Notes: Written for Stop Drop Porn. Thanks to JB80 for the beta.
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There are not many things in this world that Fraser enjoys more than watching Ray cook.
It's one of the few things that Ray will let himself get completely immersed in, one of the few times he's willing to get his hands dirty�literally as well as figuratively. There are many things wrong with the world, but somehow it's difficult for Fraser to remember that when he's sitting at the kitchen table at Ray's house, watching him move around the kitchen with the practiced ease of one who has been around knives and pans and spices since he was old enough to speak their names.
"You see, Benny," he'll tell Fraser as he's chopping vegetables, "the key to any good meal," and here he'll reach across the counter to pull a bottle from the wine rack, "is the wine." He barely glances at the label before handing it over to Fraser, confident that things are exactly as they were left in his kitchen. Because anyone who comes in here knows that they'll get their fingers broken if they touch anything. Fraser learned his lesson after the first few times of feeling guilty that Ray was doing all the work and finally offering to help.
"It's not work," Ray said, looking scandalized. "It's cooking."
He talks while he works, about anything and nothing, his voice seeming to set the pace for his fingers as surely as music. Sometimes he'll hum, too, but only when Fraser's out of the room, and Fraser will linger in the doorway watching Ray get caught up in his own kind of dance until he glances up and smiles a little sheepishly at him standing there.
"What're you looking at?" he'll mumble at the saucepan as he stirs, and it makes Fraser smile.
After dinner, Ray has learned to let Fraser help with the dishes, but he always takes care of putting them away himself. Then there are the quiet moments afterwards, sitting at the table, or on the couch, enjoying the last of the wine, sometimes watching something, other times just sitting, being together. In the beginning, Fraser wondered if maybe he was rubbing off on Ray, because this silence and contentment seemed so out of character for him. But maybe it's just another unexpected part of him that Fraser has discovered, and that thrills him in ways he doesn�t understand.
He likes to watch Ray in those moments, leaning back into the couch cushions, tie long gone, shirt unbuttoned just a little, looking thoroughly relaxed in a way that no one ever gets to see him in everyday life. Sometimes watching isn't enough, and he has to lean over to kiss him, tasting wine still lingering on his soft lips.
Other times it's Ray who starts the kissing, occasionally even when they're still in the kitchen, turning and pressing Fraser back against the sink, taking his mouth right then and there as Fraser tries to find somewhere to put his soapy hands that won't ruin Ray's clothes. Usually he just gives up, presses them against Ray's back, pulling him closer. He doesn't want to hazard a guess at how many shirts they've ruined that way.
By the time they make it upstairs to the bedroom, clothes are far from being an issue, as they're both in various stages of undress when they tumble onto the bed. Fraser feels nearly intoxicated, not by the wine, but by the press of Ray's skin against his as he leans over him, kissing him slowly, lips and tongues dancing along each other, hands trailing lightly across bare hips, thighs, sides. There are days when they are quick and frantic, desperate to feel each other after a long day of being able to see, but not touch. But most nights they move slowly, reveling in each other, taking their time to enjoy each inch of skin, each quiet gasp and hitch of breath.
They know each other now, know the spots that will make the other shiver, cry out, arch up into the touch. Fraser loves the way Ray's breath goes unsteady as he kisses his throat, his collarbone, that sensitive spot just behind his ear. And Ray could probably spend all night tracing his tongue across Fraser's stomach, marking his hipbone, feeling the way the skin there trembles as he breathes across it.
But eventually even these things aren't enough, and then Ray's lips are on him, stretched tight, and Fraser has to close his eyes to keep from coming right at that moment, feeling Ray's heat around him. He's learned that Ray likes to watch, likes to keep his eyes open and see Fraser's face as he licks and sucks and slowly drives Fraser out of his mind.
He likes to see Fraser lose control, and Fraser lets him.
It's a foreign concept to him, allowing himself to be so completely vulnerable for another person, but that's the way Ray is in bed, all action and no reservation, and Fraser is trying to learn from him. He lets his hips thrust up into Ray's mouth, lets his fingers twist into the hair at the back of Ray's head, lets himself cry out when he comes, feeling himself shattering into a million pieces and then slowly rebuilding in Ray's arms.
Ray loves his hands, loves to lean back against Fraser and watch Fraser's hand wrap around him, stroking him slowly, evenly, just like he would himself. He lets his head drop back against Fraser's shoulder, pressing kisses to his throat, his ear, any skin his mouth can reach. He comes with a cry, shuddering against Fraser's chest, burying his face into the skin of his neck. Fraser lets his hands run across his legs, his chest, every inch of him, until his breathing steadies.
Sometimes they fall asleep like that, holding each other, and sometimes Fraser lies awake, watching Ray as his breath slows, his eyes flutter shut, and he drifts off into dreams.