Aqua Mirabilis
Ray Kowalski, aka Vecchio, stared back at his stubborn partner. “Fraser.
One night at a blues club won’t kill you. It’ll do you a world of good, no
kiddin’”
Fraser wouldn’t bulge. “Ray.” Fraser had never attended a course in How
to Hide the Signals Your Body Sends Out, so he squirmed, and he did the eyebrow
thing. “I must remind you of the fact that I’m not capable of moving
rhythmically to music.” He cracked his neck. “This cultural activity seems to
be one of my, erm, shortcomings.”
Ray goggled at Fraser. “Buddy. Only shows that you’re human. Imperfect
like the rest of us.”
“Ray!” Fraser brightened up. “Perhaps Francesca…”
“No way. Frannie’s not in on this deal, partner.” Sheesh, why wouldn’t Fraser just…
“I…eh...”
“Listen, Frase…” He needed to bring out the big guns to make Fraser come
with him. “It’s like this, now. You can look at it as an anter…anthropological
study of an urban subculture.” Ray breathed out and scratched his neck. “Sorta
educational like.”
Fraser looked dubious, but nodded encouragingly at him.
“Or…” this was the big gun.
“You can act your polite self and recognize this as Sonny Boyd Taylor’s way of
showing his gratitude.” Ray pointed a finger at Fraser. “You do not wanna leave
him hanging, do you?”
“Understood Ray.” Fraser looked, well, not contrite, but maybe the
Canadian equivalent of it. “Perhaps I should reconsider.” Fraser fixed him with
those incredible, dark eyes. “It wouldn’t do to be seen as inconsiderate.”
Fraser nodded in sync with him.
“Very well, Ray, I will come with you to the “Blue Water” blues club tonight.”
Ray sighed in relief, only then aware that he had been holding his
breath. “Greatness Fraser. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Ray nearly had to pick himself
up when Fraser walked out of the front door to the consulate. He did some fast
breathing to stiffen his body up, and threw a quick look at Club-Going Fraser
again. He had learned to cope with
Fraser in his red serge; he had learned to live with Fraser in leisure mode,
dressed in blue flannel and tight jeans. Ray blinked. But this…this was
impossible. Not even the Stetson was present to remind him of everyday Fraser.
Instead Fraser had done something to his hair; it looked wild in a clean and
shiny way. Ray’s cock leaped to attention, throbbing and refusing to listen to
Ray’s rational mind.
“Ray? Ray!” Fraser walked down the steps, the clothes clinging to his
perfect body.
Ray shuddered and surreptitiously crossed his hands in front of his
crotch. Fraser could tempt a saint to sin, especially dressed in what Fraser
probably considered suitable wear for a night on the town.. Tight black
shirt, open at the neck, hint of chest hair, Ray’s mind supplied helpfully, and
those indecently tight jeans. The bulge had to be Fraser’s supply of real
money. Or maybe his sunglasses…in a case. He rolled his eyes. Yeah, sure.
He needed to get a grip here; he blinked one last time, focused on the
door lock of the GTO, and opened the door. “Uh, get in Fraser. You hungry?”
“I have eaten supper, Ray. But it would be my pleasure to accompany you
to a diner, if you are so inclined.” Fraser met his eyes, looking actively
earnest.
Fraser was hiding something. He’d
better keep an eye out for what.
“Nah. I’m good to go.”
As usual, he wrenched the GTO out from the sidewalk in front of the
consulate, feeling the power burst tingle through his body. Not as usual, he didn’t know what to say
to his best friend. He squirmed in his seat and cast a furtive glance at
Fraser’s tight, black jeans. Oh, sure. He blamed them.
“Uhrm. Dief. He okay with this?”
He was certain Fraser had told Dief about how unsuited for wolves a club
was.
“Why, yes Ray. Diefenbaker grumbled at first, but I explained to him, in
no uncertain terms, that a blues club was not a preferred venue for wolves. He
did not agree, pointing out that wolves do indeed appreciate rhythmical
howling, but in the end I persuaded him to stay behind, explaining humans’
habit of filling the air with unhealthy smoke for recreational purposes.”
Fraser watched him expectantly, maybe wanting him to say yeah Fraser. Makes sense, Fraser. But he couldn’t. He only gaped at Fraser, filing
away the fact that Fraser’s choice of
clothing made Ray’s brain refuse to function properly. Watching the road
again, he managed to find words.
“Uh. You’re saying, Dief will be okay, if I feed him donuts tomorrow for
lunch, and maybe a whole pizza for dinner?”
Ray could see, through the corner of his eye, Fraser doing his
neck-cracking thing, again. He was right then, Dief had demanded donuts and pizza.
“Fine, that’s fine. Tell Dief okay when you get home tonight.” Ray
fiddled with the tuner, homing in on a local radio station. John.Campbell. Dead
guy. But he could sing. I got the Devil
in my closet, and the wolf is at my door, and how scary was that?
“So. Fraser. You been checking up on
“Why, yes, Ray.” Fraser’s voice smiled. “I am familiar with the history
of popular music in this area.“ Fraser straightened up in his seat, no doubt
going into lecture mode. “It seems the blues tradition in
“Howlin’ Wolf, Fraser, Howlin’ Wolf. And, yeah, I get your point.”
Ray screeched around a corner and
threw the car into a vacant spot only a couple of blocks away from the club.
“It’s like this, Frase, you’re familiar with the history. But. It’s not about
theory, it’s all about feeling,
buddy.” Ray jerked in rhythm with the next track coming out of his car stereo.
John Lee Hooker and Van Morrison together. Don’t
Look Back. “Blues is a mood.” He tapped an impatient pattern with his
fingers on the dashboard. “A way of
living. A way of coping in this fucked-up world.”
“Yes, Ray.” He could feel those honest, blue eyes focusing on him. “We
have indigenous, occasion-related music in
“Wait up, Fraser, just wait, okay?” Who had an unhinged partner?
“Understood, Ray.”
The club was in a rather run-down neighborhood, but which Ray knew had
some of the best blues and jazz clubs in the whole city. As they walked, booted
heels clacking on the concrete sidewalk, sounds and smells streamed out to them
from doors and windows, making the hot summer night filled with colors and
potential. Ray couldn’t tell if it was the heat, or the exotic surroundings,
but for once he felt bold enough to complement Fraser. “Lookin’ good, partner.
New shirt?”
Fraser fell into step with him. “I merely wanted to blend in, Ray. Was I
correct in choosing this toned down ensemble?”
Toned down? Christ. He could only
nod.
Fraser lowered his voice. “May I
in the same vein also compliment you on your choice of attire, Ray? You
do look stunningly roguish in blue jeans and that, erm, t-shirt.”
So Fraser had noticed his fitting, silky, white shirt. He liked that. He
liked that a lot. Devil in my closet--hah.
They reached the unpretentious entrance. Fraser, making as to line up at
the back of the long queue of people waiting to be let in, furrowed his brows
when Ray tried to drag him up to the front.
“No no, Fraser. And do not tell
me about the second and the courteousness.” Ray tugged at Fraser’s unyielding arm.
“Remember -- this is Boyd Taylor’s way of showing his gratitude when we helped
him in that fraud case.”
Fraser sighed and Ray could grab his elbow and lead him forward.
The personal invitation written by the club’s owner got them in quickly.
Inside, after diverting the doorman’s advances on Fraser with one of his
“fuck off, he’s taken”-looks, the atmosphere hit them like a wall. Smoke, heat,
sound, the sheer density of bodies pressed
together, made Ray’s mind reel. It probably made Fraser want to faint.
Better replenish some of those fluids they’d already lost. Ray elbowed
his way over to the bar, feeling Fraser close at his back, ordered two bottles
of their coldest; beer and soda, and turned. And gaped again. At this rate, his
mouth would dry out. Fraser was slouching
against the counter, looking so un-Mountie like that Ray hardly recognized
him. Silent, he handed Fraser his dew-cold bottle.
“Ray?” Fraser straightened and peered at him through the smoke. “Is
something the matter?”
What exactly was he to answer to that? Yes, Fraser, I want your cock in
my mouth, like, now. Or, maybe; no
Fraser, it’s just my mind again, giving me color images of us, fucking like
bunnies.
Wouldn’t do.
“Nope, Fraser. Just…fine.”
Fraser, of course, checked Ray’s temperature with a little stroke of his
thumb to his forehead, then, for good measure, grabbed his wrist, pressing the
same thumb over his pulse point.
Feeling vaguely irritated, Ray tugged his arm back and growled at
Fraser. “I said I was fine. Want me to explain?” He hoped to God Fraser
wouldn’t make him.
“I apologize, Ray, You have seemed out of sorts lately. I was merely
checking your condition…”
“My condition is great.” Ray breathed. “But I need to...” He lifted his
hand and gesticulated vaguely, saw Fraser understand, and slid through the
crowd till he found the bathroom.
By the time he returned, Fraser had vanished. Frantic searching found
Fraser standing at the end of the bar counter where the view to the scene was
best.
“Frase.” Fraser only smiled at him, handed him his beer, and shrugged to
the side a little, so that Ray could wedge in between Fraser and some grungy
looking kid.
--
“I wanna dance, Fraser, okay?” His body is aching to move, the music is,
well made for dancing.
“You go ahead, Ray. I’ll stay right here.”
So he dances, and it’s wonderful. Hot; sweaty
bodies; swaying together; close; what the best moments with Stella were.
Now and then he can glimpse Fraser, leaning against the bar, nodding his
dark head in time with the music.
Returning to Fraser’s side
is…odd. Fraser is sipping something greenish, like dish-washing liquid, and
smiling sloppily at him. Definitely not soda in that glass.
“Ray, my friend.”
And Fraser touches him, two
burning fingers down his chest, his belly, stopping only when he reaches the
fly button of his jeans. Ray gasps, comes to his senses, and tries to pull
himself away, clutching a shaking hand around the edge of the counter. But
Fraser is relentless, gripping Ray’s elbows, leaning closer, sniffing him.
Fraser’s eyes glaze over, he’s so close Ray can see the specks of sea green in
the blue. This must stop.
“Fraser. What’s with you? Not that I’m complaining or anything, but…”
Fraser is not used to handling alcohol, Ray’s mind supplies.
“Ah. Taste my drink, Ray. The
kind bartender mixed it to me.” He slugs the glass towards Ray, who grabs it,
sure that Fraser is about to lose it. “Aqua Mirabilis.”
“What, Frase? What?” Suspicious, Ray sips the sickly-looking stuff. Not
bad, in a spine-shivering way. But to hell with the kind bartender who gave Fraser this strong stuff.
“The drink, Ray. Miracle water. Will make me loose and happy.
Guaranteed.” Fraser wobbles against him in a totally un-Fraser way.
Oh. Ray swallows around the lump in his throat. So Fraser wants to
relax, be happy. At least it works on
muscle control. Sentence formation is out the window. “How many of these soap
drinks have you had, buddy?” Damage control is probably needed. Fraser and alcohol
-- no good.
“Many, Ray. So, so many.” Fraser gives him that insane smile again,
showing all his white teeth. Fuck. Fraser is drunk. Jesus.
“C’mon, buddy.” Ray puts down the glass, sliding it down the counter,
not giving Fraser a chance to grab it back. “We’re leaving.” He tries to swing Fraser’s
arm over his shoulder, but Fraser fastens it around his waist, leaning close
again. Too close.
Wet tongue in his ear too close.
“Ray.” It escapes Fraser’s mouth like a whispered prayer. He can barely
hear it above the din from the band and the crowd. “Lovely…you.”
God. Fuck. Fraser is wasted, completely wasted. And what was in that green puke anyway? Ray yanks
Fraser away from the counter. “Move it, Frase.” He leans in and speaks directly
into Fraser’s ear, it takes effort not to lick back, not to bite into that
tempting earlobe. An irrational part of his brain remembers the tests in the
natural science class. Earlobe--or no earlobe, taste-vile-gene--or no gene. Maybe
his brain is failing.
They stumble through the crowd, Ray warding off bodies and
Fraser-directed stares and Ray-directed Fraser-touches.
Outside, the cool night air is a blessing. It freezes the sweat on their
bodies, and Ray hopes it will clear their minds.
No such luck.
It only takes a second, and how
ironic is that, and Fraser is licking the drying sweat off his neck. “Salty,
Ray, good, sodium chloride; you, god.”
A drunk Fraser is still Fraser--in lecture mode. Ray doesn’t know if he
can take it. It’s too much. His brain is frying, his nerves overloading.
“Yeah, Frase, stop with the science already. Le…”
But he never gets to finish, never gets a chance to be the sensible one
leading Fraser onto the narrow path. Because Fraser pushes him up against the hard, lumpy concrete wall; Ray thinks
that if he wants to, he can feel the small, hard buttons in Fraser’s black
shirt. Making tiny indentions into his belly. And then Fraser kisses him; they
are kissing, and it’s good, so good.
Fraser’s agile tongue, which Ray knows has been everywhere, is in Ray’s mouth, hypnotizing him, paralyzing him.
Fraser’s hard, strong body is surrounding him. Fraser doesn’t feel drunk now, except…he tastes funny,
like lime and rum, only mixed with some really strange chewing gum. The Aqua
milis stuff. Fuck.
They keel towards a garbage bin to their left, and Ray knows this has to
stop, and it won’t be Fraser doing it. A wrench later, and his mouth is free,
open to talk. “Fraser. We. Must. Stop.”
Fraser seems breathless, he’s gasping for air, shouldn’t be able to
speak. But the tiny part of Ray’s mind still firing normally supplies that
Fraser has that little extra lung capacity.
“Ray. Why?”
And that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? Ray’s mind refuses to
find an answer. Nothing believable, anyway. You’re
drunk as a skunk, he could say. Walking gay out of a closet must be discussed
in daylight, he should say. “Because, Frase, because.” Before Fraser tries
to argue with that brilliant piece of logic, he slips away, grabs Fraser’s warm
hand, and moves them purposefully towards his car.
They walk-stumble smoothly for a while, then, Ray observes detachedly,
everything goes to hell. And it’s dizzying how fast. Fraser, having both some pounds and some
muscle-mass on him, takes control, and pulls him into a dark, narrow, abandoned alleyway. How convenient. How
cliché. How exciting.
He’s pushed up against a cold dumpster; the garbage smell reaches his
senses and is dismissed in moments. Because Fraser is there, sinking to his
knees in front of him, eyes hungry, and how many times hasn’t he dreamed of
this? Of Fraser, pliant and eager, begging to please him? Him, begging Fraser
to let him give him the same
pleasure?
Then there’s no more thinking, no more brain, only senses, only Fraser
and a scrawny
He can’t believe how careful Fraser is. He’s nuzzling his groin, swiping
his hot tongue over the bulge Ray can see…and
god…feel straining to be let out, behind his zipper. The moan is unstoppable.
“Please, Frase, Ben, please.” And Ben knows how needy he is. Ben unzips
him. Ben sucks in the aching cock tipping out of Ray’s jeans. Ben drives him
crazy, sucking, licking, and swallowing around his eager cock. Ray can’t help
it, he jerks and shakes in response. How did Fraser get this expertise? Ray
freezes in shock.
Ben stops. Ben tilts his head up, letting Ray’s cock slip out of his hot
mouth.
Ray can see how drunk Fraser really is now, he can see it in the way
Fraser wobbles and falls over. Having to support himself with both hands on the
asphalt, head down, knees taking the weight of him.
Ray sinks to his knees, too, ignoring his quickly wilting cock. He leans
in, tucks his forehead against Fraser’s shoulder, pushing his hands into
Fraser’s hair. “Frase. Buddy. We need to
move.” Grunts in reply, a small gulp. Not good. Not good at all. Ray sits back
on his heels.
Suddenly Fraser just heaves
over, vomiting in a really spectacular way. It sparkles emerald-like out from
Fraser’s mouth, backlit by the streetlights; the few beams reaching into the
dark alley. He can see, in a strangely detached way, pearls of vomit sprinkling
the side of the dumpster, a few raining down on the dark ground. Then
everything moves fast forward, Fraser’s head hits the ground with a thump and
Ray is up, up and yelling. Tucking in and zipping up. He grabs Fraser’s flimsy
shirt, buttons pinging into the side of the dumpster, some hitting the wet
spots of puke. What does he care? He gets Fraser on his feet, looks into his
face, and Fraser is not there.
Panic is not the answer. He keeps Fraser on his feet with an effort,
encouraged when he can feel the energy in Fraser’s body zing just below the
surface. “Move, Fraser, c’mon. The Mountie manual tells you how.” At the
mention of the Mountie-word Fraser shudders, and like a miracle straightens up.
Fraser’s sexy, black shirt is a lost cause, so Ray jerks it out of his
jeans. He grips the hem, and swipes Fraser’s face with the black cotton.
Better.
Soon, traces of consciousness show in Fraser’s eyes, and Ray speaks
directly into his face. “Must leave. You walk. Car.” That should do it. And it
does.
Ray nearly sobs in relief when they are back at his car. He bundles and
bends Fraser’s body into the passenger seat, hands him the bottled water he
finds in the holder, and circles around the car, bumping his fist on the hood
in passing.
The drive back to his apartment is weird. Apparently, a recovering
Fraser is a giddy Fraser. The sounds coming from him are suspiciously
like girly snickers, although Ray is sure Fraser will deny it tomorrow.
Interspersed in the giggling are broken bits and pieces of chanties Ray
has heard before, and words of feeling and affection Ray has not heard. And all
the time Fraser leans toward him, trying to touch everywhere. Ray knuckles hard
around the steering wheel to keep the GTO on the street. He does not want to be stopped by a squad car
for suspicious driving with an alien Mountie clinging to him.
Most of the alieness has left Fraser when they reach Ray’s apartment
house. Yeah--where else could he bring Fraser in his drunken state? Fraser
sorta flows out of the car, to land in a heap on the sidewalk. Ray hauls him
back on his feet, and staggers toward his door, Fraser hanging on like one of
those beanbags. No more alien Fraser now, that’s for sure, left is a tired
Fraser, who struggles up the stairs, his strong body refusing to function as
normal, as he leans heavily on Ray.
There’s so much I could’ve said, Ray thinks. But he doesn’t. He only
concentrates on being angry; counting on the energy he creates to carry them
safely to his door and into his home. Why, Fraser, did you have to go and get
pissingly drunk, when finally we were getting somewhere? When Ray thought that
the big thing sitting uncommented on between them could be brought up, examined
and maybe, acted upon? It doesn’t take much of an effort to work the anger into
fury, Ray shakes with it, with the frustration. It’s so not fair.
Luckily, the red fogging his sight melts away the moment Fraser, his
Fraser, his partner staggers to the bathroom and slumps down on the fuzzy nylon
rug in front of his toilet. Fraser is the proverbial picture of misery.
“I believe I need to vomit again, Ray.” At least he’s coherent; Ray has
time to think, before Fraser grabs the seat and shudders, retching, a moan of
despair escaping in between.
Ray pats Fraser’s back, fills a
glass with tap water, wets a cloth, and when he deems Fraser finished, sits
down beside him. He presses the glass into Fraser’s shaky hand, Fraser drinks,
gurgles and spits, then swallows the rest in one go. Ray strokes Fraser’s dark,
sweaty hair, hair that has curled into shiny corkscrews, and washes Fraser’s
face carefully with the wet cloth.
Nothing is said.
For, Ray thinks morbidly, what can he say now? His emotions ping around
in his head like marbles on speed; the gift, the elephant he was offered by a drunk Fraser too hard to think about.
So he trudges out into his bedroom, makes the bed, and just waits for Fraser to
finish his evening ablutions.
It doesn’t take long.
“Ray?” And Ray can see that Fraser is still very much drunk, maybe
happy, maybe not. He notes the promised looseness is long gone. Fraser looks as
tense as ever, so Ray just beckons with a hand, pushes an unresisting Fraser
down into the made bed, and tucks him in.
Benton Fraser is sleeping in Ray’s bed.
What wouldn’t he have given to have a conscious, consenting Benton
Fraser in his bed.
Ray sighs, shadow-boxes a few punches, trudges to the bathroom himself,
does his night things, returns to watch Fraser from the doorway. Fraser is sleeping,
sweating and snoring. Like a man.
He tiptoes across the room, gets out his spare bedclothes, turns to
leave, and freezes.
“Ray.” Fraser waves a hand from bed to Ray. Beckons. “Here.” It’s a
question.
Ray drops his burden and crawls in beside Fraser. That will have to be
his answer. Fraser tugs him to his too hot body, steel arms coming around him.
Possessively.
It’s perfect.
--oo—(AND WE'RE BACK IN PAST TENSE)
Finally, finally, Ray managed to drag Jelly Ben to bed. Fraser slumped
down, burrowing his freshly scrubbed face into Ray’s lumpy pillow. “Ummm…smells of you Ray.”
Ray patted Fraser’s hair, still damp from the shower. “Yeah, well…it’s
my bed, Frase.” He tugged the bedclothes up, over Fraser’s pale body.
“Sleep now, buddy.” Ray gave Fraser’s prone form a last pat, and
straightened to leave.
Fraser’s hand shot out, grabbed Ray’s wrist, squeezing the bracelet
close.
“Stay.”
I AM ASSUMING THAT THIS LAST BIT IS NOTES YOU DIDN'T USE. OTHERWISE IT
REALLY IS UNNECESSARY.