Trapped   Disclaimer: These aren't my characters, they belong to
Alliance
 
 
 Third season spoilers for "Mountie on the Bounty"
 
 Rated R for implied M/M, Fraser/Kowalski slash
 
 (c) September 1998
 
 
Email the author at: Ardrian15@aol.com
********************************************************
 
 Trapped
 
 by Caroline Alert
 
 
 "Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say, 'Shut yer talking hole'?" Stanley Ray
Kowalski gritted through clenched teeth, straining ineffectually against
his bonds.
 
 "No. Actually, Ray, I believe your exact words were 'Shut up, you—"
 
 "Fraser---!" Kowalski shut his eyes and threw his whole body into an
effort to get his hands around the annoying Mountie's neck. Unfortunately,
since they were both bound tightly in chairs, back to back, his wild
struggles only resulted in tightening the ropes around his chest until
they cut off his breath.
 
 "Ray!" Fraser chided primly. "Please don't do that. You're wasting
energy, as well as tightening these ropes to the point of strangulation."
 
 "That's the point, Fraser!" Stan hissed, livid. Just to drive it home, he
surged against his bonds a second time, snarling, until the effort (and
the lack of oxygen) made him see stars. But it was worth it, because they
were tied so tightly together that his struggles had the same effect on
his partner. For a moment, one blessed moment, Fraser actually shut up. 
 
 In that wonderful resulting silence, Stan collapsed in his bonds, head
hanging, and just concentrated on breathing. He could hear Fraser gasping
a little behind him, and that made him smile a bit. But the moment was too
good to last. 
 
 All too soon, the Mountie got his breath back. "So I take it you blame me
for our predicament?" he asked, sounding distinctly hurt.
 
 Not as hurt as he'd be if I could get my hands on him, Stan thought,
unrepentant. "Yes! Absolutely! You win the prize," he snapped, trying to
flex his hands because the ropes were cutting off his circulation.
 
 "Well, I'm not sure that's entirely fair, Ray," Fraser began.
 
 Fair? They were locked in a dirty, musty old closet in a warehouse full
of rats, trussed up so tight they could barely breathe, with at least six
armed and dangerous thugs outside—and they hadn't even had lunch yet. I'll
show you fair! he thought. He clenched his hands into fists. "Oh, no?
Whose idea was it to go to Finelli's for lunch today?"
 
 "Mine," Fraser admitted. "But you could hardly expect me to know that
we'd run across an armed robbery in progress at a nearby jewelry store on
the way there," he added, so calmly that Kowalski almost hated him. "I'm
not psychic, Ray."
 
 "Who was the one," Stan went on darkly, "who insisted on pursuing those
three armed clowns here, instead of waiting for backup?"
 
 He felt, rather than saw, Fraser lift an eyebrow. "Well, they are
criminals. They did commit an armed robbery. And we are sworn to uphold
the law—"
 
 "Who's the one," Kowalski asked, relentless, "who refused to listen when
I said, 'Fraser, don't go in there! That warehouse may not be as empty as
it looks.' Huh?"
 
 Fraser shrugged, despite their bonds. "How was I to know we'd pursued
these felons to their lair—"
 
 "Or that it'd be full of more felons with guns?" Stan finished for him
grimly. "Whaddaya think I was tryin' to tell you!"
 
 Fraser was silent for a second. Then he said mildly, "There's no need to
shout, Ray. There's nothing wrong with my hearing."
 
 Kowalski shut his eyes, set his jaw, and counted to ten. "Okay," he said
finally. "All right. So maybe all that's not your fault. I could maybe
live with all that. But what gets me is, I go in after you, to protect you
because you're not packin' any heat, we both get captured…And then you
gotta open yer yap and point out the maximum number of years those guys
could get for this! While they got their guns pointin' right at us! That
is your fault! That is definitely your fault! Didn't it occur to you that
that might piss 'em off?" 
 
 Fraser tried to shrug again. "I felt they should understand the
consequences of their actions, Ray."
 
 Kowalski slumped in his bonds and shook his head. It was beyond him, it
was beyond human comprehension, how a guy as smart as Fraser could be such
a moron at times. He couldn't deal with it anymore--it was making his head
hurt. I shoulda' known better than to try to point it out to him anyway,
he grumbled to himself. That was just askin' for trouble. He could talk me
under the table any day. Hell, he'd talk me to death if I let him! And
then while they buried me, he'd still be yakkin' at my coffin, tryin' to
explain things!
 
 Despite their dangerous situation, the thought made him smile. He had to
admit, if the circumstances had been different—like, if those thugs had
tied them up face to face, for instance—he wouldn't have minded this so
much. Fraser might be a moron sometimes, but he was his best friend, and
the hottest moron Stan had ever seen. Those broad shoulders, clear blue
eyes and that mouth…When he wasn't fantasizing about killing him, he was
usually fantasizing about kissing him senseless, then stripping off that
uniform and—
 
 Stan looked down at his waist and groaned at the sight of his own
arousal. Great! That's all I need. Maybe it's a good thing they tied us up
like this after all. At least Fraser can't see this. Because much as he
wanted him, he'd never let Fraser know it. After all, he'd read Vecchio's
file, he knew about the mess Fraser had gotten them both into over his
obsession with that Metcalf woman…What were the odds a guy like that would
ever want another guy? Even his own partner? 
 
 About a snowball's chance in hell, he reflected glumly.
 
 
 Fraser tested the strength of the ropes that bound him to his partner for
the tenth time, a bit stung by Kowalski's angry accusation that the
situation was all his fault. It reminded him all too painfully of similar
situations, and complaints, with his first Ray. But he had to admit, the
points Stan had made were valid: he had chosen the place they'd eat, a
choice that had placed them at the scene of the crime; he had insisted on
pursuing the criminals involved without waiting for backup—and he had
informed them of the likely jail sentences that would ensue once they were
caught. In retrospect, he supposed that had been a trifle unwise of him.
Because before that, the robbers had merely been holding him and Stan at
gunpoint. But once he'd imparted that information, they'd hit them, tied
them up and shoved them in this dingy closet.
 
 So while he hadn't foreseen the robbery's occurrence, he did bear at
least some responsibility for the fact that they'd wound up trussed up
like hogs on their way to market as a result.
 
 The realization was distinctly uncomfortable. This wasn't the way he
would've chosen to get close to Stan Kowalski. Actually, he never had been
able to figure out a way to do that. He was too much his father's son. The
words just never came easily to him—or at all. Besides, he didn't think
Stan would welcome learning about his feelings for him. He seemed a
dedicated ladies' man, he'd been married and he still chased women
whenever he got the chance. So Fraser had always been scared to admit that
he wanted him, though his new partner's wild thatch of blonde hair and
intense blue eyes fascinated him. He'd been harboring a secret but very
powerful urge to run his hands through that thick, spiky hair for months
now—an urge he'd restrained with difficulty.
 
 That time on the Henry Allen, though, when he'd turned to find Stan
hanging limply in the cold water behind him, eyes closed, on the verge of
drowning, he'd had the perfect excuse to touch him. He'd been forced to,
actually. So he'd done it, and he'd never been able to forget the result.
He'd put his hands on that angular face, felt the rough blonde beard
stubble that always shadowed it, then pulled Stan's limp body towards him
and kissed him. Parted his limps firmly and dove inside, warming those
cold lips with his own as he breathed air into him with a caress.
 
 It had been one of the most illicit, exciting moments of his life.
Necessary for altruistic reasons, yet utterly selfish and erotic as well.
 
 And ever since, he'd been tortured by a question: had Stan actually
responded? Because for just a second, before his blue eyes flew open in a
look of wild surprise, he could've sworn that the passive lips pressed to
his had come to life and caressed him back, moved sensually against his
mouth.
 
 Fraser blinked, forcing the vivid, tantalizing memory away. Forcing his
thoughts back to the present. He couldn't think about that now, he had to
concentrate on other things. An apology to Ray was in order first—then he
had to see about getting them out of here. Because if he didn't, they'd
both probably get killed, and his question would never be answered.
 
 He tested the ropes again, frustrated, but they were tied far too tightly
for him to break free by any conventional method. Which meant that he'd
have to employ an unconventional one. He set his jaw, knowing what that
would mean. Even for him, joint rearrangement wasn't a pleasant prospect.
But if it would save Stanley R. Kowalski, alias Ray, alias his best
friend, he would.
 
 I'm a Mountie, he chanted to himself. I can do this. But God, it was
going to hurt!
 
 
 
 Fraser moved a bit restlessly behind him. "I am sorry, Ray," he said
quietly. And there was something in his voice—a hint of awareness that
they just might not make it out of this one, and that he felt bad about
dragging him into it after all, criminals or no—that dispelled Stan's
anger.
 
 "'S'okay, Frase," he said. "But we gotta do somethin', ya' know? What if
Welsh doesn't find us soon? Or what if they change their minds about
keepin' us as hostages?"
 
 Fraser shifted again, and Stan felt their ropes tighten. "I am aware of
the risks. And I've been working on the problem of getting loose—"
 
 He gasped suddenly, and Stan felt their ropes across their shoulders give
a little. He turned his head as far as he could, trying to see his
partner. He had a bad feeling about this. "What're you doing?"
 
 For a second, Fraser didn't answer. And when he did, his voice sounded
strange—distant, almost faint. "I'm dislocating my shoulder, Ray."
 
 Stan blinked. "Oh. Right." Then he caught himself. "Yer what?" he hissed,
straining even harder to see him. But he couldn't crane his neck far
enough around to get a good look. Still, he couldn't have heard him right.
Not even Fraser would be that crazy. Stan had dislocated his shoulder by
accident once, in a football game when he was fifteen, and he'd never
forgotten the searing, off-the-scale agony. It hurt so bad that he'd
cried. No one would do that to themselves deliberately--
 
 "No, don't!" he breathed, not wanting him to do that. Not even now, not
even to save their butts.
 But it was too late. Stan heard something pop, and an agonized huff of
breath. 
 
 "There," Fraser gasped. 
 
 At that instant, the ropes moved again, gave way a bit around Stan's
shoulders. He felt Fraser shifting somehow within the slack, and he
winced, knowing what he'd done. "God dammit, 
 Fraser!"
 
 The Mountie didn't answer. Maybe he couldn't. But Stan could feel him
squirming around behind him. He moaned under his breath as he moved, which
didn't surprise Stan. The only thing that surprised Kowalski was the fact
that he wasn't screaming. I would be—
 
 "You're going…to have to help me, Ray," Fraser said hoarsely then. 
 
 "Anything. Just tell me how," he said instantly.
 
 "Can you move…your left arm?" his friend panted. "Shift it forward…a
little."
 
 Stan understood instantly. Fraser needed more room to maneuver. He
complied, pulling his arm forward as far as he could, straining against
the ropes. His heart was pounding, filled with equal parts hope and
empathy for the pain he could hear in Fraser's harshly controlled voice.
 
 "Good," Fraser hissed. "A little…more…"
 
 Several long, seemingly endless minutes ensued in which Stan could hear
the slight scratching of fingernails against flesh, and he knew Fraser was
working at the ropes binding his hands. Though how the hell he was doing
that with a dislocated shoulder, he had no idea. When it had happened to
him, he'd been immobilized by the pain. Most people would be. 
 
 But he'd realized long ago that Benny wasn't most people. He was so
different that when they'd first met, Stan thought he was a freak. He
still thought he was weird, but he never used that word to describe him
anymore, because Fraser was weird in good ways. He was smart, kind and
strong. He'd just never realized, until that moment, how incredibly strong
and stoic he really was. And the fact that Fraser had made such a
sacrifice, had deliberately hurt himself like this partly to save him,
moved him. 
 
 I get outta this, he thought, I live through this—and I'm gonna kiss him
for it. I don't care what happens. 
 
 The silence, and Fraser's strained movements and rough breathing, seemed
to go on forever. Finally, Stan couldn't stand it anymore. "Hey, Frase!
You okay?"
 
 "Yes…" Hardly even a moan, more like a gasp. 
 
 Still, as usual, Fraser had done it. Saved their bacon. Stan suddenly
felt the rope around their waists pulled upwards. The one around their
shoulders followed right after. He took a deep, appreciative breath, glad
to be able to expand his chest comfortably again. Then Fraser bent over
and started working on the ropes that bound their legs. In a short time,
they were pulled down too. But Stan still couldn't move, since his hands
were bound to the arms of the chair. 
 
 "Here." Fraser jumped up, pulled his knife out of his boot, and began
hacking away at the ropes that bound his left hand. But as he bent over
him, Stan noticed that he was very pale, even paler than was usual for
him. And that he was using his left hand, not his right, because his right
arm hung uselessly at his side. 
 
 "Shit," he muttered, feeling a twinge of sympathetic pain in his own
shoulder as the Mountie laboriously freed him. As soon as he did, he threw
off the rest of the ropes and pushed Fraser back down into a chair. He
tried to avoid looking at his shoulder, which looked weirdly misshapen
even under his thick uniform. "Okay. Now put it back," he said, worried.
"Your shoulder, I mean. You do know how to do that, right?"
 
 "Yes. But Ray, we really don't have time for—"
 
 "Now," he ordered. "Yer not killin' yerself on my watch."
 
 Either he sensed his determination, or else he was just in too much pain
to argue about it for once, because Fraser gave in. Swallowed, and looked
down at his limp right arm for a second. Then he set his jaw, lifted his
left hand, gripped his right shoulder tightly, and shoved hard.
 
 "Arrrggghhhh…."
 
 "Frase?"
 
 Suddenly, Fraser's eyeballs rolled upwards. His face went white as a
sheet, and he slumped back in the chair. 
 
 "Jesus," Ray breathed. Fraser had reset his shoulder all right, but he'd
passed out from the pain!
 
 Forgetting all about the armed, dangerous criminals outside, Stan caught
the Mountie in his arms, and lowered him gently to the floor. Unbuttoned
his uniform jacket and slipped it off him, rolled it up and put it under
his head for a pillow. "Frase?" he asked softly, more than a little in awe
of what he'd just seen him do.
 
 But Ben didn't respond. Stan touched his forehead, and it felt cold with
sweat. He could only imagine the pain he must've been in while he'd worked
to free them both, and he shook his head, feeling a twinge of guilt at the
way he'd screamed at him for getting them in this mess. It was hard to
stay mad at a guy who'd do something like this for you.
 
 In fact, the emotions that gripped him as he stared anxiously down at his
unconscious friend's face had nothing to do with anger. His heart beat
faster as he noticed how incredibly long Ben's eyelashes were, lashes most
women would kill for. Nice, straight nose, square jaw, perfect full
lips…He looked like one of those marble statues in the museums, only
better, because he was warm and real. He pulled a handkerchief out of his
pocket and wiped the sweat off of his face. Found his hands lingering over
his high cheekbones, and dangerously near that gorgeous mouth. "Fraser?"
he asked again.
 
 No reply.
 
 "Hey, Frase! Frazoor! Benny!" he called.
 
 Nothing.
 
 Then Fraser sighed softly. A slight, soft inhalation of breath that
parted his lips---
 
 And Stan remembered. I get outta this…I live through this, and I'm gonna
kiss him.
 
 He swallowed hard. It had been a crazy thought, sure, and they weren't
exactly out of danger yet, but…
 
 It wouldn't be fair. It would be like copping a feel, he told himself
sternly. He's unconscious.
 
 But he was also really close and really, really tempting. Sleeping
Beauty, in a white tee-shirt and those silly black riding pants…
 
 Before he could stop himself, he bent over him. "Benny," he whispered,
warming those gorgeous lips with his breath. Then he covered them with his
mouth. Gently, softly. He ran his tongue over them, tracing their shape,
savoring the taste of him.
 
 Fraser moaned into his mouth. 
 
 Stan jerked back as if he'd been shot. 
 
 Big blue eyes opened and frowned into his. "What happened?" Fraser
whispered, his eyes traveling past his shoulder to scan the room in a
worried look.
 
 Thank God, Stan told himself. He doesn't know…. "You passed out resetting
your shoulder," he explained. "But the good news is, you got it back in
okay. The bad news is, the bad guys are still out there, and they've still
got my guns, plus a few hundred of their own. So we're still stuck in
here." He put out a hand and helped Fraser sit up.
 
 Fraser looked up at him strangely. "No. I meant why were you kissing me?"
he asked, flushing.
 
 Stan felt himself blushing too. "Kissing you?" he echoed, trying to sound
incredulous. "I wasn't—"
 
 Fraser got to his feet and cocked his head at him, frowning. "I could've
sworn that you were. And that you called me Benny—"
 
 Stan shook his head hard. "Kissing you? Ha, that's a good one, Fraser.
And callin' you Benny? You know I never do that, that was Vecchio's little
pet name, not mine," he lied. "You must've been hallucinating. No, that
was just…you know, that buddy breathing thing," he blurted, so
disconcerted that he was babbling.
 
 Fraser frowned harder, took a step towards him and looked him right in
the eye. "But we're not underwater," he pointed out, sounding distinctly
suspicious.
 
 Stan rolled his eyes, feeling increasingly desperate. Trapped. Cornered
like a cheap pervert in the back of an adult bookstore. "No, I meant CPR.
Mouth to mouth," he lied frantically, trying to sound casual. "I was
givin' you mouth to mouth, 'cuz I was afraid…Well, you looked like you
weren't breathin'."
 
 Fraser's head came up. "Oh," he said blankly. Then, "Hmmmm." Then he
turned away and picked his jacket up off the floor without another word.
 
 Stan winced inwardly. He hated that Hmm thing, just hated it. It was like
some kinda secret Canadian Morse code or something that Fraser used every
time he was thinking something important but didn't want him to know what
it was. Stan wondered just what the hell he meant by it this time. He
watched him closely as he shrugged back into his jacket, unsure if he'd
bought his line or not, or what he was feeling. When he'd lied that the
kiss was just mouth to mouth, had he heard a trace of disappointment in
that usually even voice? Seen something in his eyes that looked like
regret? 
 
 "I mean…Remember that time we were on that sinking ship, the Henry
Anders—"
 
 "Allen," Fraser corrected automatically, as he redid his buttons.
 
 "Okay, the Henry Allen…That's what you were doin' to me, right? Just
underwater CPR, that's all?"
 
 Blue eyes lifted to his in a wide-eyed, innocent expression that must've
taken Fraser years to perfect. "Why, of course, Ray. That's all it was."
 
 Stan set his jaw to cover his disappointment. He'd just imagined that
flicker in those blue eyes, then; the quiver in that always calm voice. Or
had he? Two can play at that game, Big Red! He forced a smile. "Then you
understand. I was just doin' the same thing. CPR, to save you. That's all
it was."
 
 "Right," Fraser said.
 
 "Right," he nodded.
 
 They stared at each other for a long moment, blue eyes into blue, two
tough guys giving nothing away.
 
 Then Fraser said, "'Nuff said."
 
 Stan nodded. "Yeah. We gotta figure a way outta here. I'll check the
door."
 
 "I'll check the back wall," Fraser agreed.
 
 But as Stan jiggled the doorknob just to make sure it really was locked,
Fraser shot a look of total disbelief at his back. "CPR, my eye," he
muttered under his breath. 
 
 As Fraser turned to run his hands over the back wall of the dusty closet,
searching for a way out,
 Stan snorted to himself. "Buddy breathing, my ass!"
 
 "What?" Fraser asked.
 
 "Nothing," Stan said.
 
 "Hmmm."
 
 
 The End
 
 
Email the author at: Ardrian15@aol.com Return to Due South Fiction Archive