Presents had been exchanged, carols had ben sung, and the halls had
been well and truly decked    

DISCLAIMERS - The characters in this story do not belong to me. More's the
pity. They belong to Alliance et al. I make no money with this endeavour,
although it took up some valuable study time. Don't tell my Abnormal Psych
teacher, okay?	

WARNINGS - This story contains graphic (and hopefully well-worded)
descriptions of m/m sex. If you are too young to read this, or are deeply
offended by such things, am-scray! Everyone else - come on in!	

NOTES - This is my second story. I'd like to say thank you to the
fantastic people who wrote with compliments and encouragement after
reading my first one, Angel. Hope this one lives up to that one. One last
thing - we fanfic writers live off of feedback! Or at least I do. Please
write and tell me if you liked it, or even if you hated it, I'd love to
hear from you! Furrygirl@usa.net  

  

"Emotional Contact - Who Needs It?"  

A Due South romance inspired by that Christmas episode that I can find no
record of. Well, there is record of it now, but at the time this was
written, there was not. no one I talked to had seen it, and I began to
wonder if I'd imagined the whole thing in some slashy-Due-South psychosis.
. . 

  

Presents had been exchanged, carols had ben sung, and the halls had been
well and truly decked. The Chicago PD, the civilians and the several
Mounties were smiling, laughing, drinking punch, exchanging anecdotes of
Christmases past, and even some hopes and dreams. Detective Dewey was
saying something to Frannie, who had her hand cupped over her mouth to
hide a giggle, Fraser was nodding and listening intently to whatever
Lieutenant Welsh was saying, Inspector Thatcher was talking to Jack Huey,
a rare and radiant smile lighting up her lovely face, softening it into
true beauty, and Constable Turnbull, AKA, Assassin Santa, was gleefully
firing his laser at anyone who happened into his line of vision.  

The spirit of Christmas had indeed possessed these people, despite their
many and collective efforts to avoid it. Laughter and joy were in the air,
pace on earth and good will towards men was possible, at least right here,
right now.  

And Ray Kowalski felt empty.  

He stood, leaning against his desk, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of
his jeans, a false smile on his face for the benefit of anyone who might
come his way. He didn't really expect anyone to do so, and no one did.	

Constable Benton Fraser looked at his partner. Ray looked unhappy. Well,
not precisely unhappy, Fraser mused, perhaps out of sorts was a better
descriptive. But that didn't quite fit, either. The Canadian placed his
half-full glass of cranberry punch on the edge of the buffet table, beside
the largest platter of Christmas cookies he'd ever seen, and began to make
his way towards his friend. He was waylaid twice during the trip.  

First, by Francesca, who, having had a bit too much eggnog, attempted to
lure him under the mistletoe. He could think of nothing to do since
running again seemed somewhat rude. Then he struck on the quite feasible
(if, as Ray would say, "un-Mountie-like" idea of handing her over to
detective Dewey. His did feel a pang of guilt, but, seeing as it was
Christmas, he just thought of it as Dewey's gift.  

Second, by Constable Turnbull, who, also having had too much eggnog, tried
to take him hostage with his toy gun. Extricating himself from that
situation was easier than the first, and he arrived at Ray's desk
unscathed, if a bit rumpled.  

His impulse was to ask 'Are you all right?', but past experience that
questions such as those only annoyed the detective, so Fraser merely
asked, 

"Would you like some punch?" 

"Nah," Ray replied. "I'm thinkin' about splitting." 

"I see. Any particular reason?" 

"I'm just - I'm just not that big on Christmas, Fraser." 

Nor am I, Fraser thought, but didn't say it.  

"Wanna ride home, Fraser?" Ray asked, putting on his jacket.  

Fraser considered the offer. He didn't really want to leave the party.
Thinking it over, he realized he probably just didn't want to be alone.
Well, he thought, considering still further, do I want to be here among
these people, or somewhere else with Ray? The answer surprised him a
little, and he found himself saying, 

"Yes, Ray, thank you."	

Once his own coat had been assumed, Fraser said his goodnights, and,
caught off guard, was pulled into a rather too-friendly kiss by Francesca.
He pulled away abruptly, startled, and saw Ray smirking at him. But there
was something else, behind the smirk, something almost like...pain? You're
imagining things, he told himself sternly, and himself answered back, in a
voice that sounded suspiciously like that of Ray Kowalski, Like hell.  

The car ride was oddly silent. Usually, one or the both of them would be
talking a mile a minute, but tonight - silence. And it wasn't the casual,
comfortable silence they were used to sharing on occasion, but a heavy,
loaded silence.  

Ray wished he could say something. He tried to, on more than one occasion,
he opened his mouth, having planned on speaking, but the unvoiced words
seemed suddenly like the pointless silence-breakers that they were. So Ray
didn't say anything at all, just concentrated on driving.  

Fraser wished he could say something. But he could honestly think of
nothing to say. He supposed it was ironic in a way. He, who could come up
with an anecdote for any occasion, usually to the annoyance of his
coworkers, could not, when he wanted to relieve discomfort, think of
anything to say.  

"Would you like to come upstairs for some tea, Ray?" Fraser asked when
they pulled up at his building. Ray didn't have any particular fondness
for tea, and Fraser knew it, but he didn't want to go up to his apartment
alone. He wanted Ray's company, but did not know how to ask for it
outright. The Honest Mountie was, for some reason, not being completely
honest this evening.  

"Yeah, sure, Fraser." Ray replied. He didn't really like tea, and Fraser
knew it. So why the offer? More to the point, why was he accepting? But he
knew. He knew. He didn't want to be alone. More than just 'not alone', he
wanted to be 'with Fraser', too. Ray was suddenly filled with an odd,
nervous energy, and Fraser had often spoken about the calming qualities of
tea. That's all. He just wanted some tea. Sure, Kowalski, a little voice
in his head commented snidely. You just want some tea.	

The apartment was pitch black when they entered it, and for a moment,
before Fraser turned on a lamp that cast a golden gleam about the room,
Ray wished it could stay that way. The two of them, in the dark apartment.
Doing what, he wasn't sure - or maybe he wouldn't let himself be sure.
Just in the dark. He had an inexplicable feeling that they were going to
talk soon; talk about things he suspected would be easier to discuss in
this strangely comforting darkness. 

Fraser turned on a lamp, and a soft glow filled the room. He looked
around. His apartment seemed suddenly strange, as though he were seeing it
all for the first time. My chair? He thought. My table, my window, my
bookcase? At all looked familiar, yet new, as if he were looking at a
photograph of his apartment. It was the same, but not, somehow. He
blinked, and the illusion vanished. It was his chair, his bookcase. And
his partner, standing just inside the door, that mysterious pain once
again in his eyes.  

"Tea," Fraser said to Ray, or perhaps only to himself, and went to his
small kitchen to prepare it. Ray watched the Mountie as he walked, seeing
the natural grace and dexterity he seemed somehow to embody. Fraser walked
the way Ray imagined a lion would walk - smooth, proud, confident. Strong.
Never timid, never uncertain. Knowing just where he was going, and at what
pace he would get there. Although unable to articulate the thought fully,
Ray was envious of Fraser's clarity. Clarity of thought, clarity of
purpose.  

"Tea," Ray agreed absently and Fraser began to prepare it. He took some
small comfort in the ritual, the familiarity of it. Fill kettle. Place
kettle on burner. Turn burner on. Wait for water to boil. Wait. The 'wait'
part wasn't particularly comforting. Fraser could feel Ray's eyes on him
as he moved through the kitchen, and wondered what his partner was
thinking. What am I thinking? The Mountie wondered. Ignorance did not sit
well with him at all, especially ignorance of his own motives. 

Ray watched as Fraser heated water. Then the Mountie stopped moving,
crossed his arms over his broad chest and stood, apparently attempting to
disprove the old adage, "A watched pot never boils". Ray studied his
partner's profile as he stared at the teakettle. Fraser was different from
anyone else Ray had ever known, or, the detective suspected, anyone he
would ever know. Fraser was...pure - the word popped unexpectedly into
Ray's mind, and it fit. Pure. Not innocent, not really, the Mountie had
seen too much of the world's backside to retain his innocence, but...pure.
Whatever happened, whatever nastiness he saw, it never really seemed to
touch him, even all the recent shit with Warfield. Fraser had waded
through and come out clean, he was like Andy Dufresne, wearing his coat of
freedom in the prison yard. Pure.  

Apparently, a watched pot does boil, Fraser thought as he poured the
steaming water into two waiting mugs and added teabags. He glanced toward
the other room - Ray was sitting on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, his
hands hanging limply between them.  

"Tea, Ray," Fraser said, handing him a mug. Ray sipped tentatively. Not
bad. Not strictly good, but not bad either. He hoped no bark was involved,
but didn't ask. Slumping back against the cushions, Ray heaved a deep
sigh.  

"Christ, I hate the holidays."	

"I know what you mean," Fraser agreed. "At least I didn't get a book this
year," 

"No, you got a sword," Ray said, smiling a little. "What are you gonna do
with that thing, anyway?" 

"Hang it on the wall, I suppose," Fraser said. "Although I do seem to
recall a television program about a culture of immortal people who carried
swords. But I don't remember the details."  

Ray chuckled. "Yeah, Highlander. You an Immortal, Fraser?"  

"Not that I'm aware of," the Canadian replied. 

"It would explain a few things, though," Ray continued. "Like, how you can
leap from rooftop to rooftop without getting killed, or fall off of trains
and not get killed. You sure you're not an Immortal?" 

"Quite sure," Fraser said, growing uncomfortable with the line of
conversation for some reason.  

"Yeah," Ray said softly. "I guess you're just SuperMountie."  

Fraser looked up at Ray sharply. "What?" 

"SuperMountie," Ray repeated, letting his head fall back against the sofa,
his eyes drifting closed. "You know, faster than a speeding caribou, able
to stop criminals with a single Inuit story - invincible. Invulnerable.
SuperMountie."	

"What would you think that?" Fraser asked, disturbed by the idea and not
certain why. He was human, didn't Ray know that? The American sat up and
looked at Fraser.  

"I don't know, Fraser. You just seem so strong, like nothin' scares you,
like nothin' can touch you." 

Fraser shook his head. "I am human, Ray, the same as you. Vulnerable,
destructible, human." He held up his Stetson. "This isn't the Helmet of
Mambrino, I am not invincible." Then Fraser stood up and began to do
something uncharacteristic. He started to pace.  

"Then why does none of it touch you, Fraser?" Ray asked, standing up. "Why
does none of it get to you?"  

"Of course it gets to me, dammit!" Fraser snapped. It was the first time
Ray had ever heard him swear in anger. "Of course it bothers me! How could
it not? I am human, Ray, flawed feeling flesh and blood human. You are my
best friend, how could you not know this?" Fraser stopped pacing abruptly
and turned to face his partner.  

"How could I know it, Fraser? You don't let me in, you don't let anyone
in! You put a wall up around you, and it cuts everyone off about here,"
Ray stepped in about a foot away from Fraser. "Everyone. Including me. Let
me in, Fraser," he said, his voice very low and very intense. "Just let me
in," 

Fraser looked into Ray's face, so close to his own. He took in the rugged,
angular planes, planes, the caring eyes, and somewhere in that indefinable
area between heart and head, body and soul, instinct and intellect, a
decision was made.  

Fraser took Ray's face in his hands. The American seemed mildly startled,
but did not try to pull away. Fraser didn't plan his next words, but what
came out was, if somewhat out of character, oddly appropriate. 

"You want in?" he growled. "Fine."  

And with that, Fraser leaned forward and captured Ray's lips with his own.
Ray tensed in surprise, but he yielded almost immediately, moulding his
body against Fraser's larger frame, returning the kiss enthusiastically.  

The kiss that Fraser had originally intended as a method of silencing his
partner soon turned ravenous, developing an almost desperate edge. The
floodgates of their unacknowledged need, having been opened would not, it
seemed, be closed easily.  

When the need for oxygen forced them to separate, they stood, staring
mutely into each other's eyes. One of Fraser's hands was still on Ray's
face, his thumb unconsciously stroking the detective's cheek. Ray's hands
rested lightly on Fraser's hips.  

Fraser slowly, deliberately raised his hand up, palm facing Ray, and
waited. After a moment of confusion, Ray reached up and laid his
fingertips against Fraser's.  

Fraser looked at their hands - his hands were broader than Ray's, Ray's
were longer, more slender. Beautiful, really. Fraser drew a sharp breath
into his suddenly needy lungs and slowly laced his fingers through Ray's
linking their hands.  

Ray gasped sharply, the simple gesture suddenly seeming like the last word
in intimacy, more intimate even than the kiss. A fine tremor passed
through the American's body, a tremor he felt echoed in Fraser.  

"You're trembling," the Canadian whispered, his voice very soft, almost
shaky.	

"So are you," Ray replied, his voice equally soft.  

They both moved forward simultaneously, and the next kiss was entirely
mutual from the start. Fraser's arms enveloped Ray, cradling his slender
form against his chest as he deepened the kiss. It was gentler this time,
more of an exploration. Ray's arms slid around Fraser's waist, pressing
himself as close to the Mountie as he could, reveling in every sensation. 


Ray's hands went to the buttons on Fraser's tunic, divesting him of it
rather quickly, considering the amount of buttons, knots and buckles he
had to contend with. The thin cotton undershirt was pulled over Fraser's
head and dropped on the floor, soon followed by Ray's jacket, holster, and
gun. A haphazard trail of clothing and weaponry marked their path to the
bedroom.  

Falling back against the pillows, Ray gazed up at Fraser, looming over him
on the bed. Their eye contact never broke, never even wavered as the
Mountie lowered himself to lie full-length beside Ray. Fraser reached out
slowly and trailed his fingers down the side of Ray's face, savouring the
silky texture of his skin. Ray's hand came up to cover Fraser's, bringing
it to his lips and placing a gentle kiss over the pulsepoint on his wrist.
Fraser's eyes closed and he sighed softly. 

The Mountie's hand slid down Ray's side, over his hip, and Ray arched
sensuously against him, gasping as the touch blazed a white-hot trail
along his skin. Fraser lunged suddenly, pinning Ray to the mattress with
his body. Ray arched again and Fraser smiled, reminded of the smooth,
unselfconscious movements of a tiger or panther. Actually, no - a cat in
heat would have been embarrassed to move like that.  

Fraser leaned down until his lips hovered mere centimeters above Ray's.
The detective strained upwards, trying to capture his mouth, but Fraser
evaded him, those lips curving into a smile that could only be described
as predatory. Ray shivered, as much in apprehension as in anticipation.  

Fraser leaned in still further and whispered against Ray's parted lips,  

"I want you, Ray. Do you want me?" his voice was a soft, dangerous purr,
nearly a growl, and Ray made a small noise in his throat, almost like a
whimper.  

"Answer me, Ray," Fraser said, briefly taking his partner's lower lip
between his teeth, but still refusing to actually kiss him. "Answer me.
Answer me, Ray."  

The quiet, seductive timbre of Fraser's voice both soothed and ignited
him, and Ray gasped breathlessly, 

"Yes. Yes, so much..."	

Fraser kissed him then, a deep lingering kiss that Ray felt throughout his
entire body. The kiss continued as Fraser slid his hands along Ray's arms,
took hold of his wrists and pulled the American's arms up over his head,
holding them immobile with one hand.  

Ray's eyes widened in surprise and he struggled instinctively, but was no
match for the Mountie's strength. He couldn't free his hands from Fraser's
implacable grip, and the rest of his body was pinned by Fraser on top of
him.  

The Canadian gazed down at the man he now held at his mercy. Ray's face
was flushed, his chest heaving with his ragged breathing and his eyes were
wild, flashing with lust, with trepidation, with an edge of desperation.
He twisted in Fraser's grip, reminding the Mountie once more of a sleek,
beautiful feline.  

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmured and Ray's struggling ceased
as the detective felt - actually felt - Fraser's eyes travel over him in a
sort of visual caress.	

"Fraser...please..." Ray pleaded brokenly, the force of his own need
threatening him with madness.  

"Yes, Ray? Fraser asked, his voice as cool and calm as though he were
giving a report, or some equally mundane activity, not doing his level
best to drive his partner mad with desire.  

"Was there something you wanted?"  

Ray could have screamed - would have, if he'd had the air with which to do
so. Goddamn tease - ! 

"Fraser, I want - I need you to- - I need - " Ray broke off, squeezing his
eyes shut s it seemed that Fraser was just going to sit there, grinning
like the goddamn Cheshire Cat and cool as a fucking cucumber while Ray
went out of his mind with need.  

"Just tell me what you want, Ray," Fraser purred, and for a split second,
Ray wanted to hit him, wanted to do something, do anything to break that
control, that calm indifference.  

"I want you to fuck me, Fraser," Ray snarled, "I want you to slam into me,
I want it fast, I want it hard, I want it to hurt, and I want you to do it
now!"  

There went Fraser's detachment. The savage, erotic vulgarity of Ray's
words shattered the veneer of control and Fraser fell on his partner, his
mouth everywhere, tasting, sucking, biting. Marking, and Ray moaned aloud
at every touch of Fraser's teeth on his body.  

"Now, Fraser," Ray half-growled, half-moaned. "Now." 

Fraser shook his head, momentarily taken aback. "But I don't have any - " 

"Fuck the lube," Ray snarled. "Do it. Fuck me." 

So Fraser did just that.  

"Fuck - - - yeah," Ray gasped as Fraser pushed into him.  

Fraser froze, the sensation of heat threatening to overwhelm him. Then he
began to move. Ray cried out, lost in a haze of pain and pleasure as
Fraser slammed into him again and again, and Ray felt himself falling,
nearing the edge, nearer and nearer until he crossed over and as Fraser's
cry of completion registered in his ears, everything shimmered and went
black.	

***** 

Ray opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as he tried to orient himself. He
was in a bed, and ...Fraser. The warm shape pressed against his side was
Fraser.  

"You okay?" Ray queried, tentatively, deciding that What the hell got into
you? wouldn't be appropriate pillow talk.  

"Yes," Fraser replied softly. "I'm sorry, Ray, I . . . I don't know what
else to. . .I'm sorry." 

"Fraser," Ray sighed, "can we skip the guilt trip until after coffee?"	

"Understood." Fraser said, the 'polite Mountie mask' that Ray was
beginning to hate going up behind his eyes.  

Ray sighed. This was not going to be easy. He pulled on his jeans from
where they lay beside the bed and rubbed his hands roughly over his face.
He stretched his neck to one side until he felt it crack. He ached in odd
places - I need to have more sex, he thought. I'm obviously out of
practice here.	

He found the coffee easily, Fraser's kitchen was almost nauseatingly neat
and organized. Smelling the rich scent of the grounds made him feel a
little better. I'm such a caffeine addict, he thought vaguely, his mind
doing it's level best to avoid thinking about how he was going to mollify
the guilt-ridden Mountie in the other room.  

When Ray finally turned, coffee mug in hand, heading for the bedroom, he
saw Fraser on the couch, having come out and sat down entirely
noiselessly. The Mountie was wearing jeans as well, and a blue tee shirt,
but he looked no less professional than he looked in full uniform, and his
hair was, as always, very orderly.  

"Do you want some coffee?" Ray asked.  

Fraser shook his head. "No thank you," he answered softly and Ray sighed
again.	

"Look, Fraser" he said, sitting down beside the Canadian, who tensed
visibly. "We've gotta talk." 

Fraser nodded, looking miserable. "Yes. I'll understand completely if you
want another partner," he said. "I wouldn't blame you at all for - " 

"What?" Ray asked, confused. "Why the hell would I want another partner?" 


"Because of what I did," Fraser said, his voice very low.  

"And what did you do?" Ray asked. "Give me the best sex I've had in years?
What's wrong Fraser? Tell me, cuz I just don't get it."  

Fraser turned his head slowly and gazed at Ray, his hair in disarray,
still bleary-eyed and drowsy, and felt a surge of affection, which was
followed by a stronger surge of guilt. How could I let myself lose control
like that?  

"I - I lost control," the Mountie whispered. "And I must have hurt you, I
didn't even think about that, I just - " 

"Fraser, stop," Ray said, his voice soft, but solemn enough to get
Fraser's attention. "Just stop it. You didn't hurt me, okay? I'm fine. In
fact, I had a fantastic time last night. Didn't you? I mean - " Ray broke
off, seeming for the first time insecure, very unsure of himself.  

He means it, Fraser thought. I didn't hurt him. The Canadian reached out
and took hold of Ray's chin, drawing his face up until their eyes met.	

"Ray," he began. "Last night was incredible, it's just...I don't know
where we should go from here. Do you?"	

"I don't have a clue, Fraser," Ray said, smiling a little. "I don't know
anything except I need you. I very well may even love you." He paused,
drawing breath and opening his mouth to speak again, and - - - 

Fraser's kiss was everything the Mountie was - Kind, determined,
knowledgeable, confident and thorough, and several things he was not -
unruly, disorderly, somewhat bestial, and just short of violent.  

"You know what, Ray?" Fraser whispered against the detective's lips. "You
talk too damn much." 

Ray's indignant protest was cut off.  

 THE END