Title: Exhausted
Author: necessary angel
Pairing: BF/RK
Rating: PG-13 for m/m implications, and references to het. sex and finally for
Ray's potty mouth.
Spoilers: For Strange Bedfellows
Disclaimers: They don't belong to me, but I've never been good at resisting
other people's toys. The title is lovingly borrowed from the track of the same
name on the new Headstones CD "Nickels for your Nightmares".
Summary: Late night thoughts from Ray some time after the tag scene.
Thanks to Maxine, Rowan, Alison, Ruthie and Kate for encouragement and
suggestions and also to Denise for her smart, incisive comments, which
really helped to turn this around. And a final thanks to the ever lovely
Megan for fine beta.

This one's for Megan, Happy Birthday.

******
Exhausted by necessary angel
********

"Fuck!"

The word has been screaming through his brain for so long that it takes Ray
a few seconds to register that he's yelled it out into the heavy, quiet air.
Dancing does that. You go at it for a while, and the air gets hot, sticky, thick.
Shit; he was going to catch yet more bitchin' from the neighbors.

"Fuck it."

Ray had danced himself out a while back, but it hasn't brought sleep like it
usually does. He's frayed, pushed past his limit for... well, anything.
Certainly sleep and most definitely company, even...especially Fraser's. Ray
sighs; he hadn't missed the flash of pain in Fraser's eyes earlier when he'd
rejected Fraser's offer of dinner. Ray scrubs a hand through his hair, almost
enjoying the dull tug of his fingers against his scalp.

The quiet is getting to him and he's back over at the stereo, his finger
hovering over the play button again. Yet another loop of the track Stella and
he' d danced to earlier. Ray knows it's fucking stupid. It doesn't make any
difference. He's never smart around Stella, about Stella. But his hand moves
and, dazed, Ray watches it take the CD out. He wants to break it, to stamp
on it as if that would clean the music out of his nerves. For a moment he's
almost sure he has done it, but the disk is still whole, balanced between his
fingers. Ray eases his fingers away and lets it drop on top of the stereo. His
hand is stinging sharply and he isn't surprised to see the thin grooves on his
fingertips.

Ray backs away from the stereo. No more music; maybe coffee, yeah that
would do it. He'd drunk himself out of his few bottles of beer hours ago. He'd
stopped keeping much booze in his place not long after Stel and he had split.
ease of access was not a good thing. Days of stumbling through work with
the pain in his head not quite enough to smother the ache in the rest of him
had taught him that one.

Real coffee, that is the way to go; instant will give too much thinking time,
too much standing around. The spit and gurgle of the machine takes the
edge off the silence. He leans against the counter, trying to make out the
drip of the coffee in the dim light.

The coffee is hot and tasteless despite the extra candy, but he keeps
drinking. Keeps drinking and keeps moving. The dull thud of his boots on
the floor is more soothing than anything else has been tonight. His whole
body feels gritty, like his eyes do after a stakeout. His T-shirt is scraping
over every nerve he owns, and he ditches the coffee long enough to get rid of
it. It doesn't help much. It's not his clothes; the itch is deeper than that,
right inside him.

Ray throws himself on the couch and stares at the play of lights from outside
on the ceiling. His life has shifted and changed tonight. He still can't work
out why he walked away from Stella's door.

He could be there now, tangled up in her. It would be good. It always was,
lying next to her, breathing her in, feeling her small, strong hands and sharp
teeth on his skin. Stella, stripped of her layers, skin gleaming in the light as
she moves against him, over him, around him. Stella' s head heavy on his
chest, her eyes almost closed beneath tousled, tawny hair, her body warm
and lax against his as they drift and recover. They could always talk then, no
attitudes to get in the way. He had always been able to find the woman he'd
married in bed.

He's not there. He's here and that is his choice. Something has broken the
loop, thrown the dance into a new pattern. Not something, someone.

Fraser.

Ray puts his hand over his eyes and groans. He shifts on the couch, pushing
his neck back against the arm. Oh, Christ. His guts twist, a tight, cold lump
settling where his stomach should be. He presses one hand hard against his
belly. It doesn't help much. He shivers, but his skin is slick beneath his
fingers.

There it is, out in the open.

Fuck.

Stella had ripped him apart over the years, as he had her. She still could
tear into his underbelly, if the last few days were any indication, but
Fraser... Jeez. Fraser, with his clear, honest eyes, could reduce him to
nothing. The man was already deep inside. He had simply walked right in.
Ray had never had any sense and this proved it without any doubt.

Ray's fingers are shaking as they ease the seam of his jeans away from his
sudden, aching erection. His chest is tight and the back of his neck is damp.
The knot in his guts squeezes and he groans again. Yeah, he had noticed
Fraser, noticed him that first day, but it was nothing...like noticing the color
of the sky. You'd have to be dead not to notice Fraser. This is different, very
different. Trouble, big time trouble.

It is the best partnership Ray has ever had. They had fitted - like his favorite
leather jacket had from the first moment. It is the only thing about his new
life that has. Vecchio was as far from Ray Kowalski as you could get, and
that suited him just fine.

It had been pure freedom to step into the other man's existence, even if
everything he'd learned about the man had made his teeth ache. The bubble
of his new job had closed around him as if it had been made for him.

Ray could function, at last. Smooth, clean, cut off from the mess he'd made
at his last precinct. No history to weigh him down. For the first time in what
seemed like forever he was back in the groove, and his nerves were back on
the inside where they belonged.

He's good at undercover; that's what he did, at least until Stella and he had
got it together properly. He had done less of it after that and he had missed
it...he hadn't realized how much until he had started this gig. To do a long
term assignment right, you have to live it. No time out; that was just what he
had needed. Vecchio's life had closed around him with its clear boundaries,
and once he had learnt to breathe it had been fine.

Vecchio'd had enough baggage of his own for Ray to have to let go of his. It
helped, actually; numbed things so that he could deal with Stella working
the 27; mostly, anyway.

He had settled into the work okay, smoothed out some of the rough spots at
the 27. It'd been all right. Welsh was a good Lieutenant, and whatever he
had going on with Vecchio didn't hang over on Ray. The rest of the shift
followed his lead. That made his life easier, better than he'd thought it would
get. Good, even.

He was untouchable.

Or he had been, until Fraser had returned and cracked the glass
surrounding him. One conversation in a crypt, of all fucking places, and the
air was touching Ray's skin for the first time in months.

Now he realizes it's much worse than that.

Ray's on his feet, moving, pacing again, his arms wrapped tight around his
chest as if that will keep everything together. Fraser really has walked right
in. He cracks his neck. It doesn't help; his neck is still as tight as a fucking
drum. You don't fall for your partner. You really don't fall for your partner
when you're undercover.

Undercover as another cop.

Jesus, if there are medals for stupidity then Ray is the golden guy. He
shakes his head but it doesn't go away. It's out there now, alive and real. So,
how to deal? He has no real choice. Undercover really does make life simple.

Not that Vecchio would get himself into this mess. Would he?

No.

He shakes his head again. Not going there. Stella and Fraser are more than
enough to deal with.

Stella.

His throat's dry and tight like it always is these days when he lets himself
think about her, about not having her. It's over, it is over. The familiar chant
is complete and final in a way it never has been before.

It's over.

The realization settles into his head; it feels good, in an odd whacked up
way. Like the end of a fever or a bad night, when the air feels cool and sweet
and the dreams are over. He should thank Fraser for that at least.

The image of Fraser opening the car door into Orsini's groin floats to the top
of the mess in his head, and Ray grins for the first time since it had
happened. There it was the real man beneath the ridiculous target red. The
sarcastic, pissy Fraser that he usually keeps well guarded. Ray has started
digging for that Fraser at every opportunity. His spontaneous appearances
were always the best, though.

Shit. He looks at his watch. It is almost time for the day to start again.

This is not good. He's way too stretched and open to want to see Fraser. His
game face is splintered. Ray knows that Fraser will see straight through into
him with one look.

His hand hovers over the phone but he doesn't pick it up. Calling in sick
won't do it. He drums his fingers on the counter while he tries to scrabble
his head together. Fraser will track him down here, and Ray won't stand any
chance of keeping this...of keeping them safe, keeping them partners. He
heads for the shower. He's got an hour or so to get it together. It has to be
enough.

End