Disclaimer: I own nothing. I just like to look at 'em.

Author's Notes: Originally written for the Zine 'Body Heat 3.'

A GOOD PIECE OF CHEESE

Benton Fraser sat at his desk, pen in hand, forms spread out in front of him, and thought of Ray. He thought of Ray's bright smile, of his long, strong hands. He thought of Ray's keen instincts and of his shy confidence. He thought of Ray's intriguing hair and of his charming grasp of colloquialism. He thought of Ray's slender fingers and expressive mouth, and of what Ray might do with those fingers and that mouth. Specifically, what he might do to, and with, Fraser.

He wasn't being very productive. He decided he really didn't care.

It had all started with that dratted e-mail. Inspector Thatcher had become quite adamant about bringing the Consulate into the 21st century. She had given him and Turnbull a lecture about keeping up with the times, and about increased productivity and enhanced communication, and how they were going to embrace technology if it killed them. She had carefully avoided looking at Turnbull when she'd made that last point, fearing (rightly, it was sad to say) that mixing the hapless young Constable with anything more technologically advanced than a crayon was taking one's life into one's hands.

Fraser had smiled and nodded and had agreed with the Inspector's plans, all the while thinking that Thatcher's new technological hobby-horse probably had less to do with wanting to revolutionise the Consulate and more to do with impressing a certain computer technician named Marc she'd met on a business trip to Montreal the previous month.

And so the Consular staff had all found themselves with shiny new computers, and for a short while all had been well. They had indeed been able to communicate more effectively with Ottawa and with other RCMP outposts. They had been able to organise their own files more accurately.

Otherwise, Fraser's life had gone on as normal. There was still walking Dief to take up his time, and chats with his father, and his almost weekly adventures with Ray. Ray. Whom he couldn't stop thinking about.

Yes, it had all been that e-mail's fault.

Shortly after the Consulate had gone on-line, they had become aware of the drawbacks of technology. Mainly in the form of e-mails which had nothing at all to do with law enforcement or the day-to-day workings of a Canadian consular outpost. Almost daily, Fraser found his in-box bombarded with messages - articles and quizzes from Francesca Vecchio; all sorts of tasteless cartoons, jokes, and "humour" from Detective Dewey. Even Turnbull had taken to sending him chain letters, willing to risk his superior's displeasure rather than be submitted to who knew how many years of bad luck, loneliness, impotence, and destitude.

Fraser had politely read and answered these messages for the first few weeks. At which point he'd realised just how much time he'd been wasting dealing with unimportant drivel, and he had begun simply deleting them unanswered.

And then there were the... other messages. Spam, Ray had called them with a grimace of distaste (which, at first, had led Fraser to think they were discussing canned meat substances, which had led to an amusing misunderstanding). By some atrocious twist of fate, he'd found himself on various mailing lists, with no idea how to get himself off. And so he routinely became the target of advertisements for products and services he had no interest whatsoever in purchasing.

He had no need of new financial strategies, or world cruises, or mail-order university degrees. Likewise, he did not wish to lose fifty pounds in two weeks, or gain larger breasts, or improve any ... other ... part of his anatomy, thank you very kindly. He did not want to meet the woman of his dreams (he already had, and look how that had turned out!), he didn't wish to wager large sums of money in on-line casinos, and he really had no interest in appearance- or performance-enhancing pharmaceuticals.

He didn't imagine, furthermore, that the Canadian Consulate was the proper place for people in foreign lands to apply for help in getting large sums of money out of their country.

And those were just the messages he dared to open! Others invited him to view all sorts of behaviour that was better left behind closed - bedroom - doors, and which definitely had no place in his office! Luckily, most of those had rather explicit subject lines, and he could delete them post-haste; others, he had to close after only the briefest glimpse into their content, for fear that the Inspector - or his father! - might come into his office at the wrong moment and think he was looking at such things for pleasure.

Then it had happened. It had been late one Friday afternoon, and Fraser had been at his wits' end. There had been an unfortunate incident involving Turnbull and a ceiling fan, which had left the hapless young Constable with a sprained ankle; Inspector Thatcher had departed early for a weekend conference (at her favourite spa), leaving Fraser to finished both his and Turbull's work; Ray had regretfully cancelled their weekend plans (muttering something about Welsh wanting either Ray's backlog of paperwork or his badge on the Lieutenant's desk by Monday morning). Diefenbaker was angry with him about something or other and was sulking on Fraser's cot. And he'd been hearing what sounded suspiciously like the muffled wail of bagpipes coming from his closet.

So Fraser's mind wasn't exactly focussed on his actions when he responded to his computer's chiming announcement and automatically opened his latest e-mail message. He caught a glimpse of bare flesh and was about to delete the message in annoyance when he took a good look at the image on the screen.

Good heavens - it was Ray! Well, no, it wasn't actually Ray, of course; he doubted sincerely that Ray had done much work in the gay porn industry, and Fraser took a moment to ponder just how in the world he'd got on this mailing list in the first place. But the model in the rather revealing photograph looked enough like Fraser's partner that he did a double take. And looked. Long and hard. Just like the model.

Unbidden images sprang into Fraser's mind. Images of Ray, his best friend, his partner, wearing nothing. Nothing but his holster. Sweaty. Aroused. Draped across his bed, watching Fraser, inviting him to... Dear God, what was he thinking? This was Ray he was thinking about! Ray was straight! Fraser was straight! Those brief moments with Mark Smithbauer didn't count - they'd been young and curious. And that afternoon with Innussiq - that had been simple experimentation. And Steve...

Well, all right. Perhaps Fraser could more accurately be termed bisexual. But Ray was definitely one hundred percent heterosexual, and Fraser had no business thinking about him writhing beneath him, moaning, arching his back as Fraser... as he... as he lost his mind, apparently, dropped his head in his hands, and gave himself over to his wild fantasises. Well, as wild as he could imagine, given the fact that he really wasn't all that sure what he would do with Ray if they ever did find themselves in a sexual situation. He really didn't think that Ray would be impressed with the shy fumbling that made up the bulk of Fraser's experience with same-sex... well, sex. He knew, theoretically, that sex with a man wasn't all that much different than sex with a woman - not that Fraser was by any means an expert in that, either - but knowing the theory of something like this was a far cry from being able to put it into practice with any amount of success.

Well, Fraser decided, if his subconscious was bound and determined to supply him with endless erotic images of his partner, and seeing as how such images were most likely the closest he was ever going to come to the real thing, he might as well make sure he had the proper knowledge to do the thing right. He was a Mountie - and he was nothing if not resourceful.

He'd waited until the coast was clear - the Inspector was still away, Turnbull was home nursing his wounded appendage, Dief was in the kitchen finishing off a pizza with which Fraser had shamelessly bribed him to stay out of his office, Ray was working, and Fraser's closet was silent. He was alone, in his office, with his computer.

The infernal machine was what had got him into this mess in the first place; now it was going to help him out.

In the days that followed, Fraser learned more about the ins and outs - so to speak - of gay sex than he'd ever thought possible. He now had a mental picture to accompany his thoughts of Ray. He now knew everything there was to know about personal lubricant. He knew 101 ways to use one's tongue that even he had never before considered. He'd learned helpful hints on how to avoid choking under certain circumstances. He'd even discovered a certain sub-group of literary-minded women who knew far more about the intricacies of the prostate gland that was probably good for them.

He knew enough now to really, really wish that Ray 'batted for both teams'... and that he could be persuaded to play ball, as it were, with Fraser.

Of course, he should have known that it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened. Three days, to be precise. Thatcher was still away, but Turnbull had returned, more menacing than ever on a truly terrifying pair of crutches. He'd spent the morning either tripping over them or putting all of the Consulate's breakables at risk. In fact, it was a clear indication of Fraser's lust-muddled state of mind that he didn't hear the younger Constable enter his office until it was almost too late. As it was, he glimpsed Turnbull's awkward movement out of the corner of his eye and just barely had time to minimise the window on his computer screen before Turnbull was upon him, setting a batch of file folders on Fraser's desk.

"Thank you, Turnbull," Fraser said as nonchalantly as he could despite the blush he could feel rising in his face at nearly having been caught surfing... inappropriate Web sites during working hours. Thankfully, Turnbull was none the wiser. Fraser sincerely hoped.

"You're quite welcome, Sir," Turnbull said brightly.

For a moment Fraser thought he'd got away with his indiscretion. Then Turnbull cleared his throat and spoke again, and Fraser's heart sank.

"Constable Fraser," Turnbull began. "I hope you don't think I'm being too presumptuous, but I couldn't help catching a glimpse of your computer screen a moment ago and..."

Fraser's stomach churned.

"...and, well, I was just curious..."

Fraser's palms broke out in sweat.

"Were you planning a dinner party, Sir?"

Fraser's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Well, Sir, I noticed that the site you were looking at was about cheese. If you're looking for ideas for hors d'oeuvres, or after-dinner cheese plates, I'd be glad to give you some recipes."

Fraser blinked. "Cheese?"

"Well, yes, Sir. Or, rather, fromage, if you want to be fancy about it, I suppose. A nice French camembert is always nice."

"I'm sure it is," Fraser replied faintly. "Thank you, Turnbull, but I'm afraid I... well, no, I wasn't planning a party. I was just... researching."

"Researching cheese?" Turnbull asked, confused. Then his expression cleared. "Oh, of course! I understand completely. You and Detective Vecchio must be on the trail of cheese smugglers, and I..." Suddenly, Turnbull's eyes widened. "I've said too much, haven't I? Oh, dear; just pretend I was never here!"

With that, Turnbull grabbed the files again and hobbled out of Fraser's office. Fraser stared after the retreating Constable.

Fromage, he thought wildly. Turnbull thought he'd been looking at a site on cheese. Slowly, Fraser turned back to his computer and brought the page he'd been looking at back up, scrolling down to find a picture of two scantily-clad men caught up in a loose embrace, their groins pressed tightly together. The title of the page, which Turnbull must have mis-read, proclaimed "Everything you ever wanted to know about frottage but were afraid to ask."

Frottage. Fromage.

It was, he supposed, an honest mistake.

Camembert, had Turnbull said? Soft, pale, creamy, just like how he imagined Ray's... Or perhaps brie, just as soft but a bit sharper. Would sliding into Ray be anything like sinking his teeth into a rich gruyre?

And what in God's name was wrong with him? He was getting aroused thinking about cheese, for crying out loud. Taking a firm grip on his senses - if not on any other part of himself, at least not now, while he was on duty, Fraser forced himself to turn back to his paperwork and put all thoughts of dairy products out of his head once and for all.

It was a resolve that lasted, unfortunately, all of three hours. Ray called him just as Fraser's shift was ending and suggested they go out for supper. Fraser agreed at once, of course, never one to deprive himself of his partner's companionship. With a grudging promise to bring something back for Dief, Fraser headed for a nearby diner, where Ray met him a few minutes later.

"Hope your day was more exciting than mine," Ray groaned as he slid into the booth seat opposite Fraser. "Of course, you could have been watching paint dry and it would've been more exciting."

"Hmm." Fraser agreed distractedly, caught up in the vision of loveliness that was his haggard, scruffy, stubbled partner. In fact, he was only brought out of his reverie by the arrival of the waitress, who was eyeing him speculatively. As was Ray, but for probably an entirely different reason. He hastily indicated the first thing on the menu, not really caring what it was, and took a gulp of his water as Ray ordered his usual burger and fries.

As the waitress sauntered away with only one last lingering look at Fraser, Ray turned back to gaze at him worriedly. "Everything okay, Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray," Fraser replied as benignly as he could. "Why do you ask?"

"You just seem a little distracted tonight, that's all."

Distracted by the softness of your lips, perhaps, Fraser's traitorous mind offered. Distracted by the way the neon light in the window reflects in your eyes.

Fraser coughed slightly. "I'm just a bit tired, that's all," he said, truthfully enough. He was tired. Tired of the X-rated movie that seemed to be playing on continuous loop in his head these days. Tired of the frequent cold showers he'd had to endure. Tired of Dief's snickers and knowing looks.

Ray seemed to take his explanation at face value, luckily, and they passed the next few minutes chatting about the Hawks' chances at the Stanley Cup. Which were dismal, in Fraser's opinion. He was trying to come up with a diplomatic way of mentioning this to Ray when the waitress returned, and Fraser looked down at the plate which she had placed in front of him, and he nearly groaned aloud. There, surrounded by golden fries and a crisp green pickle, was a grilled cheese sandwich.

"Something wrong?" Ray asked as Fraser stared at his meal.

"Not at all," Fraser said, picking up one of the sandwich halves and taking a cautious bite.

"Never liked the grilled cheese sandwiches you get in restaurants," Ray said conversationally between bites of his burger. "My mum used to make me these awesome ones, with real cheese, so with these processed-cheese sandwiches it's just not the same, you know. Any cheese that comes wrapped in plastic just isn't cheese."

Fraser fought off the image of Ray coming wrapped in plastic - or rather, rubber - and said, "Well, Ray, I think you'll find that most cheeses are wrapped in plastic these days. It's more sanitary." Not to mention safer, in this day and age, given both his and Ray's high-risk careers...

Ray rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean," he said before turning his attention back to his supper.

Fraser just gave him a small smile, and resolved to enjoy his grilled cheese sandwich, while ignoring the warmth pooling in his mid-section.

The next few days weren't any easier for Fraser. Everywhere he turned, he found himself bombarded with reminders of his latest obsession. There was the sight of Ray liberally anointing a plate of spaghetti with freshly grated parmesan; there was the mid-week discussion between the detectives in the 27th bullpen about the best blend of cheeses to put on various types of pizza. He'd almost decked Tom Dewey one afternoon when the detective had noted the name of a suspect - an unfortunately named Jane Muffet - and had made an inane comment about curds and whey, leading Fraser's thoughts to Ray sitting on his... tuffet.

By the end of the week Fraser was seriously beginning to doubt his sanity, and he wondered if he'd ever be able to walk past the cheese aisle at the grocery store without getting an instant erection. The answer, unfortunately, was 'apparently not.' And the worst of it was that Ray was completely oblivious to Fraser's distress. Not that he'd want Ray to know that Fraser was equating sex with him to various curdled milk products, but still, a little acknowledgement from his friend that Fraser was becoming unhinged would be nice.

All things considered, Fraser was astounded that he'd lasted as long as he did. But even he had a breaking point, and he reached it the following Friday night. Ray, having performed his duties to Welsh's satisfaction, had been granted the following Monday off, and he was expounding on the joys of the long weekend as he picked Fraser and Dief up at the Consulate. There was a hockey game on that evening, Washington at Ottawa, and there was an intense - though non-monetary - wager between the two men as to the outcome. After all, national pride was at stake.

At Ray's suggestion, they stopped for take-out on the way to Ray's apartment. Fraser had a brief, panicked moment of picturing himself seated on Ray's couch, watching him struggle with the absurd amount of mozzarella Tony insisted on putting on his favourite customers' pizzas, but to his relief Ray stopped at a deli they both favoured. Nothing dangerous there, thank God.

Much later, the game having ended in a tie, Fraser was beginning to think that he'd manage to spend at least one evening with Ray without the dreaded cheese making an appearance and sending Fraser's libido into a frenzy.

Then he caught a glimpse of the last bit of sandwich Ray was popping into his mouth.

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"What sort of sandwich did you order?"

Ray frowned at him. "The usual - ham and Swiss. Why?"

Fraser felt a surge of heat flow through him. Swiss cheese... light, and slightly sweet, and, oh Lord, full of holes...

He couldn't help himself. He'd tried, really, he'd tried. He'd held himself back as much as he could, but if Ray insisted on tormenting him so...

Fraser pounced. Ray barely had time to gasp "Whatfuck?" before Fraser claimed his lips in a fierce kiss, pouring all of the arousal and sheer frustration he had felt over the past few days into the act.

To Fraser's delight, Ray's reaction was far from the violent disgust he'd feared; in fact, Ray was kissing him back, his hands moving up to cup the back of Fraser's head, opening his mouth to Fraser's questing tongue. Fraser caught the taste of Ray's recently consumed sandwich, the faint trace of the cheese filling his senses, and he groaned with a burst of arousal, leaving Ray's mouth just long enough to remove both their shirts and murmur, "God, Ray, I've wanted this for so long..." and to hear Ray reply, "Fuck, Fraser, yeah," before he manoeuvred them both to lie on the couch, Ray writhing beneath him like he'd imagined a lifetime ago.

Overwhelmed by his partner's single-minded focus, Ray could only hold on as Fraser all but worshipped his body with his hands, his lips and his tongue. Ray's body was everything Fraser had dreamed of: his chest was as firm as cheddar, crumbling just the slightest bit at the nipples, where Fraser paused to nibble; the scent of him was as smoky as gouda; the skin of his inner thighs was indeed as soft and creamy as camembert. Fraser hadn't realized that he'd been speaking his observations aloud until he felt Ray chuckled breathlessly at that last one, but he didn't care - he'd been thinking of nothing but this for what seemed like an eternity, and now that Ray was laid out for him like, well, like a cheese platter, he was darned well going to enjoy it.

"I want to slather you with fondue," he whispered into Ray's navel, and Ray's chuckle turned into a gasp when Fraser moved down to swipe his tongue across the tip of Ray's erection. A sharp bitterness burst on Fraser's taste buds, and the last thought that crossed his mind before he gave himself completely to the lovemaking and took Ray as deeply as he could into his mouth was, "Even better than Stilton!"

Much, much later, they lay entwined in Ray's bed, satisfied smiles on their faces.

"I'm not even going to ask what brought that on," said Ray, his arms tightening around Fraser.

Fraser smiled and settled his head more comfortably on Ray's shoulder. "That's probably for the best," he admitted.

They lay in silence a while longer, enjoying the closeness, and then Ray said, "So, you got a thing for cheese, huh?"

"I'm afraid that's a long story, Ray," Fraser admitted sheepishly. "Properly speaking, though, I have a thing for you."

Ray chuckled. "That's good. I'd hate to have to compete with food."

"Don't worry, Ray," Fraser said earnestly. "I rate you much higher than any of the major food groups."

"I'm glad," Ray said, stifling a yawn.

"Although," Fraser added as he drifted off to sleep, "I think I'm developing quite a fondness for Polish sausage..."

THE END