Hit Me    The Due South Fiction Archive Entry     Home

 Quicksearch
 Search Engine
 Random Story

 Upload Story

      	  Hit Me 
 by estrella  

 Author's Notes: Thanks to Rhyo and Brooklinegirl for beta!

 Story Notes: Post MoTB but pre-Cotw. No real spoilers.

 

 Static crackled from the transmitter in his ear and Ray grunted, cupping
a hand against his head to block out the bored voices in the van around
him. He needed to hear what the hell was going on. He could make out
Fraser's voice on the other end but just barely, and this was too
important a job to get screwed up just because Ray couldn't goddamn hear
his partner.

 "Dewey! Christ! Can you shut the fuck up already?" There was barely
enough room in the back of the van for Ray to stand, but he pulled himself
up as tall as he could and made his way to where Dewey was sitting next to
the monitors. Fumbling for his glasses, Ray jammed them on and squinted at
the grainy black and white images on the two screens. One camera was set
to tape the bar area, and Ray watched as the bartender idly washed and
dried glasses, his eyes flicking back and forth to the entrance of the
club. The other camera was aimed directly where Fraser was supposed to be,
and now Ray could definitely see him standing there, deep in conversation
with Vito Ragone. Ray took a step closer to try and get a better look, and
frowned when Dewey shifted so he was blocking both monitors. Jerkoff.

 Dewey smirked. "What's the matter, Ray? Worried about your Mountie?"

 "I swear to Christ, one more smartass crack outta you and I'm gonna pop
you one," Ray threatened, already blissfully imagining the feel of Dewey's
nose crushing against his fist. 

 "All right, Detectives," Welsh drawled from his corner of the van. "While
I do appreciate the entertainment factor of this little production, I
think we'd all just better concentrate on the job at hand."

 Ray narrowed his eyes in Dewey's direction one last time before backing
up and wedging himself into his seat. He ran a hand over his hair, making
sure not to knock out his earphone and sat back down. Welsh was right.
Fraser had been doing good undercover, real good, but the word on the
street was that something was going down tonight. Something big. Way
bigger than penny-ante bar bets on Glue Stick or whatever the name of the
favored horse was in the races tonight. Big to the tune of major drug
running and illegal firearms big.

 Stay alert, Kowalski, he reminded himself. Wait for it, wait for Fraser
to say the line. Then he would be able to head in and talk to Fraser, find
out what the fuck was really going on. All Fraser had to do was say the
line. Say the fucking line, Fraser.

 Fraser had done some damn good work, getting in there undercover, and
while he never placed any bets himself he was pretty popular with the pony
players at the station for his picks. Fraser, as it happened, was a hell
of a pick when it came to the ponies.

 The earphone crackled again, and Ray flapped a hand in the air trying to
get everyone to shut the hell up. Fraser's voice was tinny over the
earpiece, but Ray could make him out just fine.

 "Lieu," Ray whipped his head around toward Welsh, "he's started the
baseball talk."

 Ray blocked out the commotion going on right next to him and concentrated
instead on Fraser's cool, smooth voice. Out of the corner of his eye he
could see Dewey and Sanchez, pulling on bulletproof vests and adjusting
holsters. Ray absentmindedly touched his own gun, secure in an
ankle-holster, and rubbed a thumb over his chest, feeling the rigid Kevlar
vest under his shirt. He was dressed and ready for the show.

 "All right. You wait for Vecchio to let us know when the Constable is
ready and then you head in real quiet," Welsh was instructing, the van
feeling tight and crowded as everyone was standing, waiting for the word
from Ray. "Everyone know what entrance they're using?" Ray could hear
quiet voices all assuring Welsh that yeah, they knew where they were
going. "Good." Ray flicked his eyes toward Welsh and saw him checking his
own piece. "No screwups, gentlemen. I want this bastard."

 Ray pressed the earphone harder into his ear. Fraser was still yukking it
up about the upcoming baseball season. The Cubs, the Series. But he wasn't
saying the Goddamned line. "Come on, Frase," Ray muttered. "Say the
fucking line..."

 And then, bam! As if he heard him, Fraser said, "But really, Vito, one
would think the Yankess wouldn't be quite so smug this off-season, seeing
as how they still have quite a few pitching issues to address. In fact..."

 Ray jumped from his seat, ripped the earphone out and tossed it to the
floor. "We got it! He's ready. Let's go."

 ` ` ` ` ` 

 Fraser stood toward the back of the room, calmly discussing the upcoming
baseball season with Vito Ragone, Mr. Valente's right hand man. For a
moment, at the beginning of the night, he'd actually worried that bringing
up a baseball discussion in the middle of the horse races would prove
difficult, but Ray certainly knew his fellow Chicagoans, and talk of
baseball, particularly of the anti-Yankee variety, seemed to always be in
season.

 Fraser continued his talk with Mr. Ragone, but his attention was focused
on Dewey, who was nonchalantly making his entrance from the north side of
the club. Dewey was followed closely by Sanchez. Fraser knew Lieutenant
Welsh and a third detective would be posted just outside the back entrance
near the alley. And any minute now...yes, there he was. Ray walked in the
door closest to where Fraser was standing. 

 With his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, Ray walked right past
Fraser and headed directly to the bar. The next time Mr. Ragone paused,
Fraser politely excused himself, and shook Vito's hand firmly as the man
promised him good seats to the Cubs opening day game if Fraser had the
same sort of luck in baseball as he did in the races. "Yes, well, we'll
certainly see when the season starts," Fraser promised him, and, with a
smile, turned and headed toward the bar.

 Leaving about a foot of space between them, Fraser eyed Ray's drink
(Scotch, most likely) and ordered himself a club soda with lime. The
bartender nodded and walked away to fix Fraser's drink.

 Fraser kept his eyes focused firmly in front of him as he began to speak.
"In the east corner of the room there's a door which opens up into a
hallway," he said quietly. "At the end of the hallway is an office.
Fifteen minutes ago, three men, one approximately six feet two inches tall
and the two others an inch taller, came into the club and were escorted,
with their bags, through that door and into the office to join Mr.
Valente."

 Fraser thanked the bartender for his drink, and waited until he moved
away to help another customer before turning toward Ray. "We need to get
past the guards flanking the doorway and into that office before Mr.
Valente realizes we're on our way or we'll never catch him with the
illegal goods."

 Ray nodded slightly and lifted his drink, downing it in one long swallow.
"Any idea what's in the bag?"

 "Yes."

 "And we have a reason to be going back there?"

 Fraser felt a smile threaten. "Oh, absolutely, Ray."

 "All right, then," In one smooth motion Ray slid his empty glass across
the gleaming mahogany right into Fraser's waiting hand. "What's your plan,
Frase?"

 "It's quite simple, actually." Fraser flicked a thumb across his eyebrow.
Simple or not, Ray was not going to like this, but really, there was no
way around it. "We need to create a diversion to detract the guards away
from the door and allow Dewey and Sanchez to gain entrance."

 He could see Ray nodding his head from the corner of his eye. "Yeah,
okay. I see that. So, what do we do?"

 Fraser pushed back from the bar and turned toward Ray, looking him dead
in the eye. "Hit me."

 Ray blinked. "What?"

 "That's what we do. You hit me."

 Ray stared at him a minute, then started shaking his head. "Oh, no way.
No freaking way, no freaking how. I'm not hitting you, Frase," Ray hissed.

 "Now, listen to me, Ray, it makes sense. We need to create a diversion,
such as an altercation ---"

 "This has got to be the stupidest fucking thing I've ever---"

 Ah, good. Ray was angry. In another second he'd start raising his voice
and they'd be exactly where Fraser needed them to be. Fraser cleared his
throat. "And I assure you, sir, I would never have suggested you take
Shiver Me Timbers in the race tonight."

 Ray quickly shook his head. "What? What the hell are you---"

 "No, while I do understand your frustration---"

 "My frustration? My frustration is that you're fucking unhinged!" Ray
practically shouted. 

 "I will have to insist that I advised you to take Good for the Soul
tonight. No, no, sir. Threats of violence really aren't necessary."

 "Violence?!" Fraser was actually starting to worry. Ray's face was
turning an alarming shade of red. "I'll show you fucking violence!"

 "Yes! That's exactly it, Ray!" Fraser urged quietly. "It's working." And
indeed it was. The guards were stirring, Dewey and Sanchez picked up on
the plan from the mic Fraser was still wearing and were already inching
their way to the door. "Just do it. Hit me. Just once. For God's sake,
Ray, I'm telling you to!"

 And it was so quick, a split second really, but Ray blinked and shook his
head again, and almost by instinct raised his hand in a fist. "Shit,
Frase..."

 "Enough, Ray. Hit me!" 

 And, with that, Ray drew his arm back and swung hard. He couldn't really
do it, though, and at the last second tried to pull the punch, but Fraser
read him and smoothly moved into the arc of the swing.

 ` ` ` ` ` ` `

 The sun was just starting to peek through the clouds, the streets looking
grey and hazy in the early morning light. Pulling out of the parking lot
of the precinct, Ray rolled down the window and sucked in a deep lungful
of cool air. 

 Fraser shifted in the passenger seat, his leather jacket squeaking
against the vinyl in the car, and Ray gripped the steering wheel even
tighter between his hands. 

 "Ray, I---"

 "Not now, Fraser." Ray held one hand up, warding off any further
conversation. "I am driving now, not talking. We get back to my apartment,
then we talk."

 Fraser didn't answer but Ray could hear him sigh softly and twist again
in his seat to look out the windshield. 

 The ride home was quick, the time of day being too late for the late
night types and too early for the early morning types. Which was fine with
Ray.

 The goddamned Mountie tricked him. Well, okay, not tricked, exactly, but
he...what's the word. Manipulated things and forced Ray to hit him.

 Which really pissed Ray off.

 They made it back without further incident and Fraser meekly followed him
into the apartment, closing the front door behind him with a soft click.
Ray stomped into the kitchen and went straight to the freezer for a bag of
something frozen -- frozen peas? when was the last time he even ate frozen
peas? -- and stomped back to Fraser, who was leaning back against the
front door, watching him warily.

 The left side of Fraser's mouth was already starting to swell, his bottom
lip cut on the corner and puffy. The skin was changing already from an
angry red to a darker, more painful looking purple. Ray thrust the bag of
peas at Fraser, who accepted it and gingerly pressed it to his face. 

 Fraser winced when the icy bag touched his skin and Ray felt his stomach
twist. "Goddammit, Fraser..."

 Fraser lifted his eyes to Ray's. "Ray, stop it. We achieved exactly what
we set out to do. Mr. Valente and his associates are incarcerated, and we
retrieved enough evidence and video and audio tape to keep them under the
watchful eye of the law for a long time to come." Fraser lowered the bag
and quirked his mouth in an unsuccessful smile, wincing slightly as his
lips curved. "You heard Lieutenant Welsh at the station after the raid.
Not a single mistake."

 Ray glared at him. "I hit you. You made me hit you"

 "It was in the name of justice, Ray."

 "No, no, no. That's not it. It's just that..." Ray closed his eyes. Why
was this so hard to say with Fraser standing right there in front of him?
Just something about seeing him standing there, his hair mussed and his
face all bruised was giving Ray all sorts of stress. He scrubbed his hands
over his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was muffled. "I promised
myself I wasn't ever gonna hit you again. Not ever." Sighing, he dropped
his hands and shoved them deep into his pockets. 

 When he looked up again, Fraser was watching him intently with sharp blue
eyes. "You didn't really hit me, Ray, it was more like I hit myself
against your fist."

 "Yeah, I know that. I just..."

 "Just what?" Fraser asked quietly. 

 "I just shouldn't have had a fist to begin with," Ray mumbled. He held
the offending hand up, as if to apologize for it.

 Fraser looked at Ray's hand. "Oh, I don't know about that. I think it was
just," Fraser flicked his tongue out, licking against his bottom lip,
"instinct."

 Ray's eyes were drawn to that tongue. Ray blinked, and then wondered how
he managed to cross the room without even realizing it. He was standing no
more than a foot in front of Fraser. Close enough to watch Fraser's chest
rise and fall with each slow, steady breath. Close enough to smell him.
Close enough to touch.

 His hand was steady as he reached out and brushed the tips of his fingers
across the bruise next to Fraser's mouth. "Instinct, huh?"

 Fraser turned his head slightly, his eyes never leaving Ray's. "Yes,
Ray."

 Just one more step and Ray's body was almost touching Fraser's. He could
feel heat and smell sweat and faint traces of cologne. Fraser's cheek
looked smooth, but Ray could feel the faint prickle of early morning
stubble just under his fingertips. The hair over Fraser's ear was just as
soft as Ray had always imagined it would be. 

 He tried to keep his eyes open as long as possible, because the sight of
Fraser, intent and focused, his lips looking soft and wet, barely two
inches away, was something that you wanted to be sure you saw. Remembered.
Fucking memorized.

 But then Fraser turned his head, just a little tiny bit one way. And
instinct alone had Ray tilting his head, just a scant inch the other way.
And - really, if Ray thought he could keep his eyes wide open while
kissing Benton Fraser, well, he was just sadly fucking mistaken. 

 Benton Fraser was just that good a kisser, bruised mouth and all. While
Fraser kissed him, perps were arrested, scumbags got out on bail, purses
got snatched, and the Yankees desperately bargained for a real pitcher.
None of it mattered.

 Ray pulled his mouth slowly away from Fraser's; his fingers still buried
in Fraser's hair. He took a deep breath, felt his heart skitter in his
chest and smiled, pressing his face against the soft skin of Fraser's
neck. "Wow, Fraser. That was..."

 Fraser grunted a soft reply, and Ray breathed out a sigh of relief as he
felt the arms around his waist tighten their hold. Lips skimmed across his
cheek, and Ray smiled as he felt a puff of breath against his ear. 

 "Ray?" Fraser's voice was soft and thick. 

 Ray smiled, his lips curving into a grin against Fraser's neck. "Yeah,
Frase?"

 "Hit me again."

  
  

End Hit Me by estrella 

Author and story notes above.  

Please post a comment on this story. 
Read posted comments.