(Snoop)     This is what happens when I'm home sick for 3 days, living
on Ny-Quil, watching "Eclipse" over and over so I can write a review.
Thanks to Audra for a rapid and insightful beta. She really deserves
co-author credit on this, as much as she tightened up all the sucky spots.
--Kellie
 
 Disclaimers: Benton Fraser & Ray Kowalski belong to Alliance, goldarnit,
no matter how much I wish otherwise.
 Rated R for naughty thoughts of boys with boys and boys with toys. 
 
  
 Snoop
 c. 2000
 Kellie Matthews
 
         Benton Fraser feels relieved when Ray's landlady finally leaves
him alone in the apartment. Well, alone save for Diefenbaker, who is just
as curious as he is. It's only been a short time but he feels an odd sense
of frustration, an inability to get a handle on Ray. He feels he ought to
know more, understand more, and he doesn't, although they work extremely
well together. One thing he has noticed, because wolves, even half-wolves,
are not known for their subtlety, is that Dief seems to be very fond of
his new partner. He's exhibited what is really a startling degree of
affection, far more than he ever exhibited with Ray Vecchio. And despite a
rocky start, Ray . . . this new Ray . . . seems to like Diefenbaker as
well, also unlike Ray Vecchio, who at best tolerated his companion. Fraser
finds the difference to be surprisingly . . . pleasurable. 
         He stands for a moment in the middle of the living room, not
certain what to do next. He knows he should leave: time is of the essence
and he's discovered the information he came for. But . . . his eyes are
drawn again to the photograph on the roll-top desk. The one of Ray and an
attractive blonde woman. He frowns, wondering who she is, feeling an odd
twinge of dislike for this woman he's never met, who has never done
anything to earn his disfavor. Yet there it is. Undeniable. Sister? No,
there's an intimacy to the pose that seems to preclude that, and apart
from a similarity in coloring she and Ray look nothing alike.
         That narrows the possibilities to girlfriend... or wife. He
doesn't think it's the latter, though. He's overheard Ray asking some of
the women at the 27th if they would like to go out, and he knows with an
inner unshakeable conviction that Ray is not the type to cheat. He's not
sure how he knows that, or why, when admittedly he knows very little about
this man but there's no dislodging that certainty and he's not inclined to
try. Of course, Ray's dating game could simply be part of his cover. Ray
Vecchio had certainly considered himself a ladies man. What he doesn't
understand is why Ray isn't more successful in his attempts. If he were a
woman . . . but he isn't.
         His frown deepens, and he finds himself in the bedroom, at the
closet, which is open, relieving him of the necessity of having to open it
himself. He catalogues the contents quickly, mostly jeans, khakis, twills,
a few sweaters, one good suit in an unusual olive shade, a gray linen
blazer, a charcoal blazer, shirts of various types, bowling, polo, even a
few dress shirts, one in a rich teal that he suspects would bring out the
golden flecks in Ray's blue eyes. This Ray's wardrobe is not extensive,
also unlike Ray Vecchio's. He moves to the bureau, its top scratched and
scarred from a thousand nights of having a police officer's accoutrements
tossed casually down on its surface as Ray undresses after work.
Undresses. 
         He swallows, once more disconcerted by his reaction to this man.
He's been drawn to men before, been aware of this facet of his
personality, both as a youth on the brink of manhood, and later, as a man.
Mark, Eric, he had felt a version of this with both of them. But not like
this, never before so strong, so . . . demanding. His gaze flickers toward
the bed, and he drags it back. There's nothing there that will assist him
in his quest. He avoids looking at himself in the mirror over the dresser,
not really wanting to see himself here, see the expression he suspects his
face holds. 
         He quietly opens a drawer, discovers it full of t-shirts,
multi-hued, haphazardly pushed in with little care, some folded, some. . .
wadded. Another drawer reveals sweatshirts, sweatpants. A third holds
socks-- unpaired and random. A fourth reveals a jumble of underwear, a
startling variety, everything from boxers to boxer-briefs to briefs to
bikinis, in all manner of colors, and fabrics as well. He wonders briefly
what that might mean about Ray, psychologically speaking. He thinks of his
own wardrobe, everything neatly sorted and folded, his own underclothes,
t-shirts, tanks, boxers, nearly all of it white cotton, the occasional
gray, or blue. Dull. Clearly, Ray is not dull. He could not, Fraser
suspects, be dull if he tried. 
         He sighs and pushes the drawer closed, turns, only to have the
bed catch his eye again. Rumpled, unmade, he imagines Ray there, tangled
in the patterned sheets, pale skin lightly flushed. . . no. Resolutely he
moves to the bathroom, finds a prescription for sedatives in the medicine
chest, an old one, only two pills used. It's out of date, Ray should throw
it away. He wonders if it was kept deliberately, or just forgotten.
Aspirin and ibuprofen. A neatly rolled Ace bandage with a safety-pin
instead of a clip. Band-aids. Antibiotic ointment. Rubbing alcohol and
witch hazel. Deodorant. A full bottle of after-shave, its top and
shoulders dusty. Razor. Shaving cream. A tube of hair-gel. The usual sort
of things one expects to find in a medicine cabinet. Nothing tremendously
revealing.
         Moving on to the kitchen, Fraser finds himself bemused by the
pattern of Ray's china, which is clearly intended to look like the hide of
Holstein cow. Rather peculiar. Oddly, the kitchen is meticulously
organized, while very little else in the house is. Ray has a good
assortment of cookware, of spices, even of cookbooks. Yet a glance into
the refrigerator reveals mostly take-out food containers. He wonders why,
when it's clear that Ray knows how to cook, he obviously rarely does. All
in all, the apartment doesn't reveal much, other than that Ray is not a
particularly good housekeeper, which fact does not surprise him in the
least, considering the usual state of Ray's desk.
         One thing is clear, whomever the woman in the photograph is, she
doesn't live here with him, nor does she visit frequently enough to have
left spoor. There is no sign of a woman's touch here, nothing in the
closet, in the drawers, in the bathroom, all places where he would have
expected to find traces, were there any to find. But that does not rule
out less frequent . . . visits. He frowns, takes a step toward the
bedroom. Stops. 
         He shouldn't do this. It's bad enough that he's invaded Ray's
privacy to this extent. What he's considering is completely unethical. All
the rest of his investigations he can excuse, however distantly, under a
genuine need to know. This he can't. But this need is stronger than the
other. Deeper ... Personal. He moves slowly toward the bedroom again,
glancing around as if to be sure he's not observed. Dief watches him,
neutral, neither encouraging nor discouraging. He has to make this
decision on his own.
         He stands beside the bed, looking at the nightstand. A single
drawer, uninvestigated. He sits, on the edge of the bed, telling himself
not to. He knows better. He should not. Unconscionable, unforgivable . . .
irresistible. His baser nature prevails. He has to. His fingers seem to
tingle as he eases the drawer open, just enough to see what he half
expected to see. 
         He reaches in, removes the open box. Crown. 12, natural latex
rubber . . . he slides his fingers into the box, pulls out the contents,
counts. His eyebrows lift, and something eases inside his chest, though he
realizes it's silly to try to make anything out of the fact that so few
have been used. The box could have been purchased as recently as the
previous day. He reaches to put it back, and his fingers encounter
something that feels startlingly like flesh. He tugs open the drawer
further, and his jaw drops. Now this is . . . revealing. Extremely so. 
         He picks it up. It's translucent, the color is slightly
disconcerting-- a rather lurid shade of magenta. But its weight, and the
naturalness of its size, and contours and . . . feel surprises him. It
yields slightly to the pressure of his fingers, much like his own sudden
erection might, were he to touch it now. A little shiver goes through him
as he imagines just what Ray might do with this, and he has to shift to
accommodate his the now-uncomfortable weight between his thighs. The
picture is far too vivid. . . naked, straining, sweating, and so
beautiful, so . . . vibrant. He has to shake his head to rid himself of
the vision.
         He tells himself again that it's useless to extrapolate. There
are many reasons why a man might keep such an object in a drawer next to
his bed, many if not most of which could involve the woman in the
photograph. But he has. . . a hunch. His lips are dry, and he moistens
them, and is suddenly tempted to taste. Closing his eyes, he lets his
tongue slide up the underside, much as he would like to do to . . . or for
. . . or with. . . the object's owner. Disappointingly he tastes nothing
but latex and a hint of detergent. He sighs, and opens the drawer wider so
he can carefully return both his finds to their original places, and when
he does, he notes that there is also a bottle of lubricant, and smiles.
His hunch is suddenly much stronger. 
         He is, by nature, patient. He's good at waiting. With just a
trace of hope, he can wait for a very long time. Perhaps someday he'll
discover if he is as good at imagining as he is at waiting. 
 
 *** finis ***
 
 

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