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      	  Mirror Image 
 by Nos4a2no9  

 Author's Notes: Many thanks to Sprat, Berty, Llassah and JS Cavalcante
for a terrific beta job. Additional thanks to JS for the original idea
about Ray's, err, issues with his manhood.

 Story Notes: Written for the 2007 due South Seekrit Santa gift exchange.
Merry Christmas, Spuffyduds!

 

 Mirror Image

 Ray liked The Cat and Fiddle, and it wasn't just because they kept great
draft beer on tap, or had a killer 99-cent-wings special on Thursday
nights. He liked the bar because of the clientele.

 The guys at the Fiddle were older than a typical meat-market crowd. They
were there to watch hockey or basketball, maybe shoot a game of pool, and
get drunk. It wasn't really a cruising bar even though, yeah, Ray had
picked up a couple of guys there and put in some time in the cheap motel a
couple of blocks over. The Fiddle was a safe place, quiet and low-key. No
dance floor, no techno, no twenty- something guys in eyeliner who stripped
down to their thongs by 10pm. No long, tense moment of assessment, of
waiting for that quick up-and-down glance before the guy he'd been eyeing
all night shook his head and turned, melting back into the crowd on the
dance floor.

 Yeah, Ray really liked the Fiddle a lot, mainly because it cut down on
all that Halsted bullshit, the revolving door of rejection that spun
faster and faster the closer he got to forty. He'd been going to the
Fiddle for years, ever since the divorce, and he figured that if he liked
the bar, maybe Fraser would, too.

 They'd gone to a hockey game that Friday night, Hawks vs. Leafs, and it'd
been a pretty good game. He and Fraser had yelled themselves hoarse, Ray'd
eaten two hot dogs, and Fraser had only sulked a little when the Hawks won
4-3.

 Normally--even though they'd only been fucking for about two weeks, they
already had a routine--he and Fraser would have gone back to his place to
make out for a while before getting each other off. Perfect way to start
the weekend, to Ray's way of thinking. 

 But instead he turned to Fraser as they left the United Center and said,
"Feel like going somewhere? I'm still a little wired."

 Fraser had frowned, a little furrow appearing between his brows. "If you
like," he said slowly, "I'd just hoped that we would be--well, I'd hoped
that we would-" and he couldn't quite make himself finish it. Ray grinned
because Christ, Fraser was beautiful when he was uncertain. 

 Not that that was news, because Fraser was gorgeous pretty much all of
the time, even when he was being annoying as hell. But it was the kind of
thing that snuck up behind Ray sometimes with a big damn club and laid him
out flat: Benton Fraser was really, really beautiful. All he had to do was
tilt his head a certain way, or put a hand on Ray's shoulder to say
something, and Ray would feel the whole world grind to a halt. He'd tune
out everything until he could focus on Fraser's lips, or his blunt, square
hand, or the weird scar on his cheek just above his jaw. He'd stare and
think about how it all fit together, how all these parts of Fraser made up
the whole. Dry elbows and ticklish knees; a thick cock and smoke-grey eyes
and a mouth that went up a little more on one side when Fraser smiled. It
scared him sometimes, how much he loved each and every part of Fraser. How
much he loved the whole picture.

 But he didn't want to make Fraser suffer, so he said, softly, "I know a
place. We won't stay long."

 "As you like." Fraser had just smiled back at him, and wow, that had felt
pretty great, Fraser trusting him like that.

 The Fiddle was packed, even for a Friday, and Ray had to squeeze and
twist his way through all the guys crowded around the bar to get himself a
beer and Fraser a cranberry juice. Fraser had managed to score them a
table near the back, and Ray carried the drinks carefully, bobbing and
weaving so he didn't knock into anyone. Lot of good-looking guys in here
tonight. He wondered if there was some kind of "Handsome as Fuck? Get a
Free Beer!" contest going on. If so, Fraser was a shoe-in, no question.

 Somebody was in Ray's seat. The guy was one of the too-good-looking types
(definitely not a Fiddle regular), and he was sitting across from Fraser
with his long, muscular legs folded up awkwardly under the little table.
He was a big man, broad shoulders, dark hair, killer smile. Looked a
little familiar, but Ray couldn't quite place him. 

 Ray felt a slow, sick tightening in his gut. He stepped back against the
wall so he'd be out of the flow of the bar traffic, and watched. Fraser
was saying something to the guy, talking with his hands like he did when
he felt comfortable with someone. Fraser wasn't a big hand-talker,
normally, but he seemed to be really getting into his story. The big guy
was smiling and nodding and--fuck-- licking his lips. He leaned in toward
Fraser and kept spreading his knees wider, wide as they'd go in the small
space under the table, and Fraser...well, it was tough to tell, since Ray
was looking at the back of Fraser's head, but his body language was loose
and relaxed, his knee brushing the other guy's every so often as he
illustrated some part of his story. And it was probably a fair bet that
his story wasn't about caribou.

 That sick-tight feeling in his stomach got worse, and Ray set the drinks
down on the sticky barroom floor, breathing in through his nose. He
swallowed back against the nausea rising in his throat until he felt well
enough to make it to the bathroom. The stall on the left was empty and he
shut himself inside the tiny space, banging his head against the door a
couple of times to stop the dizziness. He would not do this. He would not.
Lip-Licking Guy was probably just asking Fraser for the time. Or he'd
stopped by to ask for some tips on wilderness survival, or something.

 Or maybe Fraser was interested. Maybe a guy like that--built like a brick
house, face like a movie star's--appealed to him. After all, it wasn't
like Fraser was married to Ray, or anything. They'd had sex ten times:
twice in the GTO, twice on the couch in his apartment, and four times in
Ray's bedroom. And it was good. Real good. The kind of good people wrote
songs about. But maybe it hadn't been good for Fraser. He hadn't ever
said-

 Ray heard the door swing open. The noise from the busy bar filled the
small men's room for a second until the door closed over it again. Two
guys, from the sound of it.

 "Crazy night, huh?" one of them said. Ray thought he recognized the
voice. It sounded like Tommy Ellison, one of the regulars. He'd played
pool with Tommy, won money off him.

 "Yeah," said the other guy. Ray didn't recognize his voice but knowing
how Tommy's tastes ran, he was probably great-looking, the kind of guy who
didn't usually set foot in the Fiddle.

 "You see who Kowalski came in with?"

 "Maybe," said Tommy's friend, and okay, Ray knew him. Devon Anderson.
They'd gotten together last Thanksgiving. Or Ray had given him a blowjob,
anyway, in the bathroom of the Fiddle. He'd been in bad shape then,
totally hung up on Fraser, willing to break every vice code in the book if
it meant he didn't have to think about how much he loved his straight
partner. Devon had been nice about it, and he'd let Ray down easy after
Ray spat and wobbled to his feet.

 "Wanna watch the game at my place?" Ray'd asked, trying to smile, trying
not to sound so damn pathetic. Devon had avoided his eyes and quietly
explained that he didn't date white guys. 

 Except here he was, going into a stall with Tommy Ellison, who was Irish
as they came and apparently had a regular thing with Devon. 

 Fuck. Ray didn't need this tonight.

 "That guy's something else, huh?"

 "Yeah," Tommy agreed, the sound of his zipper loud in the tiny bathroom.
"Professional, you think?"

 "I wouldn't put it past Kowalski," Devon chuckled. Asshole. "And if he's
not paid company, well... I can see how a twitchy, ADD closet case like
Kowalski would be a big selling point. And damn, that new guy is gorgeous.
He could do a hell of a lot better. Maybe it's just a mercy fuck."

 Tommy barked a laugh. "Yeah, poor ol' Kowalski. Now," Tommy said,
apparently remembering that he had better things to do than talk about
than Ray's love life, "you made me a promise, earlier."

 And then there were only the soft, quiet sounds of a blowjob, and Tommy
Ellison's low moans. Ray fled the bathroom.

 Fraser was alone at the table, thank God, although when he thought to
check Ray counted at least four other guys trying to catch Fraser's eye as
they circled around the room. Fraser did a weird half-standing thing when
he thought Ray was going to throw himself down into the unoccupied chair,
but he sat back down quickly and blinked when he saw Ray wasn't going to
sit, and that he wasn't carrying any drinks.

 "Ray? What's wrong? You're sweating."

 "Nothing, nothing." Ray waved the question away, shifting his weight from
foot to foot. "I wanna go. Can we go?"

 "Actually," Fraser said, scanning the crowded barroom, "I bumped into an
old friend. He's only in Chicago for a single night and he's invited us
out with him."

 For a second Ray felt a flicker of hope. Us? That was good, right? Like,
Fraser and Ray out on the town with Fraser's old friend? Except no. No, it
was not good. That was just Fraser being polite, asking Ray along to be a
third wheel as he hung out with Mr. Lip-Licking Guy. He'd heard enough of
Stella's halfhearted invitations to come out with her lawyer pals to know
when he wasn't really wanted.

 "I'm not feeling too good," Ray said softly, miserably. "Those hotdogs at
the game were probably a bad idea."

 Fraser stood up, checking Ray's pupils and gently stroking Ray's cheek
with the back of his hand. Ray sucked in a deep breath and closed his
eyes, shaking off that warm, fluttery feeling that surged through him
whenever Fraser so much as touched him. Fraser was probably just checking
his temperature, anyway. "I did try to warn you."

 "Yeah," Ray said, pulling away. "I never listen." He wanted to get the
hell out of the Fiddle and this part of Chicago and back to his apartment
where he could fall apart in privacy. "Sorry. You go on ahead with your
buddy."

 A strange, unreadable expression flickered over Fraser's face.
Disappointment, maybe. He'd stopped smiling at Ray and now looked hurt,
and for a second Ray was a little worried that he'd misread things. But
Ray was not interested in sitting around all night and watch Fraser flirt
with some old friend of his. He wasn't nearly that masochistic. 

 "Have a good time," Ray told him, and stuck his hands in his pockets, not
looking back as he headed out of the bar. 

 *********

 When he got back to his apartment Ray sat for a long time in the dark,
watching shadows shift and change as they climbed the ceiling. Two weeks.
That was all he'd had with Fraser. A few dinners out, one hurried hand
job, a couple of truly spectacular blowjobs, and then four mornings of
waking up with Fraser in his bed, in his arms. Everything had felt so
good. So right. 

 He'd woken up early those mornings just to watch Fraser sleep. The soft
sunlight had made Fraser's skin glow, and he'd looked like an angel, or a
saint. Beautiful and perfect, and Ray could hardly believe this guy wanted
to be with him, wanted to kiss him and touch him and wake up with him. 

 He couldn't...fuck, he couldn't think about this. It was like Stella 2.0.
And why the hell did he keep falling for people who were totally out of
his league? 

 Ray went to the kitchen to grab a beer, and then flipped on the late-late
news, not really registering what was on the screen for a few seconds.
After he'd taken a sip and finally glanced at the TV he felt the beer
swirl in his stomach. Goddamn it.

 Lip-Licking Guy was on the late news. They were running B-roll footage of
some pickup hockey game downtown, poor kids from the projects wearing
brand new skates zipping around with Lip Guy. Mark Smithbauer, former
defenseman for the Chicago Stars. And Christ, of course he was a friend of
Fraser's. Of course. Ray should have put it together sooner, but then he'd
never been a big Stars fan.

 "Smithbauer's new charity organization seeks to provide uniforms and
equipment to underprivileged children in Chicago's worst neighbourhoods,"
the reporter was saying. "In addition, the former NHL All-Star is working
to draw attention to organized gambling in professional sports."

 The camera cut to a press conference with Smithbauer, who sat behind a
long bank of microphones and smiled at the camera. He knew how to work the
press, no question. "Illegal gaming is a real problem in pro hockey," he
told the group of reporters. The flash of the cameras didn't seem to
bother Smithbauer; he just kept talking in a level voice. "I've been
speaking about this with the Canadian media as well, and I think it's
important to get this whole issue out there. Throw some light on it. Yes,
I was asked to throw a game two years ago, and yes, I took the money.
That's old news. What I'd like to do now, what I'd like to devote my life
to, is ridding the hockey world of this kind of pressure. It's unfair to
the fans, and it's unfair to the players. I-"

 Ray snapped the TV off and hurled the remote at the screen. Fuck. Not
only was Lip Guy--Smithbauer--great-looking, but he was some kind of
crusader for underprivileged kids and on a mission to clean up pro hockey.
Perfect for Fraser, in other words. Because Fraser deserved to be with
someone who was just as dedicated to solving the world's problems.

 And that was the problem. That was why Ray knew things ultimately
wouldn't work out with Fraser. The problem with Fraser being so fucking
beautiful, so perfect and good and generous and kind, was that it made
Fraser a Somebody. Hell, Fraser was probably the original model for a
Somebody, the example of whatever it was a guy was supposed to act like
and look like and be like. And Somebodies didn't end up with Nobodies. He
had the divorce papers to prove it. 

 So there was something screwy with a universe that would put a guy like
Ray with a guy like Fraser. Ray knew he looked like a Nobody. It was a
problem, like it'd been with Stella. At parties people used to ask Stella
to point out her husband, and when she did, he'd overhear the other lawyer
or accountant say, "What, behind the waiter?" 

 He wasn't beautiful like Devon Anderson, or stacked like Mark Smithbauer.
And he wasn't on a quest to save the world from murderers and litterbugs.
Hell, most of the time he wasn't even sure he wanted to be a cop. There
was no way a Nobody like Ray Kowalski should end up with a Somebody like
Benton Fraser.

 So Ray figured that he and Fraser were doomed.

 It took him all night to decide how to explain it. Fraser was Canadian
and Ray suspected he wouldn't understand. He even thought Fraser might
give him some well-intended but utterly meaningless speech about equality
and how people had good qualities and bad qualities and that it balanced
out in the end and yadda yadda yadda. Ray didn't think he could handle a
Fraser-sermon while he was trying to break up with the guy. So he called
Fraser and left a message on the Consulate's machine. It was four in the
morning and Fraser would have picked up if he was there. So he was still
out with his pal Smithbauer. Ray tried not to let that knowledge hurt. 

 "Hey Frase, sorry I bailed on you," he said when the machine beeped.
"Come by tomorrow night around six, okay?"

 He kept himself busy most of Saturday, and did his best to ignore
Fraser's phonecalls. He did listen to the two messages that Fraser left,
but it hurt to hear that strong, steady voice come out of the machine and
think about the happy little hitch that had been in Fraser's breathing the
first time he'd kissed Ray. 

 Fraser's messages on the machine didn't sound guilty, just kind of bland.
"Hello Ray. I'm taking Diefenbaker for a run and I was hoping you would
join us afterwards for lunch. Please call me back at the Consulate." And,
later, sounding even more bland, "Ray, please return my call."

 Ray didn't call back. He sobered up, and did some stuff around the
apartment. He cooked a good meal, put on a new shirt (with buttons, and a
collar) and rehearsed his speech in the big full-length mirror in the
hallway, just like Robert DeNiro. Well, not just like Robert DeNiro. He
didn't have a mohawk and he wasn't insane. He hoped.

 "It's not working out, okay?" Ray told his reflection. "Someday you're
going to realize that you could do a lot better. And I can't wait around
for you to buy a clue. So let's end it. We can still be buddies, partners.
I just don't think I'll be able to handle it when you finally figure out
I'm wrong for you."

 There. Ray sagged against the mirror, resting his forehead against the
cool glass. He closed his eyes. "I couldn't handle it," he said to
himself.

 Dinner was ready. He could smell the spaghetti sauce burning.

 *********

 Fraser broke into a wide, happy smile the second Ray opened the door, and
Ray had another one of those clubbed-over-the-head moments where he
couldn't breathe for a second because Fraser was so beautiful. Fraser was
wearing a blue button-down shirt, jeans, and that butter-soft leather
jacket that made Ray's knees go a little wobbly. He'd actually...Christ,
it was embarrassing, but he'd actually had a fantasy about Fraser wearing
that jacket (and nothing else) while fucking Ray on the futon in Ray's
living room, his hips pumping hard under the hem of that soft,
chocolate-coloured jacket. 

 Ray tried to swallow past the tightness in his throat and made a
half-hearted attempt to return Fraser's smile. He waved Fraser inside.

 "Glad you could make it," he muttered. 

 "Thank you kindly, Ray." Fraser didn't say it with his usual enthusiasm.
In fact, Fraser looked like he already knew there was something wrong.
Which was bad. Ray didn't want Fraser on edge through this whole dinner,
turning things over in his mind, maybe planning some kind of advance
rebuttal. No, he needed to catch Fraser by surprise. Maybe it wasn't
sporting, or whatever, but Ray knew if he gave Fraser a chance to talk him
out of it he'd succeed, and then Ray'd be right back at square one,
expecting that at any second Fraser would figure out he was too good for
Ray and hightail it outta there to be with someone better, like
Smithbauer. Which would kill Ray.

 So. Ray couldn't let Fraser figure out anything was wrong. Which meant
that Ray had to act natural. 

 "Fraser, uh, can you set the table?"

 In retrospect the table, utensils and dishes probably tipped Fraser off
to the fact that something wasn't kosher. Hell, the fact that Ray had
cooked at all was probably an indication that either the world was ending
or that Ray wanted to have an Important Conversation. As he finished
stirring the sauce for the pasta Ray thought about all the times Stella
had cooked for him. Each and every time he'd known that either it was good
news ("I got into law school!" "I've thought about it, and...what the
hell, let's get married!") or really, really bad news ("I don't think
we're ready to have children, Ray." "It's not working." "Ray, please stop
coming over. I can't do this anymore.") But Fraser had never been married.
Fraser had never even dated anyone, unless you counted the bank robber
chick. Which Ray did not. And he hoped Fraser didn't, either. 

 So maybe Fraser didn't know that when the person you're fucking invites
you over to have dinner (that they cooked, even though they don't cook)
and puts on a new shirt (with a collar and buttons, even though they hate
those kind of shirts) and uses the good china (or, hell, china, instead of
paper plates) something was definitely hinky. 

 He'd feel sorry for the guy if he wasn't so sure that he was saving
Fraser a lot of wasted time and effort.

 "So, you have a good day?" Ray put the pot of spaghetti on the table,
which wobbled a little. One leg was shorter than the rest. Fuck, he was
such a loser. Even his table wasn't a model of a table. 

 "I did, thank you. Dief and I went for a run in the park and I returned
some books to the library. I'm sorry you weren't available for lunch."

 Ray winced a little at that. He should have picked up the phone. But he'd
needed some time to get his head together, and hanging out at the deli
down the street from the Consulate would have been a recipe for disaster.
Fraser would have been all sweaty from his run. He would have been dressed
in a t-shirt and shorts and running shoes, and his hair would have been
mussed, and his face would have been flushed, and he would have smelled
fantastic, sweaty and hot and a little musky. And all of it--all of
it--would have worn away at Ray's precious self- control. Because after
lunch Fraser would have said something like, "Would you care to accompany
me back to the Consulate, Ray?" and no way could Ray turn down an offer
like that. So, passive-aggressive mode.

 "Yeah, well, I had things to do." Ray waved around his apartment. The
place was actually semi-clean for once. He'd vacuumed and dusted and even
moved the couch to get at all the little dust bunnies hiding back there.
He'd found a couple of empty condom wrappers, too, from their first couple
of times on the couch, but he hadn't wanted to throw the wrappers out.
He'd set them on the bookshelf instead, and dusted around them. 

 It had been a weird kind of day.

 "You need a spoon?"

 It was a dumb question. Fraser had set the table, so of course there was
already a spoon there: in fact, there were two spoons, and three kinds of
forks, two different knives, and napkins (Ray'd made him use paper towels,
because cloth ones would have been a big neon sign blinking, "Something's
WRONG!") which Fraser'd folded perfectly in half. 

 Ray squeezed his eyes shut. He was acting like a nutjob.

 "I'm fine, thank you. Ray, is something the matter? You seem" and Fraser
looked pointedly around the clean, uncluttered apartment, "a little
on-edge."

 "Yeah, I'm good." Ray took a big gulp of beer. He'd bought a twelve-pack
for himself and some grape juice for Fraser, and he'd already finished off
two beers before Fraser had shown up. "How'd things go with your friend
last night?"

 Fraser paused and seemed to consider the question, sipping at his grape
juice. "It was good to see Mark again. He's had a very difficult time of
late, but I think he's finally found some sort of peace. It was quite a
surprise to see him in the bar last night."

 "I'll bet," Ray said under his breath. Fraser heard it, of course, and
frowned. "You and him been good buddies for a long time, huh?"

 "I wouldn't say that." Fraser picked up his fork and put it down right
away, rubbing at his eyebrow. "We were good friends a long time ago. We
didn't speak for a number of years but met by chance here in Chicago. Of
course, that was-"

 "That's good," Ray said, cutting him off. He knew it was rude, but he
couldn't bear to hear Fraser wax poetic about some hockey player he was in
love with. He scowled down at his plate, stabbing at his spaghetti with
his fork. The fucking sauce was terrible.

 "Ray, if something's bothering you it might be a good idea to-"

 "Fraser, it's fine. I'm fine, you're fine, we're fine. Eat your dinner."

 Fraser frowned and used that slightly pissed-off, slightly confused voice
he'd spent years perfecting with the wolf. "Ray, what's the matter? What
aren't you telling me?" 

 Ray dropped his fork. It glanced off his plate with a faint tink and fell
to the floor. He felt his face heat up and he started to sweat a little
under the stupid shirt. He resisted the urge to run a finger under his
collar. "Nothing."

 Fraser didn't look convinced. He folded his arms across his chest and
leaned back in his chair, his knee brushing against Ray's underneath the
table. Ray tried to pretend Fraser hadn't done it deliberately. That'd be
dirty pool. 

 "Something on your mind?"

 "I could ask you the same question," Fraser said quietly, "but I suspect
you wouldn't give me an honest response."

 Ray shot out of his chair and jabbed a finger at Fraser's stupid broad
chest. "You calling me a liar, Fraser?"

 "No. I'm simply suggesting that something is bothering you, and you're
reluctant to tell me what it is." Fraser still looked calm but there was
something in his voice, in his eyes, that said he was afraid. Afraid of
what Ray was going to say.

 Fuck, he couldn't do this. He couldn't do this to Fraser. The guy had had
shitty luck with people and it wasn't his fault he was way out of Ray's
league. That was Ray's problem.

 And he could do this, could play this part. He could be with Fraser and
know all along that it was going to end badly. He could just watch and
wait until Fraser found Miss (or Mr.) Right and let Fraser be the one to
break it off. At least then Fraser wouldn't feel like he'd fucked up with
yet another person. 

 Ray wondered if there was some way to explain what he'd been thinking
without making it sound like he didn't want them to be together. Because
that wasn't it. Ray loved Fraser. Maybe he hadn't told him that yet, but
he loved being with him, loved fucking him, loved working with him. It was
just that, well, they wouldn't last. Even if Fraser wasn't interested in
this Smithbauer guy, he deserved to be with someone who wouldn't freak out
over stupid shit all the time. Enough bad stuff had happened to Fraser
without Ray popping up to pile more on.

 "Hey, Fraser," Ray said, putting his hand on Fraser's big, warm shoulder.
"I'm sorry, okay? I know I've been acting weird tonight. Don't worry about
it. Let's just watch TV, or something."

 "I'd rather talk."

 Ray bit back a groan. That was the kiss of death. Stella had used that
same line on him lots of times. No way was he getting out of this now
without having to explain everything. 

 "Fine," he sighed, dumping the rest of his uneaten dinner in the trash.
He stuck some of the spaghetti in a Tupperware container for Fraser to
take back for Dief. Might be a while before he'd see the furball again.

 Fraser helped him clean up and they did the dishes in silence. They still
moved well together, keeping out of each other's way, Fraser handing him
each dish to wash in sequence so the water didn't get too dirty before he
did the big pans. While Fraser finished drying, Ray put some water on for
tea and opened one last bottle of beer.

 Okay, time to talk. Fraser had settled himself on the couch. He was
sitting right in the corner of the futon, his back ramrod straight, his
knees together. Ray was so used to seeing off-duty Fraser sprawled out in
bed, or relaxed beside him watching a game, that Ray had almost forgotten
Fraser could be so stiff. He sat down next to him and put his hand on
Fraser's thigh. Fraser tensed beneath him and Ray moved his hand to the
neutral space between them. 

 "Hey," he said quietly. "Relax, okay?"

 "You first."

 "Fair enough." Ray did his best impression of a guy in a state of
blissful relaxation. He slumped down a little on the couch, spread his
legs wide, and laced his hands together over his belly. Just like he was
watching a game. Or porn, like in the years After Stella and Before
Fraser. 

 "Your turn."

 Watching Fraser try to relax was kind of funny. It was like he was
following a diagram of how to do it, like he'd read a chart somewhere that
said: "A) drop your shoulders, 2) loosen your muscles, F) close your eyes
and breathe deeply." Ray watched him try it for a little while and decided
that all the staring was probably making Fraser more nervous. Plus Ray's
brain was working up to another one of those "he's gorgeous!" flashes of
insight, which Ray really did not need at this juncture. 

 He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. It seemed like the kind of
conversation that would go better if he didn't have to look at Fraser.

 "Just think about how you feel after you come. Relaxed, right? Like your
body doesn't have any bones in it, and you're just this big warm puddle of
goo, and all your happy little nerve endings are zipping around saying,
'Hey, you just got laid! Enjoy!' Try that."

 He heard Fraser take a deep breath, and then sink more deeply into the
couch with a little rustle and a contented sigh. A familiar sigh, like the
one Fraser usually gave when Ray switched off the light and snuggled next
to him in bed, resting his head on Fraser's shoulder. 

 Okay, it would be just like ripping off a Band-Aid. He'd explain it
quickly. "You ever notice that you and I look kinda weird together?" 

 "What?" Fraser asked him. This time it was his hand on Ray's thigh, and
Ray pulled away a little at his touch. Fraser's hand was so warm. 

 There was a soft rustle of fabric, and he figured Fraser was leaning
back, surprised. He'd probably tensed up again, too. 

 "Fraser, relax. It's just a question."

 "It sounds like a very serious question."

 "Yeah, well, maybe." Ray shrugged. He kept his eyes closed. "Just let me
say this, okay? And then you can decide if it is or it isn't."

 He started unbuttoning his shirt. It was new, right out of the package,
so the fabric was a little stiff and it was tough to work the buttons
through the buttonholes. He kept going until he'd got the shirt open and
the ends tugged out of his pants. Then he went to work on his jeans. 

 It was harder than he'd thought to do this with his eyes shut. He'd
gotten undressed in the dark plenty of times. But this was strange and
awkward and he could feel the confusion radiating off Fraser. The problem
was, he didn't know how else to explain. Now that he was in the moment he
knew those Robert DeNiro monologues wouldn't work. Fraser would argue with
him, convince him that he was wrong. And yeah, he wanted to be convinced,
but Fraser had to understand. He had to make Fraser see.

 Finally he was down to his jockey shorts. Now that he was nearly naked,
Ray felt like he could open his eyes. 

 Fraser was staring at him, looking really worried. Ray touched his cheek,
and used his thumb to smooth out the little furrow in Fraser's brow. "It's
okay," he murmured, and then he fumbled for the buttons on Fraser's shirt.
"Take this off." 

 "Ray, what in the world-?"

 "Just do it. I gotta show you something."

 Fraser made another noise of protest--he sounded a lot like Dief when the
wolf was grumbling about something--but he worked his shirt open while Ray
undid his pants. Fraser's jeans were a little (okay, a lot) tight, and Ray
had to get him to lift his hips a bit to work them off, but eventually
they were both wearing nothing but underwear. They looked like morons, but
Ray figured that might help drive his point home. Even in old-fashioned
starched boxers, Fraser looked like a million bucks. Ray looked like
something you'd see at a roadside carnival. 

 Ray stood up and caught Fraser's hand, pulling him up. He led Fraser over
to the big mirror in the hallway.

 "What do you see?"

 Fraser met Ray's eyes in the mirror and raised his eyebrows. 

 "Ray, I don't know what you're asking."

 "Just tell me what you see."

 Fraser sighed and looked at his reflection quickly. "I see a human male,
thirty-seven years old, in good health and at an appropriate stage of
development. I've obviously suffered some physical trauma," he added, his
fingertips wandering over a couple of the old scars on his chest, "but
otherwise my body is in good condition. Is that what you're asking?"

 Ray shook his head. It figured that Fraser, who was so smart in other
ways, wouldn't twig to this. "You think of yourself as good-looking?"

 "I...err, I'm not quite sure I understand the question." Fraser was
blushing furiously now. Ray knew from personal experience that once Fraser
got started, the blush would spread from his face down his throat, across
his chest and...lower. When he let go or he couldn't help it, Fraser did
everything with his whole body, even embarrassment. And right now he was
definitely embarrassed. Maybe feeling a little betrayed, too. Like he
thought the way he looked wasn't something they were supposed to discuss. 

 Ray pushed on, not looking at his own face in the mirror as he hovered
over Fraser's shoulder. 

 "It's a pretty straightforward question, Fraser. Do you think you're
attractive?"

 Fraser rubbed at his eyebrow. "Why is that important?"

 "Because it is," Ray said, smacking his palm against the glass. "It is,
okay? You have to know what you look like. How people react to you. You
gotta know."

 "Is it important to you?"

 Ray's heart stuttered a little. There was so much in Fraser's voice, in
the way he asked the question. Ray knew words could be loaded, but that
was a fucking dump truck. He swallowed.

 "Fraser...yeah, it's important" he sighed. "I mean, you and me, us, we've
been hot and heavy for a little while. And you gotta know that I think
you're--that I think you're beautiful, okay?"

 He winced. It sounded really queer when he said it out loud like that.
And not in a gay way--gay was pretty much a given. But it sounded weird,
too. He'd told Stella over and over for years how beautiful she was. He
never thought he'd ever say it to anyone else. Or mean it more.

 Fraser sighed and his shoulders relaxed. Ray couldn't even begin to
figure out why the hell Fraser was so relieved.

 "I'm glad, Ray," he said, turning to wrap his arms around Ray's neck. His
chest was solid and warm against Ray's and Ray closed his eyes for a
second. "I thought...well, I wasn't quite sure what I thought, but I
certainly don't understand why you feel it necessary to point out that
I--that you--what I mean is, I've known for quite some time that you find
me appealing. And I'm glad you take pleasure in my appearance." He brushed
his lips across Ray's, and Ray shivered a little. "I find you very
appealing as well." 

 At the warm, wet touch of Fraser's tongue against his lips, Ray broke
away roughly and folded his arms across his chest. "Well, you shouldn't."

 Fraser looked stunned. He opened his mouth but no sound came out.

 Ray grabbed Fraser's shoulders and twisted him around to face the mirror
again. He nudged Fraser aside a little so they could both fit in front of
the mirror.

 "Don't you get it? We're not in the same league. You're--" he gestured to
Fraser's broad, muscular chest, his tight stomach, his firm legs, even his
cock, a dark, heavy weight against the thin white material of his boxers.
"And I'm--"

 Not much to point at here. Just a lot of knobby limbs, a weird ribcage,
skin that looked sallow under the bright overhead light in the hall. That
light showed the deep lines forming in his face, too, and the way his
belly was starting to thicken. In ten years he'd just be some skinny freak
with a potbelly and a wrinkled-up mug. 

 Fraser caught his hand in a grip so tight it was almost painful. "What
are you saying about yourself?" he asked, and Ray had never, ever heard
that tone in Fraser's voice before. "What do you mean?"

 "I'm not--" Ray dropped his head and sighed. Great, Fraser was pissed
off. He wouldn't even try to listen to Ray now. Stubborn bastard. "Look,
I'm sorry. I knew this was a bad idea. You're not going to understand."

 "Understand what?" Fraser's voice was a little softer now, a little more
gentle. He'd eased up a bit and now he was holding Ray's hand instead of
crushing it. "Ray, please, you have to know that you are--"

 Ray shook his head and pulled his hand away. "I know guys like you don't
end up settling for guys like me, okay? I thought about this a lot and I
just don't want to see you tie yourself down to something that's not right
for you. That's all." 

 He turned back to the mirror almost reluctantly, and so did Fraser. Ray
stared down at their feet: his were narrow, knobby, with weirdly long
toes. Fraser's were like every other part of his body: big, white, and
perfectly-formed. A little square, maybe, but they made him look solid,
like he could bear up under anything. Good feet, feet made for a guy who
could probably carry a dead caribou across a thousand miles of tundra. 

 Fraser was working something out. When Ray finally risked a glance up to
his face he could see the gears turning away, those smoke-grey eyes dark
and cloudy with some emotion Ray couldn't quite pin down. Sorrow or anger
or some deep denial. He turned away and kept looking at their mismatched
feet.

 Finally Fraser spoke up. "Is this about Stella? Has she said something to
you?"

 Ray flinched. "No," he said quickly. "No, you've got the wrong idea.
Stella never said a word. High school, maybe, she used to tease me about
being too skinny, but we kinda grew out of that. It was later. The way
people would look at us at parties, on the street. The way guys would look
at her, and then look back at me like I was nothing, like I was her
chauffeur. When we got married I was just a dumb kid, didn't know the way
things worked. Now she's dating these lawyer types and they're all either
rich or good-looking. Or both. They're on her level. They fit with her.
Everybody finds someone they fit with."

 "And you don't think we fit."

 Ray shrugged. "I just keep thinking about your friend. That Smithbauer
guy. And he was...well, I got a look at him in the bar. Seemed like the
kind of guy you should be with."

 "Mark?" Fraser rubbed at his eyebrow, and man, those gears were going
into overdrive. "Ray, I assure you, Mark and I are friends. That's all.
And I invited you out with us."

 Ray shrugged. "I didn't feel much like being a third wheel. And still.
Big, handsome guy like that, athletic, a hockey player, old friend of
yours. It seems like a good fit."

 Fraser was frowning, and he looked, shit, pretty angry. "You think I
would be unfaithful to you? Or that I'd give up what we have to be with a
man who-" He cut himself off suddenly, going pale. "You planned to end our
relationship tonight. Over this." Fraser said it like it was a flat fact,
no room for error. 

 And his face--God, he looked broken, somehow. Like none of this had ever
occurred to him. And how did a guy get through thirty-six years and get a
fuckload of scars without figuring out the way the world worked?

 "No, you and me fit in lots of ways, Fraser. Cops and buddies and
partners, right? And we're both freaks. Only you don't look it, especially
once you get out of that uniform." Ray thought about Fraser squirming
against the mattress, sweaty and shaking and begging Ray to put his tongue
or his cock or fingers inside him. Yeah, once Fraser was out of his tunic
he looked better than pretty much anyone Ray had ever met. 

 "It's just that... someday someone is going to come along who fits with
you better. I know how people think, and how tough it's gonna be for us
later if we--" But he couldn't finish that thought. He was going to say,
If we go up to Canada, but Fraser hadn't brought that up, and this was
hard enough for Ray to say without talking about that, about all the
might-have-beens. 

 He took a deep breath. "And when you meet somebody better I'm not going
to be able to live with it, Fraser. I got left in the dust once already
and it almost killed me." 

 "Ray," Fraser rested his hands on Ray's bare shoulders. He shivered a
little; it was chilly in his apartment and they were both standing around
practically naked. But Fraser's hands were warm. Fraser's hands had always
felt so good on him. 

 Ray tried to meet Fraser's eyes. He owed him that, at least. And Fraser
didn't look angry anymore, just tired and sad.

 "Ray, are you really concerned that I'm going to leave you for someone
else?"

 I'm concerned that you're going to leave me. Period. But Ray managed not
to say that part out loud. 

 "You have to realize how utterly ridiculous that is." Fraser seemed
pretty serious. In fact, Ray didn't think he'd ever seen Fraser look quite
so serious, except maybe when Fraser was asking him to jump off a building
or something. "I--I love you. I'm not going to leave you for someone just
because they meet some arbitrary social standard of physical appearance.
And certainly not for Mark."

 Ray hadn't heard much after Fraser's stuttered I love you. They hadn't
said that to each other. He didn't think it was something they were
supposed to say. Fraser had been so careful never to push, never to ask
for much more than what he knew Ray could give him: a blowjob, or a kiss,
or a night out at a hockey game. And Ray hadn't wanted to press his luck.
He already knew Fraser was way out of his league. Love seemed too much to
ask for. He already expected hot dogs and got caviar; love would be a
four-course meal. Worse and better and way, way too much.

 "You don't have to say that."

 Fraser looked shocked. "Pardon me?"

 "Love. You don't have to say things like that, y'know."

 "I want to say it." Fraser's face had hardened up and yeah, there was
that stubborn look in his eyes. "It's my right."

 "Your right?" 

 Fraser nodded and went into parade rest. Amazing: he was almost naked and
he still managed to look like he was wearing his full dress uniform,
radiating power and self-confidence. "I think I've earned the right to
tell you how I feel, Ray."

 Ray knew his mouth was hanging open. He probably looked like a trout.
What was this about rights and earning stuff? He usually didn't need a
road map to navigate a conversation with Fraser, but this whole thing was
going right over his head. "What do you mean?"

 "I mean," Fraser said, that hard cast to his jaw still making it look
like his face was cut from granite, "that I have loved people before, Ray.
Not many, but enough to recognize that what I feel for you is
fundamentally different. It's better." 

 Wow, Fraser's eyes were warm. Just like his hands and his feet and his
whole hot body. Kind eyes, gentle eyes. Eyes that said, You're a freak but
I love you anyway. And why the hell had Ray been willing to throw that
away, even if it wasn't going to last forever? 

 "But that doesn't change the fact that you're--" Ray waved at the mirror,
"and I'm--"

 Fraser cocked his head to one side thoughtfully, and brushed his hand
against the elastic waistband of Ray's boxers. "Would you remove those,
please?"

 Ray put a protective hand on the waistband of his shorts. "Uh, why?"

 "I'll take mine off if it would make you feel more comfortable."

 Ray snorted. "Fraser, that would not make me feel more comfortable. Hot
n'bothered, yeah, but definitely not comfortable."

 Fraser looked confused for a second--he seemed to be running 'hot and
bothered?' through his Chicago-to-Canadian dictionary--but he simply fixed
Ray with one of those level Mountie stares and said, "I took off my
clothing when you asked."

 "Okay, okay." Ray skinned out of his shorts and tossed them in the vague
direction of the living room where their other clothes were piled. "Logic
ain't buddies, Fraser."

 When he looked up again, Fraser was naked, and Ray didn't need that big
club over the head to recognize that, yes, Fraser was perfect. Ray had
seen a lot of Fraser's body and, while he still couldn't believe how
fucking beautiful he was, none of that had anything on the way Fraser
looked right now. 

 When Fraser finally met Ray's eyes he shook his head and chuckled to
himself, and padded off down the hall. Ray blinked. What the fuck? Had
Fraser just left him here? He heard Fraser rustling around in the living
room (please please please don't be looking for a camera) and when Fraser
came back he held Ray's glasses out to him.

 "Oh, Christ, Fraser, this is bad enough without everything being in
focus."

 "Indulge me." 

 Ray knew another appeal to logic, or at least fairness, was right around
the corner, so he put on the stupid glasses. He had to blink once or twice
until his eyes adjusted and, hey, maybe this wasn't such a terrible idea.
Fraser was certainly a lot clearer; he'd gone from a slightly fuzzy white
outline (gorgeous) to a sharply detailed body (gorgeouser).

 The light in the hallway was fairly bright, so Ray could pick out all the
familiar scars and nicks and little cuts Fraser had. That weird one on his
chest from the otter. A couple old cuts from glass on his upper arm, that
rough, ridged white pattern on his pectoral from being dragged behind a
jeep over an unpaved road. And lower, on his knees, a surgery scar from
when he'd broken his leg, and a newer stab wound that had happened a
couple of years before Ray had met him. Fraser didn't turn, but Ray got a
good look at Fraser's profile in the mirror, and just above the swell of
that incredible ass he knew there was a really nasty scar, a cluster of
damaged nerves and tissue right above the end of his spinal column. 

 Ray hadn't known what it was that first night they spent together: it was
just another part of Fraser, something he felt with his lips and tongue on
his way south. It wasn't until later, in the shower, that Ray had asked
about it.

 "A gunshot wound," Fraser had told him as Ray rubbed shampoo into his
hair. "It hasn't healed very well."

 Ray had touched the scar with wet fingers. It seemed so out of place on
Fraser's smooth skin. All of his other scars were old and faded, or small,
like Ray's. But this one...this one was ugly. It was maybe the only ugly
thing about Fraser. He'd bent to kiss it in the shower, and he'd felt
Fraser shiver. 

 They'd gone back to bed and Fraser had fallen asleep right away, curled
up tight next to Ray. Lying there in the dark pressed up close against
Fraser, breathing in his warm scent, listening to his heartbeat, Ray had
put his hand over that scar and covered it up with his palm. It just
didn't seem to fit.

 "Ray," Fraser said, and Ray blinked. 

 "What?"

 Fraser sighed and turned Ray slightly so he was facing away from Fraser
and staring right into the mirror. "You asked me to describe myself. I'd
like you to do the same."

 Ray shook his head. No way. No way was he going to put all of this shit
into words. He knew that whatever he said, Fraser would come up with some
kind of counter-argument and they'd just end up yelling at each other. He
scowled at Mirror-Fraser, but Fraser just stared right back at him. And
Ray knew from experience that it was easier to win a staring contest with
a cat than with Fraser.

 Ray surrendered with a sigh. "I'm getting older. I never really liked the
way I look, But now it's harder now to ignore all the bad parts."

 "Such as?" Fraser asked gently. He was listening intently, but not like
he was filing points away so he could argue about them. He was listening
like he was really trying to understand.

 Ray pointed at his belly, his weird ropey arms, his knobby feet. It
seemed easier to point than explain. Fraser watched his pantomime in the
mirror, frowning when Ray gestured at his cock.

 "Why--?"

 "It's too big." Ray blushed. "It looks freaky, doesn't it? I mean, I'm
tall enough, but I'm not a big guy like you. A dick this size looks wrong
on me. Guys back in school said...well, nevermind. But you know that
comparing thing teenagers do?" 

 Fraser looked back at him blankly. Right. Fraser had grown up in a
meatlocker a thousand miles from anywhere. "Uh, y'know, with your buddies?
I was always the freak."

 "Ray, aren't large genitals traditionally a source of pride and
validation?"

 "Not when the rest of you is about 5'4" and weighs less than a hundred
pounds. I didn't get my height until eleventh grade. This goddamn thing
made me look like a Chihuahua with a Mastiff's dick."

 Fraser stared down at Ray's cock. Which made Ray wonder if Fraser had
ever actually noticed how big Ray was. Fraser had spent a lot of time on
and around Ray's dick, of course: stroking, sucking, rubbing up against
it, but maybe it'd never occurred to him to think about size. Ray sure
had, though. Last weekend-- Christ, it had only been last weekend?--when
he had first fucked Fraser, he'd been terrified. He'd spent a long time
(and a lot of lube) opening Fraser up, and when he was pushing in he'd
asked over and over again if Fraser was okay. Fraser'd just grunted and
strained a little and muttered something about, "A moment, if you please."
And then he'd taken it like a pro. 

 It looked like Fraser was considering dick size now. He kept staring down
at Ray with a little frown on his face, and Ray hoped he wasn't about to
announce that, yep, Ray was right and he really didn't feel like getting
down and dirty with Ray and his freakish cock anymore. Finally Fraser met
his eyes in the mirror and smiled a little.

 "Ray, there's absolutely no cause to think that you're abnormal in any
way. Granted, I don't have a lot of experience with the relative size of
men's genitalia, and you are perhaps on the large side, but I don't see
that as a problem. And since we both find pleasure in...certain acts," and
yep, right on cue there was that blush, the one Fraser could never really
keep at bay whenever he talked about sex, "I'm not sure why it's relevant.
I think you have a beautiful penis, Ray."

 Wow. Ray was pretty impressed that Fraser had gotten that out. Ray wasn't
sure even he'd be able to say the same thing to Fraser with a straight
face, but then Fraser was kind of a freak. "Uh, thanks. I like yours,
too."

 He was playing it cool, of course. Ray really liked Fraser's dick, even
though it had taken a little getting used to at first, what with all that
extra skin at the tip. But now Ray associated it with all kinds of good
feelings: comfort and pleasure, mind-blowingly good sex, and a weird, warm
kind of feeling that said 'home' even though a dick was a dick was a dick
and Fraser's was an appendage just like every other guy's. It was a nice
appendage, though.

 "What else don't you like about the way you look?"

 "What, you want a full list?"

 Fraser frowned. "I'm trying to understand you, Ray. I knew you were self-
conscious, but I attributed that to your misgivings about engaging in
sexual activity with a man."

 "Wait, you thought I felt weird about fucking a guy?"

 "I wouldn't put it in those terms," Fraser said, "but you never seemed
very comfortable about...this. You were married to a woman for a long
time. And you seemed very reluctant to remain with me in the bar last
night."

 "That wasn't why I didn't want to stay," Ray cut him off. "And I picked
that bar, remember? I'm okay with being queer, Fraser. I've been with guys
before, but not...not guys like you. I just don't know what you see in
me."

 "Back to the 'not fitting' issue, hmmm?"

 Ray flashed him a look of warning. "Don't do that 'hmmm' shit, okay? This
is serious."

 Fraser grew solemn again. Weirdo thought all of this was something he
could joke about. Which it was, maybe, but Ray sure as hell wasn't in the
mood to laugh. Not when he was standing naked next to Fraser in front of a
full-length mirror. The perfect illustration of why they didn't fit was
right there, fucking staring at him in the face. He bet Smithbauer looked
great naked.

 Fraser moved behind Ray, and Ray couldn't help the shiver that ran up and
down his spine at the draught of air, and the sensation of Fraser standing
so close behind him. He made himself look in the mirror, and yep, still a
frog. Fraser looked like a model or a movie star, and Ray was just pale
and yellow and sad- looking. And God, his thick-framed glasses! They made
him look like such a geek. He really should get better frames or
something. 

 Fraser edged forward a little until his chest brushed Ray's bare skin,
and his breath ghosted hotly across the back of Ray's neck. 

 "Will you do something for me?" His voice was lower, sexy. Seductive.
Fuck.

 Ray swallowed hard. "Sure."

 "Will you smile?"

 Ray twisted his head around to scowl at Fraser. "The hell?"

 "Please," he said, staring intently at their reflection in the mirror.
"Smile."

 Ray shook his head and scratched at his shoulder, just above his tattoo.
He tried out a smile a couple of times but he looked demented. "I look
like I'm sick or something, Fraser."

 "Hmmm," Fraser hummed, and glanced at him. "Well, let's try a different
approach. Do you remember the day we met? 

 "Yeah, those near-death experiences tend to stick with me."

 Fraser put his hands on Ray's shoulders and started to knead the tense
muscles there. "Do you remember the ducks?"

 Ray closed his eyes and dropped his head, breathing deeply through his
nose. Fraser was good at neck rubs. "Yeah, those little rubber duckies
were everywhere. I told Huey that they were evidence and had to be bagged
and tagged. Funniest damn thing in the world, Huey out there on the lake
with a pool skimmer." 

 Fraser's hands were working their magic: he could feel himself relaxing,
getting into the rhythm of Fraser's massage, those big broad hands moving
over his skin and easing away all the tension he'd been carrying the whole
weekend. 

 "Think of that, then. Good. Now look."

 Ray didn't give himself time to think. He looked up and caught himself
grinning in the mirror. He thought about the ducks, yeah, but he also
thought about the first time Fraser had kissed him--in the GTO, just after
Christmas, his mouth soft and hot against Ray's. It had shocked the hell
out of him and thrilled him at the same time. At that moment, the moment
when Fraser put his mouth on his and sealed their lips together, Ray had
felt like a goddamn superhero. 

 He put that into his smile. It was his same old shit-eating grin, but
Fraser was looking at him in the mirror with a funny light in his eyes. He
was smiling, too, but without showing his teeth. And Ray really liked
Fraser's soft, secret smiles.

 "Look! Do you see it?" Fraser asked him, drawing Ray's attention back to
his own face. "Do you see how amazing you are?"

 Ray could, kind of. When he smiled his whole face seemed brighter, and
maybe those wrinkles stood out a little more clearly, but he had a good
smile, good teeth, and when he wasn't doing that tight, fake nutcase grin
he actually seemed kind of...handsome. Plus there was the way Fraser was
looking at him right now, like he thought Ray's smile lit up all of
Chicago.

 "I love your smile," Fraser said, "And your eyes. They're beautiful."

 Ray snorted. "Are not. Not with these," he said, tapping at his glasses.
Fraser shook his head.

 "I find them endearing."

 "You would."

 "Yes, I would," Fraser murmured, stepping closer to wrap his arms around
Ray's chest. He dropped his head to pressed a wet kiss to the back of
Ray's neck, then rested his chin on Ray's shoulder. 

 Ray arched his neck back a little to nip at Fraser's ear. "I'm glad,
y'know. That you like me." 

 He felt Fraser smile against his cheek. "I do, very much so. I should
have told you earlier." He cleared his throat, and Ray realized that this
was all new territory for Fraser. He'd probably never talked like this
with anyone before. It's my right, Fraser had said. So Ray would let him
have his say, if that was what he wanted to do. He let the silence go for
a couple more beats and, like always, Fraser found the courage to go on. 

 "I like the way you look very much," he said, his voice still low and
soft. "You're strong and capable, and you are so very graceful. I like to
watch you move." 

 Ray relaxed a little and leaned back against him, and Fraser began to
rock them back and forth, slowly, to the rhythm of his words. 

 "I've always enjoyed watching you, Ray. When you dance, when you walk,
even when you argue with someone on the telephone. You're very expressive.
I love how utterly unselfconscious you are, and I envy you that ability to
be so at ease in your own skin. I've never felt that way. And I thought-"
Fraser's voice hitched a little and he stiffened slightly, shifting his
body away. "I thought our differences complemented one another. I'm sorry
you see them as a point of division."

 "I don't," Ray said quickly, settling his arms over Fraser's and pulling
him back, pulling him closer, until they were touching everywhere. It
didn't matter that Fraser couldn't dance. He had the right moves when it
counted. "Well, I did, but you got me thinking. Maybe that's just left
over insecurity or something. I guess I'm used to getting dumped. I'm just
afraid you're going to go away someday."

 Fraser bent his head to nuzzle Ray's jaw. "I'm afraid you are, too," he
said quietly. "I couldn't bear it if you left me."

 Ray's eyes widened. "You...you worry about that?"

 Fraser nodded; he watched that dark head bob in the mirror. "Very much
so. Having had this, having been with you...I don't think I could go back
to the way things were before. You're-" He stuttered to a halt, swallowed
hard, and kept going. "You're my second chance. My last chance, I think."

 Ray twisted around until they were facing each other. Fraser wouldn't
meet his eyes; he was shaking slightly, and it looked like he thought he'd
said way too much. Ray put his hand on Fraser's cheek and gently tilted
his head up. God, he hadn't had the first fucking clue.

 "So we're both afraid," he said. "Think that's something we can work on?"

 Fraser pulled him close and wrapped his arms around him tightly. He
buried his nose in Ray's neck and nodded. Ray breathed in the warm,
familiar smells of Fraser, reveling in the way they still fit together. 

 "I do, Ray. I do."

 They kissed for a long, breathless moment. Fraser was so warm and so
close, so real and so beautiful. He was breathing hard, practically
gasping into Ray's ear when he pulled away to whisper, "Turn around." His
voice low and rough with desire. Ray swallowed and turned in Fraser's
arms, his attention going right to the mirror. 

 Fraser was wild-eyed, his perfect hair mussed where Ray's hands had been
stroking through it. And Ray's image looked shell-shocked: his face was
flushed and sweaty, his lips swollen from their kiss, his dick straining
up and jutting out from his body. Fraser wrapped his arms around Ray's
chest.

 "You have no idea what the sight of you like this does to me," he
whispered in Ray's ear, and Ray shivered. Fraser trailed his hand down
over Ray's ribcage, his fingertips barely brushing Ray's sensitive belly
before Fraser wrapped his hand around his dick.

 He couldn't hold back his gasp of surprise. Watching Fraser's hand move
down over his body in the mirror was weirdly pornographic. Almost like
watching a movie, but if this was a movie he wouldn't get to feel the way
Fraser's hand just glided over his skin, his grip firm and rough. He
rubbed Ray's nipple with his free hand and licked a broad swipe up the
side of his neck.

 "God," Ray murmured, tipping his head back to rest against Fraser's
shoulder. He couldn't watch, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the
mirror. This was--

 Yeah, Fraser knew what he was doing. He started pumping his hand,
stroking Ray in the tight circle of his fist. Ray couldn't help making
small, jerky movements with his hips, each delicious slide of Fraser's
hand bringing him little sparks and snaps of pleasure. He lifted his arms
up and clasped his hands around Fraser's neck. His whole body was one
long, live wire; his chest was heaving, his hips pumping into Fraser's
fist and then back to where Fraser's hard, hot cock pushed against his
hip. Fraser flicked his tongue over his thumb, wetting it a bit, and
brushed it over Ray's nipple. Ray shivered, feeling like he'd just gotten
zapped with an electric current that went right from his nipple down to
his balls. He dropped his arms and put his hand over Fraser's. Together
they jerked him, moving in sync to the creak of the floorboards and the
soft little gasps and grunts of pleasure Ray kept making.

 "We should...I want to..." he huffed, trying to find the words for what
he wanted. He felt Fraser smile against his neck.

 "What would you like to do?" 

 Ray groaned, pushing his hips forward into Fraser's hand. He was about
five seconds away from coming, less if Fraser kept asking him questions in
that sex- rough voice.

 And Ray got another one of those clubbed-over-the-head moments of
insight. He knew what he wanted. He'd finally agreed to fuck Fraser last
weekend, but he hadn't let Fraser fuck him. It had just been too much.
Like letting Fraser in that last little bit would ruin Ray for anyone
else. If he let Fraser do this, it meant he was all in. No going back.

 "I want you to fuck me," Ray ground out, and Fraser sucked in a deep
breath. He met Ray's eyes in the mirror. 

 "You're sure?"

 Ray nodded. "Yeah, I...yeah."

 Abruptly Fraser's hand fell away. He put his hand to Ray's side (hot hot
so damn hot) and tugged his chin toward him. Ray opened his mouth and
Fraser kissed him, his slick tongue moving against Ray's. 

 "Stay here. Stay right here," he said. "I'll be right back." Sounded like
the Mountie was having a little trouble talking. Ray couldn't hide his
smile. 

 Fraser was back a second later with a foil-wrapped condom and the lube.
Ray headed toward the bedroom, but Fraser caught his upper arm, his thumb
stroking over Ray's tattoo in gentle, circular motions.

 "Not there. Here," Fraser said, nodding at the mirror. Ray felt his knees
go a little weak. Christ! Fraser wanted Ray to watch while they fucked?
Ray closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and leaned his forehead against the
mirror, his palms pressed against the smooth, cool glass. He shivered a
little, waiting.

 Fraser set the slick and the condom package on the floor within easy
reach and stroked Ray's back, pressing up close behind him. "Shhhh," he
said, dropping a kiss between Ray's shoulder blades. "Just watch."

 Ray opened his eyes just as Fraser's hand moved lower, following the deep
groove of his spine until he reached the swell of Ray's buttocks. His
fingers were slick from the lube; they left a cool trail of wet down Ray's
back. He tensed slightly and pressed against Fraser. Fraser's fingers
hovered for a moment and then slipped...down.

 Ray panted and widened his stance a little. Fraser's finger was just
brushing his hole and it felt, God, great. "C'mon, Frase," he muttered,
and Fraser, smart guy that he was, seemed to take the hint. He pushed his
finger in and Ray sighed, feeling himself stretch and burn a little.
Fraser's fingers were big. Not as long as Ray's, but still. Big. He
grunted. "'S good, good. C'mon."

 When Fraser added a second finger Ray dropped his head forward, trying to
get his breathing under control. He pushed back again and growled, "Come
on!"

 And then Fraser's fingers slipped out and he heard the foil on the condom
package rip. 

 His palms were leaving sticky, sweaty handprints all over the mirror. He
spread his legs wide, standing almost like a perp would during a pat-down,
and then tilted his hips up a bit. He'd never done it standing before. He
wasn't sure if it would hurt, or--

 Fraser paused behind him, and an uncertain note crept into his voice.
"Are you sure? Perhaps I was hasty. This might be more comfortable on the
bed."

 Ray shook his head. "You wanted me to see this, right? So show me."

 Fraser stared at him for a second or two. Then he moved closer, closer,
and in. Ray gasped and slapped his palm against the mirror. His legs felt
wobbly and his dick had softened, but Fraser was stretching him open,
coming closer to that amazing place inside, that place where
everything...there. Oh, God, right there.

 "Fraser, do not move," Ray said. "Just...don't move." He opened his eyes.
They were so close to the mirror he didn't really even need his glasses;
he and Fraser were both clear, eyes bright and drugged-looking, sweat
dampening the hair at their temples. Fraser looked at him and shifted his
hands down to hold Ray's hips. 

 And he began to thrust.

 Fuck, when this was over Ray was really going to have to sit down--if he
could-- and ask himself some tough questions about why he hadn't let
Fraser to fuck him before. This was...Jesus, feeling Fraser work in and
out of his body, that hot, heavy, almost-painful slide with each stroke
out, each thrust in. And the strength in those hard hands that gripped his
hips and moved him in a counterpoint rhythm, twisting him slightly
counter-clockwise to create more heat and friction. They should go dancing
sometime. Fraser was a fucking terrific dancer.

 He was hard again, his cock leaking and begging for something to thrust
against. Ray pried one hand off the glass and began to jerk his dick in
time to Fraser's thrusts. Someone was grunting--it was probably him, but
he couldn't tell for sure--and he felt sweat trickle down his back and
slide between them, making the space between their bodies hot and
slippery. 

 "God, Jesus, I-"

 But Fraser wasn't really paying attention to what Ray was saying. He was
watching Ray's face in the mirror, and his expression was so intense Ray
had to squeeze his eyes shut. He could come like this, just from watching
Fraser's face as he fucked him. He looked so serious, eyes glazed over in
pleasure. Like people did sometimes in prayer. And maybe for Fraser this
qualified as a religious experience. It sure did for him. 

 He pressed back, harder, disrupting Fraser's careful rhythm to bring
their bodies together with more force. He wanted Fraser to let go. To let
go and fuck him and drive everything else away, all his bullshit fears and
insecurities until there was just this. Just Fraser, inside him, and the
look on their faces in the mirror.

 "Now," Ray said, and Fraser got it. His fingers dug into Ray's hips and
he pushed up into Ray in hard, short thrusts that almost lifted Ray off
his toes. Fraser made a half-strangled sound, something between a whisper
and a sigh. Ray closed his eyes, dropped his head, and came, and came, and
came, streaks of his come painting the mirror.

 Fraser sagged against him, tipping Ray forward until his forehead pressed
against the smooth, cool glass. They'd both melted, it felt like, becoming
boneless and heavy at the same time. Ray pushed himself up unsteadily, and
Fraser kissed his neck, cradling Ray with clumsy, uncoordinated movements
of his arms.

 Ray met Fraser's eyes in the mirror.

 "That was--"

 Fraser smiled and shook his head. "Do you see now?"

 "Yeah" he said quietly. "I see."

 ********

 Ray snapped off the lights in the living room and checked to make sure
the door was locked. He heard water running through the pipes in the
bathroom and paused in the hallway, smiling to himself. Funny the way a
good orgasm could give a guy a whole new perspective on things. 

 He slipped into bed just as Fraser came out of the bathroom. Ray had
taken off his glasses so Fraser was a dim white outline again, his pale
body glowing faintly in the light filtering in from off the street. Ray
moved over a little, leaving space in the bed beside him.

 The mattress dipped as Fraser settled in, and then suddenly Ray was
wrapped up in his warm, strong hug. The sensation of Fraser's arms around
him, of being held so tightly against that broad, solid chest, was
familiar by now. Comforting. Ray squeezed his eyes shut, hugging back as
hard as he could. Fraser grunted softly, happily, and pressed a kiss to
the side of Ray's neck.

 "You okay?"

 "Yes," Fraser whispered, his voice muffled. "Are you?"

 Another dump-truck question. Ray sighed and hugged Fraser back, tight.
"Yeah, I'm good. Sorry I'm such a headcase."

 "You're not." And wow, Fraser hadn't even hesitated. "You're beautiful. I
wish you could believe that."

 "Well," Ray said, stroking the warm, smooth skin of Fraser's shoulder, "I
know this Boy Scout type, and he's pretty trustworthy. He never lies,
cheats or steals, and he helps little old ladies across the street. This
guy? Well, he thinks I'm okay. Guess I should trust him."

 "I think he'd prefer that you trust yourself."

 Ray stopped the slow stroking movement of his hand and rolled over to lay
half- on top Fraser's chest. He could hear the steady drum of Fraser's
heart pumping away right under his ear. "I love you," he said quietly, and
Fraser's hand trembled a little against Ray's bare back. 

 "I love you too, Ray."

 Ray nodded. Fraser's heartbeat was really loud, and the steady thump
thump thump made Ray feel safe and relaxed and really, really sleepy. "I
know that now," he murmured, his voice thick and drowsy. "And the next
time I freak out over some hockey player, or I think you maybe deserve
someone a little better- looking, I'll try to remember. Okay?"

 Fraser sighed. "Okay, Ray. And if you need a reminder, perhaps I'll tape
a note to the mirror."

 "You're a funny guy," Ray said, nudging Fraser with his knee, wrapping
himself around him more securely.

 "So I've been told. Goodnight, Ray."

 "'Night, Fraser."

 And Ray drifted off to sleep, smiling faintly.

 the end  
  

End Mirror Image by Nos4a2no9 

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