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      	  Come In From the Cold 
 by Nos4a2no9  

 Disclaimer: I do know own these characters and I do not profit from their
use.

 Author's Notes: Many thanks to the great llassah for being the kind of
beta who does as much for an author's confidence as for technical
problems. This was my very first due South story way back when, so
comments are always greatly appreciated. 

 Story Notes: Written for the "Get Fraser Laid" challenge at LiveJournal,
with this prompt in mind: "Fraser/anyone. Foot rub-induced sex. Fraser
either giving or receiving or both. Or alternately, post-coital footrubs."

Which, um, did not exactly work out. The boys were more interested in
talking, bless their angsty little hearts. 

 

 Ray sometimes questioned the sanity of Canadians. He'd only been up north
a couple of times, but he'd seen enough to wonder what kind of crazy it
took to settle in a place where it was winter eight months of the year and
the sun didn't rise for weeks in the wintertime. Even places like Montreal
or Ottawa or Edmonton weren't exactly habitable, not if you liked to go
outside in January. Yep, he'd always been a little suspicious about
Canadians, and that was before he'd met Fraser. Now he knew for a fact
that they were all nuts. 

 Americans, on the other hand, had carved out their country in sensible
places like California and Florida. Places where `cold' meant wearing a
T-shirt with long sleeves, not thirty-six layers. However, when it came to
Illinois in the depths of winter, even Ray had to wonder about the mental
health of his pioneering ancestors, or at least those members of his
family who had made the move from Sicily and decided to settle in the
midwest. 

 When he'd gotten up the radio had said that today would be the coldest
day in Chicago history: between the wind chill and the rapid drop in
temperature after the sun set, it was looking to be about -17 degrees. In
Fahrenheit. He didn't even want to think about what the temperature would
be in Canadian. He'd smacked the radio in disgust, because it was just his
luck that today of all days the 2-7 was running a stakeout on a
Family-owned OTB. An outside stakeout. And he was supposed to play a hobo
with no money for coffee or access to a nice space-heater.

 So Ray concealed his parka and three layers of long underwear under
enough grease and rags to keep anyone from looking too close, and he made
sure he picked a place on the street next to an old oil drum filled with
burning garbage. He needed to keep his hands warm and loose in case there
was any shooting. But his feet...God, his feet. By the end of the day Ray
was convinced he'd lost feeling in at least six of his toes. And he hadn't
even gotten hazard pay for the stakeout.

 After he'd finished the shift Ray walked the three blocks back to where
he'd parked the Riv, slid inside the icy interior of his car, turned on
the engine and cranked up the heater. The old unit roared away as if
trying to give the constant rumble of the engine a run for its money.
Warmed-over air was thrown onto the windshield, Ray's face and the floor,
but the car didn't actually get comfortable until Ray pulled up in front
of his house. The place would be empty tonight: everyone was in Detroit
annoying some other miserable relative. He could certainly have used some
of Ma's cooking, even if Frannie's constant chatter and the sound of the
kids fighting would have given him a headache. Or more of a headache, Ray
amended, rubbing his temple. What a day.

 Ray killed the Riv's engine and tried to gather up enough willpower to
leave the warm cocoon of his car. His body protested against the slightest
movement, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. Even so, just
seconds after he'd shut the engine off Ray could feel the cold start to
creep into the Riv. It slipped inside between the cracks in the doors,
through the now-silent heater, past the bad seal work on the inside of the
back left window. The house would be dark and a little chilly, what with
everybody gone all day and the heat turned down low, but in about ten
minutes the Riv would feel like it belonged in one of Fraser's stories
that involved ice, snow, a trapper named `Deaf Jo' and dead caribou. 

 Ray pushed open the door and slammed it shut behind him, trudging up the
front steps and ignoring the way the wind managed to slice through his
layers of clothing and freeze up his insides. It actually hurt to breathe:
his nostrils felt a little frozen every time he sucked in air. Ray pushed
the key home in the lock, frowning at the way the skin of his bare fingers
stuck to the metal. Maybe the radio had been wrong: it was definitely
colder than -17 now.

 When Ray stepped inside the first thing he did was to grope for the
thermostat and play with the dial until he heard the whoosh of the gas
furnace firing in the basement. The hallway was brighter than he'd been
expecting, warmer too, and now that he was safely out of the wind Ray
could see that someone had left a light on in the kitchen. And something
that smelled wonderful was cooking in the oven.

 "Ma?" he called, wondering if the family had changed their plans and
decided to stay home rather than brave the trip to Detroit in this
weather. No answer, but he heard a familiar whine and the click of nails
on the tile in the kitchen. Ray grinned.

 "Dief!" he called. An instant later the wolf appeared and stared up at
Ray expectantly. Ray turned out the palms of his hands. "Sorry. I don't
have anything for you, buddy."

 Dief groaned and headed back down the hall, wagging his tail in
disappointment. 

 "Where's Fraser?" he asked, but either the wolf couldn't see his lips or
this was punishment for having the bad manners to come home without
doughnuts or milk duds. Either way, Dief wasn't giving anything away. Ray
slipped out of his useless old thermal boots and stripped off the shreds
of his costume, his parka, and the top two layers of long underwear. His
feet were beginning to tingle in the warmer air and Ray stomped down the
hall to the kitchen, trying to decide what was in the oven. Fraser really
wasn't much of a cook but Ray was starving. If it was hot and halfway
edible he knew he'd down it in a second. Flipping on the little light
inside the oven, Ray leaned down and squinted into the tempered-glass
door. Whatever it was bubbling away in there looked delicious. He thought
it was some kind of casserole. Ray straightened, nodding in approval. He
could deal with casserole.

 Dief was lying next to a furnace vent and the warm air ruffled the wolf's
thick white fur. He cracked open an eye to check on Ray, then went back to
sleep, clearly unwilling to move again or talk to Ray until he was offered
something sweet. 

 Since Fraser wasn't in the kitchen Ray headed out into the living room,
stopping in the dim half-light cast in from the hallway. He smiled softly
and leaned up against the doorframe, watching. Fraser was asleep on the
couch, wrapped up in an old afghan Maria had crocheted way back in high
school. Ray couldn't help but smile: he was wearing his old red long-johns
that somehow, after three years in Chicago, still smelled of woodsmoke and
the wild places up north. A little like Fraser himself, but Fraser also
smelled like other good things Ray couldn't put a name to. Like pine and
wind and brand-new possibilities. Like Canada, he figured, or maybe just
the idea of it. 

 Ray crossed the room and knelt beside the couch, touching Fraser's
shoulder.

 Fraser came awake instantly and without any lingering disorientation. It
was one of those things that alternately annoyed the hell out of Ray and
left him feeling strangely proud. Those blue eyes fixed on him and Fraser
blinked. 

 "Ray. You're home."

 Ray grinned. "Figure that out all by yourself, huh?"

 Fraser just nodded, which made Ray grin a little more, and sat up. He
pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "What time is it?"

 "Seven, or a little after. When's dinner ready?"

 "Half an hour," Fraser told him, untangling his legs from the afghan and
scrunching up to make room for Ray to sit next to him on the couch. The
old springs resisted only slightly as Ray sat and leaned his head back,
his eyes falling shut instantly. His feet had gone from tingling to
burning now that he was sitting. It didn't feel like frostbite, but Ray
was still a little worried.

 "How was your day?" he asked Fraser. "You jump off anything you weren't
supposed to?"

 "No, Ray," Fraser said, his tone warm with amusement and, despite his
supernatural wake-up abilities, still tinged with sleep. "I had guard
duty."

 "Guard duty?" Ray repeated, opening his eyes and staring at his friend.
"In this weather? Are you kidding me?"

 Fraser shook his head. "It's fine. It really isn't that cold, and if you
ignore the wind chill-"

 "Fraser, this is Chicago. You can't ignore the wind. You must have been
freezing!"

 "I'm used to it, Ray." 

 "Used to it!" Ray repeated dumbly. "Aw, Benny, don't they have cameras or
something outside that place they can use instead of making you guys go
stand out there? It's not right."

 "It is my duty to guard the Consulate, Ray," Fraser assured his friend.
"And it was only a six-hour shift."

 "Six hours..." Ray muttered, closing his eyes. His headache suddenly felt
exponentially worse. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Okay.
Fraser, I want you to tell me how your feet feel."

 "My feet?"

 "Yep. How are they?"

 "Fine, thank you." 

 Ray opened his eyes and met Fraser's, keeping one eyebrow raised and
staring his friend down. It wasn't something he did often, but he knew
that Fraser couldn't hold out for long against The Stare. 

 "They're a little cold," Fraser finally admitted. He looked slightly put
out. 

 "Show me," Ray said, jerking his chin and gesturing with his hands.
Fraser hesitated and Ray's heart sank a little. Six weeks they'd been
lovers, and the guy still got all weird when Ray wanted things to be
more...intimate. Oh, Fraser loved a good fuck up against an alley wall or
on a desk late at night at the Consulate, but whenever Ray tried to
just...hold him, Fraser got that squirrelly look in his eye and Ray
couldn't quite decide what the hell it was Fraser thought they were doing.
It always felt like Fraser was preparing himself for the end, even though
they were really just starting out. 

 "C'mon, Benny," Ray said, fighting to keep his voice warm and gentle. He
could feel the headache and exhaustion trying to talk him into raising his
voice and start making angry accusations. Ray hated it when his temper got
the best of him with Fraser. After all, the guy hadn't been raised by a
bunch of volatile Italians. When Ray got upset Fraser would usually mutter
something polite and slip out of the room to avoid the brewing conflict.
And the thing was, Ray liked a good fight. He and Angie'd had scores of
them. After the shouting was done the air always felt like it did right
after a thunderstorm, all fresh and rain-washed and peaceful. And the sex
after a fight...Jesus, there wasn't anything better. 

 So maybe Ray wanted to fight with Fraser. More to the point, maybe he
wanted Fraser to fight with him. He wanted the Mountie to yell at him,
call him an insensitive American jerk with an inferiority complex, tell
him he hated his cologne and his big bald head and his too-large nose. And
after all the insults were used up, he wanted Fraser to get mad all over
again and let go, really let go. Because the thought of Fraser loose and
angry made Ray kind of excited. Fraser was always so careful with him. Too
careful, like he thought Ray'd get mad or take off if he said or did the
wrong thing. And whenever Ray did or said something to show Fraser that he
wouldn't take off, like caress him or give him a hug or something else
that wouldn't necessarily end in a blowjob, Fraser seemed to flinch and
hesitate. Like right now.

 With a sigh Ray reached over and grabbed Fraser's ankles and forcibly
pulled until Fraser's feet rested in Ray's lap. Ray was glad Fraser let
his legs go limp, because the guy was heavy and had at least thirty pounds
on him, most of it muscle and that subcutaneous fat he was so proud of. If
Fraser ever wanted to fight him, really fight him, Ray knew exactly how it
would turn out. 

 Ray suppressed a smile at the sight of Fraser's big feet clad in the
scarlet leggings of his long-johns. Grown men who locked themselves in
vaults to prevent bank robberies and jumped on top of speeding vans didn't
wear footie pajamas. At least, they shouldn't. Not if they didn't want to
look like hopeless dorks. But that was Fraser: the usual rules didn't seem
to apply.

 Fraser flexed his toes and stared at Ray, crossing his arms over his
chest and settling back against the arm of the couch. "Well?" he said,
clearly still a little resentful at having been manipulated into this. Ray
wiggled his fingers like a magician at a six year-old's birthday party and
grinned.

 "You're really gonna enjoy this," he promised Fraser. Fraser continued to
look skeptical. 

 Ray eased his fingers down onto Fraser's big toe, putting a little
pressure on it. He checked Fraser's reaction - the guy still looked
unimpressed. Ray found the bones in the top of Fraser's foot, keeping the
tops of his fingers pressed lightly to them, and began to rub Fraser's
sole with his thumb. 

 The funny thing about feet, Ray had learned long ago, was that they were
very rarely touched. Unless you had a pregnant wife or spent time at an
old folks' home or worked on your feet all day you could never appreciate
how great a simple foot massage felt. Back when he'd been a humble beat
cop Ray had come home lots of nights with aching feet. He'd dropped
thousands of hints to Angie but she'd never really gotten it. The thing
was, out of all the things Ray had wished Angie had been willing to do
(including some kinda kinky bedroom stuff that he'd only ever managed to
hint at) the foot-rub thing was the one thing he'd really wanted. And
Ray...well, Ray firmly believed that it was impossible to give yourself a
good foot massage. You had to be surprised by it for it to really work.

 Ray continued to rub in slow, ever-widening circles with his thumb.
Fraser's eyes drifted closed and his head sank back against the padded arm
of the couch. Ray watched Fraser in the low half-light of the living room,
liking the way that beautiful face relaxed and seemed to be at peace. 

 "That's...that's nice, Ray," Fraser breathed, his whole foot bending
towards the warm, steady pressure of Ray's fingers. "That's very nice."

 "Toldja," Ray couldn't resist saying, finishing with few quick, precise
presses to the ball of Fraser's foot. He began with the right foot exactly
as he had with the left, just putting pressure on the toes and working his
way slowly down the sole. Fraser sighed, the movement making his torso
lift slightly and his chest puff up. His toes even curled a little, just
like they did right before he came. Ray smiled at the comparison.

 Ray didn't even bother to pretend he wasn't staring at the little bit of
Fraser's skin left exposed by the low neck of the longjohns. The thought
of seeing the rest of Fraser's torso, all the muscled peaks and shadowed
valleys still concealed by the overgrown footie pajamas, made a slight
flush creep up the long column of Ray's throat. Fraser's body, the
ice-white skin, the long, strong, clean-cut arms and that chest so lightly
dusted with hair he could only feel it with his tongue and fingertips, had
long ago been memorized and catalogued by one Ray Vecchio. Still, he felt
an irrational need to check, to compare the picture in his mind with the
reality of Fraser now spread before him on the couch, long and languid and
relaxed. Even Fraser's feet turned Ray on. He couldn't see them right now,
but Ray knew they were big and knobby and too white, the skin on the toes
a little blue from, Ray assumed, too many years tromping around the
ass-end of nowhere. 

 Thinking about Fraser's big dumb blue feet got Ray thinking about
Fraser's long, uncut cock, itself a little pale and shot through with
veins. His mouth suddenly felt dry and he halted in the movement of his
fingers. Fraser opened his eyes.

 "Ray?"

 "Yeah?" Ray replied, meeting Fraser's eyes and letting him see exactly
what he'd been thinking about.

 "Thank you," Fraser said quietly, the strong planes of his face cast in
shadows. "That was wonderful."

 "You can return the favor sometime," Ray said, wishing the suggestion
didn't sound like he was talking about a blowjob or something dirty
instead of a nice, regular foot massage. 

 Fraser pulled himself up into a more conventional sitting position,
digging his heels into Ray's thighs just a little as he adjusted himself
on the couch. He leaned forward, close enough that Ray could feel Fraser's
breath against the stubble he'd let grow for the hobo role. Fraser caught
Ray's jaw with his hand and drew Ray close, tracing his lips with his
thumb. He leaned in a little closer, and Ray couldn't help but lick his
lips in anticipation. Right now the air between them felt like it did just
before a thunderstorm, all electric expectation. 

 But rather than kiss him Fraser just met Ray's eyes. "Your turn," he
murmured against Ray's lips, so close Ray could almost taste the words.
His dick was hard and throbbing, the blood pulsing along to that
gonna-do-it-gonna-get-some beat. No one and nothing had ever gotten him so
hard so fast as Fraser did. His voice, his scent, the simplest touch - it
all added up to one big hard-on. It made the working days together at the
2-7 hell, but the nights more than made up for it. It was just...well,
since they'd started this whole crazy thing Ray had been wondering if he
had the same kind of effect on Fraser. Sometimes it was hard to tell with
the guy.

 Ray let out a long, slow breath, trying to think about baseball
statistics or the exact tire pressure on a 1971 Buick Riviera. It did the
trick and in a few seconds Ray was actually able to think about something
besides pushing Fraser back into the couch and tearing off those stupid
longjohns. Fraser was sitting up now and he waited until Ray swung his
feet up and planted them in his lap. Ray was still wearing two pairs of
socks from the stakeout and he watched as Fraser peeled them off. It was
just like Fraser was skinning fish, except he didn't use a knife.
Efficient, clean, and over in seconds. Ray hoped his feet didn't smell.

 If they did Fraser didn't let on. He touched the side of Ray's feet
experimentally and glanced at Ray in admonishment.

 "Ray, your feet are quite cool. Almost alarmingly so."

 "Yeah?" Ray asked lazily. "So why don't you do something about it?"

 Fraser frowned, pressing his lips together in concentration, and Ray
suppressed a small smile. Fraser rubbed first one foot and then the other
between his large warm palms, and some of that bone-deep ache from the
cold subsided a little. Ray let his eyes drift closed, thinking how good
it felt to come home to a warm house and dinner in the oven and Fraser.
All those things really made life seem-

 "You know, Ray, before going on long hunting trips the Inuit prepare a
mixture of tallow and dried caribou dung to rub on their feet. It protects
them from the cold and ensures circulation will reach their toes even in
the most extreme temperatures."

 Ray kept his eyes closed and grinned. Okay, it was domestic bliss,
Mountie style. He grabbed Maria's discarded afghan and wrapped it around
his shoulders, snuggling down into the warm, colourful layers of wool that
were only a little faded from age. "Well, I didn't have any caribou poop
this morning. I promise, when I find some I'll mix it up and spread it on
my feet. Okay?"

 "Okay," Fraser replied, doing his best to ignore Ray's sarcasm. "I
wish..."

 Ray's ears perked up a little at that. Fraser saying, "I wish" meant it
was time halftime down in Hell's hockey rink. Whatever the guy felt,
wanted, hell, even needed, was locked up tighter than a drum inside Fort
Fraser. It had taken Ray six weeks, or hell, two years, to figure out that
unless it was something he could reach for and grab a hold of, Fraser
didn't ever talk about what he wanted.

 "I wish you would take better care of yourself," Fraser said softly, and
Ray blinked a little in surprise. He'd been preparing himself for some
earth-shaking statement about how maybe things between them weren't
working out, not this...concern. Felt weird, learning that Fraser worried
about him like Ma and Frannie and Maria did. Felt kind of good. 

 "I take care of myself," Ray said, wishing he didn't sound so much like a
stubborn kid. "Tailor's bills alone eat up half my salary, and that's not
even-"

 But Fraser was shaking his head, looking like he didn't really want to
get into it but determined to see it through now that he'd started up.
"You certainly pay close attention to your dressing and grooming habits,"
he acknowledged, "but you have a terrible diet, consuming little more than
black coffee and greasy pizza when you aren't eating your mother's
cooking."

 Ray was beginning to feel more than a little annoyed. Fraser was
lecturing him, laying it out like he would for Dief. Christ, Ray was
nearly forty; he didn't need anyone telling him to straighten up and eat
right and mind his p's and q's.

 "I know you haven't been sleeping very well lately."

 Okay, that was true. It was also something that had clearly been weighing
on Fraser, since it looked like it had been the hardest part of his little
speech to get out. Fraser kept darting glances at Ray and running the tip
of his tongue over his lower lip. Ray half-expected to see him go at his
eyebrow in a second. So the whole lecture had really just been a buildup
to Fraser asking Ray why he hadn't gotten more than four hours of sleep a
night in the last month and a half.

 Ray had to admit, the timing of it was pretty damn convincing evidence
that his insomnia had something to do with him and Fraser getting
horizontal with each other. Since they started up, Ray and Fraser hadn't
had a lot of options about where to be together. Hotels and even shitty
rent-by-the-hour motels were expensive, Ray's house was out, and that left
only Fraser's tiny apartment on Racine. Ray hated about the small, cramped
space and he bitched all the time about the noise of the street outside
and the broken radiator and the too-hard cot that Fraser couldn't afford
to replace with a real bed. So he couldn't sleep, but he'd stayed with
Fraser every night. Which he hoped proved something, actions speaking
louder than words and all.

 "What time do you expect your family to return?" Fraser asked, doing the
polite-Fraser thing changing the subject. He continued stroking the ball
of Ray's left foot. Ray briefly opened his eyes and then let them fall
closed again, trying to reach that warm, languid place of lazy relaxation
again. The foot rub helped, but he couldn't shake the feeling that
something was bugging Fraser.

 "Around ten a.m. Monday. The kids won't want to get up any earlier."

 "So we have the house to ourselves all weekend," Fraser concluded
thoughtfully. This time Ray opened his eyes fully and raised his head to
stare at him.

 "You putting together some kind of plan?" Ray asked. Fraser traced a
fingertip over the rough skin on Ray's heel.

 Fraser shook his head. "No plans, Ray," he promised, beginning on Ray's
left foot. The skin of his sole was warm and dry, softer than Fraser's
because Ray did not spend endless hours on his feet for sentry duty. Ray
felt a flush of pleasant heat at the contact with Fraser's strong, steady
fingers. Goosebumps rose on his skin despite the warmth of the room.

 "You know what?" Ray muttered, his eyes smiling. "We get to sleep in a
real bed tonight. My bed. It's got a Posturepedic mattress and a
goose-down comforter. And real pillows. It's a queen-sized bed, Fraser.
And because we've got the whole place to ourselves, we get to take a bath
together. And I'll make you breakfast in the morning. It'll be-"

 The easy flow of Ray's words came to a halt when he realized Fraser
wasn't looking at him, all his attention focused on the task of massaging
some heat and life back into Ray's left foot. Ray frowned and slumped back
against the arm of the couch.

 "What?" he asked, his tone managing at once to sound both concerned and a
little pissed-off.

 Fraser waved a hand at him. "Nothing, Ray. I assure you. A bath would be
lovely, although I'm not entirely sure we would both fit."

 "Lovely?" Ray repeated. "Fraser, you sound like my grandmother. C'mon!
We'll fill up the tub, light some candles...and then we'll break in that
bed. That's not `lovely'. That's heaven."

 "I don't want to argue the point, Ray."

 Ray jerked his feet out of Fraser's lap and stood. "Then what, huh? Does
it make you hot? Do you want to stick our dinner in the fridge and go
right up to the bedroom? You gotta talk to me here."

 Fraser sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, his posture a little
revealing in the long red underwear. Ray'd say this for the longjohns: not
much was left to the imagination in that getup, but it made it hard to
have a serious discussion. Damn things were distracting as hell.

 "Fraser, what do you want?"

 Fraser ran an awkward hand through his hair and didn't look at Ray. His
throat worked hard to swallow past some invisible lump. Ray wanted to lick
the spot where Fraser's pulse throbbed; he wanted to mark him somehow, use
his lips and his teeth to prove to Fraser that yes, he was wanted. And
that Ray wasn't going anywhere. 

 "I want you to have something better," Fraser said in a low voice.
"Something more. I'm sorry I don't have a real bed for us to share. I'm
sorry you have to shower at the station in the mornings because my
building doesn't have hot water. And I'm sorry that we can only be
comfortable here-" he paused, gesturing around the silent Vecchio home,
"when your family goes to Detroit."

 Ah, Ray thought, instantly annoyed that the first thing that came to mind
was one of Fraser's meaningless verbal tics. But "Ah" pretty much hit the
nail on the head, because there wasn't a lot more to say. 

 "You could move," Ray suggested, knowing as soon as the words slipped out
that it was the wrong thing to say. "Get a better place somewhere,
something close to the Consulate," he finished lamely.

 Fraser blinked and stood, careful not to touch Ray as he moved past him
and went into the kitchen. He opened the oven and removed a slightly
crispy but still edible casserole. He set it to cool on the counter. 

 "Fraser," Ray struggled out of the afghan and followed Fraser into the
kitchen, hovering in the doorway. "Your place isn't so bad. And Ma and
Maria and Frannie..." he sighed. "Well, they're not ready to hear about us
yet. But that doesn't mean that they won't ever be ready. Someday. Until
then, I'm fine with things. I'm - I'm happy, Benny," he said, a little
relieved to discover that he meant it. He really was, and Ray Vecchio
never thought he'd be happy to be in love with another guy. "Aren't you?"

 Fraser leaned on the countertop and Ray could have sworn he saw a faint
tremor run through the strong, straight line of his back. 

 "Of course," Fraser said, and then more quietly, "That's what worries
me."

 Ray had crossed the kitchen and laid a hand on Fraser's shoulder before
he even realized he'd moved. At his touch Fraser turned and Ray drew him
into a hug. Suddenly it was surround-sound Fraser, all fresh-smelling
warmth and the hard press of muscle against his chest. Ray clutched him
tighter.

 "You don't have to worry," Ray said. "What we got here...this is good,
y'know? Better than I ever had before."

 "For me as well, Ray," Fraser murmured into Ray's shoulder. Ray pressed
him back a little to meet his eyes.

 "So what's the problem, huh? Why're you so worried all of a sudden?"

 Fraser frowned and looked away, his tongue darting out to lick against
his bottom lip. Ray refused to let the movement of Fraser's tongue
distract him. They were having an Important Conversation here, and he'd
been through enough with Ange to know not to blow this one. 

 "Do you trust me, Ray?" Fraser asked, meeting Ray's eyes evenly. Ray
stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the
well-worn kitchen counter, the heat from the oven warm against his side. 

 "Of course."

 "But you..." Fraser trailed off, frowning. Ray watched him struggle to
find a way to put what he was thinking into words. For such an eloquent
guy who knew so many big words, Fraser sometimes seemed to have a real
problem talking.

 "You know what I'm like when I fall in love, Ray."

 Ray's eyes widened in surprise. That was the last thing he'd expected
Fraser to say, and for a second the words themselves didn't register. He
could only hear the misery in Fraser's voice. And when the meaning of what
he'd said hit home Ray found he couldn't quite look at his friend. All he
could see was the ugly mass of scar tissue at the base of Fraser's spine. 

 "Yeah." Ray breathed in shakily. "Yeah, I guess I do. But-" He brought
his head up sharply. "You're saying this is love?"

 Fraser looked pale, uncertain, but there was a bright kind of courage
burning in his eyes. This was Benton Fraser, out on a limb. Despite
Fraser's obvious misgivings, Ray thought risk looked good on him. 

 "Yes, I think so."

 Ray nodded. "Me too." He found it was easy to say, much easier than he
had thought it would be. 

 And then Fraser seemed to relax a little, dropping out of parade rest and
shifting into something more manageable, more human. "But that doesn't
change anything, Ray. I'm still-"

 "Canadian," Ray supplied with a grin, not really wanting to hear Fraser
finish that sentence. He hated that Fraser didn't trust himself, didn't
trust them. This thing between them wasn't like whatever Fraser had, or
thought he had, with Victoria. Ray wasn't about to ask Fraser to lie or
betray himself or anyone else, except...

 "Oh," Ray muttered, finally getting it. God, he could be so damn stupid
sometimes. If he'd been with a woman for six weeks and they had spent all
that time holed up in some shitty apartment in Racine, sneaking around
like what they were doing was dirty and Ray refused to take her home for
dinner with Ma and the rest, well, then it would be a kind of lie,
wouldn't it? So no wonder the guy was a little concerned that the thing
with Ray wasn't real, wasn't going to last. 

 There wasn't much Ray could say to make up for the thousand times he'd
stood on the street with Fraser and made it look like they weren't
together. Or the times when Fraser would brush against him in line at the
deli or his knee would bump his under the desk at the 2-7 and Ray would
pull away and give Fraser that look, the one that said, `Not here, not
now'. It was just like Victoria had done to the poor guy, in a weird way.
Keep everything nice and contained in Fraser's apartment on Racine,
because in the end it wasn't real, it wouldn't last, and the only thing
left afterwards was a bullet-shaped scar.

 "I'm an asshole," Ray muttered into his chest, not daring to look at
Fraser. Silence descended between them, underscored by Dief's soft snoring
and the loud clock in the hallway ticking off the seconds. When Fraser
touched Ray's shoulder he jumped, startled. Fraser's hand was a warm
comfort that Ray tried to shrug off; Fraser only gripped him tighter.

 "You've done nothing wrong, Ray. I'm the one who-"

 "Aw, Fraser, no," Ray said urgently, reaching out to touch Fraser's cheek
and stroking his thumb down his jaw. "You didn't do anything. You been
trying to tell me for the last month that this thing isn't working right.
I act like I'm ashamed of you when we're in public. And I'm not," Ray told
him, willing him to see how serious he was about this, about them. "I'm
just...I'm afraid, I guess. Of what people will think. But that's my
problem, my thing to get over."

 Fraser didn't look convinced. Ray shook his head, deciding that the
talking thing probably wasn't their strong suit anyway. So he'd show
Fraser how he felt, convince him with his body that the last few weeks
hadn't been about keeping some dirty secret. It was about love, and Ray
would make it up to him somehow. 

 He leaned forward, closing the tiny space between them to brush his lips
against Fraser's warm, welcoming mouth. Ray groaned as Fraser opened to
him and he slipped his tongue inside, exploring the familiar territory of
Fraser's mouth. His hands threaded through Fraser's soft, thick hair and
he felt Fraser's hand, warm and steady, on the back of his neck. This was
right, had always been right. It didn't matter that the world was a shitty
place and he couldn't stand on the street with the man he loved and hold
hands with him; all that mattered was this thing between them, and
Fraser's mouth and Fraser's body and realizing this in the middle of his
mother's kitchen. 

 Ray stroked his hand downward, putting some space between them without
breaking the kiss. It was tricky and awkward for a second or two but Ray
managed to undo three of the buttons on Fraser's longjohns just above his
stomach. He slipped his hand inside, needing to feel Fraser's skin. Fraser
was furnace-warm and he let out a sigh of pleasure as Ray's long fingers
brushed against the skin of his belly. They stood like that for long
moments, Ray's fingers stroking the sensitive skin around Fraser's navel,
Fraser's tongue mirroring the movement in Ray's mouth. It was like that
between them: sometimes they'd tear each others' clothes off and go at it
like animals; other times it was all slow, soft seduction when Ray could
spend hours touching Fraser's body and Fraser would memorize new parts of
Ray with his hands and tongue until Ray could do nothing but beg, then
tease him some more. Looked like tonight would be one of those times, and
Ray found it tough to stay focused. All night with Fraser on a real bed.
He wasn't sure if he'd last long enough to do everything he wanted to do.

 To distract himself Ray worked on the rest of the buttons running down
the length of Fraser's longjohns. He undid all the ones holding the
material closed over Fraser's chest and belly, but he stopped with the
buttons below Fraser's pelvis. If he undid those, they'd end up on Ma's
kitchen floor and Ray was not going to let that happen, not with that
Posturepedic mattress waiting just two floors up. 

 As Ray worked on the buttons Fraser slid his mouth around to the long,
lean tendons of Ray's neck just below his ear. He sucked and nipped at the
skin and Ray closed his eyes, his fingers growing clumsy and stupid as he
gave himself over to the sensations of Fraser's mouth on his body. 

 "Benny, you're going to kill me," he groaned, slipping the top of
Fraser's longjohns down to reveal broad shoulders. Fraser obligingly
slipped his arms out of the sleeves and stood before Ray, lips swollen,
eyes bright with arousal, his well-sculpted body looking like an
invitation to debauchery in the homey environs of the Vecchio kitchen. Ray
inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, counting down slowly before he felt
it was safe to open them again. 

 "Bed?" he asked, and Fraser nodded mutely. Things between them weren't
settled, but the best way Ray knew how to resolve things was to get Fraser
naked as quickly as possible. Everything had a way of working itself out
once that happened. He was already half-hard with the thought of Fraser
splayed out beneath him on the sheets of his bed, all sweaty desperate
desire. Ray swallowed and pressed one final kiss to Fraser's lips before
grabbing his hand and marching towards the stairs. Fraser came along
willingly enough but held back as they reached the top. Ray turned,
expecting to see some refusal forming on Fraser's lips. 

 "Benny?"

 Instead of replying, Fraser simply looked at Ray, his eyes uncertain. Ray
shook his head ruefully. "C'mon," he said, beckoning Fraser forward with a
wave. 

 "Are you sure you want do to this here, Ray? In your family home?"

 Ray sighed. "Sure I'm sure. Come to bed, Fraser."

 "Why?" 

 "Because my feet are cold."

 The uncertain look went out of Fraser's eyes and he smiled, relaxing a
little. He took Ray's outstretched hand and followed him the rest of the
way up the stairs. Ray held his bedroom door open for Fraser and closed it
behind them, shutting out the rest of the world. 

 And soon nothing was cold. Not even his feet.	
  

End Come In From the Cold by Nos4a2no9 

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