Author's Notes: Lynnmonster would have trained her talented beta eyes on this if I'd actually given her the chance, rather than begging for help and then falling down on the job. Dsudis took time out from mourning Brett Hull's sadly precipitous retirement to read it through and give me just the right sort of feedback to get me over the "ohgodwhathaveIdone" hump, for which I am duly grateful, and Silverakira did a lightning-quick beta that managed to catch several signal sillinesses. Any remaining oddities should be laid (!) at my door.

Story Notes: Written in October 2005 for stop_drop_porn. The ficlet that follows flat-out would not exist without the small and lovely piece Serialkarma posted just prior to tagging me on this comm. I got to thinking about what Fraser's side of things might look like - how Fraser might have gotten to the point at which Serialkarma's story started. What follows is where that wondering took me - and, I suppose, took Fraser.

Fraser's in that state where he's had it with just about everybody. It isn't particularly seemly for a Mountie to manifest irritation openly, in addition to which he strongly suspects he's brought a good deal of his current frustration on himself by being--what would Ray call it?--oh, yes: unbending. (Though not, Ray would add, "unbent", snickering hard at his own double pun.) Deserved or no, however, Fraser's current mood seethes with discontent--at the unseasonably warm weather, at Inspector Thatcher's overindulged penchant for minutiae, at the inopportune recalcitrance of what seems like every lock in the world. Divesting himself of hat, tunic, and assorted accoutrements in the cramped front hallway, Fraser finds himself longing for nothing more than a nap...

...until a sound from their bedroom, from which Fraser would ordinarily have expected only silence at this time of day, brings his senses sharply into focus. Ray. Ray is home. And--Fraser's ears prick, a useful trick learned from Dief, and he feels his lips curve into a slow, sly smile--judging by the light snores Ray perpetually disavows, his partner is asleep. At once the rest of the day is gone--a chimera, without consequence or weight. Fraser closes his eyes in anticipatory pleasure, feeling sweat slide beaded down under his Henley, picturing his tongue making that same slow progression over the intimate landscape of Ray's long, elegant back, inch by hot wet inch, as Ray writhes beneath him, dreaming and pliant and open to anything Fraser wants to do to him. To everything. To Fraser's hands on his skin, everywhere Fraser can reach, stroking and pinching and scratching, mapping the beloved terrain again and yet again. To Fraser's teeth on Ray's hardening nipples and his stubbled throat and the sharp point of his shoulder and the salty nape of his neck, all the places Fraser knows Ray cannot defend against. To Fraser's tongue and fingers, by turns and in tandem, pushing insistently into Ray, opening him, readying him, making him forget every word but "yes" and "God" and "please, Ben, please." To Fraser's cock, finally, finally, sliding steady and without pause into his partner, impaling him again and again, deep and fast and forever...

...but that's for later, Fraser reminds himself, coming back to the present with a start. That's for after. That's for when Ray is truly awake, spent and satiated but aware, and Fraser can turn him over, flip him onto his back and bend him double (thank God, Fraser thinks, thank God for the ways Ray's body works) and--as Ray, again, would say--fuck him through the mattress, meeting Ray's eyes (awake, aware, knowing him, knowing him) as he thrusts, groaning, crying out despite himself, until closing his eyes becomes the only way to live through the pleasure.

Fraser's mouth, dry as he pants in the heat of his waking daydream, waters suddenly with anticipation. He braces himself through a whole-body shiver, pulling shoulders and knees into parade-rest resistance against the strong, undisciplined tightening in his groin. Oh, God, he wants this. Now.

He tries to calm himself, to stop himself, to settle back into his skin and wait out the painful craving that's swept through his body and alchemized the frustrated heat of the day into a different, desperate fire. He wants to delay, there in the hallway--not to stay away from Ray, but to draw out the longing, to narrow the universe to this single moment and to know who he is as he moves forward into it.

Hands grasping the hem of his Henley and raising it over his head bring Fraser, once again, back to himself, and he laughs even as he allows himself to complete the movement: whatever his Mountie mind may think he wants, his partnered heart and body know what his baseline needs require. He leaves the day--the locks, the discomfort, the workplace angst--with the flotsam of his public role, hung and placed and scattered, and allows his feet to carry him to the door of their bedroom...

...which is, in the end, the only place in the world Fraser can imagine being: right here, right now, toeing off the boots he doesn't remember untying, settling his half-clothed weight on their bed between Ray's widespread feet, crawling slowly up the wide, warm space Ray's legs outline below the seamed blanket edge lying just under the small of his back.

This is what Fraser wants--all he wants--as he settles his hands either side of Ray's hips and bends to place his mouth just where he knows Ray will feel it most. Ray is what he wants--pinned underneath him, underneath his tongue and his fingers and his body, connected and connecting him, the center of his heart. And as long as he has this, there need be nothing else, ever.