New F/K Story: Operation: Stupid (NC-17)
Jul. 8th, 2007 01:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
arrow00Title: Operation: Stupid
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
arrow00
Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 3,130
Warnings: Cop/Mountie sex! +Belgians!
Categories: ER
Summary: Ray is trying too hard.
This story is a sequel to One Small Thing
Operation: Stupid
by Arrow
Ray is walking around in a dream. Ray has pink bubbles and yellow poppies on the brain. Ray has a stupid grin about a mile wide on his face, and a sign about a mile high on his forehead, and it reads, Just Nailed the Mountie.
He has more than a dumb t-shirt to show for it, too. He's got a sore dick (coming too hard can do that, but it's a good pain. Oh, yeah.) And he has Fraser, all six feet of him, candy-red, blushing sweet as anything when he kissed Ray goodbye this morning.
The only problem is, now that he's got him, how's he supposed to keep him? Ray, being Ray, has been so eye-on-the-prize up 'til now that he really hadn't planned that far ahead and, anyway, who'd've thought he'd actually succeed? That's crazy moon talk, right there. Sure, Ray played it cool last night, acting like he had a naked Mountie in his bed every day of the week. But the truth is Ray is scared beyond scared he's gonna mess this up.
How to keep Fraser on the line and interested? Ray has never known squat about the keeping part (sure, Stella kept coming back, but only until she had somewhere else to go.) He just doesn't have the moves.
Maybe he should buy Fraser a present. A 'thank you for letting me fuck your sweet, sweet ass' present, although he probably shouldn't call it that or he'd get a Look, the one that makes him irritated and embarrassed at the same time, because Fraser isn't crude, pal, although he sucks cock hot and nasty like nobody's business (and who would've figured that?) as he proved this morning when he showed Ray that the cherry stem thing was in no way a bluff.
So, a present, maybe. Something nice. Something romantic.
Just then the phone rings, and Ray picks it up, still thinking about it (tea cozy? Boot wax?) so he only sort of registers that it's Fraser on the line, and as a result he probably doesn't sound as thrilled as he should that his hot new lover is saying his name—
"Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray—"
And with each Ray he's sounding quieter and quieter instead of more and more pissed like per usual.
Ray is already fucking up. He maybe just set a new land-speed record.
"I'm here, Frase, yeah."
"Do you think you'll...need me this afternoon at the station?"
Oh, shit, Ray thinks, because Fraser, today, here, looking all red and munchable? That would make the sign on Ray's forehead start flashing lights, Vegas-style. But if he tells Fraser no, he's bound to think Ray doesn't want to see him.
Ray feels like that Stretch Armstrong toy he and Mikey fought over (keep Fraser happy? Or be outed to the entire 2-7 on their very first day?) and Ray remembers how they'd pulled so hard one of the arms snapped, leaking toxic goo all over the place. It's amazing they both didn't get skin cancer on the spot.
"I don't think so, not today, Fraser," Ray says, trying to use telepathy to make Fraser get what he's really saying.
But Fraser says in this tired voice, "Ah. I understand."
No you don't. You really, really don't. "Fraser—"
"I'll just...I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, Ray."
And Fraser hangs up, just like that.
So this isn't going so well, and as Ray puts down the phone he is thinking something bigger than a tea cozy, maybe an entire small country, like Finland.
How hard could it be to invade Finland?
Welsh stops by on his way to his office. "I hesitate to pry, Detective, but is there some reason you're pounding your head against the desk? You really think you have enough brains to risk rattling the few you do possess?"
"Oh, hey, Lieu." Ray rubs the sore spot on his forehead. "I think I...I just really offended Fraser."
"Oh." The lieutenant's face looks like he just bit a lemon. He doesn't like going into personal stuff so much. "Well, the Constable seems a forgiving sort. Why don't you just go over there and straighten things out? Though it pains me to say it, we've sort of gotten used to him around here."
That's good. That's greatness, because Ray isn't sure he can wait until tonight to make it better. "Thanks, Lieu. I think I should buy him a present. But I can't think of what."
"Well, office supplies always make a nice gift. Why don't you bring him the Tommy Rilleno file?" Welsh's smile isn't very nice.
"Yes, sir. Great idea, sir."
Welsh laughs a little meanly as he goes back to his office.
Ray thinks maybe bringing Fraser autopsy photos isn't the path to romance. On the other hand, Fraser is a total freak, so who knows? But first Ray will stop by the mall and see if anything else grabs him.
Nothing does. It's all crap, anyway, and how can you buy something for a guy who's been living in Chicago for four years and can still pack everything he owns into two duffle bags? Buying a present for Fraser is like buying a bicycle for his turtle.
A bicycle! Shit, that's perfect! Fraser is always walking everywhere, except when Ray drives him, which is all the time. It's gotten so whenever Ray is in his car he expects to have Fraser next to him yammering on and on about fainting goats or caribou hoof diseases or whatever.
Maybe the bike isn't a good idea, because then Fraser won't need a ride anymore. And they'd only gotten up to the 'Rs' (ribbed hoof.)
Finally, totally frustrated, Ray grabs the first thing that catches his eye, a ceramic cow creamer (Fraser likes milk in his tea. And he must like cows. Everybody likes cows.)
Feeling twenty kinds of stupid, Ray goes over to the Consulate. Turnbull welcomes him to Canada and offers him a cheese Danish ("Made with real Wisconsin cream cheese, Detective!") and Ray says thanks, but no thanks, and is Fraser around?
But, no. Sadly, because Turnbull is always sad to disappoint anyone, he tells Ray that Fraser is on an errand for Inspector Stick-up-the-ass. Ray doesn't know what else to do but leave the wrapped cow on Fraser's desk and head back to the 2-7.
The phone rings about an hour later.
"Ah, Ray?"
"Oh, hey, Fraser. Did you get the cow?"
"Yes. It's very...decorative. Thank you." Fraser sounds confused, like someone put a gerbil in his pemmican pouch.
"Yeah, I know you like milk in your tea, so there ya go." If Ray's head weren't already sore, he'd be pulling his hair out. "Too bad they didn't have any shaped like turtles."
Fraser's voice warms up a little. "Yes. Squiggy would've enjoyed that."
"Or maybe he'd get all doughy-eyed and fall for the creamer, and then we'd have a tragedy on our hands."
"Ah. I can see how that would be a problem."
Oops. Arctic-ville again. (Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.)
It's times like this when Ray wishes he had a different brain. The smart kind that knows what to say and how to say it in a totally smooth way. A Cary Grant brain. Only, Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, not Arsenic and Old Lace where he runs around like a stupid man.
"Are you busy tonight, Fraser?"
"No. I don't have any plans." Hopeful-sounding.
"Great. Wanna do something?" Like come over and let me yank you out of that uniform?
"What did you have in mind?"
"Pizza. Hockey. Beerski."
"That sounds appealing. But I'm afraid I have to go now, Ray. The Belgian Saxhorn Reserve Corps from Geraardsbergen is in town attending a Flügelhorn Festival. I'm nervous about leaving them alone with Turnbull for too long. He has a tendency to be overenthusiastic about brass."
Ray rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right. Tonight, then. I'll pick you up around six?"
So all is not totally hopeless and ker-fucked, because Fraser is coming over, and Ray knows if he can just get him stripped and on his bed, any misunderstandings will get cleared right up. Sex was always his in with Stella. Even when he'd screwed everything else up and couldn't seem to say a single right thing, he could still make her come like banshees.
And seeing Fraser last night, so helplessly loving it, taking it, shaking all over—well. Ray figures Fraser won't be averse to a replay. A do-over.
Only, this time Ray wants Fraser to do him over.
At six on the dot he pulls up in front of the Consulate. But Fraser is having a very tense-looking discussion with a tuba player and waves him over to the sitting room.
Turnbull is there, looking glum. He's holding a rag and a can of brass polish. Ray doesn't want to get into it with him, because generally talking to Turnbull is like walking backward through a mirror maze. Blindfolded. And wearing mukluks.
Ray turns on the television. It's tuned to the gardening channel, and the remote is broken (of course) so Ray has to watch some hippie broad talk about the proper way to plant herb rows. Meanwhile, every eighteen seconds or so Turnbull heaves out this huge sigh, like an inner tube collapsing. Repeatedly. With an occasional half-sob.
When Fraser finally ducks his head in, Ray is ready to chew through the cable insulation.
They hit the road. "See, here's the thing," Ray says. "The thing is, what I do for you, Fraser, is I forgive you when you make me sit around watching parsley grow and listening to Turnbull cry like my mother going through menopause. That's what I do for you."
"And I thank you for it," Fraser says mildly.
"And I buy you cows, and take you places, and drive motorcycles through windows when you're so stupid you get kidnapped by jewel thieves—stuff like that."
"Yes, you are extraordinarily accommodating, Ray. I believe I've said so from time to time." Now Fraser sounds confused. And a tiny bit p.o.'d. Ray glances over and, sure enough, the space between his eyebrows is all crinkly with that off-kilter v-shape.
"So," Ray says quickly, "you should maybe have a little patience with me if I screw up every so often. Or even all the time. Okay? Because that's buddies."
There's a moment of really messy silence—messy, because Ray can hear the confusion as Fraser's brain tries to crunch the numbers before it gives up and his eyes blink error, error.
"Ray, I'm afraid I don't understand—"
"Yeah, I know," Ray says, throwing up his hands. He brings Fraser back to his place, and after pizza (Ray springs) he takes Fraser to bed and gets him to fuck him. But even though it's hot as anything (God, Fraser's hips move so good, twisting in that perfect rhythm, you'd think the guy should be able to dance a little) and Ray shudders and jerks and comes all over his chest just from the grind of that terrific, thick cock, Fraser is weird afterward and falls asleep on his back, his hands clasped together on his stomach.
So, Ray is obviously totally hosed.
>>><<<
Presents are no good. Fucking is good, but no good. Ray starts having really girly thoughts about getting his hair done (Fraser likes it. He touches it so softly with just the palm of his hand when he thinks Ray is too blissed-out to notice) but that is the path to Satan, because it's a short road from there to doing Cosmo quizzes ("Does Your Mountie Think You're Hot in Bed?") and maybe asking Frannie for advice.
So—no.
At the rate he's pulling his hair out, getting a good bleach and cut won't even be an option.
But it's stupid, anyway, because Fraser has told him he likes the way he looks. He's tucked his nose into Ray's pit and actually inhaled, so he likes the way Ray smells, too. And Ray won't even mention the tongue action. If there's a part of his body Fraser doesn't enjoy licking the hell out of, well, Ray just hasn't grown it yet.
Ray tries other stuff. He lets Fraser drag him to the sushi place where they eat disgusting, pale, squirmy things for lunch. He tries to drive a little bit less like a complete maniac so Fraser doesn't have to clutch the seat so hard all the time. Ray even doesn't yell at Fraser when he jumps into the middle of a gang war ("Gentlemen, if you could please lower your—" Bang! Bangbangbang!) and if that's not love, Ray doesn't know what is.
But Fraser just seems to get more stiff and sad and Mountie-ish and less like he even wants to be around Ray.
Except at night. They still fuck like rabbits every night (like big, sweaty, ass-fucking rabbits) so that part's okay. Well, more than okay, really. Fraser can't get enough of Ray's cock. Since Ray has the same feelings about Fraser's, some nights they end up doing double damage on Ray's big bed.
So—more than okay. Ray thinks if it weren't for the sex thing they wouldn't even be in a relationship. Which is a strange thing for Ray to think about, anyway, but he goes overboard on the sex as a result, and the two of them start to look a little worn around the edges.
Ray is miserable. Fraser is...well, he doesn't look miserable, but his Inuit Story Index has dropped to like one a day, and even the wolf is hanging his head.
They might've gone on like that for a lot longer, but then Fraser, sounding anxious, calls him up.
"Ray, if you could assist me—I'm afraid we're in a bit of a pickle here."
Fraser's definition of a pickle apparently stretches to include the Ice Queen and Turnbull being held hostage by an incensed Belgian cornet player. Fraser says he's waving a gun in one hand, his instrument in the other, and Fraser doesn't want to call the cops in for real because it could cause an International Incident. Fraser seems to think he's caused enough of those.
So, Ray speeds over there, and apparently that was all Fraser was waiting for to do something incredibly stupid, because he approaches the guy with his hands in the air and offers himself as a substitute hostage ("She is my superior officer, Mister Vandenbussche") and the guy looks totally deranged, his hair out sideways and this wild, glassy look in his eyes, which Fraser said was caused by an accidental overdose of brass polish. And Ray can see that Vandenbussche is sincerely on edge there, because he starts to threaten to bash Turnbull's head in, and Turnbull screams like a girl, and the Inspector doesn't, instead she gives Fraser this look, and Ray is already moving as Thatcher frees herself and Fraser leaps and (Crunch! Bang! Whimper!) everyone lands in a squirming heap on the floor and Fraser is shot.
Just a little. Just enough for Ray to completely lose his shit all over him, yelling at Fraser while he hauls Mr. Vandenbussche up by the cuffs and Fraser clutches his arm wound looking, for chrissake, like someone just handed him a box of chocolate-covered cherries. He's smiling, and his face is all flushed. He hasn't looked this happy in weeks, and it really pisses Ray off.
Ray takes everybody down to the station to write up a totally embarrassing report. Vandenbussche won't stop weeping because his cornet was crushed in the Incident, Turnbull is apologizing to everyone like crazy, and Fraser still looks happy.
Afterward, Ray takes Fraser to his apartment and sticks him on the couch and makes him take off his jacket so he can look at the bullet burn. It's not that bad, but Ray is furious and can't help muttering ugly things about stupid Mounties who seem to enjoy getting shot and what's that all about?
"I assure you, Ray, I don't enjoy being shot." But the bastard is grinning again.
"Tell me another one. You got shot, and now you're grinning like a maniac. It's not a tough equation, Fraser."
"You're yelling at me," Fraser says.
"Yeah? Let me tell you something, buddy—you deserved it, okay?" Ray finishes wrapping up Fraser's arm and then gives him a little shake.
Fraser's grin gets wider.
"Stop that! Stop it with the smiling, you freak!"
"Ray! Ray. I'm happy you're yelling at me. You never do anymore."
Ray can't believe it. He jumps up and starts stomping the rug. Fraser stands and raises one hand, but Ray waves him off. "That's supposed to be good, Fraser. Okay? Not yelling is a good thing."
"Not with you. Not with us."
"That's total bullshit!" Oh, Ray is pissed now, and clomps around to face Fraser and grab him by the shoulders, ignoring Fraser's little wince, because it just makes him more angry (because Fraser got shot. Again. Big, dumb Mountie.) "I don't want to yell, stupid! You're not supposed to yell at the person you love!"
Only, it maybe would be a more convincing argument if he didn't shout it into Fraser's face, every word of it, shaking Fraser the whole time.
Fraser bursts out laughing.
Ray's mouth makes a sound, kind of like "ArrunnnGAH!" and he's about to punch Fraser in the head, only Fraser grabs him and kisses him smack on the lips, still laughing a little so he's puffing air against Ray's mouth.
"Me, too, Ray," Fraser says between kisses. "Love...Ray...you...nmmm."
So, that's cool. Ray gets more kisses, hotter and hotter kisses until he can't stand it anymore and hauls Fraser over to the bedroom.
"I fucking love you, you asshole," Ray says as he yanks Fraser out of his uniform. Fraser just lies there, this totally goofy expression on his face. "I fucking mean it," Ray growls.
"That's...fucking...terrific, Ray," Fraser garbles out. Which just makes Ray so hot he has to flip Fraser over and have at him, tongue first, licking that sweet ass until Fraser can't do words anymore, can only claw at the mattress and make begging sounds.
Then Ray fucks him.
And then they eat pizza.
So, it turns out Ray knew how to keep Fraser all along, he just didn't know he knew. You know? Because after that, things are pretty damned good. Everything goes totally back to normal (for them.) Fraser gets in trouble. Ray yells at Fraser. Fraser apologizes by demonstrating how agile his tongue is (Olympic-class, free-style) and Ray yells for a different reason.
And they give the cow creamer to Squiggy.
.....................
2007.07.08
(This story is a sequel to One Small Thing)
Author:
arrow00Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 3,130
Warnings: Cop/Mountie sex! +Belgians!
Categories: ER
Summary: Ray is trying too hard.
This story is a sequel to One Small Thing
Operation: Stupid
by Arrow
Ray is walking around in a dream. Ray has pink bubbles and yellow poppies on the brain. Ray has a stupid grin about a mile wide on his face, and a sign about a mile high on his forehead, and it reads, Just Nailed the Mountie.
He has more than a dumb t-shirt to show for it, too. He's got a sore dick (coming too hard can do that, but it's a good pain. Oh, yeah.) And he has Fraser, all six feet of him, candy-red, blushing sweet as anything when he kissed Ray goodbye this morning.
The only problem is, now that he's got him, how's he supposed to keep him? Ray, being Ray, has been so eye-on-the-prize up 'til now that he really hadn't planned that far ahead and, anyway, who'd've thought he'd actually succeed? That's crazy moon talk, right there. Sure, Ray played it cool last night, acting like he had a naked Mountie in his bed every day of the week. But the truth is Ray is scared beyond scared he's gonna mess this up.
How to keep Fraser on the line and interested? Ray has never known squat about the keeping part (sure, Stella kept coming back, but only until she had somewhere else to go.) He just doesn't have the moves.
Maybe he should buy Fraser a present. A 'thank you for letting me fuck your sweet, sweet ass' present, although he probably shouldn't call it that or he'd get a Look, the one that makes him irritated and embarrassed at the same time, because Fraser isn't crude, pal, although he sucks cock hot and nasty like nobody's business (and who would've figured that?) as he proved this morning when he showed Ray that the cherry stem thing was in no way a bluff.
So, a present, maybe. Something nice. Something romantic.
Just then the phone rings, and Ray picks it up, still thinking about it (tea cozy? Boot wax?) so he only sort of registers that it's Fraser on the line, and as a result he probably doesn't sound as thrilled as he should that his hot new lover is saying his name—
"Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray—"
And with each Ray he's sounding quieter and quieter instead of more and more pissed like per usual.
Ray is already fucking up. He maybe just set a new land-speed record.
"I'm here, Frase, yeah."
"Do you think you'll...need me this afternoon at the station?"
Oh, shit, Ray thinks, because Fraser, today, here, looking all red and munchable? That would make the sign on Ray's forehead start flashing lights, Vegas-style. But if he tells Fraser no, he's bound to think Ray doesn't want to see him.
Ray feels like that Stretch Armstrong toy he and Mikey fought over (keep Fraser happy? Or be outed to the entire 2-7 on their very first day?) and Ray remembers how they'd pulled so hard one of the arms snapped, leaking toxic goo all over the place. It's amazing they both didn't get skin cancer on the spot.
"I don't think so, not today, Fraser," Ray says, trying to use telepathy to make Fraser get what he's really saying.
But Fraser says in this tired voice, "Ah. I understand."
No you don't. You really, really don't. "Fraser—"
"I'll just...I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, Ray."
And Fraser hangs up, just like that.
So this isn't going so well, and as Ray puts down the phone he is thinking something bigger than a tea cozy, maybe an entire small country, like Finland.
How hard could it be to invade Finland?
Welsh stops by on his way to his office. "I hesitate to pry, Detective, but is there some reason you're pounding your head against the desk? You really think you have enough brains to risk rattling the few you do possess?"
"Oh, hey, Lieu." Ray rubs the sore spot on his forehead. "I think I...I just really offended Fraser."
"Oh." The lieutenant's face looks like he just bit a lemon. He doesn't like going into personal stuff so much. "Well, the Constable seems a forgiving sort. Why don't you just go over there and straighten things out? Though it pains me to say it, we've sort of gotten used to him around here."
That's good. That's greatness, because Ray isn't sure he can wait until tonight to make it better. "Thanks, Lieu. I think I should buy him a present. But I can't think of what."
"Well, office supplies always make a nice gift. Why don't you bring him the Tommy Rilleno file?" Welsh's smile isn't very nice.
"Yes, sir. Great idea, sir."
Welsh laughs a little meanly as he goes back to his office.
Ray thinks maybe bringing Fraser autopsy photos isn't the path to romance. On the other hand, Fraser is a total freak, so who knows? But first Ray will stop by the mall and see if anything else grabs him.
Nothing does. It's all crap, anyway, and how can you buy something for a guy who's been living in Chicago for four years and can still pack everything he owns into two duffle bags? Buying a present for Fraser is like buying a bicycle for his turtle.
A bicycle! Shit, that's perfect! Fraser is always walking everywhere, except when Ray drives him, which is all the time. It's gotten so whenever Ray is in his car he expects to have Fraser next to him yammering on and on about fainting goats or caribou hoof diseases or whatever.
Maybe the bike isn't a good idea, because then Fraser won't need a ride anymore. And they'd only gotten up to the 'Rs' (ribbed hoof.)
Finally, totally frustrated, Ray grabs the first thing that catches his eye, a ceramic cow creamer (Fraser likes milk in his tea. And he must like cows. Everybody likes cows.)
Feeling twenty kinds of stupid, Ray goes over to the Consulate. Turnbull welcomes him to Canada and offers him a cheese Danish ("Made with real Wisconsin cream cheese, Detective!") and Ray says thanks, but no thanks, and is Fraser around?
But, no. Sadly, because Turnbull is always sad to disappoint anyone, he tells Ray that Fraser is on an errand for Inspector Stick-up-the-ass. Ray doesn't know what else to do but leave the wrapped cow on Fraser's desk and head back to the 2-7.
The phone rings about an hour later.
"Ah, Ray?"
"Oh, hey, Fraser. Did you get the cow?"
"Yes. It's very...decorative. Thank you." Fraser sounds confused, like someone put a gerbil in his pemmican pouch.
"Yeah, I know you like milk in your tea, so there ya go." If Ray's head weren't already sore, he'd be pulling his hair out. "Too bad they didn't have any shaped like turtles."
Fraser's voice warms up a little. "Yes. Squiggy would've enjoyed that."
"Or maybe he'd get all doughy-eyed and fall for the creamer, and then we'd have a tragedy on our hands."
"Ah. I can see how that would be a problem."
Oops. Arctic-ville again. (Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.)
It's times like this when Ray wishes he had a different brain. The smart kind that knows what to say and how to say it in a totally smooth way. A Cary Grant brain. Only, Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, not Arsenic and Old Lace where he runs around like a stupid man.
"Are you busy tonight, Fraser?"
"No. I don't have any plans." Hopeful-sounding.
"Great. Wanna do something?" Like come over and let me yank you out of that uniform?
"What did you have in mind?"
"Pizza. Hockey. Beerski."
"That sounds appealing. But I'm afraid I have to go now, Ray. The Belgian Saxhorn Reserve Corps from Geraardsbergen is in town attending a Flügelhorn Festival. I'm nervous about leaving them alone with Turnbull for too long. He has a tendency to be overenthusiastic about brass."
Ray rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right. Tonight, then. I'll pick you up around six?"
So all is not totally hopeless and ker-fucked, because Fraser is coming over, and Ray knows if he can just get him stripped and on his bed, any misunderstandings will get cleared right up. Sex was always his in with Stella. Even when he'd screwed everything else up and couldn't seem to say a single right thing, he could still make her come like banshees.
And seeing Fraser last night, so helplessly loving it, taking it, shaking all over—well. Ray figures Fraser won't be averse to a replay. A do-over.
Only, this time Ray wants Fraser to do him over.
At six on the dot he pulls up in front of the Consulate. But Fraser is having a very tense-looking discussion with a tuba player and waves him over to the sitting room.
Turnbull is there, looking glum. He's holding a rag and a can of brass polish. Ray doesn't want to get into it with him, because generally talking to Turnbull is like walking backward through a mirror maze. Blindfolded. And wearing mukluks.
Ray turns on the television. It's tuned to the gardening channel, and the remote is broken (of course) so Ray has to watch some hippie broad talk about the proper way to plant herb rows. Meanwhile, every eighteen seconds or so Turnbull heaves out this huge sigh, like an inner tube collapsing. Repeatedly. With an occasional half-sob.
When Fraser finally ducks his head in, Ray is ready to chew through the cable insulation.
They hit the road. "See, here's the thing," Ray says. "The thing is, what I do for you, Fraser, is I forgive you when you make me sit around watching parsley grow and listening to Turnbull cry like my mother going through menopause. That's what I do for you."
"And I thank you for it," Fraser says mildly.
"And I buy you cows, and take you places, and drive motorcycles through windows when you're so stupid you get kidnapped by jewel thieves—stuff like that."
"Yes, you are extraordinarily accommodating, Ray. I believe I've said so from time to time." Now Fraser sounds confused. And a tiny bit p.o.'d. Ray glances over and, sure enough, the space between his eyebrows is all crinkly with that off-kilter v-shape.
"So," Ray says quickly, "you should maybe have a little patience with me if I screw up every so often. Or even all the time. Okay? Because that's buddies."
There's a moment of really messy silence—messy, because Ray can hear the confusion as Fraser's brain tries to crunch the numbers before it gives up and his eyes blink error, error.
"Ray, I'm afraid I don't understand—"
"Yeah, I know," Ray says, throwing up his hands. He brings Fraser back to his place, and after pizza (Ray springs) he takes Fraser to bed and gets him to fuck him. But even though it's hot as anything (God, Fraser's hips move so good, twisting in that perfect rhythm, you'd think the guy should be able to dance a little) and Ray shudders and jerks and comes all over his chest just from the grind of that terrific, thick cock, Fraser is weird afterward and falls asleep on his back, his hands clasped together on his stomach.
So, Ray is obviously totally hosed.
Presents are no good. Fucking is good, but no good. Ray starts having really girly thoughts about getting his hair done (Fraser likes it. He touches it so softly with just the palm of his hand when he thinks Ray is too blissed-out to notice) but that is the path to Satan, because it's a short road from there to doing Cosmo quizzes ("Does Your Mountie Think You're Hot in Bed?") and maybe asking Frannie for advice.
So—no.
At the rate he's pulling his hair out, getting a good bleach and cut won't even be an option.
But it's stupid, anyway, because Fraser has told him he likes the way he looks. He's tucked his nose into Ray's pit and actually inhaled, so he likes the way Ray smells, too. And Ray won't even mention the tongue action. If there's a part of his body Fraser doesn't enjoy licking the hell out of, well, Ray just hasn't grown it yet.
Ray tries other stuff. He lets Fraser drag him to the sushi place where they eat disgusting, pale, squirmy things for lunch. He tries to drive a little bit less like a complete maniac so Fraser doesn't have to clutch the seat so hard all the time. Ray even doesn't yell at Fraser when he jumps into the middle of a gang war ("Gentlemen, if you could please lower your—" Bang! Bangbangbang!) and if that's not love, Ray doesn't know what is.
But Fraser just seems to get more stiff and sad and Mountie-ish and less like he even wants to be around Ray.
Except at night. They still fuck like rabbits every night (like big, sweaty, ass-fucking rabbits) so that part's okay. Well, more than okay, really. Fraser can't get enough of Ray's cock. Since Ray has the same feelings about Fraser's, some nights they end up doing double damage on Ray's big bed.
So—more than okay. Ray thinks if it weren't for the sex thing they wouldn't even be in a relationship. Which is a strange thing for Ray to think about, anyway, but he goes overboard on the sex as a result, and the two of them start to look a little worn around the edges.
Ray is miserable. Fraser is...well, he doesn't look miserable, but his Inuit Story Index has dropped to like one a day, and even the wolf is hanging his head.
They might've gone on like that for a lot longer, but then Fraser, sounding anxious, calls him up.
"Ray, if you could assist me—I'm afraid we're in a bit of a pickle here."
Fraser's definition of a pickle apparently stretches to include the Ice Queen and Turnbull being held hostage by an incensed Belgian cornet player. Fraser says he's waving a gun in one hand, his instrument in the other, and Fraser doesn't want to call the cops in for real because it could cause an International Incident. Fraser seems to think he's caused enough of those.
So, Ray speeds over there, and apparently that was all Fraser was waiting for to do something incredibly stupid, because he approaches the guy with his hands in the air and offers himself as a substitute hostage ("She is my superior officer, Mister Vandenbussche") and the guy looks totally deranged, his hair out sideways and this wild, glassy look in his eyes, which Fraser said was caused by an accidental overdose of brass polish. And Ray can see that Vandenbussche is sincerely on edge there, because he starts to threaten to bash Turnbull's head in, and Turnbull screams like a girl, and the Inspector doesn't, instead she gives Fraser this look, and Ray is already moving as Thatcher frees herself and Fraser leaps and (Crunch! Bang! Whimper!) everyone lands in a squirming heap on the floor and Fraser is shot.
Just a little. Just enough for Ray to completely lose his shit all over him, yelling at Fraser while he hauls Mr. Vandenbussche up by the cuffs and Fraser clutches his arm wound looking, for chrissake, like someone just handed him a box of chocolate-covered cherries. He's smiling, and his face is all flushed. He hasn't looked this happy in weeks, and it really pisses Ray off.
Ray takes everybody down to the station to write up a totally embarrassing report. Vandenbussche won't stop weeping because his cornet was crushed in the Incident, Turnbull is apologizing to everyone like crazy, and Fraser still looks happy.
Afterward, Ray takes Fraser to his apartment and sticks him on the couch and makes him take off his jacket so he can look at the bullet burn. It's not that bad, but Ray is furious and can't help muttering ugly things about stupid Mounties who seem to enjoy getting shot and what's that all about?
"I assure you, Ray, I don't enjoy being shot." But the bastard is grinning again.
"Tell me another one. You got shot, and now you're grinning like a maniac. It's not a tough equation, Fraser."
"You're yelling at me," Fraser says.
"Yeah? Let me tell you something, buddy—you deserved it, okay?" Ray finishes wrapping up Fraser's arm and then gives him a little shake.
Fraser's grin gets wider.
"Stop that! Stop it with the smiling, you freak!"
"Ray! Ray. I'm happy you're yelling at me. You never do anymore."
Ray can't believe it. He jumps up and starts stomping the rug. Fraser stands and raises one hand, but Ray waves him off. "That's supposed to be good, Fraser. Okay? Not yelling is a good thing."
"Not with you. Not with us."
"That's total bullshit!" Oh, Ray is pissed now, and clomps around to face Fraser and grab him by the shoulders, ignoring Fraser's little wince, because it just makes him more angry (because Fraser got shot. Again. Big, dumb Mountie.) "I don't want to yell, stupid! You're not supposed to yell at the person you love!"
Only, it maybe would be a more convincing argument if he didn't shout it into Fraser's face, every word of it, shaking Fraser the whole time.
Fraser bursts out laughing.
Ray's mouth makes a sound, kind of like "ArrunnnGAH!" and he's about to punch Fraser in the head, only Fraser grabs him and kisses him smack on the lips, still laughing a little so he's puffing air against Ray's mouth.
"Me, too, Ray," Fraser says between kisses. "Love...Ray...you...nmmm."
So, that's cool. Ray gets more kisses, hotter and hotter kisses until he can't stand it anymore and hauls Fraser over to the bedroom.
"I fucking love you, you asshole," Ray says as he yanks Fraser out of his uniform. Fraser just lies there, this totally goofy expression on his face. "I fucking mean it," Ray growls.
"That's...fucking...terrific, Ray," Fraser garbles out. Which just makes Ray so hot he has to flip Fraser over and have at him, tongue first, licking that sweet ass until Fraser can't do words anymore, can only claw at the mattress and make begging sounds.
Then Ray fucks him.
And then they eat pizza.
So, it turns out Ray knew how to keep Fraser all along, he just didn't know he knew. You know? Because after that, things are pretty damned good. Everything goes totally back to normal (for them.) Fraser gets in trouble. Ray yells at Fraser. Fraser apologizes by demonstrating how agile his tongue is (Olympic-class, free-style) and Ray yells for a different reason.
And they give the cow creamer to Squiggy.
.....................
2007.07.08
(This story is a sequel to One Small Thing)
no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 10:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-09 04:28 am (UTC)Thank you for reading.