Author's Website: http://www.finnatics.com/otsoko.htm

Disclaimer: Alliance owns them all, except what Llasa owns.

Author's Notes: Thanks to Aukestrel, who betaed a draft and then rebetaed this even though she is completely swamped, and Kellie M., who betaed and shared some great thoughts on these two. And to TE who audienced it. (Te, te temo.)
1. De cara a la pared (with my face to the wall) is the song (by Lhasa) that Stella and RayK dance to in her apartment in the ep 'Strange Bedfellows':
Crying, with my face to the wall; the city stops.
Crying, and there's nothing else, maybe I'm dying, to where you are.
Dreaming, with my face to the wall; the city burns.
Dreaming, without breathing, I love you, beloved, I love you, beloved.
Praying, with my face to the wall; the city collapses.
Praying, Holy Mary, Holy Mary, Holy Mary!
Dying . . .
2. No, I don't know why Fraser prays to Mary in Greek. He just does. Probably part of the classical education that his librarian grandmother provided for him.
3. The last bit of dialogue has been lifted from the teaser in the ep 'Mountie on the Bounty'

Story Notes: Serious Angst.
Spoilers for Asylum and MotB.
1. De cara a la pared (with my face to the wall) is the song (by Lhasa) that Stella and RayK dance to in her apartment in the ep 'Strange Bedfellows':
Crying, with my face to the wall; the city stops.
Crying, and there's nothing else, maybe I'm dying, to where you are.
Dreaming, with my face to the wall; the city burns.
Dreaming, without breathing, I love you, beloved, I love you, beloved.
Praying, with my face to the wall; the city collapses.
Praying, Holy Mary, Holy Mary, Holy Mary!
Dying . . .
2. No, I don't know why Fraser prays to Mary in Greek. He just does. Probably part of the classical education that his librarian grandmother provided for him.
3. The last bit of dialogue has been lifted from the teaser in the ep 'Mountie on the Bounty'

Unholstered (With my Face to the Wall)
otsoko

I rest my left hand gently on the hard muscles of his chest. I can feel his heart beat faster beneath my palm as I use my right hand to bring him to my lips. I can feel his testicles contract slightly as I hold them in the palm of my cupped hand, feel his penis stiffen. A low moan escapes him as my tongue glides around the edge of the head of his cock. I have heard that circumcision made one less sensitive, but that doesn't seem to be true in Ray's case: every touch of my tongue, even the tip, seems to make his entire body react.

I can feel his eyes on me as I gently, almost worshipfully, lick the underside of his shaft from the tip to the base, pausing briefly to kiss each of his testicles, before slowly running my tongue back up, savouring each centimeter of him, tasting the slightly salty sweat, enjoying the scent of Ray as my nose precedes my mouth back up to the tip.

I am fully, even painfully, erect, my own hardness pressing against the red fabric of my longjohns, straining, aching, longing to be set free, to be touched, to be caressed.

I start to whisper a heart-felt 'thank you', but catch myself and return to the task at hand, or rather at mouth. I let the head of his cock rest just inside my lips, and feel it strain, feel him shudder in anticipation.

I can hear him breathing heavily, struggling to maintain control. I can faintly feel his warm, exhaled breath rhythmically reaching my forehead.

I can wait no more, I take him into my mouth, my tongue running over the underside as it enters me, my lips closing around the silken heat of the tense flesh. He hits the back of my throat and I swallow, making him gasp. I slowly twist my head as I move back, letting my tongue touch, feel, caress every part of him.

I reach down and take firm hold of myself. I match the rhythm of my hand to the rhythm of my head, needing the connection between what is happening to his cock to what is happening to mine.

Ray is not a patient man. It is one of the things that I love about him. He has been resisting, but his hips begin to move forward, thrusting into me. I take it as a challenge, and match my head movements to his thrusts, taking it all the way down my throat with each thrust, having learned by now how to do so while suppressing the reflex to gag.

And then it comes: I hear his breathing increase, and a soft low moan escapes him, almost a word formed. And then another, this time more clear, but still soft, still sotto voce, "Fraser!" I somehow know his eyes are closed. It pleases me beyond measure to hear him say my name.

I can feel how close he is by the speed of his heartbeat, by the slight hesitation in his hip-thrusts, by the way his cock throbs against the roof of my mouth on the instroke.

My right hand is working more rapidly now, desperately trying to match my orgasm with his. It is the feel of his hot ejaculate filling my mouth that sets me off, sends me into that petite mort, that little death, and I feel my entire body tighten as my right hand is filled with my own wetness.

Ray is leaning against the door, rigid, immobile, as I suck the next two after-spurts out of him, and pull back so that his now shrinking penis falls from my mouth, and I breathe deeply, and press my head against his stomach, feeling his body go from tense to an almost completely relaxed.

It is the best feeling I have ever known, that feeling of connection, of closeness to him, of having given him what he want, what he needs, and I relax as well, leaning against him, hearing his heart beating, slowing down, as my ear pressed against his torso.

Then there is the feeling of his hand slowly moving through my hair. I sigh contentedly, a satisfied smile coming over my face.

His hand falls away, and I feel him push his shoulders away from the door, and I stand.

I don't understand exactly how it came to be like this, how this became our modus operandi. He let me comfort him the night he sought asylum at the Consulate. He let me approach him where he lay sleeplessly. He looked at me with such need, such longing, such fear over the coming day.

I knelt beside his makeshift bed, and hushed him when he tried to ask me what I was doing. For a few moments I succeeded in making him forget everything else. I couldn't speak, and he didn't. He watched me as I took him in my mouth and used my tongue to excite him, to satisfy him; and I took care of myself with my own hand. He lay back and let me, which is all I wanted of him and for him that night.

I wasn't planning to make a habit of it, or to set a precedent, or to set the pattern for all future encounters. I only knew at that moment that I could help him, that I wanted him, and that he let me.

And after I had finished him, and myself, he couldn't meet my eyes for more than a brief second before he rolled over, putting his back to me, and heaved a sigh, and fell asleep. I went back to my own room and my cot and fell asleep, still working though what I would do the next morning. How I would save him. How I had to save him, now more than ever.

And I did. Save him. And nothing I had ever done before as a member of the RCMP, or as a man, had ever given me such pleasure, except perhaps capturing my father's killers, but that was at best a bittersweet moment.

We have never spoken of what happened that night in the Consulate.

But he needs it.

Or he seems to. In any case, I know I do.

The first time was several days after he had sought asylum in the Consulate. He knocked at the door at about four a.m. I was at first surprised that he was up that early, and then I realized on smelling his breath that he was in fact up that late.

He looked at me, scared, hungry, needful. I leaned in to kiss him, but his hand went gently but firmly to my face, his thumb over my lips, holding me back. I licked his thumb, and eyes locked on his face, sucked it into my mouth, and ran my tongue around the thumbnail. He moaned, but made no move, and when I looked at his face again he was staring at the far wall, leaning against the door.

I reached to pull the jacket off of his shoulders, but he immediately hunched his shoulders and tightened, stiffened, so I pulled back. My hand went down to his jeans. I caressed his crotch, making him groan. He was already hard. I unfastened the jeans, and slowly went to my knees in front of him. He placed his palms flat against the door, pressed his body even further back against the door. His breathing was fast: I felt both arousal and fear.

I silently promised I would make it good for him. I licked the length of his shaft, teasing the head with the tip of my tongue, exploring the ridge, running my tongue over the slit, feeling his reaction, and then needing to feel it all, I moved my head slightly to the side and moved my mouth onto him, listening to his moan of pleasure.

Whether it was because he was drunk, or eager, or I was skillfull that night, I cannot say, but it took him very little time to finish, to orgasm, to fill my mouth with his ejaculate. After I had cleaned him with my tongue, and finished myself as well, I stood up, and grinning, took hold of his shoulders. He jerked himself away from me, and turned his whole body to the side, half facing the door.

"Ray!" I pleaded in a whisper, but I let my arms drop to my sides.

"Just don't say anything, OK?" It was soft, whispered; he was begging me.

"OK," I responded as softly.

He collected himself, quickly putting his now flaccid cock back in his jeans, and closed them, and opened the door, letting in the cold air of the Chicago night. He stepped out, and turned his head to face me, but his eyes wouldn't meet mine.

"This doesn't change anything." It was almost a question, although he said it as a statement.

"No, Ray."

His eyes flickered to mine for the shortest possible time, and then returned to some unfocused point on the Consulate door. He gave one sharp nod, and hurried to his car. I closed the door rather than be seen standing in the doorway in my now-damp undergarments.

The next day there was a moment of tension as I walked into the squad room at the twenty-seventh precinct, but that dissipated quickly as I gave Ray my usual 'Good Afternoon' and took my seat across from his desk. He slid a folder across to me, and immediate launched into a run-down of the suspects in the case in question.

Then I understood what he had meant. That what I had done, what we had done, didn't change anything at all: it was as though the night before had never occurred. And given that everything had changed for me, I could only be grateful that my natural reserve prevented me from showing how difficult it was for me to pretend that nothing had happened.

But it kept happening. It keeps happening.

There is a knock on the Consulate door in the small hours. Sometimes I can predict his appearance: he is wound more tightly than usual, some case he is working on is frustrating him. He steals a glance at me in the squad room or in the car -- a glance tinged with shame, some regret, and desire.

I don't respond. I've learned if I do, there will be an angry response from him later in the day, over my correcting him, or what he calls my 'niggling'. This is usually followed by an apology from him, but not a wee-hours visit to the Consulate. So I have learned not react, to keep my face carefully neutral.

The knock comes. I get up and hurry to the foyer and open the door, standing carefully to one side to let him in unimpeded.

And he enters wordlessly.

He always smells of alcohol. 'Dutch courage', my father would have called it, with rather less respect than I would like for our compatriots whose forefathers emigrated from the Netherlands.

He never speaks. He looks at some random spot on the far wall, never at me. I have learned not to say anything. If I speak, he will mumble that he didn't come here for the conversation, and then he will apologise and leave. He only stays if I say nothing, not even his name.

I close the door and kneel with ceremony, and unfasten his jeans. He is invariably wearing jeans, a tee-shirt and his leather jacket. His physical state indicates that his body at least has been anticipating the event.

He leans against the door and gives me the gift of himself. He permits me to make him forget whatever pain he is feeling, if only for a few brief moments.

I tried prolonging the moment several times, but that only led to my hair being grasped in a rather painful manner as he pulled my mouth onto him, and although I cannot deny the frisson of sexual energy that the move provoked in me, I also cannot deny that it made me feel rather . . . used.

I have learned through trial and error what he enjoys, how he likes it done, by keeping one hand on his chest, gauging his reaction to mouth and tongue. If I lift my eyes to his face, he looks away to that spot on the far wall. But I know if I do not look up, he is watching me. And I would rather have that connection than none at all, so I don't look up.

Only at the end, when it is inevitable, when I can feel how close he is, will he whisper my name. Sometimes it is no more than a sigh, a moan. I make a game of it, of seeing how many times can I get him to say my name. I do not always succeed, but usually I can get him to say it at least once. One night I managed to get him to say it four times before every muscle in his body tensed and I heard the dull thud of his head thrown back against the door as I sucked the last bit of ejaculate from him.

And it tastes of Ray. And as much as I would wish to be able to taste his lips, his mouth, his tongue, he will not permit it. Any move by me in that direction causes his hand to reach for the doorknob. And like one of Pavlov's dogs, my reaction is automatic, I back away, look down, and return to my knees. I will do anything to get him to stay even a moment longer. I will refrain from doing anything that causes him to make the slightest move towards leaving. The hand on the doorknob is the most powerful weapon he has. And he seems to know it; he never comes further into the Consulate than the doorway.

Sometimes, afterwards, he runs his hand through my hair as I lean my cheek against his stomach and he mumbles a barely audible 'Thanks'. I nod my response, letting him feel it against his torso, not daring to speak.

Then he straightens slightly. This is my cue to stand, to rise, to let go of him. He puts himself away, and refastens his jeans, and, without hesitation, reaches for the doorknob, and opens the door, and without looking back at me, he steps into the Chicago night.

I watch the door close, leaving me alone, standing in the foyer of the Consulate with the evidence of my own reaction to the event causing my longjohns to stick to my thigh as my own semen begins to dry.

For a moment I cannot face anyone, cannot face anything. I lean my forehead against the wall of the foyer trying to breathe normally again, trying to compose myself. Trying not to think what this means. That Ray comes here, that I do what I do, that I loathe it and need it and despise it and want it and rail against it in my head and hate myself for it, and hate him for it, and love him for it, and thank him for it, and live for it.

And each time I permit myself just for a moment to imagine, to fantasize, that one day he will take me in his arms and kiss me, and let me kiss him, and let me tell him what he is to me, what he means to me, and he will hear me and let a smile cross his face and tell me yes, that he wants that, that he wants me.

And I shudder involuntarily at that rather pathetic adolescent fantasy, and tell myself that I don't need that. I just need him.

I daren't pray to God, but find myself praying to someone less stern, Hagia Maria Theotokis, Holy Mary, Mother of God, to let him come back again, and let him feel how much I want him, how much I need him, how much I love him.

Dief has learned to avoid the foyer for the duration of Ray's nocturnal visits. I hear him slowly make his way to me, lupine claws clicking on the hardwood floor. He sticks his head between my legs and the wall and looks up at me.

I ignore the wolf and stand still, staring at the wall. Dief reproaches me softly with a single low woof. I reach down and ruffle the fur on the back of his neck, and sigh.

"I know Dief. I know. But it is all he can give me."

The one thing my upbringing has taught me is not to begrudge the infrequent pleasures that life offers, merely because one might wish them to be something greater.

But sometimes I cannot help myself. Sometimes, my mouth and my insistence on what I like to think of as honesty gets the better of me.

I had gone to meet Ray, as arranged, in the squad room. Detectives Dewey and Huey were regaling several listeners with a story of how they had burst in what appeared to be a mugging in an alley, but which turned out to be two men engaged in a rather affectionate and completely consensual act.

Detective Huey allowed as how he had considered arresting them for lewd and lascivious behaviour, but instead had merely suggested that they take it elsewhere. Detective Dewey, laughing uproariously, joked that Detective Huey was so embarrassed at not recognising the true nature of the interaction that he was rendered momentarily speechless.

"Sick puppies!" Dewey added with a laugh and a shake of the head.

"I'd hardly say sick, Detective Dewey. Indiscreet at the worst."

Ray glared at me, noticing me for the first time.

Detective Dewey attempted to goad me. "You're not gonna tell me you don't think you gotta be a little messed up to do what those guys were doing?"

I hesitated, rubbing my eyebrow as I put the words together, "Well, no. After all, neither the Canadian nor the American Psychiatric Association considers it to be a disease."

Ray pretended to be absorbed in the file in front of him. "Do not niggle, Fraser. You know what he means."

"No, I am afraid that I don't, Ray."

Ray shot me a glare.

"No skin off my nose," Detective Dewey said with a smirking shrug. "The more of them, the less competition I got for the ladies' attention."

"You need all the help you can get there, Dewey," Detective Huey said with his customary wryness and they both laughed, as did some of the interested observers.

Ray glanced at Detective Dewey, who had directed his attention elsewhere.

Let's get at her, Fraser," Ray said, rather too quickly, after a glance at Detective Dewey. I followed him to his car, neither of us breaking the tense silence.

We were on a fairly routine patrol of the waterfront, checking out a few leads on a case that Ray wanted to close before week's end. As we walked along next to the grain elevators, I caught him giving me the look. The one that general preceded a late-night visit to the Consulate. As no one else was around, I grinned knowingly at him.

"What the hell is that for, Fraser?"

"Nothing, Ray."

"That was not a nothing smile. That was a I-got-something-on-my-mind smile."

"Ah."

"Do not 'ah' me, Fraser. I am not in the mood to be 'ah'ed."

"No, Ray."

Ray noticed a large late model black sedan parked out of sight of the road next to one of the elevators. He nodded at it, and we made our way over towards it. He glanced over at me again, I was evidently still smiling.

"Do not smile at me like that, Fraser!"

"Like what, Ray?"

"Like you think you can make me do . . . whatever you want."

I am afraid, despite my best intentions, a hint of my anger and confusion came through. "I hardly think that is an accurate description of what happens when you visit the Consulate, Ray."

Ray turned on me, flushing an angry red, "Look, I don't want to hear it!"

"Ray! I was simply going to say . . ."

"Shut up, Fraser. Just shut up!" We had reached the car. It matched the description from the FBI bulletin perfectly.

"I just wanted to point out that it's what you want to do, not what I want . . ."

Ray looked wounded and guilty and angrier than before. "If that's how you feel about it, Fraser, I promise we'll never do it again. OK? Happy now?"

"Ray!" I protested, but any further reply was cut off by the sight of three armed men making their way across the gangway of the grain elevator. Ray pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed the twenty-seventh precinct and relayed our location and the situation, and requested immediate back-up. We made our way towards the metal stairway leading up to where the malefactors were lurking.

We could discuss our situation later: right now we had three of the FBI's most wanted cornered, with their route of escape effectively cut off.

Perhaps Ray had been correct: We could have waited for the back up to arrive. But he followed my lead and we jumped off the grain tower into Lake Michigan.

Ray was furious. Angrier than I had ever seen him. He stood there soaking wet on the lake shore and called me a maniac.

I asked him to be reasonable, but he was in no mood for reason. I attempted to point out that we were doing our duty as officers of the law, which elicited an odd comment that I somehow was under the misapprehension that we were some sort of superheroes in capes.

When I pointed out that we did carry a badge and uniforms that identified us as peace officers, he accused me of arguing for no reason, of correcting him, of niggling.

I demurred, which of course did nothing to ease the tension. I realized suddenly this discussion had little or nothing to do with the decision to jump. This all had to do with the conversation we hadn't had before we spotted the criminals.

"You just did it again!" He looked straight at me. His eyes burning into me. "It's like some kind of disease." He put rather too much emphasis on the last word.

"It's not a disease." I protested. What we did, what we were doing was no disease, that much I knew. Whatever I felt for him was no sickness. It was the opposite of sickness.

But Ray had blocked me out. He was screaming at me that he didn't want to hear it, over and over that he didn't want to hear it.

"Ray, would you just listen to me?" I had to make him understand.

"Look - I swear - I swear to God I will punch you right in the face. Fair warning."

"Well what does that mean, you're going to punch me?"

"Just look, I'm going to punch you in the face! Why don't you listen to me?!

"Just think calmly. . . "

And his right fist connected with my jaw.