Chapter Text
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?"
"Ray, you're a guy who grew up in Chicago, playing pro hockey in Chicago. Everybody you ever played shinny with, everybody you ever went to school with, everybody who went to your church, or your school, every five-year-old kid who plays mite hockey57 in the league where you played, is pulling for you and wishing the sports page would spend a few column inches on that nice Polish hometown boy."
Ray took a sip of coffee, watching Ms. Vecchio intently, but she was the one looking away now. "Well, I don't think my mom has started a letter-writing campaign just yet, so why do you care?"
"Oh, come on, Ray, I grew up in Chicago." Ray kept his eyes steady, and she talked to her coffee. "When I was fourteen my brother took me to see a Blackhawks game for my birthday, and the guy next to us in the stands pointed out this rookie kid playing in his first NHL game, who'd grown up not five miles from the Stadium. I watched him the whole time, and he had a smile on his face like he was as excited to be there as I was, like he loved every second of the game, from sitting on the bench to getting into a fight. I knew right then that I wanted to write about hockey, about guys who loved their sport as much as he did." She looked up with a sheepish smile. "And I had a crush on that guy for years."
Ray smiled cautiously back and said, "And I was a jerk to you every chance I got."
Ms. Vecchio smiled wider. "I didn't take it personally, Ray-Kay. Don't sweat it."
Ray nodded and slid the tape across the table. "So, uh. Interview?"
Ms. Vecchio nodded and reached into her purse again, pulling out a few sheets of paper and ignoring the tape completely. She handed them to Ray, and he started to read, then looked up. "You already wrote the article?"
"Sure," she said, "That way you can see what I'm going to say about you."
Ray flipped through the pages, scanning quickly. "You're quoting me."
"Sure, and you said all that stuff. Just--not recently, and not to me."
Ray squinted at the page, mouthing the words she attributed to him. He set the page down and tapped his finger on one line. "I said that in French, the first time."
Ms. Vecchio leaned in to look. "Oh, yeah," she said, "it was funnier in French. Do you want me to take it out?"
"Nah," Ray said, "Keep it. It's a good translation."
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?"
"I know that Fraser isn't here for chuckles," Ray snapped. "And I said assault, not battery58."
Vecchio stopped short, mouth open, and blinked at Ray. The silence stretched so long Ray was afraid he'd gotten the words wrong, but he'd been practicing them just in case he had to try this angle. Finally, Vecchio said, "I heard you used to screw a lawyer, Kowalski. You find that educational?"
Ray felt his fists clench and forced them open. He was not gonna lunge across the desk at Ben's only chance of getting listened to. "Not half as educational as helping my wife study for the bar in the off-season, Vecchio."
Vecchio stared back at him, then cracked half a smile. "Yeah, okay--Fraser." He turned back to Ben, who was watching Ray with a frighteningly naked look in his eyes. "Fraser," Vecchio repeated, and Ben looked toward him. Ray watched his ear turn pink, then jerked his gaze toward Vecchio, but the cop didn't seem to have noticed anything. "Did this person who asked you for an autograph cause you to have a reasonable apprehension of imminent harm?"
"Ah," Fraser said, and Ray didn't have to look at him to see him licking his lip, giving the question serious consideration. "No," he said finally, "not a reasonable apprehension of imminent harm."
"Yeah, but he was menacing," Ray snapped, before Vecchio even looked at him. "This wasn't just some innocent fan, Vecchio, he was trying to scare him."
Vecchio gave Ray a look hard and sharp enough to shut his mouth, and then ruined the effect by sighing and rubbing his forehead. "Look, I'm going to catch hell from my sister if I don't take you seriously here, so I'll go get some mug shots for you to look at, and--"
"If you have a pencil," Ben said, quietly, to his hands, "I think I could make a sketch."
Vecchio frowned, and looked from Ben to Ray. Ray just shrugged. If Ben said he could draw, he could draw.
"Okay," Vecchio said, "sure." He rummaged in his desk, came up with a pencil, found a clipboard and a blank sheet of paper. "There you go. Sketch away. I'll get the mug books."
He strode off through the double doors, and Ray kept still in his seat, watching Ben, who was frowning at the clipboard, pencil scratching away on the page. Ray stood up and stretched, feeling like he'd been sitting for hours. Ben looked up at him, and Ray smiled a little and said, "Well, this could've gone worse, right?"
Ben gave him a short smile back, nodded, and returned to his sketch. Ray paced among the desks, swinging his arms, restraining the urge to jump or swing between desks or go looking for more coffee. He'd already had plenty of coffee.
He folded his arms across his chest as he wandered back toward Ben, reminding himself not to touch. Ben set the pencil down on Vecchio's desk as Ray walked up, and turned to hold the sketch up to Ray.
"Holy shit," Ray said, because it looked just like one of those sketches you saw on the news sometimes. Maybe better.
Ben smiled and turned the clipboard back. "I minored in art," he said quietly. "We had one professor who was quite draconian about forcing us to produce images quickly--he said it was the best way to create honest art, to work only with our hands and eyes and move too quickly for our minds to interfere."
"Huh," Ray said, still staring over Ben's shoulder at the sketch. "So that's the guy, huh?"
He looked the part; kind of a thug, nose that had been broken at least once, curly hair in a hockey cut. Ben had drawn him with a mean look in his eye. Ben nodded, and set the clipboard aside firmly. Ray reached out and set one hand cautiously on the back of Ben's neck, and then the door banged open and he jerked back, flinging himself into his seat and crossing his arms again.
Vecchio had a stack of binders up to his chin and Ben jumped up to take some of them from him while Ray kept still, just watching. Vecchio was trying to stack the books on his desk, but they slanted and slid off each other. In the middle of that he said, "Holy shit," and picked up Ben's sketch, and half the binders fell onto the floor. Ben, still standing beside him holding more of the binders, blushed a little, and Ray untucked one hand to flash him a thumbs up.
Vecchio was squinting at the sketch. "This is the guy, Fraser? You're sure?"
Ben shrugged around the binders, and Ray got up and took them from him, stacking them semi-successfully in the last clear space on Vecchio's desk, careful not to let his fingers brush Ben's, his eyes always on the binders, not Ben. "Well, it's not professional level, but--"
Vecchio shook his head, still staring at Ben's sketch. "No, it's good, can you give me another angle on the nose?"
"The nose?"
Ray stayed where he was, his hands hovering over the mug books, as Vecchio dug around for another sharpened pencil and another sheet of paper. "Yeah, the nose. I think I've seen this guy somewhere, and I never forget a nose."
"Yeah?" Ray said, eyeing Vecchio's. "That's--"
Vecchio didn't even look up. "Shut up, Kowalski, I heard 'em all a million times."
Ray grinned. "Fair enough."
Vecchio gave the clipboard back to Fraser, and when Fraser had settled into his seat and gone back to sketching, Vecchio started gathering up the mug books. "Guess we can put these away. Gimme a hand?"
"Yeah," Ray said, because it was less dangerous if he wasn't alone with Ben. Less temptation to do something stupid. Arms loaded, he followed Vecchio out of through the doors and down a hallway.
"So," Vecchio said, "my sister tells me you're a pretty straight shooter. What's the story on this Fraser guy?"
Ray tightened his hands on the books, choking back his first impulse, which was to ask Vecchio what the fuck kind of question that was. "He's my roommate," he said when he'd been silent long enough that Vecchio stopped and looked him in the eye. "I know him pretty good. He doesn't lie."
Vecchio snorted and started walking again. "Everybody lies, Kowalski."
Ray clenched his teeth and then forced them apart, trying to find a way to say to somebody who didn't know him, didn't know hockey, how much you could trust Fraser, what it meant to be a guy like Fraser. "He's Canadian," Ray said finally.
Vecchio opened a door and led him inside. "So he's Canadian, so what? Wasn't that guy that started that hockey riot59 Canadian? Didn't he play for the Canadians?"
"The Canadiens," Ray corrected automatically. "And Fraser is not Maurice Richard. He's--he's from up north. First NHL player ever to be born in the Arctic Circle, okay? He's from so far north he's practically Swedish60."
Vecchio frowned as he took the binders from Ray's arms. "I didn't think Sweden and Canada shared a border."
Ray shook his head. "They don't, they--never mind. The point is, he's not yanking your chain, he's serious. He's telling the truth."
Vecchio nodded. "Yeah, that part I figured out."
Ray shoved his empty hands back into his pockets. "Well then why the hell are you asking me?"
Vecchio gave him a wide toothy smile. "Just making conversation, Kowalski."
Ray bared his teeth and headed back out to the hallway, and Vecchio followed him a step behind.
Back in the detective division, Fraser was still sitting next to Vecchio's desk, flipping back and forth between pages on the clipboard and frowning. "This is a bit more speculative," he said, holding it out to Vecchio, looking right past Ray like he wasn't there. "I didn't get a good look at his profile."
Vecchio took one look at the sketch and then rapped his knuckles against it. "Bingo. Come here, Fraser."
Vecchio strode over to another desk, one with a computer on it, and switched the machine on, leaning over the desk chair instead of sitting down. Fraser stood next to him, and Ray slouched on the edge of the next desk over, watching from a safe distance. "Get this. June eighty-six, back when I was a beat cop, I was out on patrol when I got a call on this domestic violence case."
Ray saw Ben tense, and forced himself to stay right where he was, gripping the edge of the desk he was slouched against for all he was worth. The computer was on, now, and Vecchio was tapping at it, not looking at either of them. "Very very messy. This guy has his wife's arm in a car door and he's slamming it and slamming--"
Ben had gone completely pale, and Ray snapped, "Yeah, we get the idea, Vecchio."
Vecchio looked from him to Ben, and said quickly, "Yeah, so we arrested him, managed to put him away for a couple years even though the wife declined to testify--anyway," Vecchio turned away, back to the computer, and Ben was staring at his shoes. Ray's hands hurt from holding on to the desk so hard, and he had his jaw clenched so hard he could hear the tension like a high-pitched whine. "Anyway, when I see your sketch, I flash on this guy's nose." He tapped a few keys, and a mug shot flashed up on the screen. "That's the puppy, Frankie Drake. What do you think?"
Ben glanced up and then turned away. "That's him."
Vecchio was watching him, and then cut a glance at Ray. Ray just jerked his chin sharply, trying to telegraph Let's move this along, let me get him out of here. Vecchio nodded.
"Okay, good. The reason I remembered him is Homicide was trying to nail him on a mob hit a while back."
Ray frowned. Ben didn't even seem to hear. "So this guy's a hired killer?"
Vecchio nodded tightly. "Looks that way, but nobody could ever pin it on him, and since then his record's clear--all quiet."
Ray moved closer, looking at this guy, this hired thug who'd come close enough to Fraser to point a gun at him--not a real gun, maybe, but it could have been. There was an address listed beside his image, and the stuff he'd been arrested for. "You think he went clean?"
"No way," Vecchio said, "guys like this don't change, they just get smart, and that is bad, because that makes them harder to catch."
"Well you've got an address," Ray pointed out.
"That? No way, that's his last-known from when he was locked up. He's long gone by now."
"But he's got a--" Kid, Ray started to say. "Fraser, did you say he said his kid had just started playing hockey?"
Fraser turned to face him now, blinked and then nodded.
"He's come into some money, then," Ray said, glancing again at the address to confirm it. "Nobody in that neighborhood is paying for skates and ice time, Vecchio, not with honest money."
Vecchio raised his eyebrows. "Well, well, well, he plays hockey and fights crime."
Ray rolled his eyes and said, "Okay, so we're done here, right? This is the part where the proper authorities take over?"
"Yes," Vecchio said firmly, "because--Fraser, are you listening?"
Ben looked up and nodded warily.
"Because I know this is your dad and everything but trust me, you do not want to get mixed up with this guy. You see him again, you call me, and I mean immediately." Vecchio went back to his own desk and came up with a business card for Ben and another one for Ray. "Okay? I'm going to do some checking, and if we manage to get him into custody I will let you know, but I gotta tell you it'll be tricky, because we don't have a lot to go on right now. So you sit tight, and let me do my job, and I will be in touch."
Ben nodded again, and Ray got them out of there just as fast as he could.
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.
Ray slid into the water behind him, his legs folding loosely around Ben's waist. Ben had always thought the amenities of his apartment's bathroom were ridiculous, bordering on embarrassing, but he was revising his opinion of spacious bathtubs now. He started to lean back, but Ray's hand on his back stopped him. "Hey," Ray said softly, "You know you got blood in your hair?"
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."
Ben smiled, and when Ray opened his eyes he smiled back. Ben shifted back into place, leaning against Ray, and rotated his foot clockwise underwater. "Yes," he said. "Late in the second period, off an Al MacInnis slapshot61."
Ray made a sympathetic noise and Ben, recalling the bruises on Ray's chest after the home opener, had reason to be glad that Ray had never stepped in front of one of those. "It wasn't a bad break," he said, remembering the excruciating agony of lacing up his skate for the next game. "And that was such a close series--"
"Seven games," Ray agreed, "and two of 'em in overtime."
Ben nodded. "So there was no question of sitting out as long as I could skate, and I could skate." He'd skated through the rest of the second round, the third, and the fourth, skated all the way to the Stanley Cup on a broken foot. It had only taken a month. He'd been nothing remarkable; his teammates had sported broken toes and fingers, broken ribs, various illnesses and infections and at least one case of clinical exhaustion. "By the time the season was over, they had to operate to get the bone back into place."
Ray nodded, and Ben reached backward blindly, searching Ray's face with his fingers. He touched the scar on Ray's temple, legacy of his last NHL fight, and then probed higher, till he found the faint line on Ray's forehead. "Where'd you get this one?" he asked, imagining another fight, a hit at the boards, a wild puck.
"Car accident," Ray said quietly. "Me and Gardie, driving drunk out in Bumfuck, New Brunswick." Ray's hand slid down Ben's left arm, fingers sliding over the scar on his wrist without comment, and Ray said, "What about that crooked tooth of yours? Puck in the mouth?"
Ben smiled, running his tongue over the offending canine. "Yes," he said. "When I was six. It was the first time I'd played hockey with other children. That's how I met Mark."
Ray chuckled. "He hit you in the mouth with a puck, and you were friends for life?"
"No," Ben said, "Innusiq hit me in the mouth with a puck, Mark hit Innusiq, my grandmother had to drag them apart, and Mark and I were friends for life." Ben recalled his own fight with Brett Hull, and was tempted to say that he and Ray must be friends--or, as Ray so succinctly put it, whatever the fuck they were--for life, now, but the words caught in his throat. He didn't think he could deliver them as a joke. "I think it was the most frightened I've ever been at an injury," he said instead. "I was terrified my grandmother wouldn't let me play anymore."
Ray laughed again, and Ben smiled. Ray said, "I'll tell you my scariest injury," and his hand caught Ben's, guiding Ben's hand to his thigh, sliding up and up to the crease of his groin. Ray's finger pressed his along the track of a scar, and Ben winced. Nothing in that vicinity could be a less than horrifying injury.
"What happened?"
"Mm," Ray said, as Ben's hand settled back on his thigh, leaning his head against Ben's shoulder, "Stick between the legs from a goalie--funny thing, I don't remember who. It hurt bad, but--no worse than usual. I didn't think much of it until the trainer told me to come back to the dressing room. I didn't realize why until I saw the blood running down my sock, and then I went nuts, yanking my pants down, my shorts--I got to my jock and there was blood everywhere, which is about when I passed out. He stitched me up right there on the floor and when I came to the first thing he said is, 'Don't worry, Kowalski, your equipment's fine.' I laid there for a second wondering what the hell I cared about my gear and then I realized he meant my gear and I just about passed out again from the relief."
Ben slid his hand higher again, and said, "I'm glad you were all right."
Ray kissed his ear. "Not half as glad as I was," he said, and Ben didn't argue. He let himself relax completely, in the warmth of the water and the cradle of Ray's body, Ray's breathing steady in his ear. He didn't think he slept, but he didn't notice the water growing cold, and it was a long time later that Ray said, "Come on, get up, time for bed."
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?"
Ray nodded, even though Vecchio couldn't see it. "Je comprends62."
"That better be Canadian for 'yes, detective.'"
"Yes, Detective." Ray listened to the silence on the other end--from a long experience of coaches and annoyance levels, he'd guess Vecchio was somewhere around 'exasperated'--and then said, more quietly, "So how's it going, anyway? On your end."
Vecchio sighed. "Look, I can't make any promises, because I still don't have anything to charge the guy with, but--I talked to some people who know him, and there is a possibility that I can confirm that he was out of town for about a week right around the time Fraser's dad died, and there is also a possibility that it's common knowledge he likes to work with shotguns and rifles. So maybe I've got a little bit of completely circumstantial evidence."
Ray stared at the bedroom door, and said quietly, "I won't say anything to Fraser, okay? I don't want to get his hopes up if you don't know for sure."
"Good," Vecchio said, "except I'd have a better shot at actually accomplishing something if I could get in touch with somebody in the RCMP who knows something about the case, and for that I suspect I'm going to have to talk to Fraser, unless I can track down his dad's partner--what was his name?"
"Frobisher," Ray said, "but you don't want to talk to that guy. Ben--really doesn't like him. I think he's no good."
"He was the guy's partner," Vecchio said, like that made some kind of difference.
"Yeah, well, partners don't usually investigate each other's deaths, do they? Anyway, I know who was in charge of the case," Ray said, shutting his eyes, "I know this. Fraser told me the guy's name." He remembered the old man in the bright red coat and Stetson hat. Lots of stars on his arm. He'd nodded to Ray as Ray walked by, and Ray had disliked the guy on sight, but that was only because Ben had been so scared. Ben hadn't said his name that night, not till later. Ray's lips moved as he tried to coax the name up out of his brain. "Kimble," he said, opening his eyes, and then immediately, "No, not Kimble. He's a cop."
"Gerard63?" Vecchio said.
Ray grinned, triumphant. "Yeah! Yeah, Gerard, that's it. Fraser doesn't like him much either, and he probably thinks Fraser's got a hole in his bag of marbles, but Frobisher is worse."
Vecchio sounded amused. "Well, thank God we watch the same movies, Kowalski. Now all I have to do is find a Mountie, somewhere in Canada, whose first or last name is Gerard, is that it?"
"Well, he's been in a long time, so he's senior-level, and he's gotta be working in Northern Manitoba or he wouldn't be responsible for investigating this case," Ray said. "Anyway, you just call somebody up there and they'll know who he is. Don't you know everybody in Canada knows each other?"
"So, you lived in Canada, how come you don't know him?"
Ray shrugged. "I know Fraser and Fraser knows him. If the person you talk to doesn't know him they'll know who does. There aren't that many Mounties."
"Right," Vecchio said, "thanks for the tip, Kowalski. One more gold star and I'll have to make you a deputy."
"Do I get a hat for that?" Ray asked, but all he got in reply was a dial tone. "Guess not," he muttered, and hung up the phone. He dropped it on Ben's coffee table, then stood and stretched. The sun was going down, and he had a feeling Ben wouldn't sleep much longer, if he was even sleeping now. He'd wake up hungry and, unless he was hurt worse than he looked, antsy from sleeping all day. He'd definitely need company, and anyway, hadn't Vecchio told him to stick close?
Ray slipped back into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him. Ben didn't wake; he seemed to be fast asleep, exactly where Ray had left him. Ray went around to the other side of the bed and tried to crawl in without shaking the bed, sliding over to spoon up behind him, but Ben still woke when Ray touched him. "Ray?" he murmured, and Ray just kissed the back of his neck in reply. Ben laid one hand over Ray's and said, "I thought you were leaving."
"Yeah," Ray said, trying to find a position to lie in where the key in his pocket didn't stab him without jostling Ben too much, "but I missed you, so I had to come back."
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 Franis?"
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?"
Ray grinned for the kid, but looked past him to Denny as he said, "Saint-crisse, y'est paqueté, eh? Tombet-il sur tes nerfs?64"
Denny snorted, and gave Sean a sideways look. "Ouais, M'as t'garrocher dins banc de neige65."
Ray nodded, smiling. Headfirst into a snowbank would be no more than the kid deserved. Ray was half tempted to take Sean outside for a sobering-up facewash himself, if he could just get him away from Denny and out of the bar. Casually, like he didn't really care one way or the other, he said, "C'fais-tu de quoi si j'l'amene? Faut qu'j'l'empêche d'l'faire l'cave.66"
Denny raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Pantoute." Ray felt the first rush of relief as Denny raised his glass almost to his mouth, and then he added, "Tripe-le67, Koseau." Ray felt his smile freeze, his whole body gone rigid, oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, and then Denny lowered his glass and laughed, and Sean, who'd been watching them both with a little wasted frown, started laughing too. Ray laughed as hard as anybody, with his hand curving carefully over Sean's shoulder.
"Come on," he said, tugging, when the laughter died down and his heart wasn't trying to pound its way out of his chest anymore. "Come with me, Sean-o."
Sean was drunk and pliant, and Sean trusted Ray. "Yeah," he said, smile broadening. "Yeah, okay, roomie."
Ray glanced across the bar to where Sean's actual roomie--the Russian kid, Krivo--seemed to be practicing his extremely limited English on one of the handful of women in the bar. Businesswoman, Ray gauged. Decent probability of taking him back to her own room, or just keeping him down here playing cat-and-mouse games for a while. Good. He needed a little time alone with the kid.
Ray braced Sean on his way down from the barstool and slung an arm around his waist as they walked out, keeping him steady. Sean's arm over his shoulders was heavy, and it was an effort for Ray not to look around the bar to see who was watching them leave. He just had to play it cool long enough to get the kid back to his own room, and then he'd be all right.
They shared the elevator with two guys in suits and a woman with a smear of red face paint on her cheek who glared at them all the way up. Ray glared back, and beside him, Sean leaned against the wall and kept his mouth shut. Thank God for small miracles. Ray managed to hustle him off the elevator at the right floor without too much trouble, and then it was just a matter of finding the right room and finding Sean's room key.
"Where's your key, Sean-o?"
The boy grinned. "Dunno," he muttered, looking down at himself. "Got it somewhere. Don't leave home without it." He patted ineffectually at the front of his pants with one big hand, and Ray heaved a sigh and ran his fingers over Sean's pockets until he found the plastic rectangle in the back one. He reached in for it, and Sean chuckled low and pressed his ass back against Ray's fingers, which made it harder to work. Still, after a minute Ray had Sean's room key--and driver's license--in his hand, and managed to apply the right one to the door even though the kid was leaning on him, breathing against his ear.
Ray pushed Sean inside and then followed, putting the chain on the door as Sean stumbled to the bed. He sprawled down on it, face-up and spreadeagled, and then called, "Hey, Ray-Kay, c'mere, I wanna show you something."
Ray could already see what Sean wanted to show him--the bulge in his jeans wasn't exactly subtle--and he could feel himself reacting to it. This was so familiar, so normal and easy and sane. Ray ran a hand through his hair and went to sit on the edge of Sean's bed, but when Sean reached for his hand he yanked it back, and caught hold of Sean's chin. "Hey," he said firmly. Sean's eyes shifted away and Sean's hand slid onto his thigh, and Ray grabbed Sean's wrist in his other hand, holding it tight enough to hurt. Sean gave him a wounded look, very nearly pouting. "Hey," Ray repeated. "Listen to me. Are you listening to me?"
Sean nodded, every motion loose and exaggerated, and Ray knew that was about the best he was going to get.
"This is important," Ray said, "I want you to remember, okay? You have to remember. You do not ever do that again. You do not get drunk and hang all over Denny Savard, do you hear me?"
Sean just blinked, but his roaming hand went still in Ray's grip, and Ray knew he was finally listening.
"Do not," Ray repeated. "I played with him back in junior, and I can tell you that all that'll get you is a broken nose. Denny doesn't play like that, and he doesn't like people trying to change his mind."
Sean's free hand reached up and clumsily traced Ray's nose with one finger, the others brushing at his eyes and cheeks. "Din't break yours," he muttered, and Ray let go of Sean's chin to drag Sean's hand off his face.
"That's because I was smarter than you when I was seventeen," Ray said. "And because somebody else tipped me off, told me what not to do. And I am telling you. You have to be careful. You can't go asking, and you can't get so drunk you get sloppy, or the wrong person will notice and you will find yourself in a world of hurt, comprends?"
Sean was nodding, and of course he understood. He played hockey. He knew what he was risking, being how he was: beatings, if he propositioned the wrong guy, and if the rumors got around, his career could end before it started. "Comprends," the kid repeated, and all that buoyant drunkenness seemed crushed now. But when he looked up at Ray there was still a little light in his eyes, and he said, "Good thing I got you, huh?"
Ray looked down at Sean, lying back against the pillow, both his hands in Ray's grip. That was the question, wasn't it? Sean was a teammate and a buddy and he'd been looking to score until Ray spiked his guns, and now he was still looking to score. Maybe Ray owed him this. It was buddies, it was team. Sean squirmed onto his side, curling his body around Ray, and Ray could feel Sean's dick pressing hard against his hip. Sean jerked one hand free and slid it up the inside of Ray's thigh, and Ray shut his eyes and tried to think--it was easier if you just had one rule and stuck with it, it meant not having to think with all your blood in your dick. "Always say yes" was easy enough even for something as dumb as his dick to remember.
Sean was rocking slow against his hip, and Ray could feel the heat of him through his jeans, and then Sean's fingers were sliding over Ray's hard-on, so light a touch he could barely feel it through his jeans, just enough to tease. He bit his lip, muscles tensing, because this felt all kinds of right and all kinds of wrong, and he couldn't--
He pushed Sean's hand away, stumbling up to his feet and backing away a step from the bed. Sean frowned at him. "Ray-Kay?"
Ray shook his head. "I can't, I." Ray reached under the sleeve of his shirt and tugged at the chain on his wrist, twisting his fingertips in it until the throbbing pain there matched the ache in his dick. He swallowed hard against the dryness of his mouth and the tightness in his throat, but somehow forced the words out. "No, I can't. I got a new contract these days. No-trade clause."
Sean scowled at him. "Fucking pricktease."
Ray took another step back, reminding himself that Sean was drunk, that he was closer to the door, that he wasn't seventeen anymore and surrounded by Frenchies, that Sean was no Smithbauer. "Sorry," he said, waiting for the scowl to deepen, the insults to get worse.
Sean slid a hand between his legs, rubbing himself idly through his jeans. "So that's it, huh? I can't go play with the other guys because you say so, and you've got religion so that's that."
Ray shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged stiffly. "You could maybe try Bully," he offered. Sean pushed himself up onto an elbow and then froze, blinking dizzily. "Not tonight," Ray added, though it was obvious the kid wasn't going anywhere, and he began to feel relieved, "but you could try. I dunno for sure, but if he says no he'll just say no, he won't make a thing of it."
"Kowalski seal of approval, huh?" Sean muttered, flopping back down on the bed, and Ray smiled cautiously and nodded. "Fine," Sean muttered, and flipped open the button on his jeans, easing the zipper down. "Well, fine, go then. I got two hands."
Ray grinned and kept backing away, watching the little show Sean was putting on for him, until he got to the door. Then he turned and took the chain off as he checked the spyhole to make sure nobody in the hallway was going to spot the kid when he opened the door. The coast looked clear, so Ray stepped out, pulling Sean's door shut quickly behind him.
Standing in the hallway, Ray hesitated. Most of the guys were probably still downstairs, and he could go back to the bar, except that he still had a pretty inconvenient hard-on. He'd been about ready to leave anyway, and so had Ben. Maybe Ben would be in their room; even if he wasn't yet, he'd be along soon, and then Ray's hard-on wouldn't be inconvenient at all. If Ben wasn't there yet, Ray could take a page from Sean's book and entertain himself while he waited.
He switched on the light when he stepped into the room, and was startled to see Ben already in bed. He was dead asleep--gave no sign of noticing the light--and rolled up in all the covers, smack in the middle of the bed. Ray walked over and crouched next to the bed to look at Ben's face, slack with sleep. Ray could smell the beer on his breath, and realized that the drinking Ben had done today--vodka for breakfast and God knew how much beer for a post-game snack--must have done him in. He'd been sleeping for shit lately anyway, so he probably needed it. Ray leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips, feeling just a little guilty for abandoning Ben like that in the bar, leaving him to fall asleep alone.
Still, for once--maybe for the first time ever--Ray really hadn't done a damn thing wrong, and they could maybe make it up in the morning, or after they got home. It'd all even out, and it wasn't like he could have just stood by and let Sean get his nose broken. He'd explain it to Ben later.
For now, it looked like he was going to need a shower before bed.
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.
"I--yes I expect you to believe it, I wouldn't say it if I didn't expect you to believe it--Ben, I do not lie to you. I just had to get him away from Denny is all, the kid would have got his nose broken if il aurait cruisé68 at that guy, I was just--"
Ben frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm telling you the truth," Ray snapped, and then continued, rapidly, incomprehensibly, and at increasing volume, in French.
Ben crossed his arms and stared over Ray's shoulder. He could see Ray winding himself up, gesturing wildly, violently. Ben tried to ignore the menace of words nearly shouted that he couldn't understand. The next step was obvious, and he only had to steel himself to take it. When Ray stopped for breath--Ben could hear him gasping--he said, "Ray, if you want to discuss this, you'll have to do so intelligibly."
When he shifted his gaze, Ray had one fist pressed to his mouth, grinding it against his lips as if to punish them for speaking wrongly. "I did not cheat on you," Ray said finally, "There's been no one else since we got together, no one. I only want you."
Ben swallowed hard, damning himself to hell, but said, "Honestly, Ray, I know how you are. I always did. I never expected more of you. Cheaters don't change. I'm just tired of it."
"I'm not--" Ray said, and then stopped, caught by the obvious untruth, his mouth working as he tried to explain himself.
Ben pushed on, ruthlessly. He could not flinch from this. "I'm also tired of waiting for you to hit me."
Ray's hands opened wide, fingers spread, and he said, "Ben, I told you, I won't, I promise--"
Ben just shook his head. "It doesn't actually matter what you say or do. I told you, this is my choice, this is me. I can hardly be near you for a whole day without expecting you to hurt me, and I've decided I'd rather not be near you at all." An exaggeration, he judged with some strange inner dispassion, mixed with lies around a kernel of truth, and Ray was looking lost, desperate, utterly at sea. Ben knew the feeling; he'd been on the other side of arguments every bit this cruelly unfair. Still, for this end, even these means could be justified.
"Ben--" Ray said finally, reaching out a hand across the space between them, silvery steel glinting on his wrist.
"Ah," Ben said, forcing himself to close the distance, reaching past Ray's outstretched open hand though it tore at his heart to ignore that wordless plea. "I'll be wanting that back, thank you." He grabbed the chain by one strand and gave a twisting yank, deliberately heedless of what hurt he caused. Ray jerked back, his face tightening into a furious scowl, but Ben grabbed Ray's arm with his other hand and held him steady long enough to give another fierce pull, breaking the chain at the closure. It flew off, sailing out of Ben's hand as it came free. He heard it strike the wall and then the floor, but he didn't bother to look and see where it fell. Ray was glaring at him now with furious and baffled hurt, and Ben couldn't tear his eyes away.
Ray held his right wrist in his left hand, and Ben forced himself not to look and see what he'd done. "Ben, why'd you have to--Can't we just talk--"
"What," Ben snapped, maneuvering himself so that his back was finally to the door. "So you can promise me you've changed? So you can tell me you like this, lying and sneaking around for nothing, no future--you wanted children--"
"I got a dog," Ray snarled, and if that was an assertion of satisfaction it was the strangest one Ben had ever heard. "Ben, I can lie to the whole world if I can tell the truth to you, I love you, I know you love me, you can't--"
"Of course I have some feelings for you," Ben said, and the words didn't sound like ashes and dust, at least to his own ears, somewhat numbed by the racing of his heart. "But we both know mere affection is not--"
"Mere?" Ray repeated. "Ben, please--" He didn't reach out his hand again, keeping it close to his heart. Ray seemed to be a quick learner, but Ben wasn't going to give him much more time. He had a clear path to the door now.
Ben shook his head and turned away, and then Ray reached, grabbing at the sleeve of his coat, and Ben knew he had no choice. There was only one argument left, only one instant in which he could employ it, and he clenched his fist as he turned, grabbing Ray's arm to hold him in place as he slammed a fist squarely into Ray's cheek.
The blow caught Ray utterly off-guard; he stumbled out of Ben's grip and fell, hitting a kitchen chair and then the floor, where he lay propped on one elbow, staring up at Ben with wide, blank eyes. Ben stared back, feeling the sting in his knuckles and a creeping numbness in his chest. Ray might as well be dead to him now. He was a killer again and had spared himself nothing. Ray broke the stare, turning his head aside. "Get out," Ray said, a ragged whisper like a shout. "Get out and don't ever fucking speak to me again."
Ben was starting to shake, shivers beginning at the pit of his stomach and radiating outward; if Ray looked up, he'd see it, but Ray didn't look up. Ben clenched his fist tight and pressed it against his thigh to still it, and remembered to deal the final blow in a steady, calm voice. "I'll understand if you feel you must go to the authorities about Victoria's death," he said, "but I would appreciate it if you'd let me know in a timely fashion so I may turn myself in."
Perhaps he imagined the flinch; Ray didn't move or otherwise acknowledge that he'd heard Ben's words, and perhaps he hadn't. Ben couldn't wait another second to make his escape, regardless. He walked in long strides until he was outside Ray's front door, and then he began to run.
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."
"UIH69," she said, and she wasn't calm, he realized, she just sounded like he felt. Only enough energy to do what had to be done, and nothing to spare right now for freaking out. "You know how to get there?"
"Yeah," Ray said, "that's where--" where they'd taken Hue and Gardie. It wasn't that far from United. "Yeah," he repeated.
She hung up, and Ray hung up too, dropping the phone with a plastic clatter. He grabbed his keys and wallet and coat and headed for the car. He drove like Fraser. Like he had the snow chains on. He felt like that, like he was driving on four flat tires, skating on dull blades. There was nothing he could do for Fraser now--useless, again. Too late to do anything but go down to the hospital, and then what? He wasn't a relative. He'd just have to call Coach or Mort to come sort out Fraser's paperwork. Even if Fraser wasn't too badly hurt, Ray was probably the last person he wanted to see right now.
Still, he was already there, so he parked in the visitors parking garage. It wasn't til he went to get out of the car that he felt the gun, still tucked into the back of his pants. He pulled it out and shoved it quickly into the glove compartment--stupid, stupid idea--and then got out and followed the signs through brightly-lit hallways to emergency, looking for Ms. Vecchio. He could at least keep her company while she waited to find out how her brother was doing.
He spotted her standing alone in the middle of a waiting area, halfway between a row of chairs and the reception desk. She had her arms wrapped around her waist, and her chin tucked down. Her hair was in a ponytail, the curly ends brushing the back of her neck, and she was wearing blue jeans and sneakers under her coat. Ray could see a glimpse of the tomboy she must have been once, collecting baseball cards, memorizing hockey stats, chasing after her big brother.
And now she'd chased him here, to an emergency room; she turned toward Ray with a wobbly smile, and his guts clenched at the memory of Gardie's funeral, meeting her there with tears on her face. She didn't seem to be wearing makeup now, looking pale under the harsh hospital lights. "Hey," she said, wiping one cheek with the back of her hand and looking away quickly.
Ray jammed his hands into his pockets and looked around, giving her a minute. "They tell you anything?"
"Not yet," she said, "just that he's here and they're working on him and I have to wait, but--" She looked up at him again, frowning. "Ray-Kay, what--"
She calls me that because her brother is Ray, he thought, as her fingers reached up to his cheek. The light touch of her fingertips, skating carefully across his skin, woke the ache, and he winced. She winced too, like a mirror, but her fingers stayed, tracing down from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth.
"What happened?" she asked, frowning. "This didn't happen in Detroit, did it?"
Ray cleared his throat, and she snatched her hand back from his lips. "Nah," he said, "but you should see the--" other guy, he couldn't say. He's in the hospital. He looked away, and Ms. Vecchio's hand touched his other cheek, feeling warm and close, skin to skin a lot nicer than the last time anyone had touched him. Not supposed to mess with girl reporters, but she'd touched him first and he just wanted to touch somebody who was really there, and she looked so lost and her hair was falling from its ponytail and she was wearing beat up old tennies.
Ray put his hand on her back and pulled her close, hugging her gingerly, and she turned her face up, her mouth finding his gently, careful not to hurt him. Ray kissed back just as carefully, brushing his lips across hers, his hands spread on the wool of her coat. He lifted his head and leaned his unhurt cheek against her forehead, and Fraser was there by the desk, white-faced, standing on his own feet without so much as a bandage anywhere on him.
The weight of fear evaporated into utter fury at the sight. Not a fucking scratch on him, and he'd fucking lied last night, fucking tossed Ray away like nothing and now here he was, just fine. Ray'd been stupid to be scared, stupid to care at all. He turned his head away, ducking down to kiss Ms. Vecchio again, holding her tighter. Her mouth opened under his, and he could almost get lost in this, almost ignore how it wasn't what he wanted at all, and then her hands flattened against his shirt and pushed. Ray let go right away, muttering, "Sorry, sorry--"
"No," she said, looking anywhere but at him, "no, I shouldn't have--" she turned away. "Fraser! Oh God, you're all right, do you know--"
Ray stood still, staring fiercely at the row of chairs, as she ran to Fraser. Ray's hands opened and closed, and he had to shut his eyes as Fraser said, "They told me he'll be all right. He saved my life."
Ray clenched his teeth hard and forced himself to keep still. Should have been him who saved Fraser's life, should have been him who took him wherever he needed to go this time, should have been him in the hospital, but Fraser had ditched him, left him behind, lied to him to get him out of the way, knocked him down to keep him from following. Well, the hell with that; Fraser wasn't his problem anymore.
Ray had to take another look; Ms. Vecchio was going back behind the desk somewhere with a nurse, and Fraser was just standing there with his hands at his sides. They'd put a hospital bracelet on him, Ray noticed, and smiled spitefully at the thought of going over there and ripping it off him, giving him a sore wrist of his own. But that would mean getting within punching distance of Benton Fraser, and Ray didn't think that was such a good idea right now. He met Fraser's eyes, and Fraser just stared at him like he didn't know who Ray was or why he was there.
Ray didn't know either. Not why he was there, if he wasn't Fraser's whatever. Not even who he was--he'd faced up to being queer because it meant he could be with Fraser, and now... Now he was number sixty-seven, he guessed, like always. Didn't matter who he played for or who he played with, his name would be on the back of his shirt. Still, he didn't wear his jersey all the time, and right now he was just some idiot standing around in a waiting room.
Ray turned away, looking around for a vending machine--he could stand some coffee before he went home, and maybe solid food. He hadn't eaten since lunch the day before, and he was hungry now. It had to be hunger, yawning empty in his gut. Had to be the caffeine craving making him twitch like a junkie. He didn't need to go over there and touch Fraser; he didn't even want to. Ray stalked down the hall, patting his pockets for change and checking the signs for some hint of where the vending machines would be.
What he spotted instead was a familiar face that he'd never wanted to see again, standing in the hallway staring at Fraser. Gerard was wearing a brown uniform this time, a heavy coat over it and no hat, but Ray still recognized him. He glanced back toward Fraser, and Fraser was just standing there looking frozen.
He was scared, at least as scared as he'd been that night in Edmonton, and for half a second Ray wanted to fix it, wanted to step between him and Gerard, wanted to protect him--but fuck that. Fraser wasn't his problem. Fraser didn't want him. Fraser could handle Mounties without Ray's help. Ray walked on to a little alcove with--thank Christ--a coffee machine. He reached into his pocket for change, but the metal his fingers touched was bullets. Ray gritted his teeth--stupid--and checked his jacket pocket instead, coming up with a handful of loose change, half of it Canadian.
He started sorting queen-quarters from president-quarters, listening to the sound of Gerard walking over to Fraser across the bare polished floor. "Ben," Gerard said, "Detective Vecchio had been in touch with me--he mentioned that the local police haven't done much to ensure your safety."
"My safety isn't actually their job any more than anyone else's is," Ben said. He sounded like his throat had been sandpapered. Ray hoped it hurt him to talk. "I willfully endangered myself and Detective Vecchio."
Ray glanced up sharply--Fraser was in a weirdly confessional mood, and Ray remembered, vaguely, that he'd said something right at the end last night about turning himself in. But Fraser was staring at his shoes, and Gerard said, "Well, son, I'm here to see you're protected properly. Why don't you come with me, if you've been discharged."
Fraser looked lost and helpless and terrified. Ray knew, if things were different, he would have jumped in and told the Mountie to take a hike. He would have said he was taking Fraser back to his place to get some rest and he would have promised to keep Fraser from doing anything stupid. He'd told Vecchio he would, and that hadn't lasted any longer than it took Fraser to get up the nerve to punch him.
Ray turned away again, punching buttons for his coffee. Fraser could tell the Mountie to fuck off if he wanted, if he really wanted. Fraser could even pretend that he and Ray were buddies, just to get out of going anywhere with Gerard, if he wanted to get away from the guy that badly. "All right," Fraser said quietly, "Yes, all right."
Ray bent over to get his coffee and looked up just in time to see Gerard take Fraser by the arm. He saw Fraser's whole body tense, screaming out fear and the instinct to run, but still Fraser didn't pull away, instead turning to walk with Gerard down the corridor toward him. Ray looked down before Fraser could meet his eyes, blowing on his coffee. He stood still and silent as they walked past, and Fraser didn't say a word to him. Gerard probably didn't even know who he was.
As soon as they were past him, Ray turned to watch, frowning. Fraser looked like he was being led away to jail, and Gerard... looked like he was leading Fraser away to jail. It was funny timing, Gerard being here now. How the hell had he even known Fraser was in the hospital, and when had he come down from the ass-end of Manitoba?
Ray took a sip of his coffee, but it was crap--what the hell buttons had he pushed? Fraser and Gerard turned a corner, disappearing from his sight, and Ray muttered, "Fuck," and chucked the coffee in the trash as he took off after them, nearly running.
"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."
Ray didn't really see anything the rest of the way back to Fraser's apartment, just drove on autopilot, Fraser's quiet words ringing in his ears like shouts. That was it, that was all. Fraser had planned that, had figured out in advance how to cut Ray's heart out with a spoon70, and there really wasn't anything more to say after that.
When he turned the car off, sitting in the parking garage, Ray had thought of just one more question. He looked over at Fraser until Fraser looked back at him, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dimness, and said, "If I'd said yes when you asked, if I'd said, something changed--"
Fraser blinked and then said, "I think you'd have been mistaken."
He turned away and got out of the car, and Ray sat still for a few more minutes, staring at nothing, until he could breathe again. Then he went over to the elevator, and found Fraser waiting there, holding it for him. "Thanks," he said, not looking at Fraser.
Fraser nodded. "It only takes an extra second to be polite," he remarked. They were all the way back to that. Polite. Strangers. Ray should have known the second Fraser said "thank you kindly" on the plane. He should have known this could never work; he was too damaged. Fraser was too damaged, though he didn't wear his right out on his skin like Ray. They'd never stood a chance.
If they could just be polite now--and if they could survive the next few days--then they could last out the year. Ray smiled a little, and then laughed, because he had to, because he couldn't bear the alternative. Fraser looked over at him, looking like he wanted to back away and there was nowhere to back away to. "Sorry," Ray said, choking back the laugh. "It's just--I never thought I'd be sorry I had a no-trade clause in my contract."
Fraser didn't smile. He just looked down at his feet. "If the situation is untenable, I will ask to be traded," he said quietly. "I already have something of a reputation in that regard."
Ray gritted his teeth. "No one's asking to be traded. We're teammates, Fraser. We can do this."
Fraser nodded, but he didn't meet Ray's eyes, and when the elevator doors opened he stepped out first, striding quickly down the hall. He stopped short at the door; Ray had his keys. He found the house key--there were only four keys on the chain--and frowned. It was new-cut, still shiny. He looked at the locks as he opened them; they were shiny too, and there was a telltale curving line on the surface of the door beside the deadbolt, where the old lock had been set slightly differently. Ray pushed the door open and stepped back to let Fraser go in, reminding himself to breathe. Fraser had already had the locks changed. He'd never been anything other than dead serious about this. There had never been any chance of anything changing.
Ray stepped inside, locked up, and then fished his own keys out of his pocket. He took Fraser's key off the ring as he walked into the kitchen and set it down on the table, in front of the chair he had always sat in. It clicked against the surface, loud in the silence; the only sound in the whole apartment was the soft white noise of the tap in the bathroom.
Ray turned away and went to the phone. He stood still a minute with his eyes shut after he picked it up, listening to the dial tone and trying to forget where he was and what was going on. He pasted a smile on his face and dragged out all the fake normalness he saved for emergencies. When he was ready, he dialed. Two rings, and his dad said, "Kowalski residence."
"Hey dad," Ray said, "It's me."
"Raymond," his dad said, like he wasn't remotely surprised to be hearing from Ray. He never sounded surprised. Ray had called a few times at four in the morning and gotten that same 'Raymond' from his dad. "What's up, son?"
"I, uh, need to ask you a favor." Ray chewed at his thumbnail, hating to have to say it; at least this much, he didn't have to fake. "The goat's in the pound."
His dad snorted. "Park it in front of a hydrant again?"
Ray's forced smile twisted. Jesus, didn't he wish. "No, it's--kind of a long story. Passenger window's broken, needs to go to Jerry's and get fixed, but I'm going out of town."
"Out of town? Thought you guys were at home tomorrow night."
Ray blinked. He'd forgotten they even had a game the next day. Jesus, he had to get his head together. "Nah," he said easily, "well--yeah, we are, but I got scratched for tomorrow night and I'm going up to Canada for a day or two. I, uh--I gotta go with Fraser. He's got this family emergency and--I gotta go with him." He was closer to telling his dad the truth about him and Fraser than he'd gotten in a long while. Funny how it didn't feel any different from all the other lies.
His dad was silent for a moment, then said, "Well, you gotta stick by your friends."
Friends was a pretty big stretch. Teammates. Teammates was really the best he could do, but that much was true. That much had to be true. "Yeah," he said, "Yeah, I do."
"Well, you look out for Fraser, son. I think your mother kind of likes that one."
She did, Ray knew for a fact. She'd made him cookies. The fact that his dad mentioned it meant that he liked Fraser, too. Who wouldn't? His stomach churned, and he hunched over a little, trying to still it, trying not to think about liking Fraser. Liking didn't matter. Teammates mattered. "Yeah, Dad," Ray muttered. "Yeah, I will."
There was a little silence, and then Ray heard François barking in the background. "Dog wants to say hi," his dad observed.
"Yeah," Ray said, closing his eyes, embarrassed at how happy he was to hear it, "Just for a minute, I gotta go soon."
The next thing he heard was François barking, much closer to the receiver, and his smile turned real, something easing inside him. "François! Eh, François, ferme-toi la trappe!71" François quieted, and Ray felt the same rush of pride and joy he did every time François remembered him. "Bon, c'est bon72. I'll be home soon, all right? I'll see you then. Je t'aime73, François." François barked once, sharply. This was an old ritual, all the way back to Stella holding the phone into the closet back in Quebec. "Je t'aime, pitou poche74." Two barks. "Sois bon!75 Je t'aime! Au revoir, François!" A whole volley of barks, trailing off as François obediently left the phone.
"You got a crazy dog, son," his dad said, and Ray found it easier to smile now, even for his dad. "You don't worry about him, or about the goat, all right? I'll take care of things. Give us a call when you get back."
"Yeah," Ray said, "I will. Thanks. Oh, and--if you see anything on the news about hockey players--that was me and Fraser, but we're okay. Tell mom not to worry. It wasn't a big deal, we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, had to talk to some cops."
Another silence from his dad, and then, "I'll tell her, son. You try and stay out of trouble, all right?"
"Yeah," Ray said, and there he was, right back to telling his old man bald-faced lies. "I will. Bye."
His dad said, "Bye," and hung up, and Ray clicked off and got up to check on Fraser. He was packing, now, folding stuff into his duffel bag. He had a suit lying on the bed, and Ray made a mental note to pack his own. He'd never watched Fraser pack for a trip before. He'd never bothered. It had seemed nosy. But in the locker room he'd seen Fraser naked, seen him packing up his gear, dozens of times, just like he'd seen twenty other guys. This was no different, now. Nothing was any different now. Leaning in the doorway, watching Fraser ignore him, Ray dialed the phone again.
"Welsh."
Ray watched Fraser take things out of his drawer, shake them from their perfect folds, and then fold them again to put them in the bag. Ray should have known, really. Nobody whose underwear drawer involved right angles was going to want to put up with Ray Kowalski for long. "Hey Coach," Ray said, "it's Kowalski."
Fraser looked up sharply at that, his eyes wide, and Ray couldn't deal with Fraser looking back at him. He turned away as Coach said gruffly, "Kowalski. Mort told me he wants you scratched tomorrow."
"Yeah," Ray said, "yeah, I guess--I think I got the flu, is the thing."
"The flu," Coach repeated, sounding beyond skeptical and all the way out the other side to 'I know you're lying to me, I just don't know why.' "Kowalski, did you by chance catch this flu from Fraser?"
"Yeah," Ray said, walking back out to the living room, feeling angry with Fraser for making him lie to Coach but too tired to care much anymore, "I guess I probably did."
"Probably," Coach said, and Ray heard the rattle of his bottle of antacids. "Kowalski--"
Ray nodded. "I'll look out for him."
"What is it with you two? Kowalski, Fraser is a grown man. If you've got some kind of weird Canadian flu, you just look out for yourself, you got me? I wanna see you at practice day after tomorrow in one piece, and that is all I want from you. Understood?"
Ray smiled a little, even if he wasn't planning on taking that advice any more than he'd been planning on actually staying home when he was scratched. "Understood, Coach. But, uh. It might be a pretty bad case."
Coach sighed. "If you're out sick for long, you're gonna get benched again, maybe even sent down to Indy. You know that."
Ray nodded as Fraser walked out of the bedroom, carrying his duffel bag. Ray looked at his eyes and then away. "Yeah, I know, but--nothing I can do now but let it run its course. In fact, I gotta go now."
"No you don't," Coach said sharply. "You gotta hand the phone to Fraser now."
Ray bit his lip and gave Fraser an apologetic look, but he held out the phone. Fraser went a shade paler as he took it. "Benton Fraser," he said, like Coach might not know who he was. "Yes, sir. No, sir. No. No, sir. Yes." He didn't look at Ray the whole time, but Ray could feel Fraser's attention on him anyway, even as Fraser's shoulders curled and his head bent lower. Getting a strip torn off him, Ray guessed. He reached out his hand for the phone, beckoning, but Fraser said, "Yes, I see. Goodbye," and hung it up.
Ray sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets, running his fingers over the hard angles of Fraser's keys. "We done here?"
Fraser said, "I have to make another call."
Ray jerked his chin toward the door. "You can call from my place. Come on, time's wasting."
Fraser hesitated, then set the phone down and led the way to the door.
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 difficult--this was going to get.
He crossed the room quickly, stopping beside the bed to look in the night stand drawer. Tissues, hand lotion, lube, condoms. You couldn't argue with Smithbauer's hospitality. Ray grabbed the lotion and slammed the drawer shut. Fraser flinched at the sound, and Ray muttered, "Sorry," as he climbed onto the bed, straddling Fraser's hips without touching him.
He ran his fingers down Fraser's back, pressing experimentally. He was all seized up, muscles rock-hard under Ray's touch, and he turned his face into the pillow the first time Ray used any pressure. Trying to go easy would just make it worse, Ray knew; he'd been on the other end of more than one desperately necessary rubdown in the course of his career. He squeezed some lotion into his palm and rubbed it between his hands, trying to ignore the combination of the skin-slick sound and Fraser's body, stretched out beneath him nearly naked.
He set his hands to Fraser's shoulders first, shifting his weight forward, using it to force a little ease into Fraser's muscles. Fraser shuddered, making a low pillow-muffled noise, abruptly cut off, and Ray had to bite his lip to keep from echoing it. Fraser's skin was hot under his hands and his body was familiar in every detail--he knew the back of Fraser's neck, the curl of his hair, the pale fineness of his skin. Ray kept his hands moving, trying to focus his attention on the ugly bruises on Fraser's back, trying to tell himself the sounds Fraser made were only pain and the release of pain and nothing else at all. His dick didn't listen, though, and he was hard in his jeans by the time he'd worked halfway down. There was sweat on his palms and sweat beading in the small of Fraser's back, easing the way as he rubbed lower. He could smell Fraser now, and Fraser's skin and sweat smelled like sex to him. His dick was throbbing in his jeans, almost painful, and he tried desperately to ignore it, focusing all his attention on his hands.
He dug the heels of his hands into the small of Fraser's back, and Fraser jerked, arching almost convulsively. His ass brushed Ray's crotch, and Ray's hips jerked instinctively, following Fraser's body. Fraser didn't pull away, and Ray clenched his eyes shut and bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood. When he finally managed to push himself up, out of contact, he felt Fraser shifting beneath him, spreading his thighs slightly apart.
Ray opened his eyes, looking down. Fraser had drawn up his arms, folding them under the pillow, and was lying still with his legs parted, waiting for something. Ray said, "Fraser," sharply, normally, the way he would in the locker room. They were teammates now, nothing more; maybe for a second Fraser had forgotten that.
Fraser tucked his head further into the pillow, arching his hips up, spreading his legs further, and Ray licked blood from his lip and closed his eyes again. It wasn't an invitation, not in any good way, not if Fraser wouldn't even raise his head. It was just something Fraser would let him have, if he asked for it. Something Fraser probably thought he owed him. "Fuck," Ray whispered hoarsely, and he ran his hands in a last hard pass over Fraser's back. "Fuck."
Fraser didn't say a word, didn't move, and Ray wiped his slick hands on the sheets and pushed himself up to stand beside the bed. "Fraser--I gotta take a shower. Go to sleep."
Fraser still didn't move, and Ray wondered how hard--difficult--it would be to convince himself that Fraser had fallen asleep while Ray was working on him, that it had all been instinct, reflex, that Fraser's body had just been reacting out of habit. He turned away from the sight of Fraser on the bed, and figured he was about to find out.
Ben remained frozen still on the bed until he heard the bedroom door click shut. He'd been waiting for a slam, but Ray had pulled it closed almost gently, to judge by the sound. He let himself turn his face free of the pillow then, gasping for breath. He curled onto his side, noting that his back felt much better as his hand slid into his boxers. His cock was painfully hard, already wet at the tip, and he closed his hand around it desperately. He let himself groan as he heard the shower start, stroking himself quickly. Ray's proximity and the pleasure-pain his hands had wrought had pushed him nearly to the brink, and it wouldn't take much to finish him. He just had time to notice that shame, like pain, did nothing to lessen the pleasure, and then he was coming all over his fingers.
He lay still a moment, catching his breath, and finally dared to open his eyes on the barely-familiar sight of Mark's guest room. He hadn't slept here since... since the night Dief had died. Pushing that thought away, he opened the night table drawer with his free hand and pulled out tissues to clean himself up. He flexed experimentally, but his back didn't seem inclined to freeze up on him again. Ben rolled out of bed, tossing the tissues in the trash as he went to his bag and retrieved a clean pair of boxers, pulling them on quickly. He shut off the light on his way back to the bed, laying down carefully just where Ray had left him, leaving plenty of room on the other side of the bed.
In the dark, with only the sound of the running shower breaking the silence, he was suddenly stricken with the sense of being alone in a strange place. The thought of seeing Sergeant Frobisher the next morning pressed upon him as it had on the plane, speeding his heart and drying his mouth. He shut his eyes and tried to think of nothing at all but the weariness that dragged at his body. If he feigned sleep, it would come. It was a familiar, comforting lie, and Ben clung to it in the dark, breathing deeply and waiting for Ray to return.
Ray considered jerking off in the shower, but his dick didn't want anything but Fraser lately--the touch of him, the thought of him--and if he was going to go there now he might as well have stayed and fucked him. Anyway, it was Smithbauer's shower, and the thought of that gave Ray the creeps. He was so tired that by the time he'd given it half a thought his dick had pretty much given up on the idea anyway, which was probably for the best.
He scrubbed down with a bar of soap and a washcloth, running the soap through his hair instead of using the baby shampoo that sat on the edge of the tub. It was an old bottle, half-used, and Ray would've bet anything Smithbauer bought it and kept it for Fraser.
After he was clean he just stood there a long time, staring at the tile and trying to brace himself to go back to the guest room and sleep. He turned up the hot water a few times, but eventually it went cold and he had to get out. His fingers and feet were all wrinkled and water-logged, and the bathroom was like a sauna. He stood dripping on the mat as he dried off, scrubbing his hair into spikes, and only then realized he hadn't stopped for clean clothes on his way out of the room. He eyed the stuff he'd been wearing, but he couldn't really stand the though of putting it back on. Instead, he tucked a towel around his hips and wrapped his dirty clothes into a little bundle.
He stood for a minute at the door of the guest room, and then he turned and kept walking, out into Smithbauer's kitchen. He'd left the light on over the stove, just enough for Ray to navigate to the fridge. He dropped his clothes on the counter and opened it up, rubbing his stomach idly. He couldn't remember when he'd eaten last--probably that vending-machine sandwich the cops had given him when his stomach started growling loud enough to be picked up on the tape. Most of the food in Smithbauer's fridge seemed to be leftover takeout of various kinds, though, which made Ray nervous. On the other hand, there was beer.
A hand landed on his hip, and he jerked up; Smithbauer's other hand caught the top of his head and stopped it from smacking into the freezer door. "Hey, Kowie, reach me a cold one."
Ray gritted his teeth, but reached into the fridge and pulled out two beers, pulling away from Smithbauer even as he handed one over. Smithbauer, who was still fully dressed down to jacket and shoes, stood close beside him, smiling. Ray bared his teeth in a false smile and backed away to the counter, leaning against it as he opened his bottle. Smithbauer pushed the fridge door shut and leaned against it, looking Ray up and down; Ray raised his chin and let him, taking a swig of his beer instead of clutching at the towel. He wasn't going to blink. He wasn't going to run. He was going to drink his goddamn beer.
"So I see you already wore Ben out," Smithbauer said, nodding in the direction of the guest room. "Guess neither of you are up to going all night anymore, huh?" His look was knowing, and Ray thought sourly, Yeah, you fucked us both. Somebody should give you a medal.
He lowered his beer, cocking one hip out to lean more comfortably, like he didn't give a fuck how he looked, like he was wearing just as many clothes as Smithbauer, and said in the best bored voice he could manage, "I was twenty-four and I hadn't seen my wife in two months, Smithbauer. Don't be all proud of yourself."
Smithbauer half-laughed and took another pull of his beer, his eyes never leaving Ray. Ray looked away like he didn't give a fuck, like it wasn't even worth staring back, running his eyes over the cupboards and shelves, the box of Lucky Charms sitting next to the toaster. He squinted at it, trying to remember what the French text on the box said, and then Smithbauer was saying, "You know if you need a second round--" in Ray's ear. His hand was trailing down Ray's chest toward the towel.
For a half second Ray hesitated, sucking in a breath, and Smithbauer's hand kept sliding lower, and the beer sloshed sickeningly in his stomach, and Ray didn't have to fucking do this anymore. He shoved wildly at Smithbauer, snarling, "Hands off." He managed to knock Smithbauer back far enough to get his hand away, and Smithbauer stood there for a second, half-smiling at Ray.
"Hey, Kowie's finally grown a pair." Ray scowled at him, chugging the rest of his beer without taking his eyes off Smithbauer. "Or--does Bent let you borrow his when he's not using 'em?" Smithbauer darted in again, hand aiming lower this time, and Ray jerked his knee up and barely remembered not to swing the hand holding the bottle, shoving him back with his open hand instead.
"Fuck off, Smithbauer, Jesus." Ray slammed the bottle down on the counter. "What part of no don't you understand?"
Smithbauer gave him a slow wicked smile. "Just the part where you never said it before, Kowalski."
Ray stood frozen, glaring at him for a moment, and then shook his head, turned and walked away, grabbing his clothes as he went. He jerked open the door of the guest room, startled to find it dark and quiet, and hesitated, blinking and trying to remember where exactly he'd left his bag.
The light next to the bed clicked on, though Fraser was still careful not to look at him. Ray felt half-sick at the thought of getting into that bed, but he wasn't going to put it past Smithbauer to come peeking in the door in the middle of the night. He jammed his dirty clothes into a side pocket, pulling out the scrub pants he'd brought to sleep in. He cast another glance at Fraser--the covers had slipped down, showing his bare back--and then pulled out a t-shirt as well, yanking it on before he went to bed.
He flipped the covers back on his side and crawled in, sticking close to the edge, careful not to touch Fraser, who lay turned away on his own side. His head touched the pillow and Ray only had time to realize it had been more than forty hours since he'd slept before he was finally out of his misery.
Ben heard the long sigh of Ray slipping into sleep, familiar from a dozen nights before. Even when he wasn't in such a black mood, Ray seemed to give in to sleep as to an adversary, his body going slack in surrender only after a protracted resistance. Now the sudden absence of tension was palpable, and Ben drew a cautious breath, allowing himself to relax. Perhaps, with Ray beside him, he might sleep after all, however illusory the comfort of his presence might be.
He heard the movement of the covers as Ray shifted positions--Ray's mobile way of sleeping was also achingly familiar--and barely had time to smile before Ray's hand found his side. He caught his breath as Ray moved still closer, pressing himself up against Ben's back, his groin snugged chastely against Ben's buttocks, his breath stirring Ben's hair. He was tempted for a moment to say something, suspicious of whether Ray was asleep at all, but he couldn't fathom Ray being so cruel as to do something like this intentionally. It was only habit, only bodily instinct, that could move Ray to touch him this way now, unfettered by higher reason. Ray would never knowingly lie so close to him again.
Ben knew he ought to push Ray away, find some way to sleep separately from him; he was tempted to turn, to hold Ray just once more with the excuse of sleep. The middle course lay in stillness, doing nothing, not so much as reaching up to cover Ray's hand where it rested on his stomach, just above his boxers. Ben closed his eyes and tried to forget the particulars of their situation. Slowly, the torment of Ray's touch faded into familiarity, and familiarity into sleep.
Ray woke up alone in the bed and reached out into the space where Ben should be. He'd left the covers flipped back, so the bed was cold, and Ray turned his face down into the pillow as he dragged all the covers over himself, ready to wallow a few more minutes.
The pillow smelled wrong--he wasn't at home, and he wasn't at Ben's--
Fraser's. He wasn't at Fraser's. He was at Smithbauer's, and Fraser must have already gotten up to take a shower. Ray rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, squirming in the unaccustomed constriction of a t-shirt over his sleep pants.
Probably no point in hoping he hadn't gotten embarrassingly grabby in his sleep; luckily he'd bet dollars to donuts Fraser was so freaked out that he'd just pretend nothing had happened at all, so Ray could pretend too. He was wide awake now, and they definitely had things to do today. Ray rolled out of bed and headed for the kitchen. There would be coffee. After coffee he could figure out getting dressed.
The shower was running when Ray passed the bathroom, but otherwise the house was silent; Smithbauer must have left already for practice. Ray scowled again, thinking of the night before, and then he walked into the kitchen to find a pot of coffee still warming and was prepared to forgive just about everything.
He was still huddled over his mug--black, with as much sugar as he could dissolve into it--when Fraser walked into the kitchen. He was wearing a suit, and despite the fact that Ray knew for a fact it had to have been jammed into a duffle bag, he couldn't see a crease on it. Fraser looked squeaky-clean and perfect. Ray instantly decided not to shave. There wasn't going to be any way around looking like he'd spent the night in the drunk tank--he was pretty sure he'd forgotten to pack a tie--so he might as well work the look.
Fraser barely looked at him before opening the fridge and quickly closing it again.
"There's coffee," Ray offered, though he suspected Fraser would consider that worse than nothing for breakfast.
"Thank you," Fraser said, actually looking at him this time. Ray looked down at his coffee, gulping it. "But I believe I'm quite awake enough already."
Ray squinted at Fraser. He was pale, moving too fast for Ray to tell if he was shaking. "Fraser, you okay with this?"
Fraser turned away, rummaging through cupboards as he said, "I'm fine, Ray."
Ray sucked down more coffee, studying the set of Fraser's shoulders. Nervous, but not terrified like Ray would've expected the day they were going to meet Frobisher. "Frobisher, he's okay? You trust him? I know you don't like him."
"It's irrational," Fraser said, like that meant anything, still opening and closing cupboards that only held plates. "He's a good man."
Ray sighed, turned around, and opened a cupboard. Shredded Wheat would probably work. Ray took the box down and set it on the counter halfway between him and Fraser, loudly enough to make Fraser turn around. "Ah," Fraser said, looking at him cautiously. "Thank you."
Not kindly, at least. It felt like progress. Ray smiled a little and ran a hand over his hair. "You're welcome," he said.
"I didn't tell Frobisher I was bringing anyone with me," Fraser said, looking down at the cereal box. "So if he's not to be trusted..."
Ray nodded. "I've got your back."
Fraser nodded without looking up, and Ray said, "I should go get dressed."
In the end he shaved, and stuck his head under the tap so he could get his hair into some kind of order--if it was going to stick straight up, he'd rather have it all sticking straight up in roughly the same direction--and found a crumpled tie jammed into one pocket of his suit coat. His suit was wrinkled and the bruise on his cheek was going green at the edges, but Fraser's smile when he looked at Ray was half-genuine, even if it was just amusement, and that was something.
They took a cab into the city and then walked two blocks to a seedy boarding house. Ray hadn't even known Winnipeg had seedy boarding houses, but there it was. They walked up to the second floor, Ben knocked at a particular door, and it opened a couple of inches to show a sliver of an old guy in a flannel shirt and jeans, with one crazy eye and a shock of white hair standing straight up from his head.
Ray suddenly felt right at home.
"Benton," the guy--Frobisher, apparently--said. "I see you've brought company."
"Yes," Fraser said, "this is--"
"Come in, come in," Frobisher said, pulling the door open. Fraser stepped inside and Ray followed him. There was a sagging bed that didn't look like it had been slept in, a table and a single chair.
Fraser shook Frobisher's hand and then turned toward Ray. "This is--"
"Ray Kowalski, of course," Frobisher said, reaching out a hand for Ray to shake. His grip was strong, and he looked Ray straight in the eye. Ray looked back, giving him a little nod. "You've played some damn fine hockey, son."
Ray blinked, feeling oddly flattered. "Uh, thanks." When Frobisher finally let go of his hand, Ray went and sat down lightly near the foot of the bed. Frobisher went to the table, which had papers scattered across it, and Ben stood beside him. Still nervous, Ray thought, but not completely terrified. Frobisher wasn't all done up in Mountie gear like Gerard had been the first time Ray had seen him; maybe that helped. Maybe Fraser even found it reassuring to have Ray there, watching his back. Weirder things had happened.
"All right," Frobisher said, focusing all his attention on Fraser. "First things first: as of this morning, Gerard is back at work. Apparently there will be a pro forma inquiry held sometime next week, but he hasn't been suspended in the meantime. The official view is that this is no more than a paperwork irregularity."
Fraser's fist clenched. "A man is dead--"
"Two of them," Frobisher corrected. "Drake and your father. I know. That's why I'm here. I spent a good deal of time trying to work out what could have driven Gerard to do this thing. He had opportunity--he clearly has very little oversight here--and method--Drake--but he'd have needed a powerful motive."
Ray watched Fraser. His jaw was working, and Ray knew he wanted to ask why, why--this was the big moment, finding out why his dad was dead. He knew Fraser was never going to get that word out of his mouth. "So?" Ray said, "Why?"
Frobisher glanced at him, like he'd never for a second forgotten Ray was there, and then down at the papers on the table. "Money," he said quietly.
"Money?" Fraser repeated, sounding half-unstrung. "No, no--that's why Drake, because he was paid, but Gerard--"
"Drake got quite a bit of money," Frobisher said firmly, "but Gerard got more. I'm sorry, Benton. It's ugly and petty, but it's the way of things." Frobisher sifted through some of the sheets in front of him, then picked up a little leather-bound book. "It was hell figuring out exactly what had been going on--your father didn't record any of it directly, but when I looked back through his journals I was able to find notations he'd made on past entries in the month before he died. Items relating to a flood, a dam, a herd of caribou dying, and three entries relating the results of poker games."
"Poker," Fraser repeated, and Ray could hear the hysteria about to burst through. From the way Frobisher looked at Fraser, he could hear it too.
"We used to play poker with Gerard--two hands is no good, but three hands is good enough to be entertaining. Gerard was a terrible poker player: you could always tell when he had a winning hand." Frobisher tapped the journal against the table and looked down, not meeting Fraser's eyes. "Your father used to bet against him on purpose even when he knew Gerard was holding all the cards. He was mortally certain that sooner or later, Gerard was going to be bluffing."
"But he wasn't," Fraser said, his voice gone dead and hollow. "He won the last round."
Frobisher nodded. "They were building a hydroelectric dam up above Churchill. Your father was killed in a valley not two miles from the project. The second phase opened six months after he died; that valley is now permanently flooded. The people around there must have known what was happening, and that's smack in the middle of caribou herding grounds. The caribou must have been dying in the thousands. At first, it would only have flooded occasionally; when the water wasn't actually present, the only sign would have been the dead caribou."
"Gerard must have known," Fraser said quietly. "And they--paid him to keep quiet. Money. It's all just money."
"Yes," Frobisher said softly, "but they couldn't have bought your father. I've seen him empty out his pockets and hock his boots just for the chance of proving a point against Gerard. Money never mattered to him."
Fraser rubbed his face with both hands, turning his back on Frobisher and Ray both. Frobisher went back to sorting through papers. "So--Gerard formally closed the case back in early November, and then just over a week ago, this business with Drake got started in Chicago."
"He approached me," Fraser said quietly, his voice steady. "He must have known he was in the clear. He was bragging. I--" Fraser looked over at Ray and corrected himself, "We spoke to Detective Vecchio, and he agreed to look into the matter. A few days later I was beaten on the street by men who knew my name and wished me to mind my own business."
Ray glanced at Frobisher, who looked like a great poker player. "I see. Well, that makes sense as far as it goes, but it's clear Gerard and Drake were in contact--Gerard wouldn't have come to Chicago if he didn't know he'd have the chance to get rid of Drake--and potentially yourself into the bargain. I can't imagine that Drake would have contacted Gerard to tell him he'd fouled things up, but--"
"Oh, fuck," Ray said, and both Fraser and Frobisher turned to look at him, startled. Ray felt his face going hot, his stomach twisting into knots, and he lowered his head into his hands and said, "Fuck," again. It didn't help.
"It was me," Ray said, picking his head up, looking Fraser in the eye. "I told Vecchio to talk to Gerard, I called him after you got beat up to let him know what was going on, and I--" The complete irony hit him, and Ray smiled and raised his chin, forcing himself not to look away from Fraser's wide eyes. "I wanted to save you from having to talk to Vecchio about it. I wanted to protect you."
Fraser's lips twisted in acknowledgment and Ray had to look away. Fraser probably wouldn't actually say anything about the pot calling the kettle black in front of Frobisher, but--fuck, Ray had almost gotten them both killed. Finally Fraser said, "Ray," and Ray looked back at him. Fraser shook his head a little. "Don't. I would have said the same myself if you'd asked me."
Ray bit his lip and nodded, looking away from Fraser to see Frobisher watching them both intently. "Well," Frobisher said finally, "Now that we've got that sorted out, here's what we're going to do."
Ben sat at Mark's kitchen table looking at the phone, bracing himself to dial. Hard to believe, after so many fruitless phone calls, that a plan to actually accomplish something would begin the same way.
Ray cleared his throat and Ben looked over at him, sitting at the other end of the table. He nodded toward the door. "I can--"
"No," Ben said, "It's all right. You're not bothering me."
Ray smiled thinly, and Ben grimaced back. It hadn't been so long since they'd been unable to resist one another's company--even now, however he denied it, Ben hungered for Ray's presence. He forced himself not to wonder whether Ray felt a similar pull; Ben had made his choice, and Ray had most emphatically ratified it. That was finished now. Not bothering one another was good.
Ray looked away, his shoulders tight, fingers drumming at the table. "I don't--" he said, and then cut himself off sharply.
Ben turned the phone over in his hands, choosing his words. "If you think this is a bad plan..." He knew enough to know his own judgement was not precisely objective now; perhaps he was overcompensating, perhaps he was trusting Frobisher too much, too eager to snare Gerard and avenge his father.
Ray shook his head but still didn't look back. "It's a good plan," he said firmly, and then exhaled shortly, not quite a laugh. "I mean, for all I know. But it's not--I don't think we shouldn't do it," Ray said, and Ben could see him raising his fingers to his mouth as though shepherding the words, being careful they came out correctly. It made his chest hurt to see Ray being careful; he wanted to take back what he'd said that night that had made Ray so cautious of his words, but if he started taking things back he'd never stop. Safer never to start. "I just don't like it," Ray finally said, meeting Ben's eyes. He shrugged stiffly. "That's all. I don't like it."
Ben nodded slowly. "Thank you," he said, and Ray's lips quirked into a wry smile.
"You're welcome," he said, and nodded to the phone. "Are you sure I'm not...?"
"No," Ben said. He thought about clarifying that--No, you're not, No, I'm not sure--but he couldn't decide which he meant. He hid his uncertainty in action, punching in numbers long since memorized.
"Chief Superintendent Gerard's office, Constable Corbin speaking."
It was familiar, so very familiar. Ben took a breath. "Good afternoon, Constable. This is Benton Fraser. I'd like to speak to the Superintendent."
He was ready to bully his way through as he'd always had to. When Corbin said, "Just one moment, please," he felt as unbalanced as if he'd gone to check a man who wasn't there.
Less than a minute passed before the familiar voice said, "Gerard here," in his ear.
Ben glanced up at Ray as he said, "Superintendent Gerard." Ray was smiling suddenly with the exhilaration of a faceoff, the moment before puck drop when possibility spread out in every direction like the fresh ice, and Ben felt himself smiling back.
Ray mouthed "Bingo," as Ben said, "I need to speak with you, in person." The plan was underway.
Ray kept silent through about half the flight, just stealing occasional glances at the Mountie in the seat beside him. Fraser seemed to be right about Frobisher being okay, and he looked and acted as much like a hockey coach as anything, which only made Ray more inclined to do as he said.
Still. Ray shifted in his seat, glancing around the tiny plane, and said, "I really don't like this plan."
"So you've said," Frobisher replied.
Fraser had gone up alone, without them, and no matter how much Frobisher said it had to work this way, Ray really, really didn't like it. "And don't think that 'ace in the hole' speech is going to make me feel any better about it," Ray added.
Frobisher snorted. "I don't give a damn how you feel about it, son. I only care whether it works."
Ray grinned. Yeah, Frobisher and Welsh had a thing or two in common. "Team effort," Ray muttered, just loudly enough to be heard over the engine noise, "just doing my part. Sixty minutes. One game at a time."
Frobisher smiled. "That's the spirit, Kowalski."
Ray nodded, unfolding his arms far enough to pat the pockets of the heavy coat he'd borrowed from some Mountie in Winnipeg. The papers crinkled, and he could feel the outline of his glasses. The gun Frobisher had handed over to him rode in a shoulder holster, and Ray had already practiced drawing it a hundred times. He had everything he'd need, if Fraser needed him.
Folding his arms again, he muttered, "I really don't like this plan."
Frobisher sighed and said, "It's the only one we've got."
In accordance with the plan, Ben arrived first. He parked the rented truck in the turnout and hopped over the guardrail, walking a few meters down the slope through the snow. He'd been here before, the fall after his father died. There had been snow on the ground then, too, and Ben had trudged through it to the very spot, as nearly as he could figure it--it had been two months by then, and he had imagined that rain and snow had washed the bloodstains away.
Snow and rain and a healthy portion of Hudson Bay, now. Drowning caribou, covering the evidence. Even from here he could see the dark finger of water in the valley, covering the spot where his father had died, destroying the evidence for good and all. So tidy, that the scheme that killed him covered its own tracks.
But the dam hadn't killed him; the water hadn't killed him. Men had killed him, for money. It was unfathomable. Ben stood a while longer, staring down at the still water, rimmed with ice and snow, until he heard another truck stop in the turnout.
Frobisher had said that if Gerard offered to meet him somewhere sane--Winnipeg, or the Churchill detachment headquarters, for instance, or any populated place anywhere in Canada--it would be a sign that their work would be difficult. It would mean Gerard was prepared to stick to his guns, to bluff on a hand he and Ben both knew was worthless.
But, as Frobisher had said, Gerard had never been that good a poker player; he'd quickly agreed to meet Ben here, on a lonely stretch of road near this particular valley-turned-estuary. Ben waited until he heard the engine shut off and footsteps emerging. Gerard didn't hop the rail and join him, though; he had the high ground and he wouldn't surrender it. Ben took a last look toward the valley floor where his father had died and then turned and walked up to the road.
Gerard was standing there between the trucks, waiting for him, and Ben nodded toward the water. "It was something to do with this, wasn't it? The dam? That's why you killed him here. He knew what was happening."
Gerard betrayed no surprise, and Frobisher had told him what that would mean. The plan was working; all he had to do was keep talking, though it sickened him to be proven right. "Most people around here knew," Gerard said, "They earn their livings off it. People want homes, jobs--not everyone's lucky enough to play a game for a living, son."
Ben gritted his teeth. Money, this was all about money, and Gerard would have him believe it was dam workers he was concerned about. "No," Ben said, "some people hunt it, when it's not being drowned on the hoof."
Gerard smiled a little, as though Ben were joking with him. "And now they hunt somewhere else, or they work. Everything changes, and progress has its price."
"And so did you," Ben said, his voice cold as that dark dead water in the valley, covering corpses. "They paid you to keep quiet. He was going to turn you in."
Gerard smiled at him like he was a child. "That's what you'd like to think, isn't it, son? Good guys and bad guys, black shirts versus white shirts. But your father and I, we both wore red. It wasn't easy to convince him to take the money, but he did."
Ben shook his head. "You expect anyone to believe that a man with a son in the NHL--"
"He was proud, Ben, you and I both know that. Did he ever accept gifts from you?"
He hadn't, not gifts like that. If he'd given a damn about money, he might have, but he hadn't. Gerard took a bank book from his pocket and held it out, and Ben took a step forward, putting himself just close enough to knock it out of Gerard's hand. Gerard raised an eyebrow, but said, "Finally, a piece of evidence you don't want to look at. I should have told you the truth months ago. Your father got guilty when he saw what was happening to the land, couldn't live with it. He wanted out. They wanted me to do it myself, but I couldn't. I made the call."
"So you hired a man to kill him." Ben's voice shook, and he wasn't bluffing; he felt on the verge of collapse. It was monstrous. To think he'd feared Frobisher for so many years; at least when Frobisher killed a man he'd done it honestly, with his own hands. "You were his friend, you--" You played poker with him, Ben thought, but he choked the words back. He couldn't give away the game, not now. It was almost over.
"He was a good man, Ben," Gerard said, "A hell of a lot better than me--"
"But Drake wasn't," Ben interrupted. "Him you could murder. He was easier."
Gerard frowned at him, and Ben knew he'd deviated from Gerard's game plan. Ben wasn't supposed to care about Drake.
"You murdered him," Ben repeated. "The knife was on the ground."
Gerard said, "I was trying to protect you, son. It would have been better if you never knew."
Ben laughed, half-choking on the sounds that wrenched from his throat, and before he could force himself to stop he heard Frobisher shout from behind him, "That's enough, Ben, thank you. Gerard--"
It happened fast. He'd been watching for the gun--Frobisher had warned him to watch for it--but he never saw it until Gerard was holding it on him, the muzzle cold against his cheek. He closed his eyes, the cold of the gun spreading through him, turning him numb. He barely heard Gerard's command, just followed the tug on his arm until he was turned with his back to Gerard's front in a sick parody of an embrace, one of Gerard's arms curled around his chest and the other holding the gun to the soft spot just under his jaw.
Ben opened his eyes to see Frobisher holding--yes, of course, a rifle. Frobisher's plan hadn't included this contingency, not explicitly. He saw Frobisher's lips moving--calling out instructions, or perhaps trying to negotiate with Gerard--but they'd pushed too hard, bet too much on a trick play. The gun was the only spot on his body Ben could feel, the dull pain of metal against his jawbone. Everywhere else he was numb, cold creeping in from the edges, vision narrowing--he remembered the night he'd almost frozen to death, and he knew again that he was going to die. There was no hammering panic now, no rush, just a spreading cold certainty.
It was all over now but the shouting. Gerard would pull the trigger, and Ben would die just like Victoria had, bullet blasting out the top of his head, perhaps leaving most of his face intact as his shot had left hers--they'd asked him if he wanted an open casket; they could have managed it. Perhaps that was the price of justice, all killers killed at last. Frobisher would pull the trigger too, and Gerard's face would disappear in a spray of red, as Muldoon's had. Everything came around again, the loop closed, his whole life ruled by Mounties and guns and fear, ending here and now.
There was just one unknown quantity, one unpredictable element. Ben tore his darkening gaze from Frobisher, looking up to the hillside above the road until his eyes caught the bright flash of blond hair against the snow. Ray, crouching in the cover of a few snow-covered rocks. He was wearing his glasses and scowling, like he had that day in the parking garage. His hands were bare, though Ben couldn't see the scars at this distance. They opened and closed spasmodically, and when Ben looked back to Ray's face he could see the frustration and fury there. Ray could, in the end, do nothing to stop this.
Ray had never seen a man die, Ben was fairly certain. He had recoiled from Drake's corpse, and his life had not been stained with violence as Ben's had--not real violence, not the kind that killed. Violence had only ever been a kind of game for Ray, played fairly and passionately, governed by rules, bounded by gentlemanly niceties. Horrible to think that would all change today, because of Ben. Because Ray, his good-hearted teammate, had been so determined to stay with him, to help him.
Ben blinked. Ray was gesturing at him emphatically, and it took a moment for him to understand. Ray was pointing at him, mouthing... "You. You. Go."
Ben blinked, and lowered his eyes to Frobisher again, trying to think above the rifle and the gun, trying to understand Ray's signal. They'd always read one another so well, from the first moment they played together. And then he realized: Ray wanted Ben to make the first move and end the stalemate.
Ray was safe, up there on the hillside. No one would hurt him. Gerard didn't even know Ray was there. So Ben need not fear for Ray, and for himself... Gerard and Frobisher were both ignoring him, talking to each other, both equally certain that Ben was too terrified to move, a nonentity, a mere chip in their game. The gun jammed under his jaw hurt less than most things--less than his back, less than a broken foot. He had played through far worse. Ben blinked his eyes clear, and he could see the snow and the sky, the hill to one side of the road and the valley dropping away to the other, and he could hear Gerard snarling in his ear like a cornered animal.
There was a strange sensation moving through him, tingling like heat in his arms and legs, urging him to move. It wasn't like the moment he'd faced Victoria, when he'd known he could do anything because the best of himself was dead already. It wasn't despair. Ben blinked, and felt himself smile a little.
He wasn't afraid. He was angry.
He looked up at Ray and shifted one arm in Gerard's grip to brush his thumb along his nose. Ray grinned back fiercely and mirrored the gesture, and then Ben burst into motion, shoving Gerard's gun aside with one hand, driving the opposite elbow into the center of his chest. One wild shot was fired, and Gerard shouted and struggled, but Ben was younger, bigger, stronger. He exulted in his power--the gun didn't mean anything except that Gerard couldn't take him in a fair fight, the uniform didn't mean anything except that Gerard needed something to hide behind. Ben pushed and Gerard fell back, he pulled and the gun was in his hand. The next time he drew breath he was standing steady in front of Gerard, holding the gun to Gerard's forehead.
"I ought to kill you," he said, grinning giddily. "You know that? I ought to blow your fucking head off." Gerard's eyes were wide, and Ben could see the fear on him. He knew that fear. He'd felt that fear. He hoped Gerard was absolutely certain that he was about to die.
"But I bet my father wouldn't have approved of that," Ben said, catching his breath. "So I'm going to have to ask Sergeant Frobisher to come over here and place you under arrest."
He heard Frobisher walking quickly up behind him, boots crunching on the snowy edge of the road, and eased sideways as Frobisher drew even. He lowered the gun when Frobisher had both Gerard's wrists in cuffs, backing slowly away. He looked down at the gun in his hands, turning it over slowly. It was just an object, just a piece of metal. Capable of hurting him, but so were lots of things.
Close beside him, Ray said, "You want me to hold that?"
Ben looked up. Ray had taken his glasses off, so Ben could see his blue eyes clearly; he looked a little concerned, but not frightened, not shocked. Not recoiling from Ben. "No," Ben said, looking down at it again, turning it over once more. "It's not heavy."
"Yeah," Ray said, "okay." He reached one hand out over Ben's hands and pointed to something on the gun. "Could you put the safety on, though?" He twitched his fingertip, to show the necessary motion, and Ben shifted the lever into place. "Good," Ray said, "Good. Thank you."
Ben smiled, looking over at Ray again. "You're welcome."
Ray smiled a bit back, and then Frobisher came over. "I've radioed for a couple of officers to come bring him in to the nearest detachment lockup. Ben, could you give me that? I have to confiscate it."
"Ah," Ben said, "Yes." He held it out on one open hand, and Frobisher picked it up delicately and carried it away.
Without the gun in his hands, Ben suddenly felt lightheaded, wobbly. "Oh," he said, very quietly, and he heard Ray chuckle in his ear, Ray's hand closing around his arm and steering him a few steps along the road.
"Sit down before you fall down, Fraser," Ray said, tugging him to perch on the guardrail. Ben lowered his head into his hands, trying to breathe steadily. Dear God, he'd just--he'd--he'd said--
Ben sat up again quickly, looking around for Frobisher and Gerard, and Ray's hand on his back caught him from overbalancing, and Ray was laughing again. Ben looked at him, and Ray's laugh faltered into a smile, hesitating for a breath. Ben held perfectly still, uncertain. Then Ray grinned, leaning forward to hug him tightly, as unselfconsciously as if they were on the ice.
"Good game, buddy," Ray said in his ear.
Ben smiled and hugged him back. "Good game." Even when they parted they sat pressed close together, on the guardrail as if on a bench. The sun was shining on the snow, and Ben squinted against the brightness as he said, "I'm sorry."
He felt Ray's shrug more than saw it. "You thought you had to."
It was forgiveness, and Ben knew it, even though he'd rarely encountered it before. Calm and matter-of-fact and honest, and perhaps--just perhaps--the beginning of something he'd thought he'd lost: a friendship.
There were even more questions to answer this time, and frantic Mounties rushing around making phone calls to Edmonton and Yellowknife and Winnipeg and Ottawa and Chicago. Ray hadn't been put in handcuffs once, though, and the Mounties were very polite and apologetic and forthcoming with the hot coffee and sandwiches. Frobisher even called Coach for him, to explain why he and Fraser would have to stay in Canada for another day.
Ray wasn't sure what time it was when it was all over, other than dark--not a very meaningful concept, in Churchill in December--but Frobisher found a pilot to take himself and Ray and Fraser back down to Winnipeg that night, so they could all fly out in the morning. Frobisher arranged rooms for them in a hotel--not quite as nice as the ones they stayed in when they traveled with the team, but in Ray's opinion anything was better than bunking another night at Smithbauer's. Fraser, who'd somehow managed to doze on and off on the way down from Churchill, went straight off to bed, but Frobisher took one look at Ray and said, "How about a nightcap, Kowalski?"
Ray grinned. "Sounds good." They settled into chairs in Frobisher's room, and Frobisher didn't tell him not to put his feet up on the bed, just poured him a slug from an unlabeled bottle in his pack. Ray sniffed before he drank, which was probably a mistake, but he managed a healthy swallow anyway and only wheezed a little.
Frobisher looked approving, and took his own unflinching sip. Ray had a thousand questions--starting with What did you do, what did you ever do to him, why--but he said casually, "So you and Fraser's dad, you were partners."
"Mm," Frobisher said, swirling the whisky around his glass. "Yes. We were a team, possibly the best team the North ever knew. Bob--" Frobisher tossed the rest of his drink back. "I should have known. I should have pushed the investigation. But people are even less inclined to listen to a crazy old partner than they are to a grief-stricken son, and I--" Frobisher glanced at Ray, shook his head, poured himself a little more whisky. "They put me behind a desk eight years ago. Bob was still out in the field the day he died. I thought I had nothing left. I thought--I was just an old man, no good anymore."
Ray nodded, taking his own sip--the second went down a lot easier than the first, which was a bad sign--and said, "I'm thirty-five, might as well be sixty."
Frobisher laughed at that. "I suppose you might, son. Already retired once, hadn't you?"
Ray grinned, but something was niggling at his brain--partners. The way Vecchio had said it, the way Frobisher said it. Like it meant something. "But you and him--partners, what--what was that like?"
Frobisher's smile shrank and settled. "Ah, well. Partnership's like a marriage, really. Minus certain elements and plus others, of course. But we had our ups and downs, give and take--who left the empty butter dish in the fridge--it wasn't easy, but my God... You couldn't go on without it."
He and Stella had fought like that--like he and Gardie had, except with words instead of fists. Ray remembered some of the horrible things they'd said to each other--true, more often than not, all the really horrible stuff was always true at the heart of it, or it wouldn't hurt so bad--and how they'd made up after. Couldn't go on without it. He and Gardie had been buddies, and he and Stella had been girlfriend and boyfriend, husband and wife, but he'd never known what he and Fraser were, never been able to put a word to it. "Butter dish, huh?" he said, looking over at Frobisher.
Frobisher was looking back at him like he was trying to read him, and Ray just took another sip of his whisky and waited.
"That and other things," Frobisher said slowly. "Pride. Philosophical disagreements. And once... Ah, I thought we were finished for good, once." He took a sip of his whisky and looked at Ray. Ray finished his and held the glass out, because he knew no better way to get someone talking. Frobisher poured him another and settled back in his seat. "We were working separately, just as a practical matter--no more irritated with each other than the usual. The far North is like a small town scattered over an unimaginable space; Bob and I both knew everyone in our territory, but there were few enough, apart from each other, that either of us would have called a friend.
"Holloway Muldoon was one; he was a trapper and guide of great reputation, often helped out when Bob or I had need. He would stop in at the cabin from time to time to check in on Caroline and Benton when Bob was gone on long patrols. I did the same, when I happened to be in the area and Bob wasn't. Ben was determined to be a Mountie back then--he'd sit on my knee for hours, listening to stories about his father's exploits, always begging for just one more. Bob didn't like to spoil the boy, but a godfather can get away with these things."
Ray gulped his whisky. He knew the crash was coming. He'd seen the wreckage in Fraser already. I don't know how my mother died, he'd said. Ray didn't know how bad it was going to be, but something whispered worse than you think.
"Bob and I had been working separately, as I said, trying to track down a ring that had been trafficking in endangered species--grizzlies, pumas, wolves--it was an ugly business. Bob had worked out that Muldoon was involved--was the ringleader as it ultimately turned out--using his friendship with us to keep himself above suspicion. I just happened to run into Bob as he was tracking Muldoon. We lost the trail six miles from the cabin where Caroline and Benton lived. I don't recall which of us realized it first--we didn't even speak, we just knew that Muldoon would have gone there. Caroline didn't know he was under suspicion, would have no reason to be wary of him."
Frobisher paused, sipping his whisky, his eyes lowered, not looking at Ray or anything else in the room. Ray wanted to beg him to keep going, or to stop, but he could only sit there and wait, trying to breathe quietly. The story was finding its way out of Frobisher now--how long since he'd told it to anyone, if he ever had?--and Ray just had to let it.
"We covered that six miles in record time," Frobisher said, his voice softer now, so that Ray leaned in a little to hear, "We were nearly to the cabin when we heard Benton scream and a shot ring out. I'd never seen Bob look afraid before, but I saw it then. He kept straight on, going up the rise in front of the cabin, and I broke off to the side, going around the back of the dogs' shed. Caroline was lying in the snow. I could see steam still rising off the blood and I knew she was dead, because if there had been a scrap of life left in her she'd have been using it to try to get Ben away from Muldoon. And Ben was standing there, not ten yards from me, on the cabin's porch, and Muldoon at the bottom of the steps. Muldoon's rifle was on the ground, but I'd seen him draw a knife from his boot and put it through a caribou's eye at twenty paces. Ben wasn't safe unless Muldoon was dead.
"Bob came over the hill and shouted at Muldoon to get away from the boy, but Muldoon didn't move. I think--I could see his face, and I think he was talking to Ben. He'd always had a soft spot for the boy. I don't think he'd meant to hurt Ben. But desperate men do strange things, and Muldoon was surely desperate at that moment. I looked at Bob. Bob was a better shot than I was, always had been--had once saved Caroline's life with a trickier shot than I'd ever seen--but I knew he couldn't take the shot then, not with Ben in the field of fire, not if there was the slightest chance of hurting his son. I fired--my hands were shaking, the shot hit Muldoon in the stomach, but he was still conscious, still looking up at Ben. He was dead anyway; if we could have kept him alive long enough to get him to town he'd only have died there, and taken longer about it. So I reloaded, and I fired again, and I killed him."
Ray blinked, and forced himself to take another sip of the whisky. He could see it, like he'd been there. Ben--six years old when his mother died, he'd said, just the age of Gardie's Ryan, just the size of those kids playing mites hockey--standing there, seeing his mother killed, seeing the man who'd killed her, a man who'd been his father's friend, blown away right in front of him. Ray wanted to give him a medal just for being able to talk to Mounties after that.
"There was blood on Ben's face," Frobisher said softly. "And he still just stood there. I had no idea if he was hurt, no idea exactly what had happened--he'd just stood there the entire time, not moving, not speaking--I didn't think, I just ran toward him with the rifle still in my hand. I knew Bob would go to Caroline, we'd always been able to divide things up without speaking, without thinking. I ran toward Ben and Ben turned and ran from me. Terrified of me.
"I should have--I should have stopped, I should have done anything but chased him, but I didn't think. I chased him, shouting at him to come back, that he was safe, that he'd be all right now--as if he had any more reason to trust me than he'd had to trust Muldoon. He ran from me all the way to the pond where Caroline had taught him to skate, all the way across the ice until he fell through. I was just close enough to see him go under, and I dived after him. I missed him on the first try, and pulled him up on the second. Bob was there by then, took the boy from me and knocked the water from his lungs, breathed air into him until Ben breathed again on his own. That minute while Ben didn't breathe was the longest of my life."
Ray reminded himself to breathe. I almost drowned that day, Ben had said, but he hadn't seen, he didn't know...
"Ben wouldn't let me near him, and Bob wouldn't let me near Ben either. On the second day he got terribly sick. Pneumonia, from the water in his lungs. I left, took Muldoon's body in and got medicine for Ben. I didn't even come inside the cabin, just handed it to Bob through the door. I knew Ben was still alive, and it was clear that was all I needed to know; I left on another assignment immediately. There's not much you can say to a man that will make up for drowning his firstborn." Frobisher fell silent, staring at the wall as though he were seeing it all again.
"But," Ray said, his voice creaking. He swallowed more whisky as Frobisher turned that dark, intent look on him. "But that wasn't it, right? You were still partners, even after that."
"Yes," Frobisher said, "Yes. We didn't speak for three years, and then there we were, face to face across the Nahanni River, criminals bearing down on us. I had a rope; he had a grappling hook. The only route to safety was to meet in the middle." Frobisher's lips twisted in a sad smile. "You've got to have a partner," he said quietly. "And you've got to be able to trust him."
Fraser had trusted him today. Ray had been up a hill without a chance in the world to help--Gerard had managed to position himself with Fraser right in the line of fire, no way could Ray risk that shot--but when he told Fraser to go, Fraser had gone for it. Partners. He turned the word over in his mind, thinking of Gardie knocking his tooth out and of hitting Gardie in the mouth just as hard as he could, thinking of Stella calling him brain-damaged and of calling Stella a cold-hearted bitch. Ray prodded the bruise on his cheek and drained the last of the whisky from his glass, thinking three years was a long damn time to wait if you didn't have to. "One more for the road?" He held it out to Frobisher, and Frobisher refilled it for him.
Ray stood up slowly, and only wobbled a little, not splashing any of the drink. He'd made it nearly to the door when Frobisher said, "Kowalski."
Ray turned back, and Frobisher's smile was the smile of a man who'd killed once to keep Benton Fraser safe, and would do it again in a heartbeat. "I told you about this because you strike me as a man who needs to know. I trust your intentions are honorable."
Ray smiled back and raised his glass in salute. "Nothing but," he promised, and turned and let himself out.
He walked down the hall to Fraser's room, clinging to that resolve. Sudden-death overtime now, game seven, Stanley Cup Finals. They'd come a long way. Suffered some setbacks. But it wasn't over yet, and it was anybody's game now, and Ray just had to pray the bounces were going his way tonight. He knocked on the door, leaned on the frame, and waited.
Ben lay awake, staring into the darkness and trying to imagine the richness of possibility that lay ahead of him. Gerard would be convicted. His father--and Frank Drake--would have justice done. He and Ray would go back to Chicago as friends, good friends, and return to their real lives. Hockey, and road trips, and--
There was a knock at the door. Ben stretched experimentally, but found his back still more or less cooperative, and rolled out of bed to answer it.
Ray stood there, holding a glass which emitted eye-watering alcoholic fumes. "Sergeant Frobisher's finest muscle relaxant. Purely medicinal. Thought you might like some."
"Ah," Ben said, trying to gauge how medicated Ray was, "I see, thank you. Come in." He pushed the door shut after Ray, and went to sit on the bed again.
Ray perched beside him, but when Ben reached to turn on the light, Ray caught his wrist and said, "Nah, don't." When Ben lowered his hand, Ray's touch lingered a few seconds, then was gone.
There was a faint light filtering in from the windows and under the door, and Ben watched Ray as he drank half the whisky. Ray's eyes were darkly shadowed, but Ben thought he was watching right back. He nodded in apparent approval when Ben set down the glass on the night table and then twisted his hands together, looking down. "Frobisher told me," Ray said, very quietly, "some stuff, about--when you were little, about your mom, and--"
Ben felt suddenly grateful for the buffer of the whisky between himself and Ray's words. It was, he supposed, Sergeant Frobisher's story to tell as much as his own, and in truth he didn't think he could have put it into words. "I know how she died," Ben said, just as quietly. "I remembered a few days ago."
"Shit," Ray said softly, "Ben, I'm sorry." He turned and hugged Ben close, one hand sliding gently up and down Ben's back. In Ray's embrace, whisky-warmed, Ben felt particularly conscious that he'd already undressed for bed, but Ray's intent seemed quite chaste.
Ben wished he could tell Ray that he was all right, that it didn't matter--but the memory was still bright and vivid, and Ray's arms around him were to be savored, and he could not speak. Ben returned the hug until Ray pulled away. They sat for a moment in silence, and Ben wondered if Ray had more to say, if Frobisher had told him something else, if... He pushed down all expectations, and tried to simply be sitting here, mostly naked in the dark with Ray, fully clothed and only slightly the worse for drink.
"The thing is," Ray said, his voice husky and low, and Ben's belly was hot with the whisky and he could not fail to listen to anything Ray wanted to say to him. "The thing is, I'm still crazy in love with you," Ray said. "I was angry--I said angry things--but I didn't ever not love you, do you know that?"
Ben swallowed and said nothing. He certainly understood the sentiment--his love for Ray had never faltered, however he had tried to mask it, to mutilate it. It beggared belief that Ray, so wronged, could say such a thing, and yet here he was, saying it. Hadn't he told himself before to quit being surprised by anything Ray did?
Ray looked up at him and then back down, nodding. "Yeah," he said, "and I know what I'm supposed to say is if you don't feel the same, just say so now and I'll never mention it again, but the truth is, if you don't feel the same and you say so now, I'm just going to spend the next four to six months trying to change your mind, and probably drive you stark raving nuts in the process."
Ben found his mouth wanted to form the shape of 'please' and didn't know what he meant by it exactly. He picked up the whisky and knocked the rest back, and then said in what voice remained, "And if I wish to spare myself the insanity?"
Ray looked up at him, his whole body poised on the edge of something, utterly focused. "Do you?"
Ben's breath caught. I am not afraid, he told himself, and he wasn't. Nervous, at most, but Ray was his friend at the heart of it all, and he deserved the truth. "I love you, Ray."
Ray nodded briskly, as though he'd expected Ben's answer as a matter of course. "Good. But things have to be different, Fraser. I'm not going to be your dog anymore." Ben winced, and Ray looked away. "I've--I've been that before, I guess, even before you--I can't just be hanging around waiting for the next time you decide to take my collar off me and turn me loose. If we're in this, we have to be in it together."
Ben nodded, shamed--he was forgiven, perhaps, but not forgotten.
"Yeah, forgiven," Ray said, and Ben realized he'd spoken the words aloud, "but if we forgot we'd never learn. Frobisher--he told me some about working with your dad. He said they were partners. That's what I want, Fraser, you and me, partners. A team. You and me against everything and everyone else. Offense, defense, bingo bango. You set 'em up, I knock 'em in. You skate forward, I skate back, I skate forward, you skate back, you get me, Fraser?"
What Ray was asking of him seemed impossible and impossibly simple all at once. He remembered the life-altering self-conscious profundity of his wedding day, and he remembered that clear cold day in Inuvik when he was six, when Mark had looked at him and chosen him first. "You want me on your team," Ben whispered. "And I want you on mine. A team of two."
"Yeah," Ray said, "yeah, a team of two. You think you can do that?"
"I'm still not Louis," Ben said softly.
Ray snorted. "Yeah, and I'm not Smithbauer. And you're not Stella, and--" Ray leaned across him then, and switched on the light. Ben blinked against the brightness, then just blinked as Ray's hands settled on either side of his face, "And I'm not Victoria," Ray said firmly. Ben raised his fingers to the bruise on Ray's face, and before he could even think it, Ray added, "And neither are you. We're just you and me. We can make our own mistakes now, we don't have to drag around the same old ones everyone else has made before."
Ben shifted his hand to cradle Ray's cheek, and Ray turned his face into the touch as though he'd been waiting for it, starving for it. Ben slid his thumb over the soft skin under Ray's eye. "I will," he said softly. "I will make mistakes. I've never--I won't remember--"
"So will I," Ray said with a small smile. "I mean, Stella had her reasons. And how about we agree up front, the next time you hit me I'm hitting you back. You only get one freebie."
Ben dared to smile. "That seems fair."
"Good," Ray said, grinning, "So we're good? We're partners?"
"Partners," Ben agreed, trying to sound as confident as he wished he was, leaning in to kiss Ray as Ray leaned in to kiss him. Their lips touched lightly at first, cautiously, as they learned each other again, as if a different name for this might change the reality. His tongue traced the soft curve of Ray's lip, finding the tender spot at the corner, and Ray's mouth opened to his, Ray's tongue stroking along his, drawing him in. Ray tasted of mouth-numbing whisky and, beneath that, familiar. Their mouths fit together as they always had.
Ben drew back to breathe, then touched his mouth to Ray's again, and then again, the agony of pulling away matched by the joy of finding him again. Ray's mouth curved into a smile, and his hands on Ben's face tightened, drawing him close. Ben opened to Ray's tongue, welcoming its intrusion, sucking at it until Ray broke the kiss, panting. His blue eyes were bright in the lamplight, almost sparkling, his reddened lips wet and slightly parted. "I--"
Ben slid his hand down from Ray's cheek to the collar of the sweatshirt he was wearing, hooking his fingers in and tugging. Ray let himself be pulled closer, but turned his head aside from another kiss, wrapping his arms around Ben instead, hugging him tightly. Ben smiled, bemused, and hugged Ray back, kissing his throat and ear. "I want to fuck you," Ray murmured against his neck, and Ben closed his eyes, closing his teeth lightly on the lobe of Ray's ear.
"Yes," he said softly, and Ray was in motion again, squirming out of his arms, though not before Ben managed to get one hand on Ray's jeans, feeling the hardness of Ray's cock through the denim. Oh, yes.
Ray yanked his shirt off and then hesitated. There was still a bruise on his wrist, and others on his forearms of various ages. "I--you're sure?" Ray said, "I mean, your back?"
Ben stretched extensively, reveling in his near-nudity. He tipped his head back and watched through his eyelashes as all practical considerations left Ray's mind. "Feels fine," he murmured, settling back against the pillow.
Ray managed to close his mouth and then frowned. "Were you sandbagging me at Smithbauer's?"
Ben smiled. "I told you it wasn't necessary."
"Oh, that is--" Ray shook his head, at an apparent loss for words, and bent over to unfasten his shoes. He was smiling as he stood and shucked off his jeans. He'd left his jockey shorts on, the grey fabric stretching around his obvious erection. "You got stuff?"
"In my shaving kit," Ben said, nodding toward the bathroom. He slipped his boxers off when Ray turned away, tossing them to the floor. He was already hard, and only dragged his fingers up the underside of his cock, teasing himself. He smiled at the clatter of Ray dumping out the entire contents of the kit into the bathroom sink, and then Ray was standing in the bathroom door with the familiar bottle and packet in his hand. Ray looked him up and down and walked slowly to the bed, letting Ben watch him come closer. There was a small wet spot on his shorts, spreading as he walked to the bed, his stride liquid, his hips moving hypnotically.
Ray set the supplies down on the night table and leaned over Ben, kissing him lightly. "I made a mess of your stuff in there," he murmured.
"I really don't care," Ben whispered, raising his free hand to the waistband of Ray's shorts. "But I fear you're committing a bit of a fashion faux pas."
Ray smiled against his mouth and then straightened up. "Overdressed, huh?" He slipped the shorts off in one smooth movement, dropping them on top of Ben's. "Thanks for the heads-up."
Ben snickered as Ray climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips, and Ray grinned back. "Benton Fraser, are you twelve years old?"
Ben raised his hand from his own cock to Ray's, stroking lightly, and Ray closed his eyes, mouth opening soundlessly. "Do I seem twelve to you, Ray?"
Ray exhaled a shaky laugh, opening his eyes. "Nah," he said, "you're--at least seventeen. Been hanging around with that Smithbauer boy too much, I bet."
"Possibly," Ben admitted, pushing up to kiss Ray again, his hips shifting up to stroke his cock against Ray's. Ray shuddered all over and moved, stretching his legs out to lie along Ben's. He trusted a little of his weight to Ben, and Ben spread his legs welcomingly as their cocks aligned.
Ray kissed him again as his hand joined Ben's, holding them together, their fingers tangling as they stroked, their hips moving slowly. "This is just like the first time," Ray whispered. "Just like the first time we--"
His mouth closed over Ben's again, and Ben sucked at his tongue until Ray's hips jerked hard against him. "Just like it," Ben agreed breathlessly, "Except that now we're lying down--and not in a public place--and naked--and you no longer claim to be straight."
Ray growled and closed his teeth on Ben's lower lip, nipping just hard enough to sting and then licking the spot, outside and in. "Correcting me, huh?"
Ben tightened his hand, pushing up against Ray. "Only when you--" He had to kiss, had to taste, "Only when you make a mistake."
Ray smiled against his mouth. "I'm gonna be keeping you pretty busy, then."
Ben kissed the corner of his smile. "Likewise, I'm sure."
Ray shook his hand free of Ben's and pushed himself up, out of contact, and Ben let him go, drawing his knees up and spreading his legs as Ray's hand slid between them. Nimble fingers pressed against his perineum and then lower, teasingly light. Ben's breath stuttered, his cock jumping at the stimulation, and he reached for the lubricant, flipping the top open. "Ray," he said, and Ray smiled down at him and took his hand away, raising it to Ben's cock.
He ran his thumb over the head while extending his fingers and whispered, "Hit me." Ben bit his tongue as he raised his shaking hand, squirting the gel onto Ray's fingers. Half of it went astray, landing cool and slick on Ben's belly, but Ray smiled and kissed him again, and his fingers trailed backward. Ray pushed just one cool-slick finger inside first, twisting slowly and grinning wickedly.
Ben said, "Please," and Ray nodded, pulling one finger out and replacing it with two, faster this time, just a shadow of pain before the shock and pulse of pleasure. Ben arched beneath him, gasping. He pulled Ray down into another kiss, broken and stuttering every time Ray's fingers moved in him. They pulled out again, and Ben opened his eyes just in time to see Ray thriftily wiping up the spilled lubricant from Ben's skin with his already-slick fingers. Ben watched, curling his hips, opening wider, as Ray pressed his fingers back inside, and then Ben's eyes slid shut and he dragged his hand from Ray's hair to the night table, fumbling for the condom.
Ray kissed his cheek, his closed eyes, the corner of his mouth. "Open that up for me," he whispered, just as Ben's fingers closed on the packet, Ray's fingers curling inside of him and jolting another shock of pleasure through him. "I've got my hands full."
Ben opened his eyes to look up at Ray, and raised the condom packet to his mouth, tearing it open with his teeth. Ray nodded slightly, and Ben got the condom out and looked down between their bodies at Ray's cock, full and hard, poised above him. His forehead pressed against Ray's shoulder as he raised both hands to the task, and Ray kissed his throat, his fingers almost still inside Ben, as Ben unrolled the condom onto him. When he grabbed the lubricant again and squirted some into his hand, Ray licked at his throat and then sucked, and Ben groaned as he slicked Ray's cock, the sound trailing into a gasp as Ray slipped his fingers free and braced his hand on the back of Ben's thigh.
Ben pressed his head back into the pillow, watching Ray's face as Ray pushed into him, his mouth working helplessly, his eyes fluttering shut, a small frown creasing his forehead as Ben's body opened to him. Ben exhaled as Ray pushed inside, filling him, stretching him, hard and hot. The angle was unfamiliar, the sensations startling. When Ray was fully inside him, his eyes opened, and he ducked his head for a kiss, open-mouthed and clumsy, and then he began to move.
Ben gasped at the first thrust and moaned at the second, and then Ray's hand closed over his cock and he pushed up, meeting Ray's grip on him, Ray's cock inside him. Ray's tongue grazed his skin, Ray's ragged breath brushed his face, Ray's eyes stared knowingly down into his and Ben knew this couldn't last. He closed his eyes, losing himself in pleasure, in connection, and Ray's hand tightened on his cock as a broken cry escaped his mouth. Ben came in spurts as Ray stroked him, murmuring words Ben didn't understand. Ray never stopped moving, though he slowed as Ben climaxed. When Ben opened his eyes, Ray was watching him.
Ben reached up, curling his finger through a wet spot on Ray's chest. Holding Ray's gaze, he licked the tip of his finger. Ray licked his lip hungrily, mouth open, his hips rocking against Ben, his cock moving in shivers that shook Ben from the core. Ben raised his finger to Ray's mouth, and Ray's eyes closed as he sucked at it. He pulled out and thrust in again, his movements ragged and desperate, the force of his mouth pressing Ben's finger against his teeth as he slammed in one final time and came.
Ben curled his finger against Ray's tongue until Ray opened his mouth, and then he slid his hand to Ray's cheek, pushing himself up to kiss Ray's mouth. "So," Ray gasped. "Any corrections to make?"
Ben smiled in perfect satisfaction. "Not a one."
They were booked on a red-eye back to Chicago. Ben had set the alarm lcock for some ungodly hour Ray didn't even want to think about, but they both woke up when it went off, shoving each other through getting out of bed and washing up and dressing and finding Ray's room and Ray's bag. They slumped in the back of a cab all the way to the airport; halfway there Ben slouched down lower and leaned his head against Ray's shoulder, and Ray smiled and held perfectly still for the rest of the ride.
They stood around the terminal, drinking coffee and tea and not saying a word, shuffling into and out of each other's personal spaces and trying not to stare. Ray looked out the window, drowning his grin in coffee when he felt it growing too wide. He'd gotten Ben back, and they were going home to Chicago and, God help them, to practice, and everything--give or take some shouting from Coach--was going to be good. Of course they'd fight again--not like that ever again, Ray hoped, but they'd fight. He looked forward to the first time they actually got into a knock-down drag-out; he suspected Ben thought he'd win, but Ray had been fighting guys bigger and heavier than him since he was twelve, and he knew a thing or two about it. They'd have secrets to keep, but not from each other, and that was more than he'd ever had with anyone else. And maybe--just maybe--they had a future, which was more than Ray had dreamed of having with anyone after Stella and Boston both let him go.
"So whaddya think?" Ray said, looking out at their plane and the darkness. "Think maybe me and François could come up north and visit you this summer?"
"Oh, certainly," Ben said, without the slightest hesitation, "it would be lovely to have some company. Perhaps you could help out at the rink--I try to hold an informal hockey camp each summer, but there are more children every year, and it's become a bit of a challenge lately."
Ray looked sideways at him and smiled. "Yeah, I could do that. 'Course, that might take up a lot of the summer."
"Mm," Ben said, and sipped his tea. "Yes. Your golf game might suffer."
Ray shrugged. "I never liked golfing anyway. And François loves it up north. I took him up to northern Quebec a time or two--did you know parts of Quebec are in the Arctic Circle?"
Ben smiled, his eyes crinkling, but didn't look over at Ray. "I did know that, as a matter of fact."
Ray nodded. "I used to think about buying a cottage up there. Maybe not all the way up, but someplace up that way. Someplace quiet."
"Well," Ben said, "Perhaps you'll like Inuvik. I'll have to show you around."
"Yeah, you will," Ray agreed, and their eyes met, sharing a sideways look and the same stupid smile.
They didn't talk anymore after that. They were called to board and shuffled through the Jetway with their groggy fellow passengers. It was Ray's turn for the window seat, and he dropped into it quickly, Ben settling down beside him a little more gingerly. Another private smile, and then the stewardess came around, asking if they needed anything. Ben asked for blankets, and when she brought them they both reclined their seats. Ray dozed until takeoff, blinking half-awake to see the plane's interior lights were off and Winnipeg was falling away into a tiny glitter of lights.
Ray's blanket overlapped Ben's at the armrest. He squirmed a little in his seat, curling half onto his side, and slipped his hand across the divide under Ben's blanket, until he found Ben's hand. Ben didn't open his eyes, but he smiled, and his hand turned under Ray's so that their palms rested against each other. Ray tightened his fingers around Ben's hand, and Ben tightened his back.
Ray stayed awake all the way to Chicago, holding his partner's hand.
They went to Ben's apartment from the airport, and he managed to refrain from kissing Ray until they were both inside. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm sorry. I'll get you a new key."
Ray kissed him back. "I'm sorry, too. I never got you one at all. But I will."
Ben nodded--there was a certain equity there--and Ray kissed him one more time and then sniffed the side of his throat. "Do we actually smell like sex, or do I just smell it because I know what we were doing six hours ago?"
Ben smiled and sniffed Ray's skin in turn. "I'm not really an impartial judge, Ray."
"Mm," Ray muttered, "Point. I gotta--"
"By all means," Ben murmured, following Ray as far as the bedroom, tossing his bag down beside Ray's as Ray went on into the bathroom. He stood near the bed, stretching aimlessly, until Ray came out, and then he took his own turn. Ray had left the seat up; Ben thought about putting it down when he was finished and then decided against it. One had to pick one's battles, after all, and there was nearly no point to worrying about it in an all-male household.
Not that they were a household, precisely, Ben thought as he washed his hands. But they seemed to have made at least tentative plans to cohabit over the summer, and they certainly did spend the majority of their time together. To all intents and purposes--
He stepped out of the bathroom to find Ray sitting at the foot of the bed, staring at his hands, fingers spread. Ben went and sat down beside him, bumping his shoulder lightly against Ray's. Ray smiled absently, but his attention was clearly miles away. "No rings," Ray said softly, wiggling his long fingers. "No championships. I used to think it was okay, I used to tell myself..." He huffed a soft laugh, not unhappy, and turned his hands palm up, running his thumb across the base of his ring finger. "I used to think as long as I had Stella I was winning something, and I had the ring on my finger to prove it."
And now, even though they were partnered, Ray was still ringless. Ray turned his hands back over, and Ben thought with a pang, I've only given you scars. He kissed Ray's cheek, and Ray turned and kissed him on the mouth, lightly, his hands closing into fists that only cast the scars into sharper relief. "Sorry," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'm just--I don't even know what I'm saying, I'm just tired."
"No," Ben said, "wait." Ben stood up and went to the dresser, rummaging around in his sock drawer until he found what he was looking for: the least hideously gaudy of his Stanley Cup rings. By the time he sat down next to Ray again, his hands had opened, and Ray looked up at him, a little warily. Ben laid the ring in his palm.
He was still groping for words when Ray, staring down at the ring in his open hand, said, "What the hell is this supposed to mean, Ben?" He didn't sound angry or insulted as Ben had feared he might in the seconds he'd had to fear anything, only tired and confused.
Ben bit his lip. "I can't hand you a Stanley Cup victory," he said quietly, "Though I would if I could. And--" he looked at Ray's bare ring finger, at his own, and swallowed hard. "And I can't marry you." Though he thought he would, if he could, however much he would dread repeating past mistakes. "But I can give you this, and you can have it, and that can be. Something. For us."
Ray rolled the ring around his palm--a little awkwardly, due to the uneven weight of the jeweled design--and kept his head down, his face turned slightly away from Ben, and didn't say anything for a long time. Ben's stomach tightened with dread. He'd made a misstep already, he'd done this wrong, when he meant to put something right. He kept his own hands resting on his knees--Ray could see them, though he didn't look up at Ben's face--trying to pretend a calm he didn't feel, groping for words to take it back, to tell Ray he hadn't meant it. He cleared his throat and said, "Ray," but got no further.
Ray shook his head, not a negation so much as a coming-awake. "We got one more shot, don't we?" Ray's voice was husky. "Season's not over yet, and we're in decent shape. We--the Hawks, we could go. We could win it. You and me could raise the Cup together, have our names on it, ride in the parade down Michigan Avenue." Ben nodded slowly, because it wasn't a rejection, not quite, not entirely.
Ray kept rolling the ring around, and Ben had to ask. "And if we don't?"
Ray shrugged, his body language loosening abruptly from its hunch. "We go out in April or May, my contract expires, I hang up my skates again." He looked up, finally, with a small real smile that released everything in Ben that had been locked up, waiting. "Only this time it doesn't bother me so much," Ray said, raising his hand to show Ben that he had closed his fingers over the ring, "Because this time I know I'm not leaving empty-handed."
Footnotes:
57. Mite hockey: In America, youth hockey for boys ages five to eight. back
58. From Black's Law Dictionary:
assault, n. 1. Criminal & tort law. The threat or use of force on another that causes that person to have a reasonable apprehension of imminent harmful or offensive contact; the act of putting another person in reasonable fear or apprehension of an immediate battery by means of an act amounting to an attempt or threat to commit a battery.
battery, n. 1. Criminal law. The use of force against another, resulting in harmful or offensive contact. -- Also termed criminal battery.
[Source: Iulia] back
59. On March 13, 1955, NHL President Clarence Campbell suspended Montreal Canadiens' scoring leader and fan favorite Maurice 'Rocket' Richard. Just days later, on
March 17, Campbell--who was seen by French Canadian hockey fans as a symbol of Anglophone oppression--attended a home game in Montreal. Fans spent the entire game throwing refuse at Campell, and when someone set off a tear gas bomb outside the Forum, a full-scale riot broke out. Richard was at the game, and though he disapproved of the fans' behavior, wasn't involved in the violence, and subsequently made a statement condemning it, the incident has always been known as "The Richard Riot." [Source: CBC.ca] back
60. The first Europeans to train with an NHL team, to play in the NHL, to be an NHL regular, and to be taken first overall in the NHL entry draft, were all Swedes. European hockey is stylistically different from North American hockey--the ice surface is larger, and there is a greater emphasis on passing plays and skating skills than hard hits and hard shots; fighting is extremely uncommon. Thuggery in hockey is synonymous with North America, and, due to the predominance of Canadians in the sport (in 1995, Canadians comprised about 65% of the players in the NHL, though only eight of 26 teams were based in Canada - Europeans comprised another 20%, Americans the other 15%), with Canadians. In the 94-95 season, five of the top five most-penalized players were Canadian; in 95-96 it was ten of the top ten. Nicklaus Lidstrom and Peter Forsberg, both skill players rarely involved in any kind of altercation, are typical Swedish players. back
61. "The legend of the shot began on January 17, 1984 when MacInnis was playing with Calgary in a game against St.Louis. On a line change, MacInnis wound up and fired a shot from outside the blueline that caught Blues goaltender Mike Liut on the mask, splitting it. Liut fell to the ice as the puck dribbled over the goal line. No one has taken Al MacInnis' shot for granted since and he wins the hardest shot contest at the annual All-Star Game with almost perfect regularity." [Source: legendsofhockey.net] back
62. Je comprends: I understand. back
63. "The fugitive's name is Doctor Richard Kimble." - Sam Gerard [Source: The Fugitive] back
64. Saint-crisse, y'est paqueté, eh? Tombet-il sur tes nerfs?: Christ, he's drunk, eh? Is he getting on your nerves?back
65. Ouais, M'as t'garrocher dins banc de neige.: Yeah, I'm about to throw him in a snowbank. back
66. C'fais-tu de quoi si j'l'amene? Faut qu'j'l'empêche d'l'faire l'cave.: Do you mind if I take him? I promised to keep him from embarrassing himself. back
67. Pantoute ... Tripe-le: Not at all ... enjoy him (the verb also refers to being sexually aroused.) back
68. --il aurait cruisé--: (Quebecois) --he had made a pass-- back
69. University of Illinois Hospital. back
70. Dull. Hurts more. back
71. Ferme-toi la trappe!: Shut up! back
72. C'est bon: It's good. back
73. J'taime: I love you. back
74. Pitou poche: Stupid dog. back
75. Sois bon: Be good. back