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A Man With A (Fucking Fantastic) Plan
A Man With A (Fucking Fantastic) Plan
by etben
due South, Fraser/Kowalski/Vecchio, NC-17
4260 words
A sort-of-but-not-really sequel to Getting It—the two stand alone, but this is (I think) about the same relationship that that story's about. More will probably come, at some point, but don't hold your breath.
*
Fraser's been having a pretty shitty week.
Not that he'd ever say anything about it—or if he did, it'd be a mystery wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in an Inuit story wrapped in words Ray couldn't spell if you paid him fifty bucks a syllable. Fraser's like that, sometimes.
Sure, he'll complain, but not for his own sake. Fraser worries about the birds and the fish and the stinky winos and the purse snatchers and Ray and Vecchio and pretty much everyone in the world except for his own damn self. Show the guy someone else in trouble, and he'll get the whole place in an uproar to fix it, but for Benton Fraser? Forget about it. You want Fraser to worry about his own fucking standard of living, you'll be wanting for a while, because Fraser always puts himself last.
You have to be real close to him to even know when things are going shitty—which is not hard for Ray to do, since "close to Fraser" has pretty much been his default setting since the day they met. It's all the little things, with Fraser, the things he doesn't say and the things he phrases just so, so that it's only really complaining if you speak Benton Fraser, and even then you have to watch him but good. He's more cheerful, actually—that's the first sign, because regular Fraser is a little bit snippy and a little bit goofy and sometimes an enormous pain in the ass, but Fraser-in-distress is so goddamn focused on not letting his problems interfere with the rest of the world that he's psychotically cheerful, endlessly obliging, so fucking friendly you worry that he's maybe going to go for your jugular with those white, straight teeth of his.
He sighs more, too, but always waves you away when you ask what's wrong.
It's the conference that's getting to him—something on the role of consular and ambassadorial facilities and staff in the 21st century, Ray wasn't really paying attention. It's all about how consulates—of which there are a lot in Chicago, way more than Ray had ever thought there were—can be more helpful and useful and generally good for the world, and the sorts of things they do to say "hey, our country's the shit! come check us out!" and ways of helping people and all that.
Good stuff, important stuff—but stuff that Fraser knows, stuff that Canada's had down cold since forever. Even that might be okay—Fraser loves to explain things, and he's even good at it, and he'd probably get a kick out of having the head of the Danish consulate ask him for advice on how to be polite. But the whole thing is being run by diplomats, is the thing, so Fraser doesn't have anything to do but be a doorstop and serve crackers and listen to people who don't know what they're talking about blather on all day.
They all speak English, too, so there's not even any translation for Fraser to do. Funny voices, sure, but Fraser's not really a funny-voice kind of guy.
So, yeah: Fraser's stuck doing his old job—technically still his job, except for how mostly Constable Rampton does it, now, while Fraser's liasing with Ray and Vecchio—and it's even worse than before, because he's got to listen to stupid people talk and pretend he's not smarter than all of them. He's coming home late and too tired to do anything more than lurch his way to bed, and he's leaving early, before Ray and Vecchio can do more than grunt goodbye from under the pillows. He's probably missing the 2-7 like crazy, because he loves the liason thing, even when Ray and Vecchio are shouting each other down over the desk and Frannie's sticking her tits in his face and they end up covered in trash at least one day a week.
Not that Ray doesn't miss Fraser, too—he misses Fraser, misses him like crazy, keeps looking around the room for the red suit and the stupid hat every time he has a crazy idea or a weird feeling—only Ray's got Vecchio with him, and all Fraser's got is Turnbull, which anyone can see is nothing like a fair trade.
And Ray and Vecchio actually work pretty well together, which had come as the surprise of the new millenium to everybody except for Fraser. Welsh had put the two of them together a few months after Fraser and Ray came back from the Great White Nowhere, when it was getting clear that they both needed to work with a partner.
"Besides," he'd said, watching them from the door to his office, "this way I don't have to deal with the two of you fighting over who gets to partner with the Mountie." They'd stared at each other, him and Vecchio, sizing each other up, thinking about it. Everyone else had been watching them, too, but everyone else only knew half of the deal. The only thing the rest of the world knew about was the part in the middle, the part where Vecchio came back to pick up his life when Ray wasn't done with it, and they fought like cats in a sack and threw files at each other and generally made a hell of a mess.
In their defense, they'd cleaned it all up, and generally made nice with each other ever since, but everyone else kept watching them, like they were sure Ray and Vecchio would fight some more if they just kept fucking staring enough.
Which maybe would have happened (and kind of did, a couple of times), but see, that wasn't all there was, only nobody else knew it. Nobody else knew the beginning part, when Ray—tired and angry, coming down the steep side of Mount Stella and feeling it all the way, wanting something to drug it away, and alcohol was good but undercover was better—showed up at the hotel where they were keeping Vecchio, some shit heap way down on the south side. He'd brought a six pack of beer, and he'd given the special knock, and Vecchio had opened the door in bare feet and a rumpled suit.
"Jesus Christ," he'd said, leaning on the doorframe and rubbing at his eyes, "you're it then, huh?" And Ray had nodded, bouncing on the balls of his feet, because it was too late, he'd signed the contract, he couldn't back out just because it turned out Vecchio was an asshole.
"Yeah." Ray had shrugged. "I'm the guy who's gonna be you while you're...not you." Vecchio had stared at him for a while, and then he'd smiled, sad and tired but still all there, and he'd let Ray in, and that had been that. They'd talked pretty much nonstop for the next week and a half, running names and dates until Ray's ears bled and his eyes spun, and then Vecchio had moved out to Vegas and Ray had moved in to being Ray Vecchio and hey presto! off they went.
All of which means that yeah, sure: Vecchio can be an asshole, but he's a good cop, and hell, Ray can be an asshole, too. They don't always like each other, but they understand each other pretty damn well, and that's more than enough to dance with. They're smooth together, easy and confident and good at what they do, and it works like beauty.
Working with Vecchio, though—it's not like working with Fraser. Which, you know, people not being interchangeable, should not have come as very much of a surprise, but still did. It's still a one-two punch, one for setup and one for the takedown, but now it's all turned around.
See, before, he was the two—Fraser'd go in, all warm friendly batshit insane Canadian, and make like this was no big deal, and then Ray'd come in, waving his arms and shouting and being his own, louder brand of crazy. He'd shake them up so bad that Fraser began to look normal and safe, and nine times out of ten they'd go running back to the Mountie to begin writing out their confessions.
Now, though, for the real tough guys, Ray's the warm-up guy, the ordinary Joe. He comes in to the room, gripes about the paperwork, the shitty coffee, the way the city of Chicago apparently can't afford to protect its finest from fucking heat stroke in the middle of August, and generally makes like the pain in the ass he is, playing it like he's just humping the job. It gets the lowlifes overconfident, makes them think he's not really paying attention to them, and that's when Vecchio comes in, all nice suits and shiny shoes and thousand-yard stare. He never raises his voice, never says anything even a little bit threatening, but he doesn't even need to—he's so clean and so tidy and so completely fucking unimpressed, and he scares the living shit out of the guys they deal with.
Scares Ray, too, some days, but that's only until Vecchio smiles—after that, it's all good, sometimes so good that Ray has to go into the bathroom and cool down a little.
That's the other part that the guys in the station didn't know, back when Ray and Vecchio first started working together and everyone was betting how long it would be before one of them wound up floating in the river, and which one it would be. They didn't know about—well, Ray doesn't want to call it the end, because it isn't over yet, but the part after that part, the part with the sex. With him and Vecchio and Fraser and the sex, specifically.
He'd thought about it, sure: thought about him and Fraser, naked and sweaty and gasping, and he'd liked those thoughts, but he'd put them back up on the shelf. He knows for sure Fraser thought about it—knows now because Fraser's told him, but knew even then, and ignored it, because that wasn't somewhere to go when he wasn't in his own skin, not if you wanted something worth keeping, and Fraser was always something worth keeping.
He's pretty sure Fraser and Vecchio thought about each other, too, back when it was the two of them together. He's not sure why that didn't work out, though—at a guess, because they were both too busy thinking of each other to be selfish and go after what they both wanted. Stupid, really, but Ray's not complaining. That's what he's there for, after all: to keep the two of them from going back into their shells and staying there.
And right now, that means helping Fraser out of this funk he's in.
Vecchio's good with it, of course—that's part of the intensity he's got now, the drive and the sharp clean focus. He protects his people, Vecchio does, and you do not fuck with them unless you want to fuck with him, which pretty much nobody does anymore. Ray points it out to Vecchio, how lonely and angry and pulled-away Fraser's been, how he's stuck doing early shifts and late shifts and where do you find a turkish bath in Chicago? Oh, ask Constable Fraser, I'm sure he can find one for you shifts, and how he deserves better than that.
"You got a plan, Kowalski?"
Ray just smiles. Damn right, he has a plan.
Vecchio takes off early, and Ray covers for him, finishing up the paperwork on the Sheppard bust and tracking down the phone numbers they're going to need tomorrow, when they start in on the Winchester scams. It's all done in another hour, so Ray stops and gets wine and dessert and dish soap, which they're almost out of. He calls Turnbull, too, and tells him to make sure Fraser leaves by six thirty at the latest. Turnbull's a headcase, but he's useful in a pinch.
After that, he heads on home, and leaves everything at the edge of the counter, where Vecchio can see it and notice it and not have to stop with dinner. He gets a grin for that, and a long, sloppy kiss, but then Vecchio's back to his oregano and Ray's going in to change the sheets on the bed. He adds an extra blanket, too—even when it's muggy and gross outside, Fraser likes a blanket on the bed, likes the weight and the solidity of something over him while he sleeps.
Ray's sitting down on the couch, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what's for dinner by the smells alone, whe n the apartment door swings open. He looks over at the clock—six forty five on the dot, thank God and Turnbull.
Fraser steps in the door, slow and heavy, and Ray grabs Turnbull's thank-you back with both hands. Fraser's soaked, head to toe, in what is either green paint or algae or something Ray doesn't even want to know about. He looks frustrated and exhausted and like seven different kinds of hell, and Ray doesn't say anything, doesn't even look back at Vecchio, just gets up and steers Fraser to the bathroom, keeping him from bumping into walls and furniture and his own feet. Shower on, a three-quarter turn to just where Fraser likes it, and Fraser sighs as Ray strips him out of the uniform and manhandles him in.
"I can manage, Ray," he says, but Ray just stares back until Fraser smiles and nods and lets his head drop forward, water streaming down the back of his neck and the sides of his face.
By the time Fraser comes back out, dressed in old sweats and a ratty shirt, the floor is cleaned of drippy pond scum, the uniform—the brown one, thank God, which doesn't need dry cleaning—is in the laundry basket, and the table is waiting, steaming plates full of spaghetti on three sides. Fraser looks confused, for a moment, like he's not sure where he is.
It's tricky, this part, because they can't let Fraser know that they're doing this for him. They have to cheer him up without him realizing that he's being cheered up, because once he realizes that they're trying to do something nice for him, he'll feel awkward, which would just completely defeat the purpose.
Vecchio's on it, though. "Fraser, come on, get over here and tell me what you think about the garlic, here. I can't trust this guy, you know—" and he's making a face over at Ray, but Ray just grins back, because Fraser's sitting down and eating, starting slow but finishing his second serving before Ray's even done with his first. They don't talk, really—jazz on the radio and a couple comments about the meal, the case, plans for the weekend—and pretty soon they're done, and Ray's doing the dishes as Vecchio eases Fraser back toward the bedroom.
It's all part of the plan, but Ray still has to stop every now and then, trying to hear what's going on over the rush of the water and the hum of the radio. That, there—that's Vecchio's watch on the dresser, he'd bet twenty bucks on it, and there's Fraser's voice, Vecchio's low lazy laugh. A pause, and then the double thump that two bodies make when they smack onto a down comforter, more laughter curling up Ray's spine. He looks down at his hands, breathing deep and reminding himself to keep this slow and easy, and realizes that they're empty, and that the swish-hish noise he's hearing is water down the drain.
He heads for the bedroom, drying his hands on his jeans as he goes, and even though he's expecting it, what he sees there makes him stop and stare and grin like a maniac: Fraser and Vecchio, sprawled out across the bed, making out like teenagers. Vecchio's on top, his hands angling into Fraser's hair, and Fraser's got one hand on Vecchio's shoulder and the other down the back of Vecchio's pants, pulling the two of them together. They're still mostly dressed, even—Vecchio's jacket is hanging over the chair, and Fraser's shirt is on the floor in front of the dresser, half-folded, like he was putting it away when Vecchio pulled him over the bed.
As Ray watches, Vecchio moves down Fraser's neck, out along the smooth line of his shoulder, and Fraser twists his hips, rocking up against Vecchio's weight. Vecchio's shoulders go tight, and he must be biting Fraser, because Fraser hisses out air between his teeth.
"Kowalski, you gonna help me out here or what?" It takes a minute for Ray to figure out that Vecchio is sitting up and talking, because there's this mark on Fraser's shoulder, right where it meets his neck, this wet red mark in the shape of Vecchio's teeth, and he can't stop staring at it, not even while he's stripping off and climbing on to the bed, kneeling next to the two of them. Vecchio laughs, and turns around part of the way, and kisses Ray, long fingers sliding through his hair and down his back, soft wet tongue and flash of teeth against his lower lip.
Under Vecchio, Fraser's twitching and fidgeting, pressing his hips up against Vecchio's ass and setting him off balance. Ray laughs, and Vecchio smiles, but Fraser just groans, soft and wordless and desperate, a sound that goes straight to Ray's cock.
"Yeah, fine, here" Vecchio says, and he climbs off of Fraser so that Ray can get at the sweats. While Ray's peeling those down, rubbing along the tense muscles in Fraser's thighs and kissing Fraser's knees, Vecchio's stripping off and settling back against the cushions, pulling Fraser over and between his legs, bracketing him in warmth and sex and love. His arms go across Fraser's chest in a backwards hug, and Fraser's head just kind of drops back onto Vecchio's shoulder, happy and exhausted.
They kiss, long and wet and slow, Vecchio's hands rubbing along Fraser's sides. Ray watches them, waiting until Fraser's totally lost in it, and then leans forward and licks his way up the side of Fraser's cock.
Fraser's kind of a big guy, and pretty strong with it, so it's a good thing Ray and Vecchio planned this out beforehand. Fraser tries to buck, this whole-body arch that would have knocked Ray off the bed, but Vecchio's arms are tight around his chest and Ray's got his legs pinned, so that pretty much all he can do is hitch his hips up and moan, which he does. There are some words in it—yes and Ray and oh and please and yes again, for good measure—but Ray ignores them in favor of sucking Fraser's cock.
He tries to keep it slow and easy, but Fraser's already over into go-go-go mode, and so Ray works with that, sucking Fraser wet and fast and sloppy, listening to the noises he's making, all groans and gasps and grunts as he tries to keep his cool.
Vecchio's talking, too, muttering in Fraser's ear. "Look at Kowalski, Benny, look at him, at his mouth on you, for you, just for you, look at him, look how much he's enjoying it, look at how he likes it, look at him, Benny, look at him." His voice goes all low, during sex, low and rough and sexy, and Ray's not at all surprised when Fraser moans and twitches and comes down Ray's throat, his hands clenching in the sheets.
It almost feels mean to pull away while Fraser's still gasping and shuddering, but there's the plan, and it's a damn good plan, so Ray goes, pressing a little kiss to Fraser's hip and moving up the bed to crouch next to Fraser. Vecchio grins when he gets up there, kisses Ray fast and dirty, and then slides off of the bed, propping Fraser up against the headboard and moving down behind Ray.
"Hello, Ray," Fraser says, his eyes big and dark, his mouth half-open and wet. He's got little red marks coming up on his neck and shoulders, places where Vecchio kissed and bit and sucked, and he looks sleepy and blissed out, which is good, for a start. Ray leans forward and kisses him, biting at Fraser's lips, and then Vecchio slides two fingers into Ray's ass, no warning at all.
Ray's slick already, did it while Fraser was in the shower (and then had to sit through dinner like that, trying not to move or breathe or shift his weight too much, breathless and flushed, and it was just a sign of how tired Fraser was that he hadn't noticed a damn thing), so it doesn't hurt, but it's still a shock, the stretch and the push, and he gasps into Fraser's mouth. Fraser pulls back, frowning a little, and then his eyes flick up over Ray's shoulder, to Vecchio, and he sucks in air, his chest filling under Ray's hand.
"Oh, Ray," he says, and his smile is big and gorgeous and peaceful, which makes a hell of a change from the brittle tense smiles of unhappy-Fraser. He kisses Ray again, and then worms his way out under Ray's left arm, settling himself beside them on the bed, one hand propping his head up and one hand sliding over his cock, watching them.
See, and that is why Ray is a genius, why this is such a fucking excellent plan—because Fraser likes to fuck, and he likes to be fucked, and he likes blowjobs just fine, like any sane human being, but he really loves to watch. Ray thinks that a big part of that comes from growing up in a place where nudity is just a slower kind of suicide, with the cold and the ice and the cold, and another part of it is Fraser "using the senses to the fullest extent," like he does, and probably some of it is just Fraser being naturally inclined to watch.
The biggest part of it, though, is that Fraser likes to watch them, Ray and Vecchio. He likes to see them fuck, and kiss, and work on the car together, and cook dinner together, and argue about baseball together, and fall asleep on the couch together. And, you know, none of those are anything Ray's going to object to doing, so that's cool. Some days, though, Ray catches Fraser staring at him and Vecchio when they're at the station, just talking about work stuff, and Fraser will be smiling this private little smile that's half love and half do-me-do-me sex.
So while Vecchio's fucking him, Ray's getting off on two different things. One the one hand, there's the fact that Vecchio is fucking him, which is pretty fucking excellent any day of the week, with the slick blunt pressure inside him and Vecchio's hands tight on Ray's hips. On the other hand, though, there's Fraser, who's watching the two of them with one hand on his cock like he can't even help it, like there's no way in the world for him not to be touching himself right now. One and two, Vecchio and Fraser, pulling him tighter and pushing him higher, up and up and up until Ray's shuddering and gasping and coming all over the sheets.
Behind him, Vecchio groans, but he keeps going, pounding Ray into the mattress, fucking him with passion and focus and love and all the other stuff they have going on. Fraser's still watching them—he's hard again, now, and that's pretty impressive for a guy pushing forty, but, hell, it's fucking hot, and he knows he'd be exactly the same way, in Fraser's position.
"Yes, Ray," he says, "Yes, oh, yes, please—" and Vecchio bites out a string of Italian and comes, jerking forward into Ray sending pleasure shivering up his spine and pushing him flat onto the bed.
A grunt, then—Ray can't see, what with having his face smashed into the pillow and all, but he can tell that Fraser's coming, has seen this show often enough to know how Fraser's face looks, split open with joy and hot as hell. After a moment, Fraser eases himself up to lie next to them, draping his arm over Vecchio's back and just brushing Ray's side with his fingertips. Vecchio's breath is warm in his ear, and Fraser brushes a kiss and a "thank you" against Ray's forehead.
Ray shrugs, feeling the sweaty glide of his shoulders against Vecchio's.
"S'no big deal, Frase," he says, and really, it isn't—nothing more than them having long mornings in, when Vecchio's feeling shitty, or Vecchio and Fraser fucking Ray up against every available surface, when he's all wound-up and jittery. It's what you do, when you love somebody: you watch out for them, take care of them, bring them back to true when the world makes them crazy. That doesn't change just because it's three of them; it just means that they can do it even better, work as a team. A one-two punch, pow-zap, knocking them all back on track.
A few more minutes, and then they're all asleep: piled up together, fucked out, and content.
Ray's said it before, and he'll say it again: it's a fucking fantastic plan.
*
This is what finals week will do to me, people: I work until I'm exhausted, go to bed, and then get back up again half an hour later because Ray Kowalski won't fucking stop talking.
Beta credit to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
j_s_cavalcante and justbreathe80, both of whom are rockstars of the highest degree and helped this beyond measure. It's for—well, it's for a lot of people. If you think it's for you, it probably is.
...and now I think I'll gofall over and be dead for a while study for my OMG ARABIC ORAL FINAL tomorrow.
by etben
due South, Fraser/Kowalski/Vecchio, NC-17
4260 words
A sort-of-but-not-really sequel to Getting It—the two stand alone, but this is (I think) about the same relationship that that story's about. More will probably come, at some point, but don't hold your breath.
*
Fraser's been having a pretty shitty week.
Not that he'd ever say anything about it—or if he did, it'd be a mystery wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in an Inuit story wrapped in words Ray couldn't spell if you paid him fifty bucks a syllable. Fraser's like that, sometimes.
Sure, he'll complain, but not for his own sake. Fraser worries about the birds and the fish and the stinky winos and the purse snatchers and Ray and Vecchio and pretty much everyone in the world except for his own damn self. Show the guy someone else in trouble, and he'll get the whole place in an uproar to fix it, but for Benton Fraser? Forget about it. You want Fraser to worry about his own fucking standard of living, you'll be wanting for a while, because Fraser always puts himself last.
You have to be real close to him to even know when things are going shitty—which is not hard for Ray to do, since "close to Fraser" has pretty much been his default setting since the day they met. It's all the little things, with Fraser, the things he doesn't say and the things he phrases just so, so that it's only really complaining if you speak Benton Fraser, and even then you have to watch him but good. He's more cheerful, actually—that's the first sign, because regular Fraser is a little bit snippy and a little bit goofy and sometimes an enormous pain in the ass, but Fraser-in-distress is so goddamn focused on not letting his problems interfere with the rest of the world that he's psychotically cheerful, endlessly obliging, so fucking friendly you worry that he's maybe going to go for your jugular with those white, straight teeth of his.
He sighs more, too, but always waves you away when you ask what's wrong.
It's the conference that's getting to him—something on the role of consular and ambassadorial facilities and staff in the 21st century, Ray wasn't really paying attention. It's all about how consulates—of which there are a lot in Chicago, way more than Ray had ever thought there were—can be more helpful and useful and generally good for the world, and the sorts of things they do to say "hey, our country's the shit! come check us out!" and ways of helping people and all that.
Good stuff, important stuff—but stuff that Fraser knows, stuff that Canada's had down cold since forever. Even that might be okay—Fraser loves to explain things, and he's even good at it, and he'd probably get a kick out of having the head of the Danish consulate ask him for advice on how to be polite. But the whole thing is being run by diplomats, is the thing, so Fraser doesn't have anything to do but be a doorstop and serve crackers and listen to people who don't know what they're talking about blather on all day.
They all speak English, too, so there's not even any translation for Fraser to do. Funny voices, sure, but Fraser's not really a funny-voice kind of guy.
So, yeah: Fraser's stuck doing his old job—technically still his job, except for how mostly Constable Rampton does it, now, while Fraser's liasing with Ray and Vecchio—and it's even worse than before, because he's got to listen to stupid people talk and pretend he's not smarter than all of them. He's coming home late and too tired to do anything more than lurch his way to bed, and he's leaving early, before Ray and Vecchio can do more than grunt goodbye from under the pillows. He's probably missing the 2-7 like crazy, because he loves the liason thing, even when Ray and Vecchio are shouting each other down over the desk and Frannie's sticking her tits in his face and they end up covered in trash at least one day a week.
Not that Ray doesn't miss Fraser, too—he misses Fraser, misses him like crazy, keeps looking around the room for the red suit and the stupid hat every time he has a crazy idea or a weird feeling—only Ray's got Vecchio with him, and all Fraser's got is Turnbull, which anyone can see is nothing like a fair trade.
And Ray and Vecchio actually work pretty well together, which had come as the surprise of the new millenium to everybody except for Fraser. Welsh had put the two of them together a few months after Fraser and Ray came back from the Great White Nowhere, when it was getting clear that they both needed to work with a partner.
"Besides," he'd said, watching them from the door to his office, "this way I don't have to deal with the two of you fighting over who gets to partner with the Mountie." They'd stared at each other, him and Vecchio, sizing each other up, thinking about it. Everyone else had been watching them, too, but everyone else only knew half of the deal. The only thing the rest of the world knew about was the part in the middle, the part where Vecchio came back to pick up his life when Ray wasn't done with it, and they fought like cats in a sack and threw files at each other and generally made a hell of a mess.
In their defense, they'd cleaned it all up, and generally made nice with each other ever since, but everyone else kept watching them, like they were sure Ray and Vecchio would fight some more if they just kept fucking staring enough.
Which maybe would have happened (and kind of did, a couple of times), but see, that wasn't all there was, only nobody else knew it. Nobody else knew the beginning part, when Ray—tired and angry, coming down the steep side of Mount Stella and feeling it all the way, wanting something to drug it away, and alcohol was good but undercover was better—showed up at the hotel where they were keeping Vecchio, some shit heap way down on the south side. He'd brought a six pack of beer, and he'd given the special knock, and Vecchio had opened the door in bare feet and a rumpled suit.
"Jesus Christ," he'd said, leaning on the doorframe and rubbing at his eyes, "you're it then, huh?" And Ray had nodded, bouncing on the balls of his feet, because it was too late, he'd signed the contract, he couldn't back out just because it turned out Vecchio was an asshole.
"Yeah." Ray had shrugged. "I'm the guy who's gonna be you while you're...not you." Vecchio had stared at him for a while, and then he'd smiled, sad and tired but still all there, and he'd let Ray in, and that had been that. They'd talked pretty much nonstop for the next week and a half, running names and dates until Ray's ears bled and his eyes spun, and then Vecchio had moved out to Vegas and Ray had moved in to being Ray Vecchio and hey presto! off they went.
All of which means that yeah, sure: Vecchio can be an asshole, but he's a good cop, and hell, Ray can be an asshole, too. They don't always like each other, but they understand each other pretty damn well, and that's more than enough to dance with. They're smooth together, easy and confident and good at what they do, and it works like beauty.
Working with Vecchio, though—it's not like working with Fraser. Which, you know, people not being interchangeable, should not have come as very much of a surprise, but still did. It's still a one-two punch, one for setup and one for the takedown, but now it's all turned around.
See, before, he was the two—Fraser'd go in, all warm friendly batshit insane Canadian, and make like this was no big deal, and then Ray'd come in, waving his arms and shouting and being his own, louder brand of crazy. He'd shake them up so bad that Fraser began to look normal and safe, and nine times out of ten they'd go running back to the Mountie to begin writing out their confessions.
Now, though, for the real tough guys, Ray's the warm-up guy, the ordinary Joe. He comes in to the room, gripes about the paperwork, the shitty coffee, the way the city of Chicago apparently can't afford to protect its finest from fucking heat stroke in the middle of August, and generally makes like the pain in the ass he is, playing it like he's just humping the job. It gets the lowlifes overconfident, makes them think he's not really paying attention to them, and that's when Vecchio comes in, all nice suits and shiny shoes and thousand-yard stare. He never raises his voice, never says anything even a little bit threatening, but he doesn't even need to—he's so clean and so tidy and so completely fucking unimpressed, and he scares the living shit out of the guys they deal with.
Scares Ray, too, some days, but that's only until Vecchio smiles—after that, it's all good, sometimes so good that Ray has to go into the bathroom and cool down a little.
That's the other part that the guys in the station didn't know, back when Ray and Vecchio first started working together and everyone was betting how long it would be before one of them wound up floating in the river, and which one it would be. They didn't know about—well, Ray doesn't want to call it the end, because it isn't over yet, but the part after that part, the part with the sex. With him and Vecchio and Fraser and the sex, specifically.
He'd thought about it, sure: thought about him and Fraser, naked and sweaty and gasping, and he'd liked those thoughts, but he'd put them back up on the shelf. He knows for sure Fraser thought about it—knows now because Fraser's told him, but knew even then, and ignored it, because that wasn't somewhere to go when he wasn't in his own skin, not if you wanted something worth keeping, and Fraser was always something worth keeping.
He's pretty sure Fraser and Vecchio thought about each other, too, back when it was the two of them together. He's not sure why that didn't work out, though—at a guess, because they were both too busy thinking of each other to be selfish and go after what they both wanted. Stupid, really, but Ray's not complaining. That's what he's there for, after all: to keep the two of them from going back into their shells and staying there.
And right now, that means helping Fraser out of this funk he's in.
Vecchio's good with it, of course—that's part of the intensity he's got now, the drive and the sharp clean focus. He protects his people, Vecchio does, and you do not fuck with them unless you want to fuck with him, which pretty much nobody does anymore. Ray points it out to Vecchio, how lonely and angry and pulled-away Fraser's been, how he's stuck doing early shifts and late shifts and where do you find a turkish bath in Chicago? Oh, ask Constable Fraser, I'm sure he can find one for you shifts, and how he deserves better than that.
"You got a plan, Kowalski?"
Ray just smiles. Damn right, he has a plan.
Vecchio takes off early, and Ray covers for him, finishing up the paperwork on the Sheppard bust and tracking down the phone numbers they're going to need tomorrow, when they start in on the Winchester scams. It's all done in another hour, so Ray stops and gets wine and dessert and dish soap, which they're almost out of. He calls Turnbull, too, and tells him to make sure Fraser leaves by six thirty at the latest. Turnbull's a headcase, but he's useful in a pinch.
After that, he heads on home, and leaves everything at the edge of the counter, where Vecchio can see it and notice it and not have to stop with dinner. He gets a grin for that, and a long, sloppy kiss, but then Vecchio's back to his oregano and Ray's going in to change the sheets on the bed. He adds an extra blanket, too—even when it's muggy and gross outside, Fraser likes a blanket on the bed, likes the weight and the solidity of something over him while he sleeps.
Ray's sitting down on the couch, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what's for dinner by the smells alone, whe n the apartment door swings open. He looks over at the clock—six forty five on the dot, thank God and Turnbull.
Fraser steps in the door, slow and heavy, and Ray grabs Turnbull's thank-you back with both hands. Fraser's soaked, head to toe, in what is either green paint or algae or something Ray doesn't even want to know about. He looks frustrated and exhausted and like seven different kinds of hell, and Ray doesn't say anything, doesn't even look back at Vecchio, just gets up and steers Fraser to the bathroom, keeping him from bumping into walls and furniture and his own feet. Shower on, a three-quarter turn to just where Fraser likes it, and Fraser sighs as Ray strips him out of the uniform and manhandles him in.
"I can manage, Ray," he says, but Ray just stares back until Fraser smiles and nods and lets his head drop forward, water streaming down the back of his neck and the sides of his face.
By the time Fraser comes back out, dressed in old sweats and a ratty shirt, the floor is cleaned of drippy pond scum, the uniform—the brown one, thank God, which doesn't need dry cleaning—is in the laundry basket, and the table is waiting, steaming plates full of spaghetti on three sides. Fraser looks confused, for a moment, like he's not sure where he is.
It's tricky, this part, because they can't let Fraser know that they're doing this for him. They have to cheer him up without him realizing that he's being cheered up, because once he realizes that they're trying to do something nice for him, he'll feel awkward, which would just completely defeat the purpose.
Vecchio's on it, though. "Fraser, come on, get over here and tell me what you think about the garlic, here. I can't trust this guy, you know—" and he's making a face over at Ray, but Ray just grins back, because Fraser's sitting down and eating, starting slow but finishing his second serving before Ray's even done with his first. They don't talk, really—jazz on the radio and a couple comments about the meal, the case, plans for the weekend—and pretty soon they're done, and Ray's doing the dishes as Vecchio eases Fraser back toward the bedroom.
It's all part of the plan, but Ray still has to stop every now and then, trying to hear what's going on over the rush of the water and the hum of the radio. That, there—that's Vecchio's watch on the dresser, he'd bet twenty bucks on it, and there's Fraser's voice, Vecchio's low lazy laugh. A pause, and then the double thump that two bodies make when they smack onto a down comforter, more laughter curling up Ray's spine. He looks down at his hands, breathing deep and reminding himself to keep this slow and easy, and realizes that they're empty, and that the swish-hish noise he's hearing is water down the drain.
He heads for the bedroom, drying his hands on his jeans as he goes, and even though he's expecting it, what he sees there makes him stop and stare and grin like a maniac: Fraser and Vecchio, sprawled out across the bed, making out like teenagers. Vecchio's on top, his hands angling into Fraser's hair, and Fraser's got one hand on Vecchio's shoulder and the other down the back of Vecchio's pants, pulling the two of them together. They're still mostly dressed, even—Vecchio's jacket is hanging over the chair, and Fraser's shirt is on the floor in front of the dresser, half-folded, like he was putting it away when Vecchio pulled him over the bed.
As Ray watches, Vecchio moves down Fraser's neck, out along the smooth line of his shoulder, and Fraser twists his hips, rocking up against Vecchio's weight. Vecchio's shoulders go tight, and he must be biting Fraser, because Fraser hisses out air between his teeth.
"Kowalski, you gonna help me out here or what?" It takes a minute for Ray to figure out that Vecchio is sitting up and talking, because there's this mark on Fraser's shoulder, right where it meets his neck, this wet red mark in the shape of Vecchio's teeth, and he can't stop staring at it, not even while he's stripping off and climbing on to the bed, kneeling next to the two of them. Vecchio laughs, and turns around part of the way, and kisses Ray, long fingers sliding through his hair and down his back, soft wet tongue and flash of teeth against his lower lip.
Under Vecchio, Fraser's twitching and fidgeting, pressing his hips up against Vecchio's ass and setting him off balance. Ray laughs, and Vecchio smiles, but Fraser just groans, soft and wordless and desperate, a sound that goes straight to Ray's cock.
"Yeah, fine, here" Vecchio says, and he climbs off of Fraser so that Ray can get at the sweats. While Ray's peeling those down, rubbing along the tense muscles in Fraser's thighs and kissing Fraser's knees, Vecchio's stripping off and settling back against the cushions, pulling Fraser over and between his legs, bracketing him in warmth and sex and love. His arms go across Fraser's chest in a backwards hug, and Fraser's head just kind of drops back onto Vecchio's shoulder, happy and exhausted.
They kiss, long and wet and slow, Vecchio's hands rubbing along Fraser's sides. Ray watches them, waiting until Fraser's totally lost in it, and then leans forward and licks his way up the side of Fraser's cock.
Fraser's kind of a big guy, and pretty strong with it, so it's a good thing Ray and Vecchio planned this out beforehand. Fraser tries to buck, this whole-body arch that would have knocked Ray off the bed, but Vecchio's arms are tight around his chest and Ray's got his legs pinned, so that pretty much all he can do is hitch his hips up and moan, which he does. There are some words in it—yes and Ray and oh and please and yes again, for good measure—but Ray ignores them in favor of sucking Fraser's cock.
He tries to keep it slow and easy, but Fraser's already over into go-go-go mode, and so Ray works with that, sucking Fraser wet and fast and sloppy, listening to the noises he's making, all groans and gasps and grunts as he tries to keep his cool.
Vecchio's talking, too, muttering in Fraser's ear. "Look at Kowalski, Benny, look at him, at his mouth on you, for you, just for you, look at him, look how much he's enjoying it, look at how he likes it, look at him, Benny, look at him." His voice goes all low, during sex, low and rough and sexy, and Ray's not at all surprised when Fraser moans and twitches and comes down Ray's throat, his hands clenching in the sheets.
It almost feels mean to pull away while Fraser's still gasping and shuddering, but there's the plan, and it's a damn good plan, so Ray goes, pressing a little kiss to Fraser's hip and moving up the bed to crouch next to Fraser. Vecchio grins when he gets up there, kisses Ray fast and dirty, and then slides off of the bed, propping Fraser up against the headboard and moving down behind Ray.
"Hello, Ray," Fraser says, his eyes big and dark, his mouth half-open and wet. He's got little red marks coming up on his neck and shoulders, places where Vecchio kissed and bit and sucked, and he looks sleepy and blissed out, which is good, for a start. Ray leans forward and kisses him, biting at Fraser's lips, and then Vecchio slides two fingers into Ray's ass, no warning at all.
Ray's slick already, did it while Fraser was in the shower (and then had to sit through dinner like that, trying not to move or breathe or shift his weight too much, breathless and flushed, and it was just a sign of how tired Fraser was that he hadn't noticed a damn thing), so it doesn't hurt, but it's still a shock, the stretch and the push, and he gasps into Fraser's mouth. Fraser pulls back, frowning a little, and then his eyes flick up over Ray's shoulder, to Vecchio, and he sucks in air, his chest filling under Ray's hand.
"Oh, Ray," he says, and his smile is big and gorgeous and peaceful, which makes a hell of a change from the brittle tense smiles of unhappy-Fraser. He kisses Ray again, and then worms his way out under Ray's left arm, settling himself beside them on the bed, one hand propping his head up and one hand sliding over his cock, watching them.
See, and that is why Ray is a genius, why this is such a fucking excellent plan—because Fraser likes to fuck, and he likes to be fucked, and he likes blowjobs just fine, like any sane human being, but he really loves to watch. Ray thinks that a big part of that comes from growing up in a place where nudity is just a slower kind of suicide, with the cold and the ice and the cold, and another part of it is Fraser "using the senses to the fullest extent," like he does, and probably some of it is just Fraser being naturally inclined to watch.
The biggest part of it, though, is that Fraser likes to watch them, Ray and Vecchio. He likes to see them fuck, and kiss, and work on the car together, and cook dinner together, and argue about baseball together, and fall asleep on the couch together. And, you know, none of those are anything Ray's going to object to doing, so that's cool. Some days, though, Ray catches Fraser staring at him and Vecchio when they're at the station, just talking about work stuff, and Fraser will be smiling this private little smile that's half love and half do-me-do-me sex.
So while Vecchio's fucking him, Ray's getting off on two different things. One the one hand, there's the fact that Vecchio is fucking him, which is pretty fucking excellent any day of the week, with the slick blunt pressure inside him and Vecchio's hands tight on Ray's hips. On the other hand, though, there's Fraser, who's watching the two of them with one hand on his cock like he can't even help it, like there's no way in the world for him not to be touching himself right now. One and two, Vecchio and Fraser, pulling him tighter and pushing him higher, up and up and up until Ray's shuddering and gasping and coming all over the sheets.
Behind him, Vecchio groans, but he keeps going, pounding Ray into the mattress, fucking him with passion and focus and love and all the other stuff they have going on. Fraser's still watching them—he's hard again, now, and that's pretty impressive for a guy pushing forty, but, hell, it's fucking hot, and he knows he'd be exactly the same way, in Fraser's position.
"Yes, Ray," he says, "Yes, oh, yes, please—" and Vecchio bites out a string of Italian and comes, jerking forward into Ray sending pleasure shivering up his spine and pushing him flat onto the bed.
A grunt, then—Ray can't see, what with having his face smashed into the pillow and all, but he can tell that Fraser's coming, has seen this show often enough to know how Fraser's face looks, split open with joy and hot as hell. After a moment, Fraser eases himself up to lie next to them, draping his arm over Vecchio's back and just brushing Ray's side with his fingertips. Vecchio's breath is warm in his ear, and Fraser brushes a kiss and a "thank you" against Ray's forehead.
Ray shrugs, feeling the sweaty glide of his shoulders against Vecchio's.
"S'no big deal, Frase," he says, and really, it isn't—nothing more than them having long mornings in, when Vecchio's feeling shitty, or Vecchio and Fraser fucking Ray up against every available surface, when he's all wound-up and jittery. It's what you do, when you love somebody: you watch out for them, take care of them, bring them back to true when the world makes them crazy. That doesn't change just because it's three of them; it just means that they can do it even better, work as a team. A one-two punch, pow-zap, knocking them all back on track.
A few more minutes, and then they're all asleep: piled up together, fucked out, and content.
Ray's said it before, and he'll say it again: it's a fucking fantastic plan.
*
This is what finals week will do to me, people: I work until I'm exhausted, go to bed, and then get back up again half an hour later because Ray Kowalski won't fucking stop talking.
Beta credit to
j_s_cavalcante and justbreathe80, both of whom are rockstars of the highest degree and helped this beyond measure. It's for—well, it's for a lot of people. If you think it's for you, it probably is....and now I think I'll go