Written for ds_flashfiction's First Line Festival, with gratitude to Giulietta for beta-reading. First line is from "Sticky Sweetheart" by leafy22. R.
Ray… Ray lay beside him, sprawled on thick orange carpet. His gun was still holstered, his badge still clipped to his belt. His chest rose and fell in slow rhythm. Fraser watched, mesmerized by the weft of the cotton stretching over Ray's ribs with each inhalation. The print of his Chicago Bulls t-shirt seemed to undulate.
A little later Fraser rolled from his hip onto his stomach, dimly aware of the strain on his back. Now his hip was resting snug against Ray's. Now his elbow was propped close against Ray's ribs. Now his gaze was fixed on the languid throbbing pulse-point of Ray's neck. It shone gold in the dim lamplight. Ray's eyes were closed. Sleep was an outstanding idea, Fraser thought, and allowed himself a few moments to marvel at Ray's genius. "Genius," he whispered, moving closer. He doubted Ray would mind if he rested his head on Ray's shoulder. He slung a leg over Ray's thigh, too, because Ray wouldn't mind. He knew he didn't mind because Ray was wrapping an arm around Fraser's shoulder in his sleep.
Fraser drifted.
He dreamed. Of a large bed. And eiderdown. He was warm and snug and he could smell his grandmother's baking. She was baking something sweet in the kitchen. Cowboy, his elderly husky, was pawing at his back through the covers. Fraser blinked his eyes open, wondering why the dog was in the house instead of the barn. It didn't feel like a blizzard.
Ray rubbed a hand down Fraser's back again, and Fraser nuzzled his face deeper into the crook of Ray's neck. He wondered why he had never done this before. That was surely a mistake because it felt wonderful. He had an idea that it would feel equally wonderful if their positions were switched. Ray's neck smelled sweet and salty. He was on the verge of tasting it when he heard a voice.
"You awake?" Ray whispered.
Fraser tried to say, "Of course, Ray," only it came out as an inarticulate mumble. Slowly, he lifted his head. Ray's eyes were open. The pupils were very large and black, and the irises were very narrow and blue.
"Morning," Ray said. The sclera were very bloodshot.
Something was wrong. Fraser licked his lips. They tasted sweet, like his grandmother's baking. Ray licked his lips, too. They were very pink, Fraser noticed. And they tasted sweet, as well. "I dreamed," Fraser said, then nudged Ray's lips apart with his tongue. Sweet. He could almost—almost—identify it.
Then Ray was holding on, kissing Fraser, licking the sweet flavor from Fraser's mouth.
Fraser moaned. "Tastes good," Ray said. Fraser moaned again, agreeing completely. Something was definitely wrong. Then Ray's leg moved and brought an exquisite pressure between Fraser's legs. Ray kissed him again and Fraser shifted over, grinding down. Ray matched his movements from below and the sweetness of Ray's kisses dissolved into a joyous heat and wordless need.
Release came too fast and not fast enough.
"Sweet," Ray whispered, shoving Fraser over onto his side. "And heavy."
"Ah," Fraser said, or maybe he merely thought it, and drifted away again.
The second dream was a swirl of chaos interrupted by Dewey's loud, "Found them! Oh man, I wish I had a camera." Then the world was moving and Dewey was there, fingers on Fraser's carotid artery, saying, "Oh shit, Fraser, Vecchio, come on. Snap out of it." Then Huey's voice was calling for an ambulance.
***
When Fraser awoke in the hospital, Welsh was there. So was a doctor. "Sir," Fraser rasped.
"Constable." Welsh folded his arms over his chest. "Welcome back to the land of the living. Now would you care to explain why you and Vecchio went into that house without backup?"
Which house? Fraser squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them. He was suddenly aware of a terrible headache. "I'm afraid I don't recall."
"Don't recall why you entered without backup, or don't recall the house?"
"Don't recall the house, sir. What happened?"
Welsh groaned and turned away. The doctor stepped forward. "Constable Fraser, I'm Doctor Mead. You and your partner were apparently sprayed in the face with what seems to be a mixture of fentanyl derivatives—"
"Oh dear," Fraser said.
"It's in the lab right now. We should have a precise workup in the morning."
Fraser nodded. "How's Ray?"
"Still downstairs," Welsh said, "but he's the same as you. Doesn't remember a thing."
Fraser pondered. "I do know we had planned to question Doyle Sepulveda concerning the Bridgewood case." Fraser rubbed his eyebrow, trying to remember more. "We dropped Diefenbaker off at the Consulate, we had lunch, we got in the car…" He trailed off. "Did we arrive?"
Welsh nodded. "Vecchio's car was in the driveway. You two were passed out on the living room floor."
Fraser remembered orange carpet and the sensation of Ray's body. He shook his head, then stopped to squeeze the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, I don't remember, sir."
***
In the morning, Fraser was sharing a hospital room with Ray. They were alone. Fraser felt more sluggish than he had since he'd been shot two years before. The IV line that had been in his arm the night before was gone; Fraser took that as permission to get up and use the bathroom. There was soap and disposable packets of mouthwash. His reflection in the mirror was bedraggled and bloodshot, and now damp with cold water, but Fraser was beginning to feel some semblance of his normal self again.
"Hey," Ray said, when Fraser came out. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, as if he couldn't stand to lie down for another minute. "You feel as bad as you look?"
Ray was equally sallow and bloodshot. "I'm afraid you look like something the cat dragged in as well, Ray." Fraser crossed to his bed, trying not to feel the weight of Ray's gaze on the back of his hospital gown.
When he sat, Ray winked at him. "So, uh, how much do you remember of yesterday?"
Fraser had retained far more than he had told Lieutenant Welsh, but nothing of any use for identifying their assailant. However, he wasn't certain how much Ray remembered…or how much he would want to, given the choice.
"I remember lunch," Fraser said, hedging. "I don't have any recollection of arriving at the Sepulveda residence."
"Yeah, me either," Ray agreed. Fraser nodded, but didn't add anything. "But what about later?" Ray pressed.
Fraser couldn't lie to a direct question, and at any rate his blush had already given him away. After a long moment he said, "There was orange carpet. Your gun was holstered—you never drew it."
Ray rubbed the back of his head. "So Sepulveda split and left us…on the floor, drugged out of our heads."
"Apparently." Fraser watched Ray absently kick at the lowered rail of his bed with his heels. "Are you all right?"
Ray shrugged. "Freaked out a little is all."
"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser said automatically.
"Huh? Oh, I meant at being drugged against my will and shit. The rest…" Ray narrowed his eyes. "Fraser, what do you remember?"
Fraser cleared his throat and stared down at his hands. "I remember that you tasted sweet," he said softly.
To his surprise, all Ray said was, "Yeah, you too. From whatever he gassed us with."
Fraser looked up. "Presumably."
Ray snorted. "Presumably." Then he was hopping off his bed and crossing to Fraser's. "Got a test for that, Frase." Then Ray's hand was cupping Fraser's cheek and Ray's mouth was covering his, his tongue licking in, and no, not sweet. No chemical aftertaste. Just Ray.
Ray pulled away, grinning. His thighs were pressed against Fraser's, and the thin fabric of their hospital gowns might as well have been no fabric at all. "Ray—"
"We get out of here, we're going to talk. We got things to—" Two knocks on the door signaled Doctor Mead's arrival. Ray jumped back to his place on the other bed, legs dangling. "Tonight," Ray said, as the doctor bustled in with his arms full of charts and a nurse in tow. Ray's eyes were full of something—spark, mischief, vim—that sent a wave of butterflies through Fraser's stomach.
In a low voice Ray added, "Or, you know, sooner."