Late as usual.

[lamardeuse.livejournal.com]

I was going to get this in on time, but I had a hard time thinking of something that wasn't a total cliché. There are a lot of transportation references in dS! Hope this one's a little different--



Point A to Point B
by lamardeuse





No, it's not a streetcar named Desire; Fraser's real careful to point that out to him as he thumbs through the guidebook. Like a guy named Stanley Kowalski wouldn’t know where that fucking streetcar comes from.

Ray gets it, though, because it’s crystal clear why Fraser’s got his nose buried in the Fodor’s Guide to San Francisco. Ray pauses in his rubbernecking at the scenery outside the streetcar’s windows to glance at some of the indoor scenery. Which at the moment happens to include two very attractive girls necking in the back seat.

Every straight guy’s fantasy, except during Pride Week in San Fran, you can count the straight guys on the fingers of one hand. And at the moment, Ray is not counting himself among them.

Ray indulges in memory, remembering how Fraser told him (in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness) how much he really, really likes his fingers. More like groaned it, actually, in a hoarse, needy voice—

“Ray. Ray.”

“Yeah, I’m with you,” Ray says, and he recognizes the low roughness in his own voice right before Fraser’s cheeks go a cute shade of pink.

Fraser likes his voice, too. And Ray should play fair, shouldn’t be devoting so much time lately to getting Fraser all worked up, but damn, he’s enjoying himself here, getting a big kick out of the ego-boosting qualities of that intense Mountie attention. Worse than that, he’s addicted. He’s addicted to the way Fraser says his name and sucks his cock and strokes his hair when he thinks Ray’s asleep, so fucking gently it makes Ray want to bawl like a baby.

There’s one thing Ray can’t stand, though, and that’s the way Fraser acts when they’re in public. Not that Ray expects or wants him to stick his tongue down Ray’s throat in the middle of the bullpen, but it’s like Fraser grows a shell around himself whenever they leave the apartment. Before they started doing the horizontal mambo, they used to touch each other all the time, but now Fraser pulls away at even the most innocent pat on the shoulder.

It was starting to piss Ray off, and pissed off was so not where he wanted to be with Fraser, so when he saw the ad in the paper for cheap flights to California, he suggested a little vacation time. Fraser—no surprise there—needed some convincing, until Ray suggested they didn’t need to tell anyone they were going to the same place. Then he accepted.

Ray shoves the memory of that aside.

So when he and Fraser got here, and, wow, look at that, it just happened to be Pride Week, the look on Fraser’s face was priceless. He knew what Ray’d done, but Ray could tell he wasn’t really sure why.

As the streetcar turns a corner and begins a steep ascent, Ray wonders if Fraser’s bought a clue yet. He braces his feet in anticipation of the climb, but Fraser, absorbed in his book, isn’t prepared, and he stumbles into Ray. Fraser’s hip presses into Ray’s stomach, and Fraser’s hand shoots out to steady himself, connecting with the solid wall of Ray’s chest.

Their eyes meet.

Fraser pulls back like he’s been burned and mutters an apology.

Ray feels the anger boiling up in him, but clamps a lid on it. There’s too much at stake, he reminds himself. Use your head for a change.

“Fraser,” he says, in the same voice.

Fraser’s eyes flicker over him nervously. “Yes, Ray?”

Ray leans a bit closer, but not close enough to set off Fraser’s perimeter alarm. “You want to know why I wanted to come here for our vacation?”

Fraser licks his lips. “I had wondered.”

Ray smiles. “Well, see, it’s like this. I wanted to be proud.”

Fraser stares at him, startled, and Ray blinks and frowns. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to say…

…or was it?

Jesus, Ray thinks. Talk about your subconscious going on autopilot. He opens his mouth and lets the words come out.

“When I first started dating Stella,” he begins, ignoring Fraser’s slight flinch at the mention of the name, “I was the proudest guy on the face of the earth. I was GI Joe, Conan and Superman all rolled into one. I had to be something special, because Stella was something special, and she’d picked me.

“Well, that’s nothing compared to the way I felt when you told me you loved me.” Fraser flushes and darts a nervous glance at the other passengers, but Ray can’t be bothered with that now, can’t let it get to him. “I was over the fucking moon, because I’d been in love with you so long my fucking teeth hurt. Before I knew you felt the same way, I didn’t know what to do with it, what to think about it. Most days, I felt like shit.”

Fraser’s eyes widen. “Ray—”

“Whatever, that’s over. The point is, knowing you loved me made me proud again. Because if Benton Fraser loved me, I had to be somebody worth loving.”

Fraser looks stricken. “God, Ray.”

Ray shakes his head. “But now I’m not so sure about any of that. Because touching you—hell, even looking at you sometimes—makes you run in the other direction. And I get that, I get that you want to be discreet, you are the soul of discretion—but it’s hard, you know? Because I got all this pride stuck inside me, and it’s got no place to go, and some days I feel like I’m going to explode with it—”

Fraser’s shaking, and his eyes are bright. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

This time, when Ray’s hand makes contact with Fraser’s cheek, Fraser doesn’t flinch. This time, when Ray leans close, Fraser doesn’t back away.

“We can be proud here,” Ray says softly. “Right here, right now, on this streetcar not named Desire. You don’t have to be sorry. Just tell me we can.”

Fraser’s hand is stroking through his hair, gently, so goddamned gently. “We can,” he whispers. And then his mouth is on Ray’s, and the streetcar keeps on climbing, right up that steep hill, taking them a little closer to their destination.



End