A/N I couldn’t actually wrap my head around Fraser wasting perfectly acceptable sustenance so I looked at your prompt sideways and went ‘a fight about food.’
~*~
Fraser was usually the cook between the two of them, mostly because the first time Ray made Fraser breakfast in the morning he looked at the plate and went, “...Ah.”
(In Ray’s defense, he thought a clove of garlic meant the entire garlic bulb. It wasn’t like those suckers had labels on the packaging.)
So it wasn’t unusual when Ray got home (home, home, home, with his boots kicked next to Fraser’s and his coat hung up on the same peg, warm clothes snugged up together) that Fraser already had dinner going on the stove. It wasn’t unusual that Fraser gave him a quick kiss over his shoulder, and served up greens and potatoes and brisket with gravy. It wasn’t even unusual that Fraser, still sometimes shy about casual physical touches, nudged his toes against Ray’s under the table and asked about Ray’s day.
Ray, growing up Polish and taking a brief side-step into being Italian, was well skilled in eating while talking. Working on machines up North was a life or death situation at the best of times, but for once he’d got to tinker on a pet project for the Josies on the far side of what passed for a town. It was a long drive back in the snow, and a hot meal did a lot to thaw the tightness in his limbs.
Fraser hummed to show his interest, one silvery lock of hair flopping forward on his brow as he nodded toward Ray’s plate. “Are you enjoying the bear?”
Ray blinked. “The what?”
Fraser’s eyes were incredibly blue while he finished his current bite. “The bear. Ruby Monroe brought it by to say thank you for the work you did on her rig.”
Ray’s fork clinked as he set it down.
The meat--not brisket, but a dark, lean meat that tasted...like meat, what the hell, what the hell, “Fraser?”
Fraser took another bite, and spoke around it, like that wasn’t a tell all to itself. “Yes, Ray?”
“You-- I-- How--”
“Do you like it?”
A flush spiked up the back of Ray’s neck. “That’s not the point, Frase, you can’t just feed a guy Pooh--”
“That’s not fair, Ray,” Fraser said, pretending at being insulted even though he knew very well--
“As in ‘Winnie the Pooh,’ ya hooligan, treasured American--”
“English, Ray.”
“I’m speaking English!” Ray squawked, though he knew what Fraser meant, he knew, it was just that his mouth was dumber than his brain sometimes. “Fuck. You got any Canadian bear cartoons? Or they trying not to des--descent--desensitize you to turning cutesy woodland friends into happy meals?”
Fraser took it as an actual question, which was both frustrating and adorable, damn him. “I can’t think of any off the top of my head. But I wasn’t exposed to much children’s television, growing up.”
Boy did that show. Ray felt the all too familiar sensation of wanting to throttle the love of his life and simultaneously wrap him in a blanket and show him shitty kids cartoons he would hate. Well. He might like Scooby Doo. Hey, sorta-talking mystery-solving dog, just like Dief.
It was that image, more than anything, that drew him up short.
He squinted, wishing he hadn’t left his glasses in his coat pocket. “Is this a test?”
Fraser chewed, thoughtfully. “No,” he said finally, “it’s bear.”
Ray loved him so much it smacked him upside the head sometimes.
A nearly-atrophied part of his imagination tried to slot Stella into Ray’s place, the face she’d make, the fit she’d throw, but it was a tired old projector wheel and the tape was warped. It was a bad movie anyway, made in a whole other time, before techno-color and special effects.
He took another bite, this time deliberate, focusing on the food in his mouth rather than the warmth of it. It...tasted like moose, honestly, the closest approximation his brain came up with, and wasn’t that something, that the pathways in his brain had slotted earth’s meanest cow in between pizza and Chinese food.
Despite Fraser’s claim of ignorance, he watched Ray swallow with the kind of rapt attention usually saved for a crime scene.
Ray put down his fork, and pushed his plate back--just far enough that he could stand, lean over, and kiss the sudden wide-eyed look off Fraser’s face. The spark of tension in Fraser flickered and dissolved against his mouth, and this taste was familiar too--home, home, home, home, home.
“Best damn bear I’ve ever had,” Ray said, and this time Fraser kissed him.
