Standard Courtship Protocol
by Zelempa
Thanks to Saharra Shadow for beta, and to alex51324 and yolsaffbridge for development and all the funniest lines. What would I do without you guys?
Feedback: [Archive of Our Own | Zelempa's Livejournal]
Ray dropped his empty coffee cup onto the dash with the others and looked longingly at the glove box. He had cigarettes in there, but if he took them out there'd be tsk-tsk noises and maybe even cancer fun facts. It wasn't worth the effort.
Ray rolled his head, letting his gaze roam slowly up Fraser's legs, along the crisp lines of his uniform. Strong hands lightly gripping a manila folder of papers. Face in a serene expression of concentration. Here was the only guy in the world who liked paperwork. Personally, Ray thought it was a waste of time--you should spend your time doing stuff, not going over and over the stuff you did--but he could see why an order freak like Fraser would like it. Check here, tick there, a place for everything and everything in its place. Even if the neat forms did a pretty inadequate job of reflecting the messy real life shit that actually happened.
Fraser didn't look up, but he must have sensed Ray's eyes on him, because he flipped over a page and said, "Do you need something, Ray?"
Ray stared at the curve of Fraser's wrist, the hint of muscular forearm beyond the edge of his starched cuffs, and didn't answer. There were too many possibilities, none of them acceptable to say out loud.
"I can take over if you need a break," Fraser offered, glancing up.
Between all of the coffee breaks, mini-naps, and runs around the car to get his blood pumping, Ray had probably kept watch about one hour to Fraser's three, so he said, "Nah, I'm good."
"It might be more effective to direct your attention to the subject of the stakeout," Fraser suggested, politely, like he was giving Ray a helpful tip he might not have known.
"Yeah, yeah." Ray turned back to the window. No matter how long you looked, a broken-down cinderblock lowrise didn't get any prettier. It wasn't all that surprising that nobody wanted to move in. Ray kind of felt sorry for it. With the smashed windows and all the graffiti tags, nobody was ever going to want it for any legitimate purpose. Not even the gang guys were showing up tonight. That's how much nobody wanted to be here. He wished he could leave. The only movement he'd seen all night was a couple of rats in the alley. He had his gun aimed and cocked before he realized it was a false alarm. He switched from glasses to binoculars and back again, but it didn't help.
"They're not coming," Ray announced. "The note said two. It's almost four. Had to be a fake. Or maybe they were tipped off."
"Still, we're on duty until five. It's our responsibility to--"
"Yeah yeah yeah yeah," said Ray. "Duty, responsibility, protocol, consider the speech speechified."
Fraser shut up, and Ray wished he'd let him give the speech just so he had something to listen to beside endless repeats of the one Sex Pistols tape he'd found in the backseat. He always planned that on his next stakeout he'd bring something interesting, brainy even, books on tape or some shit, but he never, ever did. He blinked at the boring, dark, motionless windows and heaved a sigh just to fill the silence.
"I'm so fucking bored out of my--" As Ray turned back, he was shocked into silence by the closeness of Fraser's face. He'd silently climbed over the gear shift. Fraser pressed a hard, fast kiss on Ray's mouth, then turned his head roughly back toward the window and held it still with one hand. Ray swallowed as Fraser's mouth pressed tickling wet kisses on the back of his neck, his other hand skimming over his thighs, attacking the button of his jeans. Yesss.
For someone so into protocol, Fraser was amazingly cool with fucking at work. Actually, he seemed to kind of prefer it. The first time they made out was on the other side of the one-way glass in Interrogation Room Three, with a suspect waiting at the table. To this day, Ray wondered if two-counts-of-armed-robbery saw the glass vibrate when Fraser shoved him back against it.
Because of course it was Fraser who started it. Ray never would have guessed, never would have dared, not with Fraser being--all Frasery. Maybe wouldn't have dared at all, on principle. He didn't have a lot of principles, but dipping the pen in company ink was kind of over the line, even for him. But it was Fraser, and whatever he wanted to do couldn't be that bad, and anyway, you get a shot with pure-as-Yukon-snow, padlocked-long-underwear, clear-eyed, hard-bodied Constable Fraser, hey, that's the score of the century, and you don't quibble about the where and the when.
Fraser's cool hand had found its way under the waistband of his boxers. Fraser's warm body was pressed up again Ray's back, and his voice was an intense, husky whisper in Ray's ear: "God, I love your cock."
Ray exhaled raggedly. He never got used to it--Fraser talking dirty. It was a revelation each and every time. "I'm, uh, pretty happy with it myself," he managed idiotically, "right now in particular," squirming as Fraser pressed his thumb against the head of his cock. "Ffffuck, Fraser..."
The protocol stuff got a lot easier to take when he knew Fraser's secret weakness. All he had to do when Fraser's lips went thin and disapproving was to remember them thin around his cock, remember his own hands carding through Fraser's sweat-wet hair, the feel of Fraser's hands clamped tight on his hips, his unclasped belt halfway down his ass and the cold mesh of the evidence cage digging into his flesh. Fraser had swallowed the evidence but Ray still hoped nobody got anything on one of those cold cases that gave them a reason to look for DNA.
He let his head roll back in pleasure, eyelids fluttering. Yeah, Fraser sure knew how to surprise a guy, all sudden kisses and hands in the darkness ("What are we supposed to do now?" "Wait for the shipment, I imagine. It would appear they've nailed us in."), you're just going along and then there's a solid body on top of you and you're sinking slowly into the mountains of fur ("Holy crap. Why does anyone need so many teddy bears?" "Well, I doubt they're all going to the same person, Ray. Unless some lucky lady is going to have a truly remarkable Valentine's Day. I'm given to understand romance is a growth industry in this country." "I'll show you a growth industry."), and you can smell his soap, hear his heavy, quick breathing, feel his firm warm hand tracing a path down your chest, your stomach ("Where are you? Where's your other hand? Fraser? Marco!" "Polo, Ray.")
"Keep your eyes open." Fraser straightened Ray's head with the hand still locked on his jaw.
Ray blinked and forced himself to stare at that northeast window, trying hard to pay attention as Fraser's light, teasing touch sent oddly intense jolts of pleasure up his spine. Another wet kiss on his neck, and then Fraser was sucking in his earlobe, and then he was running his tongue along the shell of Ray's ear. Ray groaned and breathed out a white puff of fog onto the window. He quickly unpeeled his hand from its white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel and cleared the fog so Fraser wouldn't feel the need. He wanted Fraser's hands where they were.
Fraser must have seen it at the same time he did, the flash of movement at the top-floor window, because he jerked hard and fast, not playing anymore. They'd done this enough times that he knew the drill. The change in pressure made Ray gasp, and he was close, so close, but there was shit to get done, and he tried hard to multitask, patting his gun, scrabbling at the door lock, mentally going to his happy place (mudwrestling lesbians were involved). Fraser's voice muttering "Fucking love your cock" kinda interrupted, but in a good way, a very, very good way. He let out of a little moan, collapsing in his seat, but Fraser was wiping him up roughly with a napkin and hastily buttoning him up, and then he was diving for the passenger door and Ray remembered where he was and what he was doing.
He jumped out onto the street, totally jazzed. An orgasm and some action--he couldn't have planned the agenda better himself. "Police!" he yelled gleefully as he and Fraser thundered up the stairs in perfect sync.
*
"So I have the right to like a lawyer, right?" said the suspect, Joe, when Ray came back in the interrogation room with his fifty-thousandth coffee. Fraser was still sitting at the table with his hands folded. He'd clearly just finished up his "no, seriously, you have rights" speech (idiotproof version), which was right and proper and all, but still kind of annoying.
"Sure you do, but this is only going to take a minute," said Ray. "I just want to know a couple of things."
"I didn't do anything. I wasn't even going to paint anything. You can check my bags. I don't have any spray cans. Sure, okay, I was going to put up a sign, but it's not vandalism if you don't paint right on the building, right?"
Ray laughed. It was pretty rich for a kid in an anarchy T-shirt to be trying for a technicality. "This is way past vandalism," he said. "Give it up. Who's your boss?"
"Boss?" said Joe. "You mean, like, down at the photo mat? Cause I don't, I mean, he doesn't have to find out about this, right? I need that job."
"Listen, I'm not interested in you, okay?" said Ray impatiently. "It's clear to me that you are not high up on the totem pole. Am I right? You didn't even get the memo that the drop was called off."
"What drop?" said Joe. "What pole?"
"Totem pole, it's a vertical wooden sculpture typically carved from cedar trees by the native peoples of the--"
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"I believe in this case Detective Vecchio was employing metaphor. The organizational structure of your gang--"
"What?" Joe wailed. "No! I'm not in any gang!"
"You just happened to go for a four a.m. stroll at the drop site for a drug deal?"
"I didn't know! I didn't know anything about that! I--shit," said Joe. "You mean they use that old place for--holy shit! I could have been killed!"
"Yeah, it was a close one," said Ray.
Joe squeezed his eyes shut. "I never thought I'd be saying this to the cops, but, uh, I guess I'm lucky you guys were the ones who caught me."
"That's what we're here for," said Fraser seriously. "To protect people from criminal activity. Now, if you were involved in any--"
"I swear I wasn't, I still don't even know what was supposed to go down there," said Joe. "You gotta believe me."
"Yeah? So what were you doing there?" said Ray. He gestured toward himself, inviting Joe to hit him with his best shot. "Let's hear it. Why that particular building?"
"Well, see, it's right across from Yolanda's. Yolanda Murphy. You know her?"
"I'm afraid we haven't made her acquaintance," said Fraser.
"Should we?" said Ray.
"No, no, don't. I mean she's not a criminal or anything. She's beautiful."
"The two are not mutually exclusive," Fraser observed.
"What is she, your girlfriend?" said Ray.
"I wish!" said Joe. "Maybe after... Well, see, I was going to hang a sign so she could see when she wakes up."
Fraser seemed impressed with this. "That's a very romantic gesture."
"The sign's in my bag. That proves it!" Joe nodded frantically toward his backpack on the table. "I don't have drugs in there or anything!" There was a note of relief in his voice. The "this time" was unspoken.
Fraser stood and opened the bag, laying out the contents on the table: a folded-up bed sheet and about eleven rolls of duct tape. He shook out the sheet, which was torn in half and spray-painted messily with the words
Ray was kind of going for bad-cop but he couldn't suppress a genuine laugh. Fraser looked down at the banner with a pained frown. Obviously this was not the kind of romantic gesture he'd had in mind.
"What do you think?" said Joe dreamily. He looked really proud of his work.
"I think you're lucky we caught you before you got that thing up," said Ray.
Fraser nodded agreement, folding the banner neatly onto the table. "Detective Vecchio is correct. This is not the sort of message a young lady likes to read about herself."
"But it's true!" said Joe.
Ray nodded, trying to keep a serious expression, and looked at Fraser for a rebuttal.
Fraser took a breath and began, "While I can understand the impulse to declare one's devotion from the rooftops--"
"Devotion to Yolanda's tits," Ray put in.
"Watch it!" Joe gripped the arms of his chair like he wanted to stand up and sock Ray one, if he weren't cuffed. "That's my future girlfriend you're talking about!"
"Exactly!" said Fraser. "You would be making her, ah, personal business the subject of general conversation, and casting aspersions upon her reputation. You wouldn't want people to jump to the wrong conclusion about how you completed your assessment."
Joe looked perplexed.
"People would think you've seen 'em," Ray translated.
"Oh, I've seen 'em," said Joe. "Everyone has."
Fraser hung his head.
There was a knock at the door, and Ray cracked it. Francesca wiggled her way in, ignoring Ray, and flattened herself against the wall of Fraser's body. "Hi, Fraser! How's it going? How's the interrogation? Is he cracking under pressure?"
"I'm right here," said Joe.
"I brought you his file!"
"Gimme that," said Ray.
Frannie waved the folder in Ray's general direction, not taking her eyes of Fraser, who was looking around for an escape route. "So, what are you doing after this?"
"Well, ah, ahem, Ray and I had a long night last night..."
Ray kept his face neutral, trying not to react to that, and flipped through the file. Trespassing, vandalism, public drunkenness, vandalism, vandalism, vandalism... It was all wrong for a gang thug. A couple of violent crimes would have helped. Failing that, a totally blank rap sheet, nothing on file. No rap sheet meant, until now, he was just too smart to get caught. This guy clearly hadn't learned how not to get caught.
"...I expect I'll just be going home to bed."
"Yeah, you look exhausted. Do you have a ride home? You should see my car. I had it redone. Leather interiors."
"Holy shit," Joe muttered.
Ray glanced up from the file. Frannie was steadily backing Fraser into the wall. It was kind of an odd scene, Ray realized, if you weren't used to it. Him, he didn't hardly notice anymore. Used to kind of bug him, but it was easier to be tolerant when you kind of pitied her, when you'd run into her stomping out of a supply closet buttoning her third button (the slut button) angrily, and she'd pointed to you and said "Your partner is a eunuch," and then while you were standing there watching her turn the corner because her ass was pretty nice even if she was your fake sister, the closet door opened behind you and you were yanked bodily inside, and then there were wet lips on your neck, shoving aside your collar and sucking so hard it hurt, a hand crunching your spikes and an erection digging into your thigh. That had a way of kind of calming you down. You know, afterward.
"I'll drive him," Ray cut in suddenly, because you had to think ahead. Proper preparation is... pretty... whatever it was Fraser said. Sex at Ray's tended to be more low-key than work sex: languid, sleepy, sloppy kisses, wet licks in weird places. Maybe a hot shower, soap-slick stroking, Fraser's gentle fingers slowly caressing Ray's asshole, easing their way inside. Then, cold pizza, and Fraser would go off to do whatever he did at the consulate with a smile on his face.
"So who's gonna tuck him in?" asked Frannie innocently.
"Get out of here!" Ray swatted at Frannie with the file. Frannie shot Ray a milk-curdling scowl, then smiled sweetly back at Fraser and walked out backwards, shooting him little waves.
"Who was that?" said Joe.
"Just another member of the Fraser Fan Club," said Ray. "Meetings on Wednesdays. Membership closed due to overwhelming interest."
Joe turned suddenly to Fraser. "So, you really think the sign's a bad idea?"
"Yes," said Fraser. "I do."
"So what should I do?"
Fraser glanced at Ray for help.
"Don't look at me," said Ray, shrugging. "I don't know how to get girls outside of hostage situations." He tossed the file on the table. He was pretty sure by this point that they were wasting their time, but it wasn't like time-wasting hadn't turned up clues before. Anyway, he wasn't done with his coffee.
"Gift-giving is, I believe, standard procedure," said Fraser slowly. "Flowers. Candy. Dinner. Or perhaps you could try your hand at writing her an ode."
"Poetry?" said Ray. "You want this genius to write poetry?"
"Surely if he reaches deep into his soul, he can come up with some words to describe the depth of his feelings."
Ray looked at Joe. "If I were you, I'd go with the flowers."
"Maybe," said Joe, still sounding doubtful. "I don't think she likes poetry all that much. One time she said Shakespeare was a douche."
"Certainly you could get her a more personal gift, tailored to her interests. Women are, above all, individuals," Fraser lectured, adding, "just like men."
Joe nodded, frowning, luckily seeming not to notice Ray choking quietly on his coffee in the background.
"What else do you like about her?" said Fraser. "Aside from her... what you've already made clear. Perhaps more importantly, what does she like about herself?"
"Her ass," said Joe promptly.
"You walked into that one," said Ray.
"What?" said Joe. "She wouldn't wear those tight jeans if she didn't like it!"
"Moving beyond the physical, perhaps," said Fraser. "What personal qualities do you admire about the young lady in question? Is she kind? Capable? Courageous? Clever? Intuitive? Free-spirited?" He rattled off the list in about half a second.
"She's very... open," said Joe slowly.
"Go on," Fraser encouraged. "Open-minded? Generous?"
"She tells good stories," said Joe. "Like dirty stories? Mostly about stuff she's done. You can ask her anything. I mean, really nasty stuff."
Fraser opened his mouth and closed it again, obviously undecided on what to say next, so Ray lent him a hand, saying, "I dunno, sounds like you could spin that as 'creative.'"
"Inventive, even," suggested Fraser, unexpectedly game.
"Freaking genius," said Ray.
"Absolutely inspired," said Fraser, just shamelessly looking directly at Ray now. God, how long until they were just having phone sex in front of the suspect?
"Can't I just say she's hot if that's what I mean?" Joe whined. "Why's that bad? It's good."
"It would be unseemly," said Fraser.
Ray suppressed a snort. Did Fraser really think he had the right to describe anything as "unseemly," considering his own sex life?
Fraser continued, gaining momentum, "The standard courtship rituals--flowers, dinner, and so forth--may seem cliche to you, but they serve an important function in interpersonal discourse. They unambiguously state your feelings while retaining enough distance to show deference to her modesty. They're fundamental signs of respect."
Ray frowned, the practically-phone-sex high rapidly fading. Was this really what Fraser thought?
Well, yeah. He knew it was what Fraser thought, but still, it seemed a little hypocritical of him to be calling out a guy for telling a girl she's hot on the first date when he'd thrown Ray back against the mirror (that one, there) and tongue-fucked his mouth without so much as a "Will you do me the honor of allowing me to call on you?"
Joe was nodding slowly, like he'd been convinced, but then he looked up at Fraser with a squinting, nauseated look, and, here it came, the real reason he didn't want to follow Fraser's advice: "I have to walk around with a bunch of flowers? I'll look like a fag."
"It's for a woman, dumbass," Ray pointed out, tossing his empty cup in the trash. "Can't get much straighter."
"Well, I'll look like an asshole."
"That's a risk you'll find you're more than willing to take," said Fraser, laying his hand on Joe's shoulder to make this final point, "if she's worth it."
"Fraser!" Ray barked. "A word?" He held the door open.
"Excuse me," said Fraser politely, getting up.
"What the fuck was that?" Ray hissed once they were out in the hall.
"What the fuck was what, Ray?" said Fraser.
"That, that arm touch thing. It's no touching in there, you know."
"Oh. Yes. I'm afraid it was an unconscious act," said Fraser. "It doesn't seem as though there's any harm done, though. He didn't object. If anything, I've furthered my rapport with him."
"Great, just great. You know how hard it is to overlook illegally obtained rapport?"
"I hardly think it's necessary to--"
"Rules are rules, Fraser!" Ray yelled.
Fraser smiled slightly, puzzled, like he thought he was playing a game but he didn't quite know the rules. "This is very odd behaviour, Ray. You're just not usually so by-the-book."
"Sure I am!" said Ray. "I love the book! I live for the book! Without proper procedure, where are we? Nowhere! The Dark Ages! God, Fraser. Straighten up and fly right. You want to be banned from my interrogation room?"
The twinkle went out of Fraser's eye, and he got stiff, cold. "Terribly sorry, Ray. Of course you're right. I should have been more mindful of my surroundings. In my defence, I wasn't aware you attached any particular importance to that rule. I've seen you violate it a dozen times."
"Are you calling me a hypocrite?"
"Merely pointing out an inconsistency in your behaviour."
"So you're calling me a hypocrite."
"I don't want to argue semantics."
"So don't!" said Ray, throwing up his hands. "Look at me, do I have a gun to your head? You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."
"Ray--" said Fraser, and stopped. He tried again. "Ray, you seem to be angry at me. Have I done something?"
"You? No. You haven't done anything, anything at all. You, you just go back in there and school that kid on dating," said Ray. "Obviously I got nothing to contribute to that conversation."
He turned before Fraser could respond and stalked off down the hall.
He took refuge in the men's room, which really wasn't any kind of refuge at all, since Fraser could have followed him in. He didn't, though. Ray didn't know whether to be pleased at that or not.
He paced to the far wall, turned, paced halfway back, turned again, went to the far wall and laid his head down against the puke-green wall. He hated the way Fraser did that--sent him not-so-subtle subliminal messages and then acted like he hadn't, like he had no idea what crazy Ray was getting so bent out of shape about. It wasn't exactly brain science, figuring out that one, a child could have followed it, if you respected her you'd woo her in proper knightly fashion, in other words don't get too high on yourself, Ray, just because I suck your cock on occasion doesn't mean I respect you or nothing.
He didn't even like flowers. So you cut some plants out of the ground, great, then what? Just let them sit around your house and wilt? He didn't get that.
So what was his problem, exactly?
No problem. Great. Life was great. He slammed off the faucet. He felt like he did whenever Fraser used his smartness to logic him out of being angry about something--still angry, but now also hollow inside.
*
A girl was standing at his desk, maybe eighteen, nineteen, glaring around at everyone who passed by as if to say, "Are you the guy I'm looking for? You're not? Lucky for you." Her wifebeater was stamped with the word "HOT", or the bottom of the word "HOT," beneath a strategically placed tear. The label was unnecessary, because it was pretty much self-evident. Her arms were folded tight beneath her chest, creating a kind of Wonderbra effect, raising up the perfect curve of her breasts above the torn neckline. They weren't the world's biggest breasts, maybe C, C and a half, but they were smooth and sunbronzed, almost glowing. Ray knew right away this was Yolanda Murphy.
"Hey there, hi, what can I do for you?" said Ray.
"You're Detective Vecchio?" said Yolanda. "You got Joey Priest back there?"
"You a family member?" said Ray.
"I'm his ride," said Yolanda, puffing out her chest, and raising an eyebrow in a defiant "come on, make an innuendo, I dare you" look. Fraser describing this girl as "the young lady in question" flashed into his mind, and Ray bit back a laugh.
"What are you charging him with?" Yolanda demanded. "I know his rights, if he doesn't."
"Relax," said Ray. "He's free to go."
"He is?" Yolanda dropped her arms in surprise. Her breasts hardly shifted at all. She must have been wearing an actual Wonderbra. She'd be prettier in a regular dress, Ray thought. She had the body to pull off the trampy outfit, but she had a kind of wholesome, slightly pudgy, non-surgically-enhanced beauty that didn't seem to fit with her fashion sense. It was like seeing the Venus de Milo in a thong: weird.
"Sure. He'll have to pay a fine for the trespassing, but he can mail that in. I don't have any other charges for him at this time."
"Wow," said Yolanda. "You could have at least put up a little fight."
"Huh?"
She curved her pink lips into a smile. "I didn't even start flirting with you."
"Wouldn't have worked," said Ray, carefully looking at her face. "I am a," he searched for a Fraser phrase, "a consummate professional."
"Sure you are," Yolanda laughed. "You'd have cracked. All men are the same." After a brief thoughtful pause, "Except the queers."
"Let me go get your friend," said Ray.
*
"Okay Joey," said Ray, opening the door to the exam room. "You're free to go." He unlocked the cuffs and led him back out, not making eye contact with Fraser.
"Yolanda!" Joe cried in an unmanly squeal as soon as they got out to Ray's desk. "You came!"
"I shouldn't have. You know I need my beauty sleep," Yolanda snapped. "How'd you go and get picked up by the cops again? What were you doing?"
"Uh." Joe clutched his bag to his chest tightly. "Nothing. Nothing. Just, you know. Painting some anarchy symbols."
"You're a fuckwad," Yolanda informed him.
Ray leaned in toward Fraser and muttered sidelong, "The lady in question."
"So I gathered," Fraser replied, his tone quiet, but neutral. "She seems like a lovely girl."
Ray searched his face for the tiny telltale crinkle around the eye or quirk of the mouth that indicated dry Canadian humor, but there was nothing. Fraser meant it. So, Ray's bad manners and dirty mouth made him fucking exempt from the courtship thing, but Yolanda was a "lovely girl"? Joe rubbed his arm, blinking rapidly and stuttering. "Um. Yolanda. I... I was just wondering..."
"Yeah?" Yolanda tapped her fingernails on her arm impatiently. "What?"
Joe glanced at Fraser. Fraser gave him an encouraging smile. Joe nodded and stood up straight, imitating Fraser's posture. "Miss Murphy, will you do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner?"
"What the fuck?" Yolanda narrowed her eyes. "You're asking me on a date?"
Joe nodded.
"Are you high?"
Joe's posture dropped in a second, his face crumpling.
Everyone in the room was staring now, like, what else is new, Vecchio and Fraser's suspect making a ridiculous scene. Ray waved, gesturing the visitors away. "Okay, guys, soap opera time's over, get out of my area."
Yolanda shoved Joe into walking. She was a loud talker, so her rant was still totally audible as they headed out down the hall. "It's six in the fucking morning and where am I? Not at home in my nice cozy bed. I'm at the police station picking your sorry ass up."
"I know, I'm sorry--"
"You think that might be a hint?" Yolanda's voice echoed from around the corner. "Kind of a sign that I'd fuck you?"
There was a muffled squeak of disbelief, and the sound of the door to the stairs slamming shut, and several cops and even a few perps burst into spontaneous applause.
Ray glanced at Fraser with a grin, but Fraser looked serious, his brows knit slightly and his lips thin. Of course. Fraser didn't approve.
*
Sleep didn't really happen. Ray was exhausted enough to think in circles, but not enough to actually make it an unconscious state. Maybe it was all the coffee. He was getting up to piss an awful lot, although some of those were just out of sheer boredom.
He'd let Fraser walk home, because he'd said he preferred it. It was always a big fucking mystery, whether "I prefer to walk" meant "I'm waiting for you to beg and plead to drive me" or "I actually prefer to walk," and Ray was too tired to puzzle over the clues, so he'd just said "Okay, bye." He felt a little bad about that, but only a little. Fraser wanted something, he should just say.
Sunshine was streaming in through the window, even through the curtains, so maybe that was why he couldn't sleep. Ray looked at the clock. Almost ten. Places would be open by now.
"God damn it," he said to himself as he got up and put on a cleanish pair of jeans. "No. No way. Back to bed, Ray, right now. You are not thinking straight." He put his keys and wallet in his pockets and hunted around for a T-shirt. "Bad fucking idea. Don't say I didn't warn you."
*
Ray rang the bell of the consulate and immediately realized he hadn't thought this through. What if someone else answered? Footsteps inside, approaching the door. Mountie-boot clops, but that could have been anyone. Ray hid the bouquet under his jacket. Oh, much better. Now instead of a guy holding a bouquet, he was a guy obviously holding a bouquet under his jacket. Not to mention crushing the goddamn baby's breath. Fucking baby's breath. And, now the bolts were clicking. He quickly transferred the bouquet to the slightly better hiding place of behind his back before the door swung open.
It was Fraser after all. "Ray!" Instantly he looked concerned. "Do you need my help? Is it a matter of urgency?"
"No," Ray admitted. "I just wanted to. Um." His palm was sweaty around the cellophane wrap of the bouquet behind his back, but it felt like the wrong moment to whip it out. Here, I brought you these, I'll just go away now. "Just wanted to hang out, I guess. You busy?"
"Well, we're expecting a visit from Minister of Amateur Sport, so needless to say, the place needs a thorough cleaning. But you can certainly hang out with me while I fold linens."
"Fun and excitement," said Ray, following Fraser inside. Since Fraser's back was to him, he let his arm drop, swinging the bouquet by his side. He'd thought maybe he'd find a moment to make the hand-off, some comparatively less awkward moment, but it was only getting more awkward. He had no plan.
"Constable, who was it at the door? Oh, hello, Detective," beamed Turnbull, appearing from god knows where, dressed in a starched apron and wielding a feather duster. Ray thrust his flowers back behind his back, lightning quick. "I hope you haven't come to call Fraser away at the moment when he's needed most. Tidying the Queen's Bedroom is a paramount honour."
"Whoa, someone actually gets the Queen's Bed?" said Ray.
"Well, it is the Minister of Amateur Sport," said Fraser, like that explained everything.
That didn't sound like that high up of a position, but maybe it didn't have to be. All Ray knew was he didn't rate. He'd asked. It was last time Thatcher was out of town, when he had Fraser pinned to the Nova Scotia oak conference table, knees on his bare thighs, drinking in the sight of him. Instead of being totally naked, which would have at least had some dignity, he was half-undressed in the wrongest possible way--shirt pushed up, bare from ribs to thighs, pants pushed down, boots perfectly laced and untouched. His hair was messed up, his face flushed, his cock just out, for anyone to see, hard and red and larger than life.
It was the boots that really made the outfit.
"Ray," Fraser had begged, reaching for him. "Fuck me, please."
"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you," Ray had promised, letting Fraser pull him down into a heap on top of him. He'd dropped biting kisses on Fraser's lips as he narrated, "I'm gonna fuck you all over this consecrated fucking Canadian soil. I'm not gonna let you pay attention to the curling match, you know why? Cause I'm gonna be fucking you. I'm gonna make you come in the Ice Queen's desk drawer."
"Fuck, yes," said Fraser, like the idea really turned him on. Ray had gyrated his hips, jamming their cocks together, making himself gasp, and then continued, gleefully, "Yeah, and, and I'm gonna make you come all over the Queen's bedsheets."
And that, that was the line for Fraser, he'd gone all wide-eyed and serious and said, "That doesn't even bear thinking about, Ray."
Ray had thought maybe he was joking, but they never did make it into the Queen's room. It was like a thing.
"I'm afraid you can't be permitted," said Turnbull apologetically, putting out a hand to stop Ray from following Fraser up the stairs.
"What is it with you people?" Ray complained.
"You're tracking in mud!" Turnbull explained, distressed. "Dear, oh, dear. We'll just call this area of the consulate the 'contaminated area.' You can stay here."
"If you would kindly take off your shoes, Ray," Fraser suggested.
"Oh!" Turnbull smiled. "Yes, I can see how that would solve the problem. I'll get the mop." Turnbull turned to scamper off, adding, just before he disappeared down the hall, "That's a lovely bouquet, by the way, Detective."
"Thanks," Ray muttered, letting his arm drop again. No point in hiding it now. Damn Turnbull to hell.
"Yes, very pretty," said Fraser, equally polite, but he didn't come out and ask what the deal was, either, because he was a freak.
"Yeah," said Ray noncommittally. "Here, take 'em."
Fraser took them without comment and just stood there. Well, okay. At least he'd unloaded the damn things. It wasn't until he bent down that he realized what Fraser thought, that he was just holding the bouquet for Ray while he untied his shoes. He straightened up suddenly and braced himself in the doorway, yanking his feet out of his boots. "I mean, you know, they're yours, if you want 'em," he clarified. He stepped into the Queen's Bedroom, swerving as Fraser offered the bouquet back. "Keep 'em."
"Keep them?" Fraser said doubtfully.
"Sure," said Ray, casually, like he was just deciding just then.
Fraser looked from the bouquet to him, and understanding dawned on his face.
Shit.
"You bought me flowers," said Fraser.
"Kind of," Ray muttered, his face hot.
"May I ask why?"
Ray squinted at him. What kind of asshole question was that?
It wasn't going to work. Fuck. It wasn't going to work, and Ray knew it wasn't going to work, but there was no way to back down now.
"Cause that's what you fucking do, Fraser," he snapped. "When you like someone, you want to make a, what do you call it, unambiguous statement of interest, you buy them flowers-"
"Ray, you don't have to…"
"-and they, I don't know what they do, look at them, I guess, I've never been on the receiving end of flowers, I mean, you've never given me any, which is fine-"
"Ray-"
"-why should you be the one to, I mean, it's a two-way street, right, which is why I am, even though I know you don't-I know that's not the way it is, with us, but I can't do this, Fraser, I can't be your casual fuck, I'm not that guy-"
"Ray!"
"I can't be your thing on the side!"
"On the side?" Fraser blinked, distracted from whatever he was going to say. "On the side of what, Ray?"
"Of anything!" said Ray. "I want to be in the middle. I want to be the entrée, Fraser. Main fucking course. Steak."
Fraser nodded. His eyes were wide, serious and still slightly confused. He had both fists tight around the base of the bouquet, wielding it like a club.
"So," said Ray, exhaling, feeling tapped out. He gestured vaguely toward the bouquet. "Flowers. Enjoy."
"Ray," said Fraser again.
This time Ray said, "What?"
"I think I owe you an apology."
Shit. Shit, shit. "Yeah-huh?" said Ray dully. "I don't think I've made it entirely clear that… what I mean to say is, it appears there's been a miscommunication. You seem to be under the impression that we're, well, that we aren't in a relationship. In fact, we are."
"Wha," said Ray, head swimming. "We, we are?"
"Yes," said Fraser, sounding pained. "I was sure you knew."
"I, uh," said Ray. "I must have missed the memo."
"We've had sex, Ray," said Fraser. "Do you remember that?"
"Shut up, don't be a pain," said Ray. "I know about the sex. I remember the sex. I vividly recall the sex, Fraser. So what? That doesn't mean anything."
"It does to me," said Fraser quietly.
He was halfway through the "Oh" in "Oh, so now I'm the asshole" when it hit him. He'd been looking at this all wrong. He thought Fraser wasn't courting him, or whatever, because it was just sex. Fraser thought Fraser wasn't courting him because it was sex. They were so beyond flowers. That's why he had been disappointed to get them-it was a slap in the face, a giant step back.
Fraser placed the bouquet down on the night table, carefully, like it was grenade, and turned to lift the clean bedsheets out of the basket.
"Frase," said Ray.
"It's all right, Ray," said Fraser, calmly untucking the old sheet from the enormous mattress. "It's my fault. You told me once you were sick of first dates, and you wished you could skip straight to the good stuff, by which I assume you meant a mature stage of sexual and emotional intimacy; I think I took that too deeply to heart." "Wait. You've been trying to please me?" "I shouldn't have assumed that you don't need the ritual. Most people do."
"What, me?" said Ray. "No. I don't give a fuck. This, this is me trying to do it your way."
"It's not my way," said Fraser immediately, glancing at him. "It's the way."
"Kinda seems like you buy into it."
"I understand it. I believe, in a way, that it's a good idea. I've just never felt entirely comfortable engaging in it myself. It all seems so--"
"Boring?" Ray suggested. "Normal? Straight?"
"Yes, that--and false, and overcautious, and overrehearsed. Protocol and propriety are of course all very well in their place, but they're enemies of passion. Sex should be spontaneous, and it should be thoroughly improper. It should be you, Ray."
Ray tried to make sense of this. "Sex should be me?"
"If at all possible."
Ray grinned. He executed a little turn-kick step on the carpet. "Fuck it, then!" he said. "You don't want flowers, I don't want flowers, fuck it. We'll do what we want."
"That sounds very wise."
"What do you want to do first?" Ray looked hopefully at the Queen's bed.
"Well, at the moment, I'd like to get this bed made."
"And then messed up again?" "I can't wash these sheets again, Ray," said Fraser. He sounded harried. "It takes too long. There are special soaps involved." Ray stepped up to him, gripped him by the waist, yanked him close and kissed him savagely, thrusting open his mouth with his tongue, pushing Fraser's head back with the force, angrily nipping his bottom lip and then letting him go just as suddenly. He raised his hands and stepped back. "Fine." Fraser was free to go now but he didn't move--just paused, frozen. "What?" said Ray. "I'm considering saying 'fuck it.'" "No, no, hey," said Ray. "Not if there are special soaps." "Yes. Of course. You're right. One must think long-term. I have better things to do with my day than laundry." And with a quick shiver-making glance at Ray, he set to work making hospital corners. Ray watched his hands move, fast and efficient, except one time he messed up and had to do one fold over again, and that was nice, that was him trying to go too fast and getting sloppy.
"So, this relationship," Ray said conversationally, leaning on the bedpost. "Are we exclusive?"
"Oh, yes," said Fraser. "For some months now, in fact." "Really?" "Yes. It was a mutual agreement." "I don't remember that," said Ray.
"Well, it was an unspoken agreement."
"You can't go by that!" said Ray. "Jeez. I coulda been fucking girls all over town."
"Were you?"
"No," Ray admitted. "I pretty much spend all my time with you."
"There you are." Fraser nodded satisfaction and handed Ray two corners of the comforter.
"Does anybody else know?" Ray asked.
"No--not that I'm aware of," said Fraser, coming around to his side to straighten the comforter. "We agreed to keep it between us for the time being, largely for professional reasons. On my part, at any rate. You may also have personal considerations. I didn't press the issue."
"Another unspoken agreement, huh?"
"No, if you'll recall, I believe your exact words were 'Not a freaking word of this to anyone.'"
"Oh. Yeah." That had been right after the first time--the make-out session in the interrogation room. Ray hadn't really thought Fraser would say anything, but he hadn't really thought Fraser would ever kiss him, either. Some things just get the drop on you. "Yeah, I do remember that."
"Good. I was beginning to fear early onset dementia."
"Fuck you too, Fraser."
Fraser began folding the old sheets before putting them into the empty basket, and since they were just the old sheets and it didn't matter about neatness, Ray helped.
"Christ," he said. "Now I know this is a relationship. I'm folding your linens instead of nailing your ass."
"We were in a relationship before, Ray," Fraser reminded him patiently. "Any and all nailing of asses that has occurred between us has been within the confines of the relationship."
"Oh, yeah, that's right. I forgot. Don't know how I missed that."
"Nor do I," said Fraser. "You do know we're partners, right? At the police station? That would explain all the crime solving."
"Oh yeah, I did kinda wonder about that," said Ray. "I wasn't going to say anything."
Fraser was laughing to himself in the silent way where he didn't want to show he was laughing. Ray dropped the topsheet and wrapped his arms around Fraser, who immediately, like he'd been waiting for it, leaned his head against Ray's and placed soft kisses on the side of his face, his stubble, the corner of his jaw.
"You know, out of politeness," Ray finished, stupidly, randomly.
Fraser lifted his mouth from Ray's neck and said, "That's very considerate of you, Ray."
"Yeah, well, you know me," said Ray, rolling his head to the side, and breathing in deep through his nose. "I'm a slave to etiquette."
The End