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Eleven o'clock, Friday night, and as usual, it sucked being Ray Kowalski a/k/a Vecchio, whoever the hell that was.
Friday night, date night. And where was Ray right now? Was he out cutting a rug with some beautiful chick who liked him, who wanted to be with him, who would maybe take him home with her and have her wicked way with him? He was not. He was coming home to his stuffy apartment after the longest workday ever, and there was no girl and no martinis, and sure enough no dancing on the agenda, not that he'd have the energy, anyway.
At least he wasn't alone. He'd hauled Fraser home with him because there were brownouts in the Consulate's neighborhood, and the a/c in the Consulate had died hours earlier. Frannie had Dief for the night, and Fraser was at loose ends. Just like Ray.
He flicked on one light, shooed Fraser in, and reached around behind him to shut the door. It was too damned late for a cop on the day shift to be getting home, and still too damned hot in Chicago, this close to midnight. At least the power was on in the building and he could cool his apartment down, maybe revive himself and Fraser a little. Even the Mountie was looking kind of wilted.
Ray toed off his boots and let them fall wherever they wanted to. It'd probably ruffle Fraser's perfect feathers, but too bad. If a guy couldn't leave his shoes around in his own apartment, he might as well give up.
But when Ray turned to glance at his partner, Fraser wasn't looking at Ray's boots. He wasn't looking at anything. He had his eyes closed, and the only thing he seemed to be doing was breathing.
Ray got that. It'd been a hell of a day. Hot weather brought the kooks out of the woodwork, like cockroaches. He'd made three arrests on three separate, really stupid, really weird beefs this afternoon. Almost like being a beat cop again, which, no thank you. But the 27th was shorthanded, so everybody had to pitch in, and Ray didn't really think Welsh had it in for him and Fraser, putting them on the freak detail, because it was kind of always freak detail around the 27th, if you thought about it. And Fraser did have a knack for attracting the weirdest of the weird, so maybe Ray should have expected it.
The heat wave was probably to blame, 'cause it seemed like people's tempers were running extra hot, and their judgment was taking a nap. Ray's collars today had been pretty queer: a hotel chef chased his kitchen staff with a cleaver after somebody put the wrong spice in a recipe. An alternate bat boy from Comiskey Park went off his nut and assaulted two umpires and the alternate mascot with a Louisville Slugger. Which was even queerer than you'd think, because one, the Sox were away on a road trip, and B, the medical report claimed that both umpires actually had 20/20 vision, which Ray found highly improbable.
A young woman stripped in a park fountain and practically caused a riot—which Ray couldn't blame her for wanting to cool off, but did she have to get quite so naked in quite such a public place? It'd been a real delicate arrest, too, because he couldn't exactly throw a blanket on her in the heat; it might've killed her.
That was just the tip of the...the thing that was not an iceberg, because they were not lucky enough to have anything resembling an iceberg anywhere within thousands of miles of Chicago.
Ray had a feeling that if the heat wave stuck around for the rest of the week they were gonna see even weirder shit go down at the 2-7.
He was itchy, he was antsy, he was not comfortable in his own damn skin today, and he didn't have a clue what to do to make it better. So maybe Fraser was feeling some of the same, even though he'd been stuck in the Consulate all morning, and had only done the afternoon half of Ray's shift with him, and then the extra, added, you're on salary so your ass is mine, Detective evening shift with him, too.
At least Fraser had been cool in the morning. Before Thatcher had blown a fuse in more than one sense, she'd apparently had the a/c turned down to Arctic Blast, probably so everybody could stay buttoned up in those wool uniforms.
Which were fucking insane outfits for a Chicago summer. Ray had nothing against Fraser's uniform, the uniform was good, it was great—on Fraser. But the CPD uniform on Ray, that was not Ray's thing, not any more. Yeah, he'd been proud to wear it when he was a rookie, but that was a long time ago. Ray had been a plainclothes detective for eight years, and unless he was getting a citation or going to a funeral, he never wore his uniform.
He worked his holster off and stowed his gun safely in its hiding place on top of the fridge, and then he figured what the heck, and shouldered out of his t-shirt as well. He mopped under his arms with it.
"Jeez, I'd better get the a/c turned up." He pulled his socks off and took them and the shirt into the bedroom to throw in the hamper, turned on the window a/c in the bedroom, then came out and turned on the one in the living room for good measure. He turned on just enough lights to see by—one in the kitchen and the chili peppers over the bar, but left the rest off, because there was no point in adding to the heat, and he knew Fraser wouldn't mind.
"It'll be cooler in here soon," he promised Fraser, who was still standing just inside the door like he couldn't move.
"Come on in, Fraser, take a load off your feet. Get the hell out of that big red jacket," Ray told him. "You're from Freezerland, for God's sake. You've got to be sweltering in that thing."
"Well, now that you mention it, yes, I am a little hot," Fraser mumbled. He stuck his finger under his collar and ran it around the edge, not that that seemed to loosen it any. Thing probably fit like a neck brace. "But there's no need to be concerned. The temperature has gone down considerably since sunset; we're indoors, and there's no danger of heat exhaustion now."
"Cooler is a relative term, Fraser. It was a hundred and five, now it's ninety-five. That's an improvement, but it's still hotter than hell."
Ray went over and put his face up close to Fraser's to get a better view. With most guys, Ray wouldn't have dared, but Fraser never minded Ray getting close, and he was usually even worse than Ray about getting in his partner's personal space all the time.
Jeez, Fraser looked flushed. Ray put his hand up to Fraser's forehead. It was warm, but sweaty, which probably meant Fraser didn't have an actual fever yet. He might get one, though, if Ray didn't knock some sense into him soon.
Ray made a fist and knocked on Fraser's big red chest like it was a closed door—which it kind of was.
"You in there, Fraser? Get. This. Thing. The Hell. Off." He put his hand down. "And then come in and have something to drink. You got that?"
"Ah...yes, Ray. I just...well, it seems wrong to just walk into your apartment and immediately start divesting myself of my clothing."
Ray blinked. "I don't know what 'divesting' is, but if it means you're gonna take off that big red parka you're wearing, I'm all for it. And don't worry about it's my apartment. Mi apartment es su apartment, amigo."
Ray stepped into the kitchen and started rummaging in the cabinet for a tall glass. "Besides," he said over his shoulder, "Miss Manners divorced me. Ray's bachelor apartment is casa casual. Anything goes. Take off whatever you want."
"Ah," Fraser said, and there was the faint sound of Velcro being peeled slowly apart, so maybe Fraser was making some progress.
"Just don't leave any clothes on that lamp over there. My shorts almost set the thing on fire once."
"Right you are, Ray," Fraser said, but he sounded like he had to put some effort into saying even that much.
Ray ran the water till it got slightly less warm. The pressure was down; somebody'd probably opened a hydrant in the neighborhood. That meant Ray would have to put a call in to the station, have whoever was patrolling this beat check it out and get the Fire Department to close it, and if Ray didn't do that soon, Fraser would sniff it out and probably go try to close the thing himself, and find the punks who'd opened the thing and give them a stern lecture.
Which Fraser was in no condition to do right now. Plus you never knew when a punk was packing heat. With all the weird shit that had happened today, Ray wouldn't put it past Chicago to throw one more crazy, potentially deadly situation at him and Fraser.
So Ray shouldered the phone and dialed in while he opened the freezer and got out some ice cubes.
The blast of cold air that wrapped itself around his head and shoulders felt like heaven, so much so that he was just gone when the bored voice of the desk sergeant finally crackled to life in his ear. She had to repeat her question.
"This is Ko—Vecchio." Christ, he was slipping. "Vecchio. Detective Vecchio."
"I got that part, Detective; what can I do for you?"
So he told her, doing his cop duty and all, and he sympathized with whoever out there thought they needed a sprinkler so bad they had to open a hydrant, but fuck it, Ray wasn't going to be to blame for the next Great Chicago Fire if he could help it. "Got it," Sergeant Murphy said over a yawn, and Ray heard a siren outside, faint, getting closer, practically before he'd clicked the phone off and tossed it back onto the bar.
He turned, and realized he was still standing in the open door of the freezer, and Fraser was still out in the entryway. Ray hoped he hadn't passed out. He fumbled some ice into a glass and forced himself to shut the freezer. Water. Fraser needed water.
When he brought the glass of water into the hall, Fraser was still standing there like he'd melted in place. At least he had his lanyard off and a few buttons of the serge jacket open. Ray shook his head. "Christ, Fraser. Take it off before I rip it off you, you idiot. And drink this." He handed Fraser the clinking glass.
Fraser took it and downed the entire thing in one gulp. He sucked one of the ice cubes into his mouth, handed Ray back the glass, and mumbled around the cube, "Thank you kindly, Ray."
"Good. Red jacket off," Ray ordered.
"Very well." Fraser was out of it and hanging it over a chair before Ray could blink. And then Ray blinked a couple more times, because he figured he had to be seeing things, like whaddyacallit, mirages. But, no, Ray wasn't seeing things—the idiot Mountie really did have his long-sleeved Henley on underneath. What was he, some kind of masochist? Ray rolled his eyes and made the 86-it gesture with his thumb. "That thing, too. Long sleeves. Jeez."
Fraser sighed and pushed his suspenders off his shoulders and got the Henley off over his head. Ray looked him over. Fraser's chest was flushed, too. It figured. Also, it was smooth. Hair probably wouldn't dare grow on Fraser's perfect chest—it'd be too scraggly and unkempt and unMountielike. Ray wondered how Fraser's skin would feel. It looked like it might actually feel soft, which was so...
Fraser cleared his throat. "Ray?
Ray looked up at him. Oh. He'd been staring. Ray smacked his own head a couple of times; that usually cleared it. He tried to jump back onto his train of thought. "You know, Fraser, when you show me the tundra some day, you're gonna tell me what to wear and how to stay warm, and I'm gonna do what you say, because I like staying alive. But we are not on the tundra tonight, we're in Chicago in July, and the heat index is somewhere north of a hundred degrees, so you're gonna have to take some advice from a native if you want to keep breathing."
He softened his voice. "And I do not take bullets and jump through windows for you so you can kill yourself with heat stroke."
"I know that, Ray. I'm sorry," Fraser said, hanging his head like a little kid getting a lecture from the school principal.
"Good. Now come on in and take a load off. What else can I get you to drink?" He grinned. "I got beer. Beautiful, frosty beer, vintage, uh—last week, maybe. Imported from somewhere in Wisconsin." On a day as hot as today, maybe even Fraser would unbend a little.
"That's, er, that's very nice, Ray, but I'm afraid I don't drink. Water's fine."
Ray knew Fraser didn't drink, not unless you toasted the Queen's health in front of him, but Ray was fully prepared to toast the Queen if necessary. Except he was way too hot to make an issue of it just then.
"Wait. I got just the thing." He went back into the kitchen, set the glass down, and pulled the fridge open again. He stuck his head in and rummaged. He came up with a beer and a pitcher and set them both on the counter. He had to force himself to close the fridge door. God, why couldn't the air conditioning feel that good?
Ray turned around to see that Fraser had come into the kitchen behind him and was placing his neatly folded Henley on the breakfast bar. He motioned at Fraser's boots. "Better get those off, too, buddy. Then you get to try Ray's homemade lemonade. Made it like my mom used to, starting with actual lemons."
"That sounds...that sounds wonderful, Ray," Fraser said, his words coming out on a puff of breath that sounded like Fraser'd been holding it in.
"Wait till you taste it." Ray got busy finding Fraser's glass and replacing the melted ice and pouring, and by the time he finished, Fraser's boots and socks had joined Ray's boots somewhere over by the door, and the lower legs of Fraser's pumpkin pants were untied and rolled up a few inches.
"That is a hundred percent better," Ray said, handing him the lemonade. He watched Fraser take a long drink and come up licking his lips. Which, really, Fraser licking his lips? That was a sight to see, that was. Ray forced his gaze away a second time.
"It's ambrosial, Ray."
"Is that good?"
"It means it's the food of the gods."
Ray cracked a smile. "Knew you'd like it. Okay, buddy. In there. Sit." He pointed.
They went into the living room, and Ray waited for Fraser to choose a spot. Fraser chose the chair, so Ray shoved the footstool over for him and tossed his skinny self on the couch, setting his unopened beer on the coffee table. He picked up the remote and clicked the TV on, flipped through a few channels. Found the news. Top story—it was hot. Second story—it was hot. Blah, blah. Sports report—too late for the ballgames, and they'd sucked, anyway. Cubs lost, Sox lost. Everything over but the sportscasters' yammering. He clicked the tube off in disgust.
"Oh, dear," Fraser said. "I'm sorry that neither of the games went to extra innings. I could...well, would you like to hear more of Paradise Lost?"
Ray mock-glared at him for a minute, then he huffed a laugh. "Fraser. You do not have to entertain me. You just have to chill. Sit there in your...half of your uniform, and cool yourself down so you do not die of heatstroke on me, and enjoy Mom's lemonade recipe. Deal?"
"All right."
"Good."
Fraser put his glass down on the coffee table. A drip snaked down the side, slow and comfortable.
"I do wish I could..." Fraser said. "You've seemed rather restive all day. As though something were bothering you."
"After the day we've had, that surprises you?"
"Well, no. But you seem more...agitated than usual."
"Weather's getting to me," Ray admitted on a yawn.
"You're tired. I should go—"
Ray poked a couple of fingers in Fraser's direction. "You stay. You stay here and cool off. I am not gonna get called down to the morgue to ID your body when you're found baked on the pavement outside the Consulate like an omelet."
"Omelets generally aren't baked, Ray. When you bake them, they're called frittatas."
Ray rolled his eyes. "I am not a chef, Fraser. I am a cop who does not want to see his partner stroke out on guard duty. You got my meaning?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Fraser picked up his lemonade, sipped it, then put the glass against his chest.
Ray watched a frosty droplet run the length of the glass and continue onto Fraser's belly. It kept going, down towards the waistband of Fraser's pants, as Ray watched. Fraser didn't even flinch, so it was probably warm by then, warmed by Fraser's overheated skin.
It took Ray like a whole minute to tear his gaze away, but when he glanced up at Fraser, suddenly afraid Fraser might've seen him staring again, Fraser wasn't even looking in his direction. Fraser was staring out across the room, oblivious to Ray's lapse. "I just wanted to help," he said quietly, proving that he really couldn't ever let anything drop.
"What, by endangering your life out there?"
"Well, not as such. I just thought you might appreciate your privacy. Thought maybe you'd like to rest."
"Nah, I'm good. I'm resting just like this, and I don't need to be left alone. I'm alone too much in here as it is. What I need—mmph." Ray blew out a breath and didn't finish the sentence. Yeah, he needed...something. That was what he'd been feeling all day: antsy, agitated, like he had an itch he couldn't scratch.
They were both quiet for a few minutes, sipping their drinks, chilling.
Then Fraser spoke. "What do you need, Ray?" Fraser's voice was real soft, and it kind of startled Ray for a moment. He looked over at Fraser, who blinked innocently back at him, like he thought Ray somehow failed to notice how Fraser could never leave anything well enough alone.
Ray didn't have the gumption to fight about it at the moment.
"Who, me? I'm good. Got everything I need right here. My beer, my, uh, my turtle over there, and my partner, kicking back like a regular guy, drinking lemonade, not dying. I got it all." He couldn't quite get up the energy for another chuckle; the sound that did come out of him was more like a snort. So, yeah, Ray didn't sound all that convincing. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes.
"I'm sorry I gave you cause for concern about my health," Fraser said, in that "I am handling my partner with kid gloves" tone he used when he wasn't sure whether Ray was going to punch a wall.
"Okay, well, no harm done this time. Just don't let it happen again."
"I'll do my best."
So he had Fraser's word on that; that was good. That was greatness.
Ray, though, was not all that good, no matter what he told his partner to make him feel better. Because, yeah, beer, turtle, partner not stroking out, these were all good things, but they were not...quite...enough. Not doing it for Ray, right now. Not near enough.
Ray squirmed around on the couch, unable to get comfortable. He popped his beer open and took a long drink. "I just need, I just..." he said, and trailed off, unsure how to finish. He needed a lot of stuff he never got. It didn't usually help to talk about it. Maybe it would help this time, though. Fraser was a really good listener—a virtue in a guy who talked a blue streak himself.
"I know," Fraser said quietly.
"Oh, you do, huh? Want to let me in on it?"
"Well, from observation of your behavior over the last few days, and from some knowledge of human..."
Ray knew he was staring at Fraser like he'd gone off his nut. He snapped his fingers twice. "You going to give me a psychology lecture or just say it?"
"Romantic companionship, Ray."
Ray blinked. "Hm. Companionship, I get that." He pointed at Fraser. "But I got companionship, buddy. You're here."
"So I am, Ray." Fraser's tongue flicked out over his lip. It was a thing he did.
It was a thing that made Ray's breath catch in his chest sometimes. Like now. He looked away. "But romantic, Fraser? I don't know how romantic I need it to be. Don't get me wrong; romance has its place. There is a time and a place for romance, and I am good with that. I know how to take a girl dancing, wine her and dine her. I'm good at that."
"Oh, I know you are, Ray."
Which, what was that supposed to mean? Ray raised his eyebrows in Fraser's direction.
"I've seen you dance. With Stella."
"Oh, yeah." Not Ray's finest moment, and, Jeez, did Fraser have to have a memory like a steel lockbox?
"Nah, I don't think romance is exactly what I'm itching for." He scratched his neck. The feeling was sort of like itching, after all.
"Well, what I meant was—"
Ray took pity on him. "Nah, I'm getting good at decoding Fraser-speak. I got it. It's a fancy way of saying I need to get laid, ain't it?"
Fraser cleared his throat. Twice. "Er..."
Ray smiled tiredly. "Well, you got that right." He sighed hard and punched the couch pillow, trying to whack it into a comfortable shape.
"Well, I think you should," Fraser said, sounding all reasonable.
Ray snorted. "I think I should, too, buddy, but it obviously ain't going to happen."
"It might."
"Nah. Jeez, you're some detective, Fraser. Where's my mythological 'romantic companion'? I asked Elaine out again yesterday. She gave me the 'I like you, Ray, but I'm not going to date anybody on the force,' line. You saw how I struck out with Janey today—what's this, the fourth time? Beats me how her dog can still have a foot fungus after all these months. What's it been, like over a year? But that's her story and she's sticking to it."
"Well, Ray, some fungal infections can be very hard to treat."
"Are you for real?"
"Well, they can."
"C'mon. You and I both know that's her way of saying 'Get lost, Loser,' without tweaking off a detective she has to work with."
Fraser rubbed his left eyebrow with his thumb.
Ray laughed. "It's okay, Frase. How can you admitting the truth possibly hurt my feelings more than the girls turning me down?"
Fraser sighed. "Well, then, yes, it probably is Jane's standard refusal. Perhaps you're just not her type."
"It don't seem like I'm anyone's type." Ray shrugged and picked up his beer for a long swig.
"Two women is hardly a large sample."
"Two? I wish. I have asked out seven women just in the past week. I'd tell you the monthly total, but it's too humiliating." He drank some more of his beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"And it's not like I walked up to them and said, 'Hey, babe, you want to come to my place and have wild sex with me?' I asked them on a classy date. Dancing at the Crystal Ballroom, for Christ's sake. Nothing classier." He gave Fraser his best mock glare. "Don't tell me you don't agree."
"Well, I do agree, Ray. Very classy. It's the epitome of class."
"Right. I'd pick 'em up in the GTO, which, you got to admit, that is the epito-whatsis of class, too."
"Absolutely."
"Right. And it's not like I'd show up in my cop clothes. I clean up okay. I own a suit." He thought about it. "I own two or three of them, I think. Not counting my uniform. I can look sharp."
"I know you can, Ray. I've seen you in a suit. You look...dashingly handsome." Fraser's tongue swiped out over his bottom lip, then disappeared.
Ray couldn't keep from grinning like an idiot. "You're not just saying that?"
"Of course not."
"You're not going to give me any crap about how you're not qualified to judge?"
"No," Fraser said in a quieter voice. "Well, I'm still not qualified to say what a woman might think. But if you're asking what I think—my answer is still: yes, I find you attractive, very much so."
"Aw." Ray was still smiling, but now he was blushing, too. "Jeez. Thanks for saying that, Frase."
"It's nothing more than the truth," Fraser said.
Ray couldn't have wiped the grin off his face if he tried. "Okay, okay. So tell me what you need."
"Oh. Ray, I...well, I couldn't."
"Couldn't what? Tell me? Or couldn't need anything?" Ray wouldn't put it past Fraser to believe that. Give the guy a stick and a paper bag and he could orienteer his way through 1000 kilo-whatsis of primeval forest—or at least that's what Fraser would tell you with a straight face.
"I thought we were discussing what you needed, Ray."
"Yeah, but it's not all about me. You gotta need stuff, too."
"I...I try not to dwell on things that I can't change," Fraser said.
"What's that, is that like pretending you don't need anything, or is that like suffering in silence, some kind of Mountie thing?"
"Ray...could we talk about something else?"
Way to make the guy uncomfortable, Ray. Great. As if hundred-degree weather wasn't hard enough on a guy who'd spent most of the day wrapped up in a red wool straitjacket.
Ray closed his eyes and leaned back into the couch cushions, which were finally feeling more comfortable. Or maybe it was the beer.
Yeah, probably the beer. He set the second empty down next to the first without even having to open his eyes to see where it was. Hand, beer, table: he had it down to a science. He thought about opening a third one. Then he groaned, because who was he kidding? He knew what he was really itching for, and it wasn't another beer.
"Fine, we'll stick to my needs, then." It wasn't till he said the words that he realized he was just slightly pissed off. Trust Fraser to be all rugged and self-sufficient when Ray was feeling this crazy.
And, as usual, pissed-off Ray wasn't exactly good at zipping his lip.
"What I really need now is...hell, I just need my cock sucked." Yeah, that'd be good. He let his eyes close, imagining, and murmured, "Long and slow and really, really good. When her mouth is hot, and wet, and she licks and sucks just hard enough...but likes you to thrust a little, too. When she really likes doing it, really wants you, swallows you down like nothing's ever been so good...
"That'd do it for me. You ever feel like that? You ever—"
He heard Fraser clear his throat in that obvious way he did when he was really uncomfortable.
Oh, Jeez, Ray'd said all that aloud? He opened his eyes. Yep, Fraser was looking at him with a strange expression, like maybe he was trying to hold back a cough, blinking a little, his eyes really bright. A vein in his neck stood out, and his chest was rising and falling a little quicker than usual; his breathing had speeded up. He even kind of...twitched, sitting there on the couch.
"Sorry," Ray said. "Didn't mean to talk like a cop in front of a Canadian."
Fraser coughed for real, then, and seemed to find his voice. "I am a policeman, too."
"I know that, buddy. Hell, you're the best damn cop I ever met. It's just I didn't mean to talk like a, whatchacallit, a rude, uncouth American cop."
"You're my best friend, Ray. I'd like to think you could say anything you wanted in front of me."
Ray squirmed around on the sofa to face him. Fraser was still holding his lemonade against his smooth chest like he'd forgotten all about it. It didn't seem to be making him any cooler, though, because unless Ray's eyesight was worse than he thought it was, Fraser still looked pretty red, his cheeks flushed like they'd been slapped, his chest—Jeez, even his chest was flushed dark.
"I didn't gross you out?" Ray said hesitantly. Because Fraser was clearly having some kind of reaction.
"No, of course not."
"Well, good. I know I sound pretty pathetic."
"Ray...have you considered..." Fraser started to say, but then he stopped. Instead of finishing his thought, he looked around, looked down at himself, and only then seemed to notice that he was holding the lemonade glass against his chest. It was starting to tip a little to the left. He leaned over and set it down on the coffee table.
"What were you going to say?" Ray prompted.
Fraser let out a sigh. "Ah...nothing important, only...I don't think it's pathetic to have...needs."
Ray thought about that for a second. "Yeah, okay. It's normal to need stuff. What's pathetic is how I can't get it."
He leaned towards Fraser. "And I think I know why. I think Stella broke something in me."
"I don't...I don't understand," Fraser breathed. His eyes were so blue, even in the dim light. Compassionate. Ray never had any defense against those eyes. He always just opened up and told Fraser everything when Fraser looked at him like that. Sometimes Ray spilled even when there were other people around, like in the crypt that time. No defense at all.
"I think I fell so hard for her that whatever I had that made girls want to be with me—I don't have that no more. Spent it all on The Stella, and it is G-O-N gone. They don't ask me, and when I ask them, they say no. Or they start to like me, and then before I can turn around I got a door slammed in my face—or a poncho.
"I'm damaged, Fraser, and they can see it. I got no other explanation."
Ray found himself leaning even closer, to where he could practically feel the heat coming off Fraser's body. Fraser wasn't that sweaty, just a little at the temples where his hair was curling a little, but he smelled warm and real and a little like lemons. Ray probably smelled like the inside of a gym locker with bonus beer, but Fraser wasn't leaning away from him. If anything, he was leaning towards Ray, like he was waiting for something.
But all Ray had for him was another question. "Tell me something, Frase. There something obvious wrong with me? I mean, something I could fix? Ah, never mind. Even if I can't fix it, might as well let me know." He waved a hand. "Before you say it, the experimental hair I actually can't fix. It can be up or down, but it's always gonna look experimental. You seen my dad's?"
"Oh. Yes, I have."
"Come by it honestly," Ray said.
"So you do. It's part of your charm. Ray, there's nothing wrong with you."
"Gotta be something."
"Nothing I know of," Fraser said.
"That's another thing I like about you Fraser. You're a loyal friend, buddy."
"Thank you, Ray, but I'm stating the truth."
"That just means you can't see it either, so it must be some weird thing that only chicks can spot. I guess I better forget about trying to fix it. I'm not fixable at this point." Ray shrugged. "So that's why talking about it is all I got."
Fraser swallowed hard and leaned toward him till he was in Ray's space, really in Ray's space, just inches away, searching his eyes. It was a little weird, maybe, but it wasn't like the two of them didn't do stuff like that once in a while. "It's not right. To talk about what you don't—"
Ray suddenly felt really ashamed of himself. "You're right. You're right, Frase. I shouldn't have laid all that on you. I suck as a friend, don't I?"
"That's not what I meant!" Fraser practically snapped. "I meant that it's not right for a fine person like you not to have your needs met."
"Aw, Frase." Ray couldn't stop himself from grabbing Fraser's bare shoulder and squeezing it once, hard. Fraser didn't even flinch; he actually leaned in more towards Ray. Which put him so close that Ray could have licked the droplets of sweat from Fraser's hairline.
Which meant Ray was too close. Much too close, the pulse hammering in his throat told him. Bad enough he'd told Fraser all about his crazy hormones. Totally unfair of him to make Fraser smell them on him. Fraser's nose was bloodhound-quality, and Ray had to be really gross by now.
He let go, pulled back out of Fraser's space. "You want anything to eat?"
Fraser sat up really straight, looking like he still had something to say. But he searched Ray's face for a minute, and then he said, "No, thank you. I'm...not hungry."
"Yeah, me neither." Not for food, anyway.
He pushed himself up off the couch, feeling like he was lifting a heavy weight, not just his skinny frame. He stretched for a minute. There was a hazy orange glow of streetlamps from the window, only visible because he had most of the lights off in the living room.
He went over and looked out. Beyond the roof of the parking enclosure, the same old Chicago street looked like it always did, sixteen shades of gray and a sheen of motor oil. It was like a thousand other city streets, nothing special about this one, nothing special about the block full of boring, brick apartment buildings, nothing special about the guy standing at the window in number 309, looking out at them.
He felt rather than heard Fraser come up behind him.
"It's like I'm not even here," Ray said quietly. "The city don't know me from Adamski, Fraser. I could be Kowalski, I could be Vecchio, I could be anybody. I could be nobody, I could disappear, and the city would just go on the same as ever."
He heard Fraser make a little sound behind him that could have been "No," or could have been "Ray," or could have been one of those sounds that wasn't even a word, and before he could turn, Fraser's hand was suddenly on his shoulder, heavy and real and too tight, almost like Fraser was holding him in place. Like he might actually disappear if Fraser didn't do that.
A stripe of warmth up Ray's back just to the left of his spine told him exactly how close Fraser was standing—so close, close enough to catch Ray in a split second if he fell backward, like in that game kids played to find out how much they trusted each other.
Ray turned, glancing at Fraser's hand on him, then into Fraser's eyes. He saw Fraser swallow hard, wet his lips. "It wouldn't be the same for me," Fraser said. "I don't know if I could tolerate this...exile, without you."
He bit off the words like they hurt him, his jaw a set line, his eyes snapping, bright in the reflection from the street lamps. "You asked what I need. I think it's understandable that I'm reluctant to say, because I don't tend to get it. Except rarely, and even then it's often too quickly taken away. Even the suggestion of taking away one of the only things that makes this situation bearable—"
"Whoa," Ray said, turning all the way around to face him. Fraser was still clutching his bare shoulder, so tightly that Fraser's fingers were probably leaving marks on him. Ray didn't mind at all. He put his own hand up to Fraser's shoulder, tugged him even closer, pulling him into the soft light from the window so he could see Fraser's face better. "Nobody's taking anything away. I was just babbling, you know. Just running on at the mouth, like always. I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Fraser's hand was still so tight on him. "I asked. I wanted to know."
Ray couldn't remember anyone ever holding on to him so tight. Not Stella, for sure.
He didn't get why Fraser was doing it, because Ray was the one who latched on to people, not Fraser. Wasn't Fraser the guy who didn't need to hang on to people? Wasn't Fraser the guy who let Vecchio go after a half-assed explanation from Ray, a slightly better one from Welsh, and an exploding car?
But Fraser was hanging on to Ray right now.
It made Ray's throat kind of choke up, made his eyes feel heavy, like maybe he wanted to spill, which would be just another stupid emotional trip to lay on his partner.
His partner, who didn't hang on to people because they always, always left him.
Ray knew the feeling. He tightened his own hand on Fraser's shoulder, then eased up and felt himself kind of rubbing the muscle there, trying to erase any bruise he might have put there. Fraser's delt was rock-solid, and whaddya know, the skin was soft under his fingers, just like Ray'd thought it might be. Ray felt his breath catch in his throat. The guy was beautiful, damn it, beautiful and strong and the best friend Ray could have asked for, and how did Ray deserve that, when all he could do was sit in his dark apartment and whine about the heat and his lack of sex?
"Yeah, well. I shouldn't have made you listen to me whine about stuff I can't fix and you can't fix."
"But I'd like to."
"What, fix it? Hell, I wish you could, too, but you can't."
"Are you certain? Because I could...maybe I could..." He didn't finish. His hand was still on Ray, and now it even shook a little bit.
Fraser had to be exhausted. Which wasn't surprising after the day he'd had, but Mr. All I Need is a 30-Second Nap still managed to hoodwink Ray once in a while.
Ray snorted. "Fraser, you're already doing what you can. You're here. You listened to all that blither and you didn't run away screaming, which I don't know how you managed that, but I appreciate it. Like I said when I came in, I got the important things in life, and you, buddy, are at the top of the list."
Fraser's eyes were suddenly bright. He squeezed Ray's shoulder one last time and let go, but not quickly, not like he was trying to get away from Ray. "I don't know what to say."
Ray didn't know, either. He let go of Fraser, too, a little reluctantly, because there'd been something grounding, maybe even comforting, about feeling all that strength under his hand. "Look, uh...since it's so late that you were going to stay over anyway—"
Fraser started protesting like he always did, but Ray held up a hand to shush him. "Hey, we already agreed you weren't going back out in that steambath. What I'm trying to say is, you might as well go use the bed. It's more comfortable, and seeing as you almost never sleep in a real bed, it ought to be a treat. I think me and my self-pity party'll just sack out on the couch."
"No, Ray, I'll take the couch, you—"
"Nah. I've made up my mind. I'll uh, I'll pick up the glasses and stuff, and you can get me a blanket off the closet shelf, okay?"
"Ray—"
"Frase, it's okay. Least I can do after I made you listen to that. It'll make me feel better if I know you're comfortable tonight."
"You're sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. I am the surest."
"Ray—" Fraser's voice sounded queer, almost choked-off, broken.
"What? Something the matter?"
"Ah, no, Ray. I'll get your blanket. And, ah...thank you."
"My pleasure, Frase." He waved a hand in Fraser's direction. "Night," he mumbled.
"Good night, Ray," Fraser's voice said, real soft. "Sleep well."
Ray wouldn't, but he didn't have to share that with Fraser. He'd done enough.
****
It must've been well after three when Ray woke, kind of disoriented, and rolled off the couch to go to the can. Great, he'd fallen asleep on the couch again. Good one, Ray.
He took a leak, washed his face, got a drink of water, and stumbled into the bedroom, still pretty much half-asleep the entire time.
He'd stripped down to his shorts and started to slip into the bed when something in the darkness moved.
In the bed, something rustled.
Ray would have jumped about a mile, but he was in mid-yawn at the time, and his feet were already tangled in the covers. So instead he kind of yelped and jerked and ended up on his ass on the floor, with his feet still stuck in the sheets.
A strong hand reached over the side and pulled him up: Fraser, leaning anxiously over him. "Are you all right, Ray?"
Ray let his head drop to the pillow and concentrated on catching his breath.
"Oh, Jeez. Sorry, Frase. I'll just..." Where was Ray's head? He wasn't drunk, he wasn't stupid. How could he have forgotten Fraser was here, and that he'd insisted Fraser take his bed?
"The couch is uncomfortable for you, Ray," Fraser said in an understanding voice.
"What? No—"
"You're exhausted. You stay here; I'll go—"
Ray clamped a hand around Fraser's wrist. "You will not. I told you you could have the bed and I meant it. I just...guess I just was half asleep when I went to the can, and I took a wrong turn on the way out, which that was dumb. Plus, my jeans...not a good thing to sleep in."
"Of course not; they can be constricting." Fraser's voice was just a whisper.
"I must've woke you up out of a sound sleep," Ray said. "I don't know how you can still come up with the big words when somebody just did that." He was yawning again, though; the minute the adrenaline was gone, he felt even more exhausted than before. He tried to prop himself up on his elbow.
"Rest here for a bit, Ray," Fraser said. Still whispering. So quiet, like he didn't dare raise his voice. Like this was a library or a church or something, instead of Ray's bedroom, Ray's bed.
"Just a bit," Ray mumbled. "Okay." He eased back on the pillow for a second, his arm over his eyes. Just a second. A few minutes was all he needed....
****
When Ray opened his eyes, morning light was filtering in through the blinds, the room was cooler, and he was tangled up in the covers on the opposite side from where he usually slept. He yawned, and turned...and started so hard the bed shook.
Because there was Fraser, curled up next to him, asleep, his bare shoulders just clearing the covers, his hair so dark against the white sheet—and actually messy, for once.
Whoa, how drunk had Ray been last night?
No, wait. He remembered. He hadn't been drunk, just half-asleep, and probably still stupid from the heat. Damn decent of Fraser not to put up a fuss about it. Ray's back was going to thank him.
He let out a slow breath, leaned back on the pillow, and then looked over again at Fraser—just in time to see him open his eyes.
Unlike Ray, Fraser didn't jump half a mile. He just blinked, focused, nodded calmly at Ray, and said, "Good morning."
Huh. Well, that worked. Ray smiled. "Morning, partner."
Fraser propped himself up on his arm and asked whether Ray was feeling all right.
"Never better. Hey, thanks. I don't have to get the Tucked in on the Couch, Hurt My Back badge."
"I'm glad."
"Yeah, me, too."
Fraser looked at him for a long moment. He started to open his mouth, then closed it, then his tongue flicked out over his lower lip, and then he opened his mouth again. And then he closed it.
"What's up, Frase?" Ray said. "C'mon, spill. What's bothering you?"
"I...wish you'd let me...help."
Huh? "Help me with what?"
"What you said last night."
Okay, Fraser was being Mr. Cryptic Canadian. It was way too early for that, but since Ray's body was not yet screaming for coffee, he figured he had time. "Remind me?"
"You spoke of certain...needs, and you opined that no one loves you enough to fulfill them for you. Hearing you say that was difficult, because I—"
"Look, Fraser, I'm sorry. I said a lot of stuff that was probably pretty hard to listen to, pretty embarrassing for you." Ray felt his face flush, remembering the conversation. Had he really told Fraser how much he wanted his cock sucked?
Yeah, he had. He groaned softly and flung his arm over his eyes. He sucked.
"It wasn't that, Ray. Don't apologize. It's just...I know for a fact that there's someone who loves you enough to do anything for you," Fraser added in such a low whisper that for a moment Ray thought maybe he'd imagined it.
But when Ray moved his arm and squinted over at him, he could see Fraser had a dead-serious look on his face.
"C'mon, Fraser. How could you know a thing like that?"
"Because I would."
Ray tried to make his brain function faster, something it was always reluctant to do before 9 AM. "Whoa. You are not trying to say you'd find me a woman, Fraser, because although I have seen your Mountie superpowers in action, that is beyond even your scope."
"Well, no, that's not exactly what I meant."
"Whew. Good. Because, you know, I can't see you stopping chick after chick on the street, tipping your big hat, and saying, 'Excuse me, Miss, but you appear to be the perfect date for my partner. Would you be interested in meeting him? He has very charming experimental hair, and he waltzes like Gene Kelly.'"
That coaxed a smile out of Fraser. "Er, no. I don't believe that would work, in any case."
Ray chuckled. "Yeah, not a chance. But now that I conjured up that picture I want to see it. Except I really don't, because it makes me look like even more of a loser than I already am."
Fraser sobered. "I was trying to say that I love you, Ray. I love you enough."
Ray smiled. Couldn't help it. "I know, buddy. We're good." He knocked Fraser on the shoulder gently. "I'm not lacking anything in the buddy department. I was just feeling all needy about not having someone I can hold, you know? Someone who can hold me, get me through the night."
Fraser swallowed real hard. "I can do that, Ray."
"Yeah, you kind of did," Ray said, realizing it as he spoke, thinking of Fraser holding on to him so tightly over by the window, like he was keeping him from flying away or something. And now look where they were—both tucked up rested and comfortable in Ray's bed, probably still sweaty and gross from the night before, and—best of all—with Fraser's hair almost as messy as Ray's, going all curly from the humidity that the a/c couldn't banish.
Fraser reached a hand over like he was going to touch Ray, but then he didn't. "You spoke of certain...physical needs," Fraser said.
And that's when it hit Ray what Fraser was getting at. Hit him like a sucker-punch, making him gasp almost as hard. He went hot all over, just like that; the a/c was never going to catch up.
"Jesus, Fraser, are you offering to...suck my cock?" Ray had his eyes closed. It was the only way he could get those words out, and they still came out in a whisper. He swallowed, and waited, and hoped he wasn't going to hear Fraser getting up and leaving.
Instead he heard Fraser getting up and coming around the bed, over to Ray. He was stripped down to his boxers, which were looking creased and rumpled instead of their usual starchy perfection. He crouched down next to Ray, and when he spoke, his voice was only barely louder than Ray's, like he was a little afraid of saying this, too. "Yes, I would. If you'd have me."
Ray opened his eyes and squirmed around on the bed so he could look at him, real close. Fraser's blue eyes were steady, but his cheeks were flushed pink, and the pink spilled down his neck onto what Ray could see of his bare chest. Blushing for all he was worth.
And, God, he was even more gorgeous like that, he was downright beautiful. It wasn't like Ray hadn't noticed him before, but now, after saying what he'd just said to Ray...Ray was really noticing him.
"Holy shit. Holy shit—you're serious."
"Yes, I am."
"Fraser, you ever...you know, ever done anything with a guy? Kissed a guy, or...you know—more?"
"If I understand you correctly, no."
"Ever thought about it?"
"Well, I'm thinking about it now, obviously."
"I mean before now."
"Oh. Well, not as such."
Okay, okay, Ray could translate that. That meant no. Which meant..."Fraser, you're straight."
Fraser kind of shrugged, so slightly that Ray wouldn't have seen it if Fraser still had his jacket on. "I have been," he said. "Ah, functionally, that is. But I'm a free thinker."
"Meaning what—you think you can just snap your fingers and be gay? I don't think it works that way, buddy."
"I don't know," Fraser said. "What I do know is that I care deeply about you, Ray. You have a need and I...could...that is, I could at least try, and I'd like to."
"And then there's that other thing," Ray went on.
"Other thing?"
"Yeah, that thing where I'm straight. You're straight, I'm straight, we're both straight. We both like women."
"Liking women doesn't preclude finding men attractive as well, Ray."
Do you find me attractive?
Yes, very much so.
But there was a mile-wide gap between finding a guy attractive and being willing to suck his cock. Ray'd tried to walk that mile once or twice, and he hadn't made it all the way across.
"Well, yeah, I know that, and experimenting is one thing, but...see, there's an image, there's a...listen, Steve McQueen was straight, James Dean was straight, hell, even Brando was straight." Therefore Ray was straight. It was like an equation.
"Oh." Fraser expression seemed to crumple in on itself. His shoulders hunched, and he hung his head, his chin hitting his chest. "I'm sorry to have offended you," he murmured. "I truly didn't mean to."
And Ray hated that, he couldn't stand seeing Fraser like that. He never could. It was a weakness or something. His hand went instantly to Fraser's shoulder. "Aw, Jeez, don't get all moody, Fraser. You didn't offend me."
Fraser's head came up. "I didn't?"
"God, no. Of course not. You just said you'd do anything for me, and you meant it. I don't think there's ever been anyone in my life who could say that and really mean it."
"I mean it, Ray."
Ray felt pressure in the pit of his stomach. His throat twisted, and there was heaviness behind his eyes all of a sudden. Jesus, he loved this guy. "Fraser, I—"
And he saw something in Fraser's eyes then, something that Fraser usually hid so well that Ray'd only seen it once or twice: a lost, faraway look, a look that said there were things Fraser needed, too, Fraser, who almost never admitted needing anything. Yeah, this was what Fraser had been hiding under his anger last night: Fraser needed Ray, too.
Which made sense, because who else did Fraser have, really? He was basically in exile from his own police force and his whole country, he worked with a couple of lunatics, and he spent his time with Ray at the 27th, where things were often just as crazy if not moreso. He didn't even have a place of his own to hang his big hat. He just had Ray. He had one partner, one close friend—it made sense he'd need Ray.
And what had he said last night? "Don't even suggest taking away one of the only things that makes this exile bearable"—something like that. Which, if you unraveled the Fraser-speak and translated to normal English, meant Don't leave. Don't leave me, Ray.
It had to be big, this need of Fraser's. Had to be huge, considering the offer he'd just made, because, really, who would do that?
Ray couldn't see that look on Fraser's face and not do something...
So he did. He grabbed Fraser by both shoulders and tugged him up with all his strength, right into Ray's arms, so hard that Fraser grunted and then clambered up on the bed with him. He didn't pull away. Slowly, his arms came up around Ray. Carefully, like he was afraid to do it.
Ray hugged him hard.
"So you really aren't angry," Fraser said, his breath hot against Ray's ear. "I'm glad."
"'Course not," Ray whispered back, still holding on tight to Fraser. "'Course not, buddy; how could I be? For loving me? It's the best thing in the world. I love you, too. I love you so goddamn much. You gotta know."
"I...I do, Ray." Fraser's voice was high and soft, but it was still almost a sob in Ray's ear. He'd never heard Fraser make a sound like that. So full—but so empty at the same time. Like Fraser wanted to believe it but couldn't...nah, like Fraser wanted it, but didn't believe he could hold on to it. Like he was afraid Ray's love for him was a temporary thing.
Which, yeah, why wouldn't Fraser think that? It'd been like that with everyone else in his life, right? Everyone had left.
Ray's heart sank. Yeah, that was an explanation for why Fraser would offer what he'd offered. If keeping Ray happy meant keeping Ray, why wouldn't he? Ray got that. In his place, Ray'd do it, too.
"Look, Fraser, you don't gotta do this, you don't gotta offer me this just to hang on to me, because I'm doing the hanging on, you get that?" He hung on to the hug, not letting Fraser get an inch farther than necessary. "You're not gonna get rid of me easily. Just ask Stella. I cling like a...barnacle or something."
He felt Fraser smile against his cheek. "Actually more like a spider monkey, but that's neither here nor there."
Ray chuckled, but he didn't let Fraser move away an inch. He needed Fraser to feel him here. Feel him staying. Not leaving him.
Fraser's lips were soft against Ray's ear. "Thank you."
And Ray wanted to say, "Aw, don't thank me, that's not what this is about. It's not a gift, don't you see, Fraser?" But he didn't actually say it, because his mouth moved, but no sound came out. His mouth was moving against Fraser's cheek, and yeah, Fraser's cheek was a little rough under his—which Ray mostly couldn't feel anyway, because his own beard was grown out four days at this point—but Fraser's skin was warm against Ray's, and he was shifting a little, but not pulling away. Not pulling away at all.
Ray tried to find the words again for what he wanted Fraser to know, but they weren't there, because this thing was too big for words. He had his friend's warm cheek pressed against his, his friend's arms wrapped tight around him, and the words weren't there, but the meaning was. It was there in Ray's hands and fingers, pressing against Fraser's back and neck, rubbing circles over smooth, warm, skin. It was there in his chest, pressing hard against Fraser's, feeling their heartbeats thumping in rhythm.
It was there in that heavy feeling behind his eyes, threatening to spill, because Fraser loved him, enough to give him any damn thing Ray wanted that was in his power to give...and Ray would...
It hit Ray like an electric shock, tingling up his spine when he realized it: He'd give Fraser any damn thing that was in his power to give, too.
They were a duet. Complementary. Two halves of one whole.
It was what Ray'd wanted from the beginning of their partnership, and what Ray still wanted. What he always wanted. He'd never really had it with Stella, no matter how hard he'd tried, but he had it now. With Fraser.
That was what he had to get across to Fraser, and it was too big for words.
But Ray didn't always need words to get a point across. Right here, right now, he had another option, and it didn't even occur to him not to take it. After what Fraser'd just offered, Fraser wouldn't freak out about it. So Ray moved his mouth over a couple of inches till it was on top of Fraser's mouth, and he kissed him.
Fraser twitched in his arms, but Ray hung on, and after a few tense seconds, he felt Fraser's lips move under his.
Kissing him back.
And that was right, that was good. Because Fraser was loved, too. He was worth somebody showing him that.
Fraser was worth everything.
He was worth sticking around for.
Ray'd get that through to Fraser if he had to push it into him.
Fraser seemed to catch on, because after another moment, his lips parted under Ray's, and Ray was pushing it into him, their tongues meeting, their teeth clashing a little till Ray figured out how to fit their mouths together better, and then he was kissing Fraser deeply, warm and wet and—God! Really, really good. A deep, thirst-quenching kiss like Ray hadn't had in a long time.
Eventually Ray had to come up for air. He pulled back enough to breathe, but he didn't let go, and it wasn't till Fraser cleared his throat that he glanced up to see Fraser looking just about as bewildered as he'd ever seen him.
"Whoa." Ray pulled back a little farther and wiped his mouth on the side of his hand. "What are we doing, here?"
Fraser blinked at him. "You kissed me, Ray."
Well, okay, that was true. Ray did. Maybe that called for some kind of apology. "I'm, uh—I'm sorry. I kinda got...well, not carried away, but maybe ahead of myself, there. A bit."
Fraser looked at him with his eyebrows raised a little, like Ray was maybe not even speaking English.
Ray swallowed. "That was, uh...you were okay with that?"
"Well, it was unexpected at that moment, but it was delightful. And why would I object, considering the, er, subject at hand?"
Fraser-speak for: I just offered to suck your cock, you nitwit; why would I be afraid of a kiss?
Ray grinned sheepishly. "Okay, yeah. I get that."
Fraser leaned back up over him, supporting himself on his elbows, almost like he was thinking about kissing Ray again. "So, will you let me...?"
"Let you...uh, you mean...?" Jeez, if Ray couldn't say it to Fraser's face, maybe he shouldn't be thinking seriously about letting Fraser actually do it to him, huh?
Fraser nodded vigorously. "Well, I assumed that since you obviously don't mind our...er, physical proximity, and you...well, you..." he looked at Ray's mouth.
"Kissed you?"
"Yes. I take that as an indication you might not be too averse to letting me, ah..."
"Me, no...me, I'm...I'll try anything, but what we're talking about, that's asking a lot of a friend and partner."
"I want to," Fraser said. "I'd like to be your proof."
"Come again?"
"Your proof that you're worth it, Ray. That you deserve everything good. Everything you want." Fraser's tongue snaked out to wet his lower lip, then disappeared. "Love," he said finally.
Ray couldn't keep the smile from stealing onto his face, even though, inside somewhere, he figured he had to be freaking out. "Fraser, you know—I think you already are proof of that."
"I'm glad." And Fraser meant it. Ray could tell Fraser was genuinely happy to make Ray happy.
And really, what else could you ask for in a friend—or even a lover? Kind of didn't matter, did it, whether your dance partner wore a skirt and heels or a suit and tie, did it, not if they could fly around the floor with you in perfect step. If they looked into your eyes and you could see love in theirs...and all they wanted was to make you happy for a moment, an hour...
It made Ray want to kiss the guy again. And what the heck, he'd already done it once, right? He hauled Fraser in with one arm and laid another kiss on him, right on his mouth, and, yeah, there Fraser was again, hot and wet and hungry for it, just like the first time.
Ray could lose himself in a kiss like that.
Maybe he was losing himself, because when he pulled back this time, he did it slower, looking at Fraser's lips, looking at how red they'd gotten under Ray's, like they were blushing.
And Fraser's eyes—Jesus, they were soft and smiling, and filled with some emotion Ray couldn't put a name to unless he used the word “love,” because what else was there? The guy loved Ray. Loved him like maybe nobody ever had before, and who was Ray to look that in the mouth and turn it down? He'd be crazy.
Fraser must have seen something in Ray's eyes that he liked, too, because he smiled—he smiled, a smile full of joy, and he leaned down over Ray and laid a kiss very softly on Ray's chest. And that was good. Just from that little kiss, Ray could feel how Fraser would be: he'd be careful, he'd be kind, he'd do everything he could and then some to please Ray.
Fraser's eyes were deep blue, serious. Expectant. "Let me, Ray? I'd like to try."
There could be only one answer to that, and to hell with Ray's misgivings. "Yeah, okay."
Fraser lowered his head and brushed another soft kiss over Ray's solar plexus, making Ray squirm and curl up toward him.
Fraser kissed him again, along the edge of his ribcage, and then again, heading south. Ray's senses felt heightened, his skin tingled, his heart tripped and beat faster, his breathing sped up. And the realization hit him: Fraser was going to be good at this. Like, really good at it. Fraser was good at everything he tried; Ray was used to that, but he was pretty sure he'd never once thought about whether Fraser would be good at cocksucking.
Because Fraser was...well, Ray'd always thought he was either straight or just uninterested, but maybe...maybe he was straight like Ray was straight—working the straight thing for all he was worth, like he thought they were filming him, like Steve McQueen?
But the cameras were off now; it was just the two of them, partners and friends, and obviously more than that, because Fraser was planning to suck Ray's cock. Right now.
The connection between Ray's brain and his cock zinged to life: he was suddenly, shockingly hard, aching to be touched, and even as he felt that, even as he curled up towards Fraser, his whole body yearning toward Fraser's like it knew that relief was there, comfort was there—
—Fraser was there, right there with Ray on on the same wavelength, sliding Ray's boxer-briefs down carefully, freeing him to the air and to Fraser's sight.
Fraser was looking at him. Jesus, God—looking at his cock. And Ray responded, his cock springing up hard under Fraser's interested gaze, hard and red and wanting. Maybe even throbbing a little, for Chrissakes.
Fraser lowered his head again, and Ray almost jumped, but he didn't, he held still, not even daring to breathe.
And Fraser's lips touched him, kissing the shaft of his cock with little dry kisses like he'd pressed onto Ray's chest and belly. Strange—nobody'd ever done that to Ray before—but wonderful, too. Slightly odd, like so many things about Fraser, but kind of neat, also, that Fraser would find some new and different way to do just about everything.
Even this. This thing he was doing to Ray that only a guy who really, really loved Ray could possibly do...
Yes. Fraser's mouth moved up Ray's shaft, his lips parted, and there he was, taking Ray in, just the head, just an inch or so at first, looking a little surprised, looking—interested, and wasn't that a kick?
Fraser opened his mouth a little wider and took in more. Ray couldn't tear his gaze away, because that mouth, God, that mouth—
Okay, so he'd noticed Fraser was handsome. Downright pretty, if he was honest about it. He hadn't ever imagined that beautiful mouth on his cock—at least, he didn't think he had—but now that he was seeing it, he was kind of wondering why he hadn't, because it was some kind of sight, it was, red and curved and with that full, perfect lower lip and the kind of pouty upper one, and Fraser's tongue—God! Ray'd seen Fraser licking things on the day they met, an electrical socket of all things, and how had Ray not noticed that Fraser's mouth was perfect, was made for sex—
—okay, so maybe he had noticed. Noticed without letting himself notice he noticed, because straight cops of the Steve McQueen variety did not let on if they noticed stuff like that.
Fraser's mouth closed over him tighter, sucking him in, seeking the perfect amount of pressure and suction and finding it, oh, God, how did Fraser know? And Fraser's tongue, how the hell big was that tongue that it was wrapping around him the way it was and pressing wetly against all the places on the underside of Ray's cock that felt the best? He let out a huge groan and his body just convulsed around Fraser, curling up around his core, where Fraser's mouth held his cock in the most perfect place it had ever been.
Fraser's hands came up around him then, one on the shaft of his cock where it emerged from Fraser's mouth, stroking firmly, the other cupping his balls, weighing them gently, almost cuddling them. Fraser's fingertips brushed the tender skin behind them, then moved back a little, then back a little more, and—there! yes!—touching, circling, pressing gently, all in perfect rhythm with his other hand as it stroked Ray's cock.
Down and up and deeper into the wet heat of Fraser's mouth, Fraser stroked him and sucked him and fondled his ass with the other hand and kept cuddling his balls, and what the hell was that, cuddling, it was love, damn it; this wasn't just about getting off, about needing something. It was—
Love.
It was all love. Everything, absolutely everything they'd said to each other since walking in the door last night:
—take off that big red parka
—I do not take bullets and jump through windows for you so you can kill yourself with heat stroke
—tell me what you need
—it's not right for a fine person like you not to have your needs met
—I don't know if I could tolerate this exile without you
—I'm doing the hanging on. You're not gonna get rid of me
—I would do anything for you
—I want to be your proof.
Maybe everything they'd ever said to each other was love. Even the tough things. Even the hurting things.
This was where it had all led them.
The realization hit Ray at the same moment as the first wave of orgasm, so quickly he never had time to warn Fraser, he just shot deep in Fraser's throat, again and again, and Fraser, amazingly, only coughed once and never lost his grip; he just took it all, lapped it up, swallowing convulsively, and held Ray in that warm, slick, wet place until Ray couldn't tell where his body ended and Fraser's began.
And the whole time, Ray was shouting what he knew in Fraser's ear—love you, love you, always loved you—curled up over him as Fraser gently released Ray's cock, and Ray's fingers were in Fraser's hair, the soft strands curling around his fingers. They were tangled up in each other like they had been from the very first moment, when Fraser called Ray's name and Ray crossed the bullpen in three long strides and flung his arms around him.
Love, every single bit of it.
Ray eased back on the pillow, all the fight gone out of him, for once.
"Ray—" Fraser climbed him, back up to his mouth, which he kissed, Ray's taste still on his lips. "Did that feel...was that what you hoped?"
"God, yes. Oh, God, Fraser."
Fraser smiled, such a beautiful smile.
Ray lifted his hand weakly, thumbed Fraser's cheek, remembering it distended by his cock, remembering his cock inside all that wet heat, being stroked by Fraser's agile, perfect tongue. If Ray'd had the energy, he'd have come again just from the memory. "Perfect," he breathed. "I think that was the best ever. Where'd you learn to—" He stopped, shaking his head. "Sorry. Dumb question. Also really bad etiquette."
"Etiquette, Ray? I thought you scorned such paltry concerns."
"It only takes moment to be courteous, Fraser. And a guy who wants another blowjob someday does not piss off the person who just gave him one. Especially the most excellent one ever."
"I'm glad," Fraser said, as though he hadn't done anything special.
But he sure had. Ray felt a hundred thousand times better. Every nerve in his body was...was singing, or something. Even the place in his shoulders that was never, ever relaxed felt like a wrung-out sponge.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then lay back on the bed and tried to remember how to breathe. "I think I had heat frustration."
A choked-off sound from Fraser made Ray glance over quickly, but Fraser was grinning, honest-to-God grinning, so nothing could be too wrong.
In fact, a lot of things seemed pretty damn right, about now.
"Heat frustration?" Fraser said, even laughing a little.
"Yeah, you ever get that? You know, when it's hot and you're kind of itching for...something."
"Yes," Fraser said. "Yes, I think I have."
"Thought so," Ray said. "Because under that proper Mountie thing you got going on, you are a real guy, Fraser, even though you pretend like you're not, even though you pretend like you don't need anything or anyone."
"Oh, I don't think I..." Fraser trailed off, though, and Ray could see from his expression that he wasn't willing to go through with an actual lie.
"Well...possibly. It's a survival strategy I've learned over the years."
"Yeah. I get that. Never let them see you cry."
"Yes. Exactly. But I do cry," Fraser said. "I don't want to you think I don't ever."
"I know that," Ray said. He felt an impulse and he just went with it, leaning over to place little kisses on Fraser's cheeks just below his eyes. "I know, and you don't gotta hide it from me. Jeez, I've bawled like a kid in front of you." And he had, he'd wept heartbrokenly in his car in Beth Botrelle's driveway, first into his hands and then all over Fraser, after Fraser gave up stroking his neck and pulled him into a hug.
Ray'd shown Fraser every kind of vulnerability a guy could show. He was pretty sensitive about other people seeing him looking weak, but with Fraser he'd always been about as open as a guy could be. He'd practically hurled a couple dozen times in Mort's lab, actually hurled one time when he got some virus from a dumpster Fraser'd pulled him into in the service of justice.
He'd let Fraser see him in every kind of down-and-out moment, dissed by Stella, turned down by other chicks, dressed down by Welsh, beaten up by prizefighters and perps, stupid with sleeplessness, naked and shivering with cold, half-drowned and terrified and freaking out...he'd literally let it all hang out with Fraser.
And now this.
He'd never held anything back, not from Fraser.
So, really, what was there to be bashful about now? Fraser hadn't looked stupid with his mouth stretched around Ray's cock. Fraser had looked flushed and gorgeous and...God, had Ray imagined it? Happy. He'd looked actually happy to do that for Ray.
And Ray loved the guy. Why shouldn't it be okay if he wanted to make Fraser feel good, too?
He wanted to do that. It didn't matter if Ray had no experience at this, if Ray was straight, if Ray had never let anybody call him a cocksucker and walk away with all their teeth.
Ray was going to do this for Fraser.
He leaned up to kiss Fraser again, summoned his strength, and rolled them both over so he was on top.
He slid down a little, and—Jesus, he hadn't even noticed, but Fraser still had his boxers on. Ray took hold of the waistband and tugged at it. "Off," he said, and wasn't that where they'd come in, him making Fraser come into the apartment and take his overheated uniform off? He probably could have saved some time and aggravation if he'd only thought of talking Fraser into stripping naked right there in the hallway.
He grinned up at Fraser. "C'mon, Fraser, lift your butt so I can get these off you. It's gonna be kind of hard to do this if they're in the way."
Fraser reached his hand down and touched Ray's chin, slid his fingers into Ray's hair. "Ray, are you certain you wish to—"
Love, all of it.
Ray smiled. "I want to be your proof, too, Fraser."
Fraser swallowed hard, and he looked like he was going to say something, but couldn't get the words out.
That was enough of that, Ray figured. He wanted Fraser incoherent with lust, not looking sad. "Hey. You got heat frustration, remember?" He ghosted a hand over the hard, hot front of Fraser's boxers. "And it feels pretty hot to me." In more ways than one, actually.
Fraser found his voice. "Oh. Now that you mention it, I suppose I do."
He helped Ray get the boxers off him, and wow, okay, that was a pretty hot and frustrated-looking erection he'd been hiding in there, thick and reddened, the plump head pushed entirely beyond the foreskin and leaking clear droplets.
Ray wrapped his hand around the shaft, which coaxed a moan out of Fraser, and thumbed the head, smoothing the fluid around. Fraser shivered under his hand.
"So what do you like?" Ray said. "I, uh, I told you last night what I wanted, and, wow, you remembered it and then some. So I'm going to try to do that for you. You tell me what you want and I'll try like hell to do that."
"I, ah, I don't know what to tell you, Ray."
"Well, what feels best to you? Hard and fast, gentle and slow, suction, no suction? Everybody's different."
"Oh. Ray, I...I'm afraid I...I don't know."
"What? Well, tell me what it was like when it was good, you know. What's the best blowjob you ever had?"
"I'm afraid I...well I...I don't have any experience to go on, there," Fraser said.
That could not mean what it sounded like.
Ray leaned up over him, disbelieving. "You're not saying you never—that no one's ever gone down on you, Fraser."
And Fraser bit his lip and looked away. "It's true."
And that was wrong. That was the wrongest. There was a major fault line in the universe if a guy as terrific as Benton Fraser had never had anyone do this for him.
What the fuck was wrong with whoever had loved Fraser before? Prudish? Weird? Raised in some strange northern tradition that didn't approve of blowjobs?
Ray didn't realize he'd said some of that aloud until Fraser answered.
"Where," Fraser said quietly, slowly, "are the mythological people who loved me before?"
And that was the earthquake, right there, threatening to shatter Ray's brain plate. He sat up, sat back on his heels, shocked. "No one? But you had...there were people you loved..."
Fraser nodded. "Not who loved me."
"You have had sex before this, right?"
"Yes," Fraser said after a moment. "Yes, of course. But not...love."
So Ray stood corrected, because this was actually the wrongest thing in the history of wrongness. "That's a crime against nature, Fraser. You're the best guy in the world. You should have everything."
Fraser caught him under the armpits, hauled him up into a tight embrace, and kissed him. Kissed the hell out of him, his mouth hot and desperate and maybe even a little crazy.
When Fraser finally came up for air, he said, "Actually, I think I do have everything." And his eyes smiled.
Ray could have been as straight as the spires on the Sears Tower and he still would have done what he did then: he slid down Fraser's chest, kissing a wet line down his soft, beautiful skin, and took Fraser's cock into his mouth without another thought.
It was hot, and the skin was rose-petal soft, and under the softness it was incredibly firm, hard and pulsing in Ray's hand and on his tongue. He sucked it down as far as it would go, gagged a little, recovered, tried again. He was going to do everything Fraser had done for him, and then some, he promised himself, or he'd die trying.
And since dying wasn't an option, because he was not fucking leaving Fraser like everyone else in Fraser's life had done, he was therefore going to succeed.
Fraser was quivering under his hands, his mouth. "Ray—" A choked-off sound, one that Ray liked a hell of a lot better than the last one he'd heard. "Oh, Ray. God."
That was the last coherent sound Fraser made for a good fifteen minutes as Ray licked him, sucked him, and stroked him for all he was worth. And it was all good. Ray'd never done this, but once he was actually doing it, he wondered why he'd denied himself, because, Jesus, it was hot to actually be doing this for a guy instead of merely thinking about it—
—which, okay, he had to admit to himself at least, and probably someday to Fraser, he'd thought about it.
But thinking about it was nothing compared to actually doing it. Doing it was incredible. Doing it to Fraser was the biggest turn-on ever, as Ray's cock informed him by recovering really damn quickly from getting the world's most outstanding blowjob. Ray couldn't help thrusting a little against Fraser's leg as he sucked him, and Fraser, feeling it, gasped and pushed his thigh against Ray's cock, flailed around with his hand till he reached Ray, and made a firm circle of his fingers for Ray to thrust into.
Everything about sucking Fraser was hotter than the Chicago heat wave outside. It was hot to look at Fraser's hard cock, it was hotter to taste it, it was the hottest thing ever to pump it with his fist and let Fraser thrust up a just little into his mouth, just enough so Ray could move his tongue on the underside. He aimed for the places that made Fraser go "Mmmmm!" and made him rock his hips harder like he couldn't help it, and thrash his head on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut.
Yeah, Fraser was really loving it, and Ray was feeling like a winner, like a big damn champion for a change, like it said on his shoulder. So when Fraser gasped out "Ray! Ray, I'm, I can't—" and pushed at his head, Ray just brushed that hand away gently and hung on to Fraser's hips and kept sucking, because he knew how it felt, and he wanted to give that to Fraser. And, sure enough, in another second Fraser was over the edge, flooding Ray's mouth with hot come, a little bitter and kind of thick, making Ray cough and splutter a little, but also making him grin like a fool, because Benton Fraser had just had his first blowjob, courtesy of Ray Kowalski, and it was obviously pretty damn good.
And, really, how many guys could say that?
And then, only seconds later, it seemed, Ray was the one gasping in surprise, pushing his cock into Fraser's hand faster and faster, and suddenly he was coming, too, coming again, soon on the heels of the last one like he was some kind of teenager.
Huh. Heat frustration could sure do a number on a guy.
Afterward, as they lay together catching their breath, Ray realized there was something he hadn't told Fraser that he really ought to, because Fraser needed to know: it was all love.
"You know that time I hit you?"
"Yes, of course."
"Everything I said, that time at the docks...I'm sorry. I let my mouth run away with me and I let my fists run away with me, and I shouldn't have. The last thing I wanted was for you to be hurt. Actually, that's why I was so pissed off, because I didn't want you getting yourself killed."
"I know," Fraser said. "Besides, you were right."
"I was never going to take that transfer," Ray said. "I wasn't going to leave you. I know I talked a good game, but I didn't do nothing about it, and when Welsh handed me that letter out of the blue, I thought I was gonna die. I knew right then I couldn't walk away from you."
Fraser took his hand, squeezed gently. "Thank you. I...I think I needed to hear that."
"Yeah," Ray said. "I think you did."
"I ah...I have something to tell you, also."
"You weren't going to take yours either?"
"Oh, I would have if you did. I thought that was what you wanted. But not if you didn't, of course."
"Good," Ray said. "I kind of thought so."
"But what I wanted to say was...I think I'm a bit more than a free thinker, Ray. I think I'm, er, well, I don't think I'm entirely straight."
"Oh, yeah?" Ray tried to squelch his grin, but he couldn't really manage. He felt too damn good. "What was your first clue?" Then he laughed, and since he was still holding Fraser's hand, he moved it down over his own cock—which was sticky and limp and really, really happy—and pressed Fraser's hand there. It actually twitched under his hand.
Fraser actually started chuckling. "Well, I'm just a constable. Not a detective."
Which broke Ray up for a good two minutes. When he got done laughing, his ribcage hurt, but it also felt better than it had since Ray was thirteen. He pushed himself back down on his side next to Fraser, put his hand over Fraser's cock—also sticky, limp, and twitching happily under his hand—and said, "Yeah, well, I'm straight like Steve McQueen. And I must suck at being a detective, Constable, because I don't lick things."
And that was the end of that—Fraser broke up then, and Ray followed suit, and, Jeez, his ribs were gonna hate him the next day, but it was worth the pain.
Eventually Fraser got himself under control, and he put a thumb up to smooth his eyebrow, then let his hand drop. "You know, Ray, Steve McQueen wasn't entirely straight," he said.
Ray's jaw dropped. "You sure?"
"It's fairly well documented."
"But Brando, he was, right?"
Fraser shook his head. "Bisexual. Said in an interview that he would have married his longtime male companion had it been possible."
"Whoa. James Dean?"
"Entirely homosexual," Fraser said. "Rumors of his affairs with young actresses were just that—rumors, created by the studios to elicit the kind of publicity they wanted and avoid the kind they didn't."
"That being the fact that he slept with guys?"
"Exactly."
Ray sighed. "Look, it's not about the actors. It was never about them. It was about the characters they played."
"I thought you didn't like Stanley Kowalski."
"Well, no, of course not, who would? Except my dad, but I don't think my dad was paying attention when he saw that flick. He was stuck on the name."
Ray sighed, and scrubbed a hand through his hair, which felt more weirdly experimental than ever. It was getting close to coffee-and-shower time, but he felt so great lying in his bed with Fraser that he didn't feel like moving yet.
"Okay, look, it wasn't even about the specific characters, except maybe Bullitt. It was about the types, Fraser. The image. That's what I wanted...that was my thing. That was what did it for Stella, you know." He laughed, sort of. "My big success. Hah. We all know how that turned out."
"It turned out excellently for me," Fraser said. "Would you have taken this assignment if you'd still been married to Stella?"
"No. I took it because I was down and out, needed a change." He thought for a minute. "Yeah, I get it. My image, who I thought I was, who I wanted to be. I don't need that image no more."
"Certainly not for my sake," Fraser said. "I prefer the real Ray Kowalski."
And, maybe for the first time since he was thirteen, Ray thought he did, too.
—fin—