Ficlets by Sprat

(A collection of ficlets and fragments I've posted on LJ. Some of them were betaed by Gurrier (thank you!), but most are unbetaed. Some of them are explicit. Some of them contain fictiony things about real life people. WIPs are likely never to be finished.)

American Idol RPF, Adam/Kris, "Adam tries to learn guitar and fails."

"I suck at this," Adam says. He's sitting on the edge of Kris's bed with Kris's second best acoustic guitar in his lap and he's pretty sure he's not even holding the stupid thing right. His fingers feel awkward and too-big on the strings and he can't make them do the things Kris is telling him he needs to make them do and all he wanted was to learn some simple stuff, just the basics, so he could have an excuse to walk on stage with a guitar because fuck that would be hot, wouldn't it, so rock star. But so much for that idea; he's been sitting here for half an hour already and he still sounds like shit playing his clumsy, muted C-chord-that-doesn't-so-much-modulate-into-a-D-chord.

"You're doing fine," Kris says. "Seriously." He's sitting next to Adam with his first best acoustic in his lap and even though he's miniature, the guitar looks right at home in his hands. He fingers the two chords again, slow and deliberate, demonstrating, then reaches out to put Adam's fingers back down on the frets. "Come on," he says. "Last time was way better. Try it again."

Adam scowls at him, then scowls at his own sore fingertips, biting his lip in concentration (and also because he knows it looks cute), forcing his fingers into the fucked-up contortions this supposedly easiest of all chords requires of them. "I'm not doing fine," he says. "I sound like shit." He strums again and then winces because ugh, whatever, that wasn't even close to a C.

"Well, it's not going to sound awesome right away," Kris says. He sounds like he's trying not to laugh. "Don't you remember what it was like when you first started learning how to sing?"

Adam lowers his gaze and frowns at the fretboard, pretending to be concentrating on the placement of the strings.

Kris sighs, exasperated. "Okay, fine," he says. "Maybe not singing. But I'm sure there was something that didn't come naturally, right? Think about that."

Adam lifts a shoulder, rubs his chin on it, still not looking at Kris. "I don't like sucking at things," he says. He sounds like a sulky six year old kid, but it's the truth. He arranges his fingers in the shape of a D chord but doesn't pin the strings to the board.

Kris reaches across both guitars to ruffle the hair on Adam's bent head. "I know you don't," he says, gently. "But, come on, now. Try it again: C into a D, and make sure you really arc your palm or your fingers are gonna mute it." He demonstrates, his eyes on Adam's face.

Adam lifts his head and meets Kris's gaze. Kris lifts his eyebrows, nods a little, expectant. Adam thinks about setting the guitar on the bed and going back to his room to watch some TV or something, but he finds himself grinning instead, shaking his head, his fingers already twisting themselves back up to make a C.

American Idol RPF, Adam/Kris. Written for ONTD_AI's Drabble Meme, for Prompt 17: "Kradam - the story behind why Adam wore the trucker hat onstage... was it a bet with Kris? A joke? A way to cheer Kris up?"

Kris loves the environment. Seriously, he is all about the atmosphere and the ozone layer and saving the sad polar bears. Getting the hybrid car makes sense and Katy was totally right about that and they get to deck it out with all these awesome features and it's going to be great. Seriously great.

"No, you're right," Adam says, when Kris tells him this. He nods a few times. "It is great. I'm totally jealous of your, uh. That sync system thing -- that's sweet as hell." They're waiting in the office of the dealership for the guy to come back with their registration. The receptionist is letting them look through the swag the dealership keeps for high-profile customers: t-shirts and bumper stickers, pens and calendars and monogrammed hats. Kris took one of each without really thinking about it because the receptionist really seemed to want him to and he likes to make people happy. So now he's got this armload of stuff in slippery plastic packages and he has no idea what he's going to do with it and Adam, damnit, has a goddamn Mustang. He sighs and shifts position and one of the packages drops to the floor.

"Aw…jeeze," he says. He looks down at the package, thinking about how he can bend over to pick it up when his hands are already full and his head is pounding like it is, lack of sleep and maybe some stress, too, because right now there are so many things he's supposed to be and supposed to do and it feels like he can only do any of them half-assed at best, and it's sort of slowly killing him. He pushes the package with the toe of his sneaker and ends up dropping another one.

Adam's hand closes on his shoulder before he can do anything crazy, which is good because he was totally feeling like throwing all the packages on the floor and walking out of the dealership right now, and that would have been awesome to see on TMZ later on. Adam's hand squeezes his shoulder, gently, and then Adam picks up the two fallen packages, one of which he sticks under his arm. He tears the second one open right away, pulling a tote bag from the plastic. He gives Kris a questioning look and Kris licks his lips and nods permission, feeling like an idiot. Adam takes all the other packages away from him and slides them into the stupid tote bag and puts the bag on the countertop. Then he tears open the first package that fell and it turns out to be a baseball cap with the name of the dealership stenciled in silver glitter across the front. They look at it in silence for a minute. "Wow, that's an ugly hat," Kris says finally.

Adam shakes his head. "Are you kidding? I fucking love it. I mean, check it out, it's like truckstop glam or something." He pops the hat open, turns the thing in his hands a couple of times, admiring.

Kris is smiling despite himself. "You are never going to wear that," he says.

Adam gives him a look, eyebrows raised. "I am totally going to wear this," he says. "Right now and forevermore. It is my new favourite." He keeps his eyes locked with Kris's while he snaps the plastic thing at the back of the hat open and adjusts it so it'll fit his head. Kris's smile turns into a grin. When Adam actually pulls the hat on, bending the brim so it curves over his face, Kris laughs out loud, doubling over with it, one hand on the counter to keep himself upright.

Adam curls his lip like he's offended, checking out his reflection in the mirrored part of the wall by the door. "Whatever, pal. I'm one hotass trucker motherfucker and you know it." He pushes his shades up on his face and sneers a little.

Kris straightens, wiping at the corners of his eyes. "Yeah, okay," he says, and then he wipes his face again because it's still wet because sometimes it just hits him out of nowhere like this and fuck, fuck, fuck. He worries maybe somebody's got a camera on them somehow, through the tiny window above the door maybe, but it doesn't matter because Adam's right there anyway, blocking Kris from view, pulling him in close against his chest. Adam's hands are big and warm on Kris's back and Adam's chin is pressed against his head, faint stubble catching in Kris's hair. Kris leans on him. "My mom was so sad," he says, into Adam's t-shirt and Adam sighs and rubs his back, up and down and up again.

"It's not fair," he says. "But everybody knows you'd be there if you could." And Kris breathes out and nods and wipes his face against Adam's t-shirt.

Adam snorts. "Oh, awesome, it's not like this is a one-of-a-kind vintage t-shirt or anything, go ahead." Kris sniffs and huffs a laugh. He wipes his face a whole extra time before he pulls away, just for good measure.

*

In San Diego, Adam wears the hat on stage during "Hey Jude", looking like an enormous Village Person or something, smiling sublimely while Kris cracks up on stage in front of everybody, forgetting a whole damn line of the song.

In Arizona, Kris makes him throw the hat away.

American Idol RPF, Adam/Kris, massage.

Every time he turns his head, there's this sharp, slicing pain all the way down from the base of his head to the joint of his neck and shoulder. He rolls that arm a couple of times, trying to stretch the knot loose, but it just gets worse and worse, and it doesn't help that Danny and Matt ate chili on their burgers at lunch and are being obnoxious about the resulting fart fest, like Neil on every fucking road trip ever, back when they were kids. Danny and Matt are so twelve years old when they get like this, and yeah, sometimes Adam thinks they're funny, too, but tonight he fucking hates them. He also hates Anoop, for being hunched in the front lounge with his phone pressed to his ear, clearly wanting privacy so he can have whatever dramatic convo he's currently having with whichever girl he's currently having it with; Adam has given up on keeping track. And he hates Mike for...he doesn't know, smiling like that maybe, all sunny and cheerful and up in Adam's business, and he hates Scott for singing so loudly that even Adam's iPod doesn't drown him out when he tries to go and crash in the bunks.

Eventually, he comes back out to the lounge at the back of the bus and sits on the edge of the only empty chair with his head angled stiff and careful so he can see the screen. He wants to smoke a bowl and take a really long shower and then pass out on his comfy queen sized bed at home and sleep for twelve straight hours. But since that's not going to happen, he figures maybe the movie will at least distract him from the misery for a while.

A sudden light from the direction of the bathroom makes him turn his head to look and he honestly can't help the "Ow, fuck!" that comes out of his mouth when the movement brings on that same sick lurch of pain all over again. Kris stops and frowns, fingers still on the light switch. "What'd I do?" he says.

Adam winces and lifts a hand to his neck, trying to massage the cramp away. "Nothing, it's not you. I just. Slept wrong, I think."

Kris nods. He finishes turning off the light and he sticks the phone he'd been holding into his pocket and then he climbs up on the armchair behind Adam, one bare foot planted on either side of Adam's hips, knees bracketing his shoulders. Strong fingers close on Adam's sore shoulder, nudging Adam's hand away. "Here?" Kris says, quietly.

Adam swallows. "Uhhh," he says. Kris hmmms a little and digs his knuckle in harder, squeezing the nape of Adam's neck with his other hand. Adam feels his mouth drop open and forces it closed, breathes out long and relieved through his nose. Tension leaves his body in an insanely good rush of endorphines and he closes his eyes, lets his head fall forward. Kris kneads his way down the back of Adam's neck with his thumbs, squeezes his shoulders and patiently works the knots out from behind the ridge of his shoulder blade, one at a time. He's breathing just loud enough to hear over the movie, laughing softly when they make Steve Carell get his chest waxed, shifting every now and again but never stopping the massage. His toes are curled up into the leather upholstery of the chair, right at the edge of Adam's vision. Whenever any music comes on, in the movie, they twitch along in time, probably without Kris's knowledge. It's ridiculously adorable.

Eventually, the cramp is long gone and Adam feels loose and jello-like and awesome. There's really no excuse to prolong it anymore so he sighs and opens his eyes. "Hey," he says, tipping his head back so he can smile up at Kris. "Thank you."

Kris gives his shoulders a squeeze and smiles back. "Totally welcome," he says. He doesn't pull away, doesn't get up from his spot on the back of Adam's chair. One of his hands starts moving again, absent and kind of lazy, smoothing up and down Adam's shoulder. Adam leans back and Kris makes room for him, shifts so his leg is stretched out against Adam's side, his foot tucked under Adam's thigh. On the screen, it's suddenly a musical, everybody singing "Let The Sunshine In" like they'd planned it all along.

"I bet you know all the words to this song," Kris says softly, sleepily, near Adam's ear.

Adam clears his throat, presses his eyes closed. "Yeah," he says. "I do."

American Idol RPF, Adam/Kris. Written for the Flashfic Thread at an ONTD_AI Adam Appreciation post, for the prompt: "Kris goes glam, Adam helps."

So he was drunk, was the only explanation, evil pink wine all full of bubbles, drunk straight from the bottle because it was classier that way. That had been Adam's idea and that meant it was his fault, didn't it, even though Kris had not been complaining. Still. You had to blame somebody. And another thing! Another thing you could blame on Adam was the thing that was happening with Kris's face right now. The thing where a big, thick brush was whispering its way over the tops of his cheeks, just under his eyes, making this sweet shiver roll right up his spine and across his scalp, which was already feeling shivery already, from the way Adam's fingertips were pressing gently into it, holding Kris's head still.

"Is that blush?" Kris asked.

Adam's lips twitched. "Tch," he said, all stern. "Don't move."

Kris sighed. He pressed his own fingertips into his thighs, scratched them up and then down again, liking the feeling of the denim rough under his skin. "Is it, though?" he said, eventually.

Adam smiled for real, putting the brush away. He didn't answer, though. Instead, he put one of his hands on the side of Kris's face, fingertips bracketing his whole cheek: thumb on the cheekbone, pinky finger on his chin. Then he leaned in so close Kris could feel the heat from him, from his skin. "Look up," Adam said, his voice soft and concentrating, and so Kris did. There was a moth on the ceiling and Adam's breath smelled like the wine they'd been drinking, sweet and fruity. The pencil's tip seemed huge if you looked at it, so Kris didn't, he just sat still and looked up and let Adam draw on him because it was what Adam seemed to want to do, soft, deft strokes on the most sensitive part of him. Making him beautiful, Kris supposed. Leaving a mark.

due South, Ray/Ray, "Unexpected"

Willy the Match was struggling in a half-hearted way, like he knew he was caught but couldn't help giving it right up to the end, and Ray had to respect that, even if it was making it a stone bitch to get cuffs on the guy. He planted his left knee a little harder in the small of Willy's back, his other foot slipping in the grit and old motor oil that stained the cement floor of the parkade Willy had been trying to escape through. "What did you think you were going to do once you got up here, huh? You got wings or something? You planning on flying?" Ray made another grab and managed to get his hand around Willy's free wrist, tugging it up enough to make the guy grunt before he finally went limp and let it happen.

"Maybe," he gasped, wincing as Ray bent his arm for the cuff. "Ah, fuck." The cuff snicked home just as Ray heard the elevator bing itself open. He looked up and saw Vecchio push out from between the double-doors before they'd finished moving, gun in hand.

Ray grinned. "Hey," he called, lifting a hand to wipe a trickle of something—blood, huh—away from his eyebrow. "I, uh. I found him." He nodded toward his handcuffed pal.

Vecchio stopped and lowered his gun, flicked the safety on with a thumb. He didn't say anything. In the weird yellow light from the overhead fluorescents and the last of the day's sun, it was hard to see his face.

Ray cleared his throat, felt his grin slip away a little. He guessed that maybe Vecchio was pissed off, which would, yeah, kind of make sense, seeing as how he'd told Ray wait up, asshole and Ray had not exactly done that, but the thing was, Willy'd been getting away.

Ray stood, hauled Willy up, too. Vecchio started walking again, slower this time, his footsteps echoing. It was probably supposed to be intimidating or something. Ray lifted his chin. "What?" he said.

Vecchio shook his head. Now he was close enough, Ray could see that he was smiling a little, which was weird, because it wasn't a pissed-off smile or a you're-such-an-idiot-Kowalski smile. Instead, it was shark-like and sharp and sexy as hell. Ray breathed out, tightening his grip on Willy's arm, and then Vecchio was right there, in his space, one hand gripping his shoulder, sliding up to cup the back of his neck, tugging him into a kiss. It was hard and wet and kind of nasty; Vecchio wasn't holding back. Those lush lips parted right away, tongue sliding into Ray's mouth. Ray moaned in spite of himself. Vecchio's thumb stroked the skin under Ray's ear, rough and sweet and familiar, only Jesus, they were in public and that was so far from familiar it took Ray's breath away, made him a little weak in the knees.

Finally, Vecchio eased up. He kissed Ray one last time, lightly, before he pulled away.

"Well," said Willy the Match. "That was surprising and unexpected."

Ray laughed a little, because ha, yeah, understatement. He didn't look away from Vecchio, though, because Vecchio still hadn't looked away from him. The hand on Ray's neck moved to cup his jaw, making Ray shiver.

Vecchio swiped his thumb gently at the corner of Ray's mouth. "You good?" he asked.

Ray felt himself grin, slowly. "Hell yeah," he said. Vecchio lowered his head, blushing a little. He nodded once, eyes still on the floor, then patted Ray's cheek and took his hand away.

"Let's get out of here, then, huh?" He holstered his gun. "I want to get this clown to booking before Doris goes home."

Ray was still grinning as he followed him back to the elevator.

For catwalksalone, from the prompt: "Well, that was surprising and unexpected."

due South, F/K, "Dating is Hazardous"

When Fraser doesn't show up for dinner, Ray knows something's up. This thing the two of them have, it's still pretty new, but Ray's been close to Fraser for years and he knows that Fraser would not skip out on a date without at least calling it in. He's just not that kind of guy.

So when Dief shows up on the fire-escape outside Ray's window, out of breath and barking in that sharp, get-a-move-on way he has when there's something serious going on, Ray feels his guts go cold. He lets the wolf into the living room, stops to grab his gun and his jacket and meets Dief at the door.

*

The Consulate is a wreck, the wide wooden door standing open, busted in on its hinges, Fraser's office strewn with papers and filing cards. He didn't go easy, that's for sure. Ray stands in the midst of the mess for a second or two, breathing hard, trying to get a grip. Dief's sharp bark snaps him back to the task at hand. When Ray looks in the direction Dief's snout is pointing, he sees that the window is shattered outward, and that there's mud on the sill. The ground outside the window is all torn up with tire tracks—they hadn't wanted to take 180 pounds of struggling Mountie out through the front door and into the quiet street, probably, so they'd shoved him through the window instead.

But tire tracks means a vehicle was there, in range of the Consulate's cameras. Ray might not have specially trained Mountie taste buds or a knack for identifying fibres by sight, but he can check out security footage with the best of them.

Like he figured, the kidnappers were masked. The car is a dark blue Corolla and fuck, there's no clear shot of the plates. But when they shoved Fraser out through the window, he stumbled into the side of the car in this really stagey way Ray would bet money was faked, and in the couple of seconds that bought him, he lifted his head and stared right into the security camera's lens. "Paulie Lark," he mouthed, and god damnit, his lip was split, his right eye already swelling. Ray's hands clench into fists at his sides, but he makes himself keep watching. Fraser didn't have time to say anything else, though; they kicked his feet out from under him and shoved him into the car.

It doesn't matter—the name is enough. Ray and Fraser, they've been on Lark's tail for weeks, looking for enough evidence to take him and his scumball sister out for good. Ray knows where Paulie's staying.

*

When he pulls up in the street across from the motel, that Corolla is parked in the lot. Cocky sonofabitch.

Ray counted four guys on the tape; there's no telling how many more are in the room. He sneaks across to the motel and sidles up to Lark's window. The curtains are drawn, but there's a gap at the corner of the window nearest Ray just big enough to see through, and that means he gets a good clear view of some fucker's fist slamming into Fraser's jaw.

And yeah. Okay. Now would be the time when he busts through that door and kicks in some goddamn heads—except that Fraser's tied to a chair and possibly not all the way conscious, and from the looks of it, Lark's guys have Ray outnumbered ten to one. He needs some kind of advantage. He needs the, uh. The element of surprise.

So okay. Who comes to motel rooms late at night? Hookers do, but there's no way Lark's guys are going to buy him as a hooker. Not without some serious making over, anyway. Ditto for maid service—even if this was the kind of place maids actually serviced, which Ray doubts. He lets out a breath, slams a fist into his thigh. Dief whines, softly, next to Ray's leg and when Ray lifts his head so he can tell Dief to shut up, he spots a Domino's car pulling into the lot a few spots away from the blue Corolla. Ha.

The pizza kid is pretty stoked to have his hat commandeered for police purposes, but he makes Ray give him twenty-five bucks for the pizzas. "They'll come out of my cheque, man," he says, and seriously, if there was more time, Ray might slap this kid upside the head, in hopes that maybe he'll learn something about civic duty. But there isn't more time. Ray scowls at the kid and grabs the stack of pizzas.

The goon who answers the door at Ray's knock is too distracted by the cheesy smell wafting up from Ray's insulated bag to think about why they're getting a pizza delivery when they didn't order any; Ray gets him to take the pizzas with both hands and let Ray one step into the room before the smarter bad guys start to shout. And by then it's too late—he's shoving his credit card machine into the bridge of door-goon's nose and pulling his gun with his other hand, taking out the unlucky guy who was fastest on the draw before he can get his finger on the trigger.

Dief takes out another one with a snarl while Ray sights and fires, sights and fires, then rolls for cover behind the nearest bed. Fraser manages to get his feet under him well enough to head-butt the one nearest him in the face; Ray takes out two more before he has to pause to change his clip. By the time he gets back on his knees again, ready to fire, there aren't any bad guys left. Fraser and Dief got the last of them together, in an elaborate plan that somehow involved the lamp in the corner and a massive electric shock. Ray doesn't want to think about how the hell that worked. He doesn't really care. He gets the weapons away from the fallen bad guys, checks to make sure that the ones who aren't already dead are going to make it.

"Ray," Fraser says, breathlessly. He's most of the way untied now, the broken chair dangling from the cords around his right wrist. His forehead's cut and his eye is swollen all the way shut, now. He looks fantastic.

"Hey Frase," Ray hears himself say, all casual, like he hadn't just shot a bunch of guys and almost gotten killed; like Fraser hadn't just been kidnapped. "You forget we had a date tonight?"

Fraser's mouth twitches. "Indeed not," he says. "I was looking forward to it, actually, but I'm afraid I was...waylaid." He lifts a hand to his eyebrow, winces when his fingers find a bruise, lowers his hand to his side again. They stand there for a couple of seconds, looking at each other across the ruined room, and Ray's knees feel like they're made out of water or something, but they got no time for that, for any of that, on account of there are sirens getting louder and louder outside.

Ray squeezes his eyes closed. "Yeah, well," he says. "I guess I get that. But you owe me a dinner, though. A good one. With steaks."

He feels Fraser before he hears him, the warm rush of breath over the nape of his neck, the strength of that right hand on his upper arm, holding him up. "Steaks," Fraser murmurs, close to Ray's ear. "All right. I think I can manage that." The other hand presses into Ray's other arm, slides up to cup his shoulder.

Ray lets his head sag until his cheek rests against Fraser's neck. "Good steaks," he says, and then he sucks in a deep breath because Fraser smells like wool and Fraser and alive. "With salads and dessert and uh...other stuff." Fraser presses his nose into the hair above Ray's ear and mmhmms his agreement.

Their backup's going to be here soon and Ray is going to have to pull it together, stand up on his own and stop clinging to Fraser in public like a teenaged girl after a pep-rally. But that's not for at least a couple of minutes, though.

Ray puts his arms around Fraser's waist and pulls him in hard.

due South, F/K, cow

Fraser is standing on the middle of this road in the middle of nowhere, so close to the North Pole that it hasn't gotten dark for two weeks. He has on a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a Henley under that, and his jeans are worn out and faded, and his hair is getting longer than he usually lets it, curling a little around his ears, at the nape of his neck. He hasn't shaved today, which being as he's Fraser, means he has just a little bit of stubble on his cheeks, on his jaw. He's flushed right now, probably from exertion, seeing as he is doing his damndest to move a cow out of the middle of the road and back into its field, waving his arms and shouting stuff like "Hyah!"; clapping his hands where the stupid cud-chewing mountain can't see.

It flicks its ears and rolls its freakishly large eyes back in its giant wedge-shaped head, but it doesn't take so much as a step out of the road.

"Get!" Fraser yells.

The cow shudders all over like it thinks Fraser is a fly or something. It is obviously not going anywhere at all. Fraser throws his hands up in the air and looks toward Ray, toward the truck where Ray is sitting in the driver's seat, ready to pull ahead as soon as the road is clear; Fraser looks at Ray and Ray grins at Fraser and Fraser laughs, drops his head and shoves his hand through his messy hair.

Ray puts the truck in park, turns off the engine and slides down into the muddy road. The cow swings its head toward the sound of the door slamming shut, but otherwise it doesn't look worried.

Fraser lifts his head too, his eyes on Ray. Slowly, that smile turns into something else. Ray squelches through the mud until he's right up in Fraser's space, wraps his fingers in Fraser's flannel shirt, pulls him out of the road and pushes him up against the front of the truck, against the warmth of the ticking grill. Fraser lifts his eyebrows, then, kind of like a challenge, so Ray grins even bigger and steps that much closer, until Fraser's body is pressed against his. Fraser's mouth is still smiling some when Ray kisses it. He tastes like woodsmoke and dried meat and strong tea, like happiness.

"It, uh." Ray drops his head so he can get his mouth on Fraser's sweaty neck, slides his hand over Fraser's shoulder so he can cup Fraser's stubbled jaw. "It looks like we got some time to waste," Ray finishes, muffled against Fraser's skin.

Fraser's hands close on his hips, pulling him even closer. "So it would seem," he says.

due South, F/K, grey

Inside, it's a little cooler. Fraser takes off his boots and moves to the window while Ray disappears into the kitchen. Fraser hears him saying something to Dief as he fills a water bowl and sets it on the floor, as he rummages around in the refrigerator. Outside, the sky is grey, darker than it ought to be at this time of day. It looks like there will be a storm soon, this afternoon or this evening, and Fraser can't help but be grateful. He unhooks his lanyard, tugs open the velcro at his neck.

"Gonna be a thunderstorm," Ray says from the kitchen. Fraser hears the refrigerator door close, the slap of Ray's now-bare feet against the linoleum. "Thank Christ. Hey, uh. You thirsty?" He leans around the kitchen doorway, a bottle of water in one hand, eyebrows raised enquiringly.

Fraser looks up from his tunic's buttons, which he is in the midst of unfastening. Their eyes meet, briefly, before Ray's drop to Fraser's hands, to the open neck of Fraser's tunic, to the floor between his own feet.

Fraser clears his throat. "Yes, I am. Thank you."

Ray takes a breath, makes a face. He crosses the floor without lifting his gaze, sets the water bottle on the edge of his dining room table, on top of a smiling dragon who's announcing a sale on take-away Chinese. "Okay," he says. "Good. I'll just, uh." He waves a hand at the television, then turns and pads toward it, scratching at the back of his neck.

Fraser smiles to himself. He drapes the tunic over the back of a chair and picks up the bottle of water, carries it to the couch where Ray is sitting.

Ray looks up at him, mutely, his hand stilled on the remote.

"May I?" Fraser says, inclining his head toward the couch, and Ray lets out a breath, shakes his head, shifts awkwardly to make room.

"Sorry," he says. "The heat, I guess. Makes me, uh, makes me stupid." He waves a finger around near his ear.

Fraser nods, seriously. He sets the water on the coffee table, leaning forward to do it, feeling Ray's eyes on his back, Ray's leg pressed against his own. When he straightens again, Ray snaps his gaze away, pretends to be absorbed in the television.

"We got, uh...soccer. Or wrestling. Or, huh, I got no idea what that is." He tilts his head, frowns at the screen, where it seems that some young women wearing helmets are being shot with Styrofoam javelins whilst trying to cross a rope bridge.

Fraser blinks, then shakes his head, reaches out to take the remote from Ray's hand and uses it to turn the television off. Ray goes completely still for a moment, then squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head.

"Ray," Fraser says.

Ray doesn't look up. "Yeah."

"We should, ah." Now that he's started this, Fraser finds that it's difficult to speak, to breathe properly. He seems to be sitting next to himself, hearing his own voice at some remove. He clears his throat. "We should probably discuss the, ah." And hm, it seems he is scratching furiously at his eyebrow after all, despite having made a serious resolution to do away with such an obvious tell. He forces himself to lower his hand, curls it into a fist on his own knee. "Ray, you kissed me," he says finally.

Ray flinches. "Yeah," he says again. He still hasn't lifted his head and his face looks stricken, set. Braced for something he's dreading and expecting to hear.

Fraser swallows hard, lifts a hand and closes it gently on Ray's bowed shoulder. "I...well." He takes a breath. "I'd like for you to do it again."

Ray's head comes up, his eyes wide. Fraser licks his lips. "If you want to, that is. Don't feel as though...mmmn." And he's forced to stop talking, then, because Ray already has his mouth on Fraser's, soft and wet, and there's no room for speech, no room for anything; just this.

due South, Fraser/Kowalski, unsaid: "Sliver"

Ray gets out of the shower to the sound of the six o'clock news. The sun's setting--he can see the light coming in all golden through the high-up bathroom window. The birds are going crazy out there.

He gets dressed and goes out into the living room. Fraser's on the couch, already showered, concentrating on cleaning up his hand. He has it resting on his own knee and he's using the other hand to pull all these tiny little slivers of glass out from under his skin. Has a pair of tweezers to make it easier; has the lamp turned so its light falls right where he needs it to. His face has no expression on it at all, except maybe concentration. Every time he gets a new sliver un-stuck, he drops it into a saucer on the coffee table in front of him: chink.

Ray goes into the kitchen so he can make sure Dief's fed and watered (yep) and also so he can put on a kettle for Fraser and a pot of coffee for himself. Then he digs his glasses out of the pocket of his jacket and clears stuff off the coffee table, stacks the old bills and newspapers and flyers on the floor. He pushes Fraser's gross saucer to one side and sits down in its place, right in front of Fraser. Fraser looks up but he doesn't say anything, not even when Ray takes the tweezers out of his good hand and lifts the hurt one in his own, so he can see it better. And--jeeze, what a mess.

He pushes his glasses up with the back of his hand and gets to work. Fraser sits quiet and watches him do it. On the news, they say that employment is up and crime is down. They say that there is trouble in Sierra Leone and an earthquake in Iran and that some famous kid of some famous celebrity was caught with a shitload of drugs. Fraser clears his throat. "Well, thank goodness for the intrepid reporter who brought us that last story," he says.

Ray grins and drops the latest bastard sliver into the saucer beside him. Pain makes Fraser sarcastic. Good to know.

"I think there's one there," Fraser murmurs, tilting his hand so Ray can see the bloody scratch on the knuckle of that pinky, and yeah, shit--at least two or three more. He works those free, carefully, then examines Fraser's hand again, looking for any he missed. He can't see any.

"Make a fist," he tells Fraser, and Fraser obeys, gently, squeezing Ray's hand in his own. Ray looks up at him. "What do you think?"

Fraser squeezes a second time. "I think you may have found all of them--that feels much better."

Ray huffs a laugh, his eyes on the mess that is the back of Fraser's hand. "Yeah, well," he says. "Good. But don't get up yet--we're not done." He finds the antibiotic cream Fraser brought out of his bathroom and spreads that over everything, then wraps the whole hand up with a bunch of gauze, tapes the end of the gauze in place. And that is pretty much that. Except it isn't, because he is still holding Fraser's hand, and he is still sitting there on the coffee table with Fraser's knee resting against his own and Fraser's sock-clad foot nudging the toes of his bare one, and in his head he is still seeing Fraser's face when he put that fist through the window of Jarte's burning garage so he could get Ray out. There was something huge, there, and it is not a thing which Ray expected, and thus it is not a thing with which he is sure he knows how to deal.

So instead of dealing, he sits there looking at Fraser's bandaged hand like maybe it can tell him what steps are next, and he listens to the way that Fraser's breath is speeding up and his own is speeding up and then he nearly has a heart attack when Fraser's good hand touches the back of his neck. Those fingers just brush him there, gently, then move down to squeeze his shoulder.

Fraser clears his throat again. "Ray," he says.

Ray lifts his head, meets Fraser's eyes. "Yeah?"

Fraser licks his bottom lip, like he's nervous, which, Jesus--he better be. But when he speaks, what he says is, "I think the kettle's going to boil dry." And damned if he isn't right.

Ray laughs, because he can't help it, and he gets up to pull the stupid kettle off the stove, and then he stands there in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, breathing, looking out at the darkening street, before he heads back into the living room to change everything.

due South, Fraser, light: "Christmas, 1968"

Legs rise up like the trunks of trees, dark against the sun-bright lights inside the auditorium, blocking the way to the stage. Ben's on his knees, his ski pants dragging in the slush on the wooden floor, grit beneath his palms. He's pushing through the forest of legs, trying to get to a place where he can see. It's warm and crowded. The people are talking. Some of them are talking Gwich'in, and some of them are talking Dogrib, but he doesn't know any of their faces.

"Benton," his grandmother says. He looks up. She's tall and wrinkly, older than anybody he knows. She smiles at him, but he doesn't smile back. He doesn't really know her, after all.

"Can you see?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

She smiles again and leans over to speak with his grandfather.

"Eh?" his grandfather says.

"Benton can't see the stage," his grandmother says again.

"Ah," his grandfather says, and his craggy face breaks into a smile. "Come on then. Up you go." He stoops down and grabs Ben under the arms like Ben weighs nothing, swings him high, higher, until Ben's boots sweep the air above the heads of the crowd and the big electric lights blind him. There's a thump and then he's settled, up on his grandfather's shoulders, his grandfather's square hands warm and solid on his legs, just below the knees. "How's that?" his grandfather says.

Ben blinks. He can see everything from up here: the tree they cut and hung with coloured lights, the other kids, crouched at the front, sucking on half-wrapped peppermint candy. He can see the moving rows of adult heads--dark haired and light haired, some of them with hats on. And over by the rear doors, Ben can see his father, standing still and stooped at the back of the crowd, his hands in his pockets. He sees Ben, lifts a hand. Ben waves back.

Then, suddenly, the room is full of sound. Ben takes a quick breath and looks toward the stage. There are people standing there in robes like nightgowns, all of them singing, all at once. The air shakes inside him. Music vibrates in his bones.

"Watch, now," his grandfather says. "It's starting."

due South, F/K, cozy and warm

It was sleeting outside and the streets were slick with it, patches of unexpected ice working with the poor visibility to turn city driving into a hazardous occupation. Fraser himself had not had to drive today; he had spent the morning playing basketball with the dozen or so Saturday morning regulars at the Boys And Girls Club on King Street, then had walked home through the damp, Diefenbaker's plaintive whines trailing behind him, to catch up on some household chores. Ray had been becoming paranoid about the possibility of mysterious t-shirt thieves again, which was usually the point at which Fraser took pity on him and washed some of his many loads of laundry. The kitchen had needed cleaning, too, and the pantry was full of odds and ends that had been crying out for sorting. And then the process of sorting had inspired a rather unorthodox stew, which smelled a great deal better than it looked, fortunately. He set the lid back on the pot and turned the element to low; Ray was due nearly an hour ago, so it ought to be safe to let it simmer there until he arrived.

Diefenbaker, who had been watching with avid attention since the cooking portion of the afternoon had begun, whined a protest.

"Well. I doubt that either of us will actually expire before Ray arrives."

Dief set his head on one side and barked.

Fraser sighed. "Nor do I think it likely that Ray has himself expired--and I certainly wouldn't allow you to eat his share if I did." He set the wooden spoon down precisely, food-smeared bowl inside the saucer he'd set out for it, handle at the edge of the counter, within easy reach. "Ray is, despite his tendency to speed on occasion, a very good driver. I'm sure he's just stopped for a coffee along the way." The dishtowel on the oven door's handle was in need of washing. He lifted it up, folded it lengthwise, smoothed it between his hands.

Dief whuffed and settled his chin on his paws again. Fraser leaned back against the counter, still toying with the towel. Against the darkening kitchen window, the sleet sounded louder than it should, a strange, hypnotic shushing which absorbed him so completely he failed to notice the clatter of boots on the stairs until the door came open and let Ray through.

"You know what is wrong with the people of the world today Fraser? Because I will tell you what is wrong with, uh, with those people. They are morons." There was a muffled thump, then another one: Ray's boots, Fraser imagined. He set the dishtowel on the counter and started toward the kitchen door.

"Exhibit one," Ray continued, muffledly. He was unwinding his scarf, Fraser saw as he rounded the kitchen doorway, and he appeared to be engaged in something of a struggle with it. "It is pissing down rain and the roads are for shit. Everybody's creeping along with their brights on, trying to get home in one piece. Do you a) creep along with them, or do you b) make like the world is one big game of, uh, of Grand Turismo and go whipping from one lane to the next at eighty miles an hour, not giving a sweet goddamn about who you're cutting off?" He managed to get the scarf off, finally, and hung it over the back of the chair near the door. His hair was wet, dripping down the back of his collar and over his cold-reddened nose. "And then, when an officer of the law pulls you over at the next red light, do you 1) get out your license and registration or do you 2) pretend that you are also an officer of the law, only you forgot your badge in your other pants?" He shook his head, disgustedly, then caught Fraser watching him. He smiled, uncertainly. "What? he said.

Fraser scratched at the back of his head, aware that he was grinning foolishly at his own sock-clad toes, and that he probably looked like something of a moron himself. "Nothing," he said finally, looking up again. "I'm just...glad to see you, I suppose."

Ray's smile grew into a real grin. He stepped closer to Fraser, brought his hands up to cup Fraser's cheeks, startlingly cold, but warming quickly. "Yeah?" he said. His face was very close to Fraser's now; it was only a matter of changing the angle to bring their lips together.

So: "Yeah," Fraser said, and did.

due South, F/K , sweater, chocolate, write (explicit!)

The Consulate is quiet today. Inspector Thatcher is out at meetings all day and Turnbull has decided to make a project out of cleaning the silver in the Queen's Bedroom; every now and again, Fraser hears a snatch of one-sided conversation from that direction, but he has been doing his best not to hear any details.

He finishes his own tasks early, at quarter to three in the afternoon. Normally, he would spend the remaining hours liasing, but the Inspector's absence has required him to cancel those obligations for today. He gathers up the stack of letters he had spent the afternoon writing, straightens them into a neat pile of envelopes all ready to be sent with the next day's mail, and sets them precisely in his outbox. The blotter on his desk is slightly crooked; he straightens that, setting his head to one side and squinting at his desktop with one eye closed, levelling the top edge of the blotter with the edge of his desk--a shame to have to do it freehand, but there you are.

From outside, faintly, there is the sound of traffic on Bay Street, the voices of the children from the nearby school, let out for the day and boistrous with it, pegging one another with snowballs.

The clock at the edge of Fraser's desk ticks, ticks, ticks. It is now twelve minutes after three.

He shifts a little. The wooden chair creaks beneath him; the muscles in the backs of his thighs give a keen and particular throb. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth as he finishes the movement, easing back on his sore behind, rolling the chair a little closer to his desk. He lets his breath out, closes his eyes. A series of sense memories flood his mind: long fingers wrapped hard around his hip, just there; the wrinkle of the sheet beneath his cheek, the cool metal at the edge of Ray's headboard, pressing into his palm. Ray's voice in his ear, Ray's breath in his hair, Ray's skin and Ray's smell and Ray's mouth.

The phone's ringing startles him from his reverie. "Canadian Consulate," he says, fumbling the receiver to his ear. His voice is ridiculously rough; he swallows hard before he continues. "Constable du Canada. Er, Consulate du Canada, je m'excuse. Constable Benton Fraser speaking--how may I assist?"

There is a long pause. "Alexie?" says the voice on the other end, sounding as though it's just woken from a deep sleep.

Fraser clears his throat. "No ma'am, I'm sorry. There's no one here by that name. This is, ah, the Canadian Consulate in Chicago. Perhaps you've misdialed?"

"Alexie," says the voice, very positively. "You stink." And Fraser jerks the receiver from his ear as the one on the other end is slammed resoundingly into its cradle.

Well. "I'll, ah, relay the message," Fraser tells the dial tone. He sets his own receiver back into place, taps his fingers on the edge of his desk. Thank goodness it hadn't been the Inspector on the other end of the line, calling to check up--she wouldn't have found his distraction amusing. And really, Fraser isn't amused himself. He is on duty, for heaven's sake. He ought to be old enough to have at least a modicum of self-control.

He sighs again, scrubbing at his own hot cheeks. The truth is, he hasn't really been able to concentrate at all today. Images from last night have been intruding most insistently; he has no idea what he's actually written in those letters on his desk. Perhaps they're riddled with pornographic insertions--perhaps he's substituted long, sex-addled odes to the curve of Ray's naked spine for the "thank you for inquiring about citizenship in Canada" form-letters which should have been there. He eyes the stack of envelopes with suspicion, lets his head fall back so he is looking at the ceiling instead. If he'd known that finally having sex with Ray was going to ruin him for any other activity...well. He probably would have arranged for some sick leave.

And that makes him laugh, and sigh again, and then, helplessly, fall into a vivid imaging of a whole day spent in bed with Ray. Ray, who's hair tufted charmingly out from the sheets this morning, and who's jaw was rough with stubble when Fraser had leaned in to kiss it. Ray, who'd reached for him in the dim early light, still most of the way asleep, murmuring "mmmm, no, stay...". Ray, who'd been inside him last night, deep and irrevokable--and who had apparently driven him out of his mind in the process.

A light tap at his office door makes him jerk his head up, makes him clear his throat and tug at his collar and attempt his best impression of a man with his sanity intact. "Yes?" he says.

The door opens. Dief comes through first, but he's followed closely by Ray, who stands in the doorway with his hand on the knob, looking tentative, the fingers of his free hand scratching nervously at the back of his head. "Hey," he says, "Uh. Hi." He smiles at Fraser, briefly, then squints up at the diploma on Fraser's wall as though it is urgent he read what's written there. As though he hasn't seen it a hundred times before. "We, uh, we got done early, and we were in the neighbourhood, so." He lets go of the door and thrusts his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and Fraser sees that although the jacket is Ray's own, the sweater beneath it is the one Fraser had been wearing himself, the day before. "It's cold out there today," Ray says, shifting from one foot to the other. "I think it's maybe gonna sn--whoa."

Somehow, Fraser has two fistfuls of Ray's jacket. He doesn't remember standing, crossing the floor, closing the door--but somehow all of these things have been accomplished. He tightens his hold on Ray, pushes him gently back until he is pressed against the door and then lowers his head so he can cover Ray's mouth with his.

"Mmm," Ray says, and his arms come up to circle Fraser's neck and waist, and god--his mouth is open, wet, welcoming Fraser in. Fraser lets his hands slide up to cup Ray's face, to hold Ray's head at the angle he needs. They kiss for long minutes, trying to be quiet. Eventually, Fraser has to pull his mouth away, rest his forehead against Ray's temple and take several slow, deliberate breaths.

Ray tightens his hold on Fraser's waist, combs his fingers through Fraser's hair. "Hey," he says. "You okay?"

Fraser swallows, closes his eyes, presses forward until his face is buried in Ray's neck and Ray's arms are all the way around him. He kisses the skin at the hollow of Ray's throat. "Yeah," he says. "Yes. It's just--I've been thinking about you. All day." He pushes himself against Ray so that there won't be any doubt as to his meaning; Ray, ever quick, sucks in a sharp breath.

"Jesus," he says. He kisses Fraser's ear, his hot cheek. "Fraser."

Fraser swallows again and lifts his head. "Ray, I think it might be best if we, uh. If we left. Now."

Ray already has the door open, his fingers wrapped around Fraser's wrist. "Car's right outside, buddy."

Fraser manages to snatch up his hat on the way out the door. "Turnbull," he calls up the stairs. "There's been an--ah. An emergency, of sorts. You'll have to finish the silver tomorrow--I need you to watch the phones."

There's a muffled protest from upstairs, which Fraser ignores. "Good man," he calls, and then Ray closes the heavy front door behind them.

due South, F/K/V, snow (abandoned WIP!)

Snow started it. Snow was what kept Fraser's plane from being able to take off on what was supposed to be the last day of his visit--a blizzard full of it, actually, total white-out, 90-mile-an-hour winds. The snow kept them inside Ray's apartment, playing cards and watching the weather reports get worse and worse, not talking because Jesus, it turned out that awkward did not even begin to cover the way this visit had gone down, and that meant Vecchio was right, and that meant that Ray had to kill him.

See, when Ray had invited Fraser to come out and stay for a couple of days, enough time had passed that he had started thinking about Fraser in terms of the months and months they had spent as best friends, and not so much remembering the weeks they had spent in Fraser's northern areas, fucking and fighting in equal measures until eventually, Ray had had to leave or lose his mind, permanently: hello howling nutcase. And he bet that Fraser had not been remembering those weeks, neither--the two of them had been back to talking for a long time, now, after all. Fraser knew about him and Vecchio, was cool with it, thought it was funny, even. Things had healed. They had moved passed it.

Except that (Vecchio said) Fraser was not constitutionally capable of moving past anything, no matter what Fraser himself said about it. Which was a fact Ray understood the minute they got Fraser home from the airport; the guy put his bag down on the hallway floor and gave the apartment a once-over, and Ray knew, watching him, that he was seeing how Vecchio had changed things around the place, how his stuff was mixed up with Ray's stuff now, how the two of them had obviously learned how to fit together. And Fraser's face went weird and hurt, then glassy and smooth like ice. And then the whole rest of the visit had been "oh, I couldn't possibly" and "no, I assure you, this is perfectly adequate" and "well, thank you kindly". By the time Monday rolled around, even Fraser had run out of small talk, so the game of crib the three of them were playing now? Easily the grimmest game of crib Ray had ever played.

"Fifteen two," Vecchio said. He pegged ahead, eyed Fraser. "Whatcha got there, Benny?"

Fraser took a breath and looked down at his cards. "Uh." He rubbed at the space between his eyebrows, sniffed. "Go, I suppose."

Vecchio's gaze stayed on Fraser's face for a while longer, then flicked up to meet Ray's. Ray pressed his lips together. Vecchio lifted his eyebrows. Ray sighed, shrugged, put down his hand and stood up. "I gotta...you guys mind?" He tilted his head toward the bathroom.

"Certainly not," Fraser said. But Ray was already heading toward the hall.

In the bathroom, he did pee, actually. Then he washed his hands and splashed his face and stood there looking at himself in the mirror for a while, arms braced, hands gripping the edge of the sink. His guts were twisted up. He felt like maybe he might puke. He took a breath, rubbed his cheek against one shoulder, spat experimentally into the sink. Nah. He'd deal. He turned the water on again, let it splash the sink clean. Out in the living room there was nothing but silence. Ray dried his face, pushed two hands through his hair, took a deep breath and let it out again. Vecchio would fix it, if it could be fixed. Vecchio was good at figuring out what to say.

Well. Better than Ray was, anyway.

He rolled his shoulders, took another breath, and opened the bathroom door. And...Jesus. Fraser was still on the couch, but Ray couldn't see his face, on account of he had it buried in Vecchio's shoulder. Vecchio had his arms around Fraser, was rubbing the soft plaid of his shirt with one hand; the other one was cupping the back of Fraser's neck, fingers buried in that thick dark hair. He met Ray's eyes over Fraser's shoulder, inclined his head. Ray widened his eyes, spread his hands. Vecchio scowled at him. Ray scrubbed at his face again, then sighed and came back into the living room, took a seat on Fraser's other side, on the couch.

"Hey," he said. He closed his hand around Fraser's upper arm, squeezed him gently. "Hey, buddy...hey." Jesus. Way to be sensitive, Kowalski. He opened his mouth, but apparently his brain only had the one word left in it so he didn't say nothing else, just squeezed Fraser's arm again and leaned forward so he could press his forehead into Fraser's back, right between his shoulder blades.

Fraser took a breath, sighed it out again. Vecchio's fingers clenched in Fraser's shirt, right in Ray's line of sight, then unclenched again. "How you doing?" he murmured.

Fraser's muscles rolled under Ray's cheek, so he lifted his head, shifted a little, made room for Fraser to sit up. Which Fraser did, sagging back into the couch between them, letting his head fall and his eyes close, baring the long line of his neck. His face was flushed and his eyes were slightly reddened; he lifted a hand to rub at them, or to hide them, Ray wasn't sure. "Abominably," Fraser said. He swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Lord. Ray. I'm sorry--this is...utterly inexcusable."

Vecchio snorted. "Yeah, or else it's totally human." He let his arm fall along the back of the couch, dropped his hand into Fraser's hair and stroked it, gently. "Jesus, Benny--give yourself a break, huh?"

Fraser huffed a laugh, his chest heaving with it, then lowered his hand and opened his eyes, tilting his head so he could meet Vecchio's gaze. "I hate you," he said. "A little. But I love you more. How's that for a human admission?"

Vecchio smiled at him, smoothed Fraser's forehead with his thumb. "It's a start," he said.

Ray felt something in his chest constrict. He wrapped his arms around it, but that didn't help so he stood up and accidentally walked into the coffee table, which was-fuck!--closer than it looked, and so okay, maybe sitting down was where he needed to be. All things considered.

A hand settled on his back: warm and rough and bigger than Vecchio's. It moved up and down, kind of hesitantly. "Are you all right?" Fraser said.

"Am I, ha, am I all right." Ray put his face in his hands. His shin was maybe going to fall right off, he thought; it felt like somebody was stabbing it. "No. Ow. No, Fraser, I am not all right."

due South, F/K, inspired by china_shop's linking to this news story about an…unusual Inuit sculpture

The guy was huge. Not just regular huge, either--this guy was huge like something that came out of a vat of radioactive supergoop in a comic book or something. He was huge like the Incredible Hulk was huge, or like Paul Whatshisface, the lumberjack from one of Fraser's stupid stories; he had muscles on top of his muscles, and the outpost looked like a dollhouse as he paced the length of it, tossing the contents of drawers and file-boxes onto the floor as he searched for the weapons Fraser had confiscated from him when they booked him.

"Fraser," Ray said. "Fraser." He edged a little further back, careful to talk low enough that only Fraser could hear him. "This guy is going to fucking kill me."

Fraser did not look up. Fraser was occupied with the task of picking the supposedly unpickable locks that the RCMP put on the doors of its cells, because it so happened that Fraser was locked on the wrong side of one of those doors just now, and the keys were someplace inside the pants of their pal the Mutant over there, which, Ray was pretty sure that picking the lock was going to be the best option for getting Fraser out of this particular scenario. "Well," said Fraser, his head bent over his task. "I suppose that is a possibility, Ray. Of all things in our ken, only death is a certainty." He made a quick, sharp movement with his fingers, but the lock held.

Ray sniffed and scratched his nose. "That, uh. That is not exactly helpful, buddy." He scanned the empty corridor again, hoping he'd missed something--anything--he could use as a weapon. There was nothing.

Fraser glanced up at him, his face pale in the shadows of the lockup area at the back of the outpost, his mouth set and hard. "I'm sorry," he said, after a moment. "I...well. I'm very angry with myself for getting us both into this situation. I'm afraid it's making me snappish." He knuckled that eyebrow and bent over the lock again. "If I could just get this...door open so I could at least be of some assistance..." He twisted his hairpin again (and yeah, whatever, Ray hadn't even asked where the hairpin had come from--this was Fraser, that was all you had to know) but the lock did not so much as budge.

Out in the front room, there was a crash. It looked like the Mutant had found the trunk Fraser had stored the confiscated weapons in. It was locked up pretty good, but locks could only hold so long against a size sixteen steel-toed logging boot. Ray heard Fraser draw a sharp breath. They met each other's eyes.

"Ray," Fraser said, his voice rough. "I, uh." He swallowed hard.

Ray felt his heart thump. "Yeah, Frase?" he said.

Out in the front room, there was a noise like a pissed-off cow and another loud crack. Fraser closed his eyes for a second, then opened them, but kept his gaze fixed on Ray's chest. "Well," he said, and took a breath. "The Kivalluq tell the story of Weasel and how he can use his wiles to bring down even the mighty Caribou, by sneaking into the guts of the animal by way of its anus and attacking it from within."

There was a momentary pause. Fraser cleared his throat. "It's, ah, a parable, you see. It teaches us that survival will sometimes require methods others might consider to be somewhat...ignoble. At times." He glanced quickly at Ray's face, then grimaced and turned back to his lock, looking miserable.

Ray shook his head, then did it again, harder, because okay--that was one godforsakenly disgusting story, right there, no doubt about it; Ray was kind of wishing he could wash out his ears, right now. But on the other hand, he had this inkling when it came to Inuit stories and Fraser, or to Fraser and the way he told Inuit stories anyway, that the more freakish they were, the more fucked up and not-from-this-planet-weird, the likelier it got that Fraser was using them to cover up something huge.

Things had gotten quiet out in the front room for a few seconds, but when the Mutant took a flying leap off Fraser's desk so he could crash-land with both feet square on that poor dented trunk, Ray got why. His mouth was dry and his heart just kept on thumping, like it was trying to hammer its way straight through his chest, and he could not have honestly said what was scaring him more, at this particular juncture, and maybe it didn't matter; whatever way you looked at it, he was going to have to do it all anyway. In spite of it.

"Fraser," he said. "That was one seriously fucked up story. But I am probably going to get killed in a minute, and besides that, I kind of love that you're mental, so I am going to kiss you anyway." And he grabbed two handfuls of Fraser's uniform through the cell-door's bars, and he pulled the guy in for a kiss. And Jesus--Fraser was warm and soft and moaning into his mouth, those big hands moving up to cover Ray's, those lips opening a little against his, a brief wet brush of tongue. It only lasted for the space of a couple of breaths, then Ray was staggering back and Fraser was inhaling, his eyes closed, then opening again, this time settling on Ray's face.

"Ray, god. Be careful."

Ray nodded tightly, then turned and snuck into the hallway. He had a caribou to get rid of, and he was already coming up with a plan which (Jesus) did not involve crawling up anybody's anus. And then him and Fraser were going to get back to Fraser's cabin because it seemed like maybe they had some serious talking to do, by which Ray actually meant serious making out to do, and if that was not a motivating factor, Ray could not tell you what was.

due South, F/K (explicit; abandoned WIP)

The last night of the adventure, we stay at a hotel in Inuvik. We eat fried chicken and salty french fries from paper cartons on the bed. We watch the news and Ray takes my hand, stroking the cracks and calluses, mapping the evidence of our three hard months in the wilderness.

"Come back with me." He uses the same voice he always uses to make that request: the one that pretends to be joking but is not. He has his eyes on the ugly orange bedspread between us. His hair looks soft and clean.

I kiss it. Then I bring Ray's hand to my lips and kiss that, too, and Ray cups my cheek, pulls me closer. We press our mouths together. I bring both hands up to hold Ray's face, thumbs stroking the newly-smooth jaw, and my tongue slides into Ray's mouth and Ray moans. We topple sideways onto the bed together and kiss in the quiet for a while, and then Ray pulls me over, on top of him; wraps his legs over my legs and his arms around my ribs and holds on. I let my face fall to the hollow of Ray's neck, breathe the rich warmth of him, the smell that has come to mean sleep and life and home. I kiss his skin, lip his collarbone and the jut of his jaw, the curling shell of his ear. Ray slides one hand up beneath my t-shirt to cup the nape of my neck.

I close my eyes. I want this forever. We have never talked about what this is between us; knowing how short-lived it would be has made us reluctant to expose it to scrutiny, I suppose. But suddenly it seems vital to communicate at least this much to Ray. To clarify matters. Just in case Ray does not already know.

I lift my head. "I do want to go with you," I say.

Ray blinks. I kiss him, but he lies still, doesn't kiss back. After a moment I lift my head and look at him again.

"So why are you staying, then?" he says.

I shake my head and smile sadly, ducking down to kiss the spot where my mouth had rested.

Ray's hands tighten on me. "No, Fraser, I'm serious. Why are you staying if you don't want to?"

I sigh into Ray's neck and lift my head again. Ray is still frowning at me. "Well, this is my home, Ray. I can't just leave."

Ray's frown deepens. "Why not?" he says. "What's stopping you?"

I shake my head. There are a hundred reasons why not to leave; they crowd my mind, all trying to push their way to the fore at once. But before I can choose one of them, Ray's second question distracts me. What's stopping me. What is stopping me? I blink and close my mouth.

"Fraser," Ray is saying, distantly. "Oh jeeze, I was just asking. Don't get your panties in a twist."

I shake my head again. My heart is thumping in my chest. I can't think, all of a sudden. I roll away from Ray, onto my back. Stare blankly up at the low, tiled ceiling. There are a hundred reasons I ought to stay, but none of them is actually compelling. None of them is an obstacle I cannot avoid. If I want to.

"Fraser. Fraser. Fraser." Ray's rolled onto his side and is propped on one elbow. His hair stands up on one side of his head, and he is scowling down at me, looking angry and concerned, and god, I love him.

"Ray," I say, and swallow. "Ray. What if I did."

Ray blinks, then narrows his eyes. "Did what?" he says.

"Came back with you. What if I came back with you?"

Ray stares down at me for a long moment, long enough that I see his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. Then he rolls abruptly off the bed and onto his feet and stands there in his t-shirt and underwear, pointing at me, almost shaking with rage. "Oh no," he says. "No way. Do not do this, Fraser."

I frown, sitting up. "Do what, for Heaven's sake?"

"This, this...thing you're doing here. Whatever this thing is. You made up your mind ages ago and I almost got my head around the idea and you do not just go and, and fuck with something like that."

"Oh, well, then. That makes it so much clearer." I wave a hand in the air to indicate how unclear things still are between us. "I thought you wanted me to think about this."

"Yeah, asshole, I did. Three months ago, when we could still do something about it. When it would be more than just...talking. Shooting your goddamn mouth off. Fucking with me."

I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment, bend my head to rub at the bridge of my nose. "I assure you," I say, without opening my eyes. "My intention was not to "fuck" with you, as you say. I just...well, I suppose this is the first time I've actually considered the matter."

I can tell by Ray's silence that I have not improved the situation. After a moment, I open my eyes again and risk a glance up at him.

He's got that stony look in his eyes, the one which seems to indicate he would like to hit me but is holding the impulse in check. "I been asking you for three months, Fraser," he says.

I grimace and duck my head again. "And I can see how my timing might be rather frustrating, for you. In that case."

"Frustrating," Ray repeats flatly.

I wince and clear my throat. "It's just...I am not accustomed to thinking in terms of personal preference," I say.

Ray's hands clench and release, clench again. He takes a breath. Then he turns on one bare heel and stalks out of the room.

*

I am standing up when he returns a moment later, his arms crossed over his chest. "I'm in my underwear," he says.

I nod. "That you are."

There is a small silence.

"Fraser," he says, his eyes on the carpet between us. "Are you serious about this?"

"I don't know," I say. "What would...how would it go? What would I do in Chicago?"

Ray swallows. "Whatever you wanted," he says. "I guess you could even get your old job at the Consulate back."

I nod. There is a feeling in my chest I cannot identify. It seems to be making it difficult to catch my breath. "And then what?" I ask.

"Then, uh. Then things go back to like they were. We solve crimes, save the world, catch the bad guys."

I nod again. "And where would I live?"

Ray lifts his eyes to mine, his mouth crooking upward in a grin. "Jeeze, I don't know--in your office, maybe?"

I grin back at him. "Well, that's certainly the most economically efficient option."

He laughs, rather breathlessly, and suddenly I want to touch him so badly I can hardly draw breath myself. I lick my lips, step closer to him. Take his upper arm in my hand.

He drops his gaze to my fingers. "I guess I could probably deal with sharing my place," he says, and swallows. "You know. As long as you were going to provide me with regular blow jobs."

I nod, tightening my grip on him, stroking his bicep with my thumb. "I think I can agree to those terms," I say, and Ray's chest moves, once. His eyes fall closed. He unfolds his arms and clenches his hands in the fabric at my hips, pulling me one step closer.

I lift a hand to his face, brush my thumb over the sharp line of his cheekbone and then bend my head so my lips can follow the same path. "Can we really do this?" I murmur against Ray's skin, curling my fingers into the hair at the back of his head. "Because I want to, Ray. I want to do this." There is an image coming clear in the back of my mind, like the picture in the middle of an antique television when it first blinks on--bright and small, but growing outward. I move my free hand up to cup the other side of Ray's head and cover his mouth with mine. After another moment's hesitation, he moans and slides his arms around me, pulls me hard against him.

We kiss for a long time before we break apart to breathe. Ray buries his face in my neck. "Fuck," he says muffledly. "Fuck fuck fucking Christ. Fraser. You better be serious."

I close my eyes and take a breath, wrapping my arms around Ray. I'm grinning like a madman, I know, but I can't help it. Can't stop it. I feel like I've just escaped from prison, guilty but very much alive. "I'm serious," I say, and saying it makes it true. "I am. I am."

*

It's still summer in Chicago. The city seems vivid and familiar, filled with noise and life and luxuries I'd not wanted to admit I missed. Sidewalks, for instance. Fruit and the french fries from Early's Diner; the vast, well-stocked, air conditioned public library. The ready availability of anything you might want to purchase. The sheer hedonistic variety of the place.

And Ray, of course. Ray in the morning, sprawled between the sheets, his skin inviting my palm. Ray's breath in my ear at night; Ray's mouth on me in the shower. Ray in the kitchen after work one day, groaning aloud, half-stripped and braced against the wall while our dinner burns, my mouth on his cock, my slick fingers inside him. I've never had this with anyone before--sex all the time, very nearly whenever I want it. Touch. Intimacy. Proximity. It is intoxicating and addictive, and novel enough to dam the flood of questions building in my mind.

"You're back," Ray says one evening, three weeks after we arrive in Chicago. We are walking slowly back from the corner store together. Diefenbaker is slightly ahead, a pale blur in the shadowed street. The summer heat is still very much in evidence, but the air at night smells of autumn now. Ray is smiling, but there is more than good humour in his expression. I can't quite read what else.

"Yes," I say, and then nod as well, because Ray is still looking at me, as though he is waiting for more. His smile grows and he lowers his gaze to the sidewalk, shakes his head. I wait.

"I guess I'm still working on believing it," he says finally. We walk a few more paces. Diefenbaker lopes back to explain that there's a smell he needs to investigate and he will meet us closer to home. I nod permission.

Ray sighs. "Fraser," he says. "Are you happy? I mean, really--are you happy here?"

I stop walking and look at him. He stops walking too. The smile is gone now, and I can see the concern it was masking. He swallows, but he meets my gaze.

"Ray," I say. "My god. Happy doesn't even begin to describe it." I reach out and grasp his shoulder, awkwardly.

A little of that smile returns. "Yeah? Because it's hard to tell, these days. You don't talk as much as you used to talk, you know? Used to be, I ask a question, you'd have six different answers for it, some of them in Inuktishuk or whatever."

"Inuktituk," I murmur. My heart is beating too quickly. I don't want to answer questions.

"Yeah, yeah," Ray says, "Plus that--you don't do that anymore, either. Yesterday, I said Eskimo three times and I don't think you even noticed, Fraser. Freaked me out. Like you been body-snatched or something." He moves a little closer, taps my forehead gently with his fingertips. "What's going on up there, buddy? What are you thinking about these days?"

I swallow. "Nothing," I say--which is the truth, after a fashion.

Ray's eyes narrow. I hold his gaze, lift my chin a little. He sighs and rubs at his forehead. "Okay, well...there's also the apartment issue."

I sigh. "I like your apartment, Ray. It's convenient, affordable..."

"Too small," he says. "What's wrong with just looking around, you know? Maybe we could find someplace with a yard for Dief. Someplace we could get comfortable."

I start walking again. "I am comfortable," I say.

Ray snorts, jogging a little to catch up. "Yeah, well. You are not allowed to be the comfort judge, Fraser."

"Says who?"

"Says me, you igloo-sleeping freak. You wouldn't know comfortable if it crawled out of your--"

"Ray!" I say, mock-scandalized, and he snickers, and then we're past it.

He brings it up again, though, later that evening. We are on the couch in his living room with the television turned on low. I have my head on his thigh, my face pressed into his belly. He's rubbing my scalp with the fingertips of one hand; the other one rests on my shoulder. I think he's not actually watching the episode of Melrose Place he has the television tuned to--I hope he isn't, at any rate.

"Hey," he says softly, after a while. "You awake?"

I open my eyes. "Mmmn," I say.

"Good. 'Cause listen, I was thinking. Another thing we could do, instead of moving right away, is we could save up for a while and then look at uh, at buying a place. Of our own." His hand keeps moving in my hair, casual and steady. But I can feel the muscles in his stomach tighten, the small twitch of his fingers on my shoulder. "Maybe with a garage for the Goat, you know. Someplace to park it through the winter." He glances at me, lifts his eyes to the television again. "I dunno, I'm just day-dreaming."

"No," I say, rolling so I can look up at him. "That's a good thought, Ray. Certainly worth considering."

He looks at me again, smiling a little now. "Yeah?"

"Yes. If we were frugal, we might have enough for a down payment in a year or so." This is true--Ray and I make a quite livable income with our salaries combined.

Ray grins and thumps my shoulder lightly with his fist. I feel the tension in his stomach ease. "Yeah," he says. "We could do that. Get a nice place. Right, Dief? What do you think about that?"

Dief lifts his head and barks an emphatic agreement. "All right then," Ray says, nodding. "It's a plan."

due South, F/K: Carve Out My Heart Why Dont You (This was my entry for the Badfic Challenge at dS Flashfic, so, you know…warning! Godawfulness follows!)

Rating: NC-17 (for disturbing content)

Summary: So Kowealski goes to Canada to help Fraser out with something, omg cuz he's SO IN LUV@!!!!1 but then he runz in2 vampiRE LESBIANS OMG but dont worry HAHAH cause their only in like, 1 paragraph omg HAHA, but anyway so when Ray gets to Fraser's cabin, like there is SOMONE ELSE THERE OMG WHO COULD IT BE!?!?! pls READ & RVW!!111! I might continue if there are a lot of comments@!@!

Warnings: lesbians!!

~~\~~Carve Out My Heart Why Dont You~~/~~

Author note: This story is for my best friend Kaitlin, cause even though she is sort of weird and slutty now, and hangs out with Charlene Menzies from Bowman Tech, and blows perverted old guys for drugs behind the bleachers, and then totally lies and says she was at Mock Parliament all along, she is still my best friend and I love her. XoXoXoX

Fraser was in danger!

Ray knew because he had a psychic sense about Fraser, because when you are really really close to a person, that is what happens, you get a psychic sense about them especially, so even when they are not telling you the truth about something, you TOTALLY SEE RIGHT THROUGH THEM. And that is what had happened to Ray.

Plus he also knew because Fraser had left a message on Ray's answering machine: "RayRayRayRay! I wish you were home for there is something I would like to say, but I-I-I...I am afraid. To say it." Ray stepped closer to the answering machine and herd Ben's choked sob, and that made him so sad that he had to pick the answering machine up and press it to his heart and then he missed what Ben gasped out next, so he had to hit rewind, and then finally he herd it: "Also, I think I am in danger."

OH MY GOD! Ben was in danger! Ray had to go to him RIGHT NOW! He rushed out into the pouring rain, which plastered his white t-shirt to his heaving pecs and made him look a lot more cut than he usually did, because you know how he always wears those baggy clothes and you totally cant see his body? But wet like that, you could, and it turned out that he was cut, and his blue eyes stared out mournfully from his beautiful face, brimming with tears and concern for his partner. For Ben. For the other half of his SOLE.

Pretty quickly he was out of the city and then it was a short drive to the mountains, where guilt began to rack the slender form of the blond man. "Why did I go and leave ya, Ben-boy? Why did I hafta do a stupid thing like that? WHY WHY WHY WHY!!!11!" And with that, the blond detective drove his car into the side of a mountain cliff out of his almost overwhelming feelings of love and guilt and ANGST.

He went head-first into the windshield which fortunately didn't brake, so he only got a bad bruise on his head instead of going through the windshield completely and getting his brains busted out (so THANK GOD FOR THAT, LOL). Still, he might have perrished, only just as he was gaining conscienceness again, he saw a spooky blue light in the sky.

"W-w-wha..?"

"DO NOT BE AFRAID, RAYMOND KOWeALSKI! WE ARE THE VAMPIRE LESBIANS OF RED DEER !! WE HAVE COME TO HELP!!"

And lo, out of the blue light floated a group of beautiful maidens wearing long black dresses and long black hair and looking sort of goth, only not as stupid, and they had on black boots also, which were cool. The landed on the moonlit road by the car and a couple of them started to make out RIGHT THERE, with there hands in eachothers hair and omg it was SO GROSS AND FASCINATING AND GROSS!!!

"Wow you guys are really lesbians." said Ray.

"YES WE ARE LESBIANS AND ALSO VAMPIRES RAY KOWeALSKI!! WE HAVE DWELLED IN THE MOUNTAINS HERE FOR MANY CENTURIES, SUCKING BLOOD AND HELPING STRANGERS AND DOING OUR LESBIAN THING!! COME NOW, WE WILL HELP YOU!!!"

And with that, the lead lesbian (who looked sort of like you, Kaitlin, HAHA) waves her pale hand and the blond detective finds himself sitting on the middle of the highway in a car that isn't even smashed and it is totally spooky OMG. And then the leader lesbian girl tries to bite Ray's juggler so he has to shoot her in the head and she dies and he feels his heart brake and the other lesbians fly away crying out sadly in the night: "WhEE-oo, whEE-oo, whEE-oo!", for that is the vampire lesbian song.

Later, Ray found himself driving through a blizzard. He was cold and hungry and almost fainting, and he wasn't even sure he was on the right road anymore, but it turned out that he was because lo, there was Ben's little house. He stopped the car and ran outside into the blizzard, and snowflakes got stuck in his eyelashes, which made his blue eyes look even more beautiful than usual, and he flung open the cabin door.

"Ben!" he cried.

But oh, the person standing in the middle of the kitchen wasnt Ben! It was a tall blonde girl in a horey tank top and a short skirt and cowboy boots! She jumped when she saw Ray standing there in the blizzard and spilled hot chocolate on her hand. HA!

"Who are you?" she said.

"Who are YOU?" Ray said back.

"I'm Marlene Jensies," said the girl, licking hot chocolate off her probably syphilitic finger. "I am Ben's new girlfriend." And at that, Ray wanted nothing more than to grab those blonde tresses and cut them all off and make a fugly lice-infested necklace out of them, only he was a gentleman, so he just ran weeping into the blizzard instead.

Much later, Ray was near death when what should come striding through the blizzard but Fraser! Fraser, with his red uniform and his stupid hat and a sliegh piled high with furs! "Ray, my lover, how could you believe I could be with anyone but you??!?"

"But...but..."

"It was all part of an undercover assignment," Fraser explained, tenderly sponging Ray's frostburned face with ointment (because, oh, they already managed to get back to Ben's cabing by then). "I had to pretend for a time, my lover, but now the witch is in jail, where she is no doubt getting her face shoved in a toilet as she so richly deserves, and we can finally be...together."

And Ray knew by the way Ben's voice got deeper on that last word that what he was talking about was sex.

And lo, they were VERY HAPPY.

~~~~~~~~The end~~~~~~~~~

Many thanks (?) to lyra_sena for a most excellently horrible prompt.

due South, Ray/Ray: hard, soft, heat. (explicit)

Ray figures it doesn't pay to be too particular about who you see in the romantic sense of the word, but that said, there is definitely a type of person that he tends to fall for more often.

He likes:

And yeah, there was one big Mountie-shaped exception in there, back before he went to Vegas. But Fraser is the kind of guy exceptions were invented for, okay? And besides, he's not that far from Ray's particular type--he dresses like a human tragedy and he only smells nice some of the time, but he's got his own kind of class, and the smart thing was never in question.

So that explains Fraser.

This, though--this is something else. This breathless whatever-it-is--this curve of skull beneath his hand and the twist of short-cropped hair between his fingers; this bony shoulder with the leather strap of harness and the washed-thin cotton t-shirt underneath; this fucking mouth on him, sloppy and wet and so goddamned perfect--all of this came straight out of left field. Anybody ever told him he'd be getting off on the smell of sweat and sex and the soft, muffled moans Kowalski is making around his dick, Ray'd have punched them right in the kisser. Because he's predictable. He's boring and straight. He is not the kind of guy who would ever be caught dead with his pants shoved down in his partner's car, panting helpless at the ceiling.

Kowalski shifts on top of him, sliding an arm beneath Ray's waist and using it to pull him closer, deeper. He breathes out heat against Ray's belly and starts in with a whole new rhythm. Ray's mouth falls open and he hears himself make this shuddering sigh and Jesus, Kowalski looks good with his lips stretched around Ray's cock and his eyes closed like that, eyelashes dark against his cheek. He looks like he's concentrating, like he wants this, wants to suck Ray's dick so perfect in the dark, make him feel like this, like he could go blind from this, like everything they ever told him in parochial school was true, and so, so worth it. He pushes his fingers deeper into Kowalski's fair hair, slides his other hand up from Kowalski's shoulder to trace the rough line of jaw, the creases at the corner of his tight-shut eye.

Kowalski moans again, low and soft, and picks up the pace. The car fills with those small wet sounds and their harsh breath, and it's obscene and strange and god, really hot, and Ray's hand falls back to Kowalski's shoulder because he has to, has to hang on to something, here. "Oh," he says, in a voice he doesn't recognize. "Oh, fuck, Kowalski. Oh, Jesus." And Kowalski's hand tightens on Ray's bare hip, fingers digging in hard, and he pushes the flat of his tongue against the head of Ray's dick and then swallows around him, wet and tight and fuck--fuck, Ray has no choice about it: he has to come.

Afterward, Kowalski sits up slow and casual, scratches at his head and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks flushed, and kind of amused, but he doesn't say anything--just slides back over to his side of the car.

Ray takes a breath, lets it out. He fumbles in the glove compartment for some of the napkins he shoved in there after lunch and mops up his belly, tucks himself away with hands that in no way are shaking. When he opens the door to throw the napkins in the gutter, the night air comes in cool and fresh. Wakes him up a little. Clears his head.

"So, uh," he says, pulling the door closed again. "You going to drop me at home some time tonight, or what?"

Kowalski's busy staring out the windshield at the empty parking lot, one thumb rubbing thoughtfully at the corner of his mouth. He laughs a little now, though, drops his head. "Uh huh," he says, sitting up again, and reaches out to start the car. "Yeah. You bet."

Nobody says anything until they get to Wacker, at which point Ray shifts in his seat, taps the dash. "It, uh. Sounds like you got a bad differential."

Kowalski shoots a look across the car at him. "Yeah," he says. "I was going to take a look tomorrow. You want to help?"

Ray sniffs, shrugs. "Sure," he says. And he keeps his gaze on the road ahead, but he can see Kowalski's face out of the corner of his eye, and he doesn't miss that slow grin. He smiles, too.

"All right, then," Kowalski says, and a few seconds after that, he turns on the radio.

due South, F/K, explicit

Ray lets his head fall forward, his brow against Fraser's shoulder. He only needs to rest a minute, but Fraser won't let him rest, won't even give him that minute before he pushes his fingers into Ray's hair and tugs his head up again. Ray has time to suck in a quick breath and then Fraser's mouth is on his again, wet and hot, that tongue pushing up to meet Ray's own.

Ray moans and kisses Fraser back because he can't help it either, really--more than a year the two of them worked together, day in and day out, and all that time he was thinking of this. Of what it would feel like to get naked in a bed with Fraser. To get his fingers that hair, even, or kiss that fucking...mouth and now that he can finally do this, now that he's allowed, he doesn't even want to stop long enough to breathe.

"God," Fraser says, and kisses Ray again, slides his mouth down Ray's chin, licks the sweat off his neck. "Ray," he says, and bites Ray's shoulder, gently, his teeth wet and sharp on Ray's skin. Ray closes his eyes and thrusts into the warm hollow of Fraser's hip and Fraser's big hand closes hard on his ass, fingers digging in. Ray's stupid and blind, narrowed down to heat here and roughness there, to their breath in the silence, to the way Fraser's voice sounds like sandpaper or like liquor maybe, and Ray knows that doesn't make sense, but he can't, he can't make himself care.

"Fuck," he says, and his own voice sounds way too high-pitched and he might maybe be embarrassed about that, sometime. He lets his head fall back and thrusts again, and Fraser's fingers move on his ass, find the cleft and press inside it, inside him, slick with spit or something. He grunts and pushes forward again, then back onto Fraser's finger. And Fraser slides his other hand around to the back of Ray's head, pulling him down again so he can press his mouth to Ray's ear.

"Ray," he says. "Is this...can I...is this okay?"

Ray swallows hard. He needs to answer this because otherwise Fraser's going to stop, but Fraser has his thighs pressed against Ray's hips, and Ray can still, can still fucking taste Fraser every time he licks his lips or presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and he keeps getting distracted. He kisses Fraser's jaw and then he licks Fraser's ear, and then Fraser's finger is shifting inside him, getting ready to withdraw, so he lifts his head, forces himself to say something.

"Nnnuh," he says.

Fraser pauses. Ray swallows again and lifts his head and thank god, Fraser looks about as stupid as Ray feels: eyelids half-closed, his lips red and swollen. "No," Ray manages. "I mean, yeah. Or...just don't, uh. Don't stop."

Fraser licks his lips. "Okay," he says. And then Ray doesn't even know what he's doing anymore because Fraser's mouth is open under his and Fraser's fingers are in his hair, scraping against his scalp, keeping him close, and they're both breathing hard and the bed is smacking against the wall--thunk, thunk, thunk--and Ray's thinking about what if Fraser fucked him. He's thinking what if Fraser had him pushed into the mattress right now, and instead of that finger working its way inside him it was Fraser's cock, and he thinks that holy Christ he wants that, he wants it so fucking much.

"Fuck me," he says against Fraser's cheek. "Fraser, god--fuck me. I mean it. Please."

And Fraser sucks in a breath and pulls him even closer, pushes his fingers deeper and Jesus, Jesus, Ray is losing it, like there are stars in the dark behind his squeezed-closed eyelids and a ringing in his ears kind of losing it, and he's coming all over Fraser's stomach, Fraser's voice low and rough against his ear.

SGA, McKay/Sheppard

"Don't."

Rodney shifted. Broken glass crunched under the soles of his boots, that small sound echoing in the empty house where he was sheltering. Beneath the pines at the edge of the yard, something in the shadows moved. Rodney shivered, tightened his grip on the gun in his hand, sweat slick on the cool metal.

"Rodney," John said again. "I mean it. Don't."

Rodney closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed hard. Then he let all the breath out of his lungs at once, reached a shaky hand up to the radio in his ear and tugged it out.

John's strained whisper went silent. Without it, the night suddenly seemed much larger. Rodney heard the wind pick up outside, rustling the tops of those pines, stirring the grass in the yard, making the door swing on its one remaining hinge. He couldn't see much out there, but it seemed like the yard was empty. The...whatever-they-were--the Invaders, the locals had called them--they seemed to be concentrating their attentions on John, who was stuck in the branches of one of those pines, which John seemed to think was a perfectly satisfactory situation because it meant that the locals had been able to escape. Which, Rodney thought, pulling a grenade from the pouch on his belt with fingers that felt like rubber, was totally a John Sheppard kind of plan: short-sighted, unnecessarily dramatic and featuring the heroic sacrifice of hey, you guessed it--himself.

"Two more minutes," Rodney muttered. "I would've thought of something. I mean, come on--of course I would have. I'm great in time-pressured situations. I do my best planning that way." He hefted the grenade, gave it a doubtful look. In the training video, they said you should pick a target and plan your toss before you pulled the pin, so okay, that meant that now was the time. He took a breath. Let it out again. Took another breath. Considered making a brief detour so he could vomit, since that's what his stomach seemed to be suggesting he do, right now--and rather strenuously suggesting, too, actually.

But then there was a sudden rustling from the direction of the pines and what sounded like wood cracking, and Rodney heard John swear out loud, sounding scared--or at least startled--and then Rodney was running, flat-out, already halfway across the yard before he even knew what he was doing.

It was over pretty quickly from there. Yes, there was almost an issue when the pin turned out to be ridiculously difficult to pull out of the grenade, and Rodney had to pause mid-barbarian-charge to fiddle with the thing, and yes, when it finally come loose, he was so startled he almost forgot to actually throw it. But he did throw it, and he didn't blow his own arm off, and he got John out of the goddamned tree and they made it through the gate.

And later, when they were safe in Atlantis and the briefing was over--when John pulled Rodney into his quarters and shoved him hard against the wall in the dark, and kissed him like one of them was drowning, his mouth open and hot and alive, his fingers already working their way into Rodney's clothes--well. Rodney was willing to concede that heroics sometimes had their own reward.

SGA, McKay/Sheppard (explicit)

"...so then, after all that negotiating, he said 'I'll think about it.'"

John made a soothing sort of noise and pulled Rodney's left arm out of his shirt sleeve.

Rodney hmphed. "'I'll think about it.' As if we hadn't just spent three hours explaining to him why it was absolutely necessary, and exactly what the consequences were going to be if he didn't--and I am not talking about minor stuff here, John; I mean, these people are on the verge of self, uh...what are you doing?"

John lifted his mouth from the hard curve of Rodney's shoulder. "I'm sucking on you," he said.

Rodney blinked. "Oh. Okay. Well, anyway, after that I might have said some, um...things." John scraped the fingertips of one hand down Rodney's hairy chest. Rodney shivered. "So now Elizabeth says I'm not allowed on any more diplomatic missions."

John smiled against the skin of Rodney's neck. "What'd you say?" he asked between kisses, and undid Rodney's fly.

Rodney shivered again, trying to bring his shoulder up to protect his neck from John's mouth. "I don't know," he said. "I suppose I said he was exploitative. And I might have called him a profiteering vulture." He shivered again, and then gasped when John's hand found its way into his underwear. "Also a morally vacant asshat," he added faintly.

John snorted, lifting his head. "You called the Grand Duke of Polomy an asshat?"

Rodney smiled tentatively. "Possibly?"

"Huh." John leaned in a little closer, made his grip a little tighter, watched Rodney's eyes fall closed. "Well. I think that's pretty hot."

"Oh," said Rodney, without opening his eyes. John kissed him, then did it again, bringing his unoccupied hand up to hold the side of Rodney's face, squeezing Rodney's cock inside his shorts, licking his way into Rodney's unresisting mouth. Rodney moaned and kissed him back, those big hands closing hard on his arms. For a little while, he didn't even try to talk.

But later, when they were both naked on the bed and John was kissing his way across Rodney's chest, he heard Rodney take a meditative breath. (That was the thing about Rodney: he would think of something to say pretty much any time his mouth wasn't actively occupied--and sometimes even that wouldn't stop him.)

"I could be diplomatic," he said now. "Don't you think?"

John grinned and licked Rodney's left nipple, shaking his head.

"No, but really--how hard could it be? I'm an intelligent guy."

"Rodney," John said gently, sliding up so he could look into Rodney's eyes, pushing the sweaty hair from Rodney's face and stroking that flushed cheek with his thumb. "You are the least diplomatic person I know. No--" Rodney opened his mouth like he was going to protest, so John shook his head. "Really. You will never, ever make a good diplomat. Never. Really. No."

Rodney closed his mouth and gave a frustrated little huff through his nose. John was obliged to kiss him pretty thoroughly. It took a while.

"You're still a genius, though," he said, eventually, when both of them were breathless.

"Well, yes," Rodney agreed. He did sound a little mollified, though; was tracing patterns on the small of John's back with his fingertips.

"And, you know--pretty fucking cute."

"Yeah?" That got him a grin.

John kissed it. "Mmm," he said. "But don't, uh. Don't tell anybody I said so."

SGA, team

Teyla's back ached.

She shifted, leaning back against the railing and stretching her bare feet out in front of her. It was difficult to find a comfortable position. Difficult to force herself to relax at all. She had been working a lot lately, dividing her time between offworld missions and the harvest on the mainland; she couldn't remember the last time she'd done anything this irresponsible.

But orders were orders, and Dr. Weir had been very clear. Teyla was to accompany the rest of the team to the south pier for an afternoon of mandated "R&R." "It'll do you all a world of good," she'd said. "You work too hard, and everyone has a limit. I'd just like to make sure that none of you is in any danger of reaching yours."

Well, and here they were. As ordered.

Out at the end of the pier, John and Ronon were standing with their toes curled around the edge of the platform, side by side. They appeared to be having a spitting contest. Rodney, however, had not adapted as well to the requirements of the afternoon. He was standing uncomfortably in the shade next to the nearest spire, his arms crossed over his chest, muttering to himself. He had been there for almost thirty minutes already--ever since he'd discovered that Dr. Weir had removed his computer from the bag he'd insisted on bringing, replacing it with a paper book and a deck of playing cards.

Teyla tipped her head back against the rail and closed her eyes. "Rodney," she called. "Perhaps you would find that the afternoon would pass more quickly if you did not spend it pacing?" She did not even have to open her eyes to know he was glaring at her now. She smiled a little. "Come, sit down. I'll help you with your sunscreen."

She could feel him waffling between the pleasures of continued sulking and the more immediate ones associated with having someone else rub lotion into your skin. Truly, he was as transparent as a little child, at times. It was a good thing that he was also cute.

Eventually, the sulking lost, as she had known it would. She heard his feet cross the pier, felt the whoosh of displaced air as he took a seat beside her. "How can you do this, just...give in like this?" She heard a rustling, and his voice grew muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head. "I mean, I know you aren't like those two over there--you aren't the kind of person who can just spend the whole afternoon happily...hmm. What is it that they're doing, exactly?"

Teyla opened her eyes and they both watched John and Ronon for a time. The spitting war was over; the newest game seemed to require them to clasp hands and wave their thumbs about.

"I have no idea," Teyla admitted, after a while. She took the lotion Rodney pressed into her hand and squeezed a goodly portion of it into the other palm. "But are you hungry? Perhaps it would be a good idea for us to eat while those two are...occupied." She reached sideways and began to smooth the lotion over Rodney's shoulders.

Rodney groaned and shifted closer. "That--mmm--that is a good idea. I know they only packed us a couple of those ham and cheese sandwiches. I think it's entirely appropriate for the two of us to claim them."

Teyla smiled and leaned back against the railing again. The lotion was well-spread on Rodney's back, but she left her hand there anyway, warm against his spine, and he smiled at her, briefly, as he dug through the insulated bag into which the kitchen staff had packed their food. The sun beat down, sleepy and bright and warm against Teyla's eyelids, and even the enormous splash at the end of the pier couldn't persuade her to open them again.

In a little while, John and Ronon would be here, too, dripping salt water and demanding a fair share of the food, breathless and laughing, somehow managing to make even this wide-open space feel crowded. Rodney would complain and they would probably throw him in the ocean, and then they would all four of them spend the rest of the afternoon drying slowly in the sun.

Teyla smiled and patted Rodney's back before she drew her hand away. Perhaps Elizabeth had been right. They'd needed this. One day of childish ease in the midst of all the rest.

due South, F/K

"I think I've had enough, Fraser. This is done."

Fraser looked up from the book he was reading, squinting into the shadows outside the pool of light cast by his reading lamp. "Well," he said. "I suppose you might want to throw it out then, Ray."

Dief lifted his head from his forepaws and gave a protesting yelp.

"Diefenbaker, there is no way on this green earth that you could possibly be hungry. I personally saw you eat more than half your own weight in popcorn tonight." Dief grumbled, but lowered his head again. Fraser sighed.

Ray stood up from the table, put one hand over his slightly distended belly and gave the remnants of his slice of berry pie a doubtful look. "Maybe in a little while?" he said. "I mean, once stuff has a chance to, uh...settle."

Fraser sighed again, settling deeper into the cushions. He was careful not to say anything about overindulgence and the costs thereof, but he did allow himself a small disapproving shake of the head as he lifted his book again. He heard Ray snort, heard the sound of his feet on the kitchen tile and then the rattle of the refrigerator opening, a small chink as the plate touched the metal shelf within. A moment later, he felt the air move above him and had just enough time to look up before Ray himself landed on the cushions beside him, all elbows and protuberant knees.

"Ouch," Fraser said mildly.

"Shh." Ray squirmed and shifted, and Fraser sighed and accommodated him until they'd somehow managed an arrangement in which Ray rested between Fraser's body and the back of the couch, his head propped on Fraser's chest, one arm flung across his belly. He squirmed a little more, then, sneaking one bare foot between Fraser's warmer, sock-clad ones before he gave a satisfied grunt and closed his eyes.

Fraser lifted the hand that wasn't holding his book and dropped it into Ray's untidy hair, rubbing gently at his scalp. "I'm impressed," he murmured. "I wouldn't have thought the couch was sturdy enough to hold both of us and half the berry pie in Christendom as well."

"Mmmph," agreed Ray. "It's a good couch." He patted at it without opening his eyes.

Fraser smiled and let his hand fall flat against the back of Ray's head. The fire popped and sent a shower of sparks up the darkened shaft of the chimney, briefly brightening the rest of the room. Outside, it was snowing; Fraser could hear the soft hiss-hissing against the window.

"Should we go to bed?" he asked, eventually, setting his book on the floor.

Ray sniffed and held him a little harder, already most of the way asleep. "Mmhmm," he said. "Yeah. In, um. In a little while."

SGA, McKay/Sheppard, Something old, something borrowed: "Expedience" (explicit)

"Mmmph."

Rodney opened his mouth against John's, and John kissed him deeper, harder, sliding his tongue between Rodney's lips, rocking his hips, his callused fingers pushing up under Rodney's shirt and skimming a nipple. Rodney gasped and let his head thunk back onto the pillow, feeling John's lips wet and hot against the skin under his chin, the scrape of John's teeth on his neck.

"Fuck," he gasped, and John moaned agreement, pushing at Rodney's shirt, tugging it off. John's shirt was already gone--he'd been in bed when Rodney sneaked in here, had been warm and sleepy and already shirtless in a pair of loose pajama bottoms. He was awake, now, though, and god, god, all that warm skin against Rodney's felt incredible. Rodney slid his hands down John's back and then lower, into the waistband of John's pajama bottoms, his fingers digging into John's ass. John bit Rodney's shoulder, his hips bucking, then kissed the place his teeth had marked, and moved his lips even lower. Rodney swallowed hard. John kissed his collarbone and his chest, lifted his head just enough to murmur "Quiet, remember?" against Rodney's skin.

Rodney nodded fervently. Quiet, of course. He could be quiet. He wasn't an animal after---

"Oh, god," he said, quite loudly, when John's mouth closed over his nipple. John started to lift his head away. "Sorry, sorry," Rodney said. He put a hand in John's hair again, nudging his head back down. Put the other arm over his own mouth, just in case, which turned out to be a very good thing, because when John's tongue slid, flat and wet, over Rodney's nipple, Rodney couldn't help but make a number of indecent sounds into the crook of his own elbow. John smiled and licked him again, one hand pushing into Rodney's already unzipped trousers, closing just hard enough on Rodney's cock. Rodney's hand fisted in John's hair. He heard himself gasping desperately as John's mouth moved down over his stomach, as John's free hand urged Rodney's hips up and shoved Rodney's trousers down, as John's lips brushed wetly over the head of Rodney's cock and then surrounded it, hot and already sucking gently, sliding all the way down to meet his fist.

Rodney bit his forearm and forced himself to breathe, and John nudged Rodney's thighs further apart, slid two spit-slick fingers into Rodney's ass. And Christ, yes--everything dissolved into the touch of John's hands and his mouth, into heat and rhythm and the need to, to move, and it wasn't hard to keep quiet now because he had no breath to speak with. He buried his hand deeper in John's hair and John took Rodney deeper into his mouth in response and Rodney felt himself arc right up off the bed as he came.

After a while, Rodney managed to slit his eyes open a little. John kissed him. He was naked now, pressed against Rodney's body, his cock hard against Rodney's hip. Rodney kissed him back. Through a heroic effort, he managed to lift his arms and wrap them around John's shoulders. "Fuck me," he said. "Want to?" And that was backward, wasn't it, but John still seemed to understand. At any rate, he groaned and kissed Rodney again, his hips grinding against Rodney's, one hand fumbling on the table beside the bed. Rodney took the condom from him and John hummed agreement, his lips already busy on Rodney's neck again. Rodney tore open the package, reached blindly for a packet of lube...and found nothing but condoms there. Lots of condoms, sure--a whole avalanche of them even, when his fumbling hand nudged them off the table. Which displayed an endearing optimism on John's part, but which was not, at this point, helpful.

"Where's the lube?" he said breathlessly.

John just kept sucking on Rodney's neck. Rodney sighed, pushing at his shoulder until he lifted his head. "Lube, John," he said. "Where is it?"

John frowned. His lips were swollen and his eyes were half-lidded, stupid with sex.

"John? You did get lube when you got the condoms. Right?"

"Well," said John, in the Rodney-be-reasonable tone he reserved for moments when he had, himself, made some grievous error. "The condoms came lubed. It says so right on the package."

Rodney closed his eyes and let his head fall back into the pillow. "Right," he said, and dropped his arms to his sides.

John cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "But."

"Not going to happen."

There was a moment of silence. John lay down next to Rodney. "Okay. So, lube--good thing to have for the gay sex."

Rodney snorted. "Might be, yes."

"Might have been a good thing to mention, then," John said. "Say, before I went to get the condoms."

Rodney sighed and flapped a hand, conceding the point. They'd decided that it would be John's job to get supplies from the medical stores, since John's having a need for them would be much less of an event than Rodney's. But John was so naturally proficient that Rodney often forgot his experience with other guys was limited to the kind of things a couple of nervous closet-cases could get up to in an alley late at night.

"What about hand lotion?" John said suddenly, sounding hopeful.

Rodney shook his head. "Petroleum based. Corrode the condom."

"Soap? Gun oil? Peanut butter?"

"Ouch, eww, and are you insane? In what universe would peanut butter work as lube?"

John waved a hand. "Pretty desperate here, Rodney."

"Right." Rodney tapped his chin, pursed his lips. "Ha! Okay! Wait here!" He rolled to his feet and started toward the door.

"Rodney," said John.

"What?"

"Pants?"

"Oh," said Rodney. "Yes. Good thinking."

*

It was the middle of third shift. The corridors were empty. Rodney spared a moment to be grateful for that, since it turned out he had put his shirt back on inside out. He hurried his pace, kept away from the more populated areas and arrived at his destination somewhat out of breath, but undiscovered.

It was quiet up here, away from the more populated areas--Rodney heard the faint sound of music from inside the room, his own loud breathing. There was a moment's pause after he tapped at the door, then it slid open. Radek, barefoot but otherwise still in uniform, stood blinking at him inquiringly.

"Er," said Rodney. It had suddenly occurred to him that maybe he should have investigated other avenues first. He cleared his throat.

Radek lifted his eyebrows.

Rodney's gaze slid away from his face, glimpsed a large and colourful scale model of something in the middle of the floor behind him. "What's--" he started.

Radek moved to block his view. "It's...a thing I'm working on," he said. Rodney leaned discretely in the opposite direction, hoping to catch a glimpse of it, but Radek shifted with him. "No peeking. Ah. I am serious."

"Fine," said Rodney, crossing his arms over his chest. "But you know you're going to tell me what it is eventually."

"I will not."

"Pssh. You're going to hit a block and start tearing out the rest of your hair and then I'll hear all about it."

Radek opened his mouth, then closed it again. He frowned, his eyes narrowing. "Why are you at my room with a backward shirt?"

"Er," said Rodney again. "I was wondering...that is, I remembered that you usually keep some lube. In your room. And, uh. I was hoping I could borrow some?"

There was a silence. That faint music seemed to be drifting out from Radek's laptop--and was that Abba? Rodney opened his mouth, caught a glimpse of Radek's face. Right. He lowered his eyes again.

"Wow," Radek said.

Rodney winced. He kept his gaze on Radek's left foot, where there was, inexplicably, a smear of green paint.

"I mean, really. Rodney. Wow. Even by the diminished standard I keep just for you, that is bad manners."

Rodney lifted a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. "Yes, all right, never mind. Bad idea."

Radek gave a disbelieving laugh.

"Right. Okay. I'll just..."

"No, no, you're here now, disturbing me. You might as well take what you came to get." He disappeared into his room again. Rodney rubbed at his forehead, shifted his weight. Tapped his fingers on the door frame. The thing in Radek's room appeared to be a representation of the forces exerted by a magnetar...much good as that did him. He still had no idea what Radek might be attempting to prove with--

"Tch. You're like a moral sinkhole, you. Here. Take these and go away." He pressed a handful of plastic packages into Rodney's hands.

Rodney took them automatically. It didn't actually help, he found, that there was discernable affection in Radek's voice now, along with the annoyance. In fact, it seemed to be making him feel worse. "Look," he said.

Radek rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, you are not cruel but stupid. I know this. Good night, now, please." And the door slid closed in Rodney's face.

*

When Rodney got back, John was reading a print-out of the most recent science department tech requisition form from the SGC's central supply. He pushed it off the edge of the bed with a groan when Rodney shut the door behind him.

"I thought it would help," he said pitifully. "Take my mind off...things. But god, no--it just made everything worse. Do you know you could order a Naquadah-powered electron accelerator? I mean, I don't even know what that is and it's driving me crazy." He reached off the edge of the bed and grabbed Rodney's wrist, pulling him down for a kiss. "Come on," he said, against Rodney's lips. "Come here, already."

Rodney kissed him back, then kissed him again. John pushed his fingers into Rodney's hair, kneading his scalp, tugging him closer. Rodney let himself be pulled into bed, but then moved his mouth away from John's, lowered it to lip at John's bare shoulder instead.

"Do you think I'm an asshole?" he murmured, indistinctly.

John pushed his hand up under Rodney's shirt. "Hmm?" he said, sliding his other hand into Rodney's trousers, fingertips rough against the curve of his ass. His lips found Rodney's temple, and then the corner of his eye. His breath huffed out warm against Rodney's cheek.

Rodney closed his eyes. "Nothing," he said, kissing the spot where his mouth had rested. "Never mind."

due South, Ray/Ray, "you say that one more time, I'm outta here"

Ray knows they're going to have a fight. He can feel it coming on, straining the edges of the day like water in a balloon, all Kowalski's normal ticks grating on his nerves like sandpaper. Like, who cuts their toe-nails and then just leaves them there, in a pile on the floor next to the arm chair? Where does Kowalski think they're going to end up, anyway? Does he figure some kind of toe nail fairy is going to come along and take care of the mess for him? Does he think Ray loves him so much he treasures the disgusting remains of his foot care?

And what the fuck is with that clapping thing Kowalski does? Whenever he makes up his mind about something--like, it could be a big thing, as in what direction they should take a case, but it could be a completely stupid thing, too, like should he get up and take a piss--he does this roll of his shoulders and he swings out his arms and then he slaps his hands together. Sometimes even twice. And...what's that supposed to mean, you know? Ray just does not get it.

And that's not all. He fucking hates the stupid belch-and-smile routine Kowalski does too, that little self-satisfied grin he gets, along with the smug belly rub. He hates Kowalski's middle of the night grunts and snores. Hates the idiotic way he insists on dressing, the favourite t-shirts all worn threadbare and transparent because the guy has owned them since nineteen eighty-six. And Jesus, don't get Ray started about the way Kowalski talks, like something between a grade-school teacher and a Sex Pistol--pitter patter, lets get at 'er Ray's frickin' ass.

Today is Sunday, which means that they get to spend the whole day together, which Ray right now is looking forward to about as much as he's looking forward to his next proctology exam. It's only a little bit after noon and already the back of Kowalski's goddamned neck is annoying the fuck out of Ray, and he's thinking if he has to listen to Kowalski singing along with that stupid Gillette commercial one more time, there's going to be a homicide in here. "Jesus Christ, shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up," he tells Kowalski. Yells it from the kitchen where he's doing the breakfast dishes, and thanks so much for offering to help you ass-licking little Polak.

"What?" Belligerent and amused, which is Kowalski all over. "You don't like my singing, Vecchio?" There's a groaning of springs as Kowalski gets out of the armchair, the pad of bare feet as he walks into the kitchen. Without even looking, Ray knows he's going to be lounging in the door frame, smirking. He finishes cleaning the paring knife in his hands a little more slowly than is strictly necessary.

"No. On account of your singing sucks. You think you could pick up a fucking dish towel for once in your life?"

He hears Kowalski snort, but those footsteps come nearer and then Kowalski's right next to him, towel in hand. He takes a glass from the draining board. Leans in close to Ray's ear. Sings, "...the best a man can get."

Ray feels his jaw get really tight. "You sing that one more time I'm outta here," he says.

He hears Kowalski draw a breath and he knows--just fucking knows--that this is it. They're going to fight over this one stupid thing and Ray will maybe end up hitting Kowalski or vice versa, and at the very least, one of them is going to spend the night in a Motel Six. He feels his hands clench into fists in the soapy water, feels his stomach clench too.

But then Kowalski just lets that breath out again. Ray looks at him. Kowalski's looking back. Has a considering glint in his eyes, a bunch of furrows in his forehead.

"What?" Ray says.

"Nothing." Kowalski drops the towel on the draining board and wraps his fingers around Ray's bare arm instead. Tugs a little, until Ray gives up and lets himself be turned. "Just...fuck the dishes, okay? I got a better idea for how we could spend the afternoon."

Ray feels the rage sort of draining out of him, as if Kowalski pulled the plug. Still, he frowns, makes Kowalski push him hard before he lets himself be backed up against the sink. "Why am I not surprised about that?" he says, a little breathless. "Lazy slob. The things you'll do to get out of housework." Kowalski's wiry warmth is pressed all down the front of Ray now, pressing him up against the counter. Kowalski's hands are moving lightly up Ray's arms, rough and callused, and his lips are soft against Ray's cheek. Ray shivers. Lets his eyes fall closed.

"What can I say?" Kowalski murmurs against Ray's lips. "You know me." And then his tongue is licking its way into Ray's mouth and Ray is groaning, his hands clenching Kowalski's hips, pulling him closer, sliding up and under the t-shirt to stroke along his ribs.

"Yeah, I do," he says when Kowalski moves his mouth away. Kowalski just grins and kisses him again.

due South, F/K (explicit)

Fraser lets himself into the bedroom. It's dark inside, though a thin grey light is beginning to seep through the slats of the blind drawn over the window. The sun is coming up, then. It's later than he'd thought. But Ray's slow, even breathing is audible in the early morning hush. He's still asleep, then. Fraser hasn't woken him.

He stretches carefully, wincing a little at the soreness in all of his muscles. He spent the night in the field with Constable Darcy, and though they eventually caught the poachers they were chasing, Fraser is paying for it now. He isn't as young as he used to be, evidently. He aches from head to toe.

He unbuttons his muddy tunic and drapes it over the back of a chair. Shrugs out of his suspenders and pulls his henley over his head. That goes in the hamper near the foot of the bed, and Fraser turns his attention to his trousers. He manages the buttons at the top of the fly without incident, but the zipper sounds quite loud in the quiet of the room. He winces again, and indeed, Ray stirs in the bed, takes a breath, rolls over and blinks sleepily at him. "Hey," he says, his voice rough with sleep. There's a rustling and Ray's long arm stretches out from beneath the quilts, reaching for Fraser, his skin pale and smooth in the half-light. He's smiling, his eyes still most of the way closed; his fair hair is mussed against the pillow.

"I'm filthy," Fraser warns, though he's already halfway to the bed.

Ray snorts softly then yawns, his outstetched arm waving impatiently. "So what?" he manages finally. "Just c'mere. I wanna kiss you."

Obviously, this is not the kind of invitation one can just refuse. Fraser kneels on the bed, lowers himself carefully over Ray's body until their faces are level. Ray hooks his arm around Fraser's neck, pulling him in so close Fraser can feel the heat of Ray's flushed skin. He lets his lips brush Ray's, just briefly. Feels Ray's mouth curve into a smile. "Hmm," Fraser murmurs. He moves his mouth over Ray's chin, briefly allows himself to become distracted by the incredible contrast of textures there: the coarseness of the stubble against his tongue, the soft warmth of the skin beneath. "Kissing is indeed an activity I enjoy--as you know, Ray, I believe." He pauses, waits for Ray's amused hum of agreement. "However, it seems to me that the enjoyment may actually be heightened if I smelled less like a muskox. Don't you...ah...think so, Ray?"

Ray snorts again, using the arm he has around Fraser's neck to tug their faces together. The first kiss is consequenty a little harder than either of them intend, but Ray's lips are incredibly soft and warm and wet, and they open so willingly to let in Fraser's tongue, and Ray is squirming, now, where Fraser's body has him pressed into the mattress; he's squirming and thrusting, pushing his hips into Fraser's hips, moving one long leg out from beneath the tangle of quilts so he can hook it around the back of Fraser's knee. "Uh unh," he says finally.

Fraser kisses him again, deeply and slow, letting his weight settle more firmly into the welcoming warmth of Ray's body. "Well..okay," he says, mock-dubiously. He shifts so his elbow bears most of his weight, traces Ray's face with his fingertips, brushing the sharp line of Ray's jaw, the delicate concavity beneath his closed eye. Ray swallows audibly and exhales through his nose. Fraser moves his hand over Ray's furrowed forehead and into his pillow-flattened hair. He burrows in, rubbing Ray's scalp with his fingertips, scratching him a little roughly, in the way he claims to like. Ray makes a contented little noise of agreement and pushes his head into Fraser's touch, and Fraser smiles in spite of himself and feels obliged to kiss Ray quite hard.

When they finally break to breathe again, the quilts are heaped on the floor next to the bed and Ray's naked body is wrapped around Fraser's, and Fraser's trousers are bunched halfway down his thighs. Fraser squeezes his eyes closed, swallows hard. "Ray," he says, but witlessly, without meaning. His forehead is pressed into Ray's forehead and Ray is gasping against his cheek, and Fraser is thrusting into the sweaty hollow of Ray's hip. "Ray," he says again, and this time Ray's hand finds its way to the back of Fraser's neck, those long fingers pushing in.

"Yeah?" he says, breathless.

Fraser swallows again. His tongue feels loose, unpredictable. He might say anything now, or nonsense, or nothing at all. So he presses his open mouth to Ray's cheek instead, follows the line of bone down to the hollow beneath Ray's ear. Ray gasps as Fraser moves his tongue there, sucking and biting his way down Ray's neck and around, to the taut skin beneath his chin. Ray's fingertips are digging into Fraser's buttock, now, pressing Fraser closer there, and Fraser thrusts harder, lifting his head so he can kiss Ray's mouth again, so he can swallow the breathless moan Ray makes as his body tightens under Fraser's, as his hips buck and his fingers spasm against Fraser's skin, digging in, scratching him hard enough to startle him into a gasp of his own. That small pain is enough to send him over the edge; he pushes his cock into the wet warmth between their bodies and groans aloud as his orgasm takes him.

Afterward, they lie breathing in the twilight for a while, Fraser's face buried against Ray's neck. "Hm," Ray says finally. He swallows, tries again. "Ho...Wow." His fingers slide up through the cooling sweat on Fraser's back and caress the stinging scratches he made on the skin of Fraser's nape. "Sorry about that."

Fraser tilts his head just enough to press a kiss into Ray's neck. "Mmmn," he says. "Don't be."

There's another long quiet. Fraser feels himself start to fall asleep. Ray shifts beneath him, gets a few of the quilts over them, settles them both into a more comfortable position. Fraser sighs and lets loose his grip on consciousness, feeling Ray's fingers stroke lazily through his hair.

SGA, Rodney and John

There was a biologist in Rodney's chair in the mess hall. It was ridiculous--everyone knew Rodney sat in that particular chair at that particular table. He'd been sitting there since they set this place up; it was understood, for Christ's sake. That spot was his.

"Up," he told the biologist.

She lifted her gaze from the bowl of hot cereal in front of her and blinked at him, rather bovinely, he thought.

"Up up up," he said, tugging at her elbow. "You're in my chair. Come on--you've had your fun."

"I'm sorry," she said, "What?"

The flag on her sleeve said she was American, so the problem likely wasn't language-based. "Are you deaf, then?" Rodney said. "Or just stupid? Because this isn't a difficult concept, I mean..."

"McKay. Quit terrorizing people. You can sit with me."

Rodney turned his glare to the Major, who had one hand balancing his tray of food and the other on Rodney's sleeve. Sheppard beamed at him. Rodney jerked his arm away. "That's my seat," he said. But Sheppard had ruined everything. Rodney just sounded childish now, not at all like a man with a legitimate concern. He pressed his lips together. "All right," he told the biologist. "You win. But let's not make a habit of this, hmm? In fact, if I ever see you here again, you'll be fired. Like that." He snapped his fingers.

Sheppard rolled his eyes and grabbed Rodney's sleeve again. This time he didn't let go until Rodney was walking too. They took seats across from each other at a table near the back of the room. Rodney set about arranging the contents of his tray in the proper order for easy one-handed access so he could consume them without looking up from his laptop. But after a moment or so, he had to stop because Sheppard was watching him.

"What?" he said.

"Fired, huh?" Sheppard was smirking or something. It was...disquieting.

Rodney narrowed his eyes. "What are you smirking about?"

"Nothing, nothing. I'm just interested to hear your plans for dealing with the unemployed in Atlantis. Did you have thoughts about some sort of insurance program or something? Maybe an institute of retraining?"

Rodney curled his lip. "No, actually," he said, flipping his laptop open. "I was thinking more along the lines of ritual sacrifice. Can you pass me the salt?"

Sheppard passed it to him. "Oh, well. So long as you have a plan."

They ate in silence for a while. Sheppard had a truly disgusting amount of food on his tray, along with his allotment of coffee. Rodney couldn't help but sneak glances at him between scanning his morning update emails; Sheppard was working his way steadily through the food like a machine in need of refueling.

"How do you do that?" Rodney asked finally.

Sheppard glanced up, still chewing. "What?"

"Eat like that. All of that. I mean...it's early, Major."

Sheppard shrugged, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I got a lot of stuff to do today. Don't know when I'll get to eat again. You just...do it." He took a sip of coffee. "How do you eat without looking? I've been watching you--it's impressive."

Rodney narrowed his eyes, but Sheppard seemed to be asking in earnest. There was no mockery in his expression, anyway. "Just practice, I suppose." They looked at each other for a moment in silence. Rodney tore his gaze away first, reaching for a swallow of his own coffee before flipping his screen to the next email in the queue. Something about the chem lab needing a cd player to improve everyone's morale. Rodney read it twice but that was really what it said. Sometimes he wished he really did have the authority to institute capitol punishment.

"What's up?" Sheppard asked. "You're looking more disgusted than usual."

Rodney waved a hand at the screen. "Pff," he said. "Chemists. They're asking for a stereo. Saying it'll boost morale. Idiotic waste of time, but you can't expect anything better from chemists, really. They're notoriously either metal-heads or drug addicts--or both."

Sheppard nodded, sopping up the last of the syrup on his plate with the remnants of a sausage. "Like para-pro's," he said. "The guys who work in resupply or whatever." He leaned across the table, lowering his voice confidentially. "They're always potheads. One of the great military mysteries, how they always manage to have a supply of the stuff, no matter where you send them." He sat back in his seat, smiling. Rodney smiled back. There was a small silence.

"Well," Sheppard said finally. "This was...weirdly pleasant, McKay."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh, thanks," he said. He couldn't help but keep smiling, though.

"We should...I mean if you're not too busy, we could maybe..."

Rodney nodded. "Yeah, good. Tomorrow, then." Sheppard grinned and picked up his tray. And when Rodney wrote his response to the chemists, he didn't even threaten them. Much.

due South, Ray/Ray "Housesitting" (explicit)

"Just stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Fuck, Stanley. You know what." Little fucker is just out of range, jittering around like a kid after Halloween. I throw my book at him.

"Hey." He bares his teeth, even though I didn't hit him. I leer back. He bends over and picks up the book. "What's this, Vecchio? You thinking about going back to get your high school? "

I got nothing else to throw, so I settle for flipping him off. He grins at me, still half-distracted by the book in his hand. "Wild Animals I Have Known. This some kinda personal memoir, Vecchio? Like a kiss-and-tell book or something?"

I roll my eyes. "Ha ha."

He flips some pages. "It's all animal stories, you know."

"I know." I put all the kybosh I got into my voice, but Kowalski, of course, just keeps on talking.

"So...what the fuck, Vecchio? I mean, not that I'd ever expect you to be reading any kind of book, but if you did, I'd have thought...I don't know. Spy novels or something. Or maybe Vogue?" He eyes me, looking for a response, but I'm sick of this conversation all of a sudden. I get to my feet and grab the book right out of his hand.

He lets me take it. But then he follows me into the kitchen. I open the fridge. Pull out a beer and look around for the opener. This place is a fucking sty. Benny's gonna...

"Come on, Vecchio. You can tell me. Why the hell are you reading Fraser's book?"

I smack the beer down on the counter, turn around to glare at him. He grins back. "Just leave it, Stanley," I tell him.

"Aww. Don't get embarrassed. I won't tell the guy." He's practically bouncing in place, he's so worked up about this. Fucking Kowalski. He's just like a little girl when it comes to gossip.

I curl my lip at him. "Tell him whatever you want. It's just a book. I was bored in the can, brought it along to keep busy."

"Yeah, right. Just happened to pick up a copy of Fraser's favourite book from when he was a little kid. Cause it just happened to be on your way to the john."

I lift my chin. "Yeah. That's right."

Kowalski gives me his best Clint Eastwood. Only since he's a skinny little Polack, he just looks myopic, and kind of shifty. "Give it up, Vecchio. You got a crush on the Mountie."

"Fuck you, Stanley. I ain't the faggot around here." I can feel myself getting worked up for real; force myself to take a couple of deep breaths. Benny trusted us to look after his nice new place. I figure the least we can do is not trash it.

Kowalski isn't backing down, though. He's grinning like he's teasing, but there's something else in his face, too. Something a lot more desperate. He steps in close and I catch a whiff of his aftershave, the minty bite of the gum he's chewing. "Shit, Vecchio," he says, "If it walks like a..."

And I think, real clear, just leave it, this ain't worth it, but my hands got a mind of their own, evidently. They come up and grab a double handful of Kowalski's white t-shirt and then bam, I got him shoved up hard against the opposite wall. "Shut. Your goddamn. Mouth." I shake him a little, as punctuation. On the last word, his breath kind of whuffs out of him and his head smacks the wall. He doesn't struggle, though. Just hangs there in my grip, his chest heaving under my knuckles, and grins at me.

"Tough guy," he says, "That's kind of sexy, Vecchio."

I curl my lip again. Shift my grip on his shirt. I can feel his ribs underneath my hands, sharp and breakable, even through the t-shirt and his skin. Fucker is still looking at me. Those eyes are half-lidded, like he's drowsy. I swallow hard. The eyes widen a little. "Huh," he says. And then the next thing I know, the bastard's kissing me.

Kissing me good, too. Kowalski's got these soft lips on him, and that quick tongue ain't shy at all. It slides into my mouth and meets mine and I grunt in spite of myself and get closer. Kowalski tilts his head a little, makes this soft noise in the back of his throat. And shit, yeah, I'm into this, more into this than I've been into anything for...fuck. Years. I let go of Kowalski's shirt with one hand, move it up so I can get my fingers in his hair. He moans against my lips, breathes hot on my cheek when I twist my fingers deeper and pull. "Fuck," he says, "Oh, fuck. Vecchio."

I grin and duck my head so I can lip at his neck. He whimpers. His hands slide up from my waist, pressing the silk of my shirt against my skin, then gripping it, tugging it out of my pants. I bite him a little, close my lips and suck. He gasps out loud.

"Slut," I say against his wet skin.

I hear his breathy laugh. "Faggot." He's working on getting my shirt unbuttoned and he has his leg hooked around mine, pulling me in hard so our groins are pressed together.

I get my mouth on his neck again, lick and suck my way down to his collarbone. He keeps his head back, his neck bared. My shirt is hanging open, now. He's got his hands inside it, sliding over my bare chest, shoving the silk back off my shoulders. I thrust against him, hard, and he groans. Lets his head fall forward so he can suck on the top of my shoulder. His tongue flicks out against my skin and Jesus, oh, there's this sharp sweet something lancing straight through my dick. "Stanley," I gasp, "Get the fuck into the bedroom."

He laughs against my shoulder, licks me again. I moan, and my legs go kind of rubbery, but just as soon as I got control of my muscles again, I pull away from him. Use the hand I still got clutching his t-shirt to yank him off the wall. Get my other hand around the nape of his neck and frog-march him across the living room to Benny's bedroom. He comes along easy once I get him moving. I'm starting to figure out something important about Kowalski.

I get him right to the edge of the bed and shove him down on it. He rolls onto his back and just lies there, grinning up at me. I shake my head. "You disgust me," I tell him, and get a knee on the mattress between his spread legs. I find the button of his faded blue-jeans and give it a yank, one-handed. His eyes go dark with approval, those long fingers skating over my forearm. "This is why you let Benny walk all over you," I say, breathlessly, pulling down his fly, "You like this. You like getting pushed around, told what to do. Being somebody's bitch." I have to stop there because his jeans are open and my hand is inside them and I'm not sure I can keep my voice steady now his cock is pushing into my palm. I gasp instead, trying to push his shorts out of the way.

He lifts up off the bed and oh, Jesus, he looks like sex embodied with his jeans and underwear half off his hips, that t-shirt riding up over his chest. I groan and yank his pants the rest of the way off, get my own fly undone before I lower myself down on top of him. He kisses me hard, hands curved around my face, holding me there, thighs squeezing me. I moan into his mouth. My cock is slick with somebody's pre-come and it keeps sliding right along his--he's got my pants down somehow, I don't remember when. He gives my tongue one last suck. Lets his head drop onto the bed. I lower my mouth to that neck again.

"So Vecchio," he says, curving his fingers around the back of my skull, "You sure you're the one in charge here?"

I make an "of course" kind of noise because actually speaking would mean taking my mouth off his neck and I don't want to do that because fuck, Kowalski tastes good, and whenever I close my teeth on him like this he breathes out and does this wicked little shimmy.

But he laughs at me, his fingertips ruffling what's left of my hair. "Yeah?" he says, "Well I bet I can make you beg me."

I huff a laugh into the curve of his shoulder. "Fuck off," I tell him. My hand is up under his t-shirt, my fingers plucking at his nipple. He gasps and squirms against me. I have to suck in a quick breath to keep from coming all over him right there.

He grabs my head again, pulls me up for another long kiss. "Seriously," he says against my lips, "I bet you fifty bucks."

I kiss him again, then haul that shirt up over his head. He curls himself around me and being as we're both naked now, it feels good as sin, all that warm skin pressing up together, sweat-slick and fuck... "You're on," I say, or sort of say--I can't really talk so well anymore.

Kowalski slants me another one of those gut-twisting smiles. And then, holy mother--things go off the deep end. He's kissing me again and we're rolling over on Benny's bed, and I don't fucking care because he's got those fucking fingers wrapped around my cock, jacking me slow and easy, the pad of his thumb rubbing over my wet slit. "Uh," I say against his ear. He laughs a breath onto my cheek, his tongue flicking out to taste the line of my jaw. Wet heat, that fucking mouth on my neck, lipping my skin, biting me, making me pant and squirm and thrust my cock into his--shit--capable hand. "Beg me," he says, all hoarse-voiced and soft. His tongue just brushes my nipple.

"F-f-fuck," I gasp. My fingers seem to be in his hair so I close them, give it a yank. "No way." Kowalski laughs again. Then he closes his mouth on my nipple.

I swear to God I never meant to come up off the bed that way, gasping, groaning embarrassingly loud in the dark room. He keeps on sucking, keeps stroking my cock, squeezing just fucking hard enough. I look down at him, see those lips open and wet against my skin, the rounded muscles in his arm moving as he jacks me, making that stupid tattoo jump around. I let my head fall back on the bed again, my eyes squeezed closed. If I watch him any longer, I'm pretty sure I'll lose it right here.

His teeth close on my nipple and then he's moving lower, licking my belly, mouthing my hip. I hear myself moan. His hot breath is on my straining cock. And then sweet Mary mother of God, he's got his fist around the base of my cock and he's licking me, tongue flat and wide. "Oh," I say, "Oh Jesus, Kowalski..." I feel him laugh. And then he's got me, his fucking lips are on me, closing around my cock, sucking me in.

I want to grab him but my body is fucking melted or something and I can't do anything but clutch at the sheets and pant up at the ceiling. Kowalski's moving now. I can just see the top of that blond head bobbing up and down, the curve of his cheek, the clenched muscles in his shoulder where his free arm is draped over my hips, pinning me to the mattress. "Uh," I say, because it bears repeating. Kowalski doesn't stop for a second, but he hums a little. I forget how to breathe.

His rhythm shifts, and he does too. He keeps that evil mouth moving on my cock, but he's slowed down some, and he's moving his free arm down, pushing his shoulder underneath my thigh. I want to protest but I can't think, and then he's unwrapping the hand that was stroking the base of my cock and he's sliding it down, giving my balls a friendly squeeze and then moving lower, past them. And his shoulder shoves harder, lifting my thigh, and his mouth moves down, swallowing my cock and then oh, oh, yeah Kowalski, fuck--two wet fingers push their way inside me, a long, twisting stroke.

He's such a dirty little fucker. I want to tell him so but I can't. I can't even breathe. I'm fucking hyperventilating, clutching at the sheets, gasping out words that don't mean squat. Kowalski's long fingers have me spread and they're in me deep, and Christ, oh yeah, he's found the good spot with his fingertips. He rubs on it mercilessly, sucking me hard and fast, holding me right where he wants me with that arm hooked under my hip. I hear my own voice sounding like somebody else's. I can feel the edge rushing up at me like a goddamn runaway train.

And then that hellspawn motherfucker stops. Keeps stroking me with those fingers up my ass, but his head goes still, his tongue curved lazy around my twitching cock. "Nnngh," I say, which basically is my way of explaining what a dangerous game it is he's playing here.

He lifts his eyes to my face, and his mouth is still on me and fuck, he looks like something from the best porn flick you ever saw--that hair all messed up from my fingers, his chin glistening with come and spit. I groan. He quirks an eyebrow at me. "Oh Jesus fucking Christ, you goddamn asshole, please, please, Kowalski. Please don't fucking stop."

And yeah, it was worth it because he's moving again, the bastard's even sucking me deeper, and he's playing a wet fingertip around the rim of my stretched asshole, and his tongue is...Oh Christ, oh yeah... "Oh yeah, Kowalski, yeah, yeah, please, baby, don't stop..." This shit is just coming out of me now, but I don't care, I don't care, I don't. Kowalski seems to like it anyhow. His eyes fall closed. He moans around my cock, and twists his head a little on the way down and that's it, I'm coming, spurting deep in his throat.

He keeps sucking me until it starts to hurt and I wrap weak fingers around his chin and pull him off. Then he climbs up my boneless body and wraps his long limbs around me, tucks that blond head under my chin. I get an arm around him somehow. One of my eyes won't open, but I squint at him with the other one and see his shit-eating grin. "Fucker," I tell him.

"Yeah. But you love me for it."

I snort. My fingers are on the back of his head, pushing through his sweaty hair. "You wish," I say.

He just squirms in closer. "Aww. Come on, Vecchio. I thought I was your baby."

I cuff the back of his head. Still don't have much strength in my arms though, so he just laughs again. Whatever. Guy can give a blowjob like that, I figure he deserves a little time to gloat. Maybe even that fifty bucks, too. I slide my hand down his side, trailing my fingertips over his ribs. He shivers against me. Figures he'd be ticklish. I save the knowledge for later. Let my other eye fall closed.

They both fly open again a second later. "Whoa, there," I say, "I gotta...I mean, you didn't..."

Kowalski snorts, breath stirring the hair on my chest. "Calm down, there, cowboy. I already took care of it." He sounds sleepy too.

I peer down at him. His eyes are closed. His fingers are playing idly with one of my nipples. "With what fucking hand?" I say, remembering how he seemed to be able to touch me everywhere at once.

He snorts again. "With Fraser's sheets, mostly. Don't worry about it. You'll owe me."

I smile. Cocky little son of a bitch. Like it's a given there's gonna be a next time. Still, I let my head sink deeper in the pillow, pull him in tight against my side. All that shit we can work out later. Right now I just need to sleep.

due South, F/K, "Blood Knowledge"

I'm faster than him--that's the thing. When we are hunting together like this, I can become carried away with the grace and economy of my body and forget why I am here. My world narrows and the prey is everything. If he is left behind, so much the better--I will take a larger share of our reward.

But those are the thoughts of a wolf. My first thought ought to be of him, Ben, the human I was spared to protect. It is the deal I made with them, when I was new to the world and didn't know any better--a half-breed pup in a hunter's hole, begging my ancestors for help. I did not expect to be answered. When Amoroq came loping out of the bedrock, I cowered in the corner and pissed on my own paws. When he told me they would give me my life if I would agree to spend it in their service, what could I do but bare my neck in consent?

Amoroq grinned at me, then. I closed my eyes, felt his hot breath in my fur as his teeth pricked the skin on the back of my neck. He didn't eat me, though. He picked me up and shook me hard. When the dizziness eased, I was alone in the dark again. But things had changed inside my head. I had the thoughts of my body still, wolf-thoughts, the language of scents and instinct. But over those was something new. In the years since then, I have learned to call it logic.

It is this logic that allows me to override my instinct now, to turn from the fleeing prey and go back for my ward. I'm not surprised to find him cornered--he has a way of always ending up in the midst of the worst of the trouble. This time, it is two men we overlooked. Packmates of the one who got away. They have guns on my ward but they have not yet shot him. Humans do not like to kill eachother. At the most crucial times, many will hesitate.

I am not human. I let instinct take me over, feel my muscles bunch and release, taste blood and metal on my tongue. The one under me is disabled. Ben has the other one. I hear the distant pop that means a gun has gone off, but I know he has not been injured. I smell the fear of him, but the thrill is stronger. He has won his fight too. We grin at each other. "Good boy," he says, and I am not insulted: this is how he tells me he is pleased.

"You too," I yip back at him. But he doesn't hear me--the other one is coming now, the light-haired one. My partner. We watch as he runs toward us, gun drawn. He smells of fear and rage in equal measures. He thinks our ward has been shot.

"It's all right," I tell him, "He's safe."

Of course he needs to see it for himself. He can't smell Ben's heartbeat like I can, so he kneels in front of him, running his hands over Ben's flanks, checking for gun-holes.

Ben pulls away. He wants to mate with this one and wanting things makes him uncomfortable. This is part of what is damaged in him: his logic is swollen and speaks too loudly. It is forever drowning out the voice of his body.

I have been trying to teach him balance since the day that I met him, but he is stubborn as a deer-tick about some things. Abruptly I decide that now is the time for a more direct approach. I leap over the one I brought down and shove Ben hard with my rump. He was crouched on his toes and balanced precariously; he goes over with a satisfying yelp.

My partner catches him. Humans touch with hands where a wolf would use teeth; I smell the sharp spike of their mingled lust. They are speaking to eachother now, and Ben is being still. The light-haired one has his head bent low. I can't hear what they are saying, but it doesn't really matter. I've done what I can. I turn my back on them and bare my teeth at our prey to keep them silent. They are frightened of me and obey. This, too, is as it should be. I rest on my haunches and grin.

due South, no pairing, "Proverbs"

Ben is in Africa. He isn't exactly sure which part of Africa because the map went down when the boat did, bubbling slow and muddy to the bottom of the river. But there are a lot of trees here, so most likely they are in The Jungle. Yes. And in The Jungle there are snakes and alligators and probably tigers, so he will have to make sure he has his rifle ready. Just in case.

Inusiq is walking ahead, swinging the machete at the thick vines and trees. It isn't really a machete, obviously; they made it themselves by tying Ben's pocket knife to a long stick. Inusiq gets to hold it because Inusiq is being Marlow. Which is not fair at all, since Ben is the only one who actually read the book, but Inusiq is eleven and once made a tattoo in his own arm with a safety pin and besides, courtesy makes the bigger man.

"Wait." Inusiq stops walking and holds up his hand. Ben stops, too.

"You hear that?" Inusiq asks, "Those drums over there?"

Ben cocks his head and there they are: cannibal drums, loud and deep in the distance. He nods. Inusiq looks grim. "They're close," he says, "They're right here, pretty much. Aaahh--shoot them! Quick!"

They dive for cover. Ben shoots as many of them as he can. There are arrows flying everywhere.

"Oh no!" Inusiq yells, "They got you Ben!"

Ben glares at him. "No they didn't! I'm okay!"

"Yeah, but say they did, Ben. Say they're trying to eat you for dinner."

Ben sighs. "Oh!" he shouts, "They got me, Marlow! Help!"

The cannibals drag Ben into some bushes. They're really horrible-looking and have fangy teeth, like the cougar Ben's dad killed when they still lived in the old house with his mom. He puts up a very good struggle but he doesn't escape. He knows Inusiq will want to rescue him.

Sure enough, there's Inusiq's hand-me-down boots crashing through the bush toward him. "Marlow!" Ben yells, "Over here!"

"Ben!" Inusiq shouts, "I'm--hey, isn't that your dad?"

And just like that, Ben's back on the hill above his grandparents' house, lying underneath the dwarf pines. He scrambles to his feet and looks down. His father is in the drive, striding away from the house toward his truck. He looks angry and impatient, lost in thought. Ben hasn't seen him since Christmas.

"Dad!" he shouts, and he's already running down the hill so fast he's almost falling. He jumps the last few feet and sprints across the road. His father is waiting, smiling at Ben, one hand resting on the truck.

"Why, Benton!" he says, "You're looking well! Grown taller, have you?" He holds out his big callused hand and lets Ben shake it. He smells like gun oil and wood smoke; he's still wearing his uniform from the field. "Just coming home from school?"

Ben shakes his head. "It's summer," he says, "And um. I don't go to school anymore, remember? We live too far."

"Of course, of course." His father nods, looking distracted again. "Playing then, eh? Good, glad to hear it. A man needs to play. Learn a lot that way. Even young caribou do it." He smiles again, and puts his hand on Ben's hair for a second. Then he opens the truck's door.

Ben feels his face fall. "Oh, so... You're leaving, then?"

"Duty calls," his father says briskly. He steps up into the truck and Ben moves out of the way so he can swing the door closed. "Well. Mind your grandparents, Benton. And watch out for wolverines--I understand there's quite the surplus this year."

Ben nods. His father starts the truck, puts it in gear and pulls out onto the road. A cloud of dust sprays up from underneath his tires. There hasn't been any rain for weeks.

"He leaving already?" Inusiq is standing right behind him, somehow, even though Ben never heard him approach. He has his arms crossed over his chest and a skeptical expression on his face. "What's the rush?" he says.

Ben feels a wave of heat sweep up from his feet, tingling under his skin like poison. He wants to pound the expression right off Inusiq's stupid face, until there isn't anything there but fear. He wants to keep on hitting him until he says uncle, and even then Ben doesn't know if he'd stop.

But Ben's grandmother is at the kitchen window, and Ben can feel her watching. And the road is clear and the dust has settled, and a smart man doesn't solve his problems with his fists. So he forces his hands to relax, shoves them into the pockets of his overalls. "I have to go in, now," he tells Inusiq. And then he turns and walks back toward the house.

Due South Fiction
Home

Have a comment?

Your email?

or