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.
Part I again (see? fail)
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.