Disclaimer: Ray 'n' Stella belong to Alliance Atlantis.

Author's Notes: ds_flashfiction is so PRETTY, and they made me write this.

Story Notes: R for language and boxing, not sex or strap-ons, because I am mentally unable to create such scenarios without using fig leaves.

Ray's known that this marriage is going to hell for a while, even though he hasn't been thinking about it. It's like that jar of Spanish olives he bought, maybe a year ago, because there hadn't been any black ones -- it just sort of sits in the back of the fridge, disintegrating into its oil, because it's easier to forget about the disgusting thing than to pick it up and chuck it. Of course, it's also because Stella won't eat olives, and 'cause Ray can't stand the Spanish kind, which is just one more reason why Jack Sprat he ain't.

So he's known. Stella's probably known. But he hadn't seen it -- hadn't taken it seriously, even -- until Stella turned him down on a Friday night and went to the gym. Because, shit -- the gym? Where can Stella fit in a gym? Any gym? -- okay, yeah, he could probably put her on the treadmill, wearing something uncomfortable and stretchy, with about seven guys drooling over her ass. If things're really good, then maybe she's gone with some of her friends, and they're spreading the ogling out -- but seriously, since when is that better than home?

It's not the kind of question that Ray likes to bother himself with on a Friday night -- except he does. He lounges on the couch and pretends to watch hockey and plans all the stuff he's going to yell about when Stella gets home -- and when she finally does, he's somehow managed to fall asleep and missed his chance to yell.

~((*))~

He is bored.

He is really fucking bored. No kidding. He's gonna find out, once and for all, if it's possible to die from boredom.

Stella isn't home again, and maybe he could go out, but it's just much more important to stay home and wait for her to show up so he can actually tell her all the reasons she shouldn't go there -- the first being that she really doesn't wanna be a copycat, does she? 'Cause the gym is where Ray is supposed to go when he wants to be a bastard. The whole thing with gyms? Already taken. Right? Right -- ?

...wait.

Five minutes later he's out the door, whacking dust off of his gym bag as he goes -- yeah, okay, maybe he could've taken less than three weeks to figure that out, but he's with the program now, which is the main thing.

~((*))~

Ray first notices Dan 'cause he's white and not topless.

Actually, Dan's really just about as far from topless as they get. Like, Ray's too ashamed of his pecs to just lose the shirt, but he'll never wear anything more than sleeveless -- it just gets in the way of things, which he definitely does not need. But Dan -- Dan looks like that guy in college who never got over his growth spurt. He's kind of sweetly awkward, young and skinny -- which nobody'll notice unless they look at his wrists, where they peek out from his sweatshirt sleeves, because his clothes're kinda...fluffy. If Ray takes his glasses off and doesn't squint, Dan almost looks bulky.

Dan holds the bag steady for him, and Ray doesn't squint -- he throws punches and uppercuts and haymakers, hard as he can, trying to at least knock it out of Dan's grip; he watches the skinny wrists, and wonders why the hell it's taking so long.

"Uh," Dan says, when Ray pauses and wipes at the sweat on his face with the edge of his shirt -- Jesus. The kid's voice still squeaks -- "you wanna -- you know. " Dan tilts his head towards Ray's sparring gear.

Ray stares. "Uh -- you sure?"

Dan rubs a knuckle against his moustache. "Yeah."

"Okay, sure, I'm up for it."

~((*))~

-- dodge, dodge, dodge -- dammit! ow! -- dodge, dodge, dodge -- ha! guard down! lunge! gotcha! -- dodge, dodge -- fuck! ow! blood, that's blood in my mouth, ow --

"Shit -- " Dan drops his fists, comes closer. "Weren't you wearing a -- "

"Slipped," Ray mutters. "'Bout ten minutes ago."

"You should've -- "

"Nah, I'm fine." Ray touches a finger to his nose, brings it back red. "'S my nose, anyway. No big deal. Coulda popped you one when you dropped your guard back there -- "

"You wouldn't've."

"Might've." Ray considers it. "Somebody else might've. You're good enough to cheat on."

"Thanks, I think."

"You don't look tough, that's why you win."

Dan smirks. "You just keep telling yourself that."

"Oh yeah? C'mon, let's go, I'm good to go -- "

~((*))~

Ow.

Ow.

Ow.

So, okay, Dan's not heavy, Ray thinks as he drops his bag on the sofa. And Ray did get in a pretty good shot to Dan's face, once. And he didn't actually get knocked flat on his ass, or anything -- ow, should not have walked into that knob -- 'cause really, even Ray's biceps are bigger'n Dan's. If Ray had gotten knocked onto his ass, he'd never be able to show his face at the gym again. As it is --

"Shit -- goddamn fucking stereo -- goddamn fucking shoes, can't you unlace yourselves?" Ray waits -- he's pretty sure somebody smart said that shoelaces can unlace themselves, something about the Laws of Physical Batshit Crazy Stuff. Nothing happens, though, and he's not gonna wear shoes to bed, so he bends over -- "Fuck!" -- and starts picking at the laces.

It's really just that Dan's fast, see -- which Ray, personally, woulda said was his strong point, except Dan's better with it. Way, way better. Ray's got bruises all over his ribs and shoulders -- small ones, minor ones, except they're everywhere.

Damn him, anyway.

Ray walks into the bedroom, trying not to move his knees, and falls over sideways onto the bed, his head landing sorta pressed up against Stella's back -- well, yeah, it's what? three in the morning, so sure, she's in bed now. "You're all sweaty," she murmurs.

"Yeah, well, deal," Ray mutters, rolling over -- ow -- and settling onto his back -- and then Stella's mouth closes over his ear.

"Oh," he says -- yeah, okay, he's slow, he's so sadly slow -- and rolls just his head towards her, because his neck's the only joint he's got that doesn't hurt. When he kisses her, she winces -- but Ray doesn't stop, 'cause Stella's always hated being coddled. Besides, he's too busy wincing himself.

~((*))~

Ray opens his eyes.

It's morning; Stella's gone -- which is turning into a kind of recurring problem, here -- but he can hear her clattering around in the kitchen. That's probably what woke him up, because he sure doesn't wanna be awake -- but he's up and needing to piss now, so whatever.

He goes straight to the bathroom, more or less -- he gets distracted somewhere along the way by the sheets, which have a death-grip on his ankles for some reason -- forgets that the door opens out and not in and runs into it, and finally rediscovers the doorknob. This, Ray thinks, is why alarm clocks and loud clanging pans need to be banned. Sleep interruption is the --

-- and then he spots something in the sink. Huh. Hair? Looks kinda like hair, except it's red hair, which couldn'ta come off of either Stella's head or his. Lint, maybe? Or -- no, Stella'd been fucking him last night, for a change. She probably hadn't been fucking somebody else before -- or had she? --

But no -- there's something familiar about that hair. Something he can't quite put his finger on. He's seen it before -- at work? No. On TV? No.

And then it hits him. Damn -- "Stel? Why's Dan's moustache in the sink?"

There's a crash. "Shit." A silence; then -- "I was -- um -- trying something new. Did you like it?"