For weeks after he left the hospital, he deliberately avoided the streets where he had first seen her, Chicago's well-appointed mile of fashionable hotels and clothing stores. He avoided his apartment as well, where the best--and worst--of the memories lingered. As soon as he was able, he occupied his time taking long walks with Diefenbaker, and let the icy wind cut sharply across his face, his boots sinking deep into the heavy, damp snow.

There were those occasions when Ray bullied him into dinner with the Vecchios, and watched him from across the table with worried eyes. Fraser shouldered his way through the small talk, complimented Francesca on each new dress, and escaped as soon as it was courteous.

The nights passed, and if he occasionally flinched at the glimpse of a dark haired woman on the street, well, perhaps that was part of his penance.

***

It was a major case and Ray had been excited to receive the assignment: a series of jewelry heists, well-executed raids on the larger establishments known for the quality of the gems they sold. It was high profile as well, a chance to be in the spotlight, the kind of thing Ray enjoyed. Fraser kept to the background, although he helped Ray interview witnesses and review the police reports. He stayed late at Ray's desk, discussing the various avenues of investigation, drinking tea while he listened to Ray complain about the quality of the coffee in the break-room machine.

He studied the pictures from the latest crime scene. The robbery had occurred just around the block from the hotel where he'd left her that first night, before she came back to him filled with fire and heat and passion, and a terrible, ruthless anger.

"I'm sorry, Ray, I must go. I've forgotten an appointment."

"Benny, it's nine o'clock at night..."

"Good evening, Ray."

The days were growing longer but the nights still seemed cold.

***

There was a moment when everything seemed to freeze, everything and everyone--the men who were pointing guns at the clerks, the fear etched on the faces of the store's customers, Ray's in-drawn breath right behind him. A showcase that seemed to hover in mid-air, suspended between the act of tilting and the act of falling.

Then a woman screamed and the showcase toppled, exploding with a thunderous crash into a thousand brilliant pieces.  A bright wave of shattered glass that sparkled as it spilled across the fine marble floor, like rain in the sunlight, or ice on a bright, clear day, or a handful of diamonds dancing across the snow drenched pavement of a train station. He heard Ray cursing behind him, heard the shouted warning and felt Ray push him out of the way, heard the sound of Ray's voice, angry and frustrated, yelling Freeze! Freeze! Freeze!

Later, when Ray pulled him through the pack of reporters, telling them to back off, he realized he couldn't really remember anything after that. Oh, he'd helped Ray apprehend the perpetrators--there was a new scuff on his boot and his uniform sleeve was torn--so he must have taken some sort of appropriate action.  He remembered Ray trying to make himself heard over the babble of witnesses all wanting to tell their story, all of them more excited than hurt and eager to tell stories they would tell again to family, friends, and co-workers--and to the reporters outside, if they got lucky.

Ray pushed a cup of hot coffee into his hands and maneuvered him into the Riviera. Fraser clasped his hands around the styrofoam, shivering, while Ray held his own door for Diefenbaker. They pulled out sharply from the curb and drove for a while, away from the scene, away from downtown, to the edge of the park near Fraser's apartment. Ray pulled the car off to the side, setting the brake with a ferocity that Fraser knew had been there for some time, although he didn't really remember noticing it before.

"Ray..."

"Benny," and there was heat in Ray's voice, heat and anger and frustration and love, and Fraser flinched at the sudden rise in temperature. He opened his mouth to say stop, or wait, because he didn't think he could do this, but Ray wasn't stopping, Ray was touching his arm, running his hand over the torn sleeve, and whispering his name, Benny, Benny, Benny.

And then Ray kissed him, kissed him hard. He felt Ray's hand on the back of his neck, pulling him forward, and Ray's other hand on his shoulder, clenching and unclenching, as if Ray was afraid to hold on, afraid to let go. Ray's tongue flickered over his bottom lip and Fraser opened his mouth on a gasp, and then Ray was there again, filling Fraser's mouth with his tongue and kissing him with all that heat and anger and frustration. Fraser could hear the sound of their breathing--it filled up the small space between them, fast and frantic, like the beating of his heart--and a sound like distant thunder, like the rush of water, spilling over ice floes breaking up in the spring.

He kissed back.