Author's Notes: This story was originally posted in two parts. The first one was written for the "Seven Deadly Sins" challenge at DS Flashfiction.

They're walking out of Walgreen's, where they'd been interviewing the guy who maybe saw what happened at the Shakespeare Festival on Saturday night, and anyway they're talking about the guy's story, which has changed already three times and is a total load of crap, only Fraser doesn't get that, of course.

So they're arguing, kind of, that back and forth thing they get stuck in sometimes, and Fraser ducks his head and gets his pissy look and scrubs at his eyebrow with his thumb. And Ray? Ray reaches over, still yapping a mile a minute, and he smoothes the Mountie's eyebrow back in place. Just fucking does it, his fingers brushing Fraser's warm cheek, those dark hairs coarse under his thumb.

And he gets it, a second later, what a freakish thing it is he's doing, but of course by then it's too late. He makes this face, and Fraser kind of frowns, and Ray shoves his hands in his pockets. "We walking here or what?" he snaps. And that's exhibit number one.

Number two is so stupid he can hardly even think it. What it is, is: Fraser has this smell. It's not a weird smell or anything--probably just part sweat and part... phero-- pherodendrons, or whatever. Anyhow, it's not like he stinks; you practically have to be sitting on the guy to get a whiff of it. It's just his regular personal odour. The thing that's weird is, Ray totally knows this smell, the same way he knows Stella's smell, or his own: he recognizes it way down deep in the bottom of his brain, like something out of Animal Planet.

Which takes us over to number three, which is the worst one so far because it's all about math and facts, and that ain't something you can argue. Cause at the end of the week Ray adds it up in his head, and he figures out that him and Fraser have been together something like seventy-five hours in the past five days. And that's weird, for sure. That's nuts. But even nutser? He's already thinking up an excuse to call the guy over on Saturday.

And that leads straight into number four, which speaks for itself, so just listen:

"Fraser."

"Ah, hello, Ray!"

"Yeah, uh. Hi. So..."

"Is something the matter, Ray?"

"No. No. I just was, uh. Wondering..."

"Yes, Ray?"

"Uh, if maybe you wanted to, you know. Uh..."

"Ray. Are you being held against your will or threatened? Just say `yes' to answer in the affirmative."

"Christ! No! Fraser! I'm just trying to invite you over to watch the game tomorrow."

"Ah. Well, Ray, I would be delighted. Shall we say two o'clock?"

Case in fucking point.

Exhibit five, though--that's the kicker. It happens on Saturday morning, which naturally he's spending in bed, thinking about waking up enough to jerk off. So of course the phone rings. "Yeah," he snaps, and on the other end Fraser gives this half-voiced, oh-so-patient sigh and then he says, "Good morning, Ray. I'm afraid I may be somewhat later than I'd anticipated today. Diefenbaker's made himself quite sick; apparently, Turnbull left a tray of apple danishes unguarded."

Or at least, that's what Ray thinks he says. Truth is, everything that came after that sigh could have been in Chinese or Inuit or something; Ray sort of lost track of things on account of his dick is so hard he can barely breathe. And oh, his head is going places with that sigh, it's shoving these pictures in front of his face, like BAM, there's Fraser gasping lamplit and naked, and Ray has him, has him open, and oh Christ what he's thinking of doing with his tongue. And then WHAM, Fraser's lips wet with Ray's spit and BAM, Fraser's teeth on Ray's neck and it's like Ray's brain is a TV preacher, only not pushing fire and brimstone, but instead this hot queer porn.

And Fraser has stopped talking. Ray pushes the pads of his fingers into his eyelids and tries to remember English. "Yeah, whatever," he gasps finally, "Sure." And then he hangs up the phone and shoves his hand under the sheets and JE-esus, it's over, that's all she wrote.

So. No more evidence. Ray's figuring in this particular case, he might as well just fuck detecting: even a goddamn sea monkey could line up a conviction here. All but wrapped up and ready to get filed. There's just one thing left to prove.

And so he's pacing, right, and the game is on but he's not even watching it--except when some jackass misses a sweet shot which no way should be missed by anybody but a six-year-old girl!--but mostly he can't even watch it, and Fraser'll be here any minute. And Ray knows that one way or the other, this thing is getting solved tonight. He already has his perp dead to rights. Now he just needs to know if there's an accomplice.

***

So it's tied up in the third. Fraser's sitting forward on his end of the couch. He's got his legs open, elbows braced on his knees. TV light flickering over his face, reflecting off his eyes--which are locked on the screen, following the play. His lower lip's between his teeth and he looks flushed, a little. Ray keeps having to claw the fuck out of his own palms so he doesn't just lean over and lick the guy.

"Oh," says Fraser, sounding disappointed, and yeah, something happened on the screen, missed shot or a take down or something, Ray didn't catch it but the crowd is oh-ing too. He sucks in a breath. Pulls himself around to face the TV again, because come on, Kowalski, let's get a fucking grip, here, let's at least try and blink every once in a while. But Jesus. He doesn't get how he used to do this, sit like this on a couch with Fraser only one cushion away and still manage to keep his hands to himself.

Something happens on the screen. The play stops, maybe a penalty is called, Ray has no idea, really. But they cut to a commercial and next to him Fraser cricks his neck and relaxes a little. Ray isn't looking at him because he can't, but it doesn't matter because tonight it's like he's got Spidey Senses or something--at least where Fraser's concerned. He can just tell that Fraser's shifted around to face him, now. He can practically feel the air move when the guy takes a breath so he can speak.

"Is everything all right, Ray? You seem...unusually quiet this evening."

By which Fraser means Ray ain't yelled anything at the screen in, like, two periods. Ray smiles, but it feels painful and it probably looks downright scary. He puts his hands over it, scrubs at his face. "Yeah," he says, through his fingers, "I'm good."

But Fraser didn't get through Mountie school on his looks alone, apparently. He narrows his eyes--and yeah, Ray can just tell, okay?--and he tilts his head, just a little. "Ray."

And it's all there in that one word: Fraser's worried, he knows something's up, he's maybe thinking he did something wrong. So what that means (and Ray's guts are taking a long, slow dive into hell, here), is now's the time. Right fucking now. He's gotta say it.

He sucks in a breath. Takes his hands away from his face and curls them into fists so he can maybe hide how bad they're shaking. The game's back on but neither of them's looking. Ray can feel Fraser's eyes on his face.

He turns around. And oh Christ--there's Fraser, all worried and normal and himself, and something heavy smashes into Ray's ribcage and his breath all goes out of him and right on the tail end of it, he gets the words out: "Fraser, I--God. I kinda got a crush on you."

And okay, he's not going to think about how stupid that sounded (a crush? Jesus--what, is this the fifth grade or something?), or how Fraser's mouth just fell open, or how red the guy's neck seems to be getting. He's just gonna breathe, and maybe stick his hands in his armpits like this, because for some reason that feels comforting, and he's gonna sit here and wait for--

Oh. Whoa. That's Fraser's knee right there, ain't it, pressing into his thigh. And that's gotta be Fraser's big hand closing careful around Ray's bicep right now, each finger a separate presence on his skin. He looks up and oh, wow. Fraser's face is so close Ray can feel the heat coming off it, can see all the little lines around his darkening eyes, the small scar by his lip, the fine stubble coming in.

"Ray," Fraser says, close and soft, "I'm honoured, Ray."

And but then he just sits there looking deadly serious and kind of unsure of himself and Ray thinks maybe "crush" means something different in Canada. So just to make sure that nothing's getting lost in translation, here, he leans forward and presses his mouth to Fraser's. He holds himself there for a heartbeat, just long enough Fraser can't get confused. Then he pulls back a little, raises his eyebrows. See? Crush.

Fraser opens his mouth. Takes a quick breath, like he's gonna say something, and Ray half-winces in advance. But he doesn't, though, Fraser doesn't say anything; he just leans back in and kisses Ray for real.

And Ray goes deaf. Blind, too--he's got nothing to go on except touch. But, oh...touch is enough. Touch is plenty. Fraser's lips are softer than anything human has a right to be, and they move under his, they open right up and let in Ray's tongue. It's wet in there, and hot, and it tastes sweet, and oh, Fraser's tongue is moving up to meet his, and Fraser's breath pants out hard against his lips.

And Ray's hearing must be back because Fraser makes this noise, half-moan and half-whimper, and Ray's pretty sure Fraser's killing him. But he doesn't stop kissing the guy because he can't think of a better way to go, and besides, stopping doesn't even seem to be an option.

He puts his hands on either side of Fraser's face, instead, his fingers plowing into that thick hair, thumbs just touching those flushed cheeks. Fraser's hands are moving up his bare arms, are catching rough in the fabric of his t-shirt. Ray moans into Fraser's open mouth and Fraser pulls him closer, those big hands spread warm on his back. Their chests are pressed together, now. Fraser's arms are around him. And it's fucking great, right, Ray's shaking all over it's so great, but he needs, needs to be closer.

He pulls his mouth from Fraser's and Fraser makes this little protesting moan, and Ray laughs breathless, disbelieving. "Sit back," he murmurs, against Fraser's lips, and the guy just obeys him, which if Ray wasn't hard as a rock and out of his mind, here, he might actually take note of. Instead he follows him over, and gets a knee on either side of Fraser's hips and pushes Fraser's head back against the couch. And oh Christ. Just looking at Fraser flushed and mussed and spit-wet like this is enough to put Ray over the edge. Like, for real, here--Ray has to close his eyes and breathe hard for a minute, his mouth pressed into the place where Fraser's shoulder meets his neck.

Fraser's chest moves. He slides a hand up to cradle Ray's head, moves so he can press his lips to Ray's ear. "Are you okay?" he asks, and Ray breathes out against Fraser's skin and lifts his head. Fraser's looking at him, those blue eyes all concern, and his hands are so careful where they're touching Ray, and Ray has to swallow before he can talk.

"Fuck, yeah. It's just... This is...you know. A lot." Oh yeah, Kowalski, way to articulate.

But Fraser gets it. His fingers move in Ray's hair. "Too much?" he asks, and Ray laughs and lowers his head so he can put his mouth on Fraser's chin. "No." And he's lipping Fraser's stubbled skin. "Unh uh." He closes his teeth on Fraser's jaw. "Not too much."

And Fraser, he tries to go, "oh good," only it comes out all breath, and that, well, that hits Ray right where it matters. He groans and rocks his hips, presses his groin into Fraser's, moves his mouth back up to those lips. They kiss deep this time, and Fraser moves his hands all the way down Ray's back, and when he gets to his waist he almost stops, only Ray goes "mmn," and squirms until Fraser's holding his ass. And Fraser takes this deep breath and closes his hands hard, and Ray thinks yeah, good, finally. And then he's got Fraser's shirt undone somehow, and Fraser's shifting forward, letting him pull it off.

"Fuck," Ray says, because he can't help it; Fraser's Christ-almighty gorgeous. All that smooth skin and rounded muscle, and the sweet thatch of hair under each arm... Ray wants to lick him everywhere and he figures hey, why not get started right away? So he dives in and gets the top of Fraser's shoulder in his mouth.

Fraser gasps. Those big hands are sliding up Ray's sides now, underneath his t-shirt, and then Ray doesn't seem to be wearing a t-shirt anymore. "Ray," Fraser says, "Ray..." And their mouths meet and Fraser's hands are all the fuck over him somehow, and Ray has to shift around because his dick is maybe getting damaged, stuck there inside his jeans. But then Fraser rescues him, because Fraser's so damn smart that way, he always figures out just what to do.

"Thanks," Ray says, only it sounds more like "uuunh," on account of he's got his tongue down Fraser's throat. He knows he should return the favour but the moves involved in getting his arms down from around Fraser's neck and opening his fly seem like advanced fucking calculus right now. And then it doesn't matter, because damned if that ain't Fraser's dick poking hot and wet into Ray's belly. Smart, smart Fraser. Ray kisses him slow and extra good, to reward him. Fraser groans and shoves his hands down the back of Ray's jeans. Ray's gratitude swells until it just don't know any bounds.

The place where they're rubbing themselves together is slick and hot and Fraser's gasping against Ray's jaw, and he's pulling him in hard with those hands on Ray's ass. And Ray's good with that, he can go with that--he opens his legs wider and gets lower and fuck, yeah, they're in business. He can't help himself, he's making these sounds and bucking his hips and grinding his cock into Fraser's wet belly and every other thrust or so he feels Fraser's cock slide along his and when that happens it's like the whole fucking world explodes a little. Fraser's trying to kiss him but they're both too far gone; their lips brush and part, and Ray's lip gets mashed on his teeth but somehow the pain just disappears.

And then Fraser's hand leaves his ass. He feels it slide up his sweaty back, feels Fraser's arm curl up around his shoulder. He leans in close, presses his open mouth to Fraser's neck, bites him gently there. Fraser moans next to his ear and then there's another sound, like wet, like sucking, and that hand is moving down again, back to his ass. And then oh sweet Jesus, Fraser's inside him--one blunt, wet finger sliding up, opening him slow and careful. "Frase--" he gasps, "Oh..." And he tries, he really tries to hang on for a few more moments of this because when is anything ever gonna feel this good again?

But Fraser holds him tight with one arm and slides another finger in beside the first, and Ray groans deep and pushes himself down on Fraser's hand and that's it, there ain't no stopping this thing now. He lets his head fall back and feels his hips jerk forward: once, twice, a third time.

Fraser holds him up with that strong arm around his back, and he murmurs stuff against Ray's bared throat, and Ray hangs onto him until the world comes back. And he keeps on moving against him, that hard slow rocking of his hips, and after a minute those murmurs start sounding kind of desperate. Ray pushes his hand up the back of Fraser's bent neck, drops his own head so he can put his lips against his ear. "Yeah," he says, and it comes out hoarse, but it's audible. "Yeah, Ben. Do it. C'mon."

And Fraser wraps his arms around Ray, holds him hard enough to squeeze the breath from him. And he's panting and gasping and otherwise silent, but it feels like there's an earthquake between Ray's spread thighs. So Ray fists his fingers in Fraser's hair and pulls hard and Fraser whimpers like he's getting tortured, and then mmn, yeah, Ray's belly is suddenly even warmer and wetter and Fraser is going limp in his arms.

For a long time, they can't do much but breathe. It got dark in Ray's apartment while they were busy; the only light is coming from the TV. Ray smells sweat and sex, hears their breath--rough, still, but slowing down. Every time he shifts, he can feel an ache where Fraser's fingers were inside him. He buries his face against Fraser's shoulder and smiles big and stupid.

"Mmm," Fraser says, his chest rumbling under Ray's. He strokes a hand through the cooling sweat on Ray's back, and Ray shivers and sits up. They smile at eachother, and Fraser's blushing, but he meets Ray's eyes and it's fine.

"Let's go to bed," Ray says softly. Fraser nods, moves to get up. But Ray stops him before he can get too far; all of a sudden, there's a thing he wants to do. He lifts a hand, cups Fraser's cheek, strokes his right eyebrow with his thumb.

Fraser grins big enough to light up a whole goddamn arena. Then he grabs Ray's hand and plants a kiss in the middle of his palm. "Ray. You're such a romantic," he says, and his eyes glint up at Ray with that same sarcastic asshole look, and Ray figures fuck fine: this, right here, is excellent.