Disclaimer: Characters and show aren't mine, obviously.

Author's Notes: Written for the Weaponry Challenge on ds_flashfiction.

 

Fraser's leaning his pinky finger on Ray's forehead, because apparently that helps him balance.  It helps him while he's dabbing the goopy ointment stuff onto Ray's face with the other hand, which stings, and it stinks, but it's not enough to distract him from Fraser with his face up close like a dentist.  And the finger.  The whole hand leaning into his hair, just brushing it.  It throws him a little.  Afterwards, he needs a minute.

He had to come here.  Where else would he go?  Fraser's not too happy to hear that Ray might have shot that guy.  Crook or not.  Ray's not happy either.  The sirens out the window aren't happy.

He wishes Fraser was high about something right now, pleased with himself like he gets, so they could laugh their way out of this.  Or if he was wound up, irritated and edgy like other times, then they could get in a fight, work some steam off that way.  He can't just sit here while they track him down.  What if his folks see him in the paper?  On the six o'clock news even?  After all this time, hello! better than a Christmas card.

Fraser's serious, stern, maybe annoyed.  He's got to clean up after Ray, hide him, is what he's thinking, but it's not like that, Ray's not on the run, he just needed...  he just needed...  not what Fraser's pulling out.  Not what he's pulling.  Cuffs?  He's turning him in?  Oh that's great.  Good call, Kowalski.  Do you know who your friends are?  Do you ever know what you're doing?

This is one hell of a day.

He lets Fraser stand over him, lets him tug on his arms, put his wrists together.  Fraser holds his hands one at a time, closing the cuffs like an expert.  He probably does handcuff drills on long summer afternoons with Thatcher.  Yeah, she'd like that.  Or Turnbull.  Ditto.  Fraser's big square hands give him a pat on the wrist to make sure they're on steady, and he steps back and lets Ray think about it.

"Do you understand these rights?"

Yeah, he understands.  What he does not understand is why Fraser has bothered to cuff him, like he thinks Ray's going to get physical, that he'd rough up his own partner to get away.  A nod would have done in a case like this, okay maybe block the door.  "What the hell, Fraser?  What is this?"

Fraser looks at him, then pulls his own hands out from behind his back and makes like he wants to be helpful, still with the old frown between his eyes.  "I can repeat that for you, of course.  How far back do you want me to start?"

Ray moves his lips very slowly and carefully, making his voice as aggravating as possible.  "Whyyyy...  did you...  cuff me.  Fraser, why did you do that.  There's no need for this.  You don't think I'd shoot you, I wouldn't."

"Well, no, Ray, but–" and Fraser's leaning over him again, closer this time, and he's looking lower than his eyes.  What – where is – his hands are, one is planted on the arm of the big stuffed chair, and the other one is skimming down Ray's side past the empty holster and around to the small of his– "You might be reluctant to surrender your weapon."

And he goes for the back of Ray's jeans, hand under the jacket, pushing against the shirt, his thumb briefly brushing skin as he grabs hold of the gun and pulls it free, while the whole time his breath's been on Ray's forehead, and it's even, but it's not quite easy.

Suddenly Ray knows something, and it's bad.  It's very bad.

"Or should I say, my weapon."  Fraser gives him a grave little smirk and displays the .38, like next stop might be a cake stand.

"Was just borrowing it."

Fraser nods.  "I know."  It looks like he means it, and maybe he's not that pissed off.  But he's still too close, still trying to make his point, way too close for comfort, and neither of them's comfortable.

Bad.  Oh yes bad.  This does not tell him good things about how this year's going to go.  It might be saying good things about the next half hour, though.  It's just been one of those days.

"You...  you didn't have to cuff me to do that," he says, more breathlessly than he'd want to if he's playing it cool.  "You coulda just done it.  I'da let you take it."

"Really?"  Fraser looks at him, but now he's a mile away.  Sometimes Fraser's eyes look like a baby's, innocent and concentrating, like he's putting the world together and making snowmen out of it.  Right now there's something different back there.  He's an adult, he's got secrets.

"Yeah.  Yeah.  You want the gun all you gotta – all you had to do was ask."

Fraser looks at him another minute, just looming there above him, motionless.  Ray's helpless in the face of it, he's going to make a fool of himself and he can't stop, he's listening and he doesn't know if he hears a ticking bomb or if it's just his own blood in his ears, if he's the only one that's going to blow.

Slowly, Fraser turns his head aside and puts the gun down on the desk.  And this is where it'll go wrong, but it's all Ray wants and he's never been good at not fucking up.  Running into walls, getting into fights, falling for the wrong girl, biting his tongue, black eyes and reprimands, that's his specialty now.  Half the time he doesn't wear his glasses because he's tired of shooting people.  Tired of getting it right and watching them bleed.

What's Fraser see in his face right now?  He doesn't know, but he's not trying to hide.  He's still dirty from the alley.  He still needs help.  His mouth hanging open, his breath coming hot and shallow, tense and wanting to give in, to have this go down in flames before it even gets started.  Fraser's crazy, he's a freak, but he always knows where he's going.  He could pull Ray out of the pit if he wanted, and Ray's not ready to go.

Fraser's eyes are cloudy, and adult, and thinking.  "I'll remember that," he says, straightening up, his voice deep and careful – a command voice.  Not a do-me voice.  Not an innocent voice.  Ray doesn't know what it is.

Ray's going over the top now, he's losing it, it's time.  He feels his own voice getting hard.  "Why doncha remember it right now?" he says.  He rises up in the chair a little and reaches and the cuffs catch him, stiff and sharp.  He pulls his wrists apart as far as they'll go and hits Fraser with a look, pins those shifting blue eyes right down the middle.  "Get me out of these."

Fraser starts to lick his lip and stops, like the whole thinking thing isn't going exactly his way any more.  "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Get 'em off me, Fraser."  He clanks again and then grabs the front of the uniform, because it's right there and that's all he can do.  It's thick stiff wool but he gets a good grip on it, because he's got long fingers and he's sure what he wants.  Trouble.  He pulls himself up and gets right in that smooth-shaved GQ face.  If Fraser wants him at all it'll be for the bloodshot eyes and the snarl, for the guy that hits what he aims at.  "What do you think I'm gonna do?  Knock you over?  Fight my way out the front door?  You scared of me, Fraser?"

Fraser rocks back for a sec as he takes Ray's weight, then he pushes him back down into the chair and pins him there.  And Fraser's voice sounds normal and confident and just a little bit shaky as he says "I am, actually."  His hands are tight on Ray's shoulders as he pushes – pushes.  He's trying to push Ray away.

That means it's time for Ray to pull, because that's what he does best, is the thing you don't want.  So he gives a real hard yank at the weight that's already leaned towards him and it tips over and they're both crashed back in the chair, Fraser's legs knocking into the desk, Fraser's body on top of him, what'll be bruises later giving a quick hello before they're gone in a rush of – warm, heavy, scrambling down off him, too slowly to mean it when he says no, "This is– Ray, this is very wrong, I, I can't deny–"

And that's all Ray needs to hear, so he plants one on the first place he can find, the side of the neck, and that smooth touch against his lips drives him wild and he's forgetting the cuffs and really hurting himself this time, trying to grab Fraser and he can't.

"So don't," he gasps, sloppy kissing again because it's dammit all he can do, getting Fraser's jaw, Fraser's chin, dragging his tongue across it, biting, catching Fraser's lip, pulling him down, lurching up until their lips meet, and then Fraser's coming down with him, Fraser's leaning down into him and into his mouth.

There's a big hot hand supporting the back of his head and another closing around the knuckles of his straining fist.  There's soft hair falling across his forehead and a skip in his heartbeat like he ran too fast and he's not going to make it.  He's getting what he wants.  He's covered in blowback.

And it's fuck-up time.