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It’s been a long time, but Fraser still remembers what it was like. Before his grandparents decided to educate him at home, they'd arrive in a new town and he'd start at a new school, and he'd go through the same mortifying ritual, again and again: his new classmates sizing him up as a potential friend only for them to discover, inevitably, that he was… different.
That sudden cold fear when someone asked him what his favorite toy was, or the hot flush of embarrassment when invited to play a game that he’d never even heard of. The kinder children would frown and the less kind children would laugh but either way, Fraser was immediately marked out as the strange one, the loner, the outsider that, in the end, he always, always would be.
Soon enough, however, he grew accustomed to it, and then found a measure of strength in it, and eventually, it became something of a comfort. Another line of defense, as it were; another layer of armour he can slip on as easily as his uniform. After all, Fraser reasons, if he’s to be held at arm’s length for his strangeness, then he might as well lean all the way into it. And indeed, here in Chicago, the red serge is the ultimate manifestation of the fact that he has never quite been normal, never quite been able to fit in. And although he’s no longer that embarrassed little boy who wished for a toy truck or hid behind a book while his classmates played marbles or four square or whatever new game had taken their fancy, Fraser still remembers the desperate longing to be amongst them, to blend in, to just be.
So when he sees the same flashes of oddness in Ray, Fraser recognises the signs. Ray’s hackles always rise whenever his pride—as prickly as the spikes of his hair, or so Fraser likes to imagine— is threatened. Ray doesn’t want to be singled out as strange, he doesn’t want to be different—except, that is, for when he does.
The contradiction drives Fraser to distraction, sometimes. He doesn’t understand it. The experimental hair. Enjoying a game of chess as much as he enjoys a game of hockey. Opting for threadbare t-shirts instead of the standard shirt and tie. Refusing to wear his glasses but always, always wearing that silver bracelet. Yelling at Fraser for endangering their lives in wildly bizarre ways, yet driving motorcycles through windows and diving through skylights without a moment’s thought. It doesn’t make any sense—if Ray wants to be so normal, why does he still insist on being so different?
This is what Fraser is thinking as he watches Ray absently tap his fingers against the steering wheel, waiting for the lights to change. The sleeve of Ray’s jacket has slid up his forearm, exposing a pale wrist and the string of silver that forever encircles it. Why? Fraser thinks again, staring at the tiny silver spheres. It’s hardly a common accessory for the average Chicago police officer. It’s not even common for the average American man. Why try so hard to maintain a facade of normality, only to have the image destroyed as soon as a sleeve rides up?
You could do it, Fraser thinks, watching afternoon sunlight glint off the silver beads. You could succeed where I failed. You could convince them all.
“So why won’t you do it?”
He doesn’t realise he’s spoken out loud until he feels the heavy weight of Ray’s eyes on him. Fraser lifts his gaze and finds Ray staring right at him, a small frown on his face. It’s not the frown of irritation, however, nor one of puzzlement—it’s the frown of deduction, the kind that often leads to a sudden hunch that’s every bit as illogical as it is heart-stoppingly, breathtakingly brilliant.
Fraser swallows, throat gone dry.
Oh, dear.
He quickly turns away.
“Do what, Frase?”
Fraser licks his lips, rubs an eyebrow with his thumb. Ray’s voice is very even—too even, really, and unexpectedly serious to boot, and Fraser can’t bring himself to prevaricate. This has always been his downfall, ever since the day in the crypt not long after they’d first met. An irritated Ray, a shouting Ray, even a genuinely angry Ray that’s threatening to punch him in the face—Fraser can deal with that, can still deflect and evade with ease. But a serious Ray, a quiet and sincere Ray, the uncertain and sometimes endearingly awkward Ray? Those are Rays that Fraser has no defence against.
He can do nothing now but answer Ray’s seriousness in kind.
Fraser thinks of Ray’s service record, of Ray’s parents, of Ray’s apartment and car. He thinks of Ray’s ex-wife and of Luanne Russell, of the feel of Ray’s mouth and skin and how he’ll never forget the taste of lake water on cold, cold lips.
“You could be just like them,” Fraser says. His voice comes out rusty and he forces himself to clear his throat. “No one would know. And yet you still—”
He gestures at Ray’s exposed wrist, at the spiky tufts of his unnaturally blond hair.
For a long, long moment, Ray is utterly silent. Fraser takes a breath and gathers the will to glance over, unsure of what he might see. Anger or offense? Confusion or pity? Or perhaps—
Fraser turns and—stares. This, he did not expect: the corners of Ray’s mouth upturned in a smile, small but genuine and almost—yes, yes— gentle.
“Ray?” Fraser asks, cautious and strangely, inexplicably afraid.
“I thought I was Mr Instinct,” Ray says. “And you were Mr Logic. But you’re making a pretty big leap there, Fraser.”
“A—a leap?”
Ray shrugs. “What makes you think I’m hiding something?”
I’ve seen you, Fraser thinks, but doesn’t say. I’ve seen you try to be things that you’re not.
“I told you I was a con job, once,” Ray adds, apparently not expecting Fraser to answer. “You remember that? In the crypt, the day of the eclipse?” He looks over and Fraser nods. “Well, here’s the secret about con jobs, Fraser. About being undercover. To be really good at it, you can’t stray too far from the truth. Even gotta let some of it bleed out once in a while.”
He meets Fraser’s eyes again, just briefly, but the expression in them is just as unexpectedly gentle as the smile still on his face.
Something small and warm and treacherous flares in Fraser’s chest, and he tries his best to quell it. But Ray is still smiling that small, soft smile, and Fraser realises he’d been wrong, before: this is his true downfall, this is the thing he’ll never be able to defend himself against.
“But,” Fraser starts, uncertainty still present but wavering, wavering, “aren’t you afraid that would compromise your cover? Letting yourself… bleed, like that?”
“Sure.” The car comes to a stop and Fraser belatedly realises that they’re at the Consulate already. “But that’s assuming it’s a cover I want to stay intact.” Without warning, Ray turns and looks at him directly, his gaze pinning Fraser in place.
“I, I,” Fraser stutters, surprised by the intensity in Ray’s eyes. “I don’t underst—”
Ray’s smile suddenly turns into a full-blown grin.
“You need me to say it all logical-like, buddy? Okay, I’ll give it a shot.” He thinks for a moment. “You saw those bits of me bleeding out and you thought they were things I couldn’t hide. But you got it backwards, Fraser. Maybe I wasn't trying to hide them. Maybe… Maybe they're part of a cover I don’t mind getting blown.” He ducks his head then, and when he looks up again, the expression on his face is somehow equal parts wicked and shy. “I mean,” he adds, and shrugs. “So to speak.”
The words sink in and Fraser’s face goes hot. Fraser’s everything goes hot.
“So,” Fraser says, voice not at all steady, “what you’re saying is that—”
“Fraser.” Ray licks his lips and Fraser’s train of thought just puffs out of existence, leaving him staring blankly at Ray's wet, wet mouth. “I try to be any more logical than this and things are gonna start getting pretty X-rated in here.”
“Ah,” Fraser manages. He swallows. “Is that—a bad thing, necessarily?”
Ray raises his eyebrows. “No, not necessarily,” he says. “But I’m not 17 anymore, either. I got an apartment, you know. With a really big bed and everything. I promise.”
And then he stops, and a flash of seriousness breaks through the amusement and the heat. Another truth bleeding out, Fraser realises, just for him to see.
“What do you say, Fraser?” Ray asks quietly. His lips quirk a little. “Wanna see what else is under the cover?” And he reaches across the car and holds out a hand.
Fraser takes it, and after a moment’s hesitation, he brings it up to his mouth to press a soft kiss into Ray's palm.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Fraser says, and Ray’s surprised laughter is the last thing he hears before the GTO roars to life again, taking them back to Ray’s apartment and his really big bed and—and everything, just as Ray had promised.