ds_flashfiction | TEAM ROMANCE: Day 12, "Decalcification"

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Title: Decalcification
Author:

slidellra
Team: Romance
Prompt: "I should be so lucky."
Pairing(s): Fraser/Kowalski
Length: 1800
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Author's note: Thanks to Team Romance for beta, awesomeness, and handholding, with special thanks to

green_grrl for all that plus the title.
Summary: It has not been a good day.

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**

After the third long day working with the visiting members of the Audit Committee--who were not interested in discussing new strategies to improve efficiency and flexibility, and who seemed to suspect him of using RCMP funds to support a day spa habit--the brisk walk home isn't nearly enough to release his store of frustrated energy. The many virtues of financial accountability notwithstanding, the minutiae of Consular finances and international relations, as well as the rigid style of the visiting committee--particularly without a droll or irritable companion to complain about the dullness, thereby making it less dull--were nearly enough to drive him around the bend.

His joints feel creaky and stiff as he climbs the stairs to their apartment, and he has a sudden vision of himself as calcified, the pleasant, docile mien he'd worn all day made somehow permanent, leaving him a smiling, empty drone.

The disconcerting sensation begins to ease only as he lets himself into the apartment and steps into a rant Ray has apparently been keeping warm for his return. "What the hell is wrong with them? Tea or beer?" then, before he can respond, the hiss of a bottle cap's release, "Never mind, you're having beer. We needed you today, smelling the garbage, holding the wife's hand. I am no good at holding hands, Fraser. That is not my thing."

He's setting his tunic straight on its hanger when Ray slouches around the corner, the beer in his hand and a scowl on his face, tension pouring off of him in waves. His hair is dark with moisture from a recent shower, standing up in a towel-tussled mess. His favorite tattered sweatpants ride low on his hips, and his Bulls t-shirt, the one too worn for work, shows damp patches across his shoulders. Fraser feels decidedly more alive just seeing him.

"Today was hell, Fraser. Today was worse than hell. Today was right up your freaky alley. But you go off with the fucking conference of Alberta Etiquette Farmers or, what do you call it, Bootlicking for Diplomats, Ontario chapter--"

"Hi, Ray," Fraser says, accepting the beer and drinking gratefully, leaning back against the wall and finally allowing his posture to relax.

"--when there's cases need solving. Guy in pieces, like cuts of meat, only--"

The beer is cold and rich, and Ray's voice is Ray's voice, and both of them are real and present and sharp in a way nothing else had been all day. He can feel the stretch of homecoming, an unfolding inside, as the pieces he keeps tucked down and tidy for bureaucrats wake up again.

"And she kept crying," Ray accuses, and the pain and frustration in his voice is oddly gratifying, because, in this, Fraser can help.

He carefully sets the bottle on the floor, then straightens and pulls Ray close, breathing in the clean scent of him, feeling the tightly wound tension in his back and shoulders. The kiss starts as just a soft press of lips to lips, his cool and Ray's warm, both flavored with beer. Ray, predictably, throws himself into it, his mouth eager as he crowds Fraser against the wall.

Fraser pushes back, feeling Ray warm and tense and sparking against him, and it's good to be home, in the home he has chosen, facing a clearly defined, satisfying task well within his skill set. With that thought, he pivots, reversing their positions to pin Ray instead. He runs his mouth along Ray's rough jawline to his neck, forcing his head back and exposing his throat.

"Yeah, okay, welcome home. Bed," Ray chokes out, tilting sideways as if he'd flop to the bedroom. The comfort of their wide mattress and soft sheets has no appeal at the moment, so Fraser catches Ray and pushes him upright again, securing him against the wall.

"Here will do fine," he says, tucking his fingers into the loose waistband of Ray's sweats and tugging downward.

"Good idea. Great idea," Ray agrees, leaning back and shifting his legs apart, watching Fraser with that familiar half-challenging, half-promising look. He's bare under the sweats, his erection growing rapidly against Fraser's exploring hand. Ray rests his hands on Fraser's shoulders, fingers brushing Fraser's neck, and looks down, watching Fraser caress him. He clears his throat and makes an unconvincing attempt at nonchalance as he asks, "And how was your day, Fraser?"

"Boring." Fraser tells the skin at Ray's temple. "Dull. Repetitive. Stultifying. Lacking."

Ray gives him a grin he can feel, and a slow thrust into his hand. "Not good. Those are not good things."

He shakes his head slightly and licks Ray's ear. "In other words, in all possible ways the opposite of now." Under Ray's t-shirt, Ray's skin is warm against his cool fingers. Ray drags the shirt up over his head and drops it to the floor, kicking off his sweats in the process.

Dropping to his knees is natural and easy; easy despite the creak of his joints, natural despite the awkwardness of kneeling in the boots. Taking Ray's erection into his mouth and loving it, slowly, steadily, patiently, until Ray's thighs are shaking and his voice is breaking is delightful. He knows Ray's body, knows how to give him pleasure and how to deny him release, and he takes Ray to the edge again and again, until his jaw aches and his knees ache worse, until Ray's control breaks and he tumbles both of them to the floor in a jumble of elbows and hard kisses.

Ray sprawls naked on top of him, complaining about suspenders and buttons and kissing him wildly. It's a rush, all of it, an undeniable, visceral rush, and Fraser's body is finally, undeniably awake.

It's better still when he coaxes and muscles Ray over to the sofa and arranges him against it, Ray demanding and threatening and caressing by turns. Fraser holds him down, subduing him with his tongue, licking along Ray's pale back, over the curve and swell of his ass, and finally pushing in, stroking Ray from the inside out with his tongue. Greed, this is greed and good fortune, Fraser thinks as Ray's voice breaks, wanting and having and taking freely, and how did his life bring him to a place where he can have what he wants? Now, finally, he is fiercely proud that he can do this, that he has the skill to manage Ray's pleasure, and so he prolongs it despite his sore jaw and sore knees, prolongs it long after his back begins to complain and Ray goes quiet and drops his head, his breath quick and shallow. Zen fucking Ray calls it, when Ray is capable of speech.

And then, best of all when he braces himself over Ray's back and presses inside him, and they change from two into one, moving together, braced against the heavy couch; then on the couch, Ray moving astride him and kissing him again; then slipping out of Ray's body, pushing him back into the cushions and taking him in his mouth again; then pushing inside again.

It's all better than the last, and his body feels wonderful, shaking with pleasure and thigh-trembling exhaustion. He shivers and shudders and strains to hold the rhythm, to hold them back from the brink, to kiss Ray's lips, his shoulder, his fingers. He wants it all, and he's a stubborn man, so it's a shock when, finally, Ray gasps, "Damn it, Fraser," and arches powerfully against him, his orgasm dragging Fraser helplessly after.

Some minutes later, Ray mumbles incoherently and elbows Fraser away, shifting until they're sprawled almost side by side on the couch, both breathing like bellows. When Fraser finds the energy to turn his head, he sees the lines that have eased in Ray's forehead, the tension gone from his expressive, exhausted body, the satiation and amusement in the shape of his mouth. That mouth works once without words, but on the second try he manages, "Madman. You trying to kill me?"

Fraser rolls closer, pressing a kiss to Ray's collarbone, the spot where arm meets shoulder. He'd return the endearment, but he's found Ray's lips instead. They kiss for long minutes, stretched out on the cushions, easy and relaxed at last. When the kisses ease and they're half-asleep, lying entwined, fingers tracing idle patterns on cooling skin, Ray breaks the comfortable silence. "So, you were in, what, eight, nine hours of meetings today, plus the thing after?"

Fraser yawns and grumbles assent, not caring for the reminder.

"Boring." Ray says thoughtfully. "And you didn't get to jump off anything or chase any cars."

Fraser thinks that over. "I did lick a receipt from Belladonna Catering."

"Yeah, well, don't do that anymore. Anyway, receipt or no receipt, you're fired. No more liaising for you." Ray stretches, cracking his back with an excessively satisfied grunt. "Because, this, I could get used to. Or it'd kill me. But I'd die happy, so okay."

Solemnly, Fraser replies, "You have a point, Ray. I don't really feel my day is complete without one utterly selfless act. Charity might be too strong a word, but--"

Ray snickers, half-heartedly flicking his fingers against Fraser's ear. "I have a gun, Fraser. Don't think I won't remember to shoot you in the morning."

"Fair enough."

They rest drowsily for some minutes before Fraser surprises himself by saying, in tones rather more vehement than he'd have intended, had he known he was about to speak, "I was useless today."

Ray nods, registering no surprise at all. "You need to get back out there with me."

"I need to get back out there with you," Fraser agrees, pressing his face to Ray's neck. There he finds, among the rich smells of Ray and sex and soap, the familiar tang of decomposing refuse. "The victim was found in a dumpster?"

With an exhale that's both a laugh and a remarkably clear expression of disgust, Ray says, "I should be so lucky. Illegal dump out on Talman near Fulton." He twitches, a spasm of disgust. "Bad. Bad bad. Real bad."

"A half-day at the consulate tomorrow, and then I'm free." Fraser goes over the next day's schedule in his mind, imagining the moment when he can return to his preferred duty. Possibly before noon, though it wouldn't do to hope.

"Good. Good." Ray says, his voice thick with sleep. There's nothing but regular breathing for several moments, then Ray adds discontentedly, "Something hinky about it. Looks like a mob thing, but there is no way it is, none."

And Fraser is, finally, no longer a stranger to this powerful contentment, this sensation of a life fully and satisfyingly lived, but he might never get used to it. He lifts Ray's hand to his lips, kissing his scarred knuckles, and lets the last of the day's frustration slip away. "Why do you doubt it's organized-crime-related?"

**

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