Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun.

Author's Notes: Written for the stop_drop_porn kink challenge. My prompt was "role-playing."

He had to stop doing this. Or they had to get better locks. He'd been knocking for at least ten minutes (okay, maybe one minute, but, hey, he was hungry) and no answer. And yeah, he was really, really early, but for some reason the computer was working right and the printer actually printed, and when it's that easy, Ray looks over his shoulder a lot for the candid camera, because it's never easy for him.

Anyway, he'd missed lunch and figured Fraser probably hadn't eaten lunch either and maybe they could catch an early dinner. His stomach was making those really terrifying squeaks, the ones that mean he'll even eat vegetables because he's hungry enough to gnaw on his own leg. And Fraser knows what those sounds mean, and the asshole never passes up a chance to feed Ray greens. Those bat ears will pick up on the tiniest squeak and then insist they go to that vegetarian place, which, in addition to being "good for you, Ray" (like Ray and good belong in the same sentence) has these creepy, wholesome looking waiters who smile constantly and say weird-ass things in chirpy, upbeat voices like, "Have a nice day."

What the fuck does that mean?

Ray doesn't trust people who smile a lot. Show Ray a suspect who smiles, and he'll slap on the cuffs because guilt and showing lots of teeth are like ham and eggs. Plus, he's never actually voiced this to Fraser because even he knows it's slightly nuts, but he has a sneaking suspicion they are aliens, because you do not wish people a nice day in Chicago, and you don't do it to cops. Because a nice day means you just kicked in the teeth of that perp that molested a five-year old kid. Ray was pretty damn sure that wasn't what they meant by "nice," but, jeez, they're aliens. What do they know? Maybe he should cut them some slack.

The point is that just being within twenty feet of the place makes Ray want to light up a cigarette just to prove a point. As in, my nice day means smoking down about thirty cigs; what do you do on your planet for fun? He did light up that one time and Fraser was really pissy with him for a couple of days so he never did it again, but all that sheer goodness bugs the shit out of him, so he compensates by swearing up a storm. Last time they ate there (and he'd never admit this to Fraser but the food was pretty good), he managed to say "fuck" thirty-two times. Course, Fraser knew what he was doing and ignored every single damn one of them, but Ray could tell he was getting to him because the neck cricks were fast and furious. Man, they had a good time together.

He debated shouting for Fraser to come out, but Fraser had reamed him another asshole the last time he did that. Canadian yelling, but still yelling. It didn't have no decibels to it, but it was still yelling in Ray's book. "Ray, when you are at the door of the Consulate, I must ask you never to indulge in that louche Chicago behavior, raising your voice in a positive scream to alert me to your presence. Respect this ground, Ray. There is both a doorbell and a knocker. Please use them."

Ray wasn't sure what "louche" was but he bet it wasn't good. Fraser reprimanded Ray in almost his normal voice, like it wasn't a reprimand, but Ray wasn't fooled; he still had the fucking scorch marks. Almost normal with Fraser meant call in the SWAT team because someone was going down. And it was usually Ray.

So he'd knocked. And he'd pushed the doorbell. Except no doorbell because it still wasn't fixed. The Ice Queen had told Turnbull he had to fix it (cause he broke it), but putting tools and electrical wires within ten feet of Turnbull was, like, majorly insane. The guy had trouble operating a telephone and she wanted him to, like, do electricity!!! Which Ray considered voodoo and he was pretty good at stuff like that. But Turnbull? Might as well save some time and just douse the entire consulate with jet fuel and rev up the ole flamethrower. The Ice Queen wouldn't let Fraser fix it, On principle, Constable, and Fraser wouldn't let Turnbull anywhere near anything even remotely resembling a screwdriver and had hidden the toolbox in the interest of saving their lives. So it stayed broke.

Ray really had no choice but to pull out his credit card and work the lock. Easy peasey. Good thing a cop lived here.

He made his way down the hallway toward Fraser's office and stopped. One voice, then another. It was after hours so what… Yeah, there was one voice, Fraser's, and then another. Didn't sound like Turnbull, who in the hell? Sounded like Fraser but not. Like if Fraser was from Chicago. What the fuck? Who was in there with him? The door was open just enough so that Ray could probably maneuver it so he could see through the mirror who… But he never made it to the mirror because next he heard…

"What's eating you, Frase? Place give you, ah, the creeps?"

Now, Ray started to have a little bit of a nervous breakdown: (a) because it was exactly what he said to Fraser yesterday in the car after they'd interviewed that bartender, who they'd way-laid as he was just about to start his shift at the Stud, one of the rougher gay bars in town; and (b) Fraser had Ray's voice pattern down pat; that rush of words he did at the end of his sentences. Plus, man, those words coming out of Fraser's mouth made Ray realize that he talked with an accent.

"No, it didn't give me the 'creeps,' although I'm not sure what you meant by that."

Okay, freak out number two, coming right up. Because that was exactly what Fraser had said right back to him.

"You know, being in ass-bandit territory. Looking like you do, you know. Okay, I'm just going to shut up, now."

Which is also exactly what Ray said, and it sounded even more stupid being replayed back just like he said it in the first place.

Ray clenched his fists because he knew what was coming next and it was bad.

"I don't know what you mean by 'looking like I do,' but, no, the prospect of men having carnal relations doesn't elicit a reaction one way or the other. I just found that place incredibly depressing. Three thousand square feet devoted to people taking what they can get. I imagine a heterosexual meat market would elicit the same response from me. It doesn't matter that it's men. Desperate people in desperate times."

It had sounded like such a wail of loneliness then, and repeated it was even worse. Ray couldn't say anything at the time because his throat had closed up to the point where he was almost going to pull over and ask Fraser to do mouth to mouth, and he sure as hell couldn't say anything now.

"Did you know that I gave my virginity to a bank robber? I imagine I could match any of the patrons there tit for tat in terms of meaningless encounters. Of course, it wasn't meaningless to me, but there you are. Shall we get something to eat?"

That was right on, too. They had ordered Chinese and taken it back to Ray's place and talked about the case and whether the bartender was lying or not. For once, they agreed. The bartender was a sack of shit but seemingly a clueless sack of shit.

Ray thought, "Okay, I'll wait a couple of minutes, then the credits on Fraser's weird little Hallmark theater will have rolled on by and…"

Except it wasn't over. And this didn't happen. This wasn't in the script because the script would have had them arguing whether to order enough lo mein for Dief to snack. This was improv Fraser-style.

"Have you ever had a relationship with a man, Ray? I think not, given your devotion to Stella, but I must admit I am curious."

And yeah, this was truly fantasyland now, because Fraser would never have asked Ray that question outright. Never would lay it on the table like that. For one thing, guy partners don't ask other guy partners that sort of question (come to think of it, Ray didn't think female partners would appreciate it either), and, two, it was too personal. Fraser didn't like to get personal because it sort of opened the door to personal back, and Fraser tended to keep that door shut and locked. You better believe no emotional credit card was able to tamper with that lock.

Ray inched close to the doorway. This was so freaky, but he didn't want to miss a single word of what he was going to say. Or what Fraser was going to say pretending to be him.

Okay, what would he say to something like that? Cause Fraser knew he didn't diss people because they were gay or whatever. Ray'd never gotten into that whole gay-bashing thing cops did. He had been a weird-ass kid and was a weird-ass cop, and that gave him some perspective on being the perennial outsider. Course he could have gone the other way and compensated for it by being a total asshole like most cops did (hey, Dewey), but he didn't. If Fraser had sprung it on him, he'd probably blurt out something like, "If 'relationship' is Canadian for getting blown in the backseat of my car. Uh, did lots of shit after Stella kicked me out. So yeah."

"Shit" being Ray code for gambling, drinking, and cruising for men in places like the Stud. It was "anti-Stella" time, which meant deliberately doing shit that was a giant "fuck you" to her. Wasting money on craps (when you should be buying expensive furniture and saving money for vacations in places where the bartenders wore white jackets), drinking himself sick (anymore than two drinks a night, Ray, and the doctors label it alcoholism. Do you really want that third beer?), and picking up dark-haired guys in bar (enough said). Not that he realized it at the time, but he was just short of putting a gun to his head.

Wasn't a total dead loss though, because he found out that he liked dick as much as he liked pussy. Didn't do much for his depression, because you do guys in bars, it's just like doing women in bars. You don't know these people, you don't want to know them, and they don't want to know you. It's about getting off and that gets real cold after a while. Ray did the bar scene for a while and found it didn't make him any less lonely, plus he was spending a fortune on booze and condoms. So he stopped, transferred when they offered him the Vecchio gig, and now found himself listening to himself in the Canadian consulate and wondering how he was going to respond to a question that Fraser had never asked him.

"I pretty much catch what I'm pitched, Frase."

Freak channel blaring twenty-four seven here, because if Ray had his patter going, he would say something like that, and then he'd follow up with…

"You, Frase? What team do you play for?"

Fuckfuckfuck! This was so weird. Because…

"I don't know, frankly. I don't… My experience has been… No, but maybe…"

What in the fuck did he mean by "maybe"?

The "real" Fraser intruded here. Ray heard something like a cough, which Ray suspected was a bitten-off sob. He'd made enough of those in his lifetime to know when you feel like letting loose and you're hanging on by your nails to keep it together. Ray inched forward down the hall to where, if he angled himself right, he could use the mirror to see into Fraser's office and…

Christ on a raft. Fraser didn't have any clothes on. He was propped up on his cot, all six feet of him in naked glory. Man, was he beautiful. He'd seen Fraser in bits and pieces. A chest here, an ass there. The amount of times they'd gotten wet meant they were stripping in front of each other a fair amount. But seeing Fraser relaxed like this, not bruised or cut or exhausted from the usual day of insanity that characterized partnering with Fraser, was… Fuck. Ray could stare and drink it all in without those sneaky little glances he'd done in the past. He went for it. The hair on Fraser's legs, his pit hair, and his pubic hair (Ray had a hair kink and apparently had a dark-haired man kink), and then the lack of hair on his chest. The frigging breadth of him. Large pink-ish nipples. Those nice meaty arms, but the small waist. Too bad he was sitting down, because Frase had an ass…

Now add the hand/dick thing going on, and Ray was getting real good to go here. Fraser's hand wasn't really stroking his dick, just sort of idly fondling it, like they hadn't gotten to the right point in the show yet. Fraser wasn't cut. Ray had run into a couple of those during his cruising days, so it didn't freak him out. Big dick. No surprises there. Why would Mother Nature fuck him over by giving him those fantastic looks and then short-change him in the dick department? Course, Ray wasn't going to be asked to be Mr. June for a "Studly Cops" calendar, but at least his dick was about the same size as Fraser's, maybe even thicker. Ray's dick began doing its little lurching thing, trying to get Mr. Hands to get on board. Ray brought his hand forward to make him… But then he saw Fraser's face. Crumpled in on itself, sad, miserable, and Ray's hard-on took a hike.

"Do you still love Stella, Ray?"

Ray put a hand over his mouth to stifle the !what! of surprise. Ray had rarely talked about Stella to Fraser, although Fraser often had to bear the brunt of Ray's bad moods when Stella would reject him, time after time. Ray didn't have much to say. "I fucked up, didn't measure up. Over and out. End of story." There was no way to talk about it without sounding like a total loser.

"I know you don't want to hear this, Ray, but I don't like Stella. I think she's shallow, and I base this rather stern appraisal of her solely on the fact that she threw you away. Let you go. You are such a wonderful person, Ray. So beautiful. Do you know how beautiful you are? I can't imagine being so foolish. I, too, loved someone who, in the end, didn't love me. And I find I can't fill that gap with meaningless encounters. I wish I could. I wish I could go to the Stud or that bar you took me to in the Ambassador Hotel—the one with all those plants—and just be with someone. Just for one night. Touch someone. Connect with someone. But that's not what's on the menu at those places, is it? I want that connection, Ray. I'm nearly forty years old and I'm lonely and I'm extremely homesick and I think I'm going crazy. Can you go crazy from loneliness? So, do you still love Stella, Ray?"

What in the hell would he say to that? Something along the lines of, "Yeah, always will, I guess, but it's getting better. Some days…"

Ray had little freak out number three here because Fraser replied in his "Ray" voice, "Sure. Always will. But some days. You know, I don't think about her much. When I do, she's younger. Like when we… Not like she is now. Yeah, she's still beautiful, but it's not my beautiful anymore. I see her in the bullpen in those powersuits and I can't help but finger my tee-shirt. What in the fuck were we thinking?" It was so right on, so goddamned "him" that Ray had a brain freeze. Like a serious polar-ice-cap-in-your-brain freeze. Hearing Fraser swearing like that. Like him. Like that. "And yeah, I think you can go crazy from loneliness. Did. Sort of. Still do. Sometimes."

Yeah, Frase. Ray found himself in tears and closed his eyes. Yeah, I do, buddy.

"Ray, come here."

Ray fucking freaked, thinking that Fraser had seen him in the mirror, that he was busted, that…

But when Ray looked up, Fraser's eyes were still closed and his right hand was now at his side.

"Touch me."

Oh fuck.

Fraser licked his palm (figures), and Ray could hear the slurp as Fraser laved his palm with spit. And just like Ray would, Fraser wrapped one of those big hands around himself, really gentle and careful, as if afraid.

"Yes," sighed Fraser, and the hand sped up just a fraction. Gained a little confidence. Ray noticed that Fraser liked it slow. Liked the palm caressing the tip of his dick.

"Ray, that's, that's…"

Fraser's other hand came up and began pinching his left nipple. Hard. Ray bet that the way Fraser was making these little jerks into his fingers as they worked the tip, over and over, that Fraser liked being bitten. Liked having his nipples worried over and teased. Ray could do that. He was all over that, in fact.

Just when Ray thought he'd go nuts, just barge into the room and reach with both hands, Fraser stopped tweaking his nipples and stuck a finger in his mouth. Then stuck in another. Oh Christ, Ray knew what was coming next and why he didn't start pounding the walls in frustration he'd never know, cause he was in utter agony here. Blue balls? Ray would kill for merely having blue balls.

Yeah, there it was. Fraser lifted his hips and hiked up a leg and slide in both fingers just like that. Those big fingers of his, in and out, in and out. He was so open, just taking in those fingers, moving them time with his hand. Ray grasped the base of his dick, hard, because he was three ticks away from coming. The sight of Fraser all sweaty and open and fucking open for him. And it wasn't just about getting some or taking the edge off of his loneliness. Fraser wanted him. Wanted him so much that he hated Stella for not wanting him.

And when Fraser came shouting his name, it was icing on already pretty damn near perfect cake. Man, he never felt so completely loved in his entire life.

Of course, he also never had a dick this hard in his entire life, and if he didn't do something about this real soon he'd have to go to the hospital or something because parts were going to be permanently fried open. Or shut. Or whatever. Not good anyway.

He left Fraser panting and sprawled out on top of his cot, his limbs splayed in exhaustion. Ray went home and jerked off because if he didn't he was looking at some sort of permanent physical damage. Didn't matter. They had lots of time. Years. He then picked up Fraser at 7:30 just like they planned.

Fraser trotted down the steps of the Consulate the minute Ray pulled up. Aside from his greeting being a little subdued, Ray never would have known.

"Hey, Frase. Let's order take out and go to my place. Get the wolf and a toothbrush. Oh and a change of underwear. Maybe a change of clothes. Two changes of clothes. We're talking. Big time talking. Both of us."