Title: If Red Serge Could Talk

Author/pseudonym: Silk

Fandom: Due South

Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski

Category: PWP, First Times

Date: 11/9/00

E-mail: silkn1@worldnet.att.net

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimers: The usual suspects own ‘em, not me. No money changing hands here.

Warnings: m/m, occasional bad language, humor (depending on your point-of-view)

Notes: This is only my second attempt at Due South slash fan fic. Happily, this story turned out to be way more cheerful than my first. Thanks go to Gail, who encouraged me to continue in this fandom, and Tinn, who originally came up with the idea of a drunken Fraser. Sorry, Sis, this didn’t turn out exactly the way we thought it would. But it looks like there might be a sequel. :-)

Summary: Red serge as a known Canadian aphrodisiac.

If Red Serge Could Talk

By Silk

Did you know that red serge turns me on? I didn’t. All this time, I thought it was Fraser. Wait…maybe it *is* Fraser. I mean, Turnbull is a pedantic stick-in-the-mud, too, but he doesn’t do a thing for me.

Then there’s the Ice Queen. I thought *she* was my real rival for Fraser. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard all about that kiss on the top of the train. Fraser swore an oath to secrecy or something, but the dear Inspector told someone who told someone else who told several other someones until the news finally filtered down to Frannie. Frannie told me. Cried like a baby over losing Fraser. But how can you lose something you never had?

Anyway, as I was saying, red serge makes me hot. Seriously. But only if the package is complete with my Benton-buddy stuffed inside. Pants are optional. Yeah, I know, I am such a slut. That’s why I’m lying on top of my bed, stroking myself just lightly enough to get hard and stay there. Just the thought of getting the Mountie out of uniform makes my mouth water.

It drives me crazy. All that silky dark chest hair hidden beneath that red serge. Oh, I know there must be two or three layers between the serge and the skin, but hey…it’s *my* fantasy.

And in my fantasy, Frase ain’t wearing nothing more than the red serge. No pants. Well, okay, maybe the boots. The boots are…damn, I have to catch my breath. Suddenly I had this vision. Him and me. And the serge. And…and…the boots. The boots are attached to the ends of those long, muscular thighs. It’s the heels of those damn boots digging into my ass that finally send me over the edge.

God, that felt good. But just once, I want to feel the real thing. I want to rip that lanyard off his neck with my teeth and wrap it around the end of his dick. This is *so* pathetic. I’m lying here in the dark, pretending I’m being fucked senseless, and the Mountie doesn’t have a clue how I feel.

I *want* to tell him. But I just can’t come up with a clever way to work it into the conversation. “Good morning, Frase. Want to grab some breakfast? Oh, and how about those Cubbies? I’d like to slide my tongue into your mouth, park it there for oh, say, about thirty or forty years or so, and die in bed, covered in your red serge. What’s that? You’ve forsaken your oath of non-violence? What the hell does that mean? Ohhh…you want to beat the crap outta me. Now there’s something in a language I can understand.”

I mean, Frase is such a straight arrow, y’know? I mean, I love him to death, but he--. Oh, yeah, there was one other *tiny* problem. I do. Love him to death, I mean.

Don’t get me wrong. I want to be with him in the worst way, but I fucking love the guy. More than a brother. More than a best friend. More than I’m fucking supposed to, if I’m completely honest.

You know how it was with Stella? That I’ve-known-you-all-my-life-and-I-can’t-stand-it-if-you-ever-leave-me feeling?

I’ve got it for Fraser.

Oh, yeah, have I got it for Fraser. I slide my hand down into my groin, and I can feel myself getting hard again. You think if I called him and asked him to come over here, he would? You think he’d wear the red serge?

If I could just get the Mountie to talk to me. About something other than Inuit stories from back home in Timbuktu. Did I say that right? Something tells me I didn’t.

If only there was a way to make him lose those Mountie inhibitions.

***

Ray thinks I’m an alien. A freak. Sometimes I think he may be right. I keep having these…feelings…for him.

I want to waylay him on his way to the supply closet. I want to have my wicked way with him amongst the paper towels and the miscellaneous forms used to request days off.

I want to run my hands through his spiky blond hair. It looks hard, but it’s soft to the touch. I just know it.

I want to touch my tongue to the tip of his penis and feel him. It looks soft, but it’s hard. I just know it.

I want to kiss him. I want it so badly that I ache. In places Victoria never thought to touch. I wish that I could say that I never loved her. But I did. I wish that Ray could say that he never loved Stella. But he did.

Both of us, fools. Both of us, loving the wrong people. I needed a bullet to wake me from the dangerous stupor I was in. Ray needed…I’m not sure he’s realized that he’s no longer in love with her yet.

I want to take him in my arms and tell him that he can still dance the night away. With *me*. Maybe we will have to settle for staying home instead of the grand dance floor of a yacht drifting through Lake Michigan.

But not because I am ashamed of him. I *love* him. I wish I could tell him.

***

“Vecchio.”

“What? You’re fucking kidding me! He can’t be drunk! The Mountie doesn’t drink!”

Nevertheless, it was true. Ray hung up his cell phone and heaved a great sigh. The powers that be, roughly translated, that meant the Lieutenant and his counterpart, the Inspector, were pouring Fraser into a taxi and sending him here. Here where Ray could baby-sit him. Here where Ray could drive himself crazy thinking about how much he wanted to strip the red serge off the Mountie’s suddenly-cooperative body.

Ray was in a tizzy. What should he do first? Get cleaned up? Yeah, that was a top priority. Get dressed? What for? This was his chance to take advantage of Fraser. God willing.

He made good time. The cabbie did *not* give Fraser the scenic tour of Chicago en route to Ray’s apartment. All at once the door opened, and there was Fraser, resplendent in his red serge.

But none too steady on his feet, from the looks of him.

“Fraser!” Ray hissed in a stage whisper that was, of course, far too loud. “What happened to you?”

“Aren’t you glad to see me, Ray?” Fraser sounded disappointed that Ray hadn’t welcomed him, quite literally, with open arms.

“Sure. But what are you doing here, Frase? This ain’t like you.”

Sweeping his arm to the floor in a curtsy that would have done the Queen proud, Fraser honored his partner with “I have always depended upon the kindness of friends.”

Ooh. Bad choice. Fraser was no Blanche DuBois, and Ray did *not* appreciate the literary allusion to a play that featured both his own name as well as his ex-wife’s.

Luckily, Fraser picked that moment to stumble. Unsteady on his feet, Fraser wobbled forward, allowing Ray to catch him. His face splitting into a grin so wide it should have been anatomically impossible, Ray bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Gotcha, Frase. You’re *mine*,” he added gleefully.

A hopeful look crossed Fraser’s face. Maybe his plan was working.

Ray wrapped his arms around Fraser, ostensibly to hold him up, and Fraser’s lips grazed the side of Ray’s neck, presumably by accident.

Ray closed his eyes, pretending this was real. Maybe his plan was working.

Too impatient to wait for very long, Ray sighed and stepped back, careful not to release his drunken charge. “You want to make yourself…comfortable?”

“Where do you wish me to sleep, Ray?”

That required another long scrutiny of Benton Fraser’s body. Head to toe, he truly was beautiful. He had offers. All the time, he had offers. Yet he wasn’t seeing anyone. How come?

“You’re too tall for the couch, Frase. You can have my bed, buddy.”

Only if you come with it, Ray. “No, no, the couch will be fine, Ray.”

Ray peered curiously at his best friend. “Y’know, Ben, suddenly you don’t look all that drunk to me.”

Fraser almost smiled, but he was desperately afraid of losing control. “You called me Ben, Ray.”

“So I did.” Oops, that slipped out. Sometimes, especially when he was dreaming about things that might never be, he called him Ben. Benton was such a rigid, unyielding kind of name, and when he dreamed about Fraser, the Mountie might be rigid, but he was hardly unyielding.

“Maybe you should help me out of my uniform, Ray,” Fraser offered helpfully.

“Well, now, that might be a bad idea, under the circumstances, Frase.” Ray regarded his partner intently, his blue eyes unable to hide the heat that being so close to Fraser generated.

“What circumstances would those be, Ray?”

“Um…”

Fraser moved closer, casually letting his knee brush against the front of Ray’s pants. At the sudden twitch in Ray’s groin, Fraser slowly lowered his head to Ray’s. “I liked it when you called me *Ben*, Ray,” Fraser whispered against his mouth.

“Christ, you look like you’re about to fucking kiss me, Frase.”

“I am, and it’s Ben.”

For all the hot, lustful, even rapacious thoughts that had flown into and out of Ray Kowalski’s head that night, this kiss didn’t even come close. At once sweet and sensual, it was like Fraser himself, a duality that shouldn’t, couldn’t exist in nature, but did.

Breathless, Ray broke away only to take a much-needed breath. “I’m dreaming this, huh?”

“If you are, could you please skip ahead to the part where you remove my uniform? It’s getting downright itchy.”

Ray chuckled. “Was that a blatant attempt at humor, Ben? I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Fraser nuzzled Ray’s mouth, his hands curling and uncurling around both ears and into his tousled blond hair. His eyes darkening, he whispered, “There’s only one thing I want right now, Ray, and it’s *you*.”

“Are you sure?” Ray asked with a frown. He wanted Fraser beyond life itself, but contrary to what he’d thought earlier, he had no desire to take advantage of him.

Fraser knew what it felt like to take big risks. He did it everyday in the course of his work. But this felt every bit as risky, and he suddenly realized that he had even more at stake here.

“You know I don’t give myself easily, Ray. It’s been a long time since I trusted anyone enough to fall in love. After Victoria…I thought I never would again. But then—“

Ray began opening the buttons on Fraser’s uniform. “Is this going to be a long story, Ben?”

“Uh, no. Uh, Ray? I really just have one more thing I wanted to say.”

“Yeah? What’s that, Ben?” Ray asked almost distractedly, preoccupied with smoothing his hands inside Fraser’s red serge uniform.

“Dammit, Ray! Could you stop that and please give me your full attention?”

Ray’s mouth dropped open. “Fraser! Did you just swear?”

With that, Fraser snapped the tenuous hold on his carefully-checked emotions. Flinging his uniform jacket to the floor, he stood there panting. As far as he was concerned, he was still wearing entirely too many clothes. But perhaps that was for Ray to decide.

Ray’s eyes went to the red serge, lying crumpled on the carpet. “Jeez, you’re going to have to work to get those wrinkles out, Frase.”

“Ray! Are you in love with my uniform or me?” Fraser shouted.

“You raised your voice! Fraser! Whatever happened to the man who cared more about being considerate to his neighbors than anything else? What—“

“I love you, Ray.”

“Yeah, I know. You love me. That’s great, Frase. You’re my fucking partner, for God’s sake. I know how close people get and—“

Fraser pinned Ray against the door and kissed him. Hard. “Does that feel like your last partner kissed you, Ray?”

Ray looked stunned. “My last partner never kissed me, Frase.”

“Ben. Say it, Ray. Say my name.”

“Ben,” Ray dutifully repeated, watching as Fraser pulled the Henley over his head. “Wow.”

Fraser in red serge was one thing. Fraser bare-chested was something else.

“So…” Ray said, once he recovered enough to speak in full sentences. “You going to wear the boots to bed?”

“Why would I want to do that, Ray?”

“You’ll find out.”

And he did.

End