Islands, by Isis (isiscolo)
Title: Islands
Pairing: Fraser/Duck, Fraser/RayK, a hint of implied unrequited Duck/Buddy
Rating: NC17
Author: Isis (isiscolo)
Summary/Story notes: For an instant, in the starlight, he looked a bit like Ray. Takes place about 8 months after Call of the Wild, and pre-movie for Wilby Wonderful. La la la angst. 2700 words. Thanks to malnpudl for beta, and for coming up with this prompt in the first place!
Prompt #184: Fraser/Duck - prior to the events of Wilby Wonderful, before Duck has met Dan. Fraser innocently visits the Watch, not knowing what happens there.

You can read this at my website: Islands
Or below the cut:


It felt good to get out of the Frenches' house, into the cool, moist island air that held more than a hint of autumn. Fraser breathed deeply as he strode along; even though Buddy and Carol hadn't smoked during dinner, the scent permeated the house, unavoidable. He'd have to keep the window open tonight in order to sleep.

Still, he was happy to have come to Wilby Island. He'd phoned Aunt Judith on a whim when he'd been asked to attend the RCMP conference in Halifax; they'd never met, but he had her telephone number and address in the book of family information his grandparents had pressed upon him when he'd left for Depot. She'd insisted he visit after the conference, and apologized for being unable to host him - "but my son has plenty of room and would love to meet you," she'd said, and he'd taken her at her word.

Buddy was certainly an affable host. His wife Carol…well, she was polite, he supposed. She seemed terribly busy, apologizing for the meal and the guest room and her need to disappear into her study right after dinner; he told her that the meal was better than the hotel food he'd been served in Halifax (true) and that the guest room was larger than his entire cabin (not quite true, but nearly so) and that he certainly didn't need to be entertained, as he was accustomed to taking a solitary walk after dinner.

He passed the ferry terminal, then cut across the open space near the police station. Buddy had shown him a map of the island there earlier that day. The Wilby Island police station was nothing like the 27th Precinct station house had been - it was small, clean, efficient, Canadian - but somehow being there made Fraser feel vaguely nostalgic for Chicago. And of course when he thought about Chicago, he thought about Ray, and that thought was neither vague nor, precisely, nostalgic.

Rejoining the road, he followed it to the bridge that crossed the tidal river which cut the island in two. From time to time, headlights illuminated him, but nobody stopped, which he was glad of; he disliked having to explain to people that he was out for a walk, thank you kindly, and he didn't need a ride to anywhere. Past the bridge was the park he'd noticed on the map: the Wilby Watch.

There were cars parked in the unpaved lot, and he could hear snatches of quiet conversation, see flares of cigarettes being lit as he walked along the path toward the shore. The foam at the leading edges of the breaking waves gleamed dully in the darkness, catching the light from the windows of houses along the shore and from the more diffuse glow of those on the mainland. He stood on the rocks just above the wet line, looking up toward the stars.

Despite the rhythmic susurration of water against rock, he heard the soft footsteps behind him. And then, a voice: "You here for a blowjob, or to arrest us?"

He turned in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"Huh. Sorry. Thought you were - you're Buddy's cousin, aren't you." The speaker was slender, of middle height, blond; the collar of his dark flannel shirt was turned up around his neck, and his hands were jammed into the pockets of loose pants.

"I am. Do we look that much alike?"

"From the back, yeah. Anyway, it's a small town - we all know each other's business."

"Not as small as the one I'm currently stationed in."

"Stationed?" asked the man, his voice sharp.

"I'm at the Taloyoak detachment. Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police," he said, holding out a hand, but the man just jammed his own hands deeper into his pockets and turned to look out across the water.

"Shit. You are going to arrest me."

"I don't have jurisdiction," Fraser said gently. "Besides, you haven't done anything illegal." It hadn't really been solicitation, he told himself. The man hadn't asked for money, and his offer - well, it wasn't exactly an offer, just a casual remark, a joke. Presumably a joke, if he had mistaken Fraser for Buddy.

But the word resonated in his consciousness - blowjob, blowjob - and as the man next to him lit a cigarette and stared out toward the pale lights across the water, Fraser closed his eyes, letting the sound of the lapping waves fade, and concentrated on the noises from the woods.

" - don't know if you know him but he comes over from -"

" - yeah, that's it, fuck, yeah -"

" - care if she catches us, but she's the one with the money -"

" - here, use this, yeah, fuck, that's good -"

And underneath the voices (male voices, all) the ambient noises resolved themselves into grunts, gasps, the sounds of bodies sliding against each other, wet slap of flesh on flesh. The noises of sex and satisfaction, he thought, and his face grew hot despite the cool ocean air.

Not long ago, he had thought - he had hoped - he had imagined that he and Ray might… come to an understanding. After they had captured Muldoon, he had asked Ray if he had been serious, if he truly wanted to go on what he called a "real adventure," to find the hand of Franklin; but what he had really meant, what he had really been asking, was something else entirely, something he could not bring himself to vocalize even now. Certainly he had never been able to say it to Ray other than in the most indirect manner.

Perhaps he had been too indirect. Perhaps he should have spoken plainly; perhaps he should have taken action. But it was not the sort of action one could take unilaterally - not the sort of action he would take unless he was certain of how it would be received - and Fraser had never been comfortable with the language of emotion, of desire, of love. His father's apparent indifference had made him reluctant to express his feelings to anyone, and when he had finally allowed himself to fall in love with a woman, she had betrayed him. Better to keep those words unspoken, where they could damage no one.

He couldn't help but envy the way Ray's emotions seemed to spill out of him, the way Ray hugged him, and laughed easily, and used the wrong words to say the right things. Ray would have no difficulty saying the things that he himself could not, if Ray felt the same way that he did. And so during their adventure he had waited for Ray to say the words, to reach out and pull him close, to confide his feelings, his desires.

He had waited. And Ray had said nothing. And eventually, Ray had returned to Chicago, and he had taken a posting in a remote corner of Canada. It was what he had wanted. Wasn't it?

Fraser opened his eyes to see the other man looking at him: an appraising look, an indefinable expression in his eyes. "Yes?"

The man shrugged. "Just thinking you might want to hang out somewhere else, if you don't want people thinking you're cruising."

Cruising. That word, with the connotation it was meant to carry, belonged on the streets of Chicago; here it made Fraser think of the ocean, of the boats that were doubtless out on the bay he gazed over, obscured by the darkness and the translucent mist on the water. "Is that what you are doing? Cruising?"

The man shrugged again. "Not much to do around here for people like me." He tossed the butt of his cigarette onto the strand, and reflexively Fraser bent to pick it up.

"You shouldn't litter, especially in a place like this." He handed the squashed cigarette end back to the man, who raised his eyebrows in surprise, then laughed. The smile transformed his face, and for an instant, in the starlight, he looked a bit like Ray.

It must have shown on Fraser's face: the yearning, the desire, the pang in his heart like a sharp blade. Because the man's smile softened, and he stepped closer to Fraser, and dropped his voice. "Offer still stands."

Fraser swallowed, licked his lip nervously. He should decline politely, and continue on his way. He wasn't out here looking for sex. He wasn't cruising. He was simply standing on a rocky beach, watching the waves roll in, and just because there was a man standing next to him, a man whose features in the darkness resembled Ray's, just because…

He licked his lip again. "Yes, please," he said, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar in his own ears.

The man nodded toward the trees just behind them, and Fraser followed him the few steps away from the shoreline. When they got to the trees the man turned. "Here's good."

Fraser stared at him for a moment, not understanding; then he realized that the man was looking at the crotch of Fraser's jeans, waiting. He could feel his face getting warm again as he unzipped, wondering whether the man expected him to be hard already, if he was somehow doing this wrong. "I'm not - I don't -" he started, unsure, nervous.

"It's okay," said the man, reaching one easy hand around Fraser's body to grip his rear through his jeans and pull him close. He craned his neck in, and for a moment Fraser thought the man might kiss him, but instead he buried his head against Fraser's neck, mouthing at his skin as his other hand snaked forward to reach into his pants. At first it was almost too much, the scent of cigarette smoke and the hard callused hand on his groin, more terrifying than sensual. He was on the point of backing away and apologizing when the man slid to his knees, and even though his hair was short and flat, not long and spiky, it was nearly the right color, especially in the dim light; all Fraser could think about was Ray on his knees, doing this for him, and just that thought was enough to make him instantly, achingly hard.

"Yeah," came the approving murmur from below, and then there was warm breath, a warm mouth on him, and he had to concentrate on staying upright under the onslaught of sensation. A tongue curling around his shaft. A hand cupping his balls. The man's head bobbing, his mouth making soft wet noises that cut through the ambient hum of waves, of wind, of others doing the same thing elsewhere in the trees.

He wasn't Ray. He was some island man, a fisherman or a mechanic, perhaps. Someone who knew Fraser's cousin. Someone who regularly came to this small bit of wild land at the island's edge and took other men's erections into his mouth. He was skilled and strong, his fingers playing across the root of Fraser's erection, and every so often his eyes flickered upward toward Fraser's face as though he were searching there for something. He sucked and he licked and he touched, and Fraser sighed and gave himself over into the sensation he'd not felt for so many years. Another person's fingers, another person's mouth, and if he pretended it was Ray's fingers and Ray's mouth, nobody would know.

Perhaps it would have happened that day they were cutting wood; the forest near the cabin looked and smelled nothing like this one, but a big Douglas fir behind him would have felt the same, rough bark against his shirt as Ray backed him into it, smiling that dangerous smile, dropping to his knees and undoing Fraser's jeans. Ray's eyes as he looked up would be unguarded, hopeful. His mouth would be generous, his hands unable to stop exploring, as he took Fraser in, licked him, caressed him, let him thrust into his mouth again and again and…

A low groan escaped from his lips as he came; the man held him through the aftershocks, then spit to the side. "Thank you," said Fraser, feeling faintly idiotic as he re-fastened his pants. What was the etiquette? What was the proper procedure here, when a stranger had just taken his erection into his mouth and sucked him to orgasm?

The man just stood there, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, looking at Fraser with an unreadable expression. Oh, right. Reciprocation, of course.

"May I," said Fraser, gesturing toward the man's waist, painfully aware of his awkwardness.

The man smiled. "Sure. Your hand's okay." He unzipped his pants and stepped close to Fraser, the mingled scents of smoke and semen rising from his body, then turned so that his back was pressed up against Fraser's chest. Taking Fraser's right hand in his, he moved it to his erection. "Like you're doing yourself."

Hesitantly Fraser gripped the offered flesh, hot and smooth under his palm. One tentative squeeze, then another. The man made a low mmm and reached back, grasping Fraser's hip to pull him closer; encouraged, Fraser slid his hand out to the moist tip, then back again. Out and back, feeling the foreskin slide along the shaft, feeling the accumulation of slickness, the subtle hardening under his touch.

Would Ray feel like this, he wondered? Hard and smooth, thick in his hand, twisting his narrow hips back against Fraser's groin. He dropped his left hand to cover the hand on his hip and the man slid his fingers apart so that their hands interlaced, another point of connection that seemed oddly intimate in a way that even the sexual contact was not. As he stroked with his right hand and felt fingers entwine with his left, he realized why: There was no purpose, no pleasure in it save the pleasure of contact. Just touching for the sake of touching, not for the purpose of orgasm but for the joy of contact with another human being. A momentary bridge between islands.

Perhaps it had been too much to expect, that Ray would stay with him in Canada. He had been afraid to offer, and Ray hadn't asked. The relationship he had hoped for had never come to pass, so there was no real sense of loss, only the feeling that the possibility had passed him by; but the relationship they did have, the casual touches, the understanding looks, the connection of one friend with another - that was something he missed desperately.

If only it were Ray there with him instead of this stranger who smelled of cigarettes, this man whose dark blond hair tickled against his skin, tantalized him with hints of who he might be but was not, who thrust into his hand with quiet, encouraging murmurs, whose fingers tightened around his as his body shook and spent itself. Who then leaned back against Fraser's shoulder, his eyes closed, his face in blissful repose.

Finally the man sighed and moved away, gently disengaging his fingers and digging in his pocket for the handkerchief he'd used before. He gave it to Fraser with an almost shy smile. "That was good."

Fraser wiped his hand mechanically. Had it been good? He hadn't even noticed, caught up in his own thoughts and the feel of the man's fingers gripping his own. "Thank you kindly," he said as he handed back the soiled cloth. "Well. I don't know your name."

The man shot him a wary look. "Do you need to?"

"I - oh, I suppose not. But I would like to."

"For when you come back." His voice was flat, ironic, and Fraser had to look away. Of course he wasn't coming back. He'd walk back to Buddy and Carol's house this evening, take the ferry over tomorrow morning; then it was airplanes, Halifax to Yellowknife to Taloyoak, and back to his cold and empty home.

He looked back up at the man's face; he was lighting another cigarette and in the glow of the match, reflected by his hands held to his tightly-drawn mouth, he did not look very much like Ray at all.