Gifts and Burdens    The Due South Fiction Archive Entry     Home

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      	  Gifts and Burdens 
 by Ultra Chrome  

 Disclaimer: These are not my boys, but I'm playing with them anyway.

 Author's Notes: Written for the GetFraserLaid challenge. An explanation
of why Fraser has clothes all over his floor in Asylum. 
Love and undying gratitude to Lucifercircle and Heartofdavid for the great
beta work on this, my first ever Due South fic.

 Story Notes: Spoilers for Asylum, if spoilers are even an issue these
days. 

 

 Ray once said something very interesting to me. Well, he has said many
interesting things to me, but this thing is the one I've come to find most
interesting of all of them. He said, "On the inside, I'm a poet. On the
outside...shake, bad guys, shake." At the time, I thought very little of
it, other than to surmise that he was a romantic at heart, but hid it from
the world. As do a good many romantics at heart, I among them. 

 That was approximately two months ago, and many things have changed since
then, including my take on the meaning of that seemingly small admission.
Perhaps that's not entirely true. It's not so much that things changed, as
it is that I finally became aware of how they have apparently been for
some time. That happened as of two days ago. The clues were, for the most
part, subtle, leading to a much larger event than my epiphany regarding
Ray's words, although not unrelated. And I am still coming to terms with
the effects of both. Happiness, true happiness, is a feeling I have
difficulty accepting, even though I crave it. Which is why I feel
compelled to write it all down, in the hope that I will always have a
reminder of how I feel at this precise point in time. In case things
should change again, and not for the better. Things have a way of doing
that, despite my attempts to keep them the same. 

 But I digress. If Ray were reading this, he would raise his eyebrows
pointedly and sort of waggle (for want of a better word) his head about.
This is his silent way of saying, "Fraser, would you just get to the
point?" I believe he developed it to save himself from becoming
repetitive. Because saying, "Fraser, would you just get to the point?"
over and over is hardly poetic, no matter how beautiful the mouth that
utters it.

 And we are back to the point, I believe. Inside, Ray is a poet. I know
this to be true, because I've been there, where the poetry is born; inside
Ray. And it is everything that poetry should be. Very much more than most
poetry is. I believe it was e.e.cummings who said, "A lot of people think
or believe or know they feel -- but that's thinking or believing or
knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling --not knowing or believing or
thinking." And the good poets, the truly great ones, have a way of doing
more than simply sharing their feelings. They give them to you, wholly.
Whether they be gift or burden, or somehow both, they become yours. You
feel them as your own, even as you know that they are someone else's. And
the emotions stay with you, long after the words are forgotten. 

 Ray is very obviously an emotional man. Passionate is perhaps more
accurate. He appears incapable of mild emotion, in any event. That is easy
enough to see from the outside. It translates to nervous energy most
often. I would say irrational anger runs a very close second. Whatever
form his passion takes, he radiates it. It affects everyone around him.
There is a possibility that I simply absorb it because I want any part of
him that I can get. This would explain my own inability, at times, to
contain my frustration and anger, which are obviously a reaction to his,
more than they are my own feelings. Restraint is a virtue I have always
been proud to have perfected. It is also one which Ray has systematically
destroyed in me, at least where he is concerned. His gift and burden to
me.

 From the moment I saw him, I wanted him. And I felt guilt, because I
should have been thinking more of Ray Vecchio, who had seemingly
disappeared, to be replaced by a stranger. Nobody else seemed to care. Not
even his family; so I should have been more concerned with his whereabouts
than trying to discover whom this man claiming to be my friend was. But I
wanted to know. I wanted to find out everything about him. Mostly I think
I wanted to know his sexual orientation, and his identity would be the
first step. It never once occurred to me to ask.

 Even later, when he gave me opportunities to do so. There were clues,
which I would mull over obsessively when I was alone at night, but which I
was too afraid to follow up in the light of day. I tried and even thought
I may have succeeded in showing my desire for him a few times, but either
he was oblivious to my advances, or suffering from my own brand of
reticence.

 In any event, it didn't take long for him to reveal his identity to me.
Only slightly longer than it took me to discover it for myself. He told me
many things about himself, including the more personal details of how he
won the love of his ex-wife. It was evident from the way he spoke that he
still held strong feelings for her. This was a blow to me. Such a crushing
disappointment that I failed to wonder why he had asked me if I found him
attractive. At least until I was alone with my thoughts, and the fantasies
that arose from them. But that is neither here nor there.

 Stella Kowalski is not a particularly pleasant woman, and I fail to see
why Ray ever loved her. With his deep embarrassment about his given name,
I would have thought that he'd have avoided a girl named Stella as a
matter of self-preservation. But love her he did, and still does, in his
own way, which I believe is one of Ray's more endearing qualities. He
loves freely, unashamedly, and makes no excuses for it. Stella almost
destroyed him, but still, he will defend her and protect her with a
single-mindedness that makes little sense, even to me. Considering I have
been accused of being the most stubborn man on Earth, this is quite
astounding.

 And yet, even with his loving nature, he keeps himself closed to all and
sundry, appearing violent at worst and annoyingly obtuse at best. For the
life of me, I cannot figure out why I was so strongly attracted to him
from our first meeting. He hardly stopped speaking for a second on that
first day, even when he hugged me, which is unacceptable behaviour for a
first meeting, and still, I learned nothing about him. Except for the
physical evidence I gathered (in a somewhat less that surreptitious
manner, I might add) which allowed me to pull his file later. He assures
me that he practically told me his life story, but as I was sliding around
on the roof of Ray Vecchio's ill-fated Riviera for the duration of his
discourse, I can't be sure he told me anything that I wanted to know.
Diefenbaker claims he was also distracted and wasn't able to see Ray's
mouth moving, so he was no help. This is not entirely new.

 If anything that occurred on our first day together gave me an inkling as
to Ray's true nature, it was the fact that he stepped in front of a bullet
intended for me. Granted, he was wearing a vest at the time, but that
would not have protected him had the bullet gone high. 

 That is not usually the act of a self interested, angry man. His
inordinate pleasure at my fear that he was mortally wounded was a tad
annoying at first, but I think perhaps it was more a case of happiness
that he was appreciated. Even his sense of humour is not so perverse as to
find instilling terror in a body amusing. And appreciation is not
something Ray Kowalski has had a surfeit of in his lifetime, I imagine. He
has such little faith in his ability to engender feelings of fondness in
others that I wonder if he believes his prickly exterior is ultimately
convincing; or is the prickly exterior there to hide his loneliness and
self doubt? Either way, he responds well to praise and kind actions, a
fact which I have shamelessly used to my advantage, I'm afraid. 

 A few days ago, Ray had a meet with a member of Chicago's organised crime
community, which ended in the fatal shooting of that man, one Andreas
Volpe. Ray was knocked unconscious and never saw the shooter, but it was
readily accepted by the police in general (although not by those who know
him) that Ray had killed this man. When he regained consciousness, he ran
from the scene, directly to the consulate. I heard the door burst open and
rushed to the foyer in time to see Ray fall to his knees yelling my name.
He was obviously in some kind of grave peril, yet all I could think for a
brief moment was of Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire and the
fact that it should have been Stella that he was yelling. But it was oh so
heartbreakingly my name that he called and I felt an uncharitable joy
rising in me. I had replaced Stella. I was the first person he thought of
in times of crisis. When Ray thought first with his heart, he thought of
me. 

 Of course, I could hardly know that to be fact. It is entirely possible
that Ray was thinking very clearly and the consulate was close enough to
the scene of the shooting to be his first obvious destination. I haven't
yet had the courage to ask him. Perhaps I never will, so until I am told
otherwise, I will believe he thought first of me, and that is why he was
on his knees in the foyer of my place of employment and residence, panting
raggedly and calling my name. Tragic and beautiful. Living poetry. 

 That image is one which I must admit led me to other inappropriate
thoughts, briefly at that point in time, but increasingly as I recall it
now. And so it was a difficult task to tend Ray's head wound, which was,
thankfully, minor, and take in the details surrounding his spectacular
entrance. When the full weight of the situation became apparent, I
determined that my only course of action was to arrest Ray and therefore
keep him out of the hands of the Chicago Police Department until I could
clear him of any wrongdoing. Metaphorically tying him up in red tape, if
you like. The picture that conjured in my mind's eye, coupled with the
willing presentation of his wrists when I approached him with handcuffs
was enough to make me eternally grateful for the length of my tunic and
the loose fit of my jodhpurs. But there was work to be done, and quickly,
if Ray was to be exonerated before he was extradited from my care. 

 Constable Turnbull was delighted to have a guest to fuss over, even with
the curling being telecast at the time. This made me feel slightly less
guilty for leaving my post, as it were, to retrieve Ray's personal files
from the station. I am helped in my belief that I was acting purely out of
concern for Ray and not my own fear of losing him, by the alarming moments
I was forced to endure in a darkened closet with Francesca. These were
made even more alarming by the fact that I had to somehow open my trousers
to hide Ray's files and avoid her usually...free spirited hands. By some
stroke of luck I managed this and was rewarded twofold when I returned to
the consulate with my jodhpurs uncomfortably full of manilla folders
stuffed with photographs and reports. 

 Inexcusably, I removed my tunic and lowered my trousers in front of Ray,
when I really should have gone first to my office and removed the files
there. As I said, Ray has destroyed any restraint I may once have had in
these matters. At this point I am far from concerned, as he responded
favourably to my impromptu strip show. The glint in his eye as he watched
me was certainly not related to the files. In fact he seemed surprised
when I produced them. Believe me, I was watching his face, and what I saw
there gave me the courage to act as I did later that evening. But there
was work to be done and I set out to gain as much information as I could,
leaving Ray in the care of Constable Turnbull.

 Typically, Ray was unable to stay put and let things unfold around him.
He managed to convince Turnbull to hand over his uniform and left the
consulate, resplendent in red serge and Stetson, walking unnoticed by
Detectives Huey and Dewey, who were stationed outside, in the hope that he
would try just such a stunt. I'm unsure whether this is testament to Ray's
undercover abilities, or the detectives' lack of stake-out skills. But the
upshot is that Ray and I were both captured by Eddie Herndorff's men and
held in a workshop to be turned over to the police. An outcome which never
eventuated, thanks entirely to Diefenbaker's tracking abilities. 

 Which is how we ended up hanging from the steel pipes on the ceiling
until the search for us was called off. When Ray could hold on no longer
he fell, quite awkwardly, into the back seat of a convertible that was
parked directly below us, wrenching his neck rather painfully. After I
climbed down, I managed to appropriate two coveralls which disguised us
sufficiently to get to the consulate, and which I have since laundered and
returned to their rightful owners. We shucked them just around the corner
so that Detectives Huey and Dewey saw nothing more exciting than two
Mounties returning to their little slice of Canada. One of them walking
stiffly with his head held at a careful angle and the other with a
concerned hand on his waist. I can only imagine their conversation about
that. Although, I'm entirely certain I don't want to. 

 Thankfully, Canada was closed for business by now, and we were greeted by
the sounds of curling. Constable Turnbull was relieved that we had
returned safely, although politely peeved at Ray for leaving him stranded
in his underwear for over two hours. If the man had any sense at all, he
would have borrowed a uniform from my office. However, as I am referring
to Turnbull, I should not be surprised. When he asked if he could have his
clothes back so that he could leave, Ray looked at me and said, "Yeah,
can't wait to get out of these pants." For the life of me I cannot fathom
why he would look at me while saying this, unless it was some kind of
signal that he was...well, interested in being naked in my company. Which
it turned out he was, but I was unaware of his desire at that time and
merely cleared my throat to offer him a hot shower. 

 And so I found myself in the bathroom, helping Ray undress, as he was
unfamiliar with the uniform and its various fastenings. If he noticed my
shaking hands and increased respiration rate, he kindly avoided the
subject. I turned to leave as he was peeling off his white t-shirt to
reveal a black undershirt. I believe Ray would call it a wife beater,
though I have no idea why. It's not as if that item of clothing could
inflict any sort of harm, unless rolled up and flicked, and even that
would hardly constitute a beating. In fact many consider it a game, I
included, contrary to the popular belief that I am incapable of having any
sort of fun.

 I'm also confused as to why he would wear black under a white t-shirt,
but that is possibly something Ray couldn't answer himself. He doesn't
share his predecessor's passion for clothes. In point of fact, he often
appears barely able to dress himself. I wonder if his mind is too busy to
pay due attention to such a routine task, or if he deliberately dresses
down as a form of rebellion against having to live someone else's life. He
certainly pays enough attention to his hair to indicate a touch of vanity
in his nature. Whichever it is, his style of dress only serves to
accentuate the image I now have of him as a poet. And I have always
appreciated his choice of jeans, for reasons that don't need exploring at
this juncture, if I intend to complete this account of events.

 Ray called me back to ask where he would find a towel, and I turned to
see a vision of raw sexuality. Ray, wearing nothing but his clinging white
jockey shorts and a halo of steam. I was momentarily lost for words as I
noticed the outlines of his muscles, his stomach...the definition in the
bulge at the front of his shorts. I believe I saw him smirk at me as I
mumbled something about the vanity cupboard, before fleeing for the
relative safety of Constable Turnbull's incessant rambling. 

 By the time Ray emerged from the shower, I was in my office, once more in
control of my urges and working on a plan to clear his name. I hadn't
counted on the fact that he had left his clothing in here when he made the
transformation from Chicago flatfoot to Mountie, and so was taken aback
when he entered wrapped in a fluffy white towel and holding his underwear
in a bundle in one hand. As I looked up, he dropped the garments to the
floor and folded his arms, leaning back just a fraction. I'm afraid I
wasn't looking at his face when he spoke, and this may or may not account
for the hesitation in his voice when he asked if I had a shirt he could
borrow. He seemed to think his own was somewhat sweaty and held traces of
Turnbull's scent from the tunic. I answered in the affirmative and rose to
fulfil his request at the same time he made a move to retrieve his
trousers from the far side of my desk. This had the unfortunate yet
pleasant result of bringing us face to face in front of the closet door.
In an office this size, I don't need to tell you that there was very
little space between us. 

 At this point I found it exceedingly difficult to breathe, torn as I was
between decorum and desire. A dilemma that was made considerably worse
when Ray looked down, causing his lashes to fan over his cheeks, and
licked his lips. Slightly damp and flushed pink as he was from his recent
shower, this gave him a deliciously debauched appearance and my breath
returned to me in a sharp intake, as my body responded vigorously to both
his beauty and his proximity. 

 Ray noticed. He smiled a little, moved even closer as he reached for his
pants, and in a voice much warmer than his usual, said, "My shorts are a
little damp, too. I'll have to go commando." More evocative words have
never been uttered, nor have I heard any poem that suffused me with such
intense emotion. Not even the one recited to me when I thought I was
dying.

 That was the moment I lost control, or took control, I'm not entirely
sure which, but I leaned in and kissed him, not gently, not politely, but
with a kind of desperation that spoke of my desire and my inability to
articulate it any other way. Ray responded in kind, bringing his body to
press against mine as he moaned into my mouth. The hand that I had placed
on his chest now rose to the back of his head and I made to pull his mouth
harder against my own. Ray stiffened and gasped, but in pain not pleasure
and I backed off hurriedly, remembering his injury and feeling guilt wash
over me. Ray grabbed my Sam Browne and tried to pull me in again, but I
shook my head, no, telling him that I was sorry I had caused him pain. He
just shrugged lopsidedly and leaned into me. As he pressed his hips close
he said, "So take my mind off it." 

 I desperately wanted to. But I had a much deeper need to get this right.
To make it memorable for all the right reasons, not just for me, but also
for Ray, because if I could make it perfect for him, then maybe, just
maybe, given time, I could replace Stella as the love of his life. Which
is entirely selfish of me, I admit. Disturbing as the thought is, that was
and still is my goal. Perhaps more so now that I am privy to a side of him
that I had not previously been aware existed. His inner poet. 

 And so I kissed him softly before I led him to my chair and pushed him
down onto it. He went willingly enough, though he made an impatient noise
in the back of his throat as I began to massage his neck, working on the
knotted muscles with my thumbs. It didn't take long for him to start
alternating grunts of pain with groans of pleasure, and the euphony of his
vocalisations touched me physically. A rhythm began to form between us, my
hands moving slower, pressing deeper into the muscles beneath them, Ray's
groans becoming quieter and more frequent, until he seemed almost to be
humming softly. I could feel that he was relaxing, becoming pliant in a
way I never imagined him capable of, and knew that if I were to manipulate
his neck now, I could ensure he would suffer no lasting effects from his
fall. 

 Knowing Ray would tense if I warned him, and knowing this would hamper my
efforts, I simply pulled his head back so that the top of it rested
against my stomach and placed both hands under his neck, stroking upward
to the base of his skull. He practically melted into me, so I had no
trouble grasping his head firmly between my hands and twisting a little as
I pulled upward. I was rewarded with a satisfying crack as his spine
realigned, but Ray...well; Ray does not like to be caught unawares. He
exploded from the chair, characteristic anger radiating from him in
anything but subtle waves. He took a moment to gain his balance and
launched a stream of invectives at me that I felt sure would strip the
paint from the walls. I will certainly not recount them here, as I have no
desire to recall them, even knowing as I do that they were merely a
reaction to the surprise I caused. I punctuated his verbal abuse of me
with a single syllable repeated often; that of his name, as I have
discovered that if I say it over and over, it eventually sinks in and he
cannot help but turn to me and say, "What?" in a suitably annoyed tone.
Whether the repetition soothes him or irritates him further he has never
indicated and I have never enquired, nor will I. It works and that is all
I need to know. 

 At any rate, he stopped inventing new ways to insult me and glared at me
instead. When I said nothing, he exploded again, this time with questions.
"What the hell was that, Fraser? Was that some kind of freakish Mountie
mating ritual? Do you get off on causing intense fucking agony? What the
fuck was that?" But when I attempted to explain my actions he cut me off.
Apparently I had not committed an act of kindness but rather executed a
fiendishly devised plan to "mess with" Ray's head, to use his own words.
He gave me a quick lesson in etiquette, which, in a nutshell, was that one
"should not kiss a guy and get him all worked up and then try to break his
neck." I understand now that it is an act of incivility preclusive to
sexual contact. At least in the moments immediately following the faux
pas.

 When I failed to respond with any more than a pained expression, Ray made
his "get to the point, Fraser" moves and asked if I was getting him a
shirt, or was he going topless as well as commando? He waited as I
retrieved and handed him a small pile of clothes from my closet, before
dropping his towel and looking pointedly at me as he drew on the jeans I
had added on a whim, leaving them unzipped while he pulled on the t-shirt
and tucked it in. I followed the movement of his hands as he readjusted
himself before drawing the zipper up and I noted the way he shielded his
genitals from the metal teeth with the front of the t-shirt. My t-shirt. A
garment that had been against my skin countless times and was now pressed
intimately against that part of Ray that I wanted pressed against me. I
closed my eyes a moment, trying to come to terms with the fact that
because of my well intended actions, I had been reduced to envying a scrap
of cotton. 

 When Ray spoke, his voice was quiet, almost apologetic. "Not a bad fit,
all in all," He said, echoing my words to him earlier in the day. I didn't
look up, merely nodded at my boots. "And my neck feels better." He exited
the room without waiting for my response. It was the closest I would get
to a thank you, and was as good as an apology coming from Ray, but it did
nothing to make me feel better about the situation. A few moments later I
heard the television from down the hall and decided to leave him to his
own devices while I caught up on some paperwork. Diefenbaker amused
himself by throwing Ray's clothing in the air and attempting to kill it on
the way down. I didn't admonish him for this. At least one of us was
enjoying himself.

 I removed my tunic and sat at my desk, unable to concentrate on any of
the tasks I set myself, and when I heard the television silenced, I had a
moment of hope that Ray would come to me. But he didn't, and I was left
wondering if I had ruined more than an opportunity. 

 The chiming of the doorbell pulled me from my self pity, and I mistakenly
thought that Ray had ordered pizza, so was somewhat taken aback to find
Lt. Welsh standing on the other side of the door when I opened it. He had
come to inform us that Ray was to be extradited first thing in the
morning, and as the three of us stood in my tiny office, with Ray's
clothes strewn around the room, and him wearing mine, I found it difficult
to concentrate, despite the urgency of the situation. Even as I wondered
how this would appear to Lt. Welsh, I kept looking to the hem of my
t-shirt, now outside of the waistband of the jeans Ray was wearing, and
wondering if he had untucked himself for a purpose, or if it had merely
ridden up as he lay on the couch. The former, while being the preferable
of the two options, was also infinitely more distracting, so I convinced
myself it was the latter and forced myself to focus on the task at hand. 

 The information Lt. Welsh gave us opened up new leads, which needed to be
followed up with haste if we were to keep Ray from being taken into
custody by anyone other than myself, and I left to do so quickly. Once
away from Ray's presence, I was able to think more clearly and soon
decided on a course of action that I felt would lead to a favourable
outcome. Although I had my suspicions as to who had framed Ray, I couldn't
be certain and had devised a plan to flush the culprit out.

 Pleased with myself, and feeling quite optimistic that Ray would also be
pleased with me, I stopped in at a drugstore on my way back to the
consulate, buying items that I had begun to despair I would never have use
for again, as long as I was in love with Ray Kowalski and therefore
uninterested in anyone else. I determined then, that I would try one more
time to show Ray how I felt, and if he refused me, I would simply leave it
at that; suppress my emotions with ever more force until they died of
suffocation. Call it a hunch, or call it arrogance, but I didn't think it
would come to that. At least not if I refrained from attempting to break
his neck this time. 

 When I returned once more to the consulate, I discovered that Ray had
ordered another pizza and was well into gaining what information he could
on the telephone. And by the time the pizza arrived we had everything we
needed to convince me that my plan would, indeed, be successful. I was
beginning to feel a sense of completion, even at this early stage, and so
I was somewhat dismayed when Diefenbaker alerted me to the fact that Ray
was attempting to flee the consulate. I really should have known it was on
his mind to do so, since he was wearing his holster when I arrived, but it
never occurred to me that he would actually try. I managed to convince Ray
to stay, with assertions of my faith in him and of our friendship.
Curiously, he asked me if it was hard for me to say those things, as he
has done previously. The day he told me about the moment that made him
what he is today. The day he asked if I found him attractive. I wondered
why he should think it such a challenging thing to admit one's feelings
for another, until I realised that I had been keeping the true extent of
mine a closely guarded secret. This in turn led me to wonder if perhaps he
was holding a secret of his own. 

 It occurred to me that Ray may not have seen my kissing him as a true
indication of what I felt in my heart, but merely as me giving in to a
physical impulse, which saddened me, as I had let myself believe that Ray
knew me well enough to know that could never be the case. This is not to
say that I have never indulged in sexual activity merely for the pleasure
it provides, but I have never initiated it for that reason. In any event,
it was clear to me that I had no choice but to be honest with Ray
regarding my intentions, both with respect to his impending extradition
and my feelings toward him. And so I took him to the conference room and
settled him on the couch with the remote control, before I payed Sandor
for the pizza and returned with it in hand. 

 We ate in silence for a while, me half watching the curling and Ray
watching the pizza box in front of him. Suddenly he turned his body toward
me and pulled one leg up on the couch in front of him. I watched as he
took a deep breath, visibly steeled himself and opened his mouth as if to
speak. But he merely closed it again and sort of slumped down, looking
miserable. I swallowed my mouthful and put the rest of the slice I was
holding into Diefenbaker's waiting mouth, not even considering the
calories I was letting him ingest. Ray was about to let something of
himself be seen, and it was important he had my full attention. He
fidgeted a little and then looked me in the eye and blurted, "Fraser, what
do you want from me?"

 So many things entered my head and were chased out by the next thought,
until I began to imagine that I had a revolving door in there and it was
spinning with such force that I would never be able to really see my
thoughts, let alone grasp one long enough to make sense of it. And when I
imagined the snow starting to fall in front of that revolving door, one
thing became clear. Every thought going around wore Ray's face, not
Victoria's. It was no longer her I looked upon as both my destruction and
my redemption. It was Ray, and how could I tell him that I wanted him to
possess me and to hold me captive so that I could have a brief respite
from the constant effort of maintaining my sanity? Instead, I smiled sadly
and asked if he meant right now, or tomorrow morning. 

 I know he saw something of my turmoil, because he held my eyes with his
own, but kindly, as he replied. And the expression I saw there was
concern, so at odds with the words that came from his mouth, and yet not.
He said to me, "I mean after we have sex, `cause we are going to have sex,
aren't we?"

 And it wasn't as if he was asking, so much as he was making sure I was
ready for it. I must have nodded then, because he relaxed his shoulders a
fraction and asked me again what I wanted from him. Now that I was sure
exactly what he was asking, I felt more like myself and began formulating
a light hearted answer, something about having to wait and see how well he
was equipped or whether his technique was good enough, but I found myself
instead telling him that as long as our duet remained intact, I would
settle for nothing at all, if that's all he could give me. And when he
stressed that he had asked what I wanted, not what I would settle for, I
replied as honestly as I could. That I wanted him and I wanted everything
about him and whatever else that might entail. I believe I even offered to
adopt his turtle, if he felt it necessary. 

 The smile he couldn't suppress then told me more than any words he could
have said. I was a freak, I wasn't really funny at all and most of all, it
told me that I had given the correct answer. He shook his head with mock
sadness and informed me that I couldn't have everything, not on a first
date, and certainly not when there was a good chance he was going to jail.
And he may have to take me up on my offer to adopt his turtle.

 The moment he realised what he had said, the happiness fled from his eyes
and he turned away from me. It took me a moment to remember that, just
because I had a plan, it didn't automatically follow that Ray was aware of
it. And so I placed a hand on his shoulder and presented my theory in as
few words as possible, which was still far too many, judging from the way
he glazed over once the initial excitement of understanding had passed.
When I stopped mid sentence he stood up and began to pace, repeating my
plan in his own words, which went something like, "OK, so we get a blank
piece of paper, stick it an envelope and you make a big speech and then
lie." He held up his hand here to stop me from attempting to correct him.
"No. You do something that ends in ate, or ize. Whatever. Tell the world
that you've got a witness to the shooting and then see who panics. Then
you arrest them and let me go. Did I get that right?"

 I replied in the affirmative, and Ray spun on his heel and resumed his
pacing for a moment before he told me it might just work, but he would
only allow it on one condition. I was banned from using any sort of
anecdote regarding Inuit customs. I readily agreed, which elicited another
of my favourite Ray responses: a little dance and air boxing, followed by
the word, "Greatness." And then he was on me, literally. He straddled my
lap and laced his fingers behind my neck and said, "I can't promise you
anything, but we'll see if we can make it work." 

 I misinterpreted his meaning at first, but when I tried to tell him that
he didn't need to do anything, he set me straight, and I had a very brief
moment to place his words in the correct context before his lips were on
mine and he completely stole my ability to think rationally. I was stunned
into inactivity until Ray tugged my hair and bit my lip, causing me to
gasp with surprise and more than a little pain. It was the jolt I needed,
and I returned his kiss then, fiercely. 

 My hands were clutching at Ray's clothes; my clothes, warmed against his
skin. I wanted my skin there instead and I must have vocalised some part
of that fractured thought, because Ray pulled away and started to answer
me. He looked at my face, at all of it and then at each part, and he told
me how he had been watching television earlier as I sat in my office and
he had looked down at my clothes; my jeans against his cock, and he'd
become aroused, wondering if I had ever worn them with nothing underneath.
Wondering if maybe his growing erection was touching the same denim that
had rubbed against my naked cock and if I had grown hard there, too. And
as my breathing grew ragged, and my grip on his hips tightened, his
fingers traced the path that his eyes had blazed and he told me that he
had touched himself, stroking over the denim, before sliding the zipper
down and taking himself in hand. He said that he had pleasured himself
slowly as he thought of the possibility that I might walk in at any moment
and see him, with jeans open and his hand surrounding the hard flesh of
his dick. He traced the line of my bottom lip with his index finger, and
when I opened my mouth, he slid two fingers in and caressed the tip of my
tongue, telling me how he had wondered if I would take him in my mouth and
taste him. 

 Inside me, something tore, a wound was opened as I recalled other fingers
in my mouth, first clinging to the life they found there, and then
manipulating me, entering my body and demanding I walk away from that
life. My eyes squeezed shut in a kind of panic, but Ray simply leaned
forward and pressed his lips to the lids. First one, then the other, and
kept talking in that quick, quiet voice that spoke more of his arousal
than the words he uttered. And before he had finished telling me that he
had made himself stop before he made a mess he wasn't prepared for, I was
off the couch, with him clinging to me, arms and legs wrapped around me
and nibbling on my neck as I half stumbled, half ran out of the door and
down the hall toward my office. 

 I'm unsure how many times I stopped and pushed Ray against the wall or
the doorframe along the way, but I do know that at those times I would
press hard against him and he would let his feet touch the floor as I
kissed him hungrily and tried to articulate what I wanted to do to him
before he wrapped around me again and thrust as if he could force me to
walk with the movement of his hips alone. Which was not entirely wrong,
since the press of his groin so close to my own and yet so very far from
where I wanted it was enough to drive me to action once more, and
eventually we made it. 

 I headed straight for my desk and deposited Ray on the edge of it,
ducking down enough to keep my mouth on his, and I saw, out of the corner
of my eye, Diefenbaker slinking out through the door just before I kicked
it closed with my foot. I gave thanks for the tiny room, as I didn't once
have to lose contact with Ray; because I was certain I would simply cease
to exist if that were to happen any time in the near future. 

 I wanted this to go on forever, but wanted more too. And so I kept up my
assault on Ray's lips, his tongue, neck...anywhere I could reach with any
part of my mouth as my hands fumbled with the fastening of the jeans that
had sparked this frenzy. No. The spark was Ray; his discourse on the jeans
had merely been the accelerant. And that word flashed an image in front of
me. Our first day working together. He was leaning toward me, so close and
he was excited about his discovery and I had thought then that one of us
need only move a fraction and our lips would have met. I groaned and
pulled away. One word was all I needed to say. Accelerant. And Ray nodded
once, and he said, "Yeah. Even then." And I knew at that moment, that I
had been right. Ray did know me better than anyone ever had, and he wanted
me with a voracity to match mine for him.

 It was a matter of moments before both of us were naked, Ray helping with
my boots, and there was no vulnerability, no awkwardness of hoping that I
would be pleasing to him, or evaluating his own physique in comparison to
my imaginings. There was only urgency. I placed one hand over Ray's chest,
pushing against him, but not pushing him away; he understood my intentions
and met my pressure with his own, as if he thought I could press right
through him to hold his heart in my hand and I believe he welcomed that
image. 

 My other hand was reaching behind him, searching for my belt and the
pouch on it that held my drug store purchases. It was just out of reach
and I had to lean over, pressing Ray back so that he was forced to place a
hand behind himself to keep from falling flat onto the paperwork that was
piled behind him. He used the leverage that gave him to raise his hips,
just enough to press the hard, wet head of his penis against my stomach. I
was distracted from my search and pulled Ray up again, biting his neck as
my hips tilted forward, trying to get more contact with him. But he placed
both hands on my shoulders and pushed me away, with increasing force as I
ignored him. I realised he was repeating my name, over and over, just as I
do his when he is distracted, and made an effort to answer him, but my
mouth was busy tasting the salt near his hairline and I'm sure I only
managed a moan against his skin.

 He moved one hand down my chest and actually yelled my name as he pinched
my left nipple with more force than was necessary, but he achieved his
aim. I pulled back from him suddenly and the look on my face must have
been amusing, because Ray was grinning like a maniac. I frowned very
deliberately at him, meaning it as much as a question as I did a display
of displeasure. He reached out and caressed the injured nub while he
explained that if I didn't get my bedroll out in a hurry, we were going to
be dealing with some very serious carpet burn, because he had no intention
of fucking on my desk when we could actually get horizontal. 

 I'm really very enamoured of the way Ray says "fucking", when he means it
in that context. As a curse, I find it irritating and quite unnecessary.
But as a verb: when Ray says it, he speaks with his eyes at the same time.
The way his pupils dilate and his voice roughens... I can almost hear his
pulse quicken and it's such a powerful aphrodisiac, I wonder why he
doesn't just go around saying it to everyone. It would certainly make him
a very popular man. Or very adept at having sexual relations in the most
inappropriate settings with a mostly uniformed Mountie.

 And there he was, sitting on my desk in all his nakedness, hard and
breathing heavily and telling me that I needed to take him to my bed or
what passes for one here. My body reacted before my brain this time, and I
was around behind the desk, shoving my belt at him with one hand and
telling him to look in the pouch, while my other hand opened the closet
door and reached up for my bedroll on the shelf above me. The cot was not
an option, as I had no desire to be away from Ray's touch long enough to
set it up. There was a brief moment of fear that I would be faced with my
father's cabin, but it seems even he has some sense of timing and I was
relieved beyond measure to see nothing but spare uniforms and empty
hangers before me.

 I knelt to lay out the roll of canvas and blankets as quickly as I could,
not caring to line it up squarely with the corner of the room as I usually
did and caring even less if there were wrinkles in the blankets, because
Ray had stepped closer and he held a small foil package over my shoulder,
for me to take, and when I turned my face to him, I was greeted with the
sight of him, fully hard and just inches from my lips. He placed his free
hand in my hair and massaged my scalp firmly, while the hand holding the
prophylactic waved in front of my eyes. 

 I knew what he was asking of me and didn't need any further prompting. I
had a brief struggle with my principles, wanting to taste Ray and not
latex, but sense won out quickly, supported by the fact that my wants were
not the only ones to consider. And so I placed the condom on him and
rolled it down with my mouth and hand working together. No teasing, no
shyness, no holding back. I was far beyond that by now. And Ray rewarded
my forthright approach with an enthusiasm that left me with no doubt that
he had been thinking of this moment for some time. His hand tightened to a
fist in my hair, not pulling me in, but as if he was holding on for dear
life, and he rocked almost imperceptibly in time with my movements along
his length. His restraint was evident in the way he tried to control his
breathing, the tension in his buttocks where my hands were now alternately
stroking and grasping. 

 I inhaled deeply through my nose, wanting to fill myself with his scent
as I was deprived of his taste and it was warm and clean and a little
musky and I fancied I could actually smell the semen welling up in him,
ready to pour out and be caught in the rubber sheath. I made a noise of
annoyance in my throat then, both at the barrier between us and at my own
reckless thoughts. I moved my hands to Ray's hips and made to pull him in,
encouraging him to thrust into my mouth, but he grabbed another handful of
my hair and pulled my head away from him, stepping back at the same time,
and I looked angrily up at him. It was getting more than a trifle
annoying, all this "Touch me. No stop" behaviour. And so I told him that. 

 He was looking down at me and I wonder what he actually saw, because his
eyes were so dark and glazed that I swear he was looking through me,
rather than at me. He didn't speak, in fact he seemed incapable of it, but
he scooped the package of condoms and the lube from the desk behind him
and dropped them on the floor by his feet, before he fell heavily to his
knees, wincing slightly as he came face to face with me, and claimed my
mouth with his own. I tried to press my full length against him, but he
placed his hands on my hips and held me back, even though it seemed he was
trying to crawl inside my mouth, his kiss was that deep.

 When I tried to reach for his penis with my hand he slapped it away and
all but growled at me. I was exasperated. Did he want this or not? I asked
him outright and the response I got took my breath away momentarily,
although I can't be sure if it was the words or Ray's voice that caused
such a response. Or perhaps it was the fact that he grasped my erection
and stroked me so slowly that it felt like an age before he got to the
base and slipped his hand under to cup my testicles. His words. There is
no way I can do them justice in writing, but I remember every syllable and
it still excites me in exactly the same way now, even without his breath
hot on my ear and his hand on me. 

 He said, "Fraser, I want it so fucking much. So much I can't bear to have
you touching me. Can't bear the way you make my whole body feel like a
fucking time bomb. I'm so close to blowing, you have no idea. You get one
hand on my cock and I swear I'm gonna blow so hard there'll be nothing
left of me, and I need you to feel how this feels, because it's like
heaven and it's like hell and it's like being fucking possessed by
something, someone. You. It's like you fucking own me, Fraser. Like you
made me and this is my whole purpose and everything is gonna stop when
this is over. And it's not gonna be over until I've had enough, which is
not until you've had enough, too. So shut up, ok? Just shut up and let me
do this thing my way." 

 I felt it. He didn't just share his feelings, he gave them to me. And it
was both gift and burden, heaven and hell. The way he pushed me down so
that I lay half on the bedroll. His hands and mouth on my neck, my chest,
my inner thighs, everywhere but where I wanted him most. He took his time,
deliberate and slow and my impatience grew. As his breathing slowed and it
became obvious he was becoming more in control of his body, it was equally
obvious I was losing control of mine. He laid over me then, full length
with his legs between mine, but not letting his full weight rest on me,
not giving me the full contact I needed. He rocked his hips, and his still
sheathed erection brushed lightly along my own, exposed one. The latex
encasing him was now dry and it caught a little, making vibrations as it
almost bounced along me. And suddenly I was pushing Ray's hips away,
holding him off me like he had burned me. He licked my ear, taking the
focus from my impending orgasm just in time to stave it off. He knelt up
then and looked at me with such heat in his gaze, such intent, that I
barely noticed as he reached back for the small bottle of lubricant next
to us. He squeezed some into his hand and my gaze was drawn away from his
eyes as he lowered it to his penis and began to stroke himself, gasping at
the coolness of it, but not faltering for a second. I placed my hands on
his thighs, just resting them there, too caught up in watching him to do
more than that. 

 His hand moved slowly, his grip was loose, but it was only a few moments
before his eyes closed and he moaned softly and gripped the head between
his thumb and forefinger, tightly. His other hand gripped one of mine and
tugged upward, and I took it that he wanted me to move. So I scooted back
far enough to bring one leg over and made to kneel with my back to him,
but Ray grabbed my shoulder and made me turn back to face him. He shook
his head at me and said, "No way. Nuh-uh. It's not gonna happen that way."


 He handed me a condom and the lube and then he lay back, not gracefully,
but I was entranced all the same. I understood then that I was not to be
the bottom here, and I had no say in the matter. He was dominating me with
his vulnerability. Opening himself to me and yet demanding it be on his
terms. It was quite intimidating, like I was being given free reign but
knew that if I made one wrong move, I would be punished. He never said
that, but that's how it felt to me, and it pulled me back from the edge
enough that I could focus on getting it right, pay attention to making it
perfect for him. 

 And so I readied myself with the necessary protection and warmed a
portion of lubricant on my fingers before I bent over him and kissed him
slowly and deliberately. Wanting him to feel my intent to do whatever he
asked of me, however he asked me do it. My surrender, as it were. And even
though I was above him I have never been so submissive as I was in that
moment, when he took my head in his hands and broke that kiss long enough
to tell me that I should just put a pillow under him and fuck him now,
because he was all kinds of ready, and not good at waiting. And so I
reached blindly for the pillow, slipping it under his hips as he bent his
knees to raise himself up to me. Then I took myself in one hand to guide
my way as I placed the other hand next to his head and bore my weight on
it. 

 He looked up at me and raised his eyebrows. He even waggled his head a
little. He was telling to me to get to the point and if I hadn't been so
intent on pressing into him slowly and watching him for a sign that this
was too fast I would have laughed at the absurdity of that gesture. But I
could feel myself entering him and I watched his face change as I sank
slowly but surely into him. I could see the brief flash of pain in his
eyes and around his mouth as he hissed his breath out. And then I was all
the way in and fighting for my own breath and for any shred of control I
could muster. I closed my eyes to block out anything that might stimulate
me more. I even resorted to counting to ten. In French, then Inuktitut. 

 And then Ray wrapped his legs around my waist, raised his head to bite my
neck as he pulled me harder against him and the moment was at hand. I
began to move then, slow, sure strokes and I huddled over Ray, kissing
whatever skin I could find with my lips and moving only my hips as I drove
into him. He pulled back a fraction and I heard a snapping sound and he
pulled his condom away and dropped it on the floor. One hand remained
between us, giving himself one or two quick strokes, before he placed it
on my buttock, kneading in rhythm with my thrusts. His other hand gripped
the back of my neck tightly and I looked up into his eyes as he started to
make small noises with each exhalation. 

 Just as one can see a puff of breath in cold air, I could hear Ray's
voice with every breath, and I moved my hands to rest my weight on my
elbows, forearms under Ray's shoulders, gathering him as close as I could
so that our torsos were pressed together full length. I could feel his
hardness pressing into my belly as I curled my hips forward with each
stroke. 

 I pressed my face somewhere in the vicinity of his armpit, fighting to
keep this rhythm for as long as possible and listening as Ray's
vocalisations became longer puffs of sound, deeper now and breathier, but
the tempo remained the same. And as I listened I began to hear words,
there was a meter forming, and even though I couldn't understand what was
Ray was saying, I was sure it was a poem. I raised my head then and
watched his mouth move through heavy lidded eyes. As my chest came away
from him, he opened his own eyes and as he looked at me his voice became
stronger, his words more distinct. And I knew then, that he was not
reciting a poem. He was telling me about myself, about how I felt inside
him and on him, about the way I always make him feel important because I
always know exactly where he is even when I'm not looking at him; and
about how good it is to be wanted for who he is, the way he is and not who
he could be. And then he told me again how I felt inside him, but his
voice was catching now, and the words were shorter and sharper. 

 His fingers were digging into my skin so hard that, although I didn't
know it then, I would still have the marks as I write this. And when he
began to shake it became too much for me and I rasped out his name,
halfway between a plea and a warning, and he relaxed almost imperceptibly,
saying "Yes!", giving me permission. And then he tensed, going perfectly
still under me for a heartbeat, and as I rocked into him again I felt him
pulse against me and around me and his breath came out as a ragged moan as
I went as deep as I could and tried to go still deeper because I couldn't
control my hips anymore and I was lost. Or found. I don't know which, but
for a seemingly endless moment I was nothing but nerve endings and emotion
and it all spilled out of me and into Ray, even as he emptied onto the
skin of our bodies and went limp under me, his hands sliding from me to
fall beside him.

 I stayed where I was, fighting to catch my breath, for a few moments;
watched Ray's face, relaxed and worry free for the first time since he
came crashing through the consulate doors. And before he could open his
eyes and see the extent of my feelings, I lifted a little, to warn him I
was moving, and then I drew away, taking care to hold my condom on as I
left his body as slowly and gently as I could. He frowned, and reached a
hand to touch my arm, and then let it drop to his side again. He was
exhausted. 

 I gave thanks again for my tiny office as I did little more than lean
over to place my condom and the one Ray had discarded into the waste paper
bin beside the desk, and then I lowered myself down next to him, trailing
a finger through the ejaculate on his abdomen and allowing myself to touch
just the very tip of my tongue to my finger. A small taste, but it was
enough for now.

 Ray reached for me and I took the pillow from under him, turned it over
and put it beneath our heads as I lay down beside him. We didn't speak.
And strangely there was poetry even in our silence. Perhaps because I was
now feeling his feelings and words were superfluous. Perhaps we had
already said everything that needed saying. Whatever the reason, I was
happy to lay with him as his breathing slowed and he fell into a deep
sleep. And when I arose to launder his clothes and compose my speech for
the next morning I was happy in the knowledge that he would be there when
I returned to him. 

 And as I wait now for him to collect me for a night of whatever may come
at his apartment I will allow myself the indulgence of believing that this
time my happiness will last. Ray has given me hope. Another of his
gifts...and burdens...to me.

  
  

End Gifts and Burdens by Ultra Chrome 

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