Prelude to Winter
by Livia
10/02/99

Leaning at a precise angle over the rumpled bed, Fraser 
brushes a cool farewell kiss across Ray's cheek.

Ray lies still. He hates this part. Doesn't Fraser want to 
stay? He thinks so, sure. But every day Fraser showers and 
heads off to the Consulate, so what's the deal? He guesses 
that Fraser takes the early shift more often nowadays so he 
can spend more nights with Ray. He doesn't ask, though, 'cause 
what if he's wrong?

It chafes him already, the bare stark fact that the Canuck 
leaves. And the possibility that he might want it this way-- 
that Fraser might be choosing to shower and get gone before 
dawn-- well, half the time it burns Ray up. Half the time it 
makes him bitterly cold inside. 

It doesn't help that on the Mountie, the morning after looks 
just like the day before. In bed, Fraser sweats, wrestles, 
begs in slurred, slutty French; but in the morning, he's 
pristine. He smells clean, hygenic almost, like snow. Like no 
one's ever even thought of touching him, like no one ever 
has. And if Ray sees him at the station, the Constable is 
cool, calm and crisp. Businesslike.

It eats at Ray. It bugs the hell out of him. Stella would say 
it's because he's possessive, controlling, probably immature, 
too. Stella would say a lot of things. She always did. 

In the morning, fresh from the shower, Fraser's skin glows 
like a marble statue, off behind a velvet rope in an air-
conditioned museum. Like a silent field under a thick coat of 
snow, during a long winter.

White as soap. Clean as snow. Ray is cold.

So he sits up, growling low in his throat, hoarse with sleep 
and last night's moaning. Heedless of starch and serge, 
buttons and buckles, he strikes, tangling his limbs around 
Fraser. Tugging at his collar, Ray twists both their bodies 
till they're half on, half off the bed. Surprise is his ally, 
and a sure knowledge of the terrain. Mountie, your ass is 
mine.

It only takes a minute. Ray lets go when he's done. And damn, 
it's good. Very good. Fraser's a whole new kind of perfect-- 
red-faced, off-balance, eyes a little wild. And he dropped his 
hat, which makes Ray grin, almost meanly. 

Leaning forward, he brushes a chaste, mocking kiss across 
Fraser's flushed cheek. As he pulls back, Fraser's eyes sharpen, search
his, and Ray's smile loses some of its rough joy. 
Despite himself, it fades. He can see it mirrored in Fraser's 
eyes as it slides past wistful, into needy. It feels... far, 
far too vulnerable.

He falls back into his pillow, turning his back to Fraser. A 
chill shudders up his spine, the first frost of 'shit-- oh 
shit-- it seemed like a good idea at the time.' He tugs the 
blankets around him tightly. 

After a bare and silent moment, Ray hears Fraser stoop and 
palm his hat. 

He shuts Ray's bedroom door behind him with precisely no more 
and no less than his usual quiet consideration.

By the time dawn breaks over Chicago, Ray knows, a lovely dark 
hickey will have blossomed on the Mountie's neck. Maybe his 
uniform collar will hide it. Maybe it won't. Slowly, over the 
course of the day, the bruise on that white neck like a snowy 
field will darken. Ripen. 

Ray doesn't know if the taste in his mouth is bitter, or 
sweet.

[end]

visit livia's library at: 

http://internettrash.com/users/livia/