Notes: Thank you kindly to Kat Allison for beta-reading this. Her excellent suggestions made it a much improved story.
All quotations are from Jelaluddin Rumi, from The Essential Rumi, translations by Coleman Barks with John Moyne. Published in 1997, this modern translation would not have been available to a young Ben Fraser. I've used it rather than the early translations by A.J. Arberry or Reynold Nicholson (which would have been available) because it's a tighter, more poetic read.

The wakened lover speaks directly to the beloved,
"You are the sky my spirit circles in,
the love inside love, the resurrection-place..."

Benton Fraser ran a blunt fingertip along the "epigastric" to "episode" entries of the Consulate dictionary. He paused at one of the definitions for the word he had in mind: "a manifestation of the divine." The tiniest of irritated sighs escaped his lips as he realized that the more secular definition of "epiphany" for which he was seeking was not included. Using a forefinger to keep his place, he held the reference book at arm's length, gauging the heft and thickness. Definitely lacking in comprehensiveness, he judged, and made a note to himself to order something more suitable, perhaps an abridged OED much like the one that had unfortunately been incinerated along with his apartment.

He thought with a pang of the loss of other, more valued books in his small collection. They're just paper, he tried to tell himself, fairly unimportant in the universal scheme of things, but the rationalization brought little comfort. While out for a brisk jog with Diefenbaker last week, he had passed an antiquarian bookstore, a minor occurrence that had unfortunately somehow revived his grief at losing most of the books that his grandmother had given him. Well, he thought briskly, perhaps it would not be too extravagant to replace a few of the precious books. Perhaps he might try the very bookstore that had sparked the emotional upheaval. He drew some small comfort from his decision and sighed.

Opening the dictionary once more, he perused a few more entries. Normally, he would have found this a comforting exercise, a reunion of sorts with well known and beloved friends. This particular morning, however, he was having a difficult time exorcising the definite sense of dissatisfaction that settled upon him. Finally, he closed the book with a decisive snap, and returned it to the small reference collection kept at the consulate reception desk. He leaned back slightly in the reception desk chair and sighed.

A questioning lupine growl made him look down at the wolf curled up beside the desk.

"No, I'm not at all satisfied, Dief. Not quite the definition I had in mind." The wolf cocked his head, and his dark eyes narrowed a bit as he vocalized yet again.

"The consulate dictionary leaves much to be desired, I'm afraid." A longer growl was the only answer.

"No, I shall not explain my sudden interest, since I'm sure the only epiphany you've ever experienced has been of the powdered doughnut variety." The wolf let out a reproachful howl.

"I most certainly am not 'dripping with vitriol' this morning. I'd venture to say I'm not dripping anything at all." A chiding yip greeted his retort.

He softened. No use taking his distress out on one of the few friends he had. "Well, yes, perhaps my remark leaned a bit to the caustic side, but..."

A loud and cheerful voice from the front door of the consulate interrupted his almost apology.

"Arguing with the wolf, again, Frase?" He swung around with a start, faintly embarrassed at the thought of being caught in the middle of what his grandmother used to call a "huffy." At his wolf, no less.

"Ray!" He felt a warm grin break unbidden across his face at the sight of his friend standing in the doorway, one hip cocked, idly tossing keys in one hand.

Ray was looking exceptionally scruffy today, wearing a battered leather jacket atop a faded T-shirt. Equally worn jeans and motorcycle boots completed the ensemble. The amused smile that graced Ray's face somehow more than made up for the lack of sartorial splendor. Inexplicably, Fraser felt his face heat up, and knew from long experience that he was turning a shade of red consistent with the serge of his uniform. Fraser filed this disquieting reaction to his partner along with a number of equally disquieting reactions he had noticed in himself. In fact, it was the pondering of this very topic that had driven him to the dictionary this morning in the hopes of finding something comforting and quantifiable.

A loud, "You awake, Frase?" interrupted his thoughts. He realized that he had been unresponsive long enough that Ray had ceased his key tossing, and was leaning forward with a frown. He gave himself a stern mental shake, attempting to get into business-as-usual mode.

"Quite awake, Ray, my friend, quite awake. And what is on the agenda for today? More warehouse inspections for Huey and Dewey's narcotics case?" He paused, annoyed with himself, as he realized that he was babbling.

"Nah, Duck boys caught a break on that yesterday, arrested the perps, and they rolled over in less than an hour. One of 'em had some really interesting stuff to spill about a three year old open homicide case of ours. Got enough goods on the shooter that Stella agreed we could pick him up. He's due back from a business trip any day now, least that's what his boss says. We'll be staking out the shooter's house. He's sure to show up; he's got a family and no clue we're on to him. So maybe we should get a move on." Ray gave an impatient wave towards the GTO.

Fraser opened the door, let Dief slip into the back, then settled into the passenger seat.

Ray pulled out into traffic, inciting a chorus of honking. He pointedly ignored the reproving look Fraser gave him. The amused curl of Ray's lips told Fraser that he was being deliberately provoked. And what nice lips they were, too. Oh, dear. He closed his eyes and pinched himself, quite hard, attempting to stop his thoughts from wandering in that direction. Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath and mentally recited section 32-a of the RCMP safety manual.

Ray shot him a concerned glance. "You okay, Frase? Looking a little tweaked over there."

"Just fine, quite all right, thank you kindly," he said quickly. Ray looked at him doubtfully, but thankfully let it go.

He sighed with relief and flicked on the radio, attempting to fill the silence. Loud, ragged strains of a dubious musical nature spilled out of the speakers. He lowered the volume and tuned in the local NPR station. Ray's silent warning glance caused him to switch to a jazz station. Ray indicated his agreement to the musical selection with the barest of nods, and he leaned back into his seat.

A comfortable silence settled between them. Ray was absorbed by his driving, humming under his breath.

Covertly watching his partner, Fraser once more found thoughts plaguing him. He found himself trying to pin down exactly how he had found himself in his current situation.

He knew that because of his upbringing and his own personality he tended to live too much inside his head. His grandmother, always sensitive to the emotional state of her grandson, had attempted to provide him food for the heart, partially by sharing with him her love of poetry. Her tastes had been catholic; she'd given him eclectic tastes. Whitman and Keats, Ginsberg and Hughes, spiritual and sensual works from Persia were all equally enjoyed. Poetry alone could only do so much, however. Their isolation, his lingering grief at the loss of his mother, and his grandmother's own reserve tended to feed his natural tendencies. He had been a solitary child who had become in many ways a solitary man.

Perhaps it was not surprising then that in Fortitude Pass his inexperienced heart had betrayed him. Facing death in the arms of Victoria Metcalf, he had become seduced by the dark heat of a criminal. He had tried to follow his heart when she returned and had come close to losing his best friend, his soul, his very life because of it. His grandmother had talked about balance in one's life--a golden mean between the intellect and the soul, the head and the heart, carnality and spirituality. Such balance continued to elude him, however. The debacle that had resulted from his clumsy attempt at affairs of the heart was a learning experience. Not for him, then, the sensuous dreams of a naive, scholarly boy reading poetry. Never again, he vowed, and decided that perhaps his lot in life was to be the thinking one, the unshakable voice of reason, however unbalanced that made him.

Looking at Ray's fingers tapping on the steering wheel, he pushed aside his wistful longings. The enforced closeness of stake out duty would be no environment for such indulgence.

There was a dawn I remember
when my soul heard something
from your soul. I drank water
from your spring and felt
the current take me.

"Frase? Hey, Fraser?" Ray had turned from his post by the window to look at him.

He started, realizing that Ray must have asked him a question. He had been lost in thought, enjoying with aesthetic appreciation the lines of Ray's back and torso revealed by the tight T-shirt he was wearing. Well, perhaps, he admitted uneasily, more than aesthetic appreciation and stirred restlessly in his chair. Dief looked up from his sprawl on the floor and gave him an enigmatic look. Oh, don't you start, was his irritated thought. Then he worried that he might have actually said it out loud.

"What was that, Ray? I'm terribly sorry; I'm afraid I was entirely lost in cogitation there for a moment."

Ray let out a snort. "Cogitation...sounds like something to do with my great-uncle Marty and his spastic colon. I said, do you think he's going to show today?" Ray waved a hand at the window, gesturing at the house two doors down. They were set up in a vacant house in the shooter's block. The half finished dry wall, drop cloths, and construction debris that surrounded them revealed that the renovating owners were doing their good deed for the CPD.

"It is entirely possible, Ray. His boss did say he should return any day now."

"You watch for a second, Frase." Ray got up from the chair by the window and went over to where he'd dumped his duffel bag.

He took the chair Ray had vacated and turned his attention to the house. Everything seemed quiet. They had seen the wife get the children off to school that morning, and the Toyota remained parked in the driveway.

"Name your pleasure, Frase, pastrami on rye....or....pastrami on rye?" He looked over at Ray, who was holding up two paper-wrapped sandwiches.

Choking a bit, he said quickly in a strained voice, "Pastrami on rye it is, Ray." With a twitch of an eyelid that he would almost swear was a wink, Ray tossed one of the sandwiches in his direction. He grabbed it from the air automatically and bit his lip savagely, trying to stem the flow of blood to his face. His body's almost Pavlovian response to Ray's innocuous inquiry truly appalled him. I am a Mountie, I am in control, he repeated to himself. Deep breaths, that's it. He stared out the window at the quiet house, absently unwrapping the sandwich.

The lightest brush against his hair and coolness against his cheek shook him from his reverie. He looked up to see Ray leaning over the back of his chair, holding out a metal thermos. Ray was close enough that he could smell his cologne and feel the heat from his body. Close enough...to kiss came the heated thought, but he resisted that fevered image with all the force he could muster.

"It's tea," Ray said. What? He took the thermos unthinkingly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's tea," Ray repeated patiently. "I know you like that stuff better than the coffee swill I drink, so I made you some tea instead. Hope you like Irish Breakfast; I still had some of that around. Stella used to drink it." Ray stopped suddenly then continued with a gentle pat to Fraser's shoulder, "So drink up, Mountie man."

He blinked rapidly, feeling his throat tighten inexplicably. Good Lord, man, get hold of yourself, he told himself furiously. He contemplated Ray's possible reaction to his partner's obviously impending mental breakdown in an effort to distract himself. He suspected that his sudden instability was not so much in response to Ray's small act of generosity as it was to the reminder that yes, this man certainly cared for him, in some way at least. Of course, that point had been illustrated numerous times already, every time Ray came to his rescue while endangering life and limb.

Their first day together, in fact, had seen Ray stepping in front of a bullet meant for him. The moment had been a bizarre coda to a surreal day. First, the discovery of the ruins of his apartment. Then the wrenching moment in the station with a stranger masquerading unchallenged as Ray Vecchio. Sometime during the course of that disorienting day, Ray had for the first time gifted him with that most compelling and dazzling smile. It had transformed Ray's face from angular and ordinary to a singularly striking vision. At the time, he had attributed the lightness in his brain and shortness of breath to some possibly misidentified dried mushrooms consumed on the train.

He realized he was sitting there motionless, thermos held up in a frozen salute. "Thank you kindly, Ray," he said and wondered if his pause had been long enough to seem awkward. "And yes, I'm quite fond of Irish Breakfast, strong and bracing for a long stake-out." He trailed off, clearing his throat, and then set the sandwich in his lap to open the thermos. Ray leaned against the chair for a long moment then pulled himself upright with a final brush of one hip against Fraser's shoulder. Ray dragged a chair over next to his, then retrieved his own thermos. The homey smells of coffee and tea filled the room. They ate their sandwiches in a contented silence and watched the house two doors down.

He looked down at his tea and pondered the mercurial man sitting beside him. During their partnership, their "duet," as Ray himself would put it, he had found himself getting closer and closer to this new Ray. He was drawn inexorably to the warmth, generosity, and strange vulnerability of his new partner. For a time, he was sincerely unaware of what it was in their relationship that made him feel in turn tense, excited, and irritable, sometimes all at the same time.

He had so little first-hand experience with sexual tension that he had failed to observe the effects of it in himself. He had finally realized he could no longer deny what he was feeling. He could label that final moment of realization an epiphany. He could try to assuage the discomfort this rather painful self-knowledge brought by escaping to the dry world of words. In reality he knew that he had yet to deal with the complete ramifications of his discovery. He was obsessed...no, he backtracked with bitter honesty...he was in love with his friend, his partner. And while at times during their partnership he had almost certainly sensed answering sparks from Ray, he sincerely doubted that Ray's emotions were at the pitch and level of consciousness of his own. Ray seemed still more than half in love with Stella, apparently unable or unwilling to move on.

He also knew with a bone deep certainty that he could easily destroy the friendship that had somehow become central to his existence. Following his heart before had brought him nothing but pain, sorrow, and a bullet lodged near the spine. It was not worth risking what relationship he presently enjoyed with Ray in a possibly vain grasp for more.

He felt definite qualms about his choice of action. It was, at the very least, a lie of omission. It also seemed deceptive to continue to bask in the warmth, touches, and casual embraces of a Ray unaware of his own amorous fantasies. But any other path seemed untenable. He had no choice in the matter, he comforted himself and poured another cup of tea.

He lifted the cup up toward Ray. "Thank you again for the tea, Ray. It was very thoughtful of you."

Ray slanted a look at him without turning from his position facing the window. He sipped at his coffee and smiled peculiarly, an oddly vulnerable look crossing his face.

"You're welcome."

Fraser pondered the warmth and physicality of his partner's reactions toward him and wondered if it was ridiculous to construe Ray's behavior as flirtatious. He'd like to think it was not ridiculous, but could hardly consider himself unprejudiced in the matter. He forced himself to look out the window; it would never do if his distraction caused him to perform less than optimally should their shooter show up.

Huey and Dewey relieved them after an uneventful watch with no sign of the shooter.

Fraser glanced at his partner; Ray was indulging in a luxurious stretch, one hand pressed into the small of his back, while the other reached up to the ceiling. His form made a long, lithe bow of tense muscle. Ray caught him staring and returned his gaze with a cryptic look. Avoiding Ray's gaze, he turned his head to look at Huey and Dewey instead, who were having a discussion comparing the relative merits of two apparently equally charming women named Ginger and Marianne.

Ray sighed. "Let's blow this joint. You wanna go get something to eat? I got a craving for some Thai. "

"Certainly, Ray. Would you mind helping me run an errand first?"

Ray paused on the sidewalk in front of the antiquarian bookstore and let out a piercing whistle. "Here? What'cha need here, Frase? Looks a little pricey. No, Dief, I think you're going to have to stay out here." The wolf let out a low whine but parked himself by the entrance.

Fraser pushed open the glass door and entered the store. He only distantly heard the cheerful jingle of the bell signaling the presence of customers to the clerk: he was inhaling the familiar scent of old books with a peculiar sense of homecoming. That most intimate connection between scent and memory had triggered an intense rush of images from his childhood, and suddenly he was ten years old again, helping his grandmother sort out a shipment of books for the library.

"I lost a great many books when Ms. Garbo included my apartment in her performance arson. I'd particularly like to replace two books that my grandmother gave me on my eighteenth birthday," he told Ray absently, his eyes already eagerly scanning the shelves. He nodded to the clerk who had glanced up from where she was helping another customer.

"I'll be with you in a second."

"Quite all right. We'll just be browsing." He wandered the labyrinth of shelves, Ray tagging at his heels, and stopped in the section labeled "Philosophy."

"So, what're we looking for, Frase?"

He ran his hand along the books, enjoying the tactile experience of skimming the spines, as he read the titles.

"Aha, found it." He held up the battered copy of Meditations that he had found. Ray took the book and flipped it open to the title page.

"Marcus Aurelius," Ray read.

"Yes, Ray, he was a Roman emperor..."

"And Stoic philosopher," Ray interrupted with a surprising lack of irritation. He laughed a little at the amazed look Fraser failed to suppress. "I know I might sound like it sometimes, but I'm not a total mental midget. We studied him in a philosophy class I took in college."

"Quite so, Ray. I do apologize for being at times...perhaps a bit..."

"Patronizing?" Ray's smile took the sting out of his words. "That's okay, you mean well." He tapped the cover of the book. "You got that for your birthday? Kind of a, uh, grim and dutiful book for a present, though." Ray glanced at his face nervously as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "Course, you probably totally dug it, so that's cool."

"Actually, Ray, my grandmother also gave me a rather sensuous book of love poems, by the Persian poet Rumi, at the same time. She was fond of the Greek ideal of balance in one's life. When she gave me the books, she told me I was getting 'something for the heart, and something for the head.' She often chided me, saying that I let my head rule too often, a weakness of mine that seems to have caused you no end of consternation as well, Ray."

"Great minds, and all that, you know. Must've been a cool lady. Persian love poems, though. Can't seem to picture you reading stuff like that, Frase."

He took in a harsh, quick breath, telling himself that it was hardly surprising that Ray might think that. Many who knew him had assessed him similarly. Ludicrous to hope that Ray might somehow have glimpsed the sensual, mystical piece of his soul that was as much a part of him as cool logic.

"You okay, Frase?" Ray was looking at him a little uncertainly. "We can look for this Rumi, too. Look, there's the clerk, we can ask her."

Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along.

"You don't like your glass noodles?"

He stopped the endless twirling of his fork in the noodles and looked up at Ray. "They're fine. I'm afraid I'm not being very good company right now." He looked down again and forced himself to take a bite. The noodles were really rather good, and he was sorry that his mood made it impossible for him to enjoy the food. He had even failed to chastise Ray for surreptitiously slipping food to Dief, who was sprawled under the table.

"You bummed 'cause they didn't have your Rumi?" Ray had stopped eating his own pad thai and was watching him closely, a worried wrinkle appearing in his forehead. He forced himself to smile.

"I'm fine, Ray. I'm happy I was able to get the Aurelius at least." They were in a corner booth of the nearly deserted restaurant; the womb-like darkness and privacy encouraged an intimacy that he knew could undo him.

"You seem pretty down to me, Frase. You missing your grandmother?" He looked up, utterly surprised. He paused a long moment and realized that Ray was quite correct. He had not even been conscious of it, but he was indeed missing the calm, quiet woman who had raised him. He could have talked to her about his feelings for Ray, he knew. She would have received the news of his feelings for his partner without turning a hair, a reaction in stark contrast to what his father might say. His heart lifted as he realized that Ray had sensed something in him that he himself had been utterly unconscious of. The closeness this implied warmed him. He smiled ruefully at Ray.

"Actually, I believe I am. I didn't even realize it, but that's part of what's been bothering me lately."

He didn't realize he'd slipped up until Ray asked, "Only part? What else is bothering you?"

"I meant that's what's been bothering me lately. That's all, nothing else." Ray looked skeptical, but then took a deliberate bite of his food and chewed thoughtfully.

"So tell me about this Rumi of yours and his love poems. Who'd he write 'em to?"

Fraser hesitated. This particular story was very near and dear to his heart; it'd be very easy to slip up further while telling it. He was no coward, though, and often the hardest things are the most necessary. He smiled at what a Stoic thought that was. He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair.

"Rumi was Persian, a 13th century religious scholar. He had a fairly uneventful life until he met the wild and wandering dervish, Shams of Tabriz. The two became inseparable, forming this mystical Friendship." He paused for a moment, looking over at Ray, who nodded his encouragement to continue.

"They spent years together, in ecstatic communication, a relationship that disturbed Rumi's follower's to no end. They felt neglected, jealous of how much time Rumi spent with Shams. They drove Shams away. Parted from his beloved, Rumi started writing love poems, then hunted until he found Shams. They were reunited, and all seemed well. Jealousy erupted again, however. One night, Shams answered a knock at the door and was never seen again. He was probably murdered, some believe by Rumi's own son. Rumi was overcome with grief and searched for Shams again, unsuccessfully this time. Rumi finally comes to the realization:

'Why should I seek?
I am the same as he.
His essence speaks through me.
I have been looking for myself.'

He quoted Rumi in a tight, strained voice that sounded completely foreign to his ears. He felt himself eighteen again, his young self believing that there was a part of himself out there that he would eventually find. It was not until much later that his naive ideal started crumbling, and after Victoria, he had thought it completely unattainable.

Feeling a little breathless, he glanced over to see how Ray had taken the story. Ray had leaned back in the booth, a thoughtful frown creasing his features.

"You tell some dark stories, Frase. First, it's Lou Skagnetti eating princesses and now star-crossed lovers. I'm starting to wonder if I'm ever going to get the happy ending from you." The last came out sounding more wistful than humorous.

He looked at Ray sharply. Surely, Ray didn't mean... Ray looked back at him guilelessly, and he shook his head. Silly to let himself get excited by so innocent a remark.

The way the night knows itself with the moon,
be that with me. Be the rose
nearest to the thorn I am.

"Do you ever think anyone can ever really know another person?" Ray asked. The question seemed to come out of the blue, after a long silence. They were once more on stakeout and were watching the shooter's wife weeding a flower bed in the front yard. Fraser had not had a restful night and was feeling a little ragged because of it. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. A sore tension centered at the top of his spine and radiated down to his shoulders.

"I think that's a matter that has plagued mankind for all time, Ray."

"I mean there she is, seems like a nice enough lady, only been married to this guy a year. No idea that this great catch, dad for her kids and all that, is a murderer. She's going to have her life turned upside down in the worst way."

"Sometimes we believe what we want to believe. But I think even between the closest of couples there are secrets, pieces of oneself never to be shared."

Ray's lips turned down. "Doesn't seem right. If you really love someone, it should be like what you were saying the other night, like your Persians." Ray pinned him with an unwavering stare, his eyes hinting at something unspoken yet enormously important. A faint flush painted Ray's cheeks, and he held out a hand, palm up, toward Fraser. "Your lover's a piece of yourself, and how can you not know yourself?" Ray's question came out with a rush, his voice ragged and desperate, and the expression on his face seemed a plea for understanding.

He sat frozen, and his heart started to pound as he absorbed Ray's powerful emotion, seemingly directed toward him. He looked at Ray more closely, a faint bubble of excitement combined with fear rising within him. Perhaps Ray's comment at the restaurant had not been so innocent. The possibilities this implied made him feel light-headed. He cleared his throat.

"Modern society has raised self-deception to a high art, Ray. I agree with you, though. I'd like to think when you meet the one you're destined for, you welcome back a piece of your heart." As I did when I met you, he thought and barely stopped himself from saying it aloud. The fear of admitting this aloud, of making that terrifying leap and possibly opening himself to further hurt stopped his tongue. He paused, thinking perhaps he'd already said too much, revealed too much. He felt as though he were crossing an ice field, where snow-covered crevasses posed a dreadful hidden danger. But then sharing danger with Ray had certainly become the norm in every other part of their relationship. And if these newly revealed possibilities terrified him, surely they also shook his partner, no stranger to an unhappy heart.

He found himself studying the play of light from the window on Ray's angular features, wondering how Ray's stubble would feel against his lips. He licked them, only half aware that he did so, and felt his pulse quicken.

Ray was watching his mouth with the intensity that Diefenbaker brought to powdered doughnuts. He froze as Ray slowly reached a hand out to his face. With the wariness of someone touching a wild thing, Ray ran a knuckle across his lips in the gentlest of caresses.

He was leaning into the motion, toward Ray, when a car pulling up at the shooter's house caught his attention. He pointed.

"There he is, Ray. It's our guy."

"Shit," said Ray, looking out the window. "Well, let's go get our man, mountie."

"Jeez, I'm stuffed." Ray wiped his hands free of pizza sauce on a paper napkin and flopped back onto the couch in a boneless sprawl. They had both been wired after the arrest and so had gone back to Ray's apartment to celebrate. Dief moaned in agreement and flopped over on his side.

"You have only yourself to blame, Dief, you really didn't need that third piece, you know," he chastised. He stirred himself enough to take their plates into the kitchen. He put them by the sink and started running the water, intent on cleaning up.

Leaning over the sink, his face safely hidden from Ray, he touched his lips and recalled that revealing caress. His mind kept obsessively replaying their brief moment of closeness before the arrest. His bruised but longing heart seemed to have found a twin in Ray's, but the fear remained. Did he dare risk relaxing the iron control to which he'd become accustomed? Love had always meant pain, but need it always be so? Barely audible over the running water, Ray spoke. "Fraser."

"Yes, Ray?"

"Leave that, I'll take care of it later. Come in here, I got something for you."

He walked into the living room to see Ray standing by the couch holding something in his hand.

"What is it, Ray?"

"It's something for your heart, Frase. I got it right here." Ray held out a book and he saw it was Rumi.

"I had Frannie calling every bookstore in town until she found this. Something for your heart, just like your grandmother said. Question is, are you going to let yourself have it?" Ray's voice trembled and his face was utterly and completely open.

He hesitated, his throat so tight it hurt. Ray was being so Ray, risking himself by laying it all on the line. He'd seen Ray open himself in this way before, with Stella, and seen him hurt almost beyond bearing. Ray's courage stunned him, and he felt a hint of shame at his own cowardice. It would be the basest of cruelty to remain unmoved in the face of such an act.

Ray's voice was almost a whisper. "I know you're scared, Frase. Hell, I'm terrified and at least Stella didn't try to get me killed. But I read some of your Rumi, Frase, and there's one line that's just so right. Wanna hear it, Frase?"

He nodded, barely breathing.

Ray closed his eyes. "'We are pain and what cures pain, both. We are the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.' I so get that, Frase. How many centuries ago, and that's a better way to say it than I could ever come up with."

He drew in his breath, a harsh gasp that was nearly a sob. Oh, god, if it were true, if his pain could be cured. Ray continued with a shaky laugh. "See what you do to me, Frase? You got me quoting poetry."

Moved almost to tears and suddenly determined, he stepped forward, reaching out for the book. Ray dropped his arm, pulling the book back against his chest. "Uh, uh, Frase. This story's going to have a happy ending. Tell me that."

He closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. The start of the poem Ray had quoted from ran through his head. He took another step toward Ray, and quoted, "We are the mirror as well as the face in it." He brought his hands up, cupping Ray's cheeks, then continued, "We are tasting the taste this minute of eternity. "

Slowly, he brushed his lips against Ray's in the lightest of kisses. Ray's stubble was silky against his lips and he pulled away reluctantly. Ray seemed frozen then let out his breath in harsh exhalation. He moved a hand to the nape of Ray's neck, stroking the short hairs that had always held a peculiar attraction for him.

He put his lips close to Ray's ear and let his tongue caress the earlobe. His mouth right next to Ray's ear, close enough that Ray's hair tickled his nose, he finished the quote, repeating Ray's line in a husky whisper, "We are pain and what cures pain, both. We are the sweet cold water and the jar that pours."

A shiver ran through Ray, and he said in a low voice, "I think I know what that means, but I wanna hear you say it, Frase. Can you say it?"

"It means I love you, Ray. I love you. I have for a while." Finally saying the words he'd kept to himself for so long gave him the most exquisite sensation. He felt a strange giddiness, his fears somehow overcome by Ray's brilliant courage.

A gasp escaped from Ray. "Thank god." He dropped his forehead against Fraser's shoulder and let out a half-stifled giggle.

He brushed Ray's hair with the tips of his fingers. "Are you okay, Ray?"

"I am now. I am now. Christ, Frase, I've been waiting for that for so long..." Ray trailed off and then looked up with one of his stunning smiles. "Me too, by the way, I mean I love you, too."

He grinned back at Ray and wondered if the grin looked as goofy as it felt. He plucked the book from Ray's hand and dropped it on the coffee table. "Thanks for this, by the way. You'll have to let me pay you back in some way." He said the last with a flirtatious air, one eyebrow raised suggestively.

"Oh, yeah, I'm all over that."

He wound his arms around Ray in a tight embrace and brushed their lips together again. This time Ray deepened the kiss, tongues tangling and hands wandering. Ray pulled back finally, breathless and laughing. "I could really use some of that excess lung capacity you got there, Frase." Suddenly, Ray launched himself at Fraser and they fell onto the couch together in a tangle of limbs. Ray dipped his head down close to Fraser's ear. "See, Frase, now this is how you end a story."

A perfect falcon, for no reason,
has landed on your shoulder,
and become yours.

End.