NOTES - This is my second story. I'd like to say thank you to the fantastic people who wrote with compliments and encouragement after reading my first one, Angel. Hope this one lives up to that one. One last thing - we fanfic writers live off of feedback! Or at least I do. Please write and tell me if you liked it, or even if you hated it, I'd love to hear from you! Furrygirl@usa.net

Presents had been exchanged, carols had ben sung, and the halls had been well and truly decked. The Chicago PD, the civilians and the several Mounties were smiling, laughing, drinking punch, exchanging anecdotes of Christmases past, and even some hopes and dreams. Detective Dewey was saying something to Frannie, who had her hand cupped over her mouth to hide a giggle, Fraser was nodding and listening intently to whatever Lieutenant Welsh was saying, Inspector Thatcher was talking to Jack Huey, a rare and radiant smile lighting up her lovely face, softening it into true beauty, and Constable Turnbull, AKA, Assassin Santa, was gleefully firing his laser at anyone who happened into his line of vision.

The spirit of Christmas had indeed possessed these people, despite their many and collective efforts to avoid it. Laughter and joy were in the air, pace on earth and good will towards men was possible, at least right here, right now.

And Ray Kowalski felt empty.

He stood, leaning against his desk, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans, a false smile on his face for the benefit of anyone who might come his way. He didn't really expect anyone to do so, and no one did.

Constable Benton Fraser looked at his partner. Ray looked unhappy. Well, not precisely unhappy, Fraser mused, perhaps out of sorts was a better descriptive. But that didn't quite fit, either. The Canadian placed his half-full glass of cranberry punch on the edge of the buffet table, beside the largest platter of Christmas cookies he'd ever seen, and began to make his way towards his friend. He was waylaid twice during the trip.

First, by Francesca, who, having had a bit too much eggnog, attempted to lure him under the mistletoe. He could think of nothing to do since running again seemed somewhat rude. Then he struck on the quite feasible (if, as Ray would say, "un-Mountie-like" idea of handing her over to detective Dewey. His did feel a pang of guilt, but, seeing as it was Christmas, he just thought of it as Dewey's gift.

Second, by Constable Turnbull, who, also having had too much eggnog, tried to take him hostage with his toy gun. Extricating himself from that situation was easier than the first, and he arrived at Ray's desk unscathed, if a bit rumpled.

His impulse was to ask 'Are you all right?', but past experience that questions such as those only annoyed the detective, so Fraser merely asked,

"Would you like some punch?"

"Nah," Ray replied. "I'm thinkin' about splitting."

"I see. Any particular reason?"

"I'm just - I'm just not that big on Christmas, Fraser."

Nor am I, Fraser thought, but didn't say it.

"Wanna ride home, Fraser?" Ray asked, putting on his jacket.

Fraser considered the offer. He didn't really want to leave the party. Thinking it over, he realized he probably just didn't want to be alone. Well, he thought, considering still further, do I want to be here among these people, or somewhere else with Ray? The answer surprised him a little, and he found himself saying,

"Yes, Ray, thank you."

Once his own coat had been assumed, Fraser said his goodnights, and, caught off guard, was pulled into a rather too-friendly kiss by Francesca. He pulled away abruptly, startled, and saw Ray smirking at him. But there was something else, behind the smirk, something almost like...pain? You're imagining things, he told himself sternly, and himself answered back, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like that of Ray Kowalski, Like hell.

The car ride was oddly silent. Usually, one or the both of them would be talking a mile a minute, but tonight - silence. And it wasn't the casual, comfortable silence they were used to sharing on occasion, but a heavy, loaded silence.

Ray wished he could say something. He tried to, on more than one occasion, he opened his mouth, having planned on speaking, but the unvoiced words seemed suddenly like the pointless silence-breakers that they were. So Ray didn't say anything at all, just concentrated on driving.

Fraser wished he could say something. But he could honestly think of nothing to say. He supposed it was ironic in a way. He, who could come up with an anecdote for any occasion, usually to the annoyance of his coworkers, could not, when he wanted to relieve discomfort, think of anything to say.

"Would you like to come upstairs for some tea, Ray?" Fraser asked when they pulled up at his building. Ray didn't have any particular fondness for tea, and Fraser knew it, but he didn't want to go up to his apartment alone. He wanted Ray's company, but did not know how to ask for it outright. The Honest Mountie was, for some reason, not being completely honest this evening.

"Yeah, sure, Fraser." Ray replied. He didn't really like tea, and Fraser knew it. So why the offer? More to the point, why was he accepting? But he knew. He knew. He didn't want to be alone. More than just 'not alone', he wanted to be 'with Fraser', too. Ray was suddenly filled with an odd, nervous energy, and Fraser had often spoken about the calming qualities of tea. That's all. He just wanted some tea. Sure, Kowalski, a little voice in his head commented snidely. You just want some tea.

The apartment was pitch black when they entered it, and for a moment, before Fraser turned on a lamp that cast a golden gleam about the room, Ray wished it could stay that way. The two of them, in the dark apartment. Doing what, he wasn't sure - or maybe he wouldn't let himself be sure. Just in the dark. He had an inexplicable feeling that they were going to talk soon; talk about things he suspected would be easier to discuss in this strangely comforting darkness.

Fraser turned on a lamp, and a soft glow filled the room. He looked around. His apartment seemed suddenly strange, as though he were seeing it all for the first time. My chair? He thought. My table, my window, my bookcase? At all looked familiar, yet new, as if he were looking at a photograph of his apartment. It was the same, but not, somehow. He blinked, and the illusion vanished. It was his chair, his bookcase. And his partner, standing just inside the door, that mysterious pain once again in his eyes.

"Tea," Fraser said to Ray, or perhaps only to himself, and went to his small kitchen to prepare it. Ray watched the Mountie as he walked, seeing the natural grace and dexterity he seemed somehow to embody. Fraser walked the way Ray imagined a lion would walk - smooth, proud, confident. Strong. Never timid, never uncertain. Knowing just where he was going, and at what pace he would get there. Although unable to articulate the thought fully, Ray was envious of Fraser's clarity. Clarity of thought, clarity of purpose.

"Tea," Ray agreed absently and Fraser began to prepare it. He took some small comfort in the ritual, the familiarity of it. Fill kettle. Place kettle on burner. Turn burner on. Wait for water to boil. Wait. The 'wait' part wasn't particularly comforting. Fraser could feel Ray's eyes on him as he moved through the kitchen, and wondered what his partner was thinking. What am I thinking? The Mountie wondered. Ignorance did not sit well with him at all, especially ignorance of his own motives.

Ray watched as Fraser heated water. Then the Mountie stopped moving, crossed his arms over his broad chest and stood, apparently attempting to disprove the old adage, "A watched pot never boils". Ray studied his partner's profile as he stared at the teakettle. Fraser was different from anyone else Ray had ever known, or, the detective suspected, anyone he would ever know. Fraser was...pure - the word popped unexpectedly into Ray's mind, and it fit. Pure. Not innocent, not really, the Mountie had seen too much of the world's backside to retain his innocence, but...pure. Whatever happened, whatever nastiness he saw, it never really seemed to touch him, even all the recent shit with Warfield. Fraser had waded through and come out clean, he was like Andy Dufresne, wearing his coat of freedom in the prison yard. Pure.

Apparently, a watched pot does boil, Fraser thought as he poured the steaming water into two waiting mugs and added teabags. He glanced toward the other room - Ray was sitting on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging limply between them.

"Tea, Ray," Fraser said, handing him a mug. Ray sipped tentatively. Not bad. Not strictly good, but not bad either. He hoped no bark was involved, but didn't ask. Slumping back against the cushions, Ray heaved a deep sigh.

"Christ, I hate the holidays."

"I know what you mean," Fraser agreed. "At least I didn't get a book this year,"

"No, you got a sword," Ray said, smiling a little. "What are you gonna do with that thing, anyway?"

"Hang it on the wall, I suppose," Fraser said. "Although I do seem to recall a television program about a culture of immortal people who carried swords. But I don't remember the details."

Ray chuckled. "Yeah, Highlander. You an Immortal, Fraser?"

"Not that I'm aware of," the Canadian replied.

"It would explain a few things, though," Ray continued. "Like, how you can leap from rooftop to rooftop without getting killed, or fall off of trains and not get killed. You sure you're not an Immortal?"

"Quite sure," Fraser said, growing uncomfortable with the line of conversation for some reason.

"Yeah," Ray said softly. "I guess you're just SuperMountie."

Fraser looked up at Ray sharply. "What?"

"SuperMountie," Ray repeated, letting his head fall back against the sofa, his eyes drifting closed. "You know, faster than a speeding caribou, able to stop criminals with a single Inuit story - invincible. Invulnerable. SuperMountie."

"What would you think that?" Fraser asked, disturbed by the idea and not certain why. He was human, didn't Ray know that? The American sat up and looked at Fraser.

"I don't know, Fraser. You just seem so strong, like nothin' scares you, like nothin' can touch you."

Fraser shook his head. "I am human, Ray, the same as you. Vulnerable, destructible, human." He held up his Stetson. "This isn't the Helmet of Mambrino, I am not invincible." Then Fraser stood up and began to do something uncharacteristic. He started to pace.

"Then why does none of it touch you, Fraser?" Ray asked, standing up. "Why does none of it get to you?"

"Of course it gets to me, dammit!" Fraser snapped. It was the first time Ray had ever heard him swear in anger. "Of course it bothers me! How could it not? I am human, Ray, flawed feeling flesh and blood human. You are my best friend, how could you not know this?" Fraser stopped pacing abruptly and turned to face his partner.

"How could I know it, Fraser? You don't let me in, you don't let anyone in! You put a wall up around you, and it cuts everyone off about here," Ray stepped in about a foot away from Fraser. "Everyone. Including me. Let me in, Fraser," he said, his voice very low and very intense. "Just let me in,"

Fraser looked into Ray's face, so close to his own. He took in the rugged, angular planes, planes, the caring eyes, and somewhere in that indefinable area between heart and head, body and soul, instinct and intellect, a decision was made.

Fraser took Ray's face in his hands. The American seemed mildly startled, but did not try to pull away. Fraser didn't plan his next words, but what came out was, if somewhat out of character, oddly appropriate.

"You want in?" he growled. "Fine."

And with that, Fraser leaned forward and captured Ray's lips with his own. Ray tensed in surprise, but he yielded almost immediately, moulding his body against Fraser's larger frame, returning the kiss enthusiastically.

The kiss that Fraser had originally intended as a method of silencing his partner soon turned ravenous, developing an almost desperate edge. The floodgates of their unacknowledged need, having been opened would not, it seemed, be closed easily.

When the need for oxygen forced them to separate, they stood, staring mutely into each other's eyes. One of Fraser's hands was still on Ray's face, his thumb unconsciously stroking the detective's cheek. Ray's hands rested lightly on Fraser's hips.

Fraser slowly, deliberately raised his hand up, palm facing Ray, and waited. After a moment of confusion, Ray reached up and laid his fingertips against Fraser's.

Fraser looked at their hands - his hands were broader than Ray's, Ray's were longer, more slender. Beautiful, really. Fraser drew a sharp breath into his suddenly needy lungs and slowly laced his fingers through Ray's linking their hands.

Ray gasped sharply, the simple gesture suddenly seeming like the last word in intimacy, more intimate even than the kiss. A fine tremor passed through the American's body, a tremor he felt echoed in Fraser.

"You're trembling," the Canadian whispered, his voice very soft, almost shaky.

"So are you," Ray replied, his voice equally soft.

They both moved forward simultaneously, and the next kiss was entirely mutual from the start. Fraser's arms enveloped Ray, cradling his slender form against his chest as he deepened the kiss. It was gentler this time, more of an exploration. Ray's arms slid around Fraser's waist, pressing himself as close to the Mountie as he could, reveling in every sensation.

Ray's hands went to the buttons on Fraser's tunic, divesting him of it rather quickly, considering the amount of buttons, knots and buckles he had to contend with. The thin cotton undershirt was pulled over Fraser's head and dropped on the floor, soon followed by Ray's jacket, holster, and gun. A haphazard trail of clothing and weaponry marked their path to the bedroom.

Falling back against the pillows, Ray gazed up at Fraser, looming over him on the bed. Their eye contact never broke, never even wavered as the Mountie lowered himself to lie full-length beside Ray. Fraser reached out slowly and trailed his fingers down the side of Ray's face, savouring the silky texture of his skin. Ray's hand came up to cover Fraser's, bringing it to his lips and placing a gentle kiss over the pulsepoint on his wrist. Fraser's eyes closed and he sighed softly.

The Mountie's hand slid down Ray's side, over his hip, and Ray arched sensuously against him, gasping as the touch blazed a white-hot trail along his skin. Fraser lunged suddenly, pinning Ray to the mattress with his body. Ray arched again and Fraser smiled, reminded of the smooth, unselfconscious movements of a tiger or panther. Actually, no - a cat in heat would have been embarrassed to move like that.

Fraser leaned down until his lips hovered mere centimeters above Ray's. The detective strained upwards, trying to capture his mouth, but Fraser evaded him, those lips curving into a smile that could only be described as predatory. Ray shivered, as much in apprehension as in anticipation.

Fraser leaned in still further and whispered against Ray's parted lips,

"I want you, Ray. Do you want me?" his voice was a soft, dangerous purr, nearly a growl, and Ray made a small noise in his throat, almost like a whimper.

"Answer me, Ray," Fraser said, briefly taking his partner's lower lip between his teeth, but still refusing to actually kiss him. "Answer me. Answer me, Ray."

The quiet, seductive timbre of Fraser's voice both soothed and ignited him, and Ray gasped breathlessly,

"Yes. Yes, so much..."

Fraser kissed him then, a deep lingering kiss that Ray felt throughout his entire body. The kiss continued as Fraser slid his hands along Ray's arms, took hold of his wrists and pulled the American's arms up over his head, holding them immobile with one hand.

Ray's eyes widened in surprise and he struggled instinctively, but was no match for the Mountie's strength. He couldn't free his hands from Fraser's implacable grip, and the rest of his body was pinned by Fraser on top of him.

The Canadian gazed down at the man he now held at his mercy. Ray's face was flushed, his chest heaving with his ragged breathing and his eyes were wild, flashing with lust, with trepidation, with an edge of desperation. He twisted in Fraser's grip, reminding the Mountie once more of a sleek, beautiful feline.

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmured and Ray's struggling ceased as the detective felt - actually felt - Fraser's eyes travel over him in a sort of visual caress.

"Fraser...please..." Ray pleaded brokenly, the force of his own need threatening him with madness.

"Yes, Ray? Fraser asked, his voice as cool and calm as though he were giving a report, or some equally mundane activity, not doing his level best to drive his partner mad with desire.

"Was there something you wanted?"

Ray could have screamed - would have, if he'd had the air with which to do so. Goddamn tease - !

"Fraser, I want - I need you to- - I need - " Ray broke off, squeezing his eyes shut s it seemed that Fraser was just going to sit there, grinning like the goddamn Cheshire Cat and cool as a fucking cucumber while Ray went out of his mind with need.

"Just tell me what you want, Ray," Fraser purred, and for a split second, Ray wanted to hit him, wanted to do something, do anything to break that control, that calm indifference.

"I want you to fuck me, Fraser," Ray snarled, "I want you to slam into me, I want it fast, I want it hard, I want it to hurt, and I want you to do it now!"

There went Fraser's detachment. The savage, erotic vulgarity of Ray's words shattered the veneer of control and Fraser fell on his partner, his mouth everywhere, tasting, sucking, biting. Marking, and Ray moaned aloud at every touch of Fraser's teeth on his body.

"Now, Fraser," Ray half-growled, half-moaned. "Now."

Fraser shook his head, momentarily taken aback. "But I don't have any - "

"Fuck the lube," Ray snarled. "Do it. Fuck me."

So Fraser did just that.

"Fuck - - - yeah," Ray gasped as Fraser pushed into him.

Fraser froze, the sensation of heat threatening to overwhelm him. Then he began to move. Ray cried out, lost in a haze of pain and pleasure as Fraser slammed into him again and again, and Ray felt himself falling, nearing the edge, nearer and nearer until he crossed over and as Fraser's cry of completion registered in his ears, everything shimmered and went black.

*****

Ray opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as he tried to orient himself. He was in a bed, and ...Fraser. The warm shape pressed against his side was Fraser.

"You okay?" Ray queried, tentatively, deciding that What the hell got into you? wouldn't be appropriate pillow talk.

"Yes," Fraser replied softly. "I'm sorry, Ray, I . . . I don't know what else to. . .I'm sorry."

"Fraser," Ray sighed, "can we skip the guilt trip until after coffee?"

"Understood." Fraser said, the 'polite Mountie mask' that Ray was beginning to hate going up behind his eyes.

Ray sighed. This was not going to be easy. He pulled on his jeans from where they lay beside the bed and rubbed his hands roughly over his face. He stretched his neck to one side until he felt it crack. He ached in odd places - I need to have more sex, he thought. I'm obviously out of practice here.

He found the coffee easily, Fraser's kitchen was almost nauseatingly neat and organized. Smelling the rich scent of the grounds made him feel a little better. I'm such a caffeine addict, he thought vaguely, his mind doing it's level best to avoid thinking about how he was going to mollify the guilt-ridden Mountie in the other room.

When Ray finally turned, coffee mug in hand, heading for the bedroom, he saw Fraser on the couch, having come out and sat down entirely noiselessly. The Mountie was wearing jeans as well, and a blue tee shirt, but he looked no less professional than he looked in full uniform, and his hair was, as always, very orderly.

"Do you want some coffee?" Ray asked.

Fraser shook his head. "No thank you," he answered softly and Ray sighed again.

"Look, Fraser" he said, sitting down beside the Canadian, who tensed visibly. "We've gotta talk."

Fraser nodded, looking miserable. "Yes. I'll understand completely if you want another partner," he said. "I wouldn't blame you at all for - "

"What?" Ray asked, confused. "Why the hell would I want another partner?"

"Because of what I did," Fraser said, his voice very low.

"And what did you do?" Ray asked. "Give me the best sex I've had in years? What's wrong Fraser? Tell me, cuz I just don't get it."

Fraser turned his head slowly and gazed at Ray, his hair in disarray, still bleary-eyed and drowsy, and felt a surge of affection, which was followed by a stronger surge of guilt. How could I let myself lose control like that?

"I - I lost control," the Mountie whispered. "And I must have hurt you, I didn't even think about that, I just - "

"Fraser, stop," Ray said, his voice soft, but solemn enough to get Fraser's attention. "Just stop it. You didn't hurt me, okay? I'm fine. In fact, I had a fantastic time last night. Didn't you? I mean - " Ray broke off, seeming for the first time insecure, very unsure of himself.

He means it, Fraser thought. I didn't hurt him. The Canadian reached out and took hold of Ray's chin, drawing his face up until their eyes met.

"Ray," he began. "Last night was incredible, it's just...I don't know where we should go from here. Do you?"

"I don't have a clue, Fraser," Ray said, smiling a little. "I don't know anything except I need you. I very well may even love you." He paused, drawing breath and opening his mouth to speak again, and - - -

Fraser's kiss was everything the Mountie was - Kind, determined, knowledgeable, confident and thorough, and several things he was not - unruly, disorderly, somewhat bestial, and just short of violent.

"You know what, Ray?" Fraser whispered against the detective's lips. "You talk too damn much."

Ray's indignant protest was cut off.

 THE END