a due South story
by dirty diana
Beta'd by kimberlyfdr.
Fraser wakes up in my bed, and he wakes up hung-over. At least, I'm pretty sure he's hung-over, but he doesn't mention it, just opens two blue eyes that squint at the harsh morning light and asks, "what time is it?"
I glance at my clock radio, flashing red behind him. "Ten-thirty."
"Ah." Slowly he glances around him, registering the facts of where he is.
I've been sitting in this chair half the night, waiting for Fraser to wake up, dreading this conversation. But now that he's awake, first things first. I get up, go into the kitchen and grab a huge glass of water and two Advil. When I get back, Fraser's still lying where I'd left him, still as a statue and looking pretty confused.
"Here," I say, placing both the glass and the pills on my bedside table, beside the clock radio. "And drink the whole thing, your body needs it."
Fraser shakes his head. "I'm fine."
I knock my chair over, and it clangs against the floor as it falls down, metal on hardwood. Fraser's eyes squeeze shut, in a wince of pain. "Like fuck, you're fine. Drink the water."
Fraser is already drunk when I get to the bar, him and half the precinct. He puts down his glass when I get there, spilling what looked like whiskey on the wooden table, as a happy smile breaks across his. "Ray," he says, in wonder. "We thought perhaps you weren't coming."
"I got held up, Frase," I answer, staring at him, because this is a brand-new sight for me, drunk Fraser. Looking pretty much the same as all the other Frasers, I guess, except for a more relaxed set to his jaw, and blue eyes that are wide and dilated. He looks...well, he looks almost happy, which isn't a Fraser that I see too often. "Come on." I reach for his arm, and Fraser is surprisingly pliant underneath my touch, getting out of his chair with barely a tug. "Let's get you out of here."
"Wait." Fraser says, trying to break away from me. "I think I lost my hat..."
"We'll look for it in the morning," I promise him, as we stumble out of the bar.
"So, Frase," I begin, picking my chair up again and sitting down, "you okay?"
"Yes, I'm okay, Ray." He says it slowly, mimicking my intonation, oh-kay, sounding it out for meaning. "What would be wrong?"
"Well, I don't know. I've just never seen you drunk before. I've never even seen you drink. It seemed kinda weird."
"Ah." Fraser frowns and runs a hand through dark hair. "Well, it wasn't my intention to become inebriated, certainly. But Detective Dewey was so excited to have closed this case, that he insisted on buying me a drink..."
"From what I saw, you definitely had more than one drink."
"Well, I was only going to have the one. But then Detective Huey suggested that I wouldn't be able to..."
"Wait, back up, Frase. You let Huey and Dewey drag you into a drinking contest?" Even as I say it, it's a rhetorical question. Of course he did. Stubborn, competitive bastard. Stubborn, competitive dumb-ass. But it's way better than most of the alternatives I'd spent the long morning coming up with, most of them involving how my best friend was going depressed and suicidal and I'd failed to notice. But my sigh of relief doesn't last long, as Fraser frowns, and sits up in bed.
"Um, Ray...how exactly did I get here?"
Fraser notices when I turn along Columbus and asks, "Where are we going?"
"My place," I answer. Fraser probably doesn't want to stumble down the Consulate corridors in this condition.
"Oh." He nods in satisfaction. "I like your apartment."
"Sure you do," I say, hiding a small smile, because it's not like I don't see his fingers twitching when he's in there, wanting to tidy up. "I figure you can get some rest there. You'll feel much better in the morning."
Fraser frowns, in the genuine confusion that only a drunk can produce. "I feel fine now, Ray. What about you? How are you feeling?"
Me? Oh, I'm fine. This ain't nothing new. I've got drunk Mounties in my car every day of the week. Drunk Mounties, slouched in the front seat, hair mussed like he just rolled out of bed, flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves to show smooth muscled forearms - and I briefly wonder what activity in the bar required rolling up his sleeves - and I take them all home with me. Beautiful, drunk Mounties, staring at me like all their happiness depended on my next answer. "I'm fine, Fraser," I say, as I turn off Columbus.
"You mean you don't remember?" I ask, my heart jumping in chest. I'm not really sure whether I'm happy or sad about that.
Fraser doesn't say anything, just glances at me darkly. It's a look that clearly means, 'if I remembered, would I be asking you?'
"Well, I missed most of the celebrating. By the time I got there, Welsh was gone, and Huey and Dewey were underneath the table, and you were singing..."
Fraser shoots me a look, like he suspects that I'm making this up. I'm wishing that I was. "Singing?"
"Yeah, Frase. Singing. Entertaining the whole bar. Some real sad song about a fisherman's daughter and her one true love..."
"The Ballad of Mary O'Hara?" Fraser groans, and I think he's blushing just a bit. "Did I sing the whole thing?"
"Well, I'm not really sure. I dragged you out of there around verse fifteen. Her true love was just going off to the war."
In a quick, jerky movement, Fraser drops the aspirin on his tongue and lifts the glass. I watch as he swallows a mouthful of water.
Fraser needs help getting up the stairs, and we move pretty slowly slow underneath his uncertain weight. I'm trying hard to notice how warm he is, trying hard not to smell him, the honest musky cleanness of him.
He's singing into my ear as we stumble into the bedroom. "Mary, oh Mary, won't you be mine..." The heat of each word is hot against my skin.
"My name's not Mary, Frase." I say it quietly, as a joke, not really expecting him to hear.
"Well, no." Fraser answers. "Your name is Ray. It's quite a lovely name. Ray. Ray..."
He's repeating my name breathlessly, from the back of his throat, in a low voice that sends goose-bumps up my arms. I need him to stop. "That's great, Frase. You also know the date? And who's President?"
"Well, yes," he answers, as he sits down on the bed with a thump. "But I don't see what that has to do with..."
"Never mind," I say quickly. I bend down to pull off his boots. I'm working on the left laces when I realise that Fraser is staring at me, staring intently, as if he's never seen me before. I glance quickly down again, but not before the memory of that is imprinted on my brain, Fraser's blue eyes swallowing me whole.
He reaches out, and tangles a hand in my hair, wrapping my blond brush gently around his fingers.
"Something the matter, Frase?" I ask him, still not daring to look up. "You feel okay?"
"I feel fine," Fraser answers surely, and - oh, God - he's stroking my hair now, his fingers tracing their own pattern, sliding down to caress the tips of my ears.
"You sure? You don't need to throw up or anything?"
"I'm fine, Ray," Fraser repeats, like now he's annoyed at the question.
I chuck his boots into the corner and stand up, forcing him to let go of my hair. Except that Fraser isn't ready to let go, and he grabs hold of the back of my head, pulling me towards him. And my reflexes aren't that great at two am, that's what I'll tell myself in the morning, because I haven't even started to pull away when Fraser's warm, wet mouth meets mine.
"So I never found out how it ends," I add. "Did the guy come back and marry her, or what?"
"You don't have to find this quite so amusing, Ray."
I shift in my chair, cause he's right, it's not funny at all. "You really don't remember anything?"
"No, I..." his voice trails off softly, and now I'm sure that he's blushing, red on his neck and the tips of his ears. "Is there anything that I should remember? I mean, I would hope that my behaviour wasn't too uncouth..."
Silence, in which I take a deep breath, cause this is it, turn black the clock time. And I can do it. I can be stronger than I was last night. "Nah, it wasn't, Frase. You were full of couth. You were overflowing with couth."
Fraser's sigh of relief is audible in my tiny bedroom. "Oh, good. I hope I didn't cause you too much trouble. It was very kind of you to..."
"Fraser," I say, cutting him off because I'm not feeling very kind, not right now, "drink the water."
"Fraser," I'm trying to pull away, "we can't."
"But you want to," Fraser whispers in confusion, and my mind's doing a hundred miles an hour, wondering how the fuck he knows that, and whether Sober Fraser knows it too.
"Yeah, I do," I admit, too flustered to lie. "But I don't think that you want to."
"Oh," Fraser answers, relieved, as if that's an easy enough problem to get around, "I do. I want you very much, Ray."
He says it in a hushed whisper, voice low and loaded with sex, and just the sound of it, him telling me that - hell, just the idea of it - is making me hard. "Nah, that's the just whiskey talking. I can't let you do something that you'll regret in the morning. It wouldn't be..." I pause, searching for words that I know Fraser will understand. "It wouldn't be very honourable of me."
Fraser nods, like he does understand, but then he shakes his head. "Being honourable gets very tiring."
Jesus, tell me about it, I think, my cock aching inside my jeans. Fraser reaches out, fingers gently stroking my arm, and I don't make a move to stop him.
"And lonely," he adds, as an afterthought. "I want to fuck you, Ray." And his tongue darts out, as if he's tasting the word on his lips.
I stand up, suddenly, trying to pretend that I'm still a little in control. "Fraser," I say, searching for my take-charge tone, "lie down. You're going to sleep. I'm going to go out into the living room and sleep on the couch. In the morning you'll wake up with a splitting headache and another long story to tell, and you'll be glad that you didn't..."
Fraser's arms reach out and pull me towards him, down on the bed. He pulls me on top of him, and his hands are everywhere, all over me, and I'm feeling like I can't breathe.
"No," I say gently, and even I can hear the yes in that, as Fraser's fingers slide underneath my shirt, touching hot bare skin. And he's kissing me, kissing me hard, his tongue deep in my mouth. Then both his hands move down to my grasp my ass, and pull me close, and I know he can feel me, all of me, can feel how hard I am. "Fraser," I whisper, my brain still continuing the argument that my body has given up.
Fraser moans into my mouth, hands on my skin, hips and thighs and cock pushed hard against mine, rubbing against me with the barest of thrusts, and suddenly I groan and come, right there inside his arms.
"Mmmmn." Fraser whispers, eyes meeting mine as he strokes my hair. "Don't you feel better?"
I don't trust myself to speak.
"Ray." The sound of his voice reminds me of the pressure of his hard-on, against my thigh. "Ray, may I..."
I'm struggling to make a decision, my body still trembling, warm with the heat of wanting to touch him. Wet inside my pants, knowing that I'm long past just saying no. I can't think of anything else, except to make a compromise, one that Fraser will maybe only hate me for a little bit. Instead of a lot.
I reach for the front of his jean and pull the zipper down. "Shhh," I whisper, as my fingers release his cock, smooth and hard in my hand. Stroking the tip with my fingers, feeling the wetness, working a slow and gentle rhythm. Fraser closes his eyes in satisfaction. I'm watching him, I can't take my eyes off him, watching him lick his lips as the tension builds inside him, until his mouth falls open and he lets out a groan, as he comes wet in my hand.
As his body relaxes, his mouth reaches up to kiss me. I stop him, turning my head away. "You gotta promise me you'll go to sleep now, Fraser."
"Will you stay?"
I sigh, and roll over in bed, just out of his reach. "Yeah, I'll stay. But you gotta promise me that you'll go to sleep."
"Then I promise," Fraser whispers, and closes his eyes.