Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, and I am making no money off this.

Author's Notes: Written for univacgrl. Unbeta'd. Also, thank you to snoopypez for suggesting I use a "Nightmare Before Christmas" lyric for the title.

Fraser slips into Ray's jacket and straightens his tie, bending forward to examine himself in the mirror. Luckily Ray prefers loose tailoring, so the clothes are only a little snug. At least, he thinks they're only a little snug, but when Ray makes a noise behind him and Fraser tracks his gaze in the mirror--well. Fraser warms.

"Those pants never looked like that on me," Ray says, accusatory with a warm, rough note in it.

Fraser smiles at him in the mirror and only then registers what he's seeing. He coughs. Ray is wearing Fraser's uniform pants, the braces hanging around his thighs, and he's buttoning up Fraser's shirt. The sight of his name-tag pinned to Ray's chest gives Fraser an unexpectedly strong feeling of joy, as if they belong to each other. As if Ray is his, now. Tomorrow, when he wears his uniform, it will smell like Ray. "Maybe we shouldn't go to the party," he suggests, turning around. "Maybe we should stay in."

Ray grins. "Nuh-uh, Fraser. Not this time. It's Halloween and I want to show you off. Anyway, you're the one that was all excited about us being the same size."

Fraser wants to go to the party too, actually. He's not used to being part of a unit in social settings. While of course Ray's co-workers must remain ignorant of the true nature of his and Ray's relationship, Fraser likes the idea of their intimacy being, in however small a way, visible. "Actually, Ray, you're several millimeters taller than I am."

Ray shrugs into the brown jacket and frowns at himself in the mirror over Fraser's shoulder. "Yeah, and about a foot narrower in the shoulders," he mutters.

Fraser knows Ray well enough by now to know that it's the ill fit of the jacket (and not any implied inferiority of strength or masculinity) that bothers him. Nevertheless, he can't help saying it. "You have beautiful shoulders."

Ray rolls his eyes. "People don't have beautiful shoulders, Fraser. They have beautiful faces. Legs, maybe. Asses." He winks. "Not shoulders."

"You do." He steps forward and grips Ray's shoulders, their elegant angles hovering awkwardly inside the brown serge. He thinks of the generations of officers who have worn this uniform, of how Ray has shoved himself gracelessly and perfectly into that tradition of duty and sacrifice.

"Look at you," Ray scoffs fondly. "You think this is kinky, don't you?"

"Perhaps." Fraser kisses him, and Ray kisses back. He always does. It doesn't matter where they are or what they're doing or how angry he is, when Fraser asks for this Ray holds nothing in reserve. "Give me your cross."

"I dunno, Fraser," Ray teases as he undoes the clasp. "I still haven't gotten my chain back from when we were car salesmen."

Fraser flushes. "It's in my trunk. Do you want it?" He forgot to give it back, that's all. (He told himself that for over a year. It didn't matter whether he believed it, only that he had the will to keep telling the lie.)

"Nah. Here you go. Now you're me." He fastens the gold chain around Fraser's neck. "How does it feel?"

"Suddenly I find you intensely irritating," Fraser deadpans as he tucks the cross inside his shirt, Ray's heat against his fingertips. Ray laughs, eyes on Fraser's throat, and the truth bubbles up in him, sentimental and inescapable. "It feels wonderful."