How Ray Got His Groove Back 

by Aristide & Bone

April 2000

Disclaimers:  "I suppose the character is public ground. If you're willing
to bring it into people's houses every week, the [fans] are entitled
to certain liberties, wherever their imagination is carried by those
characters." -- Paul Gross, quoted in the Toronto Globe & Mail, August
8, 1998. Reason #876 why we think Paul Gross kicks almighty ass. 

Acknowledgements:  Big, mushy thanks and gratitude to The Craft and Kat
and Crysothemis for sweet beta goodness. Thanks to Bone's hubby for the
apt summary. 

Notes:	Careful assessment of the Bone/Aristide collaborative method
has revealed a certain undeniable formula at work: swap file, add more
smut, repeat. Just so you know what you're getting yourself into. 

Pairing:  Fraser/Kowalski

Rating:  NC-17 for m/m sex in scandalous quantities, language, and some
(gasp!) heteroerotic imagery. 

Summary:  How Ray got into Fraser's groove.

***************************************

From his vantage point just at the edge of the chaos, Fraser thought
the scene looked like something out of a bad movie. A "B" movie, he
thought
the Americans called it. Even the setting seemed almost staged: a dance
club, robbed at gunpoint. The gunmen were long gone, but the hubbub they
had caused remained. In the muted light, customers mingled with uniformed
officers, a mirrored ball suspended over the dance floor continued to
spin light in dizzying patterns, and the smell of beer and smoke hung
thick in the air, all underlaid by the throbbing beat from a sound system
no one but the DJ seemed to know how to turn off, and said DJ currently
lay sprawled unconscious under a table weighed down with culinary
atrocities
apparently known as 'buffalo wings' and 'Cajun popcorn'. The EMS
technician
hovering under the table with him appeared to be tending to his work
with one hand and filching appetizers with the other. 

The whole thing made Fraser's head ache. He pinched the top of his nose,
trying to clear the smoke smell from his nostrils, then blinked a couple
of times. The last time he'd seen Ray, he'd been trying to calm a key
witness, a petite olive-skinned brunette, who, judging by the waywardness
of her sleeveless top and the way she'd leaned on Ray, had perhaps imbibed
a little more than her small frame could support gracefully. 

Usually, he and Ray split the list of witnesses to interview along gender
lines: Ray talked to the men, while Fraser generally found that women
opened up more to him. Not tonight, though. The young woman, who wasn't
really that young if you looked at her face instead of her... not that
he'd been looking at her... but in that blouse, what there was of it,
there wasn't really much else to look *at*. 

At any rate, she had taken one look at Fraser and gone off into gales
of giggles, pointing and saying any number of things, most of which were
buried under her laughter, but he caught "Hey, it's Smokey the Bear!"
and "Who's the cat in the hat?" before Ray steered her off into the crowd,
and he lost sight of them. 

Silly to feel offended by that. Not everyone understood the meaning of
his uniform, he knew that. Still, he appreciated Ray's intuitive response,
leading the woman away before she said anything hurtful. More hurtful.

Of course, it was more likely that Ray's intuition had less to do with
protecting Fraser's sensitivities than the fact that a half-naked (and
more than half beautiful, in that rather obvious way some women had)
girl was leaning on him, wrapped around him so closely that she could
have reached down and pulled his socks up for him. 

Fraser straightened his shoulders, dismissing that particular thought
as unworthy of him. It wasn't the time, and it certainly wasn't the place.
Not that there was any appropriate time and place for such... unworthy
thoughts. No. A fierce, bitterly honest amendment: jealous thoughts.

Ray was his partner. And his friend. 

They'd established those parameters quite nicely during Ray's temporary
stint as a refugee in Canada. Whether Fraser found Ray attractive (which,
with more of that bitter honesty, he felt compelled to confess that he
did) was irrelevant. Ray was just another in a long line of unattainable
men he'd had the misfortune to find irresistible: A hockey player. An
Inuit playmate, now grown into a man. And now Ray, who had an ex-wife
he still loved to distraction. An ex-wife. As in a woman. Not a man.
Ray loved women. It helped, sometimes, to repeat those known facts. Logic
and truth invoked their own atmosphere of comfort, whether or not those
truths aligned with his own desires. 

Sometimes he wondered if he did it on purpose -- choosing only the most
improbable objects of desire, fixating on those least likely to be able
to give him what he needed. The more out of his reach, the more he wanted
them. A fairly sorry state of affairs, he had to admit, but not one to
be solved on a dance floor sticky with something he'd almost prefer to
think was blood, but was probably something worse. 

Right. Well, first things first. The infernal noise came to an abrupt
end mid-caterwaul with the expedient use of his hunting knife through
the speaker wires. The mirrored ball ceased its eternal rotation after
he flipped the row of switches on the wall behind the DJ's booth, and
bright fluorescent light cast its sickly pall over the crowd. Without
the flattering light of the... dark... the club's customers looked even
sillier in their leather pants and barely there skirts and their garish
make-up. He was sure Ray would have a good laugh over them later. 

Or perhaps not. Now that he could see and hear, finding Ray wasn't a
problem. There he was, in the corner, leaning solicitously toward the
young woman, his bright head tilted down to her dark one. Fraser made
his way over, his progress hampered by three mildly hysterical women
who approached him from his blind side, one of whom got his attention
by tucking her hand under his tunic jacket from behind and... squeezing.
He decided one of the female officers might be better suited to their
needs, and handed them off with a sigh of relief and without a shred
of guilt. 

His primary concern right now was Ray.

He found his way blocked by some tables and chairs and paused, still
not close enough to hear what Ray and the woman were saying over the
din, but close enough to observe them carefully. The woman had her head
tilted back, exposing the long line of her throat and extravagant
cleavage.
She didn't look anything like Stella, but Ray leaned over her with the
same protective stance Fraser had seen him exercise with his ex-wife.
Did they really need to stand that close? It wasn't *that* loud in here.
The woman laughed at something Ray said, and he leaned even closer. Were
it not for the EMS personnel and the unconscious DJ, you might have
thought
it was just another Friday night at a club, another chance to... what
was the word Ray had used once? Trawl? Troll? A mating dance, urban style.
Males and females of the species, sending out their primal signals through
the intricate and, to Fraser, often incomprehensible patterns of
pre-coital
behavior. 

It seemed unlikely that Ray was actually interviewing the woman about
the incident. He wasn't writing in his notebook, for one thing. For
another,
given the way Ray's head inclined toward the woman's chest, Fraser didn't
think he was giving her testimony his full and undivided attention. He
moved so he could see Ray's face. Even from this distance, he evinced
all the characteristics of an animal in heat: flared nostrils, increased
respiration, and, after a quick glance below Ray's belt, a discernible
erection. 

Fraser's eyes watered, and he inwardly cursed the smoke as he rubbed
them clear. Smoke, or perhaps shame -- bad enough that he was assessing
the patrons in such an unfavorable manner, but it seemed an outrageous
breach of conduct to evaluate Ray through the same lens of bias and
frustration.
Not that that had stopped him from looking, not that that had stopped
him from tormenting himself with yet another image designed to somehow
simultaneously mortify and entice him. 

They looked good together. Both so slender, one light, one dark. One
tall, one small. He could picture Ray leaning over, nudging her ridiculous
excuse for a blouse out of the way, sucking strongly at a pointed nipple.
He could see the woman arch her back, thrusting forward into Ray's mouth,
lifting one tanned leg over Ray's hip, grinding against his groin. He
could see them writhing together, hands and mouths frantic, see Ray easing
her to the floor, sliding his hands up under the abbreviated leather
warmth of her skirt, then lowering his zipper and... 

Abruptly, Fraser stepped back, putting physical distance between himself
and the subjects of his mental lapse. Too bad he couldn't distance the
burning images as quickly. He felt dizzy, too hot suddenly in the uniform
he'd so recently wanted to defend, his pants tightening over his own
response to his perverse thoughts. Time to move, think of something else,
*do* something else. 

He stepped forward resolutely, ready to tell Ray he was going to see
if the other officers needed assistance, when Ray's whole demeanor
changed:
he leaned back instead of forward. His arms crossed over his chest in
a classic defensive posture. The woman leaned toward him, stepping so
close she blocked Fraser's view of Ray's face momentarily, then Ray
stepped
away from her, and Fraser could hear him say, "... for your statement.
Thanks for your help." 

Ray passed Fraser with a quick glance and a jerk of his head, which Fraser
took to mean that he should follow him. Fraser glanced over his shoulder
at the young woman, who was balanced precariously on her narrow-heeled
sandals and looking wistfully after them. He wondered what she could
possibly have said to cause Ray to bolt so precipitously. He tipped his
hat to the young woman, then turned to follow Ray, whose long legs had
taken him all the way out of the club by the time Fraser caught up with
him. 

"Ray? Should we... " he asked. 

"Let the uniforms take it from here; we've got what we need," Ray said
flatly, giving no clues to the cause of his distress other than that
inward focus, that silent signal that somewhere, for some reason, Ray
was in pain. 

Fraser hated that. Ray upset and vocal was much easier to deal with.
Ray silent and withdrawn was much, much harder, as he'd found on more
than one occasion. And apparently, this occasion would be no different.
Fraser hesitated, unsure what exactly he was trying to ask. Asking about
his sexual response to a witness would be beyond inappropriate. The case.
Yes, he could ask about the case. 

"Did the witness know anything?" he asked, thinking that was as safe
as anything he could think of. 

Ray laughed sharply, an ugly sound. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure she knew --"
He shut his mouth down on whatever else he'd planned to say, took a breath
and said, "No, she doesn't think she saw anything." 

"Oh," Fraser said, more confused than ever. "Perhaps when she's more
rested." 

"You mean more sober," Ray said.

Fraser inclined his head to the side in acknowledgement. "Did you get
her name?" 

Ray turned to him, his face set. "Name, phone number, where she works.
Yeah, I got all that." 

Ray didn't seem at all happy about that, which was... puzzling. It was
perfectly obvious that Ray had been attracted to her, and quite clear
that his interest had been returned. Which left Fraser only with the
unaskable, and possibly unanswerable question of what had necessitated
Ray's abrupt change from interested male animal to this stranger, this
tense and tired man. 

"Look, Fraser, it's been a long day. I've handed over my notes and I'm
packing it in. You need a ride?" Ray already had his car keys out, his
attention no longer on the club, or Fraser. 

Fraser stopped. "No, I'll walk, thank you anyway."

"Right," Ray said. "Okay, then I'll see you tomorrow." Then he was in
the car, the engine gunned, and he peeled out of the parking place,
leaving
a small amount of rubber behind to show he'd been there. 

Fraser stood, watching him go, the turmoil of his own thoughts diverted
at once with a startling ease that was nevertheless commonplace when
concern for Ray surfaced. Something had upset Ray. Badly. Something to
do with the woman. He thought for a moment about going back into the
club, to find her and ask her to explain, but reason intervened.
Interviewing
witnesses about crime scenes was one thing. Interviewing them about their
sexual appeal to his partner was something else entirely. 

Sexual appeal. Such a strange, wondrous, unpredictable thing. He'd never
been able to control his own yearnings; merely suppressing them took
most of his energy without trying to actually force his desires to more
appropriate targets. Maybe that was Ray's problem, too. Perhaps some
uncontrollable part of him still yearned for Stella, and felt it would
be a betrayal to admit attraction to another woman, especially one so
different from the tall, reserved blondeness of his ex-wife. 

That made sense. As much sense as anything. The last time he'd seen Ray
that upset, he'd... well, really, the only word for it was 'stalked'
Stella. Maybe it would be a good idea to check on Ray, make sure he was
all right, that he wasn't about to do anything...ill-advised. 

Yes, checking on Ray seemed prudent. With the ease of long custom, Fraser
pressed down all the other reasons his headstrong heart told him he was
going to Ray's, and pulled forward duty, and prudence, and reason. And
instead of heading sensibly to the Consulate and his paperwork and his
narrow cot, he turned in the direction Ray had sped off in, and started
walking. 

***************************************

Porn.

The answer was porn.

The answer to this godawful, never-ending ache was not a half-hammered
witness to a felony, even if she did smell like gardenias and have the
most beautiful tits he'd seen in person in his lifetime. Tits like that
came with baggage. All he'd had to do was drag his eyes up from them
to her face, to that 'I'm-interested' look in her eyes, to that lean
she had, that hand looking for a place to settle on him, and he'd known
she wasn't the solution to his problem. No way. No, she was just another
problem waiting to happen; another heartache, heartbreak waiting to shake
up his life. 

One time around that block was plenty, thanks anyway. 

It had taken no time at all, when he was talking to her, to go from a
tight, hungry thought about how good his cock would feel sliding between
those gorgeous tits to a memory of how he couldn't stop *shaking* in
the aftermath of Stella, how the hurt went on and on until he felt weak
from it, how sometimes it had been so bad that his teeth had chattered,
and he'd had to clench his jaw shut until it ached. 

One led to the other. Not necessarily the dick-tit thing, that was just
your basic garden-variety fantasy, but all of it, the whole stinking
package. You'd start out good, right, but you'd end up bad. No other
way to look at it. Good ended up bad. 

It made him feel like a fucking lab rat, sitting next to the food dish
and slowly starving to death because, hey, he might be a lab rat but
he wasn't a *dummy* lab rat, and he knew an electric shock when he felt
one. His dick had wilted in his pants so fast that it made his head --
hell, *both* his heads-- spin. Pain would do that to a guy. 

So no girl. 

No soft, wet, warm places to explore with his tongue and dick. No long
hair to grab onto, no hips to hold hard underneath him. No drag of nipples
on his chest, no brush of smooth calves on the backs of his thighs, no
gardenias, no tits. None of that. 

Just porn. Lots of porn.

Porn was definitely the answer.

You didn't have to buy it dinner and you never had to ask afterward
whether
it was good or not. He was *not* going to be ruled by his dick. Not again.
So what if it had been one year, three months and twelve days since he'd
made love to anything except his own adoring right hand? He'd actually
developed a callus -- and not on his hand -- from the repetition, but
he wasn't going to fall for that happily-ever-after crap again. Nope.
No more of that shit. His right hand was just *fine*. His right hand
was, in fact, already, pushing his t-shirt out of the way and sliding
into the stretched-out gym shorts he reserved for things like sleeping
and jerking off. 

Now all his left hand had to do was push 'play'. Easy enough to do. 

Ray eased back into the couch cushions, just cupping himself as the
tail-end
of the scene he'd watched last night played out (a pair of hot nurses
going down on each other and on a nearby patient, and how come whenever
*he* went to the hospital all the nurses looked like Phyllis Diller?)
The next scene started out with some kind of horrible exposition that
was supposed to support the idea that fuck-movies actually came with
a plot, so he hit fast-forward and watched the skidding, swift-moving
images flow right by, until he got to some skin. 

There. Skin. And lots of it -- the redheaded nurse in question had her
uniform unzipped from throat to crotch, and was bent over a shiny wooden
desk while some guy wearing just a pair of surgical scrub pants and a
stethoscope gave it to her from behind. The camera angle switched every
minute or so from the front view (bouncing tits, pretty face scrunched
up in obvious ecstasy over the pounding she was getting) to the back
view (big honkin' dick pistoning smoothly between round white cheeks,
male abdominals rippling with every thrust). Ray watched and stroked
lazily -- he could do this quick, of course, no problem, but this was...
well, this was as much feelgood as he got these days, this was as good
as it ever got -- even if it was stupid and kind of boring. It was just...
all he had. And he wasn't going to rush it. 

The redhead had nice lips, no doubt about that -- painted sweetly red
and wet and open, curving and lush, and from between them came sounds
-- groaning and moaning and whimpering like she'd never had it so good,
like doc cock was just *it* for her, panting words now and then that
Ray had for sure never heard from Stella's mouth. He watched them
mindlessly,
squeezing down on his cock every time she groaned, sliding his legs apart
just a little further. He was... he was... 

...he was sixteen years old when he'd thrown his underwear into the
laundry
hamper without checking, and Stella's lipstick was just the faintest
shell-pink but it had been *there* and when his mother asked him about
it he'd thought he'd die between the horrible, crushing embarrassment
of that and the electrifying memory of that first touch of Stella's mouth,
sweet, hesitant lollipop sucks of Stella's lips and tongue, so shy about
it, so Stella... 

"Fuck!" 

Ray's muscles tensed and his hand stopped moving, everything rising up
in one big cramp of... Jesus. Lust. Loss. Love. Pick your fucking 'L'
word. He bit his lip, hard. Enough. That's enough, now. Put that away.
Be done. Move on. 

(...Please...)

Ray sighed. Redhead, right. Back to the screen. Nothing but the screen.
Nothing but nurse. Well, nothing but nurse and the mechanical, regular
thrusts of that doctor guy. The stethoscope hanging around his neck
bounced
mellow time in rhythm, a distracting, stroboscopic flash, and it captured
Ray's attention long enough for him to actually look at the guy's face
-- 

Which at first was either funny or horrible, he couldn't tell which,
because the guy looked kind of like an older, sleazy version of Fraser.
Ray grinned reflexively, and made a mental note that, if Fraser ever
mentioned a desire to grow himself a pussytickler moustache, he should
tell him to think twice about it. Definitely. 

It was stupid, but smiling over Fraser's sleazoid doppelganger actually
somehow managed to beat back the gloom that always settled over him after
one of his Stella-slips. Which was pretty amazing, and kind of cool,
and let Ray get his attention back to where it belonged -- on his dick,
and on the jiggle and slide of flesh moving, rippling with impact, on
swaying, tight-nippled breasts, on the redhead's full-lipped, open,
groaning
mouth... 

Which was groaning louder, now, because, whoa -- Ray fumbled off his
glasses and squinted -- because Fraser was really putting it to her.
If he looked at it like this. Like that. 

There was a moment of confusion while he tried to figure out whether
or not this was a bad thing -- there was something about the idea of
sex fantasies starring your partner that just seemed... well, *wrong*
was a good way to put it. But then a soft inner voice spoke up with an
opinion that, hey, if fantasy's all you've got, it should damn well be
open season. Fantasy's just... fantasy, right? 

His dick twitched hard in his hand. Ray thought he could pretty much
figure out where that little voice had come from. 

Right.

So yeah, it was pretty weird, watching a dizzy, shifting blur of Fraser
making some redheaded nurse moan out nineteen different shades of 'Jesus'
-- but this wasn't what it had been before, something that was only as
good as it ever got -- this was actually *good*. This was kind of...
weirdly... hot, strokes zipping through him with each one an actual
pleasure,
his whole body soaking it up like he'd been *starved* for it, because
maybe he had been. And yes, he was going to see to it that tomorrow he'd
be able to look Fraser square in the face and not think about this at
all, not think about Fraser's thrusts getting ragged, or squirming bodies
on a smooth, shiny desk, or anything other than-- 

A polite knock, at the door.

Polite. Which ruled out his landlady, or his neighbors, whose pounding
thuds were usually accompanied by shouts of "Turn that shit down!" and
were never about porn, but always about Creed or Fuel or something else
marginally musical, and always managed to add a three-dimensional rhythmic
stomp to the throb he could only feel if he had it cranked that little
bit too loud. 

So not them. Which probably meant... 

Which, really, to be honest, could only mean --

Ray whipped his hand out of his shorts. If he didn't answer the door
right *now* Fraser was going to hear the TV, and that would be -- 

Shit.

Lost, the remote was lost somewhere in the couch cushions, and his
overheated
ears seemed to be *stuffed full* of the moans and groans of that goddamn
overacting redhead, and how the hell did he get himself into these...
Jesus-- remote remote *remote* -- 

Found. He hit the button with a vengeance, and the bottom dropped out
of his stomach as the volume *soared* up just in time for... 

"That's right, you big stud, GIVE IT TO ME!! Oooooh, YEAH!!!"

"Awk," seemed to be all he could manage, but thank God there was the
'stop' button, pressed and done, blessed silence and that little stint
had wilted pretty much all the enthusiasm he had to his name so he didn't
have to wait any longer to go to the door, shorts and t-shirt but that
would be okay, cuz he felt like he was boiling hot anyway, and besides,
it was just... 

He yanked the door open. Yup. There was Fraser's back, walking away.

"Fraser!"

Fraser stopped and turned around, looking a little flushed, looking
*guilty*,
shifting from one foot to the other. As Ray watched he blinked, cleared
his throat. "You have company. I'm sorry. I... I came at a bad time."

Ray felt his face burn but still had to laugh. No way to stop it. "No."

Fraser's head tilted, that inquisitive tilt Ray recognized as Fraser
putting together the pieces of something. "No, you don't have company?"

"No. It's, um..." He scratched his head, easing the itch of residual
sweat. Talk about a rock and a hard place. Uh, no, scratch that. "It's
a movie." 

"A *movie*?" 

Ray shifted, leaning on the doorway, and fought the crazy urge to smile,
his own chagrin fading now that Fraser's seemed to have seen his bet
and raised it. Leave it to Fraser to be shocked -- like such a thing
had never occurred to him. That was pretty funny, and somehow annoying
at the same time. 

"Yeah, a movie. What, did you suddenly get hard of hearing or something?"

"No, Ray, I hear perfectly well." 

Fraser's face was so red it looked like maybe *he* was boiling -- oh
yeah. Good ears. No doubt about that. 

Like someone had flipped a switch, Ray felt his face get hot again. He
sniffed. "It's, um well, it's blue." 

Fraser's eyes dropped nervously down to hip-level, then shot back up.
"What is?" 

"The *movie*," Ray said, trying not to fidget against the doorframe.
"It's a blue movie." 

"Ah."

One beat, two. He waited. Fraser just stared at him, almost smiling and
flushed, looking like it all made sense to him now. Ray knew better.
"You have no idea what that means, do you?" 

"Well, no."

"It's the coping mechanism of the modern American male."

Ha. For once, he had Fraser looking at him the way he was forever looking
at Fraser -- like there were words coming out of his mouth, but he'd
be damned if they sounded like English. 

"Coping... "

"With this," and Ray made the universal pull-the-hotdog motion with his
hand. 

Fraser just stood there, fondling his hat. That not-quite-smile looked
frozen in place, and that was kind of funny, yeah, but still --
unbelievable.
He'd just done the jerk-off sign in front of Fraser. Christ, he was losing
it. 

"Did you want something?" Ray made himself ask.

Fraser jumped a little, and Ray realized that Fraser was staring at his
mid-section, where his hand had made the gesture. Jeez. 

"Excuse me?"

"You at my door for any particular reason?"

He saw Fraser swallow, and watching Mr. Flustered pull himself back
together
gave Ray a momentary urge to go find a hot redheaded nurse and let her
loose on him, just to see what would happen. 

"Oh. Yes. Well... earlier, you seemed upset. I wanted to make sure you
were all right." 

Upset. Yeah, he had been. Felt better now, though. Still, it was pretty
cool of Fraser to come by, even if he had the world's worst timing. "Yeah,
yeah, I'm fine. Just, you know... " he caught himself about to use some
of that universal sign-language again, but made himself stop. "C'mon
in." 

***************************************

The air in Ray's apartment was not particularly arid, but nevertheless
Fraser found that his throat was perfectly, entirely dry. He kept trying
to swallow, but the result was nothing more than a parched rasp. He should
ask for water, but that would entail trusting his voice, which seemed
unwise. To say the least. 

Part of him could only marvel at the shift in himself -- from the
despondency
he'd felt when it seemed clear that Ray was... engaged, to the
muscle-loosening
weakness and heat that had set in as soon as he understood that Ray had
simply been... indulging himself. And apparently doing so without a
significant
amount of shame; despite the blush, Ray had been entirely forthcoming.
Most likely, regardless of the fact that he'd known Ray Vecchio for two
years without ever encountering the topic, this was yet another one of
those American forms of casual behavior that he would need to adjust
to. 

At the moment, that seemed entirely beyond his abilities.

Ray entered the living room from the kitchen and wordlessly handed Fraser
a glass of cool water, reaching for Fraser's hat at the same time and
tossing it on the table. Fraser nodded his thanks, drank so deeply he
felt like he was being irrigated, and found that he could speak, now.
"Thank you, Ray." 

"Welcome. No problem." Ray sank onto the couch, sighing. "C'mon, sit
down, okay? I'm gonna strain my neck looking up at you like that." 

Fraser wanted to sit down. Wanted very much to settle onto the couch
next to Ray, and perhaps surreptitiously admire in closer proximity what
he'd already coveted from a distance -- the fine, golden hairs on bared
thighs, the substantial swell of fabric (just one thin layer, washed
and faded to a comfortable-looking softness) between them. He wanted
that. However, he had arrived unannounced, and although when Ray had
invited him inside he'd accepted automatically, it wouldn't do at all
to forget what he'd come over for. "I shouldn't... I didn't mean to
intrude
on you, Ray. I just wanted to make sure that you were all right, and
obviously, you are. I certainly don't want to--" 

"She asked me if I was married."

Fraser hesitated. "I beg your pardon?"

"That woman, the woman at the club. She asked me if I was married." 

If there was a conclusion he was supposed to draw from that disclosure,
he wasn't at all sure that he'd grasped it. "And that... disturbed you?"

Ray scowled. "Will you sit *down*, Fraser? I'm not gonna bite you." 

Which was, of course, simply another in a long line of disappointments,
although it wouldn't do to say so. He sat gingerly on the couch beside
him, and forced himself to look at Ray's face. And *only* that. 

"She asked me if I was married," Ray repeated, still scowling. "And she
didn't back off any when she asked it. That means one of two things --
either she's looking to get married herself, or she's got a thing for
doing married guys and that's just trashy. Either way, I do not want
a piece of that. Well, I mean, I wanted a *piece*, but I... screw it.
You get it now, Fraser?" 

"I believe I do, Ray." Indeed, he did. And part of him couldn't help
being proud of Ray for acting with such integrity, even though it was
painful to think of Ray being frustrated. "You're not interested in
remarrying,
then?" 

Ray's face darkened, and Fraser immediately regretted asking the question.
"I've *been* married, Fraser. I was married to the one woman I ever loved,
and it didn't work out even though I wanted it to, needed it to. No.
I'm done. No more marriage, no more love. Me and love are quits." 

That seemed terribly sad, given Ray's innately loving nature. He would
have liked to say something about how sorry he was that Ray and Stella
hadn't been able to resolve their differences, how there was undoubtedly
someone out there who could make him happy, but with Ray in this strange
and volatile mood it was more than likely that he might hit a nerve,
no matter how diplomatically he framed his words. "I understand." 

Ray looked at him intently, as if he were assessing Fraser's statement
for more than the words it contained, then shrugged. "So, you know, I'm
okay. I mean, yeah, I feel like I'm half-crazy sometimes, but I can,
uh, there's always..." An eloquent hand gesture -- not the same one that
had nearly melted him out in the hallway, but evocative nevertheless.

No love. Just...release. Self-induced release. Fraser felt something
tight and achy in his chest at the thought of Ray cutting himself off
from not just the potential for a lasting relationship with a woman,
but even the momentary pleasure of a... liaison, as if any physical lapse
would automatically lead to emotional collapse. Perhaps, given his
history,
he had reason. 

Fraser cleared his throat. "Hence the...coping mechanism. I understand."
Compulsively he reached for his water, and drank some. It seemed important
to acknowledge this and then move on, hopefully quickly -- he'd cut his
visit short, and reserve his private meditations on Ray's 'coping
mechanism'
and all the attendant details for a time when he was in bed, and alone.

Ray grinned, and the lines in his forehead smoothed away as if they'd
never been there. "Yeah. Hence that. You ever seen a porn movie, Fraser?"

Through a herculean struggle, Fraser managed not to spray water all over
the both of them. He swallowed convulsively. "I... That is... well,
I've..."
He coughed, aware that his eyes had begun to water. "Not as such, Ray,
no." 

"'Not as such'? What's an 'as such', Fraser, some kind of Canadian thing?
Either you have or you haven't." 

It was perfectly normal, he reminded himself sternly, perfectly reasonable
to discuss this. That American casualness. Which felt, right now, like
it just might cause him to explode. "Well, I've seen... various
health-oriented
filmstrips, which were designed to impart knowledge of procreation, human
sexuality, and the associated risks thereof--" 

There was no point in continuing, because Ray was in the grip of laughter
so violent that it shook the couch beneath them. He supposed it would
be easy to take exception to Ray's response, but the truth of the matter
was that it was *good* to see Ray laughing, even if it was at his own
expense. 

"Oh, Fraser, Jesus," Ray said eventually, pulling up the hem of his
t-shirt
to wipe his eyes and thereby giving Fraser a momentary but compelling
glimpse of the smooth skin of his stomach. "That hurts, but it feels
so *good*, you know? Oh jeez..." There were a few moments of what sounded
like sniffling, and then Ray was blinking at him with tired but
exceedingly
bright eyes. "Okay, Fraser. Don't say I never did anything for you, all
right? Hand me the remote." 

"Ray, I don't... I'm sure that's not... I... oh, dear." He had *no* idea
of what to say to that, none. While the idea of viewing a pornographic
film had no appeal at all, the idea of watching *Ray* and Ray's possible
responses was... well, nearly irresistible. And probably extremely
ill-advised.

"Consider it like, educational, or something. Just like those
f-filmstrips,
Fraser --" here Ray appeared to be struggling to not break down into
further laughter. "Like research of customs. Something. So make like
a normal American guy and gimme the remote." 

The darkest of temptations stirred in his blood, his loins, wicked and
intriguing. And that was the danger -- that he wouldn't be able to get
through this without divulging... something; that the lure of Ray's
proximity
would ultimately prove too much. "Ray," he began in the most reasonable
voice he could find, but, perhaps not surprisingly, Ray seemed immune
to reason and simply leaned over him, hands wandering aimlessly --
groping,
touching -- in search of the remote. "*Ray*!" 

"S'okay, I got it." And Ray sat up as if nothing was amiss, as if he
hadn't just pressed himself firmly down into Fraser's lap. 

Above the thundering rush of his own heartbeat Fraser heard a distant
click and whirr, and before he could deal with the shock of being
abruptly,
painfully erect inside his pants there was *another* shock as Ray's hand
slipped over his eyes, blinding him. He gasped softly. "Whoops -- hang
on, Fraser. I forgot, I gotta... I gotta fast forward this one scene,
and then we're good to go." 

"Why?" he heard himself ask, although he didn't feel his lips move. He
felt nothing but Ray's hand -- hard, callused, warm -- over his eyes.
Ray's right hand. Probably the hand Ray used to -- 

"Um... there's... uh... it's a bad camera angle. You wouldn't like it."

While that was undoubtedly true, it also seemed completely clear that
Ray was lying for some reason. Curiosity was utterly beyond him at the
moment, however; at least, any curiosity that didn't pertain to how Ray's
hands might feel on other parts of his body. "I see." 

"I hope not," Ray muttered, and then Ray's hand was gone. Ray was
grinning,
settling back into the couch cushions, and Fraser heard a woman's voice
say, "Oh, Doctor, how can I ever thank you for saving my sister's life?",
and Ray said, "Three-way, her and the sister. Betcha," and then some
appallingly bad music started playing, and then Fraser was... lost.
Watching
Ray. 

Ray glanced at him, then pointed at the screen. "C'mon, Fraser, look
-- nurses and doctors and stuff. Something to keep your mind off what
they're doing to you next time you land in the hospital." 

Forcing his head to turn took incredible effort. And not really worthwhile
effort, as it turned out, because after a few seconds of staring
unseeingly
at a blur of images he didn't want to look at, his head turned right
back as if of its own volition, towards something he *did*. 

Ray appeared to be absorbed, still faintly grinning, chewing absently
on the edge of one thumbnail. His eyes were heavy-lidded and sultry,
and Fraser hoped Ray was too focused on the screen to see him shiver.

Moans, cries, ecstatic gasps of 'Oh, Doctor!', and none of it seemed
real, all of it an unnecessary soundtrack to his own private dramatization
playing out before him, watching Ray stretch, relax his thighs so that
they lay open... open... watching the bulge at Ray's crotch as it stirred,
swelled, grew... he was dizzy, absolutely dizzy, and so hot, far too
hot for this. He wouldn't be able to stand this much longer. He couldn't
*imagine* how he would feel if it stopped. 

Ray glanced at him, and for a moment Ray almost looked... sheepish. "You
look like you're about to pop a vessel there, Fraser." He shifted
restlessly,
and Fraser nearly groaned aloud. "I guess I... you're hating this, aren't
you?" 

No way to equivocate -- not when he felt this passionately. "No. No,
I'm not." Let Ray make of that what he would. 

Ray didn't seem to know *what* to make of that, but eventually he shrugged
and turned back to the screen, and Fraser got back to the business of
observing Ray in an aroused state. 

It was an easy, simple trick of the mind to translate what he saw into
something that was not stolen, but freely given -- Ray, hard and wanting,
waiting for his touch, waiting for *him*. Relaxed, boneless Ray, sprawled
out in lazy indolence and taking his pleasure from Fraser, finding warmth
and comfort and satisfaction of every hunger from Fraser's mouth, hands,
body. Ray's sleepy head on a shared pillow, Ray's fine hands dragging
his head forward for a deep kiss, then sleepily tugging him down under
a haven of blankets to the dark, to where Ray wanted him. Ray in his
mouth, Ray thrusting in, and finding release there, and moaning -- Ray
staring at him. 

Ray was staring at him. Right now. 

Fraser dragged his gaze back to the screen. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ray do the same.

Fraser swallowed, and attempted to get his breathing back under control.

Ray shifted again, as if he couldn't find a comfortable position. 

And it was that movement, he told himself, that drew his eyes, but
whatever
it was it was true that he was back to watching Ray again, and Ray
appeared
to be fully, hugely erect inside his thin shorts, perfectly outlined
in faded cotton. A stray thought crossed his mind and he wondered if
Ray's pubic hair was blonde, and that seized him, shook him, a tumultuous
but silent spasm of want that occupied him entirely until he realized
that Ray was staring at him again. 

He met Ray's eyes. All his own fears, all that terrible deep wanting
and blissfully wicked lust, he knew all of that had to be written
incontrovertibly
on his own face; he could feel it. And he saw Ray's eyes spring wide
with sudden comprehension, sudden *awareness*, and something in him
tightened
down, braced for whatever disastrous consequences were now his due. 

But Ray only blinked once, and then looked back at the screen, his face
carefully blank, and apparently unseeing. 

His heart, his heart was out of control now, because some part of him
that usually remained deeply, justly buried had now sprung forth with
a vengeance, at a terrible cost for what had been a lifetime of restraint
and...his hand was moving...toward Ray. 

Ray, his face still smoothly calm, taut with something that might have
been anticipation, or watchfulness, or dread, blinked. And Fraser's hand
was still moving, across the couch cushion neutral zone between them,
and then beyond. 

Easy, it was easy because he was *drawn* there, all he had to do was
relax his own control the smallest bit and his hand just *went*, settling
gently on smooth, hard, overheated flesh left laughably vulnerable by
the meager shield of cloth, just holding. Only holding. He heard his
own sucked-in breath faintly, distantly. 

Ray turned to him as slowly as if moving through water. Fraser met his
eyes again, everything in him racing, pulsing; trying to be prepared
once more for the unknown, unimaginable penalty doled out for this kind
of transgression. 

Ray looked down into his own lap, to Fraser's hand. Fraser felt a powerful
twitch under his palm, and gasped again. 

Ray looked up at that and licked his lips. "Uh-oh."

Fraser tensed. "What?"

Ray shivered, arched a little, drew in a deep breath... and came, hot
spurts wetting down his shorts, allowing Fraser to feel the heat and
strength of him all the more clearly. 

"Oh," Fraser said calmly, and then started to shake. 

***************************************

What... the fuck... just happened?

One minute he was watching two girls play swivel stick on the good
doctor's
eight-incher -- safe, because the camera never, not once, panned above
the guy's waist, like it knew the real appeal there wasn't the
pussytickler
moustache but the Wadd-esque club down below, and how sad was it that
he'd seen so many of these stupid flicks that he could predict where
the blowjob scenes were? -- one minute he'd been watching two pink tongues
licking and slicking, and the next minute he'd looked up, just to see
how Fraser was doing, see that wide-eyed Canadian thing going on, only
that wasn't what was going on. 

Not at all. Fraser wasn't even looking at the screen. Fraser wouldn't
know one of those tongues if it came off-screen and licked him on the...
Fraser wasn't paying any attention at all. Fraser was looking at *him*.
Wide-eyed, yeah, he was that, all right. And flushed red, like Ray thought
any guy would be on his first look at a porno flick, and probably hard,
though he couldn't tell that just by looking, not that he was looking,
but the jacket was too thick to tell, even if he had been looking, which
he wasn't... 

But Fraser was looking at *him* and doing the wide-eyed, red-faced,
probably
hard thing. 

Looking at him, stretched out in his porn-mode and, aw Christ, he should
have pulled his t-shirt down, would've been something, some protection...
but no, there he was, stiff in his shorts, and it wasn't like he could
hide that; hadn't been able to since he reached down one day in early
pubescent amazement and found a new best friend. No, there wasn't any
hiding that, and the thought that he was sitting there, with Fraser right
there next to him, and that he was *hard*, and Fraser could *see* that...

Then it was sort of like Fraser was the guy from the movie, only without
the moustache, and Ray was the hot-to-trot redhead just begging for it,
because he didn't turn away, or turn the damn movie off, or lift up his
leg to hide his hard-on, or anything like that. He just sat there, trying
to remember to look at the screen, letting Fraser look at him like *he*
was the porn. 

Looking at him... with his eyes lit up like Ray had never seen, full
to the brim with some kind of feeling that Ray wasn't sure he'd ever
seen before. Maybe Stella'd looked at him like that, back in her
petal-pink
lipstick days, before she got all lawyery, with plum-raisin color on
her mouth that he wasn't supposed to muss once she got it how she liked
it. Maybe Stella had looked at him once or twice like that, too long
ago to remember. So long that he forgot what it could do to him, a look
like that, full of... 

Sex. Not flirtation, not potential interest, not casual checking out
-- sex. Do-me-do-me-do-me sex. 

Fraser looked like he was thinking about... sex. Which should have been
the point, they were looking at porn, right, but not the way he was doing
it. Fraser looked like there wasn't anything on the screen that was
anywhere
near as interesting as Ray's face, Ray's... and then his hand had moved,
slow, so slow Ray could have pulled away anytime. Could have, but didn't.

Didn't move at all until Fraser had his hand there, warm and firm, five
long fingers and the curve of his palm right there on him, pressing,
holding. Fraser, holding his dick through his shorts. Even then, his
only move had been one, sharp, involuntary twitch, as his already hard
dick swelled impossibly, his balls crowding up, like they wanted that
hand on them, too. 

Uh-oh, he'd thought. No, fuck it all, he'd said it out loud. Had to have,
because Fraser said, "What?" and it sounded like he was really far away,
which was crazy, because Fraser's hand on his dick was still attached
to his arm, and his shoulder, shoulder-bone-connected-to-the-neck-bone,
so how far away could he be? And then it was just too late, way too late,
to do anything but suck in a breath, let his back arch like it wanted
to and just come all over himself, and his shorts, and that big hand
of Fraser's in his lap. 

So... what...the fuck... just happened?

His heart was just about to kill him, it was pounding so hard, and his
dick was still squirting out dribbles of come, so goddamn happy to have
a hand on it besides his own that it couldn't seem to *stop* coming.
Usually, he had the presence of mind to drop trou before succumbing to
the one-eyed bandito's selfish wants. Not this time. This time he had
a big spreading wet spot vaguely the shape of Australia. 

He'd just come on Fraser. Sort of. Maybe a big hole would open up on
the floor, suck him in and save him the trouble of having to ever look
Fraser in the face again. He'd been worried enough about picturing Fraser
giving it hard to some nameless redhead from behind; but this was...so
much worse. 

The spark of reality flared brighter. Now that the show was over, the
show on the couch anyway -- the sisters were still raking Doc's coals
over there on the TV screen -- he felt, well, kind of like he always
felt afterward. Relaxed and tense at the same time, like he hadn't really
gotten enough. He was a little surprised, frankly, that it didn't feel
all that different. Like someone else's hand (some *guy's* hand?
*Fraser's*
hand?!?) making him come should have felt more different. 

His dick had known so little in the way of variety. His hand. Stella's.
And her mouth, and her warm, tight pussy. Twenty years of those four
things, and really, the last three had pretty much dried up a while ago.
Pussy, sometimes. Her hand, late at night, when he couldn't stop himself
from bugging her and she was too tired for the whole enchilada. Her mouth?
Hardly ever anymore, not after college, when it still seemed sort of
daring and hip to go down on your boyfriend in the bathroom of a bar,
getting off more on doing it *there* than on just doing it. 

He knew guys who kept track of the women they'd slept with on gym lockers
and notebooks and honest-to-God notches on the bedpost. He'd have the
most pristine bedpost in all of Chicago. Just one little notch. 

One cut.

Now he'd have a matching one on the other side. Couldn't really count
Fraser the same way, could he? If he were counting, which seemed crazy...
counting one, two... it didn't exactly require higher math. Now he'd
have to add Fraser's hand to that very short list. Did it count if Fraser
hadn't touched his skin? Hadn't really even *done* anything to him? 

The shivers still playing out over his skin told him hell, yeah, it
counted.
So maybe this wasn't *exactly* like he usually felt afterwards -- because
instead of the aggravated relief of 'hey, cool, the dick still works,
now what's on TV?', there was a whole bunch of... *something*, all mixed
up and jumbled together, something that started with 'what the fuck'
and ran right on through to 'hand good. want more'. His skin didn't much
care who touched it, or why; just how often, and when would it happen
again? Fuck. He lifted a hand that had a fine tremor to it, fumbled for
the remote and cut off the sisters mid-squeak. In the silence, he could
hear his pulse in his ears, his ragged breathing, obscene in the quiet.
From Fraser, he couldn't hear a thing. 

He shifted restlessly. The puddle inside his shorts had started to congeal
in his pubic hair; the welcome, easing warmth stealing into cold and
clammy. When he moved, so did Fraser, and for the first time he realized
that Fraser had basically frozen in place. Fraser had seized right up.
Probably freaked him the fuck out. Probably ought to think of something...
anything... to say. 

He took a breath, but before he could even begin to shuffle his thoughts
around until something close to appropriate came to the front, Fraser's
hand moved... again. Moved up, under his t-shirt, spreading warm damp
fingers on his belly. 

Below his wet waistband, his cock stirred sleepily. A mellow beat of
warm-warm-warm-touching-so-gentle-warm started up from somewhere inside
and just made itself at home, and that was nice but at the same time
it was also pretty damn scary, and before he knew it he'd stiffened up,
in a couple of different ways. 

"Ray..." Fraser's voice sounded rough, like it was rusty. 

"Don't," Ray murmured. Whatever it was, he didn't want to hear it. Wasn't
really Frasertalk time, was it? Okay, so maybe Fraser'd done something
a bit outside the Mountie lines; he still wasn't the one who'd introduced
the wonder of porn to a cultural virgin and then *come* all over himself.
Besides, that hand felt... that new hand, that third hand ever on his
skin, felt... oh, shit... 

... like it wasn't moving anymore. 

It took a lot for Ray to turn his head, to look at Fraser. He wondered
what Fraser saw in him, no, wait, not that. He wondered what Fraser was
seeing in him right this very second, what his face said. Surely he could
tell by the wet spot and the shaking thing his body continued to do that
'don't' didn't mean 'stop'. 

Fraser sat still as a statue, with one hand still snuck up Ray's shirt,
the other braced against the back of the couch. Above the tight collar
of his uniform, his face was bright red, and Ray could see little beads
of sweat at his temples. He didn't seem to have noticed that the TV had
gone blank. Fraser was totally focused on him, pinning him there with
just the weight of his eyes and that big, hot hand. 

Fraser, too, seemed to be shivering. The good kind of shivering. 

Fraser... wanted him. 

Fraser wanted *him*. That look, that sexy, achy look he was still wearing,
had nothing to do with porn, and everything to do with him. 

God, the shit you never knew about people. He'd never have believed his
Gold Coast girl would get wet for a career instead of bridge clubs and
rugrats. And he'd never have believed his buttoned-up partner would ever,
under any circumstance he could imagine, voluntarily put his hand...
there. 

And he would never have believed how much he wanted Fraser to go right
back to it, put his hand *there* again, touch him again. 

Ray turned, just a little, so the hand slid a few inches on his skin,
leaving a warm trail glowing behind it. He liked that, so he did it again,
twisting from side to side under Fraser's steady hand, warmth gliding
down into his groin and up to his face, radiating from that stroked place
on his stomach. 

"Don't say anything," he managed to get out, and waited to see Fraser's
hesitant nod before he closed his eyes, dropped his head back onto the
couch and put his hand over Fraser's, moving it back to his crotch, but
under the shorts this time, inside the swampy mess where his dick had
decided once and for all that someone else's hand beat that same old
Ray hand, well... hands down. 

Fraser's hand went easily, eagerly. Certainly more eagerly than Stella's
in recent memory, more eagerly than his own hand earlier on. God, how
long had it been since his dick had been touched with any kind of genuine
enthusiasm? So no matter that it was *Fraser's* hand wandering around
down there, somehow it still managed to be righter than anything else
he'd felt in awhile. 

It took the rest of him about a minute, no, make that half a minute to
catch up, to push aside random thoughts about how weird it was to be
doing this, with *Fraser*, how odd it was that he'd only ever thought
of Stella, and the occasional bimbo, while doing the necessary. He
wondered
briefly how long he'd been paying attention to the men in the skinflicks,
and the size of their dicks, and whether their faces looked like Fraser's,
with or without a moustache, without even knowing he did it, getting
off as much on the money shots as he did on the widespread thighs of
the bimbo of the moment. 

Then he was there, all of him, from sweaty hair to curled toes, finally
focusing on Fraser with the same intensity Fraser had focused on him.
Fraser's hand had done that eagerness one better, had taken the cue and
now cradled his half-hard erection gently, squeezing the tip from time
to time, stroking the damp length of him rhythmically until Ray lifted
into the touch, rocking up into that strange, familiar hand. 

Ray gave up trying to control either heart rate or breathing, deciding
if he stroked out, Fraser probably knew CPR, or at the very least how
to dial 911, and tried not to think of the implications of Huey and Dewey
arriving at his apartment to find him awash in spunk and mostly dead,
with Fraser's dripping hand still on the cordless phone. 

Crazy thoughts, crazy. The whole thing was crazy. But good. Crazy good.
He was letting this... letting this happen. This crazy-but-good thing.

He guessed Fraser had finally bought a clue, because he had both hands
on him now, tugging his shirt up until Ray lifted his arms and let it
be taken from him, pulling down his shorts until most of the sopping
mess now lay trapped in cloth on the floor instead of in his lap. Then
he was naked, with Fraser in full uniform moving between his thighs,
kneeling in front of him, spreading his legs wide open, and that flash,
the picture in his head, and then the reality of it before his eyes,
took his half-hard erection and pumped it up to its full, throbbing
stretch
startlingly fast. 

Alarmingly fast.

"Fraser--" he got out, fighting with words in one direction, while his
body slid and spread on the couch in a big old 'fuck-you' to anything
his mouth might have to say-- 

And he'd *never* seen Fraser's eyes like that, a bit past the wide-eyed
stage now -- wide-eyed was getting eaten alive by something *fierce*,
something *wanting*... "Can I?" Fraser said, so soft and hungry. "Ray,
can I... " 

It was too late now, once again way too late to do anything but let it
happen, let his own hands reach out finally, touching Fraser's hair for
the first time, then his cheekbone, then his mouth. He pulled before
he knew it, pulled Fraser's head toward him, toward his yearning cock,
and he should have closed his eyes then but Fraser made a quiet,
happy-sounding
noise and then he couldn't, couldn't close out the sight of Fraser's
tongue darting out, tasting him, tasting the come smeared into his pubic
hair, the loose skin of his balls, lifting one with his good, strong
tongue, balancing it for a minute before moving on to the other one.

Back and forth, up and down, above and below, everywhere but on his dick,
until he thought he'd scream, or worse, cry, or even worse, come again,
and then Fraser was there, wet mouth taking him in, tongue doing that
tasting thing way down on him, way down inside; down farther than Stella's
little mouth could take him, down a big, wide, man's throat, down, and
with a convulsive swallow, down some more, until he could feel Fraser's
lips right at the base of his cock. In. Inside. Deep inside. He rocked
up helplessly; wondered, wildly, if Fraser did have a moustache, whether
it would make this feel any better, then decided nothing could make this
feel better than it already did. 

He revised his opinion five seconds later, when, with his entire length
snugly compressed in the tightest, hottest place it had been in years,
he felt Fraser start to suck. "Jesus!" 

No porn-star cool here, for sure. No cool at all because that was *so*
good, good enough to take over his body and jolt something straight
through
him that was kind of like a shock and kind of like what had happened
to him on those few, unhappy occasions when he'd been kicked in the nuts
-- it was that intense, only not pain, it was the opposite of pain, it
was just *way* more goodness than his body had been ready for. So there
was some part of him that knew that he was clutching Fraser's hair much
too tightly, and being way too pushy about thrusting hard and fast,
getting
while the getting was good, but *God* he couldn't get enough, couldn't
stop, couldn't do a single goddamn thing except fuck Fraser's mouth and
groan. 

The need... the need was an old friend, familiar; but giving in to it
was not. Fraser slurped, sucked, swallowed, and Ray pushed and pulled
and panted, and both of them were acting like a couple of fucking animals
who should never have been let out of their cages -- but even that felt
good right now. He realized his head was shaking back and forth, over
and over like 'no' but it was 'yes' all the way, no letup, no teasing.
No trying to find the right rhythm because the right rhythm had found
*him*, the right rhythm had him, had him tingling all over and shivering
and shocked by the knowledge that he was going to come again really
fucking
soon. 

So he looked down, lining up the words in his mind so that he'd be able
to actually say them rather than just grunt some warning sounds, but
all that came out was a long, drawn-out noise that didn't sound anything
like any of what he'd meant to say. Fraser... it felt like Fraser had
at least ten inches of tongue hidden away in that proper mouth of his,
and every single inch seemed to be wrapped tight around him, a slick,
wet, throbbing squeeze. Fraser's eyes were wide open, and he looked...
he looked like... Fraser... *liked* doing what he was doing, that much
was clear. 

That made his heart spike almost painfully, and while there was some
kind of background noise going on -- some distant voice blithering
something
about how he needed to get his dick *out* of Fraser's mouth before he
completely lost it -- that was nowhere near enough noise to distract
him from the wild, explosive pleasure of watching Fraser take it. His
own hands were clenched white, holding hard in dark, silky hair while
he rocked, circled, plunged in and out so deeply it wrenched him, somehow
-- undiscovered country, outlaw territory -- and there was no way, *no
way* he was going to be able to stop. 

"Can't. Stop --" but Fraser just grunted out something that sounded like
gratitude and that was it, game over, everything in his body seized up
in one massive spasm of uncontrollable pleasure and everything -- from
his wildly tossing head to his cramped, curled toes -- went with it.
He was *going* with it, going purely crazy with his cock pulsing and
twitching, spurting all over... ooh... right over Fraser's hot tongue,
rubbing himself *right there* and moaning until the last shudders and
twinges died away. 

"God...*damn*." It hurt to say it because his head was arched so far
back that he could barely breathe, but it needed to be said anyway. At
least, he *felt* like he needed to say it -- what else was there to say,
really? 

"Mmm," Fraser hummed in amiable-sounding agreement, and *wham* just like
that Ray felt every bit of what he'd put off in the name of lust catch
up to him all at once: shock, and something that didn't know whether
it wanted to be guilt or euphoria, and a goodly helping of pure
embarrassment.
If he hadn't been wrung out like a limp, damp rag he would have cringed,
or grabbed for his shorts, anything. As it was all he could do was pant
and shiver. Oh, and -- he could let go of Fraser's head, finally, but
when his hands fell away he could still feel quite a few silky strands
in each: Fraser could blame him for the bald spots. Great. 

Random words floated through his mind, all the possibilities of what
he could say now, every one rejected because it wasn't right -- there
probably *was* no right thing to say. Everything from 'you learn that
at the Mountie Academy?' to 'what the *hell* did you just do?' -- none
of that quite covered it. In the end, he went with the statement which
wasn't maybe the *loudest*, but definitely took the 'most panicked'
trophy:
"I like women, Fraser." 

He dragged his head back up in time to catch a look of concern settling
over Fraser's face -- *that* was a Fraser he knew, taking the place of
that good-looking stranger with the wicked eyes. "Of course, I'm... I'm
aware of that, Ray." 

Fraser didn't sound hurt, and he didn't look hurt, but somehow Ray got
it that he *was* hurt, anyway. His mouth opened before he knew it was
going to. "But I really... um... I mean, I liked... what you just did.
I liked it." 

Fraser blushed. Jeez -- the guy had just given him the blow-job of the
century without a second's hesitation, and *now* he was blushing. "I'm
glad. " 

Okay. Okay. Things were starting to settle a little, now, and the world
was the world again instead of some weird place where everything went
screwy. There was something familiar going on, something going on with
Fraser that Fraser wasn't talking about, but Ray got it anyway because
he knew that one, he'd been there so often they should have put his name
over the door... 

Bottom line, it went like this: I want you, and it hurts me to want you
because I know I shouldn't, but I just can't stop. 

"Come up here, Fraser. Sit down." This wasn't about how weird it was
that Fraser wanted... whatever it was that he wanted, this was about
that 'can't stop' feeling. This was about the kind of panic and pain
that had been the worst thing Ray had ever gone through, and about how
he wasn't going to do that to somebody... didn't want to... he wasn't
Stella. That was all. 

Fraser moved slowly, and settled himself on the couch stiffly, as if
he was hurting. Right away Ray's eyes were drawn to the flap of tunic
over Fraser's lap. Yeah, the guy was probably hurting, all right. He
swallowed, hesitated for one moment, decided that all hesitation was
going to do for him was make this into a bigger deal than it really was,
and reached for Fraser's pants. 

"Ray!" 

Fraser had a grip that felt strong enough to crush iron, but let his
wrist go right away when he shook it off. "Easy, Fraser. Just... just
take it easy, okay? I'm... I got it." 

That look in Fraser's eyes -- he knew that one, too, from the other side.
That was the look of a guy who *knew* he was getting some pity-petting
and hated it, but didn't have what it took to turn it down. A miserable,
horny, desperate look -- and on Fraser, who had never seemed to be any
of the three, that look was pretty damn strange. 

"I got it," Ray said again, and eased his hand back under the tunic.
Fraser shivered a little and his brows drew down into something that
was almost a scowl, but although his hands twitched, he didn't stop him
this time. Ray wished there was more he could say -- something, anything
that might ease that edge of misery -- but really, there was nothing.
He was, after all, just doing this... well, out of friendship, really,
and because fair was fair, and there was no use in pretending otherwise.
Sure, he could always take a cue from a certain redheaded nurse and start
moaning about how he *needed* that big Mountie cock, ooh, yeah, give
it to me... but there was zero chance he could do it with a straight
face. His lips twitched, and he realized he could barely *think* it with
a straight face. So that wasn't an option. 

"It's okay," he said, and that was true -- surprising, but true. This
*was* okay with him. So he didn't waste any time messing around or teasing
or giving himself a chance to freak, he just groped around in Fraser's
lap until he found a way in. It had been a long, long time since he'd
tried to undo someone else's clothes one-handed, so yeah, that took a
while, but Fraser just kept breathing and giving him that sad look and
not getting twitchy on him, so that was okay. 

And then he was in, and digging under stiff, starched fabric towards
something warm. His heart took a flying leap, and a little voice asked
him what the hell he thought he was doing, but he barely noticed because
Fraser bit his lip at the same moment that Ray found something not warm
but *hot*, silky and hot, and he and Fraser drew in identical deep breaths
like neither one of them could help it and then they were off and running.

Big guy. Big *hot* guy. Maybe he should have tried a few of those
nurse-isms
after all -- Fraser seemed like the perfect candidate for it, and it
was no stretch to imagine that a woman would have to be pretty damn happy
about getting into these itchy Mountie pants... Or... or a guy, he
supposed,
and that brought up a question and he asked it without thinking. "You...
like guys?" Well, duh, Ray. Try it like a fact, not a question. "You
like guys." 

"I like you, Ray," Fraser said softly, and Ray had to smile at that.
When he did Fraser's eyes flashed dark again -- back to that
handsome-devil
look that had seemed so strange before. But maybe he was getting used
to it now because yeah, that was still Fraser, and Fraser looked better
like that than when he was being damn miserable, so Ray just let himself
smile and gave Fraser a little squeeze. 

"I didn't know that," he said, starting to get into the squeeze-release
thing. Knew that move like the back of his hand. "I mean, about the liking
guys thing." 

Fraser shifted, then stilled, his fingers digging into the couch cushions.
"I didn't intend for you to know," he said through clenched teeth. 

Ray knew now, though. Boy, did he know. Wasn't any mistaking that for
something else. Wasn't anything else you could call it when one guy blew
another guy. He was still trying to decide whether to have a 20/20
hindsight
panic attack about that or just get over it when he must have hit on
some good rhythm there on Fraser's dick, because everything on him
stiffened
up to match it. 

"Oh, my." Fraser's teeth were giving his bottom lip another workout,
and hey, this was actually kind of fun, watching Fraser try to keep
himself
all still and quiet, watching Fraser put up a good fight... that he
couldn't
possibly win. *Wouldn't* win, if Ray and his trusty hand had anything
to say about it. 

A long, twisting stroke from the bottom up, which was how *he* liked
it, and Fraser made some sort of controlled grunt which probably meant
that he liked it just fine, but still, it felt different. It was
different.
Hard, rock-hard, but... looser skin. 

"You uncut?" he asked as his mouth ran away from his brain once more.
Fraser blinked at him twice, uncertain, but nodded and blushed a little
after Ray rephrased the question to, "Uncircumcised?" 

"Take your pants off, Fraser." Right away, Fraser got wide-eyed on him
again. Ray swallowed and felt his face get hot, but hell -- it wasn't
like he could take it back or anything. "C'mon -- I'm sitting here buck
naked, right? So even it up. I want to, uh, I wanna see what I'm dealing
with." 

Ray let Fraser go with a little see-you-later pat, and watched Fraser
struggle out of his boots and pants while he took a little mind-trip
on the fact that hey, here he was, waiting for his best friend to get
out of his clothes so that he could check out his big uncut dick and
then get him off. The only really disturbing part of it was the fact
that he hadn't run out of the room screaming yet. 

To his surprise, Fraser didn't bother with folding his pants, but just
left them at the foot of the couch, piled on top of the boots. When Fraser
finally sat back Ray fought off a smile -- here he'd gotten himself all
nerved up to look at Fraser naked, but Fraser still had the damn tunic
on and... well, the big-and-hot parts were still hiding out under there,
in a way that was more funny than sexy. 

"This too," he said, tugging on Fraser's sleeve. Thankfully Fraser didn't
stall anymore -- just one piercing, inquisitive look and then Fraser
was stripping down, bit by bit, so many layers and buckles and snaps
that it seemed like a miracle that the guy didn't suffocate under there.

There. Naked Fraser. Naked, *horny* Fraser. Naked, horny, nervous-looking
Fraser, somehow still as rigid and *proper* as he was when he was fully
clothed. 

Okay. Ray took a deep breath, and looked. Broad chest. Nice nipples.
Pink. Muscles. Good skin. Strange, half-hungry, half-terrified look on
that handsome face, the only part that should have been familiar but
actually wasn't, not wearing that expression. Ray fell back on his
tried-and-true
standby. "It's okay, Fraser." 

Fraser swallowed visibly, nodded, and looked very much like he didn't
believe Ray for a second. Ray could fix that. He reached out, keeping
eye contact with Fraser until his hand had gotten situated, and then
looked down. 

So *that's* what an uncut dick looked like. Not that different, except
for the fact that his hand was wrapped around it -- that was pretty damn
different, all right. He stroked a little, found that it was better to
pay attention to how that extra skin slid around than it was to pay
attention
to the fact that this wasn't *his* dick his hand was getting friendly
with, and settled down into a slow rhythm. Up. Pause. Down. Squeeze.
Up, twisting a little. Pause *and* squeeze. Down again -- 

Fraser's legs were shaking. Just a little tremor, not a big deal, but
it zinged him anyway because that too was familiar -- when it was really
good, when he really *wanted* it, his legs did that. It brought his head
up to look at Fraser's face again, and then... 

...Everything seemed to slide into place all at once -- touching Fraser,
and it was kind of a shock that it hadn't occurred to him before but
yeah, he hadn't just missed being touched, he'd missed *touching*, too,
he'd missed that, missed doing this thing and that thing and seeing heat
and pleasure spread out on someone else's face. 

It was... a rush. A helluva rush. It was a whole other kind of
satisfaction,
a kind he never got when it was just him and his hand and the screen,
and that was too bad because... 

He squeezed, flicked the tip of Fraser's cock with his thumb, heard the
resulting gasp, and felt Fraser *push* just a bit into his hand, like
that. Like that. 

...Because he'd missed it. Oh yeah.

Good. Good to touch, good to give and see what came down from giving.
Fraser wasn't tipping him off with any porn-inspired clues or anything,
no loud, burlesque moans or showy writhing around, but yeah, his legs
were still shaking, and his breathing had sped up a lot, and besides
that Ray could *feel* Fraser being into it, really into it, and that
was good. 

At least, it was good right up until Ray caught his other hand trying
to sneak into the act. Not on Fraser. On *himself*. On his... dick, which
was trying to get hard. Again. Right now. 

Hard, from touching Fraser. Watching Fraser. 

And it would be easy to shove that off on desperation, but the problem
there was that he'd already come twice and so wasn't desperate anymore,
except obviously some part of him *was*, and that wasn't part of the
game plan *at all* -- good to touch, right, he got that he'd needed that,
but he wasn't... 

This was... that friendship thing. Supposed to be. That friendship thing,
with him giving something to Fraser because he wanted to, on a
friendship-thing
kind of level. *That* was the plan, that worked. 

Not this. Not him turning on, getting off on petting Fraser's big, hot
dick. That was... 

That was scary enough to make him break out in an instant sweat. To make
his heart pound like crazy and make his mouth go dry. To forget all about
how good it was that Fraser's legs were still shaking, and just... 

Stop.

He stopped. 

***************************************

Ray... stopped. All at once. Fraser couldn't say that it was unexpected
-- he'd been waiting for this, for Ray to be overcome with the realization
of what he was doing, for Ray to finally see clearly through the
post-coital
haze of gratitude. 

So, it was indeed not unexpected. But he couldn't stop himself from
wishing
that Ray could have kept... that it had been otherwise. For just a little
while. For just a little longer. 

"Ray," he said, and he put everything he had into it, all the
understanding
and acceptance and apology he could bring to his voice. They *must* get
through this -- Ray was his friend, his best friend, and to lose that
would be intolerable. "Ray, I..." 

But his initial plea for amends remained unspoken, stopped cold in his
throat by the sight of Ray's absorption... 

With his renewed erection. Ray was staring down at his own partially
erect shaft with an expression on his face that looked like a combination
of astonishment and resentment. That and... fear? 

Ray was scowling at his own penis. This was something Ray hadn't expected,
perhaps, which of course would completely explain why he stopped, why
he had needed to withdraw that touch that, to Fraser's surprise, had
felt so much more than clinical, had in fact felt almost... eager. 

Ray was uncomfortable with his own arousal. That was understandable.
It was also familiar, reassuringly so, and reawakened all of the need
Fraser felt to offer Ray comfort and assurance, to offer confirmation
that Ray's pleasure was a welcome, wonderful thing. 

"Ray," he said again, but this time he allowed the warmth he felt to
speak clearly. Ray's head jerked up at that, his cheeks flushed, his
eyes brilliant and dark and full of confusion. 

"Fraser --" 

He could *feel* Ray's rising panic, could see it in that defensive,
troubled
stance with both hands raised. He reached out and grasped one warm palm
before he lost the nerve to do it. 

"Come here." Ray's eyes widened. Fraser didn't wait for any demurral,
but reached over slowly with his free hand, touching Ray with one soft,
smooth stroke from shoulder to groin, gliding easily over skin that had
dewed with sweat. Apparently it was his turn to offer reassuring
inanities.
"It's all right." 

"But... I'm not... I mean--" Ray's stutters also sounded familiar, and
Fraser found himself smiling, while at the same time he hoped he could
find the right words to soothe Ray. 

"It's human nature, Ray," he said quietly, stroking his chest and arms,
soft, non-sexual, non-threatening. Gentling him. Lulling him. "An
instinctive
response to the atmosphere, to my... arousal. Male animals often feel
an empathetic sexual response." 

Ray now seemed to be fixated on their clasped hands, though his body
moved wherever Fraser's other stroking hand went, following the touch.
"So, um, it doesn't mean anything?" 

Oh, that one hurt, but he'd asked for it. He'd asked for whatever he
got, good or bad, by coming here when he knew he shouldn't, by not
stopping
Ray from playing the ridiculous video, by not controlling himself for
just five more minutes and excusing himself, and leaving before his hand
had reached out for what it... he... wanted. 

You act, and then you live with the consequences. 

He took a deep breath. "It means your body understands the appropriate
response to stimulation." 

Ray's eyebrows drew together. Oh, dear. Perhaps that had sounded too
clinical. 

"So you're saying I'm responding to you because you're responding to
me?" Ray asked, turning his hand so their fingers meshed. 

"Essentially," Fraser answered, letting his other hand roam closer to
Ray's groin, where, despite the conversation, his penis continued to
show unmistakable signs of interest. 

"That's fucked," Ray said succinctly, but he didn't pull away.

"Human sexuality can be a strange and --" Fraser started to say, only
to have his pseudo-lecture cut-off in mid-sentence by a laugh from Ray.
Unexpected and sharp... and genuine. 

"I know, I know, you've seen the filmstrips. Spare me the details," Ray
said, leaning forward into Fraser's hands. 

Fraser felt that laugh all over his body. Felt it, literally, through
the hand he held, and deep in Ray's stomach, where his other hand rested.
Felt it sneak inside his heart, lick into his groin. 

Whether it was his words or his touch, Fraser couldn't tell, but although
Ray's eyes didn't entirely lose their wariness, he did indeed lean towards
him, moving slowly as if under some kind of spell. 

Fraser reassured himself with a quick glance at Ray's now sturdy erection,
then shifted Ray to kneel astride his lap, swallowing back a rising,
rampant excitement at this, this reality burning so close to what had
been, until now, forbidden imaginings. 

He could feel the moment Ray let go of his hesitation. One minute he
was an awkward armful of elbows and knees searching out a comfortable
position, the next he seemed to melt a little, and Fraser heard him
murmur,
"Fair's fair." He couldn't bring himself to ask what Ray meant by that,
couldn't shatter the mood beginning to rebuild. Slowly, yes, but surely.

Fraser shook his hand loose from Ray's, wanting the freedom to touch
as much as possible, and Ray moved his own hands to Fraser's shoulders,
where at first Fraser could barely feel them. Then he slid one finger
down the length of Ray's erection, and those two hands dug into his
shoulders,
hard. 

Too powerful and too heady, that rush of feeling -- the role of the
seducer
was an unfamiliar and altogether new thing. He stroked Ray slowly, letting
his senses fill with the delight of having Ray -- sight, smell, sound
-- so very close to him. The ache in his own groin was a half-pleasant,
half-maddening thing, vast and nearly painful, but he wouldn't have given
it up for anything, this pulse of want that Ray drew forth from him.
Ray's head was bowed, his attention fixed on one or the other of them,
he couldn't tell which. But when his own cock twitched at the idea Ray
promptly gasped, and then it seemed like the easiest, simplest thing
in the world to pull Ray closer, to slide down a little under that welcome
weight so that he could... oh yes... 

"Wow," Ray said softly, and shivered, and Fraser couldn't help but shiver
himself because Ray's erection, Ray's body felt so *good* against him,
strong and warm and moistly alive, sliding together like they'd been
made to fit this way. His hand had adapted to the grip and firmness
necessary
to keep them pressed together, and now he was able to hasten his strokes
a little, dizzy with shared pleasure and the sensual effect of Ray's
sighs. 

Ray seemed mesmerized; leaning closer and closer with his long lashes
cast downwards, his hips rocking slowly in rhythm. Fraser watched a
droplet
of sweat trickle from Ray's forehead down to the mild curve of one
stubbled
cheek and then Ray groaned just a little, and before he knew he meant
to do it Fraser moved forward to taste. Salt -- salt that echoed what
he'd tasted of Ray before, piquancy that flooded him with memory and
further hunger. 

Ray didn't resist, in fact Ray leaned into him at once, and Fraser
couldn't
stop himself from tasting, seeking more, until, yes, there were Ray's
lips, *here* were Ray's lips on his own. Both of them uttered some sort
of subvocalization at the same moment, and Fraser shuddered as he felt
Ray's mouth open a little against his, felt his tongue reach tentatively
for his own. 

He welcomed it, brought it inside his mouth and tasted it, sucked on
it, wishing he could make Ray's tongue come, wishing he could make it
feel that good. Ray leaned into him even more, spreading himself out
so they touched skin-to-skin in a thousand different shocking places.

There was a brief moment when he had the presence of mind to register
and retain these details -- how perfect Ray felt under his hands, how
delicious his mouth was, how good and right and true it felt to hold
him, to kiss him and feel that longed-for mouth kiss him back. Then
arousal,
so long banked, flared inside, consumed him until he couldn't think of
anything except the heated body pressed up against his, the hot mouth
he found he couldn't release. 

He held Ray's head to his until he was dizzy, until he had to let go
or pass out, and he didn't want to miss a single, solitary second. He
opened his eyes to find Ray looking at him. Staring at him, his skin
flushed, his eyes glazed. No longer just confused, he looked... dazed.

Fraser opened his mouth, to ask what he didn't know, but Ray slid a finger
across his lips, then... then... pleasure exploded when Ray's wet finger
dropped unerringly to his right nipple. 

Fraser shuddered, shifted, told himself sternly not to beg by arching
into that touch, and then did it anyway. He had a brief moment of amazed
curiosity -- how had Ray known? Was this an established habit, or was
it intuition? Because, if it *was* intuition, that kind of unerring
accuracy
was... formidable, to say the least. But that only lasted a moment,
because
all kinds of wonderful things were happening now, shocks and jolts and
shivers of sensation, electric and astonishing, and so Fraser gave up
wondering and gave in to feeling. 

A circle. First Ray painted a circle. Then retraced it, with his
fingernail.
Fraser felt the hairs on his arms stand up, and his erection, still held
loosely with Ray's in the trap of his hand, jerked violently. 

Ray thrust against him in response, sliding his cock alongside Fraser's,
heightening the streaks of pleasure darting between his peaked nipple
and his penis. Time and again, Ray repeated the motion: gathering moisture
from Fraser's mouth, transferring it to his ultra-sensitive nipple, then
rocking their cocks together. A one-two punch, in boxer parlance, Fraser
thought. Devastating. Prelude to a knockout. 

Watching Ray's face gave him almost as much pleasure as feeling Ray's
hands on him. He looked absorbed in his task, focused intently on a
specific
pattern he'd created, drawing it out until Fraser had to arch up again,
press harder into that maddening finger, trying to muffle his desperate
moan, but not succeeding. 

Then the hand was gone. 

Fraser dropped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut tight, shutting
out Ray's face, not wanting to see the hesitation come back, the clarity
of realization that he was close... very close... oh, God... so close...
to bringing Fraser to orgasm. 

And of course Ray wasn't the only one afraid of that, as much as he
himself
wanted it -- that loss of control, that point of no return that threatened
to liquefy his very bones -- dangerous on so many levels, to himself,
to Ray (who just might bolt at that, yes), so maybe it was better...
maybe better that... 

It was good that he had his eyes closed, because the sight of Ray bending
over him, taking the tongue that had felt so good in his mouth and
applying
the same delicate torture to his nipple would have thrown him over the
edge. As it was, he had to grab hard at his penis, and therefore Ray's,
as well, clutching tight to keep from spilling immediately. 

Ray yelped at the tight grasp, then pushed hard into it, his hips
thrusting
smoothly, powerfully. Fraser felt the rush of air across his nipple,
cool where it was wet, hot everywhere else, and then suction. Deep, sweet,
regular suction, in the same rhythm as the forceful thrusts into his
hand. 

That was... overwhelming. Somehow, he managed to keep from shouting his
pleasure right into Ray's ear. The stifled sounds in his throat would
have embarrassed him if he hadn't been so far gone, but he was. He was
gone, floating on some other plane now, tethered to the room only by
the slick heat of Ray's cock against his own, held tight in his hand,
and the wet suction of Ray's mouth. 

Everything else faded, leaving only the feeling building inside, all
the stronger for having been so long denied, and when he felt Ray's teeth
for the first time, a precise, determined little bite, right on the center
of his nipple, he gave in, gave up, leaving control and fear to battle
each other on some distant, misty field while he went on heedless without
them. He let loose years' worth of not getting what he wanted, what he
needed, spraying Ray's penis and stomach, and his own hands and stomach
and chest, feeling as if each streak and splatter healed something that
had been left aching inside him. 

Minutes later -- how many he didn't know, but his muscles had started
to stiffen, and the wetness streaked along his skin felt cold -- he raised
his head and slowly opened his eyes. 

Ray sat crouched over him, his hands braced on his thighs. Fraser realized
he was still clinging to both their penises with a grip that could be
construed as beyond possessive, and he forced his hand to open, wiping
his damp palm on his thigh as casually as he could. 

Ray looked... calm. None of his earlier apprehension showed on his face.
He was no longer flushed, or skittish, or any of the things he had been.

He was, however, still mostly erect, and Fraser could see no evidence
that Ray had joined him. He'd come alone, even with Ray right there.
The thought tugged at him, casting a slight shadow on his bright pleasure.

"Ray, you didn't... " 

Ray looked down at his penis with far less trepidation than he had just
a little bit earlier. Although still engorged, it lacked the angry
stiffness
that preceded climax. As he watched, Ray pushed down on it, then grinned
as it popped back up to about half-mast. 

"No," he said, seemingly untroubled. "Two's usually all I'm good for.
Don't worry... I mean, I didn't do this for... that." 

Which begged the question of why Ray *had* done it, why he'd overcome
his confusion and fear and touched him with such ease and... expertise,
but Fraser couldn't bring himself to ask. They'd come far enough tonight,
farther than he'd dreamed they could, and to want more was just...
selfish.

And if refraining from orgasm had made Ray feel more comfortable with
the rest of it... 

"Thank you, Ray," he said quietly, his throat tight.

"You're welcome, Fraser," Ray said flippantly, his grin widening. 

Fraser didn't have the strength to do more than smile back at him. 

***************************************

Sleep alone long enough and you forgot how to share. Fraser was taking
up *way* too much room: a hot, heavy leg trapping him here, a hot, heavy
arm pressing too hard there. 

Whoa. 

Ray cautiously opened one eye. Light, but not up-time bright yet. It
was that in-between time, that thinking time of day, caught between asleep
and awake, when all the rotten stuff you managed to put off with work
all day and sleep all night crashed in and whaled on you. 

Usually that meant Stella, and all the shit that had gone wrong, and
all the shit still left that *could* go wrong. 

Not today, though.

No, the Stella folder had been filed in the basement, and he had a new
case to work on. 

Fraser was asleep in his bed, touching him with his hands, arms, legs,
everything that stuck out, practically, except (quick glance down) no,
that wasn't touching him. Yet. Would be in about two inches, though,
which given how fast it was growing would be in about two seconds. 

Ray closed his eyes, put his head back on the pillow he was also having
to share (the bed was a queen, but they were using it like a single),
and tried to regroup. 

Fraser was asleep. In his bed. Wrapped around him like saran wrap. Getting
hard. Fraser liked men. Fraser liked... *him*. 

And here he'd thought the whole Stella thing was a big cosmic joke. This
made that look... well, at least this had come with some personal
satisfaction.
Remembering the way he'd exploded in Fraser's mouth, and on his hand
before that, seriously personal. And seriously satisfactory. 

Funny, how even though there were a few key differences, it wasn't really
as different as he'd thought it might be. Sex with a man, that is. Sex
with Fraser. Not that he'd thought about it. Until recently. Real
recently.
Right. 

It was interesting -- very, very interesting -- how the biggest difference
he'd been able to find (beyond the obvious -- the obvious was pretty,
um, *obvious*) was that Fraser, who'd always seemed so cool on the
outside,
was really warm -- hell, *hot* -- on the inside, once you got him out
of his clothes and his mind and into... stuff. As opposed to, say, Stella,
who was warm on first look, but turned out to be kind of cold underneath.

But as far as the whole physical thing went, it just hadn't been all
that different. Yeah, some things stuck out where he was used to spaces
going in, and some places were flat where he was used to curves, but
smooth skin was just... smooth skin. And Fraser had *acres* of it. A
mouth, tongue, lips... well, those things on Fraser weren't really that
different from Stella, just wider, and more mobile, and, God, could he
even say it? Hotter. When Fraser kissed him, it was like that was all
he was, like his whole self narrowed down to his mouth. It was...
flattering...
and arousing as hell, being the focus of attention like that. 

Some things were different, no question, but some things were the same.
Judging from his reactions last night, Fraser *loved* having his nipples
played with, sucked on. Stella had loved that, too, and he'd loved doing
it, so it was good for them both. He knew what he was doing there, too;
never heard a word of complaint about that (and he'd heard words of
complaint
about just about everything else he'd ever done, so it meant all the
more) and it felt good to have one thing where he didn't even have to
think about whether he was doing it right. Given how crazy Fraser'd gotten
over it, he'd done right by him, too. 

Wasn't like it was a hardship, sucking on Fraser's nipples. They were...
pretty. Pink, and not too big, and they tightened right up under his
tongue, just like they were supposed to. Couldn't hide that, even if
you wanted to, which Stella had sometimes seemed to try to do, but even
if she kept quiet, her nipples talked. 

Fraser's nipples had a *lot* to say. In fact, Fraser's whole body was
pretty... eloquent, or something. Everything Fraser had felt showed up
somewhere, even though Ray *knew* he'd been trying to clamp down on it.
Didn't want to freak him out, probably. Of course, by the time they got
to the point of Ray sucking Fraser's nipples, he'd been pretty much beyond
freakdom. No matter how hard Fraser tried to stifle those noises, they
came through anyway. And how hard he'd been breathing, that had told
Ray a lot, and those tight little nipples, and that big, hard, leaking...

Ummmm... Okay, maybe he didn't really need to do a play-by-play. Not
with the guy right there, asleep. Didn't seem quite... sporting. So.
Back to the comparisons. 

Good skin. *Great* skin. And good nipples. Yeah, pretty much even money
there. Ray didn't even miss the cushy pillows he was used to finding
under pretty pink nipples. Fraser's chest was... just fine the way it
was. Wide handfuls of muscle instead of soft puffy hills, that was all.

That was all.

Just guy wrappings instead of girl trappings.

And that was surprisingly... cool.

Before last night, he'd never imagined being able to have fantastic (he
could admit it; it had been fantastic) sex without it automatically
leading
to a cling thing -- meeting the parents, going to the IceCapades, shopping
for tampons. 

But Fraser... well, come on, it wasn't like Fraser was going to wake
up wanting to go pick out china patterns, now was it? 

This could be... this might be... perfect. All that skin, those great
nipples, that mouth... he even had to admit Fraser's dick had a certain
novelty appeal to it... but with none of the hassle of second-guessing
what he wanted. Ray knew what he wanted. Ray knew what guys wanted. He
was a guy and he knew what *he* wanted. 

Sex.

Lots of it.

As messy as possible.

And that was another thing. Fraser hadn't traipsed daintily off to the
bathroom when they were done last night, bitching about the mess he'd
made. No, he'd just sat there, covered in it, smiling at him, and then
he'd pulled Ray to him, and they'd stumbled to the bed, and then they'd
gone to sleep. No towel, no comments about the sheets, just... sleep.
Deep, easy, no-nightmare sleep. 

He stretched as far as he could in the cage of Fraserskin he found himself
in, luxuriating in the feel of a for-once-sated body. He couldn't remember
the last time he'd really felt, what was it? Full? Or empty? Some of
both, he guessed. He didn't have that hungry beast crawling up his back
anymore, searching for something he really wasn't finding watching
redheads
boff the ER staff on video. 

Fraser had given him a whole new perspective on things, and he didn't
think it was just from having his head cleared up by a couple of truly
spectacular orgasms. Fraser'd opened up a whole new world. Even in the
cold half-light of day, he was having trouble coming up with a downside.

He stretched again, rubbing unconsciously against all that smooth skin
against him, and yup, there went those last two inches. Pretty cool that
he could get Fraser hard even in his sleep. Or maybe Fraser was always
like that in the morning. No way to know without trying it a few more
times. 

More. He could handle more. More of Fraser.

He slapped his hand to his forehead. Way to make a left turn, Kowalski.

Human nature, he reminded himself. He'd asked, Fraser'd answered, and
it sounded like as good an excuse as any. Male arousal, animal responses,
pretty nice of Fraser to take all the responsibility like that. Made
it real easy to-- 

Fraser moved against him -- first with his dick, then with a grope of
hands and scissoring of big feet, rumbling and grumbling until finally
his eyes opened and Ray found himself staring down a well of good-morning
Fraser. 

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," Fraser answered, and then just looked at him some more.

Ray turned a little, feeling the hot streak of Fraser's erection slide
from his side to his stomach as he rolled to face him. Fraser left his
arms where they were, so basically they were lying there, hugging. 

Which was... cool.

"We stink," Ray said, thinking how nice it was to be with someone who
didn't leap out of bed with her hand over her mouth, headed for a
toothbrush
and mouthwash and deodorant. 

"I'm afraid so," Fraser said, sniffing the warm air pocket between them.
He didn't seem terribly concerned about it. 

"Want a shower?" Ray asked, unsure whether he'd just offered to shower
*with* Fraser or not, but figuring since Fraser was the guy-on-guy guy
here, he'd leave it to him to do the morning-after interpretation. 

"Not yet," Fraser said, and buried his face in Ray's neck. 

Didn't look like Fraser was seeing any downsides, either. No, Fraser
had a way upside thing going on. 

Ray felt a moist tongue, hot breath (not bad breath, just
Fraser-sleepy-smelling
breath) licking up that tendon in his neck, the one that kinked when
he got too uptight. The one that felt like spaghetti this morning. Licked
it right up to his ear and then licked behind and over and (oh yeah,
mmmm) right inside it before meandering back down his neck and sniffing
him some more. 

"Weirdo," Ray muttered.

"Should I stop?" Fraser asked into his neck. Ray could feel his lips
form each word on his skin. 

"Did I say that?" he asked.

"No," Fraser mouthed against him.

"No," Ray agreed.

Ray was just about matching him in the hard-on department when Fraser
pulled back. Ray protested. At least he thought he did -- he mumbled
something, and put his hands on Fraser's back and pulled on him. Fraser
seemed to get the message because he rolled, pushing Ray on his back
and sliding over on him, pressing down on him, rubbing a little, getting
their cocks lined up and talking to each other. 

Damn, he felt good. It even felt good being under instead of over.
Everything
Fraser had done felt good, all along. Made him wonder what else might
be out there he hadn't done, and how good it might feel. 

"So, Fraser," Ray said, reaching up to mess up Fraser's hair some more.

"Yes, Ray?" Fraser replied, rubbing his head into Ray's hands.

"We're already gross, right? Might as well get grosser," Ray said, sliding
his hands down from Fraser's head, down that long, broad back to his
ass, where he took a double handful and squeezed, thinking this was one
place where Fraser had curves even better than Stella, then was mildly
shocked at himself for thinking that. 

Fraser spread his legs, dropping them on either side of Ray's hips, and
sat up a little and then... well, he *shimmied*, that was the only word
Ray knew to describe the move Fraser made, and Ray's fingers, instead
of just squeezing Fraser's ass, which he thought was kind of bold to
begin with, were actually... oh, shit... dipping in between the meaty
parts, to the... place where there was a... space that went in, like
a girl's, only... smaller. And tighter. 

Fraser looked at him. He looked at Fraser. Then he moved one fingertip,
just one, real slowly, real carefully, right over that... place. Fraser
closed his eyes, lowered his head, and sighed. And he started to tremble,
just a little. And his dick twitched. 

Looked like Fraser liked that. Better do it again, make sure. 

Two fingertips this time, still just rubbing real lightly, right there,
where... no, he wasn't going to think about what usually happened there.
This wasn't about that. This was about giving Fraser back a little bit
of what Fraser had given him, and if Fraser liked having his fingers...
there... well, okay. 

The third time he did it, Fraser made a countermove, circling one way
while Ray's fingers circled the other and that must have felt *really*
good, because he made a little sound in his throat, and his hands clamped
down hard on Ray's shoulders. Ray kept on doing what he was doing, waiting
to see what Fraser wanted next. He had a feeling Fraser knew. He hoped
Fraser would let him in on it. 

Still, he was kind of surprised when Fraser reached back and took Ray's
hands away from him. Shit. Maybe he'd done something wrong after all.
*That* wouldn't surprise him. But no, Fraser didn't seem to be packing
up his toys and going home, he was... eww... putting two of Ray's fingers,
the two that had just been wandering around his ass, in his mouth. 

Okay, it was official. The Mountie would stick *anything* in his mouth.

Then Ray forgot all about that because he learned something he didn't
know about himself -- he liked having his fingers sucked. No, he *really*
liked it. It made his dick throb. Made his eyes blur. Fraser sucked on
his fingers like he was sucking on his dick, and his dick *knew* that,
wanted that mouth back on it, wanted some of that suck-suck on it instead
of wasted on his fingers. 

But it didn't happen. Fraser was, for once, not paying too much attention
to Ray, and even that was kind of cool. Very guy-like, getting your own.
He could get into that. With a final swab-suck, Fraser tugged Ray's
fingers
out of his mouth and put them back where he'd found them, right in the
crease of his ass. 

Oh. Okay. Didn't need that college degree after all, because there were
only so many things wet fingers could be asked to do down there, and
so Ray did it, shutting out everything except the thought that oh, yeah,
guys could get fucked, too, they just didn't provide the water for the
slide like a woman could. It seemed a good bet, given the way Fraser'd
pretty much taken charge, that this wasn't anything new to him, but better
to make sure than fuss about it later. "Um, Fraser? You done this before?"
he whispered. 

"Mmmm hmmmm," Fraser answered, and it wasn't "no", so Ray tickled him
a little then pushed one finger inside, going slower than slow, cuz even
a wet finger didn't go in real easily. 

No going back now, Ray, my friend: you've got your finger up Fraser's
ass. 

Fraser straightened his back, right up into what could have been Mountie
posture, except that he was naked, and sitting on top of Ray, with a
finger in his butt. And that move took away Ray's plan for going slow,
took the plan right out of his hands, and put it right back in Fraser's...
deep inside Fraser's... stretched right up all the way into Fraser's...

Fraser bucked against him, moaned, and sat down on him even further,
his hands now gripping the sides of Ray's ribs like he'd fly right off
if he didn't have something to hang onto. Then he lifted up, and when
he came back down, Ray slid the other finger in, figuring, hey, if he'd
only wanted one, he'd only have swabbed down one. Two could go even
further.
Did. God, it was hot in there. Snug, too. And ripply, kind of. Rougher
than... and Jesus, had he mentioned how hot it was in there? Hot out
here, too. Hot. It was all just fucking hot. 

Fraser lifted again, then came back down, just impaled himself, and since
Ray didn't have another wet finger to give him, he moved the ones he
had, rubbed Fraser inside best he could given the *really* small space
he was in. 

Good move, it turned out. Fraser shivered all over and gasped, "Ah! Ray...
do that again." 

"What, this?" Ray said, stroking again, pressing in hard with the tips
of his fingers. Fraser arched above him, his chin lifting as he moaned
deep in his throat. 

"Oh, that feels... I didn't know... ," Fraser moaned, rocking against
him, forcing Ray's fingers against the same place over and over. 

"Thought you said you'd done this before," Ray said, and twisted a little
on the sheets. That response-thing that Fraser had told him about had
to be kicking in again -- he was hard before, yeah, but now he was hard
and... and really ready, responding to... this. To Fraser like this.
Responding to Fraser's response. Helluva good deal. 

Fraser breathed in deep, then spread his thighs wider, and Ray took
advantage
of the extra room to reach in even further. God, he couldn't believe
how much he was enjoying doing this, sticking his fingers in Fraser's
ass. And no question that Fraser liked having it done to him; no, he
didn't have to wonder a bit about that, but his reaction made it seem
like *something* was new. "Fraser?" 

A long pause, while Fraser swallowed hard and dropped his chin enough
to look at Ray. Ray's fingers twitched at the look on Fraser's face.
He was, like, *gone*, eyes wide open and hungry, his mouth opening and
closing, like he was trying to talk, but had forgotten how. Holy shit.
*He'd* made Fraser look like that. 

"She didn't have... the advantage... of your... oooohhhh... long fingers,"
Fraser managed jerkily. 

Ray jerked a little himself at that, stabbing his fingers inward
accidentally,
and Fraser flinched. "Sorry, sorry," Ray said, spreading his other hand
on Fraser's stomach and rubbing in little circles, while he withdrew
his fingers just a bit and went back to the stroking thing he'd just
learned. 

"You let a woman do this to you?" he asked, trying to decide if that
was any worse than letting him do it. Kinkier, for sure, in a weird way.
Men who liked men only had so many options, but a man with a woman...
well, put it this way -- in twenty years of doing Stella, he'd never
had her fingers up his butt. 

"I would have let her do anything," Fraser murmured, drawing Ray's
attention
back. 

Okay, yeah, he'd been there. Probably if Stella had *wanted* to put her
manicured nails up his backside, he'd have let her. But... wait a sec...
hadn't he just spent like an hour wrapping his brain around the idea
that Fraser, poster child for manly men of the great outdoors, was...
geez, what was the sensitivity training phrase of the week? He settled
on gay, which didn't really seem to describe Fraser particularly well,
but he couldn't come up with an alternative that wouldn't get him a slap
on the wrist if he said it out loud in the station. 

He probably shouldn't ask. Fraser hadn't asked him anything. But they
were here, and Fraser was about as open (God, in all kinds of ways) as
he'd ever seen him, so... 

"You like women, too?" he asked.

"Just one woman," Fraser gasped, and Ray could see him sliding back toward
his little pleasure zone. "I loved one woman." 

Just one woman. Just like him. Maybe he and Fraser had more in common
than he thought. 

"Scarred you for life, huh?" Ray asked, and he thought he heard a low,
almost bitter laugh from the writhing, sweaty, panting man he had
skewered.

"In a manner of speaking," Fraser said quietly, and it looked like he
might pull back, which Ray didn't really want, because, hey, he'd gotten
this far, right? So Ray leaned up further, almost sitting up, with Fraser
pretty much sitting in his lap, reached for one of Fraser's nipples and
bit down on it lightly. Yeah, that did it. There went the writhing, and
with a swipe of Ray's tongue, there went the panting again. But his brain
wouldn't turn off, had to know more, even as his body turned itself right
on, revving up in the face of the lust factor; funny how it worked like
that. 

"So you loved... uh... one woman," Ray persisted. "What about men? Have
you loved any men?" 

It wasn't any of his business, he knew that; but then he wouldn't have
thought what Fraser felt like from the inside was any of his business
either, so he decided all normal bets were off for the duration of...
whatever it was they were doing here, and besides, he really wanted to
know. Fraser was like his own little island, and Ray was suddenly really
curious to know if any ships had ever docked there. 

"I... oh, Ray, I... only ones I can't have," Fraser blurted out, then
Ray guessed Fraser'd had enough of that topic, because he lifted Ray's
head, latched onto his mouth and wiped every unspoken word out with his
tongue. 

What a weird, connected circle: his fingers, stroking deep up inside
Fraser, using every bit of technique he'd ever learned from Stella and
trying it out on Fraser; and Fraser's tongue, stroking deep inside Ray's
mouth. Felt like Fraser was talking to him, giving him instructions with
his tongue -- how fast to go, how hard. Kind of nice, getting it in code
like that. 

That tongue felt... damn good.

Rough, and not shy at all. No, not at all. In fact, once he had his
clothes
off, Fraser was just not at all like he looked -- kind of starchy and
stiff. Well, okay, he'd give him the stiff part; at least *part* of him
was stiff. But Fraser was *into* it, into what he was doing to him, and
so if you'd asked him a day or two earlier if he'd have thought what
he was doing was gross, he'd have said hell, yeah, but now that he was
*doing* it, and seeing how much Fraser liked it, and feeling how much
Fraser liked it... 

He decided Fraser could definitely walk and chew gum at the same time,
because somehow, he managed to keep one rhythm going in Ray's mouth,
a different, counterpoint rhythm to his hips on Ray's penetrating fingers,
and yet a third in the strong grip of his hand on Ray's dick, which was
good because he'd been about to ask for it, and he didn't really know
how. 

It wasn't even that gross, when, a couple of heart-pounding minutes later,
Fraser arched his back, groaned out loud and came on him, scorched him
down without Ray ever touching his dick. Kind of amazing, watching that
happen. Hadn't ever seen it from quite that angle before, hadn't ever
made somebody else feel quite that good, he didn't think. 

His mind was still working on that when Fraser surprised him and pulled
off his fingers. He maneuvered his way down Ray's body, and before Ray
could even take a deep breath, he'd tugged Ray's dick into his mouth.
The first lick told Ray last night hadn't been a fluke. It wasn't just
the novelty of it that made him shudder when Fraser licked right *there*.
Goosebumps don't lie, and Ray had them from head to foot, everywhere
except his dick, which was happily, easily, enthusiastically thrusting
into the furnace of Fraser's mouth. 

Human nature being what it was, and morning woodys being what they were,
and Fraser's tongue being Fraser's tongue it didn't take long. Three
licks around the head, three swipes up that vein underneath and a couple
of strong sucks, and Fraser got his morning dose of protein right there
in the bed. 

Swallowed it like syrup.

Stella'd never swallowed.

Not even once.

Fraser'd done it twice in twelve hours.

Fraser let him go with one last little dick-tingling lick and put his
head down on Ray's stomach. They were breathing like they'd just chased
a suspect five miles, the whole room reeked of sex, and Ray felt better
than he had in one year, three months, and twelve days. 

After a minute or two, Ray worked up the energy to put his hand in
Fraser's
hair and shook him a little, wanting to tell him how much he'd appreciated
that, but Fraser didn't move. Fraser had conked right out, with his hand
still holding Ray's dick like a wet security blanket. 

God, what a totally guy thing to do. 

Get off and then drop off. 

It made Ray smile. Yet another plus to sex with a man -- you didn't have
to apologize for sprawling unconscious thirty seconds after you were
done. No having to explain that that's just what men *do*. 

Ray glanced at the clock. They had another good forty-five minutes before
they had to get up. Let the man sleep. He decided he could do with another
little nap himself. He closed his eyes, let his fingers stay trapped
in the silk of Fraser's hair, and tried to go back to sleep. 

Forget sheep; he'd just count his lucky stars.

***************************************

A new day.

A new Ray.

The man sitting across the kitchen table from him stirring chocolate
candies one by one into a mug of coffee bore little resemblance to the
tight-faced, shoulders-hunched man who'd left him outside the club the
night before. The habitual squint was gone, leaving Ray's bright blue
eyes wide open and... beautiful. The tight lines at the side of his mouth
smoothed out to nothing when he smiled. 

He looked as if he'd finally had a good meal. As if he'd literally been
starving for touch, and Fraser had fed him. He hoped Ray would let him
continue to feed that need, but he'd make no assumptions. No, he would
wait for Ray, take his signals from him. Whatever Ray wanted, that's
what he would do. In the meantime, he would focus his own energies on
convincing himself that yes, all that had just happened; he hadn't
imagined
it. Dreamed it. 

So far, there'd been little in the way of clues from Ray regarding how
he felt about the precipitous change in their relationship. When the
alarm had gone off, Ray had just pulled himself away from all the places
they were stuck together and pushed Fraser toward the bathroom, mumbling,
"G'head, need coffee." 

Cold water on Fraser's face and hot water on the rest of him had revived
him, and he sent up quick heartfelt thanks to Ray for bringing him his
slightly wrinkled uniform. He couldn't have imagined walking out into
the sunlit living room... naked... 

Not in the daylight. 

Not without a reason.

Not that there had ever been a *reason*, per se. 

Not that that seemed to have stopped him.

The comforting habit of buttoning this, lacing that, buckling down, and
strapping on had gone a long way toward restoring his sense of balance.
Clothed, he felt more like himself again. The familiar self, anyway.
Not the self who had begged for Ray's fingers inside him. Not the self
who just grabbed at what he wanted, like a dog at a bone. 

He hardly knew that person.

Although Ray hadn't seemed... displeased... to meet him. On the contrary
-- Ray had given every appearance of taking him surprisingly in stride.

Ray had greeted him in the kitchen with a grunt. He'd dressed in another
pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and stood leaning against the counter,
fingers drumming impatiently while he waited for water to heat. He'd
poured Fraser a bowl of slightly stale, shockingly sweet cereal that
Diefenbaker would probably have loved but that made Fraser's teeth tingle,
and poured milk over it after sticking his nose into the carton and taking
a good long whiff. 

Now they sat, Fraser politely trying to choke down a few spoonfuls of
cereal, Ray stirring his coffee. The silence held no particular tension,
for which Fraser was grateful. It gave him time to try to formulate
possible
answers to the questions he could almost watch forming on Ray's face.
The more coffee Ray drank, the more awake he seemed, and the more likely
it was that this precious quiet time would come to an end. Two cups and
a handful of chocolate later, Fraser could see the synapses of Ray's
quicksilver mind start to fire, and mentally braced himself. 

"So," Ray said, more hesitant than Fraser had expected. "Um, you must
be missing Vecchio pretty bad." 

Fraser dropped his spoon, splashing milk on the table. Ray tossed him
a napkin, and he mopped up the spill. Of all the things he'd prepared
himself for, that wasn't one of them. 

"Excuse me?" was the best he could do on short notice.

Ray took another sip of coffee, then put his elbows on the table and
leaned forward. "You said something about only wanting guys you can't
have --" 

*Love*. He'd answered a question about *love*.

"--and you sure can't have Vecchio, cuz he's not here, and I know how
tight you guys were; everybody said so... so I added two and two --"

"And came up with six," Fraser interrupted.

Ray's mouth snapped shut, then opened again with, "Huh?"

Not quite so awake after all. He'd have to speak slowly, make sure Ray
understood every word. 

"Ray Vecchio is a good man," Fraser said. "And an excellent cop. I was
proud to be his partner, and glad to be his friend, but there was never
anything more than that between us. I never wanted there to be." 

Ray looked surprised. Why would that surprise him? Did he really think...

"You're not a substitute, Ray," he said quietly. Ray cocked his head
at him. "Not here. Not with this." 

Ray looked at him steadily for a minute, then nodded.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

Fraser shored up his mental defenses again. The conversation felt like
walking across an ice field, littered with unexpected rough spots and
hidden crevices. "Of course." 

"Had it been a long time for you? You know, since you... " Ray floundered.
Understandable. 

"Since I did anything more than... cope?" Fraser answered, and earned
a bark of laughter from Ray. 

"Yeah, that," Ray said.

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. "Over a year," he admitted. 

"Yeah, me, too," Ray said, then added, "Stella. Duh."

Even though Ray hadn't asked, Fraser offered in return, "The woman who...
with her fingers... that was the last time for me." His face grew hot,
and he quelled himself with an enormous bite of crunchy-sugary awfulness.

The smile that Ray had worn off and on throughout the morning disappeared,
showing those tense lines again around his mouth. "She leave you? Or
you leave her?" 

"She left me. It was... complicated," Fraser said.

"Yeah, I hear that," Ray said. "And then, what, she turned you? You woke
up one morning and decided 'I know -- guys!' or something? Now why didn't
I think of that?" 

Fraser squirmed a little in his wrinkled uniform. Two options: honesty
or prevarication. He settled for a mixture of the two. "It's not that
simple, Ray." 

Ray stood and reached for his half-empty bowl, then went to the sink
to wash the dishes. "I guess not. But guys are... easier, right? It's
different." 

Here was another chance to tell Ray how little he actually knew of such
things, how his heart had only taken him to doors he couldn't enter.
Another risk that Ray would see just how complicated this was for him,
being with him like this. He wasn't ready for that. 

"I don't think I know enough to say," he finally said.

Ray looked at him over his shoulder and flicked water on him. "Come on,
Fraser, don't give me that Mountie run-around. Just tell me." 

Fraser took a deep breath and found a truth he could say easily enough.
"Every person is different, Ray." 

Ray turned off the faucet and spun around, wiping his hands on a towel.
"But come on, you've got to admit it's easier to know what men are looking
for. I mean, women... God, you never know what they *want*." 

His own experience had taught him that it wasn't easy to know what
*anyone*
was looking for, man or woman, but he found himself agreeing. "I do
think,"
he said slowly, "that men tend to be more... straight-forward."  
Ray nodded firmly, as if Fraser had confirmed something he'd thought
all along. 

Before Fraser could continue, Ray took a look at the clock on the stove
and said, "Shit, I gotta get a shower or I'm gonna be late. I'll drop
you at the Consulate on my way in, okay?" 

"That's fine, Ray," Fraser said, wondering if they would leave things
in this... limbo. 

Ray turned when he got to the doorway, then shifted from one foot to
the other, obviously uncomfortable. Fraser waited as patiently as he
could, but he could feel his toes tapping inside his boot, a small outlet
for a whole body's worth of anticipation. 

"Was this, uh, was this a one-time thing? I know guys... do that...
sometimes.
I know that," Ray stuttered. 

Fraser sucked in a breath and felt another flush creep up from the collar
of his uniform. "It can be whatever you want it to be, Ray," he answered.

The smile flashed again. "Okay," Ray said easily, and disappeared from
view. 

Okay? What did *that* mean?

They didn't touch on the topic again until Ray pulled up outside the
Consulate, where Fraser had exactly twenty-three minutes to get into
a clean, pressed uniform, feed Diefenbaker, gather the day's mail, and
prepare Inspector Thatcher's morning cup of Earl Grey. 

Ray put the gear in park and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
He coughed once, then said, staring out the windshield, "Um, thanks,
Fraser. That was a... well, that was a really long year. Plus some."

"As I'm sure you could tell, Ray, it was entirely my pleasure," Fraser
said, staring out at the hood with the same degree of fascination. 

"And you... it's okay? Doing this like this?"

"I'm not sure--"

"It just seems real simple, Fraser, you know, like *not* complicated
for once. I mean, it's *you*, right? I know you. Just now I know you
better than before," Ray said, his words almost tripping over themselves.

"Considerably," Fraser said, thinking what a vast understatement that
was. 

"Yeah." A beat of silence, then two, and then Ray said, "So, we're cool?"

He knew what Ray meant. He'd been quite clear about his romantic
motivations.
He had none. No aspirations. No intentions. No hopes. Ray and love were...
quits. There was little room for negotiation or interpretation there.
What they had was simply an extension of the yin and yang of their working
relationship, taken to new, delightful levels. Nothing more. There could
be nothing more. 

He repeated it once, for good measure. There would be nothing more. 

It would be enough for him.

It would have to be.

He would *make* it be enough.

"We're... we are indeed cool," he said after a minute, and beside him,
Ray exhaled slowly, as if he'd been holding his breath waiting for the
answer. 

"I'll see you after work, at the station, okay?" was all he said, though,
and after agreeing Fraser got out of the car. He watched Ray's car
disappear
from view, feeling as if he'd left a dream world behind, then turned
and went inside the Consulate, where the real world would no longer wait.

***************************************

He'd better watch it. 

He'd better shake off the haze and buckle down and pay some attention,
that much was clear. Because he'd been at his desk five minutes tops
when he realized that Huey was staring at him, and that made no sense
until he realized he was humming -- something he used to do, all the
time, actually, but not here. Not lately. 

Not since the Good Old Days with Stella. Man, it *had* been a long time,
hadn't it? He used to sing in the shower, hum at the breakfast table,
dance on the stairs. Christ, what a loser. Too dumb to know it was all
going to go splat one day; humming "Stella By Starlight" on the way to
work every day like love conquered all and all that crap. 

That was before he got his teeth kicked in and his nuts tied up in knots
and Stella by any light at all had lost her glow. 

Yeah, it had been a hell of a long time since he'd felt like humming.

Not that this was the same thing. No, this wasn't like *that*. "Fraser
by Starlight" just didn't sing with the same kind of swing. This was
just... 

"Song," he mumbled towards Huey's squint, "on the radio. This morning.
Coming... driving in." He made himself stop there, because since fucking
*when* did he ever explain himself to Huey? Might as well be wearing
a goddamn sandwich board: 'End of the World Must be Here, 'Cuz I Just
Got Laid'. 

Fuck.

And it was all up and down from there. Up: he *had* just gotten laid.
Had, in fact, pretty much come his brains out. There was nothing like
it in the world -- nothing like it to put a little extra bounce in his
step, mellow him right out and make him prone to smiling at nothing.
Down: bouncing and mellow and smiling was *not* what people expected
of him. So he had to keep that under wraps, or people might start
wondering,
and wondering led to asking. And asking would be bad. 

Up: guys were different. He and Stella had always had a good time in
bed, no problem, but all of that stuff seemed less important than the
rest of it -- all the little questions that added up to one *big*
question:
did he have what it took to keep her happy? And the answer to that one
had been clear enough. But apparently, all Fraser needed to be happy
was... Ray, naked and willing to feel good. And it didn't get any easier
than that. 

But... Down: guys were... guys. That was such a loaded truth that he
couldn't look at it for long -- if he paid too much attention to that,
he'd lose his happy thoughts and come right down off the ceiling, and
start thinking about what he might do if Fraser wanted him to put any
other... parts... up his ass, or what parts Fraser might want to put
in *his* ass, and then it'd be everybody out of the pool. So he pushed
it away, but it wouldn't really stay gone. Kept sneaking up on him when
he didn't expect it. 

Up. Down. Up. He rode the rollercoaster all day until he found himself
watching the clock as it edged closer to the time Fraser was due, and
made himself stop. No point in it, when he couldn't decide whether to
be freaked out about it, or glad about it, or if maybe it was just no
big deal. 

The third time his pen went sailing off across the room because he was
fiddling with it nervously rather than actually working, he jumped up
from his desk and went to the bathroom, determined to try to pull himself
into some version of normal. 

He could do that. He could take where he was and bring normal right into
it; he could get himself there. Normal would be better than down-up-down.
An even keel would be a good thing right about now. Right. All he needed
to do was figure out what the fuck 'normal' was. 

While he washed his hands and splashed water on his face, he tried to
break it all down into pieces, like clues from a crime scene. Normal,
with Fraser, was good -- getting stuff done, eating together, talking.
Up, with Fraser, was... God, the sex was a *big* up. Down, with Fraser,
was... well, worrying about stuff that hadn't happened yet, that might
not ever happen, what did he know? Besides, he was a big boy; he could
always open his mouth and say 'no', right? 

He ignored the little voice inside that poked him and told him how 'no'
hadn't been part of his vocabulary when Fraser was sucking him like a
Hoover. 

Hard to say no to *that*. Still, didn't mean there had to be any serious
butt-pirating going on, did it? No. That wasn't... normal. He wasn't
up for that. No way he was down with that. 

So.

They'd keep things normal as they could, work like they always did. They
could make this work. They could keep the ups *up* without jumbling the
mix; he felt pretty good about that. Good enough to hum a little on his
way out of the men's room. 

He'd have fun with Fraser, and be partners and buddies and go ahead and
let stuff happen... to a point. Stay in the safe zone, draw a little
line. Keep it fun. Stop worrying about what might or might not happen,
because, well, that decision's already been made. Just the fun stuff,
the safe stuff. *That* was normal, right there. 

Keep it in the safe zone. 

Fraser could probably get behind that.

And that little bathroom break seemed to do him some good, because he
stopped clock-watching and started doing some actual police-type work,
and time passed faster than he'd thought it would. So when he heard,
"Hello, Ray" coming from somewhere in front of his desk, it startled
him. Startled him hard, in fact, and though surprise didn't usually give
him a hard-on, today was a day for firsts, and there was another one.

Just meant he wasn't going to be polite and stand up to greet the man.
No point advertising. 

"Hey," he said, waving his hand at the chair in front of his desk. "Have
a seat." 

Fraser settled across from him, looking like... normal. Perfect, in other
words. Pressed suit. Combed hair. Posture like a girl with a book on
her head. Worlds away from sweaty, naked Fraser, with his swollen up
mouth and his sleepy eyes. You'd never know to look at him. Never know
what was simmering there, just under the surface. All it would take was
one hand -- unbuttoning his jacket, reaching down his pants -- and he
bet he could have that Fraser back. 

Christ.

So much for the even keel concept.

He blinked at Fraser, then scooted his chair further under his desk,
hiding himself from the waist down. Fraser could probably tell by looking
at his face, but nobody else knew him as well as... Fraser did. 

Now his ears felt pink. Fucking great. How was he supposed to work like
this? How would they ever get anything done? This didn't feel anywhere
*close* to normal. He tapped his pen on the papers in front of him,
drawing
Fraser's eyes to the desk. 

"Any news from the robbery at the club?" Fraser asked. The question was
normal enough, sure, but Fraser didn't sound quite like his normal self,
and that actually somehow made him feel a little more steady. 

Robbery. Right. Ray shuffled through the folders on his desk. He'd read
that; he knew he had. In one eye, out the other. 

"Um, yeah," he said, his fingers finally lighting on the right file.
"We're interviewing witnesses again tomorrow. The DJ thinks he can
describe
one of them." 

"That's good news," Fraser said. 

"Yeah," Ray replied, and then couldn't think of anything else to say.

Fraser just sat and looked at him, and as Ray watched, his ears got pink,
too. Yeah, he wasn't the only one having a problem. But that was okay.
That was actually... good. 

And maybe that was normal, too. Maybe it was too much to expect them
to just sit there and pretend they hadn't slobbered all over each other.

Maybe he needed to come up with some new definitions of normal. Either
that, or they needed to get way over themselves and just *deal*. 

"How 'bout you? How's things at the Consulate?" Ray asked.

"Fine," Fraser said. 

Stiff. God, they were stiff together. He was searching for another line
to throw when Fraser leaned infinitesimally closer and said, "I found
myself... distracted... from my work." 

Under the desk, Ray's dick throbbed. Status there: normal.

"Yeah?" Ray asked, and was surprised to hear his voice crack.

"Yes," Fraser said slowly. "I kept wondering how things were coming
along...
here." 

The case. He was talking about the case. If Huey were listening in --
which he wouldn't be, cuz why would he? -- that's what he'd think. Welsh
wouldn't think a thing hearing their little conversation. 

But Ray *knew* what Fraser meant. 

Nobody knew Fraser like... he did.

He reached for his jacket, shouldering it on and buttoning it before
he pushed back his chair and stood. 

"Let's get out of here," he said. "Dinner."

Fraser stood when he did and said, "Indeed," and Ray wondered for one
knee-wobbling moment if maybe Fraser could *smell* it on him --
excitement,
nervousness, all of it. Probably not, it was probably just a stupid
thought,
but it stuck. He waved Fraser ahead of him, willing his body to cooperate
long enough to get out of the station and into the car. From there, he
figured he was safe. 

Safe. Keeping things safe. They didn't have to go any farther than he
wanted to; Fraser had said so. What had he said? Right, right. It could
be whatever Ray wanted it to be. So that probably meant it *didn't* have
to be whatever he *didn't* want it to be, either. 

Keep cool. Keep safe. You don't have to do anything you don't want to
do. 

He repeated the mantra under his breath as he followed Fraser out the
door, stopping halfway to adjust the bulge reforming in his pants. 

***************************************

"Anything..." Ray panted, his body twisting in the midst of the rumpled,
damp sheets. "Anything, Fraser, just... do something." 

Fraser drew in a deep breath. Oh, but Ray didn't... *couldn't* mean that.

After all, there had been a certain level of reserve to overcome. Ray
had appeared remarkably calm, self-contained, all evening. Through an
unhurried dinner and over a surprisingly lucid conversation about the
night club robbery and several other cases, Ray had seemed much like
his usual self -- a little frenetic, darting from subject to subject
as if reading a conversational map upside down -- but seemingly normal.
Fraser had mostly listened, nodding from time to time, answering any
direct question, but willing to follow Ray's lead. 

He hadn't asked the one question that burned in his mind, searching every
nuance instead for some subtle clue to an answer -- and finding none
that he could interpret with any certainty. He couldn't bring himself
to ask if Ray still wanted what he'd wanted before -- their conversation
this morning had pointed in one direction, but Ray'd had an entire day
to reflect on it since then, an entire day to allow any possible regrets
to develop. And it was entirely possible that Ray might be indecisive,
in which case Fraser actually *asking* the question might very well tip
the balance. 

So he didn't ask. He just let Ray talk about what had, amazingly, for
him, become trivialities, and did his best to respond appropriately.

In a way, being able to speak so easily of ordinary things was a relief.
He wasn't sure one night of satiation would have been worth the price
if Ray had balked, backed up, or any of the other things Fraser had
worried
about during the interminable day, when he wasn't sweating inside his
uniform remembering all the things they had done together that might
*cause* Ray to reconsider their... liaison. He'd spent much of the day
in a fog, his usually focused mind blurred with images, remembered sounds,
his senses still swimming at the slightest reminder of the evening before.

So at least he had the consolation of knowing that, even if Ray didn't
wish to continue their physical intimacy, at least they could have this.
This partnership. And that was something he'd never esteem lightly. 

He forced down his food, more for the energy it would give him than any
appreciation of the flavor. Lingering uncertainty over the next step
they might or might not take plagued him, and kept him from bringing
up anything even remotely personal, even after they returned to Ray's
apartment. 

Even after Ray invited him to take off his jacket. And his boots. And
his socks. 

Even then, it was likely that Fraser wouldn't have initiated *anything*
were it not for the fact that Ray's attention kept wandering from the
basketball game they were ostensibly watching; were it not for the fact
that it had finally been absolutely clear that Ray was erect inside his
jeans. 

And still, there were doubts. Perhaps there were questions he should
have asked, that should have been asked when they were still clothed,
but in the moment all he'd been aware of was the fact that Ray wanted
to be touched. To touch. Ray... wanted. Ray hadn't played coy. Ray had,
once again... responded. 

All it took was turning his body, turning towards Ray, a tentative,
careful
encroachment into the space polite people kept sacred. He turned and
leaned, and Ray mirrored him, leaning right as Fraser leaned left, and
just that easily, their mouths had come together, fitting like a tongue
in a groove. Just that fast, Fraser left behind the complex mesh of doubts
and dove headfirst, straight through heart-poundingly intense relief
and on into yet another of his daydreams -- Ray, moaning into his mouth,
his hands reaching for Fraser's head, tilting him to the angle he wanted,
stroking deep in Fraser's mouth with his tongue, panting into his mouth.
Just one kiss. Just one, which had led to two, then three, until Fraser
had all the answer he could have wanted and couldn't tell where one kiss
ended and another began, and Ray only broke away to protest the lack
of maneuvering room on the couch. 

Which had brought them here, to Ray's bed, for the second night in a
row. Which had brought Ray against him like a whirlwind of fevered touches
and half-heard whispers of urgency. A nearly overwhelming onslaught of
desire, under which all of his own uncertainty seemed to have eroded
as if it were nothing more than an evanescent qualm. 

It was tempting to satisfy Ray quickly, to ease that blatant hunger with
all the skill and expediency at his disposal. It proved to be *more*
tempting, however, to draw things out, to allow himself the pleasure
of experiencing Ray's hunger as his own. And so he indulged his craving
for the touch, taste, and scent of Ray without allowing either one of
them release, which had led to his current predicament. 

"Fraser..." There was nothing, in either his experience or the realm
of fantasy, to adequately brace him for this -- Ray, dissolute and
imploring,
wearing nothing but his own sweat-moist skin as he writhed salaciously
against the sheets. Such abandon immediately ushered in a host of thoughts
of what he *could* do, if he dared, and a deep shudder gripped him. Oh
no. Not that. He couldn't ask that of Ray. Not in his current state.

"I'm *dying* here, Fraser--"

Fraser shivered again, staring at the flushed length of Ray's erection.
No, not that. But perhaps... he could ask... he could take... just a
little? 

"You should try to slow your breathing, Ray," he said, amazed at how
even his voice sounded. "After all, hyperventilation isn't--" 

"Fuck that," Ray snapped. "I've got a woody I could use for a hammer
and I'm ready to go hump a greased knothole, and I *will* if you don't...
don't... ooh. Oh..." 

Ray's erection was still wet from being well-licked earlier. Fraser's
hand slid and gripped there easily while he lowered himself down Ray's
body, moving between his thighs, and his tongue skimmed lower, seeking
and teasing, lower, and lower still until Ray stiffened underneath him,
hands grasping urgently at his hair. "You can't... Fraser... don't, that's
gross... stop it," he panted, but Fraser kept going, relentless, ignoring
the sting of Ray's hands yanking at his hair in uncoordinated jerks.
He stayed where he was, holding Ray open, sampling, licking softly until
Ray relaxed abruptly under his touch, his hands going lax in Fraser's
hair, and he heard whimpers issue from above: "Jesus, okay, okay, don't
stop, ummm, do *not* stop that." Then he lapped at him with the broad
flat of his tongue until Ray cried out and bucked wildly, sighing a broken
stream of 'yeah's as Fraser reveled in the fact that yes, even this
intimate
caress could be accepted; was, in fact, welcome. 

There was an edge to this, something dangerously sensual that tingled
through him as he fluttered his tongue against twitching muscle. Ray's
wantonness was an addictive thing, an unexpected and nearly shocking
freedom that was... compelling, utterly so; and therefore a threat to
whatever poor command he might have over his own desires. 

His self-discipline seemed to have met its match in Ray's surrender.
He couldn't think of another word that fit more aptly. Ray, despite his
superficial reserve, and the time he took eating dessert, and the
questions
he'd asked about their cases, and the agonizing minutes he'd spent
watching
basketball, went up in his arms like a flame at the first touch. Wherever
Fraser took him, he... went. Willingly. Openly. Kisses and touches were
accepted and returned as they relearned the territory discovered so
recently.
The luxury of being horizontal, the room to stretch and breathe, the
ease of already knowing some of what Ray wanted... it all made him want
*more*. 

He wanted... everything.

Unacceptable. To risk that was to risk... everything. There had to be
a line, a boundary firmly drawn, and he would have to count on his own
sense of discipline not to violate it. This far and no further. No further
than this. 

"Oh fuck... Fraser..." Ray's voice was low, rough with lust, and Fraser
felt the erection in his grasp throb fiercely. Ray's hips lifted and
sank in rhythm, seeking, wanting two things at once, a silent plea for
more, and Fraser admonished himself to go *no further*. 

...Until he *felt* Ray start to come. And then he completely,
unquestionably,
failed. 

He breached Ray's body with his tongue, thrusting in as deeply as he
could and using all his strength to hold Ray still because Ray went wild,
groaning out something that sounded like a potent combination of amazement
and ecstasy, gasping, blissful surprise that made Fraser's heart pound
in his chest. He held Ray through it, slowed the strokes of his hand
gradually until Ray merely twitched, and then gently withdrew, easing
back onto his knees. 

Ray looked... conflicted; entirely enervated and drenched in sweat and
semen, yet glaring at him balefully, as if somehow the circumstances
were all *his* fault. "You," Ray started, but then had to stop for oxygen
replenishment. 

"Yes, Ray." He kept his voice as level as he could. If he'd... gone too
far, if he'd transgressed, he'd need all the levelness he could muster.

A deep, deep breath. "You just teased the *fuck* out of me, Fraser."

Ah. Well, that was rather... undeniable. Muscles he hadn't known were
tense abruptly relaxed. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I did." 

Ray drew one arm across his sweaty forehead, and sighed. "You're in big
trouble, Fraser." 

Truly dismaying, the lack of control he seemed to have here. He
*shouldn't*
be smiling at that, and yet, it was impossible not to. "Am I?" 

"Oh yeah." Ray made a spasmodic attempt to sit up, then flopped back
down onto the bed and went back to glaring. "Oh. Yeah. As soon as I can
move, I'm gonna give you the world's most amateur blowjob. Trust me,
you'll be sorry." 

The fact of Ray's novice status was nowhere near sufficient to keep Fraser
from swallowing convulsively at that. His face grew hot. "Ray, that's...
I'm sure you... there isn't any--" 

"Don't try to sweet-talk me, Fraser," Ray interrupted, levering himself
up slowly to a kneeling position, his head lowered threateningly. "You
made, uh, that is... you made me come in my bed and now you have to lie
in it, how's that?" 

He was still trying to formulate the best possible response to that when
Ray jumped him. 

Amateur, yes. But there was something achingly sweet about that, about
the clumsiness of his mouth, about the way Ray tried to swallow him whole
before coughing him back up, about the enthusiasm he brought to bear
in place of experience. In fact, that enthusiasm quite effectively undid
Fraser, more than any commensurate amount of experience ever could have.

It was as if, once Ray had decided to jump in, there seemed to be no
point in only going halfway. Of course, that shouldn't have surprised
him -- no, with Ray there were no half measures. At least not in this.
Ray, for all he protected his heart, seemed to have placed no such limits
on his body. He responded to everything Fraser did; if not
whole-heartedly,
then whole-bodily. 

And in return, Fraser clamped down on the things he wanted that he
couldn't
have. It took effort, yes, but he'd had practice. 

Years of practice. 

He loosened the noose of control only at the very last minute, gasping
out a warning that Ray heeded -- proving that, even if he wasn't an
especially
quick study, at least he was a good listener. Fraser spared him the
decision
of whether to spit or swallow, and only gave in to his urges for the
briefest of moments: holding Ray's head close to him, feeling stubble
scour the skin of his hip, petting and petting and petting that soft
head and letting all the words drift loosely through his mind that he
couldn't possibly allow from his mouth. 

Instead, only a mopping up process was required, which Ray provided with
more nudges and choking laughter and comments about where in the hell
he'd been storing all that, and didn't he know it was bad for his
testicles
not to get some relief now and then? 

Fraser had just stretched, and yawned, his body utterly unaccustomed
to pleasure and satisfaction two days in a row. It wore him out. 

When Ray dropped back down beside him, Fraser reached for him
instinctively,
drawing him close as he had the night before, turning so they lay chest
to chest, arms finding comfortable spots to rest, legs twined together.
He breathed Ray in -- the lingering scent of their mutual arousal, the
muted smells of soap and shave cream. Things he had never known he was
missing wafted into his nose and buried themselves deep inside. Into
the soft down of his drowsiness came a moment's sharp thought: was it
better to know or not? Better to have experienced this... connection...
once and live on its memory, or would it have been better to never know,
and therefore never have the need to miss it? 

It seemed too harsh a thought to survive the warmth embracing them, and
Fraser pushed it aside by pulling Ray closer, burying his face in Ray's
throat. Ray drew back briefly, then put a hand on the back of his neck
and held him there, as if that had been where he'd wanted Fraser's head
all along. 

"This is...this is good, Fraser," Ray murmured.

Fraser didn't answer. Couldn't, over the sudden tightness in his throat,
so he nodded, knowing Ray would feel it. 

"What you did, you know, with your tongue?" Ray said quietly.

"Yes, Ray, I'm sorry, I know you said to stop, but I--" Fraser stammered,
only to be cut off by Ray's voice, low and rough. 

"I never felt anything like that. Ever. But... I mean, *there*? You really
*like* that?" he asked. 

"Oh, yes," Fraser said firmly. He would have raised his head then, the
better to gauge Ray's true reactions, but Ray wouldn't let him. Ray
pressed
his head firmly into his neck, and Fraser subsided eventually. 

"I spent the whole day worrying about how to make this normal," Ray said
after a minute. "But that was... that wasn't normal, Fraser." 

Oh, how he longed to see Ray's face. There was no accusation in Ray's
tone. No censure. Just astonishment... and wonder. Still, he knew abnormal
wasn't generally considered a goal to strive for, so he apologized one
more time. 

"Ray, I didn't mean --" and once again, Ray shushed him.

"No, hang on, Fraser. Don't split your seams," he said, shaping his hand
to Fraser's skull. "I'm trying to say that I've been normal. I've done
normal, and if what we're doing isn't normal, then... I guess I don't
want to be normal anymore." He paused, and Fraser felt his fingers move
through his hair. A caress. A definite caress. 

"This feels too good," Ray whispered.

Indeed. It felt too good. Too good to be real. Too good to last.

Too good to just be the physical relationship Ray wanted and nothing
more. 

And too good to stop, he admitted, even as his heart protested. He had,
as was always his wont, succumbed to the allure of an unattainable man.
The fact that Ray had opened his door, and his arms, and his bed to Fraser
did nothing to placate his aching heart. 

Stop, he admonished it. His heart always wanted more. Always. His heart
never listened to his head. 

Perhaps it would listen to his body, which seemed to be entirely in favor
of continuing this... he had no name for it... of continuing until either
Ray came to his senses, or he drove Fraser out of his. Perhaps he could
learn not to want so much. Perhaps that could be taught. 

Ray seemed to have honed that particular skill; perhaps Ray could teach
him. 

***************************************

Two weeks now, doing a guy, and what had he learned? Newsflash: he liked
blowjobs. 

Getting 'em. Giving 'em. 

Whatever. 

Blowjob. Sucky-sucky. Playing the skinflute. Knees-bent zipperworship.

Any way you put it, it had always been something he'd had a lot of
enthusiasm
for, something that had always perked him right up in every sense of
the word. A *good* thing. A 'buy me a lotto ticket 'cuz this is my lucky
day' kind of thing. The kind of thing he could really get behind. 

Until he had tried being on the other end of it, that is. 

And it wasn't even the *doing it* part of doing it -- well, yes, the
words 'safe zone' had floated through his mind, but hey, he'd figured,
he'd have Fraser's dick in his *mouth*, how much more safe could he be?
-- no, it wasn't putting Fraser's dick in his mouth that was the hard
part. It was what the hell he was supposed to *do* with it once he had
it there. 

All of a sudden, every professional porno queen he'd ever seen gobbling
cock achieved the rank of 'major-league sports hero' in his mind, once
he really got a grip on what a fucking *challenge* it was. Of course,
Fraser had been really good at it right out of the gate, but that was
Fraser for you, anyway.  

Who knew where Fraser had come by his know-how, but somebody out there
deserved a Teacher of the Year Award. 

It just seemed... so *wrong*... to gag when you were down there and doing
it -- the times Stella had gagged he'd made her stop. And yeah, sure
enough, Fraser had tried to make *him* stop, but... well, he might have
his lips wrapped around a guy's dick but he was no fucking *pussy* thank
you very much, Fraser, and this was... a personal challenge: Ray Kowalski
vs. The One-Eyed Canadian Monster. 

He'd won that first bout. Barely. And been really, really tempted to
never risk a rematch. 

But eventually of course he did, because he *liked* licking Fraser, and
Fraser got off on being licked in a way that just revved his motor like
nobody's business, and getting revved up by horny Fraser was turning
into the best hobby he'd ever had. So a few days later he'd tried it
again and hey -- whaddya know -- not so hard, that second time. 

So he did it again, and again, night after night, and damn if he couldn't
make Fraser come like a freight-train doing that, which was seriously
cool. And somewhere around the fifth time he tried it something happened
-- not just getting off on Fraser's desperate sounds anymore, or trying
not to smile when Fraser grabbed the sheets so hard he thought they'd
rip. Fraser had cupped his head, so gently, not tight at all, and Ray
held still and let Fraser rock up into his mouth, over his tongue a
little,
and *wham*! Everything seemed to fit together just like *that*, and
suddenly
there was some connection between his mouth and his dick that left him
wide-throated, that had him humping the bed like he couldn't stop. 

He couldn't stop. Fraser came in his mouth, and he came on the sheets,
and that was, like, a whole new thing and maybe it should have freaked
him out a little but *Jesus* it felt good, so in the end he blew off
any questions he might have had about how his safe zone was doing, and
just let it ride. 

And after that one thing led to another, the way stuff always did, and
he followed his body and followed Fraser and every night it got easier,
and hotter, and finally one night Fraser let *him* ride -- splayed out
on top of solid Mountie muscles in the classic sixty-nine position (which
turned out to be a hell of a lot more classic when there wasn't a big
height difference to bother with), giving as good as he got. Well, almost
as good. As good as he could give, anyway. 

The hardest thing was to stay still. The first time he'd tried it, it
had taken his body about ten seconds to figure out that Fraser didn't
seem to mind no matter how hard, or deep, or fast he went, and that was
un*fucking*believable, to lay there on top of Fraser and screw himself
senseless in Fraser's hot, silky throat, and he'd lasted probably fifteen
seconds total. 

Which was kind of embarrassing. 

So the next time he stayed still, as still as he could, and tried to
distract himself with all the nifty things he could do with Fraser's
equipment. Still, it seemed like Fraser had an unfair advantage -- some
kind of weird Canadian politeness thing, probably: never come before
your partner. And if he'd wanted to hear some long, boring lecture about
voluntary and involuntary reflexes, he would have asked. But he didn't.
So he wouldn't. 

But he did get the bright idea, while licking long swipes down the length
of Fraser's dick and trying to stay still, to maybe do more than just
say a silent 'hello' to Fraser's ass on every upstroke. So he got his
fingers nice and wet and then put them where they'd do the most good,
and -- wow, just like magic -- Fraser went kind of quietly nuts and
groaned
in a way that Ray hoped wasn't a sound of suffocation, and sucked and
bucked and wriggled and lifted both of them up off the bed and came one
split second before Ray did. Victory. 

And at last, a level playing field. Because Fraser never passed up a
chance to tease him, or at least it felt that way, but Ray had long
fingers
and Fraser really appreciated it, loved it, would go off just like a
rocket if he was touched right, and so finally Ray had found it -- an
evil secret weapon that even SuperFraser couldn't withstand. Pretty
goddamn
cool. 

They'd been messing around for a good solid two weeks, moving from one
spine-tingling, I-can't-believe-I'm-doing-this thing to another when,
during another hornier-than-thou sixty-nine session, Ray noticed the
way Fraser's thighs just *quivered* every time his fingers pushed inside,
the way Fraser's cock throbbed against his tongue at the same moment,
and without stopping to think he backed off, holding tight to Fraser's
dick and talking into it like a microphone, wiggling his fingers and
watching Fraser twitch. 

"Fraser?"

"Mmmf!" *Oooh, steady, Ray. That vibration does *not* mean 'let's get
funky in Fraser's mouth', whatever it might feel like.* 

Ray swallowed, held himself still, and licked the tip of Fraser's dick
gently. Wiggled his fingers again. Heard Fraser pulling in urgent breath
through his nose. 

"Um... I think I wanna fuck you. Would that be okay?"

"*Mmmf*!!" Oh, *bad mistake*, there. Because he was still holding Fraser's
dick right in front of his face, and while he'd gotten used to Fraser
coming in his mouth (as weird as that was), Fraser coming in his *nose*
and on his *chin* and practically in his fucking *eye* was a real shock.
He tried to say something and couldn't, had to just roll away groping
for a sheet, a piece of clothing, anything to get this stuff off his
face, and then Fraser was there with a pillowcase and about a zillion
words of intense, horrified apology, and then there was nothing else
in the whole world he could do but *laugh*. 

Hard. Hard as he could ever remember laughing.

And eventually, after about six billion more 'I'm so *sorry*, Ray!'s,
Fraser joined in. 

***************************************

If he'd ever been more mortified he couldn't remember the occasion. Was,
in fact, having trouble remembering much of anything beyond the erotic
blast of the previous few minutes. His world, which had at one time
encompassed
a vast wilderness, seemed to have narrowed to the width of a queen-size
bed. 

Ray wouldn't let him retreat, wouldn't let him duck away and hibernate
with his mortification. Ray, who, before Fraser had reached for him in
a moment of singular capitulation, had always been so tense, so
self-conscious,
was now laughing helplessly, naked, his face dripping wet strings while
he tried to control himself enough to clean up the mess Fraser had made.

A mess. A wonderful mess, but a mess nonetheless.

Fraser found himself laughing with him because, as with so many things
with Ray, he couldn't help himself. 

Yes, there was no other way to describe it. This was, indisputably, a
mess. 

Strange, he'd never thought of himself as an opportunistic individual
before. Of course, that had been before Ray... welcomed him, before
providence
or destiny or whatever served for fate in his life had so casually tossed
him this complex gift. So much of everything he'd ever wanted, so close
to fulfillment of a hundred closely guarded desires, blocked from
perfection
only by the daily awareness that it might all be withdrawn at any moment.

That however easily Ray had bestowed that gift, it could just as easily
be taken away. 

He could clearly imagine dozens of scenarios, perhaps a hundred, which
would necessitate the end of... this. So many, but one in particular
haunted him, tinged with the dread of inevitability. At the start of
their physical relationship, Ray had clearly stated his conviction that
he was done with love, and was therefore entirely unwilling to attempt
another romantic alliance. However, experience indicated that Ray was
a changeable individual, moreover, that he was generous, prone to
affection,
and deeply, earthily physical. Those facts combined to suggest a powerful
likelihood that Ray might see his... liaison with Fraser as a successful
'test run' -- as *proof* that he could maintain a physical relationship
without heading down whatever path had led him to disaster. 

In essence, it seemed certain that, sooner or later, Ray would awaken
to his own limitless opportunities. And while that was a *good* thing,
it also meant the certain end of what had been the most wonderful,
rewarding,
contented period Fraser had ever known. 

It went without saying that, in light of those thoughts, the most rational
course of action would be for *him* to withdraw, perhaps with some
carefully
placed words of encouragement for Ray, drawing his attention to the fact
that, with such a generous heart and warm disposition, all things were
possible. To call an end to it before he went any deeper into his own
helpless attachment. 

But of course he couldn't. Perhaps it would be prudent, but it would
also be nearly impossible -- the height of folly -- to imagine that he
could give up one moment, one kiss, one touch which Ray might willingly
offer him. A flat impossibility. 

And so it was equally impossible to entertain the notion of refusing
Ray anything he asked for -- including the casually worded request Ray
had just made. Even though that act had taken on a talismanic, nearly
legendary quality in his own mind -- the apex of his longings, of
*connection*,
something as deeply desired for its intimacy as it was feared for its
possible repercussions. 

He would be... ruined, after that (not that he wasn't already, but like
many things there was always a matter of *degree*), ruined for any hope
of... solace. Eventual or otherwise. 

All of which simply comprised another truth to bear, another wrinkle
in the fabric of his existence which would never be smoothed away. A
silent companion as he wiped Ray's face until Ray batted him away
impatiently,
as he kissed Ray soundly, as he happily absorbed the shiver that resulted
from bending to one round ear and whispering the portion of truth he
could part with. 

"That would be *wonderful*, Ray." 

***************************************

Apparently, he just wasn't cut out to be a safe zone kind of guy. 

Because the only thing that really seemed to hold his attention as he
rummaged in his bedside drawer for hand lotion, as he got Fraser nice
and slicked-up and got himself as smeared as he could get without going
over that ooh-that-feels-damn-fine edge, was the thought of how *good*
this was gonna be. 

So it was past that line he'd set -- so what? He'd come up with that
whole 'line' thing based on a stupid idea anyway: the idea that there
might be *anything* he could do with Fraser that might not be what he
wanted. But, as it turned out, *everything* he did with Fraser felt good,
good, good, and now he'd get to try this new thing, and he'd be willing
to bet a year's pay that *this* was gonna be good too. 

It was obvious (*really* obvious) that Fraser wanted it. And *he* wanted
it. And so it would be good. 

But none of that stopped him from wondering, even while he had three
lotion-coated fingers as deep as they'd go in Fraser's ass, even though
Fraser seemed pretty happy about it, pushing down on his hand and getting
-- oooh -- seriously into it; none of that stopped him from wondering
whether it might not... hurt. Like, maybe a *lot*. 

Lotion or no lotion, three fingers were a tight fit. Way tight. That
meant 'be careful', because the only other thing he could do was wish
that his cock was smaller, and that was, like, *sacrilege*. No way. So
he'd just have to be careful. 

"I'll... uh... be careful," he told Fraser. Just in case Fraser was
worrying
about it. But Fraser only nodded, panting and flushed, half-erect again
already and spread out on his back on the bed with that do-me-do-me-do-me
look on his face again, waiting. 

Waiting for him. To go ahead and... right.

Ray swallowed. Okay, so maybe he was a *little* nervous. 

"I'll be careful..." that seemed like an important thing, whether he
was telling Fraser or himself, but then he leaned forward and felt
Fraser's
furnace-heat against him, and Fraser's strong, solid legs wrapped around
him and he could *feel* Fraser wanting this, lifting up for him, wanting
it... and this was the right thing to do, hold on, feel, point himself
straight for where Fraser was hottest, and... 

Push. So he pushed. A little. Fraser sighed, sweating now and so easy
to slide against, easy, and relaxed, Ray felt him relax, and he thought
he'd stopped pushing but apparently he hadn't because
hot-*hot*-tight-slippery
suddenly squeezed him and he was *inside*, at least halfway in, and
gasping.

"Fraser --"

"Don't stop, Ray. Please. Just... don't."

So he didn't stop, and even though this was different his hips remembered
how to do this, this going *into* thing, and ohh, it just didn't get
any better than this, any better than snug inside and moving -- but then
it did get better, three slow strokes and Fraser was at full-mast, looking
lost in it, looking wild and messy and hot. And one more thrust, fast
and hard this time and *just like that* Fraser lost it and shot all over
their bellies, groaning so loudly it hurt his ears. 

"Jesus, Fraser..." Ray pushed forward and stayed there, trying hard not
to think about Fraser coming twice before he came even once, or about
Fraser coming just from being fucked, because if he thought about it
he'd go off, and it might be nice if *one* of them had some kind of
self-control.

The thing was, this had always been about... him, about taking -- a guilty
kind of taking. Stella came when he went down on her, or when he was
inside if he touched her just right and managed to wait her out. And
yeah, he'd always felt like a total stud afterwards but it was nothing
like *this*, like Fraser coming so easy and shaking and moaning the roof
down, and making him feel like he was the fucking *champion* of... of
fucking, or something. 

It was embarrassing and stupid, how much he got off on that, and his
face burned -- more heat, more warmth when there was already so much,
almost too much. The muscles in his arms were starting to go weak and
achy, everything in him just wanting him to give up, give in, let it
go -- but he wouldn't, didn't. And from somewhere he found the strength
to hold himself up so that he could keep on, thrusting again and
half-crazy
with it but keeping on, focusing on the ache in his shoulders to keep
himself distracted while he kept on... being a fucking champion. Oh yeah.

And Fraser wasn't exactly making it easy on him. Fraser had settled down
to a steady, horny-sounding murmur in which Ray caught his name but not
much else, and had gone back to that dark-eyed Mysterious Stranger look,
the one that meant he was *really* turned on. Thing was, though, that
particular stranger hadn't really been much of a stranger anymore,
considering
what they'd been up to for the past couple of weeks; and now he wasn't
a stranger at all, what with the way Ray was doing his level best to
screw him through the mattress. 

"Fraser." He said it just to say it, just to make sure it was all real.
He found he couldn't stop, though, once he'd started, and boy, that seemed
to be the story of his life lately but... what the hell. "Fraser, Fraser,
Fraser..." He kept it quiet, as quiet as he could, anyway. Eventually
it stopped making sense to him, eventually it became just a sound, *the*
sound, the sound of this, of where he was, of all things good... hot...
wonderful. His lips were numb with saying it but that was okay because
the rest of him felt *so* good, *so* fucking good. 

"Harder, Ray." He couldn't answer that but shook his head, no, not harder,
no finish line, not yet, but Fraser's thighs locked around him and gentle
hands found his nipples, gentle at first and then harder, yes harder,
he could *do* harder because he *had* to with wicked, electric pleasure
shivering all over him like this -- fucking Fraser's tight, round ass
just as hard as he fucking could. 

His arms gave out, but that was okay because landing on Fraser meant
that he had a shoulder, a neck to occupy his mouth with, something to
sink his teeth into because he was making some *serious* noise now,
seriously
out of his mind embarrassing noise. And when he bit down on Fraser's
neck Fraser *heaved* under him and twisted his nipples one last time
and that was it, he came howling like an animal, pushing and pulsing
and shaking and coming *hard*, everything around him gone except...
Fraser.

Fraser, who was whispering 'yes' and squeezing him and shuddering and
maybe coming *again*, he couldn't tell. Jesus. 

Ray kept his eyes closed until it was quiet, until his body felt like
a body and not a gazillion separate blissed-out molecules. Then he kept
them closed for a little longer, because that had been... intense, intense
in a way he hadn't quite expected, and anyway there was no law against
keeping his damn eyes closed, so he just did. 

He kept them closed until his dick slipped slowly out of Fraser, and
Fraser made some kind of deep sound in his throat, something that sounded
almost like it was supposed to make sense -- 

But probably not, because Fraser was out, down for the count. Mumbling
in his sleep. He did that a lot. 

Okay, so some things hadn't changed. Ray had to smile at that. The smile
stayed with him while he eased himself out of the bed and made his slow
way towards the bathroom on legs that felt like nothing more than
stretched-out
pencil erasers, but then he swapped the smile for a wince while he cleaned
up -- sensitive. Ow. Man, if *he* was sensitive, Fraser must be... 

The smile came back to him when he wobbled into the bedroom again,
however.
He decided Fraser must not be aching too bad; not and be sleeping *that*
deep already. Fraser always seemed so... contained, when he was awake,
but he seriously made up for it when he was asleep. Bed-and-cover hog
-- and right now, a really goddamn *messy* one, at that. 

Ray shivered. He was wet, and it was cold in here, but as soon as he
eased himself up close to Fraser the Furnace that would all be taken
care of. He slipped into the bed, thankfully remembering to snuggle up
to the non-messy side of Fraser, and closed his eyes. 

It felt... wonderful. Ray sighed. He'd been so *wrong*, about so many
things -- freaked himself right out when there was no need for it, because
Fraser was... good, a good guy, a good friend, a great partner, and a
fucking nuclear meltdown between the sheets. Always good. And that had...
changed him. Not just because of the guy thing, although that was
certainly
a mindblower, but because of the friend thing too -- they were still
friends. Working together, sleeping together, and it was all... good.
Not scary, not cold, just one thing leading to another, and it all worked.
And that meant... that meant... 

Well, he didn't know what it meant, exactly, but it felt like if he gave
it a chance, he might figure it out. Like something was right there,
staring at him, if he'd just open his eyes and *look*. 

'Safe' had turned out to be one of those relative terms. He'd been wrong
-- dead wrong -- about the sex thing. What if he'd been wrong about all
the other stuff, too? What if what he'd thought he didn't want anymore
had snuck up on him, wearing emergency signal red and size eleven boots?

It wasn't that much of a stretch, really, to think about. He'd never
had a fucking lick of control when it came to that shit. The only way
he'd managed to keep himself under wraps for that long year was by not
letting anybody get close enough to even make him *think* about starting
anything. 

Except Fraser. Fraser got close. Worked with him. Played with him. Teased
him and touched him and got sarcastic with him when he did dumb stuff.
Did things to his body he didn't even know could be done. Things that
made him feel...like maybe it wasn't just the feeling outside that was
so good. The feeling *inside* was good, too. 

Feeling. Something he'd sworn he'd never do again.

But he'd been wrong about so many things. Maybe he'd been wrong about...
that... too. 

***************************************

If Fraser had thought concentrating on his work was hard before, it was
almost impossible the morning after Ray... he couldn't even think the
word, but he could remember with perfect clarity every moment of how
it had felt. He could still feel Ray inside him. When he walked, even
just sitting at his desk, every minute of the day the dull ache inside
reminded him, and he reveled in it, in the physical echoes of the best
night of his life. 

It had been better than he'd imagined. Deeper. Stronger. An exhilarating,
explosive, gut-deep connection he'd never formed with anyone before,
not even Victoria. To be opened up like that, opened and... penetrated.

His pen slipped on the paper, and he realized unless the Consular General
in Ottawa had a code reader, he'd be unable to decipher anything Fraser
had just written. He was useless here, and it was almost the end of his
shift anyway. Perhaps Ray could use his help; they seemed to get more
accomplished together than apart. 

He wondered if their physical closeness had in some way translated to
other aspects of their lives because they had worked better in recent
weeks than at any other point -- and they'd always worked well together,
their differences complementing rather than hindering their efforts.
They seemed to be firing on all cylinders, or, as Ray put it, they were
in the groove. 

Indeed. 

Fraser realized as he walked from the Consulate to the precinct that
he had, for the first time in a long time, something in his life besides
work. Work had filled his empty spaces adequately, providing activity
and some measure of satisfaction, and an equal measure of interaction
-- all that human beings generally required. But Ray had given him more
than that, more than the basic requirements. At its simplest level, when
he was with Ray, he didn't feel alone. 

So as long as Ray was willing to give what he could, Fraser was willing
to... take it. 

Perhaps it was the folly of having come to some internal resolution --
the fates liked nothing more than toying with a settled soul. Perhaps
it was simply imagining the possibility of Ray moving on that conjured
the means to make it happen. Whatever the cause, the result was still
a shock: Fraser walked into the station just in time to see a familiar
scene -- Ray standing over a petite brunette, his head tilted as he
listened
to what she had to say. 

The witness from the club. Looking... not at all trashy. She looked,
in fact, rather smart. Like someone someone else might like to get to
know better. The look on her face was familiar, too. She liked Ray. Was
interested in him, was, at this moment, leaning toward him, her face
-- certainly prettier without the heavy makeup -- tilted up coquettishly,
her eyes wide. 

Once again Fraser found himself standing in a room, watching the man
he loved fall under a spell. 

Seeing them together felt like getting a faceful of cold water, and he
moved (again, such a familiar thing to do) so he could see Ray's face.
He needed to see for himself the transformation, the transition, had
to scald himself with the actuality of Ray's arousal. Then it would be
real. Then he could accept it. So he moved closer, took a steadying
breath,
and looked. 

Ray looked... like he was listening. He nodded at something the woman
said, then scribbled in his notebook. He looked... normal. A detective
at his work. From this angle, Fraser could see that he wasn't even
standing
as close to the woman as it had first appeared. 

Fraser resisted the first trickle of relief and dropped his eyes to Ray's
groin, assessing. Nothing. No evidence of arousal. Not even when he
squinted.
Ray was keeping it strictly professional, and it didn't seem to bother
him in the least. 

Yes, strictly professional. The difference between strictly professional
and intensely personal became clear when Ray lifted his head and saw
Fraser. His eyes... lit, he stood up straight, and he smiled. A beautiful
smile. 

Just beautiful.

Fraser blamed the sudden weakness in his knees on the long walk from
the Consulate and the previous evening's... exertions. 

By the time he got his breathing under control, Ray had turned back to
the witness, jotting additional notes and nodding some more. Then he
shook her hand, pointed her toward the exit, and said goodbye. 

Fraser remained rooted to the spot while Ray came over to him. Ray clapped
him on the shoulder and said, "I think we're getting somewhere. One of
the guys was wearing a t-shirt with a logo on it -- what a loser, you
believe that? -- and she remembered what it said. So we got a good lead."

"Good," Fraser said, pleased when the word came out without cracking.

Ray went to his desk and put down his notebook, then looked at him hard.
"What?" he asked. 

"Nothing," Fraser said, still trying to come to terms with the fact that
Ray had stared temptation in the face and turned away from it. Turned
toward *him*. "That is, I'm glad the witness was helpful." 

"About damn time," Ray grumped, shuffling papers into a somewhat neater
pile. "I can't believe how much time we've spent on that stupid case."

Stupid... it was stupid to push, but Fraser had to be sure. "Will you
be seeing her... the witness... again?" 

Ray's hands stilled on the paper, and he looked at Fraser for so long
he started to feel uncomfortable. "In court, maybe. Otherwise, no." 

This time, relief made him light-headed. He'd had no right to ask. They
didn't have that kind of relationship. He knew that. But he'd asked.
And Ray had answered. And it seemed to be... all right. 

"You ready to go?" Ray asked. "What're you in the mood for? Tuesday's
manicotti night at Donato's." 

Fraser let himself be turned, encouraged toward the exit. He hoped his
confusion wasn't visible to anyone besides Ray, who seemed to be treating
him like he was a little bit slow, which he indeed felt himself to be.

Tuesday meant manicotti. With Ray. Thursday would probably be Chinese
take-out. With Ray. Saturday usually included a basketball game, or
bowling.
All of it with Ray. 

He and Ray were... together... in every way, every day.

Surely that counted for something.

He was glad when Ray headed towards the street rather than the parking
lot, happy to walk to the restaurant. The early evening air felt good,
just cold enough to be bracing, and movement, any movement, felt better
than sitting still. 

Ray seemed to have something on his mind. Twice he started to say
something,
then stopped. It was only when they had reached a relatively deserted
stretch across from the park that Ray finally spoke up. 

"I got a question for you," he said, sounding very matter-of-fact, but
it was easy enough to hear the uncertainty underneath. Fraser wondered
if he'd read Ray wrong, if in fact there had been something more to his
conversation with the witness than he'd admitted. He held his breath.

"Um, when you were... " Ray stopped, cracked his neck. "When you've done
this before, did you... damn, how to say this... did you go back and
forth?" 

Fraser stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. A dark storefront reflected
Ray's image, so he could see two of them facing him -- both extremely
uncomfortable. "What do you mean?" 

"You know," Ray said, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets. "Poker
and pokee?" 

It took Fraser a minute to realize that whatever Ray was trying to ask
him, it had nothing to do with a witness, or a case. It took him another
minute to realize he wasn't talking about the card game, but about...
He was asking about what Fraser had done... with other men. 

A misapprehension that Fraser had let stand too long. If they were going
to be... together... like this, then Ray deserved the full story. 

"Ray," he said, tugging at his collar, "I haven't done this before."

Ray shifted his balance to his other foot. "What, switching off?" 

Fraser couldn't believe they were standing outside, on a public sidewalk,
talking about... this. Fortunately, the only activity was across the
street in the park, well out of earshot. 

"Any of it," he admitted, then took a deep breath and said, "I haven't
been... involved... with any other men." 

Both Rays, real and reflected, looked at him with narrowed eyes. "No
way." 

"It's true," Fraser said, stepping a little closer. 

Ray dropped his voice, as if he, too, had just realized where they were,
and said, "But I thought... you know... " 

"My... feelings... for others were never returned, and so I never...
" Fraser's voice trailed off as he realized what he was saying -- the
one thing Ray had insisted he didn't want. 

"But you're so *good* at it," Ray said, disbelief tingeing his tone.
"How'd you get so good at it?" 

The flush he'd managed to keep at bay swept up his neck and into his
face. Perhaps Ray had missed his slip; he seemed to be concentrating,
as always, on the physical. "Well, I've thought about it. A lot." 

Ray grinned, a surprisingly flash of light in the increasing dark. He
looked over at the park, then back at Fraser. After a minute, he shrugged
and said, "So I'm the only one? I'm it for you?" 

Oh, there were so many ways he could interpret that. As had happened
so often in recent weeks, they seemed to have fumbled their way to a
critical place, with the only options being moving forward or moving
back. Each and every time, they had, through desire and urgency and
surrender,
moved forward. And each and every time, moving forward had made it...
better. 

Fraser summoned a memory of the light in Ray's eyes at the station before,
of that smile, then straightened his shoulders and said clearly, "Yes,
Ray. You're it for me." 

Ray rocked on his heels, a little smile playing across his mouth. Fraser
had said all he could, more than he should. Now he could only wait, let
Ray have *his* say. When Ray turned in the direction of the restaurant
and cocked his shoulder at Fraser, they started walking again. The
activity
made waiting easier. 

They were almost to Donato's, back in the hustle and bustle of evening
in a neighborhood, when Ray leaned toward him and said under his breath,
"You remember what you said once, about you and guys you can't have?"

Fraser glanced around him. No one was paying them the least bit of
attention.
"Yes," he said. His heart pounded in his throat, as if it would leap
out to make its own case if it could. 

Ray kept his eyes forward, his feet moving, and Fraser walked in cadence
with him. Easy -- it was so very easy to do that. 

"You can have me," Ray said quietly. "If you want." 

"I want," Fraser said fervently, and Ray laughed a little.

And still, Fraser felt an urge to move forward, just that little step
further. 

"*More* than want," he stressed, unable to articulate any better than
that, but wanting to be sure Ray clearly understood that what they had
went well beyond the physical. "It's more than want." 

Ray turned to meet his eyes and nodded. "Yeah, I figured that out," he
said, and then he flashed that smile, the new one. The beautiful one.
"I can handle... more." 

Heat and warmth combined inside, residual embarrassment being trampled
by the slowly dawning realization that they had just... well, it wasn't
a romantic declaration, but then where would either of them have learned
how to do that? No, it was like everything else between them -- half
spoken, all felt. 

And plenty good enough.

Ray bounced a little, executing a dance step on the sidewalk. "So you'll
do it?" he asked. 

"Do what, Ray?" Fraser said, finding it hard to concentrate when Ray...
moved... like that. 

"The old switcheroo," Ray said patiently, reaching out to hold open the
door to the restaurant. 

"I will if you want," he said, brushing against Ray as he entered the
warm spicy air. 

"I want," Ray said, throwing his words back with a wicked grin.

Fraser firmly clamped down on the impulse to nudge Ray up against the
wood paneling in the entry and give him exactly what they both wanted,
and wondered what Mr. Donato would think if they ordered their manicotti
to go. 

***************************************

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