On the couch in front of their cabin’s lit fireplace, Kowalski leans against Fraser drowsily. Fraser is reading J. M. Barrie and shares a quotation with Ray. “God gave us memory,” Fraser quotes, “so that we might have roses in December.” Ray chuckles and replies, “How about God gave us memory so we might have Chicago hot dogs in the Arctic?”
Advanced in age but still keen of eye, Diefenbaker lipreads Ray’s words and whines in recollection of foodstuffs from a life they left years ago.
“Diefenbaker,” Fraser chides, “have appreciation for the food that is available to you here.”
Ray smirks. “Well, I got plenty of appreciation for your Canadian bacon…heh, that kinda rhymes.”
“You are indeed a poet on the inside, Ray.”
“And you do realize, dontcha, that I mean your Canadian bacon?” Ray grins and cups Fraser’s cock.
Fraser makes an incoherent sound and moves encouragingly against Ray’s hand. Regaining speech, he says “Ray” with a sigh and then murmurs “He was a poet, and they are never exactly grown up,” adding “Sir James Matthew Barrie said that.”
“J. M. Barrie. He wrote Peter Pan .”
“Oh, him. Hey, now that I think about it, guy writing about fairies and peters sounds like one of those doubled intender things.”
“That’s double entendre,” Fraser says with his perfect French pronunciation.
“Heh, dooblah this !” says Ray as he unzips Fraser’s pants and gets both hands on him.
“Ah! You are bilingual, Ray!”