TITLE: What a Guy Knows
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
RATING: NC-17
POSTED: April 21, 2005
SUMMARY: Sometimes Ray thinks Fraser might even have a list.
NOTES: This was supposed to be for the DS Flashfiction challenge on Fraser exploring his sexual boundaries. It didn't get the whole "deadline" part of that challenge. Anyways, thanks muchly to Starfish for the beta.
DISCLAIMER: Read

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A week after they get back from his shining moment in the boonies, Ray takes a header down two flights of really fucking hard marble stairs thanks to a guy who doesn't feel like taking his turn in front of a judge that day. And when Ray comes to, for the second time ever a guy's mouth is sealed over his and he's not minding one bit.

At least it's the same guy, Ray thinks after he gets his eyes to open, so he doesn't have to worry that you do it once and you've got a reputation.

Because it seems like the thing to do, Ray tries to say "Huh?" With Fraser's mouth in the way, it doesn't come out sounding much like that, but Fraser jumps up and wow, takes less than ten words to explain that that wasn't buddy breathing, it was CPR.

Right then, with half of Cook County taking in the show and Stella somewhere in the building and his eyes still wanting to cross, Ray rolls with it. But later on the way back to the station -- not the hospital; his head is harder than those damn stairs, thank you, and if he needs a hospital, why's he driving? -- Ray points out that he had to take the classes, too, and okay, he's forgotten everything but A-B-C, which really should stand for "tilt, blow, try not to break any ribs and get the city sued," but how come he can already tell he's going to be bright black and blue tomorrow almost everywhere except his chest?

Fraser gets real quiet, and The Hat starts inching around in a circle on his lap. Ray gets real tense, and he hisses when one of those bruises on his left side decides to kick in. The light turns. They're through the intersection way faster than even Ray expected, so he eases up a little on the pedal and they go three blocks with no answer. Four blocks.

Fraser peeks over when they hit the next red, and Ray snaps.

"It wasn't that hard a question, Fraser!"

"No, it wasn't."

More silence. A couple of blocks later, they pull even with a guy who had to have snatched that purse tucked under his arm; not that Ray's being judgemental, just that purple flowers don't look like this guy's kind of thing. Fraser doesn't jump out of their moving car, though. He doesn't even blink. And that's fucked up enough that Ray comes to a full and complete stop at a stop sign and sighs.

"So?"

Fraser twists around abruptly. "I was wondering, Ray, given your...observation..." He takes a deep breath and starts again. "You made a valid point, although it isn't necessary to cause bruising when properly administering chest compressions, but it made me think that possibly..."

It's almost a full minute before Fraser stumbles through essentially asking whether it would be okay if they pressed lips without there being some pressing medical need as a handy excuse.

About fifteen minutes later, Ray backs the car back out of the alley that he's passed nearly every day since joining the 2-7 without ever once guessing that he'd be thinking fondly about it.

Even concentrating more than he has in years on driving, Ray's very aware that they're both a little out of breath; he has a brand new appreciation for Fraser's tongue and Fraser can't stop looking at his mouth; before they rescue Turnbull from Dief, Fraser's going to have to turn around and grab The Hat off the back seat; and the World of Ray is rearranging around the fact that kissing? It's no different. Lips, teeth, tongue, spit. Those are the basics and everyone's got them. Girl lips or boy lips doesn't seem to matter. Greatness, all around.

Maybe not all around, though. There have been other lips in his life, sure, but he's not thinking of them now. It's the Stella lips versus Fraser lips that make a difference in this situation, and that's mostly in his head, Ray figures out the next time they're at it. It's like the thing deep inside that tells you your mom's pumpkin pie last Thanksgiving was better than the one this year. They're both great, better than anything you're going to find wandering around, and they've both got the same ingredients, there's just a difference. And that thing inside you knows. Something about the spices.

"Spices?" Fraser breathlessly asks Ray's ear, and Ray pushes off from the cold car and warm Fraser, falling back two steps, knowing it doesn't do any good to look down at the pavement searching for a penny that he can use to wish that he did not just say that out loud.

"Yeah, spices," he growls when he can't even spot a mangled bottle cap.

Fraser clears his throat, and his eyebrows are climbing when Ray whips his head up. Ray immediately bares his teeth -- daring Fraser to ask again, and double daring him to say, "Ah" -- and stomps around to yank the driver's door open before anything more stupid falls out of his mouth when it isn't making friendly with Fraser's on the side of some road out by the racetrack.

It's been almost five days since the alley, and Ray hasn't been thinking about that all the time. He definitely hasn't been thinking about the way Fraser didn't just walk away from an incredibly stupid argument about the right to chew gum two days ago, but looked Ray dead in the eye, said, "You're not the only one who's never done this before," and then walked away. He's especially not been thinking about it this afternoon as they were chasing the fastest guy with one leg while avoiding Welsh and his teeth with holes where holes should never be. No, when the uniforms took off with Mister Lefty, Ray was more interested in getting into Fraser's face with a very loud explanation of how jumping in front of an eighteen-wheeler with no driver is not in any way okay. Then Fraser leaned in and snapped back that maybe Ray would've liked to have been left lying on his back in the path of that truck and, just like that, they were doing something that was a hell of a lot more than swapping spit.

And that, it turns out Ray's body and brain finally agree on the way back into the city, is okay.

Kissing's serious, Ray decides when he's tip-toeing past Welsh's office and Fraser's filling out quadruplicate copies of nine-slash-whatever back at the Consulate. Kissing means you want more than just the body you've been sucking back drool over for longer than you're going to admit, even under oath. But it's not, like, serious, he tells himself when he reaches his desk without setting off any bellowing about an impounded truck full of Canadian ducks or geese or...some kind of not dead and very loud bird that isn't chicken and isn't his problem any more.

That night Ray comes in his jeans, surprised, pushed out of his mind when Fraser shoves him against the short wall inside his front door. There's no water making him wish he was a fish, no fear that anyone walking by will see and point and yell or scream -- just them, Ray's apartment, a surprised yip from Dief, and then it's all mouth bruising lips and hands bruising wrists, and he's gone. Blind. He knows nothing but Fraser growling, fucking growling, and staying right with him when Ray's just suddenly on the floor, a damn near-whimpering mess.

Maybe that's kind of serious, Ray thinks when he thinks he has a brain again and he notices even through the serge that he wasn't the only one who went up faster than a goddamned sparkler. Before he can find his feet and figure out what's next, though, Dief's running down the stairs and Fraser's walking out the door with a million and a half apologies for having to do something official-sounding before dawn. Since those apologies come through a satisfied smile that won't quit, Ray doesn't bother freaking.

That was good, he thinks, and pushes himself up, keeping one hand against the wall as he heads toward the bathroom.

Real good, he agrees when he sees a smile on his own mouth in the mirror, and he presses two fingers against his swollen lower lip.

Real damn good for two guys who'd never done the boy lips thing before, he decides, staring up at the growing crack in the ceiling above his bed, his thumb brushing the pulse under the chain on his right wrist.

It's still good the next few days, and not just because all Ray has to do now to get Fraser to shut up is make the right kind of eye contact and lick his lips. Even just a little flick of tongue'll do it. It's hot as hell watching Fraser react when you know what to look for.

The blushing and fidgeting lasts only until Friday, though. That's when Fraser corners him in the bathroom, crowding Ray back up against the door -- which keeps the door closed, so Ray decides not to crowd back.

"Would you stop doing that?" Fraser asks, teeth clenched, so un-Mountie and annoyed that Ray grins and doesn't resist.

"Stop what?" he asks right back.

Fraser's mouth closes tight on something Ray would pay serious money to hear, but then Fraser...looks at him, and Ray suddenly can't breathe like a normal person. How can he, when all the air in the bathroom is MIA?

A wicked smile curls on Fraser's lips.

"Ahhh."

That sound from Fraser is almost a purr, and it has to be a certified miracle that Ray walks out of that bathroom without falling over his own feet. Because he discovers that afternoon that Fraser not blushing, only looking and promising, is even hotter than hell.

And Fraser loves that Ray likes that. Fraser's big on the speaking looks, and the fact that he can get Ray squirming with that look? They're like a loop, a feedback loop, making tighter and tighter circles until one of them breaks. It's a dangerous kind of fun, so Ray only pulls out the lip-licking for special occasions. And once when Fraser's being a statue, just because.

A hand job, straight up jacking off, well, that's a step more personal, Ray admits a couple days later.

He hadn't thought it would be, and it's a step that Ray sort of figured they'd get to, headed the direction they were headed. But a dick is definitely not out there for everyone to see whenever, so any time you get close with one that's not your own, it's a little like, Hel-lo. It's still not new, though. Ray had his...encounters, late behind the gym after a couple of practices with Mike? Matt? A junior with an "M," anyway, helping out. Guys helped each other out, handle one bat and you can handle another, and Ray hadn't minded a little help while Stella was figuring out that letting her hands go below his waist wasn't going to bring on the Apocalypse, or even her mom. Plus, he'd already had his "this is Wrong, with a capital-W" thoughts; that was where driving Fraser bonkers with the gum had come in. So getting and giving with Fraser is almost easy.

There's obviously the different angle, but any guy who doesn't know what to do with a free hand and no pants needs to get an imagination. Or a VCR. The thing is that there are things guys know, even if they don't know they know. The first time Fraser's hand is on Ray's cock -- first real time; not the quick and quicker in the car after Ray crashed that bike through the window, but stretched out and pressed closer than puppies on the couch after they both fall over during a Cubs-Dodgers game -- Ray has to force his brain into making his mouth make words, not desperate, greedy sounds, because all he can think is "that's Fraser's hand," but fucking hell, Fraser won't stop talking. He keeps asking if this grip is all right or that speed is okay, and Ray finally whacks him on the forehead and gasps out, "Jesus, Fraser...I know how to complain...and I'm not."

It's even more personal, though, when it's Ray's hand on Fraser's dick. Fraser isn't biting his lip to hold everything in; he's letting out a whole lot of "oh"s, and there are some "Ray"s thrown in -- demanded, begged, finally groaned -- and Ray's twitching with how much he wants to kiss Fraser. He wants to devour that mouth, lick and bite until it's wet and raw, and he wants to do that while he's making those sounds come out of it. He wants that more right then than he wants to be alive to see tomorrow. But the last thing he wants is to stop Fraser from saying "Ray" one more time, so he just watches and bites his own lip when Fraser jerks, gasps, comes.

After that, there's almost a week when it's all better than great. Kissing and stroking and rubbing and god, it's like he's turned into Fraser's personal play-toy. It's a great game: Let's See What This Does to Ray!

Sometimes Ray thinks Fraser might even have a list. Monday is watching each other jerk off, which is weird until Ray's brain overloads with the wonder on Fraser's face while he's watching Ray's hand. Thursday starts out with a hand job, but turns into Fraser humping into Ray's hip until he comes and Ray's so turned on that he comes again. It's all cool. Because they're still clicking along during the day, still Vecchio and the Mountie to just about everybody, but Kowalski and Fraser between them and the people who matter, and it's not like he's just lying back -- or squirming, or panting -- and taking it. You add it all up and there was more than fifteen years of making out with Stella, so Ray has plenty of his own ideas to try out on the guy who's also his best friend, his buddy, his partner. He even gets Fraser to loosen up enough on Saturday so Ray can demonstrate how dancing isn't just foreplay. And it's a good thing Fraser's balance works on instincts, not thinking.

But partners don't pull shit like this, Ray nearly shouts out loud Sunday night.

Fraser's down on his knees, even though the nice, soft bed is right over there. He's still dressed, because he'd been determined to off Ray's boots and socks and pants in under two seconds, which isn't usually a problem at all. But his hands are hard on Ray's hips, which means they're not what's reaching for Ray's dick, and Ray's about to say...what?

No?

Not now?

I can't do that yet, so please don't you do that yet?

He's on pause, but Fraser isn't, and what's flashing through Ray's head doesn't matter for long. It makes no difference if that leap from okay to so-not-okay is making the Hancock look like the Water Tower when, a half-second later, Fraser's doing what Fraser's always done, but this time it's Ray with ComEd's best arcing through him.

Licking ears is wonderful; that's why it's so freaky when the wolf does it. If he thought Dief would understand, Ray would take him aside for a little mano-a-wolfo talk. Because if that fucked up little fact didn't get Dief to stop, Ray was going to start carrying a water gun in his ankle holster.

Licking down arms, to wrists and hands, is beyond great, especially with teeth getting into the act. Fraser surprised him once by sucking sharp and hard, right there on the muscle above the edge of his rattiest t-shirt. Ray had been paranoid about hitting the gym for a few days, but he'd kept having to stop himself from reaching up to feel for it through the cotton.

Licking...ah, god...Fraser licking up, up and around and...and his mouth...sucking Ray's dick? That's a whole new level of New and Different, and it's not something that's just another thing a guy knows.

Ray's had blowjobs before, Christ, yes. Stella could've won medals if she hadn't decided she didn't like doing it about the time that she decided to take the bar. If they gave out medals in giving head, that would've helped, too. But through the loud rush of his blood sweeping out of his brain, and the dull thud of his skull against the wall, Ray has something else familiar to hang onto -- it's fear, raw in his throat, worse than looking down the very wrong end of a gun.

How can Fraser do this? How am I going to do this?

Fraser hums, sings, oh fuck, who cares? He makes some kind of happy-sounding noise down there, and Ray's hips thrust forward against the sweet pressure of Fraser's grip, not needing any order to tell them to get closer to that super-keen vibration. "More" is a good word, a great word.

A harsh sound breaks through his buzz. Fraser coughs, pulling off and away, and Ray jerks his head up from the wall at the sudden chill that runs right up into his brain.

Fraser can't. If Fraser can't, then--

The relief -- shame, you idiot, admit it -- lasts until Ray looks down and gets stuck on the flush on Fraser's face. That's not shame, and it's not a new flush, he realizes. He's seen that heat before. Hell, he's fought an idiot grin in the middle of the pasta and rice aisle, thinking about causing that look.

Ray's hands clench, the wall a hard reminder of the here and now against his knuckles, before he reaches down to touch. He has to touch.

But then Fraser looks up, his eyes determined and hotter than his mouth had been, and smiles. And when Fraser shifts forward again, not looking away from Ray's eyes for even a blink, that's all anyone's writing that Ray cares about while he's coming fast and hard, and holding on even harder.

He'll follow, he thinks on his way down. He'll leap after Fraser, and maybe next time he'll leap first. How hard can it be?

"Just give...give me a minute, okay?"

He's on the floor again, he can feel it. They need to stop doing that, or someone's going to get permanently hurt. But Fraser is pressed hard against Ray's side, his shirt soft against Ray's bare hip, so there is goodness down there on the hardwood.

"Of course," Fraser says, his voice only a little hoarse, and Ray's just not going to think about that right now.

Ray stops thinking altogether, maybe for the first time in a long time, when Fraser rubs their lips together, back and forth and warmer. Then, hot, quick, Fraser sweeps in for a kiss that Ray struggles out of his numbness to return. And his brain is blurry enough with that new taste of him-over-Fraser that it takes until he hears "...eleven...twelve..." for him to snort out a laugh and completely fail at punching Fraser in the arm.

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