Disclaimer:

Author's Notes: Thanks to The Amused One for cheerleading, Q for beta, and Fox for curling verbiage checking.

Story Notes:

Double Takeout
By Heuradys

The red and yellow handles provided a delicious counterpoint to the dully shining grey of the arrayed stones...

"Just friggin' do it, already, Turnbull. We've been in here for hours and my brain's going numb. I can't take much more of this curling shit."

Turnbull took a deep breath, the scent of Drambuie on Ray's breath teasing his sinuses. He inspected the house another time, still hesitating, wishing half-heartedly that Ray would stop leaning against him -- for warmth, Ray had said -- in such a distracting manner. Admittedly, it was necessarily chilly, but he was most decidedly overheated --and the slightest error would ruin everything.

"Ray, please, I know you have places to go and things to do, but the ideal placement is absolutely crucial."

Every line on the sheet was crisp, clean, and precisely straight, even the thin center and tee lines. Their blackness, along with that of the foot, back, side, and hog lines, glistened in lurid contrast to the pristine whiteness, the length and width of each line exactly regulated. The circles of the houses were clearly delineated in brilliant red and blue on the perfectly level surface.

Tunbull ignored Ray's snort of disbelief and the clink of glass on glass as Ray poured himself more Drambuie and forbore to mention -- again, since the last time he had, Ray insisted he drink as well, and not just a small shot -- that the liqueur was intended solely for a toast. At least Ray was no longer pressed against his left arm, or his back, or... "Trust me, Ray. You'll see." Holding his breath, he placed the final stone with just the right handle.

It was beautiful.

Exquisite.

Ray applauded, leaning against him again. "So are we finally done with this? You going to get Fraser now, or should I?"

Turnbull bit his lip for a moment to distract himself from the faint pressure of Ray's hips against his. It just wasn't fair, he thought, turning his head to watch Ray drain the last swallow from his glass. He was doing all the work, no matter how much he honestly enjoyed this labor, and Ray would reap most of the rewards. But such was life as Renfield Turnbull. "Absolutely, Ray. Since it was your idea, I believe you should have the honor."

On his way out of the room, Ray tossed him the empty glass, chuckling. Turnbull fumbled to try to catch it, his fingers getting wet and slightly sticky but not sticky enough to keep from -- oh dear! -- dropping it. He set it back on the silver tray with the other glasses and then licked his fingers, sighing, before refilling it with a much smaller portion than Ray had and, as Ray would say, slamming the shot. He'd already had more alcohol than he was accustomed to, but the sheer provocation he'd endured in his hours of close contact with Ray would have driven the strictest teetotaler to drink.

Ray. Oh, how he envied Ray. For months Turnbull had been carefully placing his stones, planning every shot with strategic caution, never coming near the button -- and leaving most of Constable Fraser's guards in place. Then Ray appeared, stepped into the hack, and took out all his stones and most of Constable Fraser's guards in one throw, which spun into perfect position, spot on the button.

If his reaction to Ray was simple jealousy, he could have coped. Instead, Ray proved himself to be worthy of admiration and not only for his superb form. Not perfect form, of course; that adjective was reserved for Constable Fraser's unparalleled, almost surreal beauty. Ray was a good man, honorable and strong as well as compellingly alluring. And now, instead of a devotion to one man he couldn't have and an antipathy to the man who could, he was hopelessly attracted to them both... and he was nowhere in their league. If he was a rock, he wasn't even a biter -- and they dominated the house, alternated as shot rock.

But, Ray had needed him for this, and he couldn't say no.

He could hear Constable Fraser objecting to the blindfold all the way down the hall, but it wasn't too difficult for Ray to persuade him to leave it on. He closed his own eyes for a moment, giddy with anticipation. Then he hastily filled all three glasses, picked up the tray, and turned to face the door.

Diefenbaker was the first to enter the room, toenails clicking on the tile, looking at Turnbull reproachfully. For locking him out, Turnbull suspected, but he wouldn't feel guilty. Diefenbaker would certainly be happy soon enough.

"Okay, Frase, you can take off the blindfold now," Ray said, grinning at Turnbull conspiratorially before turning his attention back to Constable Fraser. "Surprise!"

Turnbull's stomach did a metaphorical back-flip as he watched Constable Fraser remove the blindfold. It mussed Constable Fraser's hair in the process, and Turnbull's fingers itched to smooth it -- or to mess it up even more. The glasses rattled on the tray as he fought the nearly irresistible urge. He prayed they would just think it was nervousness that he'd drop his burden, that his sudden blush was because of that.

"Happy birthday, sir!" He handed Constable Fraser a glass from the tray, then moved so the table was visible.

The look of slight befuddlement on Constable Fraser's face cleared and he smiled a huge, happy smile at both Turnbull and Ray, who was snatching a glass off the tray. Turnbull swatted Ray's hand as he raised the glass to his lips and mouthed, "Wait, please!"

"Oh my! Very well done, Constable! Nine centimeters by eighty-nine centimeters. Precisely..." Constable Fraser tilted his head slightly, his cheeks flushed with pleasure. "...ninety-eight percent smaller than a regulation sheet, except for the thickness of the center, back, and tee lines, although I'm certain that reproducing them at this scale is better suited to a different medium."

"Yeah, they'd be friggin' invisible," Ray muttered. "Weird-ass long, skinny cake."

Constable Fraser ignored him. "A masterpiece of icing."

"Actually, sir, it's fondant, rather than a more classical buttercream, and for the stones I used marzi-- "

Ray punched him lightly on the arm. "Wait until you taste it, Frase. You'll want an ice-cream cake for every birthday! Still can't believe you've never had one."

~~

Fraser had thanked him for the cake (and so had Diefenbaker, with enthusiastic face-licking that left his cheeks sticky), but Ray hadn't said a word. Turnbull watched them leave -- on their way to a hockey game, he knew, then undoubtedly to Ray's home -- wistfully and a little hurt. Ray had, it was true, complimented him on the cake's flavor -- even going so far as to comment on the insouciant hint of lemon zest -- and decoration, but Turnbull still wished for a thank-you. He didn't even need the kind of thank-you that Ray would quite likely be receiving from Constable Fraser; two simple words would suffice.

It was one of the better hours he'd had in company within recent memory...

Ray picking up a marzipan curling rock between his fingers and balancing it on the tip of his tongue.

Constable Fraser licking melting ice cream off his fork, with his eyes closed.

Ray not rolling his eyes too terribly much during the animated discussion of curling, and Constable Fraser knowing exactly -- as Turnbull had known he would -- which shot would be required for red to win the end depicted on the cake.

Fraser insisting that Ray perform a sobriety test before they left, and Ray belligerent, yet laughing, as he complied.

Just the happiness, the unmitigated happiness, of sharing even this much of Constable Fraser's birthday with him -- and with Ray -- in a non-professional, friendly manner. He hadn't even dropped anything, or embarrassed himself much at all.

...and he hadn't wanted -- still didn't want -- it to end.

But it had.

He stood slowly, gathering the dirty plates and glasses and taking them to the sink, while Constable Fraser and Ray made their laughing way out of the Consulate. He started the water running, imagining how Ray and Constable Fraser's evening would proceed... and conclude...

"Hey, Turnbull, you're going to start a flood there." Ray's voice behind him brought a hot blush to his cheeks, and he bruised his knuckles on the faucet as he frantically tried to turn the water off. Then Ray reached past him and did it himself. "Sorry, didn't mean to... you know, surprise you."

He turned to face Ray, opened his mouth to say, "Oh, it's absolutely all right, Ray, I was distracted." But to his horror and embarrassment, he blurted, "You're not supposed to be here!"

Ray glanced down, snorting a self-deprecating laugh. "Well, yeah, but the wolf needed to go for a walk, and, well..." He looked back up at Turnbull. "I forgot to say thanks. I owe you one, Turnbull, and I will pay you back."

Turnbull took a deep breath, and --

Hiccupped. Repeatedly.

Between the painful, highly audible spasms, he could hear Ray asking him if he needed a glass of water or something, telling him to try holding his breath, could feel Ray patting him on the back. He could do nothing more than shake his head, cringing in blushing shame, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He closed them, praying the hiccups would just stop already. He could say, "You're welcome," and Ray could leave, and he could go home and do something about the erec--

His eyes shot open as Ray's firm, warm hand grabbed his crotch.

For one dizzy, breathless moment, he was certain he was going to have a stroke -- his inner-teenager giggled drunkenly and told him that, no, Ray was the one doing the stroking --

"Breathe, Turnbull."

--then he was gasping, his hiccups gone.

"Better?"

He nodded helplessly, trying not to thrust against Ray's palm, unable to look away from Ray's eyes as Ray leaned in toward him. Dreaming. He had to be dreaming. Because Ray was smiling at him, not laughing. Their only point of contact was Ray's hand on his groin, but he could feel Ray everywhere, and that was impossible and he was drunk...

"So, what's it called in curling when two rocks just barely touch?"

Ray was voluntarily asking about curling. Even in Turnbull's dreams, that never happened. It hadn't happened in the hours they'd -- he'd -- spent working on the cake. But despite his mind whirling like a spinner that had missed the broom, he could answer. Somehow his voice still sounded normal, at least to his own ears. "In motion or at rest?"

"Moving. When they just..." Ray's hand moved on him, middle finger tracing the seam of his pants. "...brush."

"They wick."

Ray's hand stilled, then squeezed. "And not moving?"

"They... freeze."

Ray chuckled, not unkindly. "Kind of like you're doing right now, huh?" Suddenly, the melting heat of Ray's hand was gone. But before Turnbull could relax -- or protest -- Ray's body was plastered against his, and Ray's tongue was tracing the line of his jaw toward his ear. "Relax... just go with it."

Turnbull shivered, his arms involuntarily coming up to hold Ray to him, even as the fraction of his mind that was still sober told him that it was wrong, the whole situation was just wrong, that Ray shouldn't be here, should be with Constable Fraser. But the rest of his brain felt like it was melting like the leftover cake on the table. He gasped at the sudden graze of Ray's teeth on his earlobe, his eyes closing and his head tilting back.

"Ray..." Oh, he shouldn't, but Ray felt so good, so very good. His thigh slid neatly into place between Ray's, and he groaned along with Ray as Ray's erection pressed against him. Ray ground against him, and Turnbull shifted his left hand down to feel the flexing muscles of Ray's buttocks through the worn denim of his black jeans.

"Yeah," Ray whispered between flickers of his tongue on Turnbull's ear, "Yeah, touch me." His hand worked between his and Turnbull's bodies, urgent on Turnbull's zipper.

"Ray... Oh... No, you shouldn't... Oh, Ray..."

Ray's fingers curled on the nape of Turnbull's neck, sliding up into his hair. "Shut up and kiss me," he ordered softly as his other hand worked its way into Turnbull's boxers.

Nearly whimpering, still feeling that he should protest more but not wanting to, Turnbull allowed Ray to shift his head so their lips could meet. And meet they did, in a kiss of such carnality it weakened Turnbull's knees. He moaned around Ray's tongue as Ray's fingers wrapped around his penis, his hips bucking between Ray's and the counter.

Ray backed up a few inches, releasing Turnbull's neck but not his lips. Their hands met at the button on Ray's jeans, jarring a small, pained sound from Turnbull as their knuckles collided. "Ssh," Ray whispered, his tongue gliding along Turnbull's lower lip. "You do it." Turnbull scrabbled at the button, his knuckles aching, gasping in relief as he finally got it undone. He managed the zipper more featly, then Ray's erection was thrusting into his hand, and he didn't care about knuckles or anything but feeling.

This... oh, god... so amazing. He kissed Ray back as aggressively as Ray was kissing him, their hands squeezing, stroking, sliding faster on each other. The gun callus on Ray's thumb brushed over the sweet spot just below the head of Turnbull's penis, and a roaring started in Turnbull's ears. "Hard... hard," he panted against the fluttering pulse in Ray's temple.

"Yeah, fuck yeah..." Ray's voice was a dimly heard growl. "Oh, jesus... yeah!"

The rumbling roar, like granite curling over pebbled ice, was getting louder, and Turnbull felt... God, he felt like a hack weight stone on keen ice. He was being kissed again, fiercely and possessively, his face held by firm, strong hands. But Ray's hand was still busy... Oh, he didn't care, couldn't think...

"Come for me, Constable..."

...could do nothing but climax, his body jolting twice as his orgasm hit him like the crack of stone against stone, and he spun...

"God!" Ray's body stiffened, his penis pulsing in Turnbull's hand as he ejaculated.

...out of control...

Panting, shaking in the aftermath, Turnbull melted into the now gentle, luxurious kisses and the hands caressing his face. But the angle wasn't right, and surely the weight against his right shoulder was Ray's head and the hot breath on that side of his neck was Ray's. Who was at his left side?

...coming to rest...

Turnbull opened his eyes slowly, half-terrified and half-hopeful. Constable Fraser met Turnbull's gaze hotly, his tongue gliding along his kiss-swollen lower lip before he smiled.

"Very well done, Constable," Constable Fraser said huskily.

Ray raised his head from Turnbull's shoulder, chuckling. "I think he's into being the rest of your birthday present, Frase. What do you say, Turnbull? Up for extra ends?"

...right on the button.

End Double Takeout by Heuradys: heuradys_fox@comcast.net

Author and story notes above.