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




Of all the lame-ass ideas, this was the lame-est.

We were six months into this partner thing, as in partner, if you get my drift, and, man, I was still grooving on us being together and think that part of the greatness will never stop. We were in a place where we didn't have to hide the fact we shared a bed, and, fucking-a, we could even be legal. Which we will get around to because I might have put a ring through my bellybutton at the age of twenty, but that didn't stop me from buying Stella the smallest diamond that Tiffany's sold and putting it on her finger. I'm a Ward Cleaver wears leathers kind of guy.

If I survive, we'll do it.

Because some of the things about living up in the fucking tundra are cool. It's mondo gorgeous, even when you're freezing your ass off. The air? So clean and fresh it's like breathing sunshine. People are okay, if completely freaksville. Not Fraser freakiness though. Different. Tougher. We hadn't been in town more than a couple of weeks before I realized that you got to be a certain type of person to make it. Apparently I absolutely cut it on the freak meter (which is both scary and cool). People eyed me for two weeks and then it was "Hey, Ray." Funnily enough, people aren't sure about Fraser. They cut him a lot of slack because of me. Isn't that a mind fuck? He knows how to speak about nine million languages, he's Canadian for Christ's sake, but the universal language of pounding back some beers on a Saturday night and getting half pissed and throwing peanuts shells at the television screen when the Oilers flub a shot, he just doesn't get. And never will. Fortunately, he's got one foot in la-la Fraser land so he doesn't see that they think he's from Mars, and as long as I live, he never will.

Again, back to that survival thing, because the thing I hate most about living up here is that you can't hire people, and this is the part that is not cool, and, in fact, sucks ass. When Fraser tossed out the notion one night about buying some land and building a cabin, I said, "Greatness," and meant it because the hotel room with a shared shower was getting really old. I don't like half-wolves listening to me beg for Fraser's cock up my ass. I'm funny that way.

In the good ole U S of A when someone says, "Shall we build a cabin, Ray?" you haul out the phone book and go to "C" and look up contractors. Or you call up Hewey and ask him who did his kitchen because that indoor rotisserie was smoking.

Ain't like that here.

So Ray Kowalski ex-Detective first grade meet Ray Kowalski lame-ass contractor because there wasn't anyone else. No fucking contractors. If I want a cabin, Fraser and I got to build one. Because apparently all available labor is working on the pipeline. We can get the Mahonaghie brothers to give us a hand on Saturday and Sundays, and Dave Hoskins will show up on the occasional Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday (he gets stinking drunk on Friday and Saturday nights and spends Sunday and Monday recovering), and Fraser does the RCMP thing during the week. So that leaves me.

Pretty much the state of things in general. You don't hire people because there aren't people to hire; you do it yourself. Yeah, there are the basics, but real limited. You try not to get really sick on Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays because the doc flies in on Wednesday mornings and flies out Saturday afternoon. But shit happens; I've set three broken legs since I've been here; doc says I've got a real knack for it. It's sort of like setting the timing belt on the Goat. Plus, I've become a fucking flossing nazi. Try living with a bad tooth for four days because the dentist only makes it here once a week.

When the reality of exactly who was going to build this freaking cabin came down, I was halfway tempted to tell him to take this cabin idea and shove it where the sun doesn't shine except… Fraser and his damn noises. I got a kink for the noises Fraser makes when I rim him, and he don't make those noises in the hotel with fourteen guys to either side of us, who are so fricking large they make Fraser look stunted. I think about those noises as I'm getting a cashier's check cut for the land, while Fraser buys a table-saw, a couple of shovels, some serious hammers, boxes of nails, and a ton of lumber. Oh and a few bags of cement for the foundation.

We found a completely sweet spot about ten miles outside of town, bought that sucker, signed the deed, and staked out where we wanted the front door. The next day I helped Fraser unload the truck, got sixteen splinters in less than ten minutes, and that night made up a list of definites, because dollars to donuts if I'd left it up to Fraser, we'd be living in an igloo, our underwear made out of furs.

  1. A generator. Fraser balked at that until he saw my face and realized it wasn't negotiable. He actually had the nerve to ask me if electricity was absolutely necessary to my state of being. I said, "You bet your sweet absolute ass, Fraser."

  2. A dish (as in one hundred and twenty channels, not casserole).

  3. An inside bathroom. After our adventure I vowed never again to be in a position where I was so cold I actually had to hunt for my dick. That sort of thing can scar you for life.

  4. An inside shower. I've learned to be very specific because Fraser will do an end run around you if you let him. In Fraser-speak, throwing a few buckets of melted snow over your shoulders probably constitutes a "shower." I underlined "tiled, inside, hot and cold running water" four times.

  5. A separate bedroom. Oddly enough, Fraser was all over the privacy, and I suspect that Dief has been making snide remarks. Fraser doesn't deny it, but says things like, "Oh, what gave you that idea, Ray?" Which is so much bullshit, but now I'm copping on to his kind of lying. The question is the dead give away every time. Not that I'm telling him that.

We got Fraser working five days a week, so although Mr. Phenomenal Ability with a Hammer and a Table-saw more than pulls his weight on the weekends, by and large it's me. Building a frigging cabin by myself. And I'm all thumbs. Give me a carburetor. Give me a engine. Something that goes vroom and has wheels, and I'm your man. Hand me a hammer and some nails, and, whoa, the doctor's only here FOUR DAYS A WEEK?????

If I make it to my fortieth birthday, it will be a fucking miracle.

To date, seven out of my ten fingernails are black. I've fallen off a ladder twice, wrenched my back once, gave myself twin black eyes, and nearly decapitated myself with the table-saw. Would have helped to have actually read the instructions, but I really didn't need Fraser to rub that in.

It's a Saturday afternoon and the Mahonaghie brothers had to leave early and Dave's ass is parked on his favorite stool in Mac's, working on his sixth shot, and now Fraser's just whacked his thumb because he's watching me so I don't do more stupid shit with the table-saw. Which made me feel sixteen different kinds of inadequate because the summer's really short here, and we don't have much time to frame this sucker in, and dammit if I was spending the entire winter in that hotel, listening to Fraser bite his moans into his pillow.

I was pounding nails and getting madder and madder, which is stupid and stupider because this was when I usually got hurt. When I start thinking about the winter and how little time we have left. I turned to snap at Fraser because I wasn't hearing any pounding at all and we needed to get up that wall today because the roof had to go on next week…

And there he was, a mouth half-full of nails, fumbling with the box because he really did a number on that thumb.

I know this is weanie of me, but nothing turns my crank more than a fumbling Fraser.

"Fraser."

Although sound really carries out here in the far and wide, he didn't hear me, so intent was he on trying to fill his mouth with nails. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his shoulders were shiny with sweat, with a few freckles here and there. And we were out in the middle of nowhere, no pipeline jerks to either side of us, Dief out murdering rabbits. Alone.

"Fraser. Ben."

I said it louder this time, and he looked up at me, his forehead all scrunched up in frustration, and I can tell from the way he had his head cocked to the side that he was expecting me to snap at him.

"Don't move."

I laid down my hammer.

This, this love and lust thing we have going on. Is something else. I'd done love with Stella and it was good, no denying that. I refuse to make comparisons because you can't. It's like comparing hamburger and peaches. But the one thing that was different is that I always had this fear that she'd realize that I was a nice guy who loved her, but I'd never be more than that. In the beginning that was enough, and I'd like to think she needed me. Cause I supported her all the way, twenty-four seven. You want to become a big ass lawyer, baby? Tell me where to sign for the loan. But when she started buying the suits and wearing the pumps and sighed when I wore tee shirts, I started to get worried. Then that magazine Architectural Digest began to arrive in the mail, and I knew I was on borrowed time.

Fraser has that same unbelievable competence—what am I? Some sort of sick masochist? I only fall for people that far out-class me—but he's the one who's afraid I'm gonna walk out that door. And having been there, terrified that a hand is gonna reach for the doorknob one last time, I never abuse that power. I'm a nice guy who loves him, and that's more than enough for him. It's everything.

Fraser had lost a lot of weight on the adventure, mostly because for the first few weeks I was so useless that he had to work twice as hard. He'd just started to bulk up a bit when we started this stupid cabin, and now he's lean again, too lean. Still frigging gorgeous, but I'm aching at seeing how thin he is. I don't want to even think about how thin I am. I punched another hole in my belt yesterday.

He was still holding the box of nails, he mumbled something, probably, "What?"

I walked over to him, took the box of nails out of his hand, and dropped it to the ground. Kissing his mangled thumb, I then brought both his hands up over his head to catch them in one of mine. And held them there.

I got noise kinks; Fraser's got bondage kinks. Which I didn't get for the longest time, but he's sort of like those prime minister types who rule the world nine to five and then like getting their ass whipped six ways to Sunday from nine to midnight. That wonderful act of letting go. Of giving it up to someone else for a while. Taking a little vacation from all that competence and power.

Not that Fraser has a power kink, with him it's more like "I will keep everything right in the world, because if I don't, more of my loved ones will get killed." It's a sign of his tremendous love for me that he even let me in. Because in Fraser's world, the people you love buy the farm.

Well, I ain't buying the farm anytime soon. Table-saw, you are so my bitch.

I tightened my grip on his wrists and his eyes fluttered shut and he groaned around his mouth full of nails.

"You're getting too thin. You need to eat more." I licked his shoulders, which were salty and wet and hot from the sun.

"Rrrah," he mumbled. And tried to say some other ass nonsense. I ignored him and turned him around, keeping his wrists held tight. Reaching around, I thumbed the button on his jeans open, pulled on the zipper, and brought his jeans down below his hips.

"Oh, you total slut, you," I laughed in his ear, because Fraser was commando, and I know it wasn't because there wasn't no clean laundry.

He was already hard, just my hand gripping his wrist a certain way will do that for him. I slicked up my other hand and began to jerk him, real slow, pulling back on the foreskin, just scoping him out. As if I didn't know every single frigging millimeter of that dick. I teased his ear with a really wet tongue. Fraser likes things wet, lots of spit everywhere. On his dick, in his mouth, the wetter the better. Oh, yeah, and my tongue up his ass, my cheeks damp from all that saliva.

I brought his arms down in front of him, still keeping my hand wrapped tight both of his wrists, and then licked a stripe down his warm back and fell to my knees.

His entire body went stiff, both in anticipation and fear that I wasn't going to… But oh I was, but first a little teasing loving, just to make it good, because we couldn't keep on taking sex breaks or this cabin would never go up.

I nipped at the juncture between his ass cheeks and the top of his thigh. Man, does Fraser have a nice ass. I defy anyone not wanting to stick your dick near it, het or homo. Even though he'd lost weight, his ass was still all poufy and curvy and fucking hot. I bit one cheek and then the other. Got more begging mumbles around the nails.

"Love you," I murmured in between tiny kisses to his hole. "Know I'm being an asshole, but I'm afraid we're not gonna get this up in time." I licked a stripe up his cleft and that was it.

He spat out the nails with something akin to a moose bellow, I heard them clattering onto the plywood, and then he shoved his ass back in my face. I started tongue fucking him, and this is the part that always has me creaming my own shorts. He's loving my hand so much and yet digs my tongue in his ass and doesn't know whether to shove back or push forward and he's just losing it, shouting and begging and whimpering from somewhere really deep inside him. I don't give him too much friction on his dick at first because I want it to last for him. I want it to be the best every time. But when he sounded close to tears, I shoved my tongue in and squeezed his dick, and he was done. Stick a fucking fork in him.

He jerked back into me, and hot come flooded my hand. His thighs were shuddering like he was trying to stay on his feet, so I let go of his wrists and eased him down on his knees. We don't got any lube and I'll be damned if I'm going to fuck him raw, so I brought his thighs together and fucked him between the tight vee of his legs. It don't take me long. It was good and wonderful and I made all the noise I wanted, which is usually just saying "fuck" and "christ" a bunch of times.

After I came, I pulled him to the side of me, and we lay spooned together on the plywood, letting the sun and sex lull us to sleep.

We didn't sleep more than a few minutes, because Dief came back, and there's nothing worse than getting dog/wolf licks in your ear when his breath smells like dead rabbit.

Pulling my pants back up, I was just going to grab my hammer, when Fraser stopped me and pulled me into a hug.

"We'll finish it. Don't worry."

I hugged him back. "Like that commando action there, Fraser. You want to move in here anytime this century, you'd better start wearing some shorts on the weekends," I warned him.

"Spoilsport," he murmured and nuzzled my neck with that tongue of his.

"Have to admit you look pretty sexy with your mouth full of nails."

"Not a candle to you holding a hammer, Ray."

Maybe not a lame-ass contractor after all. A sexy-ass contractor? What Canada will do to a guy.




Fin