Disclaimer: I don't own 'em *wail* just borrowin' 'em, and I promise I'll give 'em back ... eventually. Please don't sue, I'm a student and so perpetually broke.

Rating: R? Bad language and m/m relationship (no sex, sorry!) so I guess R is right, yeah?

Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski (cuz I dunno about you, but I can't get into that whole Kowalski/Turnbull thing, but hey *shrug* whatever yanks your chain)

Author's Notes: This is me first due South fanfic piece, and it came about during a bout of flu that really pissed me off. What you read here is basically what I was goin' through about three hours ago *weak grin*, but people don't wanna read about me and I figgered RayK would understand. Lucky for him, he has Frase, me ... I don't. The title is taken from a track called Voodoo (lyrics used without permission) on the Two Houses album that I've been driving me neighbours crazy with (it's on repeat ... permanently, hehe) and when I was puzzlin' over a title good ol' Paul Gross starts singin' real loud. I heard ya. Ta Paul!
This wasn't betaed so any mistakes are mine, all mine I tell you!! (insert maniacal laughter here)

All comments, advice (on the story, not my mental health) and flames to wylt@hotmail.com, I need feedback like Kowalski needs Frase, gimme!

Don't Plan To Cry (c) Wylt, September 1999.

I’m sinking.

The sentence made little sense to him, but the truth of the statement that buzzed through his brain like a bee on speed was undeniable.
He tried to breathe deeply, push away the anger that threatened to overwhelm him because anger was safer than the other emotions he was hiding from, but it just set off a fit of hacking coughs that left him breathless and irritated. Goddamned fucking flu. He leant his forehead against the smooth wall of his apartment and gently pounded his fists into the unrelenting concrete, enough to smart but not cause any permanent damage. And, when that wasn’t enough to calm him, he began to bang his head against it instead. The urge to hurt something was overpowering, and he stilled the impulses flying to his feet, his knees and his fists without really thinking cuz it wasn’t himself he wanted to hurt.
A mental image of Fraser, Mr ‘I’ll Lick Anything As Long As It’s Disgusting’, the Perfect Mountie that he *knew* wasn’t, couldn’t, be all *that* perfect, flashed into his head. The familiar litany fell from his lips; Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray, RAY! And he stopped banging his head and laughed instead. The world was a sad place when ... he stopped, not really sure what he was thinking. The world was a sad place, end of sentence, period, over, full stop, finito.
Without conscious thought his hand reached for the packet of cigarettes lying on his coffee table and he had one lit before he knew what he was doing. It had been years since he’d last smoked, and he knew that now, of all times, when it was all he could do to draw a breath without feeling it catch on the phlegm in his lungs, it was a fucking stupid thing to do. But he didn’t care. Because smoking was better than going quietly mad in an empty apartment with no one but yourself to piss off.
The phone rang, it’s loud brrrriiiinnnggg startling him and cutting through the soft music in the background. The ansafone picked up, but he grabbed the receiver, hoping it would be Fraser. Instead, it was Frannie, checking up on him and for some reason that annoyed him. Couldn’t they just leave him alone?! Somehow, he managed to sound polite, if not cheerful, and within two minutes the conversation was over and he was back to prowling the living room floor.
His thoughts returned to his partner, Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Frase was always polite, so untouchable, so calm and strong in the face of just about anything. No, scratch that. In the face of anything. And he thought back to his deceit on the phone, and his impulses to lash out at anything, anyone, so long as the violence within him was exhausted, even if it was only for the moment.
Is that how it is for you? He asked the mental image of Fraser. Is this what ya do? Still all emotions, smother the impulses before they grow too strong to control? Live yer life so that no one else knows how ya feel cuz it’s easier and there’s no repercussions if they don’t? Nobody gets hurt by the things ya feel if they don’t know about ‘em, right Frase? He could understand that. The fear of hurting someone with his true feelings could be greater than the pain of keeping them hidden, and after a while he’d bet that a person, or a Mountie, wouldn’t even realise they were doing it. He’d have hurt Frannie if he’d given into his impulse and told her to fuck off before slamming the phone down, but that weren’t what he was thinking about. This went deeper. And it went back to the emotions he was trying to hide from.
His hand reached into the drawer before he even realised what he was looking for. A second pack of ciggies, out of the five he’d bought a couple of days ago when he’d finally gotten so bored of his surroundings he’d ventured out to his nearest shop for a change of scenery. Even if said scenery was snow, graffiti, dickheads and more snow. Not to mention snow, cold air and a nose that wouldn’t stop forgetting how to work properly.
He sighed bitterly, wondering when the fury that simmered beneath the surface of every single damn moment of his life had been called into existence. What had happened to make him so cynical, so angry, and as a result so violent? Because, for him, violence was the only way to burn that overflow of rage. Even if it was only at a wall. There had been a time when the anger was easier, when it’s presence within him had faded to such a degree he never thought about it. That had been because of Stella, Assistant State’s Attorney Stella Kowalski, his ex-wife. But he pushed away thoughts of Stella because with them came the pain ... and more anger.
The only other person who could calm him, make him swallow his violence was Fraser. And he din’t wanna go there cuz there were a whole load o’ them emotions all nicely tangled up inside him that he didn’t wanna look at. Ever. Thankyoukindly.
His pacing took him past the TV and, despite the fact that the stereo was still playing, he snatched up the remote, thumbing it on. Flicking through the endless channels his shoulders slumped as he realised that he didn’t want the TV on and the impulse to throw the remote through the window was suppressed and quickly turned into a smooth lob that settled the small plastic box onto the couch where it promptly disappeared between the cushions.
Nope. Weren’t gonna work. The anger wasn’t gonna disappear. People had to distract him for that to happen, and the only person who ever came to his apartment was Fraser. And he’d told the Mountie to fuck off an’ leave him the hell alone after two days of the over-protective Mother Hen routine Fraser had had goin’. Even Dief had looked hurt at that one. And those blue eyes of Fraser’s had narrowed and then hardened to stare at him coldly. Just like after he’d popped him one on the shore of the Lake. And then he’d gone, just gone. Before he could apologise, before he could cover, before he could tell him -
His mind hit a wall, and pulled up so fast he blinked. Don’t go there, Kowalski, he told himself sternly.
A bead of sweat trickled it’s way with a stubborn slowness that bordered on ticklishness down the back of his neck. Swiping at it, he realised with a start how hot he was. Yanking his sweater off and throwing it absently on the floor he grasped the edges of his t-shirt, flapping the hem to create a cooling breeze across his stomach. His breath was short, panting against the heat as he struggled to draw a full lungs worth of air into him and he slid down the wall to huddle miserably with his legs drawn up to his chest.
It annoyed him that Fraser defined him. He was the skinny guy with Fraser, the blonde guy, the impulsive guy, the outspoken guy, the erratic, rude, blunt and impolite guy. Never just a guy. Never just Ray, or Stan, or Kowalski, Vecchio even. When people pointed him out they just nodded towards Fraser and said; see that guy, the one you want is standin’ next to him. But he could handle that on a normal day, cuz people would have ta be blind not to notice Fraser. He shone. No one else could ever hope to be seen, because Fraser’s beauty eclipsed them. And he couldn’t get mad at Frase for it, cuz it weren’t even like he did it on purpose, though he *knew* the Mountie wasn’t unaware of the reactions his presence caused. It was just easier to deal with if he pretended he din’t.
What *did* piss him off was that he needed to be pushed for things to be done, an’ Frase was the only one who could do it without makin’ him so mad he wanted to pop ‘im. Well, apart from Stella. But she’d left him, left that responsibility and buggered off. And it wasn’t even like it had been a responsibility, cuz he’d tried to make sure she never had to push him to get him to do stuff. He’d wanted to please her, so he’d done all the pushing himself.
It all came down to not giving a shit. Not caring if his home was a pig sty. Not caring if the clothes he wore were creased and rumpled. Not caring if he ate properly, or if he went to bed hungry because he couldn’t be arsed to cook. Not caring if the bills were paid or not, or if he had enough money. Luckily, for the most part anyway, that bit was covered. But the rest, he couldn’t bring himself to care, didn’t have the energy and he especially didn’t have the energy now. Because if nobody else cared, then why should he?
His gaze fell onto the ash tray sitting on the corner of the low table and he was surprised to see six butts half hidden by the ash. Then he shrugged. Time enough for another twenty or so yet.
The acrid smoke bit at his lungs and he coughed so hard he thought he was gonna puke, but it wasn’t enough to make him put the damn thing out, so once he’d calmed down he kept right on puffing away.
What was he gonna do? He sighed, unsure what particular part of his life that thought referred to, and as the small breath mingled with the heated air in his apartment the anger faded somewhat. Only problem was, as the anger dissipated all that was left was misery. And the anger was most definitely preferable. It gave him the energy to get outta bed in the morning, the will to go out an’ catch scumbags, the strength to see the day through without killing himself. Because dwelling on the misery only made him feel suicidal. Not that he’d actually kill himself, but there were days, he knew, that he could quite happily have gone somewhere he shouldn’t have without back-up, or stood up at the wrong moment during a firefight. Quick n easy. But he was too much of a coward, and he didn’t really wanna die if he was honest. He just wanted the anger and misery to go away. He wanted the hollow pit inside of him that was filled with loneliness and hurt to fuck off. Oh, it was easy enough during the day, with people around him to distract him, to forget. But whenever he was alone, that pit swelled and threatened to drag him down into a black depression he was afraid he’d never claw his way up from. And he was terrified that all he would ever feel was the anger, violence, pain, loneliness and emptiness.
His mind turned once more to Fraser, and he wondered if the brave Mountie ever felt this way. And then mulled over his habit of turning to Fraser when he felt out of his depth. Why? In his mind’s eye he saw those beautiful blue eyes once more. But they were smiling this time. Really smiling. At him. And the light that shone from them was blinding. And he realised, with a pang, that he needed that light. It was strong enough to keep the darkness at bay. When Fraser was around he felt safe, nothing and nobody could hurt them when they were together, including himself. Overtired and overemotional he fought down the sob rising in his throat, because Fraser wasn’t here. That light wasn’t here. And without it he was sinking.
He grabbed for the packet of cigarettes again, needing an anchor, any kind of anchor, and shakily lit another one, willing his body to stop aching. Six would soon become eight.
His need for Fraser was all encompassing; emotional, physical, mental. His mobile lips twisted into a grin at that. Yeah, mental. Defines us both pretty good. But he was skirting the truth, distracting himself, because he didn’t want to admit - even to himself - that he ... What? That he needed Fraser? He already knew that. So what? He rummaged around inside himself, shining a bright torch on all those feelings he hadn’t wanted to look at cuz not to was not an issue now. If he didn’t he lost; his will, his ... well hell, himself. He’d lose himself sooner or later without that light. Without that love. And he knew then. And it scared the shit out of him.
Because he was in love with Fraser.
He’d known he loved him. But that was the kind of love you had for a friend, for a brother, y’know? But that wasn’t *exactly* the kinda love he felt for the tall, flawlessly white skinned Mountie with eyes so blue you could drown in them, although it was part of it. He was *in* love with him. A freak. He was in love with a freak, so what did that make him? He smiled, course that made him a freak too. But then the smile faded, cuz this is Fraser I’m talkin’ about. And there ain’t no way the Mountie is gonna return these feelings. And that was almost as bad as the never-ending sea of anger inside of him. But the light was still available, even if the love wasn’t. And he’d take all he could get right now, before he sank beneath the waves and let it carry him away. He could do that. He *would* do that, because the alternative was not only unthinkable, but downright terrifying.
The desire to bask in that light, let it calm the rage burning inside of him and soothe the violence drove him into action. He pulled his jacket over his t-shirt, feeling the cold leather ease the heat burning through his body, and grabbed his keys as he headed for the Consulate, the light, and Fraser.

The Consulate building was dark, and his instincts told him that it was empty even as he pounded vainly at the large door. He stood back, face red and disappointed as he realised that Fraser wasn’t home. He dropped to his knees on the cold, frost-bitten and snow covered steps, his lean form shaking. He couldn’t cope, he couldn’t. Despite the cold he was still hot, and he belatedly realised he probably had a fever. But the will to move had left with the Mountie and he just huddled on the floor as he struggled to regain enough strength to get up. Minutes, hours, years later he pulled himself to his feet and staggered back to the GTO. Firing up the engine, he pulled away from the curb and headed back to the loneliness of his apartment, all the while wondering where, and with who, Fraser was.
The scene outside his apartment block bewildered him. Blue and whites were running all over the joint like blue-arsed flies, civilians had flocked to the parking lot, over eager to see something gruesome and he wondered if they’d get their wish. Flagging down the nearest uniform he could see he fished around in his pocket for his badge and asked for an explanation. Seemed that some loony had decided to use his home, well his building, as a good place to experiment whether he could fly or not. The officer he was talking to was wondering, with perverted fascination, if bouncing counted. His answering smile was brittle and he pushed past the flatfoot to enter his building, climbing wearily up the stairs. The loony was braver than he was. He fumbled for a moment through all his keys for the right one, finally fitting it into the lock despite the ceaseless trembling that had started at the Consulate. Without Fraser who would burn the gloom from his soul? And he allowed himself to briefly wonder if the loony was lonely and needed some company wherever they were now.
He pushed open the door, into the dim light of one lamp that failed to cut into the overall darkness of his apartment. He paused, one leg raised to kick the door shut as a shadow detached itself from the wall and coalesced into the shape of Fraser. Tall, broad Fraser with his dark hair curling at his nape and his blue eyes wide with worry and fear. His gaze moved past the Mountie and fell onto the white form of Diefenbaker curled in a corner sound asleep. If the wolf was here then Fraser was real, not another figment of his imagination. He let out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding, feeling his lungs burn and struggled to hold back the coughing fit he could feel forcing it’s way upon him. His softly exhaled sigh sounded more like a strangled sob to his ears, but it was quickly deafened by the choking coughs racking at his body. He looked up, through watery eyes, to find Fraser standing next to him, face and eyes unreadable. He held a hand out, gesturing at him to wait until he caught his breath before starting his lecture, and was surprised when strong fingers encircled his wrist and pulled him up from his slumped position against the wall. Fraser’s other hand rubbed gently at his back, soothing the shuddering as he struggled for air and control at his touch. His forehead was pressed against Fraser’s shoulder, the Mountie’s muscular body supporting him, and his nostrils were filled with the clean scent of soap, shampoo and the basic essence of Fraser.
The Canadian pulled him over to the sofa, hands gently pushing him down into the cushions as he silently lifted his feet to the chair and removed his boots. He closed his eyes, fighting to breathe, just breathe. His apartment door was pushed shut and he could hear Fraser fussing around in the kitchen, the sound of running water suggested he was making tea. The lecture he’d been expecting wasn’t coming ... yet, he amended quickly. Yer ain’t *that* lucky, Kowalski, he wryly told himself. He wondered briefly how Fraser had got into his apartment, then gave a mental shrug. Who cares? He’s here. He’s here with me, not out somewhere with someone else.
He struggled upwards, hauling himself into a sitting position as his nose clogged and bubbles of crap started to affect his breathing. Fraser’s hand on his shoulder made him jump and he opened his eyes.
‘Lay down, Ray.’
He shook his head, unable to catch enough breath to speak and fought against the gentle pressure of his hand. He gestured wildly for the box of tissues on top of the TV, needing to clear his nose and his throat.
‘Lemme up Frase, ‘less you want me to die of asphyxiation.’ He was proud of himself for managing to gasp out that sentence, was proud of that word, even if it had been ‘word of the day’ on some toilet paper in a cafe he couldn’t remember the name of. He started coughing again and Fraser hurried to pass him the tissues. He blew his nose noisily, sniffing against the last vestiges and was pleased to discover his nose was working properly again.
The Mountie had retreated back into the kitchen, leaning against the dividing wall, watching him expressionlessly.
‘That’s what smoking does to you, Ray.’
He groaned, falling back onto the sofa. Shit. He’d forgotten about the ashtray, but then he hadn’t been expecting Fraser to be here.
‘How are you feeling?’
He grinned. ‘Like shit.’
‘Have you eaten?’
He shook his head. ‘No appetite.’ He waited for the Mountie to tell him he had to eat to keep his strength up, to reprimand him for swearing, but it didn’t come. He frowned, something was wrong with Fraser. He seemed almost ... angry. And that never happened.
‘Frase?’ His voice was quiet, uncertain, but the Mountie didn’t seem to hear him. He pushed himself to his feet, cautiously entering the kitchen.
Fraser looked up from the tea he was making and nodded. Just once, and for no reason he could see.
‘I just wanted to check that you were okay, Ray. I’ll go now.’
His hand snaked out as Fraser brushed past him, fastening with an iron grip about his wrist as he realised that the Canadian was leaving him.
‘Frase, I’m sorry ‘bout yellin’ at ya. Y’know, the uver day when I tol’ ya to fuck off. I din’t mean it. I’m sorry if I hurt ya, or anythin’.’ And he was sorry, because when Fraser was hurt the light dimmed, and without that light Fraser wouldn’t be Fraser. He never wanted to hurt Fraser again. Ever. Kiss him, maybe. But not hurt him.
Suddenly all the pent up emotion, the misery and loneliness was too much for him to cope with and he clutched at Fraser’s shirt with both hands.
‘Don’t go.’ He begged desperately. ‘Please, don’t ...’ Leave me, he meant to say, but couldn’t. Because this was Fraser, and if he knew he’d run a mile.
‘Ray?’ A hand came up to brush at his hair, a gentle touch that undid him. ‘What’s wrong?’
He gave one last flailing kick against the strong tug of the waves inside of him. ‘Drowning.’ He gasped, hoping Fraser would understand, cuz Fraser always did. It’s what he was good at.
‘What can I do? What do you need?’
His head was buried in the joint between Fraser’s neck and shoulder and he could feel the tears rising, equal with the terror. But it was the terror of eternal loneliness, not of the moment.
‘You. Need you. Your light.’ He whispered the words against the white skin, so pale it was the colour of snow. And his tears were falling, soaking the patterned blue shirt, and he was shuddering and sobbing and didn’t care.
Because Fraser’s arms were cradling him. Fraser’s hands were caressing him. Fraser’s voice was pushing back the darkness so that his light could shine in. Two little words. Two little words that kept it at bay.
‘It’s yours.’
They sank to the floor, Fraser with his back to the door and he was being held against that strong body. Fraser’s voice was breathing comforting assurances into his ear, the sounds unintelligible. He concentrated on them, on that deep, vibrant voice and stilled as he finally heard the words.
‘I love you, Ray. Everything’s going to be alright. I promise.’
The light was suddenly so bright it blinded him, and his breath caught. He opened his eyes, pulling back to look up into those amazing eyes. They were smiling. Really smiling. At him.
And maybe, just maybe, the light would be strong enough to destroy the darkness and the well would fill with something else. Someone else. Fraser.
Because, he suddenly discovered, Fraser had been there all along.

Finis