•••

It wasn't just him, he knew it. Down at the 27th, the bullpen was spotless. Detectives had nothing better to do than clean. Ray wanted a case, wanted something to do, but no one was playing along. Damn it, did no one in Chicago have the good grace to die violently?

Boring, boring, boring.

Fraser wasn't even around to chide Ray about being bored. Of course, Fraser probably *wasn'* bored. No, the ever-responsible Mountie was probably doing something wholesome and fulfilling, like masturbating into a box of All-Bran while watching a bonspiel or something. And for some reason, the image of Fraser jacking off into whole-grain cereal didn't make Ray's cock twitch. Damn, this boredom thing really was getting to him. Usually all it took was the thought of Fraser's cock, not wrapped in several layers of cotton and wool, to get Ray going. Hmm.

With an exaggerated sigh, Ray heaved himself off his couch. He might be bored, but his bladder wasn't. 'Empty me,' it whined. 'Beer goes in, beer goes out,' his bladder moaned. 'Make room for more.'

Ray boredly watched the toilet water turn pale yellow, little ripples lapping lazily against the porcelain bowl. A faint brown ring accentuated the water line. So his toilet bowl needed cleaning. That bored Ray, too.

Boring it might be, but cleaning the toilet bowl was better than nothing. Ray opened up the vanity cabinet, crouching down to get a better look. There had to be cleaner somewhere in the jumble of stuff. "Gel, dye, wax, spray, mousse, pomade, conditioner, shampoo..." Bottles went flying over Ray's shoulder. "Tampons, Massengill, KY-Jelly, Vaseline, pumice, a screwdriver..." The pile behind Ray grew ever larger as he dug deeper for some toilet bowl cleaner. "Mascara, blush, foundation, eyeliner, paste rouge, concealer, lipstick, glitter, pasties, deodorant, temporary tattoos, liquid latex, henna, dental dams, condoms, strawberry jam..." He checked the expiration date on the jam and then carefully set it on the counter. Only a year past date, so it was probably still good. Mmm. Jam. Slick-sticky jam. He'd always loved jam.

Especially after a long night slithering against some cut, brainless guy he'd picked up at an equally beautiful, brainless club.

Finally Ray collapsed on the floor. He couldn't believe there wasn't any cleaner under the bathroom sink. "Hot water bottle, aloe gel, epsom salts, bath oil, loofah, band-aids, ace bandage, metamucil, and what the hell am I doing with a box of Depends?" He muttered, not really wanting to know.

After another minute, Ray gave up on cleaning the toilet. Besides, cleaning the toilet meant flushing it and that sounded too boring. "Fuck this," He growled, swiping his hand across the huge mound of crap around him. A tube of something blue skittered across the floor, catching Ray's attention. He remembered that particular item: liquid eyeliner in I'm Not Lonesome Blue. It had matched his hair--after he'd dyed it Midnight Dark. Hmm... The presence of the eyeliner meant that somewhere in here was his Lone Ranger Silver lip gloss, Fuck Me Black mascara, and a bottle of black liquid latex. Oh, and his favorite silver body paint.

Math was rarely Ray's favorite subject... but it had its uses:

(eyeliner + hair dye + lip gloss + mascara + latex + paint) * (leather jeans + boots + collar) = the club scene he swore he'd never revisit

On the bright side, Ray was no longer bored.

It took an hour to get his hair dyed, only after which did Ray remember that the reason he'd never used the bottle of dye he'd found was that it was permanent. Pretty, sexy even, but permanent. Meaning the Lieu was gonna shit dingdongs on Monday. Ray just shrugged and checked the status of the now-drying latex. A glance in the mirror had him smirking. "Like riding a bicycle, kiddo." It might have been a few years, but once you learned to put on makeup without killing yourself, you never forgot.

Having decided that he was dry enough, tight enough, and absolutely nuts enough to get into the goat and continue to avoid the dreaded boredom, Ray spared a thought for his Mountie partner. Would Fraser be shocked at his appearance, or would he simply run a finger over one eyebrow and purse his lips, allowing silent disapproval to wilt Ray's effervescent happiness? Sometimes the Mountie was such a downer. Ray suspected that if he didn't use the hair gel equivalent of Viagra, Fraser's disapproving stare would wilt his haphazard spikes like a sixty year old cafeteria matron in a Dior bikini.

Coz *DAMN HIM* Fraser was like a valve hooked up to Ray's cock. He turned one way and Ray was pumped. Jacked. So hard he could pound nails. A cat couldn't scratch him. And then that look. *THE* look, and a choir of high-priced rent boys couldn't get so much as a twitch out of him. Like the air'd been let out of his favorite balloon and nobody but Fraser... Well, anyway.

But Fraser wasn't here, bless his red serge heart, and Ray was going out. By all that was holy, Ray was going to get his cock unhooked from Fraser's leash and let his best friend have a little fun. Fun with someone who didn't care about his smoking, or how he took his coffee, or how he washed his clothes, parked his car, talked, ate, drank, slept, walked, did his job, held himself at the urinal, or rolled his eyes. Because Ray really was a good boy, even if Fraser didn't see it.

Maybe, if he was a very good and not-boring little boy, he'd even get laid.

Hey, he still had that jar of strawberry jam, and the night was young.

•••

Constable Fraser walked into the 27th precinct, hoping with a desperation he'd vehemently deny that there was a crime somewhere in the city that he and Ray could solve. Or at least pretend to care about. Last week had been an utter letdown in terms of human frailties; no major crimes and no minor ones worth blinking at. The Consulate had been even more peaceful than usual, and the last thing he wanted to do was help Turnbull reorganize the feather dusters by native continent of donor bird species.

When Fraser reached Ray's desk, it was empty. Well, the desk chair was empty. The desk itself was covered in its usual detritus--coffee cups, candy wrappers and case files. Detective Vecchio-Kowalski was nowhere to be found.

"Yo, Frase."

Fraser turned around at the sound of Ray's voice. "Yes?" He managed to say before catching sight of his partner. His dark-haired partner. When had Ray dyed his hair? And was that a leather collar?

"Come on, we've got a DB," Ray said, bouncing through the bullpen.

"Ray?" Fraser murmured, eyebrows fusing with his hairline. What the...

Ray turned around, rolling his eyes at the Mountie. "Dead Body. Foul Play. Work for you and for me. Wake up, Fraser, or you're gonna have to go back and sort the Ice Queen's sock drawer by color."

Fraser forced himself to follow Ray out of the precinct. "So, Ray, how was your weekend?" He asked, working up to asking what type of misfortune had occurred to turn his partner's hair into an inkwell.

Ray shrugged absently as he slid into the goat. "Eh, it started out boring. Got better, though."

"How so?" Fraser ventured cautiously.

Ray's lips twitched into a smile. "I cleaned the toilet."