A/N: For all you fine non-American or non-native English speakers, ICE means In Case of Emergency. We put it on our phones for emergency crews. I've included a small shout-out to the patron saint of lovers. Her story fits our pair. Strange idea word props going to lilhammer. I like, I like.

ICE

The phone rang three times before Grace flailed upright in her bed, groping for her cell phone in the dark.

"Grace Van Pelt." She grumbled it automatically.

"Hello?"

"Yes? Who is this, please?" Her eyes fluttered. God, she hated it when wrong numbers called in the middle of the night.

"Ma'am, this is the ER at Saint Dwynwen's Hospital. Are you the emergency contact for a Wayne Rigsby?"

Her eyes popped wide, coming into instant focus. "Wayne Rigsby?"

"Yes," the woman said. "We found your number on his cell phone under ICE?"

Silence.

"Ma'am?"

"What's happened? Why is he in the hospital?"

The woman must have felt a chill at her voice. She paused, as if she was shivering.

"Ma'am, we found Mr. Rigsby unconscious in the street. It appears he's been attacked. Multiple lacerations and deep bruising. Possible concussion. His alcohol level is alarmingly high. Would it be possible for you to come in?"

Grace was already shimmying into her jeans while she held the phone. "I'll be there in seven minutes." She killed the call and barely managed to lock her door as she flew out of her apartment.

She was in the hospital's parking lot before she even realized she'd been driving.

She ran through the ER doors and straight the reception desk, gasping for air and wheezing his name. The receptionist pointed to the waiting room. "You'll have to sit in there."

Grace reached into her purse and yanked out her badge, jamming it under the woman's nose. "Give me his room number or get me your boss."

She got the number.

She loped down the hall until she found it. Slipping into the darkened space, she closed the door and leaned against it. Across the room was the only other occupant, unconscious on a hospital bed, his face and forearms littered with small cuts. The larger gashes had been bandaged over. His lip was slightly split. She grimaced. With older brothers, Grace had seen worse. Still, split lips were nothing to sniff at. They hurt and they took a long time to heal. His head was turned towards her. He was wearing a pale blue hospital gown and the sheets had been pulled up to his waist. He was going to be so annoyed when he woke up. He hated hospitals. Grace knew that if he's been awake when the ambulance rolled up, he would have insisted they leave him on the pavement, barking that he'd get up when he was damn good and ready.

She took a slow breath and walked quietly across the space.

She lifted a chair, minding not to scrape it along the linolium, and set it at his bedside. All thoughts about finding his doctor or informing a nurse she was here disappeared as she settled in and carefully put her hand in his.

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmured his old pet name out of habit. "What have you done to yourself?"

She bit her lips in worry as she looked him over. No heart monitor. No IV. No hooks or tubes of any sort. Just patched up and sleeping. Thank God for small favors, she supposed.

His wallet sat on the table next to his bed alongside his phone. Grace knew this already, given that they had his name and his cell when they called her. Obviously not a robbery. And he'd been drinking, they said. She noticed that the hand in hers was raw along the knuckles. A few were skinned pretty badly.

She was a cop and this used to be her man.

It didn't take a genius to work out what had happened.

"You went looking for this, didn't you?" she asked his sleeping body. She lightly ran her fingertips over his hand. "You wanted a fight."

She closed her eyes as her barely-healed wound reopened slightly. The hand in hers was good at fighting. Skilled. But its owner had no particular taste for it. He much preferred using them in far more pleasurable pursuits. She'd lost count of how many times these fingers had twined with hers, gripping her as he held her hands above her head while they made love. He adored how they're bodied aligned as they moved and strained against one another.

In bed, they were the same height.

She softly traced the non-injured skin, skirting the cuts as she caressed him. She blocked the memory of how wildly she loved these hands.

"Grace?" Her name wasn't a soft one to begin with. In his voice, heavy with booze and pain, crackling with a parched tongue, it sounded harshly serrated.

She looked up and smiled softly. "Hey, killer."

His eyes were cracked open. His mouth worked painfully as he took in the split in his lip. "Fuck, am I in the hospital?"

She snorted kindly. "Yep." Her fingers kept ghosting over his hand. She knew she should stop, that it was inappropriate now, but the digits continued to touch him anyway. Stroking him like this had always soothed him, and Grace was a nurturing soul. He was in pain. She hated to see others in pain. So she petted him like she would have not so long ago. It was only their hands, anyway. What was the harm?

"They found you on the street. They found my number on your cell under ICE." She paused and smiled at him sheepishly. "You should change that, once you're out of here."

He snorted, not so kindly. "There's no one else to call."

Surprised at his tone, her fingers stilled. "Come on, Wayne. You should list a family member. Or Lisbon. What if something serious happens to you next time? Your family should know. So should work."

His face was like his hands. It was built to express pleasure. The bitterness that settled across his features looked unnatural. "Grace, I've told you enough for you to know I don't want my family involved in my life. I don't care if I'm dead. I don't want them here. As for work," he snorted again and looked away. "I don't need Lisbon seeing me like this." A thought struck him and he turned back to Grace, his eyes widening. "Please don't tell her. I don't want her to recommend me for a psych evaluation."

Grace, powerless against his fear, nodded slightly. "Okay. I won't say anything." Her fingers, forever wanting to calm, continued to trace the lines of his hand. "What will you tell them tomorrow?" She gestured to his face.

"Boxing," he rasped, shrugging slightly.

"Jane will know," she chided gently.

"Fuck Jane." His anger tore more stitches open in her poorly healing heart.

She removed her hand and swallowed the lump in her throat. "I should go." She rose to leave.

"No!" He shot forward enough to reclaim her hand before the pain made him settle back again, but not without his prize held securely between his fingers.

"Wayne," she sighed tiredly. "I'm making you worse. You're mad at me. I should go and let you get some sleep."

"You're not making me worse," he avoided her second sentence. "And I want to get out of here. Please?" His hand tightened around hers, making her wince as she imagined it hurt him. "Please take me home?"

The plea struck her hard. Not so long ago, 'home' didn't mean one particular place to them. It meant either her apartment or his, the word 'home' applied to whichever one they happened to occupy at the same time. The idea was still ingrained in her. The sight of her injured (ex) lover, holding her hand and begging to go home filled her with the primal urge to tuck him into a warm bed and cuddle into his side, ready to fetch him anything he needed as he mended. A glass of water. Bandages. Whispers that she loved him and she was there for him, always, and he was never alone.

Her chest felt swollen. She spoke carefully, lessening the pressure word by word. "No more fights. Promise me now or I'm leaving you here."

He nodded, swallowing painfully. "No more fights, baby. I promise."

Her old pet name spoken out of habit. God, it hurt so bad to hear something so sweet.

She nodded back. "Okay then."

She checked him out. She drove him home. By 'home', she decided on her place. She just couldn't leave him, try as she might. He was so miserable. So hurt. Her instincts won over her better judgment. He didn't say anything as he sat quietly in the passenger's seat, just closed his eyes and tried not to sway with the car's turns.

She fed him Tylenol when they got inside. She pulled out one of his tees that he'd left behind for him to sleep in. She eased him into her bed, knowing he wasn't seriously injured, but wanting him to know she was there to help. He sighed gratefully as his head hit her pillow.

She flipped the lights off and darkness filled her room.

Grace slipped into her tank top and flannel pants, steering clear of her usual shorts. She couldn't run the risk of their long legs braiding together, skin to skin, as they always did of their own volition. She carefully slipped between the sheets next to him, making sure they didn't touch.

"Are you okay? Need anything else?" she whispered to him.

Silence.

"Wayne?"

"I hurt."

"Oh," she lifted a bit, squinting at him, waiting for her eyes to adjust. "They said you didn't need painkillers. You want another Tylenol?"

He sniffed softly. Suddenly a warm hand closed over hers and pulled it gently until it settled flat over his heart.

"I hurt here, Grace."

A shuddering, broken exhalation left her. "Oh, sweetie. Please don't."

"I'm hurting, baby. Please. Make it stop. I need to know you still love me."

Tears broke onto her cheeks and she cried softly. The great big heart that loved her beat steadily under her palm. "It won't help."

Still holding her, his other hand plucked at her gently. "Hold me? Please, Grace. I'm sorry the hospital called you, but I'm so happy that you came. Nothing has to change, but I hurt so bad for you. Please?"

She hated when others were in pain.

She wasn't crazy about her own pain either.

Tears still falling, she pulled his arm up and settled snugly into his side, letting it fall along her back. It knew the way. His warm hand held her upper arm. A throaty sigh escaped him as he pulled her head over to rest on his chest, where it always used to. When he was wrapped up in her to his liking, he whispered in the darkness.

"Tell me."

"Wayne…"

"Tell me, Grace."

She shivered against him and gave in. Why not, in the end? It wasn't exactly a secret, now was it?

"I love you."

He inhaled sharply, his chest rising under her head. He let it go slowly.

"And I'm not changing my ICE."