Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
Feedback: Yeah!
Notes: Yeah, I know a lot of people find it rude or disgusting or whatever, but I just fucking love this habit of Fraser's, okay? Any time that man dispenses with propriety for the satisfaction of a sensual desire, it's a Good Thing. And in my world, Ray agrees. ;-P Beta thanks to Denise (who showed, erhm, surprising enthusiasm for this undertaking, complete with jingles.)

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Hell has a thing or two to learn from Chicago in August when it comes to the meaning of hot, Ray thinks, unpeeling himself from behind the wheel of the GTO. It's been a long day of chasing down dead-end leads, and riding in a black car with busted air conditioning. Big time un-fun. Ray stretches and tugs at his jeans, unsticking them from his legs. Thank god Fraser left Dief at the Consulate today, it would have been unbearable for the furry guy. Must've been nearly unbearable for the furry guy's human companion, being stuck in that damned uniform.

Ray looks across the roof of the GTO to see how well his partner is coping. Fraser has managed to struggle his way out of the car, looking a little creased, and a little sticky, but otherwise okay. He'd been unusually quiet the whole ride back from the South Side, inclining his head towards the open window and closing his eyes against the finally setting sun.

"C'mon," Ray says, walking around the car and catching Fraser's shoulder with his hand as they approach the station house, "let's go get something cold to drink."

Fraser nods gratefully and allows Ray to steer him directly back towards the break room. The air conditioner in the station house is running at noisy full-tilt but it's not enough, even now in the early evening when day shift is over and most of the sweltering bodies have left the building for the smaller, cooler cells of home. It's still hot. Hot enough that Fraser, in an uncharacteristic breach of etiquette, undoes the high collar of his tunic as they enter the break room— cracking it open with a motion approaching violence, and offering Ray a shadowed glimpse of his sweat-slicked throat through the separated tabs. Considering the near-Victorian modesty of the Serge, the flash of skin is almost obscene, especially with the rest of Fraser's appearance so disordered.

Ray takes in the damp curl starting at his partner's temples, the heated flush painting the sculpted ridge of those perfect cheekbones—and not for the first time, he considers the tantalizing notion that Fraser needs that uniform. Needs the starch and grooming, the scratchy wool and straps as a constant reminder that he has to act civilized—but if you could ever get beneath the surface...

Ray shakes himself away from that line of thought. It's hot enough in here without that. Hot enough to be stupid if he's not careful. He digs into the front pocket of his jeans, glad for the excuse a search for change gives him to readjust. Ah, better. Money. Drink. Soda machine. Right. He digs through the other pocket for coins, watching over his shoulder as Fraser opens the fridge, and stands there with the door ajar, scanning the contents. Oh yeah, he was looking for it.

"My dad would have yelled at you for supporting the fat cats at ComEd by now, standing with the door open like that," Ray laughs, punching for a Sprite and listening with satisfaction as the can clunks down into the pick-up slot.

"But, I'm fairly certain I left a... ah." And with that Fraser reaches into the fridge swiftly, decisively, rummages a moment, and emerges holding a quart container of milk. Ray fights a smile.

Oh yeah, he found it.

Ray settles into one of the metal chairs arranged around the white formica-topped break room table. He tilts back in the chair slightly, rolling the Sprite in his hands to feel the smooth metal, welcoming the cold wetness across his palms. He feigns concentration on the movement of the can and surreptitiously glances up and over at Fraser, who is opening the milk carton with practiced, almost rough pushes of those strong fingers.

Oh yeah, he wants it.

Glasses? We don't need no stinkin' glasses. Ray feels his mouth watering in sympathetic anticipation as he watches Fraser raise the carton to his lips, and begin to drink—long, deep, thirsty pulls, each gulp rippling down the column of his tautly stretched throat—perfect and beautiful. Oh yeah. Nothing civilized about that. Nothing at all. He sits frozen, eyes fixed, fingers clenched on the pop-top of his forgotten Sprite, listening enraptured to the almost drum-like sound of swallowing.

Go, buddy, have at it. Go fucking nuts.

And he does. He was going to finish it—the whole carton just like that. Swallow, swallow, swallow... and then... oh God.

A single white drop appears, poised in danger of leaking from the corner of that gorgeous mouth. Ray's chair teeters precariously as he squirms in his seat, watching the droplet gather, threaten. What if it went? It might run down Fraser's chin to his jaw, on down his neck, then disappear beneath the torn open collar of the Serge. It might be followed by another drop, then another: a trickle, a stream, gushing, out of control...

"Fraser!"

Ray is shocked by the suspiciously husky sound of his own voice, echoing through the empty break room. Fraser lowers the carton while swiping the lone droplet from the corner of his mouth with a reflexive little dart of his tongue, catching the rogue before it has the chance to escape and wreak any more havoc on Ray's imagination.

"Yes?"

"Uh, nothing. No big deal, I just, uh... maybe I wanted some of that."

"Why, I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser starts to babble one of his usual apologies, but then pauses, and slides a speculative glance at the Sprite can still sitting unopened on the table in front of Ray. "I didn't realize you were..."

"A milk drinker?"

"Mmm." And Ray swears that's a wicked smirk playing at the corners of Fraser's mouth. Not civilized. Oh yeah. Not civilized at all.

--FIN--

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