Best by Te November 1999 Disclaimers: I've got all this extra space and *so* much love to give. Please? Spoilers: Vague references to Asylum, MoTB. Ratings Note: NC-17 for kink, smut, imagery some may find disturbing, the very worst of my sense of humor, etc. Summary: Fraser tries to protect Ray from himself. Author's Notes: Oh, boredom on a Saturday afternoon is to blame, this is a variation on a theme. My answer to the Kinks 'R' Us Challenge -- thanks for the inspiration, Erica! Acknowledgments: To Kasha and Dawn Sharon for fine audiencing and encouragement. And even more love to Kasha for speedy beta, and continuing to be a hottie. Feedback: Lusted for at thete1@earthlink.net. * Secrecy, seemingly random irritability, and apparent unwillingness to speak of trouble. All things Ray had taken him to task for over the course of their partnership, with varying degrees of rectitude. All things which Ray himself had been guilty of for the past several weeks. The man across from him was too quiet, his energy gone from vital to febrile, his hands shaky around the third large mug of coffee in less than thirty minutes. Attempts at pulling Ray out of this new, distressing shell had all failed, rebuffed with an increasing degree of irritation. There were dark circles under Ray's eyes. Fraser sipped his own tea as nonchalantly as he could manage, and resolved to get to the bottom of the situation. Next to Ray, his father tested the other man's reflexes with a phantom hammer, grimly shaking his head at the negative response. "Of course it wouldn't. It's not *real*." "What's not real?" "The 'cream' you're currently adding to your coffee." "No shit, Sherlock. But it makes this mud swallowable, so..." "Why are you drinking it if it's so unpalatable, Ray?" One vaguely incredulous look, followed by a shake of Ray's head. "Caffeine is the elixir of the gods, Frase. Haven't you been civilized long enough to know that?" "Well, I was hardly swinging from trees--" "Glaciers, trees, whatever. Nanook of the Jungle, that's what we'll call you. Or something." The image was a humorous one, what with the small Inuit man slowly sweating to death under all the traditional furs, but Fraser could tell Ray's heart wasn't really in it. While it was comforting that they had come to know each other well enough to easily go through the motions of day-to-day conversation, Fraser couldn't help being angered by the other man's obvious lack of trust in him. *** In a difficult way, it was best that Ray was so clearly in danger of severe exhaustion. He had had no qualms about quietly suggesting to Lieutenant Welsh that Ray be kept at the precinct house all day while Fraser borrowed some equipment in hopes of discovering what Ray was hiding. The Lieutenant was unflagging in his care and concern for his subordinates, and had come to trust Fraser's judgment implicitly. It wouldn't be the first time, after all, that Ray had found himself with powerful enemies, and it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that the man was chafing at the idea of asking for help again, after his dependence on Fraser during the Volpe matter. Even more possible was the idea that Ray might be wrongheadedly trying to protect them all from... whatever this was. Yes... that possibility put things in an entirely more favorable light. Ray was prone to acting on instinct long past the time more practical men had turned to reason, and his heart was large and vulnerable. Fraser would find out what was wrong, help Ray to find the solution, and then they would have a discussion about the meaning of partnership. Fraser was willing to admit to wanting to return some of Ray's more pointed words on the Henry Allen to him, but they really were the best words for the situation. As Fraser set up the last of the small cameras in Ray's surprisingly neat apartment -- he had already determined that the GTO had not left its spot in the parking garage overnight in the past week -- he had the sense of a job well begun. And that was, of course, the first step toward a job well done. Ray's landlady, Mrs. Jankowski, had appreciated the tickets to Aida, and had not much questioned Fraser's need for her apartment. He was able to set up both recording stations without moving anything but a small night-table, leaving him plenty of time to fix himself a small plate of bread, butter, and pickles from the generous amount of food Mrs. Jankowski had left for him. After eating he cleaned, and then used his estimated ten minutes of spare time to nap. It was 6:32 p.m. when Ray walked in to his apartment, and Fraser followed his path with relative ease. In through the living area, a pause -- perhaps to stretch. The sound of a relatively heavy item of clothing hitting the leather couch -- most probably his jacket. Sounds of rummaging, plastic hitting plastic, and then the stereo came on at full blare, making Fraser fear for the sensitive equipment for a moment before Ray tuned it lower. The voice was that of a young boy, the song, predictably, about love. More steps to the kitchen, Fraser quickened his pace to account for the greater amount of obstacles in his path, turned the faucet, opened the cabinet, and chose the dark blue mug with the kitten on it that was the closest thing Mrs. Jankowski had to Ray's favored simple black ones. More coffee? Tea? Simple cocoa? No way to be sure. Eventually, there were more steps back into the living room, the sound of Ray sinking into the cushions of his couch. A pause, and then it seemed clear that Ray was actually lying down for a moment. Fraser did his best to emulate the movement in the tattered easy chair, and there they remained for almost a full twenty minutes. Fraser could tell by the sound of Ray's breathing that he never actually got to sleep. Uneven but deep. Fraser imagined he could hear the other man's heartbeat, how strong it would be, how it would seem slightly too fast. Biofeedback would let him approach that state himself, but he did not wish to surrender the ability to concentrate that remaining steady and calm afforded him. The footsteps seemed to come from everywhere at once for a moment -- the acoustical quirks were worse on the stairs -- but then resolved themselves to those of one apparently large male, wearing boots that seemed much too heavy for this time of year. Fraser would never understand fashion. The camera in the shadows of Ray's hall would be filming the mystery visitor even now, but Fraser could not immediately give up the vantage of being directly below Ray as he moved -- quickly -- to the door. Ray's hand hit the doorknob, rattling it slightly, hesitated, and then Fraser opened the door on nothing at all. Turned to the side, scuffing the sole of his shoe on the floor as he allowed the large phantom to pass. "Shut the door, son, there are things out there." "Not now, Dad, please." His voice seemed shockingly loud. "This isn't what you want to do." Fraser closed his eyes, let the door latch closed just slightly off-time to Ray's. Listened to the large stranger making his way silently, confidently into Ray's home with a vague sense of familiar violation. It was strange, and not as easily dismissed as his father. From upstairs: "Would you like something?" "No." Familiar. "Nothing at all?" An uneasy smile in Ray's voice. "Nothing but the usual... why aren't you naked yet?" Turnbull. Fraser waited for the laughter that would... cleanse the situation, but the only sounds that came were of leather and cloth hitting the floor, buckles loud, very loud against the hardwood floor, shoes louder. Breath coming faster. "Not the t-shirt yet." "All right --" Heavy fabric sliding over skin. Jeans, perhaps. Fraser's own hands were caught, stilled in the waistband of jeans, waiting, unsure for the first time of the whole endeavor. But... he was here for a reason. He skinned out of his jeans quickly, listening over the pound of his heart for where -- "Briefs on." "God, Ren --" "Shut up." Click of something that could only be his teeth, brief taste of iron in Fraser's own mouth before the sounds above forced him to bring the soft, sensitive flesh of his inner arm to his lips, forced him to be inadequately opened and kiss. The click of a switchblade or knife, Turnbull's undoubtedly, and a purring rip of fabric. The knife was grazing the flesh of one thigh, tearing at the lycra Ray favored. His own simple cotton made nothing like the suitable sounds, though the t-shirt was better. And Fraser was nude in the ghost of Ray's apartment, alone and cold and... not nude but naked. Naked. The word made sweat break out all over his skin. Brief muffled grunt that could be pain, but Fraser had no real idea of where it would have been localized. He twisted his nipple savagely in compensation, longed for the chance to walk toward the bedroom and second monitor set-up, but the men above him had not moved, except together. Fraser shuddered and brought his hands to himself, rubbing his legs together to duplicate the pull of short hair to short hair, caressing his thighs and abdomen and face. Wet sounds and he brought his arm back up to his mouth, fascinated momentarily by spit-shiny flesh and the growing bruise before kissing again, mashing his lips a little this time. The sounds got closer to the ones above, and the satisfaction was so warm... Another grunt, sliding into a moan and Fraser let his head loll back, bared his throat to empty air, swallowed hard, dryly and let his hand... the room seemed to close in around him, furniture polish and aging afghans and wisps of nicotine from a habit only a few months broken. He couldn't do it. "Oh Jesus *fuck*, Ren Immmph --" Sounds of sucking. Suckling. Wet and hungry and beneath that flesh on flesh and moans and the sharp but ruthlessly controlled rasps of Turnbull's breath and Fraser sunk to his knees, trying and failing to ignore the nap of carpeting against his flesh, the proof of his intrusion, the swell of heat rising from him and struggling to reach his belly. Sharp yell, another. "Please --" Ray's voice broke on the word and the sounds of stroking were even wetter, more obscene for the few brief heartbeats that Fraser is sure it took Ray to bat away the other man's hand in protest. Oh yes, he could see it. Almost feel it. But he couldn't have anything but this: slide of calloused fist around his own cock, familiar and banal. The first stroke is simple necessity, the next several purest relief and then the sucking sounds begin again. Ray is on his knees now, there is no doubt in Fraser's mind though he has lost track of the other man's movements. On his knees and the long, slow, exhalation is Turnbull taking pleasure in the already swollen red mouth. Fraser let his own mouth fall open and groaned, losing sight of relief for something better. He brought his other hand down to his tightening balls, rolled and petted them while fucking his fist. Listening and listening and memorizing the sounds the two men made, losing himself briefly in the slap of what could only be Turnbull's balls against Ray's chin, in the exhilarating implication of expertise. He would plumb Stanley Kowalski's past, but only when it was much, much safer. Images gleaned from words he couldn't help but hear, thoughts he had not fought hard enough and the anticipation heated the coil in his belly even more. Fraser let his head fall forward, felt sweat-damp hair paste itself to his forehead and stroked faster, not bothering to bite back his breathless grunts, flicked at the leaking head of his cock once, twice, again and again on each upstroke. The blood in his ears blocked out everything but his heart and sex and he was alone in his own heat, alone and so close -- Hand in his hair, yanking his head back, hand forcing his mouth open and then something small and plastic shoved in so far back he nearly swallowed it. The tiny trail of wire tickled his throat until he could spit it out. One of the listening devices. "Perhaps you should have locked the door, Constable." "Nobody likes a nosy parker, Frase." End.