ds_flashfiction | For the transportation challenge

What better way to distract oneself from work-stress than by writing due South? *g* This little vignette is set at the very beginning of third season, as is hopefully clear from context anyway. As usual, my thanks and virtual roses go to

sihayab for the beta!

Stakeout

I drop the binoculars in my lap and rub my eyes. It's getting late.

"I'll take a shift with those, if you like," Fraser says. I hand them over.

I can't see much without the night scope, so I look at Fraser. A little uptight, maybe, but not hard on the eyes, I'll give the guy that.

I shift around in my seat, trying to get comfortable, and knock my biggest bruise against the steering wheel. "Shit," I mutter, because it hurts.

"Are you all right?"

"Huh? Yeah -- just, got a bruise. From the bullet." Has he ever been shot through a vest before? I almost ask, but then it seems too...personal.

"Mmm. I have some salve which might help with the soreness. I can bring some to you tomorrow, if you like." His voice is low, almost sultry -- an off-duty voice. I haven't heard him sound like this before.

He's looking through the binocs, still, so it's not like I have eye contact to help me read the guy. But was that tone of voice -- was that flirting?

The silence seems too loud, so I say the first thing that comes to my head. "This car sucks. Damn shame about the Riv."

From the photos, Vecchio looked like kind of a yutz -- what kind of guy wears those clothes? -- but he had good taste in cars.

"Sayonara, Riviera," I say, cracking myself up a little. "You're swimming with the fishes now." Fraser lowers the binoculars and looks at me for a second, and I feel guilty all of a sudden. Maybe it's not funny to make Mob jokes about Vecchio's car. I ought to have some respect for the guy. I couldn't do what he's doing, that's for damn sure.

But then he cracks a smile, and the tightness in my chest eases a little. "I don't know that the Riviera could be said to be 'swimming,' strictly speaking, Ray."

"Oh yeah? You never know."

"No, I suppose you don't," he says, and hands me the binoculars. He has a thermos at his feet, which I hear him start to unscrew. "Tea?"

Somehow it seems really sweet that he brought hot drinks for us. Did he do that for Vecchio? It's almost like a...courting thing.

The mental image practically knocks me over: Vecchio in the Riv, wearing one of those flashy suits, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his dress shirt. The two of them kissing, groping, making out in that big sweet back seat. Heavy breathing. Somebody moaning. It's a pretty image.

"Ray?"

I swallow hard. My face feels hot. "I'm...not a big tea guy," I say, lamely.

"Ah."

I blink and make my eyes refocus on what's actually in front of me, instead of on the porn show in my head. I look out the windshield and through the bushes and across the street and four floors up. Scanning for Kensinger gives me something to focus on. Something other than thinking about doing this guy I barely just met in the back seat of an unmarked cop car.

At least he doesn't know what I'm thinking.

"You didn't answer my question about the salve."

Does he know that sounds like a come-on? Man, what I would do with some salve right now...

I wrench my mind out of the gutter. "Yeah, sure, bring it over," I say, hoping I sound normal, not like I'm getting hard thinking about it. Which I am.

"Gladly."

Nothing's happening in Kensinger's apartment, and I keep moving around, trying to get comfortable. This car really does suck.

"You seem stiff," Fraser observes.

I bite back a laugh, because something tells me he's not the Beavis and Butthead type. "Yeah."

He sips more tea. "Perhaps you might benefit from a more...thorough massage."

Okay, that's it, I'm jerking off the second I get home tonight. I might not make it as far as the bed. I might not manage to peel these jeans off. I'm trying to figure out how the hell to answer that when suddenly there's motion in Kensinger's living room, and I snap forward against the steering wheel. "Hey, he's moving around."

"Does he have the briefcase?" Fraser's voice is totally different now. All business.

"I can't--" I can't tell what he's holding. Wait, yes, I can. "Yes. He's got it."

I hand off the binocs and pick up the radio handset. "Station, this is car oh-five-niner, Kensinger has the briefcase and he's headed out."

"Confirmed, oh-five-niner. Tail him from a hundred yards."

"Got it." I put the car in park, check my shoulder holster and glasses case, and tuck the keys in my pocket. Fraser's already out the door, in the shadows, getting ready to follow. The fantasies will have to wait.

(800 words)