First line festival challenge by nos4a2no9
Title: Now Lie in It
Author: nos4a2no9
Pairing: Ray/Ray (with mentions of F/V, F/K and F/V/K)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4200 on the button
Notes: Many thanks to the wonderful jamethiel_bane for a swift and thorough beta. She saved me from POV slip-ups and talked me out of putting everything in italics. And to china_shop, who many moons ago supplied me with a prompt for a F/K/V story: "It's only a mistake if you don't like it." Here's the finished product - the prompt remains the same even if the pairing is a little different.
Summary: The worst kind of mistakes are the ones you really like.

First line taken from keerawa's sweet and funny story The Christmas List. Just to warn you ahead of time, this story isn't sweet and funny. You might want to hunt down and read keerawa's story as a chaser.



Now Lie in It

Ray knocked loudly on the door. He knew he looked like an extra from a disaster movie about hurricanes and flying cows. Water coursed in rivulets down his pants, soaking through his boots and seeping into the hardwood flooring outside the apartment door. In the morning the wood would bear a large, dark stain; the water itself would streak the early edition of the Chicago Tribune until all the headlines looked like modern art. Ray sighed and banged louder.

The neighbour in 1C started thumping on his ceiling in counterpoint to Ray’s knocks. The man cooked only fish and had a terrible taste in Latin music; Ray hated him with a passion, and judging by his committed thumping on the ceiling the dislike was mutual. Between the two of them they created a terrific percussion but there was water pooling in Ray’s boots and his feet were freezing.

“Vecchio, for Christ’s sake, lemme in,” Ray yelled, driven to desperation.

Finally he heard footsteps approach his door. The sound of the deadbolt sliding back was the best thing he’d heard all day.

“Forget something?”

Ray shouldered past Vecchio and tugged off his wet jacket, tossing it into the closet and throwing his boots on top. He tried to ignore the Fraser-voice in his head, the one that politely suggested he should hang his jacket over the hook in the bathroom and stack his boots neatly on the little wire shelf in the closet.

“I locked my keys in the Goat.” He stuck his head in the fridge so he wouldn’t have to watch Vecchio frown at the sodden lump in the closet. Vecchio looked good, as usual – he was wearing a soft blue dress shirt, unbuttoned enough to show off his gold cross, and a pair of tailored black pants.

“I think they’ve got pills for that,” Vecchio said as he closed and locked the door, double-checking to ensure that the chain was on. Vecchio was a little nuts for security, which Ray suspected was a byproduct of being undercover with the mob for so long. He hadn’t asked, not really caring why Vecchio was so in love with locks and deadbolts.

Ray grabbed a couple of cold beers from his stash in the fridge. He carried both bottles by clamping the necks tightly between his knuckles. The cold glass made his icy skin ache. Ray sat down on the couch, set one beer on the coffee table like a peace offering. He hoped Vecchio would take the hint.

But Vecchio did not, could not, would not take the hint. Instead he went back to whatever he’d been doing in the kitchen and ignored Ray, which was fine. Great. Greatness. They didn’t have much to say to each other anyway. Ray turned on the TV.

*********

The Cubs had completed a game-long slide from “borderline incompetent” to “absolutely fucking terrible” and Ray had finished both beers by the time Vecchio finally broke the silence.

“You eat yet?”

Ray considered lying, but his stomach was growling and the beer had already made him a little tipsy. Food might be good, and even if he ate Vecchio’s cooking it didn’t mean that they were legally required to talk to each other.

“Uh, no. I was going to order pizza.”

Vecchio snorted. “You ever eat anything that doesn’t come in a cardboard box? I mean, cooking’s not that hard. Even you could probably boil water if you really put your mind to it.”

Ray didn’t bother telling Vecchio that once upon a time he’d been a decent cook. Casseroles, meatloaf, salads – he’d done it all. But Stella had gotten most of the good kitchen stuff in the divorce. He’d ended up with an old set of mixing bowls, a couple of ratty dishcloths, and some bad dreams about three-layer broccoli casserole.

He heaved himself up off the couch to see what culinary masterpiece Vecchio’d come up with. Bowtie pasta and canned alfredo sauce. Ray didn’t bother to hide his smirk.

“Boy, Vecchio, looks like you can boil water and reheat sauce. Two steps ahead of me.”

Vecchio seemed to take this in stride, ignoring Ray to dish out the pasta. He set a bowl on the table for Ray, along with utensils, napkins and some garlic bread in a basket. Dief would have been in heaven, but Ray had always suspected the wolf had pretty low expectations when it came to food. Vecchio settled across from him and they dug in. Vecchio had a glass of white wine but Ray didn’t see a bottle – Vecchio had probably finished it off himself. Ray stuck with his beer.

It was a silent dinner and, because they didn’t talk, the meal was over in half the time it usually took when Ray ate with Fraser.

“Where is Benny tonight, anyway?” Vecchio asked, reading Ray’s thoughts. Or he’d asked because Fraser was the only thing they had in common.

“Consulate thing. He’ll be back late.”

Vecchio shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t know why he didn’t stay up north. He can’t be happy doing that diplomatic crap all the time. He’s a cop!”

Ray didn’t say anything because Ray knew exactly why Fraser hadn’t stayed in Canada. But if Fraser hadn’t explained it to Vecchio he sure wasn’t going to. That was Fraser’s story to tell.

Instead he shrugged and cleared away the dishes, ran some water in the sink that was so hot it scalded his hands when he started on the first plate. Vecchio lingered in the kitchen, watching.

“You ever-”

Ray didn’t bother to turn around. Either would Vecchio would spit it out or he wouldn’t. What he eventually came up with was the last thing Ray expected him to say.

“I think we should fuck. You, me and the Mountie. ”

Blood in the water. He’d cut himself on the sharp edge of one of those Goodwill plates Fraser insisted they keep despite all the cracks and chips. Fraser and his goddamn broken things.

Vecchio finally noticed Ray cradling his hand under the coldwater tap. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Ray told him. “Just a scratch.” He’d hoped Vecchio would take the hint, but he continued on like nothing had happened.

“Anyway, I’ve thought about it. And we should.”

Ray tried to sound old and world-weary, like he had all the answers. “It’d be a mistake, Vecchio.”

"It's only a mistake if you don't like it."

Ray wasn't so sure about that. He'd liked lots of things that turned out to be pretty serious mistakes. Gyros with tkazteche sauce and onion. Those he liked, but those always ended up sitting like rocks in his gut the whole next day. And Stella, but she was the super-nova of mistakes, one that started small until it grew and grew, sucking up everything into its own mass. Fifteen years of his life collapsed into a dying star.

Stella and gyros. Mistakes, and he liked 'em both. So screw Vecchio and his little pearls of wisdom. Screw that smirk he wore like a good suit as he leaned up against the kitchen counter. Ray knew for damn sure that the worst kind of mistakes were the ones you really liked.

"We'd have a good time."

Ray scrubbed hard at some piece of crap stuck to one of the forks from dinner. The white sauce Vecchio liked so much wouldn’t come off once it'd gotten cold. "Maybe."

"So?"

"So maybe Fraser isn't into stuff like that. Maybe he thinks it's better if we just left things the way they are. Him and me, and...him and you."

"And me and you?"

Ray hated pronouns. Word-games, that was something Stella had liked. "Fuck, I don't know. I never thought about it."

"Huh," Vecchio said, reaching across Ray to get another dish from the rack. His arm brushed against Ray's for a second and Ray pulled back, his skin burning where it'd made contact with Vecchio's bare arm. It was just a little bit of skin-on-skin, half an inch, maybe, below the sleeve, but it seared Ray like an open flame. Christ, Vecchio was warm. Like he had a fever or something, not at all like Fraser's room-temperature perfect skin or Stella's cold fingers and toes.

Vecchio didn't even seem to notice. He just rubbed at the plate with one of those soft old dishcloths Ray'd inherited from his Stella days. Or maybe that was one of the towels Vecchio'd kept from his Stella days. Ray couldn't figure it out. Instead he watched Vecchio's long-fingered hands smooth over the dish, buffing and polishing until every ounce of moisture was sucked up into the cloth. Ray's eyes flicked up to Vecchio's face. There was that smirk again, the one that made Ray either want to punch Vecchio or fuck him.

Okay, so he had thought about it.

Six weeks ago Vecchio had shown up at their apartment in Chicago looking pale and tired and hollowed-out. He hadn't ever said what happened with Stella, but Ray could fill in the blanks. Vegas, maybe. Or maybe it was wanting kids again, just like it'd been with Ray. Not that he'd wasted any time trying to figure it out.

Fraser hadn't tried to figure it out either. He didn't ask any questions, didn't even seem to feel the need. He just offered Vecchio the spare room they'd turned into a kind of office and Vecchio slept there on Fraser's old cot. And then one night Ray'd come home late from the station and interrupted -- something, in the kitchen. Fraser and Vecchio sitting at the wobbly table they'd picked up from Goodwill when they’d gotten the plates. Vecchio with his head bent and staring down at the table, Fraser with his hand on the back of Vecchio's long neck, his thumb smoothing across the tendons there.

Fraser hadn't come to bed that night.

And Ray wasn't jealous. He wasn't. He got it. He understood. This was cops and buddies and partners, and the thing between Fraser and Vecchio had been going on a hell of a lot longer than the thing with Fraser and Ray. And Ray could share - he was a generous guy. He'd even gotten to a point where he could halfway stand Vecchio as long as the guy didn't try to talk about anything other than how much the Cubs sucked or the case they were working or-

Well, it was a short list. But Ray thought Vecchio was an okay guy, even if it was a little weird to curl up around Fraser sometimes in the morning and smell Vecchio on his skin.

He tried not to think about it too much, actually.

But it turned out Vecchio was a moron, and instead of talking about the complete fucking ineptitude of the Hawks or the double homicide they were working with the 1-9 Vecchio started talking about mistakes. And now Ray had to think about it.

"You talk to Fraser?"

Vecchio snorted. "Nope. Wouldn't even know how to begin. I just thought I'd see what you thought about it, and then we could just-"

"Ambush him?"

That got a smile, a real smile, instead of that goddamn smirk. "Yeah."

Ray actually thought it sounded kind of awkward, potentially embarrassing. And he still wasn't even sure he liked Vecchio all that much.

"I don't even know if I like you." The words tumbled out before he could stop them. His mouth felt desert-dry, skin still tingly where it'd touched Vecchio's.

"I think you do. I think you've got an inkling." Vecchio said, stepping a little closer. His breath was hot on Ray's face and he put his hands on Ray's hips, fingers warm through the denim. Ray's t-shirt was riding up a bit, clingy in places because of the steam from the sink. Vecchio lasered in on the small bits of exposed belly and back, rubbing his thumb up along the waistband of Ray's jeans. Ray closed his eyes, hoping the way he was shaking wasn't too obvious. Vecchio was too goddamn warm and close and he didn't even like the guy. He had good hands, though. Ray'd give him that.

Vecchio kissed him then, just a warm puff of air on Ray's lips and the softest, lightest touch of his mouth. He was keeping things gentle, safe, giving Ray a chance to back off. When Ray didn't pull away he deepened the kiss, the hot slick glide of his tongue catching Ray by surprise. Vecchio sure didn't kiss like Fraser. He kissed like he had all the time in the world, like all of this was just some kind of crazy dream or a dare and Ray could stop any time he wanted. Fraser always kissed like the whole world going to end any second.

He didn't want to stop.

Ray let his hands slide up to Vecchio's shoulders. His damp hands caught on the fine material of Vecchio's dress shirt and left wet palm prints on his chest and back and shoulders. He kept pulling Vecchio closer, tugging at him to quicken the pace, to get with the program, to get serious. But Vecchio just kept everything slow and lazy, exploring Ray's mouth with his tongue, his hands roaming up just a little higher on Ray's waist, inching past the hem of his t-shirt.

Ray groaned, and Vecchio flashed the teeth-smile again, the one that wasn't a smirk at all. "You're having a good time," he said against Ray's mouth.

"No shit." He kissed Vecchio a little harder, his mouth rejecting that too-soft press, the sleepy circles of Vecchio's tongue. He wanted more, goddamn it. More friction, more heat, more desperation. Not this soft sweetness. Not this...kindness.

He didn't want to know that about Vecchio at all.

But Vecchio wouldn't let Ray step it up. His hands slipped under Ray's t-shirt, up Ray's spine, and he stroked the long, tense muscles with gentle hands. And fuck Vecchio, because that was a Fraser-thing. A thing that Fraser did for Ray when he was feeling bored or scared or shitty, and when Fraser knew Ray just wanted some comfort. If this was going to work Vecchio couldn't do things like that. No Fraser things. And no Stella things. Those were the rules.

"Stop," he bit out, too much in his voice. Christ, was he begging Vecchio now? "You gotta--you can't--Just," and he thrust up against Vecchio, pulling him closer, shoving his tongue in his mouth. He was hard, and he could feel Vecchio's cock start to stiffen, both of them rubbing together beneath layers of denim and fine cotton. Ray's damp fingers crushed Vecchio's shirt; he thought he could hear fabric ripping. Damned thing was ruined now.

"Stop," he said once more, just to make sure Vecchio got the point. Then he popped the button on Vecchio's fly, slid his hands inside, and wrapped his fingers around Vecchio's cock.

Vecchio threw his head back, baring the long length of his throat. Ray watched Vecchio's Adam’s apple bob in place, and Ray wanted to taste that spot, that fragile-looking bump that hitched up and down as Vecchio tried to breathe. So he dipped his head and slid his tongue over the bump as he stripped Vecchio's cock. The guy didn't feel as thick as Fraser; he was circumcised, like Ray, and it took a couple seconds for Ray to figure out how Vecchio could feel so strange and so familiar all at once. Once he did Ray hummed a little against Vecchio's throat, nipping at him with his teeth. Vecchio tasted like sweat and the goddamned canned alfredo sauce.

Vecchio let out a low moan and pushed Ray off him. He'd sounded like something out of a dirty movie. Looked like it too, all flushed and stunned and breathing heavy. Then Vecchio opened his eyes and stared right at Ray - right at him, right through him - and there was a sad kind of triumph there in his face. Victory. But what the fuck had Vecchio won, anyway?

Ray let go of Vecchio's cock and rubbed his palm on his jeans. His heart was pounding and he was still diamond-hard. So was Vecchio. Ray could see the pink head of his circumcised dick riding above the slipping-down waist of Vecchio’s tailored suit pants, pointing right up at Ray like it was begging him for something.

"What?" Ray said, because Vecchio had been saying something for a little while there and Ray hadn't been paying attention.

"Fuck me," Vecchio was saying. He hadn't even tried to tuck himself away. "You want to, don't you?"

Ray closed his eyes and shivered. The sweat on his forehead was cooling a little, but he could feel the way it kept soaking through his t-shirt, staining the shirt a dark navy-blue.

"Yeah." His voice didn't sound right. It was too raspy, too low, too fucking angry. And he wasn't angry with Vecchio. Vecchio wasn't the one who'd held him tight and stroked his face and said things like, "I love you, Ray" or "I want to be with you forever" and then fucked someone else. Vecchio wasn't the one who'd broken his heart.

"I fuck you, it won't be gentle." Ray felt this was important, that it was important Vecchio understand.

But Vecchio just looked at him, cock still hard and leaking in the 'v' of his trousers, and said, "Fine by me."

So Ray made a mistake.

He stripped off his jeans and damp t-shirt and got some condoms and a bottle of lube from the bathroom. Vecchio headed for the bedroom - not the study, the bedroom Ray shared with Fraser -- but Ray shook his head.

"No fucking way. Over the counter here or in the living room. This isn't-"

But Ray didn't have words for what this was. Except a fucked-up mistake. Or revenge, maybe, if he could decide who it was he was trying to hurt.

Vecchio didn't seem to care. His eyes...Christ, he looked like he hadn't slept in months. But he just got to his knees on the hard kitchen linoleum and took Ray into his mouth, swallowing him down until the whole world dissolved and there was just Vecchio's mouth, warm and tight, and the little sucking sounds he was making, and Vecchio's bony fingers digging into Ray's hips, pulling him closer, deeper. In. Wasn't long before Ray started to enjoy it, because Vecchio had a talented mouth, but he pulled out before he could forget how fucking angry he was. If he lost that, no way could he ever--

"Now now now," Vecchio was chanting. Ray blinked and watched as Vecchio finally skinned out of his trousers, his legs too skinny and tanned where the blue dress shirt ended. He didn't take off the shirt, just tugged it up above his hips, turned, and bent over the hard tile counter.

Ray's hands were shaking pretty badly. He tried to remember that first time with Fraser, way back on the Quest, how much time Fraser'd spent loosening him up with his tongue and fingers, how gentle he'd been. Fraser had kept murmuring, "I love you" against his ear. He'd made Ray feel warm and safe, even when it hurt a little. And then the greatness of it had taken over, the wonderful in-and-out thrust, the way Fraser had felt buried inside him, the bone-deep rightness of it.

Ray didn't want any of that with Vecchio. He'd meant what he'd said. If they were going to do this it wouldn't be right or gentle at all.

He put a hand on Vecchio's shoulder, smoothing his thumb over the sharp bones there. Vecchio felt so thin compared Fraser's muscle and bulk. Breakable. But it didn't stop Ray from pressing down a little until Vecchio was practically lying over the counter, legs spread wide, ass in the air. Ray ripped open the condom package with his teeth and rolled it on over his erection. He lubed up and Vecchio stiffened a bit at the first cold, wet press of Ray's cock against his ass, but he relaxed right away when Ray pushed a finger in.

Vecchio huffed a little and let out a soft gasp. "What are you--?"

"Checking," Ray said, as if that explained something. And it did, because Vecchio had loosened right up after that first bit of resistance. And Ray knew he probably had Fraser to thank for that, proper preparation and all.

"You're a fucking asshole, you know?"

Ray thrust up once, hard, and waited until Vecchio got himself under control. "I thought you said this might be fun." He punctuated this with a little twist of his finger, pressing in deep. Vecchio jerked but didn’t pull away. Ray added another finger and it was the same. A little clench, and then the resistance melted and Vecchio’s body let him in.

“You don’t have to-” Vecchio heaved. He seemed to be having a little trouble staying focused. Ray’s smile was all teeth.

“What the fuck do you take me for, Vecchio? Think I’d just shove my way in?”

“That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

Ray closed his eyes. The thing about mistakes was, if you started thinking too much about them you’d actually realize what a moron you were for even getting started. And mistakes – the good kind, the kind you ended up liking – those you needed to see through.

And so Ray withdrew his fingers carefully, because he really didn’t want to hurt Vecchio, and pressed his cock right up against Vecchio. He leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“You gotta understand something,” Ray said, moving his hips forward, sliding his cock into that hot, sweet warmth. Vecchio’s hsssss and tensed around him but didn’t jerk away, didn’t even wince. “Fucking me and fucking Fraser are two different things, got it? He’s your friend. I don’t give a shit about you one way or another.”

He reached around, nudging aside the shirttail to find Vecchio’s cock. And just as he’d thought, Vecchio was getting hard again. Ray kept it up.

“You mean less than nothing to me, you asshole. Nothing. I lived your life, remember?” He thrust up a little, making them both gasp. Ray was sweating; he let go of Vecchio’s cock long enough to wipe his forehead, sweat stinging his eyes. “I know you. And I know-” Forward into Vecchio’s heat, a long slide out that was so good, so tight, “I know that you hate yourself so fucking much you can’t stand it sometimes.” In again, hard, Vecchio panting now, Ray pressed balls-deep inside. So close to Vecchio they could have been one person instead of two.

“You came here to fuck your best friend. Fucked him over, too, because-” Out again, and Ray was shaking, his legs more wobbly than the Goodwill table. “We had a good thing, me and Fraser. You fucked that up for us.”

Ray started pumping hard, driving into Vecchio now, up and in, not caring if he was hitting the prostate at all, not giving a shit about pleasure because this wasn’t about getting off, this was about a mistake and someone had to pay for it. Vecchio was past hard now, his cock scalding-hot, burning Ray’s hand as he stroked it, his forehead sinking onto Vecchio’s shoulder, the smell of sex and sweat overpowering in the small kitchen. Vecchio’s dress shirt was wet through under the arms and the back, sticky with lube and pre-come where the shirttails dragged and caught between their bodies.

Ray wanted it to go on forever so he could just keep going and going and never stop to think about Stella on Sunday mornings, lose and rumpled in their bed, her hair tangling in his fingers, shining in the light. Or Fraser, curled tight around him, hand stroking low on his belly, telling him how he’d never found a home until he’d made one with Ray.

He shut his eyes against all of it and kept pounding into Vecchio, Vecchio who’d never broken his heart, never even come close.

And finally, finally, moving into Vecchio’s body, he knew he was close. Vecchio’s balls drew up in his hand, tight and hard, and then Vecchio come with a loud grown, arching into Ray’s hand, shooting onto the cabinets and slicking Ray’s fingers.

“C’mon, come on,” Vecchio slurred, half-drunk on orgasm. “Do it,”

One more hard thrust that lifted Ray off his heels, and then he was coming in long heartbeats, pulsing into Vecchio. And at last it was over and Ray slid out, stripping off the condom and tossing it into the garbage by the door. He leaned back against the counter, legs still jelly, and tried to catch his breath.

Vecchio was still trying to collect himself too. He looked vaguely ridiculous, skinny hairy legs sticking out under his come-stained dress shirt, a fucked-out expression replacing that constant smirk.

A mistake. Vecchio’s low, satisfied chuckle was the worst sound Ray had ever heard, right up until he heard the sound of Fraser’s key scraping in the lock.

END