Niceties	  Niceties

 by Hel Virago

  

 

 Disclaimer: How may a person own anything in this illusory plane of
existence? By registering the copyright, apparently. As such, these are
not mine.

 Author's Notes: ds_flashfiction removed my husband's ring around the
collar!

 Story Notes: No spoilers. Some bad language. Response to the courtesy
challenge.

 This story is a sequel to: This Ray 

 

 Oh, that's classy. What's with this guy? Ray's the one on his knees,
mouth full of a not-so-recently-washed dick, you'd think he could get a
little respect, or is that too much to ask? 

 Okay, that's it, one more warning. Get a clue, asshole. For fifty cents
he'd just walk, leave the guy swinging in the breeze, but it's been so
long. With his eyes closed, and assuming this fuckhead can keep his mouth
shut for the next two minutes, it's just like the old days, and hell, he's
one to talk about politeness. There was the bathroom of a movie theater
with Jack, pushing him down and whipping out his dick. That wasn't exactly
champagne and roses, with the big work-scratched hand shoving at the back
of his neck and the head smearing precome across his face before shoving
at his lips, "for being such a cocktease," and he laughed up at Jack for
the second before that dick pushed his mouth wide open. Jack drawled his
thick backwoods accent all over the insults he was raining down on Ray's
head, and Ray's own cock started to complain about being pushed against
the seam of his jeans. 

 Jack had been faster off the mark than this punk, though, knew perfectly
well how likely somebody was to burst in on them and didn't drag it out,
just pumped down Ray's throat and helped him up, patted his crotch and
went back into whatever the hell they were watching. 

 The good old days, yeah, the closest he got to courtesy then was a
sneered "Like that, baby?" while he pumped Jack's cock on his ratty couch
in front of Saturday Night Live, lame jokes flickering around them while
Jack grunted and thrust up into his hand and -- wait, that's right, he was
downright Miss Fucking Manners -- finally gritted out "Please, you
motherfucker" when Ray teased him too long. 

 Man, this is bringing it all back, and he really hadn't remembered how
good this was. The rising tone of desperation in the grunts way above his
head, the pressure on his tongue, even the smell turns him on, and if he
can't get courtesy at least he can have power, the stuff he'd traded back
and forth in the old days. The stuff he completely lost altogether toward
the end of his marriage, when every dinner or dance or screw with Stella
was his absolute best behavior to get anything and her grudging
acceptance. Hell, he'd prefer this fucking idiot talking shit over that --
he isn't ever going to be the nice one again. Knees are one thing, but
walked on's another, and he puts the frustration into a series of short,
powerful sucks and the guy cuts off a scream and comes just as Ray pulls
his mouth off. Ray pushes down the grin at the rise of that same old
winning rush. 

 Then the stupid little prick tries to pick him up, like Ray sucked off a
total stranger in hopes of a date or something, and he sends him packing
and lights up, leans back against the wall and just enjoys the feeling of
being an asshole. Seems like all he ever does is try to be nice to people,
make them happy, not disappoint them, not make them mad, not bother
Stella, not piss off the Lieutenant, not offend the Mountie, not give the
criminals' lawyers any leverage, and he'll go back to doing it, but just
for now. Just now with that flush running through him, with his dick
rubbing hard against his jeans and demanding to know when he's going to
get home and take care of it, mouth tasting of smoke and come and knees
sore and jeans filthy from kneeling in god-knows-what, he's one glorious
horny asshole, and he feels just about ready to tell the fucking world
what he thinks of it. So he heads home, where he can contain the damage by
only being rude to himself, except he nearly runs into a wall of Canadian
embarrassment. 

 "Ray! I, uh, I. I'm terribly, I. I didn't-- I didn't mean. I came-- Ray,
I'm so sorry, it wasn't my intent--" 

 Poor guy's nearly choking on the number of apologies lodged in his
throat, but Ray's got no fucking clue what to say, so he just stares,
wondering what the hell he must smell like when Fraser takes a deep breath
in. 

 "I want you to know, Ray, that it was never my intention to spy on you in
any manner, and I deeply regret having intruded on your privacy, although
in point of fact this alleyway is technically a public space. It's
interesting, actually, that actual visibility has less than you might
expect to do with the distinction between legally public and private
space, although that's of course neither here nor there. All the same, I
assure you that I consider this wholly my own misstep and it will in no
way interfere with our working relationship and also that I have no
intention of mentioning it ever again." 

 Well. That's... good. What the hell is he supposed to do now, and how
much did he hear? Enough, obviously, because anything else wouldn't have
sent him into this babble, and what the fuck does he say when his partner
just heard him suck off a stranger in the back of a diner beside the
dumpster? What's the fucking etiquette here? 

 "Ray, I... I'm deeply sorry. I am." Fraser's run out of words, obviously,
and just as obviously is starting to get really worried at Ray's lack of
response, getting those deep lines in between his eyes. 

 Ray opens his mouth and hopes something intelligible's going to come out,
and then his cigarette hits his left hand as he brings them up for
who-knows-what explanatory gesture, and what actually comes out is,
"Fuck!" And what the hell, wasn't he going to stop being the goddamn nice
one? 

End Niceties by Hel Virago: lorelei_fic@hotmail.com

Author and story notes above.