Criminal Intent | Kellie Matthews

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Don't make money off 'em. If pressed, I'd admit they belong to Alliance/Atlantis. Rated NC-17.

Soundtrack: U2: Elevation

Written for Thamiris' "Blow it with Feeling" challenge. Thanks to my betae, Ardent, AuKestrel & Bluster. And thanks also to bethbethbeth for the line about 'getting sticky' that got me... er... unstuck. :) --Kellie

Criminal Intent

"Ray, did you forget to unload your groceries?" Fraser asked as he got into the car, glancing at the brown paper bag in the back seat.

"Huh?" Ray craned around to look over his shoulder, and then chuckled. "Oh that. No, I didn't forget. Those are my supplies for later, after dinner."

"Ah." Fraser pretended to be enlightened, though he couldn't recall any event which would involve the bringing of groceries. There were charitable drives that asked for donations of food, but those usually happened closer to the holiday season. Unable to come up with an explanation on his own, he resigned himself to asking. "What's happening later?"

"Ooohyeah." Ray said, chortling evilly. "Lots of fun. But I forgot Dewey's home address so I have to stop by work to get it. Hope you don' t mind."

"So Detective Dewey is holding a . . . potlatch?" He knew he had the word wrong, but recalled that the one he wanted was somewhat of a homonym.

"Potluck? No, not hardly. Detective Dewey," the name was said with unaccountable sarcasm, "doesn't know a thing about this little party."

Ray gave Fraser one of his patented 'you're unhinged' looks. "Fraser, what's the date?"

He dwelled for a moment on the beauty of the sentence, and then shook his head. "None that I'm aware of, although it's two days before the Feast of All Saints, or in Spanish-speaking communities the 'Dia de los Muertos' or Day of the Dead. The thirty-first is commonly celebrated as 'Halloween' in the United States and much of Canada."

"Thank you Mr. Travelogue, but I was asking about today. Not tomorrow. Not the day after."

"The significance is that it's Mischief Night. But of course you wouldn't know anything about mischief, would you? If ever there was a man born without a sense of mischief, it'd be you."

Fraser stifled the quick retort that rose to his lips, his face burning as he turned away to look out the window at the passing buildings. Mischief had not been encouraged when he'd been growing up.

After several seconds of silence, Ray's hand landed on his thigh and squeezed it lightly. "Sorry."

Fraser nodded, and everything was all right again. Mostly. There was still part of him that wanted to protest Ray's glib assessment. Part of him that wanted, desperately, to learn how to have yet another piece of what everyone else seemed to consider both essential and commonplace. "What does one do on 'Mischief Night'?"

"You get even," Ray said, voice brimming with satisfaction. "Well, as even as you can get with eggs and toilet paper."

Eggs and. . . "Toilet paper?" He couldn't imagine what one would do with such a combination of ingredients. "What exactly do you do with them?"

Ray laughed as he pulled into a parking place in the station lot. "You throw them."

Ray was wearing his 'I'm sincere' face. Fraser was not convinced. "It doesn't sound particularly fun."

"No, Fraser, it's cool. It really is. You get egg all over you and you're all sticky and you get to take out your frustrations. It's great."

A new light-bulb began to glow over his head, and he sincerely hoped that the light of it didn't show in his face. "So the object of mischief night is to have fun, assuage frustrations, and get . . . sticky?"

Ray looked at him with narrowed eyes. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say that smile was evil."

He waited patiently through dinner, and three hours at a bar watching hockey while waiting for it to get late enough that Ray felt comfortable venturing out to make mischief. Then they were off to reconnoiter with a drive by the property.

It was a modest one-story bungalow surrounded by several large old trees that Ray proclaimed perfect for 'tee-peeing." A familiar tan Pinto was parked next to the mailbox. The house was dark, porch lights off, as were those of its neighbors, but a mid-block streetlight provided modest illumination. Ray pulled up to the curb two houses down the block and Fraser cleared his throat.

"Do you think it wise to park this close? Your car is rather distinctive, and Detective Dewey might find it all too easy to identify."

He pulled away and turned the corner, circling the block. Fraser directed him to a spot a block from their target. It was far enough from the sole streetlight in a three-block radius that the GTO's glossy black form was lost in the shadows. A thick, untrimmed hedge that ran the length of the block save for the pruned gateways provided good cover for them. Fraser avoided the well-lit alley that spanned the block, and led Ray up the dark street. Chicago's oddly backward lighting system had always puzzled him.

"You're a natural at this, Fraser," Ray said as he twisted around to get the bag out of the back seat.

Fraser smiled. "Strategy and tactics are an essential part of the RCMP curriculum."

"I'll remember that if I ever need to invade another country. Come on, let's do it."

They slipped out of the car and quietly closed the doors, bumping them closed with their hips. Fraser took the lead and moved noiselessly down the street, alert for dogs and motion-sensor lights. Fortunately there were neither. Ray followed, rather less silently, though since it was cold Fraser doubted anyone would have open windows, and that was the only way they would be able to hear the rustling sound of the paper bag Ray carried. Other than that he moved with surprisingly quiet grace.

Fraser stopped abruptly next to a tree and held out a hand. Ray stopped just behind him, close enough that Fraser could feel his warmth.

Fraser had already slipped his handcuffs from their case on his belt, holding them carefully so they didn't jingle. "I'm afraid I can't allow you to commit vandalism, Ray," he said, capturing one of Ray's wrists with one of the cuffs, and then snapping the other one through the chain-link fence that the hedge grew through and around.

"Shhh!" Fraser said softly, putting his finger against Ray's warm, soft lips. "You don't want to wake the neighbors." He stepped closer, and began unzipping Ray's coat. "If the object of Mischief Night is to amuse, relieve frustration and get . . . sticky, I believe I can be of assistance in fulfilling those goals in a manner which does not involve the commission of property crimes."

Ray stilled as Fraser traced the curve of his lips with a fingertip, and then yanked at the cuff again. "Fraser, are you nuts? We're in public!" he hissed.

"Indeed," Fraser whispered, tugging Ray's shirt out of his pants. "Which is why you will have to be, in the immortal words of Elmer Fudd, 'vewy, vewy qwiet.'"

Ray chuckled at Fraser's hushed imitation, but stopped abruptly as Fraser's fingers found his belt and opened the buckle, then dealt with the button and zipper on his trousers with equal facility. Fraser found nothing beneath the soft, well-worn twill to hinder his quest, and gave silent thanks for Ray's propensity for going 'commando' as he called it. It was something that Fraser had definitely come to appreciate since they had become partners as well as partners.

"Oh no, not serious at all. Just amusing myself." Fraser slid his fingers into the open fly of Ray's pants, Ray's skin seeming almost fevered in contrast to his chilled fingers. He smiled as Ray gasped.

"Though my natal date did fall somewhat less than nine months after my parents were wed, they were in fact legally married when I was born," Fraser informed him, sotto voce. He tightened his fingers around Ray's erection, feeling his pulse racing in the firming flesh. He wanted more. With his left hand he pushed Ray's shirt up, baring his belly, his ribs, and one small, tight nipple. Leaning down he nuzzled it softly, tongue flicking out to moisten it briefly before abandoning it to the cool night air as he tongued his way down Ray's stomach to his navel, where he circled it with more moisture. He loved the way Ray tasted, a flavor that made him think of dust-motes floating in a slanting sunbeam. He slipped his fingers out of Ray's pants and licked them, the flavor there stronger, duskier, saltier. His own cock, trapped in his jeans, throbbed in reaction to that familiar taste.

"Shhh," Fraser slid his wet fingers back inside the warm trap of Ray's clothing to close around his cock. "You really don't want Detective Dewey to come out here and investigate, do you?"

The response to that was a rather precipitous deflation of Ray's erection. That called for drastic measures. He went to his knees, Ray's boots providing a slightly more comfortable surface to kneel on than the hard concrete of the sidewalk.

"Precisely," Fraser said, tugging Ray's pants down so he was bare from waist to mid-thigh, and leaned in to nuzzle the smooth, soft skin below Ray's hip, fingers stroking his softened cock.

"Aaah, fuck," Ray breathed, the sound barely audible, his erection rapidly reasserting itself.

Fraser used his fingers to tilt Ray's cock away from his belly, kissed the blunt, silky tip, then leaned forward and let the thick, smooth shaft slip between his lips, savoring the stretch, and the way he had to loosen his jaw to accommodate him. Ray finished hardening in his mouth, that last little bit curving him upward, and inward, making Fraser tilt his head back a little. He loved the way Ray fit him, loved the fact that it was never completely effortless. Nothing this good came easy. It made it better that he had to work for it.

Without moving, he hummed softly around Ray's cock, rubbing his tongue against the underside. Ray twitched and shivered, his free hand moving to Fraser's head, fingers threading into his hair and clenching hard enough to bring tears as he urged Fraser to give him more. Fraser let his hand cup the soft, warm weight of Ray's testicles, two fingers stretching back behind them as he started to suck, swallowing rhythmically, slowly pulling Ray deeper into his throat. Under his knees he felt Ray's feet slide farther apart, which spread his own legs wider by default, tightening the unyielding fabric of his jeans across his groin. He grunted a little in discomfort, and moved a hand down to open the button and lower the zipper, breathing a sigh of relief through his nose, since his mouth was otherwise occupied.

Fraser tilted his head back and looked upward, saw the glitter of Ray's eyes, the shadow of tongue moving across white teeth. One-handed, he pushed his jeans and boxers down enough to free himself, his own skin a faint, pale blur in the darkness.

Fraser wrapped his fingers around himself and began to stroke as he returned to sucking at Ray's cock. Ray's breathing caught raggedly and his hips canted forward, moving in shallow undulations. Too used to his ex-wife's lesser oral capabilities, Ray still tried to control himself when Fraser loved him this way. For him to move at all betrayed a desperation that sent Fraser's pulse rocketing. Only he could give Ray this. Only he knew what Ray wanted, what he needed.

He let go of Ray's testicles and allowed his hand to move up the shaft, pushing his fingers into his mouth to stroke Ray's cock along with his tongue.

Ray made a harsh noise deep in his throat, choked off before it reached the air. He knew what was next. Knew it and wanted it.

Pulling his fingers free, Fraser reached behind Ray and pressed two of them against the small, tight furl of his anus. There was a moment of resistance, then he yielded to the insistence of Fraser's touch and opened. Fraser pushed his fingers in, and curled them forward, and Ray gasped, the sound almost as loud as a scream as he shuddered.

Pulse after pulse of thick, salty heat filled Fraser's mouth, spilling out around the corners. He pulled free of both Ray's still pulsing cock and his own erection, cupping a hand beneath his mouth. He released Ray's semen into his palm, and then returned his hand to himself, now slick and hot. Two strokes was all it took before his own semen spattered the dark, glossy leaves of the hedge at Ray's back.

They stayed there, leaning against one another, a strange pieta of satiation, until finally Fraser recovered enough to look up at Ray smugly. "Amusement, ease of frustration, and stickiness-- I believe we've fulfilled all of the prerequisites. And wasn't it better than hurling eggs?"

Ray's fingers tightened in his hair, pulling hard, even as his stomach-muscles leapt with stifled laughter. "I take it back," he whispered. "You and mischief are good, you're tight."

Fraser moved his fingers inside Ray, making him hiss before he pulled them free. "You're good and tight yourself," he said slyly. "If you'd like to continue this elsewhere, we could see what other mischief we could get up to before the night is over."

Ray let go of his hair, fished his keys out of his pocket, and used his own handcuff key to release himself. "I like the way you think." He pulled up and refastened his pants, then held his hand out to Fraser, helping him to his feet. As Fraser put his own clothing to rights, Ray picked up the bag he'd been carrying, and sighed. "Don't know what I'm going to do with two dozen eggs and a six-pack of cheap toilet paper, though."

"We can stop by the homeless shelter on our way to your apartment," Fraser said. "I'm sure they can find uses for them that don't involve criminal intent."

Ray pulled him close and kissed him hard, licking at the corners of his mouth before pulling back. "That's my Fraser," he said with clear delight.