An archive of the Team Romance account from DS Match

Fraser woke up slowly, struggling through cloudy layers of dream and memory to find himself, blinking and sleep-dazed, alone in Ray's bed. The room was dull dark, Ray's window blinds closed tight, but behind them the light was bright, and flow of traffic and the hum of the apartment building said midday, or perhaps early afternoon.

He stretched and listened, hoping for the familiar rustling, muttering, tapping, the music Ray generated wherever he went, but it was absent. Ray was out, then, probably back at the station dealing with loose ends from last night and this morning's arrests.

He should join him; Ray was just as exhausted as he, and far less careful with either paperwork or interrogations. He should return to the Consulate, where he imagined his desk had long disappeared under the overgrown pile of unprocessed forms and the Inspector's furious notes of complaint.

But the bed was impossibly comfortable, and he'd been sleeping on Ray's side, with Ray's pillow and the faint indentation of Ray's body on the mattress. Despite the late hour and the responsibilities waiting for him, he felt a powerful urge to stay, stay and nap and wallow as he might if Ray were here with him.

But Ray wasn't here. Steeling himself, Fraser sat up with a groan, his ribs protesting yesterday's fall, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

On the bedside table sat his Stetson and a neon yellow takeout menu scrawled over with Ray's handwriting. He picked it up and read: Back soon. Until then, you're stuck. Sleep.

Frowning in confusion, Fraser glanced around the room, trying to make sense of the message, before returning his attention to the bedside table. He'd been stumbling, bone-tired and sore, but surely he remembered leaving his hat in the other room?

Ah. He grasped the crown and lifted, and the weight confirmed his suspicion well before the expected tug. One of Ray's handcuffs was fastened securely around his hat band, the other to the reading lamp. Very clever.

He considered the situation, devised six different strategies for freeing his hat from its false imprisonment without damage to hat, lamp, or cuffs, then eased himself back down on Ray's side of the bed. Perhaps he'd flip the mattress later, but, for the moment, he'd enjoy the feel of Ray around him, and try his hand at wallowing.

From:

Welch glanced through the blinds and caught something ... off ... in the bullpen. He scanned across the room again and, ah. The detective currently known as Vecchio was busily typing up his reports. Which was only as it should be, and therein lay the rub. Welsh ran his hand over his chin thoughtfully—there was a mystery here.

Firstly, Vecchio rarely did his paperwork without trying to cajole the Mountie into doing it instead. Which the Mountie usually did. (Speaking of which, said Mountie seemed to be nowhere on the premises this morning; which was mystery 1a; because, Consulate duties aside, said Mountie was rarely far from Detective Vecchio the Second, nor Detective Vecchio from the Mountie.)

Secondly, not only was Vecchio typing more quickly and competently than his habitual complaints implied he was capable of, he almost looked ... happy. Like he just wanted to finish up and go enjoy the rest of his day. Which, again, was only as it should be, but at odds with the detective's usual procrastination.

Thirdly, ADA Kowalski had just walked right past Vecchio's desk on her way to consult with Detective Huey, and her ex had barely spared her a friendly enough, if distracted, greeting, before seeming to forget about her entirely.

It was a mystery indeed, and Welsh debated delving deeper. He had no problem letting loose with window-rattling bellows now and again; he just hated wasting them where they wouldn't do any good, and he couldn't imagine any satisfactory outcome from barking "Vecchio, why the hell are you so happy and productive today?" across the squadroom. Instead he gave a deep sigh and let go of the puzzle. Might as well sit back and reap the benefit of whatever incentive was driving the detective to get his paperwork done in a hurry, and save his worry for real problems, like that departmental audit... He buried himself in his own paperwork.

From:

china_shop

Eeeee, I detect a bodyswap! ♥ ♥ ♥

From:

jadelennox

It wasn't that Ray didn't know he was attractive, intellectually. Vecchio had made it pretty clear to him that he thought Ray was attractive, and his loving attention to ears, temples, hips, knees, had slowly convinced Ray that maybe he wasn't all that hard on the eyes.

But he wasn't turned on by himself. He was turned on by Vecchio, by Vecchio's sunny grin, by the way he rasped out Ray's name during sex, by the way he sleepily smashed his face into the pillow in the morning. He was turned on by the way Vecchio studies his jackets in the morning, picking the best one out then shaking his head and swapping it for another. He was turned on by Vecchio's bitching when chasing a suspect led them through a dumpster or a snowback or -- once, memorably -- a pig wallow. He was turned on my Vecchio's attention to detail and his brilliant leaps of logic, by Vecchio's protective love for his family and the way he held each of Frannie's babies like they were the most precious thing in the world, by his tangible sensual delight as he devoured a well-made meal. He was, most of all, turned on by the way Vecchio held him, touched him, moved him him, tasted him, knew him, turned him inside out and put him back together again, leaving them both worn out and gasping, leaving Vecchio fucking glowing in the post-coital haze.

And if that meant Ray had to learn to be turned on by his own body, now that Vecchio was in it and he was in Vecchio's? Well, he could do that.

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Vecchio bitched all the fucking time. It drove Ray nuts, this guy with a mouth that wouldn't quit, yammering on about his car, Ray's car, Ray's hair, Ray's attitude, Ray's clothes, Ray's music, and nothing Ray threw back at him left a mark; it all just beaded up on his sleek Vegas back and rolled away.

But the thing Ray realized--and it was on stakeout when he finally caught on, after Vecchio bitched about Ray's BBQ-flavor potato chip dinner before stealing the bag and tilting it up and pouring the crumbs down his throat--the thing was, Vecchio liked Ray's car and his hair and his attitude, was comfortable with them, with him.

Vecchio would lean against the passenger door while Ray yelled at him or ignored him or went over the case with him, and Vecchio's mouth would say bag lady and what are you, twelve? but his eyes, his body, and the way he forgot to check over his shoulder all said different stuff, warm stuff, right-there-with-him stuff.

Lucky for both of them, too, because when Vecchio caught Ray looking at his throat as he swallowed, at the salt and dark orange on his upper lip, things could have gotten things real ugly, real fast if Ray'd just listened to the words coming out of Vecchio's mouth.

He knew better, though, and so he leaned back against his own car door, insulting Vecchio right back, and let his eyes and body say different.

From:

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

From:

china_shop

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

From:

Ray has quite mastered the knack of speaking with his body. Fraser's own body, he knows, speaks as well, and often, but never what Fraser wants to say. It betrays him, gives him away, despite all his best efforts to the contrary. When Frannie leans in for a kiss, Fraser's body tenses, freezing up in fight or flight instinct, or he pulls away in a sharp, sudden gesture. Fraser's body is not kind to Frannie, does not spare her feelings. Still, that hardly seems to matter. Fraser is not certain if she is oblivious to his body's cues or simply somehow determined to move past them.

With Ray, Fraser's body does the very opposite. He finds himself leaning in for no discernible reason, hovering too close, being too quick to welcome a helping hand on his elbow, an encouraging pat on his shoulder, an emphatic poke to his chest. He leans into each of Ray's gestures, as much a punch as a pat, as if all his fight-or-flight were used up by Frannie, leaving him stripped and defenseless and far, far too obvious. Ray is an observant man, is a detective, for God's sake. He is certain to notice eventually the clear and constant signal Fraser is broadcasting his way, and when he does...

"Frase?" Ray is looking at him oddly, his wide blue eyes concerned.

Fraser's body betrays him yet again with a blush. He looks down, away from Ray's too-observant eyes, but he finds his gaze suddenly caught by the hollow of Ray's throat peeking out from his shirt, the skin delicate and golden. Fraser swallows, an entirely unvoluntary gesture.

But Ray just tilts his head to favor Fraser with a long, reading look, then leans into Fraser with that gracefully expressive body.

And starts talking.

From:

And starts talking.

Eeeee! I love that. :)

From:

Thanks! I really enjoyed what you wrote, too. Team Angst is going down!!

From:

*happyflail*

From:

Thanks! Gotta warm up to get all romantical-like. ::does push-ups::

From:

catwalksalone

He'd thought about it - telling him - but every time he opened his mouth all that came out were bitchy remarks. He knew this because Frannie told him so.

"Leave Fraser alone," she kept saying. "He's Canadian. He doesn't get you."

Ray was pretty sure she was wrong about that. He really hoped she was wrong about that. Because if Benny didn't get him then the sky wasn't blue and the sun set in the east and Fraser would've said something if the world had turned upside down.

So. Fraser got him and Ray got Fraser. But Benny was too damn polite to explore what that meant and Ray? Ray was too chicken. Too worried about Ma and the guys at the precinct and the vague irritation of a god he didn't really believe in.

That left him where? On Benny's excuse for a couch, his mouth flapping open and closed like some stunned goldfish. If you can't say something nice then don't say anything at all.

Eureka! Ray smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand but before Benny could respond Ray grabbed his shoulder and drew him in, two pairs of warm lips coming together in sweet collision. He felt Fraser's eager response and smiled into his mouth.

If you can't say something nice ...

From:

(swoooooooooooon)

Ray leaned over, hands on his knees, let his head hang between his shoulders and tried to breathe. Only they weren't his hands, weren't his knees, and somewhere over to his left, where he definitely was not looking, he could hear Kowalski pacing, and that was fucking weird enough, hearing Kowalski's twitchy movements marked by Ray's own shoes, Ray's own feet. This was not right. He'd worked with Fraser for years and he'd seen compulsive liars and pissy Christmas elves and his own father's ghost, and Kowalski had told him about that funky voodoo thing, but this... he'd never seen anything like this.

"Fraser, you ever seen anything like this before?" Kowalski asked, only it was in Ray's voice, and God, if Ray didn't stop thinking about this, he was going to go insane.

"No, Ray," Fraser answered, sounding sort of calmly concerned, like this was any other problem he was going to solve with Inuit stories and sheer Mountie stubbornness. Which Ray normally kind of wanted to kick him for, because nothing fazed Fraser--not even, apparently, his partners somehow ending up in each other's bodies and not in the good way--but somebody had to be calm, Ray guessed, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him or Kowalski, so.

"This is not good," Kowalski was saying, "this is not good. I mean, what the fuck? How the fuck does this happen?"

"Ray, please. I know how upsetting this must be for you, but I'm sure there's a solution somewhere, and we will find it. And in the meantime, just--"

"Just what? Calm down? Fraser, I am not in my own fucking body, and I would say that on the list of situations in which it is physically possible to calm down, that has got to be pretty fucking low!" The last word was punctuated by a thud as his fist hit the wall.

"Hey!" Ray's head snapped up. "That's my knuckles you're putting through the drywall, asshole."

"Sorry," Kowalski muttered, massaging his hand in a mix of post-punching-ache and caress, and Ray almost started laughing hysterically. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. This was going to drive him nuts, he knew it.

Fraser's hand came down on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing gently just underneath his ear, just like they both knew Kowalski liked. Ray could feel his muscles relaxing a little, and that was more strangeness, more dislocation, until Fraser said, "Ray," and he said it like he always said it, completely different than how he said Kowalski's name, and Ray took a deep breath and held on.

"I'm OK, Benny. I'm OK. It's just--" I can't not be me, can't look in the mirror and see someone else...

"I know," Fraser said, and it was the kind of bullshit line people gave when they didn't know what else to say, but this was Fraser, and he never missed anything except when it came to himself, so Ray believed him. Fraser knelt down in front of him, tipped Ray's face up and kissed him. Slow, deliberate, his hands cupping Ray's jaw just like Ray liked. Ray locked both his hands around Fraser's wrists and kissed him back, feeling the jittering panic in his stomach gradually soothe and settle for the first time in hours.

He broke the kiss when Kowalski made a sound, looked up to see him leaning against the wall with a kind of hesitant want on his face. Ray's face, actually, and his stomach jumped again, but he felt Fraser's hands solid on him and he managed a grin somehow. "See something you like, Kowalski?"

From:

Kowalski's mouth curved on one side. "Weird," he said. "Seeing--" He gestured with one hand, helplessly. "That."

"C'mere," Ray told him, holding out his own hand.

Kowalski did grin at that, a half-shy, ducked-head grin that was pure Kowalski even on Ray's face, and he came a few steps closer so he could kneel in front of Fraser. Fraser smiled at him, put one hand on the back of his neck and pulled him in to kiss him, too, while Ray watched. It was like seeing himself somehow superimposed over Kowalski, seeing both Kowalski and Fraser kissing and himself and Fraser kissing, all at once, Kowalski's hunger and Fraser's eager response, Fraser's thumb gliding slowly over Ray's neck. Ray found himself leaning closer without realizing it. Weird was definitely an understatement, and maybe he shouldn't be getting turned on by this, but then again, if he didn't get turned on by weird, he never would've been with either of these guys in the first place, so he figured maybe it was par for the course.

When Fraser and Kowalski pulled apart, Kowalski's eyes were wide, his mouth wet, and he was breathing hard. Fraser nudged him a little, turning him the slightest bit toward Ray.

"Hey," Kowalski said, looking up at Ray, mouth quirking again, "whaddaya say, Vecchio?" He winked. "I never pass up the opportunity to kiss a good-looking guy."

Ray rolled his eyes, but he laughed, and this was insane and they'd probably all be in years of therapy because of it, but right now, he was going to go with the flow. "Nice to know you're still a smartass, no matter whose face you're wearing."

"Funny," Kowalski said, "smartass seems to fit pretty well in here. Must already know the territory."

Fraser smiled at both of them, slid one hand onto Ray's knee and one hand on Kowalski's shoulder. Linking them. Grounding them. Just like he always had. Kowalski was still smiling, too, nervous but willing, and he knew what it was like to be Ray and then come back again, so all of a sudden Ray just figured, what the hell. He knew who he was, mostly, and the parts he couldn't figure out, well, that was why he had Fraser and Kowalski, right? To help him find his way back.

"OK," Ray said, "but if masturbation is a sin, I don't even want to think about how many Hail Marys I'm gonna have to say for this," and Kowalski laughed as Ray leaned forward and kissed him.

From:

Nrrrrrrgh! Nrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!

*flails incoherently*

Yeah, that was okay. ♥

From:

china_shop

if he didn't get turned on by weird, he never would've been with either of these guys in the first place

*ADOOOOOOOOORES*

OMG, you wrote FKV bodyswap! I LOVE YOUUUU!

From:

"OK," Ray said, "but if masturbation is a sin, I don't even want to think about how many Hail Marys I'm gonna have to say for this," and Kowalski laughed as Ray leaned forward and kissed him.

Eh heh heh! Yay for kink!

From:

Aaaah. That's lovely.

or -- once, memorably -- a pig wallow.

*snorts*

From:

Hee! I hadn't actually intended that, just that Ray was hurrying so that he could get home and get back to his Mountie. But if it spawns bodyswap fic, yay!

From:

I love the maybe-suspecting-the-answer-but-oh-so-doesn't-want-to-know Welsh. ♥

From:

Ray sighs and rubs his eyes, trying to make the letters on the paper in front of him resolve into something vaguely resembling coherence. It's after midnight and it's been an incredibly long day, involving a lot of running and Fraser jumping off of things and powdered sugar in places Ray doesn't want to think about, and he's tired and he wants nothing so much as to go back to Fraser's place and curl up with him in his crappy, too-small bed and sleep for about a month.

But Fraser is a man of principle, and one of the umpteen million things he apparently had principles about was paperwork. Which Ray had learned the hard way, one night when he had insisted on going home with his reports still sitting unfinished on his desk. Fraser had tried to lay the guilt whammy on him, with the big eyes and the well, Ray, if you really think that's best, and for once, Ray hadn't caved, had walked out of the precinct without looking back, determined to show Fraser that the sun was going to come up the next day just the same whether he'd dotted every i and crossed every t or not. Fraser hadn't said a word about it all night, but he'd looked so damn uncomfortable--more uncomfortable than he ever looked in that starched sheep he called a uniform--and he'd kept looking over his shoulder every ten seconds, like he was afraid Ray's key witness statement was going to sneak up behind him with a machete, or a seal spear, or whatever. It had been sort of pathetic and depressing, and incredibly frustrating, and Ray had finally given in after a couple of hours and gone back and finished his damn paperwork, after which Fraser had smiled at him like he'd just saved a whole village of Inuit children, hurried him back home and given him a blowjob that Ray swore he could still feel the aftershocks from if he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, so. Yeah.

Now, he doesn't go home until he's finished his paperwork.

And--though he'd never admit it to Fraser--it's not so bad, these days, with Fraser to keep him company, always there at Ray's elbow with the form he needs or a fresh cup of coffee or an apple from the vending machine. Of course, he's also constantly correcting Ray's typing and Dief ends up with the apples a lot more often than Ray does, but Ray gets the coffee and the forms and Fraser's eyes crinkling at the corners when he types dirty words to tease him, and Fraser gets the satisfaction of Ray's job well done, so it's a pretty good system.

Except when Ray's in the middle of muttering about how a confectioner could possibly have mistaken cocaine for powdered sugar, and he reaches out for the next form he needs and there's... nothing.

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He looks up, a little jolt of adrenaline zinging through him, like he just walked down a set of stairs that had one less stair than he'd expected and come down hard on concrete. Fraser's still there, though, sitting on the opposite side of Ray's desk, his uniform unbuttoned at the collar and a dusting of sugar in his dark hair. Only his head is tipped back, resting against the wall, his mouth slack, and he's snoring ever so faintly.

Ray grins. The Mountie falls asleep while the Chicago flatfoot soldiers on into the typewritten wilderness. Oh, he's never gonna let Fraser hear the end of this one.

But he finishes typing as quickly and quietly as he can, careful not to dislodge Dief, who's somehow fallen asleep with his head on Fraser's foot and his ass on Ray's newly-polished loafers (typical). When he's done, he slides his chair back gently so he can get to his feet--Dief barely moves--and walks around the desk.

"Hey," he says softly, putting one hand on Fraser's shoulder; Fraser doesn't always wake calm, Ray's learned that, too, and he doesn't want to startle him. But he stays relaxed, his eyes just kind of fluttering open, long, dark lashes over sleep-blurry blue. His pupils are unfocused--he's still half-asleep--and he smiles a little, and when Ray leans down and kisses him, he opens his mouth easily on a low, lazy moan. Ray closes his own eyes and lets himself fall into it, Fraser's mouth sweet and slack, his tongue tasting faintly of sugar, the curve of his jaw warm under Ray's hand. When Ray pulls back, Fraser smiles again, unguarded and so bright that Ray almost stops breathing.

But it's late, and Fraser's probably starving, and Ray's got leftover ziti in his fridge. "C'mon, Benny," he says, sliding his hand down to link Fraser's fingers through his, "let's get you home."

From:

Sometimes Ray doesn't sleep so well.

And sure, okay, maybe he shouldn't drink so much coffee, and the cigarettes he sneaks don't help either, but mostly he figures it's just the way he's wired. A night owl.

He gets feel tired, kind of, but it's like his body is wired for electricity and the switch just doesn't turn off the way it should, so he'll lie there in the dark and vibrate, then get up and go back to work, or put some music on and dance, or flip through the channels until morning.

When Fraser stays over, Ray sleeps a lot better. Maybe because he has somebody to burrow in next to, and maybe because a good hard fuck works a hell of a lot better than warm milk.

And when he still can't sleep, when his eyes pop open in the middle of the night and his body just won't understand that it's off time, not on time, there's Fraser. In his bed, sleeping like the prettiest Canadian log you ever saw.

He figures Fraser gets mooned over plenty during the day, and him making googly eyes at his partner wouldn't fly for long down at the 27, but nighttime is his time. He fishes his glasses off the bedside table, props himself up on an elbow and takes his time, getting as close as he needs and just looking, memorizing Fraser's nose, counting his flaws, watching him breathe.

Sometimes Ray doesn't mind not sleeping so well.

From:

mondschein1.livejournal.com

When Fraser wakes up at seven a.m., he doesn't even bother to try and wake the men curled on either side of him. Ray and Ray are notoriously ill-tempered when subjected to sleep-deprivation, and Fraser's found it easier to simply let them be as slothful as they can be. Frankly, he's sometimes impressed by it; even if he'd wanted to, he'd never be able to sleep 'til three in the afternoon.

At a quarter past eight Fraser catches a glimpse of blue pinstriped pajamas out of the corner of his eye, and looks up from his morning tea to see Ray standing in the kitchen door. He's barefoot and rumpled, and only says, "It's Saturday, Benny," before making his unsteady way to the bathroom.

"Sorry, Ray," Fraser calls softly after him, and goes to turn on the coffee machine.

At half past ten, Ray's lounging on the couch and going on about Saturday morning cartoons, which have apparently suffered a tremendous decline in quality over the past three decades, and Fraser's getting somewhat impatient. If they could all just learn to wake up at a reasonable hour, this household might actually get something accomplished on the weekends. However, as Ray and Ray have both explained many times, American weekends aren't meant to accomplish anything at all. So Fraser waits, and Ray smirks at him every time he twitches.

At noon, Ray says, "Okay, c'mon, let's get the bum out of bed." Fraser couldn't be happier to hear it. He strides down the hall with a sense of irked purpose, crosses the bedroom, flings the curtains open, and gives the blanket-wrapped lump on the bed an expectant scowl.

The lump hardly moves.

"Aw, c'mon," Ray says, coming through the door. "You've got to know better than that. Here, let me show you how it's done. I've been doing this for Frannie for twenty-five years." He grasps the edge of the blanket and yanks it back, leaving Ray terribly vulnerable, all of his golden skin exposed except for the narrow rectangle beneath his boxers.

And still Ray sleeps, though he does curl a little bit tighter than before. "Uh. Benny, have you ever considered that maybe we might need professional help?" Ray suggests, quite seriously -- but when he turns to look Fraser in the eye, his control falters, his eyes soften, and a soft chuff of laughter escapes his lips.

Suddenly, the bed creaks, and Ray's bolting up, eyes wide and panicked. "Hey, no wait, don't start without me, 'm up, just let me -- " He blinks at them for a few seconds, squinting myopically at them. "Wait," he croaks, "you've got all your clothes on."

"Yes, Ray," Fraser agrees. "We woke up several hours ago, in fact."

"No, that's not what I mean, I mean I thought I heard Vecchio, uh -- "

"Oh, you did, did you." Ray grins. "You know what I think? I think you need a refresher course on what I sound like when I -- "

Of course Fraser protests, but in the end, it makes hardly any difference. At least this way, he thinks, they won't be entirely unproductive.

From:

Oh, LOVE. Kowalski's wake-up double-take FTW. YAY!

From:

china_shop

Hee! Ray is sneaky!

From:

sage

oh, lovely! :D

From:

The cuffs were lined, padded, and in fact quite comfortable. Fraser tugged at one and was pleased it held fast. Ray smiled at him, pushed the hair off Fraser's forehead, and Fraser tugged again, luxuriating in the cuffs perfectly snug around his wrists, perfectly stable around the sturdy headboard. He felt... safe. He felt peaceful.

Ray pressed a kiss to Fraser's sweat-damp temple and pulled back to smile at him again. His clever hands began wandering a gentle trail over Fraser's body, lingering in all the places Fraser loved best, in turns arousing and soothing. He followed his hands with his warm, wet mouth.

Fraser felt wonderfully indulged.

From:

take-no-ko.livejournal.com

He felt a powerful urge to stay, stay and nap and wallow as he might if Ray were here with him. Of course, he couldn't, and didn't. Fraser got up, and went into the bathroom, groggier than usual, knocking his toothbrush from its usual little plastic cup onto the edge of the sink as he groped for the shaving brush and... sure enough, into the bowl of the toilet.

He rolled his eyes, hearing Dief make some sarcastic comment or other in the background, and reached down to pick it up and throw it in the garbage. He moved his eyes back to the bathroom shelf and the cup.

A single toothbrush now stood in it, the one Ray had brought over a few weeks before. Fraser smiled.

From:

sage

eeeeee, subject line!! ♥ ♥ ♥

From: