A Certain Smile 5	 A Certain Smile 5

 by Alison

  

 Author's Website: http://uk.geocities.com/asylum_girluk/utopia.htm

 Disclaimer: 

 Author's Notes: As usual, for Sarah

 Story Notes: 

 

 

 "Oh Jesus, Fraser, yes! Keep doing that, please..." Ray's voice trails
off into incoherent mumbling ,and I tighten my hand around his erection,
stroking hard and fast, the way he likes. I watch as his hands curl into
fists, clutching handfuls of sheet in some kind of attempt to ground
himself, but any effort he's making to prolong his pleasure fails, and his
head goes back in that familiar, loved way. All I have to do is ... this.
Lean forward and lick my way from the base of his throat and up that long,
elegant line of neck to his ear. 

 "Come on, Ray," I whisper. "Come on!" 

 With another moan, his back arches from the bed and he comes over his
belly and my hand. He lets go of the sheets with one hand, reaching out
for me, but I pull back so that he can't reach me. 

 "No, no," he says. "Don't, Fraser." 

 It's always like this. My attempts to tease him fall apart in the face of
his blatant need. I lean forward until I'm over him, supporting myself on
my hands and reach down to kiss him. He puts both hands in my hair and
pulls me closer, moving one of his legs until it's wrapped around my
thigh, imprisoning me. Not that I want to be anywhere else. 

 "Fuck," he says softly when he finally breaks the kiss. "Every time,
Frase. Every time it just gets better with you. How'd I get so fucking
lucky?" 

 "Pure chance," I say, stroking my hand down his face. "We were both just
in the right place at the right time." 

 "Good," he says, one hand still tangled in my hair. He's getting that
wonderful, half asleep look on his face. I pull away and lie on my side
next to him, moving my hand from his face to his chest. I spread my
fingers and feel his heart beating, slowing as he calms down after the
intensity of his orgasm. 

 With an obvious effort, he rolls over until he's on his side as well,
gazing at me out of those incredible eyes of his. He puts one hand up and
rests it on my throat. 

 "Hey," he says. "You good?" 

 "I'm good, Ray," I answer, putting my hand up until it covers his. We lie
like that for a moment and I watch him as he falls further towards sleep.
I love watching him like this; it's the side of Ray only I see, and it's
all the more precious because of it. 

 "I'm real sticky," he says, hardly audible now. "It's kinda nice, but
when I wake up it's going to be seriously disgusting." 

 "So do you want me to take care of it?" I ask, and he half smiles, eyes
completely closed now, not answering. His hand is still under mine,
resting against my throat, and I find that I really don't want to move.
His vulnerability at times like this is a thing I cherish. He doesn't
respond to my question, and I listen to his breathing begin to even out as
he falls asleep. As I begin to slide out from under him, simply intending
to go and find a cloth, he mutters and hooks a leg around me, effectively
trapping me. There are worse ways to spend the remainder of the night.	

 As ever, I wake first, and take a few moments to enjoy the relative quiet
of an early morning in Chicago. It's never quiet in the city and it took
me a long time to learn how to filter out unwanted noise. Even in the
grimiest, noisiest place, there is always silence. You just have to learn
how to listen. 

 During the night, we have slipped into our accustomed sleeping positions,
with the result that Ray is sprawled over most of the bed, and I have been
driven to the very edge of the mattress. I have approximately one square
inch of duvet to call my own. It's very fortunate that I don't feel the
cold. Getting out of bed isn't a problem; a simple shift of my body weight
sends me sliding off the edge of the bed, and I quietly make my way to the
bathroom. Checking the time, I realise that the alarm will be going off in
something under 10 minutes, so in my capacity as the helpful significant
other, I place the alarm clock no more than 5 inches away from Ray's left
ear. It would never do to let Ray miss the start of his shift. 

 * 

 Even over the noise of running water, I hear Ray wake up. I count under
my breath, only making it to 5 before Ray pulls back the shower curtain. 

 "You bastard!" he splutters. "That wasn't even close to funny. I coulda
died of shock!" 

 "Good morning, Ray," I say, trying hard not to smile. He's not good in
the mornings, and smiling at a time like this could result in very
unpleasant consequences. 

 "Good morning, my ass," he growls, rubbing his hands over his face,
waking up a little more. "Jesus, Frase, you're evil when you want to be." 

 "Helpful, Ray, never evil," I correct blandly, stepping to one side so
that he can get into the shower with me. He tilts his face into the stream
of water, and without looking, reaches to one side, snagging the shampoo
off the shelf. He hands it to me, and accepting my punishment with good
grace, I obediently begin to wash his hair for him. I find his silence at
times like this somewhat unnerving, and knowing my tendency to babble, I
try to concentrate on what I'm doing, focusing on the delicacy of his
skull under my fingers, and on the feel of the water as it runs down my
arms. Finally, I can stand it no longer. 

 "Ray -," I begin, but I'm cut off by something which sounds like a snort.


 "Fucking idiot," he mutters, taking over the rinsing of his hair. I give
into temptation and run my hand down his back, then climb out of the
shower, with some reluctance. He's a very tempting handful at any time,
but most especially first thing in the morning. 

 I quickly make him a cup of coffee, and slipping back into the bathroom,
put it on the shelf over the sink. 

 I'm almost dressed before he appears again, coffee cup in hand. The
caffeine and the shower have restored his good humour and he half grins as
he goes to the dresser, digging through the drawers one handed, and
pulling out a crumpled t-shirt. He nods at it in satisfaction and throws
it onto the bed. Still one-handed, he opens another drawer and retrieves a
pair of faded jeans. His own unique style. Rumpled, but delectable. 

 I go into the living room while he gets dressed, avoiding Diefenbaker
with the ease of long practice. 

 "No," I say over my shoulder. "You are not starving. You and I both know
that there was half a pizza on that counter last night. I don't see any
sign of it now, do you? You, sir, are a glutton." 

 Ray comes out of the bedroom and casts a sympathetic glance at Dief. 

 "Ray," I say, before he says anything. "He isn't starving, believe me.
He's very good at looking pathetic. You just have to learn to harden
yourself." Oh dear. 

 "Don't need to do that, not now I've got you to do it for me," he says on
cue, leering at me. 

 I look at him, then at Dief, and shake my head. You pay, and you pay, and
you pay....  

 "So what's the plan, Frase?" Ray settles himself into the car and then
turns to look at me. "I gotta do some serious paper chasing today, so I
don't think I'm gonna be free any time before about 7. You still want me
to collect you, or you gonna wait for me at home?" 

 Stupid, stupid how that word still gives me a foolish glow deep inside.
He says it so casually. 

 I shake myself mentally before answering. 

 "I'll give you a call before I leave the Consulate. I expect I'll be
there rather late today. Inspector Thatcher is returning from her
conference in Toronto, and I'm sure that there will be plenty to do." 

 "Oh, I'll bet there will be," he says, with that tone of voice he uses
every time Inspector Thatcher is mentioned. Not one of his favourite
people. "Just don't fall into her ravenous clutches, okay?" 

 "Okay, Ray," I agree. "Although I have to say that I wasn't planning on
falling into anyone's ravenous clutches for at least the next 10 hours." 

 He grunts, and eases the car out into traffic. Once I'm sure he's settled
to his driving, I let my arm lie across the back of the seat, and gaze
fixedly out of the side window. To any casual observer there would be
nothing amiss. However, the casual observer would miss the tips of my
fingers, barely in contact with the back of Ray's neck. He loves me to
touch him, and I am more than happy to comply. 

 We drive to the Consulate in silence. We've always been comfortable
together, but recently we've learned how to be comfortable without
speaking. We both use talking as a way to cover nervousness, and we know
now that there is no reason to be nervous around each other. 

 "Okay, I'll see you later," says Ray as he pulls up outside the
Consulate. "Don't take any shit from the Ice Queen, okay?" 

 "I really think you've got the wrong end of the stick where my
relationship with Inspector Thatcher is concerned..." I begin, but then
catch the glint of laughter in his eyes. 

 "I know which end of the stick to get hold of, Frase," he says. "Just
make sure that the Ice Queen doesn't decide to try and grab anything -
stick-like - that's all I'm saying." 

 I'll never win. Not when he's like this. 

 I climb out of the car and ostensibly straighten my uniform, brushing
away imagined specks of lint. In fact, it's another part of the ritual
with us; I like to watch him drive away. 

 Once the car has vanished around the corner, I straighten my shoulders
and turn towards the Consulate. 

 "Constable!" Inspector Thatcher is standing in the open doorway, looking
suspiciously pleased with herself. 

 "Sir," I reply warily. "Good to have you back. Did you have a pleasant
trip?" 

 "It wasn't a holiday, Constable, it was work, I can assure you," she
snaps, sounding like her old self. "Come along, stop dilly dallying by the
side of the road. We have plenty of work to do. I've been thinking about a
rather exciting new petty cash system..." She turns and walks into the
bowels of the building, not waiting to see if I'm following.  

 It's almost two hours before I can extract myself from the Inspector's
office, and I only succeed then by promising to study all the new
proposals she has brought back with her. 

 "I need the reports on my desk by 0800 tomorrow," is her parting shot,
and I almost - almost - smile. She disapproves mightily of my relationship
with Ray, and although she seems to have accepted that she can't keep us
apart, she seems to be doing her best to make sure that I have no free
time to just enjoy his company. 

 Greatly daring, I reply, "Certainly, Sir. I'll take them home with me
tonight." 

 I put the folders on my desk and then take myself to the kitchen to make
myself a refreshing cup of tea. Constable Turnbull is in there, having
anticipated my needs, and the kettle has just boiled. 

 "Ah, Constable Fraser!" he says brightly, then drops his voice slightly.
"Could I just say - well played, sir." 

 I raise an eyebrow at him. 

 "That last remark to Inspector Thatcher, sir," he clarifies. "Well
played." 

 "I have no idea what you mean, Turnbull," I reply blandly, and he wilts
slightly before turning back to make my tea. However, when he hands me the
cup a few minutes later, I allow myself to smile at him, and give him the
ghost of a wink. Predictably, he grins hugely. Turnbull reminds me so much
of an eager, innocent child, always wanting to please everybody. He is
undoubtedly a very kind man. A sudden impulse seizes me. 

 "Turbull, what do you do when you're off duty?" I ask. 

 He looks startled, since we rarely discuss our personal lives. 

 "Why, sir, I like to draw and paint, as you know. I enjoy music.." 

 "Solitary pursuits, Constable," I interrupt. "What about friends? Do you
see friends?" 

 "If I may make so bold, I'm very like you in that I don't make friends
easily," he says, looking at his feet. "I have perhaps one good friend
here in Chicago, other than that -," he shrugs and doesn't continue. 

 "Well, perhaps one good friend is all any of us needs," I reply, taking a
sip of tea. 

 "Yes, sir, I think you're right," he answers. 

 Awkward silence falls, so I quickly finish my tea, and stand up. 

 "No rest for the wicked," I say, perhaps a little too heartily, and make
my way back to my office. 

 * 

 Half an hour later, I have done no work at all on Inspector Thatcher's
ideas. I have, in fact, spent a good deal of time staring at the far wall
of my office. I keep thinking about Turnbull. Before I met Ray, I was
Turnbull; I had one good friend, maybe three or four acquaintances. I kept
myself to myself because it was safer that way, but then I met Ray, and I
realised that it doesn't have to be like that. Sometimes you just have to
take a leap. 

 I pick up the phone and dial the precinct. 

 "Vecchio," Ray snaps when he picks up the extension. 

 "Ray, I'm sorry to bother you at work," I say. 

 "No bother, Frase," he replies, his voice softening. "What can I do you
for?" 

 "I want to invite Turnbull to dinner," 

 There's a splutter at the other end of the phone, which resolves itself
into a coughing fit. 

 "Ray? Ray, are you all right?" I ask, not sure what's going on. 

 "Sure, I'm fine," he finally replies, sounding somewhat strangled. "When
d'you want to do this momentous thing? Have you asked him?" 

 "No, of course not. I wanted to clear it with you first," I say. 

 "Can I ask why?" 

 "I don't really know," I admit. "Because he's lonely, I think; because he
reminds me of myself, of how I was not very long ago..." 

 "Okay," Ray says, his voice quiet. "When you thinking of inviting him?" 

 "Maybe the weekend," I reply. "He's off duty at 6pm on Saturday, so he
could probably come over then." 

 "Okay," Ray says again. Then he pauses. I'm just about to ask what's
wrong, when he says "What the hell am I letting myself in for?" 

 He hangs up before I can say anything. I beat myself gently on the
forehead with the receiver before finally settling down to work.  

 It's late by the time we get home. Ray was working until 7.30, and I
waited for him, getting as much of my report done as possible. I'll have
to get back into work very early tomorrow so that it can be finished in
time. 

 When I say this to Ray, he smiles and stretches, then wraps his arms
around me, pulling me into a tight hug. 

 "Was a time you would have stayed at the Consulate until it was done," he
says. "I'm glad that you don't do that anymore." 

 "So am I," I answer, returning the hug. 

 "It's awful late," he says. "D'you want to eat?" 

 "Not really," I let go and push him away slightly. "But we should. You go
and take a shower, and I'll see what's in the fridge." 

 He smiles and does as he's told. He looks tired today; some of that wild
energy drained away, but the good humour is still there. He doesn't like
paperwork; he'd rather be out on the street. 

 By the time he's showered, I've found the remains of a pasta salad, so we
sit on the couch to eat. 

 "What did Turnbull say?" he finally asks. I've been waiting for him to
ask for what seems like hours. 

 "He said that he'd be honoured and is looking forward to it," I say
carefully. I look at Ray out of the corner of my eye, and see the
suspicious glare. 

 "What did he say?" he asks again. 

 "He did something approaching the Dance of Joy around the reception
area," I confess. "He's very excited." 

 "Oh, an excited Turnbull, there's something to look forward to," he says,
taking my plate off me and putting them both on the coffee table in front
of us. 

 "If you don't want him to come over, Ray..." I begin, but he leans over
and kisses me, shutting me up very effectively. 

 "I don't mind, you know I don't," he says against my lips. "It'll be -
interesting." 

 One of his hands is beginning to slide under my shirt, and I start
slightly as his cold fingers meet my warm chest. He laughs softly, and I
relax again, turning my head so that I can kiss him more deeply. He makes
that wonderfully throaty grunt of satisfaction and I deepen the kiss,
reaching up to cup the back of his neck, holding him close against me. 

 He pulls back a little, until his head is cradled in my palm, and studies
me. He's so close, all I can see is a white blur, so I pull back a little
as well, until he comes into focus. 

 "What?" I ask. 

 "Nothing. Just looking." He says. "Come on, let's go to bed. Wanna show
you a good time tonight." 

 An offer like that is just too good to be refused. 

 The End 

End