Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me; I intend no harm, and make no profit.

Author's Notes: For the ds_flashfiction "Something Gets It" challenge. Many thanks to lozenger8 for beta, and a hearty merci beaucoup to zerl, bohemian__storm, and damned_colonial for help with the French!

For reasons that Fraser is choosing not to explore at this juncture, he and Ray are hanging upside down in an elevator shaft guarded by three angry Portuguese gangsters. Despite the things Ray is yelling, this is, Fraser thinks, not entirely his fault. The bungee cords were Ray's idea, even if he had been the one to suggest going down the elevator shaft in the first place. Ray is not especially inclined to logic, though, especially in trying circumstances, and Fraser supposes this qualifies, so he doesn't point this out. It could be worse. At least the gangsters aren't shooting at them yet.

"Fraser, this ain't buddies," Ray says. "I never did this at the 1-9, do you hear me? Never did I find myself upside down in an elevator. Not once did I ever use bungee cords on a stakeout. Then I come to the 2-7, and boom, here I am, tied up by the ankles thirty stories up. That's not right, Fraser, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Ray," Fraser says, and looks around for a way out of their current predicament. In front of him is Ray, looking flushed and angry and just a tad panicked around the eyes. To the both sides are the elevator walls, he can feel them, and below them-well. Fraser looks up again quickly. Above them are the gangsters, of course. That only leaves one way out.

"Ray, what's behind me?" he asks. "Is there an escape hatch in the shaft wall?"

"Escape hatch?" Ray says, narrowing his eyes at Fraser. "What is this, a submarine? We're in an elevator shaft." He glowers. "I can't see anything, anyway. It's kinda dark in here, Fraser, if you hadn't noticed."

"There has to be a way for the mechanics to get at the cables, Ray," Fraser points out. "Try feeling around behind me."

Ray heaves a sigh. "All right, all right," he says, and scrubs at his hair with his hands. "Fine. Grab on to me, okay? I, uh, I don't like heights." He kicks off from the wall with the foot that is not attached to the bungee cord and flings his arms around Fraser. Fraser grabs as ordered, and Ray tucks his head into Fraser's neck and reaches around Fraser's back to pat at the wall behind him.

"Anything?" Fraser asks. He peers upwards over Ray's shoulder. There's just enough light to see what he thinks may be a ladder. If only there were a draft, he could use the flow of air to determine - No. There's nothing.

"Nothing!" Ray echoes. He groans. "This is great, Fraser, just great. What are we gonna do now, huh?" He's stopped feeling around the elevator shaft but hasn't let go of his death-grip on Fraser's waist.

"Well, Ray," Fraser says. "I'm sure Lieutenant Welsh will come looking for us soon; we could simply hang here and await rescue."

"Fraser," Ray says, "Fraser, I do not think you're appreciating the, uh, gravity of this situation." (Oh dear, Fraser thinks. Gravity. Haha.) There is a hysterical note to his voice that Fraser suspects he should find rather worrisome. "Let me just, uh, refresh your memory here," Ray hisses. "We are hanging upside down in an elevator shaft. Oh, God." His hands are shaking against Fraser's back.

"Ray, I'm sure we'll be fine," Fraser says, trying to sound reassuring.

"Fine?" Ray says. "Fraser, I'm gonna die here with my tee shirt hanging over my head. What is fine about this situation?" He wrenches himself away from Fraser and cranes his head towards the dim square of light above them. "Hey!" he shouts. "Help!"

"Ray," Fraser says. "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray! There's no need to panic."

"Shut up," Ray says to him, and kicks with his free foot at the wall of the elevator shaft. "Hey!" he shouts again. "Help! Chicago PD! Help!"

From above, there is a rapid burst of Portuguese. The gangsters do not sound very happy.

"Oh, no English, huh?" Ray mutters. "Fine. Hey!" he shouts again. "Ayuda! Ayuda! Polic'a! Polic'a! Uh, basta, cabr--n!"

"That's Spanish, Ray," Fraser says.

"Shut up, Fraser, just shut up, okay?" Ray hisses, and goes back to kicking the wall. The sound echoes hollowly. Thud. Thud. Thud. From above comes another burst of Portuguese, followed by a burst of gunfire. Ray stops shouting and moans. "Fraser, we are gonna die here, we're gonna die here, we're gonna die here and I haven't gotten laid in months. This is so not right!"

They dodge another burst of gunfire. Oh, dear, Fraser thinks. Beside him, Ray moans again.

"Ray," Fraser says, "do you have your cell phone with you, by any chance? Perhaps we could call for backup."

* * *

The squadroom is packed when they get back to the station house. For some reason, there is a troupe of ballerinas hovering by the copy machine. Fraser has learned, in his time in Chicago, not to as questions.

"Hey, Ray, buddy, how's it hanging?" Dewey says, and grins.

Ray scowls. "Shut up, Dewey, or I will kick you in the head, I swear to God." Ray has a truly baleful expression on his face. Dewey backs off, hands raised placatingly, and Fraser shoots him an apologetic glance. There is, Fraser knows, no reasoning with Ray at times like this.

Ray slaps the gangsters' files onto his desk, nearly toppling other piles there, and turns suddenly, nearly running into Fraser. Fraser takes a step back. "You!" Ray says to the gangsters, who are trailing behind them. "Siddown. And shut up. Do not move, do you hear me?" The gangsters, who are giving Ray the look that one might give an armed bomb in one's vicinity, do. Ray is rifling through his drawers, looking increasingly frantic. "Pen, pen, pen," he's muttering. "Frase, I can't deal with this," he says. "Someone's stealing all my pens. How am I supposed to do police work if I don't have any pens? I need some coffee." His voice is edging over the line from frustration into what sounds dangerously like hysteria. Fraser knows from experience that this never ends well.

"Ah, Detective," Lieutenant Welsh says, coming out of his office. "So glad you could join us. Or should I say, 'so glad you could drop by'?" He cackles.

Ray looks a bit wild about the eyes. Perhaps, Fraser thinks, now would be a good time to intervene. "Leftenant!" he says, and straightens his posture. He wouldn't admit it to anyone except perhaps Ray, but he finds Lieutenant Welsh to be rather intimidating. He reminds him of the Staff Sergeant who was his first instructor at the Depot. "Well, ah, you see, these are the Carvalho brothers, who are apparently fairly notorious for gunrunning and various other crimes. Detective Vecchio and I have been pursuing them, and today we finally were able to apprehend them in an abandoned office building on LaSalle Street, though I admit that there were certain...complications."

"Complications, huh?" Welsh looks amused. "Yeah, Constable, I heard about that." He smirks at Ray. "About that, Detective Vecchio. You want to step into my office?"

Sometimes, Fraser thinks, retreat is the best course of action. "If you need me, Ray," he says, "I'll be in the break room." Ray nods. Fraser settles his hat more firmly on his head and goes off in search of Francesca and her never-ending supply of pens and coffee.

* * *

"No, really, Frase," Frannie is saying as they push through the doors. "I read a book on it one time. It was because the Japanese didn't speak Indian, they couldn't understand what these Code guys were saying."

"Actually, Francesca," Fraser replies, "I don't think-" but then Francesca beside him gives a little gasp and says "Ohmygod, Fraser" in a tiny voice, and he sees the gun.

One of the gangsters he and Ray brought in earlier is standing on his chair, gun trained on the ballerinas in the corner. The ballerinas begin screaming, "Gun gun gun!" and the gunman shouts something in Portuguese, and Ray is making motions towards his own gun, and for a moment Fraser thinks there's going to be a riot.

"Everybody freeze!" Lieutenant Welsh bellows. The squadroom falls silent. "All right, just stay calm, everybody," Welsh says. "Anybody here speak Portuguese?" Nobody answers.

"Uh, hablas espa-ol?" Ray says after a moment. The gunman sneers and waves the gun around and says something unintelligible.

Fraser takes a step forward. The gunman, who apparently has very good vision, turns the gun towards him, and Frannie whimpers. "Stay there," Fraser hisses, and takes another step forward, raising his hands to show that he's unarmed.

"Oh, God," Ray mutters across the room.

"Parlez-vous francais?" Fraser asks.

The gunman gives him an assessing look. "Perhaps," he says in French, and shuts his mouth firmly.

"Je suis Benton Fraser, agent de la Police monte royale du Canada," Fraser says. "La premire fois que je suis venu ^ Chicago, c'tait pour retrouver l'assasin de mon pre-"

"Do not move, or the dancer gets shot," the gangster says in broken French. He makes a gesture with the gun. The ballerina is frozen in terror. Fraser does his best to look non-threatening.

The gunman launches into a long and convoluted tale which seems, as far as Fraser can tell, to be about his troubled childhood and his family and why really he's really quite innocent, despite the visible (and loaded) evidence to the contrary. Fraser makes a surreptitious hand gesture against his thigh and cuts his eyes towards Ray, who gives a tiny nod. "Ah, oui?" Fraser says encouragingly, and jerks his head ever so slightly towards the doors. Over the gunman's shoulder, he can see Ray raise his eyebrows at Welsh. Welsh nods.

"Freeze, Chicago PD!" Ray shouts, jabbing his gun into the gangster's back, and suddenly everything is in motion. In short order the gangsters are cuffed and Mirandized against the wall, the ballerinas are sobbing in Lieutenant Welsh's visitor's chairs, and Fraser is leaning against Ray's desk, though Ray himself seems to have disappeared. Fraser realizes he's still clutching the cup of coffee he'd gone to fetch for Ray not five minutes ago and takes a tentative sip. Cold. Oh well. He tosses it in Ray's garbage can. He supposes Ray doesn't need the caffeine, anyway.

The squadroom has faded back into its familiar chaos and Fraser is almost falling asleep where he sits by the time Ray appears from wherever he's been. "Ah, Ray, there you are," Fraser says. "Do you-"

Ray cuts him off. "Fraser, if you say 'Do you want to hang out?' I will never speak to you again, you got that? I do not want to talk about elevator shafts or Portuguese anythings ever again in my life. "

"Well, Ray," Fraser says, "I was going to suggest dinner, actually, but I suppose that would qualify as 'hanging out,' as you say..." He smiles.

Ray shoots Fraser one of his sudden brilliant grins. "Get your hat, Frase," he says. "We're gonna go get a beer."

* * *

In fact, they get several, or rather, Ray does; Fraser allows himself the small indulgence of a bottle of seltzer water of a type he can't readily obtain in the Territories. Ray is sprawled bonelessly on the couch, a collection of empty bottles beside him and the remains of their dinner scattered on the floor by his feet. Fraser himself is feeling pleasantly relaxed; he is warm, fed, and quiet, and in the company of a good friend.

"Cheers, Fraser," Ray says from beside him, clinking his bottle against Fraser's own.

"What are we toasting to?" Fraser asks.

Ray grins. "To another day without dying, Fraser, buddy."

"That," Fraser says, "is something I can drink to." He drains his bottle. "I should be getting home, Ray." He walks over to the closet to fetch his hat.

"Hey, Fraser," Ray says, suddenly very close behind him. Fraser turns. Ray is leaning against the wall by the door, thumbs tucked in his jeans pockets, ankles crossed. Fraser would say he looks casual, except that his hair is standing on end even more than usual, as if he's been running his hands through it the way he does when he's thinking about something especially hard.

"Ray?" Fraser asks. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, Frase, I'm fine," Ray says, but then he falls silent and stands there, atypically still, blocking the doorway.

The silence stretches. "Ray?" Fraser prompts after a moment.

Suddenly Ray's in motion again, fingers tapping against his thigh. "See, Fraser, here's the deal," he says. "We endangered our life today, right? In, how'd you put it, wild and crazy ways?"

"Wildly bizarre ways, yes," Fraser corrects automatically. He feels like he's lost a step in this conversation. It's like Ray's hunches, like he felt this morning when Ray connected a phone number written on a Chinese food menu, a chance comment by Detective Huey, and a print on a stolen gun into a trail to lead them to the building on LaSalle where the Carvalho brothers were storing two hundred M-16s.

Ray nods. "Yeah, that's it. Wildly bizarre ways." He's talking fast and not really looking at Fraser. "So I figure, we got dangled thirty stories up in an elevator shaft, and then we got threatened by people stupid enough to pull a gun in a police station, so we're, uh, we're close, right?" Ray is addressing these words very firmly to Fraser's left ear.

"Well, I wouldn't say precisely-" Fraser begins, but stops when Ray's gaze snaps up to his. "That is," he corrects himself, "I don't necessarily follow your logic, Ray, but I would say that we're close, yes."

"Okay," Ray says, "okay, good," and then he's pushing himself off the wall and grabbing Fraser around the waist and tucking his head into Fraser's neck.

"Ray!" Fraser says stupidly, shocked into monosyllables. "What are you doing?" Ray mumbles something, so quickly that Fraser can't understand him. "Ray?" he asks.

Ray pulls back a little bit. "Fraser," he says, "if you don't have any objection, I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

For a moment, Fraser can't think. He has no idea what to say. He never expected-but then Ray is kissing him, mouth warm and surprisingly soft on Fraser's, and Fraser discovers that as it turns out, he really doesn't have any objection at all. His heart is pounding. "Ray-" he says pulling back. "I didn't expect-" But then he thinks, to hell with it. He drops his hat, leans forward, and licks at Ray's lower lip.

Ray shivers a little under his hands. "Fraser?" he asks.

We really should talk about this, Fraser thinks, but Ray's hands are heavy on his hips, and he's finding it hard to think. "I don't have any objection, Ray," he says. Ray is warm and solid in his arms, and Fraser feels suddenly, inexplicably, happy. He leans in and kisses him again.

"Fraser?" Ray repeats.

"It's good, Ray," Fraser says, and though he wouldn't have anticipated this, at this or any other juncture, it is good. He slides his hands over Ray's back and pulls him closer. "In fact," he says, "I'm going to kiss you again," and when Ray smiles, he does.

* * *

The next morning when Fraser walks into the squadroom, there are four elderly Japanese women in kimonos perched on the chairs by Ray's desk. "Fraser, buddy, how's it hanging?" Ray says, and grins.

Fraser feels himself smiling. "Quite well, thank you, Ray."

"Glad to hear it, Frase," Ray says. His eyes are laughing. "I'm doing pretty well myself." He winks at Fraser and tosses him a file. "Now, you wanna come try talking to these ladies in one of those crazy languages of yours?"

Fraser can't seem to stop smiling. "Certainly, Ray," he says, and another day begins.

(End)