Author's Notes: Many thanks to JS Cavalcante for doing a stellar and very insightful (and fast!) beta job. JS is a professional, dammit, and helped me out even though Ray/Ray isn't exactly her bag. It's a (relatively) new pairing for me, too, so please be gentle.

Story Notes: Written in 24hrs for the LiveJournal stop_drop_porn challenge with the prompt "thaw."

They check into a motel by the airport, so close to the runway that Ray can see the jets line up for takeoff, and hear the low, steady drone of plane engines echo overhead.

They don't speak. Once the door is shut and locked, their bags tucked safely away, the bed turned down and the pillows plumped, they peel out of their clothes and climb into bed together. Once Vecchio sprawls out on the mattress he's out like a light, dog-tired from a long day of dead ends and dead leads and dead bodies.

In sleep Vecchio curls around Ray almost protectively, one hand tight around his ribs, the other clutching his hip. They don't often get to share a bed together, and when they do it always feels like Vecchio's trying to make up for all the nights they have to spend apart.

Or maybe Vecchio just needs someone to hold. Ray thinks of that sometimes, when it's late, when the night's lonely, when he's been going through his old photos from that trip up to Canada a thousand years ago. He thinks about Fraser, and Stella, and Vecchio, the partner he's been fucking on and off for nearly three years now. He thinks about how he and Vecchio always end up in some anonymous motel room far from the precinct and Vecchio's crowded house and Ray's dim apartment full of old memories.

Ray listens to the toilet flush in the room above theirs, and the sound of running water. Airplanes keep passing overhead, already high in the sky and far away by the time the booming noise of their takeoff penetrates the room.

He's never been able to sleep well in an unfamiliar bed. And motel beds are the worst: the mattress is always too firm or too soft, the pillow flat or lumpy, everything too much one thing or not enough of the other. No happy medium. He usually wakes up feeling frustrated and exhausted when he sleeps in a hotel.

But not with Vecchio there. When he sleeps next to Vecchio, Ray usually drifts off right away, even on nights like tonight when they're both too tired to do much more than collapse in bed. Ray doesn't even need the sedative of sex to knock him out, because Vecchio is familiar. By now he's the most familiar thing in Ray's world. He makes sense, even if their lives together don't.

Vecchio mumbles something and throws one hairy, bony leg over Ray's, drawing him closer until his soft dick is flush with Ray's naked ass. Ray swallows, and finds Vecchio's hand, tugging it away from his hip to lie curled over his belly. He laces their fingers together.

It's been a long, hard road to get here. Things aren't perfect--never can be, never will be--but it's good. Ray's got another three years left before he can cash in on his pension, and since Vecchio can retire pretty much anytime, they're just waiting it out until they can say goodbye to Chicago and cheap airport motels and secrets.

Ray wants to go north, someplace quiet up in Michigan, maybe get a place on the lake. They could fish. Vecchio could learn how to golf. Ray could watch the winter storms blow in and learn how to stop thinking about the past.

"Can't sleep?"

Vecchio's voice in his ear startles him, and Ray twists his head. He can't see Vecchio's face, just the dim outline of his shoulder.

"Guess not."

"Thinking about Canada?"

His ears are burning. Shit. He doesn't like to do this, doesn't want Vecchio to start thinking there's anyone in the room besides the two of them. It's not fair. "Nah. I was thinking that you should take up golf."

Vecchio snorts, the sound hot against Ray's ear. "Golf?"

"Yeah, why not?" Ray closes his eyes, pictures Vecchio out on some carefully manicured green, dressed in a white button-down shirt that shows off his broad shoulders, and tight khakis that cling to his narrow hips. He'd never admit it in a million years, but Vecchio knows how to dress. He'd look good golfing, all that focus trained on the ball, hips twisting as he takes a swing. Yeah, Ray'd come to watch him play. "Snow'll be gone off the public courses soon. You could take lessons."

"Isn't that kind of a yuppie thing to do?"

Ray sighs. "Yeah, of course it is. But you're kind of a yuppie."

Vecchio tweaks his nipple and Ray can't help laughing, scrambling away until he's out of reach on the other side of the big hotel bed. In the dark, Vecchio's smile is dangerous, but he's laughing, too.

"And what'll you do while I'm golfing? Be my caddie, carry my bag?"

"Fuck you. I'll be in the clubhouse, stuffing my face and drinking the good stuff on your tab."

Huff of laughter, and then Vecchio tackles him down onto the mattress. He straddles Ray's hips and puts his hands on Ray's shoulders, and leans down into his face. Vecchio's body is so warm against his, lithe and eager. For a guy who was sound asleep a couple of minutes ago, Vecchio's sure perked up. Ray thrusts experimentally, and yep, there it is. Evidence of Vecchio's perkiness. His hard-on is barely contained by the thin silk boxers he wore to bed, and Ray licks his lips in anticipation.

Maybe he just needs a good, hard fuck. Maybe that's all he needs.

"You still tired?"

Vecchio eases back a little to straddle him on the bed more evenly, taking some of his weight off Ray's hips. He rubs at the back of his neck. Tension, Ray thinks. Vecchio carries around a lot of that.

"Not too tired." He traces Ray's sternum, his touch light as he glides his hand over Ray's chest, flicking a thumb over Ray's nipple.

Ray's eyes flutter closed and he twitches his hips up. "You want to fuck me?"

"Jesus," Vecchio mutters, and he leans down for a hot, messy kiss, his tongue tangling with Ray's while his hips thrust down against Ray's hard-on. Vecchio's already leaking, and when they finally pull apart, a dark spot of moisture appears on the front of Vecchio's silk boxers. Ray touches the spot, brushing his thumb against it, and Vecchio's head rolls back. Ray shapes his hand against Vecchio's cock, so hard and hot through the cool silk, and Vecchio moans a little. God, the sounds he makes.

Ray pulls himself up, back protesting a bit--he's not young anymore--and drops a kiss low on Vecchio's hairy belly, just above the waistband of his boxers. It's an awkward angle made worse with Vecchio's weight on his lap like that, but Ray manages a soft nip before he sits upright. Vecchio's long legs fall to either side of him and now they're facing each other, Vecchio's face close and closed, Vecchio practically sitting on his lap.

"Hey," Ray says, cupping his cheek. Vecchio opens his eyes. "You okay?"

Vecchio grunts and flips them back down to the mattress. He tugs at Ray's hip until Ray rolls over, and then he hears the squeak of the bed as Vecchio gets up to go rummaging for condoms and lube.

It's simple between them, like they're on the same wavelength. He doesn't need to think too carefully about what Vecchio wants, because Vecchio will tell him. In fact, Vecchio'll demand. He always knows when Vecchio wants it rough, or gentle, or lazy, or slow. When they first got together three years ago, drunk and fucked-up and hung up on other people, Vecchio always wanted it quick and rough. Ray was okay with that. Things mellowed out somewhere around their hundredth night in the O'Hare Sandman, and since then it's just been a matter of figuring out what they feel like doing. And they usually want the same thing. Ray likes to be fucked, and Vecchio likes to do the fucking. Easy. Simple.

The mattress dips and Ray cranes his head around to look at Vecchio, who's naked now and focused on getting the condom on. Ray watches Vecchio's long fingers, already slick with lube, rolling the white latex down over his dick. His wet fingers and the slippery latex shine in the light from the runway just outside their window. It took him awhile to think of Vecchio as beautiful, but now he can't see him any other way. It's a different kind of beauty than Fraser's, or Stella's. An imperfect kind of beauty, but warmer, more human. Ray likes Vecchio's long, lean, tough body, his big nose, his sleek neck and hard dick.

He likes that Vecchio can't quite hide the way his fingers tremble, even after all these hotel nights.

Ray smiles, and arches his back in invitation. "C'mon," he says. His voice is low, and rough. Vecchio'll know what to do.

His hands are still wet from the lube, cold and slick as he grips Ray's hips. Ray braces himself--Vecchio usually spends some time working him open if it's been more than a couple of days, but sometimes neither of them can wait and he just shoves in, and Ray's body is too shocked to feel sore. But he feels Vecchio's fingers nudge against him, and he sighs and drops his head. It's not one of those nights.

Vecchio is surprisingly gentle as he skims his finger lightly over Ray's asshole. His touch sends little flickers of arousal shooting up through Ray, and Ray presses back, widening his thighs, sending Vecchio a mental message: Get on with it. Like always, Vecchio takes the hint and slips one finger into him, and Christ, it feels so good. He's in love with Vecchio's long, elegant fingers, and the way Vecchio seems to know exactly how to stretch him open, how to hit every good place inside of him. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose as Vecchio adds a second finger, and Ray arches so far back that his spine is just one long, deep curve.

"Fuck, that's good," he whispers, and Vecchio smacks his ass lightly in reply. The faint sting ramps Ray up a little further and he pushes back, fucking himself on Vecchio's fingers. He's sweating, panting a little, and the drag and pull of Vecchio's fingers inside him is so intense that he wants to cry out. He bites his lip instead, and tries not to whimper when Vecchio pulls his hand away.

"Stay like that," Vecchio tells him, and Ray shivers at the dark promise in his voice. He rests his wet hand on the base of Ray's spine for a moment, and his touch leaves a cool patch on his skin that makes Ray tremble. He can feel Vecchio shift around behind him, but he doesn't turn to look because stay like that. And then Vecchio's thumbs are parting him, and the head of Vecchio's cock, thick and blunt, is there. Right there.

He makes Ray wait for it. Vecchio loves to tease, and he knows exactly how much Ray hates waiting, even if it's only for a few seconds. Vecchio always toys with him like that, and Ray knows it's all in fun. But tonight the suspense of waiting for Vecchio to slide home is killing him, and he growls.

"Would you just fucking--"

"Keep your pants on, Kowalski." His voice sound perfectly level, perfectly even. Ray thinks the slight hesitation is probably killing Vecchio, too. There's something hovering between them tonight, some kind of crazy shift in the wind that's throwing them off their old patterns.

But finally, finally, Vecchio pushes inside, and Ray forgets to think about anything at all.

He jerks back, taking Vecchio in all the way, and he earns himself another of those stinging slaps. He's too lost in the intense burn of pleasure to pay much attention, but Vecchio hauls him up and growls, "I said, don't move."

Ray nods, limply, and eases himself back down onto his hands and knees as Vecchio withdraws, and then thrusts back in. Ray jerks again, but he doesn't thrust back. Instead, his head comes up and he stares at the ceiling, waiting for his vision to drift back into focus. But it's hard to see; all of his focus is on Vecchio's dick buried in him, all he can think is, "God, that's good," and picture what their bodies look like, picture Vecchio's cock moving smoothly in and out of his body.

Vecchio's little grunts and moans of pleasure are familiar now. It's been years since he's heard the sex-sounds of anyone else, and Ray closes his eyes and listens to the soundtrack, Vecchio's harsh breathing and murmurs of, "Oh, fuck, yeah," and the occasional, "God." His grip on Ray's hips tightens and loosens, and Ray can feel the second when it all becomes too much and Vecchio's thrusts grow ragged and frantic. He's hitting that place inside Ray, that glowy-good place that makes all other kinds of pleasure--sleep, maple syrup, the sheen of ice on snow--pale in comparison. Ray's making a lot of noises himself, chanting Vecchio's name, his name, and it's louder than any plane engine. He feels like he's taking off, soaring away up into the dark night sky, far above the snow clouds. It's just him and Vecchio up here, and he clenches tight as Vecchio comes inside of him.

He feels the hot, ball-tingling rush of orgasm hit just as Vecchio collapses over his back. His arms tremble but he's coming in thick spurts, and he doesn't notice how heavy Vecchio is until his weight is suddenly too much. Ray flops down on the bed, and Vecchio rolls off him. They both lie there for a long time, breathing heavy, gasping for air like fish caught out on dry land.

"I wasn't--" Ray pauses, wait for breath, and when he's finally got enough air to push the words out he says, "I wasn't thinking about Canada. I don't think about that at all, really. Not anymore."

Vecchio's breathing has slowed. Ray risks a glance, and Vecchio is staring up at the ceiling, his profile like one you'd find on an ancient Roman coin. Proud, steady. Unseeing.

"It's okay if you do. It's not like I don't think about Florida."

Ray blinks, surprised. But yeah, sure, of course Vecchio would think about Florida, human nature being what it is, and all.

"You think they're happy?"

Vecchio throws an arm over his eyes, blocking out the airport lights. "Not really our problem anymore, is it?"

Ray thinks about that. Maybe Vecchio's right. It's been three years. Late at night, he sometimes reaches for the phone and thinks about white snow and bright sunlight, about what it meant to have to ask for everything.

With Vecchio, there's no asking, no wondering if he's said or done the right thing. No second-guessing. And that's a good thing. But he still reaches for that phone, sometimes.

"I want to learn how to fish," Ray says. "And I want to take a trip up north sometime."

"North like Canada?"

"Nah. North like Michigan. We don't need to cross the border. I'd just...I'd like us to check it out." And suddenly he's babbling, the words spilling out of him, a rush of melted water. "We wouldn't need to stay in motels if we bought a little cabin up there, maybe, or a cottage. It'd be somewhere to go on the weekends until my pension comes through. And we could--" he breaks off, still looking for enough air to finish it. "We could see if it's somewhere we want to end up."

Vecchio's moved his arm, and he finds Ray's hand. This time he's the one who laces their fingers together. "You'll fish, I'll play golf?"

"Yeah. Spring's real beautiful up there, once the thaw hits."

Vecchio's hand is warm, and Ray tightens his grip a little. Vecchio squeezes right back.