•••

Ray loved just watching Fraser, letting the colors trail around his carefully controlled form like faithful tails of chaos, drawn to his partner like moths to one of those bug-zap lights. Somewhere along the way, Ray had read that those lights really only caught the 'good' bugs, because things like mosquitos weren't drawn to light. The analogy still worked; lovely, feckless chaos clambered around Fraser and the Mountie destroyed it in a motionless sweep of his hand.

Then again, those bright bits of what-the-hell disturbed Fraser's own calm, solid red. Fraser was red; Ray had known this before he'd even met the man. When he'd gone through Vecchio's files, there it was. Bright, carefully laid out stripes of vibrant red. Ray appreciated the forewarning; as it was he'd barely made it through the first day with the man. A red so warm he could barely restrain himself from reaching out and touching it. Ray simply adored that red, even more so when it wrapped around him as a moment of Fraser's attention found him worthy.

The comforting influence of Fraser's red almost completely buffered Ray from the man's voice. Elegant, curving script floating through the air, fading into oblivion as each new word wrote itself on the red of Fraser's self. Fraser's voice reminded Ray of the copy of the Declaration of Independence he'd seen once, with its exaggerated style and elongated lines. When Fraser shouted it was seeing Hancock's signature all over again, and his whispers were as delicate as the webbing of age-lines that covered old vellum. Ray had taken to not wearing his glasses so that he wouldn't be distracted by trying to read Fraser's voice.

Not that Ray wasn't constantly distracted. Red warmth, classic voice painted over every surface and that strange but intoxicating perfume of undisturbed snow that was Fraser's touch never left Ray alone. Being around Fraser regularly overloaded Ray's senses; he got jittery and hyper, not to mention easily aggravated. He couldn't help his reaction; though. The briefest contact--a helping hand assisting him to his feet--caught him in a cloud of wondering if snow really did smell like Fraser. And when the man asked how he was, if hitting the floor had injured his knees, Ray's eyes nearly crossed. Scrolling script curled around his fingers, smoke twining in his hair only to fade away.

Sometimes Ray just had to get away. Witnesses and suspects became his unwitting shieldbearers. They still had their colors and smells, but Ray wasn't distracted by their muted browns, murky stenches or the utilitarian typewritten letters of their voices. Out of sight, out of head--even if it never lasted. Then he was back inside the experience of Fraser's existence. Drunk but still steady on his feet and Ray wondered why no one had noticed how addicted he was to Fraser. Or if maybe there was an intervention waiting at the precinct.

The only time Fraser wasn't invading Ray's senses was when the Mountie was sulking about the pitiful state of his career. Fraser never even mentioned what he was thinking about; after the first bout of self-indulgent pity, Ray always knew. That gorgeous red turned into dull, burnt orange. The Mountie's touch smelled like Diefenbaker had lifted his leg against it and Ray always wanted to crawl out from under that hand. Words came out choppy and unwilling, scrawled so badly Ray wondered if Fraser had ever considered going into medicine.

At first, those times were few and far between. Fraser wasn't one for lazing about in self-pity. Lately, though, he'd been nothing but an overcooked pumpkin pie covered in yellow snow. Ray found himself losing weight. Who could eat when surrounded by that kind of atmosphere? At least Ray found it easier to concentrate. Anything to take his mind of the unpleasantness that followed Fraser everywhere.

But then Fraser would walk in and be his normal self; red and frozen and altogether perfect, penmanship elegant with every syllable. Ray would literally drop whatever he was doing and bask, letting Fraser flood his senses and become his reality. Again.