Disclaimer: Neither Benton Fraser nor Ray Kowalski are mine. I'm merely borrowing them for a spin. No profit is being made.

Author's Notes: Written for dS ConEnvy. Prompt: Fraser/Kowalski, "I was told there'd be cake", for Alex51324. Thank you to Green_grrl and mergatrude for beta services. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Story Notes: Post-COtW slashfic. No spoilers

"Hmm. O.K., Mum," I nodded to no one, pushing my glasses up my nose before they could slide off and fall to the floor. Benton was legendary for his bat-ears and right now would not be the best time for him to wake up with a start. His fever had finally broken around 3 a.m. "I think he's being crankier this time around than when he had the broken leg. No, the doctor says no calamine lotion."

Picking up the pen once again, I scribbled the very detailed instructions, already doing an inward sigh at the amount of prep time this thing was gonna take. "Yeah. What? Does it have to be corn, potatoes, yam and zucchini? Oh, I get it. Make it thicker. Really?" I could imagine my mom sitting in the RV's kitchen, her old `chicken soup to cure all that ails you' recipe in her wrinkled hands. "No, I don't think dill will be any good. Maybe cilantro?" My voice grew into a slight whine, making me grimace. Even after all these years filled with divorces, new partnerships, new marriages, kids (Stella had been miserable during both of her pregnancies yet she had turned out to be a practical but good mom; Vecchio had sent us I don't know how many cds with picture after picture of his bambinos), there would always be a part of me that wanted to show Mum how grown-up her little Stanley was.

I hung up the phone after promising her I would get some rest myself (must've sounded as tired as I was feeling) and looked at the never-ending grocery list. If this ain't love, I dunno what is.

For someone who had been fit since before he was a Baby Mountie, Benton sure had enough close calls to qualify him for either The Outer Limits or The Twilight Zone. Maybe both. I had done my part as the queer Chicago detective version of Flo Nightingale way too many times for my liking. See, his post-Hand of Franklin Quest promotion to Corporal and (four years later) to Sergeant couldn't keep him at a desk. That is until three years ago, when Benton had the genius idea that jumping six floors down into a dumpster in pursuit of a suspect was as A-OK at age 47 as it was ten years earlier. Breaking his leg in three places due to what he called "a slight miscalculation" kept him in bed long enough to slow him down.

I, not-so-surprisingly, was ready to kill him as soon as I got Constable Laura's teary-voiced call. Thankfully, for him, most of my anger dissolved by the time he was conscious enough to carry on a conversation he'd remember hours later. I held my head high and grinned like a loon as the doctor told us about lengthy physical therapy sessions. It was payback time. Ben kept a too serious for his own good expression on his face all the way home.

My stubborn, I-know-six-ways-to-skin-an-animal, prepare-stinky-ointments, sexual beast of a partner bitched and moaned week after week before, during and after each visit from his therapist.

Back then, I jerked off plenty until his meds were done and Ben could not only get hard, but be able to come again. For one, we couldn't fuck, ahem, properly because of Ben's cast and the pain meds that kept his not-so-little-Mountie at parade rest. When Ben had his plaster cast replaced with the removable Velcro one, I celebrated by setting him on the bed and slinking my way down his body, kissing him everywhere except for his cock. It got to the point where I had revved him up enough for him to insinuate with moans and `pleases' that he wanted as much of me as he could get (right this very moment thank you very fucking much). I started slow, teasing his slick cock with my tongue and a hint of teeth, until little by little I could relax my jaw muscles and deep-throat him steadily and with as much suction as I could muster. He got incoherent when I added a hand and began playing with his balls, touching and softly tugging them. Raggedy breathing and thrusting hips, Benton came with a groan so loud it gave me goosebumps.

I looked at him, his bitter yet clean taste in my mouth, and melted at what was in front of me. His face was scrunched up and as red as if he had been chasing a perp for twenty blocks nonstop. Tears splashed down his jaw. Giving one last lick to his now sensitive, softening cock, I crawled up his body until I could hold and softly rock him.

"Never thought you'd be spurting again, huh?" I ran my hand up and down his chest, the caress less sexual than it sounds. "I," his voice low, almost mournful, "had made up my mind to talk with Dr. Poppy about my body's lack of response for, um, you know," the blush spreading mere seconds after. How he could be so enthusiastic with using his tongue and fingers and cock on me one moment and be embarrassed to mention wanting to keep his dick hard the next, I still don't know. Hell, we're a couple of guys, each half-a century old, who can still fuck most nights and are damn lucky our asses do not freeze in "your balls will get permafrosted-tuk".

*****

Keys in one hand, grocery list and my wallet in the other, I crept to the bedroom to check on Benton (softly snoring) before heading to the supermarket 30 minutes away.

Four hours later, the kitchen was a complete mess from me peeling this and grating that and deboning the chicken. Mum insisted that I had to use a whole chicken or the soup's healing properties would be moot. I walked towards the sleeping body in our bed, bowl of soup held up like it was a solemn (see there? A true Mountie word. Being with Ben for the past nine years had rubbed off me in all kinds of ways. Heh, heh) occasion and not just feeding time for a very cranky, covered in red bumps Mountie. I'd been just as surprised as he was when Dr. Poppy told us what Ben had wasn't "a strange reaction to the new detergent," but good ol' chickenpox. And well, here we were: me discovering the homemaker within and Benton trying not to scratch the many blisters that covered his upper torso.

I set the plate on the nightstand and sat on the bed before kissing the top of his forehead, which is about the one spot on his face that remained unblemished.

"C'mon, Ben, I've got to get this actual homemade soup in you." Benton opened a pale blue and completely unfocused eye.

"I was told there would be cake," he grumbled, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. I wouldn't say he looked hot, but then who did with angry red spots all over the face? There was something childlike in his expression, half-amusement and half-pout, so I stuck my tongue out at him.

"How about while you have soup I'll run an actual oatmeal bath" --Ben's eyes lit up at that--"and then I'll bring you some mangoes later?" Fresh fruit and veggies are like the Benton Fraser version of bait. I figured he didn't come across fresh produce as often as he would have liked while growing up in Iglooland.

Benton rubbed his left arm - "It's safer than digging my nails in each and every one of these blisters like I want to do, Ray" - before taking the plate between his hands. His nostrils flared out for a beat, trying to detect all the different ingredients. A low growl from his stomach broke the moment and he dipped the spoon into the amber liquid with the enthusiasm of the very hungry.

"Next time I'm down for the count," I said fully aware that the big grin on my face canceled out the heavy tone off my voice, "I better get some serious pampering." Benton gave me a warm half-smile in reply before he swallowed a spoonful of broth and made a contented hum. I got up and headed towards the kitchen. "I'll be back soon. Gotta see a Quaker about a bath."