Story Notes: Written in January 2008.

On guard-duty days, it's his legs and back that hurt by evening. On a paperwork day like this, it's his hands. Bearing down hard enough for multiple carbons, while still maintaining legibility, takes its toll on the tiny muscles. So when Fraser climbs into the shower he holds his hands behind him, letting the hard jets of water drum into the middle of his palms, easing the worst of the aches.

He stays like that a long time---an unconscionable waste of hot water, really, but it feels so good. He stays until he's drowsy from the steam and from the fatigue of a dull day, and it's only then, when he's swaying slightly in place, that he realizes he's more-or-less standing at parade rest, naked.

This is unexpectedly arousing.

Ordinarily he would quash the thoughts that rise, uninvited, to make it arousing: that it's Ray's voice giving the orders, hands behind your back, Fraser, that's right, don't move, that Ray's kissing softly down the center of Fraser's chest, making the orders so difficult to follow, making it a test. But now Fraser's too warm and relaxed and sleepy to fight it, and he arches, moans, closes his eyes; pretends when his hands come around to the front that he's still following orders, still perfect for Ray, those are Ray's fingers wrapped around and squeezing, so good.

After he comes he keeps his eyes closed, so he doesn't have to watch the hot water sluicing everything away. So he can picture Ray, licking him clean.