Disclaimer: I don't own the show.

A/N: As both my Grandad's are called Raymund, I though I would name Ray wife after my Nan Christine, because he is just like Raymundo :) Plus its my middle name...Christine that is, not Ray that would be odd to say the least.

I was going to do Chris, Gene and a final chapter, but I'm finding this difficult to write. I feel like I'm killing the character and its effecting the way I write it.

The surface of Ray's face was shiny like wax, Alex swayed as she watched the flesh bubble and distort his features. If she had not seen these horrific changes before her eyes she would not have recognised the melted man he had become. With shame she felt bile rise at the back of her throat, this 'figure' did not look like the Ray she knew.
Fat salty tears fell down her cheeks as she wished the sight away, begged for it to be wiped from her mind. A curl of smoke left the blistered orifice that was once a mouth and then it was happening before her eyes.

~:~

A home, flames, his family trapped inside. His family.

~:~

Ray was stopped at a police barricade, flashing his warrant card to a young PC as he watched the dark smoke reaching higher into the sky, "What house number is it?" he asked ignoring the feeling of unease as he tried to settle into his 'on-the-job' mind.
"20, sir," he answered, "Sir?"
"Oh god no!" Ray gasped in a breath, ducking under the tape and running towards the fire crew, "Is there anyone still in there?"
He looked up at the sound of screaming, seeing nothing but blackness through the bedroom window, "Christine, Chrissie? She's still in there with the baby?" he asked without waiting for a reply as he heard the blood curdling scream of his frightened wife and forced his way past police and fireman.
"You can't go in there!" was the last voice Ray ever heard as he kicked the door in and disappeared into the fog.

With a frantic urgency Ray had never before felt, he made his way up the stairs. He stayed close to the wall as each step creaked under his weight. Ray took a deep breath to call out to Christine, but carbon dioxide filled his lungs, destroying the name with a harsh cough. Pressing his mouth into the collar in a vain attempt to filter some of the smoke and ash from every breath he stepped onto the landing. As he stepped forward the floor groaned and gave way, plaster and floor boards fueling the raging fire bellow.
He shouted over the roar of flames, "Chrissie," hearing nothing in return, he felt his throat close in panic. The foot of the stairs was buring away, an orange glow licking its way up the banisher and in front of him the carpet trailing into the abyss below had ignited. He was trapped, he'd failied. Dark curls of smoke, heavily scented with melting carpet and the toxic bubbling of wood varnish were strangling his every breath.
His knee weaken, his wife silent, he crashed down onto his knees, feeling the floor boards shift beneath him.
What was the point.

Written before the episode aired, but fiddled around with so it would work with it.