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Fraser was good at hiding his feelings. Losing his mother at such an early age, and an on-again/off-again father sowed the seeds of that habit. It was the practice of standing guard at the consulate had helped him perfect pushing down his true wants, his true desires. But right now he didn't know how much more he could take because the ache in his chest threatened to split him in two.
Ray was the polar opposite of Fraser; he wore his heart on his sleeve, was quick to love, and would do anything for people he cared for. When the issue of Beth Botrelle's possible innocence came up, Ray took it hard as he relived the memories of that first big case of his career. He dug and dug for answers, even as people like Huey joked about the woman who was about to die. Fraser had pulled Huey aside after he heard Ray go into the lockerroom, the sound of flesh pounding against a metal locker door echoing throughout the precinct. But Huey dismissed Fraser's request to tone it down because he wasn't "a real cop."
The conversation with Huey was something else Fraser hadn't told Ray. Because it might have pushed his friend who was already teetering on the edge of a dark chasm.
But now, he was sitting in Ray's car, listening to desolate sobs coming from his parter. It was enough to pull away the bits of the mask that Fraser wore until it nothing remained but tears and dust.
Fraser reached out, guarded at first, and held Ray's shoulder. And when that didn't calm him, he pulled Ray to him, encircled the man with his arms, and let him weep until he was exhausted.
Ray finally stopped crying. It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours – Fraser wasn't sure. The only thing he was allowing himself to experience was the warmth of Ray in his arms, the moisture of salty tears against his shirt, and the slow rocking motion he'd begun – a comforting beat as each one held on for dear life.
The first few pinks and reds of sunrise shone through the clouds when Ray sat back up. Fraser couldn't help himself; he reached out, calloused fingers dabbing at Ray's tear-stained cheeks. He offered up a smile, but unlike his regular one, this was genuine. The urge to rebuild his mask was strong, but he fought it, and hoped his eyes conveyed what his heart felt.
"I'm sorry, Frase," Ray said. He sniffled, then wiped his nose on his jacket. "I didn't mean to keep you out all night."
Ray avoided Fraser's eyes, until Fraser lifted his fingers to Ray's chin. He smiled gently again, and Ray turned bashful. "It's quite all right, Ray," Fraser said. And he meant it.
Ray finally showed the barest beginnings of a smile. "I should probably get you home," he whispered, then turned over the engine. He turned towards the rising sun and dropped his free hand to the side.
"I'm where I'm supposed to be," Fraser said. And then with a deep breath, took a leap of faith. He reached out and let his fingers brush against Ray's.
And as Ray pulled out onto the street, he turned his hand over and laced his fingers with Fraser's.
"Exactly where I'm supposed to be," he whispered, then held on tight.