The Brown One

[lynnmonster.livejournal.com]

Since I was getting ready to post this tonight before the deadline extension, I'll go ahead and post it anyway...



Inspired by justacat's icon, created by heuradys.




"Yes, Ray, the brown one," Fraser's voice rumbles over the line.

The brown uniform? Oh, man, suddenly my mouth is as dry as if I'd swallowed sand. And there had been the faintest hint of a smirk in Fraser's voice which makes me think he knows exactly what he's doing to me.

I let my hand slip onto the front of my jeans.

I'm running with scissors, here, driving without a seatbelt and drinking milk past the sell-by date, but ... that curl of knowledge in Fraser's voice is just too damn much for me to resist.

The zipper under my hand presses against my half-hard cock, but it's not too much to bear. I'm not going to go too far with this, anyway. I'm just saying a nice hello to my hormones and adding a little zing to my end of the conversation.

Besides, oblivious-Mountie routine aside, Fraser would probably understand -- he's an adrenaline junkie too. I know he's done plenty of crazy things when he's caught up in that rush. Heck, he could be doing the same thing and I'd never know...

The mental picture of Fraser touching himself -- even through his clothes -- especially through his clothes -- while he's talking to me trips my trigger so hard I have a hard time wrestling my mind back to the discussion at hand. Which isn't much of a discussion because I'm sitting here like a tongue-tied eighth grader.

I use my handy detectoring skills to scan back through the highlights of the conversation and thankfully come up with something to say.

"I bet the Ice Queen got her pant -- uh, I bet she wasn't too happy about that, huh?"

"Well, as the incident was a direct result of her own actions -- of course, it's not necessarily common knowledge that an airborne mass of something as simple as cooking flour is highly flammable..."

I listen to Fraser explain about the Saskatchewan Roller Derby Club's kitchen mishaps at the Consulate, and I'm paying attention, really I am. But at the same time I'm thinking about why I like the brown uniform better than the fire engine red getup. It isn't just because it's less shoot-me conspicuous, either. Mostly I like it because it doesn't make him look like some kind of doll -- excuse me, "action figure." In the brown uniform he looks like a man, a cop; a real guy, with a tough job. Someone competent but approachable, maybe.

"...she could hardly complain."

"Uh-huh," I agree.

Man, that brown uniform really turns my crank.

"Once we'd extinguished the remaining flames and made ourselves presentable, we had to find the stoat that had precipitated all the ... confusion."

"Stoat? Is that like an oatmeal stout or something?"

"It's a type of weasel, Ray."

"Didja find it?"

"Indeed we did. It turns out one of the club members had smuggled it across the border. Maxine is considered by the team to be their unofficial mascot."

"So why were they screaming bloody murder and trashing the place?"

"Well, it was primarily Maxine who had been, ah, 'trashing' the kitchen. They didn't want her to get caught, nor did they wish their illegal transportation of a live animal to be discovered, so their reactions were exaggerated both to put themselves in a more favorable light and to give Maxine more of an opportunity to escape. I believe they thought they were being quite clever."

"I don't know if I would have figured that out," I tell him.

"Nonsense. You're a fine officer, Ray," he says, and it doesn't sound like much but I know he really means it.

"And you, my Canadian friend, are a fine officer as well."

"Really?" And I can hear that he's doing the wide-eyed Mountie thing, only this time he's playing it for laughs. "There are those who might call me a freak."

"Fraser -- screw them," I say, pretty damn sincerely. Yeah, Fraser, screw *me*.

He clears his throat. There's a not-entirely-comfortable silence for a moment, even though I know I did not say that last part out loud.

"Yes, well. Some semblance of order has been restored, and Turnbull is cleaning the remnants of the mess with remarkable zeal. It seems the incident last week, when he accidentally sprayed Windex in the Amassador's face, has not diminished his enthusiasm for cleaning products one whit."

If I close my eyes it sounds like he's speaking directly into my ear. I can almost feel the puff of air hitting my neck. Oh yeah. That almost undetectable touch of humor in his voice when he's saying something only the two of us nuts are going to find funny -- I'm certain he doesn't talk like this with anybody else.

"He get that French maid outfit yet?"

"Ray!" Fraser makes a token protest, but he sounds more amused than scandalized.

"Hey, whatever floats his boat, you know? But I still think cleaning is a weird thing to enjoy. Too much bending," I say.

"Well, Ray, I've always noticed you seem extraordinarily ... flexible."

It takes me a minute to process, but then I get it: Fraser's flirting.
I guess it's now or never.

"Wanna come over?"

Silence.

I wait, knowing he won't -- can't -- let me go unanswered for too long. Wouldn't be polite.

"Well, Ray, I. That is to say--" He sounds a little flustered, like maybe he hadn't figured on anything actually coming of all our bantering.

"Don't fight it, Benton buddy."

"Well, then. That would be . . . delightful, Ray."

Delightful. Hopefully the same kind of "delightful" as that kiss he had with Lady Shoes. (That bitch.)

"Okay, so I'll put the kettle on. See you soon."

"Diefenbaker's already settled for the night, so I'll come by directly," he says.

"Righty-oh," I say, and "See you in fifteen."

I hang up the phone and fish out the Chinese menu from the junk drawer. Food would be good to have, plus Chen's is right around the corner, so they deliver really fast.

I wander back into the living room and can't help grinning as I move the chair just out of tv-viewing range, so that it only makes sense for us both to sit on the couch. Maybe he won't take the time to change into civvies before coming over. Did I mention I really, really dig that brown uniform? And I'm pretty sure I'm going to like it even better -- crumpled or neatly folded, I don't care -- on my bedroom floor.

Edited to add: Many thanks to justacat for the beta! (Perhaps you should be editing my posts, too...)

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[lynnmonster.livejournal.com]

I'm so glad you did -- thanks!