Author's Notes: The lovely Lynnmonster beat me about the head and shoulders with her talented Wand of Betaness (not hardly as dirty as it sounds, I promise). One or two of the best bits owe their lives to her; any remaining mistakes are all mine. Appearances notwithstanding, no italics were harmed in the making of this fic.

Story Notes: Written in June 2005 for the Fuck or Die challenge on ds_flashfiction, and for Aerye and Dsudis, who laughed when I broached it and had both had lousy yesterdays.

It had been weeks--Jesus, maybe months--since the last time, and Ray was at the end of his rope.

He'd quit for Fraser, of course. Push come to shove, he'd do pretty much anything for Fraser. He'd figured that out a while back, spent some time being an asshole to both of them while he got over the macho not-a-pussy phase, and then chilled back out into being crazy about Fraser and not worrying about who was giving it up for who. At some point Fraser'd started blathering about inner kids and coming to terms and yadda yadda yadda, but what Ray'd do for Fraser and what he'd listen to coming out of Fraser's mouth were two totally different things, so he'd found something else to do with that mouth (God, Fraser's mouth) and Fraser'd gotten seriously distracted, and that was the end of the psychobabble, thank Christ.

And then--yeah, he remembered now, it was two months ago at least, ten weeks maybe--Fraser'd sprung it on him. Picked the perfect time, too, the bastard. Like Ray was gonna say no to anything Fraser wanted after Fraser'd spent hours necking with him on the couch, sprawled on top of him, warm all down Ray's skinny-assed body except for the hot damp spot where their cocks rubbed and slid against each other through the clothes they'd been too desperate for it to take off, hands buried in his hair, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him until he was the next thing to coming from only that, hips pushing desperately up and up and moaning so deep his throat hurt...

...and then Fraser'd pulled away just far enough for Ray to see him clear, mouth shiny and wet and swollen, cradling Ray's head in those big warm palms and pressing into Ray's scalp with the pads of his fingers until Ray'd hung it up and just purred already. He'd looked at Ray like he always did, like there wasn't anything else he ever wanted to look at but Ray, and cleared his throat and run his tongue across his lower lip and said, out of nowhere, "Ray, would you...do you think...if I asked you to do something for me, would you?"

And usually Ray was smarter than this, usually he remembered what he'd learned a long time ago from Joey Przygocki in the fourth fucking grade: never say yes to anything without asking a few key questions first. But Fraser'd caught him off guard, got him thirty seconds from creaming his jeans and then sprung a question like that on him, and his brains were not exactly working overtime (or, okay, maybe at all), and besides, this was Fraser, who Ray trusted with his life and a lot of other stuff besides. And so of course he'd said yes, and Fraser'd smiled at him and licked his lips and slid one hand down to pinch his nipples, and the coming-in-his-jeans thing hadn't taken even thirty seconds, in the end.

And now here Ray was, ten weeks on and bleach-freakin'-free. Ray's hair hadn't been this color since maybe his second year of high school, when he'd gone pure black for a Patsies concert and realized his mom wasn't the only one who could cozy up to Clairol and come out a winner. A month and three trips to Walgreen's later, Ray'd found his inner blond, and he hadn't looked back in twenty-five years.

Until Fraser'd asked him, so sweet and deep and from six inches away, if he'd quit coloring his hair, let it go natural, let Fraser see what he looked like--what his hair felt like--without any help at all. As a result of his sex-stupid agreement to which, Ray now had--oh, God--Ray had roots. Serious roots.

Mud-brown roots.

Graying mud-brown roots.

It was the gray that pushed Ray to the breaking point. He missed the blond, yeah, sure. It was what he was used to, the Kowalski he knew; even Ma Vecchio knew him that way, called him her figlio biondo and looked at him funny the first time he showed up for Sunday dinner with two-toned hair. But it wasn't true that blonds had more fun, not by a long shot--not unless they were lucky enough to have Fraser in bed and at the table and bent over the back of the couch, the way Ray did, and Ray figured he had a lock on that kind of fun and he intended to keep it locked, thank you kindly.

And it wasn't the gel-free thing, either. Fraser'd insisted on that as part of the deal--"The chemicals that permeate styling products do not occur naturally in anyone's hair, Ray, not even yours, as difficult as that may be to believe given your years of follicular abuse"--and Ray had bitched up a storm about it to start with. But after a week or so he'd had to admit the wash-it-and-go thing had its advantages. Mostly it cut ten minutes off his morning prep time, what with one thing and another, which mean another decent cup of coffee or a little more shut-eye or--behind door number three, Ray's first choice--a quick blow job. Ray liked that one any way it went down, ohyeah, but his favorite version had him on his knees, with Fraser sitting on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his uniform pants unbuttoned just enough and his hands stroking jerkily over Ray's soft brown hair as Ray took him all the way down...yeah, that worked for Ray, and the noises Fraser made as he lost control, made fists in Ray's hair and fucked Ray's mouth, said it worked for Fraser, too.

Some mornings that extra ten minutes made them both late. Which Ray, not being a moron, was just fine with.

So it was all good--surprisingly good, shit-Fraser-was-right-again good. And Ray started to think about maybe giving up the bleach for real and even growing his hair out--not long, per se, just enough to pull it back out of his face when they worked on the Goat.

And then one morning Frannie harshed Ray's buzz but good by opening her big mouth and telling Ray how much she liked the gray in his hair. "Real distinguished, bro, makes you look like an actual grown-up, which appearances can be discerning, but hey."

What the-- Gray?

Ray freaked out--understandably, he thought, all things considered. Welsh was gray. Father Martin was gray. Ray's dad was gray. Gray was for bosses, for parents, for old guys. Gray was definitely, definitively not Ray's thing. He gave Welsh a bullshit excuse, went home early, and spent a bad ten minutes looking in the mirror, turning his head from side to side and angling it into the bathroom's fluorescent light so that he could see all the little silvery glints that hadn't been there the last time he'd looked. Yep, nightmare confirmed: while Ray wasn't looking, he'd gone gray.

Shit.

Ray left the bathroom and collapsed backwards onto the bed, trying to figure out how soon he could sneak away from Fraser and go back to blond and how much shit Fraser'd give him if--when--he did it. Because yeah, okay, maybe he was going gray, but nothing said he had to stay that way. He had choices. He had options. He had Stewart the Style Guy at the place on the corner of Dearborn and Fifth. And Mr. "Go natural for me, Ray" was just gonna have to deal with it. After all--Ray sat up indignantly--what with the can't-carry-a-gun thing and the be-kind-to-criminals thing and, hey, the whole wildly-bizarre-ways thing on top of it all, at least half of those gray hairs were Fraser's fault in the first place. Yeah, and then Fraser'd taken advantage of Ray--he'd whatsit, manipulated Ray into the whole no-bleach deal, without which Ray would have spent the rest of his life happily not knowing that his hair was starting to look like his dad's. So Fraser'd just have to deal with the consequences.

Especially if Ray could make the consequences happen before Fraser got home.

Decision made, Ray bounced up off the bed and got ready to make a run for it. It was only 4:20, and Stewart sometimes had walk-in slots available around now; Ray called on the cell while he ditched the gun and cuffs and caught a lucky break, a 4:45 cancel. Ray's hair hadn't grown enough that it would take more than about an hour and a half, tops, to cut and color, and Fraser'd gotten home after six every day this week, so Ray's chances of getting it done before Fraser could hit him with the big-eyed pleading "Please, Ray" deal were looking pretty good. Right--wallet, keys, jacket, here we go--

--and as Ray picked up the last of his stuff from the table and turned to the door, it opened towards him and here came Fraser, larger than life and home early for once. Damn it. Busted bigtime. Any second now Fraser'd ask him what he was doing back before end of shift and why was he leaving again, and Ray would make something up that Fraser wouldn't believe for a minute because he could read Ray like a goddamn book, and...

Except no, maybe not. Because, now that Ray was actually looking at Fraser, Fraser didn't seem like he was much in the mood for talking. No, Fraser was focused. Fraser was moving like a man on a mission. Fraser's eyes were fixed on Ray's face, and Fraser's hands were working their way steadily through the uniform's belt and buckles and zips, and Fraser's mouth was full and open and his teeth were showing, just a little.

Holy hell, Fraser was hungry.

Ray's cock twitched hard against the inseam of his jeans, and his face prickled with heat as he stared back at Fraser. God. He loved it when Fraser got in this mood, this mine-mine-mine, need-it-need-it-now place where Fraser'd do anything to him that he asked for and then keep going with things he'd never even thought of. Didn't happen all that often, Fraser being the stickler for carefulness and control that he usually was, so when the chance came up Ray knew he had to roll with it right from the start. And all signs pointed to the start being in about, oh, a minute and a half.

Maybe less, if the smile on Fraser's face was anything to go by.

Ray glanced at his watch--4:32, shit, he'd have to leave, like, now if he wanted to make Stewart's anywhere close to on time--and back at his partner, half-naked and starting on the button of those stupid pumpkin pants. Oh, this was SO not his day. Not only was he indisputably going gray, but he was also about to have to make a really terrible choice, a choice he'd never in a million years thought he'd have to make:

Fuck?

Or dye?