Chopsticks and Curling.

Kowalski/Turnbull.

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It was the last game of the day.

Turnbull leaned forward, chopsticks poised beneath his mouth. Almost--almost--almost--oh! Disappointment. He collapsed back onto the cushions and ate the piece of chicken despondently.

"So was that good or bad?" Ray asked.

"It was a near miss. Or rather, a near hit, but I believe common parlance dictates 'near miss' as the more colloquial word."

"Oh, that's the worst." Ray passed him the sweet and sour shrimp. "And I'm not even going to ask what 'colloquial' means."

"Vernacular," Turnbull said.

"I said I didn't want to know! Jeez, you and Fraser." Ray put his feet up on the coffee table again. Turnbull knocked them down again. They were close enough together that Ray's thigh brushed against his as it shifted.

"Okay, so what's he doing now?"

"He's delivering the stone."

"In slow motion."

"It's precisely as fast as it needs to be, Ray. It's a game of skill, not speed."

"Sure, whatever you say." Ray put his feet up again. Turnbull snatched them down again.

They both watched the TV in silence, passing the Chinese takeout back and forth. Ray had purchased the food for them both as an apology--not that he would say it outright, but Turnbull was better at recognizing unspoken messages than most people thought.

He leaned forward, eyes fixed to the screen as the stone slid across the ice, aiming his chopsticks for the almost-empty container of oyster mushrooms in brown sauce. He hit something with a click and looked down.

Ray's chopsticks were in the same box, going for the same mushroom. He looked up at Ray. Ray glanced from the box to Turnbull, and grinned. "Game on?" Ray asked.

Turnbull knocked his chopsticks against Ray's three times and the game was on. They knocked and scrabbled the chopsticks against each other, trying to grab the last remaining mushroom. Turnbull suddenly noticed that the box was approaching the edge of the coffee table, and made a grab for it with his left hand. He missed--but Ray caught it, and Turnbull caught Ray's hand underneath it so that they were both supporting the box.

Turnbull looked down. Ray's hands were stilled. He picked up the mushroom and lifted it from the box.

"You win," Ray said. Turnbull could feel the air stir against his hand. Ray was so close.... Turnbull raised his eyes to meet Ray's, close enough that he could see the dark spots and lines of the iris.

He hadn't really won fairly, had he? He raised the mushroom to Ray's mouth level, offering it with a slight movement of the chopsticks. He watched Ray's mouth curl into a smile, then open. Turnbull fed Ray the mushroom. Ray licked it from the chopsticks and closed his lips around them to clean off the sauce.

The crowd suddenly cheered on the TV. Turnbull jerked back and sat up straight, his chopsticks clutched to his chest.

Oh, dear.

Ray eased back on the couch next to him, picking up the shrimp again and poking around in the box. Turnbull fixed his eyes to the screen.

"Hey," Ray said. Turnbull looked at him, feeling terribly unsettled and not a little excited, and saw that Ray was holding up a piece of shrimp, offering it to him. Smiling.

Turnbull opened his mouth and Ray slipped the shrimp between his lips. The sharp tang of the sauce flooded his tongue; then the seawater taste of the shrimp; then a subtle taste like coffee-soaked bread, which was Ray, he was sure of it. He ran his tongue over the chopsticks hunting for more of that taste.

The chopsticks slid out of his mouth and he opened his eyes. Ray was looking at his face intently.

"We never did have that fight."

"Fight?"

"Baseball vs. curling."

Turnbull was deeply ashamed of that incident. He should never have let Ray provoke him; he never won fights like that, and the losing hurt more every time. "I am no longer in the mood to fight, Ray."

"No? Going to stand by and let me insult Canada's sport of kings?"

Turnbull frowned. "I'm sitting, and we have a *queen.*" But Ray was grinning, so Turnbull looked back at the TV.

Ray put his feet up on the table yet again, and Turnbull reached over automatically to push his knees back down--but this time, Ray trapped Turnbull's hand between his thighs. And smiled, closed mouth.

Turnbull froze. His fingers twitched against Ray's bony knees.

Ray reached over with his far hand--which turned his body toward Turnbull--cupped Turnbull's far cheek, turning him toward Ray, and kissed his cheek with a brief flicker of tongue.

Turnbull took a deep breath, and another, and a third, feeling the wet kiss evaporate from his cheek. Ray released Turnbull's hand and tucked one foot up underneath him, waiting for Turnbull's response.

Ray had kissed him. Intentionally. With some use of artifice.

Oh dear. He couldn't possibly--but--how often did an opportunity like this come along? He'd been looking at Ray for months. One might even call it cruising, except that cruising implied an exchange of glances rather than just one-way.

Oh dear--oh goodness. Ray was looking at him, leaning back slightly, tapping his fingers on his knee. Inviting him.

When one received an invitation, the proper response was an RSVP. Etiquette made things much simpler. Turnbull launched himself forward and bore Ray into the sofa cushions. He planted one hand on either side of Ray's head and kissed him deeply.

"Knew you had it in you," Ray mumbled into Turnbull's mouth between kisses.

Turnbull didn't say anything. He was too busy blushing and licking the inside of Ray's mouth. Ray wound his arms around Turnbull's shoulders and his legs around Turnbull's thighs, pressing their bodies together as he returned the kisses enthusiastically.

It was good, and it was sweet, and it was better than curling.

There was a cough at the door. Turnbull raised his head, startled, to find Constable Fraser standing in the doorway. He blushed and jumped up--tried to jump to his feet, but was hampered by Ray's legs wrapped around his hips. He finally settled for sitting up very straight on the couch, hands clasped behind his back, trying to act as if he hadn't been caught in flagrante in his place of work.

"Oof," said Ray. Turnbull didn't dare look at him.

"I've finished my report for Inspector Thatcher and I'm turning in for the night," said Fraser, looking not at all discomfited. "Goodnight, Turnbull. Goodnight, Ray."

"Goodnight, sir!" said Turnbull, vastly relieved.

Ray grabbed a broccoli floret from the sweet and sour container and threw it at Fraser. It bounced off his chest and Diefenbaker sneaked his head between Fraser's legs and caught it before it hit the ground.

They both gave Ray a hurt look--Fraser because Ray smudged his uniform with sweet and sour sauce, Dief because it was a vegetable rather than meat. Diefenbaker had a philosophical objection to vegetables that gave Constable Fraser no end of worry.

"That was hardly necessary, Ray," said Fraser.

"You are interfering with my nookie," Ray said, resettling his legs around Turnbull's hips.

Fraser looked from Ray to Turnbull--Turnbull was blushing like he'd never blushed before--and sighed, shaking his head slightly.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, Ray." He had a puzzle-solving look on his face. Turnbull had seen it before; usually, though, he wasn't the puzzle.

"Fraser, you are my buddy and my friend and I owe you a big one, but if you don't get out of here I am going to throw this box of Chinese food at your head."

"Ray! You don't have to be snippy. Come along, Dief," Fraser said, and Dief's head disappeared from the doorway. Fraser turned and walked down the hall. Dief grumbled as he followed. "No, I'm quite sure they don't need any advice," Fraser replied.

Turnbull looked down at Ray.

Ray was grinning. "He's open-minded," he said, and grabbed Turnbull's lanyard, hauling him back down onto Ray's body. Ray initiated the kiss this time, one hand grasping his lanyard and belt, the other roaming over the back of his head. Turnbull stroked Ray's chest, feeling muscle and bone under his untidy clothes; his free hand curled around Ray's head, casting them into shadow like a cave.

Ray's mouth was hot and his touch hotter. His skin burned hotter than anyone Turnbull has ever touched before. Almost fever-hot. Turnbull had a flash of concern and pulled his mouth away.

"Detective Vecchio, are you feeling all right?"

Ray stared up at him, eyes dilated, color rising in his cheeks, his lips already bright red. "Yes, Constable Turnbull, I am feeling fine."

"You seem overheated. I'm simply concerned about your continuing health--"

"100 degrees," Ray broke in.

"Excuse me?"

"My temperature. All the time. 100 degrees. Natural. Kiss me."

"Ah, I see. I think I see. What is that in Celsius?"

Ray grabbed the back of Turnbull's head and pushed their mouths together for a long kiss. He didn't let Turnbull up even for air. Turnbull breathed through his nose, drawing in the scent of coffee-infused sweat, detergent and Ray's shampoo. Peppermint, unless he missed his guess.... Every bit of Ray's body smelled and tasted of bitter coffee. It wasn't Turnbull's favorite taste but it wasn't bad, either. It would make his semen...piquant.

He suddenly realized that Ray had insinuated a hand into the front of his pants. Turnbull pulled the hand out and leapt to his feet. "I cannot defile the uniform!"

"What? Excuse me, *what*?" Ray had a look of thunder about him as he lay panting on the couch.

"I'll have to take it off," Turnbull explained.

"Oh." Thunder gave way to a lightning grin. "I can help with that, I have that uniform-taking-off thing *down*."

Turnbull waited until Ray caught his breath and levered himself off the couch before heading out of the conference room and down the hall to the room he was currently sleeping in.

Ray followed, hands in his pockets. He closed the door behind them and leaned against it, watching Turnbull, one hip shoved toward him. Turnbull ripped open the Velcro collar and Ray's hips twitched at the sound.

"You have an actual bed," Ray said.

"Yes."

"I spent last night on Fraser's cot listening to him lecture Dief in his sleep all night. He's a talky guy."

"I don't know if I talk in my sleep or not."

"I'll wake you up if you do." Ray hooked one hand behind his neck and smiled.

Turnbull was simply frozen, looking at Ray. It seemed like a dream. How often had he dreamed of Ray standing in that space giving him that bold look? But...if it were a dream, Ray's hair would be spiky. Ray's hair was always spiky when Turnbull dreamed of him.

Ray's hair would certainly not be flat like broken reeds in a rainstorm if this were Turnbull's favorite dream, the one where Ray wore only his holster and a large painted maple leaf on his--oh dear. Turnbull quickly undid his epaulets and lanyard and started unbuttoning his tunic before he was in real danger of besmirching the uniform.

Turnbull folded the tunic over a chair and turned back around. Ray had moved silently to the floor and was now kneeling in front of him. He untied the knot of Turnbull's left boot.

His touch was gentle but his hands were strong. He untied Turnbull as if he had been doing it all his life. He unlaced them halfway, then slid his hand in between the leather and Turnbull's leg to loosen the rest. His fingertips brushed Turnbull's calf. Turnbull could just barely feel it through wool trousers and thick socks.

Ray looked up. "Take off your shirt."

Ray's hands were stilled on Turnbull's right boot, still laced. The warmth was seeping through the leather onto his skin. Ray was hot, his skin was hot, he was burning up.

Turnbull pushed down his suspenders and took off his shirt, revealing the undershirt.

"Take that off too."

Turnbull tugged the undershirt out of his boxers. It was tucked in. He was taught to be a good boy. Now he was--he was a good boy with a man kneeling at his feet telling him to undress. He tugged the undershirt over his head and dropped it behind him.

"You look good."

"Thank you, Ray," he said in something like his normal tones. Ray's lips were very red. Very, very red.

"You look hot."

"But--it's fifteen degrees in here, Ray, rather cool in fact." Turnbull's skin was reacting to small breezes and drafts, his nipples prickling erect and tiny hairs standing on end.

Ray rested his cheek against Turnbull's thigh. "I didn't mean hot in that sense." He rolled his cheek and rested his mouth against Turnbull's groin, breathing into the wool. Hot warmth seeped through to his skin and Turnbull jerked in Ray's grip.

"Ray," Turnbull whispered.

Ray sat back and untied the knot on Turnbull's right boot. He looked up at Turnbull and smiled as he drew the laces from the eyelets in long pulls. He unlaced three eyelets before speaking. "Open your pants."

Turnbull opened the placket with surprisingly responsive fingers. He had thought his body was frozen entirely by the heat of Ray's touch, but his hands opened the buttons of his trousers easily.

Ray unlaced both boots halfway and slid his hand between the rest of the laces and the tongue, pulling outward to loosen them. He looked up and gave Turnbull a quick grin.

"You like that?"

Turnbull tried to smile, but wasn't quite sure how well his face responded. "Very much." His heart beat fast and strong in his chest. It had been years since he had wanted anyone so badly--actually, it had been years since he'd lain with anyone. Not since before he left Ottawa. Before "the incident." He'd taken up curling instead.

Ray reached up toward his fly and Turnbull grabbed his hands. "I'm sorry, Ray, but I must remove the uniform before we proceed further."

"You're serious about not defiling the uniform."

"I'm afraid so, Ray." Turnbull released his hands.

"Okay. Okay. You know, when I had a uniform, I defiled it whenever I got the chance, but it was machine washable and I was married. Okay. Sit down and I'll help you out." Ray grinned.

Turnbull looked at the hard pine chair behind him, then shuffled a few steps sideways and sat on the bed. Ray tried to climb to his feet but failed. "Oof. These past couple days? Hard on my knees. I want a bath or something."

"I could massage your legs if you like," Turnbull offered.

Ray looked up with humor dancing in his eyes. "Maybe later." He crossed the few feet in a flurry of knees and elbows. He took Turnbull's left ankle in both hands and eased off the boot, gently wiggling and sliding it against his flesh.

The boots went next to the chair with Turnbull's tunic, and the socks on top of them. Ray took hold of Turnbull's pants at the knee and eased them down. He folded them almost neatly and set them on the chair as well.

"Better?"

Turnbull nodded.

"Can I make free with your body now?"

Turnbull blushed and nodded.

"Great. Greatness." Ray slid his electric hands up Turnbull's legs, driving the fine hairs erect. Turnbull leaned back, bracing himself; Ray placed his palms flat on Turnbull's boxer-clad hips, stroking both thumbs along his erection, and Turnbull sighed.

Ray leaned forward and touched his tongue to the cloth and Turnbull fell back on the bed. Oh, God, it was so *good* to feel someone touching him again. Hands on his stomach, hands on his thighs, hands stripping him naked. The boxers were eased down his legs and he was quite bare, quite exposed. He parted his thighs and relaxed into the blanket-clad bed.

He felt Ray ease his legs over his shoulders. He stroked his calves against Ray's back--silk skin, strong muscles, so much heat. Ray shifted forward and took Turnbull's erection into his mouth.

His legs tightened; he couldn't breathe. He couldn't let Ray go. The feel of his mouth gave way to the flicker of his tongue and Turnbull's hips leaped off the bed. He gasped, open mouthed, closed-eyed.

Ray's tongue stroked and flickered against his skin. He crossed his ankles and pressed his heels against Ray's back in rhythm. It felt like a wave--like an energy field--like nothing else, really, nothing else was this good. Ray brought up his hands and the rough touch undid him. A few strokes of Ray's thumbs and he was coming into Ray's mouth, panting his name.

Ray rubbed his cheek against Turnbull's naked thigh. The prickle of his unshaven face was almost too much, almost painful, but the contact itself was delicious.

"I almost forgot how much I like doing that," Ray said.

"Myself as well," Turnbull replied dreamily. He lifted a hand off the bed and reached blindly for Ray's head. Ray's hand caught his and guided him to soft hair and rough cheeks and the bright, hot wetness of Ray's mouth. The bed dipped as Ray levered himself upright with both hands; Turnbull's hand ghosted over the smooth length of Ray's shoulder and arm and finally rested on denim. He closed his hand to determine where his hand had landed. He opened his eyes to see Ray smiling down at him.

Ray urged him length-wise on the bed rather than across, then rested a hand on either side of Turnbull's body and straddled his hips. Ray pushed down his jeans and boxers, exposing an erection red as his lips, shockingly bright next to Turnbull's eyelid-pink foreskin.

He looked at Turnbull and smiled; he shifted his body forward and laid himself on Turnbull, chest to chest, hip to hip, legs intertwined with legs. He slid forward and kissed Turnbull.

Ray's body was so hot. So hot. It ignited his skin. He was always in motion, always fidgeting and quivering and talking. Watching him was lovely; feeling him was bliss; kissing him, there were no words. Turnbull matched Ray kiss for kiss and floated gently in his feeling of euphoria.

Ray moved his hips, rubbing his erection against Turnbull's belly. Turnbull stroked one hand down Ray's back and slid it between them, grasping his penis lightly. It felt like living fire. It burned his hand.

"Mm. Good. Like that." Ray kissed him again and rolled his hips, sliding his penis in Turnbull's grip. Turnbull pressed and rubbed and Ray's mouth opened over his, panting into his lips.

"Is that what you want, Ray?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Turnbull, keep that up, yeah--" His back arched and he pressed his forehead to Turnbull's breastbone. There was fire where Ray touched him and chill where he was bereft, and the greatest heat was manipulated in his hand.

Ray groaned and straightened up. His gaze rested on Turnbull's face, his hands on Turnbull's chest; his hips pumped gently into Turnbull's hand. Ray shut his eyes and came with a long shudder.

He collapsed gracefully onto Turnbull's chest and snuggled into his side, nearest the wall. Turnbull pulled a blanket over them both. He stroked Ray's spine, watching Ray's face pillowed in the curl of his arm. Ray's mouth curved into a slow smile and eventually, his eyes opened.

"I like you, Turnbull. I like you a lot. And this was way better than fighting." He pressed his lips to Turnbull's shoulder.

"I thought you and Constable Fraser had something," Turnbull whispered. "A romantic connection."

Ray shook his head. "Fraser is a heterosexual."

"How interesting."

"You know how I know?"

"A pattern of closer observation than I have been able to manage, I would assume."

"Nope."

"No?"

"He told me after I sat in his lap and tried to kiss him."

"Oh my."

"This is why I like you, Turnbull, you're right out there in the open. A guy doesn't have to guess."

Which statement was--rather pleasing, in fact. "Thank you, Ray."

"Welcome. I'm going to sleep now." Ray nestled his forehead against Turnbull's shoulder. The lines of his body under the blanket shifted as he squirmed, trying to get comfortable. "Mm. Night."

"Goodnight Ray." Turnbull stroked Ray's back until his breathing leveled out and he relaxed into sleep. Turnbull's mind was too active for sleep, and he leaned over the edge of the bed and busied himself investigating Ray's clothing.

"Turnbull. Turnbull. What're you doing. S'posed to be sleepy, not jumpy," Ray mumbled into his arm. "S'how sex works."

"I apologize, Ray." Turnbull lay back.

Ray groaned and propped himself up on his elbows. Half his hair stood up from Turnbull's tousling. "Okay, what's up?"

Turnbull looked up. "The ceiling?"

Ray glared. "What are you thin-king a-bout?" he enunciated.

"Why, discipline."

"What?"

Turnbull smiled a little. "You carry handcuffs, Ray."

"Oh." Ray looked down at the pillow; his eyebrows lowered, then raised, and he tilted his head as if considering the idea. "Oh. Hmm."

"Perhaps next time?" he asked, smiling at the ceiling.

"Maybe. C'mere." Ray tugged Turnbull underneath him, resting his head on Turnbull's shoulder.

"All, right, sweetheart." He couldn't help it; it just slipped out.

Ray raised his head and gave him a sleepy, dumb-faced stare. "Sweetheart?"

"Er, Ray, I meant to say."

"Sweetheart." Ray blinked. "Okay, I can do that. Goodnight, uh, twinklebutt." He laid his head down again, smiling sweetly.

"Goodnight, Ray." Turnbull pressed his cheek to Ray's hair, feeling better than he had in months if not years. He'd almost forgotten. This was so much better than curling.

end.

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