So last night's gin is dancing a happy little dance on the inside of Ray's temple, and it feels like there are angry gnomes trying to tattoo War and fucking Peace on the inside of his eyelids and Fraser's making bacon. Ray can smell it from the bed, and normally this would be a good thing, a great thing, a damned fine thing to wake up to in the morning because a cooking Fraser is a happy Fraser, and a happy Fraser is basically Ray's mission in life.

And, besides, who the hell doesn't like bacon, right?

But right now, Ray's in hangover HELL, and this whole bacon smell thing is like a new and hideous form of biochemical warfare, and Ray was pretty sure that American-Canadian relations were doing pretty well. At least in *this* cabin, considering how Fraser'd been relating pretty well to Ray's dick with his tongue the night before.

Ray moans and rolls over, drags a pillow over his face, and hopes that the horrible food-fumes go away and that his stomach will stop trying to imitate some kind of tsunami what with all the pitching and heaving.

"Good morning Ray," says the weight that settles down on the bed next to him, and Ray's pretty sure that Fraser's not actually yelling, but try telling his *head* that.

Ray's grown as a person in the past couple of years -- all that Mountie politeness'll rub off on a guy, especially if you spend a lot of your time rubbing that polite Mountie off, which Ray does -- so instead of maybe screaming, yelling, or throwing his pillow at Fraser, what he does instead is bury his face in Fraser's nice, warm lap and whimper. It's where his face generally wants to be anyway.

There are fingers in Ray's hair, now, nice strong cool fingers, rubbing at his temples, and Ray's down with that. He digs Fraser-fingers, and he kind of purrs and arches his head up to make that point known -- but delicately, so as not to, like, encourage those angry tattooing gnomes. "I take you're not feeling well today?" Fraser murmurs, and Ray cracks one eye open, looks up at him.

"I'm not long for this world, Fraser," Ray says matter of factly. "I won't last another hour."

"Is that so?" Fraser asks, eyebrows arching up, looking all prim and proper even though he's not wearing a shirt and there are hickies all over him, and the idea of Fraser with hickies still makes Ray giggle like some stupid ten year old when he's not busy dying from a hang over.

"It's so, it's really fuckin' so," Ray whines, and his face is back in the comfort and safety of Fraser's crotch away from all that soul-crushing light. He wonders if Fraser would mind if he just kept his face here permanently, and really, that wouldn't be such a bad life. Although it might make official Mountie business a little exciting, but hey, Ray likes to shake things up.

Fraser moves a little, which is something that Ray's *not* down with, and he makes this clear by whimpering and clutching Fraser's thighs, but then Fraser's back, and lifting Ray's head up. "I happen to have put some aspirin and water on the bedside table, in the event of...well. You did seem to be enjoying yourself rather a lot last night. And as I have a rather vested interest in keeping you alive..."

Ray opens both eyes, and Fraser has *turned the light off* and is sitting there in the dark with a smile and a painkiller and some water.

"I have never loved anyone as much as I love you right now, right this very second. This? Is like, the peak of all love. This is it, Fraser, this is fucking *it*," Ray says gulping half the water down greedily and using the rest to wash down like, five aspirin.

"Fucking *it*," Ray repeats, lying back down again.

Fraser's fingers keep up their soothing little dance in Ray's hair, and he says, real quiet-like, "Yes, it is, isn't it?"