Author's Notes: Many thanks to lipstickcat for beta.

Ray was sleeping, really deeply into it, when Fraser came home. He slept through Fraser checking to make sure he was here and safe, slept through Fraser indulging in a brief argument with Dief while eating a quick, cold meal. He missed Fraser stripping and joining him in the bed, pressing along the length of Ray's back. Only this brand of cuddling wasn't Fraser getting ready to sleep, and even unconscious Ray must have recognized that, must have distinguished "Really quite ready to fuck" Fraser from "So damn tired. Sleep now" Fraser.

So he woke to Fraser holding him against his chest, and Fraser's erection pushing almost politely against his ass. Ray lifted one sleep-heavy leg back over Fraser's, letting him thrust closer.

"You okay?" 'Cause you never knew what might happen out on patrol.

"Mmmm, yes." Fraser's slick fingers were already rubbing between Ray's legs. He stroked one finger in, making Ray's breath catch. "You?"

Ray moaned against his pillow, holding on to the arm Fraser had latched across his chest. "Yeah," he said, voice muffled. "Good to have you back."

Fraser smiled against the back of Ray's neck, worked him open quickly, efficiently, then held his cock against Ray's hole and pushed slowly in.

God, Fraser's cock felt huge inside him, but he was relaxed from sleep and adjusted quickly as Fraser fucked him slowly, steadily, one arm over his chest, one low across his hips. Ray murmured, "Yeah," and zoned out for a little while, in a lazy, sex-addled haze, letting Fraser do the work.

When Fraser shifted slightly, making intense contact with Ray's prostate, the bright, hot shock of it snapped Ray out of his mellow-fuck mood. He braced himself against Fraser's thrusts, tightened his muscles around Fraser's cock and fucked back against him.

Fraser groaned, lips moving on his neck, and Ray craned his head around to get a brief, awkward kiss before Fraser started thrusting harder, faster.

It was so damn good, Fraser's arms holding him tight, Fraser's hips thrusting, slapping against his ass, Fraser's cock pounding him just right. Ray wrapped a hand around his own cock and started to stroke, uncoordinated and clumsy.

"Yes. Touch yourself. Come." Fraser's voice sounded rough and unused and hungry. Ray leaned his head back so he could feel his cheek against Fraser's, worked his cock fast and tight, and came all over his stomach, their hands, the sheets, Fraser fucking him through it.

Fraser sped up, riding him hard even in this awkward position. His lips were pressed just behind Ray's ear, and Ray could hear his loud panting, the quiet grunts he made every time he bottomed out in Ray's ass. The sound he made when he came wasn't the stifled groan Ray remembered from Chicago, but a loud grunt, his cock held so fucking deep inside Ray until his orgasm had run its course.

Ray was asleep again before Fraser pulled out.

**********

In the morning there was coffee. When Ray's friends and family wrote to him, tactfully worded letters, considering, hinting at how out of place he must be up in the far-ass freezing north, and how welcome he'd always be back in Chicago or Arizona, he always flashed on the coffee.

Most mornings he woke alone in the bed, with that caffeine smell in the air. He'd get up, piss, do his zombie stumble towards the kitchen, pour a mug, and just make it to the table. Sometimes he put on pants, but mostly he just flopped, naked and crusty and gross, to drink deeply and wake up slowly. Even if Fraser was gone, there was always coffee. Ray remembered what it was like to wake up to a quiet, stale apartment, having to make the coffee himself before he was properly awake. And sometimes, when he dealt with the freaked out letters, or the Canadian fish-eye in town, he wondered if anybody else, the people he'd left behind or the people he'd come to live among, had any idea of home. 'Cause it wasn't a town or even a country. It was waking up right, and he was doing that for the first time in years, so he was home, damn it.

**********

The thing is, when Ray decided to stay up here, he wasn't afraid of the weather and the dark and the weird Canadians. What he was afraid of was Fraser being polite for the rest of their lives. 'Cause Fraser was so careful in the asking that Ray almost missed it, almost didn't realize that Fraser talking up the pathetic attractions of Moose Foot, Fraser mentioning how good the fishing in the area could be, was Fraser asking him to stay. And even though he was fucking delighted to oblige, he wondered if he'd spend the rest of his life wading through twisty Fraser-speak to find out what the guy meant, always wondering if he'd missed something important.

Plus, the guy had clearly never lived with anyone before, not really, and at first he was so sensitive to Ray's privacy and needs that it made him twitch.

But once he'd made a good faith effort to stay, looked around for jobs, let go of his apartment in Chicago, Fraser relaxed. And, thank god, when Fraser relaxed he turned into, well, not quite into a regular guy, 'cause Fraser was a freak through and through. He still smelled and tasted some truly gross evidence. And he held doors open for everybody, all the time, when he was in town. He found the weirdest, most boring things interesting, and assumed everyone else would, too.

But at home, at their home, Fraser bitched and complained. Told Ray he'd send him back to the USA if he didn't learn to do the laundry once in a while. He'd open the fridge and ask, pissily, where the last of the stew had gone, when he knew perfectly well that Ray had eaten it for lunch.

They still fought, although it was different now. When Fraser ignored him up here, it didn't piss him off the way it had before. It wasn't Fraser deciding to ignore Ray's input and do something insanely stupid instead. Generally, if they were working, Fraser'd translate his super-Mountie of the North "logic" for Ray, and listen when Ray told him about his hunches. When Fraser ignored him up here, it was usually 'cause he wanted to finish his book, or was in the wood-chopping rhythm, or he just felt like being alone for a while. Ray could respect that, most of the time. And when he couldn't, Fraser was always willing to fight. To snarl and sneer and insult his American addiction to immediate gratification. Which was totally okay, 'cause fighting with Fraser felt almost as good as fucking Fraser, and he had a lot of good material on Fraser's stuffy, superior Canadian attitude, anyway.

And as much as he'd loved the furtive, intense times when Fraser would hold him down and kiss him as if Ray's skin and mouth were oxygen, and separation would mean a slow, painful death, Ray didn't miss it. 'Cause now Fraser would put his hand on the back of Ray's neck in public and not even realize. He'd lean against Ray, still waking up at the table, and hold Ray's head against his belly, then, at the slightest sign of encouragement (or maybe sometimes when there was no encouragement. Ray was still trying to figure out if he could touch Fraser and not send "Do it. Touch me. Fuck me" signals. Ever), he'd just unbutton his pants and shove his cock into Ray's coffee-hot mouth. And Ray would let Fraser fuck his mouth before breakfast, cause he wanted to, and he was always blown away that Fraser could do it, could bring himself to ask without a million wasted words.

But sometimes Fraser still kissed him like the oxygen thing, and he kissed him back the same way. 'Cause getting used to having what you always wanted didn't mean you didn't remember when you didn't have anything at all.