Author's Notes: For BLG and Estrella.

I'm driving, and Fraser's staring out the window, being all smug because if it wasn't for him, nobody would have suspected that maybe the bank teller had done it. Not because everyone else was stupid, no thank you, but because the bank teller had been in Kalamazoo at the time. You believe there's a real place called Kalamazoo? Not me, but Fraser jumped in with his whyfores and wherefores and hithertofores and informed me that of course it's a real place, Ray.

Yeah, thanks, Fraser, got it, good.

So I had to say something to make him be a little less smug because I was needing air, the car was stifling, he was so smug.

Finally, at a red light, I turn to him and say, "You ain't perfect, Fraser."

And he looks at me, all surprised-like, but I know Fraser and I know when something really surprises him and when he's just pretending like he's surprised to make whoever he's talking to feel more special or something, and he was just being a faker with me. I hate it when people fake shit, and Fraser knows that, so he musta been doing it just to piss me off.

Then he says, "Of course I'm not perfect, Ray. You know, several belief systems hold to the idea that the only perfect quote-unquote thing is the deity. God, if you will. For example, Islam --"

I shake my my head real quick, drive through because the light is green, and say, "Aw, shut up, Fraser," and he glares at me, like I can't see him glaring just cause I'm driving? Whatever, Fraser, you faker.

So he turns back to the window and I concentrate on the road, but I know he's not perfect. He's mean in his head and sometimes out loud, which, frankly, I kinda like. He's a little bit queer when it comes to his clothing choices -- queer like strange, not queer like gay, cause I don't know one gay guy who would wear his flannel shirt tucked into his jeans like that. Not that I know many gay guys, but the ones I do know? They lean more toward leather, if you know what I'm saying.

And Fraser? He does not lean toward leather. Except those Mountie boots.

Which is not to say that Fraser is not gay, because Fraser is a sexual identity crisis, critical mass, blah blah blah -- I think, but who knows? For reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture -- at least, not by me -- Fraser does both. But his clothing is not gay, not at all, not one iota.

I could go on, if I wanted to, but I don't, so I just grumble, "You are not perfect," under my breath.

He says, "Well, Ray, please feel free to enumerate my many flaws," and when I glance over at him to see if he's sulking, he's really just smirking out the window, that stupid smirk that telegraphs out to everyone looking that he knows Canadians are smarter than Americans and he feels bad for us cause we're so stupid all the time about the way poop smells. And then his tongue comes out and he licks his lower lip, smirking the whole time, and I almost crash the car into the guy in front of me when he stops at a red light, so I'm scowling.

So what I say isn't "You got a bad attitude about your own brain" or "This ain't buddies, Fraser, because you're trying to make me feel stupid" or something. No, what I say is, "You got chapped lips!"

I'm real triumphant, like I just beat one of the heavyweight guys or took home the Pan Australia Ballroom Dancing trophy or some shit. I don't even know if they really got that, being that I'm from America and all, but it sounds good.

Light's green again, and Fraser's laughing at me.

"Stop laughing," I say to him. "This ain't funny. You got flaws, Fraser, you got a lot of flaws, and that's just one. You are always licking that lip of yours and that means that you always have chapped lips. Fact of life."

"All right, Ray," he says.

"Not like I look at your lips," I continue, feeling kind of a sinking sensation, like when we jumped off that roof that one time. Oh, sorry, I mean those nine times. What's a day with Fraser unless you jump off a roof? Why, that's no day at all!

"Of course not, Ray," he says, and now his smirk is the one that tells me that he knows I'm gonna keep going. I don't want to keep going, but we both know that I have to.

"It's just that you got some of those -- you know. Tricks. Ticks. Things you do. Ticks, right? Habits?" I raise my eyebrows a little. "Ain't your fault you can't control yourself."

He's all somber with his "Of course not, Ray"s and his "You are so right, Ray"s and I know he's making fun of me, so I keep going, keep needling him, cause eventually he's either gonna pop me one or suck me off, and I'm aiming for the sucking, because that's the only time he shuts the fuck up about how great he is and how pretty he is and how everyone should really be Canadian. Who cares about how the bank teller did it? What matters is that we caught her before she could get on a plane to Bora Bora. You believe there's really a place called Bora Bora? The bank teller got a real fancy for places with unbelievable names, I'll tell you that much.

Not that I'm totally queer. Queer like gay, cause everybody knows I'm a little strange. No, I'm not totally gay. I just got a thing for Fraser. Like everyone is kinda bisexual? Well, I'm kinda Frasersexual. Frasersexual and also sometimes I got a thing for hockey players, but that's normal for guys who grow up in Chicago.

So I keep going about his lip, telling him about how he got a little red line right underneath where his lower lip stops, and I always see him running his teeth over it, and anything with the tongue gets Fraser, every single time, so by the time I pull into the 2-7's parking lot, he's almost fidgeting. Almost but not quite, since we are talking about a guy who can stand outside the Canadian Consulate for six hours without moving a muscle or having to take a piss or anything, which is pretty impressive.

You'd think self-control like that would mean he got a lot of stamina in the bedroom, but I outlast him every single time. Well, we never made it to a bed yet, but you know what I mean. Of course, we're competitive, so it can get a little rough, but I always make it through. I got something to prove, and he don't, because he's already Canadian, so I gotta make him realize I can think and act like one sometimes, even if I don't always remember to hold open the elevator doors for little old ladies.

When we get out of the car, Fraser clears his throat and says, "Ray, if you'll excuse me, I'll meet you in the squad room. I believe I need to..."

He trails off like that, it means he's gotta get hold of himself. When he needs to piss, he says "use the facilities" or "avail myself of the facilities." That makes me laugh my ass off. But I know that I got him revved up, so I just nod my head and say okay, and then follow him into the bathroom. He likes the one on the first floor, the one for the handicapped. I figure it like this: he's okay to use that because we're in Chicago, not Canada, and that means he's about as handicapped as they come.

I lock the door behind me and pull my lips up around my teeth. It ain't a smile, not even close, but it don't need to be because Fraser's not even looking at it. He's licking his goddamn lips and dropping to his knees, pushing me against the door. The light's not even on. He runs his teeth over my cock through my jeans, and that makes me shake, then he slides his fingers into my belt loops. Yeah, I know, I'm too skinny; he just pulls my jeans down, not even unbuttoning them or anything, and since we used my belt to tie up the bank teller, they just come off, get caught a bit on my cock, which hurts for a second, but Fraser pulls harder, and down they come. Then he uses his teeth to pull off my boxers, and I am pretty sure I'm gonna die before he gets his fucking chapped lips around my cock.

He does this shit every time and it makes me want to kill him or kiss him -- I can't decide which, so I guess it's probably good that I always end up kissing him by default or something. If I killed him, I'd probably regret it eventually, plus Dief wouldn't ever let me live it down. He don't like the kissing, but I can't help myself.

I just lean against the door, with one hand holding onto that handicapped bar and the other holding onto the wall, legs spread as far as I can get them. At least he took off the hat before he got on his knees, because once he didn't and I had a bruise on my belly in the shape of the brim for almost a week. His mouth is hot and wet and probably tastes like the pemmican we chewed on for lunch -- which tasted suspiciously like his hair; I bet he kept it in his hat, which I guess is better than keeping it in his pants, anyway. I just keep thinking about putting my hands into his hair and twisting, pulling him up to kiss me, twine our tongues together, make him taste me from a different angle -- but we don't do that.

Not yet, anyway.

That's okay, because we didn't do this either, not until after that buddy breathing thing when I realized what all those queer -- I mean, you know, strange -- looks from him had been. Not "Ray, you're actually holding that sextant upsidedown and backwards" or "Ray, you do realize that when you smiled in that manner, you scared several of the people around you" but really "Ray, I've been staring at your hands and therefore didn't realize that you plotted our course incorrectly, which is all right, since I was supposed to be plotting the course for us and was instead distracted by your hands" or "Unfortunately, I was watching the way your tongue moved behind your teeth instead of listening to what those people were saying, so could you possibly fill me in?"

I tried to kiss him -- a bunch of times, I tried to kiss him, and he kept pulling away, so one day I just got sick of it, sent the dog out with some doughnuts and orders to give us the privacy we deserved, and sucked his dick until he came, then sucked it again, until he was shaking.

I may not be much, but I'm real good in bed, let me tell you. Fraser had to find that out the hard way. Which is the best way. Though, like I said, we haven't exactly made it to the bed yet.

He's real good at sucking cock, almost as good as me -- takes it down his throat like a pro, breathes through his nose, doesn't panic when he chokes a little and his eyes water. I kinda like that, knowing that he's pushing himself to give me pleasure. I'm skinny and I got funny looking hair and freckles on my back and, hey, you want signs of aging? My tat is spreading, the black turning bluish and everything. But he doesn't care, all he wants is to dig his fingertips into my hips and swallow my cock down, which I am A-OK with. I am so all right with that, righter than right, finer than fine, gooder than good, better than best.

He makes me come -- I'm so easy, I don't need jacking or anything, just his mouth, just looking down at his hair in the shadows, just his hands on my hips, those hard fingers squeezing my skin while his mouth slurps my cock -- and I keep quiet, no noise in the precinct, and then my legs are shaking and I slide to the floor. His fingers are back in my beltloops, and as I slide down, he pulls my pants up, and fuck if that doesn't chafe. Shit.

He wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, and damn him if he isn't smirking again, like maybe Canadians are better at giving head than Americans. Everything's a competition with this guy.

Well, I better represent for America. I lean over and unzip, unsnap, and unbuckle the puffy pants -- in reverse order, of course. Gotta do it properly. I don't even bother with the tunic, just push it up and lean in, hold it up with my head. Then I pull him out of his boxers, and he stays perfectly still, kneeling between my legs. Giving head is like zen for me, like those creepy rock gardens with the people who rake sand. Instead of raking sand, I give head. It kind of creeped Stella out the way that the rock gardens creep me out. I could go down on her for hours -- she was all soft and girly-smelling, like baby powder and salt and sweetness and her cologne, which used to be cheapo stuff because she'd rather buy expensive shoes than expensive cologne, but when she got --

That don't matter, so whatever. What matters is Fraser, who always tastes the same: musky, salty, smoky, like snow and rain and grass and trees, and soap and sweat. It's the sweat I like the best, because no matter how he wants to act, he's just human like the rest of us. Maybe he's a perfect Mountie, but he's just a regular man, and I got the proof of that on my tongue and down my throat.

His hands go in my hair. His hands twist around the spikes, breaking the gel hold, and that kinda hurts a little, but in a good way. His hands touch me, run over my eyebrows, touch my face, the scars on my head. When I first met him and he talked to me about my file, he didn't mention the three concussions from boxing, the two shootings that grazed my scalp, blah blah blah, but I know he's gotta know about them because he's never asked why my talking's fucked up, and everyone else always asks.

My back hurts, it's aching from being bent over almost in half, and my knees hurt from being straight for so long, so I bend them up a little, but it only makes my back hurt more, so I start squeezing him tighter, and every time I come up for air, I twist up over the head, a little rough. He likes it to hurt, but he'd never say, "Ray, please hurt me, thank you kindly," so I just gotta go by feel and twist and grope until he comes, harder and harder each time. Sometimes I push on that little spot right behind his balls, or lick my palm and rub them, which he loves, but I can't do that now, because he'd lose his balance, and I can't do this for much longer.

When he does come, which is quicker than me -- thank you kindly, Canada, America wins this round! -- he does with a little sigh and groan, and I swallow it all down real quick, because he's shaking and if I'm not fast, it might leak out. He tastes just like he smells, without the soap, though, just the outdoors. Without the sweat, too, I guess, but there's so much of that on my tongue already, I can't ever tell. I keep him in my mouth extra long, because I know he gets sensitive but likes it anyway, and I suck him gently as his cock shrinks down to slightly smaller than a goddamn nuclear missile silo. I gotta admit he got me beat there, and some of my best fantasies involve trying to figure out exactly what I could do with that, and how long it would take me to do it. That's a half hour of shower tugging right there, and I bet that when I finally get him into a bed with a tube of lube and a box of condoms, it'll be even better than my perverted dreams.

I lick him clean, then I tuck him back in, and zip and snap and buckle, and then he stands up, straight and tall, and I stand up without his help -- but it's not as easy as I pretend, because my back is about to get the blue flu or something and call in sick for a month of Sundays. He glares at me like he knows what I'm doing, but I pretend it's too dark to notice -- then I bust myself by turning to the mirror and picking at my hair. Smart, Kowalski, you dumbass.

Fraser clears his throat and when I turn, he's licking his lip again. I get up in his face and say, "Chapped lips, Fraser. Chapped lips."

"Ray," he says, and reaches around me for his hat, "I fail to see what chapped lips have to do with anything. In fact, I do not believe that --"

"Uh-uh, Fraser," I reply. Then I lean in a little -- and I'm taller than him, even though most people don't realize that, so I gotta lean my face down a little, just tilt to him -- and I brush my mouth over his bottom lip. "Don't try to deny it, buddy. I know you got chapped lips. We'll get you a little Blistex at the drugstore tonight."

He scowls at me, but doesn't say anything. I know why he doesn't wanna kiss me -- because he thinks I'm still hung up on Stella. Well, he's not totally wrong. Stella is the only woman I ever loved. That don't mean I can't move on with my life and love a man. Eventually Fraser's stupid Canadian brain will figure that out, and maybe he won't be smirking like he's so fucking smart then, because he coulda had me this whole time if he would just get with the program already.

Whatever, this is enough for right now. Maybe eventually he'll work it out, piece all the puzzles together, solve the case, and I'll get to be the one smirking.

"After you," he says, and holds open the bathroom door.

"Oh, no," I say, and bow, let him walk in front of me. "After you. It only takes an extra moment to be courteous."

He glares at me again, and this time I can't pretend not to see, so I just stare at him and curl up the corners of my lips to show him my teeth, like I know he likes, and follow him to the stairs. We gotta interview and book the bank teller, and I need my belt back.