Summary: Ficlet (yeah, remember the ficlets? From fucking July? That I was gonna get done in a week?) for _aerye_, who wanted Fraser/Kowalski, "Last time I was in this position, I was twelve."
Huge glomping thanks to ms. estrella30 for listening to me whinge about this for, uh. Wow. Months, now. And for telling me - again and again - "Uh, no, hon. Still doesn't make sense." Until it actually did. *smooch*
"It doesn't even matter," Ray said to his bathroom mirror. "It's not like I'm attracted to him or anything." He frowned, chewing on his bottom lip. That didn't sound too convincing. He took a breath and tried again. "I mean," he said earnestly to himself, "he's not even my type."
He snorted, and rolled his eyes. Yeah. Right. Not his type. Hell, the Mountie was probably Welsh's type, if there was a hell of a lot of beer involved and Fraser was wearing, say, the brown uniform.
"Jesus," he muttered to himself. "Last time I was in this position, I was twelve." Completely crazy about someone so out of his league, it wasn't even funny. You'd think he'd have learned by now. He sighed again, heavily, and studied himself in the mirror. He adjusted his hair a little and arranged his holster better, so it wasn't pinching his shoulder. "You're an idiot, Kowalski," he informed his reflection, then headed out, grabbing his coat on the way.
When Ray swung by to pick up Fraser on the way to the station, Fraser was wearing jeans, because it was his day off from the Consulate. Ray tightened his hands on the steering wheel for a second before turning the radio up loud and driving too fast the rest of the way to the station. When they got a call on the stolen merchandise ring they'd been investigating, Fraser leaned over Ray's shoulder to see the notes he was jotting down, breathing on the side of Ray's neck. Ray dropped the entire file and pages went flying everywhere. And later, investigating a truckload of merchandise they figured was from the same ring, Fraser picked up a leather belt and licked it carefully, to determine where it was from.
Ray had to leave the room.
And when they got back to the station, Ray found himself in the men's room, clutching the sides of the sink and staring at himself in the mirror again with determined desperation. "Not at all attracted," he tried, and that was an outright lie; he could see it in his own eyes. He gave it another shot. "Not my type." His voice sounded strangled. He shut his eyes and shook his head, muttering, "I need fucking therapy," which was, of course, when Dewey walked in.
"Talkin' to yourself, now, huh, Vecchio?" Dewey said, grinning broadly and rocking back on his heels.
"Better than talking to a dumbass like you," Ray shot back. And, okay, not the greatest comeback in the world, but it was a start. Didn't take much with Dewey. So the mocking turned to shouting turned to hitting, and a lot of the station seemed to be in the men's room all of a sudden, and Ray ended up with Fraser pinning his arms behind his back, as Huey held onto Dewey, who was still lunging forward. Ray could feel Fraser's warm, solid body pressed against him, and he twisted hard to try to get away, but Fraser was holding on tight. Dewey dragged Huey out of the room, and Welsh poked his head in the door and gave them a look and said to Fraser, "Calm him down."
Fraser said, "Yes, Lieutenant," and held on tighter, and Ray was not thinking about the fact that being held this tight by Fraser was making him hard.
The door swung shut behind Welsh and Ray could hear him yelling at everyone that the show was over and to get back to work. Ray sagged back against Fraser, then straightened up again very quickly. This time, when he pulled away, Fraser let him. Ray leaned back against the wall next to the paper towel dispenser and scrubbed at his face with his hands. He could feel Fraser standing there, watching him. "Listen," he said in a muffled voice. "Can we just go? I want to - " Have you pin me down hard. No. Quit that. He dropped his hands to his sides and didn't look at Fraser. "Go. Can we just get out of here?"
"All right," Fraser said slowly, studying him. "We can, butÖ" Fraser was frowning a little now. "What were you and Dewey fighting about?"
"Nothing. It was stupid."
"Yes, but it certainly seemed to be something."
"It was nothing, Fraser, I told you." Ray swung around to face the sink, clutching the sides again like a lifeboat. God, if he could just control this, if he could just stop thinking about Fraser that way, if he could just not be in love with himÖ God. He shook out his shoulders and turned back. "Forget it, okay, let's just get out of here. Please," he pleaded.
"Ray," said Fraser, his voice full of that meaningful and heartfelt concern that drove Ray up the fucking wall.
"If you want to talk..."
"Iím good." Ray carefully unclenched his fists.
"It might help..."
"I said I'm good, Fraser, will you just let it go? God!" His voice echoed in the empty men's room.
Fraser had gone very still and was just looking at Ray, really looking at him. Ray shifted uncomfortably. "What?" He realized his arms were crossed tightly in front of his chest and he quickly let them drop. Easy. Take it easy. This was fine. Fraser was clueless, he wasn't gonna figure out anything on this front that Ray didn't say right out and Ray was in no way gonna be saying anything right out, so it was fine. Fraser was -
Fraser was moving closer. Seriously fucking close, and Ray was maybe holding his breath, and then Fraser was kissing him. Kissing him like it didnít matter that they were in the men's room at the station, that anyone could walk in and see them. Kissing him with intent, and again, Ray thought, it was like when he was twelve and yearning after Stella, who was untouchable, so untouchable it killed him, until she got tired of him waiting and she was the one who kissed him, finally, after he'd been obsessing about her for months.
It had shocked him then, like it shocked him now, not that they were kissing, but that they hadn't been, when they could have been, when he could have fucking done something, months ago, only he had been too stupid to figure it out.
Fraser pulled away and Ray was panting a little. "You," Ray said.
"Yes," Fraser responded, and his hands were still on Ray's hips.
"You kissed me." Like he was accusing Fraser of something.
Fraser's lips twitched. "Yes," he said gravely. "I did."
"Yeah," Ray said. "Um." There was something important here that he was missing by a mile. "But you're not - I mean, you don't -"
"But I am," Fraser said firmly. "And I do."
"Me?" Jesus. Was Ray blind? Totally blind, and not in a way glasses could really help.
"You," Fraser confirmed.
"But how did you figure..."
Fraser smiled apologetically. "You're not, ah, particularly subtle, Ray."
"But I didn't say anything." Okay, why was he arguing?
"You didn't have to." Fraser's face went deceptively grave. "Your body language is something to which I find myself particularly -" There went that tongue again. "Sensitive."
"You're teasing me," Ray accused.
"A little," Fraser admitted. "But I do find you easy to read. And it was becoming increasingly obvious that you weren't going to actually do anything, and were, in fact, most likely to cause yourself - or Detective Dewey - harm."
"Oh." Sometimes it really was that simple. "Okay, then." He took a breath. "Again?"
Fraser smiled, swift and sweet. "Not here." He glanced back at the - thankfully - still-closed door.
Fraser lost the grin and licked his lip again. "Yes," he said.
"Now," said Ray, and man, you know, that felt good. To just know. And, "Yes," said Fraser again, and Ray grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the station and he didn't care fuck-all what anyone thought.
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