*

Ray didn't think it would be like this. Which, as far as he's concerned, is better proof than anyone
could ask for of why he shouldn't be allowed to think without a chaperone. Not that he'll admit
that anywhere Fraser can hear, but still.

Because really, it's not like he and Fraser hadn't been fighting like cats in a sack since they *met*.
There was even a rhythm to it (one of many reasons he'd stayed around *to* fight with the
contrary sonofabitch): talk, talk, snark, talk, snark, insult, fight.

Like clockwork, so that most days they never even paused what they were doing to fight, just
kept right on driving, or handcuffing perps, or eating lunch, while ripping each other new ones.
Jesus.

But he'd really, truly thought they'd do a little better once they started fucking.

It made sense, though. All that energy. If they burned it off fucking at night, then surely...

Surely they'd be a calmer, more functional unit -- and it *kills* him that he'd actually managed
to think that with a straight face, because he sure as hell can't get through the thought
*now* without laughing.

"Ray."

Very pissy, but not loud. Had to be the third 'Ray,' maybe the fourth.

"*Ray*."

Louder, and Ray taps his fingers to the beat of the random incomprehensible salsa coming
from the radio. He probably shouldn't enjoy himself this much.

"Are you listening to me? *Ray*!"

Don't smile, don't smile, wait for it...

"Ray --"

"*What*?" Just in time for the red light, and Ray swivels his head in that slow, sliding, bratty
way that he *knows* makes Fraser --

Get just a little pink. "You weren't listening to a word I was saying," Fraser says, with a
strange sort of triumph.

Ray smiles his wettest, nastiest smile. "What are you gonna do about it, Benton?"

Fraser's lip curls in that way it does, and Fraser's eyes glitter in that way *they* do, and
all of it outshines even that perfect row of perfectly gleaming buttons. It's a look Ray
knows well, the way his body knows the lowering of barometric pressure and the smell
of ozone.

Oh yeah. It's that kind of day. And if he's reading *this* weather correctly, there'll be
split-lips and dick sucking by... five-thirty.

Six, if Fraser gets verbose.

Ray kinda hopes Fraser gets verbose.

He suspects that's what makes it love.

At the green, Ray leaves a trail of rubber and *feels* Fraser tighten up at the waste of
it. He grins, hard and real, at the thought of loosening him up all over again.

Yeah, it's love.

End.