Author's Notes: No beta. Just my perverted little mind and grammar-challenged self looked this over.

It was stakeout nine thousand and fifty-six, and Ray just knew that, yeah, if something didn't happen soon, if someone didn't show their sorry ass, he was going to lose it and combust, leaving real small bits of himself all over the Goat and, man, his dad would kill him and the smell would probably be really gross because he'd had nachos that night for dinner and the bean factor alone...

"Ray, stop it, or I will not be held responsible for my actions."

What the fuck?

"I'm about to combust here, Fraser, I'm serious. Splatter city. So cool your jets. I've got life forces leaking out of my eyeballs. Hear me? We're talking 'Danger, Will Robinson' time."

Ray got the sigh that Fraser usually made when dealing with some fuck-up of Turnbull's.

"That's so not buddies, Fraser."

"I beg your pardon."

"You just huffed the Turnbull huff of doom at me. I know when I'm being dissed. What's your problem?"

"My problem," oh Christ on a raft. Stakeouts were hell, but stakeouts with a snippy Fraser sucked mondo suckage, "is that you are unbearably fidgety. Far be it from me to rehash old arguments..."

"Jeeesus Chriiiiist, will you give it a..."

"But six cups of coffee at dinner when the chances of being immobile for several..."

"What about the chances of staying awake? Huh? Not all of us can get by on sixteen hours of sleep a month because we're not fucking robots who've had real critical body parts surgically removed and..."

"You've been hitting the steering wheel with your fingers; tapping the floorboards with your feet; clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth with, well, your tongue. I even saw your eyebrows wriggling uncontrollably for several..."

"Stop with the pouting already. You hear me? Just because I won't let you tell any Iniuit stories where everyone fucking dies of frostbite..."

"In short, Ray, your fidgeting is driving me mad, and if you don't stop it, I will be forced to use extreme measures."

Well, Ray could pout too. But, like, Chicago style.

"Bite me, Fraser," he snapped and began tapping the steering wheel. Like pounding it with the flat of his hand.

"You've brought this on yourself, Ray."

As was so often the case when partnered with Fraser--like every frigging day--Ray was handed a first-class ticket to the Twilight Zone. Except this wasn't anything like the recurring episode where they jump off a ten-story building and survive due to the lucky location of a dumpster (Ray had to admit that Fraser had excellent dumpster karma). Or that episode where they happened to be driving a car that had flames shooting out from the undercarriage and, oh look, a lake. Or even Ray's personal favorite, the one where they were in a plane and there was only one parachute and it was party time at ten-thousand feet.

Nope. This had nothing to do with endangering his life in wildly bizarre ways. It had to do with Fraser reaching across the front seat with his left hand, unzipping Ray's pants (with his left hand!), spitting into his right hand, then sticking his wet hand down Ray's boxers, and jerking him off. Whoa. Fraser was ambidicktrous.

To Ray's screech of surprise, Fraser merely said, "I warned you, Ray," and kept up this punishing stroking of Ray's dick that had Ray swearing and punching the upholstery with his fists and thrusting up as much as the steering wheel would let him, plus making really weeny whimpering and begging noises that even at the time Ray knew were pathetic but, like, hello? A ginormous Mountie hand just swallowed up Ray's dick in a million different kinds of jacking off greatness. That wicked twist at the end of every stroke meant Ray was only good for about sixteen strokes before shouting, "Jesus, fuckfuckfuck" and coming. His frigging brains out.

The only thing keeping him upright was the steering wheel. Which was a good thing. Because he was slouched in the direction of the warehouse, and the one millimeter of Ray's brain that hadn't been fried by that orgasm was reminding him that he was still on stakeout, and now that the fun and games were over it was time to concentrate on getting decent in case of, you know, crime and shit.

As soon as his hands stopped trembling and twitching, he'd give serious consideration to putting his dick away. As usual, Fraser was five seconds ahead of him. With his classic no-nonsense efficiency (was there one goddamned thing this guy was bad at?), Fraser pulled out the inevitable handkerchief, cleaned him up, tucked him back in, pulled up his zipper, and managed the top button of his jeans, all in about ten seconds. The same way he filled out forms, totaled restaurant tabs, and buckled his seat belt. Ray didn't know whether to be insulted or relieved.

"Frase?" he managed to croak out when the audio portion of his brain had returned to its normal programming, because as much as Ray didn't do the talking thing, it seemed that he needed to make an effort because they'd just done a really gay thing and, well, fuck.

"Are you relaxed, Ray? No more fidgets?"

Ray was pretty sure any fidgets he had had just been jacked right out of him. So much so if Mikey Lucca and his band of merry thugs showed up within the next twenty seconds they were toast.

"Uh, yeah. I am, and uh, nope. No fidgets. I'm good." Which was true. In a really gay way.

"Good. Did I tell you about the time when a ballet troupe came to Norman Wells and an activist with the Swan Liberation Front stole all the tutus?

And that, apparently, was that.

*********************

One of Ray's strengths was that he was good with tells and body language. You know, when to throw a perp against the wall, when to smash a chair six inches from their face, when to turn it over to the Mountie for the confession to get away from the psycho cop. He and Fraser had this down. But you had to see cracks, now matter how small, to twig when someone was breaking up inside.

After doing the nasty with Ray's dick did Fraser have any cracks? Nada. Was their drive home from the stakeout any different than the previous one-hundred-and-forty-six drives home from the stakeout? Nope. Ray argued for donuts, Fraser for bagels (Christ, whole-wheat bagels even), a fight Ray always won because two against one; Dief, you're my man. Or wolf. Like always, Ray's concession was to go to the donut shop that also carried bagels and not so bad coffee. Like always, they'd brought breakfast home to Ray's apartment, he had poured boiling water over tree bits so Fraser could wash down his bagel with something hot, and it was still same old Frase, running down the calorie and bad cholesterol count in each and every bite of donut. In between charting Ray's death from a major heart attack in the year 2036, he thanked him kindly for the tea and, yes, he'd like another cup, if Ray didn't mind.

At the end of breakfast, Ray drove Fraser to the consulate. Which being Saturday meant that Fraser would actually get some sleep. They firmed up their plans to watch the game that night (as being the team with the highest solve rate, Ray had no problem with pulling rank on the weekends and saying, "No fucking way am I sitting in car on a Saturday night when there's a Hawks game on. With all due respect, Sir."). Fraser said, "Thank you kindly for the tea, Ray, and I'll see you around six," closed the car door, and entered the consulate.

Ray went back home to his apartment and had his nervous breakdown.

**********************

As soon as Ray got inside he threw a piece of lettuce to Turtle-"Go to town, green guy"-and thought about taking a shower because he was still sort of sticky despite Fraser's wipe down. But oddly he didn't want to because Fraser's hand had felt fucking fantastic and showering would be one step toward making it like it didn't happen. His wigging out about the hand job was, apparently, less than his enjoyment of it.

Which only freaked him out further.

Ray lay down on his bed and pulled the covers up over his head because he needed to be really alone. Like completely in his head. He used to do this when he was a kid and needed space from his brother. Forcing Ray to share a room with his little brother was close to child abuse, as far as he was concerned. Inevitably the little fucker would try to rip the covers off and then it would be "Mommmmm." Then it would be, "Stop it, you fucking little turd." Then it would be Ray losing his allowance for a week. Which really burnt his muffins because couldn't a guy just put his head under the covers and be left alone? When he grew up... Why Ray had thought once he grew up things would be fair and he could slide under the covers (metaphorically speaking) and no one would try to pull them back... Man, was he wrong. In fact, the last five years he really hadn't gotten any allowance. Truth be told, he basically had been paying people. And now he found himself in a space where life was revenue neutral and damn it all if most of that wasn't down to having Fraser as his partner and friend.

If he ever needed to get his head together it was now. Right now. Wrapped up and hidden under cover goodness.

Okay, he was a detective. Detect. Start from square one.

Mr. Logic meets Mr. Instinct. They'd been grooving on that and things had been really good, once they got that socking each other and that near transfer thing out of the way. Ray was mostly okay with going through plate glass windows (said something that he didn't even think twice about shit like that anymore-although the jumping off of buildings thing still got to him). Throw in the occasional airplane and boat fiascos... Getting shot at every fucking week was a little much, but now Ray just put on the Kevlar every morning with as much thought as he did his boxers.

Today? Today it was Mr. Gay meets Mr. Gayer. No contest who was gayer because someone shoves their hand down your pants, it's your job as a hetero to make complaints. Ray's only complaint at the time was that he was stuck behind the goddamned steering wheel and couldn't thrust up deep enough.

Like when had Ray's straight decide to play hide and seek? Olly olly oxen free.

He'd never done the guy thing. Not that he cared one way or the other, it just hadn't been his gig. Course, his gig didn't include other women either. At least not until Stella had given him the heave ho. Then he'd sort of dated, but nothing stuck because women who wanted to date cops were kind of twisted, but not the good twisted, and women who didn't date cops, didn't want to date him. Because he was a cop. Stella was in that camp, but he sort of snuck in before being a cop was an issue, but then it was an issue and they'd been married for ten years before he realized that Stella was, like, one of those women who didn't date cops. Oops. Course, she also might have been in the anti-Ray camp, too, but that hurt too much to think about. Even under the covers.

Was this some weird-ass revenge thing?

Ray thought about this for a long time and came to the conclusion that, no, it wasn't. He wasn't thinking, "Hey, Stella would freak if she saw this happening. Ha ha ha, bitch. Plus double ha ha ha, bitch, with a cherry on top, because it's Fraser." First of all, Stella was the only person on the face of this earth who didn't like Fraser, so getting a hand job from him wouldn't earn Ray any brownie points; and second, Stella didn't give a rat's ass who fucked who. Never had. It might raise her eyebrows a tad to think of Ray making it with a guy, because the issue of Ray maybe swinging both ways hadn't been in the fucking radar, EVER, until six hours ago, but she probably would have shrugged off her surprise in about thirty seconds and then written Fraser a thank-you card for taking Ray off her hands.

Okay, Mr. Detective, what do we got so far? Ray not doing a revenge thing. But Ray still having done a pretty gay thing. The accessory after the fact? Lying in his bed smelling like his own come, with his dick twitching and frisky at the thought of Fraser doing it again. Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Ray meet Mr. Gay.

Moving on. The Fraser thing. Already jake with the partner business (except for the jumping off of roofs-that shit had to stop). On to the friend business. And no, we ain't talking yet about the gay business yet.

The guy was stand up. Stand-up. He just accepted Ray for Ray. And as Ray Kowalski. People hadn't done that much in Ray's life. His mom. Stella in the beginning. But then being married to a cop started to bite. Combined with maybe getting killed on the job and realizing that he would never wear a button-down shirt or loafers or drive a Japanese luxury car and that was that. At the end of their marriage, Ray wasn't sure what bit the most: his job or the fact he didn't wear shoes that required polishing.

The first time Fraser said. "That tee-shirt, Ray," Ray growled back at him, "So?" Fraser didn't say, "You've owned that shirt fifteen years and the cuffs are fraying and I'm not walking out the door with you unless you change it." Which is what he expected Fraser to say. Because Fraser would rather strangle himself with his own lanyard than wear a uniform with frayed cuffs. What Fraser did say was, "It's cold outside. You might want your jacket." No mention of frays or rips. This from the guy who irons his shorts. Which Ray knows because he made a joke about it one day and Fraser didn't laugh but said something about the proper iron settings in order not to scorch the starch, which cracked up Ray so bad he had to stop smoking for two days so his lungs could heal.

And that courtesy thing. You'd think it would bug Ray that Fraser trotted out that polite thing to all and sundry and then was a snippy as all hell with Ray pretty much all the time. They argued walking down the hall of the precinct. They argued while jumping out of planes. They argued when jumping off of buildings. Which Ray admitted was really dumb.

Took him a while to realize that Fraser didn't do this with anyone else. Not with Franny. Man, the woman could whip out a tit and shove it in his face (not like she hadn't come close), and all he would do would be to blush and thank her kindly but he had to see the Lieutenant and have a nice day. Same with Dewey, the asshole-ish of the assholes. If you weren't rude and snippy to Dewey, then you weren't rude and snippy to anyone.

Except Ray Kowalski.

Fraser dished out that snide Canadian thing, his humor so dry that Ray often checked his elbows for scaly patches. It struck Ray, lying in bed with the covers over his head and his dick making a nice little tent so that he could breathe, was that Fraser was so cool with Ray that he let Ray see him. Actually see him. Like he trusted Ray.

Up until last night, Ray would have gone to the fucking bank that Fraser was straight. Or at least neuter, except for that Victoria thing. Which Ray didn't want to think about too heavily because it might be a bucket for the straight team, but it was also a three-pointer in overtime for the psycho team.

In addition to Ray not being sure what he was, fuck it if he could now say what in the hell Fraser was. Acting like giving your partner a hand job was about on par with telling him he had spinach in his teeth. Which wasn't gay or straight per se so much as fucking weird. Or neuter.

Three hours later he was still under the covers, still clueless about what had happened, with the added bonus that his dick was now screaming, "I got the fidgets and that nice Mountie with the happy hands can come over and play anytime."

Which was gay. Yep. Gay.

*********************

Ray woke up feeling just as confused, compounded by a Fraser-inspired wet dream. Ray thought being sixteen sucked six different kinds of ass and wet dreams were a big part of that. To be thirty-eight and having them was beyond pathetic. In the shower, he weighed his options. Talking was always a mistake. Whenever Ray tried to talk to Stella, it would always result in him getting the polar opposite of what he wanted. Talking about buying a house ended up with him signing a mortgage for a condo he hated. The sort of place that had a doorman and a gated garage and your neighbors gave you dirty looks because you drove American. Or the kids "talk" that ended up with Stella taking that fat cat corporate job, where an eighty-hour work week was considered slacking off.

So talking was out.

But Ray couldn't let it lie because FRASER HAD GIVEN HIM A HAND JOB FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. He paced his apartment for an entire hour until Mrs. Krauss from downstairs screamed at him through heater vent that she was going to march up the stairs, break down his door, and chop his feet off with an axe if he didn't stop it. He stopped. Mrs. Krauss was one of those older women whose hair had become impervious to dye; the beauticians had to go to greater and greater lengths to hide the gray by throwing ten different colors on there and if any of them took, greatness. Except it made her really mean because who wants a calico head of hair? If he had hair that color, he'd probably want to wield an axe too.

Curling up on the couch, feet off the floor, he thought Fraser. He thought Canadian. They wouldn't talk, but what could they do that wasn't really talking but involved mouths making noises they both understood? Because dollars to donuts, if Ray said, "Hey Frase, let's talk about you jacking me off," it would, given Ray's talking karma, result in them discussing the mating habits of trumpeter swans. But if they chatted... Chatting. They'd chat about it! A real Canadian sort of word. Ray would even serve tea. Hell, Ray would even drink tea with Fraser if it would help. Fraser would be all over chatting. And with tea? Man, he'd probably do handstands. Chatting. Yeah. It was real close to curling, but with words. They both started with a 'c' anyway.

*******************

Ray made sure he was well supplied with twigs, called for Chinese, ordered three lo meins (because Ray had a thing for lo mein and could eat one by himself, and Dief could eat one, okay, he could eat three but he was only getting one), and, while waiting for Fraser to arrive, he practiced his chatting skills.

"Yeah, Fraser, you know that thing we did?"

Maybe too vague.

"Frase, when you had your hands down my pants..."

Real up front. More like talking than chatting.

"Benton..."

Ray was doomed.

********************

Initially, Ray was relieved that Fraser was acting no different than how he normally acted. He arrived at Ray's apartment, hat in hand, wearing his usual clothes, nagging Dief, making snide comments about the Hawks and how they were gonna get pasted by the Oilers. The usual. Like the big gay thing hadn't happened. Nope. Hadn't happened. Two hours later, they were watching the game, eating Chinese, drinking tree bits. Like always. Except bullshiiiiiiiiiit. The big gay thing had happened; it was out there in really big letters. So big that even Ray could see it without his glasses. And, cause it was there, when Fraser licked a noodle out of corner of his mouth, Ray got a boner. Which pissed him off because he really should not be getting boners because Fraser had a bit of food on the corner of his mouth. Except it was Fraser's tongue that whisked away that food and it would be Fraser's tongue on his mouth or his dick, should they decide to let their inner, or by now, outer, homo go hog wild.

And he didn't know how to bring it up because it was pretty clear that he sucked at talking and chatting and it was driving him crazy and his dick hurt but also felt good and he was just going to pop Fraser because this was so stupid and he was straight goddamit and what in the hell was happening to him?

Ray was so mad that he threw the carton of lo mein against the wall and shouted at Fraser, "This is all your fault, Fraser, and don't expect me to forget this anytime soon. You are so in for it, pal."

Fraser blinked. Blinked again and then swiveled his eyes over to the lo mein making its way down Ray's wall. "Ray?"

Ray, whose anger had not abated one iota, especially seeing the mess he'd made, pointed a menacing finger at Fraser and said in a low nasty voice, his perp-you-are-dead voice, which, of course, Fraser well knew, and said, "Your fucking fault." And then pointed at his boner.

Fraser blushed, which made Ray even madder.

"Don't act Mr. Innocent. Mr. I-shoved-my-hand-down-your-pants-on-stakeout."

At which point, Fraser regained his composure completely and gave a tiny irritated sigh. "Oh that. Really, Ray. That was just letting off steam."

Huh?

"Letting off steam?" Ray repeated. Because letting off steam in Chicago did not mean giving people hand jobs. He'd better make sure. "You let off steam in Canada by shoving your hands down random stranger's pants? This apply to women as well? Just see someone with a frown on their face and gear up? Must be a nation of really happy people. Say thank you kindly after?"

Fraser gave Ray his mildly disapproving smile number three. "Don't be silly, Ray. First of all, you are far from a stranger. I was letting off your steam. Masturbation is a perfectly acceptable way of releasing stress, and you were exhibiting all the classic signs..."

"Whoa, right there. Stop the mule train. Unharness those suckers. Here in the United States of Amer. Ri. Ca. men do not let off steam like that. Okay, scratch that. Yeah, occasionally in cars, been known to happen, but not with other guys. Unless, you know..." His voice trailed off.

"I'm sorry, Ray. I'm not following you."

Ray often felt like murdering Fraser and this was, yep, bingo.

"Do not pull this clueless shit on me, Fraser," Ray demanded, because Ray might be clueless about a lot of this, but the one part he was damn certain about was that both he and Fraser were men and that in anyone's book, even the Canadian Kinsey, jacking off another guy wasn't a socially acceptable pastime for relieving stress. UNLESS YOU WERE GAY!

"Excuse me, Ray, but perhaps I might discern exactly what you're hinting at if you weren't swearing. It does not shine any light..."

Oooohh, the snippy Fraser was coming out to play.

"Pardon my fucking French. Even if a person was exhibiting stress, in the crowd I run around in, which happens to be super hetero, you get the guy a fucking drink, preferably a double. You don't spit in your hand and grab his dick!" Ray shouted.

"Next time, I'll just reach into the glove compartment and pull out a fifth..."

"That was gay, Fraser. G. A. Y. Doesn't get any..."

"You're making a mountain out of a molehill..."

"You sure played my 'mountain' for all it was..."

"If I'd known you'd be so narrow-minded I never..."

"You are in such trouble, mister. Big time trouble..."

"I am quaking in my boots. I can assure you it will never happen..."

"THAT DOES IT! SNIPPY TIME OVER!

Ray slung a leg over Fraser and straddled his lap. With one hand he pinned Fraser's shoulder to the couch and with the other jerked him off.

************************

Fraser was wearing those super tight jeans, so the first couple of rubs must have been greatness, but the rest really uncomfortable. Fraser hadn't fought him off like Ray sort of expected. Aside from a surprised gurgle, there was nothing neuter about the grunts coming out of his mouth now; and Fraser's dick after the first couple of swipes was also about as non-neuter as you could get. A tortured, "Ray. Pants," and that was it, taking care of any fears that Ray had that Fraser was gonna clock him.

"I got you, I got you," he whispered, and stifled his own groan when Fraser leaned his head against Ray's shoulder and whimpered in gratitude.

Oh yeah, he fumbled a bit with the zipper, and it was tough coordinating raising up enough to pull Fraser out without ripping his dick off, because Ray wasn't ambidicktrous. But he managed and did his own thing with his own spit and his palm and then Fraser's dick in his hand. It was familiar and not. Familiar in that it responded in pretty much the same way Ray's dick did when he palmed the crown or rubbed a thumb up the underside. Yep, jerked its happy little dick heart out. But Fraser wasn't cut, weird, and it wasn't as long as his and a lot thicker. He could never really smell himself when he jerked off, but he could smell Fraser, earthy and yeasty, with a hint of peppermint from that stupid soap he used. All of a sudden that section in high-school biology on phera... phono... pera... that stuff people give off that makes another person horny--where you got a whiff and it was "Do me, do me" time--now made a hell of a lot of sense. Ray's dick began jerking in earnest, in sympathy, in envy. While Ray's hand went to town, Ray kept inhaling all that wonderful scent, and Ray must have been giving off his own odors because Fraser was nuzzling his armpit, inhaling him, smelling him, groaning, grunting with it, and, Christ, wasn't that a total fucking turn on.

In a twenty-four hours full of surprises, might as add one more chunk to the mounting evidence that Ray was not straight. Because jacking Fraser off was just as much fun as getting jacked off. If Ray had closed his eyes while in the car, he could have pretended it was a woman with hands the size of trash can lids. Which was a turn off so he didn't go there, because why would her hands be that big if she was a woman, which meant she was a man. And although you'd think that would stop the boosters from firing it didn't. Because after the initial "huh?", he wanted it to be Fraser's hands. Which, duh, were man's hands. Ray didn't want to think about this because it still didn't make any sense whatsoever. Except now Fraser's dick was in his hand, which being hetero should have had him screaming, "This is way too much buddy shit, Fraser." But he wasn't. He was screaming, "More gay greatness! Yay!"

He hadn't touched someone who had wanted him to touch them in a very long time. The grip Fraser had on Ray's shoulders told him that Fraser wanted him there. Wanted him doing what he was doing. Aside from the emotional turn-on of being actually wanted, Ray couldn't deny the physical turn-on as well. Palming another guy's dick was hot. End of story.

Fraser lasted about as long as Ray had. And while Ray had been gripping the steering wheel to keep from flying apart, Fraser held on tight to Ray's shoulders, his fingers biting into Ray's shoulders, and then when giving it up, Fraser's grasp loosened and he pumped into Ray's fist.

Ray was about to get up, maybe grab his passport and get the first plane out of O'Hare to Bogot--or make a side trip to the bathroom first, jerk off into the bathtub, then get his passport--when Fraser's hands tightened on his shoulders again, raised his head a fraction, and then rasped out, "Fidgets, Ray?"

The fact that Ray was stock still, not even breathing practically, made this as gay as it could possibly get. This was asking permission. This was, maybe, granting permission. This was, maybe, two homos jacking each other off. This was Ray nodding and saying, "Yeah, big time."

Ray lasted thirty-four strokes this time. And then promptly passed out.