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[bluster.livejournal.com]

One again Kellie Matthews has asked me to post this for her since she doesn't have an LJ and is a little paranoid about using the cut tags. Hopefully I'll get them right this time. :-) Once again I'll forward any comments on to her. - Bluster


I had two paragraphs of this written a year ago, and it languished since then. I decided to dig it out again since it fit the parameters. Maybe more to come later. Not sure. 953 words.

Quick Change
c. 2003 Kellie Matthews

Ray leaned closer to the mirror as he used the liner pencil, dark blue, right up next to the lash line, the way he'd done when he was seventeen and sporting safety-pins and an Anarchy t-shirt with his Army Surplus fatigues and Doc's. Back when Doc's were still good. Finishing his left eye he took a step back, looked at himself in the mirror, and shook his head, frowning. Welsh was out of his mind. No one was going to take him for a kid. He looked like exactly what he was: a thirty-six-year-old guy in eyeliner. He just hoped that the club they were going to be working was really dark. Black lights, maybe. That should help.

With a sigh he headed into the bedroom to change. A quick trip to a used clothing store he knew from way back had yielded what he hoped would pass for club gear: black vinyl jeans and a black spandex tee with long fishnet sleeves. Once he was dressed he tried the mirror again. Christ. Hello Mr. Mid-life Crisis. And the pants were already making him sweat. There was nothing like having sweaty 'nads to really make your day.

He leaned over and put his boot gun in his ankle sheath, then stomped into his boots. Next to the shiny vinyl they looked a little beat up, but he wasn't going to polish them just for one night. He checked his watch, saw he had half an hour before he had to leave, and decided to make a sandwich. Opening the refrigerator, he pulled out the rye bread, deli pastrami, Swiss cheese, and brown mustard, and put them on the counter. As he opened the bread, a knock sounded at the door.

"Come on in, Fraser, it's open."

The door opened. "How did you know it was me?" Fraser asked.

Without looking up from mustarding his bread, Ray smiled. "I know your knock. It's kind of . . . precise."

"Precise? How can a knock be precise?"

"I don't know, it just is." Ray looked up finally, and stared in amazement. "What the hell are you wearing?"

Fraser draped his cape over a chair, then glanced down at the dress-thing he wore beneath it. "You said to come as a Goth. Fortunately Turnbull is acquainted with some historical recreationists and knew where I could borrow the appropriate attire."

It took a minute to figure it out, but then Ray groaned, smacking his forehead with the flat of his palm. "Fraser. Goth. Not . . . Goth."

Fraser blinked. "Excuse me?"

Ray stepped out of the kitchen and turned, showing off his outfit. "Goth. As in, depressed teenagers with vampire fixations. Eyeliner. Lots of black. Not Goth as in Visigoths and Goths and Romans."

Fraser's gaze swept from Ray's feet to his head, pausing for a moment midway. "I see. I'm afraid I was operating under a misapprehension."

"Yeah. Sorry. My fault. I should've made sure we were on the same wavelength."

"I don't think fault needs to be assigned." Fraser cocked his head slightly, studying Ray with a faint frown.

Ray frowned back. "What? My eyeliner smudged?"

"No, no, it's quite fetching. I was just pondering your seemingly anomalous areas of knowledge."

"Try that in English?"

"I hadn't expected you to be familiar with those historical references."

"Oh. Well, I wasn't in college long, but I had to take Western Civ. I always thought 'Visigoth' sounded like it ought to be the name of a garage band or something."

"Ah."

Ray studied him, and shook his head. "Okay, we've got half an hour to solve the 'what do we do with you now' problem? Did you bring clothes? Real ones, I mean?"

Fraser nodded and picked up a small knapsack. "Yes, I did."

"Good. Show me."

Opening the pack, Fraser displayed jeans, a flannel shirt, and a henley. Ray sighed and shook his head. "Put the jeans on and I'll see what I can find for up top. We can keep the cape, they'll like that part."

Fraser bent to pull on his jeans. Ray headed for his closet, contemplating the fact that the dress-thing with the lace-up sandals showed off Fraser's legs real well. He knew the dress-thing had some other name, but he couldn't think of what it was. The swirly-looking embroidery on it made him think of some of the newer-style tattoos he saw on kids.

He had a sudden vision of Fraser sporting one of those tattoos high up on his thigh, or maybe on his hip, and had to shake himself to get rid of the tingle. Get with the program. Find something for Fraser to wear. Right, like something that fit him would to fit Fraser. As he contemplated the meager offerings in his closet, he fidgeted with his shirt, stretching out the stomach part, letting it snap back, and then stopped, and smiled. With a few tugs he pulled the shirt out of his pants and stripped it off. It was a little sweaty at the bottom but, oh well.

"Did you find. . . ." Fraser's question trailed off as Ray turned to face him.

They stared at each other for a moment. Fraser had a pretty nice top half too. It had more impact for usually being covered.

". . . anything I can wear?" Fraser finished finally, after licking his lips.

Ray held out his shirt. "Yeah. This. It's stretchy. I'll find something else."

Fraser took the shirt, then bent his head and. . . sniffed it. Then looked up, his eyes dark.

Ray grinned. "Later, Benton. We've got work to do."

Fraser sighed. "Oh all right." He sniffed the shirt one more time, then wrestled it on.

Ray adjusted himself. "Later had better be soon, is all I gotta say."


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