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[bluster.livejournal.com]

Once again I'm posting for Kellie and will forward comments



Significant
c. 2003 Kellie Matthews

His back didn't hurt. For long moments, Fraser simply lay there, enjoying that fact, until it dawned on him that his back always hurt when he woke up in the morning, which meant that something was different, which meant he really ought to open his eyes. So he did.

He lay on a bed. A real bed, not a cot, which explained why his back didn't hurt. Light filtered warmly through sheer red curtains, giving the room a womb-like glow. Out the open bedroom door, he could see an off-white couch, a maroon wing-chair, a television, a . . . turtle tank.

Of course. He was in Ray's apartment, in Ray's bed, in fact. Where he had retired the night before with Ray, although, regrettably, not in a romantic context. It had taken him an embarrassing amount of time to recall that, and to recognize his surroundings, which he excused by dint of having never seen them from his current vantage point, and the fact that his exhaustion the previous night had rendered his sleep sounder than normal.

The apartment was quiet. Well, as quiet as Chicago ever got, which meant that he could hear the faint hum of traffic outside, the sound of water running in an adjacent apartment, footsteps in the hall, a woman with a child, perhaps five or six years old, from the sound of it. Still, neither the television nor the stereo were on, which told him that Ray was absent not only from the bed, but from the apartment. He must have gone out for something. Perhaps he'd taken Dief out, since there was no sign of him either.

A glance at the clock showed him it was after ten. Shocking laziness. He ought to get up. But it was so nice to just lie there, comfortably, for the first time in ages. It had been awfully kind of Ray to offer to share his bed. He still wasn't sure how Ray had known he wasn't up to facing his cot. The events of the past few days had left him stiff and sore from the unaccustomed exertion of coal shoveling, and swimming, not to mention running up and down all those gangways on the Henry Allen. He could vaguely feel that in his gluteus maximii, even as relaxed and comfortable as he was.

Which likely explained how Ray had known. Ray had done all those things as well, and they were much of an age, and Ray got even less regular exercise than he did. Ray must have been feeling a similar assortment of aches and pains. He would have to commiserate when Ray returned.

He turned over, pulling a pillow into a comfortable shape in his arms, his face buried in it. Pillow. What a novel concept. He was going to have to get himself one of those. He sighed contentedly, and noticed that the bed smelled of Ray. It was delightful. He lay there breathing, wallowing, as Ray would put it, not quite asleep, not quite awake, until he could no longer ignore the fact that he really had to relieve himself. With a half-voiced grumble of resignation he pushed himself up to a sitting position and then got to his feet, scratching his hip absently as he wandered down the hall to the bathroom.

That taken care of, he stood indecisively in the hallway, wondering if Ray had any tea. Realizing that if he did, it would likely not be in the linen closet, he went to the kitchen and started opening cabinets. And there, right where the instant coffee had sat alone last time he'd investigated the contents of Ray's kitchen, was a box of Formosa Oolong. Pleased, he took out a bag, and then filled a mug with water and put it in the microwave to heat. Perhaps he could convince Ray to invest in a proper teakettle one of these days. Or better still, he could give Ray a teakettle. The idea made him smile.

He forestalled the annoying beeping sound the microwave would have made on completing its cycle by cutting it short by two seconds, and put his tea to steep. That done, he realized he should probably put his pants on. It didn't seem quite proper to be wandering around Ray's apartment in just his the cut-off sweatpants and t-shirt Ray had loaned him, even though he was certain Ray did so himself with great regularity. He headed for the bedroom, assuming that was where he'd undressed last night, and promptly tripped over Ray's boots where they lay haphazardly next to the couch, obviously left right where he'd last removed them. As he righted them and went to move them out of the way, he found himself studying them.
Scuffed leather, square-toed and heavy-soled, buckles gleaming dully. They ought to be cleaned and polished, but Fraser knew if they were, then they would no longer suit Ray the way they did now. He eyed them critically, glancing at his own foot, then at the boot again. Ray's feet were clearly longer than his own. Which should not surprise him– Ray's fingers were considerably longer than his as well. Though his feet were also clearly wider than Ray's. Because of that, he might not even be able to wear Ray's boots, should the need ever arise. Suddenly curious, he put the boots down and sat down on the couch, then picked one up, and slid his foot into the shaft. It took some doing, and had he been wearing socks he likely could not have managed, but his foot finally eased past the ankle and into the foot. He pulled on the second boot as well. It went on easier. His left foot was slightly smaller than his right. Finally he stood up.

His toes were a good three centimetres short of the end of the boot. It felt odd to have so much room there, although they were quite snug across the instep. He took a tentative step, and the extra length fooled him, and he caught his toe in the rug, rucking it up, exposing the dance-steps on the floorboards that it normally hid. He started to kick it back down, then paused, studying the markings again. Remembering Ray's landlady talking about how he danced late into the night sometimes, alone. He put his right foot on one of the footprints. Found the next one with his left.

Stopped.

He needed music. He picked up the universal remote from the coffee table and turned on the stereo. As he pushed the table back against the couch, the CD Ray had left in the machine began to play, and a woman's voice, throaty and rich, filled the room. She sang languorously in Spanish, the music nearly liquid in feel. He took a step. Another. Another. Moved to the faintly syncopated beat as best he could. Something was missing, though. He shifted his arms up to curve around empty air, and it felt somewhat better.

It was easier to dance without looking at the steps, too, so he didn't, moving with the music alone. But still something felt wrong. After a moment he realized what it was, and angled his arms higher, so that his imaginary partner was his own height. Much better. The song ended, and then began again. Ray had left it on repeat, but that was all right, it was a lovely piece, and he was beginning to understand the beat.
He attempted to put a little more sway in his movements, a little more looseness, remembering how relaxed Ray had looked dancing with his ex-wife. Feeling bolder, he attempted a turn, caught the too-long toe of Ray's boot in the turned-back carpet, and nearly fell. Before he could right himself, there was a hand on his arm, another on his waist, steadying him.

He straightened, eyes wide as he realized that he had somehow managed to miss Ray and Diefenbaker reentering the apartment. Without letting go, Ray studied him, and started to smile. Fraser felt a blush burn its way up his face. Lord, he must look a total fool. But the smile never got any wider, it just stayed a faint, sweet curve, and Ray's eyes were warm.

"Walking a mile in my shoes there, Fraser?" he asked gently.

"I. . . ah . . . ." Fraser began, only to trade off, unable to think of a single plausible explanation for his behavior.

"We gonna trade off? Don't think I could wear yours," Ray said thoughtfully, then he grinned slyly. "But I bet I could get into your pants." He hooked his fingers into the waistband of the shorts he'd loaned Fraser, and pulled him closer. "Couldn't I?"

Fraser wasn't entirely ignorant of colloquial phrases. "Um . . .perhaps," he managed, dry mouthed. "If you were so inclined."

Ray leaned into him. "I. Am. Inclined." He punctuated each word with a slight thrust of his hips. And, oh yes, he was inclined. He certainly was.

Still... had he somehow slipped into an alternate dimension? "I don't understand. . ." he said plaintively. "What changed?"

Ray smiled beatifically. "I figured out what you meant when you said nothing had changed."

"Which was?" Fraser asked with some trepidation, worrying that Ray had misunderstood something.

"That you been feeling this way all along."

No, Ray had not misunderstood a thing. Fraser felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. "You're very perceptive, Ray."

"Yes, I am," Ray said smugly. "Sometimes anyway. And guess what? I been feeling this way all along, too, just wasn't sure you did, and you probably weren't sure I did, so we were worrying about that instead of talking about it and all the time I think we were both just waiting for a sign. But if the last few days haven't been some kind of big friggin' neon day-glo sign, I don't know what is."

"It does seem rather. . . significant, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Ray said, staring into his eyes. "Significant."

Fraser noticed how close his lips were, and that there was a faint hint of chocolate on his breath.

He leaned forward a little.

So did Ray.


* * * Fin * * *