It hadn't been a particularly long night, not really, but it was later than Fraser was used to. The reception for the British ambassador had run long and when Fraser was finally able to make his way to his office, he sat down rather heavily in his chair. Dief padded over from where he'd been napping in the corner, patiently waiting for Fraser, and laid his head on Fraser's leg. Fraser rubbed his head tiredly. "Sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't know it was going to take this long."

The door to his office swung open, and Fraser looked up, trying to fix a polite look on his face. Constable Brighton stepped halfway in, her hand still on the doorknob, her expression looking amused. Vaguely.

Fraser stood halfway up from his desk. "Yes, may I -?"

She waved her hand, cutting him off. "Constable Fraser," she said, sounding pleased, and his stomach sunk. "You're needed downtown."

"Downtown?" he said faintly, wanting desperately to sit back down, but forcing himself to stand up straight, his hands tucked behind his back politely.

"Yes," she said curtly. "There's been an…altercation at one of the clubs at Clark and Belmont." She smiled. "One of the assailants is claiming diplomatic immunity. We must, of course, investigate."

"Diplomatic immunity," Fraser echoed, closing his eyes for slightly longer than a blink. "Of course."

"Off you go, then. Details are in the folder on my desk." She turned away.

"Shall I need back-up, of any sort?" He didn't know the city as well as he ought. He barely knew the Consulate. Still, he was tired or else he'd never have asked. He recognized his misstep just from the way she paused in the doorway.

She turned, ever so slowly, pivoting neatly on one heel. "Constable," she said, clearly affecting a tone of surprise, "surely a big, strong man such as yourself doesn't need back-up for a simple call for diplomatic immunity?" She blinked at him slowly, a moue of inquiry on her face.

He stood up straighter. "Of course not. I was merely-"

"Good-bye, then," she cut him off, striding out the door and letting it slam shut behind her.

"Of course not," he murmured again, and Dief whined from down by his knee. Fraser looked down. "I should be glad of your company, naturally," he responded. "Sadly, though, I - clearly - am expected to handle the matter by myself."

Dief snorted, staring up at Fraser.

"It will be fine." Fraser straightened his lanyard firmly. "The assailant is, after all, Canadian."

---

The club, when the taxi pulled up to it, appeared to be rather seedy, covered in graffiti with tags that showed up in none of the books on gang symbolism that Fraser had read prior to coming to the city. It was under the tracks of the elevated trains, shadowed and vaguely unsavory. The patrons outside were loitering restlessly, and seemed to have an exceptional number of piercings, some of which Fraser found quite fascinating, and would have loved to have stopped to observe more closely, had he not been on a diplomatic mission.

Upon entering the club, he took off his hat and engaged the burly man with the interesting piercing that seemed to go right through his chin, and was escorted to the area in front of the stage where the apparent incident had taken place. There were still people milling about, but the show was clearly over for the night, as the house lights were up, and the band that had been performing were packing up their instruments on stage.

The man escorting Fraser lifted his chin to indicate where Fraser should go. The alleged assailant was a man leaning back against the edge of the stage, smoking a cigarette. He was dressed head to foot in black - black jeans that were snug on his body and a worn sweater, riddled with holes. He had thick black hair that stuck up from his head wildly in all directions. There were thick silver rings in his ears and on his fingers. Yet, despite what would probably be deemed a sort of "punk rock" appearance, he mostly just looked calm, and a little weary. There was a faint network of lines around his eyes, belying his youthful appearance. Fraser guessed he was in his early thirties.

There were a couple of American police officers standing nearby. "Good evening." Fraser smiled at the officers, and then at the man leaning against the stage. "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

The man took a drag on his cigarette while eyeing Fraser up and down. "Fuck," he said in a long, slow drawl. "I didn't think that would actually work."

Fraser paused in turning towards the local authorities. "You are not, in fact, a Canadian citizen?"

"No, no, I am," the man said hastily. He thrust out one rough, square hand. "Hugh Dillon. Kingston, born and bred."

"Ah, well, good." Fraser shook his hand warmly. "Then I can help you."

"Yeah." Hugh gave him a long look. "I guess."

Fraser blinked, and turned to converse with the police officers. They seemed overly amused by his uniform - the red serge, as he'd been on official duty tonight at the reception - and by his hat, and even by his politeness and his endeavor to gather information about the situation. Eventually, he managed to learn that the gentleman - Hugh Dillon, the lead singer of the band - had apparently jumped off the stage towards the tail end of the show and punched an audience member in the face.

"He was harassing that chick," Hugh broke in sharply.

"Back off, buddy, the grown-ups are talking," one of the police officers said snidely.

Hugh shook his head impatiently and took a step forward. The office pushed him back with a hand on the chest, his other hand hovering near the gun on his hip.

Fraser stepped neatly in between the two of them. "Now, gentlemen." He eased back a little, pressing Hugh back step by step with his shoulder. Hugh gave ground grudgingly, and Fraser could feel him glaring at the police office over his shoulder. "Given that this is, clearly, an issue of Canadian citizenship, and as we at the Consulate do, as ever, endeavor to maintain a pleasant rapport with the fine officers of the Chicago Police Department, perhaps you would allow me to intercede, on your behalf, of course, and handle the matter in a prompt and pragmatic fashion."

He watched as the officer's eyebrows furrowed, his hand lifting away from his gun to rub at his forehead. "Huh?" he said, shooting a look at his fellow officer.

Fraser felt the pressure against his back easing as Hugh cursed softly and pushed away. The second officer was rolling his eyes. "Come on, Jameson," he said, turning towards the door. "The Mountie will handle it from here. Right?" he said to Fraser, and Fraser nodded and smiled, tilting his head charmingly.

"Of course I will. No worries, officer. Have a pleasant evening!" he called after them as they headed out the door of the club.

He waited, watching them as they left, before taking a deep breath and turning around to face Hugh. He was lighting another cigarette, his face tilted down towards the glow of the flame, bright in the dimness of the club. He snapped his heavy silver lighter shut and shoved it in the pocket of his jeans, blowing smoke out with a disgusted look on his face.

"Assholes," he spat out.

"Language," Fraser said mildly, looking at him.

Hugh rolled his eyes, blowing out a breath. "Whatever." He seemed to focus back in on the current situation suddenly, and eyed Fraser up and down once more. "An actual Mountie. I thought we were still in Chicago."

Fraser just looked at him steadily. "What happened here this evening, Mr. Dillon?"

Hugh waved the hand holding the cigarette at Fraser. "It's Hugh. And I'll tell you what fucking happened. Some asshole was fucking harassing this girl, had her up against the wall. I watched her trying to get away from him for a whole fucking song, and just - fuck it." He shrugged eloquently.

"You…intervened?" Fraser offered.

Hugh nodded, looking pleased. "Yeah, I fucking intervened. I intervened my fist into his face." Hugh took a drag, and held the smoke as he said, "Fucker swung at me first." He blew out the smoke in a rush.

There were no bruises or markings on Hugh's face. "He did not connect, I gather?"

"He was drunk, and I'm fast." Hugh grinned fiercely.

Fraser looked around the emptying club. "And the woman he was harassing?"

Hugh sighed, shrugged. "She took off right after."

"She didn't wish to press charges?"

"She was just here for the music, buddy. She didn't want any of this. She was gone before the guy hit the ground."

"Ah." Fraser studied Hugh's face. Here was someone from his own country, who clearly had a solid sense of right and wrong. "And the gentlemen with whom you had the, ah, altercation?"

Hugh made a disgusted sound. "He took off after the cops called you guys. He was just a stupid kid, an asshole, and the cops stopped fucking caring, got better things to do. Girl didn’t want to press charges, and the asshole harassing her didn't want to, either, I guess." Hugh paused, grinned with the cigarette between his teeth. "I think the cops just hung around to get a load of you."

Fraser did his best to not press his lips together. This was something he was going to have to get used to, and the sooner he learned to take it with good grace, the better. It shouldn't bother him. It wouldn't, usually. Usually, he was able to use it to his benefit. This, though, now, tonight - he was just tired. Worried and uncertain and alone in a city of which everything he knew came from a guidebook and not from experience.

Experience could be gained, he knew that, but right now, tonight - he was tired of all of it. Tired of everything.

"Hey." Hugh was dropping the cigarette, crushing it under one heavy booted foot. "Come on, they're closing up here, let's finish this up out back, eh?" He tugged a little at Fraser's arm, and Fraser didn't resist the urging, followed him through the narrow doorway off to the left of the stage. The hallway there was crowded with people, several of them staring wide-eyed as the two of them maneuvered their way down the hall.

"Hugh, what the-" The skinny kid was cut off as Hugh shoved him, not gently, against the wall with one hand without pausing in his stride. "Shut the fuck up," he called back over his shoulder. "None of your fucking business."

Fraser tilted his head at the boy, who was standing against the wall where Hugh had shoved him, not even lifting his eyes to look at Fraser as he went past.

Hmm. Hugh's orders were held in some regard.

Hugh poked his head into two different rooms before he found the one he was apparently looking for. He stood in the doorway, waving his hand to indicate that Fraser should go in ahead of him.

Fraser stood for a moment in the hallway, warring with politeness - was he an official or a guest? Should he enter first or second? What was proper, what was procedure, what - oh, to hell with it. He strode in, anxious to be out of the narrow hallway and away from the people edging past. Hugh came in behind him, closing the door firmly. "You mind?" he said, looking at Fraser, and it took Fraser a moment to realize Hugh's hand was on the lock. "Otherwise, we're not going to get through two sentences without someone coming in."

"Go right ahead, by all means." Fraser was tired, certainly, but there was no worry that this gentleman could in any way overpower him. And besides, he wasn't getting that feel from him. He'd been wrong before - he'd been deeply wrong before - but this felt all right to him.

Hugh threw the lock, and leaned back heavily against the door. His fingers were drumming against the front pockets of his jeans as he studied Fraser, who had absent-mindedly fallen into an at-ease position, with his hands tucked behind his back. "So," Hugh said finally, the corners of his lips twitching into a sort of smile, "is this really going to turn into an international incident?"

"Well," said Fraser. "Given the particulars of the case, and you evidently coming to the defense of the woman, though she is not available to corroborate that -"

"Yeah, but the guy I smacked isn't around, either," Hugh pointed out. He pushed off the door, poked around on the low table in front of the couch against the wall. Fraser watched him. He was probably looking for cigarettes. He didn't look like the type of man who was able to sit quietly without doing something with his hands.

"No," Fraser agreed, "he isn't, and without him to press charges, and the local authorities seemingly uninterested, I would say you are quite safe from being officially charged with any sort of assault."

"Well, good." Hugh sat down on the couch, throwing himself back with a sigh. "So all I have to worry about is doing only half a show, and ruining the peace-loving image of Canadian rock stars everywhere." He looked down at his bruised knuckle, then back up at Fraser. "I never claimed to be Bryan Adams."

There was a thud against the door and the knob jerked as someone tried to come in.

Hugh lifted his chin. "Fuck off!" he yelled, then shook his head apologetically at Fraser. "Not a moment's peace around here."

Fraser nodded. "I understand how you feel."

"Yeah?" Hugh did that thing again, where he looked Fraser up and down, and Fraser felt a shiver run down his spine, like a goose stepped on his grave, as his grandmother used to say. "Yeah, I guess you do. What was your name again?"

"Benton Fraser."

"Huh. That's a mouthful. Nice to meet you, Fraser." Hugh rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. "Sorry you had to come all the way down here for nothing."

"Well." Fraser cleared his throat, his collar suddenly feeling tight. "Not for nothing, per se."

Hugh looked up at him, quirking an eyebrow, and Fraser wondered if the room had suddenly gotten warmer. "Er, that is, I would have hated for the local officers to have had to have handled the incident on their own."

Hugh snorted. "They would have handled it fine. I would have maybe spent an uncomfortable couple of hours in a fucking cell, but - " He shrugged.

"Then I'm glad I was able to help."

"Just by showing up." Hugh leaned back, one arm hanging loosely over the back of the couch.

Fraser swallowed, trying to focus on the case at hand. Hugh was an interesting man. His mode of dress and style of speech seemed to be those of a ruffian, but then he interrupted his own show to stop a girl from being harassed. And yet it didn't seem to be a front that he put on; in fact, he seemed very comfortable with, well, every aspect of himself.

And he seemed to be as intrigued by Fraser as Fraser was by him, from the intensity of the looks he kept giving Fraser. Focus, Fraser told himself sternly. "There is a report to be filed, however, regardless of the outcome. Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions regarding the particulars of the incident?"

"Sure." Hugh gave him another one of those long looks. "Sit down, why don’t you?"

Fraser gave him a quick smile. "Thank you kindly." He flipped open the side pouch of his belt, pulling out a small pad and pencil, and moved around the low table to sit neatly on the other end of the couch. Hugh watched him move, smiling, and shifted on the couch, leaning back against the arm, one leg pulled up onto the cushion, the other leg sprawling to the side, his heavy boot planted on the floor. The black jeans he was wearing were quite snug, and Fraser's eyes fell naturally to the spot between his legs, lingering there for a few moments longer than he ever would have usually allowed.

When he realized it, and yanked his tired gaze back up, Hugh was looking at him calmly. Fraser couldn't tell if he hadn't realized what had caught Fraser's attention, or if it just happened so often, he didn't even react anymore.

With jeans as snug as the ones Hugh was wearing, Fraser was inclined to go with the second possibility.

Fraser flipped the book open, poised the pencil over the paper. "Mr. Dillon -"

"Hugh," Hugh interrupted softly.

Fraser glanced up. Hugh had yet to find a cigarette, and instead had his shiny metal lighter in his hand, turning it over and over against his thigh. The silver rings he was wearing caught the light as his hand moved. "Yes. All right. Hugh, may I please see your passport?"

"Sure," said Hugh vaguely, but made no movement to get up to seek it out. "Hey, so, are there always Mounties in Chicago?"

Fraser blinked. "There is, yes, a small contingent stationed at the Consulate."

"Huh." Hugh frowned thoughtfully for a second. "And do they always get sent out to deal with every two-bit Canadian miscreant that comes along?"

Miscreant. Fraser couldn't help but smile at that. He found, to his surprise, that he liked this particular Canadian miscreant. "I don't actually know. I've not been here long."

Hugh blinked. "Where were you before you were here?"

"North." Fraser sighed. "Very far north."

"Huh." Hugh chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "How do you like Chicago?"

"I don't," Fraser said shortly, before catching himself. "That is, I haven't had much time to explore or - " He made a helpless gesture with his hand. "- what have you," he ended lamely. "I'm sure I will grow to love it."

"Hah!" Hugh leaned forward a little. "You're a liar." He was pointing at Fraser with two fingers, and the light glinted off his rings again.

Fraser just looked at him. "I suppose we shall just have to wait and see the veracity of that statement."

"Veracity." Hugh eyed him. "Right. You're homesick, I bet."

Fraser was developing a headache behind his right eye. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me," Hugh said with some surety. "And your boss doesn't like you."

"What makes you say that?" Fraser's tone was closer to snappish than he would have liked.

"He wouldn't have sent someone like you, dressed like that, to a place like this, if he did."

"She," Fraser corrected. "And I suppose you are correct." It had been an astute observation, Fraser had to admit.

"I am. Trust me." Hugh ran his tongue over his lower lip, and Fraser caught himself unconsciously mimicking the movement.

There was a burst of muffled sound from the other side of the door, and they both turned their heads towards it. As it faded away, Fraser turned back, and Hugh was already watching him. "Come here for a second," he said, again in that tone of voice that demanded action.

Fraser stayed where he was, his sweaty hands clutching at his notepad. "I -"

"Just for a second." Hugh made it sound reasonable, logical, a simple enough request. When Fraser edged a few inches closer on the worn couch, Hugh reached forward. Fraser found himself holding his breath, not moving as Hugh's hand ghosted over his neck, and then with several short, concise movements, opened the collar to his uniform jacket, and moved his hand down to deftly loosen his lanyard.

Fraser stared at him for a moment. "You did that quite skillfully," he managed.

Hugh shrugged with one shoulder, looking pleased. "It's not my first time."

A series of images shot through Fraser's brain, of Hugh and his experience with uniform removal, and if he was not now and had not ever been a Mountie himself, then the experience was in removing someone else's uniform, and well, that was a particularly stimulating thought, wasn't it?

Even though his collar was now open, Fraser felt hotter than before.

"Loosen up a little," Hugh said, watching him through narrowed eyes, and Fraser felt a hot flash of anger surge through him. People said that to him all the damn time. It didn’t matter where he was, Chicago or Canada, or what he was doing, it seemed he was never doing it right. Angrily, swiftly, he tugged the lanyard further down, and unbuttoned the epaulets. He yanked the lanyard off over his head, and then unbuttoned his jacket the rest of the way, leaving it hanging open messily. He glared at Hugh. "Is that more suitable?"

"Hey." Hugh raised his hands as though in surrender. "Calm down there, Constable, I was just trying to help."

"Yes, well -" Fraser had nothing to add. He closed his eyes. "Thank you kindly," he said dimly.

"Hey," Hugh said again, his voice soft. Fraser could still hear people going by outside the door. He needed to get his notes written, get the information down, and get back to the Consulate. He had to write the report tonight, as he was certain Constable Brighton would want to see it first thing in the morning, and he didn't even know how he was going to get back from here, if he'd be able to find a cab or if he'd end up walking, and just -

"Listen, Constable." Hugh had leaned forward, and his hand was on the back of Fraser's neck, tugging him closer.

"Fraser," Fraser said, again more sharply than he had intended.

"Okay, Fraser, then. " Hugh's thumb - rough, calloused, he must play guitar as well as sing - was stroking Fraser's cheek. Fraser blinked his eyes open and thought for one fleeting moment that Hugh didn't seem like a gentle man, not really, but maybe -

Then Hugh's eyes dropped to Fraser's mouth, and Fraser felt a slow burn deep in his belly a moment before Hugh tilted his head and pressed his lips against Fraser's.

God.

His mouth tasted like cigarette smoke, but only faintly, and Fraser was too caught up in the moment, his heart pounding in his chest, all the heat in his body going directly to his groin, to let it bother him. His hands moved involuntarily and when he found that he had wrapped them in the thick weave of Hugh's sweater, he just gave in and tugged him closer. Hugh made an appreciative noise in his throat, and when Fraser - god, this was crazy - nudged his tongue against Hugh's lips, Hugh pushed further forward, and opened his mouth, meeting Fraser's tongue with his own. His hands slipped around Fraser's back, pulling him forward as Hugh sank backwards against the arm of the couch. Fraser - thinking wildly of locked doors and hot kisses and home - allowed himself to follow him down.

"Jesus," Hugh gasped, tearing his mouth away from Fraser's, only to slide his hands up his sides and around his back to nudge his coat off. Fraser was panting slightly and pressed up against Hugh and hard, god, he was hard, so hard already, and surely this was a bad idea. Surely this wasn't the sort of diplomacy covered in his job description. But he just shrugged out of the jacket, letting it fall onto the couch behind him, and went back to kissing Hugh.

It had been ages; it felt as though it had been forever since he'd done anything like this, anything even close to this. Actually, he thought, pulling back and sucking in some air before lowering his mouth to Hugh's neck and tasting him there - he'd never done anything like this. What happened before - anything that had happened before - wasn't like this, didn’t even come close. Hugh wasn't anything like anybody else.

"Fraser." Hugh was wrapping one hand in the shoulder of Fraser's Henley, tugging at him. Fraser reluctantly pulled his mouth back from Hugh's shoulder, licking the taste of Hugh's skin off his mouth.

"God. Okay. Yeah," Hugh said roughly, his lips red and damp. Fraser very much wanted to taste them again. But Hugh was shifting uncomfortably under him, and Fraser pushed himself back. Hugh was hard - clearly hard - in those tight jeans.

Hugh shifted again, adjusting himself in his jeans, and Fraser - before he could even think about stopping himself - reached forward and unbuckled the thick black leather belt around Hugh's waist, then thumbed open the top button of his jeans.

"Jeez," Hugh breathed out. "Make yourself at home, why don't you?"

"You're going to cause yourself injury doing this in jeans so tight," Fraser informed him, glad to note his voice wasn't breathless in the slightest, no matter how tight his chest felt. He was still in control of something, at least. He tugged another button open.

"Yeah, well, I kind of didn't plan on this, you know?" Hugh said, grinning and tucking his hands behind his head. Fraser could see the outline of his thick cock now, covered by only the thin layer of dark blue cotton briefs. The backs of Fraser's fingers brushed against it as he tugged at the denim, getting the rest of the buttons undone.

Hugh's breath was coming faster, but he still just leaned there, watching Fraser through lidded eyes. "You do this a lot?" he asked, but it wasn't mean, not really, it was just - inquiring.

Fraser took a breath, his eyes on Hugh's cock, straining against the cotton. "No," he said softly. "I don't usually do this at all."

"Huh." Hugh's hands came from behind his head and he reached for Fraser's shoulder, nudging his suspenders off, first one side, then the other. Fraser shrugged out of them, and gazed down at Hugh, licking his lips. Hugh let his hand fall, tracing against Fraser's side, and Fraser moved his hand to rest, deliberately and solidly, against Hugh's cock.

Hugh took a quick breath, his eyes fluttering shut, and his fingers tightening around Fraser's hip. "God," he muttered under his breath. "Fuck."

"Language," Fraser murmured, and Hugh laughed out loud this time, reaching up to thread his hand in Fraser's hair and drag him down to kiss him again. Then he moved his mouth to Fraser's ear.

"You don't get to judge my language skills when you have your hand on my cock," he said, his breath hot against Fraser's skin, before taking his earlobe between his teeth and biting it lightly.

Fraser felt it like a shot of heat through his body, and thrust his cock roughly against Hugh's hip, at the same time tightening his hand around Hugh's cock. "It doesn’t hurt to maintain a civil tongue," he said, working hard at keeping his voice steady. He was so hard, and it had been so long, and Hugh felt so good under him. Strong, steady, and there, his big square hands still tight on Fraser's hips.

Hugh laughed again, tightly. "I have your civil tongue right here." He ran his tongue over his lips, and Fraser gave in, gave all the way in, leaning in to press his mouth against Hugh's once more, sucking strongly on Hugh's - civil - tongue as he worked his hand under the elastic of Hugh's briefs and got his hand wrapped around him. Hugh's cock under his hand was hot and smooth, and Hugh groaned into his mouth and shoved his hips up.

Fraser stroked him, rocking his own hips forward as best he could against Hugh's hip. He heard, faintly, someone else try the door, but neither Hugh nor himself could be bothered to take themselves from the business at hand.

"Christ!" Hugh finally tore his mouth away from Fraser's, gasping for air. He had color high in his cheeks, and his cock was leaking freely against Fraser's wrist. Fraser moved his hand faster, and Hugh groaned, moving his hips up and up, sliding slickly into the circle of Fraser's hand. He was panting harshly, and Fraser leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Hugh's shoulder, looking down between them to see. Hugh's hard cock was sliding in and out of his fist; Hugh's breath was coming fast and harsh against Fraser's ear; Fraser's cock was throbbing in time with the rhythm of Hugh's thrusts.

He was mesmerized by the cadence of the whole thing, lost in it. When Hugh wrapped his fingers around Fraser's wrist, stilling his hand, he looked up, feeling a flash of quick frustration surge through him. "What? What?"

Hugh was lying there, looking up at him, his chest heaving. "Come on," he murmured, working his hands between them, skillfully working the closure to Fraser's pants. Every time his hands brushed against Fraser's cock through the wool, Fraser's pulse quickened, so aroused he couldn’t even catch his breath. His arms, where he had himself braced over Hugh, were trembling.

"Ah, yeah, there's what I was looking for." Hugh shoved his pants open and down on his hips, and palmed Fraser's cock through his boxers.

Fraser's arms shook harder. He couldn't breathe.

Hugh, looking up at him curiously, pushed Fraser's shorts down, easing the elastic over his erection. When he ran his rough thumb up the line of Fraser's cock, and swiped over the head, Fraser went down on his elbows with a muffled groan, his chest pressed against Hugh's.

"Yeah, let's go," breathed Hugh, pushing his hips up, and - oh holy god - stroking his cock right along Fraser's, just along Fraser's, perfectly, perfectly. Fraser groaned again, deep in his throat, and turned his head to press his mouth against Hugh's neck, mouthing him there as he moved his hips to meet Hugh's thrusts.

"Jesus. Oh, fucking hell, Christ." Hugh kept up a running monologue of obscenities, but it just added to the rhythm of the whole thing, Fraser getting lost in the rough chant of his voice, the perfect thrust of his hips, god, his cock stroking so surely and hard against his own.

It came as a shock when Hugh's hand came up to the back of Fraser's head, wrapping his fingers in his hair and tugging his head up off his shoulder. Fraser looked down at Hugh, wondering if his eyes looked just as wild and hot. The lines of Hugh's mouth were tense as he made a perfect, hard thrust up, causing both of them to groan out loud, before he tugged Fraser's head down and slid his tongue once more into his mouth.

It was intensely arousing. Fraser was overcome with sensations, his mind desperately trying to catalogue and record and remember each and every one, but kept getting distracted in the thrust of Hugh's cock, so hot and slick underneath him, the sureness of Hugh's tongue in his mouth, and Hugh's fingers still holding onto his hair, one of Hugh's fingers rubbing against the back of Fraser's neck to the rhythm of their kissing.

Fraser's head was spinning with how close he was, how with every thrust of his hips, every slide of their cocks together, he was sure he was going to come, sure of it, his climax imminent, trembling on the very edge of it, and yet each time managing to hold back, hold on.

Finally, finally Hugh tore his mouth away. "Jesus," he said breathlessly. "You -" He cut himself off, closing his eyes tightly.

Fraser pushed back just the tiniest bit, increasing the pressure and friction between them, his head dropping down, forcing himself to keep his eyes open. Hugh's body beneath Fraser's got tense, then even tenser. His hips lurched up off the couch as he breathed, "Fuck, oh fuck, oh holy fuck," against the skin of Fraser's temple, his cock spurting again, and again, and again against Fraser. Fraser watched the whole time, his forehead sweaty against Hugh's shoulder, so caught up in it that when the final thrust nudged him just right, just enough, his orgasm caught him almost by surprise. He moaned helplessly as he shook and shuddered his way through it, coming slickly against Hugh's hip, Hugh's fingers still tight on the back of his neck.

"Jesus." Hugh gave one final shudder, and he slumped back against the couch, boneless. Fraser took a deep, shaky breath against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of smoke and sweat and sex. He had to move, to leave, to go back, but he allowed himself a moment to stay there, pressed against Hugh.

Hugh shifted under him, finally, and Fraser made himself pull back carefully, sitting down on the couch next to Hugh's sprawling form. Hugh was still panting lightly up at the ceiling with his eyes closed. "Well," he said breathlessly. "That was fun."

Fraser carefully extracted a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and was involved in the necessary clean-up when he felt Hugh's eyes on him.

"You carry a pocket handkerchief?" Hugh's eyes were crinkled at the corners, his voice thick with amusement.

Fraser finished fastening his pants. "It comes in handy," he said defensively.

Hugh looked down at himself, still come-spattered and sated, and grinned. "You got an extra?"

Fraser, his face growing hot, extracted his extra handkerchief from his pocket, and proffered it to Hugh.

Hugh laughed out loud, not meanly. "Thanks, boyscout." He let his gaze rest on Fraser for a second, and Fraser felt self-conscious, his cheeks hot, even though it was ridiculous to feel embarrassed now, after all that they had done.

Besides. He sat up straighter. Hugh Dillon was Canadian. That had to count for something.

Hugh finished cleaning himself off, started to hand back the handkerchief, then stopped, grinning, and stuffed it in his pocket. "Don't guess you'll be wanting that back."

Fraser allowed himself a smile. "Consider it a gift. From the Canadian Consulate of Chicago."

Hugh laughed. "You're a funny guy, Fraser."

Fraser nodded. "So I've been told." He got up off the couch, and, seeing his uniform jacket on the floor, where it had slid during the proceedings, picked it up, dusting it off with his hand before shrugging into it.

Hugh stood up, as well, striding to the corner to dig through a duffle bag there. He emerged with a pack of cigarettes in one hand and his passport in the other.

He lit a cigarette, then rocked back on his heels, watching Fraser reassemble his uniform. "You need anything more than this?" he asked, holding up the passport.

Fraser looked up from fixing his lanyard, scanning the room for a moment before swiftly bending to scoop up his notepad where it had somehow ended up, halfway beneath the couch. He looked back at Hugh. "No, that should be fine." He quickly jotted down the necessary information, then handed it back to Hugh.

Hugh took it, pushing it into his back pocket. He eyed Fraser for a moment. "You might want to, uh - " He lifted his chin at his head, his eyebrows raised, and Fraser paused for a moment, then smoothed down the back of his hair, where it had clearly been mussed from Hugh's hands in it.

The thought sent a sudden rush of heat through him, and he quickly - firmly - staunched it.

Hugh's hair looked identical to the way it had when they started, sticking out in all directions and looking perfectly natural.

"Well." Hugh stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and put out his hand. "Thanks for all your, uh, assistance."

Fraser shook his hand gravely. "The pleasure was all mine."

The corner of Hugh's mouth quirked. "Not entirely."

Fraser grinned before he could stop himself. "Well." He cleared his throat, and straightened his already straight lanyard. "Good luck on the rest of your tour dates."

"Thanks." Hugh narrowed his eyes. "You going to be okay getting back to the Consulate?"

Fraser picked his hat up off the table, and placed it squarely on his head. "Of course," he said. "I am, after all, a Mountie."

Hugh's sharp bark of laughter followed after him as he unlocked the door and made his way down the hall.

~end~

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