Notes: I've been thinking about this since the first time I ever saw Mountie on the Bounty

Notes: I've been thinking about this since the first time I ever saw Mountie on the Bounty. Fraser is so damn *sexy* when he leaps up on those barrels, catches the gun and fires it at Wallace with that "I win" smirk, that *I* want to climb right down his throat. I refuse to believe Ray doesn't have the same reaction.

Disclaimers, et al.: They belong to Alliance. What-the-fuck-EVER. If they were *mine*, I'd let them play Pirates for as long as they wanted to, complete with those groovy curving swords, and maybe an earring for Ray. Rated NC-17 for quick, hot, dirty smut involving two *very* pretty men. This is set during that time interval between Wallace's capture and the tag during Mountie on the Bounty, and there are spoilers here, but if you blink, you'll miss them.

Thanks to Audra for sitting and listening to the whole damn thing. And to Te, who made the comment that inspired it all.

Feedback should be waterproofed and shipped to LaToot@aol.com.

Rearrangement

by LaT

February 2000

I never knew gunpowder could smell so ... *sexy*. But it does. On him. Just makes me want to pull him to me and bury my nose there, at the spot just above that stiff collar and below his jaw, right *there*, and breathe in deep. Breathe in Fraser, and yeah, I know he fired the gun with his hand and not his neck, but that smell is all over him. I just know it is, because I'm standing right next to him and I can smell it. Potassium nitrate, charcoal, sulfur, Fraser. Even in a borrowed uniform he still smells like him, and how he's managing that is beyond me, because I'm almost certain *I* reek, between sea water, being in that sub and wearing someone else's clothes.

But Fraser smells like Fraser ... and something else. Like leather and cedar, kind of spicy, kind of creamy -- which is how he always smells -- but with this extra layer and bite of gunpowder. Powder from a gun fired with a sharpshooter's aim and confidence, and I know that that's why it smells so good on him. It's not the gunpowder as much as it is that the smell's on him because of the way he fired the gun. Wallace didn't stand a fucking chance. I almost felt sorry for the guy because I knew that, knew he didn't have any idea what was about to hit him. But I did.

Fraser leapt up on those barrels like he does it every day. Just hopped right on up, easy as you please, like there was nothing at all to getting himself four feet off the ground in the blink of an eye. 'Hopped' isn't really the right word, though, because it was too smooth, too fluid even though it was fast. It was like he was *flowing* and I knew, even before the gun left my hand, that he'd be right where he needed to be to catch it. And I knew that he'd catch it, and that when he fired it, he wouldn't miss, and that Wallace would be alive only because Fraser didn't *want* him to be dead.

So the gunpowder on him smells good, sexy. It smells like power, like confidence, like that 'I *know* I'm bad-ass' vibe Fraser has when ... well, when he's being bad-ass, which doesn't happen enough. Yeah, Fraser can stare down a guy with a gun pointed at his head and he'll jump out a window in a heartbeat to stop someone from breaking the law, but he manages to be *polite* about it. Like the bad guy should just give up the gun because it's the courteous thing to do, or return the stolen loot because it's rude not to. Fraser never really lets himself ... *get off* on being a good cop.

But he did today. Standing up on those barrels, all beautiful and proud as we drifted into Canada, just *waiting* for my gun to drop into his hand, then flowing into position to shoot. Picked Wallace's diving masks off one, two, three, like he could've done it with his eyes closed and half-asleep to boot.

And the way it happened ... just thinking about it gives me goosebumps, but the good kind. Even the Stella and I never ... *connected* ... like Fraser and I did today. With Stella and me, everything (well, almost everything) was always talked out, and it's not that talking's bad, it's just ... there was never a moment when we both just *knew*, without even saying anything, that we were on the same page.

Fraser and me, a few minutes ago? That was incredible, especially since we'd been kind of at each other's throats the past few weeks. Hell, a little over 72 hours ago, I punched him. Popped him a good one right in that pretty, exasperating mouth of his, and if there was only one thing I could undo about this whole thing it would be that. The rest of it could stay, even the almost drowning part, but I'd erase me hitting him faster than you can say ''White Out.'

I can't, of course, but the thing we just did with my gun almost makes up for it. It's kind of funny, too because there was a time, right after I met Fraser and one night while watching Star Wars, that I thought that if I knew anyone who could turn out to be a Jedi Knight, it would be him. It's d-u-m dumb, I know, but just watching my gun soaring through the air, going right *to him* like hewas guiding it or something, made me happy and light-headed and proud and turned-on, all at once.

It was that teamwork thing, that partnership thing that I was starting to think we'd forgotten how to do. I told Fraser, the first day I met him, that we were a duet, but the past few weeks, we weren't playing anything right. It was like, I said "flat," he said "sharp." I'd say "allegro," he'd say "andante," and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't get us in tune with each other.

But today? Almost perfect harmony and when I threw him my gun it *was* perfect. Now, we're standing side by side, and the bad guy's going down for a long, long time, and Fraser's giving off this scent and this heat that's damn near driving me out of my mind.

He hands me the gun and I want to give it back to him. Tell him he can hold it because we're in Canada now, and I never understood what it meant to really be on Fraser's turf until just this moment. But, he's pulling Wallace out of the tank, and it makes more sense for me to actually help. Baby Mounties are coming down from the ceiling, rappelling in the same way Fraser and I did, and he hands Wallace off to one of them, gives me a little smile, and jumps down off the platform.

"Where ya going, Fraser?" I ask, and I know we're still going to have to work on the talking part. Because as much fun as it is sometimes to pretend there really is something like the Force, not talking will only put us right back where we were the other day by the lake.

"The other charges should be disconnected, Ray. Just to be safe."

And he's off, across the floor of the hold and he still seems to be *flowing*. Fraser always walks like he knows where he's going, even when he doesn't, and there are times when it annoys the hell out of me. Now isn't one of those times. I stay on the platform a few minutes longer, just so I can watch him *move*.

I spent the better part of the afternoon surrounded by people wearing the same uniform Fraser's got on right now. Not a one of them wears it like he does. Not a one of them makes it look even half as *good*.

He glides (there's really nothing else I can call it) between two barrels where he's found another charge and even when he crouches to disconnect the thing, it's all easy, slinky grace. He's alone back there in the barrels. The junior Mounties have rounded up the rest of Wallace's crew and everybody's heading topside. And I know enough of myself to know that I've been wanting to kiss Fraser since we crossed into the Dominion of Canada. I jump down off the platform and I wonder if I could find him just by smell, then I remember that I'm not him or Dief, and I do the next best thing.

"Fraser?"

"Over here, Ray."

I've had a thing for his voice since the very first day. I even decided once, while listening to some seven hundred year long story about the use of the fork in ancient China or something, that if honey made a sound, it would sound like Fraser.

"I think this is the last one," he says, pulling the wire from a charge when I find him. He just drops both of them on the floor and stares at me. And he looks pleased and proud, incredibly beautiful and, yeah, just a little bit smug.

"You did good," I tell him, and I know, I just *know* he's going to tell me that it's "did well," just as surely as I know that when he does, I'm going to let it slide. Because Fraser doesn't know it yet, but I'm about to kiss him. Kiss him good *and* well, and let the damn chips fall where they will.

It seems I'm not the only one who can surprise because he smiles, gives me the full-on twinkle and just says,

"No, *we* did good."

And that does it. I knew when he breathed for me that I wouldn't take my transfer and if he reacts badly to what I'm about to do, I can always change my mind again. I don't even give him a chance to guess what's going to happen. I just reach out, take that gorgeous face between my hands, pull him to me, and lay one on him.

Soft, soft lips. Even softer than they look. Like silk, like satin, like a dozen other things you want to wrap around yourself just because you can. It feels like forever and not long enough at the same time, and a part of me starts to panic when I realize Fraser hasn't actually *moved*, and I'm ready to pull away when I feel it.

A quick, wet little flicker over my lips. I'm a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them and Benton Fraser just licked me and trust me, when that happens, there's only one thing to do in response.

Open up, and let him inside.

So I do. Fraser's tongue is warm and slippery and it slicks over mine like we've done this before. No hesitation at all, just hot, wet, clever movement against my teeth, inside my lip and all I can think is, what the hell took us so long?

I don't even remember doing it, but I've got one hand in his hair and the other under his jacket, cupping a palm over that Mountie-hard ass, and you know, Fraser should come with warning labels for certain parts of his anatomy.

One of my thighs wedges itself between his legs, and God help me, he's as hard as I am. I shift us a little so I can push him against one of the barrels, break the kiss to press my nose to that spot right under his jaw. No gunpowder, all Fraser, and that is just so much better than okay.

"Ray ...,"

He ... sighs my name into my ear and I don't really know how to answer that any other way than by sliding on down to my knees. I fumble with the bottom buttons of the jacket and somehow get the flaps to stay out of the way, undo those stupid pants that only Fraser can make look good, and then there's nothing between my mouth and his cock but a thin, damp layer of cotton.

"Ray ... you ... you don't ...," he starts to say, but I look up at him, cut him off with,

"Want to. Shhh ...," and wonder of fucking wonders, he *listens* to me, just closes his mouth and his eyes, lets his head drop to one side, and if I never see him looking like this again, this one time will still be more than enough.

It's easy to get his cock out of his boxers, and for a minute, I just stare at it. Like the rest of him, it's beautiful, and I kiss it the full length, from base to leaking, uncut tip. Lean back in a little, press my nose to the thick, soft curls at the base and even there, Fraser smells ... wonderful.

His fingers are in my hair now, stroking, petting and the only sounds he makes are soft, contented little sighs. If we weren't in the hull of a fake ghost ship with half the fucking RCMP up on deck, I could really take it slow with this, make it the best blowjob Fraser's ever lived through, do to him all the things that have ever made me rocket right out of my skin, but I don't have that kind of time.

I kiss the head again, and then, it's showtime. I take him in as far as he can go; it's easy to relax when you want to do it, and I think a part of me has wanted to suck Fraser since that day in the crypt. He says my name again, soft and quiet, almost musical, so I hum back at him, around him, and he thrusts, hitting the back of my throat. Not hard, it doesn't hurt, it's just enough to let me know I could do that humming thing again, and I do, add a swallow, and the fingers in my hair tense and then relax. Fraser's holding back, I can tell. Trying not to guide and if I didn't have a mouthful of him, I swear it would make me laugh.

He smells good, tastes even better and I hum again, a little longer, and get a thrust and a 'Ray' at the same time. I want to make this last, but I can't, so I start sucking for real, relax my hold on Fraser's hips to let him know he can push if he wants to, and just like before, even without words, we get each other.

He starts seriously rocking into me, and I just stay still, taking whatever he wants to give and trying to concentrate on how good it feels while wondering if I'll be able to get through this without coming in my pants. The next time Fraser says my name it comes out harsher, with more of an edge than before, and I know he's close. I look up at him because I have to *see* this, have to know if he's as beautiful when he comes as I think he is.

And he's watching me. Christ help both of us, he's *watching* me, and I have to close my eyes because I can't watch Fraser looking at me as he comes. There is just no way I won't give it up if I keep my eyes open, and just as I close them he says my name in this way, in this pleading, sobbing *way*, and it's there. He shudders and my mouth is suddenly full of thick, creamy wetness and it tastes too good, tastes too *Fraser*, and I can't help it. Even with my eyes closed I really have no choice but to come with him.

I don't even know how it happens, but Fraser ends up on the floor with me, knees scissored between mine and he's kissing me again, long and full and deep. I wrap my arms around him and go with it, with him, with the flow. Yeah, we've got to pull ourselves together, and eventually we've got to go up where everybody else is, but now, *right* now, I hear this little melody in my head, this little duet. And it's perfectly in tune.