In Character, by joandarck
Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Length: 3,500 words
Rating: R
Kink prompt: role-playing
Lots of thanks and gratitude to malnpudl for an impulsive past-midnight beta.
In Character
"Hey, Turnbull said I'd find you in here. Uh, what are you doin' there, Frase? You better hope Thatcher doesn't find out you were warming her chair up while she was out of town."
Fraser slid the drawer shut. "On the contrary, Ray, I am sitting at Inspector Thatcher's desk at her own behest. She called and reported that the Italian ambassador will be expecting to her to be wearing a certain amusing charm on her watch, in the shape of a goat, which he gave to her last year. She believes she lost it in here while she was packing, and I am to find it before she returns for the event tonight."
"Oh, lucky you."
"Now." Fraser straightened the clock and the paperknife, lined up the big notepad with the edge of the desk, and pushed back the chair. "As a simple and methodical search of the room has failed, I'm resorting to a method that was discussed in a recent seminar on investigative techniques held at the Institute for Canadian - well, the details don't matter right now, but the concept is, put yourself inside the mind of your target. Walk a mile in her shoes, so to speak. Move through every step of her day, until you, at last, stumble across the object of your search."
Ray chewed his toothpick. "Like recreating a crime."
"Exactly."
Ray leaned against the door, arms folded, and watched.
"Now, I have moved through the opening portion of Inspector Thatcher's day, as nearly as I can reconstruct it, and when you walked in, Ray, I was just about to begin the morning's reprimand."
"Oh, yeah? Who's she reprimanding?"
"Me." Fraser stood and turned, giving Ray a look at his profile. He looked good, like always. Even frowning like that. Fraser cleared his throat and lifted his chin, talking to the air. "Constable Fraser, I really see no need for you to spend quite so much time... engaging in conversation, with unofficial visitors to the Consulate. You have your duties."
Ray cracked up, not really loud, so as not to hurt Fraser's feelings, but kind of wheezing to himself. It wasn't that Fraser was doing a girl voice exactly, but it was still higher and prissier, and it did have a certain Thatcher something. He'd never come right out and say 'My boss is strung so tight you could bounce a quarter off her neck,' but he obviously knew it.
Fraser shot him a grow-up-Ray look and said "I'm glad this is amusing to you," and then he walked around to the other side of the desk and struck a different pose, hands behind his back.
"Sorry, I just didn't know you were gonna do the voices."
"Well, Inspector, the young lady in question was lost, and needed directions to the nearest elevated train station. I was able to be of assistance."
Ray could believe the young lady had needed something, all right, but there's no way she'd gotten it. He twirled his toothpick and watched as Fraser moved around behind the desk and put his hand on the back of the chair. With a touch of a sneer, Fraser said, "It took you forty-five minutes to hand that... young woman... a map?"
He started to scoot around to the other side again and "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Ray cut in. "This is... stupid, Fraser, you're really goin' to run back and forth like a squirrel with no nut, here? You think that's going to help you find anything?"
Fraser stopped in mid-step and blinked at him. "No, you're quite right. Neither of us was distracted by the need for constant motion at the time, so this isn't an accurate recreation. Which negates the entire point."
"Okay. Yeah. No offense to your Institute, but I call 'em like I see 'em."
"If you wouldn't mind?" Fraser stuck his hand out like he was offering Ray a chair, and went back to Thatcher Base.
"Huh?"
"Well, we need two people, Ray. As you said."
"Uh... right." Ray found himself standing on the worn spot on the carpet, where shiny boots holding up Fraser and Turnbull got planted during their daily reamings from the Ice Queen. The desk looked bigger from here, big and glossy. So did Fraser on the other side. But there was something different about him, something funny. The way he was standing. His... the way he held his head. Ray couldn't figure it exactly, but something... feminine.
Spooky.
"It's your turn to talk, Ray," Fraser stage-whispered.
"Oh. Right." So. He was Fraser. Fraser, right. Ray whipped the toothpick out of his mouth and flicked it into the wastebasket. He made a kind of attempt at getting into the right stance (just imagine there's a flagpole up your ass) and expression (and the flag keeps waving right in front of your nose), and said, loudly, "Uh, she needed a lot of help reading the map, ma'am. Sir. And then she also had a lot of questions, uh, about Canada. She wanted to know about... beef importation laws, stuff like that."
Fraser looked surprised. "How did you know that?" he said in his normal voice, before lowering his head and cocking his fist on his hip and snapping, "If that young - woman was a beef importer, I'll eat my hat." He let go of the chair. "And those are not light words, Fraser."
"Uh, no ma'am. Sir."
Fraser turned and stomped - okay, not really, but maybe a little - to the end of the desk, put his knees together, grabbed the corner (Thatcher really liked feeling up furniture, looked like) and said, "Besides, there is simply no reason for you to spend so much of your, your valuable time, on casual foot traffic. This is a Consulate, Constable. An outpost of culture and diplomacy, not a reading room for wayward teens."
There was a strain in his voice, and his eyes were locked on Ray's with - wow, Fraser was really into the acting, wasn't he? That was just the kind of taut-lipped nostril-flared want-to-do-you-can't kinda thing Thatcher was always firing at him. Being on this end of it? Hot. Ray swallowed.
"I, uh..."
"Yes, Constable?"
"Dunno know what you'd say."
Fraser stopped. "-Oh!" He looked up at the ceiling for a sec, then said, "Well, I think I reminded her that-"
"No, look, look, this is backwards. This makes no sense. Don't you get it? Why am I playing you?" He stuck his hands out and mimed a swap, grateful to move off that spot on the carpet. He couldn't live in Fraser's stiff coat even just thinking about it. A guy needs to breathe. He needs chances. Slouching, that's a basic human right. So's making mistakes. "You get on over here and play you, and I'll go back there and be... her."
Wait, maybe he'd just made one.
It was too late, Fraser was agreeing - "Yes, that seems the most sensible-" and moving past him in a brush of red wool and clean soap smell, but at least he was walking like a man. Ray beat it to the far side of the desk, frowned at the weird blurry painting on the wall, and turned around. Okay, uptight bitch with a hard-on for Fraser, he could do this.
"Quit wasting your time on chicks, Fraser. You're a Mountie. You got important things to do." Remembering, he reached down to put his hand on the corner of the desk, then gave Fraser a pissy look. He was the boss, that's what that desk between them meant, and Fraser just better toe the line and listen up when Ray - Thatcher - was talking, or he'd get it but good. (Yeah, Ray could do this.)
"Ah, right." Fraser looked like he'd forgotten the rules for minute, but then he was back and swinging. "Sir, if I might remind you, my duties include all forms of cultural outreach, with any visitor to the Consulate, be they ambassador or schoolchild. Your orders were very clear on that subject, in the past. Eloquent, if I may say so."
Okay. So. Here was the thing. About being on the receiving end of this. Because Fraser wasn't talking in his normal voice any more. It had kind of... dropped. His words were saying, 'You're bitching me out and I don't get why,' but his voice was saying, 'You pull this crap because you want me, and I know it, and you know it.' Ray ripped his hand off the desk and shoved it in his pocket.
"Uh. Eloquent. Thanks. Thanks, Fras- Constable."
Fraser did a little scooting wave back, so Ray backed up to the wall by the filing cabinet.
"Now what?"
"Now you tell me to fill out a 1-3-oblique stroke-4-zed, requesting a reprimand for my timewasting and slackness, at once."
"Okay. Fraser, you did exactly what I told you to do, so you're gonna pay. Fill out a form."
"Yes, sir." Fraser loosened up and walked toward him, coming around the side of the desk. Huh, huh? What was he doing! He came closer to Ray and - oh, the forms were - here, in a bin, and Fraser pulled one out, raising his sharp dark brows. "May I?"
"Yeah. Yeah, you may. Okay, now you take that form and just bend right on over and fill it out on the desk so I can pretend I'm not looking at your ass."
Fraser... did it. He did. He turned his back to Ray and bent over, putting his hands flat to steady the paper, then snagging a pen from over on the right to start working. It was a few scratchy seconds of silence and Ray's jaw heading downward as he watched the seat of Fraser's pants pulled tight and flexing just a little every time he made a stroke before Fraser said, "I really think you're misunderstanding the nature of the relationship between Inspector Thatcher and myself."
"Yeah, well... Why'd you do that then?" He could hardly hear his own voice.
"This is where she usually asks me to stand."
"So, she is looking at your ass then."
"You're jumping to conclusions."
"No, trust me, Fraser, from where I'm standing, that's what I'm looking at, I mean that's what she's looking at, your ass. No question."
Fraser slapped the pen down across the form and straightened up, doing one of his sharp turns. "All right, sir, I've completed the form."
"Yeah? It's in triplicate?" This was too much like balancing on the edge of something, he was getting defiant, going wild. Maybe he was going to blow it, show the guy too much, or maybe he already had. And whose fault was that? Fraser's, for making him do this.
"I think you'll find it's to your satisfaction." Fraser, stubborn. Extra-hot.
"Okay, now what."
"Now I believe you criticized my uniform."
"Right. Right! The buttons aren't shiny enough."
"The lanyard. Crooked."
"Right, the lanyard. Which part is the lanyard?"
"The part you call the stringy thing."
"The stringy thing, yeah, I knew that. Okay. Constable Fraser, your lanyard is all in a mess. It's disgraceful. The stringy bits are unstrung and the strung bits aren't stringy enough. Get over here and I'll fix it."
Without saying anything, Fraser stepped closer, across some really useful and safe feet of carpet that had been keeping Ray from doing the stupid things that kept flashing through his mind, like copping a feel ("What, Thatcher doesn't goose you when you're all bent over like that? You mean, never?") and presented his chest for fixing.
Ray swallowed and grabbed at the string, letting go like it burned him.
"She spent more time at it." Fraser's voice was low.
Okay. He grabbed the string thing again and held onto it, tugging a few times. "Fine. It's all good. Now what?"
"Now, I... usually I'm too distracted to... quite follow what's happening."
Ray looked up sharply; Fraser's eyes were dark, looking back at him, then down at Ray's hands between them.
"So. There's, uh. More? She did more?" Ray pulled the string again, then touched one of the buttons. "These don't look right." He brought his other hand up, spread it out, touched a few more. "Yeah. Yeah, they're all wrong. You buttoned your jacket wrong, Fraser. Constable Fraser. You gotta redo that whole thing."
"Right now?" Fraser's voice was smoky as all hell, ought to be outlawed, an instant high. It went right to Ray's crotch and shut off his brain and the screaming voice of oh this is so not a good idea on the way. He crowded Fraser, and Fraser didn't move back.
"Yeah, right now. You going to argue with me about that?"
"No, sir." And Fraser's fingers were reaching up and popping the buttons, working like a machine, hard and fast. Ray barely got his hands out of the way in time. There was some contact, though, some hand-to-hand, on the way down. He gulped and watched as the uniform broke open and peeled apart, showing the white undershirt curving down over Fraser's chest, disappearing back onto his belly, tucking down behind his belt, and the (Christ!) sharp-edged black straps of suspenders off to the side.
Ray stopped Fraser. He stopped him as he started to reach up to undo the shoulder parts, stopped him with two hands on his front, the soft ribs of the undershirt hot with Fraser's locked-up body heat, felt Fraser's stomach tighten under his hands. "Fraser. Fraser. Are we..."
Something flickered in Fraser's eyes, like a wave pulling back from the beach. Ray's gut dropped and he heard himself barking, "At ease, Constable."
Fraser snapped his arms behind his back and stiffened up, his eyes hot again, incoming. Okay. So that's the way they had to play it.
Fine, Ray could learn the rules. He could even play by them. Plays well with others, that's Ray. (He reached in past the open jacket and grabbed the side of Fraser's belt with his left hand. "I don't know if you've had enough reprimanding yet.") And if this went well, maybe later, maybe something different. ("I don't know if you're really paying attention." He slid his other hand down the front of Fraser's pants - easier with the red coat out of the way, he'd never even seen Fraser's fly before - and felt it, yeah, hard and long and eager, thick. "Or maybe you are.") Maybe Fraser would want to do this again. As themselves. Maybe he'd want to do it slow. Maybe he'd want to kiss, even. Sure, and hold hands, and go for long walks on the beach. Right. (Ray's hand tightened.)
Fraser gasped.
"Problem? Constable?"
"No, sir," Fraser said, his voice thick and hot like the rest of him.
"Good." Ray started to stroke. He started to pull, gripping and squeezing, slow, pushing back down, pulling higher. He was so hard himself he had to lean a hand on the desk, but that just took him closer to Fraser, to the stuffy heat of the air trapped between them, the charge that made the hair on his arms stand up. He brought his palm up to where the head of Fraser's cock would be and massaged it, moving in circles, until Fraser made a choked noise and bucked his hips, just a little. From someone else that was a scream.
"Oh, God," Ray said, not meaning to. This was like living in a dream, some kind of acid trip where he got what he wanted before waking up at the bottom of the ocean surrounded by sharks, and it felt way too good to be right or real. He wanted Fraser to come right here, without even getting his pants off, he wanted to pull him right out and feel it hot and wet on his wrist as Fraser came and came and-
Fraser groaned out loud, a backwards noise that started from inside and got pulled free, and he pushed off the desk. Faster than Ray could make sense of it, Fraser grabbed him, a tight grappling hold, big arms wrapping around him and hands on his back, high and low, turning him and bearing him down to the desk, so his ass hit the edge and his spine was bending backwards, and Fraser's mouth was on his, searching, taking, pushing.
They were kissing. The room was gone and Fraser was all around him, grabbing him, kissing him, grinding up against him, rubbing on him, pushing, thrusting, faster. And then the groan, again, louder than he'd thought Fraser would make, like opening the uniform let it all out, and he jerked against Ray and again and stopped moving. He broke his mouth free and hung his head, gasping in Ray's ear, while Ray's hips pushed up begging for something they weren't getting. Then Fraser was gone.
Gone, dropping to his knees. Pushing Ray's shirt up and whipping his fly open and pulling him out, before Ray could do more than understand that he was looking at the ceiling. The ceiling over Thatcher's desk. His ass was on the edge of the desk, and his dick was in Fraser's...
mouth...
The incredibly good feelings that he was feeling at this time, the hnnrrrrrrgh good stuff that was going through him, the hot wetness and the tongue that was doing that thing, that was Fraser, that was all Fraser. Maybe he was tripping, after all. Maybe he was dead. He'd been hit by a bus on his way to the corner store and this was heaven. Ray tipped his head up. Over the rucked-up grey t-shirt, his bare stomach, between his sharp hip bones, to where Fraser's head was, to where his mouth was wrapped around the dick of one Raymond Kowalski, sliding up and down. No, this was way too dirty to be heaven.
Just then Fraser made another noise and brought his hands up, onto the base of Ray's thighs and in, squeezing hard, as he moved his mouth down all the long way to join them. Ray thrashed and fell back against the desk, his head rolling against the paper of the big notepad as he shook his way up and over to oblivion.
Oblivion was like, two minutes long, at least. He couldn't move. All the air in his lungs was still trying to figure out which direction to go, and his body was as limp and floating as he'd ever felt it. Even sprawled backward over office furniture. He was buzzing, he felt so good. There were sounds. Fraser was...
Fraser was standing nearby, starting to button his jacket and stopping, looking kind of shocked. Ray pushed himself up and tried to, uh. Not just grab him again. "Frase?"
"I..." Fraser wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, looking down. Dark pants don't hide everything, not a big damp patch like that. "I think another reprimand about the state of my uniform might be in order." He looked up, rueful, and, and shy.
"Yeah. Well, gimme a few minutes. You know, I'm not as young as I was." Ray slid off the desk and started tucking the goods away, glad his jeans were decent enough to get home to change. So, Fraser swallowed. Okay, no surprise there. Well, if you get past the giving oral sex to men thing, but, there was something really not a shocker about that either.
"Ray? Ray, I..."
The voice made Ray's heart squeeze, and he had to get through this, get it moving on to where it had to be, because there just wasn't room or time to screw this up, Fraser was too important and he couldn't not do this. "Look, Fraser. I know you got your job to do here. You gotta find that... thing. What was the thing? That you were looking for?"
"This gold watch charm in the shape of an amusing goat." Fraser held it up, protected by a handkerchief. "I found it on the floor while I was... after I..."
"Right, good. So you gotta do all your stuff with that, and call Thatcher, and I gotta get out of here and go do - my stuff, god, if I can think straight. Get my head to stop spinning. But listen. You busy tonight? And, uh. Tomorrow?"
"No," Fraser said, "no. No, I don't believe so."
"What about the weekend? And, Monday, and stuff?"
"Ray, are you...?"
"I'm asking you out, Fraser. Like, all the time. You want to date? Go to movies, go for walks in the park, dinner and dancing?" The look on Fraser's face made him feel so good it hurt, and he had to tone it down and go for a slide, "Or we can just stay home, and, heh. You know."
"Either sounds good to me." And Fraser looked like he meant it.
"Good, good." Ray was grinning wide enough to split his lip. "And maybe, we could, you know. Reconstruct this."
Fraser cocked his head. "Act out ourselves in the roles of ourselves acting the roles of myself and Inspector Thatcher?"
Ray shrugged. "Why not?"
Fraser did a tiny little laugh then, with his damp uniform pants, his jacket hanging open, his suspenders showing, his hair mussed. Looking ridden hard and weirdly gallant, like some old movie hero.
"Ray, my friend, I like the way you think."
Length: 3,500 words
Rating: R
Kink prompt: role-playing
Lots of thanks and gratitude to malnpudl for an impulsive past-midnight beta.
In Character
"Hey, Turnbull said I'd find you in here. Uh, what are you doin' there, Frase? You better hope Thatcher doesn't find out you were warming her chair up while she was out of town."
Fraser slid the drawer shut. "On the contrary, Ray, I am sitting at Inspector Thatcher's desk at her own behest. She called and reported that the Italian ambassador will be expecting to her to be wearing a certain amusing charm on her watch, in the shape of a goat, which he gave to her last year. She believes she lost it in here while she was packing, and I am to find it before she returns for the event tonight."
"Oh, lucky you."
"Now." Fraser straightened the clock and the paperknife, lined up the big notepad with the edge of the desk, and pushed back the chair. "As a simple and methodical search of the room has failed, I'm resorting to a method that was discussed in a recent seminar on investigative techniques held at the Institute for Canadian - well, the details don't matter right now, but the concept is, put yourself inside the mind of your target. Walk a mile in her shoes, so to speak. Move through every step of her day, until you, at last, stumble across the object of your search."
Ray chewed his toothpick. "Like recreating a crime."
"Exactly."
Ray leaned against the door, arms folded, and watched.
"Now, I have moved through the opening portion of Inspector Thatcher's day, as nearly as I can reconstruct it, and when you walked in, Ray, I was just about to begin the morning's reprimand."
"Oh, yeah? Who's she reprimanding?"
"Me." Fraser stood and turned, giving Ray a look at his profile. He looked good, like always. Even frowning like that. Fraser cleared his throat and lifted his chin, talking to the air. "Constable Fraser, I really see no need for you to spend quite so much time... engaging in conversation, with unofficial visitors to the Consulate. You have your duties."
Ray cracked up, not really loud, so as not to hurt Fraser's feelings, but kind of wheezing to himself. It wasn't that Fraser was doing a girl voice exactly, but it was still higher and prissier, and it did have a certain Thatcher something. He'd never come right out and say 'My boss is strung so tight you could bounce a quarter off her neck,' but he obviously knew it.
Fraser shot him a grow-up-Ray look and said "I'm glad this is amusing to you," and then he walked around to the other side of the desk and struck a different pose, hands behind his back.
"Sorry, I just didn't know you were gonna do the voices."
"Well, Inspector, the young lady in question was lost, and needed directions to the nearest elevated train station. I was able to be of assistance."
Ray could believe the young lady had needed something, all right, but there's no way she'd gotten it. He twirled his toothpick and watched as Fraser moved around behind the desk and put his hand on the back of the chair. With a touch of a sneer, Fraser said, "It took you forty-five minutes to hand that... young woman... a map?"
He started to scoot around to the other side again and "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Ray cut in. "This is... stupid, Fraser, you're really goin' to run back and forth like a squirrel with no nut, here? You think that's going to help you find anything?"
Fraser stopped in mid-step and blinked at him. "No, you're quite right. Neither of us was distracted by the need for constant motion at the time, so this isn't an accurate recreation. Which negates the entire point."
"Okay. Yeah. No offense to your Institute, but I call 'em like I see 'em."
"If you wouldn't mind?" Fraser stuck his hand out like he was offering Ray a chair, and went back to Thatcher Base.
"Huh?"
"Well, we need two people, Ray. As you said."
"Uh... right." Ray found himself standing on the worn spot on the carpet, where shiny boots holding up Fraser and Turnbull got planted during their daily reamings from the Ice Queen. The desk looked bigger from here, big and glossy. So did Fraser on the other side. But there was something different about him, something funny. The way he was standing. His... the way he held his head. Ray couldn't figure it exactly, but something... feminine.
Spooky.
"It's your turn to talk, Ray," Fraser stage-whispered.
"Oh. Right." So. He was Fraser. Fraser, right. Ray whipped the toothpick out of his mouth and flicked it into the wastebasket. He made a kind of attempt at getting into the right stance (just imagine there's a flagpole up your ass) and expression (and the flag keeps waving right in front of your nose), and said, loudly, "Uh, she needed a lot of help reading the map, ma'am. Sir. And then she also had a lot of questions, uh, about Canada. She wanted to know about... beef importation laws, stuff like that."
Fraser looked surprised. "How did you know that?" he said in his normal voice, before lowering his head and cocking his fist on his hip and snapping, "If that young - woman was a beef importer, I'll eat my hat." He let go of the chair. "And those are not light words, Fraser."
"Uh, no ma'am. Sir."
Fraser turned and stomped - okay, not really, but maybe a little - to the end of the desk, put his knees together, grabbed the corner (Thatcher really liked feeling up furniture, looked like) and said, "Besides, there is simply no reason for you to spend so much of your, your valuable time, on casual foot traffic. This is a Consulate, Constable. An outpost of culture and diplomacy, not a reading room for wayward teens."
There was a strain in his voice, and his eyes were locked on Ray's with - wow, Fraser was really into the acting, wasn't he? That was just the kind of taut-lipped nostril-flared want-to-do-you-can't kinda thing Thatcher was always firing at him. Being on this end of it? Hot. Ray swallowed.
"I, uh..."
"Yes, Constable?"
"Dunno know what you'd say."
Fraser stopped. "-Oh!" He looked up at the ceiling for a sec, then said, "Well, I think I reminded her that-"
"No, look, look, this is backwards. This makes no sense. Don't you get it? Why am I playing you?" He stuck his hands out and mimed a swap, grateful to move off that spot on the carpet. He couldn't live in Fraser's stiff coat even just thinking about it. A guy needs to breathe. He needs chances. Slouching, that's a basic human right. So's making mistakes. "You get on over here and play you, and I'll go back there and be... her."
Wait, maybe he'd just made one.
It was too late, Fraser was agreeing - "Yes, that seems the most sensible-" and moving past him in a brush of red wool and clean soap smell, but at least he was walking like a man. Ray beat it to the far side of the desk, frowned at the weird blurry painting on the wall, and turned around. Okay, uptight bitch with a hard-on for Fraser, he could do this.
"Quit wasting your time on chicks, Fraser. You're a Mountie. You got important things to do." Remembering, he reached down to put his hand on the corner of the desk, then gave Fraser a pissy look. He was the boss, that's what that desk between them meant, and Fraser just better toe the line and listen up when Ray - Thatcher - was talking, or he'd get it but good. (Yeah, Ray could do this.)
"Ah, right." Fraser looked like he'd forgotten the rules for minute, but then he was back and swinging. "Sir, if I might remind you, my duties include all forms of cultural outreach, with any visitor to the Consulate, be they ambassador or schoolchild. Your orders were very clear on that subject, in the past. Eloquent, if I may say so."
Okay. So. Here was the thing. About being on the receiving end of this. Because Fraser wasn't talking in his normal voice any more. It had kind of... dropped. His words were saying, 'You're bitching me out and I don't get why,' but his voice was saying, 'You pull this crap because you want me, and I know it, and you know it.' Ray ripped his hand off the desk and shoved it in his pocket.
"Uh. Eloquent. Thanks. Thanks, Fras- Constable."
Fraser did a little scooting wave back, so Ray backed up to the wall by the filing cabinet.
"Now what?"
"Now you tell me to fill out a 1-3-oblique stroke-4-zed, requesting a reprimand for my timewasting and slackness, at once."
"Okay. Fraser, you did exactly what I told you to do, so you're gonna pay. Fill out a form."
"Yes, sir." Fraser loosened up and walked toward him, coming around the side of the desk. Huh, huh? What was he doing! He came closer to Ray and - oh, the forms were - here, in a bin, and Fraser pulled one out, raising his sharp dark brows. "May I?"
"Yeah. Yeah, you may. Okay, now you take that form and just bend right on over and fill it out on the desk so I can pretend I'm not looking at your ass."
Fraser... did it. He did. He turned his back to Ray and bent over, putting his hands flat to steady the paper, then snagging a pen from over on the right to start working. It was a few scratchy seconds of silence and Ray's jaw heading downward as he watched the seat of Fraser's pants pulled tight and flexing just a little every time he made a stroke before Fraser said, "I really think you're misunderstanding the nature of the relationship between Inspector Thatcher and myself."
"Yeah, well... Why'd you do that then?" He could hardly hear his own voice.
"This is where she usually asks me to stand."
"So, she is looking at your ass then."
"You're jumping to conclusions."
"No, trust me, Fraser, from where I'm standing, that's what I'm looking at, I mean that's what she's looking at, your ass. No question."
Fraser slapped the pen down across the form and straightened up, doing one of his sharp turns. "All right, sir, I've completed the form."
"Yeah? It's in triplicate?" This was too much like balancing on the edge of something, he was getting defiant, going wild. Maybe he was going to blow it, show the guy too much, or maybe he already had. And whose fault was that? Fraser's, for making him do this.
"I think you'll find it's to your satisfaction." Fraser, stubborn. Extra-hot.
"Okay, now what."
"Now I believe you criticized my uniform."
"Right. Right! The buttons aren't shiny enough."
"The lanyard. Crooked."
"Right, the lanyard. Which part is the lanyard?"
"The part you call the stringy thing."
"The stringy thing, yeah, I knew that. Okay. Constable Fraser, your lanyard is all in a mess. It's disgraceful. The stringy bits are unstrung and the strung bits aren't stringy enough. Get over here and I'll fix it."
Without saying anything, Fraser stepped closer, across some really useful and safe feet of carpet that had been keeping Ray from doing the stupid things that kept flashing through his mind, like copping a feel ("What, Thatcher doesn't goose you when you're all bent over like that? You mean, never?") and presented his chest for fixing.
Ray swallowed and grabbed at the string, letting go like it burned him.
"She spent more time at it." Fraser's voice was low.
Okay. He grabbed the string thing again and held onto it, tugging a few times. "Fine. It's all good. Now what?"
"Now, I... usually I'm too distracted to... quite follow what's happening."
Ray looked up sharply; Fraser's eyes were dark, looking back at him, then down at Ray's hands between them.
"So. There's, uh. More? She did more?" Ray pulled the string again, then touched one of the buttons. "These don't look right." He brought his other hand up, spread it out, touched a few more. "Yeah. Yeah, they're all wrong. You buttoned your jacket wrong, Fraser. Constable Fraser. You gotta redo that whole thing."
"Right now?" Fraser's voice was smoky as all hell, ought to be outlawed, an instant high. It went right to Ray's crotch and shut off his brain and the screaming voice of oh this is so not a good idea on the way. He crowded Fraser, and Fraser didn't move back.
"Yeah, right now. You going to argue with me about that?"
"No, sir." And Fraser's fingers were reaching up and popping the buttons, working like a machine, hard and fast. Ray barely got his hands out of the way in time. There was some contact, though, some hand-to-hand, on the way down. He gulped and watched as the uniform broke open and peeled apart, showing the white undershirt curving down over Fraser's chest, disappearing back onto his belly, tucking down behind his belt, and the (Christ!) sharp-edged black straps of suspenders off to the side.
Ray stopped Fraser. He stopped him as he started to reach up to undo the shoulder parts, stopped him with two hands on his front, the soft ribs of the undershirt hot with Fraser's locked-up body heat, felt Fraser's stomach tighten under his hands. "Fraser. Fraser. Are we..."
Something flickered in Fraser's eyes, like a wave pulling back from the beach. Ray's gut dropped and he heard himself barking, "At ease, Constable."
Fraser snapped his arms behind his back and stiffened up, his eyes hot again, incoming. Okay. So that's the way they had to play it.
Fine, Ray could learn the rules. He could even play by them. Plays well with others, that's Ray. (He reached in past the open jacket and grabbed the side of Fraser's belt with his left hand. "I don't know if you've had enough reprimanding yet.") And if this went well, maybe later, maybe something different. ("I don't know if you're really paying attention." He slid his other hand down the front of Fraser's pants - easier with the red coat out of the way, he'd never even seen Fraser's fly before - and felt it, yeah, hard and long and eager, thick. "Or maybe you are.") Maybe Fraser would want to do this again. As themselves. Maybe he'd want to do it slow. Maybe he'd want to kiss, even. Sure, and hold hands, and go for long walks on the beach. Right. (Ray's hand tightened.)
Fraser gasped.
"Problem? Constable?"
"No, sir," Fraser said, his voice thick and hot like the rest of him.
"Good." Ray started to stroke. He started to pull, gripping and squeezing, slow, pushing back down, pulling higher. He was so hard himself he had to lean a hand on the desk, but that just took him closer to Fraser, to the stuffy heat of the air trapped between them, the charge that made the hair on his arms stand up. He brought his palm up to where the head of Fraser's cock would be and massaged it, moving in circles, until Fraser made a choked noise and bucked his hips, just a little. From someone else that was a scream.
"Oh, God," Ray said, not meaning to. This was like living in a dream, some kind of acid trip where he got what he wanted before waking up at the bottom of the ocean surrounded by sharks, and it felt way too good to be right or real. He wanted Fraser to come right here, without even getting his pants off, he wanted to pull him right out and feel it hot and wet on his wrist as Fraser came and came and-
Fraser groaned out loud, a backwards noise that started from inside and got pulled free, and he pushed off the desk. Faster than Ray could make sense of it, Fraser grabbed him, a tight grappling hold, big arms wrapping around him and hands on his back, high and low, turning him and bearing him down to the desk, so his ass hit the edge and his spine was bending backwards, and Fraser's mouth was on his, searching, taking, pushing.
They were kissing. The room was gone and Fraser was all around him, grabbing him, kissing him, grinding up against him, rubbing on him, pushing, thrusting, faster. And then the groan, again, louder than he'd thought Fraser would make, like opening the uniform let it all out, and he jerked against Ray and again and stopped moving. He broke his mouth free and hung his head, gasping in Ray's ear, while Ray's hips pushed up begging for something they weren't getting. Then Fraser was gone.
Gone, dropping to his knees. Pushing Ray's shirt up and whipping his fly open and pulling him out, before Ray could do more than understand that he was looking at the ceiling. The ceiling over Thatcher's desk. His ass was on the edge of the desk, and his dick was in Fraser's...
mouth...
The incredibly good feelings that he was feeling at this time, the hnnrrrrrrgh good stuff that was going through him, the hot wetness and the tongue that was doing that thing, that was Fraser, that was all Fraser. Maybe he was tripping, after all. Maybe he was dead. He'd been hit by a bus on his way to the corner store and this was heaven. Ray tipped his head up. Over the rucked-up grey t-shirt, his bare stomach, between his sharp hip bones, to where Fraser's head was, to where his mouth was wrapped around the dick of one Raymond Kowalski, sliding up and down. No, this was way too dirty to be heaven.
Just then Fraser made another noise and brought his hands up, onto the base of Ray's thighs and in, squeezing hard, as he moved his mouth down all the long way to join them. Ray thrashed and fell back against the desk, his head rolling against the paper of the big notepad as he shook his way up and over to oblivion.
Oblivion was like, two minutes long, at least. He couldn't move. All the air in his lungs was still trying to figure out which direction to go, and his body was as limp and floating as he'd ever felt it. Even sprawled backward over office furniture. He was buzzing, he felt so good. There were sounds. Fraser was...
Fraser was standing nearby, starting to button his jacket and stopping, looking kind of shocked. Ray pushed himself up and tried to, uh. Not just grab him again. "Frase?"
"I..." Fraser wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, looking down. Dark pants don't hide everything, not a big damp patch like that. "I think another reprimand about the state of my uniform might be in order." He looked up, rueful, and, and shy.
"Yeah. Well, gimme a few minutes. You know, I'm not as young as I was." Ray slid off the desk and started tucking the goods away, glad his jeans were decent enough to get home to change. So, Fraser swallowed. Okay, no surprise there. Well, if you get past the giving oral sex to men thing, but, there was something really not a shocker about that either.
"Ray? Ray, I..."
The voice made Ray's heart squeeze, and he had to get through this, get it moving on to where it had to be, because there just wasn't room or time to screw this up, Fraser was too important and he couldn't not do this. "Look, Fraser. I know you got your job to do here. You gotta find that... thing. What was the thing? That you were looking for?"
"This gold watch charm in the shape of an amusing goat." Fraser held it up, protected by a handkerchief. "I found it on the floor while I was... after I..."
"Right, good. So you gotta do all your stuff with that, and call Thatcher, and I gotta get out of here and go do - my stuff, god, if I can think straight. Get my head to stop spinning. But listen. You busy tonight? And, uh. Tomorrow?"
"No," Fraser said, "no. No, I don't believe so."
"What about the weekend? And, Monday, and stuff?"
"Ray, are you...?"
"I'm asking you out, Fraser. Like, all the time. You want to date? Go to movies, go for walks in the park, dinner and dancing?" The look on Fraser's face made him feel so good it hurt, and he had to tone it down and go for a slide, "Or we can just stay home, and, heh. You know."
"Either sounds good to me." And Fraser looked like he meant it.
"Good, good." Ray was grinning wide enough to split his lip. "And maybe, we could, you know. Reconstruct this."
Fraser cocked his head. "Act out ourselves in the roles of ourselves acting the roles of myself and Inspector Thatcher?"
Ray shrugged. "Why not?"
Fraser did a tiny little laugh then, with his damp uniform pants, his jacket hanging open, his suspenders showing, his hair mussed. Looking ridden hard and weirdly gallant, like some old movie hero.
"Ray, my friend, I like the way you think."