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Title: What does my hair say?
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Fraser/Vecchio
Rating: PG
Word Count: 634
Summary: Ray washes Fraser's hair with Nix.
Notes: for catwalksalone, who said: "you know what's realistic and lovely? Vecchio washing Fraser's hair after niece number three had a hair lice scare." UM YES PLEASE, said my brain. Unbeta'd.
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine and I am making no money off this.

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"Ugh, this stuff is disgusting!" Fraser can hear Ray squeezing the bottle of Nix; the smell is sharply medicinal, but, to Fraser's mind, not awful. They're in Fraser's communal bathroom; Fraser is in sweatpants and an undershirt, kneeling beside the bathtub with his head over the side.

"Ray, I appreciate this, but you really needn't." Fraser wishes he didn't feel obligated to make the protest; Ray's assistance turns a dull chore into an undeniably pleasant experience.

But Ray's never listened to Fraser's polite demurrals before, and he doesn't seem inclined to start. "Don't be ridiculous, Benny," he says. "Shampooing for lice is not something you do by yourself. Although maybe that's 'cause it's usually kids who get lice. That'll teach you to let Giselle ride on your shoulders, huh?"

Fraser's always done everything by himself, but he doesn't say so. Instead he closes his eyes and concentrates on Ray's fingers efficiently massaging his scalp, working the shampoo to a lather. "Actually, Ray, nit-picking is a common social ritual for mated pairs, among most primate species." He keeps his voice neutral. Teasing Ray is a delicate business.

"Mated pairs?" Ray repeats incredulously. He carefully places the flat of his hand across Fraser's forehead to prevent Nix from getting in his eyes, and works his fingers into the hair at Fraser's temples. Fraser finds himself more than usually reluctant to proffer the expected flat denial. While he's hesitating, Ray chuckles. "Only you would think this is romantic, Fraser."

Fraser's heart jumps--in startlement, in terror, in hope. There's an unexpected note in Ray's voice, and while he can make a guess as to what it means, he can't find a word for it. Is Ray measuring and calibrating this conversation as carefully as he is? He searches for the perfect response, one that will leave Ray--leave them both an opening, yet be ambiguous enough to deny if he needs to, not so forward it will frighten Ray into bolting.

But while he's searching, Ray tilts Fraser's head with his soapy hand and begins rubbing small circles behind his ears. Fraser hums, a tiny, needy noise--and a mortifyingly familiar one. It's the same sound Diefenbaker makes when Fraser scratches behind his ears, with the same notes of adoration and contentment, and the same underlying demand for a repetition of the caress.

Ray pauses--and then he does repeat it. Fraser grits his teeth and grips the edge of the tub, trying to focus on the cracked porcelain and iron under his fingers. This time he doesn't make a sound--but his triumph is short-lived. He shivers. He desperately resents his body's betrayal.

Ray rocks back on his heels. "Really?" His voice squeaks on the word, a habit Fraser once found merely humorous and which by now inspires an almost unspeakable tenderness.

"I'm afraid so, Ray." He waits, head bowed. He can't even look at Ray for fear of getting pesticide in his eyes.

"Well," Ray says, at last, and the rich satisfaction in his voice makes Fraser light-headed. If this is what wine is like, he's amazed everyone isn't drunk from sunrise to sunset. "You know what me and you are doing tonight, Benny? Right after I go through your hair with a fine-tooth comb?"

"What?" Fraser refuses to hold his breath.

"We're going out and buying Giselle the biggest stuffed animal we can find."

"Why is that, Ray?" He keeps waiting for the blow to fall. It hasn't, and that frightens him.

"You know. I figure I owe the kid one." And then, wonder of wonders, Ray leans forward and presses a tiny kiss on Fraser's bare shoulder.

How is it possible for the world to be this bright when his eyes are closed? "Apparently, so do I."