Bring Your Own

© September 2000 AuKestrel

“How - how did we get here? No. Don’t answer. Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t answer - if you start talking it’ll make sense and I’ll go insane.”

“Ray.” The tone in Fraser’s voice is a clear indicator that even Fraser’s patience is wearing thin but Ray doesn’t care. Four boring hours on a cold and coffeeless stakeout is enough to try even a wolf’s patience, and Ray is no wolf.

“And don’t ‘Ray’ me, okay? I don’t care - Welsh doesn’t care - Huey doesn’t care - nobody cares, in fact, except maybe Diefenbaker, whether the filling in his favourite doughnuts is Bavarian or not. This is not ‘Violent Crimes’ territory, Fraser.”

“Diefenbaker isn’t concerned with the provenance of the filling, Ray.” There it is, more than a hint of frustration, and Ray’s heartbeat speeds up. “He’s concerned with-”

“He’s a wolf, Fraser, he’s not concerned about filling at all.”

“Ray, there’s no need to insult him.”

Behind them, Diefenbaker whines.

“Insult who? I’m sitting on an ice-cold shelf in an old bakery missing the Hawks versus the Oilers because your wolf has decided that there’s something wrong with his doughnuts? There’s something wrong with his doughnuts, all right, and yours too, Fraser. Dief. Take up Twizzlers or something. Lay off the pastry.”

“Diefenbaker doesn’t like licorice,” Fraser says mildly, but with a glint in his eye that Ray knows means Fraser’s really… peeved.

Ray likes that.

“All dogs like anise,” he says, and almost holds his breath in anticipation.

He’s not disappointed.

“Wolf,” Fraser says, and it’s not much beyond the bare edge of a snap. “Not that that’s licorice in any true sense of the word.”

“They have licorice whips,” Ray says, looking innocently at the ceiling.

“If they have licorice gags and handcuffs, we’re in business,” Fraser says under his breath, but Ray hears him - and Ray knows that Fraser knows that Ray heard him.

“I like the real thing,” Ray says, and he feels the shiver right down his spine into his toes at the tug at his pocket and then the clink that follows, hard on his words; and he welcomes the cold grasp of his own cuffs around his wrists.

“Like that?” Fraser asks, for all the world as if he’s adjusting a picture.

Ray is suddenly, irretrievably, irrevocably hard, and he fights to maintain an even tone. “Yeah, kind of. No whips in sight, though, Frase.”

Diefenbaker whines again. Fraser glances over his shoulder at Diefenbaker and then moves a few inches away from Ray - in entirely the wrong direction - and pulls his boot knife out of his boot and casually begins tossing it up in the air and catching it neatly by the handle each time.

Ray tugs against the cuffs, more to reassure himself that they’re there than to seriously test whether Fraser locked them, and turns a little more to watch Fraser play catch, something mesmerising in that half predatory smile, highlighted by the dull gleam of the knife blade in the dim light.

After a few minutes Fraser gets bored with plain catch and shifts slightly. Ray takes the opportunity to inch closer to him but Fraser seems to have forgotten that Ray’s even there. He squints at the door opposite them and then there’s a swish and a thud and the knife is quivering dead centre in the middle of an old minimum wage poster on the door. Ray’s cock jerks hard against his zipper and he bites his lip to suppress the moan that follows and by the time he recovers enough to look up again, Fraser’s standing by the door, the knife in his hand. He catches Ray’s eye and smiles, and it’s more than halfway to predator now. He hefts the knife in his hand, looking at Ray, and Ray catches his breath.

 “You wouldn’t.”

“Perhaps not,” Fraser agrees. “After all, Dief is beside you.”

“And you wouldn’t want to hurt him.”

“Mmm. No. Not that I would. Or you either.”

“Unless you wanted to.”

“Unless, as you say, I wanted to.” Fraser takes a couple of steps towards the centre of the room. He hefts the knife again and there’s another flash/ swish/ thud. Ray twists to look at the wall behind him and then looks back at Fraser, who smiles just this side of smug and moves to one side. The knife is behind him, in the middle of the poster again.

“Fraser.”

“Yes, Ray.”

“If you do that again I might come in my pants.”

Fraser raises an eyebrow at him. His mouth doesn’t move but there’s a suspicious quiver at one corner of it as he turns to pull his knife out of the door again. “Really? I find that highly unlikely, Ray.” He turns back around, hefting the knife again, testing the edge with a careful thumb. This time Ray lets the moan out, long and low and surprisingly loud in the stillness.

Three strides and Fraser’s there in front of him, his crotch almost at Ray’s eye level and it’s pretty clear that Ray’s not the only one who’s taking an interest in this turn of events.

“Where do you want me to put it, Ray?” Fraser asks, and there’s a husky note in his voice that makes Ray close his eyes briefly at the pure sex of it.

“The - the knife. Your knife. Can - can you do that again? Backwards?”

Fraser does something almost casual-appearing with his hand and the knife is in the door again and Fraser’s still standing in front of him, still smiling like his wolf, so close Ray can almost taste him.

“Oh, God.” Ray moves his hands, cuffs clinking slightly against his bracelet, up his legs to his own crotch but Fraser’s faster: he grabs Ray’s cuffs by the chain in the middle and holds his hands away.

“That’s cheating, Ray.”

“You’d know. Putting a guy in his own cuffs.”

Fraser tugs on them and Ray comes to his feet, fast and fluid, because now - now Fraser will -

There’s the sound of a car; Diefenbaker whines. Ray hears car doors and then a familiar voice: Dewey complaining about the lack of coffee in counterpoint to Huey’s deep rumble as footsteps crunch on the frost-hardened ground outside.

“Off, Fraser, take ‘em off,” Ray hisses.

Fraser lifts an eyebrow. “There’s no need to worry. I’ll get rid of them.”

“Fraser! Take ‘em off!”

But Fraser’s already at the door, which he opens only slightly, and Ray hears him mention coffee and doughnuts. Dief, at Fraser’s side, barks encouragingly. As Fraser closes the door - his suggestion clearly effective - he says to Diefenbaker, “One. And that’s only because if it weren’t for your nonsensical notions about doughnuts I wouldn’t -”

“Take them off, Fraser! Now!”

“Oh, no, Ray. I don’t think so. If I take them off you now I won’t get them back on.”

“How the hell am I supposed to drive us home?”

“I’ll drive, Ray.”

“No. Oh, no. I put up with a lot - florist wolves and Bohemian doughnuts and knives and cuffs and crazy fucking Mounties - but you driving the GTO, that - that’s torture, Fraser, and I’m so not into expanding the masochistic aspects of this relationship.”

“That was a beautiful sentence, Ray.”

“Thank you. Uncuff me.”

“You’d better head to the car.” Fraser pulls his knife out of the door and casually tucks it into his boot. “They’ll be back in five minutes or so.”

“Uncuff me or I’ll let you explain to Huey and Dewey why I’m wearing my own cuffs.”

Fraser looks at him for a long hard moment. Hard, oh yeah, and Ray shakes his head slightly to clear it. Keep your eye on the prize, Kowalski: six feet of horny and only slightly pissed Mountie and a warm bed at the end of the road.

Fraser bends and pulls his knife out of his boot again. Ray shuts his eyes momentarily and opens them to see the blade gleaming as it rotates in the air. Fraser catches it neatly by the handle and then tosses it again, so casually that Ray suddenly realises Fraser’s really unsure of Ray’s possible reaction to this whole set up... but Fraser wants the handcuffs. On Ray. Both ways to Sunday.

All right, little change of plans: six feet of horny, non-pissed Mountie, a warm bed, and handcuffs at the end of the road. He can do that. He can go with the flow. Using both hands because he has to, he hooks Fraser by the belt and pulls him up close and personal. “Bring the knife,” he says against Fraser’s mouth, and then he lets Fraser go, pulls the door open, tugs his keys out of his pocket and tosses them over his shoulder as he heads to his car.

Behind him he hears a moan and he can’t quite tell if it’s the wolf or the Mountie. He raises his hands over his head and jangles the cuffs a little, executing an in-place dance step that involves a sinuous hip movement, a grin even he knows is smug plastered on his face.

“Ray.” Fraser’s voice carries clearly through the stillness of the cold night air even though it’s pitched low.

Ray pauses but doesn’t turn. Even in the one syllable he can hear the laughter in Fraser’s voice. He got the prize after all - the whole nine yards. “Yeah, Frase?”

“I think I just came in my pants.”

“Then we’re even.”

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