Author's Website: http://bifictionalbedlam.slashcity.net

Disclaimer: These are not the 'droids you're looking for, punk.

Author's Notes: Beta brought to you by the DRV girls, AuKestrel the magnificent, and the wondrous Brighid who asked me many questions I needed to hear.

Story Notes: For those of you who egged on my glitterkink via IRC. You know who you are. And you can stop laughing at me now. Damn it.
realitycek thought up the refracting bit; I ran with it.

Fraser had only left Chicago for a brief RCMP conference on the implementation of a new, computer-driven form-filing system to replace the 10989B report in the coming 21st century. After four days spent in the bowels of a Sheraton in downtown Toronto confined to a meeting room just off Queen Street, Fraser was feeling a nagging sense of disquiet as he walked to the police station. After all, his last period of absence had resulted in the loss of a partner and dear friend to an undercover federal operation in Las Vegas. Therefore Fraser felt he had ample reason to be nervous.

The sense of creeping unease did not lessen when he arrived at his destination. He had gained a new best friend and partner in that last exchange, true, but Fraser had no desire to repeat the experience. Ray Kowalski was a fine undercover police officer and detective, and if he disappeared overnight with nary a phone call, Fraser would hunt him down to the ends of the earth...and patiently explain why that wouldn't do.

He wouldn't allow bureaucracy to misplace another of his partners. Especially not this one.

Foot traffic became increasingly more congested as Fraser advanced down the hall, and clothing styles progressively more colorful and fabric more scant. He edged forward, uttering many a, "Pardon me," and, "Excuse me, sir." Judging from the strong aroma of tobacco smoke, cannabis, and various alcoholic beverages -- in combination with the odor of perfumes and styling products to cover the heavy scent of sweat -- the oddly dressed men slouching against the wall and blocking Fraser's entrance into the main office area of the police station had recently been at some night club venue.

Fraser reined in his impatience, edged around a young man wearing what appeared to be a set of inaccurately tailored suede chaps, and stepped out of the hallway into the bull pen. The last uniformed officer obscuring his view bent down to adjust his ankle holster. Ray stood at his desk, taking a statement over the telephone.

Ray did not look like the same Ray he'd left behind four days ago.

Ray Kowalski didn't wear tight leather jeans with ornate leather belts and black T-shirts of some filmy, non-opaque material. He also rarely went to the station without his favorite shoulder holster, although when Ray turned slightly to pick up a pen, Fraser was reassured to see Ray's Glock tucked into the waist of the unfamiliar jeans, riding along his lower back.

Ray leaned down to write a note in his nigh-illegible, looping scrawl, and several tiny winks of light accompanied the move. The sparkle caught and held Fraser's attention, like a raccoon pawing through rubbish bins for food and becoming enamored of a shiny object.

Curious, Fraser joined Ray at his desk, eyes tracking the gleam and blink on Ray's exposed skin. Ray replaced the receiver on the cradle. A silver hoop dangled from the lobe of his right ear, and several silver necklaces were visible through his shirt. Still writing, his face brightened into a distracted grin of welcome.

"Are - are you wearing eyeliner?" Fraser asked.

Ray rolled his eyes. Someone -- Fraser suspected Francesca, although it could very well have been Ray himself -- had smudged a charcoal color on the lids close to the lashes, prominently displaying his eyes. It added a strange Middle Eastern flavor to Ray's appearance that gave Fraser pause.

To be entirely truthful, it did more than give Fraser pause; it made him uncomfortably aware of Ray in ways he thought he'd dealt with months ago.

"What, no 'hey, how are you, Ray, nice to see you, glad to be back, anybody spontaneously combust while I was gone' there, Fraser?"

"I'm sorry for the abrupt nature of my query, Ray, it's just that -" Fraser paused when Ray stopped writing and plucked his Stetson out of his hands.

Ray set the hat down carefully and waved Fraser toward his chair. He was wearing four rings. "C'mon. Sit. You just get back?"

"My plane arrived a few hours ago, yes. I stopped by the Consulate to change out of uniform." Fraser sat down. "Ray."

A tall black man Fraser didn't recognize passed behind Ray and slapped him on the back. "Good work, pretty boy."

"Up yours, Charbonneau," Ray said, casually shooting the man his middle finger. Charbonneau laughed, aimed a mock punch at Ray's tattoo, and walked into Welsh's office, closing the door behind him.

Ray caught Fraser staring after him. "Yeah, I know, guy looks like Ving Rhames with nappy hair."

Fraser refrained from inquiring after Mr. Rhames' identity. "Ray," he said again. Charbonneau's familiarity with Ray surprised him, eliciting a possessive response that Fraser repressed out of habit.

"Hold that thought, Fraser," Ray said. He took a bulging file folder from his desk and followed Charbonneau's path to Welsh's office, leaning his upper half inside the room and handing off the paperwork.

Fraser made a mental note, as he watched Ray approach Francesca's work station dressed as he was and yet eliciting no catcalls or commentary on his unusual appearance, that he would no longer leave Chicago without his partner in tow.

Adjusting to change was one thing; routinely pondering the state of his sanity was quite another.

He began to wonder if the meal served on his Air Canada flight had contained more additives than he initially suspected.

Francesca swatted Ray's hand with a glossy magazine when he reached for something on her desk, saying, "Don't fondle the goods, buster." Ray backed off rapidly toward his own desk, hands held up, and nearly ended up in Fraser's lap.

Startled by the near collision, Fraser inhaled. Ray smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, leather and sweat, and on Fraser's second breath, also of beer from an American brewery.

He put his hand out to steady his partner. The smooth material of Ray's shirt must have been a silk blend, because it held body heat well. So well that there seemed to be no barrier at all between his skin and Ray's.

Fraser retreated as quickly as possible from the publicly intimate contact when Ray turned around, finding a welcome distraction in the tiny fleck of glitter winking from the soft skin on the inside of Ray's elbow. Ray's elbow was infinitely safer than Ray's flat abdomen, barely obscured by the fabric and far too close to Fraser's mouth.

"Ray, you're...refracting."

Ray immediately ran a knuckle up his zipper, and Fraser went hot, his skin prickling along his scalp. He felt a flush rising up toward his collar and wished, briefly, for the protection of his uniform. "Huh? Where?'

Instead of answering verbally, Fraser motioned at the glitter irregularly dotting Ray's skin.

"Oh, yeah. Damn. Stuff gets everywhere. I'll be finding it under the couch cushions a year from now with all of my quarters and the batteries for the stereo remote."

"But why is it on you?"

Ray shrugged and pulled out his desk chair, sprawling with a gawky kind of grace -- the gawkiness due to, Fraser could only assume, the rather snug fit of his leather jeans. "Got felt up by a queen with a body glitter fetish."

Undoubtedly, Ray could take care of himself, but Fraser was beset with a sudden urge to give the person in question a stern lecture on personal space and sexual harassment.

"Ah," Fraser said. Then, deciding that Ray perhaps needed more prompting, "Did this occur on a case?"

Ray smirked, head down. "What do you think?"

Fraser watched Ray dig through the messy pile of half-finished forms on his desk for a moment, and then said, "I know the psychiatrist Inspector Thatcher contracted for our performance reviews at the Consulate declared my state of mind was merely acceptable, but would you mind terribly if I asked you to do me a favor, Ray?"

"You're not crazy, Fraser," Ray said, digging now in his desk drawer. "Unhinged, yeah. Freakish, sure. Overly concerned with universal justice, maybe. Have you seen my glasses?"

"Ray."

"What? Okay. Yeah. Favor?"

Fraser opened his mouth to firmly ask for an explanation when Ray made an abortive attempt to stand up and yelled, "Huey! Five bucks."

Huey wheeled around in the hallway, his eyebrows raised. "You can't be serious."

"I want my five bucks, Jack. I know where you live. And by the way -- your place? It's a dump."

"You are a small and petty man, Ray."

Ray grinned and leaned back in his chair. "And you are a sore loser."

Huey took out his leather wallet and removed a crisp five dollar bill, delivering the note to Ray with reluctant aplomb. He shook his head. "I would've sworn on my grandmother's grave that she was a woman. Those breasts looked real." Huey raised his hands and cupped the air in front of his pectoral muscles.

"What, you didn't notice the huge Adam's apple? C'mon."

Huey snorted. "I was across the street doing surveillance and Dewey had the binoculars."

"That's no excuse for laziness, my friend." Ray brought the bill up to his nose and sniffed it.

He had glitter along his cheekbone. Purple. Green. Cerulean. A salmon-orange.

"I'm going home," Huey sighed, startling Fraser out of his reverie.

"See you tomorrow."

"Shut up, Ray."

Ray smugly waved good-bye with the five dollar bill. As soon as Huey disappeared around the corner, he crumpled the bill and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Ray."

"What?"

"What -"

"Look, I know you don't gamble, Fraser, and I'm gonna give Huey his money back tomorrow, so don't feel obligated to make a citizen's arrest or anything, okay? Not that you could, come to think of it, considering you're not an American citizen and all, but hey, nobody's perfect."

"Ray."

"What?" Ray gnawed on the end of his pen, pink tongue flicking out and covering the black plastic tip with a sheen of saliva.

"Would you please -"

"Vecchio!"

Ray reared back to look at Lieutenant Welsh's bulky form standing in his office doorway. "Yes, sir?"

Fraser was beginning to feel thwarted.

"You do the paperwork for once, and you forget to sign it." Welsh brandished a sheaf of papers. "Are you intentionally driving me to an early grave, Detective?"

"Uh, no, sir," Ray said, hunching his shoulders.

Welsh nodded. "That's good, Vecchio. Because if you were, I'm sure your next commanding officer would not be nearly so lenient and forgiving of errors of this kind."

"Probably, uh, not, sir."

"Very good, Detective. Now get your ass in here and fix it."

Ray shoved back from his desk and slunk into Welsh's office, the effect of his submissive pose diminished somewhat by his odd clothing. Ray wouldn't be able to bury his hands in his pockets and subvert his posture; in fact, Fraser wasn't sure Ray could fit both hands in his pockets at the same time.

Bemused, Fraser followed him into Welsh's office.

"Who's Mr. L.L. Bean?" Charbonneau boomed, his bulk sprawled on Welsh's couch.

"I'm Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

Ray didn't bother to look up from the documents he was signing. "He first came to Chicago on the trail of his dad's killers."

"And for some reason unbeknownst to me and the rest of the civilized world, he's stuck around," Welsh interjected. He loomed over Ray. "Hurry it up, Vecchio. I don't have all day."

Fraser leaned forward slightly and said, "I'm Detective Vecchio's partner."

"TJ Charbonneau. I work Vice."

"Ah. It's a pleasure meeting you."

Ray cleared his throat. "He's Canadian."

Charbonneau was already bobbing his head, "Yeah, Canadian. Makes sense."

It was at this point that Fraser often wanted to ask what possible relevance his citizenship could have to the situation at hand, and why Ray resorted to that explanation so very often when it was quite clear that Ray understood Fraser's Canadian thought processes well enough for tacit communication and teamwork, despite intermittently complaining about the lack of "sharing" in their partnership.

However, Fraser had other, rather more pressing concerns at the moment than deciphering a pre-existing behavioral quirk in his partner, especially when said partner looked almost entirely unrecognizable without his comfortable blue jeans and cotton T-shirt. He did not look like the same man who had shuffled barefoot around the Consulate wearing Fraser's flannel shirt all those weeks ago.

It was like returning home to find the furniture nailed to the ceiling.

"Done," Ray announced. Then, "Oh, jeez." He loped out of Welsh's office.

"Bring back that pen, Vecchio, upon pain of death," Welsh yelled.

Charbonneau snorted. "Man, I thought my working conditions were harsh. Am I gonna have to get OSHA down on your ass?"

"If you knew Vecchio," Welsh said, "you wouldn't bother."

Fraser moved to the office door and saw Ray walking by with his father, neck angled down to accommodate the shorter man.

"I see you're revisiting the punk look, eh, son?" Damian Kowalski said, his face a cipher.

Ray's expression was a giddy combination of horror and mirth. "Uh, something like that, Dad."

"Constable," Welsh said.

Fraser turned away from Ray's retreating form with reluctance. "Yes, sir."

"It's too bad you've been out of town. We could have used you the last few days."

"About that, sir," Fraser said, scratching his thumbnail over his eyebrow.

Welsh settled himself at his desk and smoothed his rumpled tie. "Good to have you back with us, Constable. Now get out."

"Yes, sir."

Ray breezed by when Fraser stepped out of the office. "You talk to Welsh?"

"Briefly, yes," Fraser answered, following in Ray's wake.

"Good. Then you're filled in."

"I wouldn't venture to say that, Ray."

Ray hooked his ankle around his chair and sat down. "What would you venture to say, Benton buddy?"

Fraser spread his hands. "That I am completely and utterly confused."

Ray's grin spread slowly. "How's it feel?"

"Awful."

"About time. Serves you right."

Fraser seated himself on top of Ray's desk. "Serves me how?"

Diefenbaker trotted out of the break room and yipped in excitement. His companion's tongue flicking over his hands in welcome helped Fraser find his calm center again.

"Yes, well," Fraser said to Dief. "I could hardly take you with me."

Dief groaned and butted Fraser's knee.

"Oh, so you didn't miss me because you prefer Ray's choices in his breakfast repast? I see. Yes, well, jelly doughnuts don't make for lasting companions, do they?"

"He moped while you were gone," Ray offered.

"And what did you do?" Fraser asked, burying a hand in Dief's warm ruff.

Ray shrugged. "Got bent."

Dief grumbled. Fraser relaxed his grip on the wolf's fur. "Pardon?"

"You heard me."

Fraser gestured at Ray's clothing. "Does your 'getting bent' have something to do with your unusual attire?"

"Don't like my duds?" Ray smoothed a palm down his chest.

Fraser briefly looked away and cracked his neck. "It's not a matter of liking them, Ray."

"Sure it is, Fraser. C'mon. Let's get out of here. It's late and my dad saw me wearing makeup."

"Aha," Fraser said, watching Ray shrug into a black leather jacket. "So you admit that you are wearing eyeliner."

Ray winked. "Never said I wasn't."

"You are wearing eyeliner."

"Didn't we cover this one already?" Ray said, cradling paper bags containing take-out cartons in one arm while unlocking his apartment door with the other. Diefenbaker darted inside and promptly took over the love seat, his belly nearly distended from the food he had clandestinely consumed while Fraser and Ray waited for their order to be filled at the Indian Palace.

"You brought the subject up," Fraser said, "but never informed me as to why."

Ray laughed and set the bag filled with steamed rice and cauliflower curry on the kitchen counter next to the sink. "You're cute when you're frustrated, you know that?"

Ray's remark stopped Fraser halfway across the living room. "I. You. What?"

His partner cackled. "Get over here. I want some naan."

"You know, Ray," Fraser said, retreating into familiar territory, "the Hindi word for bread is derived from the Old Persian word 'nagna', which means 'bare' or 'naked'."

Ray slanted him a glance, lean hands hovering above the white cardboard containers. "Is this like that closet word-association thing you hit me with when I was tailing Stella?"

He could feel the flush creeping up his neck, flaring along his cheekbones. Prickles of sweat bloomed under his arms, behind his knees, on his upper lip. Fraser hadn't intended the comment to lead anywhere other than distraction.

Ray snapped his fingers in front of Fraser's nose. "Never mind. Naan. Now."

Fraser handed him the take-out bag containing the still-warm bread and found his eyes drawn to long curve of Ray's thigh as Ray leaned over the bar to retrieve two plates from the drainer.

The leather displayed Ray's legs in quite an attractive manner.

His eyes snapped back up to the counter when Ray tugged at his inseam and twisted his hips. Fraser served himself a portion of rice and curried chicken, and very carefully did not look down.

Ray made an irritated sound in the back of his throat. "Listen. I've got to change, here. Be right back."

Fraser busied himself with locating silverware and the carton of whole milk in Ray's refrigerator that only he ever seemed to drink; he resolutely ignored Ray's open bedroom door and the rustling sound that indicated his partner was in a state of partial or full undress.

Ray emerged from his bedroom in sweat pants and a ripped NASCAR T-shirt. The glitter had migrated, shining on his neck and in the spikes of his blond hair. One lone fleck of glitter winked from Ray's earlobe, next to the silver hoop.

The strange clothes were gone and the eyeliner mostly rubbed off, but the image of his partner remained tinted. A transparency overlay on Fraser's retina, a permanent alteration of his optic nerve.

Ray would probably never look the same to him again.

Ray chuckled slightly and momentarily pressed his palm over his crotch. "Whew. I'm chafed. Now I remember why I stopped wearing that stuff."

Fraser froze, watching while Ray tore off a piece of naan and dipped it in the container of cauliflower curry. Ray's tongue flicked out to taste the yellow sauce before he folded the bread and stuffed it into his mouth.

He couldn't resist. "You made a habit of wearing leather pants in the past?"

Ray was busy piling steamed rice on his plate. "Yeah. Stella used to tell me I looked like an idiot."

Fraser snorted. Off Ray's look, he said, "You most assuredly do not."

Ray's lips curved into a slow smile, and he waited for Fraser to take a large bite of his dinner before saying, "So. I was gay there for a while."

A pointy grain of white rice lodged itself in Fraser's throat. Ray pounded on his back, hand hard and warm between his shoulder blades.

"You all right?"

"Fine," Fraser gasped. His eyes were watering; air caught on his throat and his voice broke. "You were saying?"

"Hmm?" Ray blinked. After a moment, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled.

Fraser resisted the urge to do him bodily harm. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Who, me?"

"Ray."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Ray fed himself more yellow-coated naan. "They sent me undercover to help take out an operation running in some of the night clubs downtown. Some meth, some E, nose candy. Usual drill. I guess I'm the only guy Welsh thought could pass for a queer junkie." Ray made a face; an emotion was driving the look that Fraser couldn't ken.

"I doubt that, Ray. You're an excellent undercover officer."

"Hey." Ray's smirk was oddly attractive. "It's not hard to blend when everybody in the club's rollin', Fraser."

"That's not so," Fraser said. "It takes skill to assume the identity of a homosexual user of recreational drugs."

Ray rolled his eyes and sat down on a bar stool. "You know, usually your euphemisms make things sound better."

"Sorry."

"Apology accepted."

"Thank you kindly."

Neither spoke for a moment, the silence broken only by the clank of a fork and the soft sound of mastication.

"So. What do you think?" Ray said suddenly.

Fraser hastily pulled a food-laden fork from between his lips. "About what?"

Ray stabbed at the air with his fork. "About the case, Mountie."

"You caught the perpetrators?"

Ray nodded. "Pushers fell for it, hook, line, and drowned worm."

"How is the case?" Fraser asked.

"It's tight. Tight as a yellow submarine."

He paused. Fraser didn't know what Ray expected of him, so he opted for the obvious. "It sounds as though you've done excellent work, Ray."

Ray put his fork down on his empty plate and crossed his arms tight over his chest. "That's, uh, that's not what I was asking about."

Fraser found himself nodding. "I know."

"So?"

"What do you want me to say?"

Ray enunciated clearly. "What. Do. You. Think?"

Fraser thought he would like to see Ray dance in his leather pants. He thought he hated being alone, being empty, being afraid to trust. He thought he could not lose someone he had never had. He thought he wanted to find glitter on his skin tomorrow morning.

"Is there a remote chance in hell," Fraser asked, "that you're coming on to me?"

Ray didn't blink. "There might be. Got a problem with that?"

Fraser looked at his partner, looked at the dark traces of eyeliner, the silver jewelry at his neck, ear, fingers. Ray wore a stranger's body, a ghostly superimposition of personality, soul. Fraser knew it to be a gilt exterior, a glamour partially obscuring the person he knew better than he realized.

"No. No, I don't."

"If I don't kiss you now," Ray said seriously, uncoiling himself from the barstool, "I will feel like such a chickenshit tomorrow morning."

And then Ray was turning Fraser away from the counter top, pushing between his legs, hands cupping his face, tilting. Ray bent down and pressed his lips to Fraser's, a soft, warm cling. The counter edge dug into Fraser's shoulder blades.

He opened his mouth and licked Ray's lips. Ray sucked on his tongue. There was wetness. Slick mouth. Teeth, the sting of stubble.

The telephone rang. Ray swore into Fraser's mouth, then walked stiff-legged across the room to snatch up the receiver. "What?"

His shoulders wilted. "Um, hi, Mom." Ray returned to where Fraser was sitting, legs splayed, licking his lips. Ray leaned against him, tucking his face into Fraser's neck. "No. I mean, yes. No, I'm not wearing makeup to work. No, Mom. They. Mom. They don't let us do that. But. I don't want to, Mom. I was working. Yes. Yes."

Fraser ran his palms down Ray's back; his hands settled on the seat of Ray's sweatpants.

"No, no. I don't wear dresses. No, I'm not just saying that. I. I'm sorry for taking a tone. But. Mom! No, Mom, give them to...to Goodwill. Yes. Yes. Love you, too. Bye."

Ray clicked a button on the phone and threw it across the living room. It landed on the love seat next to Dief, who sniffed at it curiously.

"Gnargh," Ray said into Fraser's neck.

"I've worn a dress," he volunteered. "Technically, I've worn several."

Ray pulled back slowly and gave him a look loaded with fascination and outrage. It was a look Fraser had often seen in the midst of a fire fight, when Ray would curse at Fraser's suggested route of retreat, yet follow him over the ledge regardless, eyes gleaming. "We got to have a talk, you and me. A long one."

Fraser squeezed Ray's backside. "Indeed we do."