ds_flashfiction | Naked Without Sex challenge

china_shop posting in

Well, half-naked anyway. Is that sufficient? :-) Special thanks to the wonderful

serialkarma for beta and a last line!

pre-slash F/K, 1116 words

Favor

Fortunately, Ray takes the request casually. He probably thinks it’s a typical Canadian past-time, or a quirk of Fraser’s unusual upbringing that Fraser would be interested in such things. (The latter may well be right.) He simply squints at Fraser for a moment as though to make sure it isn’t a trick. “Sure,” he says, finally, curling his fingers into loose fists between his thighs. “Uh, you wanna do it here?”

“Well, the couch isn’t really suitable. Traditionally one would use a specially designed table or a—” Fraser nearly says bed, but interrupts himself just in time. “—squab on the floor. We could improvise.” They both stand up, and Fraser collects the cushions from the couch, constructing a makeshift mattress on the rug (the one that hides the carefully marked out dancing footprints). As he does so, he says, “I appreciate this greatly, Ray. I’ve studied several manuals, but, as I’m sure you’re aware, theory can never replace practical experience.”

“No problem,” says Ray. He’s standing to one side, watching, his limbs loose and graceful. So much so, that Fraser wonders whether this whole exercise is redundant. However, closer inspection reveals a taut energy running through him, a tension skillfully disguised. Fraser is reminded for the thousandth time that Ray is a gifted undercover police officer. He lies for a living, and he does so with his whole body. Fraser wonders, briefly, what Ray’s body would say if it was compelled to be truthful.

Ray’s hands are now hiding deep in his pockets. “Do you—?” His shoulders come up in a half shrug. Apparently this is a difficult question. “Is this like a—?” Words fail him, and he extracts his left hand and plucks at his t-shirt eloquently.

Fraser nods. “Just your shirt, if you don’t mind.” He turns to his coat to find the oil he’s brought. This also provides a convenient excuse for him to face away until his blush subsides. Fraser’s fingers close around the plastic bottle, and he hears the whisper of Ray’s thin cotton shirt falling onto the cushionless couch, and then the louder sounds of Ray kicking off his shoes.

When Fraser turns around, Ray is lying face down on the cushions, his torso bare and pale and marked with bruises from apprehending Solly Coltrane’s accomplices on Tuesday. There’s a long shallow scrape down his side where he skidded and fell during a pursuit a week ago, but it’s nearly healed.

Ray’s head is turned towards him. He’s watching him. Ray’s hands are by his sides, tapping – restlessly? nervously? – at his thighs.

Fraser cracks his neck and opens the bottle, spilling some of the sweet-scented oil onto his hands and rubbing them together to warm them. As he walks towards Ray, Ray’s eyes close and his hands still. Fraser is humbled by the trust implicit in the gesture — in the whole enterprise, for that matter — but also distracted by his own heartbeat, which takes this opportunity to pound out the 1812 overture.

He realizes he hasn’t properly thought this through: he sincerely intended merely to develop his massage skills, and he asked Ray because, well, who else could he possibly ask? But he has failed to take into account his growing attraction to his friend and the awkwardness that will inevitably descend upon them if he reveals himself. This is a mistake.

Ray opens his eyes again. “Frase?” he says.

Fraser blinks. It’s too late. Ray is lying, semi-clothed, on cushions on the floor at Fraser’s request. He trusts Fraser. The scent of oil fills the air. It’s too late for either of them to back out now.

Fraser kneels on the floor next to Ray’s waist, and holds his hands a few inches above Ray’s back, feeling the heat radiating from him. Fraser’s mind goes blank, all the lessons he’s learned from Massage for Beginners and the Illustrated Essentials of Musculoskeletal Anatomy dissolving in the immediacy of Ray’s physical presence. Oh dear. He has no choice but to proceed anyway, and he slowly lowers his hands until they rest against Ray’s shoulder blades.

Ray inhales suddenly, and turns his head so he’s facing away from Fraser.

“Sorry,” says Fraser.

“It’s nothing.” Ray’s voice is muffled.

Fraser swallows. “Shall I, ah, continue?” He’s so self-conscious that he half hopes Ray will say no.

But Ray nods a little, his cheek scratching audibly against the cushion, and doesn’t say anything. So Fraser slides his fingers slowly and firmly up Ray’s back, easing pressure over a particularly painful-looking bruise. The oil makes the move a warm, almost frictionless slide. He curls his hands around Ray’s deltoids and squeezes, kneading his thumbs into the tight muscles at the base of Ray’s neck, feeling them gradually loosen.

The tiny hairs there look soft, and Fraser stops kneading for a moment and strokes them with one thumb. His fingers are still wrapped around Ray’s shoulders, and when Ray’s muscles suddenly flex down his back, tightening up like a hedgehog about to curl, it brings Fraser back to his senses.

“Sorry,” he says, stopping again. “Perhaps this isn’t—”

“‘Sfine.” Slowly, as though by effort of will alone, Ray’s back unclenches. Under Fraser’s index finger, Ray’s pulse is racing, but his musculature doesn’t betray this. Fraser nods inwardly, and plays along. There’s no alternative at this stage, after all.

He runs the heels of his hands firmly down Ray’s back, noting the contours of Ray’s ribs, and the strength of his lean torso, and it’s as though, through the movement and the contact and the sweet oil smell, Fraser has shifted into a dream space. He is carried away with the intimacy, that Ray will submit to this. He abandons all pretence at professional — or amateur — detachment.

Ray’s jeans are loose and low on his hips, and Fraser surrenders to impulse and continues down till his wrists brush the rough fabric, until they push against the waistband, tugging at it, revealing the curve of Ray’s backside. Ray stops breathing.

“Ray?” Fraser’s voice is an alloy of concern and arousal. He clears his throat.

Ray straightens his neck so his face is burrowed into the cushion. His hips rolls slightly to the right. “Could you, uh, gimme a minute?” he says indistinctly.

“Of course.” Fraser takes his hands away, and waits to see what will happen.

Ray doesn’t move. “Just, I dunno, turn around or something.”

“As you wish.” Fraser climbs to his feet, and takes a few steps towards the dark window, intending to look out into the Chicago night. But the illuminated room makes a mirror of the glass and he can’t resist. He chooses not to resist. He lets himself focus on the reflection, sees Ray lift his pelvis from the makeshift squab and delve a hand into the dark space beneath him, into his jeans for just a moment.

“Okay,” says Ray, settling down onto the cushions again. “You can come back now.”

Fraser can’t move. He absent-mindedly rubs his thumb against the tips of his fingers and watches Ray’s pale reflection, as he wonders whether, in granting Fraser’s favor, Ray too has failed to take certain factors into account.

END

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

pearl-o.livejournal.com

Mmmm, this is lovely. I especially like this bit:

He lies for a living, and he does so with his whole body. Fraser wonders, briefly, what Ray’s body would say if it was compelled to be truthful.

From:

kassrachel.livejournal.com

You know, that was the very line I had selected to mention, too.

Yum. Good stuff, this. :-)

Of course, one might wish for a sequel... *g*

From:

Naked Without Sex challenge - by china_shop

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