Flesh Wound

The problem, he thought as he evaluated his position, the problem with playing dangerous games was not necessarily in the playing but in the . . . flashbacks. In the possible confusion, later, over whether he was voluntarily playing a game or in actual mortal danger.

And, of course, the indignity of feeling his body react to danger as though it were a game that would end with the intense catharsis of sex.

His head ached, his arms refused to move -- handcuffs. He was on his knees with hands cuffed behind him to something solid. Lips sealed by tape.

And he was-- he fought the rising panic. Blind. Again. Breath. . . concentrate -- feel the touch of fabric on his face. Just a blindfold, thank God.

Alas, once his panic abated, he regained his erection. Well, he'd just have to ignore it until he'd ascertained the situation.

Knees pressed to cold wet concrete; metallic clanging at some distance, judging by the echoes, annoyingly off-rhythm with the throbbing of his head.

Warmth on his left, someone whispering his name. "Fraser. Fraser. Fraser. Fraser." An apparently endless litany.

"Mm?" He wanted to say "Ray" but couldn't.

Ray, if it was Ray, said, "Yeah, good, welcome back and get with the program, okay?"

"Mm." What, Fraser wondered, was the program? He didn't think that he was sexually involved with his partner, but then, his sanity had been called into question more than once, and his memory had failed on occasion.

"Lean over this way and I'll see if I can get the tape off your mouth, okay?"

Fraser leaned, and leaned further until only the handcuffs were keeping him upright and his shoulders ached. It felt good. His body reacted eagerly to the metal rings biting into his wrists.

"To the right, to the right, okay good. Stay there."

Then Ray was, well, nuzzling his face, trying to gain purchase on the edge of the tape. Ray succeeded, but seemed to be breathing harder by the time he finished. Fraser was keeping his own breathing under control only with effort.

Fraser had never been more pleased by the propensity of his facial hair to grow in slowly. Even the slight stubble under the tape stung. After coughing and stretching his lips, he said, "Ray. Please remove the blindfold."

"Give me a minute." Ray gasped.

While waiting for Ray to recover, Fraser concentrated on his sense of smell. No obvious mildew or mold, which indicated either that their location was usually dry or was well-cleaned. His own arousal. And something else. . . "Ray, I believe I smell blood."

"Fee fi fo fum, you smell the blood of a flatfoot, huh? That would be me." Ray replied, casually. "Okay, tilt your head down a little. I can do this. I can do. . ." he jerked at the cloth, so that it turned around his head before finally pulling it up to Fraser's forehead.

The area was dimly lit by skylights. They were in an industrial building, handcuffed to separate polished metal pipes. Ray was leaning against his pipe -- no, not leaning, he was pressing one side against it, and there was a disturbing amount of blood on Ray's shirt and jeans. The smear of red gleaming on the shiny pipe was obscene.

At last, thank God, Fraser felt his penis soften. There was nothing arousing about Ray's blood, and he silently gave thanks that his sexual idiosyncracies did not extend in that direction. "How badly are you hurt?"

"Not too bad." Given the amount of blood he'd lost, Fraser had some question about whether Ray was being macho, in denial, delusional, or actually telling the truth. It was quite a lot of blood. "Flesh wound. I think the bleeding's stopped, but I don't want to take the pressure off. How's your head?"

Fraser swallowed his customary response. This was policework, his partner needed accurate information. "Sore, but manageable."

They appeared to be in a brewery, of fairly recent construction, but with absolutely no smell of fermentation. "The criminals?"

"No sign of 'em since they dumped us here. About half an hour ago. The big eit-basket said they were gonna burn this place down around our ears, but I figure short of napalm we got more to worry about from starvation than fire."

Indeed, the building appeared to be made entirely of concrete, cinderblock, and metal -- there was very little flammable material in sight. But starvation was not their main concern. Ray's wound was. And watching Ray's eyes, Fraser could tell that Ray knew it. Bravado, then.

Fraser nodded. There were worse ways of coping in such a situation. "Actually, we're far more likely to die of thirst. Humans can survive without food for a surprising amount of time. During one of his hunger strikes, Mahatma Ghandi --"

"We're even better off than that, Fraser. I got a Mars bar in my pocket. Right next to my keyring."

"Ah." Ray's keyring. With it's handcuff key. "Since my hands are, ah, occupied at the moment, perhaps I should take my boots off. . ." Fraser began to toe his hiking boots off, thankful that he had not worn his uniform today. And that he made a practice of not tying the laces of his hiking boots.

Ray watched him for a moment, took a closer look at the front of Fraser's jeans, and then looked away. "I'll, uh, avert my eyes while you disrobe," Ray said.

His jeans? A small but noticable wet spot darkened the fabric where he'd leaked pre-ejaculate.

"Fraser? When we're out of this, we're gonna have a talk about you and handcuffs."

Before Fraser could reply with some variant of "over my dead body", a gunshot sounded through the building, following by ringing as the bullet ricocheted off one of the huge stainless steel brewing vessels. Saved by the bell, Fraser thought, instinctively shifting to put himself between his companion and shooter.

More shots, from other guns, and a flurry of movement beyond the equipment that blocked their view -- and mostly shielded them from stray bullets.

"Get down, get down!" Ray was saying, but Fraser was content where he was.

The shots died away, someone started reading the Miranda rights, and Ray started yelling for help. Diefenbaker bounded over and licked Fraser's face, followed by Tom Dewey. Dewey started to make a comment about Fraser's bare foot, but stopped to call for an ambulance as Ray keeled over, unconscious.

What with the commotion of first aid around Ray, it was several minutes before someone, Lt. Welsh in fact, thought to uncuff Fraser.

Fraser, admitting to a possible concussion, managed to obtain a seat in Ray's ambulance. Ray would be all right, the medic assured him. Perhaps they would have that conversation about handcuffs after all.

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