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      	  A Good Piece of Cheese 
 by Lady Mondegreen  

 Disclaimer: I own nothing. I just like to look at 'em.

 Author's Notes: Originally written for the Zine 'Body Heat 3.'

 

 A GOOD PIECE OF CHEESE

 Benton Fraser sat at his desk, pen in hand, forms spread out in front of
him, and thought of Ray. He thought of Ray's bright smile, of his long,
strong hands. He thought of Ray's keen instincts and of his shy
confidence. He thought of Ray's intriguing hair and of his charming grasp
of colloquialism. He thought of Ray's slender fingers and expressive
mouth, and of what Ray might do with those fingers and that mouth.
Specifically, what he might do to, and with, Fraser.

 He wasn't being very productive. He decided he really didn't care.

 It had all started with that dratted e-mail. Inspector Thatcher had
become quite adamant about bringing the Consulate into the 21st century.
She had given him and Turnbull a lecture about keeping up with the times,
and about increased productivity and enhanced communication, and how they
were going to embrace technology if it killed them. She had carefully
avoided looking at Turnbull when she'd made that last point, fearing
(rightly, it was sad to say) that mixing the hapless young Constable with
anything more technologically advanced than a crayon was taking one's life
into one's hands.

 Fraser had smiled and nodded and had agreed with the Inspector's plans,
all the while thinking that Thatcher's new technological hobby-horse
probably had less to do with wanting to revolutionise the Consulate and
more to do with impressing a certain computer technician named Marc she'd
met on a business trip to Montreal the previous month.

 And so the Consular staff had all found themselves with shiny new
computers, and for a short while all had been well. They had indeed been
able to communicate more effectively with Ottawa and with other RCMP
outposts. They had been able to organise their own files more accurately. 

 Otherwise, Fraser's life had gone on as normal. There was still walking
Dief to take up his time, and chats with his father, and his almost weekly
adventures with Ray. Ray. Whom he couldn't stop thinking about.

 Yes, it had all been that e-mail's fault.

 Shortly after the Consulate had gone on-line, they had become aware of
the drawbacks of technology. Mainly in the form of e-mails which had
nothing at all to do with law enforcement or the day-to-day workings of a
Canadian consular outpost. Almost daily, Fraser found his in-box bombarded
with messages - articles and quizzes from Francesca Vecchio; all sorts of
tasteless cartoons, jokes, and "humour" from Detective Dewey. Even
Turnbull had taken to sending him chain letters, willing to risk his
superior's displeasure rather than be submitted to who knew how many years
of bad luck, loneliness, impotence, and destitude.

 Fraser had politely read and answered these messages for the first few
weeks. At which point he'd realised just how much time he'd been wasting
dealing with unimportant drivel, and he had begun simply deleting them
unanswered.

 And then there were the... other messages. Spam, Ray had called them with
a grimace of distaste (which, at first, had led Fraser to think they were
discussing canned meat substances, which had led to an amusing
misunderstanding). By some atrocious twist of fate, he'd found himself on
various mailing lists, with no idea how to get himself off. And so he
routinely became the target of advertisements for products and services he
had no interest whatsoever in purchasing.

 He had no need of new financial strategies, or world cruises, or
mail-order university degrees. Likewise, he did not wish to lose fifty
pounds in two weeks, or gain larger breasts, or improve any ... other ...
part of his anatomy, thank you very kindly. He did not want to meet the
woman of his dreams (he already had, and look how that had turned out!),
he didn't wish to wager large sums of money in on-line casinos, and he
really had no interest in appearance- or performance-enhancing
pharmaceuticals.

 He didn't imagine, furthermore, that the Canadian Consulate was the
proper place for people in foreign lands to apply for help in getting
large sums of money out of their country.

 And those were just the messages he dared to open! Others invited him to
view all sorts of behaviour that was better left behind closed - bedroom -
doors, and which definitely had no place in his office! Luckily, most of
those had rather explicit subject lines, and he could delete them
post-haste; others, he had to close after only the briefest glimpse into
their content, for fear that the Inspector - or his father! - might come
into his office at the wrong moment and think he was looking at such
things for pleasure.

 Then it had happened. It had been late one Friday afternoon, and Fraser
had been at his wits' end. There had been an unfortunate incident
involving Turnbull and a ceiling fan, which had left the hapless young
Constable with a sprained ankle; Inspector Thatcher had departed early for
a weekend conference (at her favourite spa), leaving Fraser to finished
both his and Turbull's work; Ray had regretfully cancelled their weekend
plans (muttering something about Welsh wanting either Ray's backlog of
paperwork or his badge on the Lieutenant's desk by Monday morning).
Diefenbaker was angry with him about something or other and was sulking on
Fraser's cot. And he'd been hearing what sounded suspiciously like the
muffled wail of bagpipes coming from his closet.

 So Fraser's mind wasn't exactly focussed on his actions when he responded
to his computer's chiming announcement and automatically opened his latest
e-mail message. He caught a glimpse of bare flesh and was about to delete
the message in annoyance when he took a good look at the image on the
screen.

 Good heavens - it was Ray! Well, no, it wasn't actually Ray, of course;
he doubted sincerely that Ray had done much work in the gay porn industry,
and Fraser took a moment to ponder just how in the world he'd got on this
mailing list in the first place. But the model in the rather revealing
photograph looked enough like Fraser's partner that he did a double take.
And looked. Long and hard. Just like the model.

 Unbidden images sprang into Fraser's mind. Images of Ray, his best
friend, his partner, wearing nothing. Nothing but his holster. Sweaty.
Aroused. Draped across his bed, watching Fraser, inviting him to... Dear
God, what was he thinking? This was Ray he was thinking about! Ray was
straight! Fraser was straight! Those brief moments with Mark Smithbauer
didn't count - they'd been young and curious. And that afternoon with
Innussiq - that had been simple experimentation. And Steve...

 Well, all right. Perhaps Fraser could more accurately be termed bisexual.
But Ray was definitely one hundred percent heterosexual, and Fraser had no
business thinking about him writhing beneath him, moaning, arching his
back as Fraser... as he... as he lost his mind, apparently, dropped his
head in his hands, and gave himself over to his wild fantasises. Well, as
wild as he could imagine, given the fact that he really wasn't all that
sure what he would do with Ray if they ever did find themselves in a
sexual situation. He really didn't think that Ray would be impressed with
the shy fumbling that made up the bulk of Fraser's experience with
same-sex... well, sex. He knew, theoretically, that sex with a man wasn't
all that much different than sex with a woman - not that Fraser was by any
means an expert in that, either - but knowing the theory of something like
this was a far cry from being able to put it into practice with any amount
of success.

 Well, Fraser decided, if his subconscious was bound and determined to
supply him with endless erotic images of his partner, and seeing as how
such images were most likely the closest he was ever going to come to the
real thing, he might as well make sure he had the proper knowledge to do
the thing right. He was a Mountie - and he was nothing if not resourceful.

 He'd waited until the coast was clear - the Inspector was still away,
Turnbull was home nursing his wounded appendage, Dief was in the kitchen
finishing off a pizza with which Fraser had shamelessly bribed him to stay
out of his office, Ray was working, and Fraser's closet was silent. He was
alone, in his office, with his computer.

 The infernal machine was what had got him into this mess in the first
place; now it was going to help him out.

 In the days that followed, Fraser learned more about the ins and outs -
so to speak - of gay sex than he'd ever thought possible. He now had a
mental picture to accompany his thoughts of Ray. He now knew everything
there was to know about personal lubricant. He knew 101 ways to use one's
tongue that even he had never before considered. He'd learned helpful
hints on how to avoid choking under certain circumstances. He'd even
discovered a certain sub-group of literary-minded women who knew far more
about the intricacies of the prostate gland that was probably good for
them.

 He knew enough now to really, really wish that Ray 'batted for both
teams'... and that he could be persuaded to play ball, as it were, with
Fraser.

 Of course, he should have known that it was only a matter of time before
the inevitable happened. Three days, to be precise. Thatcher was still
away, but Turnbull had returned, more menacing than ever on a truly
terrifying pair of crutches. He'd spent the morning either tripping over
them or putting all of the Consulate's breakables at risk. In fact, it was
a clear indication of Fraser's lust-muddled state of mind that he didn't
hear the younger Constable enter his office until it was almost too late.
As it was, he glimpsed Turnbull's awkward movement out of the corner of
his eye and just barely had time to minimise the window on his computer
screen before Turnbull was upon him, setting a batch of file folders on
Fraser's desk.

 "Thank you, Turnbull," Fraser said as nonchalantly as he could despite
the blush he could feel rising in his face at nearly having been caught
surfing... inappropriate Web sites during working hours. Thankfully,
Turnbull was none the wiser. Fraser sincerely hoped.

 "You're quite welcome, Sir," Turnbull said brightly.

 For a moment Fraser thought he'd got away with his indiscretion. Then
Turnbull cleared his throat and spoke again, and Fraser's heart sank.

 "Constable Fraser," Turnbull began. "I hope you don't think I'm being too
presumptuous, but I couldn't help catching a glimpse of your computer
screen a moment ago and..."

 Fraser's stomach churned.

 "...and, well, I was just curious..."

 Fraser's palms broke out in sweat.

 "Were you planning a dinner party, Sir?"

 Fraser's brow furrowed. "What?"

 "Well, Sir, I noticed that the site you were looking at was about cheese.
If you're looking for ideas for hors d'oeuvres, or after-dinner cheese
plates, I'd be glad to give you some recipes."

 Fraser blinked. "Cheese?"

 "Well, yes, Sir. Or, rather, fromage, if you want to be fancy about it, I
suppose. A nice French camembert is always nice."

 "I'm sure it is," Fraser replied faintly. "Thank you, Turnbull, but I'm
afraid I... well, no, I wasn't planning a party. I was just...
researching."

 "Researching cheese?" Turnbull asked, confused. Then his expression
cleared. "Oh, of course! I understand completely. You and Detective
Vecchio must be on the trail of cheese smugglers, and I..." Suddenly,
Turnbull's eyes widened. "I've said too much, haven't I? Oh, dear; just
pretend I was never here!"

 With that, Turnbull grabbed the files again and hobbled out of Fraser's
office. Fraser stared after the retreating Constable.

 Fromage, he thought wildly. Turnbull thought he'd been looking at a site
on cheese. Slowly, Fraser turned back to his computer and brought the page
he'd been looking at back up, scrolling down to find a picture of two
scantily-clad men caught up in a loose embrace, their groins pressed
tightly together. The title of the page, which Turnbull must have
mis-read, proclaimed "Everything you ever wanted to know about frottage
but were afraid to ask."

 Frottage. Fromage.

 It was, he supposed, an honest mistake.

 Camembert, had Turnbull said? Soft, pale, creamy, just like how he
imagined Ray's... Or perhaps brie, just as soft but a bit sharper. Would
sliding into Ray be anything like sinking his teeth into a rich gruyre?

 And what in God's name was wrong with him? He was getting aroused
thinking about cheese, for crying out loud. Taking a firm grip on his
senses - if not on any other part of himself, at least not now, while he
was on duty, Fraser forced himself to turn back to his paperwork and put
all thoughts of dairy products out of his head once and for all.

 It was a resolve that lasted, unfortunately, all of three hours. Ray
called him just as Fraser's shift was ending and suggested they go out for
supper. Fraser agreed at once, of course, never one to deprive himself of
his partner's companionship. With a grudging promise to bring something
back for Dief, Fraser headed for a nearby diner, where Ray met him a few
minutes later.

 "Hope your day was more exciting than mine," Ray groaned as he slid into
the booth seat opposite Fraser. "Of course, you could have been watching
paint dry and it would've been more exciting."

 "Hmm." Fraser agreed distractedly, caught up in the vision of loveliness
that was his haggard, scruffy, stubbled partner. In fact, he was only
brought out of his reverie by the arrival of the waitress, who was eyeing
him speculatively. As was Ray, but for probably an entirely different
reason. He hastily indicated the first thing on the menu, not really
caring what it was, and took a gulp of his water as Ray ordered his usual
burger and fries. 

 As the waitress sauntered away with only one last lingering look at
Fraser, Ray turned back to gaze at him worriedly. "Everything okay,
Fraser?"

 "Yes, Ray," Fraser replied as benignly as he could. "Why do you ask?"

 "You just seem a little distracted tonight, that's all."

 Distracted by the softness of your lips, perhaps, Fraser's traitorous
mind offered. Distracted by the way the neon light in the window reflects
in your eyes.

 Fraser coughed slightly. "I'm just a bit tired, that's all," he said,
truthfully enough. He was tired. Tired of the X-rated movie that seemed to
be playing on continuous loop in his head these days. Tired of the
frequent cold showers he'd had to endure. Tired of Dief's snickers and
knowing looks.

 Ray seemed to take his explanation at face value, luckily, and they
passed the next few minutes chatting about the Hawks' chances at the
Stanley Cup. Which were dismal, in Fraser's opinion. He was trying to come
up with a diplomatic way of mentioning this to Ray when the waitress
returned, and Fraser looked down at the plate which she had placed in
front of him, and he nearly groaned aloud. There, surrounded by golden
fries and a crisp green pickle, was a grilled cheese sandwich.

 "Something wrong?" Ray asked as Fraser stared at his meal.

 "Not at all," Fraser said, picking up one of the sandwich halves and
taking a cautious bite. 

 "Never liked the grilled cheese sandwiches you get in restaurants," Ray
said conversationally between bites of his burger. "My mum used to make me
these awesome ones, with real cheese, so with these processed-cheese
sandwiches it's just not the same, you know. Any cheese that comes wrapped
in plastic just isn't cheese."

 Fraser fought off the image of Ray coming wrapped in plastic - or rather,
rubber - and said, "Well, Ray, I think you'll find that most cheeses are
wrapped in plastic these days. It's more sanitary." Not to mention safer,
in this day and age, given both his and Ray's high-risk careers...

 Ray rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean," he said before turning his
attention back to his supper.

 Fraser just gave him a small smile, and resolved to enjoy his grilled
cheese sandwich, while ignoring the warmth pooling in his mid-section.

 The next few days weren't any easier for Fraser. Everywhere he turned, he
found himself bombarded with reminders of his latest obsession. There was
the sight of Ray liberally anointing a plate of spaghetti with freshly
grated parmesan; there was the mid-week discussion between the detectives
in the 27th bullpen about the best blend of cheeses to put on various
types of pizza. He'd almost decked Tom Dewey one afternoon when the
detective had noted the name of a suspect - an unfortunately named Jane
Muffet - and had made an inane comment about curds and whey, leading
Fraser's thoughts to Ray sitting on his... tuffet.

 By the end of the week Fraser was seriously beginning to doubt his
sanity, and he wondered if he'd ever be able to walk past the cheese aisle
at the grocery store without getting an instant erection. The answer,
unfortunately, was 'apparently not.' And the worst of it was that Ray was
completely oblivious to Fraser's distress. Not that he'd want Ray to know
that Fraser was equating sex with him to various curdled milk products,
but still, a little acknowledgement from his friend that Fraser was
becoming unhinged would be nice.

 All things considered, Fraser was astounded that he'd lasted as long as
he did. But even he had a breaking point, and he reached it the following
Friday night. Ray, having performed his duties to Welsh's satisfaction,
had been granted the following Monday off, and he was expounding on the
joys of the long weekend as he picked Fraser and Dief up at the Consulate.
There was a hockey game on that evening, Washington at Ottawa, and there
was an intense - though non-monetary - wager between the two men as to the
outcome. After all, national pride was at stake.

 At Ray's suggestion, they stopped for take-out on the way to Ray's
apartment. Fraser had a brief, panicked moment of picturing himself seated
on Ray's couch, watching him struggle with the absurd amount of mozzarella
Tony insisted on putting on his favourite customers' pizzas, but to his
relief Ray stopped at a deli they both favoured. Nothing dangerous there,
thank God.

 Much later, the game having ended in a tie, Fraser was beginning to think
that he'd manage to spend at least one evening with Ray without the
dreaded cheese making an appearance and sending Fraser's libido into a
frenzy.

 Then he caught a glimpse of the last bit of sandwich Ray was popping into
his mouth.

 "Ray?" 

 "Yeah?"

 "What sort of sandwich did you order?"

 Ray frowned at him. "The usual - ham and Swiss. Why?"

 Fraser felt a surge of heat flow through him. Swiss cheese... light, and
slightly sweet, and, oh Lord, full of holes...

 He couldn't help himself. He'd tried, really, he'd tried. He'd held
himself back as much as he could, but if Ray insisted on tormenting him
so...

 Fraser pounced. Ray barely had time to gasp "Whatfuck?" before Fraser
claimed his lips in a fierce kiss, pouring all of the arousal and sheer
frustration he had felt over the past few days into the act. 

 To Fraser's delight, Ray's reaction was far from the violent disgust he'd
feared; in fact, Ray was kissing him back, his hands moving up to cup the
back of Fraser's head, opening his mouth to Fraser's questing tongue.
Fraser caught the taste of Ray's recently consumed sandwich, the faint
trace of the cheese filling his senses, and he groaned with a burst of
arousal, leaving Ray's mouth just long enough to remove both their shirts
and murmur, "God, Ray, I've wanted this for so long..." and to hear Ray
reply, "Fuck, Fraser, yeah," before he manoeuvred them both to lie on the
couch, Ray writhing beneath him like he'd imagined a lifetime ago.

 Overwhelmed by his partner's single-minded focus, Ray could only hold on
as Fraser all but worshipped his body with his hands, his lips and his
tongue. Ray's body was everything Fraser had dreamed of: his chest was as
firm as cheddar, crumbling just the slightest bit at the nipples, where
Fraser paused to nibble; the scent of him was as smoky as gouda; the skin
of his inner thighs was indeed as soft and creamy as camembert. Fraser
hadn't realized that he'd been speaking his observations aloud until he
felt Ray chuckled breathlessly at that last one, but he didn't care - he'd
been thinking of nothing but this for what seemed like an eternity, and
now that Ray was laid out for him like, well, like a cheese platter, he
was darned well going to enjoy it. 

 "I want to slather you with fondue," he whispered into Ray's navel, and
Ray's chuckle turned into a gasp when Fraser moved down to swipe his
tongue across the tip of Ray's erection. A sharp bitterness burst on
Fraser's taste buds, and the last thought that crossed his mind before he
gave himself completely to the lovemaking and took Ray as deeply as he
could into his mouth was, "Even better than Stilton!"

 Much, much later, they lay entwined in Ray's bed, satisfied smiles on
their faces.

 "I'm not even going to ask what brought that on," said Ray, his arms
tightening around Fraser. 

 Fraser smiled and settled his head more comfortably on Ray's shoulder.
"That's probably for the best," he admitted.

 They lay in silence a while longer, enjoying the closeness, and then Ray
said, "So, you got a thing for cheese, huh?"

 "I'm afraid that's a long story, Ray," Fraser admitted sheepishly.
"Properly speaking, though, I have a thing for you."

 Ray chuckled. "That's good. I'd hate to have to compete with food."

 "Don't worry, Ray," Fraser said earnestly. "I rate you much higher than
any of the major food groups."

 "I'm glad," Ray said, stifling a yawn.

 "Although," Fraser added as he drifted off to sleep, "I think I'm
developing quite a fondness for Polish sausage..." 

 THE END  
  

End A Good Piece of Cheese by Lady Mondegreen 

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