Soundtrack: Suffocation Keep, the Slip; Accidents Will Happen, Elvis Costello;Superman (live acoustic), Five for Fighting; Un monde sans danger, Julien Lamassonne; What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?, REM; Hounds of Love, Kate Bush; 21 Guns, Green Day; Knots, Lisa Hannigan; Heart, Tim Booth and Angelo Badalamenti; Overture, Patrick Wolf; At Last, Neko Case;Mockingbird Wish Me Luck, Duke Special; Comfort, Carbon Leaf; Endgame, REM. Password is aukestrel.

endgame • 2011 • aukestrel

the genre is slash

the fandom is due South

the pairing is fraser/kowalski

Takes place right before CotW.

There's a prequel up now, but you don't have to read that to read this: Little Talks.

There are some shades of noncon in here so don't read this if you don't want guys in handcuffs.

Thanks to Kalena for amazing internal consistency beta (wow, you fixed it!) and to Bone for many excellent suggestions that made the story work and have an ending, and to ifreet for an encouraging read through.

This is for TheAmusedOne, from a conversation we had one day. The soundtrack? All you. You are awesome. Oh, also? Awesome!

Endgame

2011 • AuKestrel

You wore our expectations like an armored suit.
     – –Michael Stipe, “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?”

Ray’s not sure he’s going to do it until it happens.

Oh, the plan worked like a dream, even though he doesn’t speak wolf, because apparently Dief’s as fed up with Fraser as he is.

So they went running up the stairs, Dief in front of Fraser, and Ray behind, and Dief ran right to the room. Ray was close enough to hear the surprised noise Fraser made when Dief stopped dead and Fraser tripped over him to land, sprawled, on the bed, his Stetson tumbling over the edge and across the floor.

And Ray was there, handcuffs at the ready, and Fraser’s wrist was there, and so was the bedframe.

At the sound – or maybe the feel – of the cuffs, Fraser’s other hand goes up, like he’s surrendering, and Ray’s going to go with that for now.

It’s not that he feels guilty: he doesn’t. Much.

And it’s not that he feels upset either. Not really.

Mostly? He’s just fucking frustrated.

He knows he wants Fraser. Fraser knows he wants Fraser. And they both know Fraser wants him.

So how long are they gonna do this dance?

Oh, sure, there was Janet Morse. But that was before. That was before the big-ass ship, that was before Fraser turned down his transfer, that was before Ray turned down his. A month after that, where was Ray? In Mexico, getting his pants stolen. And why? Because he was getting the Arctic Mountie freeze-out. Thank you kindly, and yes, please, Ray, but it wasn’t the please that Ray wanted to be getting from Fraser. It wasn’t the wild-eyed please, the please where Fraser was going to scream if Ray didn’t let him come, the please where Fraser wanted more, more, more, now now now and – most important of all – wanted it from Ray.

But, no, then Fraser had to play touchy-feely with a dead guy in the wall and the Ghost of Vecchio Past. He practically felt Ray up – in front of a perp, no less – and then disappeared into his fucking ice fortress again.

Waking up, cold and sore and somehow still tired, with Fraser’s boot in his face instead of waking up, warm and sated, in Luanne’s bed? That was the morning that Ray vowed that he was going to get Fraser to sit down and admit it, sit down and talk, sit down and feel something – anything – even if it took him the rest of his life.

Okay, so Fraser’s lying down, but, hey, let’s not quibble over details.

And after Dief almost left Fraser for Gerome? That’s when Ray realised a) he wasn’t nuts and 2) he wasn’t alone.

Well, he is nuts, because he and a deaf wolf came up with this plan. And what does it say about where he is – after not even a year with Fraser – that he’s looking to a wolf for validation?

But, hey, Dief’s less critical than Stella, even if he doesn’t smell as good.

And then there was Maggie, and Ray still can’t think about that without a hot flush rising up his neck. It wasn’t Maggie, it was Fraser, and Christopher was right: Ray is not the kind of man to live a lie because he thinks that’s what he’s supposed to want.

Well, not again. Never again. ’Cause life is just too damn short.

So Fraser’s laying on the bed looking up at him, even blinking a little, like he’s not sure what just happened, and, really, neither is Ray. One minute they’re walking down the street, talking about the possibility of coffee, and the next minute Dief, like he knew Ray was going to chicken out, darted down an alley.The alley, that alley, the one that backs onto the apartment building where Dewey’s little brother just moved out.

So of course Fraser chased him – they knew he would – and of course Ray followed, and, yeah, he had the handcuffs handy, you want to make a big deal about it?

Dief sits down in front of Ray and makes a “so there!” noise, and Fraser looks over at him, then rolls his eyes and looks at the ceiling. “Very funny, Ray,” he says, but, see, this is the problem, right here: he doesn’t sound snippy, he doesn’t even sound put out.

Sure, performance arsonists and voodoo priestesses are hard acts to follow when you’re trying to get a Mountie’s attention, but, come on, what’s Ray got to do to get a reaction from him? Anything: mad, angry, hurt, cold, furious, confused–

Okay, not furious. Ray’s aware he’s crossed some lines here, several state lines, an international boundary, maybe even a time zone or two, and while he’s 99% sure he knows what’s going on, there’s always the chance he’s wrong, there’s always the chance that this is just how Mounties are, blowing hot and cold, climbing over Ray in the car instead of just getting out and going around, telling him there’s something to be said for young love, then going after Maggie with both barrels loaded.

One step forward, two steps back, and sometimes it’s the other way around, and the upshot is they’ve gone maybe half a block in the past year, and that is not how Ray travels, Ray has never gone the speed limit in his life (except in school zones, okay?). But is it like that because that’s how Fraser wants it? Or is it like that because Fraser doesn’t know what he wants, or can’t admit what he wants? Because Ray will admit – Ray will scream from the fucking rooftops, Ray will take out a full page ad in the Trib – that he wants Fraser to hell and back, Ray will admit he’ll do whatever it takes, Ray will admit he wakes up in the middle of the night dreaming of water over his head and Fraser’s lips on his.

Ray will even admit that that’s not a nightmare, even though it should be, because apparently drowning is just fucking incidental to his psyche: the important thing, apparently, is Fraser kissing him. Fraser. Kissing him.

But what will Fraser admit? Will he admit he felt Ray up when they climbed over each other in the front seat? No, he won’t, even though he did and then he looked at Ray with that intimate grin, the one that he never gives anyone else, no one, nunca, not even Dief; and the next thing Ray hears is, “Of course I know how much a pound of nails weighs on Pluto, Ray,” as he disappears into the Consulate with his wolf and a cheery wave.

So, yeah. There’s a chance Ray could be pushing them both too far: Fraser, because what if Ray’s wrong? Will Fraser ever forgive this? Or yeah, maybe he’ll forgive Ray, because that’s the right thing to do, but he’ll never forget. And Ray, because if he loses this, if he gambled it all and was wrong, he’s lost everything, not just a year of his life, but everything: his best friend, his job, his life… hell, maybe even his heart.

But he’s not going to, he can’t, look at that too closely, not right now, because he’s had confusion and guilt and adrenaline tumbling over each other for attention ever since he had dinner with Christopher last week. Or maybe he’s looking at it too closely, because Christopher has a way of doing that to him: Ray’s looking at a painting by Seurat and suddenly there’s Waldo on the beach in a cabana.

Well, the truth is somewhere in the middle of both: Ray thought something was going on but didn’t know how much to trust his instinct, sure, Mr. Instinct; and Christopher – well, Christopher’s right. Life’s too short to just notknow.

Okay, Ray. Focus. Well, first things first. He shuts the door, picks up the Stetson and puts it on the table, then calls in a pizza order to Tony (with pineapple). He pretends not to feel Fraser’s eyes boring into his back.

It’s not much of a place but it’s better than Fraser’s room at the Consulate. More importantly, the building’s mostly empty – it’s going to be rehabbed and made into condos or something – so Ray figures it’s as good a place as any to see if he and Dief can out-patient a guy who waited five days with a dead caribou.

For fifty bucks, Dewey the Younger also left a a beat up nightstand with its door loose on the hinges and a five dollar lamp, the Stetson-containing table, two folding chairs, and a radio on an old dresser, a radio that looks just like the one Ray’s dad used to have in the garage.

Well, if all else fails, he can make Fraser listen to the Hawks lose. There’s probably a Geneva convention about that, but, hey, all’s fair, right? “You want a drink?” he asks Dief, still ignoring Fraser. “The toilet works.”

He’s not sure who snorts, Fraser or Dief, but the cupboards aren’t bare: there’re some chopsticks and soy sauce packets in one drawer and a half-melted plastic bowl in a cabinet, so he fills the bowl with water and puts it on the floor. He scoped the place out beforehand: the worst thing in the world is being on a stakeout without toilet paper or, in this case, a deck of cards, but he did forget about a bowl for Dief, whose tail about fills up the entire not-quite-a-kitchen. He hopes they’re planning to knock out some walls or something into the next apartment because, even in Chicago, no yuppie’s going to buy this room and a half and call it “old-fashioned charm.”

Fraser doesn’t say anything else, not even when the pizza gets delivered. Sandor, as usual, accepts the situation without a blink, like Fraser’s always handcuffed to a bed when he’s on a stakeout with Ray, or maybe that’s just how Canadians do stakeouts: Sandor’s not one to judge. After he leaves, Ray puts a piece on the nightstand, but Fraser ignores him, and it. Which Ray takes as a good sign: Fraser’s finally getting pissy.

Ray, on the other hand, is enjoying the pizza (made right), and so is Dief, and he discovers if he puts the radio on the windowsill he can actually get the game, so he cracks open a beer, puts his feet up, and settles in.

He’s even kind of enjoying himself, if he can ignore the 6 feet of angry Canadian on the bed, and since he’s looking out the window and listening to the game, and Fraser’s (still) not talking, that’s not hard to do.

Dief, who had two pieces of pizza, makes himself at home under the not-a-kitchen window and goes to sleep. Radios aren’t much fun for deaf wolves. Next time they’ll get a TV.

Next time. Ha.

Next station break he takes a whiz, and when he comes out Fraser’s sitting up on the bed.

“You realise I can pick my way out of these cuffs in about 30 seconds, right?” he says to Ray’s back.

“Yeah, that’s not why we’re here, Fraser,” Ray answers. And, actually, Fraser can’t: these aren’t police handcuffs. Ray’s not stupid: Fraser and Houdini, probably separated at birth. “Have some pizza. Want a beer?”

“No, thank you kindly,” Fraser says stiffly, but behind him he hears the sound of Fraser chewing.

He never knew chewing could sound reluctant.

He’s still a little shocked by what he’s done, and he kind of wishes he was as certain as Dief, who’s snoring.

At the second period intermission, Ray gets out the deck of cards and starts to play solitaire. Fraser’s maybe been on more stakeouts than he has – or at least more hallucinogenic ones than he has – but Ray’s done his share and at least this time he doesn’t have to watch anything. He just has to be more patient than Fraser.

Which, patience? Not his strong suit.

And Fraser knows it.

It’s like chess: Ray’s got to stay two or three steps ahead of where Fraser’s brain is going to go, and it’s exciting, in a way: did he time that right? Did he figure this out?

Okay, yeah, so conspiring with Dief was kind of cheating, but it’s not like he’s got Big Blue in his back pocket. Deep Blue. Whatever.

There’s a jangle and a click. Ray’s pretty sure Fraser won’t figure his way out of those cuffs, so he plays a red three on a black four and doesn’t even look. Credit to Fraser: there’s no sound of frustration and the only way Ray knows it didn’t work is because Fraser isn’t out the door and down the stairs.

But the fact that Fraser actually tried to pick the cuffs? That’s interesting.

Also it’s kind of cheating. Fraser would rather cheat at this little game they’re playing than just fucking ask Ray what they’re doing here. And he feels a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck, doubt resurfacing: what if he’s wrong?

Cheat and run away. What if Fraser would rather pick the cuffs and run away, out of here, away from this, away from them? And maybe never stop running, because he doesn’t have to stop, there is nothing keeping him here except two metal bracelets.

And he could, because Ray didn’t lock the door. Because Ray’s not cheating.

Well, aside from the cuffs.

Okay, and the conspiracy with Fraser’s deaf half-wolf.

But the wolf’s testimony is inadmissible, so that charge would never stand up. He takes a breath and tries to stop his hands from trembling by holding the cards looser. It’s the first thing you learn, firing a gun: the tighter you hold it, the more you shake.

Okay, yeah, there’s a parallel there to be drawn with handcuffs and partners, but what’s one more unrealised epiphany? He feels a shudder start at the back of his neck and it takes everything he has to hold still, to let that shudder out on the inside instead of the outside, to not jump up, dump the table, let Fraser go, let Fraser run like hell if that’s what he really wants to do.

He takes a breath, shallow, so Fraser doesn’t realise he’s panicking: that’s stupid, you don’t gamble everything and then not actually throw the dice. And, worse, that’s predictable. That’s what Fraser would do, if Fraser could ever be brought to handcuff Ray in the first place. Fraser would apologise, uncuff him – or let Turnbull do it – and offer him some keys. Er, tea.

“You want the keys?” he hears himself saying, and his breathing has steadied out his heartbeat and his hands. He knows Fraser’s watching him: he can feel it, and Fraser probably even knows that there’s something going on in Ray’s head right now, because he – oh, yeah, he notices everything about Ray. Which is how Ray knows he’s not, he’s so not wrong about this, because this is exactly what he does with Fraser, exactly how he feels, exactly how he shows it. So Ray breathes normally some more, prays his hands won’t shake, turns over three more cards. Oh, nice, red jack on black queen, that freed up the last ace, and he can move the other black king over. “All you have to do is ask.”

He’s pretty sure that’s a “fuck you” aimed straight between his shoulders, even though Fraser doesn’t move a muscle, and he’s glad he got his hands under control, because Fraser would definitely notice that.

He’s also pretty sure that Fraser’s counting on Ray to slip up, even if it’s just from impatience or boredom… or guilt.

So Ray finishes off his beer and slides a smile he’s not really feeling in Fraser’s direction. “You thirsty?”

Fraser shakes his head stiffly but out of the corner of his eye Ray sees Fraser’s tongue slide across his lower lip, one side to the other. It’s something Fraser does when he’s nervous, or when he’s about to say something he thinks he probably shouldn’t say, even if he really wants to say it.

“Suit yourself,” Ray says, and deals himself out another set of patience.

Another long silence – Ray’s stuck with both red fives high up and no black fours or sixes turning over – when he hears Fraser inhale and he’s a little let down that it’s over already: Fraser’s finally going to ask.

“I’m confused, Ray.”

Or, you know, not.

Ray gathers up the cards and taps them on the table a couple of times, then shuffles, his hands very steady now. His first reaction is, “Join the club, buddy.” He almost doesn’t say it out loud, but since Fraser still sounds stiff, and just slightly martyred, he goes ahead and says it, then deals himself another hand.

“Forgive me for pointing this out,” oh, and now Fraser sounds ultra reasonable, “but you’re not the one handcuffed to a piece of furniture.”

“Nope,” Ray says agreeably, turning over an ace on the first card. And it’s true, he’s not, and for a few seconds he starts to look at it from Fraser’s point of view: lazy Saturday, a really nice day, warm for the season: a run with Dief by the lake, some chess, maybe catch the game on TV, in Ray’s apartment–

No, no, no, this is what Fraser wants you to think, he tells himself. He gets in your head and he knows what you want before you do–

So he sure as hell does know why they’re here, or at least he knows that Ray wants him to ask why they’re here, and he sure as hell is trying to make Ray feel guilty (etc.).

He’s got a comfortable bed, pizza, and the game on the radio. It’s not much different.

Aside from the handcuffs. Yeah. But Ray pushes that thought to the back of his head: it’s wrong, yeah, covered that already, but this, this is wronger. It’s not like he’s going to tie Fraser up and fuck him into tomorrow–

Oh, he should not have gone there.

But as long as he’s expecting honesty, Ray should be honest with himself too: that particular scenario, not his thing, but Fraser, writhing naked and sweaty under him, his eyes dark and his face flushed, his mouth spilling Ray’s name, and, hey, since it’s Ray’s generic Fraser fantasy, throw in a “fuck” or two – yeah, that, all that, that is definitely Ray’s thing.

And he is, he’s almost one hundred percent sure it’s Fraser’s thing too.

In fact, the latest fantasy – which takes place in Interview Three, and don’t ask Ray why it’s Interview Three, it just is – is even more explicit than that: Ray holding onto the table, hanging on with both hands, his pants around his knees; Fraser behind him, in uniform, just his cock out, moving behind Ray, kicking Ray’s feet apart just enough to get Ray even harder. And because it’s a fantasy, Ray’s ready, God, yes, maybe he keeps lube in his locker or something, so Fraser can just slide right in, all the way in, his pants scratchy against Ray’s ass and all the way down the backs of his thighs. And the lights are out and Fraser’s fucking him and sometimes, right before Ray comes, they see the door open on the other side of the one-way mirror. Ray’s never sure who it is, because at that point (if he makes it that far) he’s usually coming all over himself, but Fraser almost always leans over and whispers–

“Ray?” Fraser’s eyes are big and dark and for a second or two Ray’s disoriented, doesn’t know his fantasy from this reality.

But Fraser’s asking – for a drink, of course, not what they’re doing there or for Ray to take off all his clothes – and Ray’s snap back to reality is that much harder when he realizes Fraser’s doing that thing with his eyes on purpose.

Well, yeah, he thinks, getting a bottle of water, he knew that, he knew Fraser did that, it’s how Fraser gets your better angels on his side. And your worse angels, and the things that never even thought about being angels, and, hell, the dust bunnies under the bed.

But it still makes him mad, and uncomfortable, and even more mad and more uncomfortable when he figures out that’s probably why Fraser’s doing it. Fraser knows he’s not stupid: it’s another game, trying to get Ray off balance so he loses his temper and does something stupid. Something stupid like watch Fraser drink, his mouth covering the bottle, watch his eyes close and the muscles in his throat when he – Christ, when he swallows.

Ray’s lost track of the pieces on the chess board, and this is not good. Fraser’s got him off balance now, and he’s counting on – what? On Ray losing his patience or his temper. On Ray feeling guilty and uncomfortable.

Check. Check. Check. Check.

So what’s he counting on Ray doing about that?

He’s cuffed to a bed so he knows Ray’s not going to punch him again. Which, clearly, was Ray’s mistake, because for a second he’s never felt more like punching, well, something. The wall–

But, no, that’s what Fraser’s expecting: he’s trying to check Ray with pawns. As soon as Ray gets mad, Fraser wins, because then Ray has to admit he feels guilty and unlock Fraser and let him go, let this go, let them both bleed, invisibly and painfully, all over this relationship.

And he’s not doing that again either.

Okay. Okay. Okay. There’s no point in being mad. That’s how Fraser is. It’s like being mad at Superman for being invincible, or at a pawn because he can only move one or two spaces forward.

…like Ray. He’s moving one or two spaces forward and Fraser’s boxing him in.

But Ray’s not a pawn and he’s not Fraser’s pawn. Hopefully he’s Fraser’s kryptonite, or the handcuffs are, really, since they’re keeping Fraser from running. But Ray has to do the rest, has to figure the rest out himself.

So he’s not a pawn; what is he? Queen, that’s too obvious. He laughs at himself, and feels a grin stretching his face, and suddenly he’s not mad at Fraser any more. Fraser, who’s putting the water on the nightstand, looks up quizzically, as if he senses the sea change in Ray’s mood, and Ray lets his grin grow bigger.

Yeah, it’s a gamble, but Ray’s damn sure he’s got the pieces on his side in this, and, besides: there’s nowhere he’d rather be, even with Fraser mad at him, than right here, right now, looking at the guy who’s opened up whole new worlds to Ray, pulled him high and pushed him down and showed him things around every corner that Ray always suspected were there but he could never quite see, especially his own corners. So… when does Fraser get to see around his own corners?

Knight to KB3: Ray slides onto the bed alongside Fraser, propping his head on his hand and resting his other hand on Fraser’s stomach.

Fraser can’t stop his quick intake of breath: okay, he was not expecting that, and Ray’s got his feet under him again.

Symbolically speaking.

He leans in, close, closer, until his lips are too close to Fraser’s neck, close enough to feel the warmth of the soft skin just below his ear, and his stubble actually touches Fraser’s skin when Ray whispers, “Do you want to know what we’re doing here? Just ask, Fraser.”

Fraser’s eyes are closed and he swallows hard, every muscle in his body tense, his right fist (the one Ray can see), clenched tight next to him on the bed.

Ray flattens his hand, shaping it to Fraser’s stomach, then his chest, feeling the buttons on Fraser’s Henley slide under his palm. “You want the keys? You want to know what’s going on here? You want to leave? Just ask, Fraser. Say, ‘Keys, Ray.’” Or just, you know, ‘Keys.’ No one’s keeping score here.”

Fraser swallows again, his eyes still closed, but he doesn’t move except for a muscle twitching in his jaw. It takes everything Ray has not to unlock him, right here and now, and more than he knew he had to not lean in and kiss him.

“Or,” he says, still close up against that soft skin under Fraser’s ear, “we could just hang out like this. Take a nap. Enjoy the last period.” He suits his actions to his words, sense memory from years with Stella taking over: he puts his head down on the pillow next to Fraser’s, drapes a leg over both of Fraser’s, pulling him close so he’s pressed up against Fraser, full length, and he closes his eyes, willing his pulse to stop racing.

Fraser’s left arm jerks convulsively by Ray’s head and the handcuffs rattle. Ray’s fifty-fifty on whether Fraser did that on purpose to make him feel guilty or whether Fraser wanted to reciprocate, put his arm around Ray too. That’s a good thought, Ray can go with that one, and he wonders why Fraser hasn’t pulled away, even from his lips, even from the stubble that has to be scratchy against Fraser’s skin.

And with a certainty he’s rarely felt before he suddenly knows why: Fraser’s never felt that before, never known stubble on his skin, there, and he wants it, wants to feel it, wants to explore that sensation… but he can’t – won’t – admit it.

As if Fraser hears Ray’s thoughts, he jerks his head away, suddenly, completely, as far as he can get from Ray on the pillow.

It’s not easy, Ray thinks, and he says it the next moment: “It’s not easy.”

But Fraser won’t even take that branch Ray’s holding out. “It’s easy enough if you’ve got handcuffs.”

That muscle is still jumping in his jaw: if Ray closes one eye, he can see it almost pixellated, almost in slow motion. “Yeah, that’s me, taking the easy way out, Fraser.”

Fraser sighs angrily, and if Ray keeps him off balance like this they might actually get somewhere.

Is it the cuffs? Or is it Ray, up close and personal?

He tests his hypothesis by pulling Fraser even closer and resting his chin in the crook of Fraser’s neck, hugging Fraser close.

Again the cuffs rattle above his head and Fraser’s left arm jerks. He looks for something to say that won’t give it away, but all he can find is what he’s said before: “You want the keys, Fraser?”

Fraser makes an impatient noise in his throat.

“We can stop any time you say the word,” Ray says. “Pack up, go home – or go to your box room in the Consulate, same difference – eat some takeout, stop at a diner, whatever. It’s your call, Frase.” He rubs his hand on Fraser’s stomach again, finding the edge of Fraser’s ribcage with his thumb.

“I’d like to point out,” Fraser says in absolutely the pissiest voice Ray’s ever heard out of him, “that silence does not equal assent, Ray.”

In the mad haze of anger that washes over Ray, he’s conscious of only two things: Fraser won’t ask, he won’t say keys, he won’t say anything important: he’s scared, scared of the words more than anything else, and he won’t say them; and, two, Ray is definitely getting under his skin.

“Assent?” he asks, and he slides over one more time, knight to Q4, straddling Fraser and letting Fraser feel Ray pressed up against him, head to toe. “Let me think, Fraser, is that like buddy breathing?”

“You’re welcome, Ray,” and Fraser’s mouth is set in a hard, thin line.

“Keys, Fraser?” Ray says, letting his full weight press Fraser down into the mattress so there’s no question Fraser can feel Ray hardening and lengthening by the second.

And there is no question: Fraser’s mouth moves and suddenly he’s biting his lip, his eyes closed; and Ray’s stomach drops like a rock, panic breaking out in a cold wave all over him: he’s actually, finally gone too far.

And then Fraser’s hips move, pressing up against him. It could be a reflex, but Ray’s gone with his gut so far. He knew Fraser was kissing him on the boat, heknew, just like he knows Fraser doesn’t want to say keys but he can’t say he doesn’t want to say keys. It’s like pushing a fucking elephant up stairs.

But then Fraser’s free hand comes up between them, flat on Ray’s chest, pushing Ray back and turning his mouth aside so that he can say one more thing, one more thing that’s not what he really wants to say: “It was buddy breathing, Ray, I explained–”

And Fraser falls for that, taking Ray’s knight, so Ray moves his bishop to Kt5, Fraser right where Ray wanted him. Ray leans his head on one elbow, propped on his fist, and looks Fraser in the eye: “No, Fraser, it’s not. I’ve got a friend who’s a Navy SEAL. Last time he was in Chicago, we had dinner and I asked him.”

Underneath him, Fraser’s gone completely still; his eyes are narrowed and he’s staring at Ray. “Do you want me to show you?” Ray says. “He showed me, and then I showed him.”

Fraser’s eyes are even narrower and his lips are a thin, grim line.

Ray watches him for a few seconds, and then he puts Fraser’s knight out of its misery. “Let me tell you, Fraser, lips were involved, but so were noses, and tongues were nowhere to be seen. You’d think a Mountie would know that.”

“Fuck you,” Fraser says softly, dangerously, and, God, just the tone of his voice gets Ray harder and he closes his eyes and smiles without even meaning to.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not flattered, Fraser, I’m confused. You feel me up every chance you get, but you won’t even kiss me without the excuse that you’re saving my life, andthen you won’t admit it. That is fucked up, my friend.”

“And every time I turn around you’re chasing another blonde, Ray, and we all get to stand around and watch her kick you in the teeth. If there was anything to admit, which there isn’t, my confusion would be understandable.”

Right before Ray snaps back, he realises: this is it, this is Fraser’s last-ditch effort, this is his pawn to Q3, the Navy SEAL in his back pocket: hit Ray in the teeth with Stella, Ray’s Achilles heel.

Except Ray got dipped all over in that lake they call Superior and there’s not a single part of him now, not even his heel, that Stella can touch.

So instead of yelling, he shrugs. “So I have a type, Fraser.”

“Which clearly isn’t me,” Fraser snaps. “Are we done here? I think you’ve embarrassed us both sufficiently for one day.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Ray says softly, leaning down so Fraser can feel the heat from Ray’s lips. “Life’s too short to be embarrassed about putting yourself out there, Fraser. Life’s too short not to put yourself out there. We could get killed tomorrow and you know what? At least you’re going to die knowing that I know that wasn’t buddy breathing, and you’re going to die knowing that I was brave enough to tell you I know. You can take all the Luannes and Stellas–”

“–and Maggies,” Fraser mutters, his face growing red,

“And Maggies,” Ray says, nodding, “you can take all of those and put them on the scale and it’s still going to come down on the side of me being brave enough to tell you and you being scared enough to not admit it.”

“I was saving your life,” Fraser says, closing his eyes, his voice still hard, still fighting. “It’s not at all–”

Ray interrupts him with his lips and his hands on Fraser’s face, moving Fraser’s head to tilt it the way Fraser moved his on the boat, under the water, Ray barely conscious, and then, swimming up out of the darkness, a warm mouth, warm air, and, yeah, warm tongue.

“I’m saving ours,” he says into Fraser’s mouth, and he pushes air in with the words; and then Fraser’s free hand is on the back of his neck, holding Ray there and kissing him back: words don’t work with Fraser, he uses words for armor, for deflection, to hide, to distract, even to delete – but he was kissing Ray on that boat and Ray is going to kiss him back, just once, even if that’s all they have, just this once.

And now Fraser is really, really kissing him, clinging to Ray with his free hand like he’s the one who’s drowning, and there is nothing tentative at all about the thrust of his tongue in Ray’s mouth, or about the thrust of his hips, pressing their groins together so Ray can feel Fraser’s hardness against his own.

And inside him somewhere is a jubilation of ecstasy, a voice soaring above everything else: I knew it! I knew it!

He pulls away from Fraser’s mouth for half a second, long enough to whisper, “I have another type, too.”

Oops, wrong thing to say: Fraser’s eyes fly open and his hand slackens on Ray’s neck. “Navy types?”

You know, he wants to say to Fraser, you know, did I get jealous when you let a shark into your underwear? Did I get jealous when you practically dragged me across a picket line to help out the not-so-clean and, by the way, married bounty hunter?

But then he remembers before, how Fraser almost let himself lean into the touch of Ray’s stubble against his neck, and his utter certainty that that was the first time Fraser had felt that, and he swallows his irritation one more time.

“Fraser,” he says, instead of snapping, “there’s stuff I want to know about you too. Like, do you get mad about the cap on the toothpaste? Do you raid the change drawer and forget to put it back? Do you like to shop for groceries every day or every week? Who you slept with, not high on my list, but it seems to be high on yours.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Oh, please, Fraser. Will you just fucking ask? You just fucking kissed me. You’re as hard as I am. Are we still going to play this fucking game?” He sits up, still holding Fraser’s eyes with his own, and he begins to slowly, deliberately, unfasten Fraser’s jeans.

Fraser stares back, his jaw set, not moving, and Ray’s fingers slow, then stop. He doesn’t know whether to be glad or sorry he was too caught up in the moment to remember the keys, because it’s clear Fraser is going to fight this every step of the way.

You’d think a Mountie would learn, getting beat down by Warfield’s goons, but Ray’s seeing the same stubborn set to Fraser’s jaw now that he saw then. Won’t ask. Maybe can’t ask, and Ray’s not thinking, not getting it, what Fraser can’t or won’t ask. He wants to pound the wall in frustration but he settles for climbing off Fraser and turning the light by the bed on, and then he stretches, cracking his neck, his shoulders, all the way down to his knuckles.

Under the window Dief raises his head and whines a little, looking at Ray, not Fraser.

It’s gonna be a long night, wolf, Ray thinks. “You need to go out?”

Dief whuffs softly and puts his head back down.

“How ’bout you, Fraser?”

“No, thank you,” Fraser says stiffly, looking anywhere but at Ray. It’s probably the lamp – that thing was old when Ray was in college – but Fraser looks like he’s blushing again.

“Water? Pizza?” Ray says, pushing, not sure why, but pushing all the same.

Fraser’s “no” is a lot shorter and less polite this time.

“What do you want, Fraser?” Ray says finally, dragging a chair around and sitting on it back to front, like he’s getting ready to interrogate a suspect.

“I want many things, Ray,” Fraser says flatly, staring up at the ceiling again. “I want to feed Diefenbaker a proper dinner, I want to finish my reports, I want to–”

“–bury yourself, us, in the minutiae of our lives,” Ray says quietly, folding his hands over the back of the chair. “Yeah, I get that, Fraser. That’s easier than talking.”

There’s no mistaking it now: Fraser is blushing. “Forgive me for pointing out that talking wasn’t exactly high on your list a few minutes ago, Ray.”

“And deflecting everything I say, every time I say it, that’s easier than talking too,” Ray continues. “See, Fraser, you’re just a Mountie. You try being married to a Gold Coast lawyer. If she didn’t want to talk, we didn’t talk. If I didn’t want to talk, she dragged it out of me. And she didn’t need handcuffs to do it. She could have taught KGB seminars. You spend enough time getting interrogated, you learn to see what you’re doing and what the other person’s doing. That’s all couples counseling is. Guided interrogation.”

He’s looking at his hands, not Fraser, so he’s not sure if it’s Fraser or Dief snorting but it’s a tiny beam of hope that it’s Fraser.

“So let me ask you again, Fraser: what do you want?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Fraser says, but this time with less of an edge to his voice.

“What do you – you, Benton Fraser, you, not the Mountie, not the super cop, not Vecchio’s partner, not my friend – what do you want? What do youwant?”

“I want to go home.”

The words are crystal clear and sharp, spoken almost like Fraser didn’t say them.

And Ray takes a breath and swallows around the lump in his throat: that’s what partners means, for better or worse, and they can do this, they can go back to arguing over who left the empty butter dish in the fridge, and at least Fraser kissed him back, at least once.

And then Ray gets up and leans over Fraser to unlock the cuff from the bed.

He jumps – literally – when Fraser’s hand closes over his wrist, pulling him back… stopping him.

“What, Fraser?“ And this time he lets all the irritation he feels out, three short, sharp syllables.

“Canada, Ray,” Fraser enunciates, softly but clearly. “I want to go home. I don’t want to go back to the consulate, not right now. It’s lonely, not lonesome; it’s not an oasis, it’s a prison. There’s nowhere you can go here to see the sky stretching for miles.”

Ray is honestly, and understandably, he thinks, confused, but he sits back down on the bed next to Fraser (who shifts over, like he’s instinctively making room), dropping his hands to his lap. And Fraser looks up at him, his eyes dark and full of an unflinching honesty and pain that Ray knows, knows from the inside out.

And, okay, the wide open spaces, not exactly Ray’s idea of talking, but maybe in Fraser’s brain, open space equals open feelings and lonesome doesn’t equal lonely. Or something. Ray’s grasping here so he’ll go with that: the glimmer of hope is turning into a spark: maybe maybe maybe thumping in the back of his brain.

“I’ve never been there,” Ray says finally, keep the conversation moving, keep the words coming, anything but the maybe he keeps pushing down, away. “I’ve been to Nebraska.”

And there’s a tiny grin at the corner of Fraser’s mouth. “Not many people have.”

Ray feels like the chessboard flipped over and he didn’t even notice it. Are they playing checkers now? What does the population density of the Northwest Territories have to do with any of this?

“I’d met seven children by the time I turned six,” Fraser says, still in that clear, soft voice. “After that, I met many more, but rarely on a long term basis. My grandparents led a rather peripatetic lifestyle. I saw my father on holidays, if the weather was cooperative.”

Ray tries, and fails, to translate that into terms a divorced undercover Chicago cop can understand. Long term lonely… all Fraser had was lonesome, it’s all he knows, it’s where he wants to be, or where he thinks he should want to be.

And, he thinks, suddenly the other shoe dropping, a lot of time alone meant a lot of time alone. As in not playing with other kids, not talking about what was on TV last night or how the Cubs did, or whether Patty Rysiewicz was going to wait for Jake Lieberman by the lockers after school. It maybe even meant home alone, no cookies and milk, no one telling him to do his homework. Did he even have school? Did he have homework?

“When I was twelve we settled in Inuvik, somewhat permanently,” Fraser continues, looking up at the ceiling now, not at Ray; it’s easier to talk when you’re not looking at someone. “I still had a great deal of freedom, comparatively.”

Freedom, that’s a new word, so Ray files that under “lonely, equal to,” and keeps listening. “My grandparents took over the school there; the town had trouble keeping teachers. They still ran the library on the side, and my father was often pressed into service to deliver or pick up books on his rounds.”

Librarians and schoolteachers? Did Vecchio know this about Fraser? Why was this not in Vecchio’s files? Why does Fraser know Ray’s mother’s maiden name, and the name of the union Ray’s dad belonged to, and Ray doesn’t even know Fraser lived with his grandparents and not his dad?

And now Ray sees the checker jumping across the board: Fraser’s talking, but he’s talking about something remote and distant, still keeping Ray at arm’s length, maybe because it’s safe to talk about a long-gone childhood.

But to be fair, the other half of his brain argues, that might be the only way Fraser knows how to talk. Or it might be what Fraser thinks is talking.

Still, something’s off, and it’s not just years with Stella giving him that sixth-sense, between-the-shoulder-blades feeling. So he re-rails the Fraser train. “Okay, so you want Canada, long term. That’s one. What else do you want, Fraser?”

Fraser meets his eyes, quick, startled.

“That’s how this works,” Ray says. “You get to say whatever you want, Fraser. You can say ‘keys’ or you can say you want to have half a dozen kids, or you want to buy a surf shop in Baja. But it has to be something. You. Want.”

Fraser is quiet for a long minute, and then he says, “I want you to have a turn.”

Ray resists the urge to joke: a turn in the cuffs? That’s not what Fraser means and that’s not buddies. “All right,” he says. “Fair enough. Here’s something I want, Fraser: I want Vecchio to love being undercover so much that he stays there. It’s not that I like being Vecchio, but you know what I do like? I like waking up every morning knowing I’m going to get to see you.” There, sharing with a vengeance, Fraser, but it’s the truth. “And here’s more of the truth, Fraser: I like working with you – just working, not counting the buddy-breathing hijinks on the open seas – more than I liked being married to Stella, even.”

Fraser’s mouth opens and closes, silently, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it; and he drops his gaze under Ray’s steady one.

Feelings, yeah. Ray was always good at this part. Too good, Stella said; and she would know, because Fraser makes him feel more complete, more like a man – yeah, a man hot for his partner, so? – than he ever felt with her. So since it’s his turn, he tells Fraser that too, and he tells Fraser the kicker: that if he hadn’t had Stella, if he hadn’t chased bad check chick, Luanne, Maggie, he wouldn’t know what he’s got now, because it took a lot of not quite right to get to not wrong at all.

By the time he’s finished Fraser has his free arm over his eyes and Ray’s pretty sure that his skin is the colour of his dress uniform.

Oh, well. That’s what you get when you give Ray a turn.

“Your turn, Fraser,” Ray says then, more to see what Fraser will do.

But Fraser surprises him: from under his sleeve, he says, “I want… to skip my turn.”

And Ray laughs, and Fraser laughs too, lowering his arm and looking at Ray, still embarrassed and kind of sheepish, and rumpled and so not-Mountie that it’s all Ray can do not to lean in and kiss him again. “I’ll give you one,” he says instead. “Why not let me uncuff you?”

“You were laboring under a misapprehension, Ray, ” Fraser says, like it’s the most ordinary explanation in the world. “That would be cheating.”

“You tried to pick the lock, Fraser. How is that not cheating?”

“You knew I’d try that,” Fraser says, again sounding utterly reasonable. “That’s not cheating at all.”

And Ray has to laugh, and even Fraser chuckles, because it’s just as true as it is absurd and only to the two of them could that be considered a rational explanation. And then his heart catches in his throat when Fraser’s hand finds his, almost absently, and caresses the back of Ray’s hand with his thumb.

Words, Fraser’s so good at them, he’s got them all hitched up to a sled in pairs, and they go where he wants them to go, and he knows just the right one to do just the right thing. Words follow Ray around like puppies, leaping and tumbling, and sometimes he has to chase them down and sometimes he picks one just to see what it’ll do, and the only time they go where he wants them to go is when he’s not thinking about them but something else entirely, and then they seem to just fall in line behind him.

But Fraser’s actions are like Ray’s puppies: he can’t seem to control them, at least not all the time: not on the boat, not in Vecchio’s car, hell, not in Turnbull’s apartment, with the phone ringing in the bottom of Ray’s sleeping bag in the grey light of dawn. And not now, with his hand covering Ray’s, not letting Ray unlock him from the cuffs, his hand on Ray’s, holding it, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it, like something in him needs this, needs Ray, even if his carefully controlled words are all leashed together and not going anywhere he doesn’t want them to go.

He tests his theory: he turns his hand over at the same time he says, “What else do you want, Fraser?”

Ding ding ding: Fraser says nothing, not at first, but his fingers tighten on Ray’s, and then Ray feels those warm fingers leave his hand, stop briefly at his wrist, then move up his arm, to his shoulder, to his neck.

“I want to learn how you do this,” Fraser says then, quietly.

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met,” Ray says without thinking, leaning into Fraser’s touch, and Fraser’s hand stills.

“How many?” Fraser says, so softly Ray almost doesn’t hear him. But that’s progress, right there: that, finally, is a real honest to God question, even if he’s not sure what Fraser means by it. How many puppies, how many blondes, how many…

Oh.

“Okay, yeah, Fraser, I fucked a Navy SEAL. You want a list? You want a clean bill of health? What are you looking for here?”

Fraser looks at him, his eyes narrowing again, and no words ready; and his hand is back down at Ray’s wrist. But he’s still holding onto Ray, so Ray stares down at Fraser’s hand and tries to figure it out. What does Fraser want… want to hear from Ray? How many times has Ray done this? Zero, Fraser, that’s a big fat fucking zero. How many times has Ray had a serious relationship? Once, Fraser, one time, count it, one.

Well, look at it this way: Fraser’s a guy, and he’s a possessive guy, the first time he said words without thinking about them tonight was when he threw the blondes in Ray’s face: that was personal.

So let’s go with the guy meaning, here, Kowalski, and see what that gets us.

“Uh, let’s see… Counting Chris? Oh, and that guy at the Academy… Three. No, four. All together, I mean. Counting Stella, of course.” Fraser’s staring at him and Ray feels his face getting hot. “Stella and me, we were together a long time,” he hears himself offer. “Most of high school, and then we were married, and, uh…”

“Two,” Fraser says, still softly, and in a rush, as if Ray’s floundering gave him the courage to speak. “Technically speaking, I suppose; there was a recruit at Depot, another recruit, I mean, and he–I–we–God, I wanted–”

Ray’s insides are spinning: he’s not sure if it’s his gut or his heart. Fraser’s got knots, everyone’s got knots, but Fraser’s got them tied up tight inside… and suddenly Ray’s getting an inkling of what goes on in Fraser’s head, the seesaw he’s balancing on every day, or maybe every day since…

Since when? That’s another question: the feeling-Ray-up started literally two hours after they met. Ray has no real basis for comparison: it’s not exactly in the records, whether Fraser feels up all his partners or if Ray’s special, but he sure seems to shy away from touching anyone, everyone else but Ray.

There’s heat under his hands, color and heat racing up Fraser’s chest, up his neck, into his face, his eyes squeezed shut, teeth holding his bottom lip tight. Oh, the words, the words are maybe always going to be push-pull with Fraser, but between the instincts and the actions they might get this thing figured out: that was what Fraser was asking, that was what he wanted (for some reason) to hear, and there’s something else he wants to know…

“I wanted too,” Ray says softly, leaning down close to Fraser, running his hands up Fraser’s chest to his shoulders. “God, how I wanted you, and wondering if I was crazy or if you really wanted me. Every time I saw you my heart would beat faster, and I spent weeks, months, coming up with stuff that made Frannie’s romance novels look sane, holy fuck, Fraser. Huey told me if I really wanted to be Vecchio I had to take you in the closet and I swear to you, Fraser, I just stared at him, I looked like a fish, it was like he read my fucking mind. He thought I was pissed off, but that started a whole new round of crazy. It was like being thirteen again, only better, worse, because I’d been through that before, but I never thought I’d feel like that again and, hell, I’ll take it because nothing, nothing feels better than the way your heart jumps into your throat at the sound of someone’s voice, the way you catch your breath when he smiles at you, that insane happiness when you’re in the same time and place–”

Fraser’s heart is beating fast under Ray’s hand, and his eyes are opening slowly, almost in wonderment, or maybe he’s just more embarrassed than ever, because he didn’t say he wanted Ray, he just said he wanted–

“Steve,” Fraser says, and his voice is gravelly. “His name was Steve. It was just like that, I used to wait outside the gym just to see where he was going so I could – and then we were assigned to the same room and, God, we – three kisses, two orgasms, and then he was gone, washed out, and I’ve never known, never…”

You know now, Ray wants to say, but it’s too much like an I told you so, and maybe too much taking Fraser for granted; and for a minute his heart aches, thinking of Fraser, in his bed at Depot, scared to death and exhilarated all at the same time, his heart pounding, unable to believe what he just did and wondering when they could do it again – and maybe more, maybe stubble against his skin the next time – and then, whoosh, having the rug pulled out from under him like that.

“And she…” Fraser’s sigh is heavy and dark, all at once, like his voice, and even the light on the table seems to dim: the sun’s finally down, and the radio’s long since switched to sports talk. “Was I finally – could I be, was I normal? Except it wasn’t, we–”

It’s Fraser’s time, Fraser’s battle, but Ray can’t resist firing one shot: “She wasn’t.”

Fraser looks up at him, his eyes unfocused; and Ray watches his pupils dilate, which is kind of freakish and Fraserish all at the same time. “No,” Fraser says quietly, in agreement, thank God. “No; and I had a fantastical idea of normal, as it happened.”

“I like your normal,” Ray whispers, because he can’t trust his voice not to break.

He’s kind of surprised the next moment when Fraser grins. It’s not much of a grin; there’s enough sadness still setting his mouth awry that Ray really just wants to lean down and kiss it back into shape, or out of shape, or something. And then Fraser jangles the handcuffs and Ray feels his own face heat up. “I’m not sure you know what normal is either.”

But, really, the only thing Ray can do is grin, too, because Fraser’s right. Nothing about them, or this, or anything about this whole situation is, or has ever been, normal. And while he knows some of that just comes with the Mountie territory (hello, pirates?), he’s pretty sure some of it comes from the alchemy of them, him and Fraser, the magic that happens when they’re on the same page.

Which they maybe finally are. Or at least in the same book now, right?

So instead of attacking any more, it’s time to fall back: he feels in his pocket for the key, then leans up to release Fraser, dropping the cuffs on the bed with the key. And he rubs Fraser’s wrist where the cuff was and, without even thinking, drops a kiss there; and Fraser cups Ray’s face with that same hand, then sneaks it up into Ray’s hair and Ray’s being pulled down again, Fraser’s eyes closing before Ray’s, his other hand moving down Ray’s back to hold Ray there, on top of him. And Fraser’s lips are moving against his, saying something Ray can’t make out, but it doesn’t matter, because Fraser’s kissing him (again), and there’s no pretending this time that it has anything to do with anything except Fraser wanting Ray and Ray wanting Fraser right back.

“Did you get to do anything fun?” Ray asks finally. “With your guy, I mean?”

Fraser’s hand on the back of his head slackens its grip and Fraser stares up at him, his mouth soft and his eyes dazed.

Ray’s seen that look before: he talks a lot, in bed and out.

But then Fraser smiles. “My guy,” he says quietly. “Well… yes. He let me taste – we tasted each other, God, I still… yeah. It was fun.” His eyes refocus on Ray and a line appears between them, and without thinking – again, and who knew this would feel so right so fast? – Ray leans down to kiss Fraser there, between his eyebrows, and Fraser pulls him down for another kiss.

But this time it’s Fraser talking and Ray not making sense of it: “…jealous?”

He pulls back and tries to let the words process: “Jealous of, uh, what? You and Steve? If I’d been at – at Depot, what was it? – Depot with you, you’d have had to pack an extra hardware store because there’d have been a whole lot of ass nailing going on.”

Fraser’s grin grows wider, and warmer: “There wasn’t a lot of time for… wood shop.”

Ray could die like this, in Fraser’s warm arms, in Fraser’s warm smile, in Fraser, relaxed, happy… joking. “See, Fraser, that’s the problem with Canadians, they don’t realize the importance of vocational education.”

“I was wondering where you learned the extracurricular uses for handcuffs. Non-regulation.”

“No, that was a required course. This is Chicago, Fraser, they’re not going to leave something essential like that out of the curriculum. I’m surprised Welsh didn’t sign you up for that one.”

And now, now Dief decides to mess with Ray: he gets up from the window with a whine and a scrabble of claws and comes over to the bed to poke his wet nose right into Ray’s elbow.

On the other hand, Ray probably had it coming. “Oh, now you need to go out?”

Fraser pulls him down once more, one quick kiss, and then lets Ray up, stretching and then pulling himself up to a sitting position. “I’ll take him down. Better now than later: there’s a storm coming.”

“Nah,” Ray says. “You probably need the bathroom too. I’ll take him.”

At least Dief’s quick, and at least there’s enough light from the street that Ray can make it back up the stairs without killing himself: even though the utilities are all still on, all the lightbulbs in the stairwell are gone. Fraser’s standing by the window looking out when he comes back in, but he turns and smiles at Ray, maybe a little shy, and Ray feels his heart jump into his throat. He runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat, and Fraser cocks his head at the window. “Detective Dewey’s brother?”

“Yeah,” Ray says, shoving his hands hard into his pockets and walking over to stand next to him. “The lease isn’t up until next week, of course, but his girlfriend finally said go ahead, move in.”

Fraser raises an eyebrow: “And your apartment wasn’t sufficient?”

“Too many people around,” Ray says. Let Fraser chew on that for a minute: he likes puzzles. “Too many expectations.”

Now Fraser grins, even though Ray can still see the wheels turning in his head. “Handcuffs aren’t expectations. I’ll have to remember that.”

Ray wants to pull Fraser in, kiss him again, but he’s not sure what’s going on in Fraser’s head. Can he really not figure it out? Is he just messing with Ray? Or is he still so off balance he’s not firing on all cylinders? The words are coming out but–

Yeah, that was Fraser’s thumb to his eyebrow, and, see, this is why it’s not fair to play poker with Fraser. Shoes might not know Fraser’s tells but Ray’s been watching him for almost a year and he knows every single one of them.

Chess is a lot more fair.

So Ray does what he wanted to do: he takes his hands out of his pockets so he can pull Fraser in and kiss him. “Yeah,” he says against Fraser’s lips. “No expectations, Fraser. Just what you want.”

And Fraser’s smiling against his mouth, and then Ray feels teeth in his bottom lip, Fraser nibbling there, then licking, then kissing Ray back. “This,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Ray says again, and then he leans back to smooth his thumb across Fraser’s eyebrow. “See, we have a routine.”

“It’s the silent killer,” Fraser says, finally catching on, his eyes alight with laughter.

“So can I get you anything else?” Ray says against Fraser’s cheek, pressing a kiss there, starting to walk-dance him backwards towards the bed. “Beer? Pizza? More water?”

“A television?” Fraser says in his ear, his tongue following, and Fraser may not have rhythm on a stage but he sure follows Ray’s lead fast, like he’s done it all his life.

“Nah, see, I’m following the Geneva conventions, making your prisoner watch curling is torture. It’s section 7. You Canadians probably didn’t sign that part.”

“Sub paragraph D,” Fraser says just as his knees hit the back of the bed. “Hawks games are covered in subsection C, paragraph 8.”

“At least you didn’t have to listen to the Cubs lose. How can you even tell with curling? When does that get exciting, Fraser? Ice and no fighting?” Ray’s following Fraser up onto the bed, Fraser pulling himself up with the bars on the headboard and Ray above him on hands and knees, ditching his boots and his shirt on the way up.

“It could get deadly,” Fraser says with a straight face. “You know the stones are forty pounds of–”

Ray can’t resist for another second: he shuts Fraser up with lips and tongue, before he starts talking about polished granite and 90-mile-an-hour slapshots, and Fraser meets him halfway, more than halfway.

Okay, so that’s hockey: Ray doesn’t care any more.

“In Canada’s defense,” Fraser says breathlessly, “I feel compelled to point out that you were not handcuffed and forced to watch curling, and that you voluntarily made a curling reference.”

“That was not voluntary,” Ray says, grinning at Fraser, resting his chin on his fist on Fraser’s chest. “And I’d still be in those handcuffs if Turnbull hadn’t decided to feed me tea. You weren’t planning to take them off until I went to bed.”

And just like that Fraser blushes again. Wow. Suddenly Fraser’s buttons are sticking up all over, like his cock, pressing against Ray’s.

Huh.

Well, like he said, they could be dead tomorrow so he might as well press some of those buttons. “Thanks for the clothes loaner, by the way," he says, trying to sound sincere so Fraser doesn’t guess he’s about to get dropped.

And Fraser falls for it: “Don’t be sil–”

“I really needed them after your little strip-tease,” Ray says, moving up closer to Fraser’s mouth. “I about came in my pants, and I have to admit, Fraser, I jerked off thinking about your not-empty pants that night.”

There’s a long silence and Ray can feel Fraser’s heart thudding against his chest. But Fraser’s defences are, finally, falling: “I have to admit, Ray… I listened.”

“Yeah?” Ray says, right up against Fraser’s mouth. “I have to admit… I wasn’t trying to be quiet.”

Fraser closes his eyes and swallows, and Ray can almost see the struggle, the fight for control. He was thinking about the pants, those starched boxers, what was under those, about falling to his knees and hauling that cock out from under that bright red tunic, and yeah, of course he was thinking what if Fraser was listening, because that just made it hotter, yeah, what if Fraser opened the door, what if…

…but what was Fraser thinking about?

Back then it didn’t really occur to him Fraser actually would be listening, even though he wasn’t trying to be quiet on purpose, because, you know, Mounties, and Fraser all “it only takes an extra second to be courteous, Ray,” and eavesdropping on your prisoner jerking off? Not courteous, not courteous at all, but – Jesus, he can’t think too much about that, because Fraser waslistening, all the way back then, fuck…

“What was it?” Ray whispers. “Me in your shirt? Me in the consulate?” Fraser swallows hard again, and shifts on the bed, and the pieces fall into place with a gentle clink from the handcuffs, forgotten on the corner of the mattress, by the pillow.

When Ray looked up, there in the Consulate, when he looked up at Fraser in disbelief, after Fraser clicked the cuffs closed around his wrists, Fraser wasn’t looking at Ray’s face.

Ray reaches up and even while Fraser’s eyes are still opening, wide and just as disbelieving as Ray’s were that day, the handcuffs are clicking into place around his own wrists, first the right, then the left; and he holds his hands up so Fraser can see them.

Fraser closes his eyes, like it’s too much for him, but then, all at once, he’s rolled on top of Ray, eyes open again, his hands coming up to cover Ray’s wrists, his fingers curving around the metal bracelets; and then he pulls Ray’s wrists up to his mouth, kissing one, then the other, using his thumb and his lips to free Ray’s bracelet from the metal band of the cuff. And then Ray’s arms are trapped between them as Fraser leans in to kiss Ray, hard, one hand behind Ray’s head again, and the other–

–the other one at Ray’s waistband, making short work of the button there, even shorter work of the zipper, and Fraser rolls to one side to give himself more room.

Ray’s got an advantage. Well, he’s got a lot of advantages, but this particular one is that Fraser’s jeans are still unfastened from before, and the zipper is easy to get down even with cuffs getting in the way, because Fraser ishard behind that zipper, so hard his cock is pushing it out so the zipper comes down almost all by itself, and the way Ray’s hands are angled he can push instead of having to pull.

And those aren’t the starched boxers he wears with the uniform, thank God. Ray knew they couldn’t be, not the way Fraser wears his jeans, but he was curious. Okay, horny, but still curious. They’re regular boxers, soft, worn material, and Fraser is hot under his hand.

He can’t get leverage, and neither can Fraser. They struggle with each other for a few more seconds and then Ray gets his fingers inside the opening, touching Fraser’s hot, hard flesh, skin to skin now, finally. Fraser lets all his breath out in a rush, sitting up and spreading his thighs wide on either side of Ray’s hips, thrusting against, into Ray’s fingers.

“C’mon,” Ray’s whispering senselessly: the next time, seriously, the pants have to come off before they start this. “Ease up–”

Somehow Fraser makes sense of it, raising up enough for Ray to get one hand in his waistband, balancing on one knee to help push his jeans and boxers down, and, yeah, he’s done this much before because then he leans forward on Ray, stretching out full length so Ray can push it all down, down past that world-class ass.

There’s a thump, and another one, and Ray realizes with a jerk of his dick that it’s the sound of Fraser’s hiking boots hitting the floor, holy fuck, he’s getting naked with Fraser. Another wriggle, more fumbling, and, oh yeah, Fraser’s naked on top of him, at least naked from the waist down, which is really all that counts.

Fraser sits up again, straddling Ray, fumbling again with Ray’s pants, sliding one hand into Ray’s waistband, sliding Ray’s pants and underwear down past his ass, but Ray’s got a plan, the look on Fraser’s face when he kissed Ray’s wrists still burned into his retinas; and he reaches out again, reaches for that hot, hard flesh, unconstrained now but still straining in Ray’s grip; and he pulls gently, once, twice, getting the feel of it, figuring out how to jerk Fraser with the cuffs on. Fraser closes his eyes again and rocks back on his heels, arching his whole body towards Ray; and then Ray whispers Fraser’s name.

Fraser looks down, startled, and Ray hears him catch his breath. It’s what Ray wanted, was hoping for: Fraser’s cock, held hard in Ray’s grip, the handcuffs glinting around Ray’s wrists.

Wow. Ray’s been so busy wondering what Fraser would do he hasn’t taken time to think about what he’s doing, and now he’s faced with a handful – two handfuls – of prime Mountie real estate. His mouth is watering: Fraser’s big, and hard, so hard, so hot, and he jerks at Ray’s touch. And there’ s a lot of touch: he pumps a little more, experimenting with the feel, the heft of it, even the scent of it. There’s a lot of play too: Fraser’s not cut either, which Ray guesses he somehow always knew, not that he was ever speculating on his partner’s–

Okay, yeah, yeah he was, he’s not even going to try to pretend, and he almost laughs out loud, looking up at Fraser like Fraser’s in on the joke. But Fraser’s up on his knees now, thrusting forward through Ray’s fingers, his eyes closed, his lashes long on his cheeks.

Oh, yeah. They were doing something here.

Focus, Ray. It shouldn’t be that hard.

And he loses it again, for real this time, snickering and then just laughing out loud, and Fraser looks down at him, caught out of the moment of trying to get Ray’s pants all the way off, his eyes dazed, his smile slow and unsteady. Ray grins up at him, hoping Fraser can see the delight he feels, the shiver of unreality that he’s here, finally, in bed, with Fraser, with Fraser naked (or mostly), with Fraser looking at him like he’s the last thing in the world Fraser will ever see, his teeth caught in his lower lip now as Ray pumps him again.

“Hey, Frase,” he says, pitching his voice low. “Take off your shirt.”

Fraser inhales again, his eyes closing and his cock feeling even harder, or maybe Ray’s just gripping him tighter. Then he sinks back onto his heels, hisass hot against Ray’s bare thighs, and pulls his shirt over his head and off, and Ray stares up at him, almost forgetting to move his hands on Fraser’s cock.

Fraser moves his hips, slow, and a smile catches the corner of his mouth. “Is that what you wanted?” he says, and his voice has gone low too.

“Yeah,” Ray whispers, because his voice is going to crack; and he has to clear his throat anyway. “What – what do you want?”

Fraser’s smile grows bigger: now there’s teeth.

Ray wonders if Little Red Riding Hood felt this thrill down her spine, excitement and inevitability warring with apprehension and downright hunger.

“Taste,” Fraser whispers, and that’s good, more progress, yeah, moving forward here, Fraser sliding one knee, then the other, until his dick is right there, Ray can feel the heat from it, the end of it shiny and wet, and, God, it smells even better up here, up close. “Do you–”

“Anything, Fraser,” Ray says and he doesn’t care that his voice cracks, this time; he can almost taste Fraser, he can taste Fraser, he can pull just this much more, lift his head that much more, and his lips close over Fraser’s cock.

Oh, Jesus God, it’s so good, he’s always loved the taste, the feel of this; and it’s even better than he remembers because this is Fraser, he’s almost drunk with it, giddy, licking, sucking, trying to get more in his mouth, but Fraser’s holding back and Ray can’t move under him.

“Come on,” he says to Fraser’s cock, frustrated. Come the fuck on, Fraser, what the fuck is this?

But there’s a hand in his hair, at top of his head, Fraser’s hand, big and warm, shaping itself to the back of Ray’s head, gently, even… tentative. “Please,” Ray whispers, it’s been so long, so long, so hard, Ray is so fucking hard and Fraser is–

Fraser is leaning forward, still slow, and then there’s a quiet thump on the wall above Ray’s head: Fraser’s other hand, braced there so Fraser can lean forward, letting up just enough for Ray to raise his head, open his mouth wide, take Fraser in.

“Oh, God,” Fraser says from somewhere far away above him, but there’s a thrumming in Ray’s ears and the taste of slick bitter salt on his tongue and everything else seems to whirl away in the heat, the weight of Fraser’s cock in his mouth.

He’s got both hands up now, one on each side of Fraser’s cock and he hears the chain of the cuffs clink when he pulls Fraser up closer. Fraser moans, a breathy sound that goes straight to Ray’s cock. Ray sucks harder, for just a few seconds, then lets go, frustrated. How the hell is he supposed to do this? He wants to pull, push, taste, suck, swallow – he wants to breathe Fraser into every pore and never breathe out, and he can’t even get a hand on Fraser’s balls without letting go of everything else.

“Sorry,” Fraser’s saying hoarsely, his voice sounding closer now, the hand in Ray’s hair moving, petting, and he hears Fraser swallow. “Sorry–”

And that right there is the sound of a knot being tied right back up, tight and stout, and that is not going to stand, not if Ray has a dozen handcuffs he has to fight to do this, to be with Fraser the way Fraser wants. Hell, this is no worse than a sinking ship, and they made that work.

Okay, boot gun, sure, but, hey, Fraser’s got a real gun here, a half inch from Ray’s mouth.

So Ray pulls his hands up and around, being careful not to catch the chain on Fraser’s cock, sucking the end of Fraser’s cock back in while he finds Fraser’s nipples. Fraser loses his words again, stuttering something that doesn’t even sound like English, and suddenly his hand is tight in Ray’s hair. Yeah, that’s right, Fraser, Ray is gonna cut right through that knot, and he sucks harder, rubs a thumb across one of Fraser’s nipples, opens his mouth wider.

And Fraser’s thrusting now, hitting the back of Ray’s throat, nothing gentle here, no, Fraser’s forgetting everything he ever learned about manners, just taking what he wants, taking Ray’s mouth, looking down his chest at Ray’s hands, at the handcuffs, at Ray’s mouth wrapped around his cock. And his hand fists in Ray’s hair, holding Ray’s head still, fucking Ray’s mouth so hard Ray can only breathe every other stroke. And he’ll take it: he’ll take it, take more, take anything, not just because he’s so turned on breathing is optional right now, air is fucking optional, but because it’s Fraser fucking his mouth, catching his breath, moaning senseless words.

Ray closes his eyes and wonders what Fraser’s going to taste like, sucking hard for a few extra seconds, when suddenly Fraser pulls out, gasping Ray’s name, almost falling backwards onto his ass.

“No,” Ray says, or maybe it’s Fraser, both of them saying “no” together and neither one of them knowing what the other’s talking about.

“All of it,” Fraser’s whispering, a dark, intense mutter. “All of you.” And he’s moved back down the bed, back down Ray’s body, and then Ray’s dick is being swallowed whole in Fraser’s hot, beautiful mouth, God, Ray has never felt anything so good right now as Fraser sucking him down, his lips soft, his tongue strong, his fingers on Ray’s balls, past Ray’s balls, down–

All of it, okay, yeah–

“Nightstand,” Ray croaks, because he’s probably about 30 seconds from coming, so if Fraser wants to get on that train, he sure as hell hopes he knows what he’s doing. “Fraser. Nightstand.”

Yeah, condoms. Lube, even: gay sex has come a long way since the first time he tried this, what, ten, eleven years ago? There was a wicked little bottle of stuff, part of a display near the condoms, and it just looked more fun than KY.

What the hell: Chris had already had his say and so he was already half insane by that time, he’d already ponied up the money to Young Dewey, Dief had already indicated he was on board. So when Fraser pulls open the drawer, half disbelieving, Ray already knows what he’s going to find: condoms. Lube. More condoms. Not necessarily in that order.

Points to Fraser: that condom’s on in about eleven seconds, not breaking any land speed records but putting up an admirable time. Ray was kind of waiting for Fraser to give him that look, that “you’ve got to be kidding” look, but apparently Fraser reserves that for Miranda warnings and NAFTA discussions, because right now he just looks disheveled, a little confused, and a lot horny.

But he hardly has time to look: the next thing Ray knows is he’s pushed, pulled, and flipped over, face down on the bed, his hands still cuffed but behind him now. He gets his head turned around enough to say, “Fraser, you–”

“I’m inexperienced, not stupid, Ray,” Fraser says, and there’s a quick kiss on his shoulder blade, and the only reason Ray doesn’t freak out then and there is because the voice is all Fraser but the tone is pure sex. And so is the feel of Fraser’s fingers, parting his ass, dripping lube there, cool and slick.

There’s a pause and then he feels Fraser’s knee nudging his thighs apart, leaning up; then Fraser pushes his dick there, not in, just against, back and forth. It’s slick, it’s shading into slippery, and Fraser’s dick slips out and away, and Ray could almost pound his head in frustration if he could just reach something hard to pound it against.

There’s more coolness, more slick, more knees – Fraser’s other knee now, pushing Ray’s legs apart even more – and then he feels that big snub dick pushing again, pushing slow but steady, pushing there. Then it’s out, then it’s back, and Ray realizes with a rush of blood to, well, everywhere that Fraser’s using his cock to open Ray up, Jesus, Mounties get down to business. It’s so much, too much, he can’t breathe–

Or he could try moving his head again: that’s not handcuffed. And he could try pushing his ass up; that’s not cuffed either.

Fraser chokes when Ray pushes back, gasps, grabs Ray’s hip harder. Then Ray feels Fraser’s hand down there, against his ass, holding Fraser’s dick steady, and he pushes back again. That’s working, he’s getting the hang of it, Fraser sliding in easy now, easy easy easy–

And then Fraser’s hand goes away and it’s suddenly next to Ray’s chin, Fraser falling forward, pushing forward, with a grunt that thrills Ray to his toes, deep, primeval even, and Fraser’s all the way in.

Wow, that was easy. Lube has come a long way since KY.

Ray moves a little: Fraser’s holding so still it’s weird. He flattens his hands out, palms up, trying to reach up to Fraser, touch him; he can’t see anything but Fraser’s arm and shoulder, but he can feel everything, Fraser deep deep inside, his ass throbbing or maybe it’s Fraser’s dick, or maybe both. "You okay?" he whispers, straining up with his hands to touch, and finally he makes contact, the crisp touch of hair at his fingertips, soft skin beneath, and he rubs where he can reach.

Fraser’s so still Ray can feel his cock twitch inside him, which, hey, they are going to have to try this quiet-and-still thing again, but maybe sometime when Fraser’s not freaking out. So he strains every muscle in his shoulders and back to move backwards, move upwards, try to reach Fraser, rubbing where he can touch, even patting him awkwardly. "Fraser?"

Fraser’s arms are trembling, well, at least the one he can see, and Fraser’s cock twitches again, and he’s a big ball of tension on top of Ray, inside Ray, and maybe the cuffs weren’t such a good idea even if that’s what he thought Fraser wanted, what Fraser seemed to want–

God, does he want, and Ray wants, and it’s all good, Fraser–

“It’s okay,” he says, and he manages one more twist to his spine, one more flex of his muscles so he can push up, back, all the way against Fraser. “I want this. Come on. Fuck me.” And underneath him, squished between him and the bed, his dick starts to harden up again, like, hey, don’t leave me out of the party.

And then there’s an almighty groan out of Fraser, and teeth in Ray’s neck, and Fraser’s moving inside him, hard and fast, like something inside him just broke open. “Ray,” he whispers and then he licks Ray’s neck, where he bit, and then he moves inside Ray and stops again. He’s almost flat along Ray’s back now and Ray can feel his stomach muscles, feel his skin, slick and smooth, all up and down Ray’s back and arms. Fraser exhales again, a grunt, hard by Ray’s ear, and then he moves along with the grunt, in deeper and kissing Ray’s face where he can reach, even around to the corner of Ray’s mouth.

Fraser’s face is damp against his and Ray sticks his tongue out to try to taste him, touch him another way, one more way he can reach, and Fraser strains up at the same time so they’re actually managing to kiss in spite of every muscle in Ray’s back and neck and arms deciding to go on strike all at once. And then Fraser’s gone again, just in time for Ray to not scream, and then he’s driving in again, one arm going under, around Ray, his hand on Ray’s chest, holding him close, the other one finding Ray’s dick, cupping around it and holding him.

And that’s good, that eases a lot of the strain on Ray’s shoulders. He still can’t move (much) but the relief from the tension is almost as good as moving, and now that he can brace himself on Fraser’s arm he can move his ass, not much – Fraser has got him cocooned, wrapped up in those strong arms and held down – but enough to get some friction on his dick in Fraser’s hand, enough to twist it up back there, make it even better for Fraser.

Ray’s already better, way past better, he’s rounding third and heading for–

Oh, wait, they were playing chess here. And he feels like laughing out loud again: this is insane, being here, finally.

Fraser inhales again, a cool intake at Ray’s shoulders, and then he feels Fraser’s tongue there, licking while he pushes in, pulls out, tiny movements, like he doesn’t want to let go of Ray long enough to actually fuck him. And then Fraser makes a smothered sound, gasping against Ray’s shoulder, and stops dead again. Ray pushes back–

–and there’s teeth in his shoulder, gripping, holding him there: that’s going to leave a mark. “Don’t… move,” Fraser whispers, harsh and sloppy, against Ray’s skin, and suddenly Ray realises Fraser’s trembling, shaking, like he can’t hold on, like he’s about to let go and slip, like the time he pulled Ray up on the fire escape.

God, he loves this, he hates this, he can’t see Fraser, he can’t even touch him, all he can do is feel, feel Fraser’s weight pressing him down, feel Fraser’s cock, big in his ass, feel Fraser’s breath, hot and cold on his skin.

But he can’t help it: he wants to feel more, he wants to feel Fraser move inside him, so he shifts again, tightens his ass up.

“Please,” Fraser says, and his voice sounds broken. “Please, Ray–”

“Yes, Fraser, yes, God, whatever you want, anything,” and the puppies are tumbling down a hill, “please, do it, fuck me, fuck me…”

“Anything,” Fraser breathes in his ear, and Ray’s disoriented for a second, that’s his puppy, it got away and ran to Fraser–

And then Fraser is fucking gone, up and off and out of Ray, and Ray closes his eyes and tries to breathe, and he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t move–

There’s a hand on his wrists, thank God, Fraser didn’t leave, or at least not yet, and Ray feels a warm flush moving up his chest to his neck to his face, his legs spread wide on the bed, what the fuck must Fraser be thinking, between the cuffs and his partner like this, open wide and aching, aching for–

Ow, fuck, aching is right, it almost felt better with the cuffs on, his muscles were used to it, half of them had gone to sleep and the other half had gone on strike and now everyone’s crossing the picket line, stabbing Ray with their signs and probably chanting something–

No, that’s Fraser, rubbing Ray’s wrists, rubbing his arms, up into his shoulders, chanting Ray’s name under his breath, and when his fingers slide up to Ray’s neck, the muscles following him along just like the damn puppies, Ray’s suddenly able to move again, shift his head, look at Fraser.

Okay, he’s still hard, that’s good, that’s great, ’cause there are more important things here than Fraser’s knots and Ray’s puppies, there are way more important things, starting with the two hard dicks that Fraser just left waving in the wind.

Ray moves his arms, shakes out his shoulders somehow while he’s getting his arms under him, and then he manages to roll over, roll over and spread his legs wide. Again.

“C’mon,” he says, coming halfway up to pull Fraser down. “C’mon.”

And Fraser kind of blinks at him, slow, his face as red as Ray’s feels. So Ray wraps his legs around Fraser’s waist and pulls, pulls until Fraser gets it, gives it, pushes Ray’s legs apart and drives back in. And that’s good, that’s great, he has to arch his back the other way now and he feels muscles releasing while he arches up against Fraser, his ass off the bed; and then he’s caught tight in Fraser’s hands, Fraser pulling him in close, closer, up onto his thighs. Ray didn’t think anything could feel better than five minutes, three minutes ago, but he was wrong, he was so so wrong.

Oh well: it so does not suck to be him right now.

So he hooks his ankles around Fraser’s back and uses the leverage to move, move against, up, around, with Fraser. And Fraser’s touching him, touching him all over, a hand on Ray’s ass, then his hip, the other hand moving up to smooth across his chest, his belly, his cock–

“God, no,” Ray jerks out, “not yet, please, I want–”

Fraser takes a deep breath, a deep shaky breath, then skates his hand back up, away from the danger zone, away from the launch pad, up to Ray’s chest, catching a nipple with the edge of his thumb.

Yeah, Ray thinks incoherently, you can keep doing that all night, but Fraser gets it without words, flicking Ray’s nipple with the side of his thumb, and Ray jerks and squeezes Fraser’s cock tight. That’s it, and too soon, and Ray didn’t mean to, but Fraser’s eyes slam shut and he chokes a word, his hands going to Ray’s hips, holding him tight while he fights it, tries to pull out, then pushes in again, his chin back, his gorgeous throat taut, his teeth in his lips again, and all Ray can do is watch, watch him and take it, feel it, feel Fraser’s ass flex under his heels, Fraser free, finally, wild and unrestrained, the low groan he gives thrilling Ray right down his spine to his cock.

And then Fraser’s leaning forward, forward, down, his mouth fervent, heavy on Ray’s, his belly smooth and taut against Ray’s cock, pressing Ray down into the mattress, pressing Ray’s cock down against his stomach. Ray bucks up, holding onto Fraser’s back, shoulders, ass, trying to rub against him, why’d he say no again when Fraser wanted to touch him? He wants, he wants–

He’s not sure how Fraser does it, reading his mind like that, but then Fraser’s hand is burrowing between them and closing around Ray’s cock, firm and sure, squeezing, stroking it, and that’s it, Ground Control, he pushes up into Fraser’s hand, up against Fraser’s stomach, pushes his tongue into Fraser’s mouth. Fraser strokes him one more time and then he pulls away, whispering something in Ray’s ear Ray can’t make sense of.

Then he’s gone, sliding down Ray like Ray’s a carnival ride, his voice spilling between them, husky, almost unrecognizable: “I want you to come,” and Ray’s coming like a rocket, over and over and over into Fraser’s mouth, down Fraser’s throat, and Fraser’s swallowing, noisy, greedy. That bumps Ray up one more time, and he grabs onto Fraser with both hands and lets Fraser have the rest of it, all of it, all of him, everything.

Ray wakes once in the night: the wind must have picked up outside – Fraser was right, there was a storm coming – so the window’s rattling. But he’s got Fraser plastered up against him, warm and sacked, so he pulls the comforter up closer around them and lets himself fall back asleep, surrounded by Fraser’s warmth and the darkness.

And then he’s surrounded by the darkness, the warmth, and the hard urgent murmur of Fraser’s voice in his ear, the urgent, hard press of Fraser up against him. He turns hot when he starts making sense of what Fraser’s saying, even though he’s already hard, even though he’s already pushing back against Fraser: “…the moment you touched me, from the moment you fell on your knees in front of me–”

Fuck yeah, and Ray tries to collect his thoughts and move closer to Fraser at the same time: me too, he wants to say, me too, God, the minute I touched you, “…no, the minute I turned and fucking saw you, live and in person–”

“…smiled, winked, and I couldn’t believe it, I wouldn’t believe it, I hoped, I dreamed, and I didn’t think, I never thought–”

–and now he’s pushing harder, biting Ray again, drawing his breath in loud through his nose while he pulls Ray back hard against him, pressing in, pushing Ray down into the mattress, pushing down into Ray–

And all Ray can do is push back, push back and try to spread his legs, spread them like he spread his arms for Fraser that day, wide open and hurting inside, a queer deep hurt that punched him in the stomach as soon as he saw Fraser, a hurt that left him gasping for breath, a hurt that felt like it would never be filled.

But he’s filled now, filled to bursting, Fraser bigger, thicker than before, and Ray can hardly breathe.

“I didn’t think, didn’t think–” Fraser’s voice is shaking, Fraser is shaking, moving inside him, faster, harder, grunting with each thrust, and Ray has to moan too, has to moan, they’re both on instinct now, nothing here but feeling and deep crazy need. It seems like Fraser’s trying to get even closer, struggling and pushing, like he’s only halfway there even though Ray knows he’s in deep, deep in–

Somehow he gets his knees under him, somehow, in spite of being all twisted up in Fraser and sheets. And he knows the room’s freezing, he hears the wind whipping and howling outside but none of it matters, all that matters is getting Fraser even closer. There, finally, one knee under and Fraser still inside him, too out of it to help Ray, but Ray’s got this, he feels almost drunk with it, both knees under him now and bracing Fraser up so Fraser can scrabble for purchase behind him, so Fraser can push into him, deeper now, so Fraser can drape himself over Ray’s back, so he can feel Fraser up inside him and feel Fraser’s mouth on his neck, hear Fraser’s voice, murmuring deep dark secrets behind him, around him, around them, wordless sounds whipped up like a hurricane inside the room.

And it’s too much, Ray’s fucking himself on Fraser’s cock, not even giving Fraser a chance to push now but taking what he wants, taking Fraser all the way inside, all of Fraser, finally, skin to skin, and, oh, fuck yeah, naked inside him, flesh against, inside flesh–

No, he couldn’t, Fraser wouldn’t–

But he did, and Ray knows it, and that’s it, he’s shaking and coming, and coming some more, all over himself, bent forward and gasping for breath: Fraser wanted, God, finally, and he took…

“Ray!” he hears from somewhere far away, Fraser’s hand on his dick, finally, catching the rest of it, stroking Ray once, twice, then grabbing Ray and holding him there, tight and hard, and he feels Fraser deep inside him, feels him coming with amazing clarity, every stroke, every spurt, every knot coming undone.

The next thing he knows is a cold, wet nose in his face. He tries to pull back, tries to push it away, but he’s still–

Oh. He’s still wrapped up in Fraser’s arms, Fraser’s face buried between his neck and the pillow. He’s even got one leg over Ray. The room’s so bright Ray squints: hell, it must have fucking snowed last night. But now that his eyes are open, Dief backs off and sits down, still staring intently at Ray. He whuffs once, then snorts.

“Yeah,” Ray croaks. He shifts but Fraser still doesn’t move, like, the polar opposite of the way he sleeps every other time Ray’s ever seen him, buttoned up, on his back, wakes up if a butterfly flaps its wings. “Why’m I – oh.” Not that he believes Dief for a second: even sexed-out Fraser would wake up to a cold wolf nose in the back, but whatever. He tries an elbow to Fraser’s ribs; that nets him a sleepy grumble and a tightening of Fraser’s arms.

Ray feels a ridiculously big blush climb up his neck to his face, ending up in a ridiculously big grin. “Fraser,” he whispers, ducking his head down to kiss Fraser’s arm.

Dief gets to his feet, barking once, his tail waving enthusiastically.

“Fraser,” Ray says again, Fraser’s hold loosening enough for him to twist around and look at Fraser, squinting sleepy eyed, his mouth warm, his muscles loose. “Let’s go home.”

~fin~

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