This just crawled out my head ... m/m premise assumed, not explicit.
Set after "Juliet is Bleeding".

OUT OF THE DEPTHS

by Gloria 

           "Out of the depths, I have cried to thee O Lord"
                      From the Catholic Requiem

They sat together for a while and eventually Fraser conducted Ray out
of the hospital by the back stairs to escape the press hounds:
journalists are paid for their time and they brandished the 'first amendment'
as their licence to bother anybody.  Fraser wondered, yet again, how
any country managed with a written constitution, as if it were a contract,
no more, with terms and conditions.  Ah well, Fraser reconciled himself,
they were young.  They would learn.  

It was simple, perhaps the simplest thing Fraser had ever done
involving this far from simple man.  He drove him back, to Fraser's own
apartment, phoned the man's mother on the man's own mobile phone, removed
the man's clothes and put him in bed and then crawled beside him and
held him, aware of the beauty of it, the raw and complex
simplicity of it between them, aware of his love for this person, troubled
yet untroubled - Ray was a man - Ray was his friend, yet they were friends
who didn't much like each other - but still were closer than brothers.
It was strange.  It was simple.  

"Here, here my darling, oh my darling," Fraser mumbled, deep into Ray's
neck, stroking and kind and filled with the superlative
richness in doing this at last, now: both naked and innocent,
stripped of more than clothes - Fraser let Ray cry.  

                                 ***

"Good morning Mrs Vecchio," Fraser greeted her politely.  

"Ah, hello Fraser, come on in," and Mrs Vecchio led the way towards the
kitchen.  Fraser followed in some trepidation, keeping a weather eye
open for Francesca.  

"Where is Ray, Mrs Vecchio?" Fraser asked.  "He's not at work today?"

"Oh," and Mrs Vecchio's face was a strange mixture of shame and
unhappiness.  "Fraser, I'm sorry, of course, not today.  Ray has gone
to church this morning."

"Church?" Fraser repeated blankly.  "It's Monday, not Sunday."  And,
he added inwardly, Ray isn't all that regular at Sunday service
either, not from what I have seen anyway.  

"Yes," she nodded sadly, "it is."

"Mrs Vecchio?" 

"I'm sorry Fraser, I assumed he told you - Irene was buried this
morning."

Fraser walked towards the church, aware of a peculiar feeling inside
his stomach, as if had eaten something that was about to disagree with
him, most violently.  He had attended enough funerals in his life - more
than enough.  He remembered being held over his mother's ice cold leper
white face to kiss her goodbye forever.  He shuddered and covered it
by adjusting his Stetson.  With a deep instinctive dread he loathed dead
bodies, had to steel himself to conquer this; foolish in an adult man
and a policeman.  Foolish.  

The church was dark and welcoming with that half familiar smell of candlesmoke
and flowers and incense that Fraser recognised from his previous visits.
While not being a regular churchgoer, Ray did have some church involvements
and Father Behan had become a good friend to them both over the months
since the incident with Mr Paducci.  

All the pews were empty this morning except off to the right hand side
in front of a small side alter dedicated to the statue of a
sweet faced patient woman clothed in blue and white.  Fraser could see
that one man was knelt there, head bowed, before a rack of
lighted candles.  Ray.  

Fraser approached, making sure his boot heels did not ring on the bare
marble floor.  Somewhere far off in the darkness a door opened and then
closed with a vast echoing silence behind it.  The candle flames stirred
and bowed.

Fraser slipped into the pew and sat down.  Ray had not moved or
turned, his head still bowed slightly and he was looking at his
clasped hands, fingering some brown threaded beads; his lips were moving
slightly, silently.  Fraser regarded all this respectfully and waited.

Then Ray crossed himself, a simple and yet somehow beautifully
profound action that Fraser had never seen Ray perform before.  Ray stood
up and turned to look down at Fraser, noting Fraser's expectant concerned
gaze.  He simply nodded slightly in greeting and turned to leave, bobbing
down onto one knee in genuflection in the aisle before turning to walk
away from the alter, towards the doors, only pausing long enough to dip
his fingers in the holy water and cross himself again.  

Fraser watched as Ray turned to him; Ray in the porch, the dim silver
morning falling on him as Fraser stood still in the dark scented
chill of the church.  Fraser dipped the fingers of his right hand into
the ice and touched his own forehead, looking at Ray the whole time -
he didn't know the rest of the ritual but hoped that would be enough,
nor yet offend.  

Ray nodded his acceptance and turned and looked out at the rain.  "We
- I - will burn for this, some people believe.  Perhaps even I
believe it."  

Fraser stepped out of the dark into the gloomy silver and touched Ray's
left cheek, fingers still wet with the holy water. 

Then the moment passed; they communicated on two different levels sometimes,
buddies and cops solving crimes and going to basketball games, arguing
and angry and shallow.  Then other times; deep rare times when they loved,
when the pain inside two such differently
fractured men would meet and only the other, as flawed and as
perfect, met and mended the other's hurt.  

Fraser knew Ray would not speak, too lost beneath the years of
denial, too raw just now to face the truth.  "I love you more than I
can say," Fraser said simply, quietly, as if it were no more than a comment
upon the weather, or the day.  "And I am only human and I long for you
sometimes, so sometimes we - hurt."

"When all else fails - you don't," Ray said, looking down at the
ground.  It was enough.  

                           ***

The naked moment passed.  Fraser put on his hat and cast
around for something to say.  "Your mother mentioned you would
be here."  That seemed the safest.  

Ray acknowledged it with a sideways shrug before moving off
towards the Riv.  "Can I give you a lift somewhere Fraser?" he
asked, perfectly normally, just as he would at any other time.

Fraser blinked; Ray seemed quite calm, just as usual.  "I..."
Fraser began, then followed after, climbing into the passenger
seat before he realised it.  

"I'm on leave today and I have to go - somewhere - now," Ray
said, perhaps a little stiffly, "but I can drop you anywhere
you need."

"Ray," and Fraser finally pulled himself together enough to
speak, "I am so very sorry."

Ray's hands faltered for perhaps half a second on the steering
wheel, then he pulled away into the busy traffic with easy
competence.  There was a long silence, while Fraser waited for
Ray to say something.  And waited.  And waited.  With
surprise, Fraser realised they were at the apartment and that
Ray was looking at him as if to say 'here you are, get out'. 
Fraser tilted his head, his face very serious indeed.  "Ray?"
it was not quite a question.  

"I don't want to talk about Ire - it, Fraser.  It's got
nothing to do with you."  Bluntly put, the words caused Fraser
to rear back, just a little, startled at Ray's attitude.  This
was not Ray as Fraser knew him.  This silence and coolness
were all quite new.  

"Did you - were you not welcome at her funeral, Ray?"

"It's got nothing to do with you," Ray repeated it, dull,
staring out through the windscreen.  The rain beat down now,
harder, soaking and dirty and grey on the city streets.  "We
are at your apartment, Fraser.  You get out here."

"Ray?" Fraser was puzzled at this.  

"Good bye, Fraser," and Ray sounded very determined and very
cold, each word bitten off and distinct.  

Feeling a little shaky now, Fraser got out and watched Ray
drive away, aware that he had handled it badly, aware that Ray
was very angry with him - still - angry, perhaps, most of all
about what had happened last night, and aware, sickeningly,
that this could well be the end of any sort of friendship
between them.  

Fraser let two whole days go by before he went to the house
again.  He had at least four items to return to the Vecchios;
a cookbook, two saucepans and a coffee percolator.  He boxed
the items and transported them with care, careful also to
chose a time of day when he judged Ray would be at home. 
Fraser could be determined to the point of stubbornness
sometimes, a trait his Mountie training only reinforced.  

Once again it was Mrs Vecchio who opened the door and Fraser
was relieved to see that she smiled at him in simple welcome. 
"He's in his room," she said, very low.  "He's not been like
this since Poppa died, Fraser, and he won't tell me what
happened."

"I think I may have upset him, Mrs Vecchio," Fraser confessed
and set down the box.  "Do you think I should...?" and Mrs
Vecchio waved her approval.  

The room was silent, for once there was no music from the
stereo radio.  Ray was sat at a small desk by the window, the
desk surface covered with papers and photographs.  "Ma, I've
told you, I'm not hungry," Ray sounded tired. 

"It's me," Fraser said helpfully.  

There was a long still moment before Ray turned round.  His
face was blank, pale and cool.  "Yes?  Did you want
something?"

"Aw, Ray, please..." and Fraser wouldn't stand for that sort
of thing.  He removed his hat and set it down carefully on the
bed before joining Ray at the table.  "I'm still your friend
Ray - if you still want me to be."

Ray turned away, looking out of the window and Fraser took the
opportunity to inspect the papers on the desk.  Letters, by
the look of it and photographs showing people dressed in the
style of the late seventies and early eighties.  "Is that...?"
Fraser ventured, pointing.  

Ray reacted instinctively, snatching the papers away, turning
them over.  "You don't know when to quit, do you?" he asked
bitterly, and it was not really a question.  "This is -
important - to me Fraser.  Was."

"I'm sorry," Fraser said genuinely.  "I was concerned, that's
all.  I still am.  You could never have lived with yourself if
you had let it go any further.  Irene," and Fraser stopped,
pinned by Ray's icy hazel glare at the use of her name,
"Irene," Fraser went on regardless, "would not have wanted
that."

Ray gave a despairing gesture and muttered something in
Italian under his breath; it sounded very rude and extremely
explicit.  He got up, pushing the chair back with excessive
violence and paced about the room.  "What do you want to know,
Fraser?  All the sad little details?  Just your normal
domestic tragedy you know, happens every day?  Nothing
special?"  Ray leaned against the dresser, hands outstretched,
looking down at the polished surface as if it were the most
riveting thing he'd ever seen.  

"I want to know," Fraser had conducted too many interrogations
to be side tracked by these tactics, "anything you want to
tell me."

Ray walked over to the table and with a rather desperate air,
picked out one photograph and handed it to Fraser.  "There. 
Ok?  There."

The photograph had been taken at a Christmas party, Fraser
could see a tree with lights and decorations.  There was Ray,
dressed in the ridiculous fashions of years ago, with his arm
draped around the shoulders of a girl standing next to him. 
Irene.

Her hair was longer, piled up on top of her head, with wispy
curls tumbled around a striking face.  The flash had turned
her eyes to red, spoiling what could have been a nice picture
otherwise.  Ray and the girl were both smiling into the camera
and Ray's face looked happier than Fraser realised it could
ever possibly look.  They looked so young.  He's smiled at me,
Fraser thought it with something very like dread, but never
like that.  He was so young.  So young.  

Ray's face contorted at Fraser's silent scrutiny of the
snapshot.  "I asked her to go out, more as a dare to Frankie
than anything else.  We'd known each other forever - she
was...  S'funny, looking back now, she was tall and skinny and
I was gangly and oddlookin' even then - we both got laughed
at, all the time."  Ray shrugged, running one hand over the
top of his head.  "And the rest," a poor stab at humour, "is
history."

"She was very nice Ray," Fraser said sincerely, handing back
the photograph.  

"Thanks Fraser.  You'd have liked her, I think, if you could
have known her better.  Everyone liked her."

Fraser stood, hands neatly folded across his lower stomach and
tilted his head to one side slightly, encouraging.  

The careful, neutral statements were thrown into the silence
of the room like pebbles into a pond:  "She was embarrassed
about it you know, that no one would ask her to the Dance?  So
- I asked her.  I remember, I said 'I'll take you Irene, no
one else would want us anyways'.  She didn't get offended -
she knew what I meant.  Pop never gave me any allowance and
when I worked I had to give the money to Ma, we needed every
dime, Fraser, you know how it is with us?  I had nothing - not
for a corsage or a tux.  I - I really really wanted her to go
to the Dance.  So I took the money from Ma's purse."  Fraser's
face stilled at this small tragic statement.  "I know, I told
'em about it afterwards.  Pop - well, we won't go into what he
did.  Ma slapped me once, good and hard, and then she cried
and then she kissed me and didn't let Pop back in the house
for nearly two days."  Ray sniffed, muttered something about
an allergy, before he moved across to the window and stared
out into the backyard.  "I was seventeen and she was exactly
two months and thirteen days older than me and we - she was -
first time, huh, Fraser?  You know what I'm saying?"

Fraser nodded.  He understood perfectly, his knowledge fresh
and hurtful.  Victoria.  

"I don't want to talk about this now - get out of here
Fraser," Ray said it with some contained but potent violence. 
"You - us - it hurts me too much sometimes, just get out.  I
mean, what is it between us anyway?   After all, we're not
queer, are we?  And you can have anyone - maybe you've just
been alone too long a time, Fraser."

"Now, Ray, what is this?  We did nothing, nothing.  We never
do," and Fraser didn't realise how hungry and impatient and
angry he sounded, "you were hurting and I held you, that's
all, we're friends.  Face it, all we ever do is hurt and hold
each other."

"Don't give me that," Ray turned to him accusingly, shaking
his head with weary anger, "don't you dare start with that to
me.  Sure, we don't have sex, but godammit to hell, we do make
love."

The word sat there, grinning in the silent room.  An
atmosphere of Juliet's tomb, the words ran like water into
Fraser's head.  Love.  Well, yes, of course, love.  He opened
his mouth to say something, thought better of it and closed
his mouth again.  What was there to say?

"Why do we do this to each other", Fraser asked at last,
knowing the answer anyway.  "All the time we do this, act as
if... as if..." and his voice died before Ray's silent
condemning stare.  

"You know very well why, Fraser.  You know.  I know."

"If we don't ever have sex, that makes it better?" Fraser
asked, not hiding his disgust.  He had never expected
cowardice - from Ray of all people.  "I know you love me Ray,
you've said so."  Silence was his answer.  "You can have the
feelings but not the activity, is that it?"  Fraser recalled
some frantic early research through Catholic periodicals when
he realised his heart's darling was not only a man, divorced
and Italian, but a Roman Catholic as well.  

"Don't be so naive," Ray almost spat the words.  "All this
love and sex and love talk?  Just talk, friend, just talk. 
Wake up and smell the asphalt Fraser, ok?  My career would be
over.  My family would be over.  Your career would be over. 
People don't understand, Fraser, not most people.  They'd
laugh, make jokes.  You think we - I'd ever be taken seriously
again?  Maria'd worry about me sitting for the kids," Ray said
the ugly condemning words, "Ma'd scourge herself she'd done
something, or not done something, guys would check I wasn't in
the john before they'd go, Welsh would start to inspect his
departmental budget, Elaine would ask my opinion between Rive
Gauche or Lou Lou.  I'd be sent on community projects, maybe
even talk shows?  I'd be out, off the Force, a token - not a
policeman."

It was one of the longest speeches Ray had ever made, it
seemed to have been dragged up from deep places inside; Ray's
face was wet.  Fraser could not have sworn to his own
composure faced with such bitter, brutal truth.  "I already
know what that's like Ray," he said, not even knowing he'd had
this sort of venom inside.  "You think I don't know what
that's like?  To not be a policeman?  What am I now?  I'm a
token, a uniform, no more.  I have no family, no friends to
lose, except you.  Excuse me."

"Its not that its wrong, Benny," and it was Ray's oldest,
saddest voice, "its just that its not gonna happen, never."

"You hate me?  You don't desire me?  You don't want what we
do?  You had nothing before - and God knows, I am nothing, I
was frozen before you."  

"You can't hold me to ransom like this Benny, blackmail?  If'n
you're hurting, then so am I.  S'not my fault, not this, you
feeling bad about it, it's not, Fraser, don't try... I'll
leave you behind if'n'you do, don't think I won't.  I am not
responsible for your happiness."

"You are - you are responsible," Fraser contradicted, harshly,
his voice almost husky.  "Just knowing you're here, in this
god awful place, makes it bearable for me."

"I'm not, I won't - I can't be, ah, don't ask me, just
don't...  I like my life mostly as it is, Fraser, leave me
alone.  I love you and I've never denied that, I love you. 
And I don't want to, ok?"

Put like that, there was nothing more to do or say.  Put like
that, it was a bullet through the brain.  And after all, it
was a long time ago now that they had both realised something,
the realisation that it was simply and only because they loved
each other.  And - as all lovers - that was hardly enough.  

"Do you want me to go?" Fraser asked at last.  

Ray was sat on the bed and ran the palms of both hands over
the top of his scalp before resting his forehead on his knees.
He looked beaten, defeated and tired and more loveable than a
human heart can hold.  Fraser sat down on the opposite side of
the bed, facing away, not daring to look.  

Ray said: "No." 

So, they hurt and they held each other, as always.  

                             ***

Mrs Vecchio was in the kitchen, muttering to herself in
Italian as she pottered about from saucepan to stove to sink. 
"Mrs Vecchio?" Fraser enquired, politely, from the doorway.  

"Ah, Fraser, come in, come in."  Mrs Vecchio beamed at him. 
"He talked to you?"  Fraser nodded.  "That's good.  When he
goes quiet, that's when I know it's bad.  He didn't talk to
anyone for nearly a week after Poppa was buried."

"I'm sorry Mrs Vecchio, I don't seem to be able - everything I
do with him," and Fraser had no idea how bereft he sounded,
"every single thing I do is wrong.  I don't know if I can go
on - he hates me," it was probably not the truth, but it was
how Fraser felt and for once, here in this warm and oh so
friendly kitchen, pushed to the edge, in the face of
unfamiliar but much wanted maternal concern, the words bubbled
out.  

Mrs Vecchio set down the spoon and hugged him, as if he were
one of her own.  "Foolish child, he doesn't hate you.  He's
never really hated anyone except...  well, trust me Fraser, he
doesn't hate you.  Leave him be for a while, caro, that's all
you can do.  He'll come back to us - when he's ready, he'll
come back.  He always has before."

Mrs Vecchio was frankly sobbing now and Fraser, feeling
inadequate and very very humble, hugged her and muttered
something and left; walking all the way back to his apartment,
unaware of the amazed stares of the people in the streets as
he passed by, resplendent in his red uniform.  

                             ***

It didn't seem fair.  It was never fair.  The one thing he
wanted most, the one thing he knew Ray needed the most - I
won't, Fraser vowed again, I won't give up.  I have worked too
hard, waited too long for him - there has been too much pain. 
And now to end it?  Afraid of words?  Love, sex, whatever the
difference, if there was a difference.  To just throw that
away?  Unthinkable.    

Do you want me to go?  Such a simple question.  

No.  Such a simple answer.  

THE END