Work Text:
For as long as I have known him, Ray has struggled with words. I suppose it only makes sense, then, that this man who is so often confounded by language should find it so easy and natural to communicate through action.
"Holy shit" were Ray's first, breathless words as we stumbled through the door of my cabin after four exhausting weeks on the tundra. He immediately dropped half of his gear to the floor and staggered the last few steps to the nearest chair, into which he weightily collapsed, closing his eyes and letting his mouth fall slackly open. He did not bother to remove any of the layers of protective clothing we had worn for the trip. His face was reddened from the wind and the chill, and his lips were noticeably chapped.
I put aside the things I had been carrying and went back outside to tend to the dogs, the sled, and the generator. The wind was beginning to pick up and the sky was foreboding: it seemed that we had made it to the cabin just ahead of the storm. Feeding and sheltering the dogs took only a few minutes. I started the generator, and soon I was able to return inside, where I found that Ray had yet to move from his relaxed position.
"Ray," I said, closing the cabin's door behind me. He did not stir. I stood by the doorway for a moment, contemplating him. His face had begun to regain some of its normal color -- Arctic normal, of course, which meant windblown and ruddy -- but I still found myself startled by the thick beard that had grown on his familiar face during our weeks on the adventure. It seemed that every time I turned to look at him, I expected to see the Ray Vecchio, né Kowalski, who had been my friend in Chicago: wiry, clean-shaven, with his hair in chemically enhanced blond spikes. Instead, I was startled to find a new Ray Kowalski, a Ray Kowalski whose weeks of hard work in the snow and cold had shaped his body into a strong, agile form. After a month away from the trappings of modern styling products, Ray's hair had grown long and dark at the roots. The new Ray was unfamiliar, and yet in many ways, he was the same dear friend and partner I had depended upon in Chicago.
I removed my boots and parka and crossed the room. "Ray," I said again, slightly louder. Still he did not move. I placed my hand on his shoulder and gave him a quick shake. "Ray."
"What?" he shouted, jolting awake and sitting upright. "Guy walks three thousand miles through the snow and he can't even get a ten-minute nap at the end of it all?"
"You're welcome to nap for as long as you wish, Ray," I replied politely, "as soon as you've removed these clothes and changed into something clean and dry."
He groaned and stood with exaggerated effort. He brought a hand to his head, knocking the wool cap he had been wearing to the floor and running his fingers through his messy hair. He looked, for a moment, as if he was going to argue the point, but then he only shrugged.
"Clean and dry," he repeated. "Like what, exactly?" He gestured at the pile of debris, including weeks worth of dirty clothes, that he had left by the door.
"I'm sure I have something stored away here that you could wear," I offered, and went to open the trunk where I kept excess sleepwear and bedding.
When I turned around again, Ray had removed his parka and was silently appraising the cabin. I observed with relief and a modicum of pride that he seemed to be impressed. Ray Vecchio -- the first Ray Vecchio -- had been true to his word. After the havoc wrought on my father's cabin, and our near-fatal first attempt to return and rebuild it -- memories which may have been better left forgotten -- Ray and I were finally able to make the journey and recreate what had been lost. Since Ray was involved, there were of course some additional modern conveniences that I would not personally have chosen to install. The result was more time-consuming and expensive than I had originally bargained for, but Ray's contributions -- both as a financier and as a friend -- made them a pleasure to complete. I wondered idly whether my old friend was enjoying his new life in Florida, and hoped that he remembered our time in this cabin fondly.
I shook myself from my reverie. Ray Kowalski, blond and bedraggled, glanced in my direction. The corner of his mouth quirked up into a rueful smile. "Fraser, my buddy," he said, "for a hut in the middle of an ice field, this place isn't half bad."
"Thank you kindly, Ray," I replied, handing him a pair of clean longjohns very similar to the ones to which he had become accustomed while on our journey. "I hope these will suffice."
"Yeah, these are fine," he said, taking them from my outstretched hand. "Hey, you got a place where I can wash up a little?" He grimaced. "I'm smelling a little ripe, here. No use putting on something clean if everything under it still stinks."
I tried and failed to suppress a smile. "That way," I said, pointing at the small door adjacent to the kitchen. "I think you'll find the cabin to be surprisingly well-equipped."
Ray passed through the door and closed it behind him. A low wolf-whistle emanated from the bathroom. It was a strangely pleasing sound: Ray Kowalski, my friend and partner, liked my home.
I supposed that the cabin was my home now, or would be, after my transfer. The capture of Holloway Muldoon and his men had inadvertently earned me enough respect within the RCMP that finally, after four years in American exile, I was able to seek a placement anywhere I desired. Naturally, my thoughts had turned to the sparse countryside near Inuvik that I had considered home for most of my adult life. My sister would be living nearby; I could finally get to know her. I felt like I could breathe there, for the first time in four years. The last several weeks of travel with Ray, through the unadulterated land of my birth, had more or less cemented my plans.
The "less," of course, was due in no small part to Ray himself. Although I was looking forward to resuming life in the Territories, I did not relish the thought of saying goodbye to the man who had become a dear friend -- in many ways, my only friend -- during my time in Chicago.
And if I were being completely honest with myself -- a rare thing these days, to be sure -- I had to admit that my feelings for Ray were not entirely platonic in nature. But although I had long since abandoned any hope of finding that Ray shared my most private of desires, I nonetheless cherished his daily presence in my life, and I was certain that our parting, when it came, would be agonizing.
The sound of water running in the bathroom broke through my thoughts, and I turned to our packs, trying to busy myself while Ray freshened up. He had been greatly troubled by the lack of showers on our adventure, convinced that four weeks' worth of body oils and sweat had created a distasteful smell about his person. I assured him repeatedly that I had noticed no such change, but he remained unconvinced. Privately, I found his scent ... stirring. Arousing, if I were honest with myself -- which, of course, I usually wasn't. After a few weeks on the tundra, Ray's scent was one of hard work, clean sweat, and snow. As I unpacked a few supplies, I allowed myself to indulge in idle, pleasant memories from the journey: Ray driving the sled, Ray building our camp in the evenings, Ray settling into his sleeping bag after a hard day's work. I turned to glance in the direction of the bathroom, and my mind turned to other thoughts: Ray stepping out of the clothes he had worn since we started our journey, peeling them from his long-hidden body like the layers of an onion, slowly revealing his own skin underneath ...
I blinked and sharply bit my tongue. It was impossibly foolish of me to get lost in such fantasies. My feelings for Ray were not reciprocated, and in any case, we would soon be living nearly four thousand miles apart. It would not do to become even more attached. I focused my energies on tidying the cabin until Ray emerged a few minutes later.
When he did, he looked tired but pleased. He stepped out of the bathroom, his hair still wet, clad in the red longjohns I had provided. It was the first time I'd seen him so utterly relaxed since before our journey had begun. My mind was instantly consumed by foolhardy desires. I could barely tear my eyes away.
"Hey," he said, "this is pretty terrific. Hotel Fraser." He smiled at me, and I smiled in automatic response.
"I'm glad to hear it," I replied. "Ah, if you're ready to turn in, the cot is right over there -- please make yourself at home," I added, pointing.
Ray followed my gesture and then looked around the room again. "Fraser, I can't take your bed," he protested.
"It's fine, Ray," I assured him. "I will be more than comfortable on the bedroll. You're my guest, and besides that, you're obviously very tired. It only makes sense for you to take the cot."
He stopped resisting, a sure sign that he was as exhausted as I had thought. Instead, he smiled. "You're a hell of a friend, Fraser," he said, climbing into the bed and pulling the blanket up.
"As are you," I told him. "It's been an honour to make this journey with you."
"Yeah," he said. "Same here." He sighed, stretched his arms over his head, and wished me a good night.
I continued to unpack and clean by lamplight. Helplessly, I also stole several surreptitious glances at Ray's sleeping face. I knew that my actions were dangerous, but I was nearly as tired as he was, and to see him fully at ease, completely warm for the first time in weeks, was simply too much for me to resist.
Outside, the storm had reached us. Safe inside the cabin, the sound of the wind was soothing rather than distressing. I hoped that Ray's slumber would not be disturbed.
Eventually, having done all I could for the evening, I settled onto my spare bedroll and slept, dreaming of Ray and myself in the snow.
On the first full day of the storm, Ray was tense and wondrous.
"It's loud," he said. "I thought it would be quiet, but it's so freaking loud."
I clasped his shoulder and slid a plate of flapjacks in front of him. "There's nothing to be concerned about," I said. Safe within the four solid walls of the cabin, he would finally be able to appreciate the fierce beauty of the north without having to fear for our lives. "We'll be perfectly comfortable inside. And I have ample supplies stored away for several days' confinement. Besides," I added, "it's too early in the season for any truly spectacular storms."
He looked dubious. "Several days?"
"Oh, I shouldn't expect more than two, Ray," I replied, settling across the table with my own breakfast. "And I'm certain that we'll be able to find things with which to occupy ourselves in the meantime." Before the words had even left my lips, my mind had wandered to thoughts of a number of wildly inappropriate things I would have liked to do with Ray to occupy our time. I stuffed a forkful of flapjacks into my mouth.
Ray presented me with a strange look. He was probably still wary at the prospect of the storm. He took a bite of his breakfast, and then his eyes widened.
"Fraser. Dief. We can't leave Dief out in the barn."
Ray's attachment to Diefenbaker, fostered during our time as partners in Chicago, had been strengthened over the weeks spent on the sled. Indeed, Ray had seemed to develop relationships with all of the dogs, but he and Dief shared a special connection.
"Ray, he's a wild animal. He's half Arctic wolf. His body was specifically designed to withstand these conditions, and even thrive in them, and the barn will provide plenty of shelter."
"You don't know that wolf, Fraser. That wolf is a city wolf. He's spent, what -- the last four years living in Chicago? That's like twenty-eight dog years. That's more than a quarter of a century."
"Indeed," I said, swallowing. "It's far past time that he became re-acclimated to his ancestral homeland. I'm afraid he's become quite soft these last several years."
Ray turned to me with an all-too-familiar expression of plaintive longing in his eyes.
"Ray, if that look doesn't work for Diefenbaker or the other dogs, it won't work for you," I replied, smiling. "Besides, we can't bring them all inside the cabin with us. If we were to bring only Dief, what would the others think?"
"Yeah, I guess you're right," he admitted, taking another bite from his breakfast. "You sure they'll be okay over there?"
"Quite sure. We'll go over twice a day to feed them. They can entertain each other in the meantime. Canine companionship is very important."
"Oh yeah," Ray said, grinning a little. "I think Dief's been wanting to put the moves on Nanook, there. Wouldn't want to get in the way of his romantic plans. That wolf gets more play than either of us," he said, looking down at his half-empty plate.
A moment passed, unaccountably strange, and then Ray looked back at me, his face clear and open. "So," he said brightly, "what are we gonna do today?"
We spent most of the afternoon picking up around the cabin. Naturally, I had left it in good condition the last time I had been there, but a few months' absence meant the inevitable accumulation of dust. We also continued unpacking our supplies from the trip. When we tired of this work, we turned to more idle pursuits; I fetched my wood-carving knives, and Ray began a bewildered perusal of my book collection. Eventually he settled into a large rocking chair with an aged collection of Sartre plays, where he remained quietly for several hours.
Ray offered to make supper, and also to clean up afterward. I could tell that he was eager to help, and to have something to occupy himself, so I didn't object. The meal he prepared from my meagre supply of dried and canned goods was inventive and delicious.
While he cleaned the kitchen, I made my way through the storm to bring the dogs their evening meal. Afterwards, Ray and I played a few card games, and I told him some campfire stories from my youth that we hadn't already exhausted on the adventure.
Finally, when I indicated that it was time for us to sleep, we each took a turn in the small bathroom before retiring to our respective beds.
"Good night, Ray," I told him.
"Yeah," he said, sounding distracted. I assumed he was tired. "Night, Fraser."
All in all, our stay in the cabin was proving to be quite comfortable.
On the second full day of the storm, Ray was pensive and calm. He was also self-conscious.
"Hey, Frase," he asked over our morning meal, "you got some sort of razor stored away somewhere here? The Grizzly Adams look is getting sort of old," he added, scratching at the thick beard growth on his neck and chin.
I smiled a little at his hyperbolic description, but a few minutes later, I had found a spare straight razor, shaving brush, strop, and shaving cream.
"You've gotta be kidding me," he said in amazement when I handed him the supplies. "What century are we in again?"
As always, I took his ribbing in stride. "The razor may be somewhat old," I admitted. "Still, I prefer to think of it as a classic. They don't make them like they used to, Ray."
He snorted, and then looked at the razor, turning it over. "This is what you always use?" He looked closely at my face, as if he were suddenly noticing something different about me.
"It's what my grandfather taught me to use. He was quite the advocate of personal hygiene."
Ray grinned. "Well, thank God for that."
"And you can thank Ray Vecchio for the plumbing system."
"Thanks, Vecchio," he added. "Thanks for the water, thanks for ..." his eyes met mine and then darted away again. "For lots of stuff," he finished. "I'm gonna --"
"Yes," I said, waving him in the direction of the bathroom, "help yourself."
He left the door open. That, and the smallness of the cabin, were the convenient excuses I found to wander near a few minutes later and watch from the doorway. He had lathered his face and was staring, somewhat puzzled, at the leather strop. He hung it on a hook near the mirror and took a few abortive swipes at it with the razor. He hesitantly brought the blade near his neck and then froze, his blue eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
"I'm gonna take my head off with this thing," he murmured, looking simultaneously amused and apprehensive.
My breath caught in my throat and I had to swallow before I could speak. "Would you like ... ah, some assistance?"
Ray blinked and quickly wet his mouth with the pink tip of his tongue. "Sure," he said casually. "If you're offering."
I was offering. I wasn't quite sure what I was offering, though, until a few dizzy moments later when I held the razor in one hand as I cautiously pressed the other against the skin of his cheek.
I found it difficult to breathe this close to him. This intimacy, this proximity -- I had not bargained for this. The last time I had been this close to him, close enough to touch him like this, we had been trapped underwater and he had been only minutes away from drowning. Our partnership had been fractured seemingly beyond repair. I had taken his face in my hands and pressed my mouth against his, pushing my own air into him, forcing him to survive. The contrast between that last desperate contact and this one hit me like a blow. There we were, sinking slowly beneath the surface of the lake, death only a few seconds and a wrong turn away. Here in my cabin, we had overcome almost certain tragedy time and again and emerged triumphant, stronger than ever. But the similarities struck me, as well: now, as before, our time together was impossibly limited, and I knew that this time declining the transfer back home would not be an option.
I blinked and forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand. "It's important," I said, lowering my voice as if calming an easily startled animal, "to keep the blade at a precise thirty-degree angle to the surface of the skin."
The corner of his mouth quirked and he started to make a smart reply. "Be still," I said, barely above a whisper, and he did so instantly, his mouth going slack and his eyes falling shut.
I placed the edge of the blade high on his cheekbone and stroked carefully downward. It moved smoothly, exposing skin that hadn't been seen in weeks. "At an angle less than thirty degrees," I continued quietly, "the blade won't shave properly. At an angle greater than thirty degrees, you risk ... well, taking your head off, as you said."
A single blue eye flashed open. "Don't cut me," Ray warned.
"I won't," I assured him, rinsing the blade in the sink.
"I know," he said softly, both eyes sliding shut again. "I trust you."
I looked at his face, utterly relaxed and comfortable. "And I you, Ray," I said, before placing the razor against his skin again.
Time passed silently, dreamily, as if I were in a fugue state. Ray remained still and quiet, moving his head when I urged him with my hands. The razor slid neatly across his skin, laying it bare and leaving me hypnotized. He swallowed and I found myself fixated on the movement of his Adam's apple under the vulnerable flesh of his neck. Once or twice I tried to remind myself of the dangerous nature of my fantasies. It would be difficult enough to say goodbye to Ray when he returned to Chicago without frightening him away with my inappropriate desires. But I couldn't help myself. Standing this near to him, touching the tender skin of his face, breathing the same air -- I was left raw and defenseless.
After the final stroke of the razor, I looked at him for what felt like a very long time. Eventually his eyes fluttered open and he curiously returned my gaze. I had to forcibly restrain myself from reaching out to touch his newly clean face. Instead, I grabbed a towel and hastily handed it to him.
"There you go," I said, trying not to betray my terrifying array of illicit thoughts. I backed out of the room, giving him space, feeling his eyes still following me, barely registering his thanks.
As time passed and the storm continued to rage, however, our time together took a turn for the unpleasant. By the third day, Ray was decidedly restless and irritable. He snapped at me constantly. He frequently paced the cabin. He spent an inordinate amount of time insulting snow, Canada, and the Queen.
On the morning of the third day, I prepared breakfast for us while he slept in the bedroom. As I stood in front of the stove, I was startled to feel him behind me, his body only a fraction of an inch from mine.
"Ray," I exclaimed, more than a little irritated with myself for having let him sneak up on me. Was I getting soft, or was he gaining stealth?
"Uh huh," he answered. His voice was low and his breath tickled the small hairs at the nape of my neck. His solid presence at my back was highly distracting. I tried to concentrate on not burning our food.
"I trust you slept comfortably?" I inquired, keeping my eyes on the stove.
"Oh yeah, Fraser," he answered, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "just peachy."
I chose to ignore his tone and responded brightly, or so I hoped. "Glad to hear it, Ray! If you'll just take a seat at the table, I'll have breakfast ready in a moment."
I was becoming distinctly aware of the effect our intimate position was having on me. I turned my head slightly, keeping my traitorous body pointed toward the stove and hoping that he would take my suggestion. At first, he didn't move. He remained standing at my back, close enough for me to feel the brush of his chest against me. Then he leaned in further, nose at my neck, and inhaled deeply.
My mind raced and heat pooled inside of me. "Ray," I said, trying to keep my voice under control, "what are you doing?"
He held his ground for a second longer, and then stepped away from me, as if the past few minutes had been a dream. "Nothin'," he replied.
I managed to turn my head far enough to watch him without exposing my obvious arousal.
"This sucks," he added, before flopping into a chair.
My eyes fell shut at the word. Unbidden images flooded my mind, and then a sharp smell flooded my nose: our breakfast, burning on the stove in front of me. It was incontrovertibly foolish to allow myself to dwell on such thoughts, not only because of the havoc it would apparently wreak on our meals.
That afternoon found me reading my father's journals and unexpectedly missing the bizarre and generally unhelpful advice he had all too eagerly dispensed during his posthumous visitations. I wondered what he would have had to say about this situation.
The sound of footsteps disrupted my reverie. I glanced up at the sound to see -- oh. Oh dear.
Ray was standing a few feet from me, turned slightly away, staring dispassionately at the bookshelf. His feet were bare. He was wearing one of my white undershirts and gray sweatpants -- certainly not unusual these last few days, as we hadn't had a chance to launder anything from the adventure -- and his hair was charmingly messy.
All of these things I noticed secondarily, because the very first thing I noticed -- and, for some time, the only thing I was capable of noticing -- was the visible bulge at the front of his sweatpants.
From my seated position, it was this image that first greeted me. I was so startled and captivated by the sight that it took me nearly an entire second to jerk my gaze away. I determinedly turned back to the journal in front of me, feeling my neck begin to grow hot. Dear God, what was wrong with me? Was my passion for Ray so ridiculous, so all-consuming that I couldn't handle this confrontation tactfully? Or, perhaps, was my lust-addled brain starting to imagine things? Perhaps I hadn't seen the beginning of an erection after all; perhaps it was a trick of the light; perhaps I should check again, just to make sure I wasn't seeing things that weren't there --
I stole a second surreptitious glance at him. No, I wasn't seeing things that weren't there.
"Fraser," he said.
I turned my head away so quickly that a neck injury seemed likely. "Yes, Ray?" I asked, feeling blood rush to my face.
He gazed impassively at me. "How much longer is this storm going to last?"
"Well," I said, firmly closing my father's journal and standing up, an action that served no practical purpose other than removing his groin out of my immediate line of sight. "It may yet be another day or two," I continued, "but I assure you that we have ample supplies to last us and we'll be perfectly safe here."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Safe," he muttered. "Yeah."
"Yeah," I echoed, forcing my eyes not to move below his chin.
He looked at me for a moment longer, his face hard. Then he abruptly relaxed, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment. "I'm gonna take a shower," he said.
I nodded. Words suddenly seemed like an insurmountable task.
Ray turned around and walked away while I focused on watching the back of his head and not his retreating backside.
He did not leave the door open, as he had done when he went to the bathroom to shave, so my subsequent actions were completely without justification. Indeed, the only possible explanation for my behavior was unadulterated lechery. Even knowing all of this, I found it impossible -- utterly, disturbingly impossible -- to stop myself from following him a few moments later, and standing idly on the other side of the bathroom door.
The sight of his erection, so obvious behind the thin cotton sweatpants, was burned into my mind. Was he aware that I had seen? Perhaps he hadn't realized that the pants were so revealing. Or perhaps my inappropriate feelings for him had rendered me hypersensitive to such displays. Worse: perhaps he had known exactly what he was doing, and what it was doing to me. Could this have been some sort of test? Was Ray deliberately provoking me? Mocking me? I felt the heat of embarrassment join the heat of arousal within me. But no -- Ray was many things, but he was not deliberately cruel. It was possible that I was simply reading too much into the whole situation. Perhaps Ray routinely walked around his apartment in Chicago with an erection, and it simply hadn't occurred to him to be self-conscious. Perhaps this was a completely normal behavior for the American male.
It was next to impossible to hear anything through the bathroom door and over the sound of the water. I was determined not to press my ear against the wall; surely at my age I could maintain some sad vestige of self-control. And yet I absolutely could not stop myself from imagining that I heard a soft groan of pleasure rising over the din, cutting through the closed door.
I shut my eyes, braced myself on the door frame, and hung my head between my arms, fighting to breathe. I could see him, in my mind's eye, naked in the heat and the steam, bracing one strong arm against the wall while his hand slid slickly down his wet abdomen. I could see him wrapping his long fingers around his erection, sliding his thumb over the head, his mouth going soft and slack as he pleasured himself.
My own mouth watered and I was all too conscious of the fact that I was painfully hard. It seemed that Ray's proximity had finally wrenched away the last of my sanity and left me bare and aching. I could no longer say no to the fantasies; I had no choice but to indulge them and myself. What this would mean for our friendship, I could not say. We had only a few days left, trapped in the cabin with only each other for company. Was it enough time for Ray to learn the truth of my feelings for him? Enough time to destroy the trust he had in me?
The storm raging beyond my windows was nothing compared to the one building inside.
On the morning of the fourth day of the storm, Ray was manic.
"Fraser," he said, barely containing his fury, "I am going completely, utterly, and in all other ways out of my fucking mind here." He was pacing the cabin, in the same clothes as the day before, his body thrumming with pent-up energy.
"You have seemed a bit out of sorts recently," I hedged, standing well out of his path.
"I'm going nuts," he continued, ignoring me. "I'm losing it. I'm bored out of my skull. There is nothing to do here. I'm trapped in a cabin with you --" He pointed at me, accusingly, with his index and little fingers. "-- and I'm coming completely unhinged."
"I'm sorry," I ventured, unsure what I was apologizing for and fearing the worst. Ray Kowalski was a detective, a very good detective, and I had always been terribly ineffective at obscuring the truth, even with the best of intentions.
"For what?" he demanded. "Why the hell should you be sorry? This whole stupid thing is my fault. It was my idea to stick around here, my idea to turn down that transfer, my idea to go mushing through the snow with --" Again he gestured at me, this time weakly, as if he lacked the strength to raise his arm. His gaze was a mixture of sadness, anger, and something I couldn't identify. He licked his lips and then shook his head quickly.
I bit back my instinctive desire to offer him something -- words of consolation, an anecdote from my father's stories -- anything. I didn't know what, precisely, was troubling him, but I knew that any words I could provide would be cold comfort to him in this sort of mood.
"Stupid," he said, pacing the room once more. He ran his fingers angrily through his hair. "How did I get so fucking stupid? I should've got out when I had the chance. I should have never let it go this far. But I'm a moron, so here I am, holed up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a fucking monster blizzard, going out of my fucking mind with nothing to look at and nothing to do ..."
"Ray," I said cautiously, hoping my interruption wouldn't anger him further. "I know how difficult it is to be cooped up here in the cabin, with very little in the way of modern entertainment and only myself for company --"
All at once he turned on me, his eyes pale and alight. Then he laughed, a low and bitter sound.
"Fraser," he said, "you have no idea."
"So explain it to me," I countered, unexpectedly hurt by his apparent confirmation that it was my tedious company driving him to distress.
Ray took a sudden step towards me, countering challenge with challenge. He stared intently for a moment, and then his eyes closed and he exhaled sharply. "I can't," he said. "Damn it, Fraser, I can't. I just -- I thought it would go away. I thought it was a phase. I thought I could handle it, but --" Once again, he began to pace. "It's only getting worse. And out here, there's nowhere to go and nothing to do. I can't stop thinking ..."
He continued, walking and raving, gesticulating periodically with his hands. I watched from my safe vantage point, arms crossed over my chest, soaking in the sight of him. Tension rolled through his lithe body in waves. His anguish and frustration made him strangely beautiful, but these days I supposed I rarely found Ray to be anything but. What madness was this? His restless rage, my senseless lust: we were disturbed in synchronicity.
Such desperate times called for desperate measures, and while I couldn't exactly say that my next offer was desperate, it certainly was one that I had never believed I would actually be able to make. Yet something gave me courage. Something -- his inescapable proximity, my own neuroses, the still-vivid fantasy of Ray pleasuring himself in the shower, or something in his desperate words and the way he watched me -- made me feel that not only could I make this leap, but that I had to make it.
I turned to Ray, who was still pacing and waving his hands angrily in the air. Smoothly, I stepped into his path, squared my jaw, and grabbed him forcefully by the shoulders. It was madness, utter madness, but I could not be stopped.
"Ray," I said, steeling myself, "fuck me."
He froze mid-sentence, mouth agape, hands still in the air. I stared at him, willing him to move, and then he did, his face contorting into an almost comic parody of shock.
"Fraser," he said. "You just said 'fuck'!"
I rolled my eyes in consternation. "Yes, Ray, I did. I am not a child, you know. I'm not nearly as naïve and innocent as you would like to believe. And I do know how to say the word --"
"But --" Ray gesticulated wildly, cutting me off before the word could pass my lips for a second time. "You've never said that before!"
"I most certainly have," I replied, my annoyance building by the moment. "I have said it many times, under appropriate circumstances --"
"Appropriate --"
"-- such as the one we find ourselves in at this moment. Ray," I said, lowering my voice and pulling him towards me as best I could, "fuck me."
The transformation on Ray's face was rapid and remarkable to observe. His disbelief gave way to mere confusion, which was quickly subsumed by understanding. He seemed to contemplate what lay before him, weighing all the possible options and considering them carefully. His tongue sneaked out to wet his lips, and I repressed a shudder. Finally, he raised his eyes and looked directly into mine, his expression a fine blend of determination and desire.
"You really want that?" he asked quietly, studying my face. "This isn't, um, just some kind of shock therapy?"
I breathed deeply. The sight of him, considering it, wanting it, was almost too much to bear. "Yes," I said, quietly. "I want it. Very much so. Yes."
Ray blinked. "Okay," he said. He nodded, as if to reassure himself. "Okay." There was a tense moment, in which I looked at him and he at me, each of us seeming to size the other up. And then, without another word, he lunged at me.
I had barely enough time to brace myself for his kiss. His mouth frantically descended on mine, as if the offer I had just made would soon expire. My instinctive reaction was to open, to let his eager tongue into my mouth, to lean into his kiss. I had thought, wished, dreamed of such things for so long that my body, attuned to the idea, responded automatically. But this, the reality, was so much more than I had bargained for -- so much more than I had ever dared to imagine, even in my most private fantasies. His kisses were urgent, persistent, hard and sweltering and wet. His fingers, sped by the same urgency, combed through my hair, stroked my neck, and traced the bones of my spine. He was hungry, desperate, starved for it. All of the tension, all of the fervour of his outburst he channelled into me, into our embrace -- and I accepted it, more than willingly.
He wasted little time getting his hands under my clothes. In a matter of moments, his fingers were ghosting along the bare skin of my back, shaping the curves of my shoulders, and tugging on the frayed sweater I wore. I raised my arms obligingly so that he could remove it, stealing a quick breath in the brief interim when our mouths parted. Then he was back, strong and demanding, already slipping his fingers into the waistband of my jeans.
I answered him the only way I could, by pulling him tight against me and reaching for every inch of skin I could find. His mouth was silky and his jaw was smooth. I slid my hand into the back of his sweatpants -- mine, actually -- committing to memory the curves I already knew by heart. I wanted to preserve the feel of him, the scent of him, the taste of him. I didn't know how many more chances I might have to touch him like this. We were both desperate for release, for some distraction from the tedium of being confined. We'd made no promises. I couldn't allow myself to dwell on the knowledge; I manoeuvred him out of his shirt and then backed us out of the living area instead.
The cot was really much too small for two adults, but I couldn't see any other solution. I sat down on it, then reclined on it, pulling him after me. Instantly he was on top of me, covering my body with his own, pressing me into the thin mattress. We kissed for what felt like hours, learning each other's mouths as our hands roamed over exposed skin. He was fair-skinned, although not as pale as I was, and as I had thought, our weeks in the snow together had developed his musculature considerably. His nipples hardened under my fingertips. He made my mouth water with lust.
"Fraser," he muttered, mouthing his way from my lips to my cheek. I shivered as his tongue traced whorls around my ear. "Please."
"Yes," I blurted, thinking: anything, anything you want.
"Please," he said again, pausing to suck gently at the pulse on my neck. "Tell me you have stuff."
"Drawer," I gasped, wrangling one arm from beneath him and waving it in the general direction of the simple bedside table. I hoped that this would be the "stuff" he desired.
His mouth returned to mine and he kissed me, long and deep and terribly distracting, before breaking away again and stretching his arm out to reach for the drawer. He returned a moment later with a small tube of lubricant in his hand. His hair was even more chaotic than usual and his mouth was lush and wet, but his expression was suddenly sour.
"Don't tell me," he said, sounding surprisingly irritated all at once, "Vecchio supplied this, too, right?"
For a moment I didn't follow, and then I remembered my explanation of the modern plumbing and his rationale made sense. "No," I said vehemently, cupping his face in one hand and turning him so I could look into his eyes. "No," I repeated. "This --" I felt my mouth go dry with sharp, unexpected embarrassment. I had asked him to make love with me in the most direct and crude of terms, but I could not bring myself to confess that the only person who had ever used the tube in the drawer was me.
But perhaps I didn't need to. Ray's face changed as I struggled to control my self-consciousness, and his eyes turned hot. "Oh, yeah," he whispered. "That's -- wow, Fraser, that's so hot." He didn't seem to know where to turn his gaze; his eyes roamed freely up and down my body, from my heated face to the swelling at the front of my jeans. "You touch yourself with this?" he asked, a bit obliquely. "Yeah. Hey. Show me? Show me the way you like it," he finished, hot breath tickling my collarbone.
"Yes," I exhaled, and then he was fumbling with the fly of my jeans, urging me to lift up enough for him to drag them and my underwear down my legs. He wrapped his fingers around my length and lowered his head. My last sensible thought, before he sucked me into his sweltering mouth, was that Ray had an alarmingly short attention span for sex acts.
He slid the hot clasp of his mouth down the length of me, until his lips touched his fingers at the root. He pulled away to lick the crown, to wet my erection with his tongue, and I realized that he was exploring me with all the curiosity he had given to our journey through my homeland: the hunt for the hand of Franklin, reaching for the Beaufort Sea. Perhaps this, like our journey, was an adventure to Ray, a thing he had longed for but been afraid to seek. Having explored my homeland with me, and having done the same to every inch of the tiny cabin these last several days, he now had me to explore: my body, our mutual desire. The thought filled me with warmth. The sight of his face as he sucked me filled me with pure, animal heat.
But he could not possibly be comfortable in his position on the tiny cot, and while his tongue on my erection was spine-meltingly wonderful, I had had something else in mind. With great difficulty, I sank my fingers into his unkempt hair and slowly pulled his head away.
His face was dreamy; his shiny, swollen mouth made my very bones ache. "Ray," I said, partly taken aback by the raspy husk of my voice, "please." Lost for words, I managed to turn over until I was on my stomach, one knee pulled slightly up, offering myself to him.
For a moment, there was no sound but the soft rhythm of our strained breathing. I could not see his face from my prone position, but after a moment, I felt his hand touch my back near my spine, fingers cautiously caressing, right where --
Right where the bullet hole was. Where Ray Vecchio had accidentally shot me, almost costing me my life.
I shut my eyes, feeling heat begin to climb up the back of my neck. I had not been prepared for this. I had not been prepared for Ray's warm fingers ghosting over the wound, over the place where the bullet remained inside me, a permanent marker of the last time I had allowed my senseless desire for another person to nearly destroy everything.
My unholy passion for Victoria had driven me to depths of madness I had feared ever since. She was a killer who had shot Diefenbaker and framed me and Ray Vecchio for murder, and yet when she asked me to leave my entire life behind and escape with her, I came running. I had been willing to abandon duty, justice, my country, and my dearest friends for her. By the stark fluorescent lights of the train station, it had felt like an imperative; when Ray's stray bullet hit me, it felt as though the world had stopped spinning, as if time was standing still. But when I came awake days later in the hospital, I was struck by something else: a deep, burning shame. In the clear light of day I suddenly saw my actions for what they were -- unconscionable, unforgivable, and utterly insane -- and, worse, I couldn't swear to myself that I wouldn't do the exact same things again. It was this shame that confronted me in bed with Ray Kowalski, wrapped in the cold knowledge that once again, I was letting my baser instincts take hold of me and drive me to risk everything that mattered -- my friendship with Ray, and our ability to part ways unscathed.
And yet my traitorous body continued to thrum with want. Determined to ignore it, I tried to turn over again. "This --" I began, thinking: this is a bad idea, this is a mistake, this is dangerous -- we might not survive it. But before I could move, he was on top of me and around me, his front fitting neatly against my back, sliding his arms underneath me to hold me tightly against him.
"God," he panted wetly into my ear, "Fraser -- you're so -- and I ..."
"Ray," I tried, needing to make him understand.
But he didn't need my explanation. "I'm not her," he said quietly, stroking my chest and mouthing my neck. His legs tangled with my own. "I'm not Vecchio," he breathed against me, "and I'm sure as hell not her."
Then he took me by the shoulders and turned me over so we were face to face, chest against chest, wrapped around each other. His hands carded through my hair, he looked me straight in the eye, and he said, "You know me."
And I did. I did know him -- the clear blue of his eyes, his irresistible mouth, his dedication and his loyalty and his goodness. Ray Kowalski was my partner and my friend. He could be trusted, even if I couldn't trust myself. I closed my eyes, leaned toward him, and told him so with my lips and tongue and teeth.
Our lovemaking quickly resumed its formerly frenzied pace. Again, Ray seemed disinclined to focus for long on any particulars: he drifted from mouth to clavicle, from one nipple to the other, from navel to erection and back again with no apparent destination in mind. For my part, I clutched at him and stole glimpses and kisses whenever I could. He still hadn't removed his borrowed sweatpants. I could see the shape of his erection through the thin layer of cotton, and the dark, spreading wetness where the head rubbed against the fabric. I ached in sympathy. Finally, I was forced to plead with him once more.
I fumbled for the tube of lubricant which had fallen to the floor, and with my other hand, I took hold of his wrist. I placed the tube firmly in his palm and wrapped his fingers around it.
He grinned at me. "Pushy," he said, but I didn't have to ask again. He leaned back and his fingers darted under the waistband of his pants. He slid them off, carelessly dropping them onto the floor by the bed. He wore nothing underneath.
I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. His chest, his abdomen, his long legs: everything about him stole the breath from my lungs. His erection rose long and dark against his belly. He arched his neck as his hand moved, slicking himself, pleasuring himself. My legs seemed to part of their own free will. I drew one knee up in invitation.
He looked back down at me, his face gorgeously flushed and his eyes wild. He never once drew his gaze away while he squeezed more lube onto his fingers and then slipped his hand between my thighs. "You," he rasped. He wet his lips as one finger slid deliberately downward, smoothing over the sensitive skin, teasing me. "You've done this before, right?"
I shifted under his touch, my body already approaching what felt like a liquid state. "Yes."
He nodded, distracted, and carefully slipped one finger inside me. "Yeah," he answered idly. "Me too. Long time, though," and he replaced the one finger with two, twisting and gently stretching. I groaned at the familiar ache. He pushed, searching, and then white heat swam through my body as he caressed my prostate. Before I could get control of myself, I was crying out his name and clutching hard at his shoulder, begging him not to stop.
"God," he muttered, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He swiftly leaned in to press his mouth to mine, withdrawing his fingers in the process. I moaned at the loss, directly into his kiss. I nipped at his lower lip.
He was practically panting over me. "How do you ..." The question trailed off inconclusively.
"Like this," I answered anyway, bringing both knees up now. I didn't want to miss a single second of watching him, witnessing his arousal, memorizing the exact color of his eyes when he reached orgasm.
He looked at me for a long moment, and then at the cot, cocking his head slightly. His brow furrowed. "Come here," he urged, standing up and pulling my hips down towards the end of the bed. I followed, until I was close to the edge. He stopped me there with a hand on my chest, then took hold of my legs. At once I realized the genius of his plan. We both had infinitely more room to manoeuvre from this position, and we weren't forced to put our combined weights on the rickety little cot.
"Okay?" he asked, and I nodded. Then he was lifting me, holding me, positioning both of us, and as I gripped his forearm, he leaned forward and pressed into me.
There was pain, but it was fleeting, and soon forgotten altogether when he slid nearly all the way out of my body and then thrust back in again. The pleasure was dizzying; the sight of him was even more so. He was devastatingly lovely, his face twisted in concentration and lust, his eyes glassy and unfocused. A fine sheen of clean sweat had appeared on his chest. I wanted to lick him from head to toe. I felt my erection pulse and I wrapped my hand tightly around it, keeping myself from losing my mind too quickly. I needed this to last.
He leaned over me, half standing and half kneeling on the bed. He drove into me again and again, first with slow, sweet thrusts, and later with fast, hard demands. His heavy breathing was peppered with incomprehensible moans and the frequent sound of my name.
Determined, I focused on the deliriously wonderful feel of his erection stroking in and out of me, brushing my prostate, and not on the fatalistic thoughts that swam through my mind, such as the fact that this encounter was undefined by either of us, and the fact that Ray would soon be leaving. I ran my hands over his smooth shoulders and anywhere else I could reach. I pumped my own erection, smoothing my thumb over the leaking head and biting my own lip to try to keep from crying out.
His eyes followed my hand as it moved on my erection, and something in his face turned even wilder. "Oh," he said, breathless and sounding somehow surprised, "Fraser, I'm -- I can't -- I'm gonna ..."
I looked down the length of my shuddering body to the place where we were joined, where he was still desperately thrusting into me, his erection slick and strong. I jerked myself harder, and still harder, finally ejaculating all over my chest and hand with a long, low sigh of release.
Ray arched up and his head fell back. He gripped my legs tightly and groaned as he came, shuddering and pulsing inside me.
For a moment, he remained standing, staggering a little, as I felt him twitch inside me with the last shocks of his orgasm. He withdrew from my body just a moment before his knees gave out and he collapsed, half on the cot and half on the floor, his face buried in the sheets.
I let my aching legs fall, and then slid down to join him, pulling us both completely off of the bed. We ended up in an ungraceful tangle of limbs on the floor, with the blanket twisted under us, and there we remained for many minutes, recovering.
Slowly, I became aware that Ray was planting small, closed-mouth kisses on me, anywhere he could reach: the side of my chest, my hipbone, directly beneath my navel.
"You know," he said, with finality.
"Know what?" I asked, turning so that I could face him, or at least face the top of his head, which was all I could see of him for the moment.
He sighed deeply. "That ... that I love you. That I'm in love with you." He kissed my semen-sticky abdomen with gusto. "Jesus, Fraser."
I blinked, and wondered if, with his head pressed against my belly like that, he could feel my stomach flip itself over. "I didn't know," I finally answered, and because it seemed worthy of repeating: "I didn't know."
He raised his head and looked bemusedly at me. "Well, what did you think I was still doing all the way up here in the Northwest Areas?"
I didn't bother to correct him; time had proven that he only misnamed the province to tease me, and exhausted and sated as I was, I couldn't manage to play along. "You wanted an adventure," I said, lifting my head to gaze curiously at him.
"Yeah," he replied, resting his chin on my belly and staring up at me with a faint smile on his lips. "You're one hell of an adventure, Benton Fraser."
All at once, something snapped in me. As earlier, when I'd proposed a sexual solution for Ray's tension, I felt a twitch of madness driving me onward.
"Stay," I blurted, immediately wincing at my own words. "That is, you could stay here, with me, if you were so inclined. You don't have to go back to Chicago," and I finally shut myself up, because what on earth was I saying? Of course Ray didn't need to go back to Chicago, he wanted to go back to Chicago. That was his home; this was mine ...
"Are you asking me?" He continued to rest his head on my abdomen. "Because, Fraser -- I have been good to go here since I don't even remember. I'm in this thing for keeps now. Maybe I always have been. You'll have to pry me off with a crowbar. If you want me to stay ... you've got me."
"I'm asking," I said, reaching for him, pulling him upwards. "I want you to stay."
"Okay," he said. "But only if we can get a TV."
"I think," I murmured into his mouth, "that we can find more attractive ways to entertain ourselves."
By morning, the storm had broken, and Ray and I stood outside the cabin -- outside our cabin -- to feed the dogs and to kiss in the snow.