Author's website: http://purna.aukestrel.com

Disclaimer: No money made. I don't own these guys.

Author's Notes: Thanks to Kalena, as always, who helped me hash out what the hell I was trying to say. And a big thank you kindly to AuKestrel, for fast and able beta assistance.

Story Notes:

A hand on his leg wakes him with a start. The hand is gentle on his skin, tracing a monotonous line up and down his thigh. Ray is tracing the thin, almost invisible scar there.

"Ray?" His lips and mouth feel strange, swollen. He runs a considering finger over the sensitive skin and smiles: it's beard burn, from Ray's stubble.

The touch of Ray's finger on the scar is now so light it almost tickles. "How'd you get this?"

His laugh sounds rueful even to his own ears. "I jumped from the loft of the barn and landed badly, sliced my leg on a water trough."

Ray leans closer, so that he can feel the smile against his nape. "That's where the bad habit started? I told ya, Fraser, stairs. How old were you?"

He swallows. "Twelve. I had something to prove."

"What, that gravity works?" There's a minute of silence, and Ray's hand tightens on him slightly. "Sorry. Tell me." The open kiss on his shoulder completes the apology.

"Until then, I was afraid of heights. I had to see. See if I could do it." He holds his breath. It's been a long time since he's shared his bed with anyone but Diefenbaker, and the warmth behind him and the tickle of hair along his jaw makes him shiver.

"Face the fear?"

He lets out the breath. Ray understands. "Yes."

"I get that. That's so you, Fraser. You did it, faced the fear down. And now you're all over it; you jump. I think it turns your crank. Heights, I mean."

He tries not to stiffen, but Ray feels his reaction nonetheless. "What?"

"Nothing, Ray."

Ray reaches around to his front, presses a hand over his belly. The muscles there jump at the caress, but Ray's hand moves over them, tracing a calming circle, until they relax.

He's resting easily in Ray's arms, when the question is asked again. "What is it, Fraser?"

His partner can be relentless. He knows this about Ray, knowledge bound to the dusty smell of a crypt and the shared ache of pasts that cannot be undone.

He sighs. "The second time I broke my leg, I was jumping off a cliff. Heights. They do not turn my crank." He uses the phrase deliberately, hoping to divert Ray, but the ploy fails.

Ray is silent, doesn't tease him for using vernacular. "Ah, jeez. Every time?"

"Pardon?" He's only half stalling, genuinely thrown by Ray's verbal short hand.

The roughness of stubble grazes his shoulder; Ray's cheek is moving back and forth against his skin. The voice is low, rough. "You're still afraid, every time you jump." Ray seems stunned. "Every damn time, it's the barn all over again. Proving something."

He doubts Ray sees his nod in the darkness, but it's the only response he can manage.

Ray sounds thoughtful now. "You always seemed so quick, eager, you know. To jump. I never thought . . . God."

Ray squeezes his ribs suddenly, a hug so tight it's nearly painful. He smiles at the closeness, but it makes breathing difficult. "Ray," he gasps finally. "Air."

"Oh, sorry." Ray relaxes his hold and laughs. "Hug you, squeeze you. I could name you George now."

His brow furrows. "I already have a name, Ray."

Ray snorts and mutters something indecipherable.

"What's that?"

"Never mind. God, Fraser, you're something else sometimes, you know?"

"And that's a good thing?" he asks, as a smile quirks his lips.

"Yeah, it's a good thing. A very good thing." Ray sounds serious, his laughter gone.

Ray settles more closely against his back, the hand moving over him again. A finger dips into his navel, drawing a startled laugh from him. It moves on, stops at the faint scar low on the right side of his belly.

"Appendectomy?" Ray seems curious, an odd amusement in his voice.

His laugh is only slightly ragged. "At Depot, of all things. How embarrassing. I fainted right in the middle of class. I don't remember anything after that, although they told me afterwards that I tried to return to my desk, that I didn't want to go to the infirmary. I'd never been in the hospital before. I'd never really been sick before."

Ray's chuckle vibrates against his back. "Fraser pride kicked on its ass by a useless piece of gut."

"Indeed. Grandpa Fraser would have accused me of malingering."

Ray shakes his head. "Nah, he'd just be glad you weren't off on a glacier somewhere when it happened."

His levity fades. "Quite so, Ray. I was lucky."

Wet lips, rough from chapping, then teeth nip his earlobe. "I'm glad." It's a whisper, and then the hand is moving again, higher over his chest. His breath catches when it grazes his nipple. Ray's fingers linger there, tugging the hardening nipple. A brush of a thumb over the sensitive tip drags a gasp from him. He arches back into Ray's body instinctively.

"Yeah," Ray breathes into his ear.

There's one last exquisite tug, but then Ray's hand moves on. He makes a sound, disappointed, but Ray just chuckles.

Ray finds the scar high on his chest, just south of his collarbone. "What's this one from?"

He hesitates. This is starting to feel . . . dangerous. The vulnerable feeling makes his chest tighten.

"I . . . you wouldn't believe me."

"Fraser. C'mon, you can tell me." Ray is not giving up.

He's silent. Dangerous, yes, and he can't, can't . . .

"C'mon, Fraser." He stiffens at the edge in Ray's voice, a tone not dissimilar to his interrogation room voice. Ray's hand rubs over his chest and his voice softens slightly to a coaxing tone. "I'll believe anything. Wrestling bears? Shark bite?"

He laughs, but there's a harsh edge to it.

"Sea otter."

"You got bit by a sea otter?" Ray sounds incredulous.

"A schoolyard bully struck me with it when I was ten. In Tuktoyaktuk."

"That's just weird. Bet the otter didn't like it much, either."

"Well, the bully shot it dead first, thus cleverly avoiding legal action. You see, swinging a live otter is illegal in the Territories. After the incident, the law was amended to include dead ones as well."

"Hurray for jurisprudence." His mouth is open to comment on Ray's vocabulary, when Ray cuts him off. "But why was he was swinging it in the first place?"

"Can you imagine anything more intimidating than an overly large youth three years older than his classmates who also happens to be twirling a dead sea mammal overhead?"

Ray hesitates for a long moment, apparently caught by the image. "Uh. When you put it that way . . . no." He pauses again. "But you stood up to him, right?"

His shoulder hunches in a defensive gesture before he realizes he's doing it. "Eventually. I finally got tired of being afraid, of being one of the victims. Hence . . ." He doesn't finish the sentence, just reaches up and touches the back of Ray's hand where it still rests on the scar.

Ray is quiet, his hand circling the scar. "Warfield. That's why you hated Warfield so much."

His voice comes out hard. "I loathe bullies of all kinds, strictly on principle. They deal in fear, infringe on the most basic of social contracts." He takes in a breath, trying to calm himself.

Ray makes a low sound of agreement. "They push people around."

"Exactly."

They lie there for a minute or two, motionless and quiet. The silence and Ray's warmth behind him calm him, his breathing slowing to match Ray's. He's astonished once more at how Ray always manages to sense exactly what he needs.

His right thigh throbs, and he remembers a conversation soon after they met, Ray needing to fill in the gaps about "their" past cases. He had been terse to the point of rudeness, relating the stories of Geiger and Gerrard, but Ray had not gotten angry with him. "Scars are private, I know. Sorry," he'd said with an odd roll of his shoulders and changed the subject.

The vulnerable feeling has not left him, but he takes in a breath, summons up his courage. He takes Ray's hand in his own, places it high on his left side. It finds the knot of poorly knitted tissue along his ribs, and he draws a harsh breath.

The hands flinches away, moves down to settle on his hip. "Fraser, you don't have to . . ."

He interrupts. "It's okay." Ray shifts behind him. "It's okay, Ray. I want to." He moves Ray's hand back up to his ribs.

Ray's hand is motionless, and then those fingers are moving on him, tracing the scar tissue.

"It never healed properly."

"What happened?"

"Brass knuckles. Frank Zuko's men." He stiffens at the memory, and he has to close his eyes.

Ray sucks in a breath. "When Gardino . . . bought it?"

He shakes his head. "Earlier. The Paducci case."

Ray pauses for a moment, and he knows without seeing that Ray's forehead is wrinkled. He's running through his memorized Vecchio history, until he suddenly snaps his fingers. "The shoemaker. Zuko had a hit on him."

"Yes, Ray. It was a lesson. Yet another lesson in fear. Afterwards, after Ray faced Zuko down for Joey Paducci's sake, I was still afraid. I sat by my cot, trying not to shiver. I'd even bought a deadbolt lock. I was afraid."

Ray's hand stills. "I bet the lock never got used, though. You're not really afraid of bullies, Fraser. You stood up to Zuko. You stood up to the otter guy. And Warfield."

He stiffens and his voice has an edge to it. "I'm not stupid, Ray. I was afraid of Warfield. I was afraid of Zuko. Actually, I'm afraid of a great many things."

Ray sighs. "Jeez. I'm not saying it right. You're the verbal one here, Fraser; you know what I mean. Just . . . you're no coward. Even if you're afraid, you never let it control you."

He is silent for long moments until Ray's caresses stop, the hand motionless.

His voice is low. "That's . . . not entirely true. I have let fear control me before. The fear of being alone."

Ray's hand moves over his back now, very close to yet another scar. That one -- the one beside his spine, the one Ray first saw long ago in the locker room. The one he always refuses to discuss whenever Ray broaches the subject.

He takes in a deep breath, and the silence seems to drag out endlessly.

"Victoria?" He knows Ray has read the files, the whitewashed official ones, as well as having heard a blunter, truer version from Welsh.

His stomach is churning, but he nods. "Victoria. The dream is always the same. There's snow all around and a beautiful red bird in front of me. I reach out for it, and . . . just as I manage to touch it, it flies away. And then I'm falling. I wake up covered in sweat, alone on my cot. Simple symbolism, I know. Freud would laugh."

"I'm not laughing," Ray murmurs.

"Sometimes in the shower, I'll soap my back and touch that scar. It makes me think of what I did to myself. What I did to Ray. The first thing I said to him was 'I should be with her.' I was so angry with him. When he saved me from myself. From my . . ."

His sentence is left unfinished, but Ray soon stirs behind him. "From your what?"

He stiffens, tries to roll away from the man behind him, but the hands on his shoulders pull him back. "Ray," he protests, but Ray does not loosen his grip.

"From your what, Fraser?" Ray's tone is emphatic.

He clears his throat. "From my . . . weakness."

"From your emotions." He doesn't say anything, and Ray continues. "Emotion -- it can make you weak, Fraser. But it can make you strong, too."

"Perhaps."

Ray's arm squeezes him about the chest tightly, and the voice in his ear is almost harsh. "No 'perhaps.' It's a good thing. Don't be afraid of it."

He whispers, "I can't . . ."

Ray interrupts him in an urgent voice. "Fraser, you've faced fear before. You can do it again. It's the barn, that loft all over again. Question is . . ."

He hesitates, brushes a hand up and down the arm holding him, and finishes Ray's thought. "Will I jump this time?"

Ray moves behind him and lets out a bark of a laugh, but the hand moving over his left pectoral is gentle. "You tell me, Fraser."

The scent of hay and dust is suddenly in his nose, and he is once more standing in that hayloft. But this time is different from that moment more than twenty years ago. This time he's not alone standing there, looking down at the ground far below him. This time he has Ray behind him, wrapped tightly around him, nearly part of him.

Not alone. The thought leaves him glad and speechless, and his lack of words feels strangely right. For while Ray might call him the verbal one, there are moments when words become meaningless. Moments when there's something much more profound in the touch of a hand, in warm breath against skin.

There's a pregnant moment when he feels Ray holding his breath, waiting, waiting for his response. He can feel the second when he finally . . . lets go, eases his body back into Ray's, and sighs his capitulation. "Ray."

He waits a beat and then turns his head to the side to meet that mouth with his own. The angle is bad; it's an awkward sort of half-kiss, their lips not quite sealing together. But Ray's strong tongue licks out, curls around his own. It's back and forth, capturing and caught, a wet sort of tease that makes him hard. He's dizzy with it, disoriented by the rush of sensation, like that first leap all over again, but more and less frightening at the same time.

Ray is hard now as well, eager and hot against his buttocks. He arches, pushing his hips back against Ray's erection. The arms that encircle him loosen slightly. He turns to face Ray, and he seals their mouths together properly this time.

He pushes his hips against Ray's. It starts as an easy liquid sort of rolling motion, but soon they're thrusting against one another, an urgent press of hot, sweating skin, wet mouths, strong hands.

It's a clumsy sort of thing, this frenzied humping against one another. But it's also perfect, their bodies straining, pressing closer and closer together, the slide of his erection against Ray's.

Ray's eyes are open, wide and challenging as they meet his. He doesn't look away, meets that pale gaze fearlessly. The sounds they are making fill his ears, loud and primal moans, and any other time he'd be embarrassed but not now. Now he's thrusting against Ray, making noise, making love, celebrating their shared joy.

He comes with a raw shout a second before Ray does, and the space between them is suddenly wetter and hotter than before. And messier, but Ray is laughing and so is he, and the smell of dust and fear is wiped away, here in this bed, naked and messy.

He's in that drowsy twilight of near-sleep, when Ray leans over and whispers in his ear, three small words. And here and now, finally, he can return them.

"I love you."

End Aloft by Purna: a_purna@yahoo.com

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