Disclaimer: Neither the ER, Ray, or his shirts belong to me.
Author's Note: Just a little insight into an older Ray's thoughts and feelings about his life with Neela that popped into my head, and wouldn't go away til I wrote it down. Unconnected to my current story, "Home" (please have a read of it if you haven't already, and don't be intimidated by the length, it's an easier read, or at least, I think it is, than the word count suggests), although readers of that story might recognise his thoughts regarding the blue shirt. That line from Home was what sparked this little fic. I'd really appreciate it if you could let me know what you think.
(NB. Sorry, this hasn't changed at all since I originally posted it, I just noticed a typo in it a few days ago, and it's been bugging the hell out of me, so I've had to correct it.)
Thinking back, he had never been much of a one for shirts, Ray decided. From a young age, he had hated the way the stiff cuffs had scratched at his wrists and the even stiffer collars had restricted his breathing and his movement. Then as he had gotten a little older, they hadn't suited his image of a rebellious rock star anyway. Black t-shirts, usually with some kind of gothic imagery or dark slogan had been more the order of the day.
He wasn't entirely sure what had made him wear a shirt on his first day at County, although he supposed it was something to do with creating a good first impression, even though the picture it painted of him was as far from who he actually was as you could possibly get. He had even managed a tie as well; it really had been years since he had worn one of those. It didn't really matter, in hindsight, what had driven him to put a shirt on that morning though, only that it was the start of a pattern that was to follow him through every memorable step of his life, right up until now.
It was all about her.
That first day he had spent at County was the first day he had met her, and that had been the beginning, marked by a shirt. Admittedly a pretty poor shirt, pale and uninteresting, but a shirt nonetheless. It had marked the beginning of his infatuation with a dark haired, even darker eyed creature who in that moment captured his heart, even though through the haze of beer, music and groupies he didn't realise it straight away.
The next time he wore a shirt, it was entirely different. He was entirely different, and it had all been down to her. Two years later, two years of longing looks and electric touches and uncertain feelings. To think it had all culminated in this, him standing in a shirt at her wedding. Her wedding to someone else.
This shirt was altogether nicer than the last one, blue, and he wore it open necked, without a tie, so for once it didn't feel like it was strangling him, except looking at her, indescribably beautiful in her white sari, he still couldn't breathe. Jealousy and lust and hurt and… although he could barely admit it even to himself, love, all bubbled up in his throat, far more constricting than any tie. He hated this shirt, he decided. He would never ever wear it again, unless somehow, someday, he reached a time where he could look back on this day, and not want to die inside. Because right now, that's exactly what he felt like doing. With her married to another man, what sort of future was there for him? It wouldn't have her in it, of that he was sure, and without her, what was the point of a future? The obvious answer was that there wasn't a point, none at all.
It had been another year after that that he wore a shirt again. And it was the blue one. It was the worst year yet for them, both apart and together. As she lost her husband and he lost his purpose in life, even their friendship dwindled to nothing. And then as slowly as it had begun, it started again. An argument stirring passions they had forced to the back of their minds, a deep look here, a kind word there. A few beers. And then a kiss. It was enough to restore his faith in life, in her, and then, sitting in their apartment, going over in his head what he was going to cook her for dinner that night, he somehow found himself looking back on her wedding day, and not wanting to die anymore. It meant it was time to wear the shirt again.
As it turned out, she hadn't let him wear it for long. She had slowly undone it, button by button, her fingers brushing lightly against his chest, making him gasp, before easing it off his shoulders and peeling it down his arms. It had ended up in a tangled pile of clothes on the floor of his bedroom, as they made love for the first time. The first time of so many.
The next time he wore one, she had blackmailed him into it. She said she wouldn't marry him if he wasn't wearing a shirt, and he felt that was a price worth paying to have her as his wife. Of course, she had looked so beautiful that even scrubbed up in his best, he didn't feel anything like worthy of her. It was only her whispering in his ear when she reached the altar those magic words to him, "You are the one for me, the one" that reminded him that he was worthy of her, because she had made him worthy.
She had taken that shirt off him as well, but she had made him hang it up that time. It hung in their wardrobe now, next to her wedding dress, as if it had all been yesterday. Sometimes in his mind's eye, it was.
Even though being married was meant to make him a grown up, he still steadfastly refused to wear shirts, except for the really important moments. He made a much scruffier Chief of Staff than County General had seen for a while. The christenings of their three children he counted among those moments important enough to justify a shirt though. Two girls and a boy, each three years apart. They all had children of their own now, but for each and every one of them, he could still remember that rush of excitement when she told him she was pregnant, that rush of love when exhausted and emotional, she held out her arms for her newborn baby, and that rush of enormous pride when he had held them in his shirted arms to be blessed.
And now, here at her funeral, he was wearing a shirt again. He knew this would be the last time, because there would be no more moments with her that he would need to wear a shirt for. They had had years of happiness, but it didn't make the parting less painful. Once again, the collar felt tight and he couldn't breathe, like wearing a shirt had been before he had connected them with her.
Saying goodbye to her was hard, but strangely there was a scrap of comfort to be gained from the knowledge that he had done her proud at her graveside.
No-one could never accuse him of being underdressed at the most important moments of his life.