[ They're still sharp. He feels it when Ray laughs, tugging his hat back into position, like a seed of confidence planted in his breast. Like a synchronous machine, well oiled, every part depending on the others to do their job right. The lead dog was nothing without the wheelers, but together they were a team, as Fraser and Ray were.
His glare dissolves as his attention shifts devotedly back to his partner, reading off his wordless instructions again and resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Not that anyone else here seemed to have a problem with being called freaks--in fact, from what he was seeing, some of them - cigarette ash breath woman, for example, seemed to like it, fanning herself with her wallet. There was dirt under her fingernails, the lanyard from a pilot's uniform knotted around her wrist, dirty and worn like a trophy. But while she may be a recently widowed air hostess, she was no motorcycle rider. He was looking for someone with a strong abdominal wall, a minor stoop, perhaps flecks of dust granite embedded in their collarbone.
Fraser watched, and Ray did his part, leaning in close, giving him the space he needed to observe so clearly that Fraser could almost hear the instruction. He kept to it while Ray's lips tracked against his neck, meandering lazily across the bruise he'd left, brushing against the line of his jaw. Meeting the gazes of their watchers from under the brim of his hat, Fraser observed the people ignoring their display as surely as he did those sliding ones into his tip jar.
And then Ray's mouth closed around the top of his ear, and even with plenty of warning Fraser had to struggle to keep his mind engaged. His breathing staggered within moments, his eyelashes fluttered. There was the scent of dog oil, a greasy touch to the back of his hand with a long, elegant finger. Ray's teeth worked into the delicate curve of cartilage, making Fraser croon. The man with his head in the hands at the bar had unusual muscle structure in his wrists, a bruise on the back of his neck such as might be caused by a motorcycle helmet in a crash. Fingers crawled against the bruises on his back, and all at once Fraser's mind stalled and died.
He had two. Two motorcycle riders; not so unusual. It was touch and go whether either of them were the killer until they deepened their search, but Fraser couldn't think--couldn't...think. Could barely raise his head. Unable to fight the struggle to keep his eyes open, Fraser felt his knees turning to jelly, although fortunately Ray and the bar behind him were there for support. Hard, sharp fingers dug in in all the right places, and Fraser's heavy breathing became soft moans, his head lolling back little by little.
This. This was why last night had been necessary. If they'd walked in here without it, the ruse would have fallen apart during that first kiss. As it was, they'd clearly earned some sort of respect, judging by the hands in the jar and the five--no, six man applause, wolf whistles from others, and the soft croon of "Oh honey" breathed in their direction from the bartender behind him. He had no idea what had gained him that tender note of apology, his brain too foggy to realize that he was trembling, his grip so tight on the jar that any more pressure and it would smash in his hands. Nothing remotely like this had been in survival training. ]
no subject
His glare dissolves as his attention shifts devotedly back to his partner, reading off his wordless instructions again and resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Not that anyone else here seemed to have a problem with being called freaks--in fact, from what he was seeing, some of them - cigarette ash breath woman, for example, seemed to like it, fanning herself with her wallet. There was dirt under her fingernails, the lanyard from a pilot's uniform knotted around her wrist, dirty and worn like a trophy. But while she may be a recently widowed air hostess, she was no motorcycle rider. He was looking for someone with a strong abdominal wall, a minor stoop, perhaps flecks of dust granite embedded in their collarbone.
Fraser watched, and Ray did his part, leaning in close, giving him the space he needed to observe so clearly that Fraser could almost hear the instruction. He kept to it while Ray's lips tracked against his neck, meandering lazily across the bruise he'd left, brushing against the line of his jaw. Meeting the gazes of their watchers from under the brim of his hat, Fraser observed the people ignoring their display as surely as he did those sliding ones into his tip jar.
And then Ray's mouth closed around the top of his ear, and even with plenty of warning Fraser had to struggle to keep his mind engaged. His breathing staggered within moments, his eyelashes fluttered. There was the scent of dog oil, a greasy touch to the back of his hand with a long, elegant finger. Ray's teeth worked into the delicate curve of cartilage, making Fraser croon. The man with his head in the hands at the bar had unusual muscle structure in his wrists, a bruise on the back of his neck such as might be caused by a motorcycle helmet in a crash. Fingers crawled against the bruises on his back, and all at once Fraser's mind stalled and died.
He had two. Two motorcycle riders; not so unusual. It was touch and go whether either of them were the killer until they deepened their search, but Fraser couldn't think--couldn't...think. Could barely raise his head. Unable to fight the struggle to keep his eyes open, Fraser felt his knees turning to jelly, although fortunately Ray and the bar behind him were there for support. Hard, sharp fingers dug in in all the right places, and Fraser's heavy breathing became soft moans, his head lolling back little by little.
This. This was why last night had been necessary. If they'd walked in here without it, the ruse would have fallen apart during that first kiss. As it was, they'd clearly earned some sort of respect, judging by the hands in the jar and the five--no, six man applause, wolf whistles from others, and the soft croon of "Oh honey" breathed in their direction from the bartender behind him. He had no idea what had gained him that tender note of apology, his brain too foggy to realize that he was trembling, his grip so tight on the jar that any more pressure and it would smash in his hands. Nothing remotely like this had been in survival training. ]