By the time they reach Ray's apartment, they are drenched. They had thought that the rain would hold off until they arrived, but the treacherous summer storm was able to fool even Fraser's keen weather eye. They enter quickly, their boots sliding and squeaking on Ray's hardwood floors. It's summer, so they weren't cold before, but Ray's apartment is air-conditioned and their clothes feel cold and heavy. Turnbull slips a little and falls against Fraser's chest, accidentally-on-purpose.

They move to the bathroom, its tiles safe from being damaged by rainwater. There's hardly room for the both of them there, but they manage. They undress quickly, letting their sodden clothing fall to the floor.

Turnbull looks at his superior officer and stops moving, riveted by the sight. Fraser still starches his underwear, but you wouldn't be able to tell it now. The shorts are thin white cotton-- regulation issue, but this pair is old. Fraser has mended the seam with thread that doesn't match.

Turnbull remembers how they came to be torn.

Clammy with water, the material clings to Fraser, turning faintly pink as the color of his skin shows through. He is facing away. His hands go to the waistband, ready to skim out of the wet garment.

"Stop," Turnbull says. "Please."

Turnbull steps up behind Fraser, letting his big hands settle on Fraser's hips. He bends his head and bites, very softly, at the tendon on the back of Fraser's neck. Fraser's skin is cool and damp but starts to warm beneath his touch. He kneels, slowly, dragging his mouth down Fraser's spine as he goes.

On his knees, he is just the right height to mouth at the hollow of Fraser's back. He neither avoids the bullet scar nor seeks it out; he is concerned with more important things, such as the sounds that Fraser makes and the tremors running over his skin when Turnbull breathes.

He sits back on his heels and looks. Fraser's back is flushed, the blood drawn to the surface of his skin by Turnbull's sucking mouth. One or two places where he lingered a bit will probably bruise a little by the morning. Fraser's skin shows the color well.

Fraser is still, waiting. A gust of air pushes through the crack in the bathroom door, and they both shiver. Turnbull leans forward and brushes his mouth across Fraser's ass, sucking rainwater out of the wet cloth, and the powerful muscles clench beneath him as Fraser sucks in a breath through his teeth.

The door opens.

"You guys have no patience, you know that?" Ray says. "I *said* six-thirty."

"We got caught in the storm," Turnbull explains. "We needed to change."

Ray raises an eyebrow. “And there's a new rule I didn't know about that you have to take off everybody's underwear with your teeth? Don't be greedy.”

“Terribly sorry, Ray,” Turnbull murmurs, and draws Fraser backwards, making room for Ray between him and the wall, and then removes Fraser's boxers neatly. He taps an ankle, and Fraser steps out of one leg of the shorts, then kicks them into the corner.

“Thanks,” Ray says, and slides into his spot. His face is inches away from Fraser's. “Hey,” he says to him, his voice warm and amused. “Having a good day?”

Satisfied that his verbal input isn't currently required, Turnbull takes the opportunity to run the flat of his tongue from the base of Fraser's spine straight downwards; Fraser's reply to Ray comes out as a strangled moan, and Ray laughs. He can hear them kissing, and nudges Fraser's feet a bit farther apart so that he can continue his ministrations. He can feel Ray's hands settle on his head, carding through his rain-damp hair, and he hums happily; he's always had a sensitive scalp.

“There's a towel rack in front of you,” he hears Ray saying, his voice a bit muffled as he kisses Fraser in between words. “When you need it.”

“We hadn't actually used any--” Fraser begins, but melts into a sigh. Ray's arms are moving; he pulls back a little to watch Ray sink gracefully to his knees, dragging his mouth and body down over Fraser as he goes. Ray meets his eyes around Fraser's hip, and leans forward for a kiss. His agile mouth feels shockingly good, and Turnbull presses into it, craving more. His weight makes Fraser overbalance a bit; Ray has to pull away from the kiss to catch him.

“Towel rack, Fraser,” he says.

Turnbull glances up. Fraser flushes, a bit-- it's funny the things that get to him-- but he grasps either end of the bar in front of him. He shifts uneasily and spreads his feet wider apart, seeking stability. Ray arches an eyebrow at Turnbull and grins, then pulls Turnbull's hand up to his mouth, pulling his first two fingers in. He sucks for a bit, then draws back, flicking the webbing between them with his tongue, making Turnbull shiver. His eyes gleam, and Turnbull nods at him, feeling his face crease with a conspiratorial smile.

Ray turns back to Fraser, who has been waiting, patiently, for them to finish their byplay and return their attention to him. He is tense and trembling beneath Turnbull's hand.

Fraser hates waiting, but he does it beautifully. Turnbull slides an approving finger into him as Ray applies himself to Fraser's cock.

He'll start out slowly, Turnbull knows, matching the movements of his own hand to the flexing of Fraser's thighs. Fraser has excellent control, and is usually able to keep himself from thrusting until the very end. Ray likes to try to make him do it sooner.

Ray will speed up soon, he thinks, and waits for the evidence of it. There-- a stuttering of Fraser's hips. Turnbull slides another finger in.

Turnbull sits back on his heels, keeping his fingers moving, and looks through Fraser's legs at Ray. He is hard, straining against the fly of his jeans, fumbling at his belt buckle with his unoccupied left hand.

Turnbull reaches across and unfastens Ray's jeans, easing him gently out of them. Ray hums his thanks, pushing up into Turnbull's hand, and Fraser clenches around Turnbull's fingers.

Turnbull spares a moment to be idly thankful that the occasional clumsiness that has always plagued him does not appear to extend to the metaphorical bedroom. Despite his late arrival, Ray is already close to orgasm, and Turnbull wonders momentarily how long he was standing behind the bathroom door.

They must make an interesting sight, knotted together in the middle of the bathroom. Holding Ray's silky cock in one hand while Fraser's heat surrounds the other, he feels powerful, as though he could control them both with little effort. He moves both his hands at once, smiling at the responses the motion draws from his lovers. They're moving in unison now, following his lead.

Ray comes first, jerking roughly into Turnbull's calloused hand, and something he does then sets Fraser off, too. It happens that way often; they've both found themselves becoming very attuned to Ray. Turnbull is only distantly aware of Fraser coming down heavily on his knees beside him as Ray presses himself against Turnbull's chest, reaching eagerly for Turnbull's cock as he parts Turnbull's lips with a tongue that tastes of Fraser. Turnbull feels the handle of the bathroom cabinet pressing into his back as he lets himself fall into his orgasm.

They lie for a while on the bathroom floor, and then Ray stretches lazily, smiling happily when he notices Turnbull watching, and drapes himself over Fraser's motionless torso to catch him in a kiss, resting his head on Turnbull's shoulder when he pulls away. “We should get up,” he says. “Floor's cold.”

“Fraser's lying on top of my legs,” Turnbull says. “Also, he broke the towel rack again.”

Ray laughs. “He's always been destructive,” he says, and Fraser makes a sleepy and not very vehement noise of protest. They lapse back into contented silence, and the rain outside continues to fall.


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