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Fraser never slept all that well, if he was honest with himself. Ever since the loss of his mother, he would never let himself fully relax, for fear of waking up and finding the loss of another person he loved. His grandmother and grandfather. His first dog. And though he knew it was irrational, he still slept light even in the years that his father was alive, but out on patrol. There would be months between their visits, but Fraser would still not allow himself to get too comfortable.
Coming to Chicago had changed his habits, though not for the better. The loss of his father caused him discomfort on a whole other level, and it was the haunting of his dreams that kept him from wanting sleep. Though he was closer to his father now, in Bob Fraser's death, than he ever was as a child, Fraser was still haunted by the thought that maybe if he was better, if he was faster, if he could get to be a Staff Sergeant - then Sergeant - then Corporal - that maybe he could have helped capture his father's killer before he was ever able to strike.
That he would be good enough. Someday.
Then he met Ray Kowalski. And though Ray's presence in his life tampered down the dreams somewhat, the old familiar sense of loss of someone close to him came back. Fraser transitioned from restless, disturbed sleep, to watching the stars cross the heavens in the darkness.
It wasn't until that fateful day when both he and Ray had taken a chance - a confession from Ray, a touch from Fraser, and a kiss shared between the two - that had settled something within Fraser's chest. He found a sense of calm that he hadn't known for years. After they had gotten to Ray's apartment that night, stripping each other bare while fingers touched and tongues explored, he laid back on the pillow, Ray's hand fisted in Fraser's Henley, his breath tickling the back of Fraser's neck.
It took Fraser moments to fall asleep that night, and he didn't stir again until morning when sunshine puddled at the foot of the bed, and Ray stretched out lazily at his side.