Author's Notes: Set during my favorite scene in COTW. Written for the "Packing" Challenge on ds_flashfiction.

. . .And then Fraser lifts the gun Ray threw him and BANG! BANG! BANG! Dead center in the face plates of those diving suits. Guy can shoot, all right. Ray never really questioned it, but never really thought about it either, despite those crossed rifles on Fraser's sleeve. Marksman, that's what he is.

Fraser jumps down from his perch on the barrels, and his hair is still sticking up wildly, and his face is frankly a little bit smug because he hit those fucking targets dead center and he's impressed with himself, looks like. Ray's impressed, too. With his glasses on, Ray can shoot a gun out of a mook's hand, so he knows good shooting when he sees it.

Fraser lands on the deck two feet in front of Ray and flashes a smile at him, that same sorta-smug smile that lights up his eyes, but his eyes are flashing something else, too, and Ray shivers, though he's not wet any more. He smells cordite on Fraser, something he's never connected with the Mountie before, seeing as Fraser's been so tight-assed about being unarmed in the States. But they're in Canada now. Cordite trickles up into Ray's nostrils, along with seawater and Fraser's sweat, and Ray feels his knees go loose. It's just the deck rolling under them as the tanker takes a swell, that's all it must be. Ray finds his sea legs, but his eyes go down, down to Fraser's hand, the right hand, the one holding the gun.

Fraser. Gun. Fraser. Gun. Fraser. Gun.

Fraser's face thisclose to his, the smile still on his lips, the lips thisclose to Ray's, the smell of cordite. And the eyes. Fraser's eyes. Smart ass, smug, cocky, self-assured, this-is-my-fucking-territory, marksman's eyes.

RayRayRayRayRay

In a minute. In a minute he'll go, go with the marksman, round up the bad guys. In a minute. Right now there's something he has to do, and he leans in and does it.