Ray Kowalski darkened his apartment, chose a CD appropriate to his mood, and sank down into the couch cushions, leaning his head back wearily. As the first notes of the song began, he raised his shaking hand and used the remote control to program the stereo--one song, endless repeat.

His hand fell back down to his side and he closed his eyes, feeling his throat tighten. It took several moments before the urge to scream or cry had passed. Though his body felt heavy, his sight blurry, and his fingers clumsy, his mind was all too clear. Dreary thoughts flew behind his closed eyelids, making him wish he had thought to drink. The alcohol might have dulled the pain, at least for a little while; at least until he did some other dumbass thing to bring it all home again and make it all painfully real.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head, his eyes falling on the photograph and letter resting innocently on his coffee table. Tears prickled at his eyes once again and he swiped them away angrily, sitting up in one violent motion. Though he clutched the letter too tightly, creasing it, he found that, despite himself, he handled the photograph with care. Long fingers caressed the image, his heart swelling with love at the memory of those strong arms wrapped around him. But then the shame flew back at him, ripping through the memory, tearing it apart and sullying it with guilt and self-loathing, and his stomach gave a painful lurch.

It had seemed too good to be true, and, of course, it was. He had been so happy to find a friend like Fraser, who didn't seem to care how fucked up he was, or how often he screwed up. And then Kris Carroll had come barreling into his life, confusing everything and turning him upside-down and inside-out; calling him beautiful. But all of it was a lie. He had the proof right in front of him, in black and white.

My Beautiful Raymond,

I suppose you have seen the photograph I enclosed. You do not seem the type who would read first and look later. If I misjudged, I apologise, but I doubt that I have. (I am smiling at you now, imagining your indignation.)

You need not worry that I will publish this image in any forum. I have given the only two copies to you and to Constable Fraser, and he is in possession of the negatives. It was wrong of me to take it at all, without your permission, but the image was one I could not resist.

I hope you can see now what I see when I look at you. You are beautiful, Ray, and I say that as both a photographer and as a man. But never fear, I have seen how close you are to the Constable, and he to you, so I will not stand between you. I hope that we can remain in touch, and I will always wait for the day when you consent to pose for me. However, I am content for now with a simple friendship, if you will have me.

I have gone on a trip to Europe, but I will write you both. Remember that you are a good and honorable and lovely man, and know that there are at least two men who think so and who hold you close to their hearts.

With much love,
Kristopher Carroll

Ray crumpled the letter and threw it across the room.

Someone was blasting their music. Fraser cocked his head, listening, then concluded that it was indeed coming from Ray's apartment, which gave him pause. He wondered if Ray could truly be ill and still play his music so loudly. From Fraser's limited experience with illness, all one really wanted to do was lie still in the dark, waiting for a reprieve. But Ray had always been musically inclined, so perhaps to him, the music was preferable to the tomblike silence that would have been of Fraser's choosing.

He shifted his grip on the pot of homemade chicken soup he had requested from Ma Vecchio, taking pains not to spill any of it. Ray had been very pale and quiet for the past few days, and had declined to join Fraser for lunch and dinner as was their usual custom, citing exhaustion and a headache as his reasons. The pallor of his friend's face and the slight tremor in his hands indicated to Fraser the beginning of a bout of the flu, or something equally insidious, in which case he would make himself readily available for cold compresses and good old-fashioned comfort.

As he reached the top of the steps, he realized that the song Ray was playing had ended and since started again. In Fraser's experience, the only time Ray ever repeated a song was because he had a particular reason for listening to it. With that in mind, he stopped outside of Ray's doorway, set the pot of soup on the floor, and listened.

"Dear lord...!"

Fraser felt the words pass his lips in a hushed whisper, his heart sinking. He had stood there for several moments, listening to the song almost all the way through. It was dismal and dark, each verse filled with despair and hopelessness. Ray couldn't possibly feel this way.... Could he?

"He's in trouble, son." Bob Fraser's voice came from behind him, cutting into his whirling thoughts. "You'd better fix this."

"Fix it?" He turned to his father's ghost, too upset to mind the intrusion. "How can I possibly fix anything if I don't understand why--"

"Why's not the problem, son, it's what, and who. The when... well, that's now. Where's in there. The how? Well, that's up to you." Fraser, Sr. shook his head as he gazed at the closed door. "Better get a move on," he urged as he faded away into nothing.

Fraser pursed his lips, anger warring with worry and determination. Pulling out the key normally reserved only for emergencies, he unlocked the door, picked up the soup, and stepped inside.

Ray was slumped on the couch, head leaned back against the cushions, eyes closed, a piece of paper dangling loosely from one limp hand.

No, Fraser realized as he quietly placed the pot of soup on Ray's kitchen table. Not a piece of paper, but a photograph; the very photograph taken by Kristopher Carroll as they had lain together in his bedroom that Sunday morning, exchanging comfort.

He stepped closer to Ray, his tread silent and stealthy. The music was most likely loud enough to mask any movement, and Ray seemed lost in his own thoughts, but still, it would be a tactical error to let Ray see him before he was prepared. He was able to get all the way to the couch and sit down beside Ray before he was noticed.

Ray startled as the cushion sank beneath Fraser's weight, and he made a move to jump away which was quickly aborted by Fraser's hand resting gently upon his shoulder. The photograph fell to the floor, and Ray froze, his body shuddering with suppressed emotion, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched.

"Would you turn the music off, Ray?" Fraser asked quietly. "I wish to speak with you." Even as he said it, he winced inwardly. His tone had been too formal; Ray was likely to become defensive.

"Don't wanna talk," Ray argued, and he tore his arm from Fraser's grasp.

"Please don't pull away from me, Ray," he begged, letting some of his desperation through in his voice. "I.... You're frightening me."

Ray sighed and his body went limp all at once. Finally, he simply muttered something about the remote, his eyes opening and revealing a depth of pain and despair that Fraser hadn't seen in a long time. Fraser watched him cautiously as he leaned forward to pick up the remote and turn the stereo off. The sudden silence was as jarring as the music had been.

Ray dropped the remote onto the table and sat back on the other side of the couch, leaning away from Fraser, his knees drawn tight to his chest. Fraser felt a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to ignore that defensive posture and simply pull him into a tight embrace, but instead he settled for placing a calming hand on his shoulder, close to his collarbone. Ray made a whimpered noise of protest but did not move away.

Fraser reached around and began to gently massage the tensed muscles of Ray's shoulders, watching as Ray's body began to relax just slightly.

"Ray...." Fraser paused, considering his words carefully. "Ray, will you please tell me what is bothering you?"

"Nothing," came the sullen answer, but it was half-hearted and defeated; Ray knew perfectly well that Fraser wouldn't accept that as an answer.

"I sincerely doubt that nothing is wrong," Fraser prodded gently. "I came here thinking that you were ill. You have been very quiet and pale these past few days, and I had thought that perhaps you had developed a touch of influenza. Instead, I find you wallowing here, playing depressing music and fighting back tears. That does not sound like the actions of someone with whom 'nothing' is wrong."

Ray snorted a humorless laugh and moved abruptly, resting his back against Fraser's chest. "You're a freak," he muttered, and Fraser felt something lighten inside him.

"Yes, Ray, you've told me that many times." He put his arms around the thin body and hugged him gently. "However, you have not answered my question."

Ray have a long-suffering sigh. "Who says it meant anything? Maybe I just like the beat."

"I know you," Fraser answered simply. "You never play one song over and over again unless that song means something to you."

"You been studyin' me?"

"Diligently."

"Hmph."

Ray made no move to dispute Fraser's observations, leading the Canadian to believe that his friend agreed with his conclusions. "So...?"

"So, what?"

Fraser rolled his eyes with a sigh, glad Ray couldn't see the movement from his position. "So, what is bothering you? Why that song? And what does it have to do with Kris Carroll?"

Ray didn't answer for a long while, but Fraser kept quiet, knowing that Ray was most likely gathering his thoughts.

"I was in your office a couple of weeks ago," Ray began, and Fraser shifted slightly, moving to a more comfortable position. Ray moved with him, the back of his head coming to rest directly over Fraser's heart. "I was just waiting for ya... I didn't mean to snoop or anything, but I went looking for a pencil and it was in your drawer.

"I wouldn't have read it, even after seeing it, but I saw my name and I got curious. At first, I didn't really know what to think. I figured he was making fun of me, but I could never really tell, with Kris."

Fraser nodded, wordlessly. He had wondered, at first, what Ray could possibly be referring to, but he obviously had seen the letter and photograph that Kris had sent from Europe. What he didn't understand, however, was what about it could have upset Ray this much. He stayed quiet, listening.

"I just...." Ray sighed, shifting in Fraser's arms. "It's just that... seeing that picture brought everything home for me. Everything that's wrong with us, Fraser. I mean, I always knew I was a screw-up. I knew that. And I knew... I knew I didn't deserve you, not really...." Fraser started to protest that statement, but Ray plowed on, not giving him a chance. "But that picture just... laid it all out. There it was, in black and white. And then I got my letter, and he was saying we looked good together, and we do, it's a nice picture, but.... But you can just see it so clear. Everything that's wrong."

Fraser held his tongue, not wishing to interrupt Ray when he had finally opened up, but nothing further was said. Obviously, Ray would need more prodding. "I see.... And what, exactly, did you see in black and white, that was wrong?"

Ray sighed explosively. "This!" He wrenched himself free and gestured wildly, seemingly indicating their position on the couch. "This, Fraser! You, always supporting me, always covering for me, and I'm just... useless. I'm not.... I...." Agitated once more, and he leapt to his feet, beginning to pace furiously back and forth across the room. "I don't deserve you!"

"No!" Fraser was almost surprised to find himself on his feet as well, the too-loud denial tumbling from between his lips before he was aware of what he was saying. "No, Ray. My God, how can you say such things? It's not true!"

"Yes it is! It is!"

"No, it is not!" Ray wasn't listening to him. "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray." Fraser kept chanting his name until, finally....

"What?!" Ray had stopped pacing and was glaring furiously at him.

"Are you listening to me?"

"No!" And the pacing started anew.

"Ray...."

"What?"

"Are you listening to me?"

Ray didn't answer at first. He was breathing hard, his body tight and trembling. Finally, he came to a slow stop on the other side of the room, his forehead resting against the wall. "I'm listening."

"Thank you kindly."

Ray snorted weakly, but otherwise didn't move or react.

"You say I am always supporting you, or covering for you. Am I to understand that you believe that our partnership is not an equal one?"

"Well... yeah, if you wanna say it all Canadian-like," Ray allowed sullenly.

"Well, that is simply not true. You are a good officer, Ray--"

"I know that!" Ray whirled around, his hands elegantly punctuating his words. "I know that, Fraser! I'm not talking about that!"

"Ah. I suppose, then, that you are referring to the personal side of our partnership?"

When Ray just let out an explosive sigh and rolled his eyes, Fraser continued. "Our partnership, both officially and personally, is perfect, Ray. Each of us has his strengths and his weaknesses, and we compliment one another."

"Yeah, I'm the weakness, you're the strength. Kinda like bad cop, polite cop." Ray trudged wearily back to the couch and sat down, resting his head against the rear cushions. Fraser joined him, sitting right by his side.

"No, Ray. It is not like that at all. You are not now, nor have you ever been, weak." Ray moved as if to protest, but Fraser spoke over him. "The very first day we met, you stepped in front of a bullet for me. That does not sound like the action of a weak man."

"Yeah, well... That was work, that was me doin' my job. You didn't have a vest."

Fraser shook his head in frustration. "Most men would not have taken such a risk, Ray. It is a testament to your nature that you consider such a thing just 'doing your job.' I told you once that I would be honored to count you as my partner and my friend, and I meant it. You are a brave, complex man, one of the best detectives with whom I have ever had the pleasure to work--"

"With whom," Ray repeated in a mumble, sounding somewhat bemused, but he wasn't arguing anymore, which Fraser considered a good sign.

"--and the best friend that I have ever had," he continued firmly. He snuck a glance at Ray to see if he was listening. He was, so he continued, emboldened by Ray's silence.

"When Janet Morse came to us for help, not only did you retain your loyalty to your fellow officers -- even in the face of my rather blatent attempts to... well... 'guilt' you into action --"

"I knew it," Ray muttered.

"Yes, well.... I never claimed to be perfect, Ray."

Ray gave a tiny smile.

"In any case, you were able to find a way to assist her despite your reservations. It is, in part, due to you that her children's father is still alive today. That was not the work of a man 'just doing his job.'" Fraser placed his hand once more on Ray's shoulder before continuing. Ray leaned gratefully into the touch.

"When we found Guy Rankin's body in the police station, you helped me to keep his presence a secret until we had cleared Ray Vecchio of the crime, even though you had no obligation to do so."

Ray shrugged. "I guess."

"I know, and you do too. During the 'Henry Allen' case, you had been through an extremely harrowing experience. You had nearly drowned several times, you were not feeling confident in our partnership, and you doubted our ability to defeat the men on the Whaling Yankee using the replica of the Bounty. Despite all this, and despite the fact that we were outside of our jusrisdiction, you boarded the Yankee with me, and together we were able to capture Gilbert Wallace before he set off the bomb that would not only have killed anyone left aboard the ship, but polluted the Great Lakes, possibly beyond recovery. Was this, too, an instance of you 'just doing your job'?

"You came back from your vacation to help the Lieutenant and myself with an unofficial case in Willison. When my mentor, Quinn, and I were kidnapped by the last of the 'laughing bandits,' you located the kidnapper's hideout, then disobeyed orders to make a daring, and very dramatic, if I may editorialize, rescue. When I was playing poker with Denny Scarpa, you saw a danger and you literally came from above to save my life.

"Ray, you are not weak. All of those things are reflections of your personality, not the career you have chosen to pursue. Yes, I comforted you that morning in Kristopher Carroll's home, just as I am comforting you now. But that does not make you weak, nor in any way less than I am. I... I love you, Ray. I love your bravery and your intelligence and your loyalty. I love your quicksilver temper, and your laugh, and the way you call me a freak whenever I do something you do not understand. I love you, Ray. Every part of you. Please accept that. Please...."

His voice broke, then, and he hesitated only a moment before gathering Ray close to him in a comforting hug. He buried his face in the crook of Ray's neck as the other man's arms came up to hold him tightly.

"I'm sorry," Ray whispered, his own voice rough with emotion. "I... I love you, too. Sorry."

"It's alright, Ray," Fraser assured him, the words coming out in a low-voiced shudder. Then, the words of the song came back to him and he kissed the top of Ray's head and told him, "You are all of those things. And more."

Author's Note: The song that Ray is listening to is called "end," and it's by The Cure. You can find it on their 1992 album, Wish. I own every Cure album there is, and Wish remains my favorite. Full lyrics to the song are below.

end
(Robert Smith)

i think i've reached that point
where giving up and going on
are both the same dead end to me
are both the same old song

i think i've reached that point
where every wish has come true
and tired disguised oblivion
is everything i do

please stop loving me
please stop loving me
i am none of these things

i think i've reached that point
where all the things you have to say
in hopes of something more from me
are just things to pass the time away

please stop loving me
please stop loving me
i am none of these things

i think i've reached that point
where every word that you write
of every blood dark sea
and every soul black night
and every dream you dream me in
and every perfect free from sin
and burning eyes
and hearts on fire
are just the same old song

please stop loving me
please stop loving me
i am none of these things
i am none of these things

i am none of these things