Author's Notes: Thank you to Lamentables for a quick early beta, and to Dessert_First for hand-holding and encouragement.

Story Notes: Written for the 2007 due South Seekrit Santa. Happy Holidays, Simply Stars, and I hope you like your giftfic!

It was a Sunday, which meant their day was supposed to go something like this:

1) Wake up late, wake up slowly.

Sunday was a no-alarm day. They had a rule about it, and this was one particular rule that Ray took very, very seriously. Six days of the week they had to set the fucking clock radio (because Ray could not handle the shrill beep of the alarm before he had any coffee) and the annoying announcer on CKN106.2FM would get them up and out of bed by six a.m. for either work at the precinct or the Consulate and, on Saturdays, Fraser's shift at the soup kitchen off Morrison Avenue. Ray hated that fucking station, hated the weather guy's shrill voice and the way he pronounced "precipitation."

Ray had to admit, though, that the stupid alarm made the one day out of the week when they didn't need it seem kind of special. Holy. He got to wake up naturally, slowly, his eyes adjusting to the light streaming in their bedroom window or, if it was winter, getting used to the greyish half-light that softened the outlines of furniture and cast their bedroom in fuzzy shadows. Sunday mornings he'd even get to lie awake for a little while--half an hour, sometimes, if he timed it right--to watch Fraser sleep. Fraser bounded out of bed six days a week as soon as the radio clicked on, but on Sunday he seemed to like sleeping in as much as Ray.

And Ray? Well, he liked it when Fraser wallowed.

2) Make love.

Unlike the no-alarm rule, this was a point on which Ray was flexible. Ray wasn't particular about the kind of sex they had, or who did what, or when it had to happen. Sometimes, if they wanted to get started on the rest of their Sunday routine at a reasonable hour, they'd do it in the shower, soaping each other up and taking turns under the spray until they were both squeaky-clean and hard. Inevitably Ray would get down on his knees and suck Fraser off slowly, hollowing his cheeks and wrapping Fraser's cock in his fist until his lips met his fingers and Fraser gasped and tugged on Ray's hair, directing his head, fucking his mouth. Ray would slide a wet finger up the back of Fraser's thigh, teasing him a little with the sharp edge of his nail, until he reached the swell of Fraser's buttocks. And then he'd slip one finger into Fraser, rubbing gently, and Fraser would sigh and shift his stance, driving deeper into Ray's mouth, pushing back against Ray's finger, his moans getting louder and more desperate until he finally came with a long, shuddering sigh. Ray would stand, rinse his mouth out with water from the showerhead, and nuzzle Fraser's neck until Fraser turned, boneless and thoroughly relaxed, to face the wall, his body blocking the spray of water. Ray would hug Fraser from behind, his hard cock brushing against Fraser's ass, and whisper in his ear, "Okay?"

"Okay," Fraser'd say, voice rough and content. "Hurry, Ray."

And Ray would hurry. He'd squirt some of the water-resistant lube they kept in the shower onto his fingers, and work Fraser open again quickly before sliding inside, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Fraser's shoulder and closing his eyes, breathing deeply. Fuck, this felt so good. So good. And he'd mouth Fraser's shoulder, nibbling on his warm, pale skin, until Fraser tilted his head back and breathed, "Go."

And when Fraser said, "Go" Ray went, thrusting slow and deep, drinking in the sounds of Fraser's happy, satisfied grunts, loving the way the sounds they made melded with the soft thrumming noise of rushing water. They'd usually run out of hot water long before Ray came, but Fraser seemed to find the blast of cold water "invigorating." Or so he said, chuckling a little and shaking his head at Ray's fond, "Freak."

If they didn't care about the routine, or if they just wanted to stay in bed a little longer, they'd get more inventive. Sometimes Ray'd wake up with Fraser pressed against his back, full erection hard against his ass, and Ray would mutter sleepily, "Sure, Frase," and bring one knee up while stretching across the bed to reach for the lube they kept in the bedside table. (And that was their life--tiny bottles of the stuff in every room, and Ray never could keep track of them all. Made for some interesting freakouts those days when he knew his mom was coming in to do laundry). He'd hand the bottle to Fraser, who'd kissed him and reached around to tease him to full hardness even as he slipped slowly inside, rocking his hips gently against Ray's. Fraser always set a lazy pace those Sunday mornings when they had nowhere in particular to be, and it always got Ray revved up because, fuck, this was Fraser. Relaxing. Taking his time. Indulging. So even if some mornings Ray wanted it fast and hard, or a little dirty, he didn't mind the slow rock of Fraser's hips, the way they sometimes spent hours like this, taking forfuckingever to come just because they could.

On Sundays, they were both big fans of sloth.

3) Go shopping.

The thing about living with Fraser, Ray had discovered, was that he was big on making plans. He was an organized guy. And he liked lists. So grocery shopping and running errands were kind of Fraser's thing. He actually liked figuring out what produce they needed to pick up, or what ingredients they had to have for the meals they were going to make that week. And Ray hadn't ever known people did that, make those kind of plans in advance, because it hadn't been something he and Stella had done. But Fraser? Was prepared.

And so they'd make a list first. Fraser would open every single cupboard and drawer in the kitchen, and then he'd ask Ray (politely, of course) to take an inventory of the fridge.

"Frase, you know exactly what's in there. Same's as what was in there last night when you made dinner. It's not like elves magically appeared and stole our carrots and added an extra carton of milk. You know what's in there!"

"Still, Ray, it doesn't hurt to check."

Sometimes Ray wanted to kick Fraser in the head. But he'd check, and list off some items, and sure enough Fraser would "hmmm" and nod and find something to add.

And then they'd hit the supermarket.

Or, okay, it wasn't so much "supermarket" as a tiny farmer's market and grocery about eight blocks from their building. Ray had lived in Chicago his whole life and hadn't known there was a market like that so close by, but even that was a mixed blessing because Fraser usually insisted that they walk instead of taking the GTO. "It's a lovely day, Ray," he'd say, even when it was 10degrees out and everything was windy and icy. Ray would grumble and gripe about it but he'd usually end up trudging along next to Fraser, who tipped his hat to all of their neighbors.

Ray hadn't known he'd had so many neighbors until he met Fraser, either.

Grocery shopping with Fraser was a bit like storming the beaches of Normandy. Ray had to stay on the offensive and try to overwhelm the enemy with sheer numbers. He'd grab random crap off the shelves and put it in their basket, and when Fraser wandered away to put it all back Ray would do a quick recon of the Polish bakery and choose pierogi, kotlety ziemniaczane, paluszki, pies, cookies...anything with a lot of sugar and fat, basically. He felt like it was his patriotic duty to counteract all of the fresh green veggies Fraser made them eat on a regular basis with some good old-fashioned American overindulgence. Plus Fraser really liked pierogi, although it was hell getting him to admit it.

Four out of five times Ray won the Sunday shopping battle. They'd lug the groceries home and unpack everything, and Fraser would sigh and frown when he saw Ray's contributions, but he'd put it all into the cupboards and the fridge, shaking his head and muttering about, "obstinate Americans."

But once in a while Fraser would head him off at the pass. He'd lead Ray around the back of the market, where the deserted loading docks and empty stalls were located, and press him up against the chilly concrete wall.

"Ray, this behavior is rather immature," he'd admonish, and Ray would grin at him, flashing his teeth dangerously.

"Okay," he'd admit, "but what about this?" He'd press his hips up tight against Fraser's, grinding a little. Fraser's eyes would flutter closed and he'd try to step back but Ray would catch at his belt loops, drawing him closer.

"I'm not sure that's much of an improvement," Fraser would breathe out, and Ray would laugh.

"Probably not," he'd say, kissing Fraser softly. "Truce?"

And that was another good thing about Sundays with Fraser. Even when he lost a battle, he won.

Around mid-November their Sundays started to change. The Inspector who'd replaced Thatcher had some family emergency up in New Brunswick and took a month off, which meant Fraser was left in charge. He used their precious Sundays to catch up on paperwork. He also took on some extra hours at the Morrison soup kitchen, so he was gone most of Saturday, and Ray caught a big case that kept him working straight through the weekends until December rolled around. They ate a lot of fast food and takeout because the grocery shopping didn't get done. The alarm radio blared seven days a week in their little apartment now, and as for sex, Ray was too exhausted to do much more than stumble into the bedroom at night, strip, and crawl in next to Fraser. He was usually unconscious before his head hit the pillow.

Sundays had really started to suck.

By mid-December Ray was running on fumes. He was cranky and snapped at suspects, at other cops, at the CA who'd replaced Frannie Vecchio. He drank way too much coffee, lost weight he really couldn't afford to use, and scowled at all the happy holiday shoppers clogging Michigan Avenue. Christmas carols were constantly playing in the station, and it seemed like he'd heard "Silent Night" four thousand times.

"How many times you think you can hear a song before you totally lose it, Frase?" Ray asked tiredly one Sunday morning. They should have been right in the middle of some soapy fun in the shower, but instead Ray was getting ready to go interview a suspect, and Fraser was leaving for some diplomatic function at the Consulate.

"Well, that's an interesting question, Ray. I doubt there would be an exact figure, although the repeated use of a song is often used as a method of torture or to diffuse a hostage situation. In fact-"

"Fraser, I don't really need an answer." Ray stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at Fraser, who was standing in the middle of their hallway brushing imaginary lint off his dress uniform. Fraser looked tired, and a little depressed. Not his usual Mountie self. Ray couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Fraser smile. This lack of Sunday down time was becoming a serious problem for them both.

"Fraser, I know things are crazy at the Consulate right now, but I think you need some time off. I sure as hell do. Think you could get next weekend free?"

Fraser frowned and rubbed at his eyebrow. "We're a bit short on personnel at the moment. I would like to, Ray, but it is the holiday season and the Consulate is required to host a number of different events. Perhaps if the Inspector returns sooner than anticipated."

Okay, this wasn't good. Fraser had gone all multi-syllabic. Ray signed. "Yeah, Fraser, I get that. You're busy, I'm busy. I just miss you, that's all."

And that, at least, made Fraser smile. For a second all the tiredness melted away and Fraser was Fraser again, and he grinned a little foolishly and blushed. "I miss you too, Ray," he said, quietly, and that made a warm feeling spread through Ray's belly.

He crossed the room and cupped Fraser's face in his hands, tugging him into a kiss. Fraser met his mouth hungrily, zero to sixty in ten seconds flat. His mouth was wet and warm. Ray hardened up immediately, his dick straining against his too-tight jeans. Christ, they hadn't done much more than kiss each other goodnight in weeks. He moaned softly, pushing against Fraser, and Fraser broke off their kiss. He pressed his cheek against Ray's, breathing harshly in his ear.

"I'm sorry," Fraser whispered. "You have to go in, and I'm not--"

"'S okay," Ray whispered back. "Just...we gotta find some time, okay?"

Fraser nodded. "Okay."

Their apartment started to change that week. Christmas cards had been arriving steadily since November, but they'd just stuck them in the pile of stuff on the kitchen counter. Suddenly the cards were open and hung on a red string tacked up along one wall. Next, a wreath appeared on their door, and by Saturday there were stockings strung up over the TV, a plate of cookies on the counter, and a small array of carefully wrapped presents stacked against one wall.

Ray was home early from work, for once, and he spent some time taking it all in, feeling bad that he hadn't made more of an effort with the Christmas stuff. He knew that Fraser's childhood Christmases had been pretty weird, and his adult Christmases had been lonely. The guy deserved something special to mark the holidays.

So Ray went out to the big supermarket they never shopped at, and bought a tree from the guy in the parking lot. He chose a big one, a Douglas fur, and the tree was so tall that the top brushed the ceiling when Ray finally figured out how to get it to stand up. He snipped the tight binding rope that had held the tree's limbs in place, and spent the rest of the evening watching the branches slowly uncurl.

Their whole apartment smelled like fresh pine, and Ray fell asleep on the sofa, breathing in the smell and dreaming of Canada.

He woke to the soft touch of Fraser's mouth against his, and Fraser's slow, easy smile.

"Whazzat?" Ray mumbled, still half-asleep. Fraser settled onto the couch beside him and put his arm around Ray's shoulders, kissing him to full wakefulness.

"It's a lovely tree, Ray."

Ray nodded. "No ornaments. Have to buy some."

"The stores are closed tomorrow, Ray. It's Sunday."

He shook his head, clearing the last of the cobwebs. "Stores are open Sunday, Fraser."

"Not on Christmas Day."

"Oh." Ray'd lost track somewhere, the days slipping by too quickly. He should have kept track. "Sorry. I wanted to get lights and stuff."

Fraser nuzzled his neck, his arm strong and warm around Ray. "That doesn't matter. I'm sure we'll think of something."

They did. The chili pepper lights from his kitchen went on the tree, the red glowing against the dark green boughs. Fraser folded up sheets of newspaper and old forms from the Consulate, snipping with scissors until there was a mountain of white cut-outs on the kitchen table. Ray looked at him curiously and Fraser smiled, unfolding the paper to reveal a lacy snowflake, or a row of Mounties holding hands. He pinned the paper creations to the tree, and Ray knew his big, stupid grin matched Fraser's. Ray added a string of construction-paper links he'd taped together, the stiff red and green paper matching the chili pepper lights, and Fraser popped some popcorn and showed Ray how to push a needle and thread through the pieces to create a popcorn string.

When Ray was married to Stella someone else had done the holiday decorating in their condo, because Stella hosted a lot of work parties over Christmas. A professional party planner and a designer had come in and put up a huge artificial tree, and trimmed it in tasteful and carefully coordinated colors, usually white with purple and gold decorations. This tree, Ray and Fraser's tree, didn't look anything like that. This tree looked like a grade school art project, cutout snowflakes, makeshift lights and silly popcorn strings looking almost childish in the dim light of the living room. Ray didn't care, though. He stood with Fraser in front of the tree and slipped his hand into Fraser's, lacing their fingers together.

"Merry Christmas," Fraser murmured, and Ray swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.

"Merry Christmas," Ray said, thinking how good it felt to start a new tradition.