[ That seemed silly! How was he supposed to taste it if it never even touched his tongue? But if Ray said that that was what was to be done then he believed him, and he'd try. If he could rely on anyone to be a reliable teacher it was his friend and partner--and Ray trusted him, after all. He'd taught him to swim despite his dearest protests. Well...after he'd gotten him in the water.
But then before he could drink it, Ray was returning the storytime favor, and Fraser was far too invested in hearing anything sentimental from his partner to break it up with a fit of coughing. Ray rarely spoke about his past. Fraser knew that most of that was because 'his past' meant 'Stella'. His posture shifted toward Ray on the bed, an open, conversational gesture. Welcoming. He was listening.
As Ray finished speaking, the tip of Fraser's tongue ran a circle under his top teeth, and he reached forward, placing his hand on Ray's knee, meaning it to be a comforting gesture rather than an overfamiliar one. ]
A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery--James Joyce.
If I learned anything from my own childhood experiences it's that no matter how indulgent our parents are with guidance, our mistakes are invariably our own to make. You learned from his disappointment, Ray, but you might just as easily have ignored the sentiment, chosen not to care. You didn't. You absorbed his wisdom, even if at the time he may have been too blind or stubborn to acknowledge it.
[ His gaze softened, and Fraser settled back, removing his hand and instead bringing the bottle to his lips. He took a moment to establish his own calm center, and then he took the shot of alcohol as indicated, knocking it neatly against the back of his throat and swallowing. Fraser grimaced again - a fierce grimace, eyes watering - but at least this time he didn't cough and choke his way through it. He couldn't imagine ever getting used to it, making a habit of it. He couldn't. But today was a special occasion. The burn in his throat from the vodka, the sweetly aromatic taste of the rum on his tongue--if he was toasting the oncoming absence of his best friend, he might as well do it the traditional way.
Besides, the alternative was that Ray drank alone, and that was clearly the worst of many terrible ideas. ]
You're a good person, Ray. A good detective. You hardly give yourself enough credit, and I know that though it may be as difficult for you to believe it as it is for him to admit it, your father is eminently proud of the man you've become.
It took me until after my father's death to reconcile our differences and forgive him for his mistakes; in the end, I was forced to acknowledge what few comprehend until it is already too late: that as much as he was my only father and I resented him for it, I was also his only son, and therefore in parenthood was I the model for his mistakes--his relationship with me the price I paid for his insight.
I regretted not telling him while he was alive that I forgave him his faults--all of them. But not all such things can be forgiven. Ray...[ He thought of a story Vecchio had told him once about his father. ] Ray would tell you that there's such a thing as crossing a line, and love doesn't excuse everything. That it can't. [ Wryly: ] He'd call my optimism 'typical.'
no subject
But then before he could drink it, Ray was returning the storytime favor, and Fraser was far too invested in hearing anything sentimental from his partner to break it up with a fit of coughing. Ray rarely spoke about his past. Fraser knew that most of that was because 'his past' meant 'Stella'. His posture shifted toward Ray on the bed, an open, conversational gesture. Welcoming. He was listening.
As Ray finished speaking, the tip of Fraser's tongue ran a circle under his top teeth, and he reached forward, placing his hand on Ray's knee, meaning it to be a comforting gesture rather than an overfamiliar one. ]
A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery--James Joyce.
If I learned anything from my own childhood experiences it's that no matter how indulgent our parents are with guidance, our mistakes are invariably our own to make. You learned from his disappointment, Ray, but you might just as easily have ignored the sentiment, chosen not to care. You didn't. You absorbed his wisdom, even if at the time he may have been too blind or stubborn to acknowledge it.
[ His gaze softened, and Fraser settled back, removing his hand and instead bringing the bottle to his lips. He took a moment to establish his own calm center, and then he took the shot of alcohol as indicated, knocking it neatly against the back of his throat and swallowing. Fraser grimaced again - a fierce grimace, eyes watering - but at least this time he didn't cough and choke his way through it. He couldn't imagine ever getting used to it, making a habit of it. He couldn't. But today was a special occasion. The burn in his throat from the vodka, the sweetly aromatic taste of the rum on his tongue--if he was toasting the oncoming absence of his best friend, he might as well do it the traditional way.
Besides, the alternative was that Ray drank alone, and that was clearly the worst of many terrible ideas. ]
You're a good person, Ray. A good detective. You hardly give yourself enough credit, and I know that though it may be as difficult for you to believe it as it is for him to admit it, your father is eminently proud of the man you've become.
It took me until after my father's death to reconcile our differences and forgive him for his mistakes; in the end, I was forced to acknowledge what few comprehend until it is already too late: that as much as he was my only father and I resented him for it, I was also his only son, and therefore in parenthood was I the model for his mistakes--his relationship with me the price I paid for his insight.
I regretted not telling him while he was alive that I forgave him his faults--all of them. But not all such things can be forgiven. Ray...[ He thought of a story Vecchio had told him once about his father. ] Ray would tell you that there's such a thing as crossing a line, and love doesn't excuse everything. That it can't. [ Wryly: ] He'd call my optimism 'typical.'