Outclassed
by Hth

The bench in the locker room clatters and skids on the concrete floor as Ray 
collapses hard on it. He winces; the back of his skull, previously the one place 
on his body that hadn't gotten the crap smacked out of it in the ring, just made 
a cracking sound against the aluminum. He sits up again, reluctantly, and peels 
the wet grey t-shirt away from his skin, up over his head. When he is free of 
it, Fraser is somehow standing right in front of him. For a moment Ray blinks, 
then he scowls. Great. Anyone else come to watch him get his ass kicked out 
there? His mom, his boss, his congressman? Ray looks down, away from those 
ridiculously *understanding* brown eyes. He is unwrapping the strip of cloth, 
once white and now a soggy grey color, that binds his hand, protecting his 
knuckles from blows that about had to do more damage to him than they had to his 
opponent. Fraser reaches down, stills his shaky hands. He cups Ray's wrist for a 
moment between his own hands, thick and cool like boxing gloves, and begins to 
unwrap the cotton. Mesmerized, Ray watches. Over and around, over and around. 
Placid and sober and intent, like everything Fraser did. Over and around, over 
and around. Ray flexes his fingers, the nails scraping Fraser's palm. As Fraser 
removes the loop around Ray's thumb, Ray closes his hand hard around Fraser's 
and dares to look up at him. The sympathy is mercifully gone from Fraser's face; 
he's just helpful, cause that's how Fraser is. Always there to lend a hand, 
thank you kindly. "I think I got the wrong shoes on," he tries. "Or maybe I got 
allergies." "Yes, Ray," he says, keeping Ray's hand in his while running his 
other hand lightly up Ray's bare arm, a touch that makes Ray shiver because it's 
just that warm against his cooling, clammy skin. "That's exactly what I was 
thinking."