just when you thought it could get any worse

[wildmachinery.livejournal.com]

Cliche #1, weighing in at 694 words.



Translation

"Ray."

His head was pounding, and sleep was calling. He kept his eyes shut and muttered, "Don't wanna get up yet ... g'way ..."

"Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray!"

God. "What?!" he snapped, jerking his head up and immediately regretting it. He clapped a hand over his mouth and didn't breathe until his stomach settled back down where it belonged. Then he carefully sat up, eyes still closed, and said, "Fuck."

A hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. "I share the sentiment, Ray."

He opened his eyes to see Fraser giving him the full blast of the Worried Mountie Look. One side of his mouth quirked up in response. "I'm fine, Fraser. Not going to throw up or die or anything. Now where the hell are we?"

"That's good to hear, Ray. In response to your question, we appear to be in a rather small enclosed storage cabinet."

"You mean we're in a closet."

"... yes, Ray."

"Bastards shoved us in a closet?!"

Fraser canted his head slightly to the side. The glare of the single naked bulb threw his face into deep shadow, but Ray had a feeling that he was starting to move on to the Stoic Mountie Look. "Yes, Ray."

Ray ground his teeth. His headache was getting worse. "Well, we better get out of here soon and without help, or we'll never hear the end of it from the Duck Brothers." He swayed to his feet and headed for the door.

"Well," Fraser said, still sitting, "there are no windows, and the door is locked from the outside."

"But you've got some idea of how to get us out, right?" Ray patted his sides, his pockets, and the waistband of his pants. "They took my gun. Fraser, you let those fucktards take my gun?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Ray. I'm afraid I was a tad unconscious at the time."

Ray looked over to see Fraser giving him the polite version of a glare, turned right back around, and viciously kicked at the door. "Ow."

Fraser sighed. "The door also appears to be at least six inches thick and made of solid oak."

Which was Fraser-talk for I already tried that, dumbass, now sit the fuck down before you hurt yourself. Ray took the two steps back to Fraser and sat the fuck down. The red serge was scratchy under Ray's cheek as he lay his head on Fraser's shoulder. "Sorry."

"It's perfectly all right, Ray." Fraser wrapped one arm around his waist. "I must say I do have one idea as to our means of escape."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. However, it does require the involvement of outside parties-" Ray groaned, and Fraser soldiered on, "-outside parties who will most likely be Detectives Huey and Dewey, as they are the most reliable plainclothes officers working this shift."

"There's a laugh. Huey and Dewey, reliable. How are we supposed to contact them, Fraser? Carrier pigeon? Messenger cockroach?"

"Don't be silly, Ray. Your cellular phone would be a much more logical choice."

"Fraser, they took my gun. I really don't think they would leave my cell-"

Fraser pressed the cellular into his hand.

"-phone. Fraser, you're a fuckin' genius, I swear to god, and I don't ever want to know where you were hiding that thing this whole time."

"I assure you, it was nothing indecorous, Ray ..."

Ray tuned the rest out as he punched in the number for Dewey's desk. Greetings, insults, locations, requests for assistance, more insults, and goodbyes in the space of a minute, and he snapped the phone shut. "They'll be here in twenty."

"Ah. Excellent."

They sat together in comfortable silence for several minutes.

"May I ask as to why you were so set against outside help?"

Ray brushed his lips gently against Fraser's cheek. "No big deal. I just didn't want to have to risk sitting through a week of stupid closet jokes unless I really had to, y'know?"

Fraser's brow furrowed bemusedly. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Ray grinned. "Never mind." Fraser's hair was cool and soft under his hand, and they still had at least fifteen minutes. "Must've gotten lost in the translation."

-end-