...if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you without charge. Do you understand these rights?

Fraser's talking, he can hear Fraser talking, but somehow none of the words are making their way past the buzz in his head to his brain, his brain that went south with the snick of the cuffs closing around his wrists. He's looking at his hands and they looked different to him somehow, different with the steel locked securely around his wrists, and they're his hands, of course they're his hands, but jesus, they look...they look...

And Ray looks up at Fraser and Fraser's looking at Ray's hands, too, and Fraser's gone still, and his breath is careful, he's breathing carefully like he does when he's mad or hiding something, and then Fraser slowly lifts his eyes and now Ray can see that there's something new in Fraser's eyes, something hot and still, a heat that's burning up all the oxygen in the air. Ray can't breathe, can't seem to take a deep breath, and maybe it's the head injury making him feel so weird but his hands are heavy, they feel so heavy and he's moving so slow with the cuffs on, and his dick is hard, jesus, his dick is hard and christ, it's hot in here, it's hot, it's so fucking hot...

And Ray doesn't know now how crazy this day will get. Ray doesn't know now how much he'll come to doubt himself, how trapped he'll feel inside these paneled walls that smell of lemon oil. How he'll spend tonight sitting at the edge of his makeshift bed at the Consulate, listening to Fraser pace in his tiny office and surrounded by the feel of Fraser's flannel shirt, and it's the flannel making him itch he'll tell himself, not the fear underneath his skin, not the way he can't settle down. Doesn't know now that it will take everything in him not to go knock on Fraser's door, not to let Fraser see this thing that just took root inside him, just now, this thing that will grow, out of control, all day. Doesn't know that tomorrow morning over breakfast in the stainless steel Consulate kitchen, with Turnbull wearing that ridiculous apron and blithering on non-stop about the difference between French roast and Continental roast, that Fraser will watch him with an intensity and a determination that will make Ray shiver, even with his hands, his unbound hands, clasped around a hot cup of coffee. Doesn't know that Fraser will pull a rabbit out of his Stetson and somehow clear him of murder with just a blank piece of paper and the Canadian version of brass balls. Doesn't know that when this is all over Fraser will take him back to his apartment, and that the first time Fraser makes love to him will be on Ray's bed, arms stretched high above his head and wrists shackled securely to his headboard with these very same handcuffs. That he'll wrap his legs around Fraser's hips, hips that are driving hard and fast against his, and it will be wild and, oh god, unbearably sweet.

Ray doesn't know any of this now. Ray only knows that when he finally finds breath enough to ask, "You put me in handcuffs, Fraser?" that his voice sounds thick and strained, even to his own ears, and that when Fraser finally looks away, looks away from Ray's eyes and Ray's hands, his bound hands, and clears his throat awkwardly and fumbles for the key, that the heat in his eyes doesn't diminish even as he says, "Perhaps this is an unnecessary formality, Ray," and that Fraser's hands are shaking, just like Ray's hands are shaking, as he unlocks the cuffs and drops them back in the drawer.