Story Notes: Written in April 2007. Prompt: milk chocolate. Established relationship, and the tiniest bit of kink.

I'm finishing up my oatmeal when Ray comes out of the bathroom, dressed and shaved and hair-gelled. He makes a face, says, "Dunno how you can stand a hot breakfast when it's like this," and disappears into the kitchen, to emerge shortly with a bowl full of a cereal that's marketed to preschoolers. It's already bleeding faux chocolate into the milk.

Admittedly our air-conditioner is not quite keeping up with August in Chicago. But I find a warm meal much less off-putting than Ray's bowl of---sugar and glucose and fructose and corn syrup and sugar.

I have learned not to say things like this to him, first thing in the morning.

He concentrates on his breakfast for a bit, then looks up at me and frowns. "The serge, Fraser. She's got you wearing the serge, on a day like this? And don't you have statue duty this week? You're gonna pass out. I can't believe they don't issue you some kinda summer-weight uniform. Christ, mailmen get to wear shorts."

I wince at the thought of guarding the entrance to Canada with my knees showing. But he looks genuinely concerned, so I try to explain, but it's difficult to put into words. "There is some--discomfort, yes, but--the uniform is a reminder of all it stands for, country and duty and law, every time I notice that I'm wearing it. And I do notice it a great deal, in this sort of weather. Almost constantly. But because of what it makes me think of, the irritation is nearly a pleasure, and--"

Ray is giving me a very slow smile. And it's that sort of smile.

"Ray," I say reproachfully. He has a habit of sexualizing things I say, that I did not mean in that way in the least. And then I find it difficult to think of them in any other way, which is often--entertaining, but in this case--"Not at all appropriate subject matter for that sort of thought, Ray."

He grabs my right hand suddenly, pushes the uniform sleeve up.

"Ray, what are you doing?"

He puts both hands around my wrist, firmly, then sharply twists them in opposite directions, pulling at the skin.

"What on earth--"

He twists each hand back the way it came, and back again; doesn't look up, absorbed in his task, but says, "Kids used to call it an Indian burn." Twist and twist, and it's astonishing how quickly this playground tease goes from mild irritation, to unpleasant, to--

"OW!" I say, bewildered.

He stops instantly, but then pulls the edge of my sleeve back down over my reddened wrist. Where--oh--in this heat, the wool will rasp at the chafed skin. All day.

He gives me that smile, again, says, "Think about me, today." Grabs his keys off the counter, and he's gone.

It's going to be difficult to think about anything else.