Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman Benton Fraser forced himself not to look at the clock again.  How many minutes had passed since he’d last looked?  Too few.  Of course, he wouldn’t know exactly how many unless he indulged himself and took another peek.  And in the interest of perfect knowledge…  Seven minutes.  And this wasn’t peeking, this was staring.  Staring hard.  Eight minutes.  Nine.  He blinked hard as his eyes watered under the strain, warping the image of the timepiece on the wall, then kept blinking until the clock cleared in his vision again.

“Constable.”  Was that for him?  “Constable Fraser.”  Lieutenant Welsh moved to stand before him, deliberately blocking the view.  Ben slowly raised his head.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Go home, Constable.”

“Sir…”

“Go home.”  Ben nodded obediently, stood, felt light-headed, sat once again.  Welsh sighed, shook his head.

“I’ll leave as soon…”

“Do that, Constable.”  Welsh paused, his well-worn expression appearing particularly…well worn.  For the first time since Ben had known him the man looked his age.  Older.  How many minutes older?  He squinted past Welsh to see the clock.  Another nine minutes.

“Constable…”

“I’ll be going now, Sir,” Ben assured him, this time standing slowly and avoiding the buzz.  As he walked from the squad room he was aware of the glances, could almost read the minds.  But this wasn’t giving up, this was a tactical withdrawal before Welsh had him physically removed.

The brisk chill of early evening Chicago wrapped itself around the Mountie as he left through the 27^th Precinct’s parking lot.  Ben found himself staring again.  To one side of the lot, tucked away, ‘Evidence’ stickers generating their own exclusion zone around it, stood a green 1971 Buick Riviera.  His feet automatically took him to the car, and beneath his impassive exterior he was in turmoil as he scanned it, looking for…  There was nothing about the appearance of this car that was not permanently committed to his memory.  A patrolman had found it in an alley six days ago, the fresh damage to the left wing leading to the conclusion that it had been forced off of the road.  The engine was cold to the touch at that point, denoting a time lapse between ‘The Incident’ and the car’s discovery.  The vehicle was empty, the driver’s door hanging open.  There was no sign of the driver, just a faint smear of blood on the steering wheel.  No sign of Detective Raymond Vecchio.

Ben turned away, swallowing hard at the nausea, battling to force it back down into the hollow pit of his gut.  Ray…

Two weeks ago Ray had been lauded as a hero, his actions instrumental in bringing the perpetrators of a massive drugs ring to justice.  This had been one of the few occasions since the inception of their friendship that Ray had managed to keep Ben at a distance; his concerns had been vehemently presented – with even more force than one of the vociferous detective’s usual tirades – and Ben had respected his wishes, albeit paying scant attention to his own work as he accompanied his friend in spirit if not in body.  The pride he felt when Ray successfully brought in the top echelon of the ring still warmed him when he focused on the memories.

“You understand why I had to leave you out of this, don’t you, Benny?” Ray had asked as he drove Ben home after all the fuss at the Station House had died down.  “These were scary people and I didn’t want you in the firing line.”

“I understand, Ray.  But if I used the same argument you’d never be able to do your job.”

“That’s right, my job.  My job.  I’ve had enough worrying about you because we’re both doing my job.”

“Ray…”

“You listen to me, Benny.  I had hair before you turned up.  You have single-handedly worried my follicles to death.”

“Ray…”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to interrupt?”

“I apologise.”

“Good thing.”  They sat in silence until they reached Ben’s apartment on West Racine.  Ray parked up but didn’t make a move to leave the car.

“Ray?”

“We’re friends, Benny.  Best friends – you started that, not me.”

“Best friends, Ray.”

“And one of the ideals of friendship is not to let your best friend get hurt.  Or worse.”

Ben bit back the dozens of logical rejoinders that sprung to the tip of his tongue and kept quiet.  He realised without it being spelt out to him that aspects of this case had frightened Ray badly, and Ray was by nature a brave man.  Ben decided to bide his time, knowing that after a few routine cases Ray would be bored driving around by himself and they could return to normal – normal being unofficial partners.

Ben had noticed that Ray was unusually edgy for a day or two after the drugs bust, but he’d eventually stopped looking over his shoulder and everything felt fine.  Better than fine.  It wasn’t often that Ray got something so right that there wasn’t a word of criticism levelled at him from any quarter, but this time he’d cracked it, and he was as good-humoured as Ben had ever known him.  Six days ago he’d dropped Ben and Diefenbaker off at the Consulate before heading for the Precinct headquarters, and the last mundane conversation echoed through Ben’s mind repeatedly.

“Have a good day, Benny.  Take care of yourself.”

“I’m rarely in great peril at the Consulate, Ray.”

“Hey, don’t cheek the cop,” Ray had grinned.  “I’ve never known anyone who could find trouble like you, Benny.”  Ben had smiled back, declining to be drawn into a spat, however jovial.  “Be a good Mountie and I’ll pick you up the usual time, okay?”  Ben thanked him kindly, mentally acknowledging that the question was delivered like an order he wouldn’t dream of disobeying.  “And you, be a good wolf and look after the Mountie.”  Ray started to drive away, rolled a few feet then braked, waiting until Ben came over and was framed in the opening of the passenger side window.

“Ray?”

“We’ll do something special later.  Your choice if it doesn’t include ice or ruin a suit!”

And with a casual wave he’d left.

At a little after midday Ben had received a phone call at the Consulate from Detective Jack Huey, asking whether Ray was with him.  At the sound of those deliberately nonchalant words Ben’s stomach had somersaulted.  Inspector Thatcher had been professionally concerned and allowed him to leave for the Station House immediately.  When he arrived the squad room was full of personnel, the atmosphere wired; Ben wandered through the cacophony in a daze to Ray’s vacant desk where he sat in what he took for granted as ‘his’ chair.  His inactivity had not lasted long though: it took five minutes for the reality of the situation to sink in, then he was presenting himself to Welsh, demanding (in his own particularly polite Canadian way) to be a part of the investigation.

At two-forty that afternoon the Riv had been found and Ben had ridden with Huey to the crime scene.  Just thinking of it as ‘The Crime Scene’ had shaken Ben deeply, and the sight of the damaged, abandoned Riv was more distressing than he ever could have imagined it would be.  Ray loved this car, felt safe cocooned within it, shouldn’t have been alone in it.  They stood back and watched as the scene was photographed prior to the car being moved to a location where it would be tested and scrutinised for any forensic evidence; once they were allowed closer it was only Huey’s quick reactions that stopped Ben touching his fingers to the blood on the steering wheel.

As they rode back to the 27^th Ben’s mind created scenario after scenario, trying to explain the blood with a minimum of damage to Ray, even attempting a version of events that saw the perpetrator being hurt instead of the victim.  Victim.  Ray as a victim didn’t equate.  This was Ray Vecchio he was thinking about.

Six days.  Not a whisper, not a rumour, not a hint of a sighting since.  The usual informants had proven reticent to become involved; even Ray’s long-standing snitches had backed off so far you needed binoculars to find them.  And all the while there was an undercurrent that whispered about drug gangs and retribution; it would have taken a brave man to mention aloud that as there was no ransom note they may as well assume that Detective Vecchio had been murdered to set an example, but it didn’t stop people thinking it.  Ben saw it in the eyes of the other detectives before they looked quickly away, determined not to expose their fears to the observant Mountie: after all, this could have been any one of them.

And now Ben walked, deliberately counting his steps to prevent his mind drifting, finding himself automatically heading for the Vecchio house where Diefenbaker patiently waited with the fraught family.  No.  No, he couldn’t face them: they expected too much of him, needing him to turn off his own emotions and concentrate on comforting or reassuring them, and he was too tired for that: worn down and aching to his bones, desperate for sleep yet scared to doze in case he missed…anything.  But he was nothing if not a realist, and he picked up his pace as he made for West Racine, knowing that he had to make himself eat and make himself sleep and make himself ready for another painful day.

Well, you can force a meal down your throat but you can’t switch off and sleep to order.  Ben sighed in the darkness, stretched out and fidgeting restlessly on his bed, unable to find a comfortable position that would ease any of the aches he’d accumulated.  He counted the cracks that laced the ceiling, guessed by the sound of the engines the make of the cars passing outside, strained to listen to every word of the songs coming from an overloud radio on the floor below his.  But every diversion led back to Ray.  Was he alive, was he hurt, was he alone?  Alone was a painful concept for Ben now; a state he’d lived in – accepted without consideration – for most of his life, one he thought he’d become conditioned to until Ray had wormed his way into his affections.  Having opened his heart to the cop and his family (for, he quickly learnt, they came as a unit) the concept of returning to loneliness was frightening.

“I’d know if he were dead,” Ben told the stillness, sure that the cracking of his voice on the final word was a result of dehydration, as opposed to an emotional weakness on his part.  “I’d know…”  The words, now whispered, slid into the gloom.  Did he believe that?  Was the link between them so robust that…  A single tear crept from the corner of Ben’s eye and slid down the side of his face.  Because he was tired.  Tired.  Not emotionally unstable, not now, not when Ray needed him to be particularly strong.  He was tired.  He turned his face so the moisture was absorbed into the pillow.  Tried to relax, closed his eyes, felt the loneliness rush in to suffocate him.

Six days.  In a few hours time it would be a week.  Then a fortnight.  Then a month.  Then, maybe…maybe the rest of his life.

…

Ben didn’t know he’d fallen asleep until he woke up.  It had only been a couple of hours, but it was much-needed rest and, thankfully, it had been dreamless.  He sat on the edge of his bed and wondered about the day ahead: Station House or Consulate?  Or perhaps another day following his own instincts?  Re-phrase that – another fruitless day following his own instincts.  He wasn’t sure he could bear much more of this.  He’d never known fear to be so…physical.  But now he felt it weighing down every limb, coursing through every vein, clogging every pore.

“Be strong,” he told himself, then said it again inside his head, using Ray’s voice.  Of course, then it had to have ‘Benny’ on the end.  Or a mispronounced Frasier.  Why hadn’t he ever stopped that?  Because he didn’t want to put an end to the familiarity of it.  Ben smiled, swallowed hard, felt the emptiness carry on eating away at him.  Now…  He would collect Dief and go to the Consulate, find things to occupy himself.  If he was no use to Ray he may as well be use to someone; Inspector Thatcher probably had a list of duties as long as her arm for him.  If there was news, Huey would call.  From the Station House.  Or the hospital.

Or the morgue.

It was still dark as he approached the Vecchio house, and he wasn’t at all surprised to see a light burning in the front window: since Ray had gone missing there was always someone up at night, ready, waiting, and Ben felt an affinity with his adopted family that he would never have credited a week ago.  It was still hard to enter the house as if he had any right to be there though, and he turned his key over and over in his fingers, deciding whether or not to use it.  He could tap on the window.  Sure, frighten whoever was sitting there out of their wits.  A light in the sky caught his eye as he stood deliberating, and he glanced up in time to see the final moments of a shooting star, unconsciously smiling to himself because Ray believed in the power of shooting stars and the wishes they bequeathed.  He remembered their discussion about the phenomena, with Ray’s argument being on the lines of he believed it so as far as he was concerned it was true.  Logic flew out of the window when Ray believed in something.  Or believed in someone.

“I wish Ray would come back,” Ben murmured as he stared at the spot where the star had disappeared.  “I wish Ray would come back.”

Then he was aware of a commotion inside the house and the extraordinary sight of an entire family of Vecchios trying to exit the front door at precisely the same moment.

“Benton,” Mrs Vecchio’s voice cut through the din.  “Benton, they’re taking him to the hospital.”

“Ray?  Ray’s been found?” Ben asked stupidly as she reached his side.

“Thrown out of a car at the 27^th,” the detective who had been keeping the family  company filled in as she passed them.

There was another strident family conference at the cars when decisions were hastily made about who was staying, who was going, and Ben found himself being manhandled into the back of the unmarked squad car.  But all he could focus on was the mantra rushing through his mind: ‘Ray’s alive, Ray’s alive, Ray’s alive…’

It was hours later when the fuss finally died down: the Vecchios had been filed past their damaged loved one, reassured and dispatched for some much-needed sleep after a week of hell; unsatisfactorily vague preliminary statements had been cajoled from the withdrawn cop.  Now Ben was able to take his place at Ray’s bedside.  He stood studying the sleeping form: his friend was thinner, unshaven, seemingly covered in one massive bruise, but he was alive, and in one, albeit battered, piece.  Ben’s pounding heart began to calm, the loneliness trickled away, the panic subsided.  He placed one hand carefully over Ray’s bony fingers.

“You know, Ray,” he whispered, “you were right about shooting stars.”  He paused, smiled a relieved smile.  “I hope you can hear this; I know how much you like to be right.”

Ray’s fingers twitched and Ben took them into his hand, relishing the contact, watching as Ray fought to open his eyes.  It took a while for him to focus on the Mountie, but Ben was a patient man.

“Benny,” Ray whispered coarsely.

“Hello, Ray.”

Ray didn’t respond to the smile Ben offered him.  His brow wrinkled, pain filled his expression; when he spoke his voice was broken.

“Benny…I’m dead.”

There was more waiting, much more, before Ray was in a condition to explain his earlier words.  He insisted on Ben being present when he gave a full statement to Welsh, Huey and Dewey.  Ray explained how the Riv had been forced from the road the previous week and how he had fought against the men dragging him from the driver’s seat before being beaten senseless, eventually waking up tied to a chair in a cold, dark cellar.  His captors hadn’t spoken to him for days, punishing his demands for information and tirades of insults with further beatings, causing him to lose consciousness several times.  It was only yesterday when he had been addressed and ‘sentenced’.  The assumption that the drugs mafia had somehow been involved proved correct, but it hadn’t been enough for them to kill Ray, to cripple him, or even to force drugs on him until he was addicted and facing the pain and trauma of withdrawal – all punishments that had been utilised before with troublesome cops.

“They shot me up,” Ray admitted with more than a little difficulty.

“The doctor says the tox screen is negative,” Welsh assured him.

“They’re looking for the wrong thing.”  Ray ran his hands over his shorn head, a quick, desperate gesture.  “Blood.”  The word was barely audible.  Ray cleared his throat, tried again.  “Blood.  They shot me up with blood.  Infected…  Y’know…  AIDS.”  The stunned silence that met Ray’s statement seemed to gel around the men, unbroken until Ray’s quiet voice reiterated his earlier statement: “I’m dead.”

Only now did he look up, prepared to make eye contact, and it was Ben he looked to.  The Mountie was uncharacteristically silent, but Ray watched as turbulent emotions churned under the barely contained façade, wondering if he would see much the same expression on his own face if he found a mirror right now.

“I’ll talk to the doctor,” Welsh muttered as he headed for the door.

“Can you give us anything?” Huey demanded the moment Welsh was out of earshot.  “A place, a name?”

“Someone we can pin down and kick the living shit out of?” Dewey fumed.

“Gimme some time to think.  See if anything comes back.  I’ve still got a thick head, you know?”

More time passed, filled with conversations about further blood screening and offers of counselling.  Ray listened patiently at first, refused everything, rapidly began to lose patience.

“I think Detective Vecchio would appreciate some time alone,” Ben eventually stepped in, recognising the danger signs of Ray on a short fuse.  He ushered everyone from the room, pausing in the doorway and glancing back at his friend.  “Would you like me to…”

“Stay,” Ray finished vehemently.

Ben stepped back inside the room, feeling the silence settle once again.  Ray sat hunched in the bed, knees drawn up, arms tightly hugging them; Ben wondered how to comfort Ray, wished he was better at dealing with life’s emotional content.  He crossed to the bed and gestured.

“May I?”

Ray gave a tiny nod and Ben sat on the edge of the bed.  It had been easy enough to take Ray’s hand when he was asleep, why not now?  He started to raise a hand, dropped it, felt useless.  Ray glanced at him, then away again as quickly, but not before Ben had registered the despair and fear.  The loneliness.  Ben raised his hand a second time, gently ran the back of his fingers along the bones of Ray’s wrist, didn’t miss the sharp intake of breath.  Ben wanted – needed – to hold his friend, as much for his own sake as for Ray’s, but as he started to reach out his courage deserted him.  He rested his hand on the hump made by Ray’s knees.  Ray’s head slowly turned and drooped until his brow was pressed to the back of Ben’s hand, and Ben was painfully aware of the tears dripping onto his skin.

…

Ray stood gazing out over the blank expanse of white, not actually focused on any one thing, just allowing himself to be lost in the sheer desolation of the icy landscape.

“Ray.  Come in now,” came Ben’s voice from behind him.  “Ray?”

Ray savoured a deep breath that seemed to freeze every last scrap of oxygen in his lungs, then turned and followed Ben back into the warmth of the cabin.  As he peeled off the outer layers of windcheater and coat Ray hummed softly to himself; for the last two weeks Ben had waited for the expected outburst of understandable fury but it had never emerged.  Ray was introverted, preoccupied with his own thoughts, unnervingly quiet except for the semi-tuneless humming that Ben didn’t think Ray knew he was doing.  When Ben had suggested they come to the cabin for some time out he had braced himself for the usual rapid-fire sarcasm at the expense of all things Canadian; Ray had mentally deliberated for a few minutes before answering with, ‘Sure, Benny’, and a hint of a smile.

Ben served up their food and called Ray to the table.  The companionable silence that once calmed Ben’s nerves now grated because of its prolonged length, and he was determined to draw Ray into a conversation, whatever it took.  He’d made pasta and one of Ray’s favourite sauces, deliberately unbalancing the seasoning and using the wrong herbs: a month ago Ray would have considered this a capital offence, and Ben waited with anticipation for even a hint of the usual reaction.  Ray ate a first mouthful, paused.  Then carried on eating without comment.

“This isn’t quite right, is it, Ray?” Ben prompted.

“It’s fine.”

“Too much basil.”  There was no basil in it and Ray would have known that by the aroma before he even got a forkful to his mouth.

“Maybe,” Ray answered evenly, and Ben felt defeat twist at his gut.  He wanted the real Ray back.  The wonderfully irrational Ray who would throw up his hands in horror at the thought of vegetarian lasagne and sneer at the man who couldn’t tell fresh pasta from dried.

After dinner they sat by the fire, sipping hot toddies that Ben had prepared with liberal doses of brandy from the morning’s trip to the stores.  Getting a man drunk to make him talk was underhand and inexcusable and Ben was counting on it.  Ray wasn’t a big drinker – barely a drinker at all – just maybe a glass of wine with dinner, a beer when the guys came round to play poker, so there was every chance that a generous dousing of alcohol would undermine his defences.  Ben had felt cheap and nasty when he considered his intentions, but the ever-present desperation tipped the balance: how could he help if Ray wouldn’t talk?

When Ray finally did loosen up, a little before midnight, what he chose to break his silence with wasn’t at all what Ben had expected.

“Benny…Benny, can I ask you for something?”

“Anything, Ray.”

“If it gets really bad can we come back here?”

“Ray?”

“If I’m ill and dying and I can’t stand it anymore.  I could just go out there…”  He vaguely waved a hand at the door, “…and walk until I dropped.  You said hypothermia wasn’t a bad way…”

“It isn’t going to come to that, Ray,” Ben tried to make his voice sound positive but it simply exposed his anxiety.

“But if it did.”  Ray’s eyes met Ben’s and held them for the first time in weeks.  “You wouldn’t let me go on suffering and suffering, would you?”

Ben’s mouth could barely form words.  “I don’t think…”

“Who else can I ask, Benny?  Who can I trust?”

“You should have taken the test,” Ben finally managed to force out, “and then at least you would have had some…”

“I’d just had an AIDS test for work, not even two weeks before.”

“But a fresh one could have…”

“What difference would it have made?  I’ve still got to wait six months for a reliable result.”  Ray paused, thought, groaned.  “Six months.  I don’t know how I’m gonna go six months not knowing if it’s in me.”

“You could still be clear.  Listen to me, Ray…”

“No, Benny, not this time.  I can’t listen to you trying to make me feel better because it breaks my heart to hear you lying through your teeth.”

“I’m not lying.”

“But you don’t know.  We don’t know.  Do we?”

Ben struggled for a moment before admitting the truth.  “No.  We don’t know.”

Ray smiled fondly and took another mouthful of his drink.  “Why have you been trying to get me drunk, Benny?”

“So you’d talk to me,” Ben admitted sheepishly.

Ray let out a sharp laugh.  “That’ll teach you!  What exactly were you hoping to hear?”  Ben shrugged.  “Not what you got.”

“The doctor said you were in shock.  That talking would help, and as you refused a counsellor…”  Ben’s voice faded away to nothing as, for the first time, he logically considered what he would have to listen to if Ray decided to unburden himself.  Now he was being honest with himself he conceded that he was frightened, and his greatest fear was that he would not be strong enough for his friend to rely on.

“Okay.  What would you like to talk about?” Ray asked deliberately.

“How do you feel about going back to work?” fell out of Ben’s mouth.  Very clever.  This was one of the questions he had planned on cunningly working around to.  Never drink if your mouth’s driving, Benton Fraser.

“Going back to work…” Ray mused, and despite the relaxed tone of his voice Ben knew him well enough to see the tension twitch through his body.

“There are a lot of people who will be glad to see you,” Ben offered.

“And a lot of people who’ll think I…”  The tension crept into Ray’s voice and he bit it back, bit the words back, took another sip of brandy.

“Who’ll think what?”  Ben sat up, moving a little closer to Ray.  “What will they think, Ray?”

“That I got this illness another way.”

“You haven’t definitely…”

“Benny!”

Ben hung his head, reminded himself yet again to drop the comforting platitudes.

“Sorry.”

A long pause ensued.  Ray tried to get back to the calm place.  Ben topped up their drinks – neat alcohol this time, no pretence of a cheerfully harmless hot toddy.

“Who will think you got it another way?” Ben eventually asked.

Ray shrugged, knocked the brandy back in one go and poured more.  “People.”

“Anyone whose opinion matters knows what happened to you.”

“Yeah, but in six months, it’ll just be, ‘Vecchio’s got AIDS’ and a whole heap of conclusions being jumped to.”

“You think…?”

“They’ll think I’m gay, Benny, and I’ll be harassed by some, ostracized by others, but won’t be able to trust any of them to back me up on the street ever again.  You know what cops are like.  Hell, what people are like.”  Ben drew breath to speak and Ray jumped back in.  “And don’t give me any bull about logic or setting people straight – no pun intended – or enlightened views that nobody in the entire Chicago PD has ever heard of.”

“I can’t believe…”

“Don’t second-guess me over people I know better than you ever will!”  Ray shouted as he struggled to his feet, needing to pace, fighting and losing to the huge swell of anger he’d been bottling up since that needle had slid into his vein.  “Shit, shit, shit!  I don’t deserve this, Benny, I don’t fucking deserve this!  My whole stinking life I’ve played their games and been so damn careful, I’ve been so fucking careful.  I don’t deserve to be ill.  I’ve been so fucking careful!”

Ray crossed and threw open the cabin door, storming out into the frigid air.  Ben was after him in seconds, turning back immediately to pull boots onto his sock-clad feet, hoping the time he had no choice but to take would not be crucial.

“Ray!  Ray, wait!”

Ray didn’t get far.  He’d not left the cabin after sundown before now and the unexpectedly ferocious cold knocked the fight from his system in seconds.  He stopped walking and stared at the dark, feeling drunk and very pitiful.  Shit, he was freezing to death here!  Where was his coat?  Where were his boots?  Where was his Mountie?

“Ray,” came the familiar voice as he was bundled up in a blanket and ushered back to the cabin.  “You know how quickly a man can succumb to the elements here.  I don’t care how angry you get, you don’t walk off.”

“Understood,” weakly Ray parroted Ben’s typical response, limply allowing himself to be manoeuvred to the fire.  Ben vigorously rubbed the wiry arms and bony hands, forcing the blood to circulate.

“How are your feet?”

“What feet?”

“Oh dear.”

“No, no, kidding.  Warming up.  I’m warming up.  You can leave some skin.”  Ben looked down to where he was frantically massaging Ray’s fingers.  And stopped.  But he didn’t let go.  “I’m a very morose drunk,” Ray told Ben carefully before squinting hard at his friend.  “On the other hand, you are a very sober drunk.”

“You scared me sober.”

“Oh.  Sorry.”

Ray looked down at where their hands were still joined and a wash of emotion threatened to drown him.  He murmured a few choked words that Ben struggled to hear.

“What was that, Ray?  I didn’t…”

“No-one…”  Ray swallowed at the lump in this throat.  “I’m never gonna have this again,” he whispered.  “Not a touch…  No-one’s ever gonna want to hold me again.”

The ingrained reserve that had been hampering Ben buckled at the tortured words, and he gently pulled Ray to him, holding him close and wishing he could leech the pain from him.  He felt Ray’s arms slowly encircle him, his head fall onto his shoulder.

“No, Ray, no,” he insisted vehemently, “that’s not true, it’s not true.”

“Who’s gonna want me?”  The words were muffled but still clear enough to tug at Ben’s heart.

“You’re a fine person, and it would take some kind of fool not to see that because of an illness.”

Ray’s head lifted.  “But it’s not an illness.  It’s the illness.”  He took a deep breath and a step back from the embrace.  “I gotta sit down.  Any more brandy?”

“I’ll get you some.”  Ben retrieved Ray’s glass and topped it up, making tea for himself and pouring a little of the hot water onto the brandy to evaporate some of the alcohol.  “Here.”

“Thanks, Benny.”

Ben was halfway back to the chair he had occupied earlier when he changed direction and sat at the opposite end of the couch from Ray.  He approved of his actions, hoping that the instincts that had guided him well for years were getting over the shock of the past month and kicking in.  He was close enough to be of comfort to Ray, not too close to stifle.  Now the protracted silence was welcome and calming, and the alcohol he’d consumed earlier began to take effect; Ben slid down in his seat, finding a well-worn snug spot in the corner of the couch and settling into it, resting his head back and closing his eyes.  He was almost asleep when Ray cleared his throat, asking for attention in as polite a way as he knew.

“Ray?”  Ben rolled his head in Ray’s direction, peering through half-closed eyes.

“Can I tell you?”  Ray didn’t look like he wanted to tell anyone anything: his face was tense, his expressive eyes troubled.  Ben sat up and gave him a reassuring smile. “I tried to fight them, you know that?  You know I wouldn’t just let something…happen.”

“I know.”

“I was strapped in that chair all the time – they wouldn’t let me up for anything, I mean anything.  Jeez, I couldn’t stand the stink of me…”  He paused, angry at his embarrassment, at having to tell his best friend this.  “It was one of those big wooden chairs with the arms, you know?”  Ben nodded.  “Bolted to the floor.  And my arms were strapped to its arms.  On that last day they came and tightened the binding on my left arm with tape so I couldn’t move it at all.  You see, they didn’t want me wriggling it around so they’d have to hurry.”  The memory forced Ray to a halt once more and it was all Ben could do not to move closer and take a grip on the hands that were shaking with the telling.  “When this guy explained what was going to happen I freaked.  I was screaming and struggling and he laughed, Benny.  He laughed.  And then he was coming with that needle and he pushed it into the vein on the back of my hand.  Real slow.  Real slow because he was enjoying it so much.  And I watched him press the plunger and empty that shit into me.  Real slow because he was enjoying it so much.”

Ray drank, holding the glass in both hands to steady it.  Ben wanted to say something but knew anything coming from him would be insufficient, and if by some stroke of unlikely genius he could find the right words he didn’t trust his voice to be able to say them without betraying his emotions.  So he shifted a little closer to Ray and left his hand between them.  In case it was needed.  He selfishly hoped it would be needed.  Drink finished, Ray put the glass aside and turned back to Ben, eyes flickering down to take note of the offered hand.

“I knew I was watching my life end, Benny.  The life I knew.  And a totally bizarre thought came into my head.  You wanna know what?”  Ben nodded again.  “Why couldn’t this have happened before I knew you.  Because before you my life was a total fuck-up and it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“It would have mattered,” Ben contradicted him automatically.

“Now it matters.  You turned my life around…”

“Ray…”

“All right, you made me turn my life around.  And I’m a better person for knowing you.  And now I’m dead.”  Ray made a fist and pounded the arm of the couch, accompanying the action with a string of expletives.  Then he stopped as suddenly as he had started, breathing heavily.  Without looking he clutched at where Ben’s still hand lay between them, catching it at the second attempt, visibly calming as his grasp was reciprocated.  “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologise.”

“I’m so goddamned tired.  Can we talk more tomorrow?”

“If it’s what you want.”

Ray gave a weary nod.  “It helps.  I think it helps.”

Ray sat forward on the couch and slowly rose, holding onto Ben’s hand until it was physically impossible to do so any longer and stand up straight.  He weaved around behind the couch, headed for the bed, stopping and laying his hand affectionately on Ben’s head for a moment.

“I love you, Benny.”

Tears sprang to Ben’s eyes.  “And I you, Ray.”

“Thanks.  Thanks.”

Ben waited until Ray was in bed and his breathing even in sleep before kicking out his bed roll in front of the smouldering fire.  His insides were still churning from Ray’s words, and the injustice bit hard into him: such a friendship was rare and he was going to lose it because some bastard…  No, he reprimanded himself firmly, be positive.  He had to be optimistic for Ray.  The next six months were due to be hell.  Be strong.  Be strong.

…

Despite Ray’s indication that they would talk the next day, apart from a few basic necessities the silence returned for the best part of a week.  Ben understood more now and didn’t press his friend to speak, just made sure he was there whenever Ray needed him.  He was aware that Ray was becoming more dependent on him, wanting to know where he was, or was going, what his plans were for the forthcoming hours; he also noticed that of an evening Ray was gradually inching his way along the couch to him, sitting slightly closer and making himself more comfortable with each passing day.  Ben didn’t mind, indeed he felt flattered that Ray chose him to turn to.  It made him feel…family.

…

“Y’know, Benny, sometimes I just want to scream.”  Ray was staring out at the swirling snow again, his body language tranquil despite his words.

“Well…” Ben joined him at the window.  “If you waited until the snow stopped, wrapped up warmly, used snowshoes and took all necessary precautions, you could take one of the trails and find enough privacy to do just that.”

“I bet nobody ever accused you of being spontaneous,” Ray grinned.

“In fact…  Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

“Sorry.  No, not sorry.”  Ben took a deep breath and began again.  “I’ll stop apologising.  I know you find it a fault.”

“It’s not a fault.”

“It’s a fault.”

“You have no faults, you’re perfect.”

“Hardly, Ray.  On more than one occasion you’ve called me the most irritating man in the world.”

“Sure, but you have it down to perfection.”  Ben deliberated whether to take advantage of Ray’s apparent good mood; Ray watched the mental deliberation with amusement: he could read this guy like a book.  Well, almost.  “Ask it.”

“Ask it?”

“What you want to ask.  Or do I need to be soused for it?”

“Something you said…”

Ben stopped as Ray’s smile faded and a glimmer of the haunted touched his eyes.

“Ask.”

“It can wait.”

“Ask the question.  What did I say?”

Ben turned his back on the window, leaning against the wall and re-running the words in his head.

“‘My whole stinking life I’ve played their games and been so damn careful.’  Whose games?”

Ray let out a snort of laughter.  “Oh, yeah, I need to be drunk.  Hugely drunk.  Get the bottle out tonight and you may have half a chance.  You may even find out what I did to get kicked out of Marcia Kebble’s birthday party.”

So, several hours later Ben did just that, fixing hot toddies and not being surprised by the look of irritation Ray gave him when he placed one in front of him after dinner.

“We’re not going there, Benny.”

No. If he was honest, Ben didn’t think they would be.

“You mean I have to get in touch with Marcia Kebble personally?”

Ray deflated at that, shook his head, sipped his drink.

“Think we should go home?” he asked after a few minutes.

“Are you ready to?”

“The family…” Ray muttered half-heartedly.  “And don’t you miss Dief?”

“Yes, I do.  But we both understood why you and I needed this time alone.”  They sat through another empty pause.  “Should I start securing the cabin tomorrow?”

“No.  I don’t want to go home.  Ever.  Is that practical?”

“I wouldn’t imagine so.”

“A few more days then?”

Ben agreed with a smile, collected the brandy bottle and headed for the couch.  Ray automatically followed, sat that little bit closer than last night and Ben almost commented on it, but was wary of Ray assuming it meant he had to keep his distance, as opposed to approval of the contrary.

“So, do you still want to scream?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ray answered quickly, holding out his glass for a refill.

“You could just…do it.  If you wanted to.”

“It isn’t something you just do.”

“There’s no-one for you to disturb.”

“Except for you, and you’ve been looking disturbed enough.”

“I have?”

“You thought you were hiding it so well, huh?  Well, maybe from other people, but not me.”

“I didn’t mean to cause you any more distress, Ray.”

“I should be distressed that someone beyond the Vecchio gene pool cares so much?  I don’t think so.”

The memory of Ray’s absence resurrected itself unbidden: yes, he cared all right.

“Ray…  When you were missing…”

“Ah, no, Benny…”

“When you were missing I had a lot of time to think.  I hadn’t truly appreciated everything you do for me until that point.”

“You force me to do stuff?”

“It isn’t that I force you.  I don’t question whether or not you want to do it.”

“If I don’t want to do stuff I say no.”  Ray waggled his glass for another shot of brandy.  “I’ve always been up for this.  We’re cool.”

“Can I just say thank you?”

“Not in that snitty voice.”

“It’s not…  You’re in a strange mood today, and I don’t think it’s anything to do with Marcia Kebble.”

“She’d be greatly relieved to hear that.”

They clinked their glasses and drained them, discussed old cases while polishing off the remainder of the bottle.  Halfway through his musings on the repatriation of native works of art Ben realised Ray was too quiet to be conscious, even by recent standards.

“How often have I bored you into a stupor?” he asked the comatose figure beside him, reaching out to tip Ray toward him and straighten out the long neck that would otherwise have one hell of a kink in it by morning. With Ray’s head settled comfortably in his lap he reached behind him and pulled an old blanket from the back of the couch, clumsily covering them with it.  Ben’s fingers itched to stroke the closely shorn head, having speculated so often how it felt when Ray did that.  Just one little…  That felt nice, no wonder Ray…  The man in question stirred and Ben whipped his hand away, finding himself stifling drunken giggles at the thought of getting caught.  Shut up and sleep, he told himself firmly, before you wake Ray up.  Ray needs his sleep, especially if…  The thought brought the giggles to a halt, and an inebriated swing of emotions had him picking his way through a minefield of fury and fear and sorrow.  Biting his lip until he tasted the metallic taint of blood, he carefully placed a protective hand back on Ray’s head.  God help the man that did this to Ray.

…

Ray woke after a couple of hours, tried to stretch, landed squarely at Ben’s feet.  He looked up, dazed, slowly figuring out where he had been and why he’d been so warm then, and why he was feeling the cold now.  Damn, how did he get back to where he was?  All he wanted was that warmth again but if Ben woke up he wouldn’t get it, he’d be sent to bed and however warm that was it wasn’t Mountie warm.  He could feel where Ben’s hands had been because those areas were feeling the chill more: he’d had one hand on the back of his head, the other on his shoulder.  At least someone was still prepared to lay hands on him.  Now he felt colder still, he was freezing.  Freezing.  Ice was forming in his veins as the truth of his predicament coursed back into his mind.  Oh, God, no, not AIDS.  What had he done to deserve that?  Nobody deserved that.  He could face being shot down in the street far easier than knowing that death was creeping through him, filling him, taking him.  He was being eaten alive and had never felt such fear.  Ray’s shoulders heaved as a sob tore into him, terror and misery finally superseding the denial and anger.

“Ray?” came a sleepy voice from above him.

“I’m…I’m…”  The okay lie refused to be spoken and an instantly awake Ben was sliding to the floor beside him, gathering him up and hauling him close.  Ray clutched at his friend, at his heat, knowing that if anyone could rescue him it would be his Benny, who could do the undoable, save the unsaveable.  It took a while for him to realise that the distraught weeping was coming from him, but once realisation set in it was just a matter of time before the tears hiccupped to a halt.  No softly spoken pearls of wisdom this time, Ray noted, letting his friend gently rock him, inwardly acknowledging the comfort of it, wondering if Ben felt it, needed it too.

…

Ben was woken the next morning by the sounds and aromas of cooking; Ray was a good cook and Ben looked forward to the rare occasions that he made the effort, and now he prised himself up to peer over the back of the couch to see what was being prepared.  Approximately every scrap of food in the cabin, Ben judged at a glance.  That was fine, they could go to the store later.  Unless Ray was using up the perishables because they were packing up and heading back to Chicago.  That would be fine too.  Just not as fine.  He smiled as he heard the humming start, and for a change he recognised a tune, which made him smile harder.

“Good morning, Ray,” he greeted cheerfully as he drew alongside his friend, the despair of the night a long way away.

“And a good morning to you too, Benny.  I hope you’re hungry because I have cooked for six precincts.”

“It looks excellent.  Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Tea and coffee.”

“Coming up.”

“Are we going back?” Ben asked after the enormous breakfast was polished off.  Ray gave Ben a long look and a brief nod.

“I think I’m ready.”

Shooting Star 2       Shooting Star Index

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