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 wei