Disclaimer:

Author's Notes: Thanks to The Amused One, Regina Giraffe, Alex Sisterwolf, and Theodosia for beta, and to Calathea for a sense memory. And special thanks to Paul Gross for the bit of Men With Brooms that I shamelessly stole and twisted in Part 4.

Story Notes: Written for Clueless for DS Seekrit Santa 2004. May not be safe for vegetarians.
Section Titles translated:
1. Loving Ewe Isn't Easy (possibly mangled Scots)
2. Everyone Has Their Idiosyncracies (French)
3. Tentacle (Japanese)
4. Doesn't Like Raw Food (Inuit)
5. Foot Kissing (Greek)

LOUING YOWE ISNA EITH

"Welcome to Canada, Ray, and a happy Burns Night to you, as well!"

Ray took a breath to answer and nearly gagged. "Oh my god, what is that smell?"

"I'm afraid this cold has rendered my sense of smell highly ineffective." Turnbull bowed him into the Consulate, then sneezed loudly. Ray closed the door himself while Turnbull blew his nose lustily into a huge white hankie.

"Gesundheit. You taking anything for that?"

Turnbull nodded, looking a bit troubled. "The smell... It doesn't smell like something is burning, does it?"

"Maybe..."

Turnbull yelped, turning and running for the kitchen.

"But, god, I hope that's not supposed to be food...." Breathing as shallowly as he could--only through his mouth--Ray went hunting for Fraser.

He found Fraser in the conference cum dining room and immediately forgot about the gut-churning odor. Because--

"Whoa. Nice legs, Fraser." Totally fucking gorgeous legs. "Why didn't you tell me you had a kilt? I'd have asked you to wear it for my birthday."

Fraser set down the book he'd been reading and turned from the table, smiling at him. "I'll keep that in mind next year, Ray."

"Oh yeah?" Ray could feel his lips curling into a wicked grin. "You do that, Fraser." He straddled Fraser's lap, chuckling a little as Fraser's starch quotient ratcheted up several notches.

"Ray!" Fraser's lips set primly, but there was no hiding the pleasure in his eyes.

"You gonna show me what you've got under it?"

"This is hardly the time or place, Ray."

"I know, no nookie in the Consulate, but how about a kiss?"

"It's just not appropriate."

"Aw, c'mon, Thatcher's not here and Turnbull's hardly going to be freaked."

Fraser wouldn't relent, so Ray settled for kissing him quickly on the tip of the nose and not getting up. Settling himself more comfortably, he asked, "What is that smell, Frase? You making some more pregnant mucus goop or something?"

Fraser took a deep breath. "Isn't it wonderful? There's nothing quite like the aroma of a cooking haggis."

"Uh, maybe for a different definition of 'wonderful' that I don't know about..."

"But I must apologize that we only have the one course for dinner tonight. There was a small... incident... with the chicken intended for the cock-a-leekie soup, which is why Diefenbaker will not be joining us this evening."

Ray shifted, grinding his ass a bit against Fraser's kilt-covered thighs, leaning forward so he could whisper into Fraser's ear. "And here I was looking so forward to leaky cock... soup."

"Ray!"

Ray laughed at Fraser's scandalized tone, but finally stood again. "Okay, which chair's mine?"

"On the right. Turnbull will be much happier if he's able to get to and from the kitchen unimpeded."

Ray kicked back in the indicated chair. "So, what are you wearing under that thing?" he asked, just as Turnbull, wearing a surgical mask and rubber gloves, entered the room bearing a silver tray.

"Dinner, gentlemen!"

Ray flailed as he caught a glimpse of what was on the tray, but recovered. Fraser winced as the front legs of Ray's chair hit the ground with a loud thunk, but Ray couldn't be bothered to care as he stared at the thing.

It was globular. And whitish-gray. And... oh god, the reek of it.

"What the hell is that? That is not an entree. Turnbull, that's your fucking lung. Go put it back where you coughed it up from and find food!"

Fraser laughed happily. "It's a haggis, Ray, and your reaction isn't uncommon amongst those uninitiated into the glory of this king of foods."

Turnbull set the tray directly in front of Fraser, then took off his mask and gloves. "Coughing up an entire lung is a medical impossibility, Ray," he chided. "Don't you know what a sheep's bag looks like?"

"Bag?" He swallowed hard. This had to be a joke.

"The stomach, Ray. Haggis is made with the pluck of a sheep--mixed with toasted oatmeal and spices--and is cooked in the bag." No way Fraser should have a grin that broad, not while talking about pluck and bags. "The pluck, in this instance, is the heart and liver."

"Oh," Ray said weakly. "What would it be in any other instance?"

Turnbull sneezed violently--unfortunately not on the smelly, gray sheep-bits thing on the table.

"Bless you, Turnbull. Well, Ray, I'm sorry to say that you are not getting the full haggis experience, so to speak. The US government has determined that sheep lungs are unfit for human consumption, so this haggis is not authentic."

Over the sound of Turnbull honking into his hankie again, Ray said, "Gee, Fraser, I'm friggin' heartbroken now that you're not trying to feed me dog food."

Turnbull wiped his nose a final time, then smiled happily at Fraser. "Oh, sir, I'm happy to say that it is! Authentic, that is."

"Indeed?" Fraser's grin could have lit the consulate for a month.

"Indeed, sir! My, ah," Turnbull paused, a blush that nearly matched the redness of his nose blooming on his cheeks as he searched for the right word, "acquaintance with Mr. Colbert, the butcher, proved eminently profitable. He gave me the lights gratis."

"The lights?"

"The lungs, Ray."

Ray stared at each of them in turn. He couldn't decide which idea--Turnbull on his knees, blowing an old, fat butcher for sheep lungs, or the fact that both Fraser and Turnbull expected him to eat sheep lungs without someone holding a gun to his head--was more mind-blowing.

One seated and beaming--and wearing a skirt--the other standing there wearing a fond, dopey smile and a flowery apron, Fraser and Turnbull looked like the proud new mutant parents of that giant, sinisterly glistening snot ball. He said as much aloud.

"Interesting that you should say that, Ray. On the occasion of my birth, my parents were presented with a walrus haggis especially made for them by the local Inuit." Fraser's grin faded to what looked like a smile of fond remembrance as he stood. "My father said that he'd teased my mother that they should cook me and keep the haggis. It was bigger."

"Oh, sir, that's awful!"

"What? And eat the haggis raw? That's disgusting."

"Now, Ray, that kind of sarcasm is uncalled for. Walrus is always cooked. Proper preparation prevents--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Poor performance. But what's that got to do with--never mind, I don't want to know what that's got to do with walruses."

"--problems with parasites," Fraser continued as if Ray had never interrupted him. "Turnbull."

"Yes, sir?"

"The sword, please, if you would be so kind."

With a flourish that should have taken off his left hand at the wrist, Turnbull presented Fraser with a friggin' machete, then picked up his whiskey glass. "Ray, rise for the toast, please."

"There had better be a lot more whiskey. A lot more," Ray insisted. Maybe if he had enough, it would kill his taste buds. Or his memory. Or both.

"Oh, there is," Turnbull assured him perkily, another blush starting on his cheekbones. "Mr. Wahid, the liquor store owner, found a very lovely bottle of 35 year-old Laphroaig for me."

Idly, as he raised his glass and Fraser raised the sword, Ray wondered if Turnbull was 'acquainted' with every shopkeeper in the neighborhood.

"And for dessert, Ray, we have some lovely maple-nutmeg shortbread that Mr. Helquist, the baker, was inspired to make after I--"

Fraser cleared his throat.

Yep. Every shopkeeper in the neighborhood. The butcher, the baker, the liquor store owner... like some perverted nursery rhyme.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir."

Fraser rattled off several paragraphs in what was probably a Scottish accent. (Ray could only pick out the words 'reekin'', 'entrails', 'trash', and 'haggis'.) Then Turnbull and Ray drank as Fraser neatly quartered the haggis.

"Ah, Turnbull, very well done indeed!"

"I hope I didn't add too much cayenne for your taste, sir, but thank you kindly!"

Staring at the monstrosity, Ray sank into his chair. The last time he'd seen something that color with that texture, he'd been walking Dief, and it was the product of some serious wolf bowel issues. Come to remember it, the smell wasn't too different, either, and it had steamed just like that. He gagged.

"How much would you like, Ray?" Fraser held a large, disgusting spoonful over Ray's plate.

Ray slapped his hand on the plate. "Uh... None please. I'm... I'm full. Already. Just from looking."

Turnbull looked at him all puppy-like and mournful. "Oh, you really should try it, Ray. Everyone should have haggis at least once in their life!"

"Maybe I'll wait for a lungless one."

"Your loss, Ray," Fraser said, his tone one of disappointment, as he served Turnbull instead.

"I know I said I'll try anything once, Frase, but this isn't what I meant. This? Is gross. I'll wait for dessert. Enjoy your entrails."

"I certainly will, Ray." Fraser picked up his fork and dug in.

Ray watched, hypnotized, as Fraser raised the forkful of haggis to his mouth. It could all still be some elaborate joke, he thought. Any second now, both of them were going to laugh, Turnbull would get up and go to the kitchen and come back with something normal like, oh, a chicken--

But Fraser ate it. He ate it. He friggin' savored it, his eyes closed and his lips curled in a smile as he chewed.

"Gah! You will put anything in your mouth, won't you?"

CHACUN A SA CHACUNERIE

Fraser was rambling on about psychology and fetishism and a bunch of other stuff, but Ray tuned him out. He didn't want to hear it, really didn't want to even think about it, but...

They really shouldn't have been talking about the case they'd solved, even though it was what brought them there. Nope, it really wasn't the place to be talking about how they'd caught the freak--no, pervert--no, psycho who'd been stalking and killing members of a group of freaky perverts in a manner too perverted and freaky even for them to deal with.

Ray couldn't forget, try as he might, Turnbull's earnest, intent expression as he'd enthused about what he and his fellow rubber, uh, 'enthusiasts' got up to and off on. "It's very freeing for me, Ray," Turnbull had insisted, like he'd lose his Boy Scout merit badge for Being-Tied-Up-And-Pissed-On-By-Anonymous-Other-Freaks-And-Wrestling-In-The-Resulting-Mud if he couldn't convince Ray that it wasn't just friggin' disgusting. He hadn't succeeded, but Ray had been able to fake it well enough that Turnbull stopped drooping like a Great Dane called away from where it was happily rolling in its own sh--like Dief when Fraser had yelled at him for drinking out of the toi--

Gah.

Ray picked up his wineglass, staring at the straw-colored wine in it for a long, suspicious second before he drank.

He was going to have to kick Turnbull in the--no, Turnbull would enjoy that too much, the freak--okay, he'd have to not kick Turnbull in the head for giving them a thank-you-for-not-outing-me-to-the-Ice-Queen gift certificate to this place where they shouldn't talk about all the freaky, perverted shit that they, he supposed, had to talk about.

It was a really classy place, with long white tablecloths, real silver tableware, and snooty pretty-boy waiters, who managed to look down their noses at the same time as they tried to figuratively stick those same noses up Fraser and Ray's asses. The menu was in French, which had made Fraser smile delightedly, but it just pissed him off because Fraser had had to order for him. And he trusted Fraser, but not where frogs and snails and entrails and lord only knew what other disgusting things the French consider food were concerned.

"Are you enjoying your wine, Ray?"

"You ordered me chicken, right? Just normal, boring, ordinary chicken? Not frog?"

Fraser hid what Ray suspected was a laugh by taking a sip of his own wine. His face was perfectly innocent when he replied, "Yes, Ray, Poulet Vallee d'Auge. Perfectly normal, boring, ordinary chicken sauteed with butter and onions, garnished with apples, and served with a Calvados--apple brandy, before you ask--cream sauce."

"Normal, boring, ordinary onions, right?"

"Yes, Ray."

"No frog?"

"No frog, Ray."

"Good, 'cause you know, I'll eat lots of stuff, but not Kermit." Fraser opened his mouth to reply, but Ray cut him off before he could say even a syllable. "And don't tell me that frog tastes just like chicken, either. My mom used to pull that kind of crap on me and it never worked."

"I wasn't going to say anything of the sort." Fraser sounded a little huffy, but not pissed. "I was going to tell you that I am not having frog, either. Diefenbaker would be insufferably jealous if he smelled them on me. They're a particular favorite of his, but he prefers them..."

Ray knew he shouldn't ask, but he did anyway.

Fraser coughed politely. "Whole and raw. He likes the... crunch."

As the words 'crunch' and 'frog' set off a Monty Python chain reaction in his brain, Ray grimaced. "Okay, that? Is disgusting. I am never letting that wolf lick me ever again." He picked up his fork again and stabbed half-heartedly at the walnuts he'd picked out of his salad. "So, to get that picture out of my brain, what are you having?"

"Ris de Veau a L'Huile de Truffe. Crispy veal," Fraser rubbed his eyebrow, "with truffle oil, spinach, and wild mushrooms."

"Are you finished with your salads, gentlemen?"

Wondering a little about the eyebrow-rub, since nothing about Fraser's entree seemed to rate it, Ray was startled as the waiter apparently materialized out of thin air next to his elbow.

"Yes, thank you kindly."

Jean-Luc-Paul-Francois-Whatever whisked away their salad plates, and his near identical twin deposited their entrees in front of each of them.

Before he started to eat, Ray inspected each item on his plate. "It's not that I don't trust you, Frase," he said in response to Fraser's quizzical glance. "Just checking for frog."

"It is highly unlikely that any restaurant, particularly one of this caliber, would add frog to a non-frog dish, Ray.

"What if I had a frog allergy?"

"Do you?"

"No, but--"

"Eat your chicken, Ray."

He did. And it was, as Fraser had promised, perfectly normal ordinary--but not boring--chicken.

"What's that wrinkly thing there, Frase?" Ray pointed with his fork to Fraser's plate. "Looks like a little brain."

"It's a morel. Would you like to try one?"

"Nah, just wanted to know. Um, your veal looks weird."

"Weird?" Fraser glanced quizzically down at his plate. "How so?"

"Like it's all fat. Not meat. At least not any meat that I recognize, but I didn't live among the musk ox."

Fraser chuckled a little, rubbing his eyebrow. "Well, I wasn't entirely honest with you, Ray. These are veal sweetbreads."

"That's got to be a euphi--euphor--nice way of saying they're something disgusting. Like saying Turnbull's a 'rubber enthusiast' is a nice way of saying he's a total pervert."

"Now, Ray. This," Fraser indicated one crispy-coated blob, "is thymus. And this," he gestured to the other, "is pancreas."

Ray stared at the plate, then at Fraser. "And you're eating this stuff on purpose because you'll just put anything in your mouth...?"

"I've always wanted to try them, Ray. Compared to the sweetbreads I've had in the past, these are exquisitely delicate and creamy. And they're an excellent source of Vitamins C and B12"

"Musk ox pancreas?" Ray shuddered.

"Caribou, too, actually, but any ruminant's sweetbreads can be eaten."

"Ruminants? They eat brains?"

"Hooved mammals that chew cuds. Grass eaters, not the living dead. Ruminants, not revenants."

"I knew that." He glared at Fraser. "So, if they serve these nasty things here, do they serve brains?"

"Indeed they do, Ray, but I'm not particularly fond of them. Sweetbreads are, in fact, interchangeable for brains in recipes. They're firmer and less... objectionable to most people."

"They're still pretty damned objectionable."

Fraser cut off a tiny portion of pancreas with his fork and held it out to Ray. "I don't believe you'd find them so if you simply tasted--"

Ray shook his head firmly and pushed Fraser's hand to the side, "No way. I don't need a merit badge for entrail-eating."

"They don't give merit badges for that, but I could find something suitable as a reward..."

"A reward, huh?" After several moments, Ray asked thoughtfully, "Do you think Turnbull's done any porn flicks?"

The fork flipped in Fraser's hand and fell with a clatter onto Ray's bread plate. The chunk of pancreas flew several feet, landing on a waiter's tray, smack on top of a pile of--Ray covered a snort of laughter with his hand--frog legs.

Fraser stood quickly, trying to see past a large potted fern, looking mortified. "Oh dear. I should apologize."

Ray let himself laugh. "Oh, c'mon Frase, sit down. Nobody noticed but us."

"Be that as it may, Ray--"

"Unless whoever's eating that frog has a pancreas allergy--"

"Ray--"

"And I was kidding about wanting any porno that Turnbull's done--"

"Ray--"

"Let's get doggie bags and do dessert at my place, Frase."

Fraser looked surprised, giving up on whatever he'd been trying to say. "Turnbull says that their dessert cart is amongst the best in town, and he is very picky where pastries are concerned. I thought you were looking forward to it."

Ray licked his lip. "Wouldn't you rather feed me... tongue?"

SHOKUSHU

"Huh."

Fraser raised his eyebrow.

"I didn't think there was any music twangier and more nasal than some of that Country sh--stuff Turnbull listens to, but this Japanese stuff has got it beat hands down."

"I don't believe I've ever heard Japanese music described as 'twangy' before, Ray."

"Twang-twang-twang. And you can't tell me this chick doesn't sound like she's birthing a cat through her sinuses."

"Ray, that's unfair."

"How's it not fair? It's true."

"You're judging the music of an entire country by the selections chosen for play in a restaurant thousands of kilometers from the country in question."

"Doesn't mean what we're listening to right now doesn't suck." He drummed his chopsticks lightly on the edge of the table. "I like this place, though; it's cool. Stella never would sit in one of these little rooms when we'd go for Japanese." He could see the question in Fraser's eyes. "Said that she didn't want to sit on the floor."

"Ah."

"I mean, yeah, I can see that would be tricky in a power suit, but I don't think that was it."

"Oh?"

The truth--that they probably wouldn't get into a fight while surrounded by other eating people--was too depressing. "Yeah, I think she thought I'd be all over her when the waitress wasn't in the room." He leered at Fraser. "Sure you want to risk it?"

"Absolutely, Ray. I am fully trained in self-defense, but I'm certain you can maintain control over your unruly hormones for the duration of a meal." Fraser poured himself more tea.

"You're safe for dinner. I'm not promising anything about after, though." Ray picked up his beer. "Turnbull loaned me some Japanese porn when he found out we were going for Japanese tonight. It's animated, even. That guy has got to get out more, Frase, if he's whacking off to cartoons."

"I'm hardly his social director, Ray."

"Just sayin'. Cartoons." He twirled his finger by his temple in the universal signal for 'total whack-job'.

"Understood."

"We're still going to watch it, though, because he said it's totally a hot cartoon. Which I don't believe, but then he giggled and I got pissed and we almost got into a fight, but then he started crying, so..."

Fraser nodded his understanding. "It will be, ah, educational in any case, I'm sure, but if we do indeed find it arousing, would that not imply that Turnbull is not unhinged?"

Ray snorted. "That guy's as unhinged as a bead curtain in a nuthouse whether the cartoon porno's hot or not."

Before Fraser could reply, the door panel slid aside and their kimono-clad waitress--who looked all of sixteen, but was probably twice that--brought in their meal. To cover his amusement at Fraser's oh-dear-I-was-just-talking-about-pornography-and-may-have-been-overheard-by-this-woman expression, Ray finished off his beer and ordered another. Fraser ordered something too, but in Japanese. Ray shrugged and applied himself to his food.

"I love this stuff," Ray said, picking up a tempura shrimp. "This is the best thing about Japanese food, no matter what anybody says about sushi. Sushi might be pretty and all--for bait--but this is fried." He crunched the shrimp, grinning at Fraser.

"Tempura was introduced to Japan by the Portuguese in the 16th Century."

"Nobody likes a know-it-all. Are we sitting in a Portuguese restaurant? Don't think so. Oooh, baby squid. Love these little guys."

Fraser finished slurping some cellophane noodles off his chopsticks, then as Ray watched, not chewing the bite of squid in his mouth and nearly drooling, licked sauce off his lower lip.

"--Ray, Ray, Ray..."

Ray finished chewing hurriedly. "Huh? You say something?"

"You like squid?"

"Squids, octopuses, anything that's all tentaclely." He waggled the tentacle end of his tempura squid at Fraser. "And don't tell me anything that will make me not want to eat 'em anymore or I'll kick you in the head. I had to eat calamari when Ma Vecchio made it and the whole family was sitting there looking at me like it was some weird-ass rite of passage." He popped the tentacle bit in his mouth and chewed. "And it was good, okay?"

"I must admit that I was surprised when you ordered what you did, Ray. Your usual meals are less... exotic, barring pineapple on your pizzas. How did you come to try octopus?"

Ray dug through the pile of tempura, hunting for octopus. "Well, tempura. I figured, you know, that they couldn't taste much different than squids. Just bigger. Kind of how a turkey's bigger than a chicken and they taste alike."

The door slid open again, and the waitress deposited a new beer on the table for Ray and a small dish full of white, glistening things that looked soft and somehow sinister. "Ah, wonderful, they're raw," Fraser exclaimed. "Thank you kindly."

"What the hell is that?" Ray asked the second the waitress left. Fraser was already slurping one from his chopsticks.

"Shirako," Fraser replied, his expression entirely too innocent for either Ray's liking or his belief.

"In English, you yutz." Ray took a big bite of his octopus, unwilling to let Fraser steal his octopus-related happiness until the last possible second. Because...

"Ah. The translation is, I believe, 'white child', but I don't suppose that's--"

"No, that's not. What are they?"

"Cod soft roe."

"Roe... Fish eggs? Okay, that's not too gross, I guess."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow and cracked his neck at the same time. "Not eggs, no..."

"Just spit it out, Frase."

"Soft roe is the semen-filled testi--"

"They're fish nuts?" Ray gaped, nearly losing his octopus. He closed his mouth and chewed.

"They're high in protein and Omega 3 fatty acids. Very healthy."

"They're fish nuts. Raw fish nuts!"

"They're a quite common ingredient in cosmetics, as a non-chemical binding agent in lotions and lipsticks and--"

"Wait till I tell Frannie that one--" Oh god, the screaming would never stop.

"And some chocolate--"

"No way. No way is there fish sperm in my M&Ms--" He knew he was raising his voice, but he didn't care; Fraser was getting louder, too.

"They have virtually no smell or flavor--"

"Then why are you eating them? Just because there's nothing you won't put in your mouth? You're sitting there eating raw fish testicles at me!"

"It's really no different than swallowing your semen, Ray."

Red serge really wasn't augmented by the addition of partially chewed octopus. But as Ray coughed and sputtered, he thought that Fraser fucking deserved it.

"You did not just say that. I cannot believe you just said that, Fraser. Why did you say that?"

"It's the truth." Fraser picked tempura batter off his epaulette and looked at Ray blandly. "I certainly wasn't anticipating that you would spit at me."

"Serves you right for comparing sucking me off to eating raw fish nuts. No different?" Ray glared, coughed again, and then wiped his eyes. "Take that back or I'll spit baby squid tentacles at you next."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I didn't inhale." He glared again. "Really no different, huh?"

"Well..." Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. "I don't love the fish, Ray."

AIPALINGIAGPOQ

"Birthday-present shopping for Turnbull is so damned hard," Ray complained, flipping through the pages of a catalog. "I mean, what do you get for the pervert who has everything?"

"Ray, I wish you would stop referring to Turnbull as a pervert," Fraser chided from where he was futzing in the kitchen. "Simply because his sexual practices of choice are less, ah, vanilla than yours and mine--"

Ray snorted. "Okay, so he's vanilla with a big swirl of kink and a cherry on top. I get that."

"And compared to a great many his proclivities are harmless. Any number of people dress in drag frequently and sex toys aren't terribly kinky. And considering that you and I have--"

Thank god he'd gotten Fraser out of calling toys 'marital aids', Ray thought. "Okay, okay, granted, we've used a few, too, but you can't deny he's got everything, though. I mean, you've seen his collection. He's got more sex toys than Sex Toys R Us."

"I'm certain we'll find something suitable. If not something from that catalog, perhaps a nice new dress would be useful. He did go to quite a bit of trouble to bring back the ingredients for this meal from Yellowknife, Ray."

Ray laughed. "Yeah, okay, a dress could work or a little French maid outfit. He'd probably be all over that. Could wear it while he cleaned all those toys of his. I'll never forget the expression on your face when you found out he was using the Consulate dishwasher--"

Ray mouthed the words along with Fraser, "It was inappropriate, Ray!"

"Yeah, but it was funny. Dinner almost ready?"

Fraser emerged from the kitchen with a tray, which emitted a combination of delicious and revolting odors, Dief--looking hopeful--trailing him. "Indeed it is. I thought you threw away those holey socks."

"I like these socks. They're comfortable. So, you never told me," Ray said, setting the catalog on the floor and moving his feet off Fraser's chair, "if he got that slutty varmint you wanted for this."

"Slutty var...? Oh, the hoary marmot. No, he did not." Fraser frowned slightly. "They are Diefenbaker's particular favorite, but Turnbull has a... soft heart where they are concerned. He says they're too cute to eat." He sighed as he sat down. "He brought home a stuffed toy one for Diefenbaker instead."

Dief made a disgruntled noise from under the table.

"Yes, Dief, I know you weren't pleased, and once again I thank you for not disemboweling it as you wanted to. You'd have hurt his feelings."

Dief huffed.

Ray laughed. "So what are we having? Polar bear liver? Or are they too cute, too?"

"You know very well that polar bear liver is never eaten, Ray, because of the high Vitamin A content. It's toxic. I know I've told you that before."

Ray smirked. "Yeah, about eighty times."

"Suffice it to say that not all of the ingredients of tonight's meal are imported, but it is indeed an authentic meal that one could have in Yellowknife." He set a full plate in front of Ray.

Most of what was on the plate looked normal, Ray realized. Fraser watched him as he gently poked at a few things, but didn't say anything--just sat there smiling. He could do this. "Looks good, Frase." He picked up something golden-brown and deliciously fried-looking that smelled like real food--almost familiar, in fact. He sniffed it again, then took a big bite.

"I'm glad you think so, Ray." Fraser picked up a slice of something whitish marbled with pinkish and dipped it in something reddish before popping it in his mouth and sighing with pleasure.

"This tastes just like chicken," Ray announced around his mouthful.

"That would be because it is, indeed, chicken. Kentucky Fried, in fact. Yellowknife is quite cosmopolitan, Ray." Fraser sniffed a bit disapprovingly. "This is rather a typical meal these days, it seems."

"There's a KFC in Yellowknife? No shit?" He laughed delightedly.

"4919 48th Street," Fraser said.

"How the hell can you remember that? Never mind."

"There are two McDonald's, as well, and a wide variety of pizza restaurants." Fraser shot him a sidelong, wicked glance. "Where I'm certain you could get such toppings as pineapple and lichen if you chose."

"McDonald's is disgusting, Fraser, but I'd be all over the pizza. You're not having chicken?" He gestured to Fraser's plate.

"No, just the maqtaak, and it's absolutely delicious. I could eat it like candy... shameful, I know, but I've missed it so." He ate another thin slice of the whitish stuff, making that pleased sound again. "It must be sliced quite thin indeed in order to bring out the fullness of its flavor, which calls to mind a combination of roses and chrysanthemums with a touch of almond."

Flowers couldn't be bad, right? Ray picked up the squishy little slice of the same stuff from his own plate, taking a deep breath, and put it in his mouth and started to chew before he could think about what he was doing. Fraser's smile made it worthwhile.

"It's sorta, uh..." He kept chewing. And chewing. And chewing, getting more suspicious with each chew. "It's sorta bland. Tastes like, huh, sort of fishy steak fat, not nutty flowers. What is it?"

"The--"

Ray held up his hand. "No, wait, don't tell me! It's blubber, isn't it?"

"Correct! The skin and blubber of the beluga whale, in fact."

Ray stopped chewing, seriously wondering what it would do to Fraser if he spat the stuff out now that he knew what it was. But, he told himself, it wasn't that bad. Not really.

"It's very high in Vitamin C," Fraser said cheerily. "Scurvy is quite rare in the Inuit population. Ray?"

Holding up his hand again, he swallowed the whale fat. It didn't go easy, but it went. He could feel it sitting there in his stomach. "No scurvy, Frase. I'm down with that, but that? Is why I drink orange juice."

"Understood. That's why I only gave you the one piece."

"It wasn't that bad, but it sure as hell wasn't candy." He went back to eating his comfortingly normal KFC. "But I could eat it again... if I was, you know, starving."

"Try a little aalu on your chicken, Ray."

"Aalu?"

Fraser gestured to a pile of fluffy reddish stuff on Ray's plate, the same stuff he'd been dipping his whale fat in. "It's a very popular dip for meat."

"Uh, it looks like meat. There's nothing gross in it, right?"

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. "Nothing that I consider gross."

"But stuff other people would consider gross?"

"Perhaps, but nothing harmful."

"But it is meat, right? Caribou?"

The eyebrow got another rub. "Seal, actually. Very lean and clean. Minced very finely."

Ray just waited, holding his chicken over the aalu.

"With a few drops of fat."

"Uh huh. What else?"

"And a few drops of blood."

"So, it's basically raw meat with, uh, cooked fat and raw blood? So sort of like... hmmm... a really really rare seal-burger?"

Fraser pondered that, chewing another piece of whale. "Essentially, yes."

"And it's fluffy because?"

"It's mixed friskily with one's fingers until the volume doubles."

"Friskily? Jesus. No seasoning, though? Little garlic, pepper, anything?" He gingerly swiped his chicken through the seal-dip, because he could do this. Really he could, because it was for Fraser. Because he'd had raw hamburger before and it hadn't killed him.

As he raised it to his mouth, Fraser said, "Well, there's some uruniq, hopefully not too much for your taste."

"Uruwhat?"

"Uruniq."

"That had better be a spice, because this stuff has touched my chicken, Fraser."

"You'll probably like it more if I don't tell you until af--"

"Tell me now. You're hedging enough that I know it's something that only a freak Mountie would put in his mouth."

"Ray! Thousands of people who are not Mounties eat uruniq."

"Then what the hell are they or is it?"

"Ptarmigan intestines. They're very tasty, Ray!"

Ray looked from Fraser to his intestine-contaminated chicken to Fraser again. "Uh... How about I just take your word on that? Dief? Want some chicken?" Dief stopped pawing through the catalog, looked up at Ray, and barked. "I'm sorry, Frase, I just can't do the, uh, intestines thing on top of the blubber thing."

"That's quite all right, Ray. But no chicken with bones for Diefenbaker."

Dief snorted.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry, wolf." Ray set the chicken carefully back on his plate. "Anything weird about the coleslaw, Frase?"

"Absolutely not, although my Uncle Tiberius once--"

Ray shook his head. "No. I know all I need to know about your freaky uncle. Let's figure out what to give your freaky coworker."

Dief barked smugly, pawing at the catalog. Ray looked down at it, laughed, and nearly choked on his coleslaw. "Dief thinks we should get this feather duster butt plug thing, Frase." He picked up the catalog as Dief made a vehement, grumbling noise of assent. "Either that or he wants to shove Turnbull's duster up his ass for not getting him slutty marmot."

"Diefenbaker!"

"Hey, no, this thing could really work as a present. Look." Ray dropped the catalog on the table between them and pointed to the picture. "Ostrich feathers. He could dust with his ass."

"No, Ray."

"No? Why not? He's kinked for clean even more than he is for anything else!"

"No, because this," Fraser's finger stabbed at the photo on the opposing page, "is utterly perfect."

Ray spun the catalog so he could read the description of the greenish-gray dildo pictured there, dropping his fork as he did. "Fraser, it's a rock."

"It's not just a rock." Fraser's eyes went all dreamy.

Ray blinked. "What?"

"It's approximately two pounds of polished granite, with a beveled base and testicles that a human hand can hold. Okay, so in and of itself it looks like it has no practical purpose beyond provoking response from its novelty or simply to draw the eye as it sits on a shelf. But it's a... a repository. Of erotic possibility. And when it's handled just right, it exacts a kind of poetry..."

"Poetry?" Ray finally asked, staring and waiting for Fraser's eyes to focus, for him to come out of whatever fucked-up trance the idea of a granite dildo was inspiring in him. Dief used the opportunity to steal the last piece of whale fat from Fraser's plate.

"...or so I would imagine." Fraser came back to himself with a shake, his cheeks flushed a little.

Ray chuckled and flipped to the page with the 800 number he needed to call to be hooked up with the world's perviest sex toys. "So, uh, two of these rocks then, huh? One for him, one for you?"

"That's... that's unnecessary, Ray." Fraser's blush deepened a little. "Just the one."

"C'mon, it'll look so cute next to your inu--inook--little dude made of rocks," Ray teased. "I'm getting you one. End of discussion. Now, what's for dessert? The sludge in a caribou's gut?"

"A cloudberry tart, Ray, with absolutely no meat products in it. Although it's funny you should mention the stomach contents of caribou and dessert--"

"I don't want to hear it."

PODOPHILEMIA

"Are all curlers totally perverted freaks?" he asked as they entered the Downtown Hotel, home of the Sour Dough Saloon, and the piece of shit rust-bucket van they'd just spent several hundred miles being tortured in rattled away.

"I curl, Ray." Fraser looked a bit offended, and Ray backtracked hastily.

"All curlers but you, I meant. Just, those guys... yeah, they gave us a ride, which was cool, but," he gestured with both hands, frustrated, "they make Turnbull look normal. They wanted... gah! You know. That."

Fraser stopped shy of the reception desk. "Coprophagy isn't for everyone," he said after a long moment. "And we did catch the miscreants through their aid."

"Way to be diplomatic. Corpro--co--shit eating shouldn't be for anyone, Fraser, and I did say it was cool that they gave us a ride, didn't I?" He poked Fraser in the shoulder. "At least they didn't want us to eat their shit, though. Because there would have been carnage, I swear to God. You'd have had to arrest me for quadruple homicide--and them doing their patriotic duty to Canada by giving us a ride wouldn't matter."

"Understood."

"And the thing with the chicken? That's just wrong, too."

"Understood."

"Just so long as we're clear on that."

"Absolutely, Ray." Fraser glanced around, probably looking for the absent desk clerk. "Ah, would you like to stop into the gift shop to possibly get some fresh clothing before we check in and return the stolen property to the saloon?"

"Nah, I'm good." Ray looked down at his rumpled self and shrugged. He didn't stink that badly. "But that reminds me, we need to get something for Frannie's latest rugrat. Might as well do it here instead of doing mail-order."

"I was going to ask Turnbull to shop for us, Ray. He has such a good eye for soft toys, and I don't believe the ones here would be quite suitable for a baby."

Ray coughed, staring at Fraser. "Fraser, he's got more than an eye for them. He's got an unhealthy relationship with them."

"Unhealthy?"

"He fucks them, Frase. He's a, whatchacallit, a furvert."

"I believe he prefers the term 'plushophile'--and who would be better in choosing a stuffed toy that will not irritate the delicate skin of an infant?"

"Okay, you've got a point there."

"And, like foot fetishism, it's a quite common paraphilia which carries over from childhood."

"He's a foot freak, too? I did not know that. That's cool."

"No, you misunderstand. Fetishes like that are easily traceable back to an individual's childhood. It's an attraction to some of the first things a child experiences and is familiar with."

"So my thing for your feet comes from my childhood? Nah, don't think so."

Fraser didn't answer, because the desk clerk had appeared behind the desk. Suddenly Fraser and Ray were being greeted as heroes. Bemused, Ray let himself be herded into the saloon, where a huge, cheering group of people surrounded them and whateverthefuck he and Fraser had chased a drunken punk band halfway across northern Canada to retrieve after Fraser figured out they'd stolen this thing. And, whoa, those guys were stupid because they'd let Fraser chase them right back to Dawson, where they'd stolen it in the first place.

"The toe? Am I hearing this right?" Ray asked Fraser, his lips so close to Fraser's ear that his nose was buried in Fraser's hair, trying to be heard over the excited chanting of the crowd. "We chased those fuckwads across the mighty north for a toe?"

"Yes, Ray!" Fraser beamed as they reached the bar, where a bald but mustached man wearing a boat captain's hat awaited them. "Although it is not the toe, but rather one of several owned by the saloon."

The bartender held up his hands for quiet, and Ray sat on one of the two stools they'd been driven to. Fraser, on the other hand, reached into his tunic, pulling out one of the band members' t-shirts. Cradling the wad of fabric like some sort of sacred relic in his left hand, he used his right hand to unwrap it. Ray, along with everybody else in the place, leaned closer to see just what was there.

And it was a toe.

A disgusting, black-brown, dried-out--god, it had a nail on it--toe, lying there in Fraser's hand, on the 're' of the word 'core' printed on a smelly t-shirt last worn by a smelly, stupid drummer.

They had chased those fuckwads across the frozen north for a toe.

Then Fraser passed the toe to Captain Dick, the owner if Ray had heard the introductions clearly, who held it high above the crowd.

"Tell me that thing is fake, Fraser," he said weakly, but knew Fraser couldn't possibly hear him, because the cheer that went up at the sight of the ugly thing was deafening.

Fifteen minutes later, Captain Dick had taken the toe off somewhere to be cleaned, the bar's whacked-out clientele had pretty much finished congratulating Fraser and him for returning the disgusting thing, and Ray was staring at a clear glass jar full of salt and toes, a worn leather log book, and a mahogany box, and finally finding out just what was so damned special about them.

"You're shitting me, Frase. People do shots with these dead-guy toes in them?" Ray gagged.

"The tradition began in 1973 when the first Captain Dick--the current one leases the Toe from the former--also known as Captain River Rat for reasons which are unclear, purchased a cabin outside of Dawson which had the pickled remains of the previous owner's toe inside. The previous owner was a trapper, who had had his toe removed to prevent the onset of gangrene."

"He kept the toe? That's... that's...sick."

"Be that as it may, he decided one evening--apparently after a great many cocktails--to concoct this unusual beverage."

"Well, yeah, because nobody would think of it sober." Ray drummed his fingers on the bar. "Except for maybe those shit-eating curlers. They'd probably think of something worse."

"Thousands of people have 'done the Toe' since its inception. My father was amongst the first." Fraser's tone was a little chiding, but Ray didn't care.

"There's nothing illegal about this?"

"No, there is not. It's simply a unique ritual."

"And all these people are watching me because they think I'm going to do it. They think I'm going to let part of a dead guy touch my lip." Ray glared at the bar patrons, hating them for being there and so damned sure he'd wuss out.

"Would it help to know that the majority of the current toes were donated by living people for various reasons?"

"No, that would not help. I swear, I'm going down to the jail and beating that fucking band to death with their instruments."

"I fail to see what that would solve, Ray."

"It would make me feel better. Because it's their fault that I'm here with all these people staring at me and that I have to actually think about doing this, Fraser, because I need a fucking drink." He rested his head on the bar.

Fraser's "ah" of response was very soft, and it somehow calmed Ray's frustrated anger. "It truly isn't as disgusting as it seems. The toe adds no flavor to the beverage, despite Captain Dick telling you that it tastes just like chicken, and they have all been soaked in enough alcohol that there are no bacteria to worry about. However, I'm certain that Captain Dick would not begrudge you a toe-free beverage of your choice."

"You have done this, Frase?" He raised his head, meeting Fraser's eyes, already knowing the answer--that he was the only fish out of water here, that Fraser was one of them.

Fraser nodded. "With lemonade, yes, I did. My certificate was lost when my apartment in Chicago burned, but I could have the Captain show you my signature in the log book if you wish."

"No, I believe you."

Fraser's fingers brushed against Ray's arm, and bam, their connection was there in the middle of the crowd. "I will think no less of you if you should choose to demur."

"So, uh, is one of these the one you... did?" Ray tapped the jar of salty toes, looking at Fraser through his eyelashes.

"No, I'm sorry to say," Fraser flashed Ray a small, private smile.

Warmed through because Fraser got it, was touched, Ray asked, "What happened to it?"

"That toe, number three, was swallowed in 1983 by a baseball player from Inuvik whose comrades tricked him into believing he had to ingest the toe instead of merely allowing it to touch his lip."

"Poor fucking bastard." Ray shook his head. "Swallowing something even a Mountie wouldn't lick." He beckoned Mike, the bartender over. "I'm going for it, but there's no way in hell I'm swallowing it. Use the biggest fucking toe, you hear me?"

Mike put on a captain's hat, announced to the bar that Ray was going to do the Toe, and poured him a double shot of Jack Daniels.

He stared at the glass. Okay, he could do this. Just a double of Jack. Then Mike plopped the toe in there. He shuddered, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, it was still there, looking like a floating cigar butt.

Huh.

He could handle a cigar butt. Playing poker years ago, back when they were both uniforms, he'd whipped Gardino like a red-headed stepchild, gloated about it, and wound up with Gardino's butt in his beer. And he'd downed it anyway because he was hot shit.

He was still hot shit, dammit, but that wasn't what this was about. This was about him and Fraser, not cheating on Stella and getting a blow job from Gardino as a reward for doing something that disgusting.

This? Was a symbol.

And after he did this, he could take Fraser upstairs to their room--away from all the damned people--and suck his dick until he couldn't taste whiskey anymore.

That decided, he nodded once, closed his eyes, and picked up the glass, raising it to the refrain of "Do it fast or do it slow, but the lips must touch the toe," chanted by everyone but Fraser. And he did it fast, his lips pressed as tightly together as possible while still letting the sweet burn of the Jack through.

The toe touched his upper lip before he'd finished the shot, and really it was sort of anti-climactic, because it could have been plastic or wood or a somehow room-temperature ice cube for all the actual physical effect it had.

He opened his eyes as he set the glass back on the bar with more of an impact than he'd intended, and Fraser was smiling at him with just the little crinkles by his eyes. And he smiled back the whole time he was accepting congratulatory pats on the shoulder from cheering people he'd never met before while he signed the log book. And for one stupid minute it felt like he'd just hit a home run.

Mike, who really looked dorky with that captain's hat on, asked for his full name for the certificate.

"Ray Vec--" No, he wasn't Vecchio anymore and Fraser was looking at him kind of funny. No, Vecchio would never have done the Toe, no friggin' way, was down in Florida doing the Stella. "Ray Kowalski."

"S-k-i?" Mike asked, finishing it when Ray nodded. Mike handed it to Ray, then gathered up the Toe stuff from the bar and left Ray and Fraser as alone as they could be in that crowded room.

Fraser took the certificate from Ray. "Ray Kowalski," he read aloud, "drank an authentic Sour Toe Cocktail, thereby following in the wayward-even staggering-footsteps of Capt. River Rat, and has proven to be a person capable of almost anything..."

"Like I wasn't before, Frase, when you were endangering my life in wildly bizarre ways?"

Fraser smiled. "Of course you were, Ray." And Ray could hear the unspoken, "and that's part of why I love you."

Ray grinned. "Okay, I've done your sour dead-guy toe thing. Let's go upstairs and I'll show you how to do it right. My way."

"Your way, Ray?"

"With 100% still-attached live guy toes and the mini bar."

"There is no mini bar, I am sorry to say."

Ray frowned. "Room service?"

Fraser shook his head.

"Yo, Mike, give me another double--no friggin' toe in it this time or I'll kick you in the head--and I'll bring back the glass later." As Mike poured the drink, Ray turned back to Fraser and grinned triumphantly.

"Very well done, Ray."

"And tomorrow, Frase? We're buying Turnbull one of those stuffed toes from the gift shop. Get him working toward a normal kink."

CODA

"Boots!"

"Fuck!" Fraser exclaimed. Then he giggled, and Ray couldn't help but giggle, too.

Because swearing Fraser, silly drunk and mostly naked, toppling over onto Ray's bed with his pumpkin pants all bunched at the top of his boots, was funny and hot and wonderful. And Ray was drunk, too, giddy as hell with Christmas cheer in the form of the strongest eggnog he'd ever had in his life and Mountie-he-loved-in-his-bedroom cheer that made the eggnog's strength exactly squat in the grand scheme of things.

"Ray? Help me with my boots?"

"Nuh uh." Ray dropped to his knees beside Fraser's slightly flailing legs.

"Please?"

"Nuh uh." He planted a kiss on Fraser's left butt cheek. "Scoot back," he insisted, tugging on Fraser's legs. "So your knees are on the floor."

And Fraser did, turning his face toward Ray as he scooted, still giggling. His hair was messy, his lips parted, and Ray could never resist that so he leaned forward and kissed him as best he could, considering the awkwardness of the position.

He stroked Fraser's back with both hands, kissed his way down Fraser's spine. With one hand resting on Fraser's ass, he considered just what he was going to do.

"You're not going to spank me, are you, Ray?"

Ray snatched back his hand. "Hell no. Turnbull's the one into discipline. I'm not that drunk that I don't know which freaky Mountie's in my bedroom--not that Turnbull's ever been here or ever will be."

"Going to fuck me?" Fraser's voice was nearly a purr that went straight to Ray's dick and he was tempted, but no, he had to do this, wanted to do this.

"Later." He moved so he was straddling Fraser's boots, palmed Fraser's ass with both hands, and took a deep breath. Fraser's ass was probably so clean he could eat off it, right? He giggled over his choice of words as he slid his thumbs between Fraser's cheeks and exposed Fraser's pretty pink asshole with its scattering of little dark hairs around it.

Licking his lower lip nervously, he started leaning forward. Now or never, because if he couldn't do it drunk, he'd never be able to do it sober. Fraser could do it, had done it for him, would put anything in his mouth and would put his mouth anywhere...

"--Ray, Ray, Ray--"

"Huh?"

Fraser squirmed like he was going to try to kneel up. "You don't have to do this, Ray."

"Shut up, I want to."

"Whatever butters your crank," Fraser giggled.

"You butter my crank and turn my muffin." Ray tried to stop laughing and ended up resting his forehead on Fraser's tailbone until he could breathe and lift his head again. "Jesus, Fraser, don't crack me up like that or you'll never get my tongue in your ass!"

"Un--understood," Fraser gasped.

That gasp and Fraser's little stutter... Suddenly everything wasn't funny anymore, was scorching hot, and Ray couldn't stop himself.

There was a little trickle of sweat on Fraser's tailbone, so he started there. It tasted just like sweat anywhere else on Fraser's body, and the way Fraser moaned was encouraging as hell, so Ray kept going. And it wasn't disgusting...

Fraser's cheeks were hot against his cheeks, Fraser's tailbone a hard pressure against his nose, as he licked and sucked and slurped. Fraser writhed and moaned, trying to part his trouser-fettered legs more, and Ray moved down to nuzzle at Fraser's balls. And, yeah, those were familiar territory, but where he was going next sure as hell wasn't...

He pulled back for a second and took a deep breath. Fraser's hands were clenched in a death-grip on the sheets to match Ray's on his hips. Ray relaxed his hands a little, sucked another breath through his nose, and curled his tongue before diving back in.

It took a little bit of effort but not much, and then his tongue wasn't just teasing anymore, it was following through. It was in Fraser's ass.

"Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray, God, Ray!"

Ray reached around, wrapped his hand around Fraser's dick, and stroked it hard three times. Fraser bucked, nearly breaking Ray's nose in the process, and came.

Ray sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth and chin with his arm, and Fraser rolled over, scooting so his ass was on the bed. "C'mere," Fraser urged, tugging Ray up to sit beside him. "That was... it was amazing, Ray."

"Didn't taste like I thought it would," Ray admitted.

"What do I taste like, Ray?" Fraser's fingers were gentle on his cheekbone, but urgent on the button fly of his jeans.

"You taste... you taste just like..." Ray blinked a few times, adding together words like 'home' and 'comfort' and 'love' and 'warmth' with a few others and coming up with a surprising total. "Chicken."

And Fraser smiled blindingly, kissed him firmly, and laughed and laughed and laughed.

End Savor The Flavor by Heuradys: heuradys_fox@comcast.net

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