Thanks: Bouquets to Sage for beta
Notes: For inbetween, with the prompt, "After so many evenings spent together, you are no longer feature-length."
The street was quiet and dark, asphalt gleaming from the rain, and nothing was moving at the warehouse across the street. This was their fourth straight night on stakeout duty, every one rainy and progressively colder, and they'd run out of conversation halfway through the second, and out of chitchat a half hour after that.
Fraser still had his vast supply of Inuit stories, of course, but Ray had said No, no Inuit stories. Not unless they were dying from lack of words and the only way to avoid hacking off their own arms and legs and eating them was to talk about caribou. Which had made sense when he thought it, even if Fraser had looked at him like he was deranged.
So one night in companionable silence with Fraser in his uniform, and that wasn't so bad. Ray had offered Fraser some candy, and Fraser had offered Ray some beef jerky, and they'd both said thanks but no thanks, and left it at that. But tonight Fraser had left the serge at home. He was sitting in the passenger seat, hat on his lap, and his plaid shirt was open at the throat. They had the radio on low, more ads than music, but it was enough that they could pretend they were listening to it together instead of just sitting there watching a warehouse. And there was coffee.
And there was Ray, trying to get up the nerve to spill his guts. He took a deep breath and huffed it out, and then swallowed hard and went for it, as casual as he could. "So, Fraser," he said out of the blue, "you ever have movies of people in your head?"
Fraser jumped a little, and then looked across at him. "How do you mean?"
Ray scratched his chin with his thumbnail and kept his eyes on the warehouse. "You know, like 'if that guy was in a movie, what kind of a movie would it be?' Like, uh, casting."
"For example?" Out of the corner of his eye, Ray could see the up-and-down line between Fraser's eyebrows deepen.
Ray leaned back against the headrest. "For example, Dewey. You just know any movie with Dewey in is going to be a dumb comedy with lots of blonde girls with big tits." He took a mouthful of coffee. "Or Frannie—she's straight out of a Cohen brothers' movie, you know?"
Fraser tilted his head. "Ah, I'm not familiar with the works of—"
"They made Raising Arizona with, uh—" Ray snapped his fingers, "—Holly Hunter. Weird stuff. Yeah, and Welsh would be in a World War II movie, lots of blood and trenches and bombs falling out of airplanes. You ever think like that?"
"I can't say that I have." Fraser sounded interested but cautious.
"Me, I think like that all the time." Ray took another deep breath, glanced sideways at Fraser, and chickened out. He went for distraction instead. "Go on, try it. What about me? What kind of movie would you cast me in?"
Fraser gave this a moment's solemn thought, and rubbed his eyebrow. "Well, I suppose you'd be in a film about an unorthodox police detective fighting crime."
"Nuh-huh." Ray shook his head. "You gotta think outside the box for this. Not go for the obvious thing."
"I see," said Fraser, but he didn't offer up any another suggestion.
Ray squinted out at the warehouse. A black and white cat prowled across the street, jumped onto a car and started washing itself. A couple of cars swished past and turned right onto the freeway.
Fraser cleared his throat. "Do I feature in any of your movies, Ray?"
Was there some significance in his tone? Ray couldn't tell. He had a split second of panic, and then calm washed through him. He'd started this, after all. "Yeah. Yeah, you do, Fraser."
Fraser waited a moment before asking, "And what kind of movie am I in?"
Ray closed his eyes and counted to three, and then opened them. "It, uh, it depends what you're wearing." He risked a glance sideways and noted that Fraser's mouth had fallen open. "I mean, the uniform, the uniform—that's either action-comedy or a wildlife documentary about the musical ride. But, uh—"
Fraser licked his lip. "When I'm out of uniform?"
"—then you're, I don't know, then—" Ray crossed his arms across his chest and returned his gaze to the street, the warehouse. "—uh, sometimes it's you and me, and it's a buddy cop movie with a twist, and sometimes it's one of those chick flicks like Sleepless in Seattle, you know the ones, where they spend the whole movie wanting each other but never get close." He finished quickly, breathlessly, and then clamped his mouth shut.
"I see," said Fraser, sounding utterly confused.
In for a penny, thought Ray. "'Course, after so many evenings spent together, you're not exactly feature-length anymore, you know what I mean?"
"I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea." There was enough answering panic in his voice that Ray didn't a hundred percent believe him.
He licked his teeth. "What I mean is, these days I kind of skip straight to the end."
"The end," Fraser echoed faintly.
"The, uh, the part with the kissing." Ray tightened his arms across his chest. "The long version drives me nuts, you know, 'cause it's like we'll never get there, and—"
"Ray, I don't know what to—" Fraser broke off, and when he spoke again, his voice was brisk and businesslike. "Suspect at three o'clock."
"That's exactly what I'm talking about," muttered Ray, reaching for the radio.
* * *
Backup turned up just in time so they caught and booked the Grenfell Six and only sustained minor grazes on their knuckles and Ray's jaw in the process. They booked them and reported to Welsh, and then Ray drove Fraser home.
"Yeah?" Ray was tired and his jaw ached, and there was a nasty sinking feeling in his gut like he'd made a huge mistake saying what he'd said, only he was too tired to really go over the details in his mind. He was hoping that if he ignored it, maybe when he woke up tomorrow it'd all be over and done. New day, blank slate. That's how it oughta work. So, okay, maybe his yeah? had an edge to it.
It didn't deter Fraser, though. "Did you mean what you said earlier, about the, ah, the kissing?"
Ray rubbed his face and refused to look at him. He sounded like a freaking boyscout. Still— "Yeah. But, you know, we can forget about it if you want. Pretend it never—"
Fraser looked down at his hat and licked his lip. "If you wouldn't mind coming inside, I'd like to play you some Tchaikovsky."
Ray blinked. "What? Why?"
The corner of Fraser's mouth tilted. "The orchestra features an extensive string section. I believe it would be a fitting soundtrack for the, er, emotional climax of our particular film."
Whoa. Fraser's voice could melt the polar caps. Ray shifted involuntarily in his seat. "It would, huh?"
Fraser's hand landed on his arm, light but firm. "I believe so."
And Ray couldn't help himself. He swiveled around and stared at Fraser, taking in the warm serious expression, the soft lips, the unexpected ruffle in his hair. He reached up and ran his thumb along Fraser's jaw, feeling where the stubble was starting to come in, and Fraser's eyes fell shut, and Ray's heart started pounding in his chest, vibrating through his whole body.
"God," he breathed, and he leaned forward, clumsy and off-balance, and pressed his mouth to Fraser's. In his head he heard a triumphant swirl of violins and a crowd of strangers applauding, and then Fraser opened his mouth and groaned, and Ray was right there, right in the midst of it, real and true. He caught Fraser's lip between his teeth and sucked gently, and ran his hands down Fraser's arms.
By the time they ended the kiss, they were both breathing hard.
"What now?" asked Fraser, his eyes dark and hot in the dim car. Letting Ray take the lead.
"Now?" Ray's voice squeaked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Now, uh, we go back to my place. You good with that? And I tell you about the other movies I've been imagining you in."
Fraser rested his big hot hand on Ray's knee, never once looking away from his face. "I'd like that," he murmured, and leaned in to kiss him again.
This desire's too much
It's rented out my brain
Showing previews of your body
Driving me insane
— Melissa Etheridge