Disclaimer: Not in any way mine, these guys.

Story Notes: Written for China_shop for the fraser_vecchio community on LiveJournal. Set early season two. China wanted slash, first-time kissing or sex, Fraser gives Ray a weird present.

"Five senses" is a gross oversimplification, of course. There's also proprioception, the sense of where body parts are in relation to one another; thermoception, the sensing of heat and cold; other more esoteric ones, some confined to nonhumans.

Still, Fraser finds it useful to catalog the day's highlights of the basic five, just before bed; it helps him to let go of the day somehow. When he first came to Chicago his dreams would replay the daily onslaught of sensation; he got no relief, no respite. He would awaken in the morning still battered by the noise of traffic, by the smell of exhaust fumes, because it had been replaying in his mind all night. He's learned to take a few minutes to run through the list--all the strongest sights, smells, sounds of the day; to relive the tastes and touches, and then to release them, let them float off. This lets his dream world be his home again, at that time of year when he loves it best; cold and fresh and white and empty.

Tonight he's very tired, though, keeps almost drifting off as he works through his list; all the sights of a long foot chase with Ray--the cause of the tiredness. The sound of Lt. Welsh's voice, ringing across the sweltering squad room, suggesting that Detective Gardino might find a better fit for his myriad talents as a pin boy in a bowling alley. The tastes of breakfast porridge, lunch cheeseburger, dinner spaghetti and salad. (He smiles into the darkness as he realizes that all his tastes of today were actually food. He'll have to mention that to Ray tomorrow. Ray will be loudly, charmingly disbelieving.) He drifts for a few moments, then scoots further down in the bed, kicks the too-hot blanket off; replays Frannie's perfume in his head. He's always a bit (shamefully) surprised that it's not overpowering; but it's entirely pleasant, a gentle floral topnote with its sweetness cut by a light citrus accompaniment.

He's almost gone now, his breathing slowed and rhythmic; the day washing away, coming back in languorous waves. Ray's smell, fresh clean sweat from the chase; his aftershave somewhere between mint and fir. And what would Ray taste like, he wonders muzzily...salt, warm neck, the sharp tang of metal if he sucked the chain of Ray's necklace into his mouth.

Good Lord. He sits bolt upright, heart pounding, more than awake; where did his mind just go? An entirely inappropriate place, not at all the thoughts one should have regarding one's work partner.

Worse yet, he realizes--sitting there, panting into the dark--that his mind had not traveled unaccompanied. His cock has gone with startling rapidity from sleepsoft to throbbing; throbbing against the hand that, oh, he's cupped around it, and--no.

He stretches back out, hands clenched resolutely at his sides; tries to let go of unwonted images, to drift toward sleep again, but the effort is fruitless. His skin buzzes everywhere, almost itches. Finally he relents, curls his hand around again; doesn't bother with his usual light teasing start, just squeezes hard and moves quickly and fills his mind with pictures of generically pretty men and women, not thinking of, not thinking of, but then he's coming and he is--the flash of Ray's smile, the shine of his shoes and the improbability of his outfits, the salt of his long slim neck if Fraser were to slide his tongue up it...

It's a long time before he gets to sleep.

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He hopes that this particular insanity will have abated in the morning, but the moment Ray pulls the Riv up to the sidewalk in front of Fraser's apartment it begins afresh. Ray leans toward him to hand him a cup of takeaway coffee, and Fraser gets a whiff of shampoo and is too overwhelmed to remonstrate with Ray about the styrofoam cup.

They ride in silence for a few minutes, apart from Dief's occasional huff from the back seat, and then Ray takes one hand off the wheel, waves it in front of Fraser's face and says, "You okay in there, Benny?"

"Insufficient slumber," Fraser says, hoarsely. He really must recover from this, regain equilibrium, stop fixating; at least he's managed not to actually reach out and grab Ray, at least there's that, but then Ray makes a turn and lets the steering wheel glide back into place under his fingertips, shiny and sliding, and there's some inexplicable cross-wiring or transference; Fraser's own fingertips hum and buzz, and he makes a tiny sound.

Ray shoots him a worried look, crinkled around the eyes, and Fraser says, "I'm fine."

He isn't, though. Inspector Thatcher has lent him to the 2-7 for the remainder of the week, and this endless day is the first time he can ever remember regretting that he's not trapped at the Consulate. Because he always knew Ray was--demonstrative, tactile, enviably at ease with touch; but he never realized how constantly, thoroughly Ray touches every. Damned. Thing. He fiddles a pencil between his fingers, repeatedly readjusts the knot on his startlingly-vivid tie; Fraser's fingers thrum at each contact witnessed, but it isn't until Ray leans over to read something on Huey's computer, puts a hand casually on Huey's shoulder, that Fraser realizes--because his teeth are grinding together--that he's jealous. Ludicrously, horribly jealous of everything Ray touches, animate or in-, that isn't him. And he knows, now, that a reaction this ridiculously intense did not begin just last night; that it's something that's been building without him noticing it. He is always surprised how much business his mind conducts without bothering to inform him.

Ray gets a Hershey bar from the vending machine, eats it while reading over a case file, hands each page to Fraser as he finishes; and Fraser is almost managing to pay attention to their work until Ray crumples up and tosses the candy wrapper and then absently sucks the chocolate smears off his fingertips.

"Nrgh," Fraser says, and stands up abruptly, almost knocking his chair over. Ray's eyes (his beautiful eyes) go round with surprise and probably worry, and Fraser says "Right back," and almost staggers out of the squad room. Quite to his own astonishment, he hails a taxi, goes to a rather swank shopping area of the city, and spends a truly startling amount of money.

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When he gets back to the station Ray spots him immediately, shoots him a huge, relieved smile. Fraser walks back over to Ray's desk and drops a paper bag on it.

"What's with you today, Benny, are you al--Fiducci's?" Ray says, pokes at the bag.

"Open it," Fraser says.

"It's not my birthday," Ray says.

"I know that."

"It's not any recognized gift-giving occasion."

"It is in Canada," Fraser lies cheerfully, startling himself. "It's, ah, Diefenbaker Day. The prime minister," he clarifies, glaring at Dief, who is looking hopefully up from behind Ray's desk.

"Sure it is," Ray snorts, but he opens the bag, takes out the extraordinarily expensive driving gloves, and blinks.

"Benny, these are--wow, these are gorgeous, what the hell?"

"Would you," Fraser says. "Would you please. Now?"

Ray looks up at him, eyebrows creasing together in utter bewilderment, but something in Fraser's face must look--pained, needy, desperate, because Ray's mouth opens and closes a couple of times but then he just says, "Okay," and pulls the gloves on.

And that--blunts everything, just a little, just enough that Fraser can make it through the rest of the day without screaming.

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When they walk out of the station that afternoon Ray gives him a long look, then says, "Hungry?"

"Just take me home."

"Fine," Ray says, "but you've gotta tell me what's going on with you here, okay? You've got me worried. Dropping money like that--hey, are you dying or something? You're not dying, are you?"

"No, Ray," Fraser says, and smiles at him. "I'll tell you. When we get there."

He spends the entire drive trying to frame an opening statement that isn't--juvenile, or pompous, or ridiculous in some other manner. "Ray, lately I find my thoughts straying--" No. "Ray, how flexible, precisely, are you in your choice of romantic--" No. "Ray, I really, really like you." No.

Ray drives, and curses at other drivers, and occasionally lifts one gloved hand from the wheel, looks at it, looks at Fraser, goes back to driving.

When they walk in the apartment door Dief trots over and stretches out on the sofa, but not before whoofing a little sound of--encouragement.

Fraser is oddly moved by this.

He turns back toward Ray, watches as Ray closes the door behind him. And he hopes that Ray has some inkling, some idea; because all his words have deserted him, he can no more explain this than he can fight it off.

He steps up to Ray and slowly, carefully strips the gloves off, puts them in Ray's coat pockets. His own hands are trembling slightly, and Ray leans silently back against the door and just watches him, lets him do what he's doing.

Fraser takes hold of Ray's hot hands, kisses his fingertips. Ray's breathing gets faster; and Fraser pulls Ray's hands back until they're cupped around the back of Fraser's neck, softly, lightly.

And Ray tugs. Fraser sends up a prayer of thanks to someone, anyone, and then there's nothing but Ray, his eyes fluttering closed, his breath huffing loudly; the smell of him all around Fraser and the pull of his hands on Fraser's neck. Fraser lets himself be pulled, lets himself fall, and touches Ray's lips with his own. Tastes, finally; licks and sucks and nibbles, revels in it, kisses Ray slowly and thoroughly and over and over while Ray moans and the slant of light in the apartment shifts and Dief, on the sofa, ostentatiously begins to snore.