one story, two and a half cliches.
Jul. 28th, 2003 12:53 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
dsudis.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionA little over the limit, at 1,214 words...
Fraser was jerked from his uneasy doze by the sound of unsteady steps approaching the open door of his office. It was Ray, of course–-he recognized his partner’s footfalls despite the peculiarity of his gait–-and so Fraser lay still and waited for him to appear.
After a couple of long pauses, punctuated by thuds which suggested that Ray was rebounding off the walls, he came into view in a sudden flurry of motion, stumbling across the doorway and catching himself against the jamb. Ray’s hair was in something Fraser was reasonably certain he could identify as a state of disarray, his eyes were bloodshot, and half his shirtfront was soaked. Ray leaned precariously forward, holding on to the doorframe with one hand, blinking in Fraser’s direction. After a moment, with what seemed to be great deliberation, he said, “Hey, Fraser, I didn’t mean to wake you up. Just needed to borrow a clean shirt.”
Fraser frowned. “Ray, have you been drinking?”
Ray gave him a wide-eyed innocent look that would have been more convincing had he not been weaving slightly while otherwise standing still. “No, Fraser, no way. That wouldn’t be buddies, leaving you in here all laid up and going out front to get trashed on the Consulate goodies.”
Fraser frowned harder. The overwhelming odor of expensive brandy emanating from Ray’s direction made it difficult to accept that statement at face value. He wondered what had driven his partner to this; when he’d fallen asleep, Ray had been in good spirits, if nearly as bored after thirty-six hours in the Consulate as Fraser was after thirty-six hours flat on his back.
Ray detached himself from the doorway and, with nearly steady steps, reached the desk. “Ray,” he said, as persuasively as he knew how, hoping that Ray’s impaired state would make this easier, “perhaps you should go on home, now. I really don’t need to be watched over.”
“Ah-ah, Fraser,” Ray waved a finger wildly in his direction. “I’m going nowhere, unless you want me to call an ambulance, or a cab, or the nice ladies at the Visiting Nurses Association. You’re either getting your back looked at, or you’re staying in bed til you can move.”
Fraser rolled his eyes. “Ray, I’m perfectly capable–-”
“You didn’t see your face the last time I let you sit up, Fraser. You nearly passed out.”
Fraser pursed his lips. Of the two of them, it was hard to say who was in greater danger of losing consciousness. What was clear, however, was who had further to fall. “Ray, perhaps you should lie down.”
“Nuh-uh, Fraser, I go back out to the living room and you’ll be trying to get out of bed. I’m on to you.”
Fraser closed his eyes, counting mentally to ten, not sure whether he was fighting back irritation or just the ever present desire for Ray to be on to him in another sense entirely.
When he opened his eyes again, Ray was standing over him, still weaving a bit, steadying himself with one hand on Fraser’s desk chair. “You could lie down here, Ray.”
Ray scowled. “Not on the floor, Fraser. I’ll end up as bad off as you, I don’t do floors if it’s not for a case.”
Fraser sighed. “Well, we’ll just have to share the cot, then. You insist upon keeping watch on me, there’s only one place in this office to lie down, and we’ve both got to get some sleep.”
Ray frowned down at him so fiercely Fraser thought he must suspect him of having ulterior motives–-a misgiving he might have shared, if he hadn’t been so utterly immobilized. He met Ray’s gaze as coolly as he could, and after a moment, Ray let go of the desk chair and sank, in a mostly controlled fashion, onto the edge of the cot. Fraser closed his eyes, then, because Ray’s hands, strong and warm, were on him, one on his side, another on his hip, gently easing him sideways across the cot without jarring his back. He tried to help, but Ray murmured, “No, let me,” in a voice of such ordinary clarity that he opened his eyes again.
Ray was looking down at his own hands, but those hands had finished their work in shifting Fraser to the side of the cot, and now remained, still and heavy on his skin through the thin layers of his t-shirt and sweat pants. The hand on his hip slid sideways, to his belly, rucking up his shirt to rest on bare skin, and he couldn’t help drawing a sharp breath. The pain that shot through his back at the careless motion mirrored the arousal that shivered through him from Ray’s touch, one neatly annihilating the other, like matter and antimatter. He had to close his eyes, and when he opened them again, Ray was watching him, with eyes whose redness was rapidly fading, clear and bright and sharply focused. “Ray,” he said softly, “have you been drinking?”
Ray’s smile spread slowly across his face, like butter melting. “Nah. S’mostly on my shirt, and some in my hair.”
He blinked, and dared to raise one hand to cover Ray’s on his stomach. “Why?”
Ray shrugged. “Had to give us an out, right? Had to be able to say I was drunk.” Ray plucked at the wet shirt, sending an almost overpowering wave of warm-brandy smell, and Fraser wrinkled his nose. Ray smiled apologetically. “Sorry, sorry. Lemme get rid of this.” He bent forward, effortlessly bowing his back in a way that made Fraser ache, as much with envy as with momentarily hopeless lust, and pulled the soiled shirt off, tossing it across the desk and through the doorway.
Gloriously half-naked, Ray smiled and leaned himself over Fraser, pressing his face against Fraser’s cheek. Drawing in as deep a breath as he could, Fraser smelled a little brandy, mixed with hair gel and shampoo and sweat, and the familiar unique smell of Ray. When Ray turned his head and kissed him, Fraser faintly tasted the reception desk mints in his mouth, and nothing else, though his examination was thorough.
Ray lifted his head, and grinned down at Fraser, breathing hard. “So whaddya think,” he murmured, eyes alight, his lips slick with kisses, “do I smell like a guy who knows what he’s doing?”
“You do,” Fraser said, softly, forcing himself to breathe evenly and meet Ray’s gaze squarely. “So I’m afraid you have no out.”
Ray grinned broadly. “Still got my escape hatch, though.”
Fraser closed his fingers around Ray’s wrist, and Ray looked down at their hands, leaving Fraser studying his left ear, a little pink, and his hair, still unevenly damp, for clues. “Yeah,” Ray said finally. “Y’know. If I try this and screw it up, I can take off, and you won’t be able to come after me.” Ray looked up then, the corners of his mouth slightly curled, as though that had been a joke.
Fraser shook his head as much as he dared. “I'm a Mountie, Ray. I'd find you."
Ray nodded. “Yeah, you would. Except I wouldn’t leave you alone in the first place.” He leaned close again, his forehead against Fraser’s, close enough to taste. “I guess that’s why I had to try.”
Fraser was jerked from his uneasy doze by the sound of unsteady steps approaching the open door of his office. It was Ray, of course–-he recognized his partner’s footfalls despite the peculiarity of his gait–-and so Fraser lay still and waited for him to appear.
After a couple of long pauses, punctuated by thuds which suggested that Ray was rebounding off the walls, he came into view in a sudden flurry of motion, stumbling across the doorway and catching himself against the jamb. Ray’s hair was in something Fraser was reasonably certain he could identify as a state of disarray, his eyes were bloodshot, and half his shirtfront was soaked. Ray leaned precariously forward, holding on to the doorframe with one hand, blinking in Fraser’s direction. After a moment, with what seemed to be great deliberation, he said, “Hey, Fraser, I didn’t mean to wake you up. Just needed to borrow a clean shirt.”
Fraser frowned. “Ray, have you been drinking?”
Ray gave him a wide-eyed innocent look that would have been more convincing had he not been weaving slightly while otherwise standing still. “No, Fraser, no way. That wouldn’t be buddies, leaving you in here all laid up and going out front to get trashed on the Consulate goodies.”
Fraser frowned harder. The overwhelming odor of expensive brandy emanating from Ray’s direction made it difficult to accept that statement at face value. He wondered what had driven his partner to this; when he’d fallen asleep, Ray had been in good spirits, if nearly as bored after thirty-six hours in the Consulate as Fraser was after thirty-six hours flat on his back.
Ray detached himself from the doorway and, with nearly steady steps, reached the desk. “Ray,” he said, as persuasively as he knew how, hoping that Ray’s impaired state would make this easier, “perhaps you should go on home, now. I really don’t need to be watched over.”
“Ah-ah, Fraser,” Ray waved a finger wildly in his direction. “I’m going nowhere, unless you want me to call an ambulance, or a cab, or the nice ladies at the Visiting Nurses Association. You’re either getting your back looked at, or you’re staying in bed til you can move.”
Fraser rolled his eyes. “Ray, I’m perfectly capable–-”
“You didn’t see your face the last time I let you sit up, Fraser. You nearly passed out.”
Fraser pursed his lips. Of the two of them, it was hard to say who was in greater danger of losing consciousness. What was clear, however, was who had further to fall. “Ray, perhaps you should lie down.”
“Nuh-uh, Fraser, I go back out to the living room and you’ll be trying to get out of bed. I’m on to you.”
Fraser closed his eyes, counting mentally to ten, not sure whether he was fighting back irritation or just the ever present desire for Ray to be on to him in another sense entirely.
When he opened his eyes again, Ray was standing over him, still weaving a bit, steadying himself with one hand on Fraser’s desk chair. “You could lie down here, Ray.”
Ray scowled. “Not on the floor, Fraser. I’ll end up as bad off as you, I don’t do floors if it’s not for a case.”
Fraser sighed. “Well, we’ll just have to share the cot, then. You insist upon keeping watch on me, there’s only one place in this office to lie down, and we’ve both got to get some sleep.”
Ray frowned down at him so fiercely Fraser thought he must suspect him of having ulterior motives–-a misgiving he might have shared, if he hadn’t been so utterly immobilized. He met Ray’s gaze as coolly as he could, and after a moment, Ray let go of the desk chair and sank, in a mostly controlled fashion, onto the edge of the cot. Fraser closed his eyes, then, because Ray’s hands, strong and warm, were on him, one on his side, another on his hip, gently easing him sideways across the cot without jarring his back. He tried to help, but Ray murmured, “No, let me,” in a voice of such ordinary clarity that he opened his eyes again.
Ray was looking down at his own hands, but those hands had finished their work in shifting Fraser to the side of the cot, and now remained, still and heavy on his skin through the thin layers of his t-shirt and sweat pants. The hand on his hip slid sideways, to his belly, rucking up his shirt to rest on bare skin, and he couldn’t help drawing a sharp breath. The pain that shot through his back at the careless motion mirrored the arousal that shivered through him from Ray’s touch, one neatly annihilating the other, like matter and antimatter. He had to close his eyes, and when he opened them again, Ray was watching him, with eyes whose redness was rapidly fading, clear and bright and sharply focused. “Ray,” he said softly, “have you been drinking?”
Ray’s smile spread slowly across his face, like butter melting. “Nah. S’mostly on my shirt, and some in my hair.”
He blinked, and dared to raise one hand to cover Ray’s on his stomach. “Why?”
Ray shrugged. “Had to give us an out, right? Had to be able to say I was drunk.” Ray plucked at the wet shirt, sending an almost overpowering wave of warm-brandy smell, and Fraser wrinkled his nose. Ray smiled apologetically. “Sorry, sorry. Lemme get rid of this.” He bent forward, effortlessly bowing his back in a way that made Fraser ache, as much with envy as with momentarily hopeless lust, and pulled the soiled shirt off, tossing it across the desk and through the doorway.
Gloriously half-naked, Ray smiled and leaned himself over Fraser, pressing his face against Fraser’s cheek. Drawing in as deep a breath as he could, Fraser smelled a little brandy, mixed with hair gel and shampoo and sweat, and the familiar unique smell of Ray. When Ray turned his head and kissed him, Fraser faintly tasted the reception desk mints in his mouth, and nothing else, though his examination was thorough.
Ray lifted his head, and grinned down at Fraser, breathing hard. “So whaddya think,” he murmured, eyes alight, his lips slick with kisses, “do I smell like a guy who knows what he’s doing?”
“You do,” Fraser said, softly, forcing himself to breathe evenly and meet Ray’s gaze squarely. “So I’m afraid you have no out.”
Ray grinned broadly. “Still got my escape hatch, though.”
Fraser closed his fingers around Ray’s wrist, and Ray looked down at their hands, leaving Fraser studying his left ear, a little pink, and his hair, still unevenly damp, for clues. “Yeah,” Ray said finally. “Y’know. If I try this and screw it up, I can take off, and you won’t be able to come after me.” Ray looked up then, the corners of his mouth slightly curled, as though that had been a joke.
Fraser shook his head as much as he dared. “I'm a Mountie, Ray. I'd find you."
Ray nodded. “Yeah, you would. Except I wouldn’t leave you alone in the first place.” He leaned close again, his forehead against Fraser’s, close enough to taste. “I guess that’s why I had to try.”
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