Notes: Since the first time I ever saw "Bird in the Hand," I've had this pairing dancing around in my head. The loopy phone call from "Burning Down the House" only made the dancing more insistent. "Asylum" pretty much made it constant. I had to see what was there.

Disclaimers, et al.: Alliance owns them. Alliance is very, very lucky. If they were mine, I'd make them do it while wearing their boots. Rated NC-17 for boy-on-boy interaction and an occasional bad word. If neither are your cup of bark tea, you should go curling instead. There are mild spoilers for "Bird in the Hand" here. Chronologically, this takes place a short time after the events of that episode.

Summary: Fraser and Turnbull get to know each other.

Thanks to Audra and Kasha for beta work, general encouragement, and for indulging my fascination with things dressed in red serge.

==

"Honestly"

by LaT

He made me laugh.

It is the simple, uncomplicated explanation for why we are here, backed up against the door of his apartment, his hands in the small of my back, mine clamped on either side of his neck. I stroke the spot just beneath each ear with my thumbs, twitch slightly as I feel him move in closer to me.

He is taller than I am, bigger, probably even stronger, and it is sweetness and comfort to know that he could fold me into him if he chose to do so. It was never my intent for this to become ... seduction, and yet, and yet, now, given his warmth in this way, I find I cannot and do not want to refuse it.

The fingers kneading my back through the fabric of my tunic slip beneath it, tug at my undershirt, brush across the flesh of my belly, and I feel myself sigh into his mouth. A chuckle, delicate and light, but very real, vibrates against my lips, my teeth, my tongue. He is amused by my arousal, and despite the heightening of that arousal, his amusement at it irritates me.

Does he not recognize the seriousness of what is happening? That this mutation of our relationship is inappropriate? Ill-advised? He must know. He *has* to know. But the fingers on my stomach continue their lazy, disorienting circles, the tongue in my mouth its lazy stroking, and I realize that the knowledge of our foolishness isn't stopping me. Why should I expect it to stop him?

My fingers are in his hair now and immediately, I register and memorize the feel and texture of it. We continue kissing and he tastes of mint, cream, and something else I can't name but that I understand will forever distinguish him from anyone else. I could be blindfolded and still know the taste of his kiss.

I just wanted to thank him. The petty, selfish, and cruel part of me that I keep so well-hidden wanted to express my gratitude. Gratitude for the misery, however small it might have been, that he inflicted on Gerrard merely by following my orders. His unswerving adherence to those orders infuriated Gerrard. I could read it in the man's face when Ray and I came to retrieve him. Irritation. Anger. Traces of humiliation, pure and wonderful to see.

Turnbull simply said, "I didn't let him out, Sir." I was prepared to accept the guilelessness with which the statement was offered at face value. But something quick and bright flashed in those limpid eyes, something sharp-edged and almost ... mean. I blinked and it was gone, but somehow, it was enough to tell me what I needed to know. To tell me that his seeming vacuousness was a kind of cunning all its own, effective and ruthless. One that I appreciate, and, more significantly, one that I understand.

A thigh made muscular and fit from riding wedges itself between my legs. I rock against it, against him, and I am rewarded for my wanton behavior with kisses to my closed eyes, the bridge of my nose, along the line of my jaw.

It surprises me how easily, how *readily* I respond to him. It feels as though my skin, even that which is protected by my uniform, burns wherever his body touches mine.

This should stop.

I should stop this.

But I *want* this closeness, to touch and be touched like this again. Turnbull obliges me, indulges me in this, as I suspect he will in most things. In everything.

When I asked him to dinner, he gave me a smile of such unmitigated warmth it felt as though I was standing in the sun. No one smiles at me that way. Not the women whose attention I attract through no real effort. Certainly not my father, whose idea of affection, encouragement and counsel is to misquote the RCMP motto. Not even Ray, whose friendship for me plumbs depths I neither expected nor deserve.

Turnbull's delight at the prospect of spending time with me is singular. Unique. Amazingly, it does not ebb. He doesn't seem to ... tire of me, as others have. As others do.

He takes his tongue out of my mouth and I grieve its loss instantly. I console myself by tasting the column of his neck, shudder to realize his tongue is tracing the shell of my ear. Someone ... whimpers, and the likelihood of it being me prompts me to whisper into his throat,

"Do you have a bed?"

The chuckle in my ear is almost musical. "Of course."

"Might I suggest we repair there?"

By way of answer he lifts me straight off the floor and I do the only thing I can - wrap my legs around him as he carries me to his bedroom. To his bed. I know it won't distract him - much - if I lick the line of his cheekbone, so I do.

The principal advantage of making love to another member of the RCMP is that removal of the uniform is swiftly accomplished. Turnbull naked is even more impressive than Turnbull fully dressed. His skin is as pale and smooth as mine, and he is powerfully built. I feel it as he covers my body with his own, rubbing our erections together before starting another volley of hungry kisses.

I think I will love his mouth. He uses all of it when he kisses, tongue seeking and claiming, teeth nipping and catching, scraping. He holds my tongue between his teeth as he sucks it and the tension in that heady pressure brings my cock to full attention. I squirm beneath him, increasing the friction between us and it earns a groan into my mouth. He lets go of me long enough to ask,

"What do you want?"

It is a compliment that he expects me to be able to think, but I don't wish to do so. "We'll figure it out," I say, before leaning up for another taste of that mouth.

He laughs at that, sweet and incongruously innocent. "I *knew* I was right to like you." And he evades my mouth by angling his head and fastening onto my neck. I sink my teeth into his shoulder and suck, hard enough to ensure that the studs which hold his epaulette in place rest on a bruise when he gets dressed in the morning.

He moans against my skin and I respond in kind around the mouthful of flesh I massage with the tip of my tongue. He lets go first and begins sliding down my body, stopping at the hollow of my throat, pressing his mouth into the indentation there so that I feel it when I swallow. I slip my hands into his hair, curl my fingers around his skull, push his face in even closer.

One of his hands is between us, on my chest, rubbing and pinching my right nipple, thumb stroking the pebbled nub over and over. I buck my hips off the bed, feel him smile at my throat, and then he moves lower, takes the other nipple in his mouth, strokes his tongue over it in time with the movement of his thumb.

My moans are loud and wild, shameless, and I could not care less. I drag the sole of my foot the length of Turnbull's calf, tap the thigh of my other leg against his flank. Everywhere he is touching me feels wonderful, everywhere he isn't, bereft. He moves to suck my right nipple while his thumb caresses the left, and I swear, they are so sensitive I could probably come from this stimulation alone if he continues.

His hair beneath my fingers is like warm silk as I knead his scalp. I'm still moaning, and I roll my hips as much as I can to signal my pleasure at his touch. It's not meant as a cue for him to do anything specific, but he takes it as such. He lets go of the flesh between his teeth and looks at me.

"Patience, Constable. I'm on my way." Each word is wrapped in laughter. He moves lower, alternating between tongue and teeth on the skin of my chest, stomach, hips, thighs. I force myself not to guide him. I'm well aware of how single-minded he can be.

He is at my cock, eyes flickering up at me to be sure, and all I can do is nod. Wet heat, slick glide, and he takes me in slowly, dragging his tongue over the tip, cleaning away the moisture there. He closes his eyes briefly as he swallows and it ... pleases me ... to think he likes my taste. He decides, apparently, that there has been enough play and slides down to the base, pulls back up and off, looks at me again, a smile quirking his mouth. He goes back down before I can respond.

He takes me in so deeply that I can't help but admire the control he has over his gag reflex. His tongue strokes me while he sucks, and I buck into the hot wetness of his mouth in counterpoint to his descents.

Turnbull grabs my hips to hold me still, so I use my hands, still clamped on his head, to guide the rhythm. He chuckles around me and stops. Looks at me while I'm still in his mouth and I ease my grip. The smile I get in return makes me laugh. I close my eyes and give myself over to the lush, moist pump and slide.

I have no idea how long it lasts; I only know that it's so good I feel it *everywhere* -- in the soles of my feet, at the base of my spine, in the tips of my fingers. When I jerk against him this time, Turnbull lets me, and I come. Hard. Fast. He takes everything I have to give, and my head keeps spinning even after I open my eyes.

He moves up my body slowly, much more gently than he moved down. I wonder, briefly, absurdly, if he thinks he'll break me if he's not careful. I start to tell him that he won't, but ... he's going to have plenty of time and opportunity to figure that out on his own.

He settles beside me and I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are bright, his cheeks a pale but radiant pink, and in this moment, he is more alive than anyone I have ever known. He places his hand on my cheek, drags his thumb across my lower lip. I catch the tip between my teeth, stroke it with my tongue, and he slides it inside.

I feel his cock against my hip, still hard and warm fluid still leaking from the tip. Something needs to be done about that. After one last sucking stroke of his thumb, I push Turnbull onto his back and straddle him. I lean down for another kiss and he opens to me instantly, tongue tangling with mine. I could do this for a while, but there are more pressing concerns. I move down the considerable length of his body with the same deliberation and attention he showed me. After all, I too am a Mountie, and we're nothing if not thorough.

I like the sounds he makes. Halfway between purr and moan, they are as soothing as they are maddening. I taste the hollow of his throat, lick his clavicle from one end to the other before angling for a nipple. The curves of his ribs fit perfectly against my tongue and I stay there for a time before sampling the thrust of his hip. I could taste all of him if he'd let me, but when I move to his stomach he makes a one word request I find I am powerless to refuse.

"Please."

Unable to resist a few more moments of teasing, I pause to examine his cock, deliberately breathe through my mouth against the heated and sensitive skin. He is uncircumcised, pale and thick, and all at once, I am strangely, deeply hungry.

He smells good. Soapy, musky, and something that is just *him*. Inimitable. He tastes even better. Slightly salty, slightly bitter, slightly sweet. His fondness for fruit must account for the last. He's even thicker than he looks and I moan around that fullness. In return, I get thrusting that ensures I'll be hoarse tomorrow. His fingers flex in my hair and in spite of myself, I let him lead me, let him time my movements with, yet opposite to, his.

It's been a long time since I've made love this way. I'd forgotten how much I like this rhythmic stroking of the back of my throat. For some reason, the fact that it's Turnbull reminding me strikes me as a very good thing. The hands on my head tighten to the point of hurting; I think I'll feel the remnants of this pressure the next time I put on my Stetson. A louder version of that beguiling moan-and-purr sounds in the room and he comes, suddenly, with a thrust so hard it brings tears to my eyes. There is so much that I can barely swallow in time to make room for the next mouthful, and despite my best efforts, I can't keep him entirely clean.

I let him soften while still in my mouth, then let go to rest my head on his thigh. His eyes are closed and his lips are parted in such a way it makes me want to slide between them again as soon as I am able. Without opening his eyes, he reaches for me. Hauls - well, it really is the only word to describe the effortless but powerful tug - me up his body so that he can kiss me again. The comprehensive exploration of my mouth suggests he is tasting himself as much as he's tasting me and my cock stirs a little at that thought.

Turnbull shifts us so that I'm on my back, then starts to pull away. I have a feeling he thinks it's important to get clean now, but I'm reluctant to relinquish his warmth at the moment. I tighten the hold I have on him, just barely, but enough. He relaxes instantly, and I smile.

He ducks his head into the curve of my neck for a few seconds, then stretches to map the shape of my ear with his tongue. Suddenly, he lifts his head to look at me. His warm, clear eyes gleam and his lips twitch into a smile. I think a gale of playfulness is headed my way.

I can hardly wait.

==

Additional notes: The title is a reference to my new favorite song, Dido's "Honestly OK": 'I just want to feel/safe in my own skin/I just want to be happy again/I just want to feel/deep in my own world/but, I'm so lonely I don't even want to be with myself anymore ...'