Disclaimer: Not mine. Not profiting.

Author's Notes: Wrote this years ago. Just posting to see if posting here still works, really.

Story Notes: Overuse/abuse of alcohol.

"Get your hands off me, you wretched fiend-"

The TV volume was too loud. Fraser was unable to concentrate on the symphony he was playing in his head (from a recently memorized score) as he washed the dishes.

"Ray."

Ray, slack and half drunk, head pillowed sideways on the arm of the sofa, barely registered the sound of Fraser's voice, so absorbed in the drama on the television was he.

"Ray. Ray. Ray."

"Fraser, what? This is, like, the most fascinating PBS Mystery ever. Or the only one I've ever seen. How come I never watched this shit before? I gotta lotta catching up to do," he added, and sniffed. "Havers is to Lynley what Penny and Brain are to Inspector Gadget. Except Lynley is, like, way more capable than Inspector Gadget. And the eye candy."

He took another swig of beer, and Fraser winced, suddenly certain that droplets of beer that missed Ray's mouth were sliding down his cheek onto the arm of the couch. Even if it was Ray's couch, Fraser worried about the upholstery.

"Ray, this series is in syndication now and you are watching what are essentially re-runs on a very small PBS station that broadcasts even the current PBS shows weeks later than the main PBS stations in Chicago."

"Yeah, but only because northwest Indiana has so much quality local programming. And, anyway, I'm all right with re-runs. Especially of this shit," he gestured at the TV with the beer, liquid sloshing inside the bottle.

"I really wish you would stop cursing."

"Well, okay," Ray said agreeably, eyes squinting at the television.

"And, really, Ray, you should watch television with at least one lamp on in the room."

"No. No. A dark room makes it more like watching a movie. Which is cool," Ray sighed happily.

"As you wish," Fraser replied a bit stiffly, and finished rinsing the mug in his hands.

"Thanks, Fraser. Your tolerance of my many flaws just greases the wheels of the well-oiled machine that is our crime-fighting duo."

"Ray," came Fraser's unwilling, almost strangled sigh. Sudden longing surged in his chest and choked him up.

The show ended, and as the end credits began to roll, Ray sat up, groggy and boneless.

"Oh. Kinda drunk, here. Some help?" he squinted towards the light coming from the kitchen.

Fraser cleared his throat sharply to shake himself out of a recurrent daydream - fantasy, really; nothing that was ever likely to actually occur. "Of course, Ray," he replied.

He dried his hands on the dish towel on the door handle of the refrigerator, and then strode into the living room. Ray looked happily up at him, a genuine, if inebriated smile lighting his face.

"Way to be a buddy, Frase."

"Yes, of course, Ray." Fraser extended his two hands, not unacquainted with Ray's brushes with severe intoxication. By the looks of it, he was not too far gone tonight. There would be no "praying to the porcelain god" as Ray put it.

"I feel so... so... juvenile," Ray muttered, grabbing Fraser's hands and letting him haul him up off the couch. He swayed alarmingly, and Fraser put out a hand to steady him, but Ray waved it off and took a step much farther into Fraser's social space.

"Juvenile?" Fraser said, taken slightly aback. "Why?"

"Because I drink, and I drink too much, and it must seem like I'm a real lush, Fraser. But I'm only trying to give you a way in."

Had Fraser heard what he seemed to have heard?

"I beg your pardon?" he said, voice thinning. He felt his heart jump and his pulse began racing.

"What the hell do I have to do?" Ray whispered, and his eyes seemed enormous as he slung an arm around Fraser's neck. "That isn't the point of it, the hurling and you helping me through hangovers. Those are just accidental overdoses, actually. Christ, Fraser, you are so thick sometimes. Brilliant most of the time; so thick, other times." His breath was beery and hot in the space between Fraser's ear and shoulder.

"Ray, I..."

"What do I have to do?" Ray repeated, even more softly, and Fraser began to tremble when he felt the soft press of lips to his neck. "I mean, when are you going to take advantage of my drunkenness?"

Fraser froze.

"'Cept of course, you would never take advantage of my drunkenness," Ray sighed. "What was I thinking." His breath hitched, a cross between a chuckle and a sob. "Shoulda just been direct, but, I couldn't, couldn't be sure-"

"Oh, Ray," Fraser groaned, turning in to Ray's body, bending his face to Ray's mouth.

Ray returned the kiss, sloppy and drunk and very, very ardently.

"Fraser," Ray half-growled, half-groaned when they came up for air. "What the fuck, Fraser? Should I just have done this weeks - months - ago? All this drinking can't be good for my liver. I didn't know what else to do. You got women, all kinds of women - and men - throwing themselves at you. Took me months just to get the courage up to let you put me to bed when I was totally shitfaced."

"Oh, Ray, I didn't know," Fraser breathed into Ray's temple.

"I thought I was being obvious. I thought I was tempting you. You are so un-temptable, you know that?"

"Oh, I was tempted," Fraser murmured. "I was sorely, severely tempted. But so very terrified."

Ray stepped back and looked Fraser full in the face. The irises of his eyes were ice blue, contrasting sharply with large and dark pupils from the dim light in the living room.

"Terrified of what? I been all over you, when I'm drunk, for we - months. Did you honestly think I would resist? That I would reject you?"

"I didn't know what to think. Oh, Ray," he said, his voice hitching. "It has been torture..."

"All intended. Trying to get you to see me this way," Ray murmured back, and then took Fraser's mouth with a surprising dexterity and ferocity, belying his level of intoxication. Fraser felt tugging on his shirt and the arousing friction of the fabric as his shirt was pulled up out of his pants.

"Have you been faking being as drunk as you appeared to be?" Fraser asked when their panting mouths parted once more.

"Me? Hells, no! I just have a high tolerance and great drunk hand-eye coordination from several years playing in neighborhood dart leagues."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

They pulled slightly apart, and then Ray staggered towards the hall to his bedroom, dragging Fraser behind him by the hand.

"Ray... I really don't think... in your state..."

"In my state is where you should be," Ray replied dryly. "Lucky for you, I got a pint in the drawer of my night stand. For those, you know - bad nights when I can't stop seeing what I saw at work." He sighed. "Also, hair 'o the dog that bit you, you know?"

Fraser nodded sympathetically, stumbling behind Ray. "All right," he replied dutifully, in a happy daze.