thelockbox | Benton Fraser

Benton Fraser | Due South

BENTON FRASER。

"You know, Fraser, when they offered me this assignment, they made it sound kind of normal. They say, 'Hey, Ray, here's a chance to start over, ditch the past.' 'What's the catch?' I say. 'Oh, your partner's Canadian.' Canadian? I got nothing against Canadians, except for the time when they won the World Series, which I'm willing to overlook. But at no time did they say, 'you'll be working with a Mountie who's got a wolf that's a florist'"

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[Ray wouldn't risk crashing his Pontiac, Fraser's right about that. Even with the lack of breakfast and the tiredness tugging at him, the alcohol wasn't enough to dull his senses.

While Fraser finally gets dressed, Ray keeps lookout for any tails, purposefully keeping his attention flicking between the road and his mirrors as he tries to pick up any familiars signs of being followed.

When Fraser asks a typically awkward question, it remains unanswered for as long as Ray can manage, pretending he hadn't heard until finally prompted with a 'well?'.

He sniffs in indifference, shrugging his shoulders as he keeps his eyes on the road.]

Yeah, like desirable as in sought after and merchandise as in wares. C'mon Fraser, you're the Canadian here, you should know proper English.

[ Okay. That's a warning sign right there. Fraser knows them when they come up, and he shifts directly in his seat to look Ray square on. This is going to be an argument, he can tell, or perhaps as close to one as they ever come.

Even if he knows the route of the problem is that Ray is trying to protect him from something, he's not about to give it up so easily, mostly because in the grand sceme of things he really dislikes not knowing. Not knowing is one of those few things that sets his teeth on edge, actually, like an unsolved case.

Although come to think of it what unsolved cases? Mountie thing. ]

He was speaking about me, Ray, and the last time I looked, I wasn't anyone's merchandise. Perhaps Disney's, but that's another matter entirely.

[ His face twisted into a rare almost frown - that was: his expression barely changed at all - and then he looked back toward the road as they turned away from the piers toward downtown once again. ]

I feel I have a right to an explanation, Ray.

[It's rare Fraser ever actually requires an explanation. He's the man with all the answers and all the knowledge who learns quickly. When he does need to know something, it tends to be for things he really should never find out about for the sake of his innocent, Canadian mind.

But Ray knows that tone, all too well, one that generally suggests there's plenty of bitchiness coming if Fraser doesn't get what he wants. Perhaps even sulking. And a bitchy, sulking Fraser is impossible to be around without wanting to punch something.]

Yeah, probably.

[He agrees distantly, taking his eyes off the rear-view when he's finally satisfied that they're not being followed. But his follow up isn't so helpful.]

But wow, how 'bout that seventy bucks, huh? We're in the wrong business.

[ The things he's seen, the bitter struggle for life he's witnessed, Inuit women burying dead infants in rock hard tundra ground and lame caribou dying alone on the ice sheets, and it's the urban environment that really tears him up. Fraser expects the wilderness to be a cold and unforgiving place, but not the human heart, and it's always dispiriting for him to find out that the world isn't a good place just because he wants it to be.

Fraser keeps his eyes on the road ahead, and he's quiet for almost a full minute, even after Ray asks about the seventy bucks. If his friend - his lover, he supposed, now - didn't already know that he had a problem with being kept out of the loop, he would given enough time.

But Fraser was going to wager on him already knowing. ]

Yes, probably.

[ No inflection whatsoever. How does it feel to be in the doghouse? ]

[And that's exactly the trouble with Fraser growing up with mother nature being the cruellest thing to contend with. Ray's grown up with some of the worst of society, he's seen men kill for the sake of a dollar, abused kids, humans treating humans so horrifically that sleepless nights are routine in his line of business. It's hard to have faith in people when you rarely see it's goodness. But Fraser is goodness. He's like a burst of light in a pit of darkness, and it might just be why so many cling and flutter to him, hopeful. It might just be why Ray clings to him.

But there's really nothing quite so light about his sulking, which is obvious the moment it arrives. Ray knows he's in the doghouse, but that might be a better option than talking about the discussion.]

C'mon Fraser, don't do this. What does it matter? This guy is bad news, that's all we gotta know.

It matters to me, Ray.

[ The alternative is that he guesses, and considering the many options he might come up with, it's probably not completely wise.

He puts himself to task, though, turning to watch out the window as he reflects on the conversation. Fraser was the valuable merchandise, which meant that when Ray was tired of him, Lucca had been offering to put him in contact with someone who could act as a proxy, finding clients who would...pay for his company.

And then they'd discussed human trafficking.

Somehow they'd blundered onto more than just a murder. This was bigger than that, much bigger. They were probably way out of their depth, not that that had stopped them from facing down terrorists and mob bosses before. But it was true; each time they'd come too close to that darkness, his own brightness had dimmed because of it. What might this cost him?

He only broke his silence as they pulled into a space in front of the station. ]

Oh look, we're here. [ He didn't move to get out. ]

[The silence is worse than the disappointed frown, but Ray distracts himself with driving, noticing even Dief is avoiding looking as he glances in the rear view. Perhaps he's just wisely avoiding getting involved in what appears to be a confrontation.

Ray's glad as they arrive at the station, opening the door while the car was practically still moving. He's out of the car in seconds but halts immediately, leaning over the roof and leaning into the open door as he stares at the unmoving Mountie.]

Fraser...

[A sigh, slumping back into the drivers seat and twisting slightly towards Benton.]

Yes, he was speaking about you, Fraser.

[ As Ray drops down into the seat beside him - after bailing out at his fastest yet, mind you - Fraser does him the favor of not looking directly at him. His eyes stay front, and after a moment he even trusts himself to speak. ]

I know, Ray. I understand. He was suggesting that you sell me for sex.

[ Like using gloved fingers to turn a key, Fraser lacks any subtlety whatsoever. He's blunt, direct, and sad: ]

As long as we can't prove money is changing hands, and as long as his victims claim to be consenting adults, we won't be able to stop them.

[ He looked across. Big, miserable Mountie eyes. ]

We have to stop him, Ray.

[Oh, thank God.

He doesn't have to spell it out to Fraser. There's no need for awkward talks about sex and trafficking and prostitution.

There's some level of relief, his shoulders dropping slightly. He'd be glad were it not for the big, miserable Mountie eyes now being directed at him.]

I know, Fraser. I know. We gotta be careful about what we say in the station though, yeah? We start mentionin' trafficking or or or whatever else he was talkin' about, then the Feds are gonna swoop in and take this.

[ It was their jurisdiction, Fraser knew. Once upon a time he would have urged their intervention, believing it to be necessary. But experience had taught him otherwise. The FBI had almost destroyed their cases in the past, so much so that he would never willingly bring them in on something like this--especially not something he felt so personally about.

He wanted to stop Lucca, and he was willing to do it Ray's way, with subterfuge, in order to make it happen. It was the only way. ]

I want to run his known associates against the record of suicides. We can also at least track down his vehicle registration, then maybe we can prove he was in the area at the time of the murder.

And... And Ray. [ His eyes hadn't dropped away, but now Fraser reached across, setting his hand on Ray's knee. ] Nobody else could have done what you did in there. You showed remarkable restraint.

[If there's one thing Ray knows Fraser will very politely try to avoid is Fed involvement. They screwed up too often and endangered too many lives to ever be worth supporting. Ray, of course, just hated them on principle.

He nods along to Fraser's ideas and considers everything they need to do once they get into the station. Of course, Welsh would want to speak to Ray the second he stepped inside, but at least now they had a fairly solid reason for their lateness. They were in, that must be worth something, although Welsh likely won't approve of the lack of communication.

Ray's line of thought is diverted as he feels the hand placed on his knee, eyes flicking down at him and then up into Fraser's eyes.]

It was nothin'. You got the tough part, buddy. Tonight is gonna be worse. Maybe we can get in and out quick, avoid any of that uh, whatever they do in a back room.

[ Fraser was very self conscious of where they were for once. He didn't lean across even though he very much wanted to, to press his mouth against Ray's, and instead after a moment he withdrew, lifting his hand away from his partner's leg and climbing out of the car, taking his hat from its place on the dash.

As he straightened up, correcting his sash which he'd only managed to twist around as it went over his shoulders, and putting his hat on his head, Dief jumped out onto the sidewalk beside him and trotted off into the station ahead of them. He put his hands on the roof and looked across the top of the car at Ray. ]

It won't be that simple. Ray, I--I haven't been inebriated in my life. Drugged, yes; I once ate psychadelic mushrooms because I misidentified the species, and there was that one time I slept in a medical tent after someone spilled a flask of ether--but I was ten and eleven years old respectively.

I can't...that is, I wouldn't be able to...

[ Act. Lie. Fake it. Fraser didn't like to admit his weaknesses, but the pressure that this one would put on Ray made their involvement in this all the more unsafe. It had to be done; one of them had to wear a wire, and they had to stick it out until they had their evidence. But if Fraser couldn't act drunk then he'd have to actually be drunk. There wasn't another option. ]

[They're current location is the only thing holiday Ray back from reciprocating with his own sign of appreciation. His would undoubtedly be a lot less subtle than a hand on a knee.

When Fraser finally moves, so does Ray, slipping from the car again grabbing for his jacket and then slamming the door. He mimics Benton, using the roof as a resting spot, although he leans on his forearms as he stares across the top of the car towards the Mountie.]

And this is what I'm talkin' about, Fraser. This is an issue. A problem. I need you in this. We get you off your face and I'm on my own. And what if alcohol just makes you more Canadian, huh? You go in there tellin' stories about polar bears and igloos and tales of bein' a constable and they're gonna ask questions.

Or they may simply suspect me of being very dedicated to my role.

[ But it was an issue. Maybe one to which he had a solution. A ridiculous, possibly dangerous, very Mountie solution. He perked up visibly, as he did when he had bright, sensible, completely off the wall ideas, raising one hand very slightly, pointing his finger toward the invisible lightbulb hanging in the sky over his head. ]

I have it, Ray. You see--

[ And he was leading away off into the station, because - being halfway into a conversation - nobody would be paying attention to what they were saying anyway, and if they did look twice their questions would be 'What happened to your face?' and 'Did something happen last night we should know about?' They were always on the move anyway; the only difference was that now, leading from one corner to another, it was only Ray who would stand a chance of following what Fraser was talking about. ]

The inuit have a practice which, though it would bare explaining under normal circumstances would in this case be strictly unnecessary. Besides which I know how you abhor inuit stories. However the inuit have this practice wherein-- [ If he'd just started with the story he'd be done by now. They stepped through the front doors together. ] --wherein as they wait beside their holes on the ice for a fish - understanding that by fish I mean the Atlantic Chard - to twitch the bait on their line, they must induce in themselves a state of eternal ever-readiness. Through a combination of the sheer emptiness of the frozen ocean, the ache in their limbs from crouching on the ice holding up the line, and of course the gentle lapping - chlock-chlock - of the rolling waves beneath them forcing air back through the hole--well, it can all be rather hypnotizing.

[ Past the desk, up the stairs, into the busy corridor. ]

[Oh, another story. He should have guessed the moment he saw that tell-tale expression of revelation on Fraser's features. But Ray still listens, head tilted towards the other in a display of interest. They walk together, in unison alongside one another, easily brushing past any others they meet without ever actually getting in the way. It's a practice they repeat daily, even synchronising the opening of doors as they pick their way through the station.

Ray's interest for the story soon runs thin though and he doesn't make any effort in hiding his disinterest, shoulders and head dropping briefly as though he's falling asleep, perking 'awake' seconds later as Fraser finishes.]

Well that's great! If we ever fish for cod, I'm sure I'll remember that.

[Typically dismissive. But their approach to detectives room is suddenly caught short as Ray halts, reaching to grab for a handful of Mountie uniform, swinging a door open with the other, and tugging them both into an all too familiar little closet, closing them in. If they are interrupted, they'll hear the warning click of the door, and no doubt just get stared at oddly before being left to their conversation again.]

What does that even have to do with anythin', Fraser? You gonna fish yourself into readiness? That's not how alcohol works. If you get drunk they're gonna try and take advantage and I can only hold off so many. [Not to mention Ray may be given more than a few drinks himself if he's not careful.]

[ If Fraser expected to be tugged sidewards into the closet he didn't show it, having been midstep at the time, but here they were, standing in the dark inches away from each other. His partner was typically dismissive, but he knew that unless the plan involved one of them getting shot or the potential to be blown up, destruction of a beloved vehicle, or rooting around in garbage, Ray would generally prefer to hear at least most of the plan. ]

Well, you see, Ray, the inuit fisherman has a trick, one that he has developed with practice--after all, all told he's spent whole years of his life in one place, perched over a hole in the ice. He teaches himself that no matter the distraction or the state of sleep he's induced in himself, one single trigger must snap him back to absolute readiness-- [ The door swung open, and an unsuspecting intern blinked at them twice before Fraser pulled the door shut again, grimacing apologetically. He resumed his explanation. ] That trigger being the twitch of the fish on the line.

[ None of which is an actual plan. ] None of which is an actual plan. However, it is a fact that alcohol only dulls the logic centers of the brain--actual brain damage takes somewhat longer. In effect I believe we can trigger ourselves into doing our duty irregardless of how dulled our other senses may be--a simple post-hypnotic suggestion would be all that was necessary.

[ His explanation of how he intends to hypnotize himself - possibly both of them - into against all odds and possibly against medical science overcoming skyrocketing blood alcohol levels, at last comes to a halt, though not really because he's done explaining. It's more as though he's suddenly become very much more aware of where they are, their closeness in the darkness, Ray's breath. The fact that they're alone for the first time since stepping into the club. Fraser licked his lips, shifting his weight on his feet very slightly. There was a different, plaintive note to his voice when he spoke again. ]

Ray?

[It sounded like Fraser was never going to shut up about this Inuit story, but as expected, Ray listened anyway, expectant of some problem solving solution that would save the day. Except all he got was suggestions of hypnosis.

Surely he didn't need to remind Fraser that they'd tried this hypnosis thing before and it really wasn't that successful. Well... maybe it was, but it resulted in the whole office being put under and Fraser implanting weird prompts into their minds. Prompts that were triggered with a single word and-- oh wait, that's pretty much what he's suggesting this around.

Ray considers the idea, even considers replying or inputting his own thoughts (which would be entirely useless in this field of expertise), but then there's an odd sort of stillness in the air as a silence falls and there's Fraser in front of him, saying his name in a tone that he's not entirely sure how to respond to beyond a curious;]

Fraser?

[Normally he'd be less concerned by hearing his own name, but normally they haven't had a night of passion followed by a morning trying to play convincing roles in a bdsm club.]

[ He suddenly gets it. Gets all the odd looks, gets all the awkwardness of other people finding him in the closet or the bathroom stall with either Ray over the years, gets the fact that over time they'd come to expect it: two grown men standing in the dark together in a crowded police station. He gets why all the other times people had trapped him in such spaces felt off-key, Francesca's expectations--

He gets it.

And as always when there was something for Fraser to get, a mystery that needed solving, or his dad simply wanted to rub his nose in it, Bob Fraser was tucked into the cramped space beside him. Took you long enough, son. ]

Ah.[ Softly, a remnant of another Benton; a less knowing Benton, a less capable Benton. There was the soft huff of amused laughter breathed out through his nostrils - not even close to being a laugh - but it's something at least. Some small indicator of his frame of mind. ] All this time?

[ Talking to himself or talking to Ray it didn't matter. Fraser senior wasn't keeping his thoughts to himself. Well kiss him! What are you waiting for? Winter? You'd think I'd dropped you on your head when you were a boy. Well I mean I did, but that's neither here nor there. The yank wants you to kiss him, son.

Fraser squeezed his eyes shut briefly, as though he could banish his father's words rattling round in his head.

...built on a strong foundation... he was saying, and something about partnership, but Fraser wasn't listening any more. He reached up, smoothing his fingertips against the bristles of Ray's 48 hour stubble, letting his hand wander the contour of his partner's jaw. Only when his fingers settled on Ray's pulse, in the soft dimple between his jaw and his ear, did he press himself forward blindly into the darkness, estimating the distance fluently, closing his lips around the other man's in a languid kiss.

Because this was what closets had been for all along, and Fraser suddenly didn't care if they were found like this. He had the suspicion that such a discovery would surprise practically no-one. ]

[This was what closets were for, physically and, to some extent, metaphorically. The odd stares for two grown men hiding in small places isn't really surprising, especially not for two that appear far too close in their everyday work environment. Even before all this they'd been all for invading personal space and close contact, and now... Now they were in this tiny space, sharing air as they stood in close thanks to the cramped space.

Ray's not quite sure how to respond, whether he should be the one to close the gap or whether this was a question that was to bring up some sort of reservation about the last twelve hours. He's not even sure quite what Fraser's talking about, or whether he's even talking to Ray. He does seem to have a habit of talking to himself.

Thankfully Fraser resolves the issue effectively, the moment his hand touches, Ray lets out a huff of breath, relieving any tension he'd started to build in the short pause. On the inhale he feels Fraser near, attempting to meet him with a lean forward but only making the initial contact that little more awkward thanks to screwing up the distance calculations. But he goes with it, works with the kiss with a little groan of appreciation and a mumble of 'Fraser' against those lips.

Whether he's wanting the Mounties attention or just stating his appreciation remains to be seen.]

[ So much for synchronized, anticipating each other's every move. Still, no noses get broken, and that's mostly because Fraser is tipping so very gently into it, as though for the first time. His breath gusted against Ray in the exhale, but there was no assault - not yet - just tender searching, the brush of a mouth against a mouth in the dark, slotting into place.

The sound of his name murmured against his mouth is deeply satisfying, and for all that it might be an effort to remind him that they're doing this in public or they ought to be working, or Welsh is going to kill them if he finds out they were necking in a closet when Ray was already well past being late--for all that it might be a warning, Fraser was well past hearing such nuances. He heard what he wanted: he heard his name murmured the way it had been last night, with his hands straining in the cuffs, and the heat of his tongue lashing his partner's thigh.

And those weren't exactly the prurient thoughts that any man, no matter the billow of his breeches, ought to be having in a closet in a packed police-station.

The kiss that had started out so tenderly suddenly changed gear. Fraser stepped forward, all but carrying Ray off the floor with him, knocking his partner forcefully against shelves of blank copy and toilet rolls. A half open box of biros spilled several more of its contents onto the floor, but Fraser was already far past tuning it out, his mouth mashing against Ray's, teeth clacking together, tongue probing, clashing, fighting for heat and space and contact and reality. Because what was real any more? Were they? Was this?

Fraser didn't breathe - either didn't dare to or didn't have time to - and it was only as he snaked one hand around Ray's hip and ground deliberately - deliriously - against him, that he even made a sound, panting a whimper into their kiss.

Because there was reality after all, the reality that insisted that an earnest kiss in the closet was one thing, but that being discovered dry grinding against his partner would be much more difficult to explain. Nevermind how hard it was going to be to stand in Welsh's office with the encounter's physical effects still bearing him down. ]

Ray. [ Pleading. He wanted more, couldn't help himself, and for once didn't have the discipline to stop this before it went too far. ] Ray.

[He could deal with the careful kissing and soft movements, even with the risk of interruption they were easy enough to push away from or excuse. But when Fraser starts to ramp it up, it's less easy to explain away and entirely inappropriate for the confines of a police station. Because yes, it's Ray who still keeps his logical mind working for once, thinking through every bit of this while still working with Fraser for each shift of lips and tongue.

He senses the desperation before he feels it, and isn't even surprised by the sudden force against him, jamming him sharply up against shelving that digs uncomfortably against his back. There's a grunt of complaint against the kiss but no attempt to stop it, his hands even grappling for Fraser's shoulders for purchase.

But that grip serves a convenient purpose for leverage too, and as Fraser starts to grind into him and pant just a little too eagerly, Ray's ready. It's the strained tones behind his name that finally persuade him to shove against Benton, forcing him back enough to break the kiss and trying to bring a knee up between them. He could likely do some serious damage with that knee if he decided to lash out with it, but that's not it's purpose for this.]

Fraser. Fraser. [Just slightly about a sharp whisper as if he's suddenly afraid they'll be heard.]

Not now. Later. Definitely later. [The panting suggests he'd be perfectly fine with continuing were it not for their location.]

[ Ray relieves him of his duty of control at just the right moment, gets a knee up between them as he shoves him back, and it's a physical block without being even close to reprimanding. Not when he knows that Ray is like this too, instinctual, more than ready to move much too fast, just as he had with Stella after her breakup with Orsini--just as they had last night. It wasn't a reprimand, or punishment; they had to stop because they had to stop, and Benton was relieved that he could rely on his partner to intercede on his behalf even when to all intents and purposes they both wanted this. Would topple into it without second thought in a heartbeat.

It was impossible to see just how undone the kiss had made him in the dark, but he was panting, pink faced, his lips plush from the kiss, his hair uncharacteristically askew. He knew himself - what he was capable of if he let himself have even half a moment to let his mind wander from logic to need again - and it was for that reason alone that he reached across to turn the handle of the closet, letting in a crack of light from the corridor outside as though if he let in the light and the hustle and bustle of police station noises he might convince himself to stop.

Instead, as he looked back out of the corner of his eye, listened to Ray's own panting, inspected the blush of his partner's skin and the lips he'd bruised last night - nevermind the more recent assault - the pitch of their quandary became immensely clear. It wasn't just in the car, or now, and the rush of leaving the Consulate had obscured the longing, but this...this situation had changed everything. Just looking at Ray was going to take levels of self control he didn't know if he had. This wasn't like Victoria. Victoria had been a distorted, twisted up kind of kismet. Ray Vecchio ne. Kowalski was his best friend, his partner, a man to whom he trusted his life and harbored a daily relationship with, to whom he'd opened up heart and soul to with only the briefest hesitation. Now every time he looked at him, he'd be thinking about kissing him. Keeping things professional was going to be a battle. They'd need to establish rules. Rules both of them would inevitably break, but without 'No fucking on Inspector Thatcher's/Lieutenant Welsh's desk' as a baseline they were both going to end up in spurious amounts of trouble. And probably fired.

Fraser being Fraser would find it hard to care so long as his nights and days were filled with passion, with never getting out of bed, hands wrapped in hands and lips on bare skin and Ray's teeth--god, Ray's teeth! Ray on the other hand had his shield to think of, and if he followed Fraser around without a badge or a license to shoot gunmen dead, then both of them would probably end up in the bottom of Lake Michigan sooner or later.

He swallowed, then jerked his head abruptly as though he could shake off his wandering thoughts, but he was still over on Ray's side of the closet when the door opened, and he jumped back so fast it was like he'd been burned. A box of paperclips fell off the shelf he collided with, smacked him on the head and then spilled like silver vomit all over the floor between himself and Ray.

From the doorway Francesca clucked her teeth, then shook her head. You know, maybe I don't even wanna know. Lieutenant wants to see you. ]

Me? [ Dazed by paperclips, still flushed from arousal and finding it very hard not to look down and make sure his tunic really did still obscure everything, identifying who Francesca was speaking to through insight alone was still far beyond his ability. And if he sounded positively terrified there was nothing surprising about that. Francesca's eyes hadn't left his face, and Fraser suddenly felt cornered on top of everything else.

No, she said. My dope of a brother who can't set an alarm clock to save his life. You gonna pick those up? I can help.

That was the last thing he wanted: to be left in the closet with Frannie while Ray went to Welsh. There was a gap by her left shoulder, and Fraser saw his opportunity closing. ]

Uh. No.

[ Which wasn't the polite, neat Mountie in any way shape or form, but the gap wouldn't last forever, and he made it - proudly, victoriously - into the hallway without so much as bumping shoulders with either Vecchio. ]

[Even in the dim light, Ray can tell Fraser's got that wildness to his eyes, a reminder that they truly did stop at a good time considering the next stop would have been ripping the clothes off one another and that's really not something that needed explaining on top of the lateness.

They stop just in time too, the door swinging open far too quickly after the break away and Ray's just as quick to try and peel himself off the shelving as Fraser is to jump away. He doesn't bother to straighten up, the usual scruffiness to be expected from him, and he won't be Fran's main point of attention anyway when Fraser's so close by. Especially after the Mountie has managed to spill a whole box of paperclips over himself which is so... typically Fraser; smooth as anything until there's anything relating to sex and/or women. Ray allows himself a minute smile at that, it'd be odd if he wasn't laughing at the dumb shit his partner did.

As Fran speaks, Ray displays a look of casual indifference, covering well as he masks the heavy breathing with a bored sniff followed up by a throat clearing.]

Yeah, tell him--

[And there goes Fraser, making his escape impressively quickly, un-Canadian but excused considering the current circumstances.]

I'm comin'.

[Reluctant and begrudging as he drags himself out of the closet, ignoring the mess made because he's not a damn cleaner.

He rolls his shoulders back as he steps into the hallway, brushing past Frannie on his way out and jerking his head towards the detective's section.]

See you at my desk, yeah? [Because Ray's doubts Fraser needs to be facing off against Welsh's wrath, especially in his current state. Welsh asked for Ray, he'll get Ray.

As he leads in, he ignores the few heckles from Hewey about something to do with his lateness (he wasn't really listening) and enters Welsh's office without knocking.

He expects the forceful berating that comes the second he's slipped the door shut behind him, shoulders slumping and head lowered as he takes it, and not even daring to speak until its over. But when it's over he's got the chance to explain himself, and explain himself he does, trying to pick his words somewhat carefully thanks to the lack of his usual Canadian support, but somehow managing to stumble his way through an explanation that successfully told of their findings within the club without ever specifically stating just how it all came about or what had happened within the clubs walls. Surely Welsh didn't need the details of make outs and submissives.

It works well enough to have him waved away with that resigned look Welsh so often reserves for Ray and Fraser and told how much he better get their man if he wants to keep his badge, and really he considers himself pretty damn lucky all things considered, as he exits the office sometime later and veers off towards his desk.]

We gotta nail this guy.

[As if that much weren't already obvious.]

[ So what? She shouted after them. I just gotta clear this up cause I'm the woman? And Fraser felt awful because he was better than that. It was anti-chivalrous to go rushing away and leave Francesca to clear up after him. But he just couldn't be in there. Not with a hard-on and the taste of Ray still on his mouth and his bottom lip freshly broken open, bruises down his neck. God, she hadn't seen them in the dark, but he'd charged out into the open now, and put himself in Ray's chair - Ray Vecchio's chair - and suddenly everything about this felt wrong.

So he sat in the chair - Ray Vecchio's chair - and felt wrong, and tried to look at everything and nothing at once. The paperwork stacked on Ray's desk in neat disorder, the mugshots on the wall, one of them with a knife mark still carved into its forehead Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance. Hah! Yeah, he had to remember that. He'd have to remember it when he and Ray were... He licked his lips, his mind wandered...

And then Dewey was leaning over the desk with big curious eyes and Fraser jumped back several inches, startling Huey who was rustling through the file cabinet behind him.

Jesus, Fraser. You almost scared me out of my skin.

Here, Dewey said, and gestured toward his partner. You reckon he got bit by something?

He felt like a pinata. Like meat dangling on a hook in a pool. Like--like his skin was turning the same color as his suit and he couldn't control it. And at that moment Ray blundered back over forcefully and Fraser wanted so badly to change the subject that he jolted clean out of the chair - Ray Vecchio's chair - like a reprimanded soldier informed that he'd never been told to stand easy, just wait by the desk. He bruised his thighs and scared the hell out of Dewey for good measure, too.

But there was nothing he could say; the repetition of 'We'll nail him to the wall' that he'd been counting on saying suddenly was everything he didn't want to say, and he was still hard as a rock. ]

Turtles. [ Okay, so that was more in his ball court.

What? Huey too close to him, getting a look at that bruise, and Fraser sidestepped around him. Quick thinking was essential. ]

It's a turtle bite. I was bitten by Ray's turtle.

[Do turtles have teeth?

I don't know, do turtles have teeth?

And now they were bickering about whether it was a setup for a punchline or not, and Fraser looked panic stricken at his partner in earnest, trying to communicate telepathically with him: Get me the hell out of here. ]

[Ray can pretty much guess the line of questioning the second he approaches, obvious enough from the lean of Dewey and the curious, squinting gaze. Fraser looks as awkward as he does when he's being hit on, and for the briefest of seconds Ray's afraid Fraser might tell them everything. But Fraser's a gentleman, he doesn't kiss and tell and he certainly knows how to cover for his friends, even if his look over at Ray suggests he needs help.]

'Course they do, morons. What do you think snapping turtles are?

[He swaggers into his space, making it obvious from body language alone that he wanted them cleared out, even going so far as to reach for some totally inane file as if it's something of great importance.]

What, you not got work to do? I'm sure Welsh has got plenty for you.

[Not that he intends to stick around judging by his movements, tucking the file under his arm without even glancing at it and brushing past Fraser to lead out.]

C'mon, Fraser. Room A is free. We got that uh. The uh, suspect. The one we need to interview. In the room. Both of us.

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