[ If Fraser has an opinion on any of this he doesn't demonstrate it. It's a peaceful sort of calm he falls under, subdued, his shoulders lacking their usual stiffness so as to keep from looking too much like the police officer he was. His role was quiet submission, which gave him the chance to look at the people around him. The woman behind the bar didn't have a second job; her skin was pale, her hair thinning from chemicals, cigarette smoke and vitamin deficiency. She'd have seen the most, but her experience made her aloof and wary. The man she'd been speaking to before seemed to be some sort of cleaner; there was bleaching on his hands, and he wore a simple black shirt and pants. The bleaching around the wrists of the outfit shone under the ultraviolet lights, but he was tanned too, indicating that he didn't share this hobby and performed a second job or dedicated himself to an outdoor pursuit of some kind. By the state of his thighs, Fraser thought cycling.
In other words he was making a slow, steady progress on reading the patrons. Their killer rode a motorcycle--of all the clues he'd picked up on, that was the one that Fraser could most easily pick out of the crowd. He or she was right handed, five foot nine or ten, possibly worked or lived above an Italian kitchen (Parmesan flakes, oregano, tomato paste and maize flour that had come off the mud scraped off their boot when they kicked down the motorcycle's kickstand.) Fraser would know them when he saw them.
His attention had been drifting when Ray clicked his fingers, and it came back to his partner abruptly, just in time to turn with Ray on wordless command. His hands curled safely around the glass, thumbs hooking across the top of the rim, and Fraser adjusted the space between his arms to accommodate Ray as he slid between them. The bottom edge of the jar tucked into Ray's hood.
Relax. Well, that was more difficult. It turned out, now that they were here, that public displays of affection made Fraser fidget, but this was no chaste kiss stolen in thanks for his heroism, or unwanted hands being put all over him. Ray didn't wait for the impossible--he leaned in and made it happen, crushed his mouth against Fraser's, knocking his hat back two inches in the process before teeth and tongue lashed at sore lips, such that Benton had to bite down on a groan at the dull, wonderful ache of it. His mouth chased Ray's for a fraction of a second in his retreat, but he kept his distance obediently.
His eyes didn't drift away from Ray, but Fraser saw the movement and felt money being pressed into the jar. One patron even greedily ran their fingertips over the backs of Fraser's hands, though he didn't so much as blink at the unwelcome contact. Maybe he'd tell Ray about it later.
A woman - or was that a man? - with halitosis and cigarette smoke on her breath, leaned in toward Ray's ear. ]
Give you three hundred to swap with your friend, sugar.
[ For the first time since they'd come inside, Fraser shifted his own strength and weight, dropped his arms several inches and tensed his shoulders, pulling Ray slightly in toward him, demonstrating possessiveness in his own right. His eyes narrowed distinctly as he glanced toward the stranger, summoning everything in him to try to look even remotely spiteful. It wasn't easy, involved pretending the woman was Gerard back on that ragged snow road, but whatever it was he did worked--she laughed at him. ]
no subject
In other words he was making a slow, steady progress on reading the patrons. Their killer rode a motorcycle--of all the clues he'd picked up on, that was the one that Fraser could most easily pick out of the crowd. He or she was right handed, five foot nine or ten, possibly worked or lived above an Italian kitchen (Parmesan flakes, oregano, tomato paste and maize flour that had come off the mud scraped off their boot when they kicked down the motorcycle's kickstand.) Fraser would know them when he saw them.
His attention had been drifting when Ray clicked his fingers, and it came back to his partner abruptly, just in time to turn with Ray on wordless command. His hands curled safely around the glass, thumbs hooking across the top of the rim, and Fraser adjusted the space between his arms to accommodate Ray as he slid between them. The bottom edge of the jar tucked into Ray's hood.
Relax. Well, that was more difficult. It turned out, now that they were here, that public displays of affection made Fraser fidget, but this was no chaste kiss stolen in thanks for his heroism, or unwanted hands being put all over him. Ray didn't wait for the impossible--he leaned in and made it happen, crushed his mouth against Fraser's, knocking his hat back two inches in the process before teeth and tongue lashed at sore lips, such that Benton had to bite down on a groan at the dull, wonderful ache of it. His mouth chased Ray's for a fraction of a second in his retreat, but he kept his distance obediently.
His eyes didn't drift away from Ray, but Fraser saw the movement and felt money being pressed into the jar. One patron even greedily ran their fingertips over the backs of Fraser's hands, though he didn't so much as blink at the unwelcome contact. Maybe he'd tell Ray about it later.
A woman - or was that a man? - with halitosis and cigarette smoke on her breath, leaned in toward Ray's ear. ]
Give you three hundred to swap with your friend, sugar.
[ For the first time since they'd come inside, Fraser shifted his own strength and weight, dropped his arms several inches and tensed his shoulders, pulling Ray slightly in toward him, demonstrating possessiveness in his own right. His eyes narrowed distinctly as he glanced toward the stranger, summoning everything in him to try to look even remotely spiteful. It wasn't easy, involved pretending the woman was Gerard back on that ragged snow road, but whatever it was he did worked--she laughed at him. ]