Title: (Un)beaten
Fandoms: due South
Characters: Ray Kowalski, Benton Fraser
Rating: G
Length: 830 words
Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters, I don't own them, I derive no profit from their use.
Author Note: Just a quickie to say "Hello fan-flashworks, you're still dear to me and I'll be back once I finish digging out from under all the other projects I've somehow managed to commit myself to..."
Summary: Ray has taken a beating; Fraser takes him home


Fraser insists on driving Ray home, which Ray can’t even argue with because yes, he’s still on his feet, but his left eye is swollen completely shut, and even Ray isn’t going to actually claim he can drive with his eyes closed.  Between Fraser’s snail-pace and the bass-throb of pain through Ray’s head and most of his other body parts, the ride seems to go on forever.  By the time they get there, Ray’s stiffened up so bad he needs an assist from Fraser just to get out of the car.

Fraser half-carries him up the stairs, eases him down onto the couch, and disappears into the kitchen.  He’s back soon with something icy—feels like a bag of frozen veggies—that he presses gently against the banged-up side of Ray’s face.  The sudden cold shocks a groan out of Ray.

With his less-messed-up eye closed too, Ray can’t see Fraser, but he hears a little answering hiss of breath, like Fraser’s the one having his bruises jostled, here.  But Fraser isn’t the one who took the beating.  Not this time.  That’s about the one good thing that can be said for this otherwise shitty day.

“I’m making some tea,” says Fraser.

Ray thinks about trying to point out that his mouth is too fucked-up to drink tea right now, even if he wanted tea, which he doesn’t.  But his mouth is also too fucked-up to get in an argument, and anyway, he has a feeling Fraser might not argue back, and that would just make Ray feel crappier than he already does.  So he gives an agreeable grunt.

“Perhaps some liniment would help?” Fraser offers, weirdly tentative.  Usually, if Ray has a cut or a bruise or something, Fraser just smears stinky stuff on him without waiting for permission.  “Or, perhaps a hot shower?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Ray mumbles, his swollen lips garbling the words a little.

“All right.”  But Fraser keeps hovering; Ray can feel him standing there, close enough to touch, not moving.

“Sit down.”  He doesn’t even need to move his lips to say that.  After a moment, Fraser’s weight dips the sofa cushions beside Ray.  There’s something relaxing about feeling Fraser’s solid presence there next to him, taking up space, warming up the air between them.  The left side of Ray’s face is numb, now; his left hand, too, from holding the makeshift icepack in place.  If it wasn’t for the ache in his ribs and his other hand, he could just about drift off to sleep, listening to Fraser breathe.  Like that thing where they give a puppy a clock to sleep with, so it’ll think it’s its mother’s heartbeat. . .Ray can’t hear Fraser’s heartbeat, of course, just his own pulse throbbing through every bruise on his body.

“I’m sorry.”  Fraser’s voice startles him out of his half-doze.

“Not the first time.”  Ray makes an effort to talk normal, like it’s not hurting him.  “Won’t be the last.”

“I’m sorry for that, too.”

Ray’s not sure if Fraser means Ray hypothetically getting beat up or Ray hypothetically getting beat up because of Fraser.  Maybe both.

“It’s okay,” he says, because it really is.  He lays his bandaged right hand awkwardly on Fraser’s. . .knee, more or less.

“Okay,” Fraser echoes after a moment, but Ray can hear that that’s not the end of it.

So he waits, and waits, and finally Fraser says, “Did I ever tell you about Ray Vecchio and Frank Zuko?”

Fraser doesn’t tell that kind of Vecchio story, not ever, but Ray knows what he’s referring to.

“It’s in his file, Frase.”

When it comes to Zuko, the file Welsh gave Ray said way, way more than ever made it into Vecchio’s official records.  There’s tact, but then there’s not warning the undercover guy that you’re throwing him into a potential feud with the local mob.

“Ray is not a naturally violent man.  But he is very loyal to his friends.”

The only physical contact between them is Ray’s hand on Fraser’s leg, which Ray can barely even feel.  But he can sense the tension in Fraser’s body beside him: all his muscles on alert, like he’s about to jump out a window any second.

“Know what this world doesn’t need?  Three Ray Vecchios.”  Ray opens the eye that can open and squints up at Fraser until Fraser meets his gaze.  “You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

For a second, Ray’s afraid that Fraser’s going to come back at him with Understood, which would mean Ray would have to punch him or something, and Ray’s not in any shape for that.  But no, he gives Ray a little nod, still keeping eye contact, and Ray can see Fraser’s body relax, like he’s coming off sentry duty.  He lays a careful hand on Ray’s shoulder.

“I’ll see about that tea,” says Fraser, but he doesn’t take his hand away, and he’s still sitting there beside Ray when the kettle whistles.