Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kowalski/Vecchio, Fraser/Kowalski/Vecchio
Thanks: Many thanks to sageness, brynnmck and sprat for beta.
Notes: For the Five challenge, and for Sage for her birthday, with love.

Five things that are better with Fraser in the mix

by china_shop



Ray stood in the doorway of the bedroom, jacket in hand, and looked around—really looked—for the first time in weeks. He'd had a long day of paperwork and inter-agency meetings, and he just wanted to get out of these clothes and into slouching-around sweats, but instead he found himself channeling his Ma. He stooped to pick up a rumpled pair of pants from the foot of the bed. "Jesus Christ, Kowalski, is this a thrift store or a bedroom?" he yelled back down the hallway.

Kowalski peered out of the kitchen, beer in hand. "What's your beef?"

"You heard of closets?"

Kowalski grinned. "The clothes kind or the other kind? The you-and-me kind?"

Kowalski had yanked Ray into the supply closet at the 27th a couple of days earlier, and kissed him before he gave him that tip about the Lonnegan case. The reminder of that brought a reluctant smile to Ray's face, but he still gestured at the bedroom. "I can't find the floor in here."

"And you call yourself a detective," said Kowalski. "As a general rule in any given room, the floor is on the bottom."

"You know what I mean." Ray frowned at him. "It's one thing to tear your clothes off in the heat of the moment—"

A gleam entered Kowalski's eye and he took a step closer.

"—but you gotta pick them up sometime," finished Ray, and then found himself with his arms full of Kowalski, who apparently couldn't discuss anything with him without it leading to sex.

Not that Ray was complaining.



Ray stood in the doorway and narrowed his eyes as Kowalski stripped off his t-shirt and dumped it in the laundry hamper in the corner, and Fraser made the bed. "You finally got domesticated, Kowalski, is that it?"

Fraser glanced up quickly from his hospital corners, his mouth already open to smooth things over, but Kowalski spoke first, sauntering toward Ray, his naked chest pale gold in the lamp light.

"It's all a matter of rewards," he explained, taking Ray's hands and putting them on his own hips. "With you—you reward bad behavior." He leaned in and kissed Ray, dark and hot. "It gets you going. But Fraser here, Fraser rewards good behavior."

Ray met Fraser's careful gaze and then looked back at Kowalski. "So you've changed your focus, is that what you're saying?"

Kowalski grinned and pulled Ray's shirt free of his pants. "Nah, I just changed my strategy." He kissed him again until Ray was hard, digging his fingers into Kowalski's back, and then Kowalski murmured in his ear, "You should see the mess I left in the kitchen."




Ray woke up in the dark and when he reached out, there was no Vecchio—just warm rumpled sheet where Vecchio should be. Ray rubbed his eyes and dragged himself upright, checking the time on the bedside clock—3:42. His shorts were crumpled on the floor beside the bed, and he pulled them on, went through to the living room where Vecchio was watching The Wizard of Oz with the sound down low.

"Okay?" Ray asked, blinking against the Emerald-City-saturated light.

Vecchio grunted, and Ray suppressed a sigh and sat down beside him. Dorothy was singing. Ray leaned his head back and let his eyes fall shut, and hovered on the edge of sleep.

"Go back to bed," Vecchio told him gruffly.

Ray rested his head on Vecchio's shoulder. "I'm good."



The first time Vecchio got insomnia after Fraser moved in—or the first time Ray noticed, anyway—Ray had worked ten days straight and crashed like a train wreck. He felt around in the bed, half asleep, and started hauling himself awake, and then the mattress tilted.

A warm heavy hand landed on his shoulder, pressing him down. "Go back to sleep, Ray," said Fraser, and kissed him softly.

Ray slumped back, exhausted and grateful, but he didn't do that, didn't go to sleep until he heard their voices murmuring from the living room. Fraser and Vecchio. And then everything faded away.


The second time, Ray woke up with Fraser pressed against his back, his leg between Ray's calves, and an empty space in front of him again, where Vecchio belonged. Ray struggled out of bed, barely getting a sound out of Fraser, and padded into the living room. Sylvester Stallone was shooting someone on the TV, and Vecchio and Dief were sleeping side by side on the couch.




"Get in the car, Kowalski." Ray tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

Kowalski loomed over him. "I'm driving." The sun was harsh behind him, so all Ray could see was an angry black shape and Kowalski's teeth glinting.

"You drove yesterday. You drove yesterday, the day before and all of last week," said Ray.

"Yeah, well, in case it's escaped your notice, it's my car!" Kowalski tried to open the door, but Ray jammed the handle before he could succeed.

"I can't stand being chauffeur-driven today, okay?" He angled his head up, serious. "Please."

Kowalski's shoulders stiffened and he swung his arms up, clasped his hands on the back of his neck. Ray could see him working it through.

"Fine," he said at last. "You drive. But you owe me."

"Whatever." Ray waited till Kowalski was tucked up in the passenger seat, all belted in, and then he looked over. "Thanks."

Kowalski was all stiff prickles and taut angles today, but he softened a little at that. "What're you waiting for—a police escort?"

Ray snorted, and then they were both laughing, and the sun stopped glaring like the desert and just shone like on a normal Chicago summer's day.



"I'm driving," said Ray, lifting the keys out of Kowalski's loose grasp.

"Whatever." Kowalski was so busy explaining the changes around the 27th to Fraser, he barely noticed until Ray was in the driver's seat. He stopped for a second, then, blinking, and then shrugged and went around to the passenger side and let Dief and Fraser into the back, still talking a mile a minute. Fraser kept up his end of the conversation too, asking after Welsh and Mort and the others.

On the road, Kowalski sat sideways, talking to Fraser over the seatback, reaching over to ruffle Dief's ears. "Ain't that right?" he said to Ray, and Ray glanced at him and grinned, no idea what the question was.




By ten p.m. there were half a dozen empties, the wreckage of Chinese takeout, and a watched DVD piled on the coffee table, and Ray couldn't make his leg stop jiggling.

He looked at Vecchio, content and half-asleep on the couch beside him.

"What did we do last Friday night?" Ray asked. "And the Friday before that, and the Friday before that?"

Vecchio frowned for a moment. "We had dinner at Ma's two weeks ago."

"Jesus!" Ray sprang to his feet and started pacing. "I'm not even forty yet and my life is nailed to a rut in a coffin." He grabbed his jacket. "I have to get out of here."

He took the stairs three at a time.

Vecchio caught up with him in the parking lot. "Where are we going?"

"You don't have to." Ray stepped into his path and stopped him. "Look, it's okay. You've had a long week. I get that. And I'm not going to do anything stupid. I just have to live a little, or you might as well check me into a rest home now."

Vecchio shrugged. "Where are we going?" he asked again.

They went to a bar in Boystown, which was too hot and too loud, and the drinks cost a fortune. Vecchio seemed grimly determined not to bitch about it, though, and they danced for a couple of songs until Kowalski gave in. "Fuck it," he yelled in Vecchio's ear over the club mix of Losing My Religion. "Let's get out of here."

Outside the bar, in the warm night air, he slung his arm around Vecchio's shoulders and waited till Vecchio met his gaze. "Thanks."



"So—we got plans tonight?" Ray leaned on the counter and slurped at his coffee. It was too hot to drink properly unless he waited, and Ray was not a waiting-for-coffee kind of guy. He just wasn't.

"As a matter of fact, Mrs. Atwood offered me three tickets to a community theater production of Gilbert and Sullivan's Iolanthe. I believe she's cast in the title role, though I'm not sure how her back injury will affect her singing." Fraser looked from Ray to Vecchio and back. "I don't suppose—"

If you didn't know him, you'd never have known he was teasing.

"Can't," said Vecchio. He got up from the table and put his plate and mug into the dishwasher. "We already got plans." He pointed at Fraser. "The three of us, that is."

"And those would be?" Fraser asked, with his most innocent look, though the corner of his mouth twitched and Dief cocked his head and let his tongue loll out, eloquently.

"Bed," said Vecchio. "Seven-thirty at the latest. I'm thinking we all need an early night."

"Now you're talking." Ray grabbed him and kissed him on the lips. He turned to do the same to Fraser, and they all cracked heads 'cause Fraser and Vecchio were halfway to kissing, too.

"I'll be sure to bring a first aid kit." Fraser laughed softly and rubbed at his temple.

"Great, we can play doctors and nurses," said Vecchio, and kissed him properly this time. "I'll bring a picnic. We can make a night of it."

"Leave the music to me." Ray grinned at Vecchio's groan. "What?"




"Fuck, yeah, just—" Ray grabbed Kowalski's shoulders. There was nothing else to hold onto, and Christ, he needed some kind of an anchor.

Kowalski's hands were in Ray's pants, stripping him and stroking him, and Kowalski's mouth was pressed open against his neck, and in the refrigerator behind Ray, bottles clanked together and something was rolling back and forth under the onslaught, and Ray didn't give a fuck, because he was coming, Holy Mother of God, he was coming—



Kowalski looked down at him with dark, heavy-lidded eyes and opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but apparently Ray's mouth on Kowalski's dick had stolen all Kowalski's words, and if Ray had known it was this easy to get Kowalski to shut up, he would've done it sooner. Much sooner.

"Fuck," Kowalski managed, his hips hitching forward, his dick rubbing across Ray's tongue, against the roof of Ray's mouth.

Ray shoved him against the wall and sucked harder, and Kowalski hissed and said, "Door. Still open. Jesus!" And came in Ray's mouth, pulsing and bitter and salty.



Kowalski ambushed him when he stepped out of the shower. "Mmmm, you're all clean," he said, and licked his way down Ray's chest, stopping to bite Ray's nipple and then continuing down. His hands were greedy and reckless, and one of them was holding a condom, and Ray—who'd been five minutes away from falling asleep on his feet—surrendered helplessly.

"Yeah, okay," he said hoarsely. "Do it. Fuck me."

And Kowalski did, with both of them blended into one skin-colored shape moving faster and faster behind the condensation of the mirror in a flat-out race for the finish line.



"Here?" Ray pushed Kowalski away and turned his head in the dark of the supply closet, as though he could see the stacks of stationery and toilet paper. "Kowalski, that's fucked up. We're cops, we play by the rules. Save it till we get home, okay?"

"I know, I know. I just—" Kowalski's hand was already on Ray's dick through his slacks, shaping him.

"Oh, fuck, that feels good." Ray pushed him against the door and kissed him hard. "Stop it."



Fraser ambushed Ray before he'd got his coat off.

"You're late," he said, pushing Ray against the wall and sniffing his neck.

"Had to schmooze," said Ray.

"So I can tell." Fraser licked delicately from his ear to his collar. "Cigars." He slid his tongue across Ray's lips. "Whisky."

"Just a little," said Ray faintly, tugging Fraser's hips closer.

"Hey." Kowalski came out of the living room. "Hey, stop that." But he didn't pull them apart. Instead, he stood beside them and kissed first Ray—sensuous kisses that tasted of coffee—then Fraser. He pulled back and scraped his teeth over his lower lip. "I thought the plan was to make it to the bedroom this time," he murmured, shuffling them down the hall. "Come on. Dief's visiting Mrs. Garibaldi, so you don't even have to drag your ass outside afterward, for once."

Ray grabbed Kowalski's shoulders, steering him ahead, and then got distracted by the pale curve of his neck. He stopped them both, bent forward and bit lightly below his ear. "Forget the wolf, Kowalski," he murmured. He ran his hands deliberately down over Kowalski's chest to his waist, feeling the heat of his skin through his t-shirt, pulling him back against Ray's hard-on. "Get your head in the game."

"Game," repeated Kowalski, breathlessly, and rubbed back against him.

Fraser cleared his throat, and when Ray looked at him, he pointed to the bedroom door. "I believe our destination's in sight."

Kowalski snorted. "Just over the next ice field. Where have I heard that before?"

Fraser's smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, and Ray met his gaze, thrilled like he always was, whenever he stopped to think about it, that he could have all of this. Both of them. "Bedroom," he said, and gave Kowalski a shove toward the doorway.

"And that's three for three." Kowalski used his commentator voice, and winked at Ray. "We have consensus." He went to the dresser beside the bedroom window and pressed a switch on the boom box, and a weird vibrating sort of music—like something underwater—started playing.

"What is that, Kowalski?" asked Ray. "We're doing it to whale songs tonight?"

But Fraser's cheeks were pink and he started laughing. "Throat singing," he said, and pushed Kowalski onto the bed. "Where on earth did you get it?"

Kowalski pulled him on top of him. "Brought it back with me from Canada."

Fraser's amusement blended into heat, and Ray sat on the bed beside them, watching them kiss, their lips gleaming and wet, pressing together, sliding over each other. A glimpse of Fraser's tongue. Kowalski's stubble made a scratching noise against Fraser's chin. Ray pressed his hand against his cock, moved and hungry.

Kowalski broke the kiss and stripped Fraser's blue cotton sweater over his head and dropped it on the floor. "Never actually listened to it before." He slanted a heated sideways look at Ray. "Got distracted."

Ray carded his fingers through Kowalski's gel-stiff hair, then slid off the bed and knelt beside it so he could get in on the action. It was hard to swallow around the lump in his throat. Kowalski kissed him, deep and sexy, and when he pulled away, his lips were reddened and his eyes were dark and sultry.

"Couldn't throw it away, though," he continued throatily, still holding Ray's gaze.

Ray gave him a soft smile. "I know what you mean." In the attic at his Ma's house there was still a carton that contained a standard issue RCMP Stetson with a bullet hole through the crown. "But I'm not fucking to the sound of gargling Eskimos."

Kowalski grinned and waved his hand toward the stereo, apparently too comfortable where he was—on the bed, half under Fraser—to move. Ray couldn't blame him.

"Ah, fuck it," Ray said. "Move over." He pulled off his tie, unbuttoned his cuffs, and then lay on the bed beside them. "I hope someone remembered to buy more condoms," he observed to the room in general.

They'd used the last two last time.

Fraser moved into his arms. "I was a boy scout," he said solemnly, and brushed his lips across Ray's.

"If only Baden Powell could see you now," said Kowalski, crowding up behind Fraser, pressing him closer to Ray, and reaching across to cup the side of Ray's neck.

Ray groaned, the combined body heat of the two of them going straight to his dick. "Christ, one of you—someone—fuck me. I got to—"

His dick was throbbing in time to the ridiculous music, and he had his arms full of the men he loved.

"I'll flip you for it," Kowalski murmured in Fraser's ear, and Fraser laughed low, his eyes shining.

Ray cuffed the back of Kowalski's head. "Show some respe—oh."

Fraser had pushed his leg between Ray's thighs and was rocking forward, and every move was turning Ray on more until he could barely see or hear or think—he was just sensation and color and heat, and Fraser's hands and mouth, and Kowalski behind him now, unfastening his pants, rubbing his ass with his long fingers. And there was skin—his own and the others'—and Ray's head was a kaleidoscope of gratitude and love for this crazy life he led, these men who gave him everything he needed and wanted—

Fingers pushed into him, opening him up, and he gasped against Fraser's mouth.

—everything he could dream of asking for, everything and always.


A long time later, all of them finally naked and spent, Ray wiped the sweat from his face, the come from his chest. "So, I—" He cleared his throat, which was sore from groaning and shouting. "I know I said I'd bring the picnic, but I—"

Fraser's hand landed clumsily on Ray's chest and silenced him. "Proper preparation," Fraser said, unsteadily, and pointed toward the nightstand.

Kowalski turned his head to look, with obvious effort. His chest was spotted with bruises where Ray and Fraser had tag-teamed him, holding him down and sucking hickeys across his skin while Ray had teased him with strokes just this side of too gentle.

There was a paper bag beside the bedside clock.

Kowalski snorted with laughter and lay back, flinging his arm across the pillow above his head. "Pemmican?"

Ray shook his head. "And if we're still hungry afterward, we should drink a glass of water. It expands in your stomach," he said, elbowing Fraser in the ribs. "You're joking. That's our Friday night dinner?"

"Yes, Ray." Fraser raised up on his elbow and leaned over him. He pressed the ball of his thumb against Ray's lower lip, tenderly, and mischief lurked in his eyes. "I'm joking. There are steaks in the fridge."

Ray laughed and Fraser kissed him again, while Kowalski lay beside them, watching and murmuring encouragement, and all their limbs tangled together.

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