Warning: Violent, wartime content. Written for Pearl_o's RayK 97s Challenge. Enormous thanks to Malnpudl for the beta! NC-17.
International Brigade
On the Ebro, west of Pamplona
Spain, 1937
Nights are cold in the mountains, and they're woefully under-equipped. They don't even have proper uniforms. It makes it hard to tell who to shoot at, but it also makes it easier to move behind enemy lines.
That morning, Lt. Welsh had jabbed a meaty finger at an area map and said, "Gentlemen, tonight the two of you are going up to this shack up on this hilltop, where we are told you will find a sizable weapons cache. Bring back as much as you can carry."
"Only the two of us, sir?" Fraser had asked, and Welsh had simply nodded and told them to get some rest.
Welsh's hilltop is more like the shoulder of a mountain, and the climb takes a couple of hours of fast hiking through the forest. Fraser's good at this stuff, and Ray's glad of it. He's learned a lot from him, especially stuff like staying warm without a fire and making fire when your matches are damp. Now they're tromping up animal trails, avoiding mud, and using pine needles to mask their tracks. They'll go down a different way, assuming they get out of there in one piece.
Fraser's a good guy. Friendly, smart, always a trail of señoritas following after him, giving him more food than the rest of them get. He could bed any of them, but he doesn't. Ray knows this because Fraser's unrolled his bedroll next to his every night since they deployed from IB camp. He doesn't really know what started it; neither of them ever said, "Hey, bunk with me," but Ray's glad for it all the same. It's like having something to come home to at the end of the day, and when home's an ocean away, anything that feels that kind of safe is something to hold onto.
Not that anyone says anything. Everyone has a best pal, and most of them make use of the girls who follow the division, too, separately and together. Fraser doesn't, but he's such an odd duck nobody makes anything of it. Besides, it isn't as if either of them is taking it up the ass, and they sure as hell have never kissed. But buddies help each other out, and when one of them says, all innocent-like, "Give me a hand with this?" The other is there for him. Right there, lickety-split.
At dusk, they find the building on the southern face of the ridge top, just where it's supposed to be. Fraser circles up and around to scout over the crest of the hill, because he can do it quieter. Ray's good at sneaking around in cities, and he misses being in Madrid. He liked Madrid, though the fighting was the worst he's seen yet, with five story apartment buildings laid open top to bottom, and ruined bits of clothes and toys and furniture scattered in the wreckage. He liked it because it reminded him a little of Chicago, but mostly because he feels most himself when he's got concrete under his feet and skyscrapers around him.
Fraser returns after half an hour and Ray breathes a little easier. "There's no rear entrance," Fraser says, "only one window on the north wall and one on the south, to the right of the door."
"Did you get a look inside?" Ray asks.
"No, but it was quiet. There's a guard outside."
"Yeah?"
Fraser smiles. "Just the one. He left his bench once in a quarter hour to glance behind the shack from the back corner of the building."
"Easy," Ray says, grinning.
"Let's hope so."
The guard's so dumb, standing there smoking in the dark, orange cherry of the cig as obvious as painting a target on your face. Holding his breath, Ray tosses a pinecone, waits a second for the sentry to turn toward the sound, and grabs him from behind. Ray's hand covers the sentry's mouth, brushing the cigarette to the ground. Then the knife goes into his throat, smooth as butter. He still has to saw a little bit to cut through the artery. That part's always rough, with them jerking against you, shooting blood over your hand, trying to get away. You have to be strong as an ox, or a horse, as they say here. Ray's not strong like Fraser, but he's dogged and he holds on like the devil.
Ray counts seconds. He hears the sentry's blood spatter on the leaves and pine needles in front of them. Three seconds and he's deadweight. Five and his heart's stopped. Ray lowers him to the ground facedown, wipes his knife on the man's trouser leg, and goes inside.
Fraser's in the corner loading a duffle bag with dynamite. It's three quarters full when he tucks in a roll of fuse and two medium blasting boxes. The second duffle gets thirty pounds of rifle rounds and all the food rations in the cupboard. Fraser scans the stack of papers on the shack's single table, while Ray loads their rucksacks with grenades and as many boxes of .38 caliber ammunition as they'll hold.
Ray looks longingly at the line of heavy mortar shells and all the bullets they can't take with them. If only they had a truck. Even a donkey cart, not that he knows how to drive one. Fraser probably does, though.
"Come on," Ray whispers, turning. They don't know how much time they have. It can't be much; he knows it in his gut. "Unless you know of a car we can steal, we better get out of here."
Fraser looks up from the table, grinning. "Look, Ray, it's a map. Either of planned targets or more weapons caches, I'm not sure."
"That's great, Fraser," he hisses, dragging his pack up onto his bony shoulders. And it is, but they're running out of time.
Fraser folds it up and sticks it inside his shirt. Then he hoists a rucksack and straps the heavier duffle across his back.
They're in the dooryard when the shout comes. A group of three men are coming down from the crest of the hill, running now that the sentry failed to answer.
Fraser pulls a grenade off his belt and lobs it through the window next to the front door. Ray hears the sound of breaking glass and Fraser's hoarse "Run!" Then he's counting seconds again. He has been since he heard Fraser yank the pin. Six-five-four-three… and he's running slow, only jogging because he's carrying a hundred pounds of extremely explosive metal on his back. Running, running so slow. His heart's thundering, but he's in the trees, wondering if the thing was a dud when it goes. And it goes. It's a chain reaction. It sounds like Fraser didn't get all the dynamite.
He doesn't look back. The woods are bright as daylight with the fire and they have to go, they have to go, they have to be gone before reinforcements get there.
All they need now is a company of angry fascists after them.
"Ray!" Fraser calls, and he's pointing down, pulling Ray around into a switchback they can't have time for, they can't. Ray's shaking his head, pointing toward the way they came up, but Fraser says quietly, "No, Ray. There's better cover if we go south."
"That's stupid. You know damned well going east will be faster."
"If we go that way," Fraser answers calmly, "they'll catch us at the river." Ray can barely see his face now; they're more than half a mile downhill already. He can see the certainty in Fraser's eyes, though, and Fraser knows this stuff. That's why Welsh sent him. As for why Welsh sent Ray? Better not to wonder.
Ray takes a breath and says, "Okay, yeah. That way, then."
Fraser lays a hand on his shoulder for a moment and squeezes. "I know a place we can rest."
It's a slow hike down, made worse by lashing branches and thorny underbrush, but after the first two hours the fear of being chased starts to fade. After two more hours, with ever more frequent breaks to rest their aching legs, Fraser says, "Here."
He leads Ray into the shelter of a small grotto. In the dimness, it looks as if God reached down and scooped a handful of earth out of the hillside. A trickle of a spring flows out from a cracked boulder; they drink their fill and replenish their canteens. Then they sit back against the hillside to share some jerky and dried fruit.
"I'll sit watch if you'd like," Fraser murmurs.
Ray's muscles are burning, and he doesn't hesitate to say yes. He nestles himself between his packs on his right and Fraser's warm self on his left and instantly falls asleep.
Fraser wakes him after twenty minutes. He's dreaming of swimming in a wide river, which is probably just the sound of the little brook in his head. Fraser looks worn to the bone, so Ray says, "Okay, now your turn." Fraser smiles, and his teeth shine in the starlight before he settles into sleep.
Quietly Ray restocks his own spare magazines from the ammunition they've just liberated. He's counting the minutes silently and checking his count against the stars, like Fraser taught him. He lines up Mars with the top of a tall pine tree on the next ridge and measures. The width of his whole fist is about forty minutes by the clock, and watching Mars float over his knuckles is a neat trick.
Fraser's been out for fifteen minutes when the air changes. Ray looks and looks, but sees nothing. Then sound resolves into a wary growl and smell resolves into blood and musk. Beside him, Fraser shifts and Ray knows he's wide awake. Fraser sniffs the air as Ray thumbs the safety on his sidearm, and then flips it back. Giving away their position with a gunshot will get them both killed, but maybe Fraser has a plan.
Ray feels Fraser shift toward him, then there's the nearly inaudible sound of Fraser unsnapping the sheath of his knife, and then Fraser's lunging forward, knife in hand. Ray's eyes can't follow the movement. There's a wild snarling like Ray's only heard on the Tarzan radio show, a flailing of limbs, and then his face and glasses are covered in hot, wet blood.
Then it's over. "Fraser!" he calls, just a little too loud. He can't see anything.
"Here, Ray."
"Fraser, I can't see you."
"Shhh. Quietly, Ray, it's all right."
"What the hell was that?"
"A wolf, I think." Fraser's voice sounds wrong and Ray knows why. They've seen packs of wolves eating the dead, and if Welsh would let him waste the ammo, he'd mow them all down. Fraser drags the animal a few paces away before he speaks again. "Or it might be a wild dog; I'm afraid it's too dark to tell for certain."
"Christ. Is it dead?"
"Yes, Ray," Fraser answers in a solemn voice.
"Thank God."
Then Fraser's in front of him, taking Ray's glasses and handkerchief out of his hands. "Let me."
"Thanks," Ray says, and watches Fraser's dim form crouch at the little stream, washing the blood away.
Fraser comes back, and murmurs almost to himself, "Oh, that won't do, will it?"
"Huh?" Ray asks.
"Be still. You're covered in wolf blood." Then Fraser's scrubbing at Ray's face with the handkerchief. The water's cold, colder after Fraser goes back twice to rinse and repeat, and Ray manages only half a protest before Fraser asks him how he expects to see where the blood is without a mirror.
"Thanks," he mutters afterwards, attention fixed on the wolf, which he can now see, thanks to the freshly cleaned spectacles.
He sees Fraser's smirk out of the corner of his eye and realizes the sky is beginning to brighten. Above, the dimmest stars are already gone. They only have an hour or so until full twilight and another forty or fifty minutes after that until proper sunrise. They need to get on their feet.
Meanwhile, Fraser hasn't moved. He's staring down at the wolf, which is huge and mottled gray with darker streaks that might be blood or darker fur or both. Its throat and chest are a mess of stinking, matted blood, and Ray can't tell whether Fraser's shirtsleeves are wet with wolf blood or water from the stream.
"You all right?" he asks.
Fraser glances up, his face creased in a frown. "Many years ago, I was befriended by a half-wolf. Half-malamute, half-arctic wolf, we believed. They're lighter in coloring than these, and have a somewhat different build."
"Yeah?"
"I knew him for years." Fraser's eyes are fixed on the carcass of the wolf before them. The pool of blood around it's head is growing. "He saved my life once. More than once, actually."
"Fraser," Ray says firmly. "Fraser, look at me."
Fraser finally looks up. "Yes, Ray."
"How long until sunrise?"
Fraser looks toward the eastern horizon and his frown grows deeper. "Less than two hours."
Ray hefts his pack and then the duffle. "We'd better hurry."
"Right you are, Ray." Fraser hoists his load and stares down at the dead wolf for a moment.
"We can't—" Ray says.
"Understood." Fraser sounds annoyed, but Ray gets it. It would bug him, too, if he had to kill something that looked like an old pet, but they don't have time for that now.
East would have been faster, but then they'd have been walking straight into the sun across an open plain. The southern paths twist and turn through steep, forested hills and Ray comes to believe that tree roots are conspiring either to break his legs or kill him. His knees are screaming, and once, just once, he jokingly suggests they dig their own munitions cache and make Welsh send someone back for it later.
Fraser glares and he shuts his mouth.
The sun's an hour and a half in the sky by the time they reach their company's camp on the Ebro. They're covered in sweat, smeared with blood and grime, and they reek of soot and death. But they're both grinning like fools when they open their packs and start laying out the spoils.
Welsh looks delighted, especially when Fraser pulls the map out of his shirt and spreads it out on the table. His frown returns, however, when Ray and Fraser stand at attention and give their report.
"You blew it up." Welsh's voice is matter-of-fact, but his face is incredulous.
"Yes, sir," Fraser answers. "We were discovered by the enemy and tactically, it seemed the best course of action at the time."
"Tactically, perhaps. Strategically, a serious error, Corporal."
Out of the corner of his eye, Ray can see Fraser's jaw tighten. "My apologies, sir."
Grumbling, Welsh examines the map again. "What exactly did you leave behind?"
Fraser takes a deep breath. "The papers on the table, two dozen mortar rounds, half a box of dynamite, twenty gallons of petrol, and approximately twelve thousand rounds of .38 caliber ammunition, assuming the boxes were full."
"That's all?"
"Excepting the cot, cooking equipment, and furniture, yes sir."
Welsh grunts acknowledgment. "Anything to add, Kowalski?"
"No, sir."
"Good. Now go clean up, eat something, and get some shuteye."
"Thank you, sir," Ray and Fraser answer in tandem.
Ray argues for coffee first on the basis that he might drown without it. Fraser raises his eyebrows, but acquiesces; he even goes so far as to accept a cup himself. Ray winks at him. All in the name of not-drowning.
With Dopp kits and fresh clothing in hand, they walk nearly a mile to find a shady spot upstream, strip down, and paddle out into the muddy, lukewarm water. They roughhouse some, splashing and shoving for a minute or two, but Fraser looks as tired as Ray feels, so they end up merely standing together in silence, letting the river flow around them.
"Here, I'll wash your back," Fraser says after a minute, and before Ray can say anything, Fraser's crouching naked on the shore, pulling a bar of white soap out of his kit.
"Grab mine, too," Ray says, and wonders if he should be ashamed of the relief in his voice. They got back in one piece. They're alone and as safe as they can be here. They're sore and exhausted, but they're whole and naked and alone. It's surreal; it's exhilarating.
Fraser returns with two bars of soap and a hint of almost-mischief in his eye. Ray snorts. "Focus, Fraser."
Fraser's eyes are tired, probably as tired as Ray's own, but he's grinning. "Oh, I am, without a doubt."
Ray laughs, and it sounds strange in his ears. It feels good, though. He hasn't laughed in a long time, too long. Fraser's getting hard, and Ray can't help watching. Ray's soaping his own arms and chest and armpits, scooping water up to rinse, and then lathering his belly, his groin. His cock's getting heavy with Fraser's eyes on him, so he takes his time soaping. He plays with his foreskin a little, then his balls, and then slides the soap further back as Fraser goes from halfway to fully erect.
"Come here," Ray says. Fraser closes the space between them and lets his soapy cock slap against Ray's hip. Ray laughs again, saying, "Turn around. If we don't do this now, it won't happen at all."
Fraser's chuckling as he complies. Ray splashes Fraser's broad, tanned back with water, and then soaps him up, neck, armpits, spine, and ass. Fraser groans as the soap and Ray's fingertips part his cheeks. Then Ray switches hands, rubbing forward to catch Fraser's balls, and then rubbing all the way back up the cleft.
Then he stops. "Rinse." Fraser turns, scowling at him. His cock is straining against his belly. "Rinse and do me," Ray says, nodding out toward deeper water.
Fraser makes a face but complies, and a moment later, he's behind Ray, rubbing soap through his hair and down his back as Fraser's cock slides up and down against his ass. "That's not fair," he gasps and Fraser laughs against his neck, murmuring, "I know."
Ray turns, then, and their erections slide together. They reach out automatically to support each other as their hands join together between them. The rhythm is brutal and Fraser's hand on him is anything but gentle, but it's so good, so real, even though this is nothing he'd ever even thought to dream about back in Chicago.
Fraser's head's bent down to his shoulder, and for a second Ray thinks he feels Fraser's mouth on his skin. He's not sure, and his heart starts pounding, thinking about it. They've never done it because where Ray comes from, two guys kissing is even worse than ass-fucking. But the fact of it is: this isn't Chicago, and whenever Ray dreams of it, the kissing or the fucking, he always wakes up feeling dirty. Hard and desperate, and dirty. And afraid that one day, maybe soon, he might be reconciled with that.
Then Fraser's grip changes and Ray's only aware of Fraser's hand on his dick, his thumb circling on the sweet spot. Ray does the same to Fraser, matching his strokes, and Fraser starts groaning, panting against his neck. This time Ray's sure of it: Fraser's licking him.
"Ray," Fraser whispers, "Ray, please," and his fist tightens around Ray's cock, he twists his wrist, and Ray grips Fraser's shoulder, knowing this is it, this is it, he's done. It takes all his concentration to mirror it back to Fraser, but Ray does it, and then they're both coming all over each other, staggering, and falling down in the water.
Ray goes under laughing and comes up sputtering, soap from his hair running into his eyes. It's hilariously stupid, but in the good way, and Fraser wouldn't ever make fun over it. Fraser's already on his feet, naturally, and turning around like he's lost – "Oh shit," Ray says, laughing again as he realizes he's lost his bar of Ivory. Then Fraser's swimming downstream after the errant bars of soap, which are caught together in a small eddy under a cypress tree.
Ray stands in waist-deep water and watches the blurry vision of Fraser come back into focus. "Nice," he says, and Fraser smiles one of his secret smiles at him, the ones that only Ray ever sees, and up until now, only at night.
Ray puts his hand out for his soap, and Fraser drags his fingers over his skin as he takes it. Ray shivers. "This was fun," Fraser says softly, sounding a little surprised.
Ray quirks an eyebrow, sitting down in the shallows to wash the soles of his waterlogged feet. "Wash your hair," he says to Fraser, because there's still wolf blood in it, but he's not going to tell him so. Then Ray sprawls on the grassy bank and watches Fraser until he's sun-warm and dry.