No Second Prize     No Second Prize

 by Alison

  

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

 Disclaimer: 

 Author's Notes: 

 Story Notes: 

 

 

 NO SECOND PRIZE 

 Fuck it. Fuck it all. Why is he like this? It should be so fucking
simple; I can see that he wants me; the way he looks at me gives it away.
I've made it pretty obvious that it's mutual. If he asked I'd do him right
there on his oh so clean and shiny desk. But he won't ask because he
thinks it's wrong. Or I think that's what he thinks. I don't know, because
he never says. He never speaks about this attraction thing we have going.
The very first time I saw him I felt the jolt right through to the soles
of my feet. Jesus, I'm damaged, not stupid; I know all-Canadian beauty
when I see it. And he got a jolt all his own, I know he did, I fucking *
saw * it in those lonely eyes of his. 

 Fuck it.  

 "So what plans do you have for the weekend, Ray?" 

 I look up and blink a bit. He's not in the red serge today; he's in the
brown uniform. I * really * like that one; it suits him better. 

 Getting my tongue to unstick from the roof of my mouth, I finally say,
"Nothing much Frase. Gotta do boring stuff mostly. You?" 

 Fraser looks at the empty chair opposite me, and then back at me, raising
his eyebrows. I shrug and nod, and he sits down. 

 "Oh, I have to go through the personnel files," he says, very definitely
not looking at me, and I smell a Mountie shaped rat. 

 "For the Consulate?" I ask as casual as I can. "Well, let's see. You,
Turnbull, the Ice Queen... Okay, what're you gonna do for the other 47
hours?" 

 "No, Ray. I have to go through all the back records as well," he says,
rubbing ferociously at a non-existent spot on his knee. "It's going to be
quite a time-consuming process." 

 I sit back, and smile at the top of his head. He's got a nice top of
head. 

 "Okay, what do you want?" I ask. "'Fess up." 

 "I was wondering if ... that is ... if you're not busy..." 

 "Fraser, come on!" I say. "I'm gonna grow old and die before you tell me
what you want if you keep this up." 

 "Well, I was wondering if you would like to come and, erm, give me a
hand. That is, we're still working on the partnership, and I thought this
would give us some valuable private time to learn more about each other." 

 Whoa right there, brain. There's nothing to be read into this. Is there? 

 I try not to appear too eager. I last a whole five seconds before I agree
to shelve whatever plans I had for the weekend (none), just so that I can
spend time with my new non-partner. I'm diving head first into new depths
of pathetic, here. So? 

 "Excellent," he grins at me like he's won the lottery or something.
"Could I suggest, then, that you drop by the Consulate tomorrow, perhaps
around lunchtime? I'll have something ready for us to eat, and then we can
begin." 

 Oh mind, shut up. He's talking about having food and then looking through
files. He's not offering himself on a plate, even though that would be
kinda nice. Well, very nice. Well, fucking sensational. 

 "Ray?" He's looking at me, all concern and perfect hair. "Are you all
right?" 

 "Huh? Oh, yeah, Frase. That's great, sure. I'll be there tomorrow." 

 "Excellent," he says again, standing up. "I'm sorry, but I can't stay
long today. I just wanted to ask you about tomorrow." 

 "Sure," I say, and yet again, my mind takes off. * He could have called
me, but he didn't. He came to see me, to ask me in person. * 

 Christ, but I've got it bad.  

 Since we got into this partnership thing, there's hardly a night goes by
that he doesn't call me from the Consulate, just to check up on plans for
the next day, or whatever, so when he doesn't call this time, my
hypersensitive self decides that there's something wrong, and that he's
picked up on what I'm thinking every time I see him. 

 Like some kind of lovestruck teenager, I wander around the apartment,
picking stuff up and putting it back down, surfing the channels but not
watching anything. In the end, I give in to the inevitable and decide I
have to call him. `Cept I can't find the damn phone. I turn the living
room upside down, but it's not around, so I give up and go and use the one
next to the bed. I don't like to speak to Fraser when I'm anywhere near
the bed, since all I can visualise is him lying on it, buck naked and
spreadeagled, waiting for me. 

 The phone is answered on the third ring, but it's not Fraser, it's the
idiot sidekick, Turnbull. 

 "Turnbull, it's Vecchio," I say. "Is Fraser there?" 

 "Ah, Detective Vecchio, a pleasure as always," says Turnbull, brightly
enough to make me grit my teeth. "Unfortunately, Constable Fraser is
somewhat tied up with the reception at the moment. Could I possibly take a
message?" 

 "What reception?" I say, trying to get thoughts of a tied up Fraser out
of my head. Buck naked, spreadeagled and tied up.... I give up, and lie
back on the bed. I've been hard for what seems like days, and I need some
relief. 

 "We have the British Ambassador and his wife here tonight," Turnbull
says. "It's very exciting for us to be honoured like this." 

 "Yeah, I'm sure it is," I interrupt, before he gets carried away with the
sheer pleasure of having a bunch of Brits in the same building. "Listen,
Turnbull, just tell him I called and I'll see him tomorrow, okay?" 

 "Of course, Detective. A good night to you." 

 "Sure." I put the phone down and get down to the problem in hand. 

 It's so easy, if I close my eyes, to see him. I wish I knew what he
looked like when he's mussed up, hot and sweaty from fucking. I want to
see him like that, see him wild eyed and horny, and to know that I've been
the one to get him into that condition. 

 In my mind's eye, I watch him walk through the doorway of my bedroom,
unbuttoning his tunic, and dropping it on the floor as he comes towards
me. My dick jumps in my hand, and I begin to stroke a little more slowly. 

 He slides off his suspenders and takes off his vest, showing me that
broad, smooth chest, and I can feel my mouth starting to water. I want to
taste him, want to know him. 

 "Ray," he says, real soft. "Show me. Let me see what you're doing." 

 I push my sweats down around my knees, then kick them off the rest of the
way, letting him see my cock, hard and weeping. 

 "For you, Frase," I mutter. "It's for you." 

 "Show me," he says again, coming around to the side of the bed and
kneeling, so that I can feel his warm breath on my leg. I whimper and my
breathing hitches a little. I want to reach out and hold him, kiss him and
force his head down so that he takes me into his mouth. Almost without
realising it, my hand is moving faster, hard and desperate. 

 "Jesus," I whimper, reaching out to touch him, wanting to feel him there
as I come, knowing that he's close. 

 But my hand closes on empty air, of course and when I come, it's nothing;
not relief, not pleasure. Just wet, sticky and pathetic. 

 Rolling off the bed, I go and stand under a hot shower for a long time,
then decide I should maybe get something to eat. When I open the fridge I
find the handset for the cordless sitting on the middle shelf, grinning at
me. God alone knows what I did with whatever I actually meant to put in
there.	

 So, lunchtime. And here I am, outside the Consulate. Nervous as a
teenager, I wipe my sweaty palms on the legs of my jeans and raise my hand
to knock on the door. It's opened immediately, and I take a step
backwards, just catching myself before I go ass first down the steps. 

 "Jesus, Frase!" I say, more harshly than I mean, "were you waiting behind
the door or something?" 

 "Of course not," he says, but he doesn't look at me. Oh god, that means
he was. I wish I knew what to think, what to do, but I'm feeling way out
of my depth here. He's wearing fucking jeans, for god's sake; how am I
supposed to think straight with his ass looking that good? Not that you'd
hide the rest of him in a paper bag. 

 I follow him down the hall, and he stops in the kitchen doorway,
beckoning me ahead of him. 

 "After you," he says meekly, and I suppose it could be good manners, but
there's a part of my mind that doesn't want it to be. I have to squeeze
past him, brushing against his chest, and I feel his body heat, smell the
good, clean smell of him, and I know that the chances of me getting
through this day without doing something really stupid are slim to none. 

 I sit at the table, and he,well, he * bustles *. There's no other word
for it, and before I know it, there's coffee, bread, and a steaming pate
of pasta in front of me. 

 "Tuck in," he says. "I don't know when we'll be finished, so this may be
your last meal for a while." 

 "Yes, mom," I say meekly, and, as ordered, tuck in. Naturally, it's
fantastic. I haven't known this guy long, but it's still long enough for
me to realise that whatever he does, he does well. 

 I look up and catch him staring at me. He looks away real fast, but not
fast enough. 

 "What?" I say. "What's wrong?" 

 "What could possibly be wrong, Ray?" he says. "No, I'm just making sure
you like your meal." 

 "Sure, it's great," I reply. "You not eating?" 

 "No, I've already had mine. Rude of me, I know, but I wasn't sure what
time you'd get here, and I had to walk Dief, so I thought I'd eat and get
him exercised, leaving the afternoon free for us to work." 

 Oh, right. Dief. The wolf. I glance around the kitchen, and then look
back at Fraser, eyebrows raised. 

 "Oh, he's asleep in my office," he says. "He won't disturb us." 

 "So there's no-one else here?" I ask as casually as I can, and my palms
start to sweat again when he nods, real slow and thoughtful. Wish I could
see behind that Mountie mask of his. 

 I finish my food as quickly as I can, then sit back while he clears up;
there's no point in me offering to help. For one thing, I suck at
housework, and for another, if I offer, I won't get to see him in action,
and Momma Kowalski didn't raise no fools. 

 Once he's satisfied that no bug could exist in the kitchen, he leads me
past his office and down into the basement. Even down here, it's clean and
shiny. I must ask him if this is some kind of Canadian thing. 

 "Well, here we are, Ray," he says finally, gesturing at a pile of files
stacked, neatly of course, against a wall. "This is what we have to work
through." 

 I push past him and pick up the first one, opening it. 

 "Frase, it looks in order to me," I say. "The only way this file could be
any more tidy was if we just threw away all the paperwork." 

 "No, Ray," he says, taking the file off me. "It only appears to be tidy.
We have to sort each file chronologically; it's tedious and time
consuming, but in the end it pays off in efficiency." 

 I hold my hands up, surrendering. "Okay. Whatever you say." 

 He takes a pile, and I take a pile, and for the first half hour or so, we
work in silence. I'm trying to work out how to tell him that I know he's
lied to me. These files are in order no matter which way you look at them.
I'm not here for this. 

 "Why did you ask me to come here today, Fraser?" I say as casually as I
can. 

 He jumps a little bit, and quickly pulls one of the files closer to him
and opens it, pretending to look at whatever's inside. 

 "You know why," he answers. "You kindly agreed to help me with the
personnel records, and that's what we've been doing." 

 "No it isn't," I retort. "These files are great, greatness; they are the
file equivalent of a home run. Why am I here? Do you got something you
wanna say to me?" 

 He takes a deep breath, and I think that maybe he's going to speak, and
change everything. But he doesn't. 

 "No, Ray, I don't have anything to say to you," he says quietly. "I think
we should get on with our work." 

 "Fraser, there isn't any work to get on with!" I almost shout it. "If
you're so determined to put them in some kind of anal order, then you
could do it yourself in about 35 seconds. I'm in the way if that's really
what you're doing." 

 He takes a deep breath and I stop talking, stop everything, and just
watch him. But he doesn't speak. 

 "It's up to me, isn't it?" I finally say. "I've gotta put myself on the
line here, `cos if I don't, then we're never gonna say what's bothering
us, are we?" 

 "I really don't understand what you mean, Ray," he says, but he doesn't
look at me, and that means he's lying to me again. 

 I get as far away from him as possible, leaning on the wall next to the
files, staring at the top of his head. 

 "I don't think you asked me to come here today just to inspect the filing
system," I say, wincing at the sound of my voice. When did I get so bitter
and shrill? "I think you wanted to work on the partnership thing, am I
right?" 

 "That's right, of course," he says, and he's almost pathetically grateful
that I've given him this lie to hang on to. 

 `Cept that I don't let him hang on for long. 

 "That's a lie, Frase, and you know it. Or perhaps not a lie, perhaps you
do want to work on the partnership, but it's not the kind of buddy-buddy
partnership we can work on at the precinct." 

 He glances up at me, and he looks genuinely confused, but I know that
means shit. It's just another part of the Mountie mask. 

 "Do you want to spend time with me, Frase?" I ask as casually as I can.
"I mean spend time, not hang out." 

 He's looking red now, embarrassed as all hell, but I'm not letting go
now. I need to know this. 

 It's not a tough thing I'm saying here, Fraser," I snap. "Well, I suppose
it's tough for you to hear, but believe me it's not tough for me to say."
I look at the corner so that I don't freak him out too badly, and then I
take a deep breath. 

 "The first day I saw you," I start carefully, quietly, "I had an
epiphany. That's the right word, I think. I want you. I don't love you; I
don't even know yet if I really like you; but I tell you this, Benton
Fraser, I want to crawl into those pants of yours and never come out. Do
you get my drift here?" 

 There's silence for what seems like an age, but is probably less than 10
seconds. 

 "Yes, I get your drift, Ray," he says softly. 

 "And I know you feel the same," I say before he can get us both bogged
down in one of his long rambles. "I can see you do. I see it every day
when you look at me; I see that you want me." I tail off, not really sure
where else to go with this. 

 He stays real quiet, and then I hear him sigh. Not loud or anything, just
a little shift in his breathing pattern. For Fraser, that's like a major
thing. 

 "I can't," he finally says, real quiet. "I can't do what you seem to want
me to do." 

 "'Seem to want'," I say. "You can't lay this on me, Frase, or at least
not all of it. D'you think I'd be here, saying this, if I thought that you
didn't have any interest in me at all? That'd be kinda stupid, wouldn't
it? Fraser, I can't put this any plainer; I want to fuck you into next
week, and I'm pretty damn sure you want to do the same to me." 

 "Ray, please listen to me," he says, desperate. "I can't do this, but
it's not because I don't ... want you. I do, please believe me. But I
can't let you risk it." 

 "What do you mean?" I ask him. "What risk?" 

 "I can't risk you being caught, exposed to ridicule within the force.
I've seen what happens to cops who are outed, and I don't think you could
take that." 

 "Meaning?" But I know what he means. I just want him to say it. 

 "We haven't known each other long, that's true, but I think that you are
the kind of person who hides behind a tough shell. You are vulnerable,
easy to hurt, and I will not risk putting you through any kind of
suffering or embarrassment." 

 "So you'd rather just leave it like this?" I demand, and he nods. 

 "Yes," he says simply. "Yes, I would. "This way you don't risk the
ridicule of exposure, and we can still work together." 

 "Sure, until Vecchio gets back!" I snap. "Then what? I ride off into the
sunset? `So long, pardner. My work here is done'? I don't even get the
tiniest piece of you? Something I can take out and look at when I need
to?" 

 "Please, Ray," he says softly. "Please stop." 

 But I can't. 

 "You're just playing some kind of stupid joke on me, aren't you?" I say.
"Humouring the replacement, waiting for the real thing to come back? You
can't risk me running away now, can you?" 

 There's silence for a coupla seconds, just long enough for me to start
wishing the ground would open up and swallow me straight down, when he
suddenly speaks, sad and lonely, and so lost it just about breaks my
heart. 

 "Do you know what God's greatest joke is, Ray?" I don't, * can't *,
answer, and he finally looks up and answers his own question. "He made
both of us men. Simple as that." 

 "It doesn't have to be a joke," I say to the wall, shifting slightly so
that I can see him out of the corner of my eye. "You're doing this to us,
not God. You and your conscience. How often can I say to you that I don't
care what people think? We want the same thing, but you just won't let
yourself take it. It's there, Frase. It's there on a fucking plate..." I
swallow the rest of what I want to say; I think he gets the idea. 

 "I've never hidden the fact that I have a conscience," he says, and that
really bugs me. I turn again so that my back's resting against the wall,
and glare at him. 

 "And I don't?" I demand. "I have a conscience, Frase. But this isn't
about conscience; this is about feelings, about you and me. You do
understand feelings don't you?" 

 "That's not fair, Ray," he says, looking at me straight for the first
time tonight. "You know how I feel about you..." 

 "No! That's just it, Fraser. I don't know how you feel about me, not at
all. Okay, I guess that somewhere deep down, you care about me, since you
don't want me making a fool of myself. So, tell me. Do you think of me at
all? Or do you look at me and see some guy standing in for Vecchio?" 

 "No, Ray! Please don't ever think that. I love you ...," he stops and
takes a real deep breath. Oh man, this is killing him, and I know that I
should hate myself for making him do it, but I don't. I want someone else
to feel this pain that I feel, and why not him? It's his fault, after all.
He tries again. 

 "The feelings I have for you are not at all fraternal," he says. "They
are something much more basic and primitive..." 

 I push myself away from the wall and go and kneel at his feet, resting
one of my hands on his thigh. I feel his whole body tremble when I touch
him, and I know that the nice thing to do would be to move my hand, but I
don't feel nice right now. 

 "I know what happens to you when I touch you," I say, pushing him further
than I've ever done before. "Your breath gets all catchy, doesn't it? You
want to grab hold of me and - what? Do you want to kiss me? Fuck me?" 

 "Please, Ray, stop," he says, and I almost do. I almost want to. He
sounds so tired. But I've come this far and if I do stop, I'll never get
this close again; this close to breaking through the Mountie mask and find
out what * he's * like; what Benton Fraser's like. 

 "Make me stop, Fraser. Do something to make me stop." I have to tilt my
head so that I can see his face, and I nearly wish that I hadn't tried.
Christ, he looks defeated. 

 I pull back, meaning to stand up and leave the Consulate, maybe even
leave this gig, when he suddenly grabs my hair so that I can't move. I get
one more glimpse of that defeated expression before it's replaced by
something that's harder to name. His face is so close to mine that I can't
see anything clearly; it's just a big Fraser-coloured blur. 

 "Yes, Ray," he says. "Every time I see you ... * every * time, ... I want
to kiss you until you forget what it's like to breathe. I want to know how
you look during sex. I want you to know what it's like to have me on you,
in you." 

 "Kiss me now, Fraser," I almost-beg. I can feel his lips brush mine as I
speak. "Kiss me now; fuck me now. Then we'll both know everything.
Please." 

 For a second, I think I've done it, and I close my eyes, waiting for the
touch of those lips, the taste of that tongue, but instead of kissing me,
he pushes me away and stands up, leaving me on my knees. He goes to the
wall where I had been standing and rests his head against it. He's looking
to hide from me, looking to cool his face down. I know. I know how this
feels. 

 "Don't do this to me, Ray," he says, and he sounds close to tears, close
to his breaking point. "It hurts me, damnit, it kills me, that I can't
hold you, make love to you, just be with you, but we both have to realise
that nothing can ever happen." 

 "Oh, fuck, Fraser, do you think I care about what other people think?" I
snap, and I see him scrub his face on the smooth wall. 

 "Yes," he says quietly, "Yes. I think you care very much. And not just
for yourself. You care about the people around you." I ease myself off of
my knees and go and lean against the opposite wall, giving him the space
he seems to need. 

 "I can't say this any more clearly, Ray. We would be finished, both of
us, if it was ever even suspected that something of a physical nature was
going on between us." 

 I open my mouth to start on him again, but he gets in first, holding up a
hand to stop me. 

 "But it's not just that. If it were, then perhaps there would be a way
around it, a way to make the risk worthwhile. But there's Ray Vecchio to
consider in all this. The relationship you and I have should mirror the
relationship I had with Ray Vecchio, and I promise you this; I never had
these feelings for him." 

 So, there we have it. It all comes down to Vecchio in the end. But, damn
him, he's right; I'm a good cop and I wouldn't risk Vecchio's life or
reputation for something he wouldn't want. Doesn't stop it from hurting,
though. 

 "Fraser..." I have to stop and lick my lips, my mouth's so dry. It feels
like we've been in here for days, getting nowhere. "Fraser, tell me one
thing. Mounties don't lie, right?" 

 He smiles sadly and shrugs, not answering. 

 "Okay," I say. "Okay. In another life, sometime in the future, do we have
a chance? In ten years' time, if I see you walking down the main street of
some town at the ass end of nowhere, will you come to me, give me a
chance?" 

 He turns and rests his back on the wall, so that we're looking directly
at each other. We're ten feet apart, but the real distance between us
can't be measured. 

 "I hope to god that it doesn't take ten years," he says steadily, and I
see the loneliness in his eyes, the sheer need crying out to me, and
before I can stop myself, I cross that huge gulf of time and space and
gather him into the strongest hug I can manage. 

 After a nanosecond's pause, I feel his arms around me, and fuck me, it's
like coming home. Nothing, * nothing * has ever felt as right as the
warmth of his body, the roughness of his cheek against mine, the strength
of his arms around me. 

 "I love you, Ray. I've never loved anyone like this," he says, and I can
tell he's crying for real now. "Please forgive me for hurting you so
badly." 

 I don't answer because I can't forgive him. But I think I get it, I think
I understand. 

 I pull back and cup his face in my hands, drinking him in, knowing that
this is all I'll have; all I'll be allowed. 

 "God's greatest joke, Benton Fraser, was making our paths cross." I say,
then I turn away from him, leave him leaning against the wall of the room
that feels like a prison, and make my way out of the basement. 

 As quietly as I can, I close the heavy Consulate door. I'll keep up the
pretence, because that's my job. My job is to protect Vecchio. And to
protect Vecchio, I have to keep up the friendship with Fraser. But it's
gonna be so tough. 

 I have to start looking at this gig differently. I thought, for a little
while, that I'd found a place I could belong. 

 Guess I was wrong. 

 The End 

End