(no subject)
So apparently it was a certain person's birthday yesterday. This is for you, Nos. My first fandom friend and my fannish anchor since then. Thank you.
Title: Tacit
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1000 words
His skin's a little flushed, eyes too bright. Feverish. Nothing an outsider would notice. Fraser does fucked-up subtly. 4 in the morning in the doorway of the consulate; they've been without sleep for what feels like years. Awake. The grimy itchy sort of awakeness being on the wrong side of the sunrise brings. Dief pads into Thatcher's office in front of them, and Fraser doesn't even notice, doesn't tell him off. Ray gives Dief a Look, but Dief just does that face that's the dog equivalent of laughing his ass off.
He follows Fraser in, shuts the door of the kitchen behind them and watches him making tea with sure, practised movements. His hands shake a little. Ray looks down. So do his. He gets down two mugs and they weave around each other, adept at avoiding collision. He can hear Fraser breathing a little faster than usual.
Tough case. The guy had a widow, three kids. She'd thanked them, once the arrests were done, the body found. Ray had wanted to punch something- thanking them. Christ. Welsh had taken over with the gruff tact that Ray always forgot he had. Almost fatherly, still professional in a way that made it seem like he wasn't being diplomatic at all. Fraser had just watched. Said nothing.
They drink the tea. Ray watches Fraser openly, and he looks wryly amused at this. He puts his mug down so it's out of line with Fraser's, watches him move his own mug. He's okay- it's okay. He'll still step so he avoids the cracks in the sidewalk and look embarrassed if he gets caught. Tea finished. Fraser stands up like it's a decision, looks down at Ray. Ray shrugs, rubs his face with his hands. He won't be able to sleep for a while. Fraser's hand is warm on the back of his neck. Ray sighs, leans into him. Yes.
He's wearing the leather jacket, a soft shirt underneath, jeans almost worn through in a few places. It's ridiculously, endearingly practical. Walking boots, too, double knotted. It makes Ray smile- he'd thought nothing could tonight. Fraser smiles back, and they leave the kitchen, go back and back to his office, his bedroom. He doesn't know who starts the kiss, but he knows they were stood as close as they usually stand, that it could have happened a thousand times before. Fraser's lips taste a little of tea, a little of chapstick. Ray wraps his arms around him, feels like he's trying to wind into him, keep him there. He doesn't know who's anchoring who- whom?- he'll ask Fraser later- but he wants to stay there.
He backs Fraser up against the door, and pulls back, holding his shoulders in place. Fraser stays in place, hair mussed and lips reddened, shining in the dim light. He increases the pressure on his shoulders for a few seconds- stay- and then kneels, knees protesting a little. It's a button fly, and Ray's clumsy with sleep-need and lust, but he gets it undone without killing either of them. Pulls Fraser's jeans down, looks at his boxers- crisp and white. Hard dick, outlined. He breathes on the fabric and sees Fraser's hips jerk, once. He does it again but Fraser stays still, remembering obedience. If he asked, Fraser'd tie himself up for him. He might, later.
Enough playing. Ray pulls his boxers down, fists the base of Fraser's dick, wraps his mouth around the top. His own dick's hard, pressing against his jeans. He's aroused, but not urgently. It's more...a gentle reminder. Canadian- which makes him want to smile a little. It's been a while since he's done this sort of thing, but it's familiar still. The warm heavy pressure on his tongue, the taste, the way when he takes Fraser in far enough, his pubic hair tickles his nose. He smells talc, a little, and washing powder. He'd half expected Fraser to taste like- like pine trees and wide spaces, open and wild as cowboy territory. He sucks gently, presses his tongue up. Little scrape of teeth- nothing too scary. Fraser gasps and moans but doesn't move, doesn't pull hair. Just takes with a generosity and simplicity that makes it feel like Fraser's the one who's kneeling.
He moves faster, moves his hand, too. Fraser's close, his breathing harsh, fists clenched. Ray closes his eyes, relaxes his throat and takes him in as far as he can and Fraser's coming, crying out, a sound beyond words that sounds jarring in the still quiet before the world wakes up. Ray pulls back, sort of...spaces out- next thing he knows, Fraser's kneeling in front of him, hand cupping his face, thumb stroking his skin. He kisses his eyebrow, the side of his neck, the base of his throat. Weird places. Fraser places.
Fraser pushes his knees apart, lifts him so he's straddling Fraser's leg, kisses him as the pressure on Ray's dick makes him need to move, to chase the sensation, humping Fraser's leg. He needs to come, lust hitting him like a punch to the gut. Fraser kisses him until he needs air, kisses him on the side of his neck as he gasps and then bites his neck, holds him tight, so tight it's almost painful. He can only clench his fists as he comes, eyes shut tight, bright lights bursting behind his eyelids.
They stay there for a while, breathe. Ray leans his head against Fraser's shoulder and ignores how much his knees hurt, forgets who he is and where they are. It takes a car hooting outside to break the spell, to make Ray remember. A Mountie and a flatfoot, jeans undone, jeans which need a wash now, in a small office at the back of a consulate. Chicago. The USA. The world. Ray's knees protest and he sort of tries to get up but ends up sprawled on the floor. Fraser sits back, leans so he's against the door. A car rumbles by; a fox calls out, harsh and mocking. Birds sing little riffs, staccato twists and runs, sometimes apart, sometimes discordantly together. The world’s beginning again, and Fraser’s watching him smile, face soft and tender. “Good morning,” he whispers.
“Yes,” Fraser replies. They sit, and listen.