Jet Ski Accidents (the Radio Silence Remix) [due South, Benton Fraser/Ray Kowalski, NC-17]
Title: Jet Ski Accidents (the Radio Silence Remix)
Author: etben
Summary: “Tell me something, Frase. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.”
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Ray Kowalski / Benton Fraser
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine. Very, very, not mine.
Original story: jet ski accidents by justbreathe80
*
"When I was in the eighth grade, my best friend was Mark Smithbauer."
Beside him, Ray is quiet and attentive, no jokes or incredulity to break the dark, dense silence. Benton can't decide whether this is a blessing or a curse - it's a deviation, to be sure, a change in the endless back-and-forth rhythm that they share, but beyond that -
- beyond that is silence, Ray waiting patiently for a secret.
something real, Fraser.
And it is real; there can be no doubt of that. As he talks, the darkness recedes, shifting gradually to the long, lazy shadows of late summer afternoons, light caught and refracted through small, heavy windows. The room is warm and large enough; Benton has a bed and a chest and a small bookshelf for his rotating collection of reading material - most of it older than he is, all of it borrowed from various sources.
He does his homework out at the table, most days, but this is not homework. Mark's hands are warm and tentative on his wrists, his face, his back. In return, Benton - Ben, Ben, Mark says, wide-eyed and whispering - discovers the back of Mark's neck, the angle of his shoulderblade, the small wet sounds their mouths make together. It is careful, and clumsy, and terrifying, and Benton never wants to stop.
What Benton wants has never really mattered.
When his grandmother finds them, she is as solemn as ever, as if nothing is out of place or unusual. She tells Mark that he's welcome to stay for dinner, but he shakes his head, blushing furiously.
"No, I should - My mum's probably wondering where I am." He smiles weakly, waves tentatively, and takes care not to brush against Benton as he leaves.
Ray's fingertips brush the back of Benton's hand - once, twice, again - and then slide around to hold, fingers interlocking, steady pressure and warmth. Benton's voice seems impossibly loud, here - now - and Ray's silence is glaring in comparison.
When their relief arrives, Ray squeezes his hand once and then lets him go; Benton is neither surprised nor dismayed. Begin as you mean to go on, boy, his grandmother once told him, and so he has.
*
"Aww, come on - fuck that!"
Beside him, Ray gestures rudely at the screen - Benton sees the motion more than the actual handshape, but it's not hard to extrapolate. The Chicago Blackhawks are living up to their reputation and doing poorly, which always makes Ray irritable.
The end result is easy enough to predict: the Hawks will lose, Ray will be belligerent, and Benton will be - Benton will be himself, will be Benton Fraser, RCMP. He'll go back to an empty building, thirty blocks away, with a deaf half-wolf and a miserable excuse for a bed, and he'll dream of things that will not ever come to pass. He'll wake the next day refreshed, and he will do the job he has been asked to do; he will be as content with his life as he has ever been.
When Ray kisses him, Benton freezes, uncertain. He hadn't thought it would come to this - Ray has been remarkably circumspect regarding Benton's sexuality, up to this point, the inevitable sidelong glances and discreet appraisals aside. It's somewhat surprising that he should react now, two weeks after the fact - but Ray is his friend, and there has never been any question of Benton's response.
It's a good kiss, by any reasonable measurement of things: slow and careful, lips and teeth and tongue working in delicate concert. Ray's mouth is gentle, exploratory; he kisses Benton thoroughly, and Benton responds in kind. Ray's neck is warm under the palm of his hand, muscles tight and smooth. Benton rests his hand there as they kiss, feeling Ray's pulse run fast and wild against his thumb.
When Ray pulls away, his eyes are wide and startled, his face flushed. He sinks back on the couch without speaking, so quiet that Benton can hear the click of his thumbnail against the beads around his wrist.
Benton watches the game, waiting to see if Ray will - but Ray doesn't say anything else, and eventually it's time for Benton to return to the Consulate; he makes his good-byes and is on his way, and that is the end of it.
*
Benton is rather busy in the days that follow, but the next week finds him back on Ray's couch. They make their usual conversation - cases in progress, goings-on at the Consulate and the 27th, the vagaries of Chicago politics. At the intermission, when Ray gets up for his beer, Benton asks him for water, as always. The game starts again, and Benton's attention is drawn back to the television, where he watches the Canadiens flub three easy shots in quick succession, shaking his head at their technique. Ray watches from the doorway, cradling Benton's water glass in his free hand.
After the third miss, Ray pushes away from the wall, shoulders and back in one smooth line; he sets the glass and the bottle down on the table and pauses. Past his hip, Benton can see a fourth play lining up, just as sloppy as the three before.
Ray, of course, looks just the same as always. He doesn't say anything, but he holds out his hand, and Benton takes it.
They undress in unison, Benton following Ray's lead by a heartbeat, half of a breath. It's a revelation - Ray's eyes against his skin are a tangible thing, a curious, tentative pressure. The buttons of his shirt are impossible to manage, and Ray laughs soundlessly as Benton struggles with them. When Benton tugs and fights his way free, he lets the shirt fall, holding still as Ray leans in to kiss him, resting his hands under Ray's shoulderblades. Ray has clearly been thinking about this, ranking his desires and his curiosities; he bites Benton's neck with a peculiar intensity, runs his hands the length of Benton's spine, kisses him with the focus of a laser beam. It's wonderful, really - all of Ray's passion and intensity is directed toward Benton Fraser, towards the two of them, here, together, now.
Benton leaves his jeans on the floor, crumpled and husk-like, and lets Ray pull him down to the bed, slow, slow. Ray is arching and gasping against Benton's neck, teeth and tongue a tiny, private symphony. His hands curl around Benton's elbows, then slide higher, tugging them closer together in a gentle, lazy slide.
When Benton presses down on Ray's arms, repositioning his weight, Ray's chest expands with a sudden intake of breath, and his eyes slide shut. After a moment, Benton tries again, deliberately, holding Ray's wrists against the bed, and watches the shiver that results, the way Ray's hips press up against empty air, his cock hard and wanting. It's too much to resist, and Benton doesn't try; he drops down against Ray again, holding him steady and anchored as they move together, slow and shivering in an empty room.
Ray comes with his teeth clenched, hissing out air against Benton's shoulder, his wrists tense and taut under Benton's fingers. A moment, a breath, and Benton follows him, sudden and electric, gasping inarticulately against Ray's neck. They curl together like pieces of a puzzle, Benton's leg over Ray's hip, and pass a silent moment, sharing breath in the darkness.
Ray slips into an easy sleep, and Benton watches him for a minute, another, ten, three-quarters of an hour. It would be easy to stay longer, to watch the uncomplicated rise and fall of Ray's chest under his hand - but Diefenbaker will need to be let out before too long, and Benton needs to go home, regardless. He collects his clothing, stacking it neatly on the bed.
Ray says his name, so quietly it could be Benton's imagination. For a moment, Benton thinks - but he has to leave; he's known from the beginning how this will have to end.
"Ray, please," he says, pulling his shirts back on. "I have to go - I left Diefenbaker at the Consulate. I’ve really been terribly irresponsible." Dief will be furious, of course; he often is, especially of late -
“Come on," Ray says, "Fraser, please.” He stands up, dragging the sheet with him, hovering at the edge of Benton's field of vision. Benton turns his head away, doing up his jeans, his belt. “Just - just stay; we don’t have to talk.”
Benton would like nothing better than to stay and talk, to throw his clothes to the floor and slide back between Ray's sheets. When he looks around, though, Ray is frowning, uncertain, his face striped in the light through the blinds.
"I'm sorry," Benton says, and leaves. It will be better, like this.
Constable Turnbull is on guard duty at the front door; he barely twitches as Benton lets himself into the building, and from there into his office. Over on the bed, Dief whines at him, rolling his eyes.
"Yes, yes," Benton says, getting to his feet. "I'm sorry for the delay - I did get here as fast as I could, though." Dief stares at him for a moment, still sulking and annoyed, but eventually deigns to go out to the park in Benton's company.
Ray calls in the afternoon, while Benton is giving a tour to the sisters of Saint Martine's Holy Trinity Convent in Montreal; Benton takes the message from Turnbull, but is drawn away from his response by a group of sight-seers from Pyongyang. By the time he gets free again, it's well after five, and Ray will have left for the evening; Benton resolves to call him back in the morning.
The next day, his phone starts ringing as soon as he and Dief come back from their run. Ray's voice is staticky and hoarse - his cellular telephone, most likely. He invites Benton to come by the precinct that afternoon, "just to see what comes up."
"The mutt can come, too," Ray says. "We'll dig him up a sandwich, maybe something to chase."
"I'm sorry, Ray," Benton says, glancing over the paperwork on his desk. "I'm afraid things are rather busy here this week - paperwork - "
"Yeah," Ray says, "yeah, okay. Maybe this afternoon?" But that won't be possible either, unfortunately - Inspector Thatcher is planning a complete review of the filing subsystems, and that's not something that ought to be left to Turnbull's logic.
Ray laughs at that, at least, flat and thin over the patchy connection. "Ain't that the truth," he says, and then hangs up.
It's been most of three years since the filing systems were last examined, and the task takes Benton the next two days. When that has been dealt with, there are the curtains in the second guest room to be dealt with; they hang crooked, probably as a result of the Swedish Ambassador's niece. Benton re-hangs them, and then spends an extremely dusty afternoon airing the Consulate's eleven closets.
Ray calls twice on the first day, and twice again on the second, the connection is worse each time, Ray's voice becoming lower, hoarser. For the next four days, he calls only once, usually around mid-morning. That's the slowest part of the day, usually, when Ray has nothing to do but drink his coffee, kick his heels, and - apparently - call the Canadian Consulate. Unfortunately, it's turning into a busy week for Benton, and every time Ray calls, he has to beg off.
On the seventh day, Ray doesn't call at all. Benton dusts the ceiling fans in the Royal Suite. He does not think about Ray at any point; when memory intrudes, he ignores it with the skill of long practice.
Under the bed, Diefenbaker grumbles with unusual eloquence. Benton ignores him, as well.
On the eleventh day, Benton flips over the page on the calendar, revealing a photograph of Lake Louise and a block of text on the 5th.
RAY'S BIRTHDAY!, it says, spiky capital letters taking over the day. NO (LIVE) FISH PLEASE! The word please is underlined twice, edging down into the square for the twelfth on the right side. Benton stares at the calendar, awash in memory - Ray laughing on the couch, cursing the referee and the team in equal measure; Ray slumped against the wall, glaring at malfeasants; Ray leaning into Benton's space, breathing Benton's air, breaking apart in Benton's arms - then grabs the phone without looking at it.
He dials Ray's number from memory; Ray sounds surprised to hear from him, but agrees to a birthday dinner the following evening.
"I'll have to cook at your apartment, I'm afraid," Benton cautions him; the Consulate really isn't set up for entertaining on anything other than an epic scale - although now that he thinks about it, he's not entirely certain that Ray's kitchen is any better equipped. Ray laughs, offers to call Sandor instead, but Benton is resolved.
"No, Ray," he says. "Really, I'd be honored to."
*
"Which, of course, led to a rather puzzling situation for the members of the Society, as you can imagine," Benton says, stirring the sauce for Ray's birthday dinner. Behind him, Ray leans back against the counter and grins, folding his arms across his chest; his eyes never leave Benton's face.
It's easier to decide than to do, is the trouble of it. Plans are all well and good, but now that he's back in Ray's apartment, Benton is telling ridiculous stories about the Society For The Preservation of The Common Muskrat, stirring a pot of sauce, unable to meet Ray's eyes for more than a few moments at a time.
There's a pause, a breathless silence, and then - and then warmth all along his back, Ray's body aligned with Benton's, breathing warm and fast against Benton's pulse. Benton's hands freeze, one on the spoon and the other on the handle of the pot, unable to do anything at all as Ray's hands slide down his arms, holding him steady, their fingers together.
"Fraser," Ray says, barely a breath in Benton's ear, "You gotta talk to me, Frase. I'm - " a shaky inhalation, released on an even unsteadier laugh. "I'm freaking out here." His entire body is shaking, a tremor that is transmitted every place their bodies touch.
"I know," Benton answers, and he does, he honestly does. For a moment more, he hesitates, wanting the right words, the words that will make it all clear -
- and then he turns in Ray's arms, meeting his eyes, pressing him back against the countertop. His breath comes short and fast, his chest rising and falling under Ray's hand; absently, he notes that his heart rate is considerably elevated from the norm.
Ray stares at him, unsmiling and wild, and turns them once more, so that Benton is sandwiched between the counter and Ray, pressed close against his chest, his hips.
"Ray," Benton says, and he means to continue, he truly does, but Ray's eyes light up and his mouth opens just slightly, and there's nothing else for Benton but to lean forward and kiss him, to explain this all with lips and teeth and the frantic exchange of breath. Ray licks against Benton's lips, soft and wet, and kisses back, and Benton can feel every finger of Ray's hands, points of fire just above his elbows.
Suddenly, without warning, Ray is a whirl of motion, running a hand down the inseam of Benton's jeans before dropping to kneel on the floor while he undoes button and zip. It's clumsy, but Ray doesn't look down; his eyes are fierce and unwavering, even as his fingers fumble on denim.
When he's finished, he hooks his hands in Benton's waistband and waits; Benton stares back, paralyzed. If Ray decides, now, here -
"I need you to tell me you want - this," Ray says, swallowing hard. "I need to know that you're not going to run out on me again. You gotta - tell me, Frase," he says, "please." He tilts his head to the side, pushing against Benton's hands where they're running through his hair, completely without Benton's consent.
"I'm sorry, Ray," he says, not sure where to begin.
“Christ, Fraser," Ray says, cutting him off. "Do not apologize to me. Just - talk to me, okay?” His voice is soft, rough, almost pleading, and Benton gets a glimpse, then, of how these weeks have been, for Ray - abandoned, adrift, uncertain.
"I'm sorry that I, as you say, freaked out," he says again, because apologies are needed, no matter what Ray thinks. "I wasn’t sure - " how to go on, what was right, how they could make this real and true " - what to do with this." He breathes in, brushing the backs of his fingers against Ray's scalp, and continues "I didn’t want to make a decision that might affect our work partnership, which is very important to me, Ray, I hope you know that.” The words aren't right, aren't anything close to what he wants to say, which is so much more and so much simpler, and his hands clench, anchoring Ray in place.
“I know that. I do," Ray says, running his fingertips back and forth across Benton's hipbones, slow and soothing. His mouth is slightly open, and his tongue keeps coming out to wet his lower lip; Benton's mouth is dry.
“But I do want this, Ray," he says, trying to keep his breathing regular. "Very much so." He doesn't mean to push, but he can't stop his hands, and Ray goes with the motion, leaning in to shove jeans and boxers out of the way and lick Benton's cock. It's gentle and careful and electrifying, and Benton twitches, lifting his hips away from the counter. Ray takes it, though, wrapping one hand around the base to save his throat before licking again, again.
Benton doesn't mean to push, doesn't mean to ask too much - but Ray slides his mouth down and back up, pressing against Benton's hands with a little hum of pleasure, and Benton realizes that he can. He can ask for more, can ask Ray for what he wants - he can stay here, propped against the counter, and slide his cock across Ray's tongue for as long as he can stand it.
Ray wants him to. Ray is on his knees in front of Benton, with hands on Benton's hips and his mouth on Benton's cock, all slickly moving tongue and wet, warm suction. He's letting Benton control the motion, though, sliding forward when Benton pulls him close and leaning back when Benton lets him. He's letting Benton do this, have this, and he's groaning with every free breath, his eyes half-shut with pleasure.
Ray trusts him, and that simple fact is enough to unravel all of the tension of the past month. Benton orgasms, snapping his hips forward, twisting Ray's hair between his fingers, and Ray swallows him down, steady and messy and perfect. When he finishes, he doesn't show any inclination towards motion; instead, he leans against Benton's hip, breathing rapidly against his skin, a slowing cycle of warm and cold air.
As soon as Benton is sure he can control his motion, he grabs for Ray's hands, lifting Ray off the floor and into his arms, kissing him frantically. Ray's eyebrows, his ears, the place where his nose meets his cheek - he can't stop himself, can't let himself miss anything. Every time Ray tries to pull away, Benton pulls him back, finding new places to kiss, new textures to explore: The side of Ray's neck, the middle of his forehead, the point of his chin -
"Fraser," Ray says, "Fraser!" He ducks away, leaving one hand on Benton's chest to keep him from following. "Dinner, Fraser," he says, pointing at the stove where - oh yes - Benton's attempt at dinner is turning rather blacker and more crispy than he'd intended.
Ray takes advantage of his distraction to move away, swearing quietly as he turns off the burners. Benton comes up behind him, sliding one arm around Ray's waist to inspect the food. It's probably still edible - but this is Ray's birthday, and they have better things to do than start again from scratch. The detritus goes into the trash, the pots and pans into the sink to soak, and Benton picks up the phone.
Sandor's Pizza is #3 on the speed dial, right after the Consulate and the station; the pizza (extra cheese, ham and pinapple) will be there in thirty minutes.
They settle on the couch, Ray leaning back against Benton's chest, Benton's arms around Ray's body. Ray is relaxed, eyes almost shut; Benton can feel Ray's grin against the side of his face.
"Ray," he says, after a moment. "Ray." Ray makes a small sound, running his fingers against the back of Benton's hand; the metal of his bracelet gleams in the light from the kitchen. And beyond that - Benton draws a breath, smelling sweat and sex and Ray - beyond that, Ray is hard, pressing against his jeans just below their linked hands.
"I didn't understand," he says, thumbing the button open; Ray arches in his arms, lifting his hips. "Ray," he says, "I didn't realize - I thought it was for the best, you have to understand." And he'd been content, but this - this is so much more, so much better: Ray, warm and alive under his hands, pressing back against him.
"Yeah, Fraser," he says, when Benton reaches into his jeans. "God, fuck, yeah." His voice is rough and hoarse, only a few steps removed from a moan, and his fingers press against Benton's thighs.
"Ray," Benton says, sliding his hand down Ray's cock and back up, "Ray, I need you - Ray, so much, please, Ray." It's nonsensical and ridiculous, but Ray arches up, thrusting into Benton's grip. "You, here, like this - Ray, Ray." He strokes harder, faster, feeling every inch of Ray's body as they move together, in harmony, partners in every way that could ever matter.
Ray's breath speeds up, and he gasps out babble of his own, words like Fraser and love and fuck, now, please, tilting his head back. Benton kisses each part as it comes into range - Ray's ear, his temple, his cheek, and then his mouth, wet and hungry and uncoordinated. He comes over Benton's fingers, gasping pleas and apologies into Benton's mouth, and Benton meets them with his promises: Ray, yes, always.
Afterward, they lie together on the couch. Soon, the buzzer will ring, and they'll have to clean up; Ray will answer the door, and Benton will set the table. They'll eat, and they'll talk, and they'll clean the kitchen together. They'll go to bed, together.
And the next morning - well.
Time enough for that after dawn.
*
Author: etben
Summary: “Tell me something, Frase. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.”
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Ray Kowalski / Benton Fraser
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine. Very, very, not mine.
Original story: jet ski accidents by justbreathe80
*
"When I was in the eighth grade, my best friend was Mark Smithbauer."
Beside him, Ray is quiet and attentive, no jokes or incredulity to break the dark, dense silence. Benton can't decide whether this is a blessing or a curse - it's a deviation, to be sure, a change in the endless back-and-forth rhythm that they share, but beyond that -
- beyond that is silence, Ray waiting patiently for a secret.
something real, Fraser.
And it is real; there can be no doubt of that. As he talks, the darkness recedes, shifting gradually to the long, lazy shadows of late summer afternoons, light caught and refracted through small, heavy windows. The room is warm and large enough; Benton has a bed and a chest and a small bookshelf for his rotating collection of reading material - most of it older than he is, all of it borrowed from various sources.
He does his homework out at the table, most days, but this is not homework. Mark's hands are warm and tentative on his wrists, his face, his back. In return, Benton - Ben, Ben, Mark says, wide-eyed and whispering - discovers the back of Mark's neck, the angle of his shoulderblade, the small wet sounds their mouths make together. It is careful, and clumsy, and terrifying, and Benton never wants to stop.
What Benton wants has never really mattered.
When his grandmother finds them, she is as solemn as ever, as if nothing is out of place or unusual. She tells Mark that he's welcome to stay for dinner, but he shakes his head, blushing furiously.
"No, I should - My mum's probably wondering where I am." He smiles weakly, waves tentatively, and takes care not to brush against Benton as he leaves.
Ray's fingertips brush the back of Benton's hand - once, twice, again - and then slide around to hold, fingers interlocking, steady pressure and warmth. Benton's voice seems impossibly loud, here - now - and Ray's silence is glaring in comparison.
When their relief arrives, Ray squeezes his hand once and then lets him go; Benton is neither surprised nor dismayed. Begin as you mean to go on, boy, his grandmother once told him, and so he has.
*
"Aww, come on - fuck that!"
Beside him, Ray gestures rudely at the screen - Benton sees the motion more than the actual handshape, but it's not hard to extrapolate. The Chicago Blackhawks are living up to their reputation and doing poorly, which always makes Ray irritable.
The end result is easy enough to predict: the Hawks will lose, Ray will be belligerent, and Benton will be - Benton will be himself, will be Benton Fraser, RCMP. He'll go back to an empty building, thirty blocks away, with a deaf half-wolf and a miserable excuse for a bed, and he'll dream of things that will not ever come to pass. He'll wake the next day refreshed, and he will do the job he has been asked to do; he will be as content with his life as he has ever been.
When Ray kisses him, Benton freezes, uncertain. He hadn't thought it would come to this - Ray has been remarkably circumspect regarding Benton's sexuality, up to this point, the inevitable sidelong glances and discreet appraisals aside. It's somewhat surprising that he should react now, two weeks after the fact - but Ray is his friend, and there has never been any question of Benton's response.
It's a good kiss, by any reasonable measurement of things: slow and careful, lips and teeth and tongue working in delicate concert. Ray's mouth is gentle, exploratory; he kisses Benton thoroughly, and Benton responds in kind. Ray's neck is warm under the palm of his hand, muscles tight and smooth. Benton rests his hand there as they kiss, feeling Ray's pulse run fast and wild against his thumb.
When Ray pulls away, his eyes are wide and startled, his face flushed. He sinks back on the couch without speaking, so quiet that Benton can hear the click of his thumbnail against the beads around his wrist.
Benton watches the game, waiting to see if Ray will - but Ray doesn't say anything else, and eventually it's time for Benton to return to the Consulate; he makes his good-byes and is on his way, and that is the end of it.
*
Benton is rather busy in the days that follow, but the next week finds him back on Ray's couch. They make their usual conversation - cases in progress, goings-on at the Consulate and the 27th, the vagaries of Chicago politics. At the intermission, when Ray gets up for his beer, Benton asks him for water, as always. The game starts again, and Benton's attention is drawn back to the television, where he watches the Canadiens flub three easy shots in quick succession, shaking his head at their technique. Ray watches from the doorway, cradling Benton's water glass in his free hand.
After the third miss, Ray pushes away from the wall, shoulders and back in one smooth line; he sets the glass and the bottle down on the table and pauses. Past his hip, Benton can see a fourth play lining up, just as sloppy as the three before.
Ray, of course, looks just the same as always. He doesn't say anything, but he holds out his hand, and Benton takes it.
They undress in unison, Benton following Ray's lead by a heartbeat, half of a breath. It's a revelation - Ray's eyes against his skin are a tangible thing, a curious, tentative pressure. The buttons of his shirt are impossible to manage, and Ray laughs soundlessly as Benton struggles with them. When Benton tugs and fights his way free, he lets the shirt fall, holding still as Ray leans in to kiss him, resting his hands under Ray's shoulderblades. Ray has clearly been thinking about this, ranking his desires and his curiosities; he bites Benton's neck with a peculiar intensity, runs his hands the length of Benton's spine, kisses him with the focus of a laser beam. It's wonderful, really - all of Ray's passion and intensity is directed toward Benton Fraser, towards the two of them, here, together, now.
Benton leaves his jeans on the floor, crumpled and husk-like, and lets Ray pull him down to the bed, slow, slow. Ray is arching and gasping against Benton's neck, teeth and tongue a tiny, private symphony. His hands curl around Benton's elbows, then slide higher, tugging them closer together in a gentle, lazy slide.
When Benton presses down on Ray's arms, repositioning his weight, Ray's chest expands with a sudden intake of breath, and his eyes slide shut. After a moment, Benton tries again, deliberately, holding Ray's wrists against the bed, and watches the shiver that results, the way Ray's hips press up against empty air, his cock hard and wanting. It's too much to resist, and Benton doesn't try; he drops down against Ray again, holding him steady and anchored as they move together, slow and shivering in an empty room.
Ray comes with his teeth clenched, hissing out air against Benton's shoulder, his wrists tense and taut under Benton's fingers. A moment, a breath, and Benton follows him, sudden and electric, gasping inarticulately against Ray's neck. They curl together like pieces of a puzzle, Benton's leg over Ray's hip, and pass a silent moment, sharing breath in the darkness.
Ray slips into an easy sleep, and Benton watches him for a minute, another, ten, three-quarters of an hour. It would be easy to stay longer, to watch the uncomplicated rise and fall of Ray's chest under his hand - but Diefenbaker will need to be let out before too long, and Benton needs to go home, regardless. He collects his clothing, stacking it neatly on the bed.
Ray says his name, so quietly it could be Benton's imagination. For a moment, Benton thinks - but he has to leave; he's known from the beginning how this will have to end.
"Ray, please," he says, pulling his shirts back on. "I have to go - I left Diefenbaker at the Consulate. I’ve really been terribly irresponsible." Dief will be furious, of course; he often is, especially of late -
“Come on," Ray says, "Fraser, please.” He stands up, dragging the sheet with him, hovering at the edge of Benton's field of vision. Benton turns his head away, doing up his jeans, his belt. “Just - just stay; we don’t have to talk.”
Benton would like nothing better than to stay and talk, to throw his clothes to the floor and slide back between Ray's sheets. When he looks around, though, Ray is frowning, uncertain, his face striped in the light through the blinds.
"I'm sorry," Benton says, and leaves. It will be better, like this.
Constable Turnbull is on guard duty at the front door; he barely twitches as Benton lets himself into the building, and from there into his office. Over on the bed, Dief whines at him, rolling his eyes.
"Yes, yes," Benton says, getting to his feet. "I'm sorry for the delay - I did get here as fast as I could, though." Dief stares at him for a moment, still sulking and annoyed, but eventually deigns to go out to the park in Benton's company.
Ray calls in the afternoon, while Benton is giving a tour to the sisters of Saint Martine's Holy Trinity Convent in Montreal; Benton takes the message from Turnbull, but is drawn away from his response by a group of sight-seers from Pyongyang. By the time he gets free again, it's well after five, and Ray will have left for the evening; Benton resolves to call him back in the morning.
The next day, his phone starts ringing as soon as he and Dief come back from their run. Ray's voice is staticky and hoarse - his cellular telephone, most likely. He invites Benton to come by the precinct that afternoon, "just to see what comes up."
"The mutt can come, too," Ray says. "We'll dig him up a sandwich, maybe something to chase."
"I'm sorry, Ray," Benton says, glancing over the paperwork on his desk. "I'm afraid things are rather busy here this week - paperwork - "
"Yeah," Ray says, "yeah, okay. Maybe this afternoon?" But that won't be possible either, unfortunately - Inspector Thatcher is planning a complete review of the filing subsystems, and that's not something that ought to be left to Turnbull's logic.
Ray laughs at that, at least, flat and thin over the patchy connection. "Ain't that the truth," he says, and then hangs up.
It's been most of three years since the filing systems were last examined, and the task takes Benton the next two days. When that has been dealt with, there are the curtains in the second guest room to be dealt with; they hang crooked, probably as a result of the Swedish Ambassador's niece. Benton re-hangs them, and then spends an extremely dusty afternoon airing the Consulate's eleven closets.
Ray calls twice on the first day, and twice again on the second, the connection is worse each time, Ray's voice becoming lower, hoarser. For the next four days, he calls only once, usually around mid-morning. That's the slowest part of the day, usually, when Ray has nothing to do but drink his coffee, kick his heels, and - apparently - call the Canadian Consulate. Unfortunately, it's turning into a busy week for Benton, and every time Ray calls, he has to beg off.
On the seventh day, Ray doesn't call at all. Benton dusts the ceiling fans in the Royal Suite. He does not think about Ray at any point; when memory intrudes, he ignores it with the skill of long practice.
Under the bed, Diefenbaker grumbles with unusual eloquence. Benton ignores him, as well.
On the eleventh day, Benton flips over the page on the calendar, revealing a photograph of Lake Louise and a block of text on the 5th.
RAY'S BIRTHDAY!, it says, spiky capital letters taking over the day. NO (LIVE) FISH PLEASE! The word please is underlined twice, edging down into the square for the twelfth on the right side. Benton stares at the calendar, awash in memory - Ray laughing on the couch, cursing the referee and the team in equal measure; Ray slumped against the wall, glaring at malfeasants; Ray leaning into Benton's space, breathing Benton's air, breaking apart in Benton's arms - then grabs the phone without looking at it.
He dials Ray's number from memory; Ray sounds surprised to hear from him, but agrees to a birthday dinner the following evening.
"I'll have to cook at your apartment, I'm afraid," Benton cautions him; the Consulate really isn't set up for entertaining on anything other than an epic scale - although now that he thinks about it, he's not entirely certain that Ray's kitchen is any better equipped. Ray laughs, offers to call Sandor instead, but Benton is resolved.
"No, Ray," he says. "Really, I'd be honored to."
*
"Which, of course, led to a rather puzzling situation for the members of the Society, as you can imagine," Benton says, stirring the sauce for Ray's birthday dinner. Behind him, Ray leans back against the counter and grins, folding his arms across his chest; his eyes never leave Benton's face.
It's easier to decide than to do, is the trouble of it. Plans are all well and good, but now that he's back in Ray's apartment, Benton is telling ridiculous stories about the Society For The Preservation of The Common Muskrat, stirring a pot of sauce, unable to meet Ray's eyes for more than a few moments at a time.
There's a pause, a breathless silence, and then - and then warmth all along his back, Ray's body aligned with Benton's, breathing warm and fast against Benton's pulse. Benton's hands freeze, one on the spoon and the other on the handle of the pot, unable to do anything at all as Ray's hands slide down his arms, holding him steady, their fingers together.
"Fraser," Ray says, barely a breath in Benton's ear, "You gotta talk to me, Frase. I'm - " a shaky inhalation, released on an even unsteadier laugh. "I'm freaking out here." His entire body is shaking, a tremor that is transmitted every place their bodies touch.
"I know," Benton answers, and he does, he honestly does. For a moment more, he hesitates, wanting the right words, the words that will make it all clear -
- and then he turns in Ray's arms, meeting his eyes, pressing him back against the countertop. His breath comes short and fast, his chest rising and falling under Ray's hand; absently, he notes that his heart rate is considerably elevated from the norm.
Ray stares at him, unsmiling and wild, and turns them once more, so that Benton is sandwiched between the counter and Ray, pressed close against his chest, his hips.
"Ray," Benton says, and he means to continue, he truly does, but Ray's eyes light up and his mouth opens just slightly, and there's nothing else for Benton but to lean forward and kiss him, to explain this all with lips and teeth and the frantic exchange of breath. Ray licks against Benton's lips, soft and wet, and kisses back, and Benton can feel every finger of Ray's hands, points of fire just above his elbows.
Suddenly, without warning, Ray is a whirl of motion, running a hand down the inseam of Benton's jeans before dropping to kneel on the floor while he undoes button and zip. It's clumsy, but Ray doesn't look down; his eyes are fierce and unwavering, even as his fingers fumble on denim.
When he's finished, he hooks his hands in Benton's waistband and waits; Benton stares back, paralyzed. If Ray decides, now, here -
"I need you to tell me you want - this," Ray says, swallowing hard. "I need to know that you're not going to run out on me again. You gotta - tell me, Frase," he says, "please." He tilts his head to the side, pushing against Benton's hands where they're running through his hair, completely without Benton's consent.
"I'm sorry, Ray," he says, not sure where to begin.
“Christ, Fraser," Ray says, cutting him off. "Do not apologize to me. Just - talk to me, okay?” His voice is soft, rough, almost pleading, and Benton gets a glimpse, then, of how these weeks have been, for Ray - abandoned, adrift, uncertain.
"I'm sorry that I, as you say, freaked out," he says again, because apologies are needed, no matter what Ray thinks. "I wasn’t sure - " how to go on, what was right, how they could make this real and true " - what to do with this." He breathes in, brushing the backs of his fingers against Ray's scalp, and continues "I didn’t want to make a decision that might affect our work partnership, which is very important to me, Ray, I hope you know that.” The words aren't right, aren't anything close to what he wants to say, which is so much more and so much simpler, and his hands clench, anchoring Ray in place.
“I know that. I do," Ray says, running his fingertips back and forth across Benton's hipbones, slow and soothing. His mouth is slightly open, and his tongue keeps coming out to wet his lower lip; Benton's mouth is dry.
“But I do want this, Ray," he says, trying to keep his breathing regular. "Very much so." He doesn't mean to push, but he can't stop his hands, and Ray goes with the motion, leaning in to shove jeans and boxers out of the way and lick Benton's cock. It's gentle and careful and electrifying, and Benton twitches, lifting his hips away from the counter. Ray takes it, though, wrapping one hand around the base to save his throat before licking again, again.
Benton doesn't mean to push, doesn't mean to ask too much - but Ray slides his mouth down and back up, pressing against Benton's hands with a little hum of pleasure, and Benton realizes that he can. He can ask for more, can ask Ray for what he wants - he can stay here, propped against the counter, and slide his cock across Ray's tongue for as long as he can stand it.
Ray wants him to. Ray is on his knees in front of Benton, with hands on Benton's hips and his mouth on Benton's cock, all slickly moving tongue and wet, warm suction. He's letting Benton control the motion, though, sliding forward when Benton pulls him close and leaning back when Benton lets him. He's letting Benton do this, have this, and he's groaning with every free breath, his eyes half-shut with pleasure.
Ray trusts him, and that simple fact is enough to unravel all of the tension of the past month. Benton orgasms, snapping his hips forward, twisting Ray's hair between his fingers, and Ray swallows him down, steady and messy and perfect. When he finishes, he doesn't show any inclination towards motion; instead, he leans against Benton's hip, breathing rapidly against his skin, a slowing cycle of warm and cold air.
As soon as Benton is sure he can control his motion, he grabs for Ray's hands, lifting Ray off the floor and into his arms, kissing him frantically. Ray's eyebrows, his ears, the place where his nose meets his cheek - he can't stop himself, can't let himself miss anything. Every time Ray tries to pull away, Benton pulls him back, finding new places to kiss, new textures to explore: The side of Ray's neck, the middle of his forehead, the point of his chin -
"Fraser," Ray says, "Fraser!" He ducks away, leaving one hand on Benton's chest to keep him from following. "Dinner, Fraser," he says, pointing at the stove where - oh yes - Benton's attempt at dinner is turning rather blacker and more crispy than he'd intended.
Ray takes advantage of his distraction to move away, swearing quietly as he turns off the burners. Benton comes up behind him, sliding one arm around Ray's waist to inspect the food. It's probably still edible - but this is Ray's birthday, and they have better things to do than start again from scratch. The detritus goes into the trash, the pots and pans into the sink to soak, and Benton picks up the phone.
Sandor's Pizza is #3 on the speed dial, right after the Consulate and the station; the pizza (extra cheese, ham and pinapple) will be there in thirty minutes.
They settle on the couch, Ray leaning back against Benton's chest, Benton's arms around Ray's body. Ray is relaxed, eyes almost shut; Benton can feel Ray's grin against the side of his face.
"Ray," he says, after a moment. "Ray." Ray makes a small sound, running his fingers against the back of Benton's hand; the metal of his bracelet gleams in the light from the kitchen. And beyond that - Benton draws a breath, smelling sweat and sex and Ray - beyond that, Ray is hard, pressing against his jeans just below their linked hands.
"I didn't understand," he says, thumbing the button open; Ray arches in his arms, lifting his hips. "Ray," he says, "I didn't realize - I thought it was for the best, you have to understand." And he'd been content, but this - this is so much more, so much better: Ray, warm and alive under his hands, pressing back against him.
"Yeah, Fraser," he says, when Benton reaches into his jeans. "God, fuck, yeah." His voice is rough and hoarse, only a few steps removed from a moan, and his fingers press against Benton's thighs.
"Ray," Benton says, sliding his hand down Ray's cock and back up, "Ray, I need you - Ray, so much, please, Ray." It's nonsensical and ridiculous, but Ray arches up, thrusting into Benton's grip. "You, here, like this - Ray, Ray." He strokes harder, faster, feeling every inch of Ray's body as they move together, in harmony, partners in every way that could ever matter.
Ray's breath speeds up, and he gasps out babble of his own, words like Fraser and love and fuck, now, please, tilting his head back. Benton kisses each part as it comes into range - Ray's ear, his temple, his cheek, and then his mouth, wet and hungry and uncoordinated. He comes over Benton's fingers, gasping pleas and apologies into Benton's mouth, and Benton meets them with his promises: Ray, yes, always.
Afterward, they lie together on the couch. Soon, the buzzer will ring, and they'll have to clean up; Ray will answer the door, and Benton will set the table. They'll eat, and they'll talk, and they'll clean the kitchen together. They'll go to bed, together.
And the next morning - well.
Time enough for that after dawn.
*