and reached back with his right. François licked at his fingertips, and Ray shushed him. François laid down, curled up small, and Ray flipped a fold of the jersey over his nose before settling back into his own seat.

His dad looked over at him and cleared his throat. "Y'know, Raymond, you can tell me what happened to your hands. You didn't do that falling down. It was some kind of a fight, right?"

Ray felt his heart start to pound, his face flushing. He'd been better at lying to his parents, once, a lot better. His dad hadn't known he was going to Montreal till his bags were packed. He remembered the screaming, the crazy stupid terrifying rush of the moment when he realized he might have to choose between his dad and hockey, realized he might never see his dad again.

He thought about telling the truth, or a piece of it--I had sex with this guy and then I took a swing at him after, or maybe Being called a slut always makes me want to hit things, or just, I'm a queer hockey player, dad, these things happen. Ray could feel it just like before, the threat, the promise--he might never see his dad again. He sighed, and said, "Yeah, I got in a fight. Off-ice, total rookie move. I'm in the doghouse with my coach."

His dad smiled, shaking his head but proud, his macho jock son getting into brawls. Ray smiled back, shaky inside, and his dad reached out and squeezed his shoulder and left his hand there, warm and solid. Ray had to swallow hard against the gratitude that choked him. He could tell this one lie, he could pretend he was normal. He could keep his dad. "There's no need to lie to us, y'know, Raymond. Your mother and I are fully functioning adults. We can handle the truth."

Ray barked a laugh, uncontrollable, almost hysterical, and he had to say something, anything, as long as it was the truth. "Dad? You know that antique lamp that I said the cat broke, that was me."

His dad laughed, and patted his back. "Yeah, I know, son."

Ben returned to his room for a nap following morning skate and lunch. Fatigue always told on a team over the course of a road trip, so the rest would do him good.

It was fatigue that dogged road teams. Fatigue, and the inevitable interpersonal stress of travel. A team that wasn't getting along at home would only continue to splinter on the road.

Ben laid down on his bed in his empty hotel room, not looking at the second bed, perfect and undisturbed because Ben had no roommate. Staring at the ceiling he sighed, and admitted it to himself: he wasn't tired. He was making a virtue of necessity.

The truth was, none of his teammates had seemed prepared to even tolerate his presence past lunch.

Ben dragged his arm over his eyes. "Self pity is a luxury you can ill afford," he said, as though hearing the words spoken would shake him from his foolish habit of thought. When the echo of his voice faded from the room, he was still the same. Ben sighed, and tried to think of something soothing. Ice fields, cold wind, and the thundering of caribou...

His mind's eye persisted in showing him only the blankness of another hotel ceiling. He was nearly thirty-five years old; he'd been playing hockey on the road for twenty years now. It was a simple mathematical fact: he'd seen more hotel ceilings than ice fields.

Ben shook himself and resolved to count sheep, if he couldn't do better. He'd counted to one hundred thirty-nine when he was startled into opening his eyes by an energetic bounce on the bed beside him. Diefenbaker stood over him, lowering his nose to nudge Ben into a sitting position.

He smiled as he sat up, but tried to mask his relief in exasperation. "I suppose you have some idea of how I might more profitably spend my time?"

Dief, showing his usual fine disregard for sarcasm, gave a soundless bark and wagged his tail. Ben spread his hands in a Well? gesture, and Dief stepped behind him, across the pillows, to nose at the phone on the night stand.

Ben swung his legs down so that he was sitting beside Dief, looking at the phone. Dief touched his nose to the printed placard which explained how to place international calls, and barked again, oddly expressive despite his silence.

Ben sighed. "No. I'm not going to call Ray. I very much doubt he'd welcome my intrusion on his time."

Diefenbaker made his opinion of that assessment quite clear, but Ben shook his head, resolute. Ray would doubtless still be angry with him, and no phone conversation would set things to rights. It would be better just to wait, and sort things out face to face. Dief lay down across the pillows with a visibly gusty exhalation, disdain in every line of his body.

Ben frowned. "I am not being a coward. I'm certainly not the one who retreated into the next world for several days after Ray shouted at me." Not that he mightn't have been tempted, if he had the chance.

For a moment, he thought Dief would call him on that point, but the wolf displayed one of his odd flashes of diplomacy and changed the subject, tilting his nose toward the phone again. Ben shook his head. "I'm not going to call Mark either. Honestly, I don't even know what city he's in."

Dief somehow managed to give the impression that he was rolling his eyes without actually looking at Ben. "You can think what you like, Diefenbaker, but the fact is that you still haven't offered a more productive alternative to taking a nap."

Dief merely yawned, and shifted to more effectively take up an improbably large fraction of the bed.

Ben sighed, and reached for the phone. "Well, if you're so determined that I should talk to someone, there is a phone call I ought to make. I've put it off much too long already."

This, at last, drew a sharp reaction from Dief; he sat up abruptly, hackles raised. Ben hesitated a moment, then picked the phone up, pulling it into his lap. He was the human, here. Dief was only a wolf, and a ghost wolf at that. "He was a good friend of my father's, Diefenbaker, and he's overseeing the investigation. Really, I ought to have called him weeks ago to check up. Thank you for reminding me."

Dief shook himself all over, which seemed to be the lupine equivalent of washing his hands of Ben, and jumped off the bed, settling himself in the furthest corner of the room and curling up so that only his eyes showed over the tightly-tucked plume of his tail. He stared balefully at Ben, who soon dropped his eyes to the phone in his lap.

A Mountie named Gerard, someone he vaguely recalled his father mentioning during one or another story about work, had called Ben, one year, two months, four days ago, to tell him his father was dead. Gerard's words, crackling with static, had thrust Ben into a nightmare, the impossible loss studded with mundane miseries. His father--his father, Sergeant Robert Fraser--was dead. Ben had flown two thousand miles in miserable conditions only to spend two days in the oppressive company of an enormous congregation of Mounties, complete with their red coats and rifle salutes. He had but rarely seen his father in a red coat while he lived, and--thankfully--even more rarely with a gun in his hands. By the time Gerard approached him and pressed a card into his hand, printed with his contact numbers, Ben had been numb with exhaustion piled upon shock. He had accepted the card, and Gerard's assurances of a swift and thorough investigation, unquestioningly.

A few days later, when he felt able, Ben had called Gerard for news of the investigation.

Gerard hadn't had much to tell him that day, but Ben had called back, and called back again. Gerard never had much to tell him, counseling patience, citing complex procedures that sounded reasonable while Ben was speaking to him, but seemed, when reconsidered in the dark watches of the night, nothing more than obfuscations. Eventually he began calling other Mounties, bracing himself to meet with them, wheedling papers and files and information, trying desperately to do something right for his father. The season had gotten off to its late start, and despite warnings from his coaches and team management, he'd kept up his efforts. When the unthinkable happened, and he was traded away--traded out of Canada--he'd still clung to this one familiar pursuit. He'd persisted in calling, reminding those involved in the case that his father was not forgotten, refusing to accept their weak excuse of an accident in hunting season.

He'd had a familiarly futile conversation with Gerard on the anniversary of his father's death, the sixteenth of August. Ten days later, Chris's call had drawn Ben down to Chicago to attend another funeral. Thousands of miles of hastily-planned travel, once again, but he'd been surrounded by his own colleagues rather than his father's at the end of it, and instead of a rifle salute there had been... Ray Kowalski.

No less a shock to the system, certainly. But that was a month and a half ago now, and in all the time since, Ben had permitted Ray and hockey to consume his thoughts, all his attention. He'd gone straight back to playing a game as if it mattered, while his father, a hero, remained unavenged.

Ben took a breath, shifting his sweating hands on the smooth plastic of the phone. He looked up toward the corner where Dief was sitting, and Dief uncoiled abruptly and got to his feet. Ben raised an eyebrow, and Dief took a longing look toward the door, edging in that direction. "Honestly, Diefenbaker, I don't understand your objections to my making a simple phone call."

Dief elucidated with a volley of barks, tail whipping madly, his whole body communicating his anxiety and frustration. Ben could hardly pretend to misunderstand him; he made his opinion of Gerard, and Ben's efforts, quite clear, and Ben finally shut his eyes so that he wouldn't have to listen anymore. Even then, he could feel Dief's arguments hammering at his eyelids.

It was hardly fair; Dief, of all people, ought to understand why no objection could deter him from his course, ought to support him in this. Dief was his friend, his ally. "Diefenbaker!" he finally snapped, opening his eyes. Dief stopped, mouth hanging open, and Ben went on, "When it was you--"

Dief's stillness hardened and sharpened, mouth snapping shut, and Ben froze himself, choking on his words and going silent. That was something he didn't ever mention, could barely acknowledge in the privacy of his own mind, let alone aloud, even in a room he shared only with a ghostly and soundless wolf. "Dief," he said, his voice strangled and low, but Dief shook himself and laid down again, facing away, as if to say he didn't care what Ben said or did.

All out of reasons to delay, Ben cleared his throat and picked up the phone. Gerard's card was in his wallet, where it had stayed since it had been given to him, but Ben had long since memorized the number. Here in Calgary, he wasn't even dialing across the border.

After two rings, a brisk voice said, "Chief Superintendent Gerard's office, Constable Corbin speaking."

Ben took a deep breath. "Good afternoon, Constable. This is Benton Fraser. I'd like to speak to the Superintendent regarding a case."

"Ah," said the Constable. He cleared his throat, and then his voice turned even more professional, nearly mechanical. "Yes, Superintendent Gerard indicated you might be calling. There has been no change in the status of the investigation of Sergeant Fraser's death. If there is any change, you will of course be duly informed."

"Thank you kindly, Constable Corbin. I'd like to speak to Superintendent Gerard, now." It was automatic. He'd been pushing his way through to Gerard for the last year, and he could do it quite effectively, all the while remaining perfectly polite, betraying nothing of what he felt.

Corbin seemed to be on automatic as well. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Fraser, that's not possible at this moment. But as I've said, Superintendent Gerard has made provision for your inquiries to be handled promptly by the most readily available officer, and as I have explained, there has been no change in the status of the case."

Ben opened his mouth to continue the familiar argument, then sighed. "Look, Constable," he said, tiredly, thinking that he might just take that nap after all when he was finished with this. "You work in the Superintendent's office. You answer the phones. You must have some idea what the status of the case is."

Corbin was silent for a moment, perhaps thrown by Ben's change in tactics, then said, "Mr. Fraser, I'm not at liberty to discuss such matters with a civilian."

Ben squeezed his eyes shut tight, gritting his teeth, refusing to register the feeling like a blow to the gut that those mere words had given him. "You must know," he repeated doggedly. "You must see reports come in, you must know who's working on the case, because Gerard can't possibly be investigating personally--you're the front line, Constable, you must--"

But the young Constable said nothing, and it sounded, suddenly, like the silence of a man with not one word to say.

"Oh," Ben said. "Oh, I see. You don't see the reports, and you don't know who's working on the case, because there are no reports. No one is doing a--damned--thing, and none of you even has the decency to tell me so."

"Mr. Fraser--"

"Tell Gerard I think he owes it to me to tell me exactly what's going on here," Ben said, too tired of it all to be truly angry, "Tell him he owes my father's son the truth."

Corbin was still spluttering as Ben hung up, and when he looked up for Dief, the wolf was sitting by his feet. He opened his mouth to apologize for his outburst, but Dief took one of Ben's hands gently between his teeth and tugged.

Ben blinked, and then smiled. "I suppose you're right," he said softly. "I'm not an Oiler anymore, am I? I'm a Blackhawk. I can go out alone if I like." For all his adult life--ever since he'd been drafted by the Edmonton Oilers from the University of Alberta-Calgary, and then spent his latter two years of university keeping as quiet as he possibly could about which NHL team he'd be playing for when he finished--the Calgary-Edmonton rivalry had ruled him. As an Oiler, he'd always been leery of venturing into the streets of Calgary without a pack of teammates, but he wasn't an Oiler anymore, and no one in Calgary particularly cared about the members of a struggling American team. For the first time in sixteen years, he was free in Calgary. It was a strange feeling, something like the first time his mother had let go of his hand on the ice and sent him wobbling off on his own two skates. As he remembered, he'd fallen a lot that day.

Dief dropped Ben's hand and barked, and Ben smiled wider. "Yes, of course, I misspoke. I won't be alone at all."

Mort sighed. "This, I do not like, Raymond."

Ray sighed right back. He didn't like it either. There were four small spots on his left hand, in among the bumps of his knuckles and the railroad tracks of stitches and fresh new scars, where the skin hadn't knit. It wasn't surprising--there hadn't really been enough skin left to put back together by the time he was done with that telephone pole--but it sucked. He'd gotten used to the sight of those four spots, each one like a jagged little crater with red jelly donut filling inside, but he didn't like the thought of what they'd do the first time he put gloves on.

Still, he'd always had bad hands. "So, whaddya think?"

Mort looked at Ray, and then back down at Ray's hands, and then at the row of x-ray films he had spread out on the desk. Nine days, and the bone contusions had faded some. The crack in his knucklebone was still visible in the picture, but Ray thought that was showing improvement, too; in today's x-ray it looked shorter and thinner, and it couldn't be just wishful thinking. It hurt less, lately, and he'd been drinking enough milk to grow a whole new set of arm bones.

Mort looked away from the films, back to Ray, and said, "Can you make a fist?"

Ray took a deep breath. He'd been practicing this. His right hand balled up easily, though Ray went slowly to be careful of the stitches and scars, and Mort nodded his approval. His left hand was slower, and finally he reached out and gripped two of Mort's fingers and squeezed the best he could, gritting his teeth. "I can do that. I can hold a stick. No more fists for me anyway, right?"

Mort looked skeptical. "The stitches will come out tomorrow, Raymond. Tomorrow you may begin skating in full equipment, and we'll see about your participation in practices." Ray grinned, the pain in his left hand already fading. He had to flatten his hands on the table again to keep himself from grabbing Mort and kissing him. Mort laughed, shaking his head. "That is all I can say, you know. The rest is up to Coach."

"I know," Ray said, "That's all I need. Once I'm on the ice again--" Things were gonna be fine, just fine. He didn't know how, but he'd gotten one more chance, and he was going to do it right this time. Really right.

Mort just smiled, and bandaged up Ray's hands for him again. When he was done, Ray headed over to the locker room.

It was empty, for now. The rest of the team was out on the ice for their first practice after the road trip. Ray had shown up too late to see anybody beforehand, too jittery at the thought of seeing them again to get himself moving properly that morning. He'd slept like crap and then snoozed through his alarm, cut himself shaving, spilled his coffee, answered the phone instead of letting the machine get it, and then been stuck talking to his mom for five minutes and François for ten. So the day hadn't gotten off to a great start, but then...

He grinned into his locker, which he didn't have to clean out after all. He'd taped up a picture of François on one side the day before. Ray had had to practically sit on the dog to get him to hold still for the camera, but the way his arms were wrapped around François mostly hid his hands in the picture.

He was still looking into his locker when he heard the sounds of guys coming down the tunnel. His heart started pounding fast, and he swallowed hard, working his hands open and closed. The little jolts of pain from his left hand gave him something else to think about, and then Hack yelled, "Ray-Kay! Fuck, there you are! We thought you were lost and gone forever!" and Ray was turning around, grinning.

The whole fucking team was streaming in, crowding around him in full gear, everyone talking at once, though they left him a little breathing space, knowing well enough not to jostle the injured guy. Still, Hue reached across to mess his hair, and Ray shook away, laughing. "Yeah, yeah, I know my phone was unplugged for a couple days, Jesus! Did you all try to call me?"

A few of the guys looked around at each other--Eddie and Daz and JR all pointed to Hack behind his back--and everybody laughed, and Ray grinned. He'd finally sucked it up and listened to his messages, yesterday, and three of them had been from Hack. He'd had one from Hue, and one from Deuce, and one from Deuce's wife wanting to know if he had food. He'd even had one from Bully, for God's sake.

Hack shoved gently at Ray's shoulder, and Ray had a sudden memory of Hack's hand under his arm, bracing him up to his feet, Mort standing close on his other side. Hack knew where it was okay to smack him, because he'd been there. "What, and it would have killed you to let somebody know you were alive?"

Ray grinned, and spread his hands as he shrugged. Hack was a hell of a friend, saw him like that, all fucked up on his bathroom floor, and was right back to teasing him a week later, just like old times, just like nothing had ever happened. Like nothing had changed. "Well," he said, "I woulda called you guys back, but the thing is, they sent me this nurse, and she was--" Ray's hands waved in the air, which was all the description the guys needed. It was a shitty thing to do to Joanna, but he thought she'd understand--it was their secret, after all, that he was such a gentleman.

All the guys roared with laughter, and started up with the jokes, but Ray peeked over their shoulders, across the room, even as he laughed and answered back just like he should. There was one guy missing from the crowd, one guy who hadn't left a message.

Fraser was sitting at his locker, taking off his skates. And it wasn't just that he was sitting over there by himself--none of the guys, not even Bully, looked over at him or called out to him. Ray felt his grin turn plastic, but kept right on bullshitting with the guys as they peeled away in ones and twos to go undress, still stealing glances at Fraser as often as he could.

Something had gone wrong, completely wrong. The guys must have blamed Fraser, must have thought Fraser had something to do with Ray going out and punching a fucking telephone pole, which was just stupid. It was true, maybe, but not in a way that any of them ever needed to know about, and it was stupid for them to all be shunning Fraser like this.

And, fuck, but he hadn't seen Fraser since they argued, and he'd've liked to be able to have five minutes alone with the guy to see where they stood, whether Fraser had any use for him at all. He hadn't even been willing to fight it out, just turned away, just let Ray go, and... maybe that was that, maybe Fraser was through with him. After all, who wanted to be friends with a closet case slut? Especially one who tried to say he was straight at the worst possible moment.

Still, he had to try, and he had to try right now, because the team had to know that they could stop holding their stupid grudge against Fraser right this second, and because--because he had to try. This was Fraser, not speaking to him even though they hadn't seen each other in a week and a half, not even asking how his hands were, not even wondering where he'd gone. Not so much as a word or a look; Fraser was just sitting there, staring down at his skates for the last ten minutes straight so he wouldn't have to look at Ray, and all because Ray was an idiot. This was Ray's last best chance to fix things, and he wasn't going to let it slip away.

Ray gritted his teeth, braced for total failure, hoped for something better, and called out in his most normal voice, with a big normal grin, "Hey, Fraser!"

Ben, trailing behind the mass of his team as they returned from the ice, had heard the shouts of enthusiastic welcome well before he entered the locker room. Still, he had kept his stride steady, had not hesitated at the door but went straight to his locker, brushing past the crush of his teammates gathered around Ray.

He'd caught just a glimpse of Ray, fair hair aggressively spiked, his expressive hands, only one bandaged now, making a vividly illustrative gesture. That combined with Ray's laughter, mingling with that of his teammates, gave Ben a very clear picture of how Ray had spent the last several days. He sat down hard on the bench and stared at his skates, trying to remember how to undo the laces, trying to quell the shaking in his gut. He hadn't seen Ray since that night. He thought he'd forgotten Ray's anger, that it had at least faded a little in his mind--if nothing else, Ray's pitiful state a few hours later ought to have erased the recollection, but he couldn't forget. Ray surely would not have forgotten, however happy he seemed in the company of others.

Ben was so intent upon his skates, so consumed with dread, that it took him a moment to register Ray's voice, bright but ringing faintly false in Ben's ear, calling out to him. Ben looked up into Ray's smiling face, searching it for any hint of what Ray really felt--because it was obvious, perfectly obvious, as the entire locker room went quiet and turned to watch, that whatever Ray did now, he did for the benefit of the team. The team came first, always, and so Ben mustered up his best attempt at a smile, though he knew he was not nearly so gifted at this sort of subterfuge as Ray was.

Ray's smile seemed to falter slightly, as though he'd noticed Ben wasn't going to be able to fool anyone, and Ben put a little extra effort into controlling his expression. Ray's grin returned to its full force, and he called out, "Fraser, you know I was telling you about my dog the other day? Well, my parents came up to see me the other day, and they brought him along for a visit."

Ben blinked. There was so much encoded in that brief statement, as if Ray were deliberately recalling him to their former intimacy--the intimacy of friends and teammates, the intimacy of the locker room, of course, nothing else--but then that too would be no more than their audience would expect, if Ray were to persuade them that nothing was wrong.

If François had been returned to him... then Ray had never in truth lost his dog, only misplaced him for a time, and that small sorrow they had shared, right here, sitting on this bench, was now erased; this was, perhaps, Ray's way of denouncing their former closeness while seeming to all around them to embrace it.

Ben blinked, and tried to smile more widely, though it was very nearly painful. "I'm happy to hear that, Ray," he said, his voice sounding stiff to his own ears, and as if it echoed in the locker room, though he could hear a buzz of conversation, and suspected that the room was not in truth as quiet as it seemed to him. "How wonderful for you to see him. And your parents, of course."

Ray's smile faltered visibly now, blatantly, but he nodded and went on smiling falsely across the room at Ben until Jeff, still standing close to Ray's side, said something that caught Ray's attention. The change that went over Ray's face--the genuineness of his comfort in talking to Jeff--was obvious and painful to behold. Ben looked down.

Ray's estrangement from his parents had ended, then, another hurt healed, another bit of common ground between them plowed under. And he had, apparently, enjoyed some liaison with his bountifully female home nurse, perhaps entered into an ongoing relationship, though he would have expected more chivalry from Ray with respect to a serious girlfriend. In any case, Ray had clearly chosen his solution to whatever difficulty he had faced, chosen his family and female companionship over--whatever they might have had.

Ben looked to his skates again, his fingers working automatically now, the muscle memory which had served him for nearly all his life taking over again. As if they might have had anything at all, as if it could possibly have meant anything, been anything, become anything.

It was for the best, really. Any illusions he might have had about what Ray might truly want would only have been weapons for Ray to use against him. Better if he already knew it was over--all over, their friendship, everything, all gone, only a workmanlike civility to be hoped for now--before he had to face Ray's anger in any overt form. Really, Ray could hardly hurt him any more.

Ben stood and turned away to undress and ignored the sensation of Ray's gaze resting steadily on his back. If he ignored it long enough, it would almost certainly go away.

With the Hawks struggling, Coach had mixed up the schedule, hoping to shake the team out of their early slump. Morning skate had become afternoon skate. By the time Ray had his hands checked and the left bandaged all neat and tidy, there were barely two hours left to game-time. Most of the guys were bolting a quick light meal, but Ray, showered and dressed in clean shorts and a t-shirt, ready to gear up again, went hunting for Coach.

He found Welsh in the corridor near his office, looking at a clipboard, flipping rapidly from one page to the next. "Hey," Ray said, "Can I, uh..."

Welsh glanced up at him, not totally forbiddingly, and then back down to the paper in front of him. "What is it, Kowalski?"

Ray swallowed. Practice today, his first back, had gone pretty well. Hack had lived up to the promise Ray had extorted from him and talked to Fraser in front of the other guys. Welsh hadn't actually ripped Ray to shreds out there, though he had collected his share of yelling. It would have been a bad sign if he hadn't; Coach hadn't yelled at Hue for a day or two after he got back on skates. "I was wondering if you'd consider putting me in the lineup tonight," Ray said, all in one breath, steadily, chin up. He'd have been looking Coach in the eye if Coach had been looking at him.

Welsh glanced up at Ray, met his eye for a second and then looked back down. "I've already considered it, Kowalski." Ray wasn't completely sure, from the way Coach said it, so he held perfectly still, heart pounding, trying not to hope. Coach looked up again and said, "No," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're still on injured reserve. Mort tells me your hand hasn't healed up all the way yet."

Ray released the held breath, the effort to be good, be polite, aware deep down that he already had his answer and couldn't possibly make it worse now, but he had to try, had to say something. "Hell, Coach, it might never, I'm old, I don't heal as fast, so what the hell's it matter? I haven't got that many games left."

"You should've thought of that before you punched a telephone pole, Kowalski." Coach lowered the clipboard, giving Ray a hard look that made Ray think he was actually going to ask, and Ray hadn't yet managed to think of a reason for punching a phone pole that didn't sound like such an obvious lie that Coach would smack him upside the head for even trying it.

Ray was a forward for the simple reason that he played better on offense than defense. "Look," he said quickly, trying to sound reasonable, trying not to whine. "I'm not asking for me, but I know and you know that I can do better than that French kid with Hue and Deuce--we work, Coach, you know we work, the three of us, we're a line, and I could help, this is a big game--"

"Hey," Coach said, without raising his voice to match the increasing volume of Ray's, but stopping him short all the same. "I'm the coach here, Kowalski, I know my team, and it's up to me to decide who plays. You wanna tell me how to do my job?"

Well, yes, he did, or he wouldn't be here. Ray looked away in case Coach could see the smartass thought, and muttered, "No."

"Then listen when I tell you: I thought about it, and you're not coming off IR tonight. Go home, Kowalski. I don't want you back in this building before noon for tomorrow's warmups unless you're wearing a suit and sitting in the press box like a good little boy." Coach half turned away, then stopped, and looked back at Ray.

Ray couldn't resist looking up, searching for some tiny crumb of hope, some sign that Coach would relent, if not now, then soon. He opened his mouth to beg, to plead, but Coach just said, "If you do come back, come down here first and have Mort put an air cast on your hand. Remember, if anybody asks, it's broken. You're on injured reserve, not idiot reserve."

Ray gritted his teeth and stared at the floor until he heard Coach walk as far as his office, heard the door open and close, and reminded himself not to clench his fists. It wouldn't help. His hands were really doing relatively well today. They'd hardly bled at all when Mort took the wraps off.

Ray went on staring at the floor for a while, trying to pull himself together, trying to adjust his mental image of the rest of the night from a game to another evening on the couch, or, worse, a night in the press box, looking penitent in his funeral suit and making conversation with reporters. He hadn't made much headway yet when he heard Fraser clear his throat down the hall, and then Ray picked his head up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

Fraser looked embarrassed, and there was no fucking point asking him how long he'd been standing down there; it was written all over his obvious truthful Canadian face. Ray looked away for a second, guts churning, telling himself not to blush. It was nothing to be ashamed of, really, anyone would want to play, everybody always wanted to play--but Ray had been ready to beg, and Coach had said no, and Fraser had seen.

Ray looked up at Fraser, who was still just standing down there, wearing tennies with his shorts and t-shirt and pulled-up socks, just waiting to get dressed again for the game. Ray felt suddenly naked in his own shorts, all ready to put on gear that wasn't coming out of his locker anytime soon. Stupid, stupid hope. "What?" Ray snapped, and Fraser sort of flinched.

Ray sighed and ran one hand through his hair. They had to make up. They had to do something, or the team was never gonna work right and they might as well send Ray down to Indy, or leave him on IR till he rotted. "Sorry," Ray muttered, "Sorry."

"No," Fraser said, quickly, walking fast over to Ray, stopping an arm's length away. "No, it's I who should apologize, Ray, I'm only sorry I haven't sooner. Well--not only sorry for that, of course--not even primarily sorry for that, in fact, it's really fairly trivial in the scheme of--"

Ray blinked. Fraser was fucking nervous, which was just crazy. "Fraser," he said, sharply, cutting him off, and Fraser went still, looking Ray in the eye and biting his lip. "What the hell are you talking about? Primarily?"

Fraser took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, opened and closed his hands, easily, like he didn't even have to think about doing it. "I'd like to offer my deepest apologies for the way I spoke to you in Vancouver. It was utterly inappropriate--"

Ray thought, So it was Vancouver. Huh. and then his brain caught up with what Fraser was trying to say. "Hey, hey! Hold up a second there, Fraser." Fraser stopped talking, and Ray reran what he'd said through his mind. "Are you actually trying to tell me you're sorry for--" he glanced toward the closed door of Coach's office, down the empty corridor, "For what you said? About me?"

"Yes, Ray, but more than that for what I did in goading you to such anger, to such--well, I put your career in jeopardy, to say nothing of the harm you personally suffered." Fraser glanced down at Ray's hands, then back up.

Ray shook his head, quickly, pulling out a smile, "No, Fraser, you got it all wrong, this is no big deal, this is just Coach being tough on me because--well--"

"Because you promised him," Fraser said, in a soft certain voice, "And I caused you to break your word, and I know there's nothing I can--"

Ray stared at Fraser, his stomach going cold. He'd never told Fraser about that, about what Welsh had said the night he rescued Ray from the beer leagues. But Welsh had said it, that night.

You promised me, Kowalski...

Welsh had said it to him while he sat on the floor of Hack's bathroom, as fucked up and bad off as he'd ever been in his life.

And Fraser had heard. Fraser had been there. Fraser had seen.

Ray stepped back, ducking his head, and Fraser stopped whatever it was he'd been saying.

Ray glanced up, and Fraser was watching him with--concern. Almost pity. Because Fraser had seen him like that, and of course Fraser wanted nothing to do with him, didn't want him anymore. Nobody would want a pathetic crazy loser who went out and smashed himself up because somebody called him a few-- perfectly true, not like he couldn't see that once he'd had a minute to think about it--names. Jesus. "You were there," Ray said, and his voice came out in a funny hoarse whisper.

Ray wasn't up to looking at Fraser above the ankles, but he saw Fraser freeze. "Yes," he said, his voice gone all soft and careful, like Ray needed coddling, like Ray was so fucking damaged that he couldn't just be told.

Ray whipped his head up, teeth clenched, reminded himself again to keep his hands open, jabbed one flat hand toward Fraser's chest without quite making contact. "You were there, you bastard. What the fuck were you doing there? Did you think I wanted you around? I didn't need your help. What were you even doing there?"

Fraser stepped back, looking a little stunned, and Ray knew, really, that this wasn't the best way to go about this, but, hell, Fraser had seen. Fraser said, wide-eyed, "Jeff said you needed your shoes."

Ray bit down on a wordless growl--he'd deal with Hack later, the interfering fuck--and said, "Don't apologize to me, Fraser. Don't think you're responsible for me. I'm not stupid. When I hit something, that's my fault."

Fraser blinked at him, and then said, "That's remarkably similar to what Coach said about the situation, actually."

"You--" Ray's vision went weirdly red, and he clenched his eyes shut tight and pressed his open hands against his thighs. Fraser had talked to Coach about him. About this. Because Alternate Captain Fraser thought that poor little Ray's queer panic had to be explained away. Because Fraser thought he couldn't cope with this thing, and he had every reason to think that, because he'd seen.

Ray could hear Fraser breathing in front of him, but he couldn't hear himself breathing. Breathing meant moving, and moving might just mean trying to knock Fraser into next week, and he already knew that wouldn't work. He knew that. And even if he was tempted, Coach was right there in his office, within earshot of a fight. When he couldn't resist breathing anymore, when he had to move, Ray turned and started walking toward the locker room, his clothes, his keys, the door out of here, so fast it was almost a run.

"Ray," Fraser called after him. "Ray, Ray, Ray," until Ray had to turn around or start screaming. "Please, Ray," Fraser said, "Come back for the game."

Like Ray was a kid who wanted to stay out late, and Fraser was afraid of what kind of trouble he'd get into, wanted to keep Ray where he'd be safe. "Like hell I will," Ray said. "I've got better things to do."

Fraser looked like the last thing on earth he wanted was to hear what they were, so Ray told him. "I'm going out and getting drunk," Ray snapped, "And if I have a minute free, maybe I'll check the score. Any further questions, alternate captain?" Fraser didn't say anything, and Ray turned around and kept walking, wishing he had a door to slam.

Fraser didn't think he could hack this queer thing, huh? Well, Fraser had another think coming. Ray was going to get however drunk he needed to, and then he was going to get laid.

Ben had paused in his headlong rush through showering and dressing after the game for only a few terse words with Jeff, who, rather apologetically, had given him the pointers that brought him here. He was driving slowly down the streets of an unfamiliar neighborhood, hoping to spot Ray's car in the darkness broken intermittently by sodium lights and neon signs, still uncertain of what he was doing.

I want to make sure he gets home in one piece this time. That was how he'd put it to Jeff, and that was true enough. But he'd wanted Ray to come home in one piece last time, and yet stayed where he was, and Ray was far less likely to do himself further injury now, when he was so focused on trying to work his way back into the lineup.

Ben winced at the too-fresh memory of Ray's determined, almost desperate, voice, asking Welsh to let him play. He'd had a point; they'd been beaten tonight, and badly. Ray's line could well have made a difference, if only... Well. There was no way Ray could have played, and that was that. But what he'd overheard had made him understand, even better than his clumsy attempt to actually talk to Ray, what was really going on.

Of course Ray had lashed out, in Vancouver, and this afternoon in the arena. Even Dief had bitten him once, backed into a corner and nursing injuries. The wolf had licked at Ben's sore hand the next day, and Ray had called out to him, across a crowded locker room, and he had been too blind to see what was being offered to him, let alone take it.

So here he was, now that he could see, hunting Ray with no idea what he'd do if he found him. Pour him into the truck and take him home, likely; Ben had no doubt that Ray would be quite thoroughly inebriated by now, if he were still to be found in a bar. Ben shied away from thinking further than that, and kept his mind to the simple task of trying to identify a black 1967 GTO--which might or might not be there--in the uncertain light from a moving car.

And then there it was; not parked in obvious proximity to any one establishment, nor near any conveniently empty spaces large enough to accommodate Ben's truck. He drove on until he could park, then backtracked toward Ray's car. The chill of the late-October night air was comforting. He felt steadier when the air had a bite to it; it was like being on the ice, or at home.

Instinct drove him to the door of the bar that looked most familiar, in type if not in actuality. It had neon lights and beer signs in the windows, and, once he stepped inside, a plethora of TV screens. He caught one showing highlights--if you could call them that--of the game he'd just played in, and averted his eyes with a grimace, scanning the room as he approached the bar.

Ray wasn't there, but the bartender came right over when Ben stepped up. "Excuse me," he said softly, as the bar was rather quiet. It occurred to Ben, vaguely, that it was a weeknight, and the game had been over for more than an hour and with a depressing result besides. "Was there a man in here tonight, about my height but lighter, with blond hair and a bandage on his left hand?"

The bartender looked at him for a moment, then picked up a glass to polish and said to the cloth in his hand, "You looking for Ray Kowalski, Mr. Fraser?"

Ben blinked, then scolded himself for being surprised. He'd been recognized semi-regularly in Edmonton, but it hadn't happened in Chicago yet. He should have expected it sooner or later, and it could hardly be avoided in a sports bar on game night. "Yes," he said, "was he here?"

The bartender nodded, jerking his chin toward a seat at the end of the bar, out of the way but with a good view of the television. "Sat right there from the pre-game show to the bitter end. Told me when he came in to bring him a fresh beer every time the other guys scored, and tipped like a guy who wasn't actually looking at what he was pulling out of his wallet."

Ben winced. At that rate, Ray would have been drinking fairly steadily for over three hours. "Did you call him a cab?"

He set down the glass with a soft thud and tossed the towel over his shoulder. After a long, steady look at Ben, he shrugged. "Nope. He said he wasn't planning on driving anywhere. There's a dozen other bars in walking distance, and all of 'em are livelier than this place on a night when the Hawks get pasted. And he wasn't staggering--he could've caught his own cab if he wanted one."

Ben nodded and pulled a bill from his own wallet. He tossed it on the bar without looking to see what it was as he turned and walked out into the night.

Back out on the sidewalk, he looked around. He didn't think Ray would have gone home, after spending the evening that way; if he'd wanted that, he could have watched the game at his own apartment. It only remained to guess which of the many convenient bars he might have chosen to move on to, and Ben knew he didn't know Ray well enough to predict that.

He found Ray in the fourth bar he tried, propped up against the wall in a dim corner, watching the dancers on the small crowded floor. He had a half-full beer bottle dangling from the fingers of his bandaged hand, and the table at his elbow held an alarming number of empties.

Ben watched him for a moment from a few meters away, knowing he was safely hidden in the low light and pounding music, free to observe. Ray rocked a little to the music, hips shifting hypnotically as his neatly-bandaged hand raised the bottle slowly to his lips, long fingers curled around the neck. His head tilted heavily back to catch the last drops, coming to rest against the wall, and his throat worked visibly as he swallowed. His eyes were heavy-lidded, and Ben wondered who on the floor had caught his attention, whether he saw any of them at all or was simply replaying the game in his mind, imagining how he might have turned the tide if he'd been able to play.

Ray set his empty on the table with the others and pushed off from the wall, and Ben moved to intercept him, stepping into his path and setting one hand to his chest. He wore only a thin, faded t-shirt under his leather jacket, and Ben could feel the heat of his skin through it, and the thud of his heart. Ray looked up at him with a slow, warm smile, and Ben felt his own heart start to race. Ray licked his lips, then parted them to speak, and Ben automatically leaned in to hear him over the music.

Ray registered not at home when his outstretched hand met a wall that shouldn't have been there. He half-opened one eye, straining for some sign of a bathroom door. The room was really dark--heavy drapes, or too high up for streetlights--but there were only so many places you could put doors, and Ray found his way without too much difficulty.

Sink, towel rack--toilet. Lid and seat down, and he raised them quietly, careful not to make a sound against the porcelain, because he didn't want to wake anyone.

Ahhhh.

He washed his hands, after, and the soap didn't smell like hotel soap and his left hand itched under the bandage. He thought about that while he scratched gently at the gauze, and then he remembered.

Fraser's. Right.

He opened the medicine cabinet and felt around until he found aspirin, shook some into his damp palm and crunched them down as he put the bottle away, then ducked his head and drank from the tap till his stomach was full. The ache in his belly and the lingering bitter taste in his mouth brought him all the way awake, and Ray patted his half-unstuck bandage back into place and stepped into the doorway.

He could see a little now, enough to make out the shape of Fraser's bed, with Fraser lying in the middle of it and the covers tossed back on one side where Ray had been sleeping. He spent a moment trying to figure out where his clothes were, whether it would be okay to crash on the couch or if he should just get the hell out of here, and then he realized that it didn't matter.

He was queer. He could spend the whole night in the same bed with his--his boyfriend--if he wanted to. What was Fraser going to say, after all? It must have been his idea in the first place.

Besides, it was probably warm under the covers with Fraser. Ray shivered, and headed quickly back to the bed, crawling in carefully so he wouldn't wake Fraser, and eased himself back into his spot. Fraser muttered in his sleep, and threw an arm over Ray, pulling him close, and Ray allowed himself to be pulled, closing his eyes as he thought back over the night.

He'd said a lot of stuff to Fraser, and most of it Fraser hadn't understood, which was just as well. But he'd said the important stuff, too, and that Fraser got. C'est vrai, I like it. And he did like it, and he could say that to Fraser, even if he had to say it in French, and Fraser could understand him. Fraser had come after him, and Fraser had fucked him, and Fraser had brought him here. After everything, after seeing what he'd seen, knowing what he knew, knowing the truth about Ray... Fraser had brought Ray home, to his bed, and slept right here, curled close. The sleeping-together thing was strange, but Ray figured there were going to be lots of strange things about being queer, and if this was anything to judge by, some of them wouldn't be too bad.

Ray shifted closer against Fraser, sore in all the right places after a light practice and a hard fuck, and felt himself drifting back toward sleep.

There was a jingle like dog tags, and Ray saw a white wolf standing in the corner of the room. He came a little closer while Ray watched, and because it was that kind of dream, Ray knew, without doubt or surprise, that this was Fraser's wolf.

Ben was jerked from sleep by Ray sitting bolt upright with an incoherent yell, flinging back the covers and flailing his way out of bed.

Ben sat up only slightly slower, and looked from Ray, standing naked beside the bed, hugging himself and looking horrified, down to the sheets, where he saw what must have greeted Ray the instant he opened his eyes. Much of one side of the bed, and a good portion of the pillow, was streaked with smears of blood in various states of dryness. One, near the headboard, looked quite fresh, and Ben stared at it, muzzily fascinated, until Ray said, "Fuck, Fraser, sorry--fucking bandage must have slipped, I didn't think--"

Ben looked at Ray then, taking in his reddened eyes and pained expression, his wild hair, hunched posture and still-actively-bleeding left hand, the bandage dangling by one corner. "It's all right, Ray," he said, in as normal a tone as he could manage, as he scooted around the mess and out of bed. "Blood doesn't bother me," he added as he stood, watching Ray, trying to gauge whether it was the blood he was really upset about, whether he was about to panic or fly into another rage. "And I can buy new sheets. I understand I'm quite well-paid."

Ray smiled briefly at that, and didn't back away though they were standing barely a foot apart now. His solidly bloodshot eyes met Ben's steadily, and he said, breathless and nonsensical, "Blood's not a problem, huh? How about morning breath?"

Ben's brow wrinkled as he opened his mouth to answer, and Ray, with a faintly determined look, leaned in and kissed him. It was a brief dry press of lips, slightly off-target but undeniably a kiss, so quick Ben had no chance to respond. By the time he'd processed what was happening, Ray was already walking past him, calling out in a nearly steady voice, "First aid kit in the bathroom, Frase?"

Ben remained where he was, blinking, mouth working in silence, until he heard the water running and pulled himself together enough to say, "Yes, Ray. Under the sink."

He turned and followed then, since Ray hadn't shut the door, and caught him in the act of pulling Kleenex from the box on the counter to blot the back of his hand. "Don't," he said, quickly, catching Ray's wrists and directing his left hand back over the sink. "You'll just get lint in the wound." After a quick glance at Ray's hand, he corrected himself. "Wounds."

He knelt beside Ray, keeping his eyes studiously fixed on the cupboard door and not at all on the length of Ray's naked leg or anything else, and pulled out the first aid kit. Ray kept perfectly still, hand over the sink, as Ben straightened up and pulled out a sterile gauze pad, and held his hand out so that Ben could press it into place over his knuckles. "There. I've got some ointment I can put on it to aid healing, if you like. Do you need anything else? Aspirin?" Ray must have a dreadful headache.

Ray raised his right hand and rubbed gingerly at his eyes. "Got any eye drops?" he asked, head down. "I slept with my contacts in, and they're all scratchy."

"Ah," Ben said, "Yes, I think--" He opened the medicine cabinet and there they were. He started to hand the small bottle to Ray, and then hesitated.

"Would you?" Ray asked, brushing past Ben to sit on the toilet. He had to put the lid down to do so, Ben noticed. That was odd. And then Ray was sitting there in front of him, his face at the level of Ben's waist, head tipped back expectantly, the length of his throat bared. They hadn't turned on the light, and the small room was illuminated only by what sunlight filtered in from the rest of the apartment; Ray was a collection of angled shadows.

"Ah," Ben repeated, and cleared his throat. "Yes." He stepped between Ray's parted knees, not looking anywhere but Ray's face, Ray's bloodshot eyes, and settled one hand on Ray's forehead. Ben found his hand strangely unsteady, and had to try twice to get a drop to land in Ray's right eye. The left went better, and then Ray was blinking rapidly, eyelashes spiky-wet, and smiling at him.

"Thanks," he said, "Uh. I gotta--"

"Oh," Ben said, "Yes, of course." He set the eye drops down on the counter and slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He went to the dresser and put on a pair of sweatpants, then, after a moment's thought, pulled out another pair--his old worn Oilers sweats, with the drawstring that allowed him to wear them from the beginning of the season to the end, no matter how much weight he lost--and left them on the foot of the bed, in plain sight from the bathroom door. The livid mess of the sheets caught his eye, and he flipped up the top sheet to cover that corner of the bed. That could be dealt with later; for now, he needed to look after Ray.

He kept the ointment in a jar in the refrigerator--apart, of course, from the small quantity he stored in his locker, where it was most likely to be needed--as it was slightly perishable and, given the scarcity of the raw materials below the Arctic Circle, hard to replace. He pulled the jar out, along with the orange juice, and took a long drink from the carton while he tried to remember whether he'd put the powdered horn in a kitchen cupboard or the medicine cabinet.

At the sound of the bathroom door opening, Ben replaced the orange juice and pulled out a bottle of water, setting it on the kitchen table along with the ointment. Ray walked in, wearing Ben's sweatpants, with the first aid kit tucked between his elbow and his side, holding the gauze pad against the back of his hand. "Ah," Ben said, swallowing, moving away from the table to check the cupboards. "Here, have a seat. Have some water."

Ray grunted his thanks, and sat down at the table. Ben turned to the cupboards, and heard Ray twist off the cap on the water bottle as he said, "I guess you don't have coffee, huh?"

Ben hesitated. He did have coffee. In his freezer there was a jar of instant coffee, packed up by a professional mover and brought from Edmonton to Chicago. His father had had a fondness for absolutely vile coffee, and Ben had always kept some on hand for him. He'd never gotten around to throwing it away.

"I do, actually," he said, "if you don't mind instant." He dared a glance at Ray as he went back to the refrigerator, and Ray smiled at him around the neck of the bottle in his mouth, throat working steadily as he swallowed. Ben swallowed as well, then turned away. Freezer. Coffee.

He spooned some into a mug and added tap water, then put it in the microwave. "I'm afraid I don't have any white sugar," he said. His father had always had maple candies in his pocket, and would use a few of those to sweeten his coffee. "But I have got Smarties."

He heard the empty plastic bottle hit the table, and Ray said, "Smarties'll work. Sugar's sugar, right?"

Ben collected the mug, a spoon, and the box of candy, and returned to the table, arranging them all at Ray's right hand. Ray's left hand rested on his knee, gauze still in place. Ben sat down and opened the first aid kit as Ray stirred his coffee, the ring of the spoon on porcelain almost-but-not-quite familiar; Ray stirred slightly faster than his father had, and counterclockwise.

Ah. The powdered horn was in the first aid kit. Naturally. Ben pulled it out, along with another gauze pad and tape, and picked up Ray's hand, then nearly dropped it when Dief wandered out from behind Ray's chair. "Fraser?" Ray said.

Ben met his eyes quickly, resolutely not looking at the wolf sitting beside Ray's knee, looking smug. The redness in Ray's eyes was easing; he looked little worse than he had at any early practice, short on sleep and disheveled. "Ah. Nothing, sorry."

Ray gave him a searching look, but nodded and returned to his coffee as Ben peeled the gauze back, revealing four mostly-clotted raw spots. He stole another look at Dief, but the wolf seemed prepared to stay right there at Ray's side indefinitely. Spurred by an only slightly petty impulse, he said, "I apologize in advance for the ointment, Ray. It has a bit of an odor."

Perhaps the opening of the jar covered the sound of Dief's tags jingling as he got to his feet; perhaps Ray simply couldn't hear the ghost. Either way, Dief, who'd always hated the smell of the ointment and protested vigorously about having it applied to his injuries, trotted off without argument, doubtless on his way to take a nap squarely in the middle of the bed. "I can take it, I promise," Ray said, his smile audible.

Ben reached for the powdered horn first, sprinkling it onto the bleeding spots on Ray's knuckles. "This will help the blood clot," he explained. He glanced up at Ray's face, and found Ray watching him intently. Ducking his head quickly, Ben said, "I suppose this is a bit different than the treatments you've been receiving."

Ray huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. "Yeah, a bit. Can't hurt, though, right? Shake things up?"

Ben glanced up, and remembered Ray's laugh, speaking of the nurse who'd been sent to tend him while he was hurt. "Well," he said, "I suppose that depends on how you feel about the care you've had before."

Ray's forehead wrinkled as he looked at Ben over his coffee, and then he set it down and said, "From Joanna, you mean?"

Ben looked down. The odd feeling in his gut when Ray said her name wasn't jealousy. He had no right to jealousy, nor surprise. It was just an ache, like prodding at a bruise. "I suppose so."

Definitely a snort of laughter from Ray this time, and when Ben looked up, his expression was distinctly rueful. "All lies, Fraser. I was just saying what the guys expected to hear, y'know? Truth is, I never even thought about it till she said how polite I was. That's when I knew something was really wrong with me."

Ah. Ben kept his expression carefully neutral. "Wrong?"

"Not wrong," Ray said quickly, wincing. "Not wrong, right? Just, uh, different. Different from how I thought I was."

Ben nodded slightly and went back to his work on Ray's hand, letting the matter drop. As he dabbed ointment onto Ray's knuckles, though, Ray cleared his throat and said, "Frase, uh."

Ben looked up and waited.

It was Ray who looked down this time, staring into his coffee. "This thing--you and me, this is a--a thing, isn't it? Not just a one-time or whatever. This means something."

Ben felt his face go hot, blood rushing audibly in his ears as he stared blankly at Ray's hair. He'd never expected this, never imagined Ray would want something like this from him.

Ray looked up as Ben's silence stretched. "I mean, unless you don't--I know I'm not the greatest--"

"No," Ben said, quickly, "Ray, not at all. I would--very much--like to, if that's what you want."

Ray looked intently into Ben's eyes, and Ben looked back, not bothering to force a smile. He was glad. It wasn't that he wasn't glad. He was just... other things, as well.

When Ray looked away, Ben could breathe again. He picked up a gauze pad and opened the packet, pressing it carefully into place over Ray's knuckles. Ray held it in place as Ben reached for the tape, and said, quietly, "I don't know if I said last night--I know I was thinking it, but I don't remember if I said--I'm sorry about the game. I should've been there. I had no right to do this, take myself out like this."

Ben frowned, but something eased in his chest. This topic, he could handle. "Well, that's as may be, Ray--we all have our contractual obligations--but you know it wouldn't have made a difference regarding last night." Ray looked up, lips parted to protest, but Ben pushed on. "Ray, Welsh wouldn't have let you play if you'd been on pace for a forty-goal season. Not against the Avalanche."

Ray looked away then, lips tight. A year ago, the Colorado Avalanche had been the Quebec Nordiques; they had been Ray's team a year before that, the team he'd played with longer than any other in his journeyman career. A team he might well have expected to retire from, but they'd traded him to Boston for the fourth year of his contract, and while he was with Boston-- "Do you remember that fight?" Ben asked.

Ray's lips twisted up joylessly. "I was there, Fraser. Of course I remember."

"Ah," Ben said, "Of course. So you were. Only it looked, from the videotape, like the sort of fight you might not recall clearly." Ben remembered it vividly; he must have seen the fight a dozen times or more, from three different camera-angles. He raised his fingers to Ray's temple, to the spot where he'd seen the same bloody gash open under a pounding fist, over and over, in slow motion and at normal speed. There was a scar there, not easy to see but evident to his fingertips, just at the hairline.

Ray's bitter smile eased a little at the touch. "You saw it, huh?"

Ben grinned. "The whole league saw it, Ray. It was rather spectacular." Ray said nothing but also didn't look away, and Ben went on as he wrapped the tape around Ray's hand. "It was your first game back in Quebec in a Boston jersey." It must have been an awful night--the crowd would have been against him, jeering at a player who, loved when he belonged to them, could only be hated now that he was gone. Worse than that would have been the men on the ice, men who'd been his friends the last time he'd seen them but were now adversaries.

None of that had been in the video. Every player who'd watched that fight knew how it would have been. "Adam Foote hit you hard in the corner, said something you didn't like, and you'd had enough. You didn't let it go. You turned right around and dropped the gloves, shouted after him to come and fight." Foote stood six feet two inches tall and weighed two hundred fifteen pounds without help from the sort of artful padding that went into Ray's official statistics. "You were so furious it looked like an even match. You looked dangerous. Wild. Foote didn't drop his gloves right away--he smiled, nearly laughed, and you screamed at him. We watched it again and again and never could read your lips; it might as well have been a howl. You didn't need words to challenge him. When he did drop his gloves, it was like watching a firecracker explode. You flew at him."

Ben tore the tape and set it down, but Ray didn't even seem to notice, listening raptly. "You landed one punch, then another, knocking his helmet back. He shook it off, and then hit you square in the mouth, and caught your jersey in his other hand, holding you as still as he could, though you kept fighting, kept swinging. Your anger couldn't make your arms longer, though, and he kept hitting you. In the head, in the face. You had blood running down your chin, running from your nose, your mouth was red. He got your jersey off you, and you just pulled free and went back at him, landed a gut punch and dragged his jersey half off before he got you by the t-shirt and started hitting you again. He got your shirt and pads off you, too, and you were stripped to the waist, covered in sweat, covered in blood--your hair was brown with sweat except where it was red--you were shining under the lights, your arms never stopped, that tattoo on your arm was just a blur of red and black--and all the while you were grinning. This absolute mad dog grin."

Ray wrinkled his nose, bared his teeth, and Ben smiled. "And you wouldn't quit, even when the ref pulled you off, you were still struggling." He'd been thrown out of the game for that, and given a mandatory three game suspension. Even after the suspension expired, he didn't return; Ray had spent the last months of the season with Boston's farm team before his contract expired. His fight with Foote had been the last of his career.

"Harding Welsh was standing behind the Nordiques bench that night, as an assistant coach. He'd been your coach, half a year before. He knew you then, and he knows you now. There's no way he'd have put you in against Foote's team and expected you not to fight."

Ray looked down, but Ben could see a smile in the crinkling of his eyes. "Our Coach, leading me not into temptation, I know."

Ben smiled and sat back. "Well, not just you, you know, Ray. You're a locker room favorite. There isn't a man on the team who wouldn't pick a fight if he thought you'd been slighted." Ray looked up at that, as if the thought had never occurred to him, as if he didn't know his teammates would protect him, which was preposterous. "The game would have been end-to-end fisticuffs."

Ray snorted, and looked down at his bandaged hand, flexing it experimentally. "Like that would have been worse than last night?"

Ben smiled. "Well, we play them again in a month or so; you can try out that argument when the time comes."

Ray grinned, showing his straight white teeth, and Ben frowned and reached out a hand to cup Ray's chin, running a thumb over Ray's lower lip, against the even firmness of teeth behind flesh. "Ray," he said, hesitantly, "I'd have sworn he knocked out one of your teeth that night, and--"

Ray's smile widened, showing off. "I got nice permanent replacements put in when I retired," Ray said. "I figured they weren't gonna get knocked out anymore, so why not? If I take a puck in the mouth this year, it'll make a hell of a mess, but I'll just keep my fingers crossed. Bet you can't guess which are which."

Ben frowned, and leaned closer, and then closer again. "Well," he said, slowly, telegraphing his intentions as clearly as he knew how, "I'd hate to rely on guessing..."

Ray's mouth opened readily under his, and Ray kept still, their tongues touching only glancingly as Ben explored his mouth. Eventually, he had to breathe, and pulled back. "Goodness," he said, "I had no idea you'd lost eleven."

Ray squinted at him. "Fraser, did you just count the surgical scars in my mouth with your tongue?"

Ben couldn't quite read him, and kept his voice neutral as he said, "Ah, yes, Ray. Do you consider that to be cheating?"

"I dunno about cheating," Ray said, "But--isn't that a little queer?"

Ben kept still, but there was definitely a glint of humor in Ray's eyes, and he was leaning closer, nearly out of his chair. "I mean," Ray said, one hand on Ben's bare shoulder, never quite straightening up as he moved to straddle him, "Why settle for a little? Let's not be half-assed about this."

Ray's arm went around his neck as Ray's mouth descended to his, and Ben sighed as their lips touched, as Ray licked into Ben's mouth. His kisses were cautious, his body strung tight now that he didn't have alcohol to ease him into this. Ben clutched at Ray's arm with one hand, and slid the other around his hips, drawing him down until Ray's weight rested on his lap, their bare chests brushing. Ray made a small pleased sound and settled his left hand tentatively on Ben's shoulder.

Ben let himself get lost in long breathless kisses. Ray's mouth was bitter with coffee, sweet with chocolate, faintly sour with sleep, hot and soft and wet and strong. Ray was half-naked against him, half-hard, and for once there was no rush, no danger of discovery. Ray's skin was warm under his hands in the cool air of the kitchen, radiating heat, muscles slowly easing as Ray forgot to be nervous. He raised one hand to the back of Ray's head, and Ray's hair tickled against his palm. He couldn't help grinding his hips up against Ray's, both their bodies definitely awake by now.

Ray broke the kiss, sitting back on Ben's thighs. His lips were already swollen with kissing, the soft skin around his mouth was prickled with stubble-burn--they'd have to be careful about that in future--and the morning sun lit up his hair and skin and eyelashes, all shades of gold. His eyes were bright, and fixed wholly on Ben. If he'd ever seen anything more alluring, he couldn't remember it at that moment. But when Ray reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, Ben caught his wrist. "Wait," he said, "Let's just--do this for a while."

Ray licked his lower lip, and his eyes gleamed. He glanced over Ben's head at the clock, and said, "I guess we do have a few hours to kill," as he bent his head for another kiss.

Mort had put the air cast on his right hand, and taped up his left with skin-colored Band-Aids. They were almost covered by the cuff of his starchy shirt, and no one would notice them if he kept that hand down or stuck it in his pocket. As long as he kept waving the big white plastic cast on his right hand around like a magician's assistant shaking her tits, no one was going to wonder if maybe it was really his left hand that was broken.

He propped his right hand against the glass, and his forehead against the plastic covering his wrist, and squinted down at the ice. It was a shitty view up here in the press box, above even the nosebleed seats, but he was here, and he wasn't going to watch the game on the TV monitors.

From a hundred feet up, the guys looked like the players in a table hockey game, and Ray kept trying to push them in the right directions. Fraser was the only one who seemed to listen, who went right where Ray thought he should, every time, so he watched Fraser the most.

It didn't hurt that Fraser looked up at the press box every time he came off the ice, right up at the spot where Ray was standing, and smiled, though he always itched his nose with one gloved hand to cover it after a split second. Ray itched his nose right back, looking down through the glass, though Fraser couldn't possibly see him behind the glare.

Ray didn't seem to have quite passed out, but he lay very still while Ben cleaned him up. It was only when Ben dragged him around to lie properly in the bed instead of across its width, tucking a pillow under his head and gathering him close, that Ray muttered, "Frase."

Ben did not look at the clock. He pressed his nose against the softness of Ray's hair, inhaling the smell of Ray and sex--a combination which was growing increasingly familiar and dangerously addictive--and said, "Yes?"

"What's the--what are the words really? Early t'bed..."

Ben smiled. "And early to rise, makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise."

Ray nodded. "I knew that," he murmured, and then he went still. Ben waited as long as he could, lying there with the simple comfort of Ray's skin against his, the soft sound of Ray's breathing in his ears. Still, eventually he looked at the clock, and then he sighed.

"Ray," he said softly, to no response. He sat up and shook Ray a little. "Kowalski."

Ray's eyes didn't open, but he rolled toward the space Ben had half-vacated. "Wha--"

"I have to go," he said gently. "We leave early for St. Louis tomorrow."

"Day trip, right," Ray said, without seeming appreciably more awake. "No sex on game days."

It would be game day again in less than half an hour. "Right," Ben murmured. "Sleep well." He wanted to say, "I'll call you," but that was silly--it would only be one night. They'd fly home straight after the game in St. Louis and sleep in their own beds--he'd sleep in his own bed, of course, not Ray's, nor his with Ray in it--but it was only a day in any case, and Ray was already asleep again.

Ben gently lifted Ray's hand from where it had come to rest on his thigh, and tucked it beside Ray's cheek. He covered Ray with the blanket that had been bunched at the foot of the bed before he picked up his boxers and jeans and shoes from where he'd left them on the floor. He ducked into the bathroom to clean up a bit and put his pants and shoes back on without turning on the light, then went out to the kitchen, forcing himself not to pause for a last look at Ray peacefully sleeping, sprawled alone in his bed.

He picked up Ray's dress shirt from the floor of the hallway, and took it with him to the kitchen, hanging it over the back of the chair from which he removed his own t-shirt. He stood beside the kitchen table to pull his shirt on, and when he'd gotten it over his head, Dief was sitting in front of Ray's refrigerator, staring up at the photographs so lovingly displayed. Time was ticking, but Ben went and joined him, crouching down beside the wolf and looping his arms around Dief's neck in deliberate imitation of the photo of Ray and François that smiled down at them. "Jealous?" he asked softly. "I think I have pictures of you, somewhere."

Dief gave him a disbelieving look and licked his ear before moving on to sniff ostentatiously at his clothes. "Yes, I do have to leave, actually," Ben whispered. "And it's not running away in the night if I told him I was going."

Dief sat back, pulling himself somewhat out of Ben's grip, and Ben looked back at him for a moment before he gave up and sat down on the floor, leaning against the refrigerator. "It's not the same," he said, softly. "I mean--it's happened rather quickly, I suppose that's the same--but I know Ray, Diefenbaker. Even if this ends--" he swallowed hard, and looked away from the way the thin city light that lit Ray's windows shone through Dief from this angle. "Even if this ends badly," he whispered, as if speaking it aloud would rush their fate closer, "It's not a mistake. Mistakes are unintentional, and this time--I know what I'm doing. I know how he is, I know what he's like. I know him. I know how he gets angry and I know how he sleeps around and I know how he's not comfortable with this, but it doesn't matter. I know how brave he is, how kind and honorable and honest, I know he loves his dog and his team, and I love him. I don't want to be anywhere else as long as he wants me here. I love him."

His eyes had shut as he was speaking, and when Ben opened them, Dief was lying down at his feet, watching him in mute sympathy. Ben mustered a smile. "Oh, you only want him for his hair," Ben whispered, and Dief raised his head and thumped his tail.

Ben sighed, and pushed himself to his feet. "Come on," he whispered, "Hockey vincit omnia, you know." But when Fraser turned right, heading for the front door, Dief turned left, padding toward Ray's bedroom. Ben felt a pang of abandonment, but at the doorway, Dief looked back, tilting his head in question, and Ben hadn't the heart to ask him to come away. He understood the impulse all too well.

"Don't wake him," Ben mouthed, and Dief wagged his tail and disappeared into the darkness of Ray's bedroom, leaving Ben to let himself out.

Ray heaved a sigh, switched the TV off, and dropped the remote on the floor.

The game hadn't been so bad, for what it was. The guys were playing their third game in four nights, on the road, and it showed every second they were on the ice. Denny was favoring his knees, Bernie's whole line looked like they were trying to pretend they didn't have the flu, everybody was exhausted.

Except Ray, of course, because Ray had been out of the action for two weeks now. Ray was healed up and rested up, a little jazzed right now from the adrenaline-echo of watching the game. In the privacy of his own home, he was free to have a beer during the intermissions and yell at the refs at the top of his lungs, flailing around like an idiot, like he could stop pucks, deflect shots, and knock Brett Hull's grinning mug into next week, right through the TV.

Ben tossed and turned, his body still humming with the exertions of the game and the rapid succession of bus and plane and taxi travel that had brought him home. His apartment--his bed--seemed empty and quiet after eighteen straight hours in the boisterous company of his teammates. It was a sensation not unlike his first summer back at home, after a hockey season and school year in Medicine Hat, when the familiar quiet of the North was suddenly strange and unnerving.

He knew it would pass, if he just lay still and waited it out. If he gave his body the chance to settle, his exhaustion would take over and he'd be asleep.

Ben rolled over again, and buried his face in a pillow. It wasn't the team he missed. They'd been a welcome distraction, and the game, of course, precluded all else, but now he was at home, in a bed whose fresh, clean sheets bore no sign of any sleeper's presence but his own. He flipped over again, reaching across to the place Ray had slept, three nights ago.

They'd been apart barely twenty-four hours, but Ben missed him. It was a ridiculous weakness, and, if indulged, a monstrously unfair imposition on Ray. Ben knew he tended to hold on too hard, much too hard, and Ray had, after all, conducted an entire marriage around the separations hockey imposed. Of course, Ray's marriage had... ended. And Ray, clearly, had not lacked for companionship during those separations; he had, after all, been in love with Louis during his first stint in Chicago, and Jeff must have known of Ray's habits from their time playing together in New York, years later.

Ben rolled onto his back, drawing his hands in to fold across his chest. It was ridiculous even to make comparisons; Ray might love him, but they had made no promises. This was by no means a formal arrangement, nor could he imagine that Ray expected it to last beyond the season. He had no right to jealousy, and no right to make constant demands upon Ray's time and attention, especially not in the middle of the night. Ben realized he was staring fixedly, rigidly, at the ceiling, every muscle tense, and forced himself to close his eyes and breathe deeply.

A moment later, he rolled over again and looked at the clock on his night table. The squared-off red numbers seemed jagged and meaningless. His bed was empty, and just last night, Ray had said, "I love you," and Ben had left him without even looking him in the eye as he said goodbye.

It would be a show of weakness to call; it would be a show of cowardice not to. Ben lay frozen-still for a moment, wishing for something, anything to break the deadlock for him--but Dief had always had a knack for being underfoot until one wanted him and then nowhere to be found.

Ben closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them on the lighted keypad of the phone, already in his hand. His thumb found the redial button unerringly.

The second ring was cut off abruptly, and Ben listened to the thumping and fumbling sounds as the phone was dropped and recovered. "Hlo?" Ray's voice was scratchy and warm in his ear.

Ben smiled, and felt himself relax despite the guilty twinge he felt at having woken Ray. "Ray," he said softly, "I'm sorry, go back to sleep."

"No, m'awake," Ray said, in a tone that belied his words. There was a soft muffled sound, as if Ray had pulled a blanket over his head, phone and all. "Unless something's gone horribly wrong, Frase, you're in Chicago. At home."

"Ah," he said, looking around the room. "Yes, so I am."

"Kay, good," Ray murmured, barely audible above the sound of covers moving as he got comfortable. "You need anything?"

"It's just that you're on my redial," Ben said, getting comfortable himself.

"Yeah, you're on mine too, Frase," Ray said, a smile audible in his voice. "Hey, you going to practice tomorrow?"

The next day's practice, after this week's rapid succession of games, was technically optional for regulars. It had never really occurred to him not to go. "Yes, of course."

"Me too." Ray yawned and then said, "We'll have breakfast, I'll be awake then. I'll pick you up, okay?"

Ben closed his eyes, and thought of Ray eating pancakes. He was half-tempted to ask Ray if that was a date, but instead he said, "That sounds fine."

"Good," Ray mumbled, and then, his words so soft and slurred that Ben could barely make them out, "Was thinking about you, earlier. Wish I was there."

Before Ben could ask whether Ray meant he wished he'd been in St. Louis, or wished he were where Ben was at that moment, Ray had hung up. Ben replaced the phone in its cradle, closed his eyes, and considered that small mystery for the few minutes it took him to sink into sleep.

Breakfast had turned out kind of weird. Ray had forgotten it was Sunday until he'd had a cup and a half of coffee and there was suddenly a nine-year-old kid wearing a white shirt and tie standing at his elbow, holding a hockey card in one hand and a Sharpie in the other. The card showed Ray in a Blackhawks jersey--not his rookie, but his second year, a common card that you could get for two bucks, hard case included, at any decently stocked card shop in the city. This one had a bent corner, though, and a 1984 Topps Ray Kowalski with a bent corner was worth exactly bupkis. No card shop would sell one, which meant that somebody had kept that card for twelve years, packed in a shoe box or tucked into a book, and then pulled it out when he got picked up this year, and given it to this kid, who hadn't even been born the last time he played for the Hawks.

Once he got past blinking in shock and staring at the young punk on the card, he'd smiled, forcing himself not to look up at Fraser sitting across the table, and took the marker from the kid's hand, signed the card, ruffled his neatly-combed-for-church hair, and sent him back to his family. The kid's mom had given him a grateful smile, and Ray had smiled back and then wrapped his hands around his coffee cup and stared fixedly at the table.

Eventually, the waitress brought their food, and a while after that Ray managed to raise his eyes far enough to watch Fraser's hands moving as he ate, but that was about it. He felt like the whole place was staring at him, like they all knew who he was and they all knew he was eating breakfast with Fraser because he'd missed the chance to jump his bones the night before. Fraser kicked him once, lightly, under the table, startling Ray into looking up, and gave him a small understanding smile. Ray grimaced back and got on with eating his pancakes and bacon, silently vowing never to eat a meal with Fraser in public again if he could help it.

But that was hours ago now; they'd had a good practice, though only half the guys were there and even the coaches seemed worn out. They were nearly done, down to Coach's assessment of their performance and announcements about the next few days. Ray wasn't exactly listening, though his eyes were fixed on Coach as he stood on the ice with the rest of the guys, shifting from skate to skate, his helmet already hanging from the butt of his stick.

He was thinking about how to get Fraser to have dinner with him, someplace with a liquor license and no hockey-card-carrying altar boys, maybe with a few of the other guys along to make it less awkward if he forgot how to talk again. That'd be easier, and it had occurred to Ray, thinking back, that you could get away with an awful lot as long as nobody thought you were queer. At the same time as he was plotting the evening, he was sort of scanning what Coach said for key points.

His attention snapped into full focus, a sensation almost like being smacked on the head, when Coach said, "Kowalski, Krivokrasov, you're both on the regular roster until further notice. That's all for today, gentlemen."

Ray stood stunned, staring blankly up at Coach, as stunned by the announcement as he'd been by that hockey card, and then he really was getting smacked on the head, the guys crowding around to congratulate him and Sergei. The kid was almost jumping up and down on the ice, babbling in his erratic English about calling his girlfriend, and Ray kept smiling and carefully didn't look around. There was no one he needed to call; everyone he wanted to tell was right here on the ice.

The guys quickly started off for the locker room, but Ray hung back, looking around the arena. The press box was distant, and the glare off the glass was, like he'd thought, impenetrable. He stared up at that spot where he wouldn't be standing for the next home game, and raised his glove to his nose to cover his smile.

He knew Fraser's hand when it landed on his back, and with most of the guys gone, he risked looking Fraser in the eye, hoping whatever was on his face would only look like his happiness to be back in the game. Fraser's smile, the look in his eyes, could almost be that--just a guy being happy for his teammate's good luck. "Whaddya say," Ray managed, "Dinner tonight? Help me celebrate?"

Fraser's smile widened, showing that one crooked tooth in his perfect mouth. "Of course, Ray."

"And, uh--" Ray wasn't sure about this part, but he'd figured there was no need bringing it up until it mattered. "Still roommates?"

Fraser's smile closed up a little, and he looked serious but not less happy. "If you'll have me."

Ray grinned his relief, scrubbed one gloved hand over Fraser's sweat-damp hair, and turned to skate over to the door with Fraser right behind him.

Ben quickly redirected a pass from Ren down to Jack, then stole a glance at Ray. He was holding down his usual position in the crease, more or less sandwiched between the Rangers' goalie and Beukeboom, the massive defenseman wearing number twenty-three. As Ben watched, Beukeboom knocked Ray to his knees, and Ray levered himself right back up to his feet with his stick, never taking his eyes off the puck.

Jack was circling down low, looking for a clear shot to pass to Tom, then sent the puck back up to Ben just before he was checked hard in the corner. Ben slapped the puck at speed down to Tom, momentarily open in the center of the zone, and checked on Ray again. He was just bouncing back to his feet, and this time he shoved back at Beukeboom, his shoulder and elbow striking Beukeboom with as much effect as if he'd hit the wall.

Beukeboom took exception, however; as Ren battled with a Rangers forward for puck possession near the blue line, Beukeboom raised his stick and swung it down on Ray's right hand, the blow landing with enough force to be heard where Ben was standing. Ray doubled over, his whole body curling around his hand, momentarily trapping Beukeboom's stick. Beukeboom jerked it free, pulling Ray off his feet, and was already screaming his protestations of innocence as the referee's whistle blew.

Ray didn't bounce up as quickly as he had before, but he got to his feet without help from Tom or Jack, who had both rushed to his side. He pushed himself up with his left hand holding his stick and his right held carefully against his stomach. His face was tight with pain, pale under the fluorescent lights, and Ben pushed down the horror that was his instinctive response. Ray was all right. This wasn't anything like before. Ray was up and moving. His right hand was in better shape than his left, more able to take the blow, and his gloves were heavily padded.

The A on his shoulder weighing heavy, Ben turned his back on Ray and skated over to the ref, who was already listening to the low-voiced arguments of the Rangers' captain. He looked at Ben and said, "You know we're not going to call an injury if he was already hurt, Fraser."

Ray lay awake in his bed in a hotel in Montreal, watching Fraser sleep the sleep of the righteously exhausted on his side of the room.

Ray never slept well in hotels in Montreal; it reminded him too much of his first year of junior, when his French still sucked and everywhere in Quebec was Montreal in his mind, even--especially--the cities where they played away games and spent the nights packed four in a room. It put him on edge and always had, whenever he'd come back to Montreal to play away games. His time playing for the Nordiques had been great, even though they played lots of away games against Montreal, because he'd nearly always managed to just go home after, home to Stella and François and his own bed.

This wasn't so bad, though. It was just a hotel room, and Montreal was just a city, and Fraser hadn't seemed to want to do anything, so Ray had just gotten into his bed and let Fraser get into his.

Fraser had gone right to sleep and left Ray lying awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to find something to think about that wasn't tomorrow's game. Today's game, now, and had been for an hour and a half. Ray closed his eyes and tried to forget what city he was in.

Fraser shifted in his sleep, muttering something unhappy that Ray couldn't make out. Ray shifted up onto one elbow, squinting for a better look at Fraser, and as he did, his movement was mirrored by a white dog, popping up from the far side of Fraser's bed to look back. Ray froze, and the dog--no, the wolf--backed away from Fraser's bed, moving to pace back and forth at the far wall, his tail low but wagging a little.

Ray pinched himself. He closed and opened his eyes. He looked at the clock and at Fraser. It didn't matter what he did; when he looked back, the wolf was still there, keeping his distance like Ray figured a wild animal would, but watching Ray all the time. "Okay," Ray said, softly, "Okay. So you really did come back. That wasn't a dream either."

He saw the wolf bark, but there was no sound. Well, why not? He was a ghost, right? Ray thought for a split second about waking Fraser up, but there was no need for both of them to lose sleep, and if he was going crazy, well, Fraser didn't really need to know that right now. It would make this whole roommates thing even more awkward than being in Montreal already had.

Ray sat up on the edge of his bed. "You're Diefenbaker?" he whispered, and the wolf silently barked again, wagging his tail more enthusiastically. "Right. Right. Because what other ghost wolf is going to appear in our hotel room?"

Diefenbaker looked smug, and Ray tried to glare at him, but it was hard to be mad at a ghost, especially one he could barely see, in a dim room with no glasses. If the wolf hadn't been white, Ray probably never would have known he was there.

He ran his hands through his hair. "You wanna come here? Come? Diefenbaker, come." He beckoned with his hand, but the wolf flattened himself against the wall. Diefenbaker knew what he was saying, but he wasn't having any of it. "Okay, okay, stay there, then." At that, the wolf took a step forward from the wall and wagged his tail, and Ray rolled his eyes. Mind of his own, that one, just like Fraser.

"So," Ray said, after a moment spent squinting across the room at the wolf. "You don't wanna come over here. But you're here. And I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm gonna be able to sleep with a dead wolf staring at me." Diefenbaker laid down and put one paw over his nose, and Ray smiled but shook his head. "Nah, I know how this works. You're a ghost. If you didn't wanna bother me, you'd just--poof--not bother me. You wanna bother me. But quietly, huh? We don't wanna wake Fraser."

Diefenbaker wagged his tail and Ray knew there was one offer no dog could refuse. He just hoped it worked on wolves, too. "Hey, boy, you wanna take a walk?" Diefenbaker's tail came up, waved like a banner, and then he bolted to the door and vanished.

Ray sat still a minute, blinking, and looked around his suddenly normal hotel room. Fraser was resting peacefully again on the other bed, bad dream over, undisturbed by Ray talking to ghosts. "Right," Ray whispered. "Right." He got up and got dressed, shoes and all. He even put his jacket on. He was just patting his pocket to make sure he had his wallet and his room key when the wolf's head reappeared, sticking right through the door, and Ray whispered, "I'm coming, I'm coming."

The wolf disappeared again, and Ray hesitated at the foot of Fraser's bed. Finally, he whispered, "If I'm unhinged, it's your fault," and then headed off after the wolf.

Ray stepped outside into the dazzling brightness of the anonymous hotel hallway, just like every other hallway in every other hotel he'd ever stayed in, except for Diefenbaker, waiting by the door to the stairs. He barked without sound, and Ray nodded. "Sure, you don't like elevators either, why am I not surprised?"

Diefenbaker disappeared through the door just when Ray got close enough to see a flash of silver in the wolf's fur, and then he stayed a flight ahead all the way down to the lobby. When they got there, Ray hesitated. He could see through the windows that it was pouring down rain, so an actual walk was out. If he caught the flu now, Coach would probably kill him.

The desk clerk was staring at him, and Ray sighed and walked over, Diefenbaker trailing after him. He was here with an Anglais team, he reminded himself. He ought to speak English. "Hey," he said, when the desk clerk met him at the counter. "Uh..."

"Is there anything you need, sir?" His English was accented but good, so Ray didn't have to feel guilty.

Ray smiled, as charmingly as he could manage at one-thirty in the morning. "I was just wondering," he said, turning to lean sideways against the counter, so that he could see the wolf sitting attentively six feet away, his tail thumping against the polished floor, "what the hotel policy on dogs is."

"Dogs," the clerk repeated, looking right through Diefenbaker as he tried to figure out whether to piss off the NHL player or his boss, which did make Ray feel guilty.

"I mean," Ray said, waving his hands around, making sure the clerk was looking toward where Diefenbaker was sitting. "Hypo--hypomanically. See, the thing is, I've been drinking." The clerk nodded cautiously to that, and Ray pushed on. "And we had a bet going, and one of the guys was sure you allowed pets. I thought it was just leader dogs."

"Ah, yes. You are correct. Only service dogs are permitted in the hotel, and they must be with their owners at all times."

Ray nodded. "So, uh, no exceptions for wolves or anything?"

The clerk blinked, and Ray could actually see the guy deciding to just humor him, because he was harmless. "No sir. No exceptions for wolves."

"Right," Ray said, and made sure to stumble a little as he stepped away from the counter. "Well, thanks. I'm just gonna sit down now."

The clerk nodded slowly, and Ray headed over to the tasteful comfy chairs and sat down. The wolf sat down in front of him, still about six feet away. Ray felt like he was dreaming, white ghost wolf almost glowing under the bright lobby lights, but he was too tired now not to be awake. "Okay," he said softly, after glancing around to make sure nobody was going to hear him talking to a wolf they couldn't see. "So what's up?"

Diefenbaker tilted his ears toward Ray, his tongue hanging out, and Ray ran his hands through his hair and wished for cigarettes. Among other things, he'd look like slightly less of a freak, sitting here smoking. "Come on, what is this, Lassie? I know Fraser's okay. I just saw him. You just saw him, and you didn't wake him up. So you wanna talk to me, is that it?"

Diefenbaker wagged his tail. "Okay, we're communicating, this is good, we can do this. Yes or no questions. Do you want me to leave Fraser alone?"

Diefenbaker went down into a crouch and bared his teeth, and Ray quickly put up his hands, palms out, placating. "Okay, so no, good, no. I don't wanna leave him alone either, all right? So you're okay with me, huh?" Dief straightened up and wagged his tail a little, uncertainly. "But you won't come near me, even though you can walk through walls." Dief wagged his tail for sure at that, but Ray didn't need to be told. He could see it.

"So that's, what, a habit left over from when you were alive? You don't like people too close. Makes sense, right? You're a wolf."

Diefenbaker shook himself at that, and at first Ray thought he was just shaking his head, but then he heard the jingle of tags, and saw the flash of silver. "Not all wolf, huh? A wolf wouldn't wear tags. And you like Fraser all right, because you were right by his bed and you're taking an interest in his love life. So it's just me you don't like?"

Dief laid down, curling up small, and hid his head under his paw again. "Yeah," he said, "Well, I get that. François only really trusted me for a long time, maybe you only really trust Fraser."

Ray had been behaving strangely all day--since the night before, in fact. He'd seemed shy of Ben all evening, almost skittish, but when he considered how Ray had ended their last night as roommates, Ben didn't find it surprising at all. He'd let Ray alone and gone to bed alone, but the strained atmosphere had invaded his sleep. He'd been restless all night, half-waking between jumbled dark dreams.

One had been particularly vivid. He'd dreamt of waking to find Ray gone, and that dream and the rest to follow had been filled with lurid, fantastical images of what Ray might have been doing. Ben had awoken frustrated and shamefully aroused, but the morning light had revealed the room in exactly the same state it had been when he'd gone to sleep, Ray sleeping blamelessly in the next bed, curled tight around a pillow with the covers drawn up to his ears. Ben had hurried off to shower, and only when he'd dressed and felt more in control of himself had he gone to Ray's bed to wake him. He'd been hesitant even to touch Ray to wake him and tugged on the covers instead. Ray had startled violently awake, and then bolted to the shower, babbling about running late though they were, in fact, in plenty of time.

The strained and wary distance between them had persisted all day. Ray had been watching him constantly, apparently too deep in thought to notice when Ben caught him at it. He only looked away when Ben said his name, and then shook his head mutely when Ben asked if something was the matter. Ben, for his part, had spent the entire day fighting the phantom recollection of Ray's empty bed in their dark hotel room, the ridiculous fears conjured by his subconscious mind.

All day, through morning skate and warmups and the interminable waiting-around time of a game day on the road, Ray had been keeping a watchful distance, and Ben had exhausted the benign possibilities for what he was thinking by ten in the morning. He'd been dwelling on other-than-benign possibilities ever since, starting with "Ray can't stand to be roommates after all" and working up from there to increasingly morbid heights.

By the end of the second period, when Welsh caught Ray coming into the tunnel and said, "Denny's getting iced, you'll have to do the French interview," the flash of panic Ben glimpsed on Ray's face was actually a welcome change from the day's pensive impenetrability.

Ray recovered quickly, nodding to Coach and proceeding down the corridor, past the locker room door, to the area designated for intermission interviews. The French reporter and cameraman were already there, and Ray removed his helmet as he walked, calling out "Âllo!" in a bright voice.

Ben hung back as the rest of the team filed into the locker room, and lingered at the doors, watching Ray get set up. Ray glanced back toward the locker room just then, and gave Ben a not-uninviting nod. After a day of alternating stares and evasions, it seemed like a hopeful sign, and Ben gave up all pretense of being on his way into the locker room, leaning against the wall and watching Ray.

He didn't look in Ben's direction again, focused wholly on the reporter. They were speaking softly, and Ben wasn't quite near enough to hear what they were saying, but it was clear that the reporter was going over the questions he'd be asking. Ray was nodding rapidly, mouthing words to himself, and then the cameraman was counting down and Ray was smiling gamely into the camera.

The first few questions went off without a hitch; even in Ray's rapid Joual, Ben could make out the cadences of rote answers--we've just got to play our system, we've got to get more shots on net, Eddie's playing great for us and we've got to back him up--and then the rhythm broke. Ray stumbled over his words and fell silent, and this time Ben couldn't do anything but watch. The reporter jumped in, made a joke of it, but Ben could hear the hollowness of Ray's answering laugh.

Another moment and the interview was over. The cameraman turned his light off. Ray murmured something polite to the reporter and turned away blinking, walking further down the corridor. Ben watched until the reporter had departed in the opposite direction, and then followed Ray. He found him around a corner in an empty alcove, leaning with his bare head against a painted cinder block wall. Ray didn't move as Ben approached him, though he stepped heavily enough to be audible. After a moment spent staring at the sweat dripping down Ray's neck, the flush slowly receding from his skin, Ben gently punched Ray's padded shoulder.

Ray turned toward him then, looking grimly ashamed, and tilted forward enough to lean himself against Ben instead of the wall, his face against Ben's plastic-padded shoulder. Ben raised one arm and wrapped it awkwardly around Ray. They weren't even touching, really, with the bulk of their equipment between them, but this was as near as they'd been all day. They both stank of sweat, and Ray's hair was wet against his cheek when Ben moved his head, but Ben didn't pull away. Ray's hand settled against his side, pressing against his jersey between the bottom of his pads and the top of his pants.

Ray started grimly on the beer in front of him, and thought that he should have known that Fraser asking him to come out for a drink after the game was an offer too good to be true. He'd had the same stale smile on his face ever since Smithbauer had greeted him with a backslap dead-center on the cross-checking bruises and a, "Hey, Kowie, long time no see." No use pointing out that Smithbauer had just seen him on the ice an hour ago, because Fraser was already going on about how he'd forgotten that they'd played together for those two years in the Eighties, and Ray was smiling and nodding on autopilot.

Luckily, nobody seemed to need him to say anything. Fraser occasionally made an attempt to include Ray in the conversation, but Ray didn't try very hard to get a word in edgewise past Smithbauer, and Smithbauer didn't make it easy. If he'd been up against Smithbauer while he was controlling the puck as tightly as he was holding on to Fraser, Ray would've been risking a concussion to get it away from him. As it was, he didn't think a punch to the head was completely out of the question, so he just kept quiet and matched Smithbauer drink for drink even after he lost track of how many he'd had, and waited for the end of the night, when he'd go back to the hotel with Fraser.

Ray shifted in his seat. It was getting harder to wait for that. Smithbauer kept looking at him, and Ray was starting to feel the beers he'd been putting away, and he was absolutely not going to take a piss anywhere Smithbauer could follow him, which meant he was just stuck sitting there squirming. Smithbauer, the fucker, knew it too. The instant Ray's empty glass hit the table, he said, "Another round?"

Fraser decided it was his turn to buy, even though he'd stopped drinking at two, and headed off to the bar, leaving Ray with Smithbauer. Ray was just wondering if there were enough innocent bystanders in the world to get Smithbauer to let him alone in the john when Smithbauer leaned into him. His hand under the table landed high on Ray's thigh, gripping him hard enough to nearly hurt, and he said, "Long time no see, Cup."

Stanley Cup Kowalski, Smithbauer had screamed once, wasted out of his mind, the only Stanley we'll see this year, so we'd better enjoy him. The other guys had laughed, and Ray had laughed too, because he'd had no fucking clue what else to do. God, he'd been glad to leave Winnipeg. "Yeah," he said, smiling the best he could with Smithbauer breathing on his face. "Long time."

"Listen, Kowie baby," Smithbauer said, and his hand slid up to the crease of Ray's hip. His fingers pressed so hard on the tendon that Ray's leg jerked under the table, and his breath went all uneven from the pain. "Bent is my best friend, so you'd better be making him happy, am I clear? I know exactly--" and suddenly his fingers loosened, and Ray's head fell back at the release of pressure, and he swallowed hard as Mark's hand slid down to the inside of his thigh. "--exactly how happy you can make a guy. And I want Bent to be happy. Understood?"

Ray licked his lips and said, "He's fucking happy, Smithbauer."

Mark's hand tightened again, just for a second, and then it was off his leg. Mark touched his thumb to the corner of Ray's mouth, knowingly, and Ray was too close to drunk to hide the way it made him shake. Mark laughed in his ear, and Ray smiled, because he could not punch Fraser's best friend in the middle of a Winnipeg hockey bar, and he still, eleven years later, had no fucking clue what else to do.

Ben was listening, all the way to the bar, for a fight to break out at the table behind him. Dief had been huddling under his seat nearly since they arrived, and his distress had finally become too palpable for Ben to ignore, so he'd fled the table with the wolf at his heels.

It had seemed, beforehand, like a good idea, or at least not a tremendously bad one. He customarily met Mark after the game when they played against each other, and often enough over the years he or Mark had brought along a few teammates who were also acquainted. Ray had played with Mark for two years, and Ben hadn't been aware of any particular animosity between them that had sprung up since then.

He reached the bar without hearing anything untoward, pressed through the crush and called out his order. He felt a weight on his feet and looked down to see Dief, curled up impossibly small and looking up at him reproachfully. Ben grimaced.

It was true; he'd had an ulterior motive. He and Ray had been in this relationship--precise nature still unspecified--for a couple of weeks now. Things seemed to be going well enough, but Ben had no faith in his own judgement in these matters. He hadn't told Mark about him and Ray, but he knew that Mark knew him well enough to grasp the situation quickly once they met.

Mark hadn't, in that respect, disappointed him, but the tension between him and Ray had been instantly apparent. Ray, usually almost frantically good-natured and talkative in the company of others, had gone virtually mute; Mark, never much of a conversationalist, had talked non-stop. Ben had played along, waiting with a sick sense of dread for one of them to issue a challenge and take it outside.

Waiting for the beers he'd ordered, Ben dared to look back toward the table, not hoping for more than that the hostilities there had remained in a stalemate. Instead, he saw Mark leaning bodily against Ray, his hand on Ray somewhere under the table. Ray's head was tilted back, his lips parted as he gasped for breath, his hands fisted on the table. Before the sight had even quite registered, Ben looked away, staring blindly at the bar, and the two full glasses awaiting him.

His wife had had the distinction of being one of few women--if not the only one--he'd ever been involved with who Mark had not contrived to steal away from him. Ben hadn't minded the others; it had saved him awkward departures from passionless liaisons, dutiful attempts to live up to the expectations of all around him. His wife had been the only woman he ever loved, and Mark had respected that distinction. He might not realize that Ben did not wish to be rescued from Ray.

Ben closed his hands around the drinks and looked down to his feet, but Dief was gone. As he turned back, he saw that Ray and Mark had subsided into their earlier poses, Ray staring fixedly at the table, Mark looking supremely pleased with himself. Perhaps it was simpler than that; they had played together for those two years in Winnipeg, after all. Ray would have been freshly separated from Louis, and Mark had always been Mark. It suddenly seemed obvious, inevitable, that they had been lovers once. Viewed from that perspective, Ben was more an interloper here than Mark was.

He had nearly reached the table. Ben pasted a smile on his face and set down the drinks. Ray took his quickly, and Ben pretended not to notice the slight unsteadiness of his hand. Mark said something cheerful, his words half-laughed, and Ben responded in kind, though he had no idea what either of them said. He couldn't take his eyes off Ray, but Ray never looked back at him, only raising his eyes from his drink to take brief furtive looks at Mark as he shifted restlessly in his seat.

The levels in their glasses dropped slowly as Ben watched; his throat grew dry with constant talking, and he could have wished for another drink of his own, to ease him along. He was starting to entertain fantasies of bodily dragging Ray out of the bar and back to their hotel before another round could be ordered when Mark finished off his beer and stood up. "Well, boys, I think it's about time to get out of here."

For one terrible moment, Ben thought that Mark would, as he sometimes had in the past, suggest retiring back to his place. Instead he winked at Ben, and gave Ray a familiar, knowing look that made Ben's guts twist. "You guys have a good night, huh? Don't miss your bus in the morning."

Ben mouthed some inanity, watching the blatant way Ray's eyes followed Mark out of the bar. Ray drained his glass and finally met Ben's eyes. "Okay," Ray said, "Let's go."

Just that. Nothing more. Ben felt a surge of frustration, even anger, but he fought it down. He had no reason to expect Ray to say more; Ray had no idea that he'd seen anything, that there was anything to explain. Ben nodded and stood, and Ray got up and shrugged into his jacket. They headed out the door to the street. Ray was walking very quickly, and Ben fell a little behind as they pushed through the crush of patrons. Out on the sidewalk, it became clear that Ray's quick stride was merely a means of keeping his balance. He stumbled badly, coming to a stop near the curb, and Ben took two quick strides to catch up with him, throwing his arms around Ray with no particular concern for how it looked, so long as he didn't go tumbling into the street.

He felt Ray startle at the touch, and he was barely steadied on his feet before he was fighting free of Ben's grip. Ben took a quick step back, spreading his hands, and caught an odd hunted look in Ray's eyes as they scanned the sidewalk. Did he fear exposure, here? It wasn't altogether unreasonable, and Ray was obviously worse off for drink than had been apparent as they sat at the table.

"Ray," he said softly, "Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray."

Ray's eyes only slowly tracked back to him, still searching for something or someone else on the sidewalk. "Frase."

Ben closed a little of the distance between them, but Ray swayed away and took a short step back, wrapping his arms around himself as the breeze picked up. The temperature was slightly below freezing, and Ray's head and hands were bare, his body's systems depressed by the rapid intake of alcohol and the cumulative exhaustion of a long day and a long road trip. His jacket might be adequate if it were zipped up, but Ben doubted that Ray could manage that at the moment; it seemed even less likely that he would allow Ben to get close enough to do it for him. Ray started to shiver visibly as Ben watched. Ben was struck with the ridiculousness of their position; had they been only teammates, Ben could have tucked his intoxicated companion close to his body, zipped his jacket for him, warmed his hands. As it was, he could only look around for a cab and hope his desperation didn't show on his face.

Thankfully, one appeared in short order, and Ben managed to resist the impulse to bodily tuck Ray inside. Their ride to the hotel was shorter than their wait on the sidewalk. Ray sat the whole time hunched forward, and despite the warmth of the car's interior, he was still shivering as Ben paid the driver. "Ray," he said softly, and Ray looked up at him without comprehension for a moment, then slid down the seat and made his way without serious mishap out onto the sidewalk.

The hotel lobby was quiet, and they got an elevator to themselves. Ray stood in one corner, watching the numbers changing, shifting rapidly from foot to foot, and Ben leaned in the opposite corner and watched Ray. When the doors opened, Ray all but bolted, but went left--the direction their room in Ottawa had been from the elevator--instead of right. "Ray, Ray, Ray--" Ben caught up with him and caught him by one arm, pulling him around, and as he had outside the bar, Ray startled at the touch and quickly jerked free.

They stood facing each other in silence for a moment, Ray breathing rapidly and still shivering, and then Ben said, "This way," and led off toward their room. Ray followed close on his heels.

Ray kept his distance as Ben unlocked the door, and Ben moved quickly inside, going to his bed and turning on the light there. He heard the double slam of doors as Ray shut their room door behind him and bolted into the bathroom. Ben shrugged out of his jacket and toed off his shoes, and then went to the bathroom door and listened for any sign that Ray was in distress, but what he heard was perfectly normal.

It did explain the squirming.

The sound of the toilet flushing was followed by the sound of the sink running, and then the door burst open, showing Ray silhouetted by the bright light of the bathroom. He hesitated in the doorway long enough for Ben to notice that he'd shed his jacket, and that he was smiling for the first time in hours, and then Ray stumbled forward, coming to a halt a breath away from Ben and kissing him.

Ray's mouth was coolly wet, the metallic taste of tap water overlaying the flavor of the beer he'd been drinking. Ray's hands, running quickly over Ben's chest and sides in rather frantic caresses, still felt cold. Ben pulled back enough to say, "Shhh," and then he caught Ray's face between his hands.

Ray turned his head so that Ben's thumb was just at the corner of his mouth, shuddered and then went still, his hands knotting in Ben's shirt. Ben kissed him slowly, thoroughly, sliding his hands down Ray's throat, over his shoulders and down his back, pulling him at last into full-body contact. As though that were an awaited signal, Ray began to move, his mouth skidding down to Ben's throat, his hands resuming their frenetic motions. Ben slid his hands down from the small of Ray's back to his hips, pulling him closer, thrusting reflexively.

His own burgeoning erection met no answering hardness, and he went still, his hands resting lightly on Ray's body. Ray's hands were under his shirt, Ray's mouth at the edge of his t-shirt collar, and Ben pulled back a half-step. "Ray," he said, but he followed doggedly.

"Please," Ray whispered, "C'mon, Fraser, please, anything--"

"Ray--" Ben repeated, at a loss, as Ray breathed, "Fuck me," against his skin.

Ben slid one hand around to the front of Ray's jeans, still unfastened from his trip to the bathroom. Under his hand, Ray's penis remained unresponsive, while Ray's whispers and touches grew only more desperate. "Whatever you want, Frase--"

"Ray." Ben got a hand around each of Ray's arms and bodily pushed him back, and Ray went rigidly still, his biceps hard under Ben's hands and his fists clenching quickly, then relaxing. A small tremor shook him, though he ought to have warmed up by now. He met Ben's eyes for a moment, then looked away, but he didn't free himself from Ben's grip as he had earlier.

Ben felt well out of his depth, unequal to dealing with whatever was driving Ray tonight. "I'm tired," he said finally, honestly. "I just want to go to sleep."

He felt Ray's flinch as much as saw it, and then Ray did pull away, shoulders slumping. Ben caught him before he'd gone a step, laying one hand lightly on his shoulder. When Ray looked at him again he clarified, "Together. Please."

Ray blinked at him. They hadn't yet shared a bed all night in a hotel. It had seemed simpler not to; Ray had seemed to expect to sleep separately, whatever else they did, and they hadn't made a habit of sleeping over at home. "Yeah," Ray said, sounding as weary as Ben felt, turning away again as he pulled his shirt off, "Yeah, okay."

Ben let him go. He made his own quick visit to the bathroom and shut off the light as he came out. Ray's clothes were in a heap on the floor, and Ben dropped his own on top of them before crawling into the bed Ray was already lying in. He was stretched out well to one side, his eyes closed, perfectly still. Ben leaned across him to shut off the light, and then, with as much impunity as if he had actually believed Ray to be asleep, he dragged Ray into his arms, tangling their legs together, and tucked the blankets around them both.

Ray kept up the act for a moment, and then shifted around and raised one hand cautiously, feeling his way to Ben's face. His thumb found the corner of Ben's mouth, and Ben's lips parted at the touch, a moment before Ray's mouth found his. Ray kissed him carefully, only his mouth moving against Ben's while he held otherwise perfectly still, as though one of them were in danger of breaking. Ben returned every kiss until Ray fell asleep in his arms between one breath and the next.

"Fraser," Ray said, not bothering to hide his grin, "how is it possible for you to suck this much at pool?"

Fraser looked up from considering his shot--he had three options, Ray could see, and all of them were pretty hopeless--and said patiently, as if Ray were particularly slow, "I play hockey for a living, Ray. Not pool, although I grant you the two are very easily confused." He leaned back down over the table, lining up the most hopeless of all his hopeless shots.

Ray rolled his eyes. "Fraser, don't. Go for the six, for God's sake, that way at least you won't sink the eight ball." Normally, he'd just let someone make a mistake like that, let them put themselves out of their misery--but he got to play pool with Fraser about as often as Coach gave them a day off. He wanted to stretch both out as much as he could.

Fraser didn't straighten up, just looked up at Ray from where he was bent over the table, and Ray had to look away and take a swig of his mostly-warm American beer before he could keep talking. "And I know they're different, but--hockey and pool, it's all shots and angles."

Fraser took the slightly-less-hopeless shot, completely missed the six, but also managed not to sink either of the two balls Ray still had on the table. He sunk the cue ball instead. "Ah," Fraser said, straightening up, "Another bite."

"Scratch, Fraser," Ray corrected, squinting at him, trying to see some sign that he was sandbagging. He couldn't possibly be this bad at pool. Maybe he had some kind of special Canadian jet lag, from coming back over the border from Winnipeg this morning. "Another scratch." Ray fished the cue ball out and glanced back toward the door to the ladies room, which was just opening on a couple of women coming out. "And heads up."

Fraser looked over in that direction and smiled, all game face. They had figured out, without really discussing it, that they could play pool at the bar together if they also remembered to flirt with girls at the same time. Fraser had found probably the only chick in all of Chicago who really just wanted to hear nonstop stories about playing for the Oilers and exchange shy smiles with Fraser while he bought her endless Shirley Temples.

Ray's was a little more forward-thinking. He was just getting set up when she grabbed his ass, and his shot went wild. He sunk the eight and the cue ball both, and Fraser's girl giggled. Ray glared at Fraser, who smiled, blinking innocently, and said, "Ah. I believe I win, then?"

"No," Ray said sharply, "You do not win, Fraser. I lose."

Fraser tilted his head to one side. "Well, Ray, that's an interesting philosophical--"

Ray glared harder, and Fraser shut his mouth abruptly with a tiny smile. Ray turned away fast, before he completely forgot that he was standing in a sports bar in Chicago with at least half a dozen members of his team--not to mention a hundred innocent bystanders--looking on.

That put him face to face with the girl. He was halfway certain her name was Laura. She'd had three drinks in the last hour. She bit her lip and smiled at him, and Ray just knew she was a heartbeat away from saying something about being a bad, bad girl. He remembered to smile, and leaned back against the table. "Well, I guess I'm not playing pool anymore."

Behind him, he heard Fraser getting towed toward the bar, launching into yet another story about hockey up north, and in front of him, probably-Laura licked her lips. "Guess we'll have to find some other way to keep you entertained," she said. Ray wondered, idly, if she was actually a hooker, or just did a really great impression when she was drunk.

"Yeah," he said, and looked around the bar. The other guys were busy with the chicks they'd picked up, and not just for show. Nobody was paying attention to him, except probably Fraser, so now would be as good a time to ditch her as any. "You wanna take this outside?"

She smiled wider and led the way to the door, pulling Ray along by the hand. It was chilly outside but not as cold as it had been in Winnipeg, and the wind wasn't so bad close to the building. She pulled him away from the door, around a corner and into the alley. He didn't know exactly what she was expecting--he'd never picked up hockey groupies while he was with Stella, because that would've been cheating--but he had to make this look good. She'd be back here next week, picking up one of his teammates, and he didn't need her telling the wrong kind of stories. She turned around just at the edge of the pool of streetlight, slid her arms up around his neck and kissed him.

She tasted like the fruity drinks he'd been buying her, plus mint gum and cigarettes, and her lips slid on his, slick with gloss. He had to duck his head to kiss her, and when he slid his arms around her she was small, smaller than Stella even. He pulled her closer, right up against him, let her think his dick was half-hard for some reason other than that he'd been playing pool with Fraser for close to an hour. She mmmed against his mouth and then broke the kiss, and Ray instantly stretched his neck back and took a clear breath of cold night air. She was kissing his throat--right where Fraser liked to kiss him, and it wasn't fucking fair that she could kiss him right here on the street like this, while Fraser had to pretend to be halfway interested in that girl inside--and her breath was hot and cold on his skin.

She pushed up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, dragging herself up against his body--she was warm, and another body, and he rocked against her for that much, but it was all wrong. He was already trying to figure out how to scare her off when she whispered against his ear, "Hey, Ray-Kay, I'm a big fan, baby. Whatever you want--"

Ray pulled away quickly, his heart pounding suddenly, his face flushing. Whatever you want-- "What the hell kind of thing is that to say?" he snapped. She was staring at him like he'd just grown a second--third?--head, but fuck it, he'd done his bit, and he had to get rid of her somehow. "Do you just go around saying that to people? I'm a total fucking stranger, kid, you shouldn't go offering that--"

She rolled her eyes. "You're a total fucking freak is what you are. Jeez."

In the confined spaces of the car and the elevator, Ben could smell her on Ray. In the bright lights of the corridor, he could see that Ray's lips were reddened with kissing, and that there was a faint but jarring smear of pink on Ray's throat. When he looked down to unlock the door, Ray stood at his side, hips rocking as he shifted restlessly from foot-to-foot, and Ben couldn't help but see the bulge in his jeans. Inspired by her, perhaps, but Ray was here now, with him.

Ben ushered Ray in ahead of him, and turned immediately to lock the door, so he needn't be distracted later. He was taking off his coat and toeing off his shoes as he turned around, and Ray was doing the same, one hand flat against the wall for balance. Ben managed to keep himself still until Ray straightened up, and then he was in motion, pressing Ray up against the wall, catching both his hands and pressing them against the wall above his head. Ray's hands jerked against his, but Ben pushed back hard and they went still.

He kissed Ray fiercely, hungrily, thrusting his tongue into Ray's mouth, chasing down the taste of her, which gave way quickly to the familiar invitation of Ray's tongue and lips and teeth. He tore his mouth away when he had to breathe, and shifted his grip on Ray's hands to one hand, though only a token pressure was required to keep them against the wall now.

His free hand slid down Ray's arm, down his side, to the place where his shirt, pulled up by the position of his arms, bared a line of skin above his jeans. Ray shuddered as Ben dragged his knuckles along that narrow nakedness, his breath stuttering and then catching as Ben's hand slid down to the front of Ray's jeans, cupping him through the rough cloth. Ray's eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the wall as his hips jerked against Ben's palm.

Ben pressed his tongue hard at the pulse point just under his jaw, and felt Ray's heartbeat hammering just beneath the skin. He mouthed lower, licking away the waxy residue of lipstick on Ray's throat, listening to the quick rasp of Ray's shallow breath. When his tongue found only the clean taste of Ray's sweat, he kissed the spot, sucking at Ray's skin hard enough to mark him. He stroked Ray's cock roughly through denim, sweat-damp from both sides, ignoring the throb of his own erection. Ray's fingers closed spasmodically around his hand, and Ben pulled back, gave the already-darkening mark on Ray's throat a last lick, and shifted his grip to Ray's wrist, turning to tow him down the hall to the bedroom.

The room was neat as always, and Ben grabbed a handful of the quilt and yanked it down to the foot of the bed, hauling Ray forward and swinging him onto the bed. Ben stood still, just for a second, staring down at Ray's wide eyes staring up at him, and then Ray fell back onto his elbows, spread out before him, and Ben was moving again.

He knelt between Ray's thighs, reaching out to jerk his shirt off over his head, and as Ray was falling back to the mattress Ben was already unbuttoning Ray's pants, pulling them quickly down and off. Two impatient tugs disposed of Ray's socks, and then he was naked on the bed, his cock standing while the rest of him lay pliant, arms flung out, feet dangling off the edge of the bed. His head was tipped back, his eyes closed, and he was biting his lip, breathing rapidly through his nose. Ben undressed quickly and moved over him, catching Ray's hands where they lay and pinning them. Ray bucked beneath him, turning his head as he did, but Ben held him easily. Sweat slicked the space between their palms, but Ben's grip was sure. His mouth found Ray's again, and he licked at the juncture of teeth and lip until Ray opened to him. Ben pushed his tongue inside, shoving his hips against Ray's at the same time, his cock skidding across the soft skin of Ray's belly, muscle tight and hard beneath. Ray moved in echo beneath him, the heat of his erection moving erratically against Ben's hip.

Ben squeezed tight with his right hand and then let go, reaching down between their bodies to stroke Ray's cock in quick hard movements. He pulled his mouth from Ray's to hear him gasping in time to Ben's touch, and then Ben let go of him altogether, kneeling up, gasping for breath himself.

Ray's eyes stayed closed and his hands stayed still on the bed as though Ben still held him there, and Ben couldn't wait anymore. He set one hand on Ray's side and the other on his hip and flipped him, in one forceful motion, onto his stomach. Ray's hips rocked minutely against the bed, and Ben left him to it for a moment, moving up to the night stand for supplies.

He leaned over Ray, catching his wrists together in one hand. Ray bucked up against his grip, his back bowing as his forehead pressed down against the mattress, and Ben lowered himself closer, thrusting against the cleft of his buttocks, licking hard at the edge of a faded bruise on Ray's back.

He kneed Ray's legs further apart, and Ray spread himself, his breath coming faster. Ben slicked two fingers and eased them into him, and Ray shivered beneath him as his fingers worked. He pulled them free, and used his teeth to tear open the condom, spitting a strip of foil down onto Ray's back, placing a little more of his weight on the hand holding Ray's wrists as he worked one-handed to ready himself. Ray was still beneath him, except for the quick rise and fall of his back as he breathed, and the minute metronome rocking of his hips.

Ben entered him quickly, roughly, and Ray gave a quickly-muffled moan. He knew he ought to be more careful, but it was a remote sort of knowledge, far from the frantic motion of his hips, his cock gripped tight inside Ray's body.

Ray twisted his face free of the mattress and took a long shuddering gasp just as Ben felt him come. He moved more slowly as Ray's body shuddered around him, his hands clenching hard on Ray's wrists and hip, gritting his teeth against the enticement of Ray's orgasm. He thrust slowly into Ray as Ray went still, trying to be gentler now and failing. Ben's climax rushed in on him, his hips jerking raggedly, his cock sliding quickly in the shuddering heat of Ray's body. He held himself still above Ray for a long suspended moment, trying desperately to catch his breath, and then he pulled free and rolled away. His eyes slid shut even as his hands went through the motions of dealing with the condom, his brain already fogging with sleep. He felt a sudden flurry of motion and turned his head, blinking his eyes open to see Ray lying on the far edge of the bed on his side, facing away, his shoulders hunched.

Ray's posture was like a punch in the gut, and adrenaline flooded his system. Ben was suddenly coldly awake. "Ray?" he said, and reached across the space between them, not quite touching Ray's back.

Ray shook his head quickly, a short sharp motion against the pillow, and raised one hand, fingers spread, in a painfully clear gesture of stop. Ben barely breathed, waiting for the explosion, the fingers of his extended hand curling in.

But Ray's voice, when it came, sometime after Ben had counted a hundred, was small and strained. "Don't, uh, don't do that again." He was silent for the space of a few visibly deep breaths. "Don't hold me down like that, okay? I don't--" Ray took another breath, and held it this time. The movement of his shoulders suggested that he was rubbing his wrists.

"Ray, why didn't you say something?" Ben's panic was fading rapidly into guilt and a little frustration. This needn't have happened. He would have stopped--he would have slowed down--if Ray had simply said something.

"I'm saying something," Ray said. "Right now. It's not a big deal--" Ben could see every muscle in Ray's back and shoulders, tensed as though he were awaiting a blow, as though he were bracing to run. "I just don't like it."

"Ray, all you had to say was no." His voice was rising sharply, in tandem with his anger. Of all the stupid things. "Why on Earth did you let me--"

"Fraser, just--" Ray's voice sounded stronger now, closer to anger himself, and that was better, anything was better than Ray small and quiet and broken--if Ben could just get him talking...

"Honestly, Ray, I don't understand. Why would you let me upset you? That's not--not buddies, Ray--"

Ray woke up with a hard dick pressed against his ass, and his stomach clenched with dread--this was how it started, half the time, having to share beds on the road, half-fucked before you even knew what was happening and then aww, hey, be a good sport. At almost the same instant he realized that he was--shitfuckidiotneverdrinkingagain--naked, and that he was--okay, okay, everything's okay--sleeping with Fraser. He couldn't stop himself from tensing, his heart racing with the panic he didn't need. He forced himself to relax, hoping he hadn't woken Fraser.

Fraser's arm over his waist tightened, and Fraser hmmed softly a few inches from Ray's ear, but he didn't wake up. Ray shifted back against him as his heart eased down from that wake-up jolt of adrenaline. Fraser was warm and solid at his back, and Ray burrowed his face into the pillow and yawned, pressing closer.

A stray twinge reminded him, from the ass up, of exactly how the night before had gone, and Ray made himself lie still again. It had been dumb to say anything--he'd half expected Fraser to point out the wet spot on the bed that proved he must like it at least a little--but, all things considered, it hadn't gone so badly. Dumb to get scared like that anyway, after it was over, when it was Fraser, and he knew--he did know--that Fraser wouldn't really hurt him. Afterward, Fraser had stayed perfectly still under him, like he thought one wrong move would send Ray screaming into the night.

So Fraser had spooked him, and he'd spooked Fraser right back, and odds were good that Fraser was going to try to back off on him again, once he woke up. He'd be all careful and considerate and probably downright gentlemanly and Ray wouldn't get laid for days.

Except Fraser wasn't feeling too considerate right now, was he? Right now, Fraser was exactly where Ray wanted him. All he had to do was figure out a way to keep him there. Ray reached back and slid a hand over the hot smooth skin of Fraser's hip to his ass, and pulled them a little tighter together. Fraser made a half-awake sound, and Ray felt the muscle under his hand tighten as Fraser's hips rocked against him, his hard-on sliding against Ray's ass. Fraser's hand slid down Ray's belly, maddeningly close to Ray's dick, Ray's own morning hard-on. It was definitely time to wake him up.

Ray twisted, ignoring the cold air that snuck down his shoulder blades when he moved away from Fraser, until he could see Fraser's face. "Hey," he whispered, flexing his ass back against Fraser's cock, "Fraser. Frase."

He saw Fraser's eyes flash open--a wide blur of blue in Ray's peripheral vision--and felt him go completely rigid. Ray twisted back into place, his back hard against Fraser's chest, and caught Fraser's wrist before he could pull his arm off Ray. Before Fraser could respond, Ray dragged his hand down--to his dick, this time, while he was calling the shots. Fraser's palm barely touched him, but he couldn't choke back a groan, his hand on Fraser's wrist tightening hard, then relaxing as he realized what he was doing. Not fair. Fraser's hand closed slowly, carefully, around his dick, like Fraser had never done this before, and Ray thrust into his loose grip. "C'mon," Ray whispered, sliding his hand up and down Fraser's forearm.

But Fraser's hand on his dick was still, and behind him, Fraser stayed frozen as Ray ground back against him. Still hard, though, and that was something. "Ray," Fraser said, his voice strangled and confused.

Ray ducked his head to be sure of hiding his face, and kept his hand sliding back and forth on Fraser's arm. "Come on, Frase, this is a series, isn't it? Gimme best two out of three, at least." No single elimination here, no one bad game was going to be the end of them, Fraser would understand him when he said it like that.

Fraser did relax a little, then, enough to close his hand properly on Ray's cock, and when he spoke, Ray could feel the words against the back of his neck. It was so distracting that it took him a minute to realize that Fraser had said, quietly but straight out, "You could fuck me."

His heart skipped, and his cock jumped. God, that would be... But his brain--and his mouth--raced ahead of his dick, for once, and Ray said, "What, like paybacks?"

Fraser didn't say anything, didn't move a muscle, his arm hard under Ray's hand. Ray took a deep, steadying breath and then shook his head. "Not now, Fraser, not because you think you owe me something. I want you to fuck me, because I like it when you fuck me."

Still nothing from Fraser, except the steady beat of his breath against the back of Ray's neck. Ray swallowed hard and wished he'd had coffee before he had to deal with this and said, "Come on, Frase, don't make me beg, that's not--"

He ran out of words, then, because Fraser was kissing the back of his neck, just at the tickly spot where the hair stopped, and his hand on Ray's dick tightened and stroked, one, two, three times. Ray gasped at the sudden rush of sensation, his eyes clenching shut, his toes curling. Then Fraser was leaning over him--Ray rolled half onto his stomach, drawing up his right knee to prop himself--to the bedside table, grabbing the stuff that was still out from the night before.

Ray shivered a little as the cool air touched him where Fraser knocked the blanket off. It was almost too hot under the covers, sharing heat with Fraser, and the contrast was startling. Fraser tugged the covers up over them both as he settled into place against Ray's back, his cock hot and hard against Ray's hip. He ran one big warm hand over Ray's shoulder, like an apology to his skin, and then lower, fingers ghosting over the bruises on his back. He stroked down Ray's lower back to his ass, spreading him more, and Ray pulled his leg up higher to hold the position.

Fraser's hand kept moving, though, down to his hip, his fingertips just hooking over Ray's hipbone, and then his hand was climbing. He pressed just hard enough against Ray's belly to keep from tickling, and then Fraser reached out to Ray's hand and covered it, twining their fingers together as he kissed the point of Ray's jaw, just under his ear, breath hot on Ray's face. Ray closed his eyes and tightened his fingers against Fraser's, and then Fraser tugged their hands down and down, to wrap around Ray's cock. Ray thrust shallowly into that pressure, Fraser's fingers hard against his, and then Fraser, still kissing him, his cock pressing in tiny motions against Ray's hip, pulled his hand away. He did it slowly, stroking Ray's hand, pressing it into place, and Ray understood. They only had two hands free between them; Fraser needed him to do this part.

Fraser's hand left him for a moment, and then Ray heard the muffled pop of the lube being opened under the covers. He stilled his hand on his dick and pressed his face into the pillow, barely breathing as he waited, and Fraser's breath against his neck sped up. One finger, sloppy-slick, pressed into him slowly. Ray remembered to breathe, remembered to relax, and it only ached a little--he'd be sore, later, but he'd played through worse for less cause. Fraser's finger moved in him, and Ray couldn't hold back a little startled sound. Fraser kissed him again on the back of his neck as he eased another slippery finger inside. He was moving them around and that was--oh, that was better. Ray had to take his face out of the pillow to breathe now, gasping cold air, his hand moving on his dick slowly, so slowly, his whole arm tensed so hard with control that it almost hurt. Fraser added another finger, and a twisting motion, and Ray bit his lip hard, forcing himself to be still, be patient.

Then, finally, Fraser's fingers slid free of him. Fraser pressed the heel of his hand against the back of Ray's thigh and his cock against Ray's ass and pushed in, slow and steady. Ray held his breath and kept his head ducked down, because it hurt, but not enough for him to want Fraser to know, not now, and it was good, so good, so exactly what he needed. When Fraser was all the way inside and Ray had started breathing again, Fraser's hand moved to his hip, pulling Ray back as Fraser rolled up onto his side. Ray hooked his leg over Fraser's thighs, and Fraser angled himself, so Ray was resting on him just a little. Ray breathed out a long sigh, Fraser's cock inside him pressing at just the right angle, and then Fraser's slick hand closed around Ray's dick, and Ray closed his eyes and gave himself up.

Fraser's left hand reached down from somewhere under the pillow their heads rested on, flattening against Ray's chest over his heart, and Ray twisted his own hand back, searching for Fraser's skin, closing around his arm and holding on. His free hand slid back and rested on Fraser's hip as Fraser started to fuck him slow and careful, like he didn't have another thing in the world to do but this, forever and ever. Pain receded into slow-burning pleasure, and Fraser's hand moved as steadily as his cock. Ray could feel everything--the way Fraser's abs tightened as he moved his hips, the way Fraser's breath sped up and up, hot against his skin, even the motion of Fraser's eyelashes as he kissed Ray's back. He knew Fraser could feel him too, his heart beating under Fraser's hand, his dick in Fraser's grip, his ass tight on Fraser's cock. It was good, it was greatness.

But it couldn't last forever, and when Fraser's breath hitched, Ray pulled with his hand on Fraser's ass as Fraser pushed into him, clenching down tight around Fraser's cock. Fraser gasped and made his first uncareful move of the morning, thrusting harder as he came, and Ray smiled. Fraser didn't pull away when he finished, but stayed still, only his hand on Ray's cock moving, and his tongue against the nape of Ray's neck. "Come on," he breathed against Ray's ear, stroking his thumb over the head of Ray's dick, "don't make me beg--"

Ray didn't. His hips jerked and he was coming, with Fraser still in him, Fraser's husky morning-rough voice in his ear.

He woke up again as Fraser slowly and carefully pulled out. Fraser's hands met a little in front of his face to tie off the condom and toss it expertly into a trash can by the night stand, and Ray blinked, impressed. He could barely read the clock at this point. He rolled onto his back, into the hot space where Fraser had been lying, which left Fraser propped above him. Ray slung one arm up around Fraser's neck and pulled him down to kiss his mouth for the first time that morning.

"M'gonna take a shower," he said, when they broke apart to breathe. He wasn't sure about the whole getting-up process, but hot water would feel good. "I think I need a shower."

Fraser looked down at him steadily, half-smiling, and dropped another quick kiss on Ray's mouth before he said, "I'll make you some coffee. And find you something soft to sit on."

And then he rolled away and was gone, leaving Ray cold on the bed with no choice but to go shower and warm up again. Bastard. Ray smiled at Fraser's back and rolled to his feet, thinking that he could probably stand to quit drinking coffee if every day started like this.

Ben forced himself to keep his back turned as he pulled on some clothes, listening as Ray padded into the bathroom. When the door closed, Ben grabbed the sweatpants Ray had borrowed once before and tossed them on the foot of the bed. He headed out to the living room, collected a small pillow and turned up the thermostat to a level that ought to be comfortable for Ray. As the heat kicked on, he moved to the kitchen, setting the pillow on the chair he'd begun, secretly, foolishly, to think of as Ray's. He found the coffee, mixed a cup, and set it in the microwave, arranging the box of Smarties and teaspoon on the counter.

He set the spoon beside the candy, then on top of the box, then flipped it over. Perhaps he should have bought sugar, instead of more candy; perhaps he ought to have bought better coffee than the instant with which Ray had had to make do last time.

Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath, bracing his hands apart on the counter. He was being ridiculous. It had been fairly obvious, from the look on Ray's face, that coffee was the least of his concerns. Hard as it was to believe, he seemed to have quite sincerely forgiven Ben for the previous night's misstep. As Ray had said, they would take this one game at a time. One day at a time.

Ben opened his eyes, and found his gaze drawn irresistibly to the phone. This day, of course, was far from over. He hesitated a moment, listening, but he could still hear the water running in the bathroom; Ray had shown a marked propensity to luxuriate in long, hot showers when he had the time. Ben picked up the phone and dialed.

Mark answered on the third ring, sounding half asleep. "Lo?"

"Mark," Ben said, in a carefully controlled voice, "good morning."

Mark said, "Good morn--" and then stopped short. There was a brief silence on the other end, and then Mark said, equally carefully, "Is it, Ben?"

Ben blew out a breath, scrubbing one hand over his face, and leaned against the counter. "It is, actually." The kitchen was warming up to a quite decadent level, morning light was shining in through the balcony door, and Ray was taking a shower in his bathroom. Ray had reached for him this morning, had smiled at him, had...

Ben pulled himself back to the conversation at hand. "It is," he repeated. "It's good to be home."

"Yeah," Mark agreed slowly, feeling his way, "Road trips are rough."

Ben nodded, choosing his words. "Well, apparently Ray has some less-than-pleasant memories of his time in Winnipeg, so he wasn't quite himself while we were there, and it's hard for me to be happy when he isn't."

The silence stretched a long time, and then Mark, in a small low voice, said, "Fuck, Bent--fuck."

Ben sighed. "He won't speak about it, as a point of honor, and he assures me that you did nothing wrong."

"Bent--if I'd known the other night--hell, he still calls you Fraser, I thought it was just--"

"It isn't just," Ben said firmly, not allowing himself to consider Mark's perfectly apt point. It probably didn't mean anything. They were a series. They were a thing. "I love him," he said, in a much smaller voice.

He had loved her, too, and she had come between them for a time, but not forever. It was Mark who had been there, after. It was Mark who had brought him back to himself, had pushed him to accept the comfort he had needed. If they fought over Ray, Ben would have no one left to catch him when it was over.

Mark let out a breath. "Bent--I was drunk the other night, you know I'm an ass when I'm drunk--tell him for me, if I said anything shitty, I didn't mean it, okay?"

Ben let out his own held breath, relief welling in his chest like a physical thing, cool and light. "I will, Mark."

"Thanks. I gotta get to practice, Ben, I'll talk to you later, right?"

"Of course," Ben said, and they hung up at the same moment.

He'd just made it to the table and sat down when Ray came in, his damp hair standing in spikes, wearing Ben's sweatpants cinched tight around his narrow hips. Ray smiled as he walked over to the microwave, and ran his fingers across the bruise on his throat. Ben swallowed and looked away, listening as Ray checked the contents of the microwave and then started it up. He was most heartily forgiven, it seemed, and he bit down on the impulse to apologize for the mark, knowing it would take the smile from Ray's face. He didn't--entirely--regret it, anyway.

Ray came over and sat down on his cushioned seat, alternately dropping Smarties into his coffee and eating them. Ben waited till he'd finished preparing his coffee and had his first sip before he said, "Mark was on the phone. He said to tell you he was sorry about anything inappropriate he might have said the other night when he was drunk."

Ray's smile vanished anyway, replaced with a searching look, and Ben looked back steadily, trying to give away no more than he already had just by saying it, just by calling Mark in the first place. He remembered Ray's face, seen from across the bar, and tried not to imagine what Mark might have been whispering in Ray's ear.

Finally, Ray looked down into his coffee and spoke quietly. "Next time he's on the phone, tell Smithbauer he's got nothing to apologize for. I was drunk, too, I don't remember fuck all."

A lie, but a transparent and generous one; Ben smiled, and when Ray glanced up at him he smiled back, beautiful in the morning light. Ben said, "I love you," and the world didn't end.

Ray said, "Yeah, Frase, me too," and took another sip of coffee, still smiling.

Ray was just drifting off to sleep when Fraser rolled over and muttered something urgent but unintelligible.

Ray blinked fully awake and said, "Frase?" but he just mumbled something incoherent, still asleep. No wonder, after today; what with penalties and overtime, Fraser had wound up playing close to thirty minutes of the game, while Ray had been in for barely ten. Ray had brought him back here at the end of the night and he'd fallen asleep before he could do more than apologize for being tired, which had saved Ray from telling him he didn't actually care.

Ray brushed his thumb over Fraser's closed eyelid, his palm on Fraser's cheek. Fraser jerked at the touch but then settled. He said, "Dief," against Ray's wrist, and Ray leaned close, murmuring shh almost against his mouth. When Fraser was quiet, Ray raised his head to look around.

The wolf was sitting by the door of Ray's bedroom, head tilted, staring at them. Ray watched the wolf for a minute, his hand still resting lightly on Fraser's face, but Diefenbaker stayed put. Ray heaved a sigh and rolled out of bed, careful not to pull the covers off of Fraser, and Dief bolted out of the room ahead of him. Ray followed, pulling the door shut behind him.

Diefenbaker was lying in front of the fridge, so Ray took a seat at the kitchen table. There was a box of peanut butter cookies on the table--something his mom had brought him, because he was apparently still too skinny. They were a day or two old, but not bad. Ray broke one in half, popped a piece in his mouth, and tossed the rest to Diefenbaker.

The wolf caught it, dropped it on the floor, sniffed it carefully, and then ate it. Ray frowned. "Cagey, huh?"

Diefenbaker thumped his tail and looked hopeful; Ray tossed him another piece of cookie, aiming this one so it would land on the floor in front of him. The wolf gave it only a very brief sniff before he ate it, this time. Not as suspicious, but still not trusting him. No surprise; they hardly knew each other. "You had to be careful? She feed you bad stuff, buddy? Make you sick?"

Diefenbaker tucked his tail and leaned up tight against the fridge, head down.

"I know," Ray said softly, wishing he could go over there and lie on the floor with him, pet him, hold him close, whisper in his ears, "but she's gone now, hey? She's gone. You're safe."

Diefenbaker thumped his tail at that, just once, but he didn't come any closer, either. Ray sighed and sat back, staring at the wolf. He was missing something here, something big. Fraser's bitch wife had hurt the wolf while Fraser was off on road trips, and now the wolf was dead and so was she. But Diefenbaker wasn't resting in peace, and from the sound of him some nights, neither was Fraser. "You can't just tell me what happened, huh?"

Dief shook his head, jingling his tags, and Ray wished he could get close enough to look at them, but he couldn't risk spooking the wolf off again. "Okay," Ray said slowly, "okay. I'm going to give somebody a call who might be able to help me on this, all right? I won't tell her anything about you, I promise."

Dief looked skeptical until Ray tossed him another cookie, and then he sat up, head tilted, and waited to see what Ray would do.

Ray walked over to the phone, keeping the table between himself and Dief, and then took the phone back to where he'd been sitting, so he wasn't blocking the doorway. Not that it mattered, since the wolf could just disappear if he wanted to leave, but Ray knew it wasn't just about being trustworthy: it was about looking trustworthy.

He dialed the number and held his breath, hoping she was awake. She usually answered the phone at night, because it might be work, but he'd hate to get her out of bed for this. Whatever had happened, it had happened a long time ago.

On the second ring the phone picked up, and she said, "Stella Kowalski," sounding sharp but not panicked. She hadn't been sleeping--she was probably up late working on a case. Ray could almost see the stacks of papers, the pens and pencils lined up on the coffee table.

"Stella--don't hang up--I have a question for you," he said, all in one breath.

She sighed. "What is it, Ray?"

He smiled. "Thanks for siccing my mom on me, by the way," he said, because it meant she still kind of cared and she kind of owed him one. "And I know I never thanked you for taking care of things with François, but--they brought him up to see me, so--"

"You're welcome," she said tightly, and Ray grimaced. Too much too fast. He sounded like he was buttering her up and it was putting her on her guard. "You had a question?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's about Benton Fraser, actually--we're roommates now, and I was just wondering--his wife died, remember? Back in ninety-one, something like that."

"Ninety-two," Stella said, "I remember. She was young, it was very sudden. There was a lot of talk."

Ray nodded. There would've been, among the wives, and they'd been living in Quebec at the time. Stella had never quite gelled with anybody she worked with in Quebec, so she'd been closer to the wives there. "Stell, do you remember how she died? He doesn't talk about her much and I don't wanna say something stupid, y'know..."

Stella sighed, but it wasn't an unhappy sound; she was thinking. "This is all third-hand, Ray, and it was years ago. As I recall, the cause of death was never announced publicly. There was an autopsy but the results weren't released. She'd had a miscarriage a few years before, and people said they'd tried again and--"

"Fuck," Ray muttered, not really wanting to hear the gory details. But-- "People said? Nobody knew for sure? Isn't that," he choked back the word queer, which he'd used sometimes, back then, to mean things like this, "strange?"

Stella almost laughed, he could hear it on her breath. "Ray," she said, "I know you can't really see it most of the time, but you live in a strange world. They might have kept the cause of death private for any number of reasons. The team wouldn't have wanted a lot of talk about Benton, especially if it might seem like he'd pushed her to have a child when it wasn't safe for her to do so, anything like that. He was back to playing within a week or two, and from what I remember he was always a very private person. He no doubt wanted to grieve his wife without a lot of public interference."

Funny, though, that it wasn't her name Fraser said in his sleep. Funny how he never said her name at all. And he couldn't imagine Fraser being pushy, not with a woman, not with his wife. But none of that was Stella's business. "Yeah, you're right, Stell. Thanks."

"No problem, Ray," she said, her voice a little bit soft, and he knew, because he'd known her since she was thirteen, that with another ten minutes of chit-chat he could invite himself over there and she wouldn't argue. But he had Fraser asleep in his bed--his roommate, ha. He thought of the other roommates he'd had, of road trips with Gardie and going home to Stella, and he closed his eyes.

"Stella," he said carefully, because it wasn't that he wanted to confess. That wouldn't do anyone any good. "Listen, I--I've been doing some thinking lately and I just want to tell you I'm sorry for everything I did wrong when we were together. Not because then maybe we'd still be together, just because--I'm sorry. You deserved better."

Stella was quiet awhile, and then she said, "Ray? Is everything all right?"

He smiled. She'd known him since he was thirteen, after all. "I think so, yeah. It's just I've been thinking lately."

"Apology accepted," she said, and he knew it really was. "Don't waste any more thinking on me, all right, Ray? And for God's sake go to bed. You're leaving for your western Canada trip tomorrow, aren't you?"

Ray snorted. "Yes, mom," he said, and hung up on her outraged laugh.

Ben awoke, alone in Ray's bed, to the sound of the front door of Ray's apartment slamming shut. He reached over to the spot where Ray had been sleeping, the last time Ben had drifted toward consciousness, but his pillow was cold. He heard Ray kick his shoes off and pad down the hall to the bedroom. Ray hesitated in the doorway, holding a pastry box in his hands, and Ben reached out and turned on the bedside light, pushing himself up onto one elbow. "Ray?"

"I got donuts," Ray said, holding them up, as though that explained everything. He sounded wide awake, though it was still dark outside and the alarm hadn't gone off yet. He came over and crawled into bed beside Ben and opened the box, revealing a full dozen donuts, very fresh by the smell, and Ben's mouth watered. There were sugared donuts, and glazed, and powdered.

Ben blinked at the assortment, and then at Ray, who was watching him expectantly. "I'd have thought you were the chocolate type," he said, and Ray's smile widened as though that were exactly the right answer.

Ray picked up a sugared donut, bit a piece out of it, and then held it up. Ben watched the donut as Ray suddenly tossed it toward the foot of the bed, and then Dief caught it in mid-air and dashed off with it to the corner of the room. Ben froze, wondering what Ray had seen, wondering what was happening here. "And see," Ray whispered in his ear, "I'm not crazy, because your eyes followed the wolf."

Ben's eyes shot to Ray, who was licking sugar off his fingers, watching Dief steadily, refusing to look back at him. "Ray?"

"I don't think I've seen him as much as he's been around," Ray said matter-of-factly. "Just a couple times. And he won't eat out of my hand or come close enough that I could touch him, if he wasn't a ghost--"

"I can touch him," Ben said, before he could think to stop himself, and Ray nodded, still watching Dief. Dief was watching Ray right back, and Ray selected another donut, took a single bite from it, and tossed the rest again; Dief caught it daintily between his jaws and dropped it to sniff before he ate it.

"He doesn't make a sound though," Ray observed, "except those tags, sometimes." Ben looked back to Dief, trying to grasp the fact that Ray could see him too, that Ray so calmly accepted this insanity. Dief must have chosen to let Ray see him, and Ray seemed quite fascinated by him. It was wonderful, and not a little terrifying. Ben felt strangely exposed.

"I think it's because he was deaf, before," Ben offered into the silence, as Ray shifted closer to him, the smell of sugar and Ray's skin rising up together distractingly. "We were up at Prince Rupert Sound, hiking during the summer, and I fell in. He jumped after me and pulled me out, but the cold water damaged his eardrums."

Ray nodded thoughtfully. "What, uh, what happened...?"

Dief looked up at Ben as he backed into the corner, and Ben looked away, fixing his gaze on Ray's fingers, hovering over the donuts. "He doesn't like to talk about it," Ben said firmly, his heart speeding up, praying Ray wouldn't press this, wouldn't force--

"Mm," Ray replied, selecting another donut and then leaning across Ben to set the rest of the box on the night table. He eclipsed the light of the lamp for a moment, his chest, covered only by a thin t-shirt, a breath away from Ben's face, close enough to feel the living warmth he radiated. Ben tried to brace for further questions, tried not to be distracted by Ray's proximity. Ray settled back at his side and took a thoughtful bite of the donut, but he wasn't watching Dief anymore; he was watching Ben. He felt as if he were standing on a cliff, teetering at the edge of a crevasse, as if Ray, sitting casually beside him chewing on a bite of donut, could push him over with the slightest touch.

Ray licked sugar from his lips and smiled slowly, and Ben's heart beat faster in anticipation. But Ray didn't ask him anything, only said in a low voice, "Well, maybe it's time to change the subject, then."

Ben blinked, his lips parting with shock--it couldn't be that easy--and Ray popped a piece of donut, warm and sugar-coated, into his mouth. Ben closed his mouth around pastry and fingers both, and Ray's smile widened as Ben sucked his fingers clean. His eyes were bright, unshadowed by secrets, and he said unsteadily, "We got twenty minutes till the alarm."

Ben reached back with one hand and shut off the light as Ray tugged his fingers free, cupping Ben's face and kissing him. Gift horses were better appreciated in the dark.

Ren was standing in the tunnel, already in street clothes, when Ben came off the ice. Ren hauled him out of the line of players heading for the locker room and hugged him as tightly as his equipment allowed, and Ben, unspeakably weary, was powerless to resist. He stood very still in the unexpected embrace, his eyes shut and teeth clenched, ignoring as best he could the pats on his head and back that rained down as his other teammates passed. He knew how it must seem, that he was unmoved by their overtures, that he would reject them if he knew how, but in truth he was simply overwhelmed. His self-control was strained to the breaking point by the dual assaults of Edmonton's hostility and his own team's unexpectedly ferocious support.

When Ren let him go, Ben nodded vaguely and turned away, trudging down to the locker room. Ray was standing at the door, apparently waiting for him, and Ben stopped short, several feet away. Ray gave him a searching look and then nodded and went into the locker room ahead of him, and Ben closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. He really couldn't bear to be comforted now, not by Ray, not in public, not when he wanted that more than anything. He had to hold himself together.

Ben took a breath, braced himself, and went on into the locker room with his head down, proceeding straight to his locker to undress. A few of his teammates called out to him or reached out to pat his shoulder, but Ben only nodded or shrugged them away, and they soon let him alone.

He lingered a long time in the showers, listening to the others come and go as he tried to focus his mind on soap and skin. He tried to hear only the patter of water on tile, and not the jeering of a crowd that had once chanted his name. He tried to see only his present teammates, quiet and kind, and not the enmity of the men with whom he had shared the locker room next door, a season ago. The hot water felt good, soothing the aches of the game. He probably wouldn't bruise--he rarely did--but he could feel every hit they'd landed on him tonight, and he'd feel them all the more tomorrow.

Eventually, he had to admit he was merely dawdling. He shut off the water, dried off and tidied his hair, and went back to the locker room to get dressed. Most of the team had already gone to the bus that would take them back to the hotel, but Ray was sitting in front of his locker, already dressed, untying and retying his shoes. Ben looked away from Ray quickly, fighting down the emotion that threatened to break his control. He had to get dressed. He had to get to the bus, back to the hotel with his team.

When he looked up from tying his own shoes, he found Ray watching him steadily, and Ben met his eyes briefly and nodded before he headed out the door. Ray followed him, a few steps behind, down the maze of corridors toward the away players' exit. They were nearly there when Ben turned a corner and saw a man in red serge waiting for him.

He stopped dead, suddenly seized with the conviction that his father, like Diefenbaker, had returned to him. His last sight of his father, at the funeral, had been in the formal red uniform, and his father had come to Ben's home games when he could. But the man standing there wasn't his father: his father was dead, and Edmonton didn't mean home games anymore. Ben felt the cold rush of fear that always hit when he came face-to-face with Mounties.

It was Gerard, standing there waiting for him. He looked just like he had when he met Ben at the airport to take him to the funeral, and Ben, in his hastily pulled on jeans and henley, felt at a distinct disadvantage, facing a man in uniform without his own.

He wondered, for a moment, what further bad news Gerard could possibly have for him that would warrant appearing here, in this fashion, and then he realized that he knew. Heart sinking, he turned toward Ray but didn't look at him, and said quietly, "Go on, I have to speak to him. Tell them not to wait for me."

Ray stood still for a moment, and then said softly, for Ben's ears alone, "I'll tell 'em. Good luck."

Ben kept his eyes on Ray's feet as he detoured around Ben and past Gerard, disappearing out of sight, and then he lifted his chin and walked over. "Sir," he said quietly, respectfully as his father had taught him, because he would have had trouble getting more than one syllable out of his mouth.

Gerard gave him a long look, as though Ben were under inspection, and Ben couldn't resist straightening up. Gerard nodded. "Benton, son--" Ben bit the inside of his lip at that. He hated to be called son by people who weren't his father or his coach. "I thought I should come and tell you this face-to-face." Gerard took a deep breath. "We're closing your father's case."

Ben looked away. He'd known it was coming, he'd known it, he'd known. He'd never found anything, he'd never convinced them that their version of his father's death couldn't be true, and now they would lay down even the pretense of investigating. It was over. His father was murdered and unavenged and would remain so. He had failed utterly.

Ben closed his eyes and kept his face averted as Gerard went on. "We tried like hell, son, believe me when I say we all wanted some better reason to have lost such a great man than a stupid, wasteful accident, but there's simply never been any evidence of foul play."

Ben nodded, unable to speak, and Gerard clapped a hand down on his shoulder. Ben flinched, and Gerard's hand tightened on his shoulder, too close to his skin for comfort, with just his clothes between. Gerard said, "Good game out there," and then walked away, his boots on the cement floor loud in the silence. Ben waited until the sound had faded from his hearing before he reached out one hand to the wall and slid down it to the floor.

He sat still for a long time, unable to think, unable to fathom what he should do next, mind wiped blank by one shock after another. He felt drained. It was an effort even to breathe; his chest ached as though his heart was laboring to beat. It occurred to him that he ought to get up. They'd be closing the building. He'd have to find his way back to the hotel. Ray would wonder what had become of him, and they were heading on to Vancouver tomorrow.

For a selfish, traitorous moment, Ben wished it were Mark waiting for him back at the hotel, so that he would know exactly what he was getting, so that he wouldn't have to think, wouldn't have to do anything. Mark would know what he needed, and Mark would give it to him. Perhaps Ray would be asleep when Ben got in, and he could simply take to his own bed. It would be simpler than anything else, and Ben didn't think he could manage anything that required more of him than that.

A damp nose against his cheek pulled him from his reverie. Dief nudged at him insistently, pushing at his face and hands and side, until Ben opened his eyes and pushed himself up to his feet. He'd already started to stiffen up, and his sore muscles protested the movement, but Dief was patient and relentless.

Ben stood in the middle of the deserted corridor until Dief barked at him and trotted off, and then he followed the wolf blindly, taking no notice of their path. Dief probably wouldn't lead him astray. Up a flight of stairs, around two corners, and Ben stopped short again at the sight of Ray, pacing rapidly across the width of the hallway, hands shoved into pockets, shoulders tensed.

Dief ran on ahead, coming to a dancing halt a few feet from Ray, and Ray smiled directly at the wolf. "Thanks, buddy, good work."

He reached out one hand, palm up, and Dief darted forward and licked his fingertips before backpedaling. He gave Ben a last look and then vanished.

Ben stood blinking at Ray, who looked back at him steadily, until Ben had to drop his gaze, breathing carefully. Ray had waited for him. It was a small thing, really, but tonight he felt stripped raw. Even small things pierced his skin.

He could hear Ray's steps as he closed the distance between them in long quick strides, and then Ray's hand curled around one side of his unzipped jacket--not touching him, but nearly--and Ray said, "Come on, this way," and tugged Ben along the hallway. Ben followed where Ray led him, through a door and into the bright hard-edged confines of a mens' room. He looked up, frowning, and both of Ray's hands closed in his jacket as Ray kissed him.

Ben recoiled instinctively, Ray's lips on his like an electric shock, like hot water on frozen skin. But Ray tugged him closer and kissed him again, and Ben kept still, parting his lips, tilting his head as Ray's mouth moved over his, warm and wet, Ray's tongue making flickering contact with his own until Ben was gasping against Ray's mouth.

Ray pulled away, took a step back, and Ben's eyes followed his mouth. Ray tugged on Ben's jacket and said, "Okay?" Ben met Ray's eyes and saw all that was buried in that question--are you okay, is this okay, is everything okay--and had to look away from all that naked concern focused on him, biting his lip. Ray stepped in again, so close Ben could feel the skin-heat radiating from him.

Ray licked at Ben's lower lip, his breath warm and humid against Ben's mouth, until Ben unclenched his teeth, and then Ray kissed him again, his tongue sliding over Ben's. He knew he was being tasted, couldn't resist tasting Ray in turn, his hand rising instinctively to Ray's hip, catching one finger through a belt loop. Ray groaned and pulled away again, pushing Ben back a pace with the hands still clutching his jacket. "Okay?" he repeated, breathlessly, and Ben met his eyes this time and nodded. Ray nodded back and looked away, busying his hands with zipping up Ben's jacket. "Come on, then, cab's waiting. There's no fans at this exit."

Ben blinked and swallowed, recalling himself to the world of Edmonton fans screaming down at him. He reached out himself and zipped up Ray's coat, looked quickly at the smile on Ray's face when he'd finished and then away. "All right," he said, quietly, and Ray opened his hands and turned away, leading Ben out of the washroom, to the exit door at the end of the corridor. The night air was bitterly cold, and the confines of the cab stuffy. Ben toyed with the zipper on his jacket but left it as it was, watching in his peripheral vision as Ray stared intently out the window. Ray's knee bumped against his as they went around a corner, and stayed there, skin to skin through two layers of denim. Ben tried not to wonder what would happen when they got back to the hotel. Better not to have expectations, better not to make assumptions.

Ray handed over a few bright Canadian bills to the driver as Ben got out of the cab. He waited on the sidewalk for Ray, looking around at the buildings. He'd never stayed in this hotel before, though he'd dropped Mark off at the curb once or twice. Edmonton from this vantage might have been any city, might have been Calgary or Vancouver for all it looked like the place that had once been home. Ray tugged on the sleeve of Ben's jacket as he passed him, and Ben turned and followed him into the hotel.

He leaned in the corner of the elevator, and when he stole a glance at Ray, slouching in the opposite corner, Ben found him staring up at the lighted numbers above the door. Ben was free to study him, then, the exposed line of his throat, his scarred hand resting on the rail. The doors opened at their floor and Ben looked away as Ray stepped forward. The hallway was already quiet as he followed Ray down, though indistinct voices--televisions or the inhabitants, it was hard to tell--were audible behind some doors. Ray had his key out, unlocked their room almost without breaking stride, and went on in. Ben followed, pausing to set the chain as Ray turned on lamps.

Ben paused beside the closet, and Ray, standing by a chair, glanced briefly at him and then away, and said, "Coat off." Ben took his jacket off as Ray did the same, wondering whether that had been an imperative or declarative. Ray sat down and untied his shoes, muttering, "Shoes," as he did, and Ben went to the bed and sat at its foot, following suit. Ray looked at him and said "Lie down," as he stood up, and the mystery was solved.

Ben lay down, stretching out gingerly on the bed. If he didn't move, nothing really hurt. He folded his arms behind his head and watched as Ray rifled through his luggage. He pulled out a bottle of lubricant and a condom, and Ben's heart sped up even before Ray pulled his shirt off, tossing it casually onto the ground. He dropped the other items on the bedside table, and stretched out beside Ben, lying half on top of him, insinuating one thigh between his. Ben's legs parted readily, and he could feel the heavy heat of Ray's erection against his hip.

Ben closed his eyes and breathed deep as Ray's warmth sank into his skin, Ray's weight pressing him down into the bed. Ray's arm curled around his, tucked behind his head, Ray's fingers slipping under the sleeve of his shirt to touch the bare skin of his wrist. Ben's rocked up reflexively into the pressure of Ray's thigh between his legs, and Ray responded with a thrust against his hip. He felt Ray's breath on his mouth, a warm intangible tease, and parted his lips to beg for more.

Ray's tongue silenced him before he spoke, licking across his lower lip and then into his mouth. Ray kissed him slowly, gently, his mouth moving as lightly as the hand that stroked down his side and back up, no rush, no pressure. Ben's lips tingled where Ray's touched, and his breath escaped him in a moan as he sucked at Ray's tongue. Ben pulled one hand free, sliding his fingers into Ray's hair, holding him close, closer, as they kissed. He breathed in little gasps, whenever Ray's mouth left his to drop kisses along his jaw and down his throat, always returning to his mouth before long, as though Ray couldn't resist. Ben's hand slid slackly to the back of Ray's neck, bare skin hot under his palm, growing damp with sweat. Ben's cock was throbbing, thrusting constantly, mindlessly, against the pressure of Ray's thigh, Ray's hardness moving in the same rhythm against his hip. Pleasure woke hunger, and he wanted this but he wanted more. "Ray," he gasped, "Ray--please--"

"Yeah," Ray whispered against his lips, and Ben shivered. "God--I just--" Ray kissed him again, then pulled away, shrugging off Ben's hand. Ray's hands moved under Ben's shirt, shoving it up over his head. Ben kept still, leaving his hands momentarily trapped in the fabric, and Ray raised an eyebrow and pulled them free, stuffing his shirt behind the pillow before shifting to hold himself above Ben. His hips bucked up, searching for contact, and Ray's hand came down, stroking his cock through his jeans as Ray kissed and licked the newly exposed skin of his chest, gentle where he ached as though caresses could erase blows. Ray's mouth found his nipple, sucking lightly and then harder, and Ben thrust up against Ray's hand. He gasped at the rasp of teeth on sensitive flesh, and Ray's hand shifted from stroking his cock to unbuttoning his jeans. Ben reached down one hand to help, and between them he was naked in short order.

Ray rolled away, onto his side, to unfasten his own pants, and Ben lay still, watching him shove them down, catching a brief glimpse of a dark damp spot on the front of his jockeys before he had those off too. Ray's cock was hard and gorgeous, tight skin flushed dusky-dark with blood. "Yeah," Ray said softly, and Ben looked up to see that Ray was watching his face. He felt himself blush, and Ray grinned and grabbed a pillow from under the bedspread. They hadn't even turned down the covers, and now Ray was sliding toward him, his whole body against Ben's as Ray pushed him gently over onto his stomach, tucking the pillow beneath his hips.

Ben rubbed his heated face against the cool sleek smoothness of the bedspread, his cock finding greater friction against the cotton of the pillowcase. He could feel the heat of Ray above him, the sense of weight suspended, as Ray kissed the back of his neck. Ben ducked his head, arching his neck to show more skin, and Ray's lips moved down and down, across the tight muscles of his shoulders, down the groove of his spine, lightly across the unprotected territory of his back where he'd been hit over and over tonight, and then lower yet.

Ray's hands parted his cheeks, and Ray's tongue touched him between, lightly at first and then more firmly. Ben clenched his fists in the pillow above his head as Ray's tongue made the first soft wet thrust against him, stiffening and pushing in, and Ben thought dizzily that he'd never expected to have that favor returned. The unalloyed pleasure of it was a shock, decadent and dark and unbearably good, and Ben thrust against the pillow as shallowly as he could. He could feel Ray's breath rushing against his skin as Ray's tongue worked in and out, and his own breath came in ragged uneven gasps, catching and breaking more with the waves of sensation rushing through him than with the demands of his lungs. Then Ray's tongue vanished, replaced with two fingers sliding inside, spit-slicked and easy. Ben was so ready, and there was still no pain. Ray was stroking him just so, and Ben cried out hoarsely as Ray's fingers found the spot.

Ray was whispering, "Easy, easy," in his ear, and his fingers pulled out and then returned, cool-wet and twisting inside him as Ray's mouth landed again on the back of his neck.

"Please," Ben whispered, "Please, please--"

"Yeah," Ray breathed, and when his fingers disappeared again they were replaced by the slick thick heat of Ray's cock pushing into him as Ray's weight settled over him, and Ray gasped, "Oh--fuck--Fraser--"

Ben pushed back, wanting more, wanting all of him, and Ray gave him what he wanted, exactly what he needed. Ray moved in him slowly, his breath steady and controlled in Ben's ear, but control was beyond Ben now. He thrust back against Ray, taking what Ray offered, until his orgasm rushed through him, his cock spurting beneath him, trapped against the softness of the pillow.

Ray went still as Ben moved, and Ben could feel him breathing faster now, gasping, grasping for control. When Ben stopped, spent and breathless, Ray's cock moved in him again, slow and deep. Ben moaned softly at the sensation of pleasure without urgency, though he could feel Ray's urgency in the tightness of his grip on Ben's hip, the clenched-teeth hiss of his breath. Still he moved slowly, carefully, controlled, and Ben slid one hand down to where Ray's hand was braced against the bed. Ben closed his hand around Ray's wrist, and Ray shifted his weight off that hand, shifting the angle of his cock, and Ben's sigh at that was echoed by a groan from Ray. Ben tugged Ray's hand up to his face, twisting his fingers with Ray's and touching his lips softly to the hardness of Ray's scarred knuckles. Ray moaned again, his fingers tightening on Ben's, and the steady rhythm of his hips broke, his thrusts turning ragged. Ben stuck his tongue out, tasting the slick smoothness of scars between rough skin, and Ray succumbed to his climax with a long low moan.

He didn't move away after, easing his weight carefully down onto Ben with a murmur in his ear of, "Okay?"

Ben smiled, already nearly asleep with Ray inside him and Ray's weight pressing him down and Ray's hand in his, holding him here in this place where he was loved, where nothing was ending. From the edge of consciousness, he remembered to whisper back, "Okay, Ray."

Ray was in no hurry to get back to the hotel. He hadn't thought he remembered much about the last night he'd spent in Vancouver, but the fucking bedspreads were the same as they'd been when he fought with Fraser. He couldn't have said, between times, what they'd looked like, wouldn't have thought he'd noticed, but his stomach turned as soon as he walked in the room. The bathroom was even worse. He'd been pissing with his eyes closed since they got into town.

So he'd been a little jittery, and it seemed like all the guys were watching him, waiting for him to freak out again just because they were back in the same city. Fraser and Hack were doing it the most, but they had the most reason and Ray didn't mind it so much from them. He was half-certain the rest of the team had a pool running.

So after the game--an afternoon game in Vancouver, which meant it felt like an early evening game to guys on Chicago time--they headed to a sports bar a block from the hotel and sat around, watching the scores come in from the prime time games out East. Toronto at Detroit, Tampa Bay at Ottawa, Winnipeg at Boston, Colorado at Hartford, St. Louis at New York. Ray sat quietly with his right hand curled around his glass where everybody at the table could see the scars, because trying to hide would just be obvious. His left hand rested on the table, pink knots of scars standing out almost as bright as blood, while the smaller lines had begun to fade. Ray opened and closed his hand, felt the tight skin pull a little, and then forced himself to look away.

Fraser and Hack and Hue were talking idly about the way the West was shaping up, standings and chances and who was going to get their ass kicked by who. Bully was listening, piping up only to agree with everything anybody said. Dewey was alternately staring at every chick who walked by and staring at Ray, like at any second Ray might realize he was in Vancouver and start foaming at the mouth. Shit for brains. The bar was nothing. The bar was like any other bar. Fraser and Hack had gotten distracted by the conversation they'd started to distract him, so they'd mostly stopped giving him those little looks. He wouldn't even know what city he was in if Dewey wasn't staring at him, and if he made sure not to think about going back to the hotel.

"No," Fraser said, "Arnott's a good kid, but he's not going to be enough to pull them out of it. He lost a lot of development time in the lockout, and they're too weak overall." Ray tried not to be obvious about watching him, but Fraser caught his eye and smiled a little before he looked down at his drink and shook his head. "We don't have to worry about Edmonton this year."

Bully nodded raptly, and Hue started to make some other point, and Ray's glass was empty. He waited until he was sure Fraser was paying more attention to the conversation than to him, and then Ray stood up and headed to the bar. He half-expected one of them to call him back, or ever-so-casually decide they needed a refill too, but when he glanced back they were all talking. Hack was staring at a spot halfway between Hue and the bar where Ray stood, and Fraser seemed to be staring at the jukebox--watching Ray's reflection, he realized when he looked at the angle. Ray grinned and waved at the jukebox, and Fraser's shoulders eased a little.

So Fraser could talk about Edmonton almost like they were any other team. Good. Ray didn't need that to tell him he'd done the job last night--Fraser had smiled at him in bed this morning, had leaned across him to look out the window on the plane, resting his hand on Ray's thigh--but it was always good to be sure.

Edmonton was only half the problem, though. Fraser had been wiped after the game last night, but he'd been on his feet, he'd been good to go. Then that Mountie had shown up--

Ray forced a smile and nod as the bartender passed him a fresh beer, and took a long drink, leaning on the bar and definitely not looking back at Fraser.

Hockey was a team sport. You had to click. You had to gel. You had to know what the other guy was going to do before he did it, and that meant you had to know what he was thinking by the way he stood, the way he held his stick, the set of his shoulders. Ray played as well with Fraser as he ever had with anybody, and when Fraser saw that Mountie waiting for him, Ray had fully expected Fraser to turn and bolt. It had been written all over his body.

It didn't make any sense, Fraser being scared of a Mountie. His dad had been a Mountie, and Ray had never known a cop's kid to be scared of cops, even when they should be. He'd been going over and over it in his mind, but it all added up the same way it had last night, and this morning, and on the plane, and in the locker room. Ray could only think of one reason why anybody would panic at the sight of a cop.

He took another sip of beer and looked around the bar, everywhere but the table where he'd been sitting. Cheli and JR and Tony were back in a corner, flirting with some local girls. Eddie and Denny were leaning in across a table, arguing about something in French too fast for Ray to follow. He watched for a minute, but it looked like nothing important; Eddie wasn't going to bust any heads. Closer to the door, there was another big table full of guys talking. As Ray watched, Bernie got up, tossed some money on the table, and headed out, grinning as the other guys ragged on him for ducking out. It was the best chance Ray was likely to get. He drained his drink, threw down some cash on the bar, and followed.

He had to run a few strides on the sidewalk to catch up, and Bernie heard him coming and turned back. "Hey, Bern," Ray said. "I been meaning to talk to you. You were in Edmonton a few years back, right?"

Bernie nodded as Ray fell into step with him, and they headed on toward the hotel. "Yeah, ninety-one to ninety-three."

Ray nodded quickly, playing it cool, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. "So you, uh, you were there when Fraser's wife, uh..."

Bernie arched his eyebrow. "When Victoria died?"

"Yeah," Ray said, looking away, down at the sidewalk, "Yeah. It's just he doesn't talk about her and I don't wanna say something stupid, but I don't know--"

Bernie was nodding in Ray's peripheral vision. "It was weird, how he just quit talking about her after, because he was crazy about her, you know? Totally crazy. I guess people, you know, thought he was a little--" Bernie raised one hand and flopped it around limply, and Ray nodded, because of course people thought that. People were always thinking that a little bit. It didn't mean anything. "Because he never had a girl around until her. But he was always calling her on the road and rushing home to her when we were in town. I think he's just one of those old-fashioned romantics, and he just broke his heart over her and never loved anybody else."

Ray nodded. He'd been a one-woman man himself, he knew how that was. They walked along in silence, and then Bernie snorted a sad laugh. "She must've been a fucking wildcat in bed, too, because he'd come in some days all marked up. Even had a split lip once, the day after we got home from a long trip, and Mac was giving him crap--he blushed like you would not believe. Looks like such a choir boy, y'know? It's always the quiet ones."

Ray's hands closed into fists in his pockets, but he didn't think about it, didn't think about it, just snorted a laugh and said, "Well, God knows he's quiet enough."

Bernie breathed a half-laugh back, and then said quietly, "And then--maybe a month after that..."

Ray nodded. It had been sudden, she was so young. "What happened?"

Bernie blew out a breath. "He didn't talk about it, you know? He was wrecked, he was..." Bernie stopped walking reached out and stopped Ray with a hand on his shoulder, and Ray looked up and met his serious gaze. "You're his friend, right?"

Ray squinted into Bernie's eyes, but there was nothing suspect there, nothing but honest concern. Ray nodded slowly. "Best friend, just about," Ray said, "I'm not gonna..."

Bernie nodded and glanced up and down the street, his hand still on Ray's shoulder. Ray looked around too. There were a few people on the sidewalk, but none of the guys. A few cars going by, but it was getting dark. Nobody was paying him and Bernie any attention. He looked back at Bernie, and Bernie gave him a short, unhappy smile. "Truth is, nobody asked him anything about it, because he was in hospital that night getting stitches. In his wrist."

Ray's gut dropped, and Bernie's hand on his shoulder tightened almost to the point of pain. Ray ducked his head, blinking, pulling it together. "His wrist," he repeated, as neutrally as he could, thinking of the empty look in Fraser's eyes last night, and Bernie nodded.

"Nobody talked about that, and nobody talked about her, and nobody asked him any questions, but we all knew." Bernie looked down, and Ray went on staring blankly at his hair. It was a fuck of a lot of not talking that everybody had done, but Bernie was talking now, and fast, like he couldn't stop now that he'd started. "The casket was closed. She was a funny one, y'know? Like him, I guess. Didn't mix with the other wives, especially after she lost that baby. Nobody knew. We figured--I mean, we didn't really talk about it, but it wasn't too hard to put it together--it was the night we got home from a trip. We think she waited for him to get back before she did it. Did it right in front of him and he couldn't stop it, or maybe she did it right before he got there and he found her..."

Ray's stomach turned. He could see that, large as life and technicolor, Fraser coming into the house after a trip, happy to be home, wondering why the house was dark and then seeing her, seeing the blood, and no one there to pull him through... "So they kept it quiet," Ray said slowly, "Because she--" Because he...

"We all kept an eye on him," Bernie said, finally looking up. "Smithbauer came to town until after the funeral was over, and I think Ben stayed at the hotel with him. He sold the house right away, moved into some little apartment downtown. He wasn't the same after, but he was... he was functioning, I guess." Bernie shook his head with a look of disbelief. "Management made him sit a week and you would've thought it was the Finals and he'd twisted his knee instead of--" Bernie cut himself off and then said, softer, "He was begging to come back every day, he wanted to get back on the ice so bad."

"I get that," Ray said, glad to have something to say, shamefully desperate to talk about anything but what he'd come after Bernie to talk about. "After I--after me and Stella split, all I wanted to do was play hockey. Hockey hadn't changed, even if everything else had. Just my luck she sent me the papers in June."

Bernie smiled a little and squeezed Ray's shoulder before he dropped his hand. They started walking again, side by side. Ray kicked a pebble ahead of him on the sidewalk, and Bernie passed it back to him when it went astray, until it bounced off the other way, into the street.

They reached the hotel, and Ray stopped short in front of the revolving door, hit by a sudden sick memory of shouldering through it with his busted bloodied hands held to his chest. He took a step back as Bernie touched the glass, and said, "Thanks, Bern, I'm gonna go--" he jerked his chin back in the direction of the bar, and Bernie frowned.

"Ray, are you...?"

"I'm good," Ray said quickly. "Hey, was there a pool?" He raised his hands in loose fists and jabbed at the air, and Bernie smiled.

"We started placing bets, but Hack came in and offered to match the whole pot on a bet that you'd be perfectly fine the entire time. We figured it was either inside information or a fix, and gave up."

Ray put a grin on his face. "I guess I owe him a drink, then. Better go." Bernie still hesitated, and Ray rolled his eyes. "Go, shoo, you got a wife to call, you got kids to check up on."

Bernie opened his mouth to say something--about his kids, no doubt, because the only thing he talked about more than his little boy and girl was the one on the way--and then shut it and smiled again and went inside. Ray watched him walk across the lobby, watched him press the button for the elevator and step inside, and when the doors shut behind him, Ray let the smile drop. He crossed his arms over his chest, hunched up his shoulders even though the night was mild and still, and took off in the opposite direction from the bar, walking fast, thinking faster.

He hadn't gotten far when he saw Dief sitting on the curb under a streetlight. Ray stopped and said, "I was wondering when you'd show up again," and Dief barked at him, silent as ever.

Ray sighed and sat down with his feet in the gutter, elbows on knees. "I'm trying," he said quietly. Dief was a blur of white in the corner of his eye, three or four feet away. "I'm trying, I just--" Didn't think it would be this bad, which was fucking stupid, Kowalski. "Of course it was bad," Ray whispered to the street between his knees. "Of course it was..."

He felt Dief's breath against his ear--which was weird, a ghost shouldn't breathe--and then there was tongue, cold and wet and when Ray twitched, Dief jumped back. Ray put his hands between his knees and tilted his head, exposing his ear. "Sorry, buddy," he said softly, "startled me. Go on, lick away if you want, I'm not any more use to you than that."

Dief whined, edged close again, and, when Ray stayed perfectly still, licked a stripe up the side of his throat. Ray closed his eyes and tried to think. "Okay," he said, "okay." Dief sat down close at his side and watched him, and Ray stared at the street.

Split lip, Bernie had said, and marked up. And maybe Fraser did like to play rough, but... Ray had taken a swing at him, not far from here at all, and he'd just stood there. Like he couldn't stop it, wouldn't hit back. "So it wasn't just you she hit," Ray said, "It was him, and you when she couldn't get at him, huh? Road trips, Jesus."

Dief whined again, and Ray curled the hand that wanted to pet him into a fist, pressed his knees together to hold it still. He'd disappeared, once, when Ray just said her name, and Fraser said he didn't like to talk about what happened to him, but it was obvious, fucking obvious... "And then she--it was her."

Dief growled low, but then licked Ray's ear as if to say it wasn't Ray he was mad at. "She killed you," Ray said softly. She had killed Dief and then she... it all came to him, just like that, in a sickeningly clear rush. "Jesus," he gasped, and then jumped to his feet, "Jesus, Fraser--" Dief bolted away from him, and Ray froze. "Dief, how did she die? Tell me, buddy, you can tell me."

Dief just shook his head, tags jingling. "You can't? You don't know? Dief, this is important--" But Dief just backed up another step, barked, and vanished, and when Ray looked around he saw homeless people staring at him, people who must have crossed the street to avoid the freak standing on the sidewalk yelling at nothing. He shoved his hands into his pockets. He had to find out what had happened, couldn't just--just spring this on Fraser, and he might be wrong, please God he might be wrong...

He didn't even hesitate this time, walking into the hotel. He went straight to the lobby phones. It took thirty seconds to punch in his memorized credit card number, and another two minutes to get information to connect him to the hotel in Boston where he'd always stayed when he was playing on the road there. By then he'd caught his breath, and he had enough of a plan to get him through the next thirty seconds. When the desk clerk answered, he said, "Hi there. My name is Benton Fraser, I'm a hockey player--"

"Oh!" the desk clerk said, and thank God, she was a fan. "Yes, Mr. Fraser," she said, "I've heard of you."

"That's great," Ray said, "The thing is, I know the Jets are staying at your hotel tonight, and I urgently need to talk to Mark Smithbauer. So if you could just call his room and tell him I need to speak with him, I'm sure he'll tell you it's okay to put me through."

"Oh," she said, and then, "He might not be in..." But the game had been a rotten slugging match, and Winnipeg had lost. Smithbauer would be in his room. He might even be asleep, but Ray couldn't quite find it in his heart to feel bad about that.

"That's okay," Ray said, "If you could just tell him it's--" Smithbauer didn't say Fraser, Smithbauer said--"Ben on the phone, please, and that it's urgent."

"I'll try," she said.

"Thank you kindly," Ray said, because he'd bet anything Fraser said shit like that to strangers on the phone, and then it was crappy hold music and waiting to see if it worked. A minute and a half later, she said, "I'm connecting you now, Mr. Fraser."

The click had barely sounded in Ray's ear before Smithbauer said, "Bent? What's wrong? Where are you?" He sounded like he was about to go jump on a plane, and Bernie had said that he'd come and stayed in town until after the funeral. He might be an asshole, but he was the best friend Fraser had.

"Vancouver," Ray replied, "and I lied, but it's about Fraser."

Smithbauer went silent, and Ray thought he was going to hang up, but instead he said, "Kowalski," in a wary voice.

"Yeah, look, what's done is done, right? This is about Fraser now, I just need to know about Vic--"

"Don't fucking say her name," Smithbauer snarled, and Ray was startled silent. "Don't say it to me and if you give a shit about him don't you dare say it to Ben, you got me? What's done is done."

Fuck. Smithbauer knew something, maybe everything, and Ray had to back off. Smithbauer was too protective of Fraser to tell him anything on purpose. "It's just--he has these nightmares--"

Ben lay on his bed in the hotel room. By the nature of hotel rooms, it looked eerily identical to the one where he and Ray had fought the last time they were in Vancouver, though in actual fact that room was three floors down and in another wing. He was trying, fruitlessly, to read. The words were familiar nearly to the point of memorization, the book a survival from his university years, but he couldn't concentrate.

Ray had seemed fine, or close to it, since they got to Vancouver, right up to the moment when Ben looked up from his conversation and Ray was just gone. Jeff had assured him that Ray left with Bernie, and given Jeff's implicit judgement that Bernie's company was a satisfactory guarantee of Ray's safety and sanity, Ben had stayed put. The idle conversation hadn't held enough of his attention to keep him from worrying, though, and Ben had fled as soon as he reasonably could. He'd been half-tempted to knock on Bernie's door, but as he raised his hand, he heard Bernie laughing delightedly. Ben had been tempted to linger, listening for any answering sound from Ray, but just then the elevator opened again, and Ben had hurried on rather than be caught lurking at doorways.

He reread the same passage as uncomprehendingly as he had a half-dozen times before, and was about to resort to reading aloud to force himself to focus when he heard a key in the lock. Ray stepped inside just as Ben, out of old habit, shoved the book half under his pillow. Ray stopped in the entryway and raised his eyebrows. "Frase?"

"Ray," Ben said, and sheepishly pulled the book back out.

Ray squinted at it from where he stood, and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. His hands looked fine, Ben noted. He looked altogether fine. "How come I've never seen you reading before?"

Ben shrugged as best he could, lying on his side with his finger tucked between the pages of the book. "I don't read much during the season. I don't usually have time."

Ray smiled slowly, his eyes warm, and Ben found himself smiling back as Ray said, "Yeah, and I guess this year you've got a whole new hobby keeping you busy, huh?"

Ben cleared his throat. "I wouldn't call it a hobby, exactly..."

Ray's smile turned into a smirk. "Pastime, maybe?" He pushed off from the wall and went to his bag, rummaging around. "Anyway, go ahead, read. You got some time now."

Ben watched Ray walk to the bathroom, watched the light click on. Ray didn't bother shutting the door, and Ben stared at the sliver of mirror he could see from where he lay until Ray stuck his head out the door, mouth foamy with toothpaste, toothbrush in hand, and said something that might have been, "Hey, mister."

Ben opened the book again and made an earnest effort to read, but the sounds of Ray undressing and preparing for bed were really not conducive to concentration. He seemed all right, at least. Perhaps he'd simply been talking with Bernie. Perhaps nothing was wrong. It was entirely possible.

He heard the bathroom light shut off, and glanced up to see Ray standing at the foot of the bed wearing nothing but a pair of green scrub pants, the drawstrings at the waist dangling untied. The pants had VCHA stenciled in black on one thigh, slightly faded from washing. Ben couldn't quite parse the acronym, but 'Vancouver' and 'hospital' seemed safe bets. Ray said, "Like the jammies?"

Ben tore his eyes away from the pale skin over Ray's hipbones, and said, "They're quite fetching, Ray."

This was apparently a correct answer, because Ray came around the bed and lay down beside him, his head on the same pillow, so close that Ben could see that he'd taken his contacts out and smell the familiar artificial mint of his toothpaste. "Got another question for you," Ray said, his eyes downcast, one finger tracing the elaborate gilt designs on the leather cover of Ben's book, lying in the small space between them. "How come I never call you Ben?"

Ben blinked, and said, as steadily as he could, "I'm not sure. Why?"

Ray shrugged one bare shoulder. "Dunno. Never thought of it." Ray met his eyes with an uncertain expression. "I, uh. I probably won't always remember. I'm not so great with words."

Ben raised his hand to Ray's face, and said, "I won't mind."

Ray nodded, and then squirmed around, getting comfortable, and Ben picked up the book to set it aside. "Yeah," Ray said, shifting closer still, "go on, read your book. I used to watch Stella reading all the time--seemed like all she did was read, sometimes."

Ben opened his mouth to point out that being watched, especially at such close range, wouldn't actually improve his concentration, but Ray was still talking as he settled himself. "It was kind of sexy, y'know? All those smarts. I guess I go for the brainy ones." Ben blinked and smiled--no one had ever particularly cared whether or not he was intelligent before, and it was oddly flattering. "What about your--" and then Ray stopped short, biting his lip and looking contrite.

Ben blinked. "My..." But Ray had been talking about Stella. The connection was an obvious one. "My wife?"

Ray winced. "Sorry, I--"

"It's okay," Ben said, ignoring the fear welling in his gut, the instinct to evade. "I--she wasn't much for reading," Ben said, because he needed to reassure Ray that he hadn't made a grave misstep, and because there were things he could talk about. "But she was fond of poetry."

Ray looked up at him again. "Huh," Ray said, and then, "Did she have a favorite poem?"

Ben blinked, but forced himself to speak. This was normal, this was innocent. There was no reason not to tell Ray about this. "Yes," he said, "I think--the night we met..."

Ray moved closer, tucking himself against Ben's side, resting his head on Ben's shoulder so that Ben couldn't meet his eyes even if he wanted to. The steady pressure of Ray's body against his skin made it easier to talk, somehow, and he curled his arm around Ray's back, grateful for his silent understanding. "We met at a team Christmas party," Ben said. "She'd come with one of the fourth-stringers. Jolly. He was always going back and forth from the farm club. They got into a screaming fight and he left, stranding her at the party. I was there dateless, again, and catching all kinds of very polite hell for it, again," Ray snorted, and Ben smiled. "So I offered her a ride home."

"Very chivalrous," Ray offered, and Ben nodded. His intentions had been pure.

"It had already started snowing when we left," he said, as calmly as if he were only talking about the weather. "Halfway up to her place, north of town, the storm hit full force. We were in total white-out, and when we pulled over to wait it out, snow covered the exhaust. We couldn't run the heat or we'd risk asphyxiating. She wasn't dressed for the weather--just this silly little dress, and she was smaller than me, she got cold more quickly. We had to share my coat, and we huddled there on the seat, holding on to each other."

Ben paused to catch his breath--he could feel his own heart beating fast, and Ray was lying so still that he might be asleep. Still, when Ben opened his mouth again, more words tumbled out. "I kept talking to her to keep her from slipping away, made her talk to me, and we talked about...everything, nothing, I don't know what, to this day." Not precisely true; he remembered flashes of things, snatches of conversation. He remembered saying I love you.

"It snowed all that night, and through the next day and the next night. When I couldn't talk anymore, I took her fingers, and I put them in my mouth to keep them warm. I don't remember losing consciousness, but I remember thinking I was dying--" he felt Ray flinch at that, and it occurred to him that Ray might never in his life have thought that he was about to die. He tightened his arm around Ray, feeling oddly protective, and went on steadily, so close now to finishing. "I thought that that was going to be it, freezing to death by the side of the road--but I held on to the sound of her voice, which never wavered. She had the most beautiful voice. She recited a poem, over and over. She must have said it a thousand times, but I never heard the words."

Ray lifted his head, and Ben closed his eyes, unable to believe he'd said so much, but Ray only dropped a kiss over his heart. A moment later, he felt Ray's fingertips against his lips, and opened his mouth to receive them. Against his ear, Ray whispered, "I'm not much for poetry, so you're just gonna have to go with me here."

Ray had had three days to practice not talking about things by the time he got a chance to check a few facts. Fraser had gotten dragged away at the end of practice for some little semi-official captain-and-A's pow-wow, and Ray took his chance to slip off unobserved.

The press box was nearly empty, since there was no game tonight, but a few of the stringers had come to watch the practice, and--

"Dammit," Ray said before he could stop himself, and of course Ms. Vecchio heard him and looked up.

She gave him a bright smile. "Hey, Ray. Did I stand you up? Were we supposed to meet up and talk?"

"No," Ray said flatly, "No we were not and you know that. I just need to ask somebody a couple of questions."

Ms. Vecchio arched an eyebrow. "Nobody here but us chickens, Ray, and usually we do the asking."

"Chickens," Ray repeated, trying to forget everything he might or might not know about Fraser--this was why nobody talked about anything, because then you knew things, and if you knew things you had to be sure no one else found out--and he blurted, "Go suck an egg, Ms. Vecchio."

She blinked, mouth open, looking more startled than offended, and the stringers were staring at him, and Ray thought, That's it, career-ending injury to the reputation, and added, "Fuck--fuck," before he bolted to the scorekeeper's booth, slamming the door behind him.

He just stood there for a second in the dim quiet, catching his breath and hating reporters, and then Elaine peeked out from behind her TV screens and computers. "Kowalski? You need something?"

Ray blinked a few times. "Yeah. Uh. Yeah." He walked over and sat down in a swivel chair next to Elaine's desk. Most of the screens were dark, but a few were showing last night's games with the sound off. Ray got dizzy trying to watch them all and had to spin his chair to the side. "Got a question for you."

Elaine spread her hands between the TVs and computers and stacks of stat books. "As long as your question relates to hockey, Kowalski, I may very well be the woman you're looking for."

Ray smiled. "It relates to Fraser. He was saying he's never missed a game due to injury, is that true?"

Elaine tilted her head, eyes up as she calculated. "Yep, that's true," she said finally. "He missed four games when his wife died, and he's been a healthy scratch from time to time, but he's never sat out due to injury."

Ben opened his mouth, but he couldn't speak. He couldn't even breathe. He could only stare at Ray, who spoke those words so calmly, over pizza--

Ray's mouth was moving, but Ben didn't understand what he was saying, and then Ray's hands were on his face and Ray was kissing him. When Ray pulled away he found he could breathe again, long shuddering breaths, and Ray's eyes searched his. "Okay?" Ray said, and Ben shook his head.

"Yeah," Ray muttered, finally looking away, "Yeah, dumb fucking question, come on." Ray's hands left his face, and his skin felt cold without Ray's warmth. One hand closed around his wrist, dragging him along as Ray stood up, towing him to the bedroom, to the bed. Ray left the light off, and Ben followed numbly where he was led, sitting down beside Ray. Dief jumped onto the bed at Ben's other side, and Ray said, "Okay, look. Here's what I got, and maybe I'm crazy but I'm getting this vibe from you like I'm not."

Ben closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. His breath was coming effortlessly now, so fast he was dizzy with it. Ray's grip on his wrist released, sliding to his shoulder, steady and warm. Ben noticed, distantly, that he was shivering. That couldn't be right. Ray kept his own apartment a few degrees warmer than Ben kept his.

"She used to hit Dief. She used to hit you. She killed Dief. She tried to kill you. Only you're still here and she's not." Ray reached out and caught Ben's left wrist, his long fingers sliding into his sleeve to touch the scar there, tracing the curving line of it across the bone. "You didn't cut yourself. And she didn't kill herself."

Ben lowered his hands, dragging Ray's down as well, curling around the pressure-pain in his chest. He could feel the words clawing free, breaking him open. He drew a long unsteady breath and said, as he had only once before, "I killed her."

Ray's hand tightened on his wrist, and Ray's other hand was on his shoulder, pulling him further onto the bed. He let Ray push him to lie on his side, kept still as Ray lay down behind him. When Ray's arms wrapped around him, he grabbed them and held on, and a moment later Dief appeared in front of him, curled up small against Ben's chest. Ben closed his eyes.

Close to his ear, Ray said, "You're going to tell me what happened, okay, Ben?" Tell me what happened, his father had said. Tell me what happened, son.

Ben nodded obediently, but he didn't know what to say, where to start. "Ray, I've never--I can't--"

"You were in Winnipeg," Ray said softly, relentlessly. "You were at Mark's, right? And she called you. She told you about Dief."

Ben's hands tightened--too hard, he felt Ray's hands twitch against his chest, and he loosened his grip with an effort and swallowed hard. "I was in Winnipeg," he repeated. "At Mark's, after the game." They'd been drinking, laughing. Mark's place had felt so safe, so much like a home, even if it wasn't quite his. "It was a good game, I had two--"

Stupid detail, stupid thing to remember, that wasn't the point, but Ray said, "Two assists, yeah, you were having a good night."

Ben shivered, at the sound and sensation of Ray speaking against his ear, at how much Ray seemed to know already. "Yes. The phone rang and Mark answered, and I could tell right away, from the way he spoke, that it was--"

Ray's hand stroked against his chest, encouraging him to take a breath, and Ray said, "Victoria."

"Victoria," Ben repeated. His mouth barely knew how to shape her name anymore. "I still didn't realize that anything was wrong. I usually called her every night and I hadn't yet. I thought that was all it was, but she told me Dief was dead."

Dief nuzzled against his belly, and Ben heard the muffled clink of his tags when he moved.

"She told me she shot him," Ben amended. "I know she told me that." But he couldn't remember the words. He couldn't remember her voice. All he remembered was staring at the shine of lamp light off a beer bottle, and knowing. "I didn't--I didn't really hear anything else she said. I--I hate guns." He felt Ray nod against the back of his neck, and Ben shook his head. "No, that's not it--I'm afraid of guns. I always have been. Terrified. I never really saw them when I was young--my father didn't bring his gun in the house when he was home, which wasn't often, and my grandparents bought or bartered their food--but when I was thirteen, my father decided to teach me to hunt."

Ray seemed to know what was coming. His hand slid up and down Ben's chest, and Ben remembered to breathe. "He took me out into the woods. I carried the pack and he carried the gun, in a case. I wasn't eager, but I thought I could do it. I had to. My father expected me to. Up there, men hunt. That's what it means to be a man." Ray nodded again, and Ben took another long breath, remembering that moment, the clarity of the light, the shine of the rifle barrel.

"We got to the spot, and he took out the gun and I must have made some kind of sound, because he looked up at me, holding the rifle. I panicked. I ran, and ran, and ran until I fell down, until I couldn't run anymore, and then I just laid there on the ground, waiting for--" He had to stop and catch his breath. He was gasping for it as if he were running now, and he could feel Ray's thumb stroking across the ridge of his collarbone as he tried to control himself.

"Waiting for my father to kill me," he finished, when he could. "That's what I thought, when I saw the gun. It was ridiculous, but I was convinced I was going to die. That gun in my father's hands was the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen."

He'd stayed there, on the ground, trying frantically to think where he could hide, knowing it wouldn't matter. His father could track a ghost across sheer ice; one thirteen-year-old boy wouldn't get far. He'd lain there so long the shadows moved across him. Eventually his panic ebbed, and he began to realize how utterly he'd humiliated himself. "I knew I had to go back--I couldn't just sit out there all night--so I followed my own trail all the way to where we'd stopped. It was plain as day, but my father hadn't followed me. He'd set up camp and built a fire. The gun was nowhere in sight. I sat down next to the fire, and he handed me a--" Ben swallowed hard, remembering, fighting to keep his voice steady. "He handed me a cup of coffee. As if I were a man. He'd always given me cocoa before, when he took me out camping. But he gave me coffee, and he asked me about the travel hockey leagues down south, and--I think that was the day he gave up on me being a man like him. A Mountie, or anything useful at all."

Ben fell silent, and Ray said, "He didn't give you the coffee when you ran away, y'know. He gave it to you when you came back."

Ben turned his head, twisting his neck to look at Ray in the failing light, and Ray smiled a little and said, "I know a thing or two about disappointing your old man." Then Ray's hand came up to his cheek, and guided him to lay his head down again. Ben closed his eyes, tilting his cheek up into Ray's touch. Close to his ear, Ray said, "So she told you she shot him," Ray said, "and you freaked because you can't handle guns."

Ben clenched his eyes shut tight and forced himself to take up the thread again. "Mark came and took the phone away from me and hung it up. He asked me what was wrong and I said Dief was dead, I said there had been an accident. I was--" Ben breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, and loosened one hand from holding on to Ray to sink it into Dief's fur. "I was used to lying. For her. About her. About things that happened. It was automatic. I don't know if he believed me. I wanted to leave right then, but he wouldn't let me. He wouldn't even let me go back to the hotel. I--slept--we didn't--"

Ben got stuck, hesitant to say I was married, when that apparently hadn't been an obstacle for Ray, but Ray said, "Yeah, I gotcha. You spent the night at his place so he could keep an eye on you."

"I called my father before I went to sleep. I wanted Dief buried up north, and I knew I wouldn't be able to go myself, so I wanted my father to take him. I was in luck, and I was able to get hold of him. He said he'd be in Edmonton the next day, and I should call him when I got there. Mark took me to the airport in the morning and I flew home with the team."

Ray's mouth settled against the back of Ben's neck, his breath a warm-cool tickle. Constant. Steady. "It was late afternoon by the time I got to the house. The light was already failing. I--" Ben's breath caught, and he swallowed a sob and went on. "I knew how it must have happened, I'd had plenty of time to figure it out. Dief didn't like to stay inside the house with her if I wasn't there, especially in the winter, because he didn't have enough exits. He had a kennel outside, and he could jump the fences from there if he needed to. The first heavy snow had fallen that day while I was in Winnipeg, and Dief loved the snow. He felt safe in it. He knew he could outrun any human in snow. She must have come outside, onto the back porch, and called to him. He came--not close, not close enough for her to touch, but he came. He didn't--I don't think he'd ever seen a gun, he didn't know that she could--"

Ben had to stop, his breath coming in short harsh gasps, and Dief squirmed up to lick at his face. Ray's thumb moved in short sweeps across Ben's cheekbone; he was reminded of a windshield wiper, and a laugh broke through his next breath. Dief subsided to rest with his head tucked against Ben's throat, and he forced himself to go on. "She'd left him where he fell, and they'd gotten more snow afterward. I had to look for him. The snow was drifted and deep." He'd spent close to an hour reaching into hummocks of snow, probing for the shape of a wolf underneath. "The snow was red under the white, and blood had frozen in his fur and on his tags. She shot him straight through the heart. He hadn't even turned to run." His face had been numb, tears frozen to his skin, his arms and legs soaked and freezing, his hands numb and awkward as he broke Dief free of the frozen snow.

"I took him into the garage to clean him up. The blood started to melt under the water and I could smell it. I could smell him." Dief didn't smell like anything, now, but Ben could smell Ray's skin and sweat, pressed close, and that was something, that was better than the memory of blood thawing on his hands. "I wrapped him up in a tarp and laid him down in the corner. I went inside to wash my hands in the kitchen and I knew it was over. I couldn't do it anymore, I just couldn't. She'd killed him. There was--" he took a breath. He'd had years to think about it, to explain it to himself over and over in ever more cool and clinical terms. He hadn't been thinking of it, at the time; in fact he'd been very carefully not thinking about anything. He'd been utterly focused on running his hands under lukewarm water until he could feel his fingertips, thinking beyond that only so far as to be thankful that his bag was still in the car, so that he wouldn't need to pack anything. Still, he wanted Ray to understand.

"There was an escalating pattern," he said. "It wasn't just Dief. She--" Rehearsed or not, the words caught in his throat, and he got stuck. His mouth worked, but it was like rocking a car stranded in mud; the more he tried, the deeper he sunk.

Ray's forehead touched the back of his neck; Ray's skin was warm against his, and he could feel the motion of Ray's eyelashes as he blinked. "The baby?"

Ben's breath caught, his heart stuttering. He'd tried for so long not to think of it that way, as a baby. It had been a pregnancy, no more than that. "I had an ultrasound picture," he said softly, "it was taped up in my locker, but I took it with me when we went on the road." His teammates had teased him about it, but they'd understood. He'd been adopted into the circle of married men and fathers; they'd joked with him about tiny ice skates and hockey camp trust funds. "She told me she'd had a miscarriage," he said. Miscarriage. That was easier to say; he must have said it dozens of times. Hundreds. To his father, to Mark, to his teammates. He'd even explained the matter to Dief, and the wolf had shared with him the quiet numb grief that he had dared not lay as a further burden upon Victoria, still recovering. "But--she'd been treated at a private clinic, not the hospital. If it had been an emergency they'd have taken her to hospital. I never asked her, I didn't want to know for certain, but I--I think--"

Ray's fingers touched his mouth, pressed inside to still his tongue, and Ben went gratefully silent as Ray kissed the back of his neck. After a moment, Ray's fingers withdrew, and Ben said, in the same calm, detached voice with which he could discuss Edmonton's odds of making the playoffs, "The worst part of it was being relieved. At least the worst had already happened. At least it was over quickly. At least it--" he, she, my child, "didn't suffer for long."

Ray's hand slipped down his throat to his chest, resting lightly over his wildly beating heart, and Ray said softly, "Not like you, huh? Not like Dief. She took her time with you guys."

Ben swallowed and nodded, though he'd never thought of it in quite that way, and Ray went on. "So you went inside to wash up, wash your hands of it all, because you'd had enough."

Ben took a shaky breath, remembering the light shining on the faucet, the blood caked around his nails. "She came in, and I didn't look up, I just said I was leaving, loudly enough to be heard over the water. I said I'd stay in a hotel. She walked up to me while I was looking down, and put the barrel of the gun to the side of my head. She said I wasn't going anywhere."

Ray's arms tightened, crushingly tight, around him, and Ray shifted up to press a kiss to his temple. It was the wrong side, but it felt good anyway. Ben kept talking, the words pushing free of him whether he willed it or no. "I froze, and she laughed. She had--she knew I was scared of guns. She insisted on having one because I was gone so much, and she might have to protect herself. She was American, from Alaska. She took me with her to buy the gun, and kept asking my opinion when she wasn't flirting with the proprietor. And now she--I thought that was it. I thought I was going to die. I couldn't move. She pushed with the gun until my head was on my shoulder and then she said, 'You'll never leave me.' I thought she was right, but I didn't say anything, and she took the gun away and screamed at me. 'You'll never leave me.' I knew she wanted me to say it back, but I wouldn't say it. I don't know if I was defying her or if I just couldn't speak. I wasn't thinking very clearly.

"She grabbed my chin and made me face her, she kissed me, but I wouldn't kiss her back. She slapped me. I just stood there. I wasn't going to cooperate, not that night. Not after what she'd done. She said--" He didn't remember the words, not clearly. Such a beautiful voice, but he couldn't hear it anymore. He remembered her eyes, the fury but more the utter madness. It had never been so clear to him as it was then, that she was beyond reaching, beyond all hope. She hadn't always been like that, he thought. When had it happened? How? He'd been on the road too much, like she said.

"She said things about--me, and about Mark--she threatened him. Threatened to expose him, threatened to kill him, she was waving the gun and I--I didn't think, I just moved, grabbed it from her hand. She stopped for a second and stared at me. I'd never done anything of the sort before, but I was numb, not just my hands, everywhere. I felt as if I was already dead, as if I was out there under the tarp in the garage. It didn't matter what I did. The gun was in my hand, and she reached out and grabbed a knife from the block on the counter. She swung it at me and I blocked with my arm, without thinking, and the blade stuck in the bone. The pain woke me up. It hurt, but it meant I wasn't dead yet, and then I didn't want to be. She was trying to pull it free and I knew if she got a second shot she'd kill me--I thought she might have broken my arm or cut the veins in my wrist already--and I had to stop her."

It had all been so easy, had happened so fast. He'd never handled a gun before but it fit his hand like it belonged there, his finger found the trigger and he knew what he had to do. "I put the gun to her jaw." He reached up and caught Ray's hand, guided Ray's fingers to the place on his own face, the soft spot just under the bone, where the pulse beat. "And I pulled the trigger." The sound hadn't been as loud as he expected, but the recoil had jolted through him as though he'd been shot himself. Newton's Second Law. "She fell, and I fell. The gun fell, I heard it bounce. The knife was still in my arm and I held it there. I knew I'd bleed more if I pulled it out. I grabbed the phone. I couldn't feel my fingers and they were slippery with blood. I could barely see but I dialed. My father. It was the first phone number I could think of. I'd been supposed to call him to come get Dief. He was a Mountie. He would know what to do.

"I told him she was dead, I told him he had to come. He asked me where I was, where she was, I said the kitchen. He made me put a towel on my arm, and I pressed it as hard as I could but it hurt so badly I nearly passed out. I opened my eyes and my father was there, kneeling over me. His hand was on my arm and he asked me what happened. I told him I killed her. I told him why. He told me--" Ben swallowed. "He told me that wasn't what happened. He told me I came home and found her with the gun, holding it to her own head. I took it away from her and she grabbed the knife and I got in her way when she tried to cut herself with it, and that's when she grabbed the gun again. I fought to get it away from her and she shot herself. He--he pressed down, on my arm, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see, and he asked me what happened. I told him--" Ben shut his eyes tight, shuddered. "I told him she killed herself. He asked me how it happened and I told him I tried to stop her, we fought for the gun, fought for the knife, and then she shot herself. He made me tell him again, and again. I was crying. I could barely talk and he kept making me tell him, and then he pulled the knife out and I lost consciousness. I woke up in the hospital."

Ray's mouth touched the point of his jaw, the pulse in his throat. "You made it," Ray whispered. "You survived."

Ben's chest clenched, and he forced himself to breathe. "I wasn't badly hurt. My arm wasn't broken. They gave me stitches and a blood transfusion. The police only spoke to me once and I told them--I told them what I told my father. I told them what he told me. They didn't ask me again and he arranged everything. The coroner's inquest found no need for further investigation and the report was sealed at my father's request. I never said another word about her to anyone."

Ray's hand pressed against his chest, and Ray said softly, "So you're safe, then?"

Ben blinked into the darkness, uncomprehending. "What?"

"They won't reopen the case. They won't come after you. You're safe."

Ben was dumbstruck. That was Ray's question? Whether he was safe? He had to swallow hysterical laughter before he could speak. "Yes, Ray. Yes, as far as I know."

Ray seemed to hear the unsteadiness in his voice, because his arms tightened infinitesimally. "And you're not going to do something dumb like go confess, right? Because you know the first thing they'd do is peg Mark as a conspirator. And me as an accessory after the fact, now, because you can bet your ass I'm aiding and abetting."

Ray's voice was rough and warm, and Ben closed his eyes as tears leaked out, too weary to be ashamed. "I used to think about it," he said. "I used to think about it all the time. I rehearsed it in my mind, over and over. I wanted to tell, but I couldn't--I couldn't do that. My father--Mark--"

"And you," Ray said softly. "Even if they cleared you for her death there'd be charges on concealing evidence. Your career would be over. It'd be a fuck of a mess. She's not worth that, Ben."

Ben rolled onto his back, and Ray moved enough to let him, as Dief scooted close on his other side. He looked at Ray's eyes, intent in the dimness, and then away to the featureless dark of the ceiling. "You can just say that?"

"Sure," Ray said, easily. "Does anybody but me know as much as I do about what happened?"

Ben opened his mouth, and closed it again.

"Nope," Ray agreed. "I'm the world's greatest living expert on you, Benton Fraser, and I'm saying you did the right thing. You did the only thing you could do. And your dad, maybe what he did wasn't exactly on the up and up, but it was the best he could do for you. To keep you safe. And you're safe, so that's it. Done. Over."

"Ray, I--"

Ray sighed against his mouth, and kissed him until he lost all ambition to speak. "I gotta do something," Ray said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll come right back to you. I just gotta do something, okay? Close your eyes."

Ben squinted at Ray, and then closed his eyes. Ray's fingers brushed over his eyelids, and his weariness seemed suddenly magnified, far beyond his ability to fight. He was lying in Ray's familiar bed, with Dief curled at his back. It didn't even occur to him to wonder what Ray was doing until he felt Ray's weight settle again in the spot where Ray had been lying, close beside him. "Okay," Ray said, so softly he wouldn't have woken Ben if he'd been sleeping, "open your eyes."

Ben blinked, his eyes adjusting to the faint light coming from the half-open closet door. Ray was holding his keys in one hand, and had a lockbox in his lap. Ben stared at it a moment, and then realized what must be inside. Ray didn't look at him as he found the right key and slipped it into the lock. "My uncle, the one who taught me to skate, my Uncle Ed. He got me a job working nights as a security guard in one of those fancy buildings on the Mile. He was head of the night shift, got me in under the table because I was too young. It paid for my first set of contacts, new equipment, a ring for Stella." Ray turned the key. Ben couldn't take his eyes off Ray's hand. "I had to have a gun. He taught me to shoot, and I was good at it. Real good, as long as I had my glasses on. Even competed a couple of times. Won some prizes in my age group." Ray turned the key back and pulled it out. Ben kept breathing. It was just a locked metal box.

Ray's fingers worked quickly, removing the small silver key from the ring. He held it out to Ben on his open hand, and only then did Ben look up into Ray's eyes, calm and patient and blue as deep water. "Ray?"

"Take it," Ray said softly. "I want you to be able to trust me."

Ben shook his head slowly. "If I took it, it would mean I didn't trust you."

Ray lips twitched up, but his eyes never wavered. "Well, then the hell with trusting me, Ben. I want you to feel safe with me."

Ben reached out and closed Ray's fingers around the key. "I already do."

Ray kept looking at him until Ben closed his eyes, and then he said softly, "Yeah, all right." Ben meant to point out that the matter didn't actually call for ratification, but he never got around to opening his mouth before he fell asleep, his hand still covering Ray's.

Ray didn't start to shake until he knew Ben was asleep. He clenched his fist tight on the key, the edges sharp against his palm, and his fist shook so hard Ben's hand slipped off, landing on Ray's calf. He felt cold when Ben's hand left his, and goosebumps jumped up on his arms. He wanted to run, he wanted to fight, he wanted to scream--fuck, he wanted to cry--for all the shit that had happened to Ben and for the fact that he'd never been able to tell a soul. Never could tell anyone she was hurting him, or hurting Dief--no one would've believed an NHL defenseman couldn't look out for himself, even though it would have been a scandal if he'd ever laid a hand on her. Never could tell anyone she killed his baby.

Ray curled down over his fisted hands, his arms and shoulders aching with the strain of keeping still. He pressed his forehead against Ben's arm, and forced himself to breathe as much as he could in that position, and he shook until he felt sick with it, until tears squeezed from his eyes and dropped onto Ben's skin.

Ben shifted in his sleep, muttering, and his hand tightened on Ray's calf. Ray took a deep breath, and then another, and laid himself down by Ben's side, shifting Ben's grip to his arm and whispering to him he was quiet and still again. Ray slung an arm across his chest, one leg over Ben's legs, and shoved the lockbox key in his pocket as he settled in. The shaking was passing off, now, leaving nothing but total exhaustion in its place, but he was still awake as Ben slept. Even Dief seemed to be sleeping, resting easy now that it was all over, maybe. He was tucked so close to Ben that his fur brushed against Ray's arm--he could have petted the wolf now, if he wanted to, but it seemed like taking advantage, so Ray kept still. He listened to Ben sleeping, felt him breathe, felt the warmth of him raise sweat everywhere they touched, and reminded himself that it had all happened a long time ago and Ben was safe now, here with him.

Ray slept and woke and slept and woke, but Ben was always still, sleeping deep. Ray was usually an all-over-the-bed kind of guy, but he stuck close to Ben all night, and every time he opened his eyes, Dief was still right there, just a finger-twitch away on Ben's other side.

He woke up after what felt like a long stretch asleep to see the sky lightening outside the window, dull grey compared to the yellow glow of the closet light. His eyes and mouth were gummy with sleep, and he felt that particular kind of grimy that came from sleeping in his clothes, and his jeans were tight enough that there was just no ignoring how badly he had to piss.

Ben mumbled when Ray pulled away, and Ray whispered, "I'm not leaving, I'll be right back," and then stumbled to the bathroom, his right arm going all pins-and-needles from being trapped under Ben for half the night. He waited it out when he got to the bathroom instead of trying to piss left-handed. When he got back to the bedroom, he turned off the closet light and then headed back to bed. Ben was lying there with his eyes open, staring at the lockbox on the night stand. "Sorry," Ray said, reaching for it, "I'll--"

"No," Ben said, "It's all right. Please." He patted the space where Ray had spent the last twelve or so hours, and Ray crawled right back into bed, lying down along his side.

Ben was all shades of gray and black in the thin morning light, looking faded and frayed even after a more-than-full night's sleep. Ray touched Ben's face, and it was the same as ever to his fingertips. "Nothing's changed," Ray said softly, tracing the familiar line of Ben's jaw, prickly with stubble, the curve of his lip. Ben watched him with dark, unreadable eyes. "Nothing's changed," he repeated. "We're still here."

Ben looked away, up at the ceiling. "You can just say that?"

Ray grinned, relief hitting him like a burst of adrenaline, his heart beating fast and his head light. "Sure," he said, "I'm the expert, remember."

Ben looked over at him without turning his head, and his mouth curved into a tiny smile, almost shy. Ray leaned in and kissed him, closed-mouthed and careful, his hand resting lightly on Ben's stomach. He felt the tug as Ben caught a fold of his t-shirt, and a breath later the heat of his hand bled through.

The bed bounced as Dief jumped off, startling them both. Ray felt Ben stiffen under him, and they both turned to look at the wolf, who was standing by the bedroom door, barking at them. His ears were pricked up, his tail wagging high, and as they both lay there watching him, he came back to the side of the bed, bouncing like a puppy. Ben reached out a hand to him and Dief closed his teeth around it gently, tugging. "I think he wants me to take him for a walk," Ben said, sounding happily confused.

Dief dropped Ben's hand and barked, tail wagging, and Ben's smile widened. "Me and you." Ben turned to look at him, and Ray couldn't have said no to him right then no matter what Ben wanted from him. "If you don't mind, Ray?"

"Nah," Ray said, smiling back, "why should I mind? He probably hasn't had a good run in a long time now."

Dief barked again at that, and Ben rolled out of bed. Ray followed him, and they went straight out to the front door to get their shoes and coats. Ray fell a little behind as they passed the kitchen, his feet automatically slowing down to remind him that he was about to leave without coffee. Dief came trotting back to him, and before Ray could react, he caught Ray's hand in his teeth. The little hard points of pressure were cold on Ray's skin.

Ray looked down at Dief, and Dief looked up and met his eyes. He didn't bark, or wag his tail, just looked up at Ray, and suddenly Ray wanted coffee, wanted donuts, wanted to put away last night's pizza and brush his teeth, anything that would put off going out for a walk with Dief. He tried to pull his hand back, and felt the vibration of a silent growl through Dief's teeth, which didn't let him go.

Ray dropped his gaze first, giving in. "Okay," he whispered.

Ben called, "Ray?" and Dief dropped his hand, prancing back toward the door, all excited again.

"Yeah," Ray called, pasting the smile back on his face that had been so effortless a minute ago. Dief was dancing around them as Ray put on his shoes, shrugged into his coat, tucked his keys and wallet in his pockets. He kept almost-but-not-quite tripping either him or Ben, so by the time they were both ready to head out, they were holding on to each other for balance and laughing.

Ray was telling himself that it had been nothing, back in the hallway, but then Dief jumped, tags jingling, and for the first time Ray clearly saw the black spot on the white fur of his chest, and realized it marked where she'd shot him. Ray ushered Ben and Dief out into the hallway and locked the door behind them, and they headed to the elevator. Dief didn't have any problem with that this morning, and stood between Ray and Ben, watching the numbers clicking down and wagging his tail.

It was snowing when they stepped outside. The sky was gray but brightening, and the streetlights were still on. There wasn't any snow on the sidewalks yet, but it was piling up on the grass and bushes, and Dief took off for the little park where Ray had walked François a time or two, like he knew exactly where to go. Ray and Ben followed side-by-side and slower, their breath puffing white in the cold air. Ray shoved his hands in his pockets, only looking over occasionally to see Ben's pink cheeks and bright blue eyes, snow dotting his dark hair and the shoulders of his coat. "So, hey," Ray said quietly, "if there's ever anything else you think you need to tell me, don't hesitate, okay?"

Ben looked over at him, and the light in his eyes faded a little. The sky looked grayer, all of a sudden, and Ray wished he'd kept his mouth shut, but something was still going on, Dief was trying to tell him something, and he still didn't know what. If Ben was really safe, what had that Mountie wanted, and why had he been so scared? Ray kicked up a powdering of snow from the grass at the edge of the sidewalk, and Ben said, "I don't remember how my mother died."

Ray looked over at him, but Ben was looking straight ahead, as calm as he'd been that morning when he told Ray his mom was dead.

"As far as I can tell I was there," he said, "but the last thing I remember is her taking me down to the pond to skate and reminding me to stay away from the rotten ice. It was close to spring thaw. I know that I nearly drowned that day, and I know that I developed pneumonia afterward, from the water in my lungs. I know my mother died, and so did a friend of my father's, a man named Muldoon. My father nursed me through my sickness himself, and the first thing I remember, after, is that he had a beard. He must not have left my side the entire time, even to shave. I asked him where my mother was, and he told me she was dead. Within the week, he'd sent me to stay with my grandparents, and thrown himself back into his work."

Ben had only missed a week, Ray remembered, after Victoria. Chip off the old block.

"I don't think he blamed me, exactly," Ben said quietly. "But I think--it must have been my fault."

Ray stopped walking and grabbed Ben by the arm, resisting the urge to actually shake him. "No," he said. "No way. Victoria I will grant you, but you were six, Ben, and whatever happened to two adults that day could not possibly have been your fault."

Ben didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue, didn't give Ray an opening to fight him on it. "The point is," he said quietly, eyes on the sidewalk, snow falling down on the back of his neck unheeded, "the people I care about all seem to die. The people I love." He looked up and met Ray's eyes steadily. "And I do love you, Ray. And--"

"Whoa," Ray said, wishing they'd had this conversation indoors somewhere, wishing he could kiss Ben on a public street at dawn and not worry about who might be watching. "Hey. We don't know what happened to your mom and this Muldoon guy, and the other half of your data points are the result of your wife being insane." Ben smiled a little at that, but his eyes were still dark. "I don't die easy," Ray said, more quietly. "I'm not going anywhere." He reached out and brushed snow off Ben's neck with his bare hand, and Ben let him. When Ray went to tuck his hand back into his pocket, Ben caught it for a second, warming it with his own, though he still didn't look up. Ray squeezed Ben's hand, and then let go.

Hands back in pockets, they walked on down the street and into the park, where Dief was running around in the snow that had accumulated on the grass, snapping at the snowflakes still falling. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder watching him act like an idiot--rolling in the snow, digging in the quarter-inch of accumulation like it was a snow drift--until he came over to them, tail and ears high. Ray thought--hoped--that he was going to recruit Ben to throw snowballs, but he just shook himself, making his tags jingle and throwing off snow onto their legs.

Ray glanced over at Ben, and saw him watching Dief with a frown of concentration, and he saw the moment when Ben understood what Dief wanted, his eyes going shock-wide, his lips pressing together like he was trying not to scream. Ray looked back at Dief and watched him duck his head and raise one paw to his neck, then look up at Ben again, tail waving slower now. Ray swallowed hard, getting the message himself. "He wants his tags off."

Ben made a choked noise and dropped to his knees in the snow, and Ray knelt down too, as Dief stepped forward and licked Ben's face. Ray set his hand on Ben's shoulder, squeezing tight through the thickness of his coat, ignoring the cold. "Ben," he said softly, and Ben jerked at the name.

"I know," he said, but when he raised his hands it was to hug Dief around the neck, and he buried his face in Dief's fur. Ray held on to Ben, and Dief licked at Ben's ear, his tail finally still. Ray could feel snow soaking through his jeans, his fingers and ears were starting to go numb, and he had to wonder what they'd look like, to anybody walking by who couldn't see Dief, but none of it mattered. He'd stay here all day if he had to, if Ben needed him to.

The streetlights were starting to shut off as the sky brightened and the snow came down harder. Ben finally picked his head up, shifting his hands as he did. Ray watched as one of his hands closed in a white-knuckled fist around the chain of Dief's tags. Dief whined, twisting his head back and forth but not pulling back, not pulling himself out from under. Ray opened his mouth to say something, but Ben's hand moved before he could find words. Dief ducked his head, and the tags came off with a small sound, dropping to hang from Ben's hand as Dief danced away. His feet didn't even seem to touch the snow anymore, as if that little bit of metal dangling from Ben's hand had been weighing him down, holding him to the ground.

He came back and licked Ben's face again, barking and wagging his tail until Ben smiled a little, and then Dief turned to Ray and licked his face, too. Moving slow, not wanting to rush him off, Ray raised his hands and sunk them into Dief's fur. Dief backed off far enough to bark at him, tongue hanging out, but he didn't pull away from Ray's hands. "Okay, furface," Ray said. "I get it. You like me, you really like me." Dief wagged his tail like crazy at that, and Ray took his hands away.

Dief ran off a few strides, then turned back and barked at them again, perfectly silent in the falling snow. When he turned away for the last time, Ray looked away from the wolf, to Ben's face. His last smile for Dief was frozen in place, and he still held his hand up, his fist clenched, a few snowflakes gathering on the cold metal of the tags and chain. Ray didn't watch Dief run on into the snow, finally free. He watched Ben watching, and when Ben finally looked down, he knew Dief had disappeared from sight, white on white in the distance.

Ray wiggled his toes and waited, and finally Ben said, "I don't know why he didn't take them off years ago. He could have. I told him he could. I don't know why he didn't leave."

Ray, kneeling in the snow in a public park, looked at Ben, his face pale under the cold flush in his cheeks, his blue eyes dry, and said, "I do."

Ben looked over at him, but Ray couldn't meet his eyes. He reached out and stuck his nearer hand through the chain, looping it twice around his wrist, and then he stood up, pulling Ben along. "Come on," he said softly. "We gotta get warmed up before it's time to leave for practice."

Ben's grip on the chain never loosened, all the way back to Ray's apartment.

Ray led him directly into the bathroom and turned on the shower one-handed, as Ben was still holding the chain wrapped around his left wrist. Steam began to heat the room at once, and Ben found the contrast to his own thoroughly chilled state almost painful. As he stood there, waiting for his shivering to stop, Ray started to unwind the chain from his wrist. "No," Ben said, startlingly loud in the small space, and Ray looked up at him, wide-eyed.

Ben let go with an effort. The imprint of the beads remained on his palm and fingertips, perfect hemispherical voids imprinted in his skin. Ray looped the chain a third time around his wrist, settling the tags at the back of his hand, and began to undress, and Ben, after a beat, did the same. He kept his gaze fixed on Ray, who was barely a hand's breath away in the small room and not going anywhere. He could smell Ray's skin in the warm air, and Ray's breath and muttered imprecations nearly drowned out the occasional jingling of the tags.

Ray finished undressing before Ben, and reached out his left hand. Ben took it, wrapping the slack of the chain around his fingers and using Ray's hand to steady himself as he pulled off his socks. When he was done, Ray kicked their clothes into an untidy heap against the wall and stepped into the shower, leaning slightly on Ben's hand as he did. He raised his free hand to Ben's back to pull him in, and for just a moment the angle of his arm was perfectly decorous, as if they were waltzing, until Ben stepped in, collapsing the space between them. The fingers of his free hand curled around the back of Ray's neck, and Ben felt Ray's half-suppressed shudder at the cold touch. He knew he ought to move his hand, but he held on and moved closer instead, seeking the warmth of Ray's body more than that of the water.

The first kiss was clumsy with need and lingering chill--he felt Ray's nose as a point of cold against his cheek, shocking in the warmth of the shower, and Ben shivered himself. But Ray's mouth was hot against his, and blessedly familiar. Ray kissed him this morning exactly as he had the morning before, and the morning before that. Nothing had changed, except the chain connecting his fingers and Ray's wrist, and the weight of secrets that no longer separated them. Ben twisted the steel beads more tightly around his fingers, and Ray's hand closed around his despite the awkward angle, welcoming his grip. Warm water ran down his face, over his closed eyes, over his lips, diluting the taste of Ray when they parted to breathe, but Ray's body was hard against his and Ray's hand on his hip slid lower, pulling him closer.

Ben pressed forward and Ray eased back to lean against the shower wall. Ben pressed his knuckles against that unyielding surface, while his thumb stroked the softness of Ray's wrist, held fast. Ben thrust against the wet-slick warmth of Ray's belly as his cock hardened and Ray pushed back against him in echo. The feeling of Ray's erection sliding on his sensitive skin only made Ben more eager. He moaned against Ray's mouth, swallowing the murmur of Ray's reply in another wet kiss. Ben's hips thrust in random irresistible impulses against Ray, his cock sliding against the water-slick skin of Ray's hip as he pressed his tongue into Ray's mouth, tasting him, breathing his breath.

Ray's hand slid forward from his hip, moving to touch him, to speed him on, and Ben caught his wrist and held it back. Even as his hand tightened he froze, suddenly aware that he had pinned Ray to the wall, and was holding both of his wrists. Ben opened his eyes to meet Ray's, but saw none of his own brief panic reflected there.

Ray shook off Ben's suddenly-loose grip on both his wrists and raised his hands between them. He unwound a loop of chain from his left wrist, and twisted it around his right. Ray tugged once, to show the impromptu bond would hold, and then raised both hands above his head. He leaned in to kiss Ben as he did, whispering, "Whatever you need, okay?"

Ben's breath left him in a groan as he raised one hand to hold the twist of chain between Ray's hands, pinning them to the wall. Ray's hands curled around his wrist, and Ben bent his head to drop kisses along Ray's throat--carefully now, leaving no marks--licking his skin, finding the taste of him in the angle of his jaw, his pulse beating under Ben's tongue.

Ben thrust harder now, holding Ray's hip to the wall as his erection skidded against Ray's hard cock and soft skin. Ray's fingers tightened spasmodically on his wrist, and even the chain in his hand felt blood-warm now, as Ray's hips jerked in tiny frustrated motions against his grip. Ben felt flushed hot, his skin stretched thin, and he panted raggedly against Ray's skin, thrusting hard, wildly. Ray's fingers stroked suggestively up the column of his wrist, and he felt Ray's lips against his ear. Under the falling water Ray whispered, "Come on, Ben, give it up," and Ben cried out, half a sob, and thrust hard against Ray, unable to hold back any longer, spurting against Ray's skin.

He let go of the chain with an effort, his fingers releasing it unwillingly, still half-curled as they slid through Ray's hair and down the line of his jaw. His hand on Ray's hip tightened all the more, to compensate, and Ray's erection pressed hard and hot against his belly. Ben raised his head, fumbling for Ray's mouth and then kissing him fiercely, thrusting his tongue into the heat of Ray's mouth. Ray moaned and sucked at him, and Ben dragged his hand lower, down Ray's throat to his chest, the skin mostly shielded from the spray by Ben's body. Ben's fingers searched Ray's skin until he found a sticky-wet spot. He rubbed there, and Ray moaned again and sucked harder, waking an echo of arousal in Ben. He shoved his hips against Ray's, and felt Ray's cock straining against him.

Ben raised his fingers to his mouth, to Ray's mouth, to the place where they connected, and Ray's head turned, his mouth seeking Ben's fingers. Ben pressed them inside, and Ray's eyes opened, focusing on Ben's as he licked the semen from Ben's fingertips. Ben held back, watching, for a breath, but he couldn't resist--didn't want to resist--and pressed his mouth awkwardly against Ray's, his tongue sliding into Ray's mouth along with his fingers, seeking out the taste of himself in the taste of Ray. He found it on Ray's tongue, on his own fingertips, and when he couldn't find any more he tore his mouth away, sliding his hand down Ray's side to keep him still. He twisted awkwardly in the small space, licking a path down Ray's body, his mouth moving from one spot to another to taste himself on Ray, bitter-salt and sweat, racing the rush of water over Ray's skin.

Ray's hands, still bound, slid into his hair as he moved lower, pressing him lower still, but Ben was determined to take his own time. He knelt and licked at the crease of Ray's hip, Ray's erection hot and wet against his cheek. He ignored the silent plea of Ray's hands and the sound of Ray's uneven breath above him, licking at Ray's soft skin, pale where the sun never touched. He shifted his hand down to Ray's thigh, and licked the reddened spots where he had held on too hard. He could feel the hardness of the chain against his scalp as Ray's hands moved apart to the limit of their bonds, and he heard Ray say, "Please, Ben, please--" and there no longer seemed to be any merit in waiting.

He curled a hand loosely around the base of Ray's erection, and licked a stripe up the underside. Ray shuddered, and his hands tightened in Ben's hair, grip slipping on the wet strands. The tags jingled almost against Ben's ear, and the taste of Ray was strong on his tongue, but he needed more. He closed his hand around Ray's cock, stroking quickly, almost roughly, as he closed his mouth around the head. Ben heard Ray groan, and closed his eyes as water ran down his face, the world shrinking down to darkness and heat and Ray in his mouth. He stilled his hand and slid his mouth lower, taking one finger in along with Ray's cock, licking and sucking at both. He had his other hand on Ray's belly, and he could feel the straining hardness of muscle there as well, as Ray forced himself to be still. When Ben pulled his wetted finger free, he felt Ray widen his stance, and hummed approvingly around Ray's erection, earning him a jerk of Ray's hips, driving Ray's cock deeper.

Ben's hand slid between Ray's parted thighs, cupping his balls in his palm as his fingers worked further back. He pressed against the perineum, and Ray was startled into another uncontrolled thrust, which he welcomed with a moan. This was what he wanted; Ray, entirely his, entirely given up to this. He shifted his hand down to Ray's hip, and slid his finger further, pressing against Ray's opening and then in, pulling on Ray's hip as he did, but Ray needed no further encouragement. His hands held Ben's head still as his hips rocked steadily between Ben's finger and his mouth, and Ben had only to let himself be used, swallowing around Ray's cock on the downstroke and working his finger steadily inside the tight heat of Ray's ass.

He heard Ray's warning, urgent words somewhere above him, but he only tightened his hand on Ray's hip, holding him close as Ray's cock swelled and jerked in his mouth. He swallowed and swallowed again, savoring Ray's taste, sucking at him until Ray gently pushed his head away.

Ben eased his finger free of Ray and collapsed back on his heels, catching his breath as Ray turned off the water. He heard a metallic jingle, and looked up to see Ray's hand extended to him, all the chain wrapped around one wrist again. He looked up further, to see Ray looking down at him calmly, normally, as though they did this every morning. "Come on," Ray said, beckoning with his hand. "Some of us still need breakfast."

Ben was startled by the laugh that broke from his pleasantly sore throat, and Ray's eyes lit as he grinned brightly back. Ben took the hand held out to him, and pushed himself to his feet.

Ray could hardly remember the last time he'd looked forward to game day so much. Game day would be simpler. Game day would be normal, and not the careful, deliberate normal of every minute he'd spent with Ben since that night, but really normal.

It was, too. He slept over at Ben's, they woke up, showered separately, exchanged exactly one kiss for luck, and drove separately to the arena. All through morning practice, and game day afternoon with the guys and dinner, everything was normal. Ray relaxed, and he could see Ben relaxing too, sinking into the routine and forgetting everything else for a while.

So everything was fine, everything was rolling along, right up until Ray went out for warmups, glanced over to the other side of the ice, and saw Brett Hull wink at him. They were playing the Blues tonight, the fucking Blues, and Ray had forgotten that in his eagerness for the game.

Ray bared his teeth at Hull, his whole body suddenly tensed for the fight, his fists clenching, his heart speeding, and then he turned away, slapping a puck at Eddie that hit him square in the chest.

It was just about the only way he'd be hitting anyone tonight. He reminded himself of that over and over, back in the locker room for Coach's last talk and standing on the bench through the anthem. This was just another game, and Hull was just one of many assholes he wasn't going to square off with this year, and that was that. He was thinking with his brain, not his fists, no matter how loud they got, no matter how good it would feel to lose himself in a fight tonight.

No fighting. He'd promised, and his hands were whole for the first time in years and he was not going to jeopardize any of that, not for a joker like Hull.

He didn't have too much trouble remembering that until the first time Coach threw Ray's line out to match up with Hull's. They lined up shoulder-to-shoulder in the faceoff circle. "Hey, Brando," Hull said, nearly in his ear, "long time no see."

Ray shoved sideways against him, just hard enough, gritting his teeth against the hated nickname and never taking his eyes off the puck in the ref's hand. "Miss me, goldilocks?"

"Oh yeah," Hull shoved back, "nobody's quite as pretty as you."

"Had to come back," Ray agreed, "nobody sucks--"

The puck dropped, and Dewey knocked it straight back to Ray. He got it clear of Hull with a quick move and skated down ice a half stride ahead of him. Ray passed it across to Hue at the first chance, just ahead of Hull's stick. The puck was barely clear before Hull smashed him up against the boards, and for a second Ray could feel all the places he'd hurt tomorrow. He whirled, shaking it off, looking to get back into the play, but Hull was right there, blocking his path. "Come on, Ray-Kay, let's go."

Ray shook his head as he shoved past, his hands tight on his stick, because he could not he could not he could not fight Brett Hull, not right now. The puck came free and Ray chased it down, but Hull was on him, knocking it off his stick and out of the zone. Daz bounced it back in and the play was whistled down, offsides, but Hull was still right on his ass, still yammering in his ear, "Come on, Kowalski, you lost your nerve? Your wrists gone permanently limp on you?"

"Fuck off," Ray gritted out. It wasn't exactly a great comeback, but he managed to skate off fast enough to get to his bench before Hull said anything else, before he got stupider than he could afford to, and that was what counted.

He had tape on his hands. He just had to remember that. His hands were wrapped and taped at the knuckle, and according to the rules, if he fought with tape on his hands and drew blood--and there was no fucking way he was going to fight with Hull and not do his level best to draw some blood--then it wasn't just a fighting penalty, it was intent to injure: mandatory suspension, fine, possible league review, and maybe there was some tiny chance of Coach understanding a regular fight, but he would never come back from that.

Ray sat down on the bench and fiddled with his gloves, but Doc was right behind him, and there was no way to get rid of the tape and gauze on his hands while he was sitting on the bench. So he was going to have to wait for the intermission, sneak the tape off his hands, and then, and then...

Ray clenched his fists on his stick, then forced them to relax, reaching under the bench for a squirt bottle. He tilted his head back to catch a mouthful of Gatorade, and the sleeve of his jersey slid back from his wrist, showing the doubled loop of chain.

Fraser had shortened it with Ray's wire cutters, and tucked Dief's tags away somewhere safe, but Ray was still wearing the chain around his wrist. After a day and a half, he was almost used to it, the slight weight of metal against his skin, slipping on sweat and sliding around.

Twenty thousand people in the building, but he could feel just one looking at him. Ray turned his head and Fraser was there, halfway down the bench, watching the little glint of silver peeking out of his glove. He met Ray's eyes for just a second, and then Coach was shouting a line change, and Fraser was going over the boards. He and Bully must have switched sides, because Fraser was skating straight at Brett Hull.

Brett Hull had the puck; he was a scoring powerhouse, a serious offensive threat. Checking him hard into the boards as soon as he got onto the ice was nothing more nor less than Ben's duty as a defenseman.

Hitting him with enough force to knock him off his feet, and lingering to say, "Let Kowalski alone," as he scrambled back up, that was a matter of personal discretion.

Ben skated off to take up his proper position, a couple of strides out of the crease. The Blues still had possession, and the puck was rocketing around the zone. A pass reached Hull, and he took a shot at the net, but Ben blocked it with his stick, and the puck flew off over the glass. Ben watched its trajectory, but the scrambling of the crowd was only the usual eagerness to catch the puck for a souvenir.

Hull skated up, crashing lightly into him, and said, "What's your problem, Fraser? You don't want me messing with your girlfriend?"

Ben blinked at Hull's taunting smirk. "No," he said, his voice steady and exactly loud enough for Hull to hear, "But I fear that if you won't let Kowalski alone, a fight will inevitably result, and it will not go well for you."

Hull snorted. "I think I know my way around Ray-Kay, thanks."

Ben didn't bother to try to correct Hull's misconception; Coach was waving him off the ice, and he skated to the bench. He stole a quick glance toward Ray, but he was staring down at his hands again.

Ray had promised not to fight this season. He must not. For the sake of his standing on the team, for the sake of his hands, for the sake of... Ben could not stop seeing him, huddled on the floor of a Vancouver hotel bathroom, and though he knew, rationally, that a few blows exchanged with a traditional rival wouldn't reduce Ray to such a state tonight... Ray had spoken once, only a little bitterly, of Coach leading him not into temptation. Tonight, here he was, and Ben could see the temptation in every tightly-strung motion of his body, every look he cast at Hull. Whether Ray thanked him for it or not, it was up to Ben to deliver him from evil.

The match-ups went awry, so that Ben didn't go out on the ice at the same time as Hull for several shifts. Ray did, twice. Ben could only sit and watch as Hull continued to push him, and Ray continued to turn away. Ben could see the effort it was costing him not to fight, the knife-edge of control he maintained over his fury. He looked up once, and Ben caught his eye. Ray gave him a tight, grim smile, and Ben mirrored it.

He was the only one on the bench who understood Ray's predicament. The others were all waiting--eagerly, by the sound of Dewey's voice--for Ray to quit delaying and fight Hull. They expected it; it was tradition, and Ray's prerogative to fight the man who so clearly wanted to fight him. None of them would dream of stepping into the middle. Ben watched Ray swing a leg over the boards and drop into his spot on the bench, his face a studied, neutral mask, all his normal delight in the game utterly vanished, and then he felt a tap on his shoulder. When he looked around, he saw Jeff, leaning over from his seat, the butt-end of his stick still extended toward Ben. Jeff poked him with it again and mouthed, kill him.

Ben's smile turned a fraction more real--he wasn't quite the only one who understood--and he nodded firmly to Jeff before he settled back into place.

A moment later, Coach called out Ray's line for a faceoff against Hull's, with Ren and Ben backing them up on defense. Ben took up his place, but his eyes followed Hull instead of the puck. He took in the actual play from the corners of his eyes, skating and blocking automatically, all his attention on Hull, and all Hull's attention on Ray. The Blues' goaltender stopped a shot, and the play was whistled down. Ray's momentum carried him to the boards in the corner, and Hull was right on his heels, bumping him at the boards. Ray shoved at him and made to skate away, but Hull was moving to follow him.

Ben skated up with the all the force of inevitability, slamming into the tight space between them, knocking Hull back from Ray. He was vaguely conscious that he'd dropped his stick somewhere as he caught Hull's jersey in both hands. "I told you," Ben said, "to let him alone."

Hull stared at him in utter incomprehension, and Ben shoved him roughly, forcing him back a pace along the boards. "What?" Hull said, with an almost insulting degree of disbelief. "You wanna go? You wanna go?"

Ben shoved him back again, loosed his grip enough to drop his gloves and raise his fists. He nodded, and Hull's confusion turned to an amused look as he dropped his own gloves. "Yeah," he said, "All right--"

The instant his hands were up, before he'd even stopped speaking, Ben threw the first punch, connecting with a satisfying smash against Hull's face. He'd braced himself half against the boards, but the blow still pushed them apart, and Hull was knocked nearly off his feet. Ben caught the collar of Hull's jersey in his right hand, dragging him close as he threw a left. Another solid hit, and another, and he was vaguely aware that Hull was landing blows on his body, but nothing was real except this, his flying fist, the blood and the fight and the utter certainty that he was doing the right thing, the only thing he could do.

A black-and-white striped arm intruded into his field of vision, and a hand hooked into his pants hauled him back. Ben went still immediately, allowing the linesman to pull him away from Hull, whose face was dripping blood. He wasn't smiling anymore, and had no witty comeback for this. The Blues' trainer met him on the ice and guided him to the door.

Ben was facing a door himself: the penalty box. He stepped inside, sat down and then noticed for the first time that his jersey and pads were all askew. He pulled his jersey off and stood up, and Ray was standing before him on the other side of the glass, holding Ben's gloves and helmet and stick. The grin on his face was enormous, his blue eyes shining bright with exhilaration. He handed Ben's things over the glass, and Ben's fingers brushed the skin of Ray's wrist, just past the edge of his glove, as he took them from him. "You know you just lost yourself a Lady Byng nomination," Ray called, shouting to be heard over the crowd, which was roaring, all on their feet for him.

Ben felt the smile on his own face matching Ray's, and shouted back, "It doesn't matter. I never win anyway."

Ray barked a laugh and winked, then skated away, and Ben sat down and waited to hear how long he was in for.

Ray had pointed out that he was only high on life, but Fraser just said, "That still doesn't mean I should let you drive," and shoved him toward the passenger door of the truck. Ray couldn't sit still, bouncing in the seat, fiddling with the radio. God, that had been a great game. Fraser had sent Hull running--well, skating very slowly--to the locker room for stitches, and when he came back for the second, he'd kept his big mouth shut. Ray had settled right into the game, put in a goal early in the third that had turned out to the game winner. He was fucking flying, so amped up that kissing Ben in the elevator on the way up to his apartment seemed like a great idea.

Ben kissed him back for just a second, but then his hand was in the collar of Ray's shirt, pushing him back to arm's length. "Hold off," he said, but he was grinning, his eyes bright and dark and his cheeks flushed, "just another minute."

Ray leaned his weight against Ben's hand, which just made Ben grin at him, and then the doors opened and they were both almost running down the hall. Ben had his key out, slammed it into the lock in one smooth motion and threw the door open, shoving Ray through ahead of him.

Ray hadn't even tied his shoes, so he kicked them off as Ben locked the door behind them, shrugging out of his coat and dropping it on the floor as he headed to the bedroom. He tossed his shirt on the floor in the doorway, and Ben caught up with him there. He grabbed Ray by the nape of his neck and the back of his jeans, hauling him in for a kiss, rough and hot and wet. Ray gave as good as he got, reaching around to get hold of the back of Ben's shirt and pulling up. Ben didn't seem to notice what Ray was doing until Ray had the shirt half over his head, and then he broke the kiss, laughing, and struggled out of his shirt while Ray started unbuttoning his jeans.

When Ben got his shirt off, he grinned at Ray and then leaned back against the door frame, undoing his own pants. Ray's hands went stupid and clumsy, at the grin and at the bulge in Ben's pants, so Ben was kicking his jeans off while Ray was still fighting with his stupid, stupid button-fly. He looked down, trying to focus, and then Ben's mouth was on his throat, and Ben's hands batted his aside, and Ben, as it turned out, was good at buttons. Ray tipped his head back and set his hands flat against Ben's chest and muttered, "I knew there was a reason I kept you around," just as Ben's hand slid into his pants.

Ben's hand on his dick went still, and he nipped at Ray's ear. "Just the one?"

Ray turned his head to catch Ben's mouth in a kiss, their tongues thrusting and sliding together as Ray pushed against Ben's hand, resting between his open jeans and his jockeys. He slid one hand down to the front of Ben's boxers, hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling him closer, close enough to feel the heat of Ben's skin against his own. Ray could feel the moment when Ben forgot all about his mock-annoyance. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss, his hips moving hopefully under Ray's hand as his hand tightened on Ray's hard-on.

At just that moment, Ray broke the kiss and whispered, "It only takes one," and then he snapped the elastic of Ben's boxers, shoving him back with his other hand, and bolted for the bed.

It would have worked just fine, except that Ben managed to give Ray's unbuttoned jeans a good hard yank as he was pulling away. They slid down to his thighs and tripped him up, and he barely managed to twist enough as he went down to land on his ass instead of his face, hands tucked safe against his chest.

The overhead light came on and showed him Ben standing in the doorway, rubbing the skin where Ray had snapped him with one hand, the other still on the switch. Ray tried to glare at him, but he was blinking against the light and it was all he could do not to laugh. Ben cracked a smile and walked over, kneeling between Ray's legs. "These are clearly a hazard," he said, pulling Ray's jeans the rest of the way off. "You'll be much safer without them."

"Yeah," Ray said, and he was only breathless from falling so hard, not because of the way Ben's hand slid down his calf, or the way Ben's eyes never left his jockeys. "I never should've put them on to start with."

Ben looked up at that, all blinking wide-eyed innocence as his hand slid up Ray's bare thigh. "Oh, I don't know," he said, "I'm sure that would have exposed you to other dangers."

Ray totally forgot to breathe, then, because he was thinking about just what kind of danger he might've been exposed to, riding home in Ben's truck without his pants. "Well, you know me. Danger's my middle name. My other middle name."

Ben's fingers slid under the leg of his shorts, and Ben said, "Oh? What's your first middle name?"

Ray blinked, and Ben's fingers were warm, and his hands curled into fists against the floor, but this was, after all, an easy question. "Ray. Raymond. Stanley Raymond Kowalski."

Ben's fingers stopped moving, and he frowned. "Your name really is Stanley?"

Ray frowned back. He coulda sworn they'd been over this before, and this wasn't really the time anyway, but it was a reflex, so he said, "Yeah, my dad's a big Brando fan."

"Mmm," Ben said, dragging his fingers back down Ray's thigh, "There was a film adaptation, wasn't there? I've never seen it." His hand slid up again, spreading on Ray's hip, hot through the thin barrier of his shorts. "You didn't hurt yourself, did you?"

Ray shifted his weight to one side, letting Ben's hand slide under his ass. "You wanna check?"

Ben's mouth flickered into a smile and then straightened out again. "I think I probably should," he said, flexing his fingers on Ray's ass, which felt pretty much like he'd fallen on it. "If you'll just--" He pulled up a little, and Ray let himself be moved. Ben pushed him up and over onto his knees, facing the foot of the bed, and Ray scooted forward until he could fold himself over it, resting his upper body against the perfectly smooth quilt. Ben pulled his jockeys down, and Ray lifted his knees in turn so he could get them all the way off, and then he was just kneeling there, naked but for the chain on his wrist, hard and breathless and waiting.

Ben didn't make him wait long. His big warm hands stroked slowly over Ray's ass, rubbing and pressing here and there, and Ray couldn't hold back a little noise when Ben hit the spot that had taken most of his weight when he fell. Ben seemed to know what he meant by it, and his hands slid away to brace Ray's hips as his mouth touched the spot. Ray jerked away from the touch, his dick seeking some kind of friction, but Ben held him away from the bed. Ben's lips were soft, his breath hot and wet against the sting on his skin and the deeper ache beneath. Ray stopped trying to pull away, pressed his face against the quilt and breathed, and Ben's hands eased back onto his ass, stroking as Ben licked, spreading him open.

Ray felt Ben's breath on him a little ahead of Ben's tongue, and he wasn't even trying to pull away anymore. His hips pressed back as Ben's tongue pushed into him, hot and wet, soft but hard enough for this, hard enough to feel. Ray choked on his breath and his hands clenched in the quilt, pulling it all out of place, pressing the softness against his face to stop the sounds he made. Ben's hands kept moving on him, still nowhere near his dick but the touch was so good Ray almost didn't care--except this wasn't what he wanted. Not all he wanted, anyway.

Ray shifted his weight to one knee and then the other. Years of staying awake in church had taught him how to make kneeling hurt just enough to be distracting, and Ben's carpeting wasn't any more padded than the kneelers at Ste. Therese. Of course, Ben's tongue in his ass was a little more distracting than a priest droning on in French, so it was a couple of minutes before Ray could make a convincingly pained noise loud enough for Ben to hear.

Ben's mouth left him, and Ben said, "Ray?" so close to his skin that Ray could feel his breath on the small of his back, and shivered a little.

"Sorry," Ray muttered, and he was, now that Ben had stopped. "My knees--"

Ben just said "Ah," and kissed Ray right over one kidney, and then his hands were pushing Ray up onto the bed, turning him around to sit on the edge. Ray leaned back, settling in, squirming a little to get the odd sensation in his ass--not the twinge you got from fucking, but--more there than usual. Ben was kneeling at his feet, totally ignoring Ray's dick in favor of his knees, which were sort of red. Ray realized that his plan had not been a complete success just as Ben's mouth came down on his left kneecap, licking at the imprint of the carpeting on his skin. His hand rested on Ray's other knee, and both were moving up, onto his thighs, but glacially slowly.

Ray made a heroic effort and sat up again, leaning forward in one motion and getting his hand on the back of Ben's boxers before Ben could move. He pulled up hard as he threw himself backward, and Ben made a startled noise, and then he was sprawled half on top of Ray, blinking down at him. Ray grinned. "My turn," he said, and sat up, pushing Ben over onto his back. "Come on, scoot."

Ben moved up so he was all the way on the bed, lying on his back, and Ray eased his boxers off him. He was hard, wet at the tip and plenty ready, and Ray was tempted to quit playing and get down to business, but when he looked at Ben's face, he was smiling, waiting to see what Ray would do next, and Ray grinned. He moved to straddle Ben's thighs, careful not to touch but definitely close enough to tease--Ben took a quick deep breath and held it--and set his hands on Ben's belly. "Hull got a few hits in, didn't he?" Ray said softly. "Better make sure he didn't hurt you too bad."

Ben smiled, teeth bright and hard and sharp, and then he said, "I suppose you'd better."

Ray lowered his eyes to Ben's skin. He seemed to shine under the overhead light, except where Ray cast a shadow over him. He didn't have any obvious bruises showing, but Ray ran his fingers across Ben's ribs in symmetrical stripes, pressing just hard enough to get a good feel. He didn't bother watching Ben's face, because he knew it wouldn't show him anything; he saw the flinch in Ben's abs, when he hit the spot just below his ribs on his left side.

Ray dropped down to lay on his side, throwing one leg over Ben's thighs, settling his own dick against Ben's hip but forcing himself to keep still, so still.

Ben had one arm over his eyes, his lips parted to breathe, and Ray reached out his hand to Ben's other arm. He wrapped his fingers around Ben's elbow, his thumb settling into the sweaty-smooth crease. Propping himself up just a little, Ray touched his mouth to the spot that had made Ben flinch, dragging his lips lightly across the soft, hot skin. Ray could feel the tension in the body under him, the effort Ben was putting into keeping still. His legs were shaking with it, the muscle of his forearm clenching and releasing under Ray's fingers, his belly tight, almost vibrating under Ray's tongue. He listened, licking slow broad stripes, as Ben's breath went shallow. When it stopped altogether, he started counting down from ten. At three Ben's hand caught Ray's shoulder, and at one he was pulled up level with Ben and pushed onto his back.

Ben rolled over on top of him, and he was done teasing, his eyes intent, his cock lined up with Ray's. He was thrusting as soon as he was in position, long slow strokes, and Ray groaned and arched up into the contact, the sweet hot friction of Ben's hard-on against his own. Ben's mouth covered his, Ben's tongue thrusting wetly against Ray's as his hand closed around their cocks. Ray slid one hand into Ben's hair, settling the other on Ben's ass, and anchoring himself more firmly as they moved. He sucked at Ben's tongue until Ben gave up a little moan, and then Ray smiled, thrusting up a little harder, raggedly, trying to throw him off his pace. Ben pulled his mouth away a little, so that their lips just brushed, their breath loud between them, and he kept moving slow, steady as a clock, like he wanted this to last, and Ray could get behind that.

He slid his hand up from Ben's ass, over the flexing muscles of his back to his side. Ray felt the little shudder that passed through Ben when his fingers grazed his ribs, and that was as good as an engraved invitation. He slid his hand out of Ben's hair, down to the bed to brace himself, and with the other, he tickled Ben.

Ben jerked and made a weird noise, half a laugh and half a yelp, his eyes wide and startled, and he was totally thrown. Ray flipped him onto his back easy as pie, and crawled up over him, straddling Ben's chest, his knees nearly at Ben's shoulders. Ben blinked up at him. Ray smiled down and settled himself just a little lower, ignoring the burn in his quads, so that his ass just barely brushed against Ben's cock. Ben took a sharp breath and then said, "That was entirely unsportsmanlike, Kowalski."

Ray grinned. "You see a ref in this room, Fraser?"

Ben actually lifted his head and looked around, and Ray waited him out, until he collapsed back on the bed and said, "I see. I must concede."

"Yeah," Ray agreed, folding himself down to drop a kiss on Ben's mouth, "Yeah, you must."

He had to lean and twist to reach the night stand, and when he looked down under himself, Ben was staring up at Ray's dick. Ray grabbed a condom and the lube--bottle was getting sticky, he'd have to buy a new one soon--and knelt up again. He watched Ben's eyes snap from his dick to his hands, his lips parting. Ray shifted back a little further, fitting the cleft of his ass against Ben's cock, and Fraser tilted his head back and closed his eyes, but he didn't move under Ray. Ray lifted back up, out of contact, and opened the condom, and Ben's eyes came open again at the sound of tearing foil. "Gimme a hand here," Ray muttered, and Ben raised his right hand and set it against Ray's chest.

Ray showed his teeth and said, "Hardy ha ha, very helpful," and Ben twitched a little tiny smile at him. Ray pulled Ben's hand down and behind his back, and curled Ben's fingers around the base of his cock. Then he closed his eyes and reached behind him with the condom, biting his lip as he rolled it down. Having a third hand to help almost made up for the weird angle, and Ben's fingers brushed against his and then took over.

Ray opened his eyes to Fraser grinning at him, and Fraser's other hand stroked up and down Ray's thigh. "Not done with you yet," Ray said unsteadily, his throat gone dry from the look in Ben's eyes. He caught Ben's hand again, reaching back this time with the lube. He drizzled it all over Ben's fingers, spreading it around with his own hand, and then leaned up, guiding Ben's hand to his ass. When Fraser's two fingertips pressed against him, Ray tightened his grip on Ben's hand, pulling him in. Ray leaned forward, bracing with his other arm against the headboard, sliding his grip back to Ben's wrist. He could feel Ben's pulse racing under his fingers as Ben's fingers pushed inside him, twisting and stroking, and sweat slid down into Ray's eye as he pulled Ben's fingers out and pressed them back in. Ben's free hand stroked up and down his thigh, and then it closed around his cock and Ray gasped, jerking Ben's fingers roughly out of himself to keep from coming. Ben blinked at him, and Ray bared his teeth, letting go of Ben's hand and reaching back with his own slick fingers to stroke Ben's cock.

Ben's hands went to his hips, steadying him, and Ray closed his eyes and smiled, because Ben knew exactly what he needed. Ray pushed back from the wall, lowering himself on trembling legs, and sat back until he could feel the head of Ben's cock. Another breath, but he couldn't hold the position long, his knees were screaming, and he exhaled and pushed down, pushing himself down onto Ben in one long slide. He tipped his head back and gasped for air; it hurt a little, felt like more from this angle, different, and then Ben's hips bucked beneath him, and Ray gasped, because that was it, right there. Ray bent forward, his hands on Ben's shoulders, his cock pressed against Ben's belly, and a little sound leaked from his mouth as he brushed his lips across Ben's. Ben leaned up to kiss him better, and Ben's hand spread across his back as Ben fucked him in slow, short moves, and then the world flipped upside-down, and when Ray opened his eyes again, Ben was pressing him down into the mattress and his feet were in the air.

Ray opened his mouth and caught half a breath to say, "Fraser, you lied."

Ben pulled out of him, long and smooth and slow, and then slammed back in hard as he said, "Obfuscated."

Ray grinned, reached up and pulled Ben's head down to kiss him. "Lied," he whispered against Ben's lips.

Ben's mouth dragged along his jaw, and Ben said, "Equivocated."

Ray arched up under Ben, baring his throat, gasping for breath, and said the only word he could still remember. "Lied."

Ben's lips dragged down the line of his throat, Ben's tongue pressed into the hollow between his collarbones, Ben's cock moved in and out and in and out, pushing him closer to the edge with every beat of his heart, every breath, and Ben said, "Lied."

Ray met his eyes and laughed until he couldn't anymore, his breath stuttering as he came. Ben held himself still as Ray gasped for breath, and when he started to move again Ray lay still beneath him, totally fucked out but not finished quite yet. He watched through his eyelashes as Ben fucked him, the way his mouth moved as he breathed. Ben looked at Ray's face but then away quickly, and then back again, like it was too much but he couldn't resist. Ray reached up and slid his right hand into Ben's hair, pushing his wrist against Ben's cheek, sliding it back and forth so the chain rubbed against his skin. Ben turned his head, pressing his mouth against the underside of Ray's wrist, his tongue moving over the chain and Ray's skin. Ben's hips jerked hard, and Ray felt the jump of his cock as he came, eyes shut tight, sucking at Ray's wrist.

He pulled out and rolled off Ray, lying on his side, and Ray let his legs collapse onto the bed and then curled onto his side facing Ben, who gave him a vague, sleepy smile.

Ray scooted closer and kissed him, whispering, "Dirty cheater," against his lips.

Ben smiled up at the next man in line for an autograph, then forced himself to smile wider as an unaccountable nervousness swept over him. The man standing on the other side of the table didn't look like a hockey fan; he looked like someone Ben wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. He was tall--towering above Ben, seated on his side of the table--and there was a certain hard-worn quality about him, a look of cynical amusement in his eyes that made the glossy photo he held out to Ben seem like a misplaced prop. Hoping the man wouldn't notice his hesitation, Ben shifted his grip on the Sharpie in his hand and took the photo from him. Staring down at himself, frozen in the process of taking a shot, Ben said, "Who can I sign this to?"

He half expected the man to ask only for a signature--perhaps he was merely an autograph dealer, here for profit; that might explain him. The man cleared his throat and said, "Tim. It's for my kid, he just started hockey."

Ben looked up then, feeling instantly ashamed of his uncharitable thoughts, and the man quirked a smile down at him which Ben returned sincerely. "Does Tim watch our games?"

"Oh, first period, usually, before he goes to bed. I brought him to that day game a few weeks ago. We were up in the nosebleed seats, but he was excited."

Ben nodded and bent his head, printing in letters a child might read, Tim, Keep your head up! followed by the quicker scrawl of his autograph, Benton Fraser #8. Ben capped his marker and looked up again, and Tim's father said, "You know, seeing you down on the ice like that, it was just like seeing your dad again."

Ben blinked, his heart tripping, and he said, quite steadily, "I think you must be mistaken. My father didn't play hockey."

"Oh, yeah," the man said, without a hint of surprise in his voice, his eyes unblinking on Ben's, "yeah, he was a Mountie, wasn't he?"

Ben opened his mouth to respond, and the man grinned, baring his teeth as he raised one hand in the shape of a gun and jerked it back with a wink. He took the photo from Ben's nerveless fingers, turned away and was gone.

Ben set his hand flat to the table, breathing slowly, trying to force his heart to stop racing. He wasn't exerting himself at all, just sitting here in a folding chair. There was no reason his lungs should be laboring as if he'd just skated a five minute shift, none at all. But there was a piercing pain in his chest and he could not catch his breath, his vision gone bright and sharp. In his ear, someone said, "Mr. Fraser?"

He only startled a little, and looked up into the face of one of the women running the signing session. "You all right?" Her hand hovered over his shoulder, not quite touching, and in some calm, remote part of himself Ben was grateful for her restraint.

He blinked at her and looked past her shoulder to where Chris was smiling at a child, and Eddie was signing something and nodding as an adult fan chattered at him. Ben forced a smile of his own. "I think the marker fumes are getting to me," he said, raising the Sharpie. "It's nothing."

She nodded and stepped away, and Ben turned back, raising his eyes just as far as the small hand holding out a Blackhawks pennant. It was nothing. There was nothing wrong with him. He wasn't actually suffocating or having a heart attack or in danger of dying. He knew that perfectly well. If he couldn't quite catch his breath, if his signature was no longer remotely legible, well, it was only that the room was packed with people and overheated, only the marker fumes, only fatigue in the muscles of his hand.

The autographing session was, in total, only an hour long. The period in which he sat mechanically signing items without looking up, without looking around, in case anyone was standing at the edge of the crowd watching him, could not have lasted more than half an hour. But he lost count of how many things he signed, how many people spoke to him and received only jerky nods or stiff smiles or the barest of words in response. Time seemed to slow down, as though he were moving through water, through ice. He dropped his marker repeatedly, and when he had to lean over to pick it up, his head swam and his vision dimmed. Ben spared a thought to be glad Mort didn't stand behind them at signings as he did at games, or he'd have been whisked off to the locker room long before the session ended.

Eventually the room cleared, and Ben stood up and pulled his coat on over his jersey, buttoning it with only residually shaky hands. He waved and muttered his goodbyes to the organizers and trailed after his teammates out to the parking garage, watching the shadows only a little more carefully than usual.

He drove on autopilot, the city around him a blur of dark and bright. It wasn't until he was pulling into the parking space beside Ray's GTO that he realized he'd come to the wrong apartment.

Not that it was, technically speaking, the wrong apartment; Ray had asked him to come here after the signing, and he had promised to do so. But facing Ray now would mean putting forth the further effort to hide the state he'd worked himself into, and he had barely been able to summon the effort to drive home. The thought of driving to his actual home was a daunting one, and Ben realized that if he didn't turn up on time, Ray would doubtless search him out. With a sigh, he shut his car off and headed up to Ray's apartment, bracing himself to behave normally. In the elevator he practiced smooth and plausible lies--he was simply exhausted by the press of people, someone had said something rude, he'd had a near-accident on the way home... That last was, for all he knew, true, and Ben steeled himself not to make a hasty departure unless he unexpectedly found himself fit to drive.

He knocked at Ray's door, shifting from foot to foot with a tentative smile carefully positioned on his face. The smile faded as the effort of holding it mounted and the door remained closed. He knew Ray had come home from practice; his car was in the garage. Ben knocked again.

Ray must have gone to bed. Perhaps he'd forgotten that Ben was coming. Ben told himself that this was an unexpected reprieve, that what he felt was relief, that driving was no greater an exertion than sitting in a folding chair signing autographs. He'd made it nearly to the elevator when he heard a door open behind him and Ray called out, "Frase, hey, come back!"

He turned, and Ray was leaning in the door of his apartment, clad in sweatpants and a grey t-shirt bearing the Blackhawks emblem. His feet were bare, his hair had dried into wild spikes, and the right side of his face was pink and sleep-creased. By the slump of his body against the doorframe, Ray looked to be still half-asleep, blinking slowly in Ben's direction and stifling a yawn, the shining steel chain slipping down his wrist as he raised his hand. Ben felt himself unwind a little just at the sight of Ray, thinking, I wouldn't mind meeting him in a dark alley. He was closing the distance between them before he could even consider the matter; in Ray's presence, some things were inevitable.

"Come on, come in, sorry," Ray said, vacating the doorway in a rolling motion and leading the way inside as Ben shut the door behind them. "I fell asleep. Were you knocking a long time?"

"No," Ben said, and it wasn't until Ray stopped in the middle of the hallway and looked back at him with a frown that he realized the truth might not have been the most appropriate response in the circumstances.

Ray's frown deepened, his sleepy gaze sharpening, and he stepped closer. His eyes were on the hem of Ben's jersey where it protruded from the bottom of his coat, and he reached out and tugged on it. "You still got your jersey on, you--" Ray met his eyes with a searching look. "Fuck, Fraser, what happened?"

Ben swallowed and said, "Nothing, Ray, it was nothing," but Ray's mouth set in a hard line and he curled one fist into Ben's jersey and towed him into the living room. Ben knew there was no use in resistance now; when they reached the couch Ben sat, pushing aside the crumpled blanket that normally lay folded on the top. It was still warm from Ray's body, but Ray took it from his hands and tossed it on the floor as he sat down at Ben's side.

"What was it?" Ray scooted closer, studying Ben's face as if he could read the answer on his skin. "Just too many people? You get some nutso fan yelling at you? One of those toucher types try to get into your personal space?"

Ben looked down at the rapidly vanishing inch between his body and Ray's, and Ray said, "Shut up, I'm allowed," and curled one arm around Ben.

All he had to say was Yes, that was it, I'm tired, let's sit and watch TV. Ray had offered him the very explanations he'd meant to advance, making it easy for him, but somehow that made lying downright impossible. Ben hooked two fingers into the chain on Ray's wrist, rolling it between his fingers. His knuckles brushed Ray's soft skin as he said, "I think I signed an autograph today for the man who killed my father."

He felt Ray go very still, and then Ray said cautiously, "Did he ask you to sign it that way?"

Ben pulled away, swallowing his frustration. He shouldn't have said anything, he should have known. No one understood. There was no reason to expect more of Ray than he could of Mark or anyone else. He opened his mouth to say he had to go, but Ray's hand caught his shoulder, and Ray said, "Sorry, fuck, sorry, look, I'm still asleep, I'm an idiot. Tell me what happened, okay? Break it down for me. Play by play."

Ben closed his eyes and took a breath and steeled himself to try to explain. He began to relate the events in the same tone in which he'd have rattled off Gretzky's scoring statistics. "He said he'd come to a game recently. He had a seat in the upper bowl. He said seeing me on the ice was like seeing my father again. I told him my father had never played hockey, and he already knew my father was a Mountie. Had been a Mountie." He glanced over and found Ray watching him intently.

"Okay," Ray said, "so he knew your dad was dead. I knew your dad was dead, too."

Ben shook his head. "You play hockey. You heard about it because I play hockey. My father's death was barely reported in Edmonton, and only because he was my father. It got slightly more coverage in northern Manitoba, where it happened, and there was a brief report on the CBC. There was no reason whatsoever for a Chicago native to have heard of him. And what no media outlet reported was precisely how he died: he was shot at a distance, standing in a snow-and-ice-covered valley. The shot descended from a high angle."

"Like looking down at the ice from a nosebleed seat," Ray said.

Ben opened his mouth, but found he had no words. Ray was actually listening to him. "Yes," Ben said slowly. "And then he--" Ben raised his hand and mimicked the gesture, shaping a gun and jerking it back as though it had fired, and then quickly opened and closed his hand, shaking off the sensation, the sense-memory of recoil. "And he winked at me. I think he thought it was funny, I think he wanted me to know."

Ray nodded, frowning at the coffee table. "And you can't prove anything from what he said."

Ben opened his mouth to argue and Ray raised a hand quickly between them, cutting him off. "I'm just saying, that's not a confession, it's not even reasonable suspicion, it's just enough to make you crazy and that's probably exactly what this guy wanted."

Ben swallowed, remembering that moment, trying to analyze it rationally and objectively, to see past the fear that had clouded his perceptions.

"Okay," Ray said, beside him, "so you gotta tell somebody, and I mean somebody who counts. Who's in charge of your dad's case?"

"No one," Ben said, because he'd been over this in the hour since and there was no one to tell, no one who counted as Ray said. "That was why Gerard came to see me in Edmonton, to tell me they were closing the case. None of them would believe anything I said anyway. They all think I'm unhinged."

"Well, you are," Ray said matter-of-factly, a smile flickering across his face and then gone, "but not like that. Fraser, this doesn't make sense, your dad was a Mountie, and that's just like a cop, and dead cops' cases don't get closed. There's gotta be some Mountie who was as crazy about it as you were, who wouldn't give it up. There's gotta be somebody who'll listen to you."

Ben's stomach churned, and he swallowed before he tried to speak. "My father had a partner," he said, forcing the words through his dry mouth. "But I--Mounties--"

Ray's hand slid over his shoulder to rest on the nape of his neck, and Ray said almost in his ear, "Mounties carry guns, huh?"

Ben choked a laugh. "I think it's more that guns are carried by Mounties, to be honest."

Ray held still a moment, breathing against his cheek, and then muttered, "Jesus, and I thought me and my dad didn't get along." Before Ben could protest that it was nothing to do with his father, that his father had been an exception, Ray squeezed his hand on Ben's neck and let go, bouncing up from the couch. "Okay," he said, pacing, scrubbing his hands through his hair as Ben looked up at him. "Okay. So Mounties are no good. And maybe they couldn't do anything anyway, because this guy's in Chicago. So what you need is a cop."

Ben opened his mouth, staring up at Ray. Shock piled upon shock; someday he really ought to apply himself to not being surprised by anything Ray did. "A cop?"

Ray was staring at the wall, frowning abstractedly. "Yeah, a cop. A Chicago cop to investigate a Chicago bad guy."

"Ray," Ben said, and just like that, Ray's attention snapped into focus on him, and Ben had to force himself not to look away from the intensity of Ray's gaze. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? I'm not doing anything, I'm just talking--"

"You're talking as if you believed me."

Ray blinked at Ben, frowning as if his words did not compute. "Of course I believe you, Ben," he said. "Why wouldn't I?"

Ben opened his mouth to offer reasons, but Ray's attention slipped away from him again.

"You need a cop," Ray muttered. "A cop who will listen to you and do something about it, and for that you need somebody who can exert some pressure, you need..."

Ben watched as Ray's voice trailed off, the manic energy of his body draining away as his eyes fixed on the phone. He seemed to reach some decision, crossing the space to it in a few quick strides and picking it up. He kept his back turned for a moment, speaking softly. He turned to look at Ben, offering him a grim, hard-edged smile as he said, "Yeah, you just tell Ms. Vecchio to give me a call, okay? Tell her I want to do an interview."

Ray forced himself not to fidget, and especially not to fidget with the chain around his wrist, tucked carefully out of sight beneath the sleeve of his favorite ratty sweatshirt. He'd agreed to Ms. Vecchio's first suggestion--a breakfast meeting at a diner near Ray's apartment--because she'd called him back right in the middle of the Leafs-Canucks game and all he'd wanted was to get back to the couch so he could curl up with Ben and yell insults at both teams. Now he was up early, drinking bad coffee and wondering who was watching him, who would notice if he looked like he was sitting here waiting for a drug deal or to find out some bad test results or get served with papers.

He sucked down some more coffee, even though it burned his stomach and he knew it'd make him a jittery wreck all day. He'd hardly slept the night before, worrying about the interview, trying not to toss and turn because Ben was lying so still beside him. He was pretty sure Ben hadn't slept either, and it had been almost a relief when, around four in the morning, he'd woken up from a doze to the sound of his apartment door closing, the space beside him empty and a piece of paper propped in front of the alarm clock. He didn't have to turn on the lights and find his glasses to know it said something like "See you at practice," so Ray had reached out and folded it so it would fit in the palm of his hand, and slept till his alarm went off.

The paper--which had turned out to say, "Good luck. I'll see you at the rink."--was tucked into his wallet, and the pressure creases from holding it clenched in his fist while he slept were more or less gone from his skin. Ray was staring fixedly out the window, telling himself to hold still, hold still, just sit fucking still, when he heard Ms. Vecchio's voice.

"Coffee, and I mean the good coffee, all right? Somewhere in the kitchen there is coffee that you yourself would be willing to drink, and I want that coffee. I will pay you for that coffee. Bring it, and keep it coming." Ray looked up as Ms. Vecchio and the waitress, who seemed a little bulldozed, arrived at the table. Ms. Vecchio looked him up and down. "Have you eaten, Ray?"

He opened and closed his mouth, cleared his throat, and then carefully said, "No."

"You have practice in, what," she consulted her watch. "An hour? A little more than that? Nothing heavy, right?"

Ray nodded slightly, feeling like the waitress looked. "Yeah, uh--"

But Ms. Vecchio was off again, talking to the waitress. "Bring some toast, and a plate of fruit, and--bacon. A side of bacon, okay? And coffee, pronto. I promise, I tip like you would not believe."

Ray shot the waitress an apologetic smile, and she unfroze enough to smile a little back before taking off. Ms. Vecchio set her purse down on the table and shrugged out of her coat. She was wearing a skirt and blouse underneath, her shirt buttoned nearly all the way up. She sat down daintily, like she had a book on her head or something, and then she smiled, and Ray could see it in her eyes--she was like a rookie, picking a fight his first shift just to get through it. He'd done the same thing himself, almost every time he was on a new team, just got on the ice and hit the first guy he could see in a different-colored jersey, just to show he knew what he was there for. "Morning, Ray," she said, "you sleep okay?"

"Uh, yeah," he said, but Ms. Vecchio wasn't paying any attention. She was digging through her purse. She pulled out a handheld tape recorder, and Ray shut his mouth.

Ms. Vecchio seemed to notice that. She smiled at him again, popped the recorder open, and pulled out the tape. "Here," she said, holding it out to him. "You keep this, okay? When you're ready to let me record, you can give it back."

Ray blinked, and then took the tape from her hand. He tapped it quietly against the table, sliding his fingers down the plastic, flipping it over, sliding his fingers down again, as the waitress filled two cups of coffee, took his old cup away, and laid down a plate of fruit. "So," Ms. Vecchio said, "what's going on, Kowalski?"

Ray glanced up at her, and she was leaning toward him from her side of the table, watching him carefully. "I want you to do me a favor," Ray said, looking back down at the tape. Tap, slide, flip. "I talk to you, you do something for me, okay?"

Ms. Vecchio sat back and folded her arms. "That depends on what you want."

Ray looked around, but it was early yet, and the tables around them were empty. He leaned in, settling his elbows on the table, hunching his shoulders. "Is your brother really a cop, or were you just saying that?"

Her lips parted, her eyes widening a little, and Ray's stomachful of coffee sloshed. He would have thought he couldn't surprise her; it seemed like a bad sign if he could. "Ray, if you're in trouble--"

"Not me," he said quickly, "it's not me. Nobody's in trouble. I--a friend of mine needs to talk to a cop but it's not--he just needs to talk, that's all."

Ms. Vecchio blinked. "Y'know, usually if somebody just wants to talk, they go to a priest."

Ray shrugged. "My friend needs to talk to a cop. He--" Ray could see the little gears in her head turning. Might as well give them a spin, as long as it kept her away from anything she shouldn't know. "My friend maybe knows something about something that happened. Not in Chicago, and not anything--concrete, or my friend would've gone straight to the cops no question. But the guy that maybe did the thing that happened is maybe in Chicago too right now, so my friend thought maybe a cop would know how things should be handled, what my friend should do next. My friend wants to do the right thing here, he's just not sure how." Ray could see Ms. Vecchio decide that she knew what was going on: Ray, or maybe one of his teammates, but probably Ray himself, had seen or heard something about a crime being committed while on a road trip, and probably the guy that did it was an opponent. She figured Ray was torn between his loyalty to a fellow hockey player and doing the right thing, and trying to sound out the possibilities before he committed himself. "Okay," she said slowly, but he'd given her enough to satisfy her, and Ray already knew she wasn't going to ask any more questions. "All right. I'll talk to my brother and arrange a meeting with him and--your friend."

Ray nodded quickly and dropped the cherry on top. "I might, uh--tell your brother I might be there, too, okay? For fable support, for my friend."

Ms. Vecchio nodded. "I think you mean moral support," she said quietly, and Ray looked down, tapping the cassette against the table, and took a sip of his coffee. Definitely an improvement. The waitress reappeared, and laid down toast and bacon, and Ray picked up a strip and took a bite, still not looking up. When the waitress was gone again, Ms. Vecchio said, "Look, Ray, you can relax, okay? I know. I'm not going to embarrass you over it."

Ray looked up sharply then, and said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Ms. Vecchio smiled a little. "February 10, 1993, you did a locker room interview with the Quebec press pool, as you had, on average, every other game since you started in Quebec. You laughed, you joked, you made one fairly impressive bilingual pun. You were obviously having a good time talking to the press."

Ray clenched his teeth and looked away. Suddenly it wasn't hard at all to hold still; all he had to do was want to run, and suddenly he was frozen in his seat.

"February thirteenth you took a hard hit in the corner, late in the second period. It was a clean hit, you popped right back up off the ice, but the trainer was leaning over your shoulder as soon as you sat down, and you didn't play another shift that period. You also didn't return to the bench after the intermission. You didn't give another interview of any kind for the remainder of your time in Quebec, which ended less than a month later, when you were traded to Boston at the deadline, though there had never been trade talk about you until the deal was announced." Ray winced at the memory. He'd been blindsided by the trade, like a kid skating with his head down. When he looked up, though, Ms. Vecchio was looking at him like she knew just how much it sucked, like she understood.

She looked away, talking faster now, rushing through the story because they both knew how it ended. "Less than a year later, playing at Quebec, you got into a fight with Adam Foote in which he hit you repeatedly on the left side of your head. When the ref pulled you off you were so disoriented that you kept fighting and pulled a three-game suspension. You didn't return to the NHL after that until Welsh brought you back for this season."

Ray looked down at his coffee. "Okay, you win. So what do I owe you, anyway? How much do you make in a year?"

Ms. Vecchio didn't say anything, and Ray dared a glance up; she was watching him with a little smile. "We didn't bet on whether I could prove you'd had a concussion, Ray-Kay. We bet on Bully."

"Oh," Ray said, and picked up a piece of toast for something to do with his hands. "I guess I forgot. Sorry."

Ms. Vecchio looked half-annoyed with him. "Look, Ray, lots of guys have concussions. You play hockey, it happens. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Ray shrugged. "Most guys' brains still work right, after. If they don't, they get traded or shipped off to a farm team or encouraged to retire." Or in some cases, all three, and a divorce like a cherry on top. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Fair enough," Ms. Vecchio said, "We won't talk about it."

Ray looked up at her, squinting suspiciously at her cheerful pretty smile. "How did you find all that out, anyway? How much tape did you watch?"

Ms. Vecchio's smile widened, and Ray could have sworn she blushed a little. "It's not hard to narrow this kind of thing down, if you know which questions to ask--"

"No, yeah," Ray waved that off, because come to that he'd found out what he wanted to know with few enough questions, too. "I mean, why bother, why me? I'm not Gretzky, I'm not Chelios, I'm not anybody anybody cares about. What are you doing watching tape and hassling me for interviews?"

Ben drove for a long time before he went home, forcing himself to exorcize his restlessness in a way that wouldn't leave him noticeably fatigued for practice. He wanted to get out and run, but he knew better than that. It was bad enough that he hadn't taken immediately to his own bed to salvage what sleep he could before he had to be up for practice. He had promised himself he would as he crept from Ray's bed, and his flight had therefore seemed justified, right up to the moment when he turned the truck left onto Lakeshore and started driving north with the looming darkness of the Lake at his right hand.

He was only briefly tempted to keep on driving north; too many obligations called him back. He turned around somewhere in the northern suburbs and made another pass, continuing back and forth until the sun began to rise over the Lake, and then he turned the truck toward his apartment. He forced himself to take the stairs after a single longing look at the elevator, and though he regretted his decision halfway up, his fatigued muscles registering a dull protest, Ben climbed grimly on to his own floor.

Ben made himself a strong cup of tea and went to the balcony door, opening it enough to let the cold morning breeze in. There were no choices to be made. He had to attend practice; he had to speak to whomever Ray arranged for him to speak to. He had thought himself destroyed by Gerard's decision to close his father's case, but he could see now that he had only been unmoored. Now the weight of responsibility, to his father and to the principles of justice his father had upheld all his life, had been returned to him. Ben faced the sunrise and the cold wind squarely, and did not retreat until his mug was empty.

Shaking the chill from his fingers, Ben walked briskly to the hall closet and took down the box that contained all the letters he'd ever received from his father. Most of the letters inside had been read and reread endlessly, until Ben had them memorized and the paper had grown soft and fragile with handling. But the box had not been opened in more than a year, and resting on top of his father's letters was an unopened envelope, addressed in a hand similar enough to his father's to make Ben's heart skip, even now, even knowing what it was. Ben took the box to the kitchen table and found a knife to neatly slit open the envelope. His hands began to shake as he withdrew the letter, and he finally permitted himself to take a seat; there was no danger of getting comfortable now.

"Dear Benton," the letter read, in sturdy Depot-trained script, "I think you must know that my absence for your father's funeral did not represent a lack of affection or respect either for him or for you, but allow me to reiterate. I stayed away only to avoid making the day any harder for you than it had to be."

Ben closed his eyes. He'd suspected as much, but the confirmation was overwhelming, and more than he'd ever expected from this letter. When he considered the matter calmly, in retrospect, his father's partner had always been remarkably tolerant of Ben's irrational fear of him, had more than once humored him by waiting out of doors or avoiding him altogether. Ben had not expected such delicacy to extend to him now that he was old enough to know better, though the very thought of encountering the man still made him want to escape.

He took a breath and opened his eyes, forcing himself to focus again on the page before him. "Thank you very kindly for sending your father's journals. They are a wonderful memento of my old friend and, as you said, will doubtless prove instructive for many younger officers who wish to imitate your father's fine example.

"I know you've never been comfortable with me." Terrified, actually, Ben thought. He could still recall hiding from the man under his grandparents' bed. His grandmother had scolded him for days afterward for his cowardly and ungentlemanlike behavior toward his father's partner. "Still, in your father's absence, I hope you will remember that if ever you should need help or counsel which he would have provided, you are more than welcome to turn to me.

"Yours sincerely, Buck Frobisher." Ben traced the contact information printed neatly beneath the signature with unsteady fingers. Perhaps the Chicago police would listen to him. Perhaps he could simply pass Frobisher's information along to them, as a potentially receptive RCMP contact. Perhaps he wouldn't have to make the call himself.

Ben stared at the numbers until he'd memorized them, then folded the letter and put it away, replacing the box on its high shelf. Some things didn't require rereading.

Ray knocked on Ben's door and waited, bouncing on his heels. Another early morning, another stomachful of bad coffee, another case of the jitters. He had to stop letting Ms. Vecchio pick the times for things, even if she did seem to know his schedule better than he did. Ray tugged at the chain on his wrist, then shoved it safely under his sleeve and knocked again. "Fraser? Come on, let me in." He knew Ben hadn't left yet, because he'd parked next to his old heap of a truck two minutes ago.

Ray was just raising his hand to knock again when Ben opened the door, dressed in clean jeans and a tucked-in flannel shirt, hair combed and face scrubbed. He was frowning. "Ray?"

"Hey," Ray said, "Can I come in?"

Ben didn't smile or step back. "What are you doing here?"

Ray glanced at his watch, all nonchalant, like he hadn't spent an entire day trying to figure out how to ask Ben if he could come along before deciding to just show up and not ask at all. "Your meeting's this morning, right?"

"Yes," Ben said slowly. "But I thought--"

"You thought you were gonna drive downtown? I don't think so, Ben, I've seen the way you drive. I'm not turning you loose on my city, not that neighborhood. Come on, we should leave soon, have you had breakfast?"

Ben looked him up and down, a little smile creeping into the corners of his eyes, enough for Ray to bust out a full-on grin. "Have you?" Ben asked, stepping back, letting him inside.

Ray shrugged. "Don't need it on an off-day."

Ben said, "Mmm," and went back into the kitchen, making a beeline for the steaming mug of tea on the counter. "I'd offer you coffee, but I suspect you've already had plenty," he said, and he picked up a banana from a basket of fruit and held it out.

Ray grinned, brushing his fingers over Ben's hand as he took it. "My favorite," he said, and set his teeth on the stem to break it off.

"Ah," Ben said, his cheeks going faintly pink, and he set his hand over Ray's and tugged the banana out of his mouth. "I don't think we have time--"

"Oh, come on, Ben," Ray said, "bananas are my favorite. You aren't gonna offer me one and then take it away, are you?"

Ben stared into his eyes until Ray could see the laugh working its way up from the depths. "Yes," Ben finally said, his voice a little strangled, his hand tightening on Ray's. "Yes, I'm afraid I am."

Ray leaned in and kissed him quickly. "Okay, then. If you say so."

Ben smiled apologetically as he pulled away, putting the banana back. He picked up an apple instead, and raised an eyebrow.

Ray imagined all the ways he could make eating an apple every bit as much a tease as eating a banana--licking juice from his fingers, chewing and swallowing slowly, little glances to make sure Ben was watching--and shook his head. "You're right, we don't have time."

Ben's smile faded, and Ray bit his lip--should've gone with the tease, should've kept distracting him till the last possible minute--but Ben just said, "You're right, we should go."

He started to head past Ray, back to the door and Ray reached out and caught his arm. Ben looked down at Ray's hand, and Ray flicked his wrist in a motion that was already becoming familiar, so that the chain slid free of his sleeve, far enough down for Ben to see. Ben stood quite still, looking, and then reached up and ran his thumb down the line of beads, just brushing against Ray's skin. He nodded without looking away from Ray's wrist, and Ray dropped his hand, tugging his sleeve down to hide the chain again.

Ben got his coat on, and Ray waited beside him as he locked up the apartment, then held out his hand. "Keys."

Ben blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Keys," Ray repeated. "I told you I'm not letting you drive downtown, but we are likewise not taking my car downtown. So. Keys, Ben."

Ben hesitated, and Ray braced himself to trot out further arguments--the GTO was flashy enough to attract attention, and Ben would doubtless want to be discreet, plus if this went like Ray expected, he was probably going to need to be the one driving them home--but Ben just nodded and gave him the keys. Ray smiled tightly, and they took the elevator down to the garage in silence.

It was weird driving something as big as Ben's truck, but Ray adjusted quickly. He and Ben were close enough to the same size that Ray didn't have to adjust the seat or mirrors, and he pulled out of the parking space quickly and headed for the street. He drove a little fast, took the corners a little hard--not more than the truck could bear, not pushing as much as he would in the goat, because he was not that kind of stupid--and watched in the corner of his eye as Ben braced himself in the passenger seat.

It kept both of them distracted right up until Ray pulled up and made a hard stop in a visitor's space at the police station. Ben bounced forward and caught himself with a hand on the dash, and Ray gave him a halfway apologetic smile. Then Ben looked out through the windshield at the building in front of them, and went a whole different kind of pale. Ray would've killed to be able to kiss him, even touch him, right then, but there was no way that was a good idea, not in the parking lot at a police station.

Instead Ray turned off the car and unbuckled his seat belt, waiting for Ben to follow suit before he opened his door and jumped down to the ground. He clicked the lock down, slammed the door and checked it with a tug on the handle, watching through his eyelashes as Ben did the same on his side. He came around the truck and Ray led the way toward the doors, watching Ben shadow him in his peripheral vision.

Ray hesitated on the steps, pausing till Ben was standing on the same step, beside him, and then turned. "Fraser," he said, looking into Ben's eyes.

Ben looked back at him steadily, and then nodded and said, "Kowalski."

Ray nodded and looked away, walking up toward the doors again. Inside there was a desk, with a cop sitting at it, and a few people standing around. Sunday morning, and most of Chicago was still in bed or at church, not getting into too much trouble just yet. "Hi," Ray said to the cop. "You know where I can find a Detective Vecchio?"

The cop squinted at him, staring until Ray had to look away, and then pointed vaguely down a hallway and said, "Upstairs."

"Thanks," Ray muttered, and he and Ben set off in that direction.

There were signs on a few walls and some doors, so they only made a few wrong turns. Ben touched his elbow and Ray flinched away, then muttered, "Sorry," to the carefully neutral look on Ben's face.

Ben nodded as he looked away, and pointed to a pair of double doors with frosted glass windows. "I believe that's where we're headed."

"Right," Ray said, because the glass had Detective Division printed on it in square black letters. "Okay, yeah."

Ben nodded again and took the lead, pushing one door open and stepping inside. Ray followed close on his heels, looking over his shoulder at a big quiet room full of desks. Just like Ms. Vecchio had said: cops who worked Sundays mostly didn't spend them doing paperwork.

But there was one desk occupied, the one in the far corner. The guy sitting there was balding, and had a nose as Italian as Ms. Vecchio's eyes. Ray and Ben stood there in the doorway until the guy looked up. "Kowalski?" he said, his voice carrying easily in the big silent room. "This your friend?"

Ray cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said, and touched his hand to Ben's back, letting his fingers rest there for a half-second before he pushed. Ben stepped forward, and then they were walking across the room, and Detective Vecchio was pushing back his chair and standing up. He had a suit on, and Ray found himself automatically sizing the guy up. He was tall and skinny, like Ray himself, but probably a mean bastard in a fight. Ray flexed his hands wide open and reminded himself to behave. "This is Benton Fraser," Ray said, waving to Ben as Vecchio put his hand out to shake.

Ben took it, shook briefly, and then so did Ray. Vecchio looked him in the eye, nodded and said, "So have a seat, and tell me what exactly I promised my baby sister I'd look into."

Ray took the chair in front of Vecchio's desk, and Ben sat down in the one beside it, closer to the detective. Vecchio leaned back in his own chair. "Fraser? I assume you're the one who, uh--" Vecchio pulled a scrap of paper off his desk, "'Maybe knows something about something that happened,' if my sister's memory and my handwriting don't deceive me. That true?"

Should've figured she agreed not to record because she didn't need to. Ray set his teeth to his thumbnail and leaned his chair back, watching Ben's face as Ben stared at Vecchio's knees. "Yes," Ben said, the first words he'd said in Vecchio's presence. "I believe I have information regarding the identity of the man who killed my father."

"Uh-huh," Vecchio said, drumming his fingers on the desk. "And your father died...?"

"Sixteen months ago," Ben said, more promptly this time, maybe relaxing a little bit. Vecchio didn't look much like a Mountie, not a gun or a uniform in sight right now, nothing to set Ben off. He was even listening, sort of. "In northern Manitoba. He was killed by a rifle shot from a position at a higher elevation, but his death was only ever publicly reported as a hunting accident."

Vecchio nodded slowly. "So the Canadian authorities, they investigated this case?"

"In theory," Ben said. "But the case was closed a month ago without any arrests being made."

"No one's usually arrested in the case of a hunting accident, Mr. Fraser. Even if you know who fired the gun--"

"Hang on," Ray blurted out, drawing Vecchio and Ben's attention, both of them moving sharply like they'd forgotten he was there. "Detective Vecchio, Fraser's dad was a Mountie, a Canadian cop." Vecchio's eyes narrowed at that, and yeah, he'd know that that was weird, even better than Ray did. "Fraser, your dad must've had a million enemies, right?"

"Ah," Ben said, frowning. "He rarely discussed his work with me, but--he'd had a very successful career, so, yes, I suppose he had earned the enmity of many criminals. In fact--"

Ray was willing to wait for whatever words Ben was swallowing against, but Vecchio said, "In fact?"

Ben made an obvious effort to speak. "In fact, last year his partner--Sgt. Frobisher--was hunted down by an escaped convict he'd helped to put in prison twelve years ago." Ray bit his lip hard, barely remembering to ease off before he drew blood. That was the Mountie he hadn't wanted to call for help; his dad's partner, but Ben was even more scared of him than he was of the guy who'd closed his dad's case. Someday, a long, long time from now, when Ben had nothing else to be scared of, Ray was going to ask him what the hell Frobisher had ever done to him. For now, they had other things to worry about. "I suppose it's not impossible that something similar happened to my father."

"Sure, but the Mounties would have checked that out," Vecchio said.

Ben shook his head. "They worked primarily from the forensic evidence, which was very limited. They insisted any other approach would yield an excessive number of false positives. I, ah. Kept tabs on the investigation." Ben offered an apologetic smile, and Vecchio grimaced back.

"Yeah, I can see you're the type to take an interest. Okay, so all of a sudden you think you know who did it, not from forensic evidence or because you know of somebody who had a particular grudge against him. I gotta tell you, Fraser, in my experience killers don't just fall to their knees and confess a year and a half after the fact, and short of that I'm not sure how you think we're gonna catch anybody."

Ray opened his mouth to interrupt again, but Ben seemed to have it under control. "He came to an autographing session. He asked me to sign a picture for his son who'd just started playing hockey, and then said--" Ben closed his eyes, and Ray bit his lip, willing him to get this right, to make it sound as reasonable to Vecchio as it had to Ray. "He said he'd brought his son to see me play, but their seats had been in an upper section. He was a native of Chicago. My father was never posted south of the 60th Parallel. There's no reason he should ever have heard of my father, but he said--watching me down on the ice was like seeing my father again. " Ben opened his eyes, looking at Vecchio for some reaction to that, but Ray couldn't look away from Ben.

"I told him my father had never played hockey," Ben went on, gaining speed as he settled into the familiar story, "and he didn't seem surprised at all, but said 'oh yeah, he was a Mountie, wasn't he?'" The words sounded strange when Fraser spoke them, precise and monotone. "Then he raised his hand in the shape of a gun and mimed firing it at me, and winked. He knew my father was dead, that he'd been a Mountie, that he'd been shot from a high angle. There was no reason for him to know any of that if he wasn't involved." Ben was caught up in his argument, intent, and then--Ray could see him faltering, and cut a glance to Vecchio, who was still leaning back in his seat, arms crossed, looking totally unimpressed.

"So, let me get this straight," Vecchio said. "He asked for an autograph, mentioned he'd recently come to a game, knew that your dad had died and that he used to be a Mountie," Vecchio made a pistol shape with his hand and jerked it at Ben, "and winked at you. And from this you conclude that this guy killed your dad sixteen months ago in northern Manitoba."

Ray looked back at Ben, who was sitting very still in his chair, lips pressed together, and before he could think he was saying, "Hey, look, Vecchio, you're ignoring the fact that the guy basically committed an assault here--"

"An assault?" Vecchio repeated, "Hey, did I miss something big? Did I drift off during the part where Fraser mentioned this guy hitting him? And what the hell do you know about it anyway, Kowalski? You an eyewitness?"

The first time Ray asked if he was all right, Ben merely nodded and went on staring out the passenger-side window. The second time, he said, "Yes, Ray, I'm fine," in a remarkably normal tone of voice. The third time, he said, "I want to talk to her."

He hazarded a look over at Ray at the same moment Ray looked at him. "Who, Drake's wife?" Ray asked, jerking his gaze back to traffic.

Ben stared out at the street again, and told himself the ache in his left arm was psychosomatic. Skin and bone had long since healed. "He broke her arm."

Ray nodded in his peripheral vision. "And he went down for it, and his record's been clean since."

"He broke her arm and she refused to testify, Ray. I would bet you--not with money, mind,but I would bet you--that she was still there when he got out of prison, and it's like Detective Vecchio said--abusers don't change, they just get smart, and that makes them harder to catch."

He watched Ray's fingers tap rigidly against the steering wheel, and then Ray was swinging the truck across three lanes of traffic and making a sharp right turn, leaving Ben clutching at the armrest and the side of his seat. "Ray? Ray!"

"Kid's playing hockey, right? My guess is, even if they're not at that address the cops had, they didn't move anywhere a whole lot swankier. You don't buy a house on the Gold Coast with blood money, not a small-timer like him. The rink where I played this summer is where the Southern Chicago youth leagues play. If the kid's in organized hockey south of the river, maybe I know people who know where to find him."

It was several blocks before Ben managed to say, "Thank you, Ray."

Ray reached out and squeezed his knee, letting his hand rest there until he had to take it back to steer.

A short time later, Ray was navigating the truck through a parking lot crowded with minivans and SUVs, children half in their gear or toting hockey bags bigger than they were darting among the cars, pursued by harried mothers and fathers. "It might not work, y'know," Ray said as he turned off the car. "He might not be playing organized hockey, they could have moved further away--hell, maybe she did leave him, and he's mailing the autograph somewhere."

Ben nodded, but the horror he'd felt at the police station had hardened into resolve. "We won't find out sitting here, will we?"

Ray shrugged, unfastened his safety belt and got out of the car.

They walked into the arena together and Ray led the way to a service window. The person running the desk had his back turned, sorting rental skates, and called out, "Open skate isn't till four today."

Ray leaned through the window onto the counter, and said, "Yeah, that's okay, I can go skate in circles at United for free. Actually, they pay me."

The young man turned around with a wide smile on his face. "Ray! What are you doing slumming around here?"

"Ah," Ray waved a hand dismissively. "My cousin's kid is playing today and I promised to come by, but I always forget which team he's on. You got a mites roster back here?"

"Oh, sure," the man said, going to a drawer and rifling through papers until he produced a few stapled sheets of pale blue paper. "There you go."

Ben watched, leaning against the wall beside the window, as Ray ran a finger down the first page of names, brow furrowed in a frown. Ben's heart began to sink as he flipped to the second page of names, and then Ray smiled, his eyes trained steadily on the page, never looking up at Ben. "Ah, there he is. Green team."

"Shit, man, you better hurry, their game's almost over."

"Thanks," Ray said, handing the roster back. "Come on, Fraser."

The young man behind the counter noticed Ben standing there for the first time, and his jaw dropped as Ray led him away. Ben raised a hand and waved, then turned to follow Ray to the rink entrance.

Ray led the way to the ice, pausing before the doors with a smile. "Same rink where I was skating when Welsh came looking for me," Ray explained, and for a moment Ben was able to smile back. Then Ray's smile turned into a grimly set look, and he opened a door and leaned through. Ben watched as he looked around the rink, and then he said, "It's pretty much all moms, he's not here. Come on."

Ben blinked, frozen by the sick too-late dread of narrowly-averted disaster. It hadn't even occurred to him that Drake might be there, which was obviously foolish. Lots of fathers attended their six-year-old sons' games.

"Hey," Ray said, reaching out to touch his elbow, if only glancingly. "Come on, Frase. Game's almost over."

Ben followed him into the rink, the chill of the refrigerated space as welcome and familiar as the smell of ice. They were standing in a breezeway behind the high glass that backed the players' benches. One bench was half-filled by a row of small boys in green jerseys, the other by boys in yellow. On the ice, ten boys and four officials moved in the swarm typical of mites hockey.

Ray gravitated naturally right up to the glass in the space between the benches, and Ben stayed at his side. They were close enough for their breath to fog on it when the play came careening to center ice. A boy painstakingly maneuvering the puck looked in their direction when his coach shouted to him, and Ben saw the instant when the child caught sight of them. The green-jerseyed boy froze, staring, promptly causing a pile-up collision. The puck rolled on down the ice unattended, and the boys on the benches also turned to look.

Ray made a shooing motion toward the squads on the ice as a referee skated off after the puck and the linesmen tried to sort out the boys who'd fallen to the ice in the confusion. "Hey," Ray yelled, "Game on! Clock's ticking, guys!"

Grinning and giggling as their coaches shouted and the officials herded them along, the boys on the ice resumed their play, and the ones on the benches settled back into place. The last few minutes of the game continued without incident, and soon the buzzer was sounding and the young players were shuffling onto the ice to shake hands. One of the linesmen skated up to the glass. "Delay of game on number sixty-seven," he called, rapping his knuckles in front of Ray's face.

"Sorry, Jacky," Ray replied, with a smile on his face that didn't look sorry at all. "I just brought Fraser over to see what real Chicago hockey looks like."

The young man snorted his disbelief. "Yeah, I'll bet. You just better stick around and sign things, or these kids are gonna riot."

"Yeah, I'm good for it," Ray promised, and just then the first boys through the handshake line started making their way back to the benches and off the ice. Parents had worked their way around from the bleachers to the breezeway, and Ray yelled, "Anybody got a marker?"

Several of the mothers had markers, as it turned out, and Ray and Ben were soon surrounded by a hip-high mob of boys in green and gold, signing sticks and game schedules and hastily-produced scraps of paper. Ben turned to the next boy before him, and the green-jerseyed child looked up at him and said shyly, "I already have your autograph."

"Ah," Ben said, swallowing hard, "Well. Would you like another?"

The boy nodded and held out his stick, saying, "I'm Tim."

Ben signed carefully, on the opposite side from where Ray's signature already appeared. As he handed the stick back he looked around and spotted a woman standing somewhat apart from the other mothers, watching him. Watching her son. Ben smiled as he handed Tim's stick back, and then detached himself from the mob. It was easier to do than it would have been if all the boys hadn't been so utterly enthralled with Ray, who was cheerfully expostulating on how recently he himself had skated in this very rink, on this very ice.

The boys' mothers, however, were another story, and Ben was obliged to sign several shopping lists and pocketbooks before he could get clear, and by then Tim's mother had vanished. Ben stepped through the still-swinging door and found her in the waiting area, standing with her back to him as though fascinated by the trophies on display in the locked case. "Mrs. Drake?" he said softly.

She whirled around. "How do you...?"

Ben just grimaced. The lights out here weren't the massive fluorescent lamps of the rink, but they were still bright enough to show that her makeup was unusually heavily applied for a Sunday morning trip to a children's hockey game. "Ma'am," he said softly. "If you need help--"

She backed away a step. "I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered fiercely, her eyes darting past him.

"All right," he acceded. "Perhaps I've only imagined it. But I met your husband--"

"We're separated," she said, but Ben knew that desperate tone. She might wish for separation, but she knew she couldn't hold to it.

"--and he--reminded me of someone I used to know," Ben said.

He watched another protest die on her lips, her eyes meeting his directly. He tried to project understanding, and she nodded shallowly.

"If you need help," he repeated. "There's someone who will listen to you. Who will help." Detective Vecchio's card was still in his pocket, the corners not even bent. Ben pulled it out and pressed it into her hand. "Please," he said quietly. "Think about it, for Tim's sake."

Her eyes left his, but she nodded quickly. Ben backed away from her, and then turned and walked quickly out of the building. Several minutes passed before Ray met him at the truck, and by then his hands were steady, and he could smile back at Ray.

Ray smiled as he signed yet another coaster and handed it over to the bottle-blonde in the skimpy top and tight jeans. When she was out of earshot--only a few feet, in this bar--Ray took another sip of his beer and then leaned toward Hack and said, "Seriously, I'm going to kill you. As soon as I figure out how to make it look like an accident."

"What?" Hack said cheerfully. "Did I put you on the front page of the Sports section with a sexy half-dressed color picture? No I did not. I just made sure you came out to the bar for once. The rest is either our Ms. Francesca Vecchio's doing or the result of the legendary Kowalski charm."

Ray gritted his teeth as he smiled back, but it was mostly show; he'd forgotten how much fun this could be, and it seemed Ms. Vecchio was right. Chicago had just been waiting for a chance to make him their sentimental favorite. Having his entire locker papered over with cut-out copies of the article just meant the guys liked him enough to track down a hundred copies of the Trib and put in some serious time with scissors and tape. It was all good, really, coming to the bar after the game, hanging out with the guys, signing stuff for pretty girls, except for one thing.

Ben had gone home alone.

"Anyway," Hack said, his eyes on the crowd, watching their younger teammates on the dance floor, "it's good to have you hanging out. People were starting to talk about you and Fraser being attached at the hip."

Ray made a neutral noise and drank some more beer, looking around the room just to confirm that no one was actually staring at him, seeing him, knowing the truth. Hack had known how Ray was for years, ever since they'd been playing together for the Isles and Ray had gotten drunk enough to try to start something with him. He'd been lucky; Hack wasn't the kind to go for it, but also not the kind to take offense or spread rumors. He'd said no, thanks, and dragged Ray off to his hotel room before he could get himself into any real trouble.

Still, it was obvious that Hack, unlike everybody else on the team, knew for real what was going on with him and Ben, and if Hack thought they were getting too obvious, then Ray knew he'd better listen. "Yeah," Ray said. "Well, we're actually pretty detachable."

"That's what I figured," Hack said. "But you know how the guys are. Somebody thinks something is funny and then they just don't let it go."

Ray nodded, tugging at the chain on his wrist. He knew he should shut up, but Hack was probably the only person in the world he could ask. "It's just--did he seem kinda off to you, today?"

Not that Ben didn't have every reason in the world to seem off, the day after he talked to a cop about his father's murder, met the murderer's kid, and talked to the murderer's wife about pressing abuse charges. But Ray wasn't about to tell anybody any of that, and he couldn't worry too much about Ben, not in any obvious way, or that thing about them being attached at the hip was going to stop being funny and start being suspect.

"Seemed tired," Hack said with a shrug. "Getting the flu, maybe? It's that time of year, and he's played every game, a lot of minutes some nights. Could be getting run down. Maybe he's been missing some sleep?"

Hack gave him a sly sideways look, and Ray smiled slightly, because he couldn't tell Hack that Ben was missing more sleep lately for worrying than for sex. "Yeah, that's gotta be it."

Hack did look at him now. "You two haven't fought or anything," he said, and it wasn't a question.

Ray shook his head. He knew Ben wasn't mad at him; when Ray had thrown a crumpled ball of newsprint at him, Ben had grinned and thrown it right back, nailing Ray in the back of the head. It was just that that was the only moment all day, through skating and warming up and dinner and the game, when Ray hadn't been able to see everything else weighing on Ben. Ray had wanted to tell him, hockey is where we go to get away from all that. Hockey is safe. Hockey is home. But Ray guessed that was the trouble with having an attitude problem and priorities other than the game: it didn't block everything else out, even when you wanted it to. So he hadn't said anything, just watched, in glances and sideways looks, as Ben dragged himself through the day.

And at the end of the day Ben had gone home without him, and there wasn't a damn thing Ray could do except try not to let anyone see him worrying about it. He drained his drink and set it down firmly on the table. "I'm gonna go dance," he announced, his eyes on a redhead whose tight Blackhawks t-shirt already had his signature on it.

Hack laughed. "That's the spirit, Ray-Kay. Go get 'em."

Ray kept smiling and dancing and drinking until it stopped feeling like an act, until there wasn't anything else in the whole world but music and pretty girls, until he knew he was so worn out he'd fall asleep the minute he laid down, even without anyone beside him. When last call came, he detached himself from the girl he'd been dancing with most recently, gave Hack a theatrically drunken hug on the sidewalk, and caught a cab home.

Ben regretted coming home almost as soon as he walked in the door. Precisely speaking, he regretted it as soon as he realized that there were no messages on his machine. All day he'd been telling himself Detective Vecchio would have called by the time he got home, and by the end of the game he'd begun to believe himself. It was ridiculous, of course; Detective Vecchio had warned him that this matter would take time, and there was no guarantee that he'd persuaded Mrs. Drake of anything. Still, Ben couldn't help feeling as out of the loop as he had during the RCMP's investigation, subject to the same creeping sense of futility and helplessness. The feeling was made worse now by the certainty that he knew precisely who they ought to be after, and the certain knowledge that the killer remained a danger to others.

He stood a moment, tempted to go out to the bar the others had been headed for, but quickly rejected the notion. Ray had seemed, under his veneer of playful annoyance with his teammates, quite pleased at the attention Ms. Vecchio's article had garnered him and eager to spend an evening out with the team. It had made Ben acutely aware that, rather than becoming more connected to the team through his closeness with Ray, he had been drawing Ray into his own isolation. Better to keep himself to himself tonight. In his present mood he'd only ruin Ray's evening as well as his own.

The sensible thing to do, in the circumstances, was to go to bed, and once he'd identified it, Ben set about doing the sensible thing. He'd been sleeping poorly of late; an early night would do him good. Ben got ready for bed and laid himself down. He closed his eyes and took deep, even breaths, and if the apartment was very, very quiet, well, that was as it should be. Silence was conducive to restful sleep.

The sound of Ray's breathing was more conducive, though. Ben glanced at the phone, but it was still early; Ray couldn't possibly be home yet, and when he did get home he'd doubtless go straight to bed himself, and wouldn't appreciate being woken. Ben slipped into a light sleep, waking often, drifting in half-dreamed fantasies of going to Ray's apartment, finding his way inside and waiting for Ray there, or finding him already asleep and joining him. His mind wouldn't rest on that pleasant possibility, and dreams shifted to nightmares as he saw himself discovering Ray's bed already occupied--Ray and a woman, a man, a teammate--the dreams were vivid and awful, filled with betrayals and humiliations and piling one on top of another until Ben, awake or asleep, couldn't shake the certainty that Ray would not have gone home alone. He couldn't bear to look at the phone anymore, and the numbers on the clock seemed frozen, as if he would be trapped in this one night forever.

By five in the morning the sheets were a smothering tangle, and Ben gave up on sleep and fought free from the confines of his bed. The whole apartment was still too small a space, quickly crossed in his restlessness; Ben went out onto the balcony and stood at the very edge, clutching the railing as the wind battered his face. The sky was still dark, no hint of dawn yet touching the horizon. The urge to move was undiminished, and in his mind's eye he was plummeting to the earth. He uncurled his hands from their grip with an effort and went back inside. Ben put on his coat and locked his apartment safely behind him, then took the stairs all the way down to the ground floor. A walk would do him good. He hardly knew his neighborhood, and there was no cure for that but getting out into it.

Ben strode briskly down the well-lit sidewalks, his hands in his pockets, looking around at the landscaping and architecture and the occasional car going by. The air was cold and clear, the city still sleeping, as deeply as the city ever did. Chicago was as restless as he was, and Ben smiled at that odd kinship This is my neighborhood, he told himself. I live here. I belong here. Chicago was bigger than Edmonton and noisier--even now he could hear the rattle and crash of the elevated trains--but perhaps not fundamentally different. Cities were cities, and he'd been grappling with them for most of his life.

He turned one corner and then another, and found himself walking down a row of dark storefronts. This street was darker and empty of traffic, and the shop windows were blank and staring. His imagination was overactive, still half-dreaming, conjuring threats everywhere. He was just thinking that he would circle back from the next corner and go home when a man stepped out of a doorway in front of him and said, "Not a sound, Mr. Fraser."

All the little light that illuminated the street seemed to be shining off the muzzle of the man's gun, and Ben couldn't have made a sound if his life depended on it, which, he realized as he felt hard hands catch each of his elbows, it very well might. He was marched most of the way down the block, and then into a dark narrow alley. The man with the gun remained at the alley mouth, while the two holding his arms led him further inside. Ben's eyes never wavered from the gun, and the gun never wavered from him.

The hands on his arms urged them up over his head, and he did not resist. He could feel himself sweating all over, the moisture clammy-cold on his palms and back and under his arms, and the pounding of his heart was loud in his ears, his chest aching as though it would burst with the percussive force. He could hear himself gasping for breath, his mouth as dry with it as his eyes were dry with staring at the gun. Ben saw himself dying over and over, blood and brains spraying over the alley walls, his body falling limp and heavy to the ground. He heard the bark of the gun with every thud of his heart, felt the impact of the bullet in every spiking pain in his chest.

The fist that struck him in the stomach was very nearly a relief. He lost his breath when the blow landed, stumbling back. He wasn't allowed to fall; one of the men caught his coat and dragged him forward again, so that they could hit him over and over. They hit him hard and steadily, and he closed his eyes and let himself sink into the ordinary, familiar pain of one body striking another, though it went on and on and there was no referee here to call a halt. When he opened his eyes the man at the end of the alley still stood watch, still aiming his gun at Ben, and he realized there was more than one way this parody of a fight could be ended.

They let go of him and Ben fell to his knees. He only realized when he dropped his hands to catch himself that he'd been holding them over his head the entire time. The man with the gun came closer, and Ben wondered why they'd bothered to beat him first. "You mind your business," he said. Ben struggled to breathe against the rising hope that the admonition woke in him: I might not die I might not die I might not die. The man lowered the gun as he came closer, and Ben ducked his head to follow its path until it was pressed against his kneecap, the metal hard up against skin and bone through his jeans. "You mind your business, Mr. Fraser," the man repeated, twisting the gun painfully, "or we will see to it that you can't."

Ben heard a small broken sound escape him at the thought of what a bullet could do to a joint at point blank range; it ought to be less a terror than dying, but it wasn't. The man with the gun smiled, looking terrifyingly ordinary and personable, and Ben had barely registered that the gun was no longer pressed against his knee before it struck his face.

Ray woke up and stared at his alarm clock. It took him a couple of minutes to remember to hit the button to make the beeping stop, and another minute after, squinting and dragging himself half out of bed to get closer to the clock, to see the numbers and work out what they meant.

Five-thirty. Why the hell was his alarm going off at five-thirty? "Frase," he muttered, "why the hell's my--"

But when he looked over his shoulder, the bed was empty, and Ray remembered why his alarm was set so early. He'd meant to get up and go over to Ben's before practice. He squinted at the alarm clock again, and then sighed and reset it for the usual time. He needed more than three hours of sleep, and he'd see Ben at practice, anyway, and everything was probably fine. How many times had Stella told him stalking wasn't actually attractive?

Ray rolled over into the spot where Ben ought to have been and went right back to sleep.

Ben slammed the locks closed with shaking hands. He tried to put on the security chain as well, but he couldn't manage it and quickly gave up. He stood a moment just inside the door, shaking all over, swallowing against the roiling pain in his belly and the pounding ache of his head. He had to move, he knew. He had to get to the phone. After a few careful breaths, Ben let go of the door and made his slow and painful way into the kitchen.

He picked up the phone and hesitated for a moment, groping for the memory of the number he needed. He'd seen it, but never dialed it before. After a moment, he began punching in numbers, and raised the phone to his ear, holding it carefully, with just his fingertips. A familiar voice on the other end said, "Hello?" and Ben felt unaccountably relieved at this assurance that the rest of the world remained intact. It was only himself who was so broken this morning.

"Hello," Ben said, and winced at the sound of his own voice, hoarse and faint. "Dr. Gustafson."

"Benton? Is something wrong, my boy?"

Ben closed his eyes. "I'm afraid so," he said, struggling to raise his voice to a normal level. "I woke up--I have a terrible headache, body aches, chills--vomiting--" His stomach twisted ominously at the mere mention, recalling the mess left on the ground back in the alley. His mouth tasted vile, but there had been nothing to clear it with, not even a patch of clean snow between the alley and here. "But I don't think I have a fever," he added, "So I'll--"

"No," Mort said firmly. "Stay home, Benton, you probably have the flu. A day's rest will do you good. If you're feeling the same tomorrow, come in and I'll give you a checkup. If you start to feel worse, call me and I'll come and see what I can do for you."

Ben nodded, stopping short with a wince as the motion made his head ache all the more ferociously, and then said, "All right, Doctor."

"Mort," he said.

"Mort," Ben repeated obediently. "I'm going to go--"

"Yes," Mort said. "Lie down, drink lots of fluids, get plenty of rest and for God's sake don't worry about hockey, Benton. All right?"

"All right," he said, and then he hung up the phone. He was dizzy with standing, and had to lean against the wall a moment before he could gather himself to walk to the bathroom.

Once there, he looked into the mirror at himself and then couldn't look away. Even when she hit him, she'd rarely marked his face, and he'd been lucky in his hockey injuries; Ben couldn't recall when he'd last looked quite this gruesome.

His left eye was swelled half-shut, and the bruising around it covered most of his left cheekbone, seeming to flow outward from the ugly gash on his cheek, near the corner of his eye. The cut was crusted over with dried blood, and a trail of it ran down his cheek to his jaw; he could feel it on his skin, a different irritation from the itch of stubble. He couldn't distinguish the pain in his head. It was everywhere, seeming to come from his left eye and the back of his head simultaneously, and it turned his stomach with its intensity.

Ben looked down from his reflection, turning on the taps to run warm water in the sink. He picked up the soap and lathered his hands, ignoring the sting in the scraped skin of his palms. He washed them thoroughly, keeping them under the warm water until they didn't feel cold anymore.

He withdrew the first aid kit from under the sink. He would attend to the cut on his face first, and then his scraped knees. He would check the bruises on his chest, but he'd been breathing hard all the way home without waking the kind of agony that would have indicated a broken rib. Likely it was nothing to worry about. He'd clean himself up and then, as Mort had directed, he would rest. He would sleep if he could.

As an experiment, Ben closed his eyes. The instant his own reflection disappeared from his view, it was replaced by a gun, shining in the pre-dawn light, and a cold sweat broke out all over his skin. Ben blinked his eyes open, quickly surrendering the hope of sleep. He would lie awake instead, and compose tomorrow's lies; it would be as productive a use of his time.

He hadn't done this in years, but it was all familiar, practically automatic. Ben held fast to that familiarity, and wet a cloth to wipe the blood from his face.

Ray slept through his alarm, not even actually awake until the third snooze, and then he jumped out of bed, cursing. He was gonna be late to practice and he hated oversleeping; the feeling of panic that started his day when he registered the time on the clock wouldn't leave him for the rest of the day. He only had time for tap water instant coffee and a completely unsexy banana, and all the way to United he kept promising himself things would be fine once he got there. He'd see Ben. They'd play hockey. Everything would be normal.

Except when he got to the locker room, Ben wasn't there. Ray stood for just a second, staring at the empty space, Ben's equipment all still hanging up neatly. When he tore his gaze away, Hack was frowning at him. Ray bared his teeth and then geared up and hit the ice. He did his stretches and warm-ups, alone and then with the team, and at the end of it, Ben still wasn't there. Ray skated over to Coach.

"Fraser's not here," he said, when Coach looked up.

Welsh blinked at Ray and then looked past him, around the ice. "That's very astute of you, Kowalski," he said finally. "You are correct. Fraser isn't here. You are. Go skate."

"Coach," Ray repeated, shoving down everything he wasn't allowed to say, all the worries he wasn't supposed to have, though he could hear them leaking out in his voice. Welsh looked at him again, more sharply this time, and Ray had to look away. "It's just weird. Shouldn't someone check on him or something?"

"What, you volunteering?"

Ray risked a glance up at Coach, who was giving him a withering look, and then looked away again, skating a little circle. "It's just weird," he repeated stubbornly. "Fraser--"

"Has the flu, Kowalski."

Ray turned his skate and came to a stop, meeting Coach's eyes. "What?"

Coach rolled his eyes. "He called Mort at six this morning and described his symptoms. Mort told him to stay home and rest, and reported the situation to me. I had coffee and antacids for breakfast. Nothing about this picture strikes me as weird except you, Kowalski."

"Okay," Ray muttered. He could feel himself blushing. Stupid to think it might be--anything else. Stupid to get jumpy like this. Someone was going to notice. Coach was going to notice, if he hadn't already, and that was a chilling thought. "Jeez, I just wondered. You could have said."

"I'm your coach, Kowalski. You know perfectly well I won't let any of my players go unaccounted for. Now get your ass on the ice and skate."

Ray nodded and smiled for Coach and then got his ass on the ice and skated. He knew he should be reassured, he knew he should trust his Coach--but there was stuff going on that Coach knew nothing about, and Ray couldn't shake his worry. Ben had never gone down with the flu before, not once, and even if he'd been puking at six he'd have been at practice at seven. Ben wasn't the kind to let anything short of hospitalization get in the way of the game, and if this was a question of some other priorities... Ray didn't need to think about that. Not now. Not here.

Ray soldiered on through practice, smiling and joking with the guys just like normal. He avoided meeting Hack's eyes, because Hack already knew so much, and Ray didn't dare risk forgetting to hide anything now.

When he was finally turned loose, Ray drove hell-for-leather to Ben's place. He pounded on the door but got no answer, and turned to lean against it as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. When Ben's machine picked up, Ray said, "Answer the phone or the door, Frase, one or the other or I'm going to go find security and make a scene."

He hung up and dialed again, and got Ben's machine again. "I'm serious, Fraser, drag your ass out of bed and let me know you're not dead in there and then I'll go away if you really want me to."

He was just about to hang up again when he heard the click of the receiver being lifted. "Ben?"

"Ray," Ben said, and he sounded so tired Ray felt guilty for hassling him. Maybe he did have the flu. Ben didn't lie, after all, right? Not about stuff like this. "I'm fine, you can go. I'll be at practice tomorrow."

"Just let me come in," Ray said, and then had to stop himself from saying I haven't seen you since yesterday. "Let me make sure you're okay. Have you eaten? Do you need anything?"

"I just need to rest," Ben said, "please, go, I don't want you to get sick."

Ray forced a laugh, looking up and down the quiet corridor. "I hate to break it to you, Fraser, but if you've got the flu today it's already way too late to stop me catching it."

Ben sighed softly, and even the artificial smile fell away from Ray's face. "I'm a bit of a mess, Ray. Please just go."

Ray shut his eyes and turned to huddle against the door, with his back to anyone who might come along. "Come on, Ben," he whispered, "you've seen me at my worst. I got you out of bed, let me come and tuck you back in, okay?"

There was a long silence, and then Ray heard the locks turning. He hung up his phone and dropped it in his pocket, and the door swung open when he touched it to reveal Ben standing there. Ray's mouth opened, and then he shut it with a snap, looking up and down the still-empty hallway before he stepped inside. Ben turned and walked away, and Ray stopped to lock up, leaning his forehead hard against the door and trying to get himself under some kind of control. Ben's face and chest were covered in bruises, and there was a cut on his cheek closed with butterfly bandages, so close to his eye that the tape was angled to avoid it. He was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants, so Ray had seen all of it at a glance, every ugly mark on his pale skin. Kind of a mess, Ben had said, and that was nothing but the truth.

Ray opened and closed his hands, trying to steady himself, and then went on into the kitchen. Ben had hung up the phone and was standing by the counter, his hands back on the edge so that everything was visible. Ray stopped well out of arm's reach, shoving his hands into his pockets, and said, "What happened, Ben?"

Ben turned his head so that Ray couldn't see his shiner, and said in a quiet, creaky voice, "I don't suppose you'd believe I walked into a door?"

"No," Ray said tightly. "And you didn't fall down the fucking stairs either. Someone beat the hell out of you. What happened?"

"Someone beat the hell out of me," Ben repeated, his voice steady. Ray waited, but Ben didn't say anything else, just stood there, waiting for God knew what.

Ray raked both hands through his hair, mind racing. It couldn't be a coincidence, it had to be Drake, and he'd been the only one who knew and he'd let Ben go off by himself last night, stupid, stupid, stupid. "Have you called the cops yet? Have you called Vecchio?"

Ray saw Ben flinch at the sound of his voice, and bit his lip, but then Ben said, "No. There's no point. It wasn't Drake."

Ray shook his head. "Don't tell me this was a coincidence, Ben, don't tell me this was just random. What happened?"

Ben pushed off from the counter and went to the fridge, flexing his hands like they hurt. He opened the freezer and pulled out an ice pack, which he put on his eye. Ray sighed and walked over to the stove, where there was a towel hanging, yanked it off and held it out to Ben. Ben's one visible eye blinked, and then he took the towel and wrapped the ice pack. Ray folded his arms and repeated, "What happened?"

Ben leaned back against the fridge, one eye covered and the other looking down. "I woke up early this morning and went for a walk--"

"First mistake," Ray snapped, even as his guts clenched at the thought. If he'd just gotten up when the alarm went off, maybe... Ben flinched again, and Ray gritted his teeth and took a step back. "So you went for a walk," he said, "and then?"

Ben took a sideways step, so he wasn't backed up against the fridge, and Ray pivoted to face him. "There was a man," Ben said, and then stopped. Ray forced himself to be still, to wait. Ben licked his lip and then went on. "There was a man with a gun. He addressed me by name. I think there were two others. I didn't see their faces. The man with the gun kept it trained on me while the others beat me."

"Fuck," Ray gasped, feeling sick. Ben at gunpoint, the fucking bastards.

Ben gave no sign of having heard. "I think I lost consciousness for a little while. They took the money from my wallet, I suppose so that it would appear to be a mugging if I reported it to the police."

"When you report it to the police," Ray corrected, but Ben just ducked his head and Ray had to turn away. He went over to the counter and flattened his hands on its surface, watching Ben from the corner of his eye. "When you report it," he repeated. "Vecchio said--"

"It wasn't Drake," Ben said, his voice a monotone, like even he didn't believe it. "I can't remember what any of them looked like. There's no point. They wanted to frighten me off and I don't intend to be frightened."

Ray turned to look at Ben straight on. "So, what, you intend to get killed?" Ray could feel rage rising up in him, choking his breath, speeding his heart. Ben could be so stupid. "That is bullshit, Fraser, total bullshit." He stepped closer, and Ben met his eyes, standing his ground. "You call Vecchio and you tell him what happened and you make a police retort--"

"Report," Fraser said, very quietly, and Ray slammed one hand down on the counter with a sound like a crack of thunder.

"That's what I fucking said!"

Ben didn't actually flinch this time. He just stayed perfectly still, one eye still covered with the ice pack and the other lowered so it didn't meet Ray's, like he was facing an angry dog. All of Ray's anger evaporated in a cold rush, leaving him feeling sick and stupid. "Shit," he whispered, "Ben--" and then Ben did flinch.

Ray scrubbed his hands over his face, and dropped to his knees at Ben's feet, leaning his forehead against Ben's hip. When Ben didn't move away, Ray looked up. Ben's face--uncovered now--was turned aside, eyes closed. The hand that held the ice pack was braced on the counter, and Ray could see the shiver running up his arms. He raised one hand to rest lightly on the bare skin of Ben's side, careful not to press, not to try to hold him. "I'm sorry," Ray said softly. "Fuck, I'm sorry, it's not your fault. I'm not mad at you."

Ben's eyes opened, and he blinked down at Ray, a little frown creasing his forehead, and the look in his eyes made Ray's breath come short. He looked like no one had ever said that to him, and like he'd never expected that Ray would.

"I'm not going to hit you," Ray said fiercely, half to Ben and half to everyone else who'd made it necessary for him to say it to Ben. "I might get mad, I might get loud, but Ben, I swear to you I will not hit you, not ever."

Ben nodded slowly, one eye wide and the other open as wide as it'd go, bloodshot around the blue. He lowered his hand to brush across Ray's cheek and said, "I believe you."

Ray smiled, even though he knew the words were a lie, because he also knew that Ben meant them. "Good," he said, and pulled himself up to his feet. The movement put him face to face with Ben, close enough to smell the musk-ox ointment he'd put on the cut on his face, close enough to see that he'd shaved but hadn't washed his hair, which was a mess for once. "You got yourself all patched up?"

Ben nodded shallowly, and Ray could see how much it hurt, could feel the shaking in him that wasn't all fear. It had to be an effort just to stand.

"Come on," Ray said, sliding one arm around Ben, bending to give him a shoulder to lean on. "I know what'll make you feel better. Come here."

He felt Ben tense a little. "Ray," he said, "I don't think--"

Ray looked sideways at him, and smiled. "Hot bath, Ben. Get your mind out of the gutter."

Ben smiled cautiously back at him, and leaned on Ray all the way to the bathroom.

Ben tensed, and Ray's hand squeezed his shoulder. "Shh," Ray said, and Ben forced himself to relax, closing his eyes. "It's not bad. Tip your head back, come on." Ray's hands tugged his head back and Ben surrendered. He swallowed, feeling the tautness of his exposed throat, and lowered his own hands under the surface of the water to Ray's calves, which occupied his lap. He was safe. It was Ray at his back. Ray wouldn't hurt him.

Ray's fingers moved gently over his scalp, rubbing in circles and moving slowly closer to the place at the back of his head where the worst of his headache centered. He ought to have known he'd hit his head when he fell; it just hadn't occurred to him to check. "Can't see the back of your own head, huh?" Ray murmured. "This is why you need somebody watching your back."

Ben bit his lip, staring up at the ceiling, and nodded a little. "I know." He did know. It just... hadn't occurred to him at the time. He'd never had anyone watch his back before. Even when she was at her most solicitous and apologetic, she'd never done anything like this, never coddled him as Ray seemed to want to do.

Ray's lips brushed over his shoulder, and Ray said near his ear, "This is gonna sting a little, but I've gotta get it cleaned up for you, okay?"

Ben nodded again and closed his eyes, running his palms up and down Ray's shins, feeling the sparse wiry hair shift under his hands in the water. He heard a splash, and then water was poured over his forehead, running down into his hair. He shivered and then held still, and Ray repeated the procedure over and over, wetting his hair thoroughly. He heard the pop of the cap on the shampoo bottle opening, and then Ray's hands were in his hair again, moving slowly, cradling his head. He could smell the soap lathering, and the water was hot, and Ray's hands were gentle.

He jerked when Ray's thumb brushed over the bump on the back of his head. The soap stung the raw skin. "Sorry," Ray said quietly, and then, "How did you know you didn't have a concussion? I mean, can you even see both of your pupils?"

Ben blinked, experimentally opening his swollen eye as widely as he could, which wasn't very. "I... I didn't think about it."

Ray's hands stilled, and Ben shut his eyes again, waiting for more anger--deserved anger; if he'd had a concussion, attempting to keep this from everyone could have put him in serious danger. It had been foolish to think he could spare himself the shame.

Ray's hands, when they began to move again, were as gentle as before, and Ray said softly, "I wish you'd called me instead of Mort. I'm your--whatever the fuck we are--and that means I'm here for you, right? I'm the person you can call, when you need somebody."

Ben swallowed, but told the truth. "I didn't know I needed anyone."

Ray's fingers didn't pause, working steadily in his hair. "Well, think of me next time, okay? God forbid there's a next time."

"I'll think of you," Ben said quietly. "I promise I'll think of you."

"Good," Ray said, and then, "Okay, here, lean back." Ben heard the tap turn on behind him, and reclined gingerly against Ray's chest, uncertain of what exactly Ray wished him to do. Ray pulled him backward with a hand on his shoulder until they were skin to skin with barely any room for water between his back and Ray's front, his head resting lightly against Ray's shoulder. Ray set one hand on his forehead and then leaned back further, until the water from the tap was running through Ben's hair.

"Turn," Ray muttered, and Ben turned his head to the side. "Good, turn," Ray said again, and Ben obeyed. The water shut off, and he started to move away, but Ray's hand stayed on his forehead, holding him in this reclined position. The water covered him almost entirely, this way, and it was hot and soothing against the bruises in his chest. He took a deep breath and let himself rest against Ray's body.

After a moment he opened his eyes just far enough to look through his eyelashes at Ray's hands, sliding lightly over his chest. Ray's fingers traced the borders of his bruises, cataloging his hurts, and Ben's gaze skipped lower, to where Ray's legs still curled around him. Ray's calves were tiger-striped with bruises from the slashing of opponents' sticks, and Ben knew they were far from the only marks he bore. He'd be bruised and battered until the end of the season came and he was forced to rest. Ben caught Ray's right hand, and brushed his thumb over the scars on his knuckles. They'd faded to nearly the same color as his skin, but they were still easy to see, and obvious to a touch. He felt the catch in Ray's breath as much as he heard it, and then Ray's hand tightened on his, and Ben raised it to his mouth to kiss. They were neither of them entirely whole, and that made this bearable. He had bandaged Ray's hand himself, once, and Ray was doing no more nor less now than returning the favor.

Ray's legs uncurled, one foot sliding down Ben's leg, and Ben smiled and bent his knee, pressing his foot against Ray's. "Hey," Ray said in his ear, even as he ran one toe over Ben's instep, "How'd you get that scar on your foot, Ben?"

Ben raised his left foot slightly and wiggled his toes. He was surprised Ray had noticed the scar; it was thin and straight, running parallel to the tendons, and long-faded. "I broke it," Ben said, "In the--"

Ray's fingers covered his mouth. "Wait," Ray said, "I know this." Ben squirmed sideways to look at him, and Ray had his eyes lightly closed, his lips parted in thought. "The '84 playoffs," Ray said slowly. "Everybody kept complaining about you having lead in your skates. Round two, game... three."

Ray tucked Ben into bed, clean and dry and in a fresh pair of sweats. "I'm gonna go," he said. "You think you can sleep now?"

Ben blinked up at him. "I didn't say I couldn't sleep."

"You didn't have to," Ray said, and waited for Ben to ask him not to leave.

Ben just closed his eyes and said, "Yes, I think I can, thank you. There's a spare key in the drawer under the phone, could you lock up behind you?"

Ray bit his lip against a smile and ran one hand lightly over Ben's damp hair. That was Ben, never asking for anything. It was hard to resist pleasantly surprising him, not when it was this easy. "Yeah," he said softly, "will do." He turned and left the room before he could think better of it, pulling the door shut behind him with the quietest possible click. He'd only put his jockeys and jeans back on, and he left the rest of his stuff where it lay, in a heap on the bathroom counter. He went into the kitchen, found the drawer and, inside it, the neatly-labeled spare key to Ben's apartment, which he tucked into his pocket.

He found his coat and dug his cell phone and wallet out of the pockets, then took a seat on the couch. Vecchio's card was still in there, on top of the card for Ray's lawyer. He opened up his phone and dialed, hoping the detective was at his desk, and not out doing something he probably considered a lot more important than worrying about some unhinged hockey player's dead dad. It picked up on the third ring, and the voice in his ear said, "Ray Vecchio."

Ray blinked, thrown. Ms. Vecchio had never told him her brother's first name, had she? And he'd never asked. "Uh, this is Ray Kowalski."

"Kowalski," Vecchio said, with enough recognition that Ray felt immediately relieved. He hadn't forgotten. He'd know what to do. "What's wrong?"

Ray leaned his head back. "It's Fraser. He got beat up. Some thugs who knew his name. He doesn't want to report it because he doesn't want to be intimidated, plus he doesn't think he could identify them anyway."

There was a silence on the other end of the line, and then Vecchio said, "How bad is it?"

Ray didn't think about the look in Ben's eyes, which wasn't any of the police's business. "They held a gun on him, but they didn't use it. Cuts and bruises, nothing major. He'll be back to work tomorrow."

"Okay, so it's up to him whether he wants to press charges or not. I can't push him to if he doesn't want to, you know that, right?"

"Yeah," Ray said quickly, "I know. It's his choice. I just thought you should know what was going on."

Another silence, longer this time. "Kowalski, either Drake's a lot more paranoid than he has any reason to be, or I'm missing a step somewhere between you two leaving my desk with instructions to keep your heads down and Fraser getting beat up by some of Drake's buddies."

Ray winced. He should've known. "Uh, yeah. Well."

"Jesus, amateurs. What did you do, Kowalski?"

Ray gritted his teeth, even though he knew Vecchio was right; he and Ben weren't professionals at this and, obviously, they were only going to get themselves hurt if they messed around in it. "Fraser was worried about Drake's wife. He's got a thing about people who hit women."

"Aw, shit," Vecchio muttered. "I should've known. What did he do?"

Ray swallowed. "We, uh. We went to his kid's hockey game and Fraser talked to his wife."

Vecchio sighed. "And when you say that, you mean you stayed out of sight and nobody saw you but Mrs. Drake, right, Kowalski?"

"Sure," Ray said, wondering if he was going to get arrested, and whether he and Ben would be safer in jail. "Mrs. Drake, and her kid, and all the other kids on both teams and their moms."

"Oh for Christ's sake, Kowalski, is there some part of 'don't go looking for trouble' that you don't understand? Why didn't you just hold an Interfering with the Wife and Kid of a Hired Killer Parade? How many pucks to the head have you taken lately?"

Ray gritted his teeth, wondering what Ms. Vecchio had told her brother, but it was probably nothing. Anybody would say that to any dumb jock hockey player. "Yeah, I know. But if I didn't go with him, Fraser would've--I dunno. Gone to her house or something."

Vecchio sighed. "If he won't press charges against the people who assaulted--"

"Battered," Ray corrected.

"--and battered him, then there's nothing I can do about that. The CPD is not in the business of providing protection for people who don't have the sense to keep themselves out of trouble."

Ray sighed. "Yeah, I figured. But you said to tell you if anything happened, so I'm telling you."

"Well, you get a gold star for following directions, Kowalski, I'm sure it goes great with Fraser's black eye. He does have a black eye, doesn't he? I'd hate to think our fair city's thugs were getting creative."

Ray remembered at the last second to keep his voice down. Ben was sleeping, he hoped. "Look, Vecchio, what do you want me to do?"

Vecchio sighed. "I want you to not get yourself killed in my city, and I want Fraser to do the same thing. If you think you're the one with an ounce of sense, then I suggest you stick close to Fraser and try to keep him from doing anything stupider than he already has."

"Yeah," Ray said, "Okay," and then, hesitantly, "I've got a gun."

He heard a sound that he thought might actually be Vecchio banging his head on his desk. "Please, please tell me that either you were joking just now or it's nice and legal."

Ray rolled his eyes, even as his mind boggled at the idea of carrying a gun to protect Ben. Dumb idea. He shouldn't even have said anything. "I was married to a lawyer, Vecchio. I got all my papers."

"All your shots, too?"

"Yeah," Ray said, smiling a little, "and I only bite if you ask real nice."

Vecchio snorted. "I'm not gonna ask, Kowalski. But I wish you had a cell phone, instead."

"Just call me Tinkerbell, Vecchio. I'm talking to you on it."

"I don't think Tinkerbell grants wishes, Kowalski."

"Well, think happy thoughts then. What do I need a cell phone for?"

"To call me on if you get into trouble, and I mean before you shoot anybody, capisce?"

After four days, Ben had begun to get accustomed to Ray's constant presence. It had been unremarkable at first, and then a little embarrassing; he suspected that Ray was worried about him, but it really wasn't necessary. Sometime during the second day, as Ray was sitting on his couch, flipping through the channels on his television, Ben had said, "You know you don't have to babysit me."

Ray had turned on a winning smile like flicking a switch. "Who's babysitting? I'm right where I want to be."

Ben hadn't been able to think of a single argument he could make against that line of logic; he'd have claimed he wanted to be alone, except that he didn't. Ray made no particular demands on him, and was perfectly capable of maintaining a companionable--if sometimes fidgety--silence for hours. Though Ben was a little ashamed of making the comparison, it was not unlike having Dief back again.

The only downside was Ben's injuries. Though they weren't serious and he was recovering with all his usual speed, Coach and Mort seemed rather worried about him--and a little peeved about his lie--and his ice-time had been cut. The resulting shuffle of defensemen had led to one of the younger players from the farm team being called up, and though Ben could not help but sympathize with the boy's wide-eyed delight at playing in the NHL, he still found himself wishing things were as they'd been before. On a simple physical level, he was unused to his reduced role, and it hung on him badly. By the fourth day, he'd grown as restless as Ray.

"Y'know," Ray had said, his blue eyes warm and intent, "I can help you burn off some of that energy if you want."

And that--give or take a few protestations of willful misunderstanding--was how they came to be running, side by side, through the park nearest Ben's apartment.

Ben fell back a few strides so that he could watch Ray run, and Ray, after a grinning glance over his shoulder, humored him by maintaining his own pace. Watching Ray run was oddly like watching Ray skate: he moved nearly as smoothly on concrete as he did on ice, all lithe lean grace. He'd taken his hat off almost as soon as they started to run, and his blond hair stood up in unruly spikes, his ears bright pink with the cold. Ben's gaze skimmed lower, running over Ray's shoulders, moving steadily under the thin protection of a faded sweatshirt, and his long strong legs eating up the length of the park's jogging path. Ben lengthened his own stride, intending to draw even with Ray and suggest a shorter route back to the apartment, and then the shot rang out.

Ray dropped heavily to the snow--dead weight--his hair shining bright against the whiteness. Ben stumbled to a halt, looking around wildly for the source of the shot. He saw the shine of afternoon light off a rifle barrel, in the cover of some trees up the hill, and without another thought he turned and bolted in the opposite direction. He ran flat out, listening for the next shot, and when he heard it, he found some new reserve of panicked speed, and flew faster down the path--stupid to take the path, they'd find him so easily, but there was no point trying to hide, they'd find him no matter what. He ran on and on, conscious of nothing but the fact that he would die if he dared to stop. His lungs burned, his heart thundered, his foot struck ice and he fell, too fast to even attempt to catch himself. The breath was knocked from his lungs and he knew he had to calm down and inhale, but he could only lie there, choking, waiting for the end.

But nothing came; he caught his breath, and after a few gasps he pushed himself upright. He realized all at once that he'd abandoned Ray. He pushed to his feet and began to run again, though every muscle protested, lengthening his stride grimly. He tried not to think of what he might find--blood dark in the snow, steaming as Ray's breath had, a moment ago--Ray's face pale, all the color drained away--Ray's eyes closed and motionless. He had to go back, that was all. He'd run away and he had to return. He kept his eyes on his feet, forcing himself through every stride, and then there were arms around him, halting his progress. He struggled blindly for a moment until Ray's voice penetrated, "Ben, Ben, Ben, it's me--" and then he dropped his hands and stood still.

Ray stood before him miraculously whole and unharmed, his eyes searching Ben's face for something. Ben twisted his lips into the shape of a smile, and Ray just shook his head. "I called the cops," he said. "They're on their way. Come back, all right? Whoever it was is long gone."

"You fell," Ben said, helpless to say or think anything else.

Ray reached out a hand and touched Ben's cheek. "First thing Uncle Ed taught me about guns: you hear one firing behind you, you hit the deck."

Ben took a moment to process that. Ray hadn't been harmed at all, had never been hurt, Ray was safe, they were both safe, the police were on their way. "You're alive," he said quietly.

Ray smiled, sliding his hand back to the nape of Ben's neck and dragging him closer. "I told you, Fraser, I don't die easy. Now come on with me, Vecchio's gonna want to talk to us."

Ben fell into step beside him as the wail of sirens became audible in the distance.

The cops didn't actually need them for much; once they'd both told them what they heard and saw--two gunshots and nothing, for Ray, but Ben was able to point them to a stand of trees--they settled down to arguing amongst themselves over who ought to be investigating. Vecchio was trying to stake some prior claim on the case because it involved Ray and Ben, and the cops whose precinct included Ben's neighborhood seemed to think Vecchio shouldn't even be allowed to set foot north of the river.

They did agree that Ray and Ben could leave once they'd given their names, phone numbers, addresses, and the upcoming week's game schedule to every cop in the park, and then a couple of uniformed cops led them down the walk to the street and offered them a ride home. "Yeah," Ray said, because Ben had just about gone mute. He moved like his arms and legs weighed a hundred pounds, and his eyes had gone blank; he'd hardly seemed to notice there were a half-dozen armed cops milling around. Adrenaline hangover, Ray figured. It was just a matter of finding him somewhere safe to collapse. "Fraser, you wanna go home?"

Ben raised his eyes from the dirty snow to Ray, and then said, "No, thank you."

The cops looked confused, but Ray just herded Ben into the back of the squad car and gave them his own address. It wasn't anything like riding in the back of a cab--the radio chatter was completely different, for one thing, and for another the doors didn't have any handles on the inside--and he made sure to sit all the way on his own side of the bench seat, leaving Ben propped up against the door, staring out the window. He hadn't touched Ben since that first minute, when he had to convince him they were both still alive. Not in front of the cops, no matter how lost Ben looked, no matter how cold they both were, standing around in running gear with sweat going cold on their skin. Ray's hands clenched into fists, and he folded his arms to keep them tucked away out of sight.

Only when the cops pulled up in front of his place, and Ben just went on sitting there staring like he was ready to let them take him away and lock him up, did Ray finally open a hand and reach out. He grabbed Ben's elbow and Ben's head whipped around, his eyes suddenly going sharp. Ray couldn't remember how to breathe, and jerked his hand back like he'd been burned, thinking not in front of the cops Jesus not in front of the cops. "Come on," he said, and then cleared his throat and remembered to look away from Ben's dark blue eyes. "I've got beer in the fridge, and you look like you could use a drink."

He heard Ben say in a perfectly neutral voice, "I suppose I could at that," and he saw Ben's legs, sliding across the seat, and then Ray turned away. Behind him, Ben stepped out of the car and said, "Thank you, officers," and they said something back that Ray didn't hear. The door slammed and the squad car pulled away and Ray was moving again, inside the building and over to the elevator. He heard Ben follow him in, punched the button and stood staring at the numbers, thinking not in the elevator not in the elevator.

But Ben didn't make a sound, didn't move closer to him, nothing. By the time Ray got to his door, he was ready to risk a glance at Ben, and found him staring down the hall at nothing. Ray was beginning to think it was just wishful thinking, that Ben really was out for the count. He unlocked the door and stood aside to let Ben in first, following on his heels.

Ray turned to lock up and as soon as he turned the deadbolt Ben was on him, pressed up against his back, his mouth wet and hot on the back of Ray's neck and what felt like a whole new wave of adrenaline pressed up against his ass. His own heartbeat spiked--he'd have to practice getting shoved up against things, if it was going to be Ben's first reaction to stress, but this was good, this was good, he could do this. He ground his ass back against Ben's cock, and it felt weird with both of them wearing sweats--less friction than jeans but more give, so he could feel everything. He turned his head, and Ben just licked forward onto his throat. Ray's mouth worked without a sound coming out, and he swallowed hard. Ben's teeth scraped along his Adam's apple, and when Ben finally raised his head for a kiss Ray pushed back, shoving his tongue into Ben's mouth, bracing his arms against the door and pushing off.

Ben stumbled back a step and Ray turned, reaching out to brace his hands against Ben's chest instead, shoving him back further. Ben gasped a little, and Ray realized he must have hit a bruise and stopped still. Ben just smiled--his eyes were dark, the color of a clear night in Chicago, when the city-shine killed the stars but the blue showed through--and hauled Ray closer, right up against his chest. With his lips dragging over Ray's he said, "You won't hurt me," and then he was kissing Ray hard, grinding their mouths together. Ray couldn't breathe but he could think, and he thought he knew what Ben wanted.

Ray pushed again, and Ben held on, standing his ground and grinding his hips against Ray's, dick to dick through a couple of thin layers of jersey knit. Ray knew he'd hit bruises that time, but Ben's hard-on seemed to say he didn't mind at all. Ray slid his hand under Ben's sweatshirt, spreading it over Ben's ribs, feeling the quick motion of Ben's breath and the heat of his skin. Then he pressed his thumb hard into the spot where he remembered a fading purple-green mark, and Ben groaned against his mouth, his hand moving down to Ray's ass and pulling him closer, his cock jerking between them.

Ray grinned and gasped, "Back up," and Ben did as he was told, letting Ray steer him to a nice sturdy wall to lean on. He settled back against it right away, spreading his legs, and Ray hooked a hand into Ben's pants and pulled them down to his thighs, leaving his cock standing ready. Ben's hand on his ass returned the favor, dragging his sweats half off, and Ray stepped up, thrusting his cock against Ben's, finally skin to skin. His hand was under Ben's shirt again, pushing him into the wall and making him moan between kisses, his hips bucking wildly against Ray's, Ben's hand on his ass holding them tightly together. Ray's dick was sliding against the silky skin of Ben's stomach, and Ben's was jerking hard against his hip.

Ray pulled his mouth away from Ben's, and Ben made little sounds like it hurt him not to be kissing Ray; when Ray pressed his fingers against Ben's chest, the whimpers dissolved into a gasp, and his head thunked back against the wall. Ray kissed up Ben's jaw and down his throat, pressing his tongue over the pulse point, where he could feel the rush of blood in Ben's veins, slightly out of synch with the motion of Ben's cock. He dragged his teeth along Ben's skin and Ben said, "Ray," like it was some kind of revelation, and that was it. Ray was coming, his cock jerking against Ben's stomach, Ben's hand on his ass tightening harder to keep him still.

Ray's legs went kind of wobbly, after, so he slid down Ben's body till he was kneeling between his feet, and there was Ben's cock in front of him, and Ben's pale skin spattered with come. Ray wiped it away with his fingers and then closed his hand around Ben's cock, his grip sliding easily as he jerked him. He leaned in for a lick, tasting himself on Ben's hot taut skin, and then pulled back to look up at Ben's face. He had his eyes shut, teeth closed on his lower lip, his cheeks flushed. Ray felt the pulse and jerk under his hand and shut his eyes a second before Ben came all over his face.

Ray pressed the back of one hand to his mouth and kept his eyes squeezed shut. His shoulders were shaking with silent laughter as he listened to Ben sliding down the wall, and then he risked opening his eyes. The lashes of the left stuck together for a second, and he spared half a thought to be glad he wasn't wearing his contacts.

Ben was fighting a smile, muttering, "Ray, I'm terribly--" and Ray couldn't hold back anymore, he was laughing right out loud, half-hysterical. Ben grinned then and tugged Ray's hand away from his face, pulling him in and licking his cheek. Ray laughed harder, squirming away from Ben's mouth until Ben resorted to holding his head still, and then Ray just shut his eyes, panting between last bursts of laughter, and let Ben lick him nearly clean. When Ben's tongue traced across his eyelid, Ray cracked and lunged in, and managed to wipe his eyes against Ben's sweatshirt, wiping his sticky hand on it at the same time.

Once he was facedown on Ben's shoulder, Ray didn't feel much like moving--the end of the laughter left him feeling twice as drained as coming--and from the way Ben's arms closed around him he guessed the feeling was pretty much mutual. They sat huddled together on the floor, pants half off and chests heaving. Ray's breath had slowed down to normal and he was starting to lose feeling in his feet before he realized that it was never going to occur to Ben to ask him to move. He rocked back on his heels and looked into Ben's eyes, and Ben looked back at him, tired but no longer quite as blasted as he'd been in the park. Ray nodded firmly and said, "Come to bed," and Ben nodded back.

It was barely necessary to feign sleep; Ray, sprawled naked at his side, passed into slumber almost as soon as they lay down. As his breath settled into the familiar soothing cadence, Ben opened his eyes and looked again at Ray, watching the rise and fall of his chest, his skin golden against the worn blue sheets. In Ben's mind he fell to the snow over and over, his collapse complete and final, indelible. Even reality could not erase it.

There was something he was forgetting about that afternoon, something important that he ought to recall. Ben closed his eyes, listening for the rifle crack, watching Ray fall and fall and fall, never rising, the shot ringing out again and again until his ears were numb and the sound of Ray's steady breathing was drowned out. Ben watched it a hundred times, looking for what he'd missed, and then it was there--no edge, no precipice, simply skating onward past a line that was no more than paint under ice.

They had just come inside from a sunny morning spent on the pond. Ben still had his skates draped around his neck by their knotted laces, and his hands were still in his mittens. His Mama had taken hers off and was kneeling down to unlace his boots when they heard the shout from outside.

"Hallo the house! Caroline!" Ben bounced in place as his Mama got to her feet, and they shared a quick smile. It was Muldoon, his father's friend, and he was bound to have news of when Daddy and Constable Frobisher were likely to be home; as it was, they were more than a month past due.

Mama bent quickly and kissed the top of his head hard and said, "Be still a moment, Ben, while I go and see what he wants."

Ben rocked from heel to toe, running one finger along the inside of his skate blade, but he nodded obediently as his Mama opened the front door and stepped through. He could hear her calling out hello to Muldoon as she pulled the door shut behind her, and then the sound of her footsteps, carrying her off the porch and down to the ground.

Ben noticed then that his mother had left her mittens on the footstool. She'd lectured him often about keeping his hands and head covered when he went outside, and the pain in his fingers when he'd once disobeyed had been its own sharp lesson. He picked up the mittens and dashed to the door, bursting through with a shout to his Mama, but what he saw stopped him short.

His Mama and Muldoon stood a little way in front of the house, facing each other, and Muldoon was holding a rifle, like the kind his Mama and Daddy both hunted with. He was pointing it toward Mama though Ben had been told over and over that guns must never be pointed at another person or at the dogs.

Everything happened at the same time; Ben shouted, his Mama turned toward him, the gun went off. She fell, heavily, the way that Ben had seen a caribou fall when she shot it straight through the heart, and lay still on the snow, blood pumping fast beneath her to stain the white ground dark and steaming as it struck cold air. Muldoon's gun fell to the earth in the next second, and as Ben watched he covered his mouth with his hands--he was wearing leather gloves, just like his Daddy's and Constable Frobisher's. Mama had given all the men gloves for Christmas, and the general store only had one kind--and then Muldoon turned, like his Mama had, to look at Ben.

His eyes were wide, and his face was pale next to the gloves, almost as pale as his Mama's face lying still against the snow. Muldoon lowered his hands from his mouth and looked around, and then he took a step toward the house, as unsteady as he'd been the time he and Daddy came home five days after their rations ran out.

Ben's hands tightened on his Mama's mittens, and he couldn't move, staring into Muldoon's wide eyes as he staggered closer. Ben could see tears on his face, and he said, "Ben, son, I'm so, I'm so--" but he couldn't seem to say what he was. He swallowed and tried again, and his voice was steadier when he said, "Ben, go inside now. Your father will be here soon."

"Mama," Ben said, though it was against the rules to contradict an adult. Muldoon made a sound like a barking cough and turned his face away from Ben, looking down into the snow but not toward where his Mama lay. Ben didn't look toward her either, just turned his eyes down to the blue and green striped mittens in his hands.

When he looked up, Muldoon had come closer. One more step would bring him to the foot of the porch stairs, and he stretched out his hand. "Give me those, and I'll take them to your mother, all right? But go back inside, before you catch cold yourself."

His Mama hadn't caught cold, but Ben shivered to think the same might happen to him as had happened to her. Muldoon's gun was far away, though, and Muldoon's empty hands were reaching out toward him, and Ben didn't think he could walk all the long way to where his Mama lay; he could barely even lift his hands. But she needed her mittens and so he tried his best. He was crying too, now, but he thought that was all right. Muldoon was crying, and he was Daddy's friend, so it had to be all right that Ben did the same.

Just then, Constable Frobisher burst around the side of the dogs' shed with a wordless yell, holding his rifle in his hands, and Ben froze. Muldoon had pointed his gun at Ben's Mama, and now Frobisher was pointing his gun toward them. Muldoon looked and saw Constable Frobisher, and closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again, he looked only at Ben. "Go back inside now, son. It'll be all right."

Ben shook his head, too scared to move, and then his father appeared on the top of the hill, behind Muldoon, beyond where his Mama lay. For a moment Ben thought everything would be all right--Daddy was home!--but then his father raised his gun as well, and called out in a hard angry voice Ben had never heard before. "Muldoon! Get away from the boy."

Ben shivered, and stayed where he was, staring into Muldoon's eyes. Muldoon raised his hands, to catch the mittens if only Ben could toss them to him, and then Constable Frobisher's gun fired, and Muldoon was thrown down. He didn't fall like Mama; the shot hadn't killed him cleanly. His belly was all dark and bloody, and he knelt on the ground, still looking up at Ben. His mouth moved, but no sound came out, and Ben didn't dare look away. He couldn't make a sound either; there wasn't any sound at all until Constable Frobisher's gun fired again, and then Muldoon's face was gone and blood spattered warmly over Ben's face, over his hands and the mittens he held, and Muldoon finally hit the ground.

Ben looked up then, and saw his father running down the rise. Constable Frobisher was even closer, just a few strides from the porch steps, and they both had their eyes on him and their rifles in their hands. Ben finally dropped the mittens and turned to run. He slammed the front door of the cabin shut behind them, though he knew that wouldn't slow them down, and kept running. His fear made him fast, and he burst through the back door and took the path, already knowing it wouldn't make any difference where he went. His father and Constable Frobisher could track any man, anywhere, and one little boy wouldn't make it very far at all. The blood and tears on his face turned cold as he ran, and he knew they would freeze soon.

He reached the end of the path. He was back at the pond, and his skates were still hanging around his neck. He ran across the ice without slowing down, spurred on by the shouts of his father and Frobisher behind him. He ran past the markers Mama had made to warn him away from the spots where the ice was getting thin, and then, finally, Ben fell too.

He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep his gasps for breath quiet as his body struggled with the sense-memory of cold and the shocking pressure of water, enfolding his body and filling his mouth. Even after he'd assured himself he had air to breathe, Ben shivered uncontrollably, and his fingers slid up and found tears on his cheeks. He turned his head, wiping them against the pillow, and only then dared to open his eyes.

Ray still lay beside him, still sleeping peacefully. Ben tugged the blanket up over them both, and Ray rolled onto his stomach and buried his head in a pillow, leaving Ben staring at the back of his neck, just a few inches of pale skin bared above the blanket and below his shock of wild blond hair. Ben's shivers receded as the heat of Ray's body warmed the blanket, Ray's closeness slowly penetrating the fog of horror.

Ray had been wrong, though neither of them had had any way of knowing it at the time: they had died that day because of Ben. If his mother hadn't turned when he shouted, Muldoon's shot wouldn't have killed her. It must have been an accident, or the man wouldn't have been so horrified; there was no way his father's friend could have intended to kill his mother. And if Muldoon hadn't taken pity on him and stayed there, trying to help him, he'd have gotten away before his father and--

Ben shut his eyes tight, but the image of Constable Frobisher, rifle in hand, persisted. Though he knew, logically, that Frobisher could not have intended to harm him, the memory was as new and fresh as if his mother and Muldoon had died just yesterday, just now, and it remained utterly horrifying. He knew it wasn't true and yet he remembered that Frobisher and his father were chasing him, trying to kill him. And through his own wild fear, they very nearly had; he must have come close to drowning, and close to dying of the pneumonia, as a result of his headlong flight.

Ben opened his eyes again. His mother and Muldoon, his child, Dief, Victoria, all dead. Mark, a thousand miles away, was the only object of his affection who seemed safe, and Ben knew that Ray, asleep beside him, loved by him, was in dreadful danger. He might have died today, and in the days to come Drake would only grow more desperate. The police clearly couldn't protect him, and if Ray persisted in shadowing him as he had for the last several days, he was certain to get hurt or killed. Ben didn't think he could endure another such loss. He'd have to find a way to prevent it. He'd have to get Ray safely away from himself, and soon.

Soon, but perhaps not immediately. For this moment, Ray was safe enough, and tomorrow they'd be leaving on a road trip--outside Chicago, they'd be in little danger of harm from Drake. He would have some time in which to steel himself to let go, to plan how best to make a clean break with Ray. It wouldn't be easy; Ray wasn't the sort to let go without--he flinched from the thought--a fight.

But for now, Ray knew nothing of that, and they were lying in bed together, naked and warm in the decadent afternoon light. Ben slid closer to Ray, unable to be separated even by mere inches when he knew this might be his last chance to touch. He raised one unsteady hand and trailed his fingers lightly down the back of Ray's neck. Even asleep Ray responded to his touch, turning his head toward Ben and snuggling down into the pillow. He showed no sign of waking, golden eyelashes resting on his cheeks, his lips slightly parted. Ben could not resist moving closer yet, sliding one hand to the small of Ray's bare back and pressing a light kiss to Ray's mouth. Ray's lips parted under his, as though kisses were a reflex, as though Ray couldn't resist even in sleep, and Ben pushed deeper, his tongue slipping into the pliant warmth of Ray's mouth. Ray opened wider for him, letting him in. Ben pushed at Ray's shoulder and Ray gave way without resistance, shifting onto his side as his breath escaped in a sigh against Ben's lips.

Ben pulled him closer, insinuating his knee between Ray's thighs, his penis thickening with the proximity of Ray's body, the easy surrender of his mouth. He ran his hand up and down Ray's back, his fingers sliding down the groove of his spine from top to bottom and back again. Ray breathed against his mouth, under his hand, with the same slumbering regularity as Ben tried to pull away, dropping short wet kisses on Ray's lips. His hand slid onto Ray's hip and then boldly forward, closing around Ray's penis. It seemed to wake in his grip, hardening as he stroked it, and his own erection pressed lightly against Ray's thigh as he moved closer still.

He finally managed to wrest his mouth from Ray's, biting his lip as he worked his hand over Ray's cock, leaning back just far enough to watch Ray's face. His eyes moved minutely under closed lids, and his lips, wet with kisses, worked as though they still sought contact. Ben groaned when the tip of Ray's tongue flicked out over his lower lip, and Ray's eyes fluttered open, his gaze dreamy and half-focused. He smiled a little, drawing Ben's attention back to his mouth, and said, "Hey."

Ben pressed him onto his back, bracing his weight on one arm and stroking Ray with the opposite hand, kissing him into silence, and Ray was just as welcoming now as he'd been while he slept. Ben raised his head and looked down at Ray, who looked up at him from under half-raised lids, his eyes very blue, his mouth still open as though it only waited for Ben to return. "I want you," Ben said softly, lowering his head to kiss Ray's throat as Ray nodded.

He had to move away from Ray to get the supplies from the night stand, and when he did, Ray kicked off the blanket and rolled onto his stomach, folding his arms under the pillow and burying his face in it even as he spread his legs, arching his back to raise his hips. Ben bit his tongue, his cock throbbing with a new urgency at the sight of Ray waiting for him, and then he moved closer, desperate to touch, to take what was offered. He covered Ray's body with his own, rubbing his cheek against the spiky softness of Ray's hair even as his cock settled into the cleft of his buttocks, thrusting slowly as Ray pushed languidly against him.

He kissed Ray's ear, the tendon in his throat, the nape of his neck, and Ray's hips pushed up, muscles clenching around Ben's cock until he gasped. He rolled onto his side and grabbed the condom, ripping open the packet and pulling it on before he opened the lubricant--much easier without slippery fingers. Then he was pushing two slick fingers into Ray, hot and tight and velvet-soft, receiving him so easily. Ray moaned, muffled by the pillow, and rocked his hips against Ben's fingers as Ben readied him, his legs spreading wider in obvious invitation.

Ben applied more lubricant to his erection and then moved back into place over Ray, resting his forehead against the back of Ray's neck as he pushed slowly and steadily inside. Ray's body gripped him tightly, and Ben moved in slow shallow thrusts, wanting this to last long enough from him to forget that it was the last time. He pressed a kiss to the nape of Ray's neck, suddenly glad that they weren't face-to-face, and slid his hand under Ray's canted hips to find his cock hard and ready. He stroked Ray gently, savoring the feel of him, the silky skin taut in his hand, the wetness under his thumb. Ray turned his head and Ben could hear him panting softly, but he didn't speed his pace.

He lost himself in the dreamlike motion, making love to Ray as he never would again, as if it would never end, pressing inside and never quite departing, his hand on Ray's cock dragging forth every broken breath from his lungs. Ray, of course, knew nothing of Ben's desires; he got his knees under him and pushed up, forcing Ben onto his knees as well, taking him deeper than before in one rough thrust. Ben's hand tightened on Ray's cock, stroking equally roughly, once and twice and again, sucking hard where he'd been kissing softly at the back of Ray's neck. Ray's head jerked up as he came, striking the nearly faded bruise on Ben's cheek as his cock pulsed in Ben's hand, internal muscles rippling around Ben's cock. Ben groaned and surrendered himself, thrusting raggedly into Ray as orgasm whited out the pain in his face. He collapsed against Ray's back, and Ray twisted so that they both fell to the bed.

He closed his eyes as Ray turned his head, and Ray's fingers trailed down his cheekbone as he murmured, "I nailed you one there, didn't I?"

Ben made a noncommital noise, and kept his eyes shut as Ray kissed him.

Ray couldn't stop checking Ben's face. The bruise was nearly gone, the cut well on its way to healing, and he had to keep reassuring himself that it looked better today than yesterday, and not worse, even if he had gotten Ray's thick skull square in the eye. Not the smoothest move he'd ever made, but then what did Ben expect, waking him up like that? Smoothness on his part was obviously optional. Eventually, Ben had opened his eyes and smiled and promised that it didn't hurt, and Ray pretty much believed him.

Still, even standing here with the rest of the team at O'Hare, waiting to board a plane, he couldn't help sneaking glances at Ben's face every minute or two. Most of the guys had been stealing looks at Ben's bruises all week - the mugging rumor had gotten around in the time it took Coach to call Ben into his office that first morning back - so Ray wouldn't stand out. And the bruise did look better. He was healing. Ray hadn't hurt him yesterday. Nobody had hurt him yesterday, not where you could see it, not on the skin. But he'd kept his eyes closed so long, and he'd been so quiet this morning, and Ray knew yesterday had shaken him more than any amount of napping and sex could cure, and he knew he didn't have another damn thing to offer.

So he just kept watching, and when Ben went pale between one glance and the next, Ray forced himself to keep still. He looked around casually, rather than just reaching out and hugging him like he wanted to, though it took all the strength he had to keep his hands in his pockets.

He spotted the problem quickly enough--a couple of airport cops standing nearby, the guns on their belts big and shiny. Ray crossed the space between him and Ben in two quick strides and then stepped further, putting himself between Ben and the cops, blocking the line of sight. That was the key to good defense, after all: close off the shooting lanes and stick to your man.

Ben looked startled to see him suddenly standing there, and Ray would take startled over silently panic-stricken any day. "Hey," Ray said, smiling, "did I tell you I talked to my folks the other day about François?"

Ben blinked at him, and Ray moved his mouth around the shape of the words again, but, no, he'd said them in English. "No," Ben said after a moment, "you hadn't mentioned it."

Ray nodded, watching Ben's eyes dart over his shoulder and then come back to him. "Yeah, I did. He's staying with them right now, y'know, and after Christmas they're gonna go back down to Arizona--before the winter gets real bad, hopefully--and they'll take him along. When the season ends I'll go down there and stay a little while, until François gets used to me again, and then bring him back up here to stay with me." Ben was focusing on him now, listening. Ray let his own eyes shift away, running over the other guys. Sean was watching him, starting to drift in their direction from where he'd been standing on the periphery, and Ray shook his head a fraction and turned slightly away, closer to Ben. "I'll probably have to move," he said, and Ben was watching him more intently than ever. "Get a house, something with a yard for him, y'know? Bigger than the apartment, I guess--when we lived in Quebec he had his own room."

Fraser squinted at him, and Ray willed him to hear everything he was trying to say--I'm thinking ahead, and there's gonna be space for you, you can come play with my dog, you can "sleep over" in the "spare room," come on, come on. Fraser said, "His own room?"

Ray smiled, because trust Ben to get hung up on what he'd actually said. "Yeah, well. Stella called it my office. She had an office, so I had an office. But she did work in her office, and me, I just watched TV and played with my dog. François would stay in there when I was away on trips--I'd come home and have to dig him out of the closet. He liked to sleep in my old hockey bag, curled right up in the shoulder pads."

Ben blinked at him, and then said, "Well, I suppose that's not unusual. Several times when we were out in the woods up north, I had to bodily drag Diefenbaker from the rotting carcass of an elk."

Ray grinned. "Yeah? I guess dead elk smells almost as bad as the inside of an equipment bag."

"Mm," Ben said, "Messier. The word I'm thinking of is gobbets."

Ray squinted at him. "You just made that word up."

Ben looked sideways at him, and his eyes smiled but his mouth was deadpan, "No I didn't. If you'd ever attempted to clean bits of decomposing elk off a squirming wolf, trust me, the word would spring to mind."

"Yeah?" Ray said, "Well, I dunno about the wolf, but I can probably supply a squirming dog if you can supply the gobs of elk."

Ben's eyebrows went up.

"We could, y'know. Go up north sometime, you could show me around. You go up there every summer, right? I could visit you."

"Ah," Ben said, and he was looking over Ray's shoulder again. Dammit, he'd been fine a second ago, right with Ray for maybe the first time since they'd gone out for that damn run in the park, and now he was just gone. "I think it's time to board." His smile looked forced, and he wouldn't quite meet Ray's eyes, and Ray could do nothing but fall into line behind him and follow him onto the plane. It was Ben's turn for the window seat, so he sat down first and Ray dropped down next to him. Sean grinned at Ray as he got settled a few rows up, and Ray smiled and nodded back.

The kid was out of his mind with excitement to be playing in the big leagues, and if it had been because anybody other than Ben was hurt, Ray would have been just as happy for him. As it was, the kid was still fun to watch, and Ray kept an eye on him, remembering when he'd been the young kid called in from New Brunswick for a few games here or there, how he'd swallowed the instinct to ask for an autograph from guys he was suddenly on a bench with.

Ben sat silent and still beside him, his face turned to the window, all through taxi and takeoff. Ray leaned his head back, working his jaw so his ears would pop and wishing this were a night flight so he could slide a hand onto Ben's in the cover of darkness. As it was, Hue and Deuce were right on the other side of the aisle, the rest of their teammates packed in front of and behind them, and Ray couldn't do a thing. Yesterday had to have made Ben's gun phobia all the worse, and though the cops hadn't bothered him while he was in shock, they obviously bothered him now. He was like thin ice, stiff and cold, but it'd break as soon as you put any weight on it. Ray tried to think of whether they'd see any cops when they landed in Detroit and what he could possibly do about it, but his train of thought was interrupted when he glanced up and saw the stewardess making her way down the aisle with the drink cart.

Ray glanced over at Ben, but he was still staring out the window, his shoulders drawn up tight like a flashing neon sign: leave me the hell alone while I freak out. The hell with that, but Ray wasn't going in empty-handed, either.

The stewardess rolled her cart up to him and said, "Anything to drink?"

Ray smiled his best and said, "Bottle of water," as he tilted his head toward Fraser, "And an orange juice." He jerked his chin toward the bottom of the cart as he said it, where he could hear the little glass bottles clinking.

She raised an eyebrow and smiled. "A bottle of water and an orange juice?" Ray nodded, and she handed him the bottle of water, and then pulled out a plastic cup and poured in the vodka first and the orange juice on top.

"Perfect," Ray said, "Thanks."

She smiled and shook her head, and turned her attention to Hue and Deuce. Ray tucked the bottle of water in the pocket of the seat in front of him, and bumped Ben's shoulder with the back of the hand that held the screwdriver. "Hey," he said, "got you an orange juice."

Ben looked over at him with a fixed, rigid smile, and Ray told himself the bruise on his cheek only looked worse because he was pale, because of the weird airplane lights. "Thank you kindly," Ben said, like Ray was a stranger, and Ray smiled back the best he could and held out the drink.

Ben took it from him without letting their fingers touch and took a sip. He didn't actually lower the cup from his mouth, but he looked at Ray over it, suddenly startled out of the freeze he'd been in, and Ray smiled at him for real. "Drink up," Ray said, "you need your vitamins."

Ben popped an eyebrow at him--he knew when he'd been challenged--and then tipped his head back and chugged it without taking his eyes off Ray's. Ray remembered to focus on Ben's eyes, and not the muscles working in his throat as he swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. He finally handed the cup back to Ray, empty, and Ray stuffed it into the seat-back pocket with the in-flight magazine and the bottle of water. When he settled back into his seat, Ben was slumped in his, staring up at the ceiling, and Ray could see him thawing out.

Ben rolled his head to the side so he was facing Ray, and said, "That was quite refreshing."

Ray grinned. "Hit the spot, huh?"

"Mm," Ben said, but his eyes were already closed, and he just sat there with a dreamy little smile on his face all the way to Detroit.

After the game they were confined to the hotel bar, not by official orders but by a collective disinclination to venture out into Detroit. The city's murderous reputation wasn't nearly as daunting as the more than twenty thousand Red Wings fans who'd just been turned loose on the bars and nightclubs.

The game had ended in a five-five tie--nearly a win, but at least not a loss--and as all five of Chicago's goals had been scored by different men, there was a complicated set of obligations to buy drinks which engendered much argument and napkin-scribbled calculation. Chris bought the first round, in apology for having taken a penalty during sudden-death overtime, and further arguments become much more grandiose as an air of snowed-in conviviality took over the bar.

Ben drank what was served to him and stood his round when it seemed to be his turn. Ray's approving look warmed him nearly as much as the alcohol. They were sitting on opposite sides of a crowded table, Ben on a bench between Ren and Jeff, and Ray in the chair directly across from Jeff, sandwiched between Bernie and Tom. It was safer to be so chaperoned, especially when they'd each downed a few drinks; an indiscretion now, when so soon they would have nothing at all to hide, would be the cruelest of ironies. On the other hand, his state of mild inebriation made it easier for Ben to smile naturally back at Ray, to hide from Ray what had to remain hidden just a little longer.

Even hemmed in as he was, Ben was beginning to plot his escape. Tomorrow they would be back in Chicago, and he would have to take steps to insure Ray's safety. Tonight, however, they were roommates, and whatever else they were, and perhaps one more drink would fortify him enough to ask Ray--

Ray was looking at him again, smiling warmly, and Ben thought it wouldn't take much asking at all. But then--just as it had back in the airport while they were waiting to board--Ray's gaze skipped away from him. He knew Ray was looking into the mirror that occupied the upper half of the wall behind him, and he knew, without turning to check the reflection, who Ray was looking at so intently. Ben tore his eyes from Ray, sipping his beer and suddenly utterly oblivious to everyone at the table, himself included, and looked over to the bar, which was reflected in the mirror.

Sean, the young call-up from Indianapolis, was sitting there, leaning intently, rather worshipfully, toward Denny. Hardly surprising, Ben thought sourly, as Denny had been a Chicago Blackhawk while young Sean was still playing mites hockey. Sean was smiling, his blue eyes bright with youthful enthusiasm and not a little drunkenness. He was an undeniably attractive young man, with his reddish curls and broad-shouldered defenseman's build.

In fact, Ben realized, to fondly-inclined eyes he might well seem to bear a passing resemblance to Louis. Ben glanced back toward Ray as Ray drained his drink and got to his feet, his hand bracing casually, thoughtlessly, on Bernie's shoulder as he did. Bernie smiled up at Ray in a fashion that Ben never quite dared in public, and Ray could touch Bernie, that happily married father of three, any way he liked in the bar and never raise a comment.

Ben forced his eyes down and took a sip of his beer. It was bitter in his mouth, and he reminded himself that he was not allowed to be jealous. He knew better than to expect fidelity from Ray. It ought to be a comfort, really, to know that Ray would not suffer too much in his absence. When he glanced up again, Ray was standing between an empty barstool and the one Sean perched on, leaning against the youngster as much as against the bar. His hand was resting with casual possessiveness on Sean's shoulder, and then all three of them--Ray, Sean, and Denny--burst out laughing, and Ray was tugging at Sean's shoulder. Ben looked around for a waitress, a pitcher, someone else's drink, anything at all to save him from watching them walking out of the bar together, Ray's arm slung around Sean's waist, Ray's every motion loose and graceful and seductive.

Ben felt the pressure of a body tight against his side then, Jeff leaning in until his mouth was nearly against Ben's ear. "They were roommates during the pre-season," Jeff said, and then leaned back into his own space. Ben looked over at him, and Jeff favored him with an apologetic shrug. "What can I say?" he murmured. "Kowalski's a dumbass sometimes."

It was more sympathy than he was likely to get from anyone else, and Ben was faintly heartened by it. Tom, who seemed to have caught the end of Jeff's words, shouted, "Hey, where is Kowalski?" When it had been determined by the rest of the table that he wasn't present to defend himself, Tom proposed a toast to Ray's dumb ass. Ben drank deeply, and felt the warmth in his belly begin to turn to a spreading numbness.

A motion of curly hair in the mirror caught Ray's eye, and all thoughts of taking Ben upstairs and doing all kinds of fun things with him when he was too drunk to pretend he didn't want to vanished. Sean was at the bar with Denny, and from the look of him Sean was at least three sheets to the wind, maybe four, and he was leaning and he was smiling. Ray chugged the last of his drink, thinking fast, trying to figure how he could save this situation before it went completely to hell, and then pushed himself up to his feet and headed for the bar.

Denny noticed him walking over and gave him an amused look, and Ray grinned back. All wasn't lost, not yet; Denny still thought this was funny. Good. Ray slid into the space between Sean's barstool and the next one and said, "Hey."

Sean turned to look at him, and Ray almost winced at the bright hungry look in his eyes. "Hey, Ray-Kay! Where y'been?"

They went back to Ray's in the afternoon, after practice. Ben had watched Ray working and stretching what seemed to be a sore shoulder all day, so he wasn't particularly surprised when he said, "I'm gonna go take a shower, try to warm this up." Ben just nodded, and then Ray smiled and said, "Wanna come?"

Ben blinked, startled into a small smile, but said, "No, I'm fine, thank you."

Ray looked him over from head to foot, and said, "Yeah, guess so. Take your coat off, make yourself at home. There's Gatorade and stuff in the fridge."

Ben nodded, but when Ray disappeared into the bathroom he stayed standing in the kitchen, with his coat on and his shoes laced up. Ray's shower was a reprieve, a moment to work out how to say what he had to say. He paced, trying desperately to marshal his thoughts, and came to a stop in front of the refrigerator. The pictures of François had been augmented at some point: there was a new one, which showed François with the much-chewed remains of a plush turkey toy between his paws, gazing adoringly at the camera, and beside it a color picture ripped from the newspaper. According to the caption, it was a photograph of Chris Chelios leading several other players in a drill, but the side of the picture that featured Chris had been carelessly torn so that he was half removed. The opposite side of the picture showed Ray, grinning as he handled the puck, and Ben beside him, trying to knock him off his stride.

Ben swallowed hard and turned away, looking for anything else to distract him. The message light on Ray's answering machine was blinking, and Ben walked over. Ray often asked him to check the messages while he changed clothes or washed up, and perhaps hearing Ray's mother's voice, asking after Ray's health and happiness, would firm Ben's resolve to keep him safe.

He pressed play, and the voice that emerged from the speaker was most definitely not that of Mrs. Kowalski. "Hi," she said uncertainly, and Ben knew her at once. "Uh, hi Mr. Kowalski. You don't know me, my name is Jeannie Drake--Jeannie King, really, but--that's how Mr. Fraser will know me, I guess. I wanted to call him but his number's unlisted, so I hope you can pass him this message. Tell him--tell him I heard what happened to him, and if he wants to find my husband, he should go to this address. Frank is there all night most of the time and doesn't come home til eight or nine in the morning. The address is--" Ben memorized it as she spoke. It was down in the numbered streets; Chinatown, he thought. "Just--tell him, I heard what he said. I got a kid to think about."

Ben stared at the machine for a moment, thinking frantically, and then he pressed the button to delete the message and picked up the phone.

He dialed his apartment building first, and asked for the manager. "Hello, Mr. Fraser," she said, "What can I do for you? I understand you've been out of town?"

"Yes," he said, "That's why I'm calling. I'm afraid I've misplaced my key--" which was not, strictly speaking, untrue: he didn't know quite where Ray had put the key he'd taken from Ben's apartment, and that was the key he was thinking of now. "And I'd just like to have the locks changed, for safety's sake."

"Oh, of course, Mr. Fraser. I'll send someone up at once to check your apartment is secure, and we'll get the locks changed right away. Are you back in Chicago now?"

"Yes," he said, and glanced at the clock, listening to the sound of the shower running. "I expect to be home within an hour or so."

"That's just fine," she said. "Come to the desk when you get in, and I'll have your new keys ready for you."

"Thank you kindly," he said, "I'll see you soon."

"See you soon, Mr. Fraser," she said, and he hung up.

Ben licked his lip, and tugged at the suddenly constricting collar of his shirt. He was committed now. Still, there was one other call he needed to make. He picked up the phone again, pausing for a moment to recall the number, and then dialed.

The phone rang three times. "Ray Vecchio." He sounded rather harried.

"Hello," Ben said, "Ah, this is Benton Fraser."

"Fraser, hey--something wrong?"

"I'm not sure," Ben said, reciting the address over in his mind. "I'd like to meet with you, there's something further I'd like to discuss."

"Okay," Detective Vecchio said, "sounds good, only--is tomorrow okay? This place is a zoo right now."

"Tomorrow morning?" Ben suggested. "Early? I'm afraid we start practice at eight."

"Sure," the detective said, sounding a little distracted. Ben could hear shouting in the background, and hoped he wasn't keeping Detective Vecchio from something of immediate import. "Sure, say tomorrow at seven, that give you enough time? Come by the station, I'll be here."

"Thank you kindly," Ben said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sure thing, Fraser," Detective Vecchio said, and then hung up with an emphatic click.

Ben hung up more slowly. He closed his eyes, breathing carefully against the sick rolling of his stomach, and listened to the shower shutting off and the small sounds of Ray moving around. He had to do this. He had to. It was the only way to keep Ray safe, and if he didn't--

Behind him, Ray said, "Hey," and Ben turned to see what was muffling his voice. He was wearing only a pair of jeans, and his head was covered with a towel as he rubbed vigorously at his hair. "Now that it's just us, Ben, I wanted to--"

"Actually," Ben said, interrupting him, but then stalled. Ray lowered the towel and looked at him, his forehead wrinkling into a frown under his wet-spiked hair.

"You still got your coat on," Ray said, holding the towel before his chest, like a shield.

"Yes," Ben said. He needed all the padding he could get for this. "I suppose it may be presumptuous, but before you say whatever you were going to, I'd like to tell you something which I think may be more important."

Ray nodded slowly, standing perfectly still.

Ben looked away. "I can't do this anymore," he said quietly, but loudly enough that he knew it would seem a shout to Ray. "I'm finished, Ray. I can't do this."

"You--what?" Ray sounded merely incredulous so far; a good start, but nowhere near finished. Ben dared to look up, but Ray was still standing there, the towel now lowered further, exposing his bare chest, but still gripped in both hands. "Is this about last night? Because--"

Ben shook his head impatiently. He couldn't let Ray get on the offensive, had to keep him backpedaling. "It's not about last night or any one night. It's about this whole ridiculous--"

"This is ridiculous?" Ray threw the towel down and Ben managed not to flinch visibly, though he trembled somewhere inside at the first hint of anger in Ray's voice. "This is ridiculous to you? Ben, I love you, we're--"

"No," Ben said flatly, shaking his head as he looked away again. "Be serious, Ray. Be honest. This was never going to last. It's a nice way to pass a season, perhaps, but it wasn't more than that, and I'm tired of this. I'm done."

"That's bullshit, Ben, this isn't anywhere near done--" He could hear Ray walking toward him, and backed away a step, glancing up as he did to check Ray's position. He should have waited til Ray was further from the door, but there was no helping it now.

Ben spoke steadily, and heard himself from far away. "I'm not asking you, Ray, I'm telling you. It's not open to argument. We're through."

Ray was gripping the back of a kitchen chair, and Ben could see the scars on his knuckles standing out pink amid skin drained white. His arms were shaking with the strength of his furious grip, and his head was lowered. His hair was still wet and the skin of the back of his neck was pink with his agitation. "Tell me why," Ray grated out. "Tell me why."

Ben took a breath and took another sideways step, putting himself closer to the door, if also slightly closer to Ray. "I don't owe you--"

Ray's head shot up. "Oh yes you fucking do, Ben, I love you and you have got to tell me why--"

Ben's heart stuttered. If he'd ever doubted the sincerity of Ray's love for him, he couldn't now; that near-scream was torn from him like nothing but truth could be. "I told you," he repeated quietly, giving back truth for truth, the only one he could spare now. "I'm tired of waiting for this to end some other way. I want it over now, cleanly."

"No," Ray said, squinting at him as though he could see what he wanted to see if he could only focus correctly, "No way. Tell me why, why now, why today--"

"I've been cheated on enough for one lifetime," Ben snapped, and that was true too, and the bitterness wasn't hard to find.

Ray straightened up, seeming calmed by the words, and stepped toward Ben as he said, "See, I told you--I wanted to tell you, just now, there just wasn't time--Ben, I didn't, with Sean, that wasn't what it looked like, I swear to you."

Ben blinked at him and resisted the urge to back away. He couldn't believe it. No matter how honest Ray sounded, he could not believe that statement. That way lay death and madness. "You expect me to believe that," he said, his voice even and monotone.

Ray Kowalski had never in his life been knocked down by a punch and failed to jump up and give it right back. This time, though, there was just no point to getting off the floor, so he didn't.

His mouth was full of blood, and one of his teeth had gone wiggly, but he could tell it wasn't going to fall out so he just pressed it into place with his tongue. The throb in his jaw matched the pulse of the developing bruise on his cheek. He could almost feel it spreading.

The kitchen's overhead light was on, and Ray stared at it until his eyes watered, and then stared at it until they stopped. When he looked away from the light, the ceiling was smeared black and purple and green like a bruise. When he looked straight at it, he didn't see anything at all, and that suited him just fine.

His elbow hurt where it had smacked into the floor, and his wrist felt raw. He moved his arm from time to time, finding cool spots on the linoleum to rest his hurts against.

When he'd swallowed most of the blood in his mouth, so that it was just a lingering copper taste on his tongue, he turned his cheek against the floor as well. He had to hold his head up and he could feel the muscles in his neck going stiff, but the chill felt good. The forest of table- and chair-legs in front of him looked dark as a cave to his half-fried eyes, and he closed them for a little while, to save seeing anything at all.

He shouldn't have reached for him. Shouldn't have tried to stop him leaving; should have let him storm out and then called him later and apologized. Should have given him some time to cool down--acted natural at practice, waited it out. Should have found some other way to get Sean away from Denny, should have kept the kid in the bar, should have waited to give him that lecture until he was sober enough to fully appreciate it. Should have given him the lecture before he got drunk enough to need it.

Maybe it would still have been all right, if Ray had just let Ben know somehow--thrown him a wink or a sorry before he went over to the bar, looked back for him as he was leaving. If he'd just been quicker to get out of Sean's room--if he'd just never sat down on the kid's bed--if he'd woken Ben up instead of leaving him to sleep alone...

Ray opened his eyes again and looked up, letting the brightness of the light push down his thoughts. He wiggled his tongue against the loose tooth, felt the grate of enamel against soft tissue and fresh blood welling.

Fraser, he thought to himself. Fraser, now. Fraser. He didn't know any Ben. That was someone somebody else knew, but not him. Ray played hockey on a team with a guy named Fraser, and that was the beginning and the end of it from now on.

Ray had spent his whole career trying to make people hit him. It was half the point of playing where he did, up in the goalie's face. Some big defenseman would be right there beside him, trying to get him clear of the goal. If he just held his ground, sooner or later that defenseman would get frustrated and do something stupid to get rid of him; the other guy would take a penalty, and Ray's team would have a power play, and all Ray had to do was get hit. Maybe he'd be knocked to his knees by a cross-check from behind. Maybe he'd get tripped right onto his face. Or maybe--if he was really lucky--maybe he'd get sucker-punched.

He'd been playing against Fraser for twelve years, and in twelve years of trying his best, he'd never been able to make Fraser hit him. Not so much as a quick elbow to the ribs or a yank on the jersey, nothing. But now--they'd been whatever the fuck they were for less than two months, and Ben--Fraser--was already so desperate to get rid of him that he'd put his fist in Ray's face.

Ray had seen the look of horror on Ben's face even as he was falling to the ground. He knew Ben, Fraser, was a Golden Rule kind of guy, and he knew he didn't go around hitting people any more than he wanted to be hit himself. The last time he'd punched anyone, to Ray's knowledge, it had been... Brett Hull.

Ray turned his cheek against the linoleum again, letting the bruise press against the floor this time, squeezing his eyes shut as the ache spread through his cheekbone and his whole head. It was over, that was all. No need to think about why he knew it. He knew it. It was over. Fraser was done with him.

Maybe it could have been different if Ray could have fought his own fights and left Fraser out of it, if his hands were whole, if he hadn't had to promise Coach. Maybe if he'd been there to keep Fraser in bed instead of going for that early-morning walk, maybe if he'd pulled Ben down into the snow with him when he heard the gunshot, kept him safe and close... Maybe if he hadn't scared him tonight, if he'd been able to keep calm and talk about things--maybe if he could just fucking talk right.

But he'd overslept and he'd fucked up and he was damaged in too many ways and there was no taking any of it back. It was over and done. Ray looked up and stared into the light for a long time. His thoughts circled over and over, and the pattern was familiar. Every time he'd been traded, every time he'd been sent down, every time a contract hadn't been renewed, he'd spent sleepless night after sleepless night thinking back over every game, replaying every mistake he'd made, every small slip that had cost him a chance to settle, to make a life and a career someplace. Everything he'd done that had shown them he wasn't good enough to keep around.

Stella had been different; with Stella, he'd made too many mistakes to bear thinking about. He'd done a lot of drinking after she sent him the papers, to stop the thoughts. When it first happened, Gardie had come over and--

Ray didn't want to remember that. Didn't want to remember Gardie helping him through that, Gardie's hand steadying his as he signed and signed and signed, Gardie's voice reading parts of it out loud to make sure Ray understood.

Now there was nobody and nothing to distract him from his private low-light reel, and it played on and on. If he hadn't--if he'd just--if he'd said... He played it out a thousand different ways, imagining everything he could have done better, and when he needed a break from the pictures in his head he just stared at the ceiling, at the light, at all the nothing in front of him.

When the beeping started, he didn't know what it was right away, and then he realized it was his alarm clock, and he shut his eyes, praying for this to turn into a horrible nightmare, praying to wake up in his own bed with Ben beside him, prayed for the chance to roll over and kiss him and whisper, "You know I love you, you know I don't want anyone but you."

When the light went out, Ray half-thought it had worked; maybe he wasn't lying on the linoleum, maybe he'd fallen out of bed, maybe... But the beeping was too distant for him to be in his bedroom and holy fuck who had turned out the light?

Ray's eyes flashed open and he pushed up on one elbow--the sore one, of course--and his head went dizzy as he hunched further forward, cradling his arm, and he was blind from staring at the light, so at first all he could see was a white blob, leaning against the wall.

Then the blob wagged its tail, and he realized it was Dief, reaching up to the light switch. He croaked a laugh, blinking and squinting. Dief barked at him, silent as ever, and Ray could sort of make out the pink of his tongue. With the kitchen light off, there was just the light filtering in from the living room windows, gray and faint and distant. It made his whole apartment look ghostly, and he guessed Dief must feel right at home this way.

The wolf walked over and nuzzled at his face, licking, and Ray could hear the rasp of stubble under his tongue, but Dief didn't seem to mind. He backed off far enough to sit between Ray's legs and barked some more, and Ray said, "Sorry, buddy. I know you kind of gave him to me, but I fucked up."

Dief licked his face again, and when he didn't back off right away, Ray risked closing his arms around the wolf's neck. Dief put one paw on his thigh like he wanted to hug Ray back, and Ray felt something in him start to crumble, but then Dief backed away and barked again. Ray shook his head. "I don't know, I don't--there's nothing I can do. He's finished with me." Dief lowered his head a little and bared his teeth, like he was mad at Ray for giving up so easy, and Ray spread his hands. "Did he ever hit you?"

Dief tossed his head; dumb question, of course he hadn't. But Dief wasn't done with Ray. He moved close again, running his muzzle lightly along Ray's arm. He licked at the reddened stripe around Ray's wrist, and then, ever so gently, he closed his teeth on it and tugged. "Sorry," Ray repeated helplessly, "I don't--he broke--"

Ray stopped dead, and Dief barked at him again. The bullet hole in his fur was still there, obvious to see without the tags in the way. "He would have hit you," Ray said, dazed. "If he'd known. He said--he didn't know why you didn't leave, he said he told you to leave--he would have made you leave if it would have saved you, he--"

Dief wagged his tail yes, and Ray's heart was beating again, double time, triple, pumping ice water through his veins. Ray scrambled up to his feet and grabbed the phone. His alarm was still going off, Ben had to be at home, they had practice in an hour, he couldn't have gone anywhere. Ray punched redial--it had been the same number for weeks--and held the phone to his ear, listening to the ring, mouthing curses in two languages indiscriminately.

The phone rang and rang and rang and then, miraculously, it picked up. Ray drew in a breath to yell at Ben, to ask if he was all right, and then an unfamiliar woman's voice said, "Detective Vecchio isn't at his desk right now, how may I direct your call."

Ray's mouth stayed open, hanging there. He'd only ever called Vecchio from his cell phone--but Ben had been standing right here when he'd come in from taking a shower, right here with his hand reached out toward the phone. "Hello?" the woman said, "Hello? Is anyone there? Is this an emergency?"

"No--maybe," Ray said, "Where's Detective Vecchio?"

"I can't give that information, sir. Would you like to leave a--" Ray slammed down the phone and then picked it up again and dialed Ben's apartment. Maybe it was nothing, maybe--it was early yet, maybe Vecchio just wasn't at work yet, maybe maybe maybe--

Four rings, and Ben's machine picked up. Ray yelled, "Fuck!" and slammed the phone down, and then picked it up again and dialed information. "Gimme the Trib offices," he said tightly, and the woman connected him straight through without even asking if that was what he wanted. The Trib switchboard asked him who he wanted, and he said, "Francesca Vecchio," and prayed to God she was at her desk.

"Sports Desk, Francesca Vecchio," she said, and Ray shut his eyes.

"It's me--Ray Kowalski," he said.

"Ray-Kay? Jesus, are you all right? You sound--"

"I need you to find your brother," he said, and opened his eyes again. He'd have to go out and look himself. Check the park, the rink... He'd need a shirt and a jacket, shoes and socks. He'd need--

"Kowalski, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Your brother, the cop," Ray repeated, walking on into the bedroom. The key was on the dresser; he'd never remembered to put it back on the ring. The lockbox was on the top shelf. "I just tried to get ahold of him, but he's not at his desk. Fraser's not answering his phone. I think they're somewhere together, and I think whatever they're doing, Fraser thinks it could get him killed."

Ms. Vecchio didn't say anything in the time it took Ray to get the box opened up, holding the phone between his unmarked cheek and his shoulder. He raised the gun from its case and sniffed it, and the familiar tang of the oil was almost comforting. He'd cleaned it after the last time he took it out to the range; months ago now, but it had come right back to him then, and he probably wouldn't need to actually fire it. He was probably just being paranoid. It wouldn't really be as bad as what he was thinking.

"Ray," Ms. Vecchio finally said, and her voice startled him a little. "If you're shitting me--"

"I am not shitting you," he said as he tucked the gun into the back of his pants. When he'd carried the gun on the job they'd issued him a big belt that held the gun on one side and a walkie-talkie on the other, but he'd turned it in on his last day and never had reason to buy a holster since. "If I were shitting you there would be something funny about this and there is nothing funny about this."

A much shorter silence, and then she said, "I'll see if I can find him."

Ray clicked the phone off and threw it on the bed as he walked back over to the dresser, shaking his hips on purpose to see if the gun would move around. But the jeans were freshly-washed and still a little snug in the waist, and they held the gun well enough. He pulled the box of bullets from his sock drawer and loaded the gun and then hesitated.

So far with Fraser, when things weren't as bad as he expected, it was because they were worse. He gritted his teeth and added a loose handful of extra ammunition to his left pocket. He checked the safety just once--either you were sure or you weren't, Uncle Ed had told him: do it once and do it right and then get on with things--and then tucked the loaded gun back into his pants and finished getting dressed.

Ben was a little surprised at how easy it was to persuade Detective Vecchio to accompany him down to Chinatown to look for Drake. All he had to do was lie.

He told Detective Vecchio that Mrs. Drake had called him and told him where he could meet a man who had information regarding the shooting in the park. That much was, he thought, not an outright untruth: Drake likely did have information about the shooting, after all, and Mrs. Drake had told Ben--via Ray's answering machine--where to find him. The outright fabrication followed those contorted facts. He had claimed that the man had agreed to meet only him, and would be unlikely to speak to a police officer he knew to be such.

Vecchio had agreed to the scheme with alacrity and led Ben down to his own car. "1971 Buick Riviera," he announced proudly as Ben stared at it, thinking of Ray's little black Pontiac. He would never ride in it again, never climb into its backseat with Ray... but Ray would still be driving it around Chicago in safety, and that was what counted now.

"It's very nice," he said, realizing Vecchio expected a response. "Ah. 1971 was a very good year, wasn't it?"

Detective Vecchio snorted and walked around to the trunk, opening it up so that it blocked Ben's view of him. "Fraser, I get the feeling you don't know shit about cars."

"Well," Ben said, frowning, forcing himself to focus on Vecchio. "That's not true. I know a good deal about cars. How to put the snow chains on, for instance."

"And yet," Vecchio said, his words punctuated by the double thud of two small somethings dropping to the pavement. "If I hadn't told you what it was, you'd have told me it was a very nice color green."

"And so it is," Ben said, studying the meticulously-cared-for finish. Six coats of jet black, Ray had told him once. He shook his head, trying to push the thought away. "A very nice color green."

Vecchio slammed the trunk shut and smiled at Ben, and Ben blinked at him, astonished. The sharply-suited detective who had walked him out of the station had vanished, replaced by a rather hard-bitten man in a stocking cap and overcoat. As he walked around the side of the car, Ben realized that the thuds had been a pair of shoes; the ones he wore now were badly scuffed and of a much heavier design than those he'd worn with his suit. "Not a cop in sight, hey?" Vecchio said, though he reached into his coat as he said it, patting something in his chest pocket. His badge, Ben supposed, and--Ben forced a smile--his gun.

"Indeed," he said.

Not-Detective Vecchio held out his hand to shake. "My name's Steve," he explained. "I work security at United. We kind of know each other, and I was the first guy you thought of to come along with you to this meet."

"Steve," Ben repeated, shaking his hand gingerly.

"Very good," Vecchio said, and leaned past him to unlock his door. Ben got into the car as Vecchio went around and let himself in on the other side. They drove a little way in silence, and then, as if continuing a conversation they'd begun earlier, Vecchio said, "So, Benton Fraser, I hear you come from way up north."

Ben settled into his seat. This, he could handle. Even in Edmonton, his northern origins had been a matter of constant curiosity to those around him. "Yes," he said, "I grew up with my grandparents in Inuvik, in the Northwest Territories."

"Inuvik," Vecchio repeated. "Now is that downtown Inuvik, or more the outskirts?"

"More the outskirts," Ben said, matching Vecchio's deadpan tone. Ray, he realized as he stared out the window, had never asked him much about it, whether he'd lived in an igloo or had a pet polar bear or--

"So your grandparents, they were, what? Glacier farmers?"

Ben smiled grimly. "Librarians."

"Huh," Vecchio said. "So, Benton. They don't believe in first names, up north there?"

"No," Ben said, staring out the window at the increasingly dingy and forbidding-looking buildings. It was gloomy and dim between the streetlights, and the few people on the street moved quickly from one door to another, or stayed in the pools of light shed from open doors and storefronts. "In fact, the Inuit believe that the Northern Lights are actually malevolent spirits who will reach down to the earth and steal a child if they can learn his full name. Parents in the North thwart the spirits by giving the child only surnames, so the spirits never think they know his whole name and ignore him."

Vecchio was silent so long that Ben had to look over, and then Vecchio smiled. "You always get sarcastic when you're nervous, Benny?"

Ben blinked, torn between protesting that he wasn't nervous and asking how Vecchio knew. Finally, he said, "I beg your pardon?"

Vecchio laughed as he pulled into a parking space on the street. "You're a shitty liar, Fraser." Before Ben could formulate a response, Vecchio grabbed the radio from the dash and said, "I need backup at one-two-seven hundred Franklin, one officer on the scene and tell 'em not to shoot the hockey player."

"Backup's on the way," said a crackly female voice.

Vecchio winked at Ben, who still hadn't mustered a reponse, and said, "Okay, come on, let's go meet your new friend."

They crossed the street and walked down to the corner, then made a left. Vecchio led him easily to a door like all the others, as though he knew the place, and Ben's guilt over lying began to dissipate: clearly Vecchio knew what he was doing. When he tried the knob, it opened under his hand. Vecchio frowned at the door as though he suspected it of a crime, reaching into his coat, and Ben took a step back as he drew his gun. Vecchio frowned more deeply at the motion and said, "You stay behind me, Fraser, capisce?"

Ben nodded, his mouth gone dry, and followed Vecchio inside and up the stairs to the second floor. The apartment they were looking for was at the end of the hall on the left; Vecchio approached it slowly, and Ben followed him a step behind. There was no sound from inside, and Ben didn't know what to think. Perhaps they were too late; perhaps they'd missed Drake altogether. Still, he was here to precipitate some sort of action, to give Vecchio immediate cause to apprehend the man. Ben gathered his courage and stepped quickly past Vecchio to the door. He tried the knob even as Vecchio hissed at him; it stuck, but he was able to force it.

Vecchio grabbed him by the arm and hauled him back, snarling a warning as the door swung open, but nothing happened. The apartment beyond the doorway was dark and silent. Vecchio sighed and said, "I said stay behind me, right?"

Ben nodded, and Vecchio stepped into the apartment with his gun raised. Ben's heart was tripping faster from the sight of the weapon in his hand, but he followed obediently as Vecchio looked around the barely-furnished room. "This guy doesn't know how to spend his money," Vecchio said, and Ben saw a child in his mind's eye, with a stick so new it wasn't even scratched, and skates still solid black and perfect.

"I suppose not," he said, and Vecchio gave him an odd look. As he turned, the gun in his hand swung around, and though it didn't point at Ben, it came close. He offered Vecchio a shaky smile and looked around for some means of escape as Vecchio turned away again to examine the tiny bathroom. There was another room, curtained off from the main one with hanging strings of beads, and beyond the curtain Ben could see a window. Suddenly desperate for a breath of fresh air, he stepped into the other room with a rattle of beads. He glanced around the room, but it was empty, no one here holding a gun, no one here at all.

He felt disappointment leaching into the fear that had been making his skin crawl since Vecchio first drew his gun, washing it out, leaving him empty. There would be no confrontation; they'd come here for nothing--all for nothing. He'd thought, when he'd made his break with Ray, that he would have some satisfaction, something with which to console himself. Now that this plan had failed it would only be more waiting, and Vecchio would be more determined than ever to keep him out of the way. It wasn't, he thought, that he'd wanted to be hurt--or worse--only... it would have saved him from going to practice, seeing Ray right there, so close and now lost to him forever.

Ben shook his head, pushing the thought down into silence and walked over to the window even as he heard Vecchio's footsteps approaching. He focused his attention on the window latch and whether it was painted over. If he just ignored the fact that there was a man he barely knew standing behind him with a gun--his fingers were clumsy, slipping on the mechanism of the window.

"Fraser," Vecchio barked out, "come on, I told you to stay behind me."

Ben turned, unable to resist the note of command in Vecchio's voice, and was relieved to see that he'd holstered his gun. "All right," he said, walking back toward Vecchio as Vecchio flicked on a light.

He saw Vecchio's eyes go wide, heard Vecchio yell, "Fraser!" and then Vecchio was running at him, a full-force bodycheck driving him backward across the room and straight through the window. Glass was crashing all around him--it sounded as loud as an explosion, so close, and he'd fallen through an awning to the sidewalk before he was able to register that something actually had exploded, a fireball shooting out of the window he'd fallen--been pushed--from. He raised his head to look around for Detective Vecchio, and everything went black.

Ray was lacing up his shoes, wracking his brain for places to search, when the phone rang. He lunged across the bed and grabbed it, heart pounding painfully hard with hope and dizzying relief. "Fraser?"

"He's alive," Ms. Vecchio said. "They're both alive, that's all I really know. They're at the hospital."

Relief crashed into nothing. Ray felt like the ceiling had caved in, like a layer of concrete pushed him down to the bed. "Alive," he repeated. It should have been good news, but it wasn't; a minute ago, Fraser had been fine, probably in the shower or leaving early for practice, and Ray had been panicking over nothing. Now Fraser was in the hospital and the best anyone could say was that he was alive. If Ray had just fucking figured out half an hour earlier that Fraser was off doing something stupid and life-threatening...

"That's all I know," Ms. Vecchio said again, "I'm on my way--if you know who Fraser's next of kin is--"

"He doesn't have anybody," Ray said, forcing himself into motion, shaking off the crushing feeling of defeat, ignoring the dizziness because it wasn't real. He hit the doorframe, pushed off the wall and stumbled on, "I'm coming, I'm out the door now."

"You know," Gerard said as he led Ben into the parking garage, "I was just thinking about the first time I met your father."

Ben stopped listening right then, focusing on walking instead--his back and his head both ached terribly. He had a prescription for painkillers tucked into one of his pockets, and advice from the emergency room doctor to get a thorough examination from Mort; he supposed he ought to ask Gerard to take him to United. He must be late for practice by now.

Ray would be late, too. Ben closed his eyes on that thought, fighting the memory of his first sight of Ray--so soon, so unexpected--with Ms. Vecchio in his arms, and a look of utter hatred on his badly-bruised face. It was no more than he deserved, and it was good that Ray was moving on. He simply hadn't expected it to happen so quickly.

He was standing at the passenger side of a car, and Gerard finally--finally--let go of his arm to go around to the driver's side. Ben opened the door and got inside, settling carefully into the seat. The doctor had been amazed that he wasn't seriously injured, but he'd said there was no sign of any spinal fracture, nor so much as a broken rib. Ben had suffered nothing worse than badly strained and bruised muscles, while Detective Vecchio...

He'd been lying very still when Ben peeked into the other room, the doctors speaking in low, brisk tones as they worked. His injuries were serious, Ben judged, but not life-threatening. Ben had listened for his voice, but hadn't heard it. And then he'd walked out and seen Ray--and then Gerard, of all people.

Ben frowned, reason for the first time cutting through his fog of pain and guilt. He turned to Gerard, who was after all normally posted in northern Manitoba, and said, "How--?"

The heavy door from the hospital slammed open, and he heard Ray scream, "Get your head down!"

He didn't, of course--he turned to look, and saw Ray tackle a man in a heavy overcoat to the ground, knocking a shotgun upward as he did. The retort of the gun was deafening, and Ben flinched, freezing for an instant as he watched Ray struggle with the man on the ground. Then the gunman managed to free himself far enough to bring the gun to bear, and Ben kicked open his door and yelled, "Ray!"

The gunman--Drake, he realized, finally getting a good look, Drake, of course--straightened, swinging his weapon toward Ben, and Ray popped up to his feet and knocked it away again, this time out of Drake's hands altogether. Another roar, and Ben didn't have time to flinch; Drake had turned to run as soon as the gun left his hands, and Ray was sprinting after him, giving chase. Ben couldn't let him go alone. Pain spiked through his back as he ran, but he ignored it. So long as he could run, he would run, and his legs hadn't given out yet. He saw Drake disappear between two cars, Ray close on his tail, and heard one thump and then another. He didn't understand until he reached the low wall, and saw where they had jumped down to the next level.

Ben followed, rolling across the hood of the car there and following the flash of Ray's bright hair as he ran along the row of cars and then stopped. Ben ran up to him just as he drove his elbow through the passenger window of a car, and he gasped, "Ray!"

Ray glanced up at him, scowling, looking not a little crazed with his wild hair and bruised cheek and badly bloodshot eyes. As he reached into the car's glove compartment, Ben realized that it was Ray's own GTO. The smashed window took on a whole new significance, and he said, "Ray."

"I'll send you the bill," Ray snarled, brandishing a gun and then reaching into the glove compartment again and coming up with a pair of glasses with heavy black plastic frames. Ray was off and running again, brushing past Ben as he shoved the glasses on, and Ben's heart was racing so hard it could hardly beat faster at the gun in Ray's hand. He had to keep breathing to keep running, so Ben kept breathing.

He gave chase again, jumping down to another level after Ray, running down the ramp and then finding a place to jump again. Ben paused between two cars as Ray ran into the middle of the traffic lane and a van careened down the ramp. Ray stood steady in the path of the oncoming vehicle, raising his gun to fire. The first shot appeared to miss, but Ray didn't flinch from the van speeding ever closer, taking aim and firing again just as Ben recognized Drake behind the wheel. This time the crack of the gun was echoed by a bang from the van, which immediately began to spin out of control. Ben, waiting for the bloom of blood behind the windshield, didn't realize until the second crack-bang made the van veer even more wildly that Ray was aiming at the tires. For a sickening instant it seemed as if the van would tip, but it came to a safe stop turned sideways across the lane.

Ray was running again, dodging around the van's front end to the driver's side, and Ben forced himself into motion as well, running around the back end. He was lagging behind Ray, and heard the door open, the sound of a scuffle and a wordless shout from Ray, as he made the turn around the back of the van. Drake was right there. He grabbed Ben with one hand, and Ben barely saw the shine of metal in his other hand before Ray's gun barked again.

There was an odd metallic ping, and Drake snatched his raised hand back. Ben kept moving, using his momentum to slam Drake up against the van. Ray was right beside him, jamming a hand into Drake's chest. Ray shoved his gun against Drake's forehead, snarling, "I oughta kill you, you know that? I oughta blow your fucking head off."

Ben let go of Drake and backed quickly away from Ray's rage, Ray's gun, looking around desperately--there ought to be police, where was Gerard?

Then Ray said, "But I bet Fraser wouldn't like that, so I'm gonna have to put you under citizen's arrest." Ben looked back, and Ray was still standing there, taut with fury, holding Drake at gun point. Ben leaned against the van, shaking inside, unable to catch his breath even though he was standing still now. "For attempted murder," Ray went on, "twice, right in front of me," Ben frowned and looked around, and finally spotted the knife Ray had shot out of Drake's hand lying several feet away, and had to close his eyes. Ray was still listing his charges. "And grand theft auto, and carjacking, and probably assault and battery on whoever was driving this van two minutes ago, and a whole bunch of other stuff that I didn't personally witness--"

A car pulled up and stopped behind the van, and Ben leaned away from the door he was leaning against to see Gerard getting out; for once, he found himself glad to have a Mountie on the scene. Gerard took in the situation quickly as he joined them. "You'd better let me take over, there, son."

Ray glared at Gerard. "You got no more jurisdiction here than I do, Mountie."

"Be that as it may," Gerard said, raising a placating hand toward Ray, still furious, still armed. "I'm an officer of the law, and I carry handcuffs. Let me deal with Drake."

Ray scowled, and then gave Drake another hard shove against the van. Drake, for his part, looked blank with terror, and Ben found himself sympathizing. "Fine," Ray said, "You deal with Drake." He stepped away from Drake, toward Ben, catching Ben's arm with the hand that wasn't holding the gun and dragging him away from the van without a further word. Ben glanced back to see Gerard brandishing a gun of his own at Drake, and shuddered.

Ray led him as far as one of the concrete support pillars, towing him to the far side of it and then shoving him up against that hard surface. "I oughta blow your head off," Ray hissed, slamming the gun against the concrete beside Ben's head. Ben flinched, and Ray scowled at him a moment more, then muttered, "Fucking idiot," as he pressed his lips to Ben's.

Ben opened his mouth to Ray's, desperate, starving, and Ray's tongue thrust roughly into his mouth as Ray's hips thrust against him. Ray was hard, and Ben found that he was too. He sucked at Ray's tongue, heedless of their surroundings, heedless of the gun Ray still held beside his head, clutching shamelessly at Ray's jacket. He needed this, he'd been insane to think he could give it up for any reason at all--he could as soon give up oxygen--

Ray jerked away from him suddenly, eyes going wide behind his thick glasses, and Ben was still staring at him, his open mouth working helplessly, as he finally registered the sound of a gunshot. Ray dragged a hand across the back of his mouth and turned his head to spit on the concrete, and Ben's heart sank. "Come on," Ray said roughly, again grabbing Ben's arm to tow him along. They ran back to the van and came around the side to see Drake lying on the ground, blood sprayed across the white surface of the van above him, and Gerard holstering his gun.

Ray recoiled, hissing, "Jesus Christ," and pulling on Ben's arm, but Ben was frozen in place, and Ray didn't let go.

"He reached for his knife," Gerard said flatly. Drake's eyes were wide and blank, and Ben felt as if he were staring into a mirror, as if that dark wound in the center of Drake's chest were the source of the piercing pain in his own.

Ben forced himself to look away from the gory scene. The knife was lying on the ground, blade bent where Ray's bullet had hit, but it had been moved to lie near Drake's boot. His stomach turned, horror stacking upon horror. "But--"

"For God's sake, Ben, he killed your father. He tried to kill you. He was reaching for his knife." Ben blinked, struggling to form words, to say something, and Gerard frowned at him. "Or do you doubt my word as a Mountie?"

Ben could say nothing to that--he was surrounded by madmen, Ray's hand still hard on his arm, Ray breathing raggedly beside him, and Gerard before him, his hand still resting on his gun, Drake dead at his feet.

The sound of sirens was audible barely before the squad cars pulled up, officers jumping out with guns drawn, and Ray finally let go of him to raise both hands. Ben raised his as well, though they shook so violently he could barely keep them up, as Gerard pulled out his badge and shouted, "RCMP!"

When the cops were done asking Ray what had happened, over and over and over and over, they told him they just had to check out a few more things and then he'd be free to go. Ray smiled--his face hurt with smiling, he'd been smiling so much, so careful to be cooperative and cheerful. He caught a glimpse of himself in the interrogation room mirror when he finally stood up and stretched, and was even less surprised they'd handcuffed him. He looked like a thug, with his bruised cheek and stubble and his hair sticking straight up, and his eyes were so red he was surprised they hadn't made him go in a cup when he'd asked to take a piss.

They let him stretch and squirm and then took him down the hall to the detective division. He glanced at Vecchio's empty desk and nodded toward it as he said, "Hey, anybody know if he's okay?" The cop followed the direction of Ray's nod and his eyebrows went up. They hadn't asked him anything about the case, about what had been going on before, so he hadn't mentioned that he knew Vecchio.

"Yeah," the cop said after a minute, "His sister called and let us know. He's conscious, he's gonna be all right."

Ray nodded and muttered, "Thanks," and the cop led him on to the big office at the far end of the room. It had the police lieutenant's name on the door. The lieutenant had come in and questioned Ray for a while, asking him the same questions everyone else had, and Ray had patiently answered them and wondered whether it was time to call his lawyer yet. But despite the handcuffs, they'd assured him he wasn't under arrest. They'd even promised to give his gun back once they checked his paperwork, although Ray wasn't holding his breath on that.

The cop opened the office door, and Ray stopped short. Fraser was leaning over the desk, hands flat on the surface, shirtless, while Mort checked his back. The cop gave him a little push and said, "Just stay here till we get everything sorted out, please, Mr. Kowalski."

Fraser and Mort both looked over at that, and Mort frowned. "No one told me you'd been injured, Raymond."

Fraser dropped his head again, though Ray could see him blushing from the back of his neck. "It's nothing," Ray said, and stepped inside, walking over to the big leather couch and dropping down to sprawl there. Mort frowned at him again, but went back to pressing his fingers systematically along Fraser's back. Ray stared at Fraser's ass, because there was no reason he shouldn't. It wasn't like they were sleeping together or anything. Plus, it was kind of right in front of him, and if he was going to be queer and single he might as well check guys out when they were bent over right in front of him.

"The doctor at the hospital was right," Mort said finally, "no serious damage. You were very lucky, Benton." Ray could see a couple of big bruises on Fraser's skin, and realized he still didn't know what had happened to Fraser and Vecchio. Whatever it was, Vecchio had clearly gotten the worst of it. Ray glared at Fraser's ass, and then Fraser straightened up and reached for his shirt. "Still," Mort said, "I believe you could use a few days to rest. I don't want to see you at practice until the day after tomorrow, and then only to work out, hm? No skating yet."

Fraser looked like he wanted to argue, but he just nodded as he buttoned his shirt. Mort turned toward Ray. "And as for you, young man, sit up."

Ray sighed, but straightened up, lifting his face as Mort probed along his cheek, opening his mouth when Mort tugged on his chin.

"Hm," Mort said, and then, "Let's see your hands."

Ray raised them, saying, "They put me in cuffs, that's..."

Mort said, "Hmm," again, running one finger lightly over the bruise that circled Ray's right wrist, sweeping his thumbs over Ray's knuckles. They looked as good as they ever did, all present and accounted for. He'd even remembered to use his elbow instead of his fist on the window when he broke into his own car. The cops had told him it'd been impounded since it seemed to be evidence of a crime committed, and as much as Ray hated the thought of his goat being towed, at least that meant it hadn't been sitting there with no passenger window waiting to get stolen. "Well," Mort finally said, "I understand you've had a rather trying day. You rest tomorrow as well, and then back to practice as usual, all right?"

Ray nodded, already planning to forget all about what he'd been told and show up at United the next day, even if it was just to sit in the stands and hang around with the guys. If he had to stay home tomorrow, he'd go nuts. Then Mort packed up his bag, wished them both good luck and took off, leaving Ray alone with Fraser.

Fraser was just standing there by the desk, looking uncomfortable, and Ray heaved a sigh and scooted all the way over to the end of the couch. "Sit down before you fall down, Fraser," he muttered, waving at the expanse of open space.

Fraser nodded and came over, sitting down gingerly at the other end of the couch. He stared straight ahead and kept his hands in his lap. Ray sprawled further, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes. He was so fucking tired, but there was no way he was going to fall asleep in the middle of a police station with Fraser sitting next to him. Still, he could damn well fake it if it would save him from talking to the guy.

"Do you know--" Fraser said.

Ray's eyes flashed open, and he folded his arms tighter across his chest. "He's gonna be fine."

"Ah. Thank you." Fraser said, and then cleared his throat.

Ray was thinking Let it lie, let it lie, shut up, shut UP for all he was worth, but Fraser still said, "Ray, back in the parking garage, before--what--"

"It's called adrenaline, Fraser. I probably would've kissed Gerard if he'd come close enough." Actually, the thought of kissing the Mountie turned his stomach, and not just because the guy was old enough to be his dad, but he'd be fucked if he'd tell Fraser that.

"Ah," Fraser said again, quieter. "So... nothing's changed, then."

Ray came up out of his slouch so fast Fraser flinched. "No!" he snapped, anger dropping the weights from his arms and legs. "No, nothing's changed, Fraser--you know why nothing's changed?"

He saw Fraser's eyes skip down to his cheek, then come back to meet his eyes, and Fraser nodded fractionally, pressing himself back into his corner of the couch. Ray tapped one finger against the bruise and said, "Say it. Out loud. Tell me why nothing's changed."

Fraser said, "Because I struck you."

"No!" Ray snarled. "Not even close." He jutted out his bottom teeth and tapped the right front one. "That tooth? Gardie knocked it out. We were fighting about whether to watch curling on TV or listen to baseball on the radio. I don't even remember who wanted what anymore."

Fraser was staring at him like he was speaking a foreign language, but for once Ray was sure he was speaking English. "And I never cared, because I knocked out one of his teeth when we were arguing about what to play on the jukebox. He split my lip, I bloodied his nose, he cracked my rib, I blacked his eye, are you getting my drift here, Fraser?" Gardie wouldn't have just walked off on him--Gardie wouldn't have taken the radio to another room to listen to baseball. Whatever they did, they would do it together, even if all they wound up doing together was fighting.

Fraser said, "I'm not Louis."

Ray scrubbed his hands through his hair, "Yeah, you're fucking right you're not. Because Gardie didn't lie to me, Fraser."

Fraser flinched at that, and Ray thought he might just be getting through now. "That's all I wanted," Ray whispered, glancing around at the windows that surrounded them. "All I wanted was somebody to tell the truth to, somebody who would tell me the truth, and you lied to me last night. Even if everything you said was true about everything else, you didn't tell me what was really going on and you didn't tell me why you were doing it and you lied to me, Fraser."

Fraser's eyes went wide. Ray laughed. It was a mean sound and it hurt his throat, but he choked it out anyway. "Yeah, I know, Fraser. I know why. That was subtle, taking my tags off. I may be damaged, Fraser, but I'm not stupid. I got your little message loud and clear."

Fraser said, "Ray, I only--" His voice broke, and so did something in Ray, sharp and painful, but he couldn't stop now.

"Only what? Wanted to protect me? Didn't trust me to watch your back? Well fuck that, Fraser, I don't need it. I don't need you, and you obviously don't want me, so no. Nothing's changed."

Fraser blinked, mouth opening and closing like he couldn't breathe, and Ray had to look away after a minute. It was like staring at a guy's broken leg. Fraser's eyes were like wounds. "I see," Fraser said finally, quietly. "I--"

"If you apologize to me I will come over there and beat you within an inch of your life," Ray said, in a quiet, even voice, his eyes fixed on Vecchio's empty desk and his stomach churning.

Fraser didn't say anything after that. Ray heard him stand up and walk over to the farthest corner of the office, and then he closed his eyes and waited for the cops to come and let them loose.

They'd been waiting in silence, Ray rigidly feigning sleep while Ben stared out the window, for about forty-five minutes when the lieutenant and several detectives came for them. Ray stood up immediately, and the lieutenant said, apologetically, "I'm afraid we have a few members of the press on our doorstep, gentlemen. If you'd like to speak to them, of course, you can just walk out the front door, but--"

Ben looked over at Ray, who was standing with his arms folded and head down. He wouldn't ask for consideration right now, Ben knew. And perhaps Ray didn't wish to be protected, but then he could always walk out the front door himself if he chose. Ben couldn't bear to be the cause of any more difficulty for Ray. "Ah," Ben said, "is there a back door?"

The lieutenant smiled. "As a matter of fact there is. I believe your truck is still in the visitors' lot, you can get there without going around front."

Ben nodded. "Thank you kindly," he said, and still Ray was just standing there with his back to Ben, waiting for God knew what. Well, Ray was hardly his concern. He thought for a moment of the GTO with its smashed window, but shook it off. There were plenty of taxicabs in the city. Ray had made it plain enough that he needed nothing from Ben. "Could you tell me," he asked, "where is Inspector Gerard? I'd like to speak to him."

"Ah," the lieutenant said, and he tugged at his tie. "Inspector Gerard should be back in Canada by now." Ben saw, in his peripheral vision, Ray's head whip up, Ray staring at him. Ben's gaze was locked on the lieutenant, and the lieutenant was still speaking. "Some folks from the Canadian Consulate came over and helped get the firearms paperwork sorted out--they took the Inspector straight to the airport when we released him. I understand there will be an internal inquiry there."

Ben blinked, mouth opening and closing, but it was too late. They'd taken Gerard at his word, they hadn't let Ben explain--they said if he hadn't witnessed the shooting, he couldn't possibly know--and now Gerard was gone again, and Ray was staring at him. "I see," he said finally, in a small, hoarse voice, and Ray looked away.

"Okay, fine," Ray said, "so let's go then." His voice sounded only ordinarily impatient, and the lieutenant nodded and ushered them out of his office, seeming glad to be rid of them. Ben supposed, distantly, that the whole matter must have been quite a headache for him, but he had little attention to spare. He'd have to go up to Canada. He had a day off from practice; he could probably beg a little more before anyone noticed anything amiss. He would have to find Gerard. He would have to do something. If there really was an inquiry, perhaps he could testify--but he knew, as soon as the thought formed, that they would never take his word over Gerard's. He hadn't seen anything; he'd been out of sight, with Ray.

He dared a glance at Ray as they were led through the police station. He had his hands jammed into his pockets and he was staring straight ahead, and despite everything Ben had to look, had to see him, had to memorize his face, just in case...

Ray looked over at him, and Ben snapped his gaze forward, focusing on the detective in front of him the rest of the way to the parking lot. When they got outside, Ben strode off quickly in the direction of his truck, even though moving faster made the pain in his back sharpen. He wanted nothing so much as to leave this all behind him. He had to get home, he had to make a plan. He was vaguely aware of Ray, lingering with the detectives, but Ben focused all his attention forward. The truck. His apartment. He'd have to make some phone calls.

He had his hand on the door when he heard Ray say, "I'm coming with you." Ben startled badly, whirling to see Ray standing a few feet away, near the back of the truck, with his hands in his pockets.

Trying to slow his pounding heart--Ray's posture was perfectly inoffensive, and yet Ben could still feel his anger, pounding at the air between them--Ben said, "I suppose I do owe you a ride."

"Yeah, you do," Ray said, looking back over his shoulder as if idly; making sure they were alone, Ben realized. When Ray looked back at him, he met Ben's eyes with a small grim smile. "But I meant I know you're going after Gerard, and I'm coming with you."

Ben blinked, then looked down as he reached into his pocket for his keys. "No, you aren't."

He heard Ray stride closer and forced himself to hold his ground, forced himself to look up when Ray was a bare hand's breadth away. "Wrong answer," Ray whispered. "You were supposed to say, 'No I'm not.'"

"No," Ben said flatly, frustrated. "Just no, Ray. Leave me be. Call a cab. You said we were finished, so go."

"No," Ray mimicked, pressing yet closer. Ben couldn't even open the door now, as Ray was blocking it. Feeling trapped in the narrow space between cars, he shoved at Ray. Ray shoved right back, and Ben pushed harder, gritting his teeth. He managed to knock Ray back a step or two, but he instantly stumbled forward again, and Ben felt his fists clench--Ray was so stubborn, so infuriating, as if he honestly believed that mere persistence could solve any problem, as if he could come out on top merely by refusing to stay down. Ray stopped short of shoving Ben again, a cruel grin on his face. "Whaddya gonna do? Hit me?"

Ben felt his frustration collapse into guilt, his shoulders slumping and hands falling open, but Ray wasn't finished. He turned his unmarked cheek, tapping it with one long finger. "Come on, right here, gimme a matched set, I'll tell all the guys I walked into two doors."

Ben flinched, but said doggedly, "Go, Ray. You're not coming with me."

"Oh yes," Ray said, "Yes I am. I am not letting you run off--"

"Letting me?" Ben repeated, nearly choking on his disbelief. "Are you babysitting me now?"

"Yeah, you're damn right I am," Ray snarled. "I think it's pretty clear you shouldn't be let out of doors without a keeper."

Ben shook his head, turning to unlock the door now that Ray had backed off a step. "You're not responsible for me anymore, Ray."

Ray laughed harshly, and Ben had to turn his head and look. "See, Fraser? This is exactly what I'm talking about, this is exactly why--" Ben flinched, hearing the words loud and clear though Ray stopped short of saying them again. Nothing's changed. "You don't get to tell me who I feel responsible for."

Ben looked away, fumbling with the key. He had to get away, that was all. He had to get out of here. Ray could feel what he liked.

"I don't know if you've noticed this little game we've been playing in matching shirts the last few months," Ray went on, nearly in Ben's ear, "but you're my teammate, and I'd just as soon let Dewey chug a two-four and get behind the wheel as I'd let you run off to Canada and try to take down a dirty Mountie on your own. This is not up to you. I'm coming with you." Ben finally got the door unlocked; when he pulled the key back out, Ray's hand flashed out, lightning-quick, and snatched it from his grip. "Passenger seat," Ray snapped. "I doubt you're safe to drive."

Ben stood with his hands at his sides, thoroughly outfoxed. He couldn't get the keys away from Ray without hurting him again, and he couldn't do that. He couldn't be angrier than Ray, and he didn't have time to break down Ray's dogged determination. "Fine," he said, raising his hands. "You win."

Ray looked as if he even intended to argue with that, but Ben pushed past him and walked around to the passenger side.

Ray wanted, more than anything, to punch the side of the truck. His fists were clenched painfully tight, the scars standing out on his knuckles, and he just knew he could dent the door before he broke his hand. He pressed his forehead against the window, his knuckles against the door, and forced himself to breathe in and out. Fraser might deserve everything Ray could throw at him, but if Ray couldn't keep his cool there was no point in following him up to Canada, and even less point in going back to practice in two days.

Ray opened his hands, wiped his palms on his pants, and finally looked up. Fraser was standing on the other side of the truck, watching him warily through the windows; he was still locked out on that side, Ray realized. He yanked the driver's side door open, and leaned across to pop the lock on the passenger side. Ben didn't move to open the door until Ray was settled back in the driver's seat, putting on his seatbelt. Ray turned on the car, but didn't put it in gear.

"We're teammates, Fraser," he said, staring out the windshield. He could see Fraser in the corner of his eye, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat. "I meant that."

After a while, Fraser said, "I'm aware of that, Ray."

Ray gritted his teeth. Fraser was not trying to piss him off, and he could not keep doing this, this was bush league. One fight, the refs break it up, and then you stop, if you're any kind of professional. Ray had always liked to think he was. "I mean, look." Ray turned to look at Fraser, and Fraser, after a second, looked back. "Do you wanna hit me again, or are we even?"

Fraser blinked and then licked his lip. "I don't want to hit you again," he said carefully, with no special emphasis on "I" or "you."

"Well, I'm not going to hit you," Ray snapped, feeling a little mean victory in holding the high ground. "When I said I wouldn't, I didn't say 'as long as we're still fucking' or 'until you really piss me off.' I said never."

Fraser looked away again, and Ray bit his tongue. He had to stop trying to score points off Fraser. He and Fraser were on the same team. He sighed. "Okay, truce. I won't yell at you anymore, and you won't run off on your own as soon as I turn my back."

He could see the muscle working in Fraser's jaw, like this was something he really had to consider--like he'd been planning on running off the first chance he got, like he hadn't listened to a word Ray had said. Ray kept still, waiting him out, shoving the anger down and down. Finally, Fraser nodded, turning to look at Ray again as he held out his hand to shake on it.

Ray didn't bother trying for a smile, but he met Fraser's eyes as he put his hand to Fraser's. The touch of skin jarred him, and he looked down at their hands wrapped around each other so gingerly, like they'd never touched before. Fraser was still wearing his hospital bracelet; his blood type was A positive. Ray squeezed Fraser's hand a little, but Fraser's hand was still in his, and he had to let go. When he looked up again at Fraser's face, Fraser just looked away. He folded his arms and settled against his side of the car, staring out the window. Ray put the truck in reverse.

He lasted all the way out of the parking lot--a few members of the press, ha, it was a mob--and through two intersections before he said, casually, like they were just two guys in the locker room, like he was just giving Fraser a ride home from practice, "So, what happened to you and Vecchio, anyway?"

Without looking over at him, Fraser said, "He pushed me out a second-story window shortly before some sort of homemade explosive went off in the room where I'd been standing. I believe he was still inside when the blast hit."

Ray winced, reminding himself Vecchio was conscious, that his sister had told the cops he'd be okay. "You called him from my place, right? Before--"

"Yes," Fraser said, and his voice was steady and expressionless, as smooth and blank as the glass of the window. "Drake's wife had left a message on your machine, telling you to tell me where to find him. I erased the message and called Vecchio, asking to meet him this morning. It was a setup, obviously. She said she had a child to think about. I thought at the time that it meant she wanted to be rid of her husband, but I suppose she must have meant that he threatened Tim to make her cooperate. I suppose--"

Ray's guts were crawling. Fraser sounded shocky, like he was talking in his sleep, like he was dead. "She's safe now, at least, her and Tim."

"His father brought him my autograph last week," Fraser said, "and now his father is dead, because of me."

"Because of Gerard," Ray snapped, tightening his hands on the wheel because he couldn't reach over and shake Fraser in traffic, "and because he was a scumbag and a murderer. That's not your fault."

Fraser just shrugged. "The boy's father is dead," he said quietly, like that was all that mattered, and maybe it was. This had all started with Fraser's dad, after all.

They drove in silence for a while, and then Ray said, "It wasn't a spur of the moment thing, though. You'd been planning it. Even before we went to Detroit." Fraser had kept his eyes closed so long that day, he'd been acting so weird ever since they'd been shot at. If he'd done it because he was scared Ray would get hurt, that had to have been the tipping point.

"Yes," Fraser said quietly, "I'd planned it."

When they got to Ray's apartment, the phone was lying on the floor in the hallway. Ray stood over it for a moment, looking down at it with an unreadable expression, and then picked it up and handed it to Ben. "Call whoever," he said quietly. "I gotta wash up."

Ben took the phone from him, careful not to let their fingers touch, and stood holding it until Ray had shut the bathroom door behind him and he heard the sink turn on full blast. Only then did Ben dare to glance into the kitchen.

The chair Ray had hit as he fell to the ground was still angled the same way. There was still a towel in a heap on the floor near the door. Ben was sure that if he went and looked, he'd find a length of cheap stainless steel beaded chain near the far wall, but he couldn't bear to look. He turned away to the living room, but it was full of memories too, only slightly less recent. They'd sat on the couch, watching Sports Center after they'd visited Jack together for the first time, watching hockey after Drake first approached him--and now Drake was dead, and Ben was only suffered in this place as a teammate.

Ben thoroughly deserved Ray's anger, even welcomed it, in a way. It was honest and open, bright as a flame, and it gave him something to push against. Ray's bruised silence was harder to bear, but bear it he would. He had no choice but to bear it. They were teammates, as Ray had insisted. They would have to cope with one another.

But first, they would have to get through the day. Ben closed his eyes and pushed away the awareness of pain, visualizing the letter again, and then opened them and dialed.

"Frobisher," the voice at the other end said gruffly, and Ben reached for a wall to lean against, feeling six years old again, forcing himself not to drop the phone and run.

"Hello, sir," he said, "it's Benton Fraser, I--"

"What's wrong?" Frobisher asked instantly.

Ben cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. "I know I may sound as if I've got a hole in my bag of marbles," he said, realizing even as he said the words that it was one of those expressions his father had always used, "but I--that is, I have reason--I believe Gerard was complicit in my father's death, and I believe he killed the man who pulled the trigger today, very nearly right in front of me."

Frobisher was silent for a moment, and Ben waited in familiar fear and fresh dread, to be told he was being ridiculous, that that was impossible, that Gerard was a Mountie. Finally, Frobisher said, "Does Gerard know you know? Where is he now?"

Ben glanced toward the door; Ray had, seemingly by reflex, locked it behind them. He wasn't alone. Ray was just in the next room, and Gerard was in Canada. He was surely safe here, for the moment. "I--I believe he may," Ben said. "He likely thinks I won't--he thinks I'm scared." I am scared. Ben took a breath and steadied his voice. All he had to do was recite the facts. "The police released him to someone from the Canadian Consulate. He was supposed to be getting right on the plane back home. He claimed he'd shot the man in self-defense, but Drake had already been disarmed and subdued."

He could hear Frobisher writing something. Ben closed his eyes and said, "I'm sorry, I--I'm not saying this properly--"

"You believe Gerard was complicit. Gerard knows you suspect him. You believe this man Drake actually killed your father. Gerard killed Drake after he'd been apprehended--apprehended by whom, Benton?"

"Ah," Ben said, glancing toward the bathroom, but the door was firmly shut. He could still hear the water running. "By a teammate of mine, actually. Ray Kowalski. I and a Chicago police detective named Ray Vecchio had been injured this morning, and Ray--Ray Kowalski--came to collect me from the hospital. Gerard was there, though I don't know how he could have known, as I'd only been hurt an hour or two before. Gerard said he was there to see I was protected from Drake. He took me to his car. Drake was in the parking garage. Ray--" Ben swallowed, the shotgun looming in his mind's eye, coming to bear on Ray. "Ray saved my life. He chased Drake down--shot the knife from his hand--"

"Which Ray is this?" Frobisher sounded impressed.

"Ray Kowalski, my teammate." Teammate. It was becoming easy to say; so neat and pat. He'd never known quite what they were before now. "So far as I know, Ray Vecchio remains in hospital."

"Hm," Buck said. "Had Drake made prior attempts to harm you?"

"Yes," Ben said firmly, growing more confident. "Detective Vecchio was investigating. The Chicago police had apparently been attempting to connect Drake to a contract killing here in the city, but weren't able to obtain sufficient evidence."

"I see," Frobisher said. "Benton, I'm going to look into this. I'm going to find out precisely where Gerard is and what's going on. I don't think you ought to stay in Chicago, or anywhere he'll know to look for you, and I suspect you want to move quickly on this."

"I do," Ben said, unspeakably relieved. Frobisher was taking him seriously; Frobisher seemed willing to help. "Where should I go?"

"Winnipeg," Frobisher said, "I can meet you there in the morning and we'll determine how to proceed. We'll probably have to go up north from there. You should take the next plane to Winnipeg. Buy your tickets with cash, and don't stay in a hotel if you can help it--do you have friends there?"

Ben closed his eyes, scrubbing one hand across his face. "Yes," he said, "Yes, I have a friend in Winnipeg."

"Good. Stay with him if you possibly can. Keep as low a profile as possible until I can meet you."

The bathroom door opened, and Ray stepped out. He glanced in Ben's direction, and Ben looked away.

"Benton," Frobisher said hesitantly, "I know this is all happening very quickly, and I'm asking you to trust me quite a lot when you may not know who you can trust--"

Ben took a deep breath, remembering the shout, the rifle crack. He knew, rationally, Frobisher could only have been acting to protect him. "I know I can trust you."

Frobisher was silent, and then he said quietly, "I'm glad to hear that. I'll see you in Winnipeg in the morning. Call the detachment there and ask for me, I'll either be there or tell them how to put you in touch."

"All right," he said, "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Goodbye," Frobisher said, and hung up. Ben clicked the phone off and then remained standing against the wall until Ray stepped out of the bedroom, holding a duffel bag.

"So?" Ray said, his voice once again calm, neutral, ordinary. "Where to?"

"Winnipeg," Ben said, and Ray nodded. "Sergeant Frobisher--he thought we shouldn't stay in a hotel if we could help it."

Ray blinked, otherwise perfectly motionless, and then said, "So call Smithbauer."

Ben nodded. "Mark--knew--about us," he said, choosing his words carefully.

Ray shrugged stiffly. "So he knew. He's your friend. Tell him what you want."

"I'd rather not tell him anything at all right now," Ben said. He could imagine what Mark's reaction would be, particularly with Ray present, and he didn't think he could cope with it on top of everything else.

"So don't," Ray said, staring down at his bag. "Makes no difference to me. Just--call Smithbauer. Let's go already."

Ben forced his eyes away from Ray and dialed.

Smithbauer had a game that night, as it turned out, so he wasn't there when Ray and Fraser got into Winnipeg. They took a cab from the airport. Ray glared out the window, jittery and just close enough to his right mind to know he was being a bastard. The snatches of sleep he'd gotten on the flight had been just enough to remind him that he was on his second day without rest. He'd already snarled at two stewardesses, and nearly took the head off a woman in baggage claim before he realized she just wanted his autograph. Fraser had been sitting six rows away from him on the plane, and had stayed well clear of him until they were actually in the cab line. Now he stayed carefully on his side of the seat, sitting stiffly upright.

Ray paid when the cabbie dropped them off, and Fraser shouldered his duffle bag--back still poker-straight, not looking back as Ray followed him up the walk. Fraser had a key, and let them in, stopping just inside the door to enter a security code. Ray waited in the doorway until he'd finished.

Smithbauer had left some lights on for them. Ray barely looked around as Fraser led the way to the guest room. There was a double bed with a note lying on the neatly-made covers. Ray turned his back to it, slinging his bag into a chair, and he heard the sound of Fraser's bag dropping onto the bed and the rustle of Fraser picking up the paper.

"What's it say?" He didn't turn around, just stood staring down at his bag. Fraser hadn't told Smithbauer anything on the phone, just that he and Ray needed to spend a night in Winnipeg, so after all the time they'd spent pretending not to be together, now they'd be pretending the opposite if Smithbauer were around. Ray wondered if there was a couch he could crash on.

"Ah." Fraser cleared his throat. "It says, 'Don't worry about the sheets. The cleaning lady's coming tomorrow and she's seen it all.'"

Ray snorted as he shrugged out of his coat, and turned to sit on the edge of the chair to take off his shoes. Fraser was still standing next to the bed, back straight, staring at the note. Ray said, "Fraser, I'm not gonna--" and Fraser turned half away, but this time Ray was watching his face, and saw the little wince as he moved. The words died. Fraser wasn't being stiff with him, he was just stiff. "Fuck," Ray muttered, kicking off his shoes, and Fraser flinched again, from the word this time.

Ray stretched, scowling at Fraser. He'd fallen--been pushed--out a second story window this morning, and even if he wasn't seriously hurt he was still banged up enough that Mort had scratched him and wasn't planning to let him on skates for a few days. And then he'd spent the rest of the day sitting in airport chairs and on a plane. "Fuck," Ray repeated, "Fraser--why didn't you say you were hurting? Did they give you any drugs?"

Fraser turned his face away, but didn't otherwise move. "It's not that bad," he said flatly, but Ray didn't believe a word of that. He was going to have to do something, he couldn't just leave the guy in pain like that.

"Get on the bed, let me check it."

He didn't think it was possible for Fraser to tense up more, but he did. "No, Ray, that's not necessary."

"Bullshit it's not," Ray replied, frustrated. "You go to sleep like that and you're not even going to be able to walk tomorrow. Frobisher's going to take one look and bench you. You won't get anywhere near doing anything to help."

Fraser flinched at that--yeah, that was a carrot he'd go for--but he still didn't move, didn't say a word.

"Fraser, just--let me fucking help you. Coach told me to--"

"Coach told you to stay home," Fraser said softly. "Coach told me that if I let my attitude problem jeopardize your career, he'd do everything in his power to see I regretted it."

Fraser did look over at him then, and Ray's mouth worked for a second, his face heating, before he could say, "Well, I'm here, aren't I? So I don't care what Coach had to say about it. The point is, I'm here to help you so let me help you. Take your shirt off and lie down."

Fraser didn't say anything for a second, and Ray watched the blush creep across his cheeks before he said, "I don't think I can. Actually."

Ray scrubbed his hands through his hair, restraining the urge to scream. "What do you mean you can't, you can't--"

"I don't think I can get my shirt off," Fraser said, very quietly, and Ray stopped short.

"Oh," he muttered, "Oh. Right." Quickly, before he could think about what a very, very stupid idea this was, Ray closed the distance between him and Fraser. He unzipped Fraser's coat and shoved it off, pretending he didn't notice Fraser's wince or the way the blush wasn't fading from his face. He started unbuttoning Fraser's shirt, and he knew he should make a joke, say something, look Fraser in the eye--he knew it was humiliating as hell to have to have somebody do this stuff for you. The only way he'd stood it at all, with Joanna, was that she'd been making jokes the whole time she'd been doing up his pants for him, holding his toothbrush for him, washing his hair.

He was more careful pushing Fraser's shirt off, his fingertips brushing along bare skin. Fraser didn't wince this time, but Ray could see the blush all the way down now, brightening his fair skin from his forehead to his chest. Ray looked down at Fraser's jeans and hiking boots and closed his eyes for a second, then said, "Hold still."

Fraser made a small noise of agreement, and Ray knelt at his feet and unlaced his boots, keeping his eyes just on what he was doing, not thinking about this, not thinking about anything. Fraser was hurt, and Ray had to help him, and this was embarrassing, not... anything else at all. Just embarrassing. Uncomfortable.

He reached up one hand to steady Fraser, using the other to tug each boot free as Fraser lifted one foot and then the other. Fraser's hand rested lightly on his, trusting almost no weight to his hold. Ray stood up again but still didn't look up, just unbuttoned Fraser's jeans and unzipped them. They weren't too tight. He was wearing white boxers underneath. Ray tugged them down by the belt loops while Fraser stood statue-still, and then he said, "Okay, uh, let me--" He turned away, picking up Fraser's bag and flipping the covers back. As he went over to set it down with his own, he heard Fraser moving, slowly and carefully, to lie on the bed.

When he turned back, Fraser was lying on his stomach with his head on a pillow, his arms at his sides and his face to the wall, away from Ray. The bruises on his back had darkened and Ray could see the tension in his muscles from across the room. He stood a moment, flexing his hands open and closed, looking at Fraser lying there and reminding himself: Fraser was hurt. He needed help, and that was all he needed. And the longer Ray let him lie there waiting, the weirder and harder--more difficu