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Watching the Detectives
for Tara Keezer
Author's Notes: Great and MEANINGFUL thanks to Brynn and to Kristi, neither of whom allowed me to shirk this little thing called MOTIVATION. You guys are both awesome for looking this over for me, and you both made it MUCH better than it previously was. *smooches*
Extra special thanks to LIZ, for doing a final, complete beta at the end, after many rewrites, and for helping me find Dief. *loves*
The funniest thing about it is that Ray Kowalski himself would be the first to admit that he wasn't the guy to notice things, usually. Not that he was dumb or anything - just distracted, usually, and going too fast sometimes to catch all the details. In his own life, at least. At work, he was good - even great sometimes, if he did say so himself. He was a decorated police officer, and you didn't get that by overlooking the details. Detective work was the details, and Ray - well, Ray was good at that.
So he did things like getting the occasional medal, and regular promotions, and a decent amount of recognition on the force. Of course, he did all that while not really noticing all the - yeah - details that slowly but steadily added up to the complete disintegration of his marriage. He still remembered how it felt, after Stella really and truly kicked him out for good. That shocked, hollow feeling that he had lost something that he could have held onto, if only he had known enough to look for the goddamn details.
They sent you to school to be a detective. To get married, though? Nah, they just threw you in and let you sink or swim. And Ray Kowalski sank.
Which is kind of what made it doubly funny that he was the one to have noticed this. Because Vecchio - well, Vecchio, however much it pained Ray to admit it, Vecchio was a pretty sharp guy. Ray didn't chalk it up to any natural talent on Vecchio's part - he personally figured that you partner up with Fraser long enough, you got sharp, or you died jumping off a building. Vecchio had partnered with Fraser for a good long time, and then he'd used that Fraser-given talent and rolled it over into surviving for a hell of a lot longer than Ray would have bet he would, undercover as a Vegas mob boss. You add all that up, and you have yourself, yeah, a pretty sharp guy.
As for Benton Fraser himself? You couldn't find a sharper tool in the shed, and the man would tell you that himself - only he, you know, couldn't, because it wouldn't be polite. He'd just telegraph it at you with long looks of despair, like you were missing something that was right in front of your face even though the thing you were missing was, like, how the square root of 482 equaled the length of the roof plus the space between the buildings which meant something really important, only you were missing it because you were eyeing how far it was to the ground instead of how far it was across.
That was how Fraser let you know that he was about a million times smarter than you: long sad looks and soft sighs and pretty much just running ahead of you and hoping that somehow you'd find the smarts to catch up.
It got annoying until you figured out how it worked.
This time around, though, Ray was the one who noticed. And he was the only one who noticed anything for a good long time, until it was far past annoying and starting to edge into downright frustrating.
Here was the background, which Ray pretty much thought anyone with two eyes and a working brain could understand: Ray came back down to Chicago after their adventure in the great white north, because the great white north was too freaking cold even for a Chicago guy like him. (Too cold, too empty, too quiet. Fraser was there, sure, and Fraser was great, he really was, but Fraser was one guy and Canada was a big goddamn freaking country. He could only fill up so much of it, no matter how hard he tried.)
So Ray came back to Chicago. And it shocked the hell out of him when Fraser followed him down again six months after that. (That, for those of you following along at home, was what Ray liked to call Clue Number One.) By that time, Ray was back on the job at the 2-7, and his ex-wife had already made Ray Vecchio her ex-husband (something which Ray was trying not to be smug about, though truth be told, he wasn't exactly trying very hard) and sent him back home from Florida, at which point what did Welsh do but make Ray's ex-wife's ex-husband Ray's new partner.
From which Ray could only conclude (being a detective and all and trained to work these things out) that Welsh was one vindictive bastard.
The weird thing was that Ray and Vecchio made kind of a hell of a team. Their solve rate went up, and up, and Welsh walked around looking less pissed off than normal, and Ray didn't actually mind having Vecchio around to argue with - he actually found it almost as satisfying as arguing with Fraser.
(That was Clue Number Two.)
And all of a sudden, Chicago, where Ray came back to when Canada seemed way too big and way too empty, was feeling a little bit crowded, what with the three of them back here, and Fraser with not a whole lot to do over at the Consulate. (There was a new guy, name of Rathburn, running it, who seemed very bewildered by the appearance of Fraser, bound and determined to get his old position back. Rathburn did not even begin to have the means to argue with Fraser when he was that determined and so Fraser had a position there again. The new guy seemed to be sticking with the plan of tentatively suggesting tasks to Fraser, who would finish things in hours that should have taken him days, and then show up back at Rathburn's office, eagerly requesting more work. More often than not, Rathburn looked downright relieved when Ray showed up to take Fraser off his hands.)
But that wasn't bad. This wasn't bad. The three of them working together? Their solve rate skyrocketed. Welsh had a tendency to look dubious rather than pleased whenever Frannie sent yet another solved case file from them across his desk to be signed, but still. Things were pretty good.
Only - and here was where it got a little hinky - the three of them had this bizarre history that sort of seemed to exclude, oh, everybody else in the world. Which meant that they not only worked together (kicking ass, Ray might add), but their social lives had pretty much narrowed to just the three of them. Now, god knew that Benton Fraser didn't date, and hell, Vecchio lived with his mom and his pregnant sister, still, which wasn't really what anyone could call a selling point with the ladies, but Ray himself hadn't had a date in - he didn't want to even think too close on how long. It was just depressing.
Or should have been. Really should have been. The thing was, though, pizza and beers with Vecchio and Fraser was more fun than anything else lately. Fraser had his own place, and kept it way more clean than Ray kept his, so the three of them spent a lot of time there, and it was good. Easy, and simple, and comfortable, and hey, who was he to argue about that?
(Clue Number Three, something in the back of his brain started muttering at him.)
His life itself was pretty goddamn satisfying, he had to admit. Dinner with the Vecchios, where Vecchio's mom would cook these feasts that were to die for, and send both him and Fraser home with enough leftovers to feed them for a week. Or, some nights, dinner at Fraser's, with Fraser studiously cooking both him and Vecchio good, solid, hefty meals. He'd tell them stories about caribou and dogsleds while they ate, and Ray would make faces at Vecchio, while Vecchio looked down at his plate, trying not to laugh. Dief would park himself under the table between Vecchio and Ray, waiting impatiently for the food he knew they would slip down to him. Nights like those were pretty fun.
(Clue Number Three, his brain was pushing more insistently at him.)
It almost didn't matter that the only, you know, personal company Ray was getting was between himself and his right hand three or four or, hell, sometimes six times a week when things were pretty bad. He figured you just got used to that after a while and anyway, he didn't really have time for dating, so what was the big deal? He was good. It was fine.
And he really did almost believe that, he truly did. Right up until that one night when he and Fraser were sitting on the couch together, leaning forward over Ray's coffee table, studying the layout to the warehouse where Fraser was almost entirely certain ("Ninety-eight point six percent certain, Ray, give or take a half percent.") Louie "The Loser" Giacommen was hiding out. Fraser was pointing to where they could go in ("The front door, Ray.") and Ray was arguing that plan ("Certain death, Fraser.") and Fraser was getting frustrated and did that thing where he pressed his lips together (to keep from calling Ray an asshole, Ray was pretty sure).
And Fraser looked over at Ray with this weird expression on his face, and then Fraser was kissing him - kissing him! On the lips! Like this was something they did! - and Ray was sitting there helplessly kissing him back and getting hard and Clue Number Three! his brain was saying triumphantly.
Fraser pulled back, but only barely, their lips still practically touching, and murmured, "It's the front door or through the skylight, Ray."
"Front door it is," Ray said dizzily, his eyes still closed, and he was leaning back in for another one of those mind-blowing kisses when there was a knock on the front door to his apartment - fuck! Vecchio. Coming to pick them up. Both Ray and Fraser jumped up and Ray grabbed his coat and flung open the door and said to Vecchio, standing there looking startled, "You got extra bullets? We're going in through the front door."
"Again?" Vecchio asked sadly, as Ray pushed past him.
Fraser said, solemnly, "It's the best way," and pulled the door to Ray's apartment shut behind him, pausing to make sure it latched.
And, of course, both Ray and Vecchio followed Fraser in through the front door to the warehouse. Because apparently, that's what they did.
The best, though - the very best thing in Ray Kowalski's completely upside down life - was the fact that that kiss on his couch was nowhere near as weird as two days later when Vecchio, right in the middle of what was shaping up to be a very satisfying argument between the two of them in the bullpen about why hockey sucked, grabbed his arm (right above the elbow, hard enough to hurt) and steered him into the supply closet.
"The fuck?" Ray got out just before Vecchio slammed the door, shoved Ray up against it without even bothering to turn on the light first, and was up against him with his whole body before he could say, "Clue Number Four." And Vecchio - man, Vecchio could kiss, which wasn't something Ray had ever really wondered about before, but Vecchio was sure as hell proving it to him now.
When Vecchio let him go, it was all of a sudden, and he pushed Ray out of the way hard, sending him stumbling into a set of shelves. Vecchio yanked open the closet door and he had the same startled look in the sudden light as Fraser had after he'd kissed Ray. He'd walked out fast and while things had been fine - really, they had been, which was maybe even more weird - between them since, he'd not said one word to Ray about it.
Neither had Fraser, about their kiss.
And neither of them had tried to kiss Ray again, or acted like they'd been thinking about it at all. Which was - fine, sure, only Ray hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. And however used to his right hand he was, the frantic, desperate jerking off wasn't doing thing one to take the edge off how very badly he wanted Fraser - or Vecchio - or someone - to be here doing this for him. Or to him. Or doing something else to him - something, anything, he didn't care what, so long as it got him off. Or got them off. Or -
Okay. Ray was maybe obsessing about this the tiniest bit but, fuck, could you blame him?
And you know, sure, he was a guy to go with the flow - whatever, everyone had a moment of weakness now and then. Ray had kissed people he hadn't really meant to before. Hell, Ray had gone down on people he hadn't really meant to. He wasn't a guy to judge. He was just going to let it go. Because things were good, with the three of them. Working together was good, socializing together was good, and if neither of them wanted to talk about it, well, Ray could be the bigger person here. Jerk off a little bit more than usual, maybe, but that was it. He'd be fine.
He would have been, too, only there was this tiny bit of tension there - not always, but sometimes. And it wasn't just between him and Vecchio, or even him and Fraser, though, yeah, that too. It was between Vecchio and Fraser, and wasn't that a kick in the pants. It wasn't the sort of "I know what you did, so which one of us gets Kowalski" tension either (though, okay, since he was being completely honest here, Ray had had a couple of fantasies of that nature, during his increasing number of jerk-off sessions. With Vecchio and Fraser fighting over him, and maybe getting dirty about it, both of them wanting him so badly they got into, say, a fistfight over it.
And how hot would that be? Because Ray knew from personal experience that, sure, Fraser could pack a punch, but Vecchio - man, Vecchio was a nasty fighter, and you didn't get out of that without some damage. You push Vecchio hard enough - and in Ray's particularly favorite fantasy, Vecchio was going all in in his bid to fight Fraser for Ray - and he would fight mean. Which meant blood and sweat and bruises and Vecchio and Fraser on each other on the floor, there, and - well. Ray never did figure out which of the two of them would win, seeing as how he generally came before the fantasy fistfight was over.)
But - deep breaths, go into it with a clear head - if you watched the details, here, the tension going on between Fraser and Vecchio was clearly something else entirely. It was - man, this was Clue Number Five, the big one, the one with the blinking stars around it in Ray's brain - it was that heat between them that was the exact same kind of heat Ray felt right before Vecchio dragged him into the supply closet, the exact same kind of heat that ran up his spine right before Fraser kissed him.
Fraser and Vecchio wanted each other. It was crystal-fucking-clear to Ray how bad they wanted each other. He was surprised there wasn't a pool about it going on in the bullpen - that was how obvious it was. Once he noticed it, it was pretty much there all the time. The first few days, he'd have this run of emotions through his gut every time he saw that heated glance between them - a giant cross between hot, sickening jealousy, intense confusion, mixed with a handful of fuck, how hot would that be, the two of them?
It took him a while. He'd be embarrassed to admit it, but you know, this wasn't the sort of thing that was ever covered in junior high health class or the academy.
Because - and fucking hell, was this complicated - it wasn't Fraser and Vecchio, and it wasn't Ray and Fraser, and it wasn't Ray and Vecchio. It was all three of them, mixed up and fucked up and all kinds of turned on in this totally bizarre, twisted thing, and there apparently wasn't anything any of them could do about it. Ray didn't get it, was the thing, didn't quite get where he fit in to all of this. If he was just the bridge between the two of them, that was one thing - a totally sucky thing, yeah, but something kind of manageable, something he could do something about.
But no, no way, he wasn't just a - whatchamacallit, a catalyst, the go-between. Not with the heat going on between him and Fraser - and him and Vecchio, for that matter. It was more complicated than that. It was kind of making him dizzy.
This was problematic, he thought again, eyeing Vecchio across the room, where he was eyeing Fraser across the room. Fraser, who was fixing the filing that Ray had just done (badly, he admitted), but who kept rubbing his thumb over his eyebrow and not looking up, not looking up, not looking up - oh, there he went, his eyes darting to Vecchio.
Who looked down at the report he was writing right away and pretended the tips of his ear weren't turning a shade of red Ray could see from his position outside Welsh's office.
He waited, while Fraser turned back to his filing, slid the drawer shut when he was done, and turned around, his eyes skating across the room until they - oh, yeah, there it was - met Ray's.
Heat. Fucking hell, there was heat between them. How the fuck hadn't he noticed that when he was freezing his balls off up in the wilds of Canada?
Ray, leaning against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and lifted his chin, meeting Fraser heat for heat, giving him as much as he could in that one look, and - when Fraser looked, for the merest second, fucking stunned - Ray gave him the slowest, dirtiest look he could manage.
Fraser's eyes went wider than he had ever seen them, and then Welsh's door slammed open behind Ray and both him and Fraser jumped practically out of their skin at the same time.
"Detective." Welsh greeted Ray with a nod.
Ray nodded back, trying for cool, trying for polite, trying like hell to ignore the fact that he was hard.
Welsh looked at him for a long moment while Ray waited, trying to look attentive.
"Are you bodyguarding me? Because I have to tell you," and here, Welsh made a long, slow scan of the bullpen. "I think I'm all set, here."
"Oh. Right." Ray nodded several times.
Welsh gave him a piercing look. "So if you want to go work, that wouldn't be a bad idea. At all."
"Right. Right."
Work. Right. That's what they did here. Not flirt. According to Vecchio or Fraser, at least. To Ray, it was a whole other story.
Ray was a detective. Ray studied clues. The little things. The details that other people missed, that laid the whole case wide open.
Like how Vecchio had taken, suddenly, to kissing him on the couch whenever Fraser left the room. Making out with him slow and steady (and holy god, Vecchio kissed with his whole body, set Ray on fire with it) until the bathroom door opening or the kitchen cabinet closing gave him the clue Fraser was heading back, and then Vecchio would pull back to his side of the couch, looking so relaxed and together that Ray would sometimes wonder if he was hallucinating things.
Or how, in the early mornings when Ray would pick Fraser up on his way to work, Fraser would slide in the car and keep sliding and suddenly his cold cold hands would be on Ray's cheeks, holding his face steady as he kissed him breathless, apparently oblivious to the rush hour traffic speeding by just outside Ray's window.
Fraser, to his credit, would look slightly flustered afterwards, like he didn't quite understand what had happened, and he'd usually murmur some sort of apology which Ray would wave away, because Fraser's tongue in your mouth early in the morning was far, far better than the best cup of coffee in the world.
So, okay, these weren't the subtlest clues in the world, but hell, Ray was the only one around here who was noticing them maybe. Because a lot of the time - a lot, call it eighty-five, ninety percent - things were absolutely normal. He and Vecchio would bicker, Fraser would break it up, nine times out of ten, Fraser would end up bickering with one or the both of them, and then they'd call it a draw and go out to lunch. Normal, you know?
But the other ten, fifteen percent of the time? Ray ended up feeling like his dick was a pulltoy, with both Vecchio and Fraser tugging at it. Figuratively, of course. (Of course.) He couldn't say he wasn't enjoying it - he was enjoying the hell out of it, because you had to be out of your mind not to enjoy Fraser pulling you behind a file cabinet and kissing you till you couldn't feel your hands, or Vecchio losing focus during a stake-out and making out with you so long and hot that the windows steamed up.
But enough was enough, and the way these two were going at it, no one - Ray Kowalski included - was ever going to get what they really wanted out of the situation.
So this one Saturday, right at the beginning of spring, when there was still a bite in the air, but odds were pretty good that the snow was done, Vecchio was feeling brave enough to take the Riv out of storage and get her tuned up for the spring. He'd asked Ray to help, and putting aside any ambivalent feelings he might have about Vecchio, Ray had absolutely none about the Riv - it was a beautiful fucking car.
Things were going well, and they'd finished changing the oil and were just about to get to work checking out the brakes when Vecchio - Vecchio, who was never messy, ever, but who had now stripped down to a sleeveless white t-shirt and, even though he'd been at work on the engine as much as Ray, had only a few streaks of grease on him. Ray's own hands were smeared with black, and his jeans were, too, where he'd wiped them off, and his t-shirt, which was old and ragged to begin with, was pretty much going to be a lost cause after this.
Vecchio - as messy as he ever got, and it shouldn't have been hot, but it was, it really was - was turning towards Ray, and Ray caught his breath at the look in Vecchio's eye. And then Vecchio was pressing up against him, right there against the lip of the car, out in Vecchio's driveway where God and everybody could see them if they looked around the hood. It didn't seem like Vecchio cared - he was kissing Ray fiercely, and his fingers were laced through Ray's belt loops, tugging at him in this insistent rhythm that had Ray hard so fast his head was spinning.
But - "Fuck, Vecchio, quit it." He shoved Vecchio away with both hands, leaving Vecchio looking shocked for an instant before he pulled himself together, wiping his already pristine hands off on his jeans and giving Ray a long, questioning look.
"Problem, Stanley?" he asked, and his voice was light, but Ray was a detective; Ray knew things.
"Hell, yeah, there's a problem here." Ray was still hard, still light-headed, panting angrily there in the bright early spring sunlight in the Vecchio's goddamn driveway. "And you know it."
"Why don't you tell me about it, Kowalski?" Now Vecchio's tone was flat, not yet angry, but getting there.
"You need me to tell you about it? Really?" Ray spun around, wanting to kick something, but the only thing there was that goddamn beautiful car, so he was left with all this energy with nothing to burn it on.
Vecchio was quiet behind him, so quiet he might as well be gone, which Ray half-hoped he was. But when Ray made himself take a deep breath, and unclench his fists, and turn around, Vecchio was still there. Still watching him.
Ray just looked at him.
"Never mind, Stanley," and now Vecchio was grim. "It has nothing to do with you."
"Are you kidding me?" Ray was - really and truly and deeply - incredulous. "Are you fucking kidding me? It has everything to do with me."
"Don't get your panties in a twist, sweetheart." Vecchio gave him a hard grin.
"You -" And here Ray was right up in Vecchio's face, was going to throttle him in about half a second, he really was. "You need to get it together. You need to figure this the fuck out."
Vecchio was leaning back on his heels, widening his eyes, his hands wide-open and up - I'm innocent, I tell you, innocent. Backing away when all Ray wanted - all Ray really fucking wanted - was for Vecchio to take a swing at him so Ray had the excuse to swing the fuck back.
But Vecchio was backing off, and Ray - fuck it, Ray was out of here. He stormed off to his car, and tore out of there, laying rubber as he went.
It sucked. He'd really been looking forward to finishing work on that engine. And half the fun was the cold beer afterwards.
This sucked.
He swore that he was going to give up, right then. Cold turkey, let it go, no more thinking about it or wondering about it or anything. He had a plan for when either of them tried something on him again, and the plan was - well, he wasn't entirely sure of the plan, but he was pretty sure the word no was going to feature in there somewhere.
But the next fucking night, they got stuck at the station house, working on two weeks' worth of back paperwork, while Fraser was at some reception at the Consulate. And because neither Ray or Vecchio were any good at typing, or, well, concentrating on any one thing for any length of time, it was taking them for-fucking-ever to get done. The precinct was practically empty this late - just a few guys from second shift over on the other side, Welsh still in his office, and Ray and Vecchio sitting across from each other, wearily typing away.
Ray wasn't even thinking about it - it wasn't even on his mind - he was just trying to spell "Giacommen" right after four tries and half a bottle of white-out - when suddenly, he was looking up at Vecchio and asking, "Listen, just - if you want to be kissing Fraser so much, why don't you just do it already?"
He heard the words coming out, and he was halfway shocked, halfway bracing himself for the punch he was sure was to come. Instead, Vecchio looked at him unblinking for a long handful of seconds, then shrugged, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck. "It's like this." He looked uncomfortable. "Benny and I were friends - we've been friends - for a hell of a long time. It's - Christ, it's a hard transition to make, you know?" Vecchio shook his head, a half-grin on his face, as Ray looked at him, stunned. He somehow hadn't ever actually expected an answer.
"And it's - I don't know." Vecchio started to push back from the desk, then dropped back down into his seat, rubbing his face tiredly. He didn't look at Ray as he said, "It's weird for me, all of this -" He waved one hand between the two of them, then around the bullpen, like he was trying to encompass this whole odd thing. "For me. You know?"
Ray just sort of stared at him. "How is it weird?" he asked finally.
Vecchio barked out a laugh. "Because I'm straight, Stanley," he said, dropping his voice on straight. "I always have been, and just - "
"Not always," Ray said, baffled, thinking of how hot Vecchio kissed him whenever he got a goddamn second to do so.
For a minute, it looked like Vecchio was going to come right across the desk at Ray, fists first. But then he just slouched down in his chair. "Yeah, okay," he admitted.
Vecchio seemed to be waiting for something - mockery, maybe, but Ray was too goddamn tired for that. He just nodded, waving at Vecchio to go on.
"All right." Vecchio nodded slowly. "So, whereas with you -" He stopped again, like he was gathering his thoughts. "With you, I got no history. So - you know, it's not as complicated."
Ray blinked at him, then put his head down on the desk. This wasn't fucked up. This was deranged. "What the fuck do you mean, no history?" he asked the desktop. "I was you, Vecchio."
Vecchio brushed that off real easy. "Not my history," he said. "That's all you, buddy."
Ray sat up. "Okay," he said tightly. "Okay, then, if I give you that - and it's a gift, Vecchio, just, FYI." He pointed across the desk at Vecchio, who held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I am giving you that, as a gift from me to you. But then tell me, what about Fraser, then, huh?"
Vecchio looked confused. "I told you. It's a transition, Stanley. Do you need me to use smaller words?"
"Not that," Ray shot back. "I mean, what about Fraser? Why is it okay for him to stick his tongue in my mouth? I don't think he's goddamn transitioning."
Vecchio blinked at him. "Wait." He leaned forward over the desk, his chair squeaking. "Wait. Fraser sticks his - Fraser kisses you?"
Ray was startled. "Well, yeah."
"Huh." Vecchio braced himself with his hands on the desk. "Huh."
Ray stared at him. "What?" he demanded, as Vecchio lowered himself back into his seat.
Vecchio waved him off. "Stanley, Benny's wanted to suck your cock since the first day he laid eyes on you," he said.
"I - what?" Ray sat back. Benny had - that is, Fraser had - wait, what?
Vecchio slowly focused in on him again. "You must be the only guy in the precinct who didn't know that."
"Shut up," Ray said distractedly. He had a sudden need to reevaluate two years of partnership. Fuck. Fuck.
"I was in Vegas and I knew that." Vecchio's eyes were twinkling.
"Shut up." Maybe Ray wasn't a very good detective.
"I just sort of thought Fraser was still holding out..." Vecchio was tapping his fingers thoughtfully.
"No," Ray said glumly. Two years. More, even. How had he missed it all that time?
"Since when?" Vecchio demanded suddenly.
"...since when what?" What else had Ray missed in two years? Jesus.
"Since when has Benny been - you know, putting the moves on you?" Vecchio was tapping his fingers on the desk, now.
"Since recently," Ray admitted.
"Huh." Vecchio leaned way back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. "Huh."
Ray, dejected, went to get more coffee. He was a lost cause at detecting, anyway. Clearly. Two years. That was just sad, that was.
Ray'd thought about trying to get through to Fraser next. He was really going to give it a shot, see if Fraser knew about this whole two years thing and was just as bad a detective as Ray. But when he got to Fraser's place before Vecchio on Friday night, and Fraser broke off making dinner to crowd Ray against the cabinets - what was with these guys and their need to pin him up against things, anyway? - and lick his way into his mouth, Ray - well, Ray didn't have the heart to stop him. When Fraser licked his way over to Ray's ear, catching the lobe between his teeth and biting down gently, all Ray could do was dig his fingers into Fraser's shoulders and groan up at the ceiling.
Fraser looked so flushed and pleased when he pulled away that Ray just gave the fuck up.
Vecchio came over not long afterwards, and they had what Ray had to admit was a pretty nice dinner together. Afterwards, on Fraser's couch - Ray's old couch, actually, which had been his and Stella's old couch way back when, which made it kind of weird, but also kind of comforting every time he saw it resting on the rag rug in Fraser's living room - the three of them sat together, Ray on the floor with his back against the couch, his beer on the coffee table in front of him.
Vecchio was on the couch, with Fraser on the other side, an empty cushion between them. Dief had sacked out on Fraser's bed directly after dinner. Fraser was flipping channels, and stopped on a special about Antarctic penguins which, after a few minutes, Ray had to admit was pretty interesting. The line of penguins had just done a bunch of belly-flops on the ice, right in a row, and Ray turned around to point out to Fraser that that was pretty much how he'd felt, camping in the Territories with him.
And Vecchio was making out with Fraser. Right there on the couch behind him. Vecchio was half on top of Fraser, as a matter of fact, right there on the couch behind him. And Fraser - Fraser wasn't pushing him away. As a matter of fact, Fraser was hanging onto him, dragging him closer, and fuck - fuck if that wasn't the hottest thing Ray had ever seen in his goddamn life. His jerk-off fantasies had never come even close to the Technicolor pornography happening right here.
But -
"Hey," he said, offended, pushing up onto his knees and turning around.
Neither of them looked up, and well, Ray in all honesty could hardly blame them. But - again -
"Hey," he said, louder this time. "I'm right here, you know."
Vecchio pulled back, finally, leaving Fraser flushed, panting, his hair a mess and his eyes glowing, there in the corner of the couch. "What, Stanley?" Vecchio said cheerfully. "You're the one who told me to."
"What?" Ray was outraged. "I didn't - I never -" Not really. He hadn't exactly meant that Vecchio should - although maybe -
Fraser was giving him this look of pure and overwhelming gratitude. "Ray," he said, all quiet and pleased. "I knew you'd know what to do."
"I didn't -" He didn't, for fuck's sake.
"Yeah, Stanley," and whoa, Vecchio was looking pretty pleased with himself, but he was also giving Ray a very sincere grin. "Thanks."
Ray, sitting back on his heels on the rug there in front of them, could not be more confused. But Fraser put his huge, warm hands on Ray's forearms, and was leaning in to kiss him. And Vecchio was somewhere off in the distance, saying, "Let the guy get off the floor, at least, Benny."
"Right you are, Ray," Fraser murmured against Ray's lips. He pulled back, dragging Ray up, and somehow Ray was on the soft couch, pushed down between Fraser and Vecchio. Vecchio had his hand high up on Ray's thigh, and was eyeing him hotly. Fraser was watching intently from Ray's other side, and Ray just said, "Fuck it," and yanked Vecchio in, kissing him with all the confusion he could muster.
"There you go, Stanley," Vecchio murmured against his lips. "I knew you would get it eventually."
"Shut up, shut up," Ray muttered. Vecchio was pushing him back, and Fraser's hands were warm against his sides, his breath hot on the back of his neck. "Jesus, just -"
"Right you are, Ray." Fraser's voice was thick with tender amusement, and he skimmed his hands lightly down Ray's stomach, and started to skillfully undo his pants.
Vecchio was mouthing the side of his neck, and Ray was so hard he couldn't breathe. Vecchio was thrusting against his thigh like he wasn't too much better himself, and really, all Ray could do at that very moment was pant up at the ceiling and say, "Fine. Fuck it. Thank you very fucking kindly."
Fraser huffed hot laughter against his neck as he slid his hand into Ray's pants, and Vecchio said, "Shut up, Stanley," and slid to the floor between Ray's legs.
"Right," Ray said, "Okay. I got it," and you know what? He did.
~end~
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