Fraser has had one and a half hours of sleep in the last thirty-six, at best. Ray knows this because they both went their separate ways two hours ago, the consulate is a fifteen-minute suicide run from the station even by Canadian Mountie standards, and Frasers been there, because he’s showered and he never showers at the station.
“You’ve showered,” Ray states punch drunk stupid as he stares at the red surge, brown leather cross strap, pressed breeches, Stetson, and brown riding boots. Next to all that rigidity Ray realises he is slouched, wearing a pair of dirty sweats he’d pulled on while stumbling to the door that may or may-not have seen a washing machine sometime in the last month, and absolutely nothing else. He’d been hard pushed to drag his clothes off as he’d stumbled into the apartment, throw some food in the terrarium, before falling naked in the direction of his bed. He certainly hadn’t showered and put on a new fresh pressed uniform.
“I woke you.” Fraser apologises, as only he can, and is moving to retreat back into the overbright corridor, but Ray waves him in at the same time Diefenbaker gets bored, storms past the threshold and takes up residence on Ray’s couch. He curls into a small ball of wolf fluff and flops his tail over his eyes as if to end any discussion about leaving. When Ray looks back, Fraser looks fondly exasperated and still apologetic, but that’s nothing new. “Very well, if you insist.” He agrees and steps in before Ray’s stepped out of the way.
Ray’s tired enough that it knocks him off balance, that it happened at all means Fraser’s more than tired. Whatever the circumstance the collision of arms, torsos, door, foreheads, legs, and floor all cumulate in a surprising moment where Ray’s got his left-hand fingers curled around the leather of Fraser’s cross-strap and the Mountie pinned beneath him on the carpet. Ray’s brain chokes and stalls, he pulls the cord to start it again but it sputters in protest and the only parts of him that are thinking are not the parts that should be doing the thinking at all.
“We’re on the floor Ray,” Fraser very helpfully points out and Ray hums agreement and rubs a thumb across the red surge, surprised to find its rough but not unpleasantly so. Fraser doesn’t’ say anything else, waits out Ray’s response and the seconds tick by with Ray torn between kicking the door closed and going to sleep where he is, or letting his tired brain do any of the number of things its loudly suggesting he do right now. Either way the door needs to close he decides.
“Shut the door, Fraser,” he orders, because he’s just going to fall if he moves, but more importantly lose his place sprawled across Frasers everything if he tries to move.
“I’m really not sure...” Fraser stares past Ray at the roof, a blush high on his cheeks, hair tousled even though they haven’t even done anything - and that’s a thought Ray hadn’t quite gotten through to processing but it zings sharp and fierce and hits all the right notes. Ray cracks his neck and commits, his entire body going languid sprawl across Frasers, every part of them touching from toe to chest, and all Ray can feel is the rough material of a well pressed uniform, cool leather strips and ice-cold metal buckles.
“The door,” he says again, his voice an octave lower and something shifts in Fraser, like a wave of calm sweeps through him and Ray is so close to him he can feel every drop of strain ease out of the man below him. It’s heady and Ray can barely breathe because this is Fraser relaxed. Relaxed pressed down beneath his work partner, relaxed with Ray taking liberties and giving orders. Ray has never seen Fraser relaxed in a situation like this, and he’s seen them happen too often. It makes him feel powerful, and trusted, and wanted in a way he hasn’t since he was young and foolishly in love and... and he acknowledges what that probably means but sets it aside for later because right now, Fraser’s shifting below him, extracting a leg from the cage Ray’s made of his own legs, and Ray doesn’t take his eyes off the man below him even when he hears the click of the latch as the world is shut off from interrupting this moment.
“Now look at me,” he orders, and the frantic look in Fraser’s expression when he lets himself look at Ray punches through Ray and nearly knocks his resolve sideways. But this is Fraser so he stays exactly where he is. “You looking at me?” Ray checks, even though he knows right now that Fraser’s not looking at anything else.
Fraser tilts his head back, pressing the curve of his skull into the carpet, but his eyes never leave Rays face, “I’m looking at you, Ray,” he promises, and Ray’s not quite sure what he’s doing, how he’s gotten here, but it’s good. So very good.
“I’m going to stand up,” he warns, and Fraser’s hands shoot up and grip at Ray to hold him in place. Ray’s smile goes lopsided and satisfied. He pulls up a little to make sure Fraser can see exactly how pleased he is. “Then we’re going to take this to where the wolf isn’t watching.” They both glance over but Diefenbaker hasn’t moved from his ball on the couch. Still Ray would rather not, thank you. “And where there’s a bed.” He says it, and even though he thinks they’re on the same page, isn’t sure how they couldn’t be, there’s a tight stress pressing in on his chest that doesn’t alleviate until Fraser nods once, says, “That sounds, perfectly acceptable,” then somehow pushes himself and Ray up into a standing position. Ray’s not sure how he did it and would spend a few seconds trying to figure it out on any other day, but now that they’re standing Fraser’s tugging the hem of his tunic, and twisting his belt holster back into its proper place.
“Yeah that,” Ray says without meaning to, “that stays on.”
Fraser stops mid motion, then says, “If you insist.”
“What really?” Ray startles, because no-one’s that lucky. But Fraser doesn’t so much as flinch, instead he finds his hat on the floor, tucks it in under his arm, and motions Ray to continue on to his own bedroom.
“After you.” He waits politely, and Ray goes right ahead, assured that Fraser will be right behind him.