The Pretty	    The Pretty

 by Blue Champagne

  

 

 Disclaimer: I see nothing. I know nothing. 

 Author's Notes: 

 Story Notes: 

 

 

 Well, now I know why Fraser's hair was longer when I saw him in person
than in the pics they showed me before we actually met. He's just had it
cut, short-short, and with that relaxed expression he looks like he's
about twenty-three. This is what he looked like in the pics. At least
hairwise. His expression is less anxious, for sure. He must've got sick of
being told he didn't look old enough to be a Mountie and let it grow on
his vacation or whatever. 

 I didn't notice then, the first day, that he looked older than the pics,
because I was too busy congratulating myself that the very first glimpse
of red, sort of under my elbow past my jacket where I was leaning over the
desk, clued me in to hug, and being fucking relieved that yeah, I'd hugged
the right guy, instead of some delivery kid in a red jersey who knew
Vecchio's name. Trying to remember everything I needed to was wearing on
me; it takes you a bit to settle in to a new job and start lying on the
fly easy. 

 The tunic helps, too. Him look older, I mean. He looks more his own age
in the red one, despite looking like he oughtta be standing in the middle
of a tent with a riding crop, directing people's attention to the center
ring. I think it's because he looks more solid in it, somehow. That
collar. Yeah, it's the collar, I think, and the way you've gotta conform
to that uniform in general, instead of it conforming to you at least some,
like his other. Like most human clothes. 

 But today he comes in, already carrying his hat, with hair so short
there's no wave at all--well, kind of a pond-ripple wave, but no more,
except this little curl I guess he can't quite iron flat, right over his
forehead. He's wearing a boatneck sweater, with his jacket folded over the
arm with the hat-holding hand, and I swear, at first glance, he looks like
nothing but a pair of lashy, dark-slate eyes and serious movie-star
cheekbones. 

 "Hello, Ray," he says, and smiles a little at me. I blink and think inane
thoughts. He's got no dog. Dog must be hanging with Turnbull, or
downstairs schmoozing. I'm staring and don't see any reason to answer
immediately. 

 Finally: "Hi," I manage, and then realize that I've got eyes that must
look about as big as his, and a shiteating grin on my face. 

 He gives me a raised eyebrow. Smiles back. "There a reason you're this
glad to see me, or dare I ask?" 

 Yeah, and his voice. His voice is another reason; when he's being gentle
or deferential, it doesn't come across as much, though it's deep, warm.
But when he's just talking, not worried about being deferential or
whatever, his voice is Night of the Chocolate-dipped Baritone. "You look
twelve," I say, still grinning. 

 He sighs and rubs his forehead. No major expression change, no shock; he
was expecting this. He starts fooling with his head and neck anyway--his
eyebrow, his ear..."I do not look twelve. I merely...have fair skin." 

 I stare. Fair skin? Yeah, but huh? "Huh?" 

 He clears his throat. "When looking at whites, humans tend to associate
fair skin with youth, since our skin darkens as we get older. Our teeth as
well, which is why white teeth are usually considered more attractive than
yellowed ones, no matter the reason for the yellowing, or the skin color
of the owner of the--" 

 "So I never saw your skin until now?" Shit, maybe I never did. I'm used
to picking up on people's looks quick, you need to get faces in my job,
but it was like he'd taken off a mask, almost. His hair is beautiful, dark
and glossy and curly, and maybe it's so beautiful it's not that easy to
see past, when he's got so much, um, everything. It's impossible to keep
all of it in the spotlight at once. He has a button nose, almost, I
realize--it just doesn't look button because it isn't out of place on his
face, which is already a little babyish with his overbite and plumpy pink
lips and the lashes and smooth skin, only saved for hunkiness by the grace
of his jaw. I now realize that jaw would look like a plow if it weren't
for the overbite...damn...I want him to take the sweater off so I can see
the rest of his collarbone, the way it lines up with his-- 

 I shake my head real quick. You'd think I...but he looks so different.
Just from a haircut. And he wasn't even really shaggy before or anything. 

 He's talking. Answering me, yeah. "You never saw it...in this context." 

 "Context?" 

 "Without. You know. The uniform. That is--" 

 "And the hair. You let your hair grow 'cause you look twelve with it that
short." 

 He sighs. "Yes. But I finally decided it was getting a bit bothersome to
keep up--wavy hair simply requires a certain amount of attention to keep
neat, and the time window between haircuts is of necessity shorter with
longer hair; a closer watch has to be maintained. I'm sure by the time it
grows out, I'll be tired enough of people thinking I'm 'twelve' that the
upkeep will once again seem a small price to pay. It's rather a cyclical
thing with me." 

 "I've wondered how you get it to behave. It hadda be a few inches long at
least, and it's curly, it was like you sprayed it with...you didn't, did
you?" 

 "Well, I don't know." He grins, relaxed, and asks "What were you
thinking?" 

 "Spray-starch." 

 He cracked up a little, touching his nose to hide behind his hand,
decorous-like. "There are days I think about it. But no, just your basic
hair lotion. A few different brands." 

 "Like that stuff Sky King used to wear, I'll bet. 'Even if you get too
close to the prop and go flyin' across the tarmac solo, your hair'll stay
earthbound'." 

 "Very possibly the same, yes," he smiles, nodding, eyes a little crinkly.
He's comfortable, happy. I'm liking this. 

 "And you never got hat-head," I go on. "That's just weird, Fraser.
Everybody gets hat-head, even me, with, uh, my hair." 

 "Oh," he scoffs, "I'm sure occasionally..." 

 "I never saw it, and I saw you every day in and out of that hat. After
Lake Superior water. The crud probably kept it from fluffing up too much,
even in the wind, but still no hat-head." 

 He shrugs. "I don't know. I've just always been that way. I couldn't
explain it to...uh, to anyone else, either. Though it was mussiness in
general they were...curious about." 

 Real Vecchio, gotcha. "Damn. The light just glints off it like...wow." 

 He shook his head a little, chuckling at me. "I'm glad you're so
impressed. It's only a haircut, for crying out loud." 

 "I'm into hair. Hair is something..." I pat my hair a little, turn it
into an artistic-like gesture, and grin, "...that I'm very sensitive to.
The language of hair." 

 "Hair language as well, hm?" 

 "Oh yeah." I grin. "Big time." Grinning, I flip a pen neatly in the air;
it whirls end-over-end and falls and I pluck it back out of the air. It's
a coolness thing to do with my hands since I can't smoke any more. 

 "So what is my hair saying now?" 

 "'Welcome, vampires'." 

 He laughs again, behind his hand, head ducking as he sits down in the
chair by my desk. "Wouldn't that be my neck talking? Perhaps my neck's
talking over my hair. Or are these hair gel vampires?" 

 "Your hair is pointing the way to your neck. Your hair is saying 'Hey,
get a load of this neck'. Nice neck, Fraser." And face. Bones of a god.
Always beautiful. Now more visible. Perfect. Not that he hasn't always
been, imperfectly perfect. Now he's more perfect. Hey, good slogan. "Get
More Perfect!" 

 But Fraser would just tell me "perfect" is an absolute. Party poop. 

 He's saying "I'm glad you approve of it. It's the only one I was issued."


 "You got a keeper." I reach over and tickle the side of his neck with my
pen. I want to do it with my finger. 

 He squirms. "Ray!" He bats at the pen like it's a mosquito. "You'll get
ink on me." 

 "And we can't have The Pretty new hairdo can't get messed up, nope nope
nope--" I flip and catch the pen again, from one side of his neck to the
other so he can't grab it, not that he's trying; he's just kind of
whapping around to make me quit. 

 I'm cackling and he's starting to get enough; He stands up. "Apparently
you're doing well enough on your current caseload to sit and chat about
hairstyles, so I suppose I'll just be--" 

 I stand too. "Oh, Fraser, sit, please. Just kidding with you. You look
great, really." I reach to him and he starts to lean away, but I give him
a "trust me, geez" look, and he leans up again and I stroke my fingers
over his (soft!) neck where I tickled him with the pen. I'm hoping he'll
think I'm getting rid of ink, but really I just wanted to get rid of the
annoying sensation that stays behind when you get tickled. 

 "Thank you," he says quietly, and sits back down, runs a hand back over
his head as he leans forward, sets down his coat and hat, stays there with
his elbows braced on his knees. "I really didn't think it would be this
noticeable." 

 I sit, too. "Probably only to me," I say, 'cause he really seems a little
self-conscious now, and I didn't mean to make him feel like that about
getting rid of what was, to him, just an annoying few inches of hair. "I'm
the only one who's never seen you with it like that in person." 

 "In per...oh. Of course, you'd have seen pictures of...I wonder why I
didn't think of that." 

 "Anyway, like I said, I'm probably the only one who'll flip you shit, so
don't worry. So let's work?" 

 "So let's work." 

 And I am distracted, while we work. Fraser has to repeat things for me so
often even I notice it. 

 And boy, I'm smiling a lot for so late in the day.  

 "Detective Vecchio." A big hand comes down on my shoulder and I look up
to see the Lou looming over me. 

 "Lou. Yeah. Hey." 

 "I noticed the constable is sporting a different look today. Even out of
uniform." 

 "He's not actually technically on duty right now, sir, see, he's just
here for the last couple hours of the day to help--" 

 "And lovely as our talented Canadian colleague certainly is, people are
going to notice if you don't get your eyes back in your head, and I
personally am going to suffer a mild digestive disorder if I have to watch
you following him both ways through my office door with your tongue
dragging the linoleum even one more time." 

 I nearly spew coffee. "Lou--?!" 

 "You are painfully obvious, detective. I've seen sixteen-year-olds with
more control. If you are not ready to reveal this attraction to the
constable, and--" 

 "Attraction?!" 

 "--and/or are not ready to reveal your proclivities to the station at
large, then--" 

 "I got no proclivities! Lou--" 

 "--I suggest you tone it down, Vecchio. Because when you're actually
hosting the guest brain, as it were, you can't walk right. I've seen you
try. And that's coming up next. Even Fraser will notice that." 

 "Lou, look." I stand up. "You got me all wrong. Yeah, I've never seen
Frase quite like this. It's new, it's not what I'm used to, and you know
why studying people, getting 'em down, is both a personal interest and a
job skill of mine. It's happening a little here with Fraser right now,
that's all." 

 He looks at me. And looks at me. And keeps looking at me. 

 I try like hell to outwait him, but I can't. "What!?" I finally demand.
"I'm swearing here! You know me, sir!" 

 "You honestly believe what you're saying to me right now, don't you,
detective?" 

 "I dunno what you think you're seeing, but I am not...I'm not. Yeah, he's
pretty, I've seen pretty and he's it, but he is also definitely a guy.
Like I said, I know how to study people, I am sensitive to nuances of body
language and a bunch of other stuff you gotta be sensitive to when you lie
for a living, and he radiates 'guy' to me. I'm not thinking he's suddenly
a chick just 'cause he's pretty. He was pretty yesterday. He just looked a
little different yesterday. It's no big." 

 The Lou shakes his head. "I don't know, detective--maybe you're right.
After all, I find the constable highly attractive myself--" 

 My jaw creaks open. 

 "--and I am not interested in men in the slightest in the way we're
talking about. He's simply a very appealing person, once you get to know
him. But this much is true no matter what, precisely, is going on under
that sea anemone on your head; one way or another, you are responding to
him differently today than the way everyone has come to expect, and this
way I speak of is one that everybody alive can see, whether they want to
or not, and let me assure you, many, many of 'everybody alive' do not, but
they won't be able to avoid it much longer, if they have until now. Do you
follow me, Vecchio?" 

 I'm quiet. He doesn't leave. We're both standing by my desk--good thing
it's kind of off in its own little world in the cabinets and stuff
there--not saying anything. 

 Finally I do. "It's that bad?" I don't wait for an answer; he wouldn't be
here if he didn't think it was. "Um. Thanks for the, uh...the warning,
that I'm...so that's why Frannie's been lookin' funny at me all day." 

 "Francesca is not blind, evidence to a particular area of obliviousness
notwithstanding. She will not be the only one demonstrating the fact of
her non-blindness, if this keeps up." 

 "If what keeps up, sir?" Fraser wants to know, and it's gratifying that
Welsh jumps nearly as high as I do. He may seem omnimp--he may seem like
he knows everything sometimes--which I'm hoping is why he noticed this and
maybe it's not as loud as he's saying--but occasionally Welsh gets his
jock shocked off just like the rest of us. 

 "The two of you working late. Why are you here? Go away." The Lou leaves,
sighing. 

 "Oh--I was just in the file room--" Fraser calls after him, waving the
file he's holding in explanation. 

 I touch his shoulder, then pull my hand away. Woops. "Nothing, Frase. You
just made us both jump and he hates that. He's right, c'mon, let's get out
of here. We're not getting anywhere on any of this until some places open
up in the morning." 

 "Mm." He looks pensively at the file he's holding. 

 I tug it out of his hands and lay it down. "I'll buy you dinner for
helping me on your own time." 

 He smiles back at me.	

 Dief's not with us; he must be hanging with Turnbull, who's starting to
get a little proprietary with him, Fraser's said, but he didn't look mad
about it. More amused. 

 "Ray..." 

 "Mm." My mouth is full of antipasto. I haven't had a good bowel problem
in ages. 

 "What was the Lieutenant really saying when I interrupted you this
afternoon?" 

 Ah, hell, shoulda known better. Welsh doesn't get all big-eyed just from
someone coming up behind him; Fraser knows that. 

 I look up at Fraser. His mouth is all red from eating and shiny from the
oils in the food. God, his eyes look big. He blinks slowly, waiting, and
licks his lips for sauce. I close my eyes and make myself chew and
swallow, then have a slug of my Coke. "He, um...wanted to tell me to
lighten up. Around you." 

 "Me?" 

 "Your new look. Apparently it's got me doing the gotta-get-some dance,
just for you--but loud enough the world can see it. People were starting
to get a little nauseated watching me drool whenever you inhaled, or
exhaled, or took a step, or stood still..." I made a yadda-yadda gesture. 

 "The...oh." And all at once, this big, shy smile breaks out all over his
face, and he looks down at his plate. He's trying to keep it under
control, but the smile is bigger than he is and keeps breaking loose.
About all he can do is not grin with teeth. "Is that why you've
been...looking at me like you have all day?" 

 "I've been..." Great, Fraser noticed. If he noticed, the Lou wasn't just
his usual unusually perceptive; it really was up everybody's nose. "Uh,
you don't have to be delicate. I've been fawning on you from the moment I
saw you come in. Yeah, that's why." 

 "Mm." 

 "Mm." 

 God, say something, idiot. Or you, Frase, please-- 

 "That's...exceptionally flattering of you." 

 "It's...don't think...I mean, it's a brand-new-thang. I never fell all
over my--uh, self for a guy before. Anyway, no charge. Just 'cause I like
you so much." 

 He looks back up at me, just a quick glance, then down again, still
smiling. He's turning pink. 

 Jesus. Fraser is really flattered. He's not pissed, not yucked out, not
weirded--well, okay, he's weirded, he wouldn't be pink otherwise, but he's
not bad weirded. 

 "I'm..." He tugs his ear and clears his throat. "I'm afraid I'm short on
appropriate conversation for circumstances like this, beyond 'thank you'."


 I shrug a little. "You could compliment me back..." I start to joke. 

 He looks up at once. "You're beautiful," he blurts. Gee, it's in kind and
everything. 

 I blink big-eyed and twitch, then smile, kind of "Oh, really? swell". It
looks like I'm being cool about his blurt, but I'm really doing it, not
faking it. 

 "I mean..." he sighs and closes his eyes. "I mean, you're beautiful. What
I didn't mean was to fire it across the table and bounce it off your
forehead. Maybe we should talk about something else." 

 I give a little whatever-you-say gesture with both hands and a sideways
nod, then pick my fork back up. He picks his back up. And we're both
sitting there fooling in our noodles and this cloud of "Exactly what does
anybody totally mean here" is expanding all around the table, and pretty
soon the other people eating are gonna be able to smell it. 

 Fraser and me meet each other's eyes by accident, and we're both still
smiling. And I grin, and stifle a sudden laugh, and Fraser does too, and
then we're putting down our forks and diving behind our napkins and trying
not to make laughing-ass-off spectacles of ourselves in the real nice
restaurant which I for some reason insisted on bringing us to instead of
making him eat pizza. 

 Ah, here's why. "Could this be our first date?" he asks me, he's managing
to get it out quietly past the laughter; I start to crack something, but
he holy cannolli reaches his hand out to me, sliding it palm-up across the
table--he is Not Joking. 

 I stare at it like I've never seen anything quite like it--like the palm
he's holding out to me is full of diamonds, and I can only stare in
amazement, and then do what anyone would do, you can't help it, you reach
out and--"This has been a great first date," I murmur back to him,
squeezing his hand. "I'm loving this date. You are a fantastic date. You
got sauce on you. Yeah, on your sweater--yeah, there. Better wet the
napkin, you're smearing it, don't want it soaking in--" He's taken his
hand back to deal with the sauce, but I still feel all glittery. 

 He says "Did I get it?" and tugs the sweater out to look, and I look at
his collarbone and sigh, 'cause it's just like I expected. "Yeah.
Perfect." More perfect. Most perfect. The many shades of perfect. Get More
Perfect. He tucks his napkin into the sweater, which weighs the loose boat
neck to the point it sags, exposing a lot of throat and chest. Smooth and
pale and pretty and still a little pink. 

 "I'm in love with your collarbone," I say, staring. 

 He jolts and looks up at me---those words, geez, Kowalski, scare the shit
out of the guy for a split second--and I probably look transfixed as I
feel, and he tries to look down but you can't see your own collarbone, and
he looks back up at me and says "This is truly wonderful." 

 "Yeah." I smile bigger. "It's great. I'm already thinking about--I
mean...can I kiss you goodnight, or do you do that on first dates?" 

 He stares at me, gulps, laughs and has to swallow it because it tries to
turn into a giggle fit, and he says "I'd kiss you right now on the table
if rolling in my dinner wouldn't ruin my sweater. I bought it to wear to
the station today." 

 And I'm staring back at him. No. No. "No," I say, my head shaking. "No.
No, no, you are yanking me, asshole, you yank me--" 

 "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray--" 

 "--there is no way you planned this whole thing--" 

 "Ray! No, I didn't plan this. But I did...I mean, I suppose I did...I
most likely...I wanted to look nice for you." 

 I should kick his ass for not saying something to me sooner. But all I
can think is, he wanted to look nice for me. He wanted to look nice for
me. He wanted to look nice for me... 

 "You did. You do. You look so pretty. No, really, you look beautiful.
Always beautiful, and now pretty too--" and I'm wondering what the hell's
wrong with me because I wouldn't say that to a chick. "...you really
wanted to look nice for me?" 

 "Yeah." And he grins and laughs, shaking his head with his eyes closed,
like he's made a fool of himself and he thinks it's actually fairly cool. 

 I grin too. "You wanted me to--already. You did, you have--how long?" 

 "Oh, I don't know. I don't even know...I don't think I...I think I
rationalized it very well to myself. I wanted you to think I looked nice
because I work with you, because I didn't want you to make fun of me,
because you're--well, more in tune...you have style, and I wanted to
impress you...and all that's still true, I suppose." 

 "Yeah. I know what you mean. What I said to Welsh is true, too. God, that
is a beautiful collarbone. Can we get dinner to go?" 

 "Yes. Yes, we can definitely do that. We can do that right now." He waved
at a waiter. "Excuse me--yes, thank you. We'd like to get our check, and
have these to go..."  

 "That was the most fun first date I've ever had," I say fervently, in the
car, still grinning. I feel so fucking happy. I was not looking to feel
this happy today. I'm gobsmacked. 

 "Oh." He sounds a little disappointed, and I'm puzzled, slowing for a red
light, looking at him, until he says "Is it over?" 

 Oh, is that all? I smile again, big relief smile. "Hell, no, no," I shake
my head, "not over, not by a long shot. What do you wanna do next? Darn,
I'd've brought you flowers if I'd known." I poke him in the ribs, but I
mean it, and I think he can tell. 

 He swats at me. "I'd have made you carry them anyway," he says, and we
both chuckle. He goes on "Can we go to your place? We, ahem." He fixes a
perfect eyebrow. "We need to store the food..." Yeah, before my car
radiates Italian aromas for eternity and we both die for lack of kiss. 

 We trot up the stairs at my place like a couple of stoned,
giggling...idiots, really, but so what. We stash the food, and he pulls me
in and hugs me right as we straighten up from the fridge, and then he says
"If we kiss, it doesn't have to be a goodnight kiss, does it? It doesn't
mean the date is over." 

 "Nah, no way, no way--we can have a little first-date kiss." I do a
hip-wiggle dance of enthusiasm, and he grins. "Or a big one. Or more than,
I mean yeah, we can kiss. Let's--" he kisses me. Fraser kisses me, he--
"Oh Fraser you have the--softest in the--mouth is so--mm..." Finally he
stops letting go of the liplock long enough for me to form any words and I
shut up long enough to prove to him I won't talk any more while we're
trying to kiss, so he goes back to the softer, litter kisses. Fraser can
have a conversation with kisses. He has a million. He can arrange them
into these beautiful little sentences and paragraphs...he's the poet of
kissers, and I'm totally not surprised. This isn't anything you can learn.
You gotta be born with the way he's approaching this. 

 And he does have the softest, sweetest mouth. At least right now. He
tastes like tomato sauce and we're kissing with tongue, licking a little,
not going for total tongue-exchange. The wetness of it and our breath
being so close makes him smell even better, more like his dinner, more
like himself, more like himself mixed with me. I'm making good-kissing
moans. "Nice," I whisper at some point, and he makes a sound back,
agreeing. 

 "So..." he asks while we're kissing. "Could we...mm...sit down, maybe?
You think maybe...?" More kissing. 

 "Yeah," I say, "...um...mm. Mm-mmm...let's--" I lean in and press my face
to his come-get-it neck. Fraser's neck delivers. I sigh all shaky and add
"On the bed, let's, um, the couch is sorta inadequate, I've tried it." 

 "Yes. That--yes, good. The bed is good." Now we're kissing around on each
other's necks, too, and he's shoved my jacket down. I let it fall off one
arm at a time. "More room." 

 "Exactly." 

 "We have to...walk..." 

 "...to get to the...." 

 "...yes..." 

 "...bedroom." 

 "Yes." 

 "I'll just..." I lean away and lean back up and get another kiss, lean
away and pull him with me and have to stop for a nuzzle and to press close
along his side. He moans and squeezes me tight. 

 "Walk. We gotta walk." More kissing. 

 "Run." 

 "We gotta run." 

 "We'll run--" 

 "--on three." 

 "On three. 

 "One." 

 "Two--" 

 We break for the bedroom, laughing again, and hit the bed hard enough to
bounce us both around, while we flap like chickens trying not to fall off.
We make a few grabs for each other that don't quite work, and laugh more,
so it takes longer before the bed starts to cooperate. 

 Then we're kissing again. Fraser's got me in one arm, kind of, because
he's against the pillows and headboard and higher up, so he's holding me
against him, but other than that we're all relaxed, shifting a little
occasionally; wet, soft kissing. 

 "Can I take this off?" I finally wonder. I'm talking about his sweater; I
tug at it a little. But I'm not tearing it off him; for some reason, lying
down with him makes "it" less imperative, makes my hardon just kind of
there--definitely there, but mostly just there--and makes his feel
wonderful against me, but not crazy-making. 

 "Um...yes," Fraser says, and he had to think a little, because hours ago
neither of us...okay, maybe that's not quite true, we were both, how'd
Welsh put it, appealing, appealed to, we had feelings, even if we didn't
think about it, think they were that different from what we had for other
people, but we didn't know, sure weren't thinking about it. 

 "We can stop there," I offer, pulling his sweater up, and he lets me get
it over his head. He comes out of it looking perfect, perfect, perfect.
With his red lopsided mouth and happy eye crinkles and stuff. So perfectly
imperfect, not perfect, which is perfect. But damn, his hair sure is
Werewolf of London. I wonder why my hair won't cooperate with me like
that, then realize that I can't keep my mind made up for more than about a
week when it comes to my hair. It's probably sick of trying to please me. 

 "I want yours off too," Fraser protests, and I sit up and pull my shirt
off, and his undershirt, we're trading, grinning, a shirt off me, one off
him--and they all go into the chair courtesy of me throwing them over
there. His sweater just misses sliding off the back, hanging comfortably
over the edge with a sleeve dangling. 

 "Skinny enough for you?" I ask, sliding back down into that arm that was
holding me. I rest my head in his neck and shoulder, nuzzling for all I'm
worth at his collarbone. "You're beautiful," I add, like it's important
for me to establish that right now before we go any farther, or something.
His nipples are all pink, not brownish like mine. So pretty. 

 "So are you," he says, and he sounds puzzled, almost hurt. "I told you
that. Didn't you believe me?" 

 "Uhhmm..." I tilt my head to look up at him. "You really think so?" 

 "Ray, it leaped out with a life of its own. Can you doubt?" 

 "Now that you mention it, no, I can't, you're right." 

 "You're...warm and bright." He shrugs helplessly, like he wishes he could
explain better. "I love the way you look." 

 I grin big, and I think I'm blushing, and I duck my face against his
shoulder and chest, and bite his collarbone real quick. I'm embarrassed.
And pleased. Maybe I'm the one who's twelve, here. "Good. That's real
good, I'm glad..." I shut up, too late not to sound like a doof, but he's
just petting me, running his free hand all over me and the hand attached
to the arm he's holding with over all the skin it can reach. Trust him to
look at somebody, at least somebody he knows, and see what he thinks that
person ought to look like, rather than what they do look like. 

 "Kiss me, Ray," he's says softly. 

 I tilt my head and he smiles at me, and I smile back and slide my arms
around him--feels so good, so smooth and warm--and we're kissing again,
more gently than we were; slower, slowing down, holding each other,
suspended... 

 He's big, warm, it's different; I'm being held as much as holding, it's
almost hypnotic...until our lips are just touching, barely touching,
moving enough to press a little, move my head a bit and drag my lower lip
along his, soft kiss, softer kiss...slow, warm, still... 

 Suddenly he takes a deep breath and makes a low, urgent sound, rolls me
over onto my back, and he's rubbing against me. His hands have been all
over my upper body, and now it feels like he wants to do that with his
chest. I make a glad sound and put my arms around him again. 

 "Ray, may I..." his voice is small, and he lowers his head to my chest
and licks my left nipple, firmly. 

 Wow. 

 I didn't think...I mean, before, when I'd had this...of course, I don't
think anybody before was doing anything but seeing if I liked it--and it
was okay, no big thing. But Fraser is going after my nip like it's an
ice-cream cone. He's got energy happening. He came for that nipple and he
is here for it. 

 I moan, loud, and he answers me more softly, and moves a hand to keep
paying attention to the left nip while he moves his mouth to the right. 

 Can I reach? I can reach. I slide my hands down and grab his ass,
squeezing, tensing the muscles of my chest, shoving into his mouth and
hand. He makes a sound, and his hips move up and back, rocking his ass
with a sideways wiggle, too, in my hands. He manages to gather some flesh
from my scrawny chest into his mouth, sucking, pressing gently with teeth
in a not-bite, his tongue moving fast. I groan loud, I can't help it, no
wonder people like this, God, no wonder--I want to tell him. Words, we
need some English around here--here, where, no, that's not it--ah, I think
this is right. "That's never felt--never felt like this, I don't--know why
but God--so good, Frase--" I squeeze again, feel his muscles flex in my
hands. Okay, forget the English. Just wanted to let him know. 

 He gets it. He replies with his next moan, a long, drawn-out thing that
he adds a lot of body English to without letting go of his current
mouthful. I'm whimpering and invoking deity. 

 He lets go, but I bet not until after I've got some red-to-be-purple
marks coming up all around that part of my chest, and he says "May I--that
is, could we--I mean, I know it's rather...perhaps we should--" 

 "If the perhaps we should involves stopping what we're doing, let's skip
it," I say, and start fooling around near his waistband with both hands,
sliding fingers under and rubbing, and tugging at the material. 

 "Right now?" he wonders. 

 "Right now," I say. "This is good. This is good. This is all good. We'll
worry about the details later." 

 "You know best, Ray," he says, which nearly stops me dead to the world
right there--hearing him say that is about enough to make my eyes pop
out--but he's helping me with my jeans and I'm trying to get my boots off
and we finally have to call a halt for footgear, but we're piled all over
each other while we reach and stretch and tug and yank and roll over a
couple times out of control and come to rest in a snarl, rubbing and
humping and stuff, and he takes my hand and moves it to his stiff, which
only shocks me for a minute, and then I'm busy being fascinated by the
soft furl of skin and the sensitivity of the head, have to actually back
off a little as I'm encouraging him to squeeze me harder. That's how I
finally end up doing it, squeezing and moving the extra skin along with
the stroke so he doesn't get sent "yi!" into orbit when I touch the more
sensitive parts usually protected, and we roll around kissing and stroking
and moaning until he bites my shoulder and starts coming on a long wail,
and the vibrations of his deep voice may do it as much for me as his
coming in the first place, and I'm not far behind. 

 Then we lie there, waiting to come back to earth, but when we get to
earth all we want to do is have a nap. So I pull the afghan from the foot
of the bed over us after he grabs a sock--mine, only fair, we're at my
place--to use to wipe us up a little, which he does kind of
matter-of-factly, like he notices "oh, dear, a mess, it'll get on the
bed," and deals with it--not like he's used to this, 'cause I suspect he
isn't. 

 "You okay?" 

 "Oh, I'm wonderful. Just...wonderful, thank you...Ray..." 

 "I'm good too, thank you too...wow...great first date..." 

 He giggles and so do I, but we're starting to snooze, and I curl up on
his pretty, powerful shoulder with its pretty collarbone under his pretty
chin and figure we'll have the talk in a few, after we get a little snooze
in. I feel cozy. He pulls me in and sighs, and seems to feel cozy too, a
smile curving his mouth under his closed eyes, soft full lips, soft full
lashes. 

 "You're really pretty. I didn't make that up." 

 "You're really beautiful. I didn't make that up either." 

 "Mm." 

 "Mm." 

 "This is nice." 

 "Mm." 

 "Let's sleep a while." 

 He was way ahead of me. "Mm." And he was out. 

 And then so was I.  

End The Pretty by Blue Champagne: bluecham@mindspring.com

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