Author's Notes: Thanks to Rhyo and Brooklinegirl for beta!

Story Notes: Post MoTB but pre-Cotw. No real spoilers.

Static crackled from the transmitter in his ear and Ray grunted, cupping a hand against his head to block out the bored voices in the van around him. He needed to hear what the hell was going on. He could make out Fraser's voice on the other end but just barely, and this was too important a job to get screwed up just because Ray couldn't goddamn hear his partner.

"Dewey! Christ! Can you shut the fuck up already?" There was barely enough room in the back of the van for Ray to stand, but he pulled himself up as tall as he could and made his way to where Dewey was sitting next to the monitors. Fumbling for his glasses, Ray jammed them on and squinted at the grainy black and white images on the two screens. One camera was set to tape the bar area, and Ray watched as the bartender idly washed and dried glasses, his eyes flicking back and forth to the entrance of the club. The other camera was aimed directly where Fraser was supposed to be, and now Ray could definitely see him standing there, deep in conversation with Vito Ragone. Ray took a step closer to try and get a better look, and frowned when Dewey shifted so he was blocking both monitors. Jerkoff.

Dewey smirked. "What's the matter, Ray? Worried about your Mountie?"

"I swear to Christ, one more smartass crack outta you and I'm gonna pop you one," Ray threatened, already blissfully imagining the feel of Dewey's nose crushing against his fist.

"All right, Detectives," Welsh drawled from his corner of the van. "While I do appreciate the entertainment factor of this little production, I think we'd all just better concentrate on the job at hand."

Ray narrowed his eyes in Dewey's direction one last time before backing up and wedging himself into his seat. He ran a hand over his hair, making sure not to knock out his earphone and sat back down. Welsh was right. Fraser had been doing good undercover, real good, but the word on the street was that something was going down tonight. Something big. Way bigger than penny-ante bar bets on Glue Stick or whatever the name of the favored horse was in the races tonight. Big to the tune of major drug running and illegal firearms big.

Stay alert, Kowalski, he reminded himself. Wait for it, wait for Fraser to say the line. Then he would be able to head in and talk to Fraser, find out what the fuck was really going on. All Fraser had to do was say the line. Say the fucking line, Fraser.

Fraser had done some damn good work, getting in there undercover, and while he never placed any bets himself he was pretty popular with the pony players at the station for his picks. Fraser, as it happened, was a hell of a pick when it came to the ponies.

The earphone crackled again, and Ray flapped a hand in the air trying to get everyone to shut the hell up. Fraser's voice was tinny over the earpiece, but Ray could make him out just fine.

"Lieu," Ray whipped his head around toward Welsh, "he's started the baseball talk."

Ray blocked out the commotion going on right next to him and concentrated instead on Fraser's cool, smooth voice. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dewey and Sanchez, pulling on bulletproof vests and adjusting holsters. Ray absentmindedly touched his own gun, secure in an ankle-holster, and rubbed a thumb over his chest, feeling the rigid Kevlar vest under his shirt. He was dressed and ready for the show.

"All right. You wait for Vecchio to let us know when the Constable is ready and then you head in real quiet," Welsh was instructing, the van feeling tight and crowded as everyone was standing, waiting for the word from Ray. "Everyone know what entrance they're using?" Ray could hear quiet voices all assuring Welsh that yeah, they knew where they were going. "Good." Ray flicked his eyes toward Welsh and saw him checking his own piece. "No screwups, gentlemen. I want this bastard."

Ray pressed the earphone harder into his ear. Fraser was still yukking it up about the upcoming baseball season. The Cubs, the Series. But he wasn't saying the Goddamned line. "Come on, Frase," Ray muttered. "Say the fucking line..."

And then, bam! As if he heard him, Fraser said, "But really, Vito, one would think the Yankess wouldn't be quite so smug this off-season, seeing as how they still have quite a few pitching issues to address. In fact..."

Ray jumped from his seat, ripped the earphone out and tossed it to the floor. "We got it! He's ready. Let's go."

` ` ` ` `

Fraser stood toward the back of the room, calmly discussing the upcoming baseball season with Vito Ragone, Mr. Valente's right hand man. For a moment, at the beginning of the night, he'd actually worried that bringing up a baseball discussion in the middle of the horse races would prove difficult, but Ray certainly knew his fellow Chicagoans, and talk of baseball, particularly of the anti-Yankee variety, seemed to always be in season.

Fraser continued his talk with Mr. Ragone, but his attention was focused on Dewey, who was nonchalantly making his entrance from the north side of the club. Dewey was followed closely by Sanchez. Fraser knew Lieutenant Welsh and a third detective would be posted just outside the back entrance near the alley. And any minute now...yes, there he was. Ray walked in the door closest to where Fraser was standing.

With his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, Ray walked right past Fraser and headed directly to the bar. The next time Mr. Ragone paused, Fraser politely excused himself, and shook Vito's hand firmly as the man promised him good seats to the Cubs opening day game if Fraser had the same sort of luck in baseball as he did in the races. "Yes, well, we'll certainly see when the season starts," Fraser promised him, and, with a smile, turned and headed toward the bar.

Leaving about a foot of space between them, Fraser eyed Ray's drink (Scotch, most likely) and ordered himself a club soda with lime. The bartender nodded and walked away to fix Fraser's drink.

Fraser kept his eyes focused firmly in front of him as he began to speak. "In the east corner of the room there's a door which opens up into a hallway," he said quietly. "At the end of the hallway is an office. Fifteen minutes ago, three men, one approximately six feet two inches tall and the two others an inch taller, came into the club and were escorted, with their bags, through that door and into the office to join Mr. Valente."

Fraser thanked the bartender for his drink, and waited until he moved away to help another customer before turning toward Ray. "We need to get past the guards flanking the doorway and into that office before Mr. Valente realizes we're on our way or we'll never catch him with the illegal goods."

Ray nodded slightly and lifted his drink, downing it in one long swallow. "Any idea what's in the bag?"

"Yes."

"And we have a reason to be going back there?"

Fraser felt a smile threaten. "Oh, absolutely, Ray."

"All right, then," In one smooth motion Ray slid his empty glass across the gleaming mahogany right into Fraser's waiting hand. "What's your plan, Frase?"

"It's quite simple, actually." Fraser flicked a thumb across his eyebrow. Simple or not, Ray was not going to like this, but really, there was no way around it. "We need to create a diversion to detract the guards away from the door and allow Dewey and Sanchez to gain entrance."

He could see Ray nodding his head from the corner of his eye. "Yeah, okay. I see that. So, what do we do?"

Fraser pushed back from the bar and turned toward Ray, looking him dead in the eye. "Hit me."

Ray blinked. "What?"

"That's what we do. You hit me."

Ray stared at him a minute, then started shaking his head. "Oh, no way. No freaking way, no freaking how. I'm not hitting you, Frase," Ray hissed.

"Now, listen to me, Ray, it makes sense. We need to create a diversion, such as an altercation ---"

"This has got to be the stupidest fucking thing I've ever---"

Ah, good. Ray was angry. In another second he'd start raising his voice and they'd be exactly where Fraser needed them to be. Fraser cleared his throat. "And I assure you, sir, I would never have suggested you take Shiver Me Timbers in the race tonight."

Ray quickly shook his head. "What? What the hell are you---"

"No, while I do understand your frustration---"

"My frustration? My frustration is that you're fucking unhinged!" Ray practically shouted.

"I will have to insist that I advised you to take Good for the Soul tonight. No, no, sir. Threats of violence really aren't necessary."

"Violence?!" Fraser was actually starting to worry. Ray's face was turning an alarming shade of red. "I'll show you fucking violence!"

"Yes! That's exactly it, Ray!" Fraser urged quietly. "It's working." And indeed it was. The guards were stirring, Dewey and Sanchez picked up on the plan from the mic Fraser was still wearing and were already inching their way to the door. "Just do it. Hit me. Just once. For God's sake, Ray, I'm telling you to!"

And it was so quick, a split second really, but Ray blinked and shook his head again, and almost by instinct raised his hand in a fist. "Shit, Frase..."

"Enough, Ray. Hit me!"

And, with that, Ray drew his arm back and swung hard. He couldn't really do it, though, and at the last second tried to pull the punch, but Fraser read him and smoothly moved into the arc of the swing.

` ` ` ` ` ` `

The sun was just starting to peek through the clouds, the streets looking grey and hazy in the early morning light. Pulling out of the parking lot of the precinct, Ray rolled down the window and sucked in a deep lungful of cool air.

Fraser shifted in the passenger seat, his leather jacket squeaking against the vinyl in the car, and Ray gripped the steering wheel even tighter between his hands.

"Ray, I---"

"Not now, Fraser." Ray held one hand up, warding off any further conversation. "I am driving now, not talking. We get back to my apartment, then we talk."

Fraser didn't answer but Ray could hear him sigh softly and twist again in his seat to look out the windshield.

The ride home was quick, the time of day being too late for the late night types and too early for the early morning types. Which was fine with Ray.

The goddamned Mountie tricked him. Well, okay, not tricked, exactly, but he...what's the word. Manipulated things and forced Ray to hit him.

Which really pissed Ray off.

They made it back without further incident and Fraser meekly followed him into the apartment, closing the front door behind him with a soft click. Ray stomped into the kitchen and went straight to the freezer for a bag of something frozen -- frozen peas? when was the last time he even ate frozen peas? -- and stomped back to Fraser, who was leaning back against the front door, watching him warily.

The left side of Fraser's mouth was already starting to swell, his bottom lip cut on the corner and puffy. The skin was changing already from an angry red to a darker, more painful looking purple. Ray thrust the bag of peas at Fraser, who accepted it and gingerly pressed it to his face.

Fraser winced when the icy bag touched his skin and Ray felt his stomach twist. "Goddammit, Fraser..."

Fraser lifted his eyes to Ray's. "Ray, stop it. We achieved exactly what we set out to do. Mr. Valente and his associates are incarcerated, and we retrieved enough evidence and video and audio tape to keep them under the watchful eye of the law for a long time to come." Fraser lowered the bag and quirked his mouth in an unsuccessful smile, wincing slightly as his lips curved. "You heard Lieutenant Welsh at the station after the raid. Not a single mistake."

Ray glared at him. "I hit you. You made me hit you"

"It was in the name of justice, Ray."

"No, no, no. That's not it. It's just that..." Ray closed his eyes. Why was this so hard to say with Fraser standing right there in front of him? Just something about seeing him standing there, his hair mussed and his face all bruised was giving Ray all sorts of stress. He scrubbed his hands over his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was muffled. "I promised myself I wasn't ever gonna hit you again. Not ever." Sighing, he dropped his hands and shoved them deep into his pockets.

When he looked up again, Fraser was watching him intently with sharp blue eyes. "You didn't really hit me, Ray, it was more like I hit myself against your fist."

"Yeah, I know that. I just..."

"Just what?" Fraser asked quietly.

"I just shouldn't have had a fist to begin with," Ray mumbled. He held the offending hand up, as if to apologize for it.

Fraser looked at Ray's hand. "Oh, I don't know about that. I think it was just," Fraser flicked his tongue out, licking against his bottom lip, "instinct."

Ray's eyes were drawn to that tongue. Ray blinked, and then wondered how he managed to cross the room without even realizing it. He was standing no more than a foot in front of Fraser. Close enough to watch Fraser's chest rise and fall with each slow, steady breath. Close enough to smell him. Close enough to touch.

His hand was steady as he reached out and brushed the tips of his fingers across the bruise next to Fraser's mouth. "Instinct, huh?"

Fraser turned his head slightly, his eyes never leaving Ray's. "Yes, Ray."

Just one more step and Ray's body was almost touching Fraser's. He could feel heat and smell sweat and faint traces of cologne. Fraser's cheek looked smooth, but Ray could feel the faint prickle of early morning stubble just under his fingertips. The hair over Fraser's ear was just as soft as Ray had always imagined it would be.

He tried to keep his eyes open as long as possible, because the sight of Fraser, intent and focused, his lips looking soft and wet, barely two inches away, was something that you wanted to be sure you saw. Remembered. Fucking memorized.

But then Fraser turned his head, just a little tiny bit one way. And instinct alone had Ray tilting his head, just a scant inch the other way. And - really, if Ray thought he could keep his eyes wide open while kissing Benton Fraser, well, he was just sadly fucking mistaken.

Benton Fraser was just that good a kisser, bruised mouth and all. While Fraser kissed him, perps were arrested, scumbags got out on bail, purses got snatched, and the Yankees desperately bargained for a real pitcher. None of it mattered.

Ray pulled his mouth slowly away from Fraser's; his fingers still buried in Fraser's hair. He took a deep breath, felt his heart skitter in his chest and smiled, pressing his face against the soft skin of Fraser's neck. "Wow, Fraser. That was..."

Fraser grunted a soft reply, and Ray breathed out a sigh of relief as he felt the arms around his waist tighten their hold. Lips skimmed across his cheek, and Ray smiled as he felt a puff of breath against his ear.

"Ray?" Fraser's voice was soft and thick.

Ray smiled, his lips curving into a grin against Fraser's neck. "Yeah, Frase?"

"Hit me again."