Disclaimer: Fraser 'n' Ray belong to Alliance Atlantis. My name ain't Alliance.

Author's Notes: Insanity caused by ds_flashfiction, which is the shiniest community in the world.

Story Notes: Post-CotW fuzzy-fic, with first-time associated angst.

It's not until three days into their adventure that Fraser thinks that perhaps inviting Ray on an extended journey across the more unpopulated regions of the Arctic Circle wasn't such a bright idea.

It's not, as Ray keeps warning him, that Ray's a burden. Oh, he's not quite proficient at snow shoeing yet, and he can't steer the dogsled properly without sending them all directly towards the nearest ravine -- yet. And he hasn't yet managed to pitch the tent in a functional or stable manner, the record being a whopping five minutes standing -- they'd actually gone inside that time, and had gotten thoroughly ensnared by the poles and heavy fabric when it came down around them. But the point is that he'll learn, he is learning, and so despite the hundreds of cigarettes Ray's consumed over the years and his lack of subcutaneous fat, they're making rather good time. It's not the abilities -- it's not even his health, it's --

It's --

Well, to be perfectly honest, it's the smell.

That's not the entirety of it, either, actually -- it's that the smell smells good.

During his lifetime, Fraser has smelled an astonishing variety of smells, a large percentage of which fall into the general category of "unwashed men." A large -- no, the overwhelming majority of those in that category are decidedly unpleasant, if not verging on the faintly hallucinogenic. And sometimes his traveling mates have waxed traditional and purchased fur parkas instead of nylon ones. They claim the fur ones are warmer -- and they are, but they also tend to amplify and store the smells. Even after they make a pit stop, and manage to get their hands on soap and water and soft warm scraps of civilization, the coats keep all of the odor in their fibers.

Fraser's never been fussy about that sort of thing, being Fraser, and so he's never said anything about it, ever -- to friends or family or partners.

But Ray --

Well.

There are times when Fraser wishes Ray didn't favor nylon parkas.

As it is, he settles for what he can catch discreetly: cocking his head towards Ray's outstretched arms while they haul on the sled's caught runners; rolling towards him at night, while Ray's sleeping, craning his face out of his sleeping bag to bring his nose within an inch of Ray's warm lax neck; packing both their sleeping bags himself, every morning, so that he can smell how Ray's sleep smells.

It's not as though he can tell Ray, "Could you lie still while I sniff your armpit?" They haven't had a serious argument since they got here, but Fraser suspects that such a comment would ensure one. He is, after all, only smelling Ray -- Ray could smell Fraser if he wanted to, which Fraser doesn't know why he would. But at any rate, it's just there for the taking, isn't it? He doesn't need permission to breathe through his nose, does he?

And that -- that just reeks of rationalization.

~((*))~

After weeks of being on constant Dief-nose-breathing-on-head guard -- mainly because that usually happens right before the arrival of Dief-tongue-in-ear -- Ray thinks he'll probably wake up if anybody so much as brushes up against his hair. Useful skill, maybe, if ear-licking half-wolves were all over the tundra, which they aren't. Useful skill anyway, because he wakes up to wet-nose-on-neck a lot. Even if it's still dark. He's starting to think that maybe Fraser's setting Dief on him like an alarm clock.

So it's really nothing new when he wakes up to a nose on his neck. Nope. Not for the first few seconds, anyway, when he's only awake enough to sort of groan at the tent and Dief and snow and life in general. After that --

-- he thinks that maybe Dief's nose is wetter than the one on his neck. And longer. And his face is furrier. And that isn't Dief nosing his neck at all, is it.

"Fraser, what the fuck -- ?"

"No, thank you, I'd -- " Fraser murmurs vaguely, before waking up enough to be confused. "...Ray?"

Ray sits up, squinting, trying to make some kind of sense out of the random dark blobs all around the tent. "What're you doin' on my side of the tent?"

"What am I -- ah. Ah. Well, that's a very good question, Ray."

Ray frowns, starting to get kinda pissed that he doesn't even know where Fraser is, now that he's not right there -- 'cause Fraser's getting that sort of "Ah. Well. Ah. You see -- well," thing goin', which means "Well, shit," in normal-person-speak. Right about now, Fraser's probably going really really painfully red -- and maybe he doesn't actually need to see Fraser, after all. But that still doesn't explain why Fraser wants to say "shit" in the first place. "Yeah, thought so. You gonna answer it?"

"I must have...rolled over in my sleep."

"Uh-huh. That's a really great theory. You'd really have to think for ten whole seconds to figure that out."

Sheesh. He can even hear Fraser wincing. Maybe he's gotten used to not wearing his glasses. "Ah. Well. I -- "

"What's up with you, anyway? I mean, you'd probably wanna roll away from me, right about now. Like, that's instinctive, you know what I'm saying? Probably death to anybody who gets that close. Except for Mounties. And Dief."

"That's not...strictly true."

"And this is a big tent. It is a huge tent. You got your side, I got my side, we've got an understanding here -- "

"Ray -- "

" -- so what're you doin'? Huh?" He is not overreacting. Fraser started it. He's not being a jerk for no reason. Not even a little bit.

Fraser clears his throat. Ray glares at a spot that is probably nowhere near Fraser, anyway, but it's the principle of the thing that counts.

"I was..."

Ray waits. After a couple of seconds, he decides that Fraser's not gonna finish that sentence unless he gets shoved. "You were what?"

"Smelling you," Fraser says real quick, like he's been caught -- slamming a door in a little old lady's face, or something.

"Uh. Okay. That's -- okay. You're a freak, you know that? But then I knew that, so okay. Uh. Maybe we should -- "

"No, Ray -- you don't understand. I was smelling you for -- ah, that is to say -- " and then he mutters something that Ray's pretty sure he heard wrong.

"Uh, Frase? You'd better speak up if you don't want me to think that you wanna lay one on me, 'cause that's what it just -- " No, wait. Somethin's queer here. What is it?

Oh.

Fraser's not interrupting.

Well, shit, Ray thinks, 'cause he's not a Mountie and he can. Uh. Okay. Well, he'd thought something was queer, but he hadn't meant Fraser.

"I'm sorry, Ray -- I didn't mean to -- "

"Yeah. Um. You didn't mean to. I -- kinda figured that." Ray unzips and zips his sleeping bag, over and over, trying to think straight -- because for one thing, it's maybe four in the fucking morning, and for another, Fraser wants to fuck him. Or maybe just smell him. Whatever. It's not easy to get his head around either one.

On the other hand -- why's he thinking about this again? 'Cause if Fraser's been smelling him for the past month, he's sure as hell been ogling Fraser, which is kinda the same thing. Because even if Fraser's the only thing to look at besides the dogs, Ray secretly doesn't think that's why. And even if ogling Fraser basically means that he's been ogling layers of jackets and sweaters and shirts, he's still been ogling, which just makes everything worse --

-- except maybe it's better.

Ray chews his lip, trying to figure out what the hell he's going to say. And then, because he feels like he's under pressure, he just hands the ball to his mouth and lets it run with it.

His mouth, it turns out, wants to grin wickedly and say, "Well, you haven't licked anything yet." Which is true. At least, Ray's pretty sure it's true. And it's also a very good point -- but did he really just say that?

"...I beg your pardon?"

Great. Now he's gotta explain that. "You're always lickin' everything. Usually when you think it smells interesting. So. You haven't licked anything." His mouth is starting to lose its touch, maybe, because it's forgotten what it was going to say next, going kind of dry, and losing the grin. "I mean. Maybe you don't wanna. But. I'm just sayin' -- "

Huh. Well, there's one upshot, anyway -- his mouth can't stay dry when Fraser's stuck his tongue in it.