Disclaimer: You know the drill - they ain't mine. But I live in hope.

Author's Notes: This fic was written for Missapocalyptic's birthday and to thank her for her help over the past few months. Thanks to Nicci for reading it though and making encouraging noises. Kisses to Pepe for betaing this - when it isn't even her fandom! Over and above - as always guys.

The smoke, the noise and the heat roll over him like a wave as he walks in, momentarily rocking him back on his heels. He pauses in the doorway for a minute, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the pulsing light and for his ears to recognise anything but the thump of the bass.

A knowing smile slides slowly across lips that are suddenly dying for a cigarette. This is his territory - he knows this. He slips back into the mindset with the ease of a man who has spent far too long in places like this looking for something he is never going to find here.

He weaves his way through the crowd toward the dance floor. It's busy; bodies sway and turn, each image captured and frozen by the lights, over and over in a stuttering, jerky progression. He twists his head in a lazy arc, learning, locating, identifying.

With a final glance at the bar - ah, yes, there - he steps into the light and is swept up by the dancers, claimed instantly as one of theirs. He feels his pulse quicken as the beat takes him. The familiar buzz of moving his body in time fills him - makes him feel alive and connected.

Ray dances well and he knows it. He starts out easy enough; keeping the beat, small movements, nothing fancy. But the music compels him, like it always does and he is part of it, and it part of him. Sometimes Ray thinks that dancing is the only thing that has always made sense to him; it's always been easy. Everything else in his life he has had to work for, had to struggle to understand, but not this. This is a part of him that's so fundamental it's like breathing.

His eyes track, seemingly idly as his body takes over, freeing his mind to get to the job in hand. He recognises the objects of tonight's exercise, one or two faces that he ought to keep track of, and the other undercover cops working on this gig. Not twenty-seventh; not their bust. He's only here because the nineteenth doesn't have enough detectives who can get away with fitting into a crowd like this the way Ray does, or DiMarco does from vice, or Callaghan from the twenty-second. Or Fraser from planet Mountie.

Ray moves to a spot where he can get a decent view of his partner. He's busy, but not mobbed behind the bar, working quickly and efficiently. Thankfully, this isn't the kind of place you go for cocktails, so Frase does at least look like he knows what he's doing. Even the Mountie can pour beer.

Ray tries to look at him objectively, tries to forget what he knows about Fraser so he can see him like the other patrons do. In jeans and fitted shirt, sleeves rolled above his elbows, he looks normal enough. He doesn't smile often and the polite-thing you couldn't beat out of him with a big stick, but that doesn't seem to put the club-goers off. In fact judging by the talent currently sitting at the bar instead of cruising the dance floor, it appears to be an attraction.

Fraser catches Ray staring and lifts his eyebrows briefly in question. Ray shakes his head very slightly and turns away, moving back into the centre of the press of people, going back to work.

Ray dances for a long while. Once or twice he engages someone's interest, but effectively refuses their attentions until something unexpected happens. He finds himself sharing space with one of his marks; Carl Jennings, brother of Daniel Jennings, the main quarry on this whole job and the owner of this establishment. The guy makes eye contact and smiles quickly. Ray responds in kind and slides his eyes past the guy's right ear where he sees that DiMarco has noticed and is moving closer.

Jennings dances well. And although this isn't that kind of club, no-one looks their way as they work through the next three numbers, not close enough to be together, but not far enough apart that another dancer could cut in. And close enough for Ray to get a very definite vibe coming off the man; he digs Ray, no doubt about it.

Ray studies Jennings surreptitiously. Tall - maybe he has an inch on Ray - and muscular. His brown hair is worn long, over his ears, but not reaching his neck; he looks expensive, intelligent, and Ray has to remind himself that his brother is suspected of importing underage girls from Russia to feed the thriving prostitution market Chicago hosts. This guy doesn't seem to be linked, and his only priors are possession and some traffic violations, but he's here and that makes him a suspect. And someone hasn't done their homework well enough to have mentioned the fact that the guy is gay.

It's hard to keep track of everyone with the lights and the movement, but Ray knows that there are at least five pairs of eyes looking out for him as he dances. Instinctively he searches for the ones that matter most and finds that Fraser is indeed watching him with some intensity. When Ray's eyes meet his, it's a long second before Fraser looks away and Ray recognises the significance of the delay.

Ray grins as the tempo changes, excusing himself, but Carl follows when he leaves the dance floor, trailing him to the bar. Ray picks a spot sufficiently distant from Fraser and orders a beer.

"Two beers. My tab," says a surprisingly soft voice from such a big guy. Carl slides into the space next to Ray and pulls a slightly crushed packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "Smoke?"

Ray hesitates for a minute and then accepts, taking a light from the offered match. The first lungful is harsh, but the second is heaven, and he closes his eyes at the familiar rush.

"How long since you gave up?" Carl asks, a smile twisting his face in a way that Ray finds not entirely unpleasant.

Ray grins and takes another drag, giving himself a second to think because this guy is observant and he needs to be very, very careful. "Hey, I've been giving up since I was seventeen. I'll crack it someday soon."

Two beers appear on the bar and Ray's eyes flick to the bartender. It's not Fraser and Ray finds himself oddly pleased by this. He can be the guy Carl's trying to pick up - as long as he knows Fraser isn't over his shoulder listening to him do it, watching him with those storm blue eyes that promise everything and nothing at all.

"I'm Carl," the guy says raising his bottle.

"Ray," he supplies. "Thanks for the beer." He toasts Carl and takes three or four good pulls from the bottle.

"So, at the risk of sounding clichd, I haven't seen you in here before." He sounds confident, as if he's not used to being rejected. What Ray wouldn't give for one ounce of this guy's self-assurance so early in the game.

"Oh, I only found this place a week ago." This much is true. Ray knows the trick to being undercover is keeping it simple and as close to the truth as you can without blowing it. "Been in three nights now." Also true; building up the credentials of a guy who needs to make some money and has flexible morals. "Haven't seen you here either."

"Been away on business." Carl leans back, openly admiring the company he's in. Ray notices and finds he doesn't mind. "So are you new in town?"

"Nope. Just new in here. This kind of music wasn't to my ex's taste." Another truth wrapped around a lie.

"Ah," Carl replies simply, nodding as if he now sees the whole picture.

Ray hears his opportunity to steer the conversation and takes it. "So, did you go somewhere nice?"

"Depends on your definition of nice. And it was purely for business, so no chance to do much...sightseeing."

Ray notes the hesitation and takes a swallow of beer to cover the pause that follows. He knows that these are loaded words. He's played this game a number of times since the divorce. Different towns, different objectives, different genders, same game. "That's too bad," he commiserates, and catches Carl's eye as he drinks again, slowly.

The briefest of smiles tells Ray that Carl has seen his recognition; that they're both on the same page. Ray watches Carl's body language change from predatory to possessive. He turns to face Ray fully now. The guy thinks it's just a matter of time.

"It was Mexico. You ever been to Mexico, Ray?" Nice smile, expensive teeth, eyes that notice everything, so Ray knows he has to play it smart.

"Once, briefly. Got a poncho," Ray grins. It's so easy to lie when you're telling the truth.

"Did you like it?"

"The poncho?" He gives a guileless, I'm-just-a-funny-guy-trying-to-impress-you shrug.

Carl is suitably amused.

Ray wonders if Carl is trying to recruit him - he knows that the girls come in through Mexico - or trying to get into his pants. Or both. Ray swallows the last of his beer. "It's somewhere I'd like to spend more than four hours, certainly. Get a feel for the country. You know some good places?"

"Can I get you gentlemen anything?"

Ray thinks he can hear glaciers creaking somewhere in the sound of that voice. But the smile that meets his eyes when he turns to look at Fraser seems warm enough; at least he hopes that he's the only one who sees the shadow of pissiness in it.

"Two more beers and a little privacy," Carl says without even looking at the interruption. Silently, Fraser places two cold beers on the bar. Ray reaches for one and his fingers close around the wet glass. Instantly, Fraser's hand closes over his and Ray looks up in surprise. For one second, Ray endures the up close intensity of Benton Fraser's displeasure, before the look and his hand are gone, and he moves away to serve someone else, leaving Ray unnerved and flushed.

Ray curses himself for letting Fraser affect him like he does. So what if he watches? Why should Ray modify his behaviour to please Fraser? What good would it do him if he did?

"Let me get this one," Ray mutters, digging in his pocket for money. He throws a couple of bills on the bar. "Think maybe I need to dance some more."

He takes his bottle with him, half hoping that Carl won't follow, but of course he does. Ray reaches the edge of the dance floor and swiftly downs his beer, discarding the bottle and moving back into the crowd. Perversely, he once again has a clear view of the bar and Fraser's bland expression as he picks up the beat and lets himself go. Callaghan moves into a position off to his left, Ray notices, his mind still calculating the odds.

Carl has become bolder and brushes against Ray a few times as they dance. Ray is a little freaked by it, but he's not gonna let Carl or the Mountie know that. He's angry that a look from Fraser can make him feel so guilty and cheap, and that anger finds its release in the beat of music that's too loud.

Ray can turn it on whenever he wants to, and he decides that he wants to right now. As the music goes up-tempo, so does he. Ray knows that Carl thinks it's for his benefit, and let him. Ray knows who it's really for. So does Fraser.

His hips sway, languidly keeping time as he lifts his arms over his head. He feels his shirt and pants part company, allowing the kiss of hot, smoky air to touch his bare stomach. Ray can see the reaction from Fraser. His partner stills for an instant, his eyes fixed on that flash of pale skin, before he recovers and fulfils his order.

Ray stiffens slightly as Carl runs a warm palm across his damp back and he realises he's gone too far. At that moment one of the bouncers walks up to Jennings and speaks into his ear. A flicker of annoyance crosses Carl's face and he nods tightly.

"Don't go anywhere. I'll be back in a moment," he says into Ray's ear as he brushes past him. Ray dances for a minute more to be sure that Jennings is gone, before he heads for the door. And if his hips sway a little more than they need to, it's no one's business, but his own.

It's cool outside and the sweat from his shirt makes the material cling to him uncomfortably. He meets Robbins and Meyer from the nineteenth on the corner of the next block and endures their smart mouths - obviously someone has already radioed in that Ray got lucky tonight.

"What is it with you guys? You couldn't tell me the guy was gay before I went in there looking this good?" he throws back at them. "I don't get paid enough for this kinda shit." He tells them what he knows, who he noticed was in tonight and flips them the bird when one of them asks for a kiss goodnight.

Ray's still angry, and he wishes he knew why he lets it get to him. His boots stamp a little more loudly than strictly necessary on the way up to his apartment and he tosses the keys hard onto the table. He kicks the door shut behind him, and is surprised when it doesn't bang. He turns to find Fraser standing in the doorway, hand braced to stop the door and his face like granite, hard and unforgiving.

"How d'you get here so fast?" Ray asks rudely. He doesn't recognise Fraser's expression, and that's unnerving. He knows this guy inside out, so how come he can't read this one?

Fraser says nothing but steps into the apartment, closing the door deliberately behind him. He doesn't take off his jacket, or rub his eyebrow or do any of the Fraser things Ray has gotten used to.

"What's up?" Ray asks but Fraser just stares at him, like he hates him or something, like he's trying to psyche him out. However, Ray has played this one with professionals and he doesn't do intimidated. He shrugs and goes to the kitchen, bending down to get beer from the bottom of his refrigerator. Fraser is standing by the counter as he closes the door, crowding him, almost threatening him.

"You want something?" Ray says as an afterthought. Fraser shakes his head slightly and follows him back to the living room and the couch like a malicious shadow.

Ray sits, kicks off his boots and deliberately ignores Fraser, who is standing with his arms crossed, watching him. He clicks on the TV and leans back, swigging his beer. He turns down the volume, because he knows that Fraser is going to have something to say in about eight seconds, seven, six, five, four, three...

"Your performance tonight was very convincing, Ray."

And somehow that doesn't sound like a compliment.

Ray shrugs without looking up from the football game that burbles quietly in the background. If he keeps up the front that everything is alright, maybe it will force Fraser into spelling out his grievance, because Ray knows that's what this is building up to. For all his wizardry with grammar and smart long words, Fraser can never just say what he means.

"Carl Jennings seemed quite taken in by your...deception." Fraser is talking carefully, picking his words, and to Ray that means trouble.

"Undercover cop, Frase. That's my job."

"Yes, indeed. Your devotion to duty was instantly apparent earlier in the ease with which you assumed the personality of a homosexual man looking for some company. I must have missed that Jennings was gay in the files." Fraser's voice is calm and pitched low, but Ray can hear the brittle, angry edge.

Ray knows Fraser is trying to get a rise out of him, trying to get him to make the first hostile overtone - he does this passive-aggressive stuff a lot, and it's taken Ray a long time to learn to curb his natural instinct, which is to get in his face and force him to spill what this is all about. Well Ray's not doing that this time - if Benton Fraser wants something, he's going to have to work for it - even if it is just a fight.

"It wasn't in the files. Nineteenth fucked up. I've told them what I think of their background checks."

"Ah. So, quick thinking on your part, Ray. Jennings certainly seemed to think that you were... interested."

Ray shrugs again and feels Fraser's tension dial up a couple of notches at his lack of responsiveness. He lets his eyes slide across to where the Mountie is glowering at him. Even pissed off, he looks too wholesome to be in Ray's ratty, dimly lit, tired looking apartment.

Without the uniform and the wolf, Fraser looks almost normal; like a regular guy with regular wants and needs. Like a guy who might be capable of an honest human response instead of a pre-prepared, one size fits all anecdote. Like a guy who might let someone else see who he really is underneath the starch and the scotch-guard and the manners.

Ray looks back to the game - it's highlights, so the score has changed in the few seconds he was watching Fraser. Out of the corner of his eye, Ray sees Fraser step closer.

"It's a dangerous strategy you initiated though, Ray."

"Yeah? How's that?"

"You should be careful." Almost a growl and Ray feels a thrill at cracking the Mountie faade.

"Why?"

"Garnering the sexual interest of an individual associated with a crime you are investigating. Even if he proves to be unconnected with the operation, he is unlikely to be pleased to find that you were baiting him."

"Is that what I was doing? Baiting him?"

"It certainly appeared that way to me."

"Really?" Ray makes a 'hey, what d'ya know' face and bobs his head noncommittally.

"You were flirting."

"Oh, I don't think you could..."

"Flirting," Fraser insists and his voice is diamond sharp, cutting though Ray's deliberate prevarication. "Your stance, the way you danced, the eye contact, the smiles - all purposefully communicating your interest in him as a sexual partner."

"No harm in flirting, huh, Frase?"

Ray looks directly at his partner for the first time since he arrived and sees a man who is barely containing his frustration. He watches as his comment hits home and a look of surprise, quickly suppressed, registers on that angry face.

Ray, once again turns back to the TV to find that a new game is being reported on. Fraser is silent and still for almost a minute.

"Ray, you must know..." Fraser begins in a new, less aggressive tone. Ray doesn't look up, so Fraser takes the two long strides that plant him firmly in front of the screen. Ray's eyes focus on Fraser's jean-clad legs.

"I don't think you should participate further in this investigation," Fraser announces, the conciliatory tone gone once again from his voice.

"No?"

"No. Carl Jennings' behaviour displayed possessive and aggressive traits, indicating that he might be a danger to you."

"Possessive and aggressive, huh? " Ray looks up with a tight, mirthless smile.

Fraser's face darkens at the implication, a red-purple flush reaching his cheeks, and his jaw clenches as he fights to retain his composure. Ray sees this and the head rush he gets makes him feel like he's finally taking control of this situation. The Mountie looks like he wants to pick him up and shake him; like he wants to reach out and hold him tight enough to make marks, but is too afraid. Like he'll get burned.

Fraser's arms unfold and he hooks his thumbs through his belt loops, bowing his head, he takes a deep breath and says, "Surely, Ray, you must know..." before he falters again, frees a hand and rubs a knuckle along his eyebrow.

"What? What must I know, Frase?" Ray's tone isn't harsh, but nor is it gentle. He sounds honestly perplexed. "That you watch me all the time? That you touch me when you don't need to? That you don't leave straight away when you say goodbye? That what I'm supposed to know? Cos I do know that. I do. But the question is, do I know what that means?"

"You do." Fraser tells him, quietly but definitely.

Ray contemplates him, narrowing his eyes and decides that the game is over now, one way or another. Nothing more to lose. "Yeah, I do," he agrees. "So do something about it."

Fraser sighs and shakes his head, his eyes still cast down. "I can't."

"You won't."

"Ray, it's not that simple."

"Yes it is, Fraser. It is. It really is that simple. Either you want me or you don't."

There. He's said it. The feeling of relief is dizzying. It's been months since Ray knew exactly where he stood with his partner. The tension between them hasn't affected their professional relationship, the rapport between them too strong to allow the cracks to reach their working partnership. But the easy friendship they used to share has suffered.

Too often these days their interactions are charged, all stilted conversations with their words saying one thing and their expressions saying another. And each time Ray thinks he might have forced some kind of resolution out of Fraser, the Mountie backs off, leaving Ray exactly where he was before - confused and tired and alone.

"All the other stuff we can deal with, one thing at a time. I'm not saying it's gonna be easy... I'm not stupid, Fraser. I know what this is. But at its most basic level, when push comes to shove, the fundamental question has to be am I worth that to you, or not?"

Ray is glad it's over. He's sick of waiting, unable to move on, but unwilling to stay. "So which is it?"

He finishes his beer as he watches Fraser struggle with his ultimatum. Ray expected to feel something when it came to this - because it had to come sooner or later. No one can look at another person the way Fraser looks at Ray sometimes, and emerge unscathed. But he feels only relief, his nervousness noticeable by its absence.

Fraser is stroking his eyebrow compulsively, then palming his face, biting his thumb and starting the whole process again. Ray watches while the seconds become minutes, then realises that it could be that he already has his answer.

"Fine," Ray says and nods as if that's what he'd expected. He gets up and goes to the kitchen for another beer.

The cool air from the refrigerator seems to wake him a little and the numbness starts to contract to a point low in his gut, where something is beginning to hurt like a sonofabitch, making it hard for him to breathe. Ray snags a bottle and straightens up fast, so he can get some air.

Somehow Fraser has arrived again unnoticed. If Ray thought his behaviour was threatening before, it was nothing to this. Fraser is in Ray's space as he turns and closes the door. He's blocking Ray's exit from the kitchen. In the low light spilling from the living room, Fraser looks wide and solid and menacing and Ray has a glimmer of unease that he quickly squashes. Instead, he recognises that perhaps the decision still hasn't been made.

In a direct echo of their earlier conversation Ray asks, "You want something?" But the context is all different; what's on offer has changed and Ray knows that even as the words leave his lips.

Fraser's eyes glitter in the mad reflection of the TV's flickering light. Although his posture is uncompromising the look on his face is not. He looks intense, afraid, uncertain, but not aggressive. He drops his hands from his belt and they hang at his side as he steps closer still, the gesture surprisingly submissive.

Ray doesn't move a muscle, he's scarcely even breathing, scared that the smallest gesture from him will send Fraser running from him again, for good this time.

Fraser's chin goes down as he takes the final step and their hair brushes together as Ray looks down too. Only an inch separates them and Ray can feel the heat of Fraser's skin against his chest in counterpoint to the chill of the refrigerator at his back.

"Yes," Fraser says quietly, and presses a hand to the door beside Ray's ribs.

Ray struggles to remember what he asked, his senses overwhelmed by Fraser's proximity.

"I want you." Fraser lifts his face to Ray's angling his head so he can touch their lips together.

This kiss is nothing like Ray expected. Where he was anticipating possession and dominance, he finds need and a question. Ray lifts up his face, bringing Fraser's with him. Now Ray can move, so he kisses back, reassuring, giving and telling Fraser he can have it all.

With a low growl that buzzes over Ray's tongue and straight to his groin, Fraser understands. Like hot air over a plain fire, tentative and uncertain are forgotten, to be replaced by a long-suppressed lust. Fraser presses Ray back hard against the refrigerator door, trapping him with his body. He kicks Ray's feet apart, making room for him to settle roughly into the curve of Ray's pelvis.

Fraser's mouth is all demanding heat and bruising pressure against Ray's lips. Fraser's other hand comes up to rest beside Ray's head, caging him in with his mouth and his arms and his weight. With a dull clunk Ray's bottle slips from his fingers onto the linoleum floor and rolls away.

Now Ray is free to use his hands, he clings onto Fraser like a drowning man, grasping the material of his shirt like it's the only thing between him and oblivion. He twists his fists into Fraser's clothing and holds on while he is tossed around like a rag doll. Fraser is out of control, almost feral. He bites at Ray's jaw and neck, his even white teeth sharp against the sensitive skin.

Ray's head thumps back and he gasps for air as his own passion fast tracks up to reach Fraser's. He's aching, desperate; the slide of denim on denim not enough, not nearly enough to satisfy him. Fraser's pressure is good... but all wrong, his rhythm all out and Ray can only think of how much he needs to hold him down so he can rub them right.

With a grunt he lunges forward against Fraser's solid chest and the momentum carries them back a few staggered paces. With his hand still fisted in Fraser's shirt he turns and yanks them to the bedroom, stumbling and cursing at the lack of light and the crap on the floor that trips him. Fraser is pulling at his shirt, trying to get it off him. As they reach the bed, Ray turns and kisses Fraser, as hard and demanding as Fraser was desperate.

With shaking, fumbling hands they strip; buttons, zips, each other's, their own, it doesn't matter as long as they're naked. Before Ray's done, Fraser drops him onto the unmade bed. Rough hands yank down his jeans and shorts, exposing him and then Fraser is on him again. Without warning, his dick in engulfed in the burning slick of Fraser's mouth and with a tiny part of his mind, Ray is actually afraid that Fraser is going to forget himself and bite him. The fear impossibly turns him on even more. Ray arches off the bed, forcing more of himself into that perfect hard suction.

Then Fraser is climbing his body and Ray moans at the loss of sensation for the brief moment it takes for Fraser to line up his own cock against Ray's and thrust hardhardhard and fast. The scratch and tangle of their coarse hair, and the slip/stick as their dicks rub is overwhelming; perfect, terrible, pain, pleasure. It can't last, Ray knows it. He wants to scream and yell and wring every last ounce out of this, but Fraser's tongue is deep in his mouth, licking and sucking and stealing the breath from him.

Ray grabs at Fraser's hard ass, digging his nails into the muscle there and Fraser moans "Fuuuuuuck," hot into his neck. Ray feels the sudden scald as Fraser comes, shuddering and seizing against him. The sudden slipperiness gives Ray a reprieve of another four, five, six perfect strokes, and then he too is spasming as pulse after pulse of heat is dragged from him, pulling his consciousness with it.

When he opens his eyes, Fraser is looking at him. There's no reproach, no anger and no apology either in his gaze, just waiting. With his head on the pillow beside him, Ray figures it's that time. It's all going too well.

"We have to do the big... you know... talking thing now?" Ray asks stretching hugely enough to pop tendons and crack bones - it also serves to cover his disquiet.

"Not unless you especially wanted to," Fraser replies with a one-sided smile.

"Nope. No. Nuh-huh. Not me."

Fraser closes his eyes and Ray just stares at him for a little while. This is comfortable, close - not quite cuddling, but close. After the aggressive energy of earlier, this calm seems weird to Ray - like the eye of the storm, with the knowledge that any second the other side will be upon them - and the wind will be coming from the opposite direction.

"I'm sorry about the uh... the... the... the flirting thing," Ray murmurs, surprised to hear himself admitting that out loud.

For a second Ray thinks he's blown it. Fraser takes a deep breath and shifts a little, then places a big, heavy hand on Ray's stomach. "No, you're not."

"No. You're right. But I didn't mean to make you so...you know... well, mad."

Fraser's eyes open a little, shining darkly. "Yeah. You did."

"Right," Ray agrees quickly. "Frase, I didn't want to force your hand or anything. I'm not trying to make you do something you don't want to. You know, this is a big thing and it's been going on for a while. So there's a whole lot of stuff going on in your head and I'm thinking not all of it is good stuff and... You've obviously not done anything about it before because..." Ray leaves the words hanging and Fraser fully opens his eyes and begins to stroke soothing patterns on Ray's still sticky belly.

"Isn't this that talking thing you were hoping to avoid?" he asks quietly and with a gentle warning in his voice.

"Yeah, you're right, you're right. I knew that. I'll shut up... you know... right... now." But Ray is buzzing, twitchy and wide-awake.

Fraser sighs and a smile - a real one this time - breaks across his face. "No, you won't."

"I will. Really. But I just want to know that you're gonna be here when I wake up. Because, seriously, if you want out, I want you to go right now. I can't deal with the whole - does he, doesn't he - thing. It just messes with my head, so if this was like scratching an itch kinda thing, you know, a one hit wonder, then I want you to go. Now."

Fraser looks at Ray seriously, his fingertips trailing up and down the skin of Ray's waist and hip. "No, you don't," he says finally. "And it wasn't. And you were right."

"I was?"

"Yes, Ray. It really was this simple. There's... stuff... as you so succinctly put it, but it's nothing we can't deal with."

Fraser's face looks a little troubled, but his hands begin to become more adventurous, stroking and sweeping over sticky skin.

"Okay, okay, I can do that." Ray nods and sends his hands to do some exploring of their own.

"The first matter will be how you don't flirt with other men," Fraser growls, possessive fingers closing on Ray.

"Yeah, I get that. I'm all over that," Ray grins and braces himself for the other side of that storm.

Fin