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excuse me if i may be staring
for brooklinegirl
Author's Notes: Thanks to justbreathe80 for a magnificent whirlwind beta, to riverlight for cheerleading and commiserating, and to shoemaster for reading it through and listening to me whine. You three are the rockingest of all rockstars.
i. ray kowalski
It starts out innocently enough. Fraser comes down from north nowhere for the weekend, giving evidence about this and testifying to that, dealing with loose ends from when he lived in Chicago. That's the official story, at least. Mostly, he spends his days at the 2-7, pitching in and helping out and telling Inuit stories at the drop of a hat. Which makes sense, really, since Fraser probably doesn't get much of a chance to tell his Inuit stories when he's hanging out with actual Inuit.
He crashes on Ray's couch, since apparently his old office has been taken over by someone who objects to other people sleeping there. Which is fine - the couch is comfy, and probably more than that to a guy who regularly sleeps on the ground - only kind of a pain, too, since it means no having sex with Vecchio for the next two weeks, and sex with Vecchio has become one of Ray's very favorite things over the past couple of months.
Still, friends are friends, and Fraser is Fraser, so it's all cool, right up until it isn't anymore.
See, Ray goes to the break room, grabbing coffee for him and Vecchio, who's back at the desk with Fraser, trying to figure out how Wallace Morton, age twenty-three and a half, got a grand piano out of a ritzy apartment without being seen. When he gets back, they're arguing, of course; Vecchio just because he likes it, and Fraser because he's stubborn as hell once you get him started. Back and forth they go, like some kind of comedy routine without the funny, egging each other on with these ridiculous lines.
"Jesus Christ, you two!" Jane Donald - filling in until Welsh could get a full time replacement for Huey and Dewey - has a hell of a temper. "Would you get a room already?"
"Well, we would, Janey," Vecchio snaps, "only I think Kowalski would get lonely." He smirks, and then ducks in a hurry when Donald throws a paperweight at him. Fraser fields it, neat as anything, and Vecchio makes some dumb crack about throwing like a girl, and then Welsh comes out to glare them all back into silence.
Ray stays where he is, just inside the doorway, a cup of coffee in each hand, and watches them, smirking. Vecchio and Fraser are bent over Ray's desk - always his desk, and Fraser maybe has an excuse, being from out of town, but Vecchio has a desk of his very own, on the other side of the room - over his desk, and they're - they're -
- they're fucking, slow and easy, Fraser's hand on Vecchio's hip, his mouth on the hotspot just under Vecchio's left ear, teeth digging in just enough, pressing himself deeper and deeper, and Vecchio's just lying there, his hands crumpled in the maps of the third and fourth floors, bracing himself and meeting Fraser thrust for thrust, muttering threats and encouragement and things that aren't actually words at all, just a series of grunts and moans strung together -
"Nah, Fraser, not there - on the fire escape, see?"
And, okay, no. Ray shakes his head, blinks twice, and the world goes back to normal: Fraser and Vecchio are looking at the floor plans for the building that's been robbed, arguing about how the perp could have gotten the damn piano out. While Ray's still trying to get his head back on straight, Vecchio looks up at him and shoots him a look that's a grin and a glare all at once.
"You gonna stand there all day, Kowalski?" he asks, and Ray rolls his eyes and brings the coffee over and explains to Vecchio in very small words that there is no way the guy could have gotten away over the fire escape.
And that's weird - that's plenty weird, that is whole universes of weird, right there at Ray's desk - but it just gets weirder as the day goes on. When Fraser and Vecchio start arguing about the getaway car (Fraser says for sure it was a 1992 Honda Civic; Vecchio says there's no way to know that, and also no way it was a Honda), there's a moment when Ray thinks for sure they're going to kiss. They're faced off over the desk, almost nose-to-nose, and when Vecchio raises his hand, Ray can see it, can just see the way his hand would wrap around the back of Fraser's neck, the way Vecchio would drag Fraser forward and hold him there, kissing him slow and wet and nasty, lots of tongue.
Or in the car, on the way over to look at the damn crime scene. Ray's driving, since it's his car, and Vecchio and Fraser are in the back, since neither of them can ever agree on who gets the front seat. Every time Ray glances back to say something, he's sure he'll see Fraser's hand on Vecchio's shoulder, pinning him against the seat as Fraser bites at his neck, just below the collar of his shirt. Vecchio would moan and twist, gritting his teeth, but then he'd just relax, melt into the seat, let Fraser do whatever he wanted.
And every time they stop talking, Ray starts imagining blowjobs: Vecchio blowing Fraser, wet and dirty, pinning his hips the way he always does to Ray, holding Fraser steady - or maybe Fraser blowing Vecchio, tentative and focused, and Vecchio trying hard not to twitch or scare him off.
It's a long drive, and by the time they got there, Ray is almost crazy enough to believe that Wallace Morton carried a piano along the fire escape.
The crime scene is just the same: everywhere he looks, Ray sees another place for Vecchio and Fraser to have sex (on the couch, in front of the couch, over the back of the couch, against the wall, in the enormous armchair, and that's just the living room). Every time they look at each other, he could swear they're about ten seconds away from ducking into a closet and coming out sweaty and rumpled.
They won't, of course - Ray knows himself, knows them, well enough to be sure that they wouldn't ever do that to him. It's just some weird thing that his mind's doing to him, some accidental Porno-vision daydream, a screensaver on his brain, giving him images of Fraser and Vecchio going at it like bunnies every time he runs out of things to think about. It happens, sometimes - when Ray gets tired, his brain fixates on some seriously crazy shit.
Except that - except that no, not really, it's more than just that. Fraser and Vecchio would be hot together, for one; imagining Vecchio's hands on Fraser's face, his cock in Fraser's mouth, makes Ray want to stick his head in the freezer just to cool down a little.
Over dinner, though, he figures out the rest of it: Vecchio and Fraser are close, close in a way that has nothing to do with hands and dicks and bodies and everything to do with love and trust and partnership, with being so close to someone that you know what they're going to say before they even get there to say it. They're a duet, playing off each other, back and forth, sharing history and stories and the solid, steady weight of friendship.
They sit at the table in Ray's apartment, eating dinner, telling stories from way back when, and Ray has to grab on to the edge of the table to keep from getting up and doing something stupid. Even when Vecchio looks at Ray, he's still talking about Fraser, talking about him and Fraser, this indestructible team. And Fraser - Fraser looks at Vecchio, and then over at Ray, and he blushes, little spots of color high on his face.
Ray tries not to wonder if Vecchio's giving him a handjob under the table, and then gives up. He's screwed, doomed, fucked; he's going to die, probably sometime soon, thinking about his best friend's hand wrapped around his boyfriend's cock.
Although - well, really, when you say it like that? It doesn't sound like such a bad way to go.
*
ii. ray vecchio
They finish dinner, and Fraser steps into the kitchen, "just to tidy up, Ray, Ray." It won't be just a moment, of course; Fraser's got some mystical compulsion against leaving dirty dishes in the sink, so he'll wash them all, and probably dry and stack them, too, "just to be polite." That's fine, though, because Ray can't take it a single minute more. He steps forward, around the table, and grabs Kowalski by the shoulder, spinning him around and backing him up against the table.
"Hey, Vecchio," Kowalski says, cool as anything even with his dick pressing up against Ray's leg, "what's up?" Ray doesn't listen, though, just holds Kowalski steady with one hand on the back of his neck, one hand on his hip, and kisses him hard and fast. Kowalski falls right into it, of course, and soon he's the one in charge, pushing Ray over to the couch and landing on top of him, one hand already reaching for the front of Ray's pants.
Ray's just starting to get really into it - one hand on the back of Kowalski's head, where the hair is short and extra-spiky, and the other hand sliding down over his ass, pulling him closer - when Fraser comes back in, jacket off, sleeves rolled back, hair a little mussed. He looks messy and tired and real; he looks good enough to eat.
"Hello, Ray, Ray," he says, nodding at each of them in turn, like it's totally normal for them to be making out like horny teenagers on the couch. Which, fine, it actually kind of is, but there's no way Fraser knows that, which means he's got no right to look so calm.
"Hey, Fraser," Kowalski says, grinning with his mouth against Ray's pulse. "What's up?" He doesn't wait for an answer, though, like always; instead, he rolls off the couch and stalks towards Fraser, slow and lazy and dangerous. Ray props himself up on one elbow and watches, mouth dry, cock wet.
Kowalski moves forward, and Fraser steps back, keeping appropriate distance, until they're up against the wall, no place left to go. Fraser's stiff and straight, all that proper Mountie composure holding him in place, too polite to shove Kowalski away, too polite to relax into the situation. He swallows twice, hard; cracks his neck and pulls at his collar. He's uncomfortable, but he's playing this out, seeing where it goes.
Kowalski either doesn't notice that Fraser's uncomfortable or just doesn't care. Either way, he gets right up in Fraser's space, sharing his air and staring him in the face.
"You want this, Frase?" Kowalski's using his sex voice, the one that's hoarse and aching and makes it sound like he's been blowing someone in a dirty alley, the one that would be guaranteed to get Ray going if he weren't more than halfway there already, and Fraser shakes, this full-body tremor that ends with him pressed even tighter against the wall.
"Yes, Ray," he says, shaky but certain, and Kowalski smiles, nods, leans in and kisses him. Ray can see every detail of it: Kowalski's tongue at the corner of Fraser's mouth, his hands in Fraser's hair, the tension in his back, and then - Jesus God - the slow dirty flash of tongue and teeth as Fraser gradually takes control of the kiss.
Because maybe Kowalski was in control, but he sure isn't any more. Fraser's buttoned up, sure, but he's also focused, intent. Once he starts something - or, no, once Kowalski makes him start something - he's thorough and careful and, god, properly prepared. As Ray watches, he takes Kowalski apart, piece by careful piece, moving his hands here and his mouth there until Kowalski's limp and boneless in his arms, all worn-out, blissed-out, fucked-out.
They wind up back-to-front, Kowalski leaning back against Fraser leaning back against the wall. Fraser's got one arm around Kowalski's hips, holding him still and steady, and the other hand in Kowalski's pants, jerking him off slow and steady. Kowalski's head is rolling back against Fraser's shoulder, his mouth open and his eyes shut, pushing his hips into Fraser's hand, and -
- and Ray comes, his face buried in the pillow, hand wrapped around his own dick.
For a few minutes, he just stays there, breathing hard, feeling the spreading wet between his body and the bed. After a minute, though, he flips over and stares at the ceiling, thinking. He's just had a wet dream, at the age of almost forty. And not just that - a wet dream about Kowalski, about Fraser and Kowalski, his best friend and his - his boyfriend, of all stupid words.
Ray Vecchio is, without question or doubt, a sick freak.
The feeling stays with him, too, shame and guilt and embarrassment all together. It's there during breakfast, when he tells his mother he's not going to be home for dinner, and on the drive to work, and at the 2-7, where they find out that their piano-stealing perp has a sideline in tubas and euphoniums and the occasional cello.
He spends the whole day staring at Fraser and Kowalski, watching the way they interact and getting gradually edgier. They're always in each other's space, for one thing, leaning over each other to look at that, pressing up against each other to mention that, arms around each other in sheer exuberant glee when something goes right. And that could be nothing - after all, Kowalski's a pretty up-close-and-personal guy, as Ray knows from first-hand experience - only it's not, because Fraser gets in Kowalski's space just as much as Kowalski gets in his. They're always near each other, joined at the hip or the hand or the shoulder like twins, like magnets.
Around eleven, Ray can't take it any more, and goes to grab a coffee; Kowalski comes with him, and before he knows it, they're in the supply closet, nose-to-nose and glaring at each other in shitty lighting.
"What the hell is up with you, Vecchio?" Kowalski asks, bracketing Ray against the shelves with his arms. "You got some kind of a problem today? A skin condition? A rash? Vecchio, do you have a rash?" Ray sighs, and swallows, and then makes a break for the door, but Kowalski's there before him, blocking the way, asking again: "What? What? Vecchio, what?"
"I dreamed about you two fucking last night, Kowalski," he says finally, shaking his way free of the arms. "You and Fraser. Is that what you wanted to know?" He's got one hand on the doorknob, and he turns back, ready for the shock, the disgust, the what kind of a sick freak are you, Vecchio?
But Kowalski doesn't do any of those things. Instead, he blushes, dark enough and fast enough that Ray can see it without opening the door. Which, hey: so maybe Ray isn't the only sick, twisted freak around here.
And maybe that's a good thing.
*
iii. benton fraser
Benton Fraser is dreaming, and well aware of the fact.
In his dream, he finds himself back at the table in Ray's apartment, watching the two of them avoid each other's eyes.
It's very clear to him that his Rays have changed the nature of their relationship, since he was last in Chicago; equally clear that they are trying, out of courtesy to him, to be circumspect.
They converse easily and fluently, reading each other with all the unthinking comfort of friends, partners, lovers. Ray Vecchio picks up on all of Ray Kowalski's cues, taking the half-formed sentences Ray tosses out between bites of lasagna and transmuting them into sensible, insightful commentary on Mr. Morton's motivations for stealing large musical instruments. In return, Ray Kowalski remembers things about Ray Vecchio, slivers and snippets of information, and spreads them out as the dinner progresses - exactly the right amount of wine, here, and a refill before Ray asks for it; seconds of lasagna but no extra sauce, a glass of water when the wine is gone.
And all of this with less eye contact than even good friends would make. They're trying to hide it, but the awareness - of each other, of the connections between them - shines through.
The secrecy is hardly necessary, of course; it's obvious that they are good to and for each other, and Benton is, first and foremost, glad to seem them happy.
Still, he can't help being fascinated. They - both of them - have been a large part of his history, are still such key factors in his outlook, his life; he wants to know as much about them as he can.
They are, viewed objectively, both extremely interesting men - is it so wrong, then, that he should be interested?
He watches them edge around each other, and in the dream, because it is a dream, he clears his throat, waits for them to face him, and smiles at the expressions on their faces: embarrassment on Ray Vecchio's, defiance on Ray Kowalski's, apology from them both.
"You needn't stop on my account," he says, and they glance at each other, eyebrows raised, for a long moment. Finally, Ray Vecchio sighs, and Ray Kowalski grins, sharp and brilliant and - Benton blinks twice, feeling the slow twist of arousal - surprisingly sexual.
"Sure thing, Frase," he says. "You don't need to tell me twice." And with that, he leans over and plants a kiss squarely on Ray Vecchio's mouth, holding himself steady with his hands on Ray's shoulders. Ray resists for a moment, but then he relaxes into the kiss, bringing his arms up to hold Ray close.
It's not real, of course; the dream is fuzzy at the edges, sloppy and incoherent in places. Still, it rings true: this is what they're hiding from him, what they're trying not to show. It's unexpected, of course, but the more he watches, the more Benton can see why it makes sense, why it's right and true and fitting. Ray and Ray work well together, rough edges lending traction, the endless back-and-forth of insults just another way of encoding affection and appreciation. They have their history, just as he has his with each of them, and they fit well together. They're a team, and they work very well together, and Benton is glad to see it.
They are two of the best people he knows; he couldn't want more for them than each other.
A dream is not reality, though, and Benton does not expect to see in the waking world what he is watching, here: the slow slide of Ray's hands through Ray's hair, the openmouthed kisses Ray presses just under Ray's ear. It's a shame, really.
Not that he wants to invade their privacy, of course, but - he watches Ray's hand on the button of Ray's trousers, watches the way Ray slumps against him in response - he does wish they were comfortable enough to be honest with him.
This is what Benton tells himself, but then Ray drops to his knees. Above him, Ray moans, and it's entirely possible that Benton does as well. Ray runs his hands through Ray's hair, drawing it up in blond tufts, and Ray moans, the sound muffled by - well, Benton can't see, but he can certainly imagine -
- and then he can see, because this is a dream, his dream, and he can see whatever his imagination will present, here. The room wavers around him, and when it reshapes itself, he is standing next to them, one arm around Ray Vecchio's shoulders, watching Ray Kowalski's mouth, wet and surprisingly red, as he sucks Ray's cock.
"You okay, Benny?" It takes Benton a while to recognize the voice, a while longer to tear his attention away from Ray's mouth on Ray's cock. Ray's smiling at him, tolerant and amused; Benton tries to formulate some sort of answer, but gives up when Ray leans forward the extra five centimeters necessary to kiss him. Below them, Ray makes a small noise, rubbing a hand against Benton's hip.
Impossible, now, to pretend - if only to himself - that he doesn't want this, that the thought of Ray and Ray together doesn't excite him, that his interest in their relationship is purely platonic. He wants this, wants them, with an intensity that startles him, sudden and greedy. He wants everything they have, wants to give them everything that is his, and he wants it now, now, now.
Ray pulls his mouth away from Benton's and moans, softly, panting against his shoulder. Benton pats him on the shoulder and looks downward, investigating; sure enough, Ray has pulled back as well, and is wiping his mouth against the back of his hand. Benton smiles at him, and Ray stands up, leaning in to offer a quick, bitter kiss.
"All you had to do was ask, Frase," he says, wrapping his far arm around Ray's body and pulling him close, making a triangle of their bodies, warm and close. "All you ever have to do is ask."
Which is - an interesting thought, truly, and one that will deserve further consideration in the morning.
Benton's Rays are kind men, after all. Perhaps he can persuade them to share.
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