TITLE: You Takes Your Chances
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
ARCHIVE: Ask, please.
RATING: PG-13
POSTED: Jan. 24, 2005
AUTHOR NOTES: Shrift is to blame (at least partly, often a large part) for many of my multi-fandom tendencies. So it seemed appropriate for the one-day celebration of all things shrift to offer up something in my newest shiny. Something a little smutty, of course.
DISCLAIMER: Read
It isn't like they make a habit out of breaking furniture, Ray figures.
A glass, yeah, everyone breaks a glass or plate here or there; that's why there's Corningware and souvenir cups. And then once there'd been that lamp. Thank god. Ray can't remember where it came from (he'd narrowed it down to "pity freebie" or "Charging While Insane"), but he'd never forget the way Fraser's mouth and eyes had popped open, shock shutting up that stupid apology, when Ray had tackled him into the couch and done his best to say thanks in every official language he had.
They've never broken anything at the Consulate, but that isn't fear of the Thatcher. Nah, it's mostly because it takes a full-fledged Act of God to get Fraser to do more than look like he wants to lick Ray out of his clothes in any room but his office, no matter how hard Ray tries to express just how okay with this he would be. And that office doesn't have a single breakable thing other than the cot that Ray keeps threatening to set on fire. They've dented plenty of boxes on the way down to the floor or up onto the desk, though. Also, one of these days he's going keep his brain out of his dick long enough find out why Fraser keeps tugging or pushing him away from a perfectly good closet door.
There had been a couple of close calls with the coffee table, now that Ray thinks about it. Actually, it'd been more about stuff on the coffee table, like those glasses, and his glasses. Although dropping those hasn't ever been a problem, and wouldn't have been a problem, because even if they had rolled onto them, what was really the chance that one of them would've ended up almost bleeding out all over his rug? And anyway, for once Dief the Pervy Wolf (yes, pervy; it wasn't like he'd heard 'em drop, Ray had pointed out) had come in handy.
Tonight, though...
They had settled in with Chinese, of the take-out variety. The whole point was to collapse, not to cook, Ray had reminded Fraser when the protesting started. Three hours tramping around on and sliding ass-flat into the muddy lake shore looking for some prized blinky tree frog and the idiot student who wandered off with it to keep it from being sent to Brazil for mating, which pretty much proved the "idiot" part, entitled a man to not have to do anything harder than picking up a phone. When even the magical pumpkin pants ended the day covered in splatters, the two of them deserved to spend the night with multiple egg rolls, in Ray's opinion. The shrimp ones.
But it hadn't been Ray's fault that he got that sticky pink sweet sauce all over his fingers (kicking in the head of whichever smartass named it "duck sauce" wouldn't be enough, he's always felt; yeah, he knows it isn't made out of ducks, or made out of something that comes out of ducks, but way to ruin an appetite, buddy). He hadn't been paying attention to the slippery little packet because he'd been watching Fraser doing indecent things to chopsticks. Had to be indecent. No sesames or chicken or anything left on them, Ray had seen that, so there definitely hadn't been any reason for Fraser to still be licking at that one like it was his first candy cane and he just wanted the red stripe. Two plus two came out to something like twelve, there.
And if you were going throw logic into it, then there was absolutely no way that Ray's choked "Jesus, Fraser" could be called a reason for Fraser cocking his head and standing up. Or for him stalking over, slowly, like Ray was an edgy perp about to make a break for the bathroom or someplace else with a good secure lock. Or for wrapping his hand around Ray's wrist, smirking at Ray's open mouth (oh yeah, Fraser smirks with the best of them), and leaning down and closing his mouth over Ray's thumb, just totally skipping over licking to go straight for sucking. Sucking. Ray's fingers. Because after about two seconds, there hadn't been a drop of sauce left on them, not with all that Fraser concentration and thoroughness. And if his voice hadn't gotten sucked straight into Fraser along with that sauce, Ray would've dared any jury to deny that there'd been extra-special circumstances when he just broke there in the kitchen, snapping right out of control when Fraser let the fourth finger slip free with the exact little satisfied hum (not a Canadian "hm," oh no) that usually means Ray's doomed to not come for, like, an eternity. Christ, he deserves a fucking medal for not losing it on the third.
The important thing, though, the thing that trumps every other thing, is that all that means it was actually Fraser's fault that Ray gasped out something that was supposed to be "stop," but maybe came out "ohgod," or hell, it might not have even been a gasp, maybe it was a whimper, okay, fine. But it was totally Fraser's fault that they had ended up on the table in a second, and on the table on the floor in another.
Now, Ray can't stop laughing every time he gets a look at Fraser's face, at the blush, at the way Fraser looks kind of proud there, checking out the pieces.
Screw it, Ray tells him, that table had a long and fulfilling life.
And sure, he agrees as he backs Fraser into the bedroom, a really noble death.
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