FFU Challenge
Aug. 3rd, 2004 06:49 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ds_flashfictionOkay, this time it's not entirely my fault that I'm late (mumble mumble, LJ sucks ass). I want to say, though, that in my mind this story has a happy ending which I don't have time to write. If anyone can help me out by finishing the story in the comments, I'd be extremely grateful. I'll post any and all (happy!) endings I get to this on my site with the story--maybe it can be a "choose your own (happy!) ending" kind of thing.
Thanks as always to Terri for beta!
Charting The Decline
by Speranza
It was a jump he'd done a thousand times, a jump so instinctive and right and suited for his body--whether the object of the jump be an out-of-control sled team or a snowmobile or a speeding taxicab--that he was stunned when he missed it. The hard lip defining the trunk was under his fingertips one second and not the next; his booted toe sought and failed to find the edge of the chrome bumper, and then he was falling hard, backwards, onto the flying asphalt behind him. He rolled, then seemed to be dragged along the black tar, unable to come to a stop, feeling the burn on his hands, the side of his face, feeling his trousers rip and--bam! a blaring pain from his arm as it twisted underneath him and smashed into the street.
Shocked, dazed, he lifted his head and realized he'd finally come to a stop. But much more painful than the fall was the sight of the black car tearing away down the street (AXY 3201, AXY 3201, AXY 3201) and the pale face staring out the back window. Lilly Easton--they had her!--the bastards had her!--and all their promises to Wilbur Easton were--
He heard the sound of the motorcycle only a second before it roared past his head, and instantly recognized Ray's back crouched over the machine. Ray--his brilliant partner had commandeered a motorcycle--and Fraser pushed himself up on his scraped and bleeding hands and watched, heart pounding. He was hoping actively, hoping hard, like he could help Ray stop these men by mere force of will.
The cycle was fast as hell, but it was small, and Fraser suddenly realized that in a contest between the two machines, the cycle was likelier to get pushed off the road than the reverse. That thought was enough to bring him to his feet, though he stumbled and nearly fell down again---his goddamned knee wasn't doing what it ought to!--before limping lamely after them. Ray could catch up, perhaps, but Ray couldn't stop them. How was Ray supposed to stop them?--and as if in answer to the question, the motorcycle suddenly took off, leaping into the air and arcing forward and then landing with a bang! on the trunk of the black car. It was there for only a split second though, and then with an ear-splitting whine it launched forward and drove over the car's hard top and down the hood. The motorcycle sped ahead and then turned and skidded to a halt. The black car--its front and back windows broken, its hood badly dented, steam rising out of its engine--screeched to a stop, and Fraser saw that Ray, still sitting astride the motorcycle, had his gun out and aimed at the driver.
The back door opened and, sobbing, Lilly Easton ran out. Ray's daredevil act had drawn a crowd, and Lilly Easton ran straight into the arms of a motherly-looking woman who instantly dropped her bags of groceries and started tending to her. Gritting his teeth, Fraser put on a burst of speed.
"Get out of the car," Ray yelled. "Now! Both of you!" and two minutes later, Wallace and Doyle were face down in the street and handcuffed.
* * *
He began running down by the lakefront in the early mornings, his evening constitutional having clearly proven inadequate. Two miles became five, then ten, and still he couldn't regain his physical confidence.
"Fraser." Ray was sprawled lazily on the Consulate steps, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, munching what smelled distinctly like a butter-slathered muffin. "Give it a rest already, will you?"
Fraser clutched at the wrought iron railing and tried to catch his breath. "Right...you...are...Ray."
But he couldn't give it a rest, because he had made the mistake of pulling his personnel file and checking the results of his most recent physical. He thought he'd done well, and he had, but not comparatively. Slowly, he flipped through the pages in reverse order-- he had been both faster and stronger in years past, with better lung capacity and more acute reflexes. He'd done markedly better two years ago, better still the year before that...and the results he'd achieved ten years ago now made him feel painfully inadequate. Taken together, these exams charted a slow but definite decline; it made for a dismal afternoon's reading.
The next day, he asked Ray if he could recommend a gym.
Ray's gym was old and fairly primitive, but it had a well-cared-for weight room, a pool, and a quarter-mile track. It also had a warm and masculine atmosphere, which Fraser appreciated. Ray came in twice a week to do laps and punch the bag ("because I can not exercise in the park or on a city street, Fraser, because I'm always on edge, waiting for someone to be robbed, attacked, or killed, maybe even me--") but Fraser tried to come oftener, replacing his evening constitutional with a more aggressive workout.
He much preferred the days when Ray came to the gym, though he reminded himself that true discipline transcended personal preferences. Still, it was comforting having Ray in the corner, boxing gloves on, beating a rhythmic thud-di-dah, thud-di-dah, thud-di-dah, out on the small punching bag while he himself worked with the weights. Then Ray would shower and work on his hair for twenty minutes while Fraser took a quick swim and his own (purely utilitarian) shower. After that, they'd generally go out for a meal--though Ray tended to be quiet during these dinners, oddly restrained in both word and gesture. But Fraser assumed that Ray's low energy was simply due to exhaustion, and indeed, Ray often did perk up again by the end of the meal, whereupon he would badger and tease Fraser about his new exercise regimen: "You've got to relax, Fraser," and "We're none of us as young as we used to be, all right?" and "Give yourself a break, will you? Join the fucking human race for a change." Sometimes Ray ribbed him using a German accent, which was apparently the trademark of some bodybuilder or other.
One evening, however, Fraser was just finishing up the last of his left bicep repetitions when he saw Ray watching him narrowly from the weight bench beside his. Ray wasn't actually using the weights; rather, he was hunched on the bench in his shorts and t-shirt, which was badly stained with sweat. Ray, Fraser surmised, had been running, and was working up the energy to have a go at the bag.
But Ray didn't go to the bag; instead, Ray just sat there and watched him switch arms and start again, one, two, three... And there was something about Ray's posture that bothered him, some quality of detachment in the tilt of his head, a closed-off look in his eyes, a protective hunch to his shoulders. Ray looked like a stranger--and that was such an unfamiliar and upsetting thought that Fraser slowly ground to a halt and let the barbell drop to the mat between his feet.
Ray didn't even blink; Ray was staring at him like he'd never seen him before.
"Ray?" Fraser asked; he was sweating hard and feeling slightly sick. His muscles hurt; possibly he'd overdone it today. "Is everything all right?"
For a moment, Fraser thought that Ray hadn't even heard him, but then Ray answered in a voice as distracted as the rest of him was focused. "Yeah."
"Because you're not..." Fraser trailed off and waved a hand toward the bag in the corner.
"No," Ray said vaguely. "No, I..." and then Ray's frown deepened and he said, in an edgy, unfamiliar voice, "So does it really bother you that much?"
Fraser found himself momentarily lost for words. "Does what bother...?"
"Being partnered with me," Ray said, and his face was like a stone wall. "Because Jesus, all this, it's...." and here Ray seemed to have to snap his mouth shut for a moment and regroup. "You're not exactly what I'd call a team player, Fraser," Ray said finally, and the words were brittle as they came out of his mouth.
"That's not true," Fraser protested, but Ray was tight-lipped and already shaking his head.
"It is true, it is true, it is totally fucking true. Because look at you, you can't even handle..." and now Ray trailed off and gestured at Fraser with both hands, taking in the bench and the weights and the entire gymnasium around them. "You can not even handle the idea that maybe someone else makes the play now and then, even if you're the one who set them up to do it. You have to slam the ball yourself--and if you don't it's apparently a national fucking emergency, hold everything, the world can not be functioning properly because Fraser's not a hero. Well, fine then. Fine." Ray abruptly stood up and wiped his forehead with the hem of his shirt, then let his arms drop. "You know, the whole point of having a partner is that maybe someone picks up the ball when you drop it. It's a nice thing, you know?--or at least I used to think it was a nice thing. You don't seem to think so. That's fine, though," Ray said, in a voice that made it clear that he thought it was anything but fine. "People are different, I guess." Ray shrugged and looked toward where two men were sparring, grunting as they landed and received individual blows. "Just--I always missed more shots than I made, plus I'm getting older, too. But I thought--you know. That you and me could... I don't know what I thought," Ray said, and seemed to be physically shaking off the thought. "But I guess that--I mean, with the standards you have? I guess I get it; probably everybody's a liability. I don't even want to know what you think of me. I just don't want to know."
Fraser's mind was both spinning and utterly blank. Thoughts were crashing into each other so fast that he couldn't isolate any one in particular, couldn't form a coherent idea, let alone a sentence. "Ray--"
But Ray cut him off. "I'm going to shower, Fraser," Ray said, and turned toward the gym's musty locker room, and somehow Fraser could only sit there in mute horror as the future fell out of his world.
END
Thanks as always to Terri for beta!
Charting The Decline
by Speranza
It was a jump he'd done a thousand times, a jump so instinctive and right and suited for his body--whether the object of the jump be an out-of-control sled team or a snowmobile or a speeding taxicab--that he was stunned when he missed it. The hard lip defining the trunk was under his fingertips one second and not the next; his booted toe sought and failed to find the edge of the chrome bumper, and then he was falling hard, backwards, onto the flying asphalt behind him. He rolled, then seemed to be dragged along the black tar, unable to come to a stop, feeling the burn on his hands, the side of his face, feeling his trousers rip and--bam! a blaring pain from his arm as it twisted underneath him and smashed into the street.
Shocked, dazed, he lifted his head and realized he'd finally come to a stop. But much more painful than the fall was the sight of the black car tearing away down the street (AXY 3201, AXY 3201, AXY 3201) and the pale face staring out the back window. Lilly Easton--they had her!--the bastards had her!--and all their promises to Wilbur Easton were--
He heard the sound of the motorcycle only a second before it roared past his head, and instantly recognized Ray's back crouched over the machine. Ray--his brilliant partner had commandeered a motorcycle--and Fraser pushed himself up on his scraped and bleeding hands and watched, heart pounding. He was hoping actively, hoping hard, like he could help Ray stop these men by mere force of will.
The cycle was fast as hell, but it was small, and Fraser suddenly realized that in a contest between the two machines, the cycle was likelier to get pushed off the road than the reverse. That thought was enough to bring him to his feet, though he stumbled and nearly fell down again---his goddamned knee wasn't doing what it ought to!--before limping lamely after them. Ray could catch up, perhaps, but Ray couldn't stop them. How was Ray supposed to stop them?--and as if in answer to the question, the motorcycle suddenly took off, leaping into the air and arcing forward and then landing with a bang! on the trunk of the black car. It was there for only a split second though, and then with an ear-splitting whine it launched forward and drove over the car's hard top and down the hood. The motorcycle sped ahead and then turned and skidded to a halt. The black car--its front and back windows broken, its hood badly dented, steam rising out of its engine--screeched to a stop, and Fraser saw that Ray, still sitting astride the motorcycle, had his gun out and aimed at the driver.
The back door opened and, sobbing, Lilly Easton ran out. Ray's daredevil act had drawn a crowd, and Lilly Easton ran straight into the arms of a motherly-looking woman who instantly dropped her bags of groceries and started tending to her. Gritting his teeth, Fraser put on a burst of speed.
"Get out of the car," Ray yelled. "Now! Both of you!" and two minutes later, Wallace and Doyle were face down in the street and handcuffed.
He began running down by the lakefront in the early mornings, his evening constitutional having clearly proven inadequate. Two miles became five, then ten, and still he couldn't regain his physical confidence.
"Fraser." Ray was sprawled lazily on the Consulate steps, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, munching what smelled distinctly like a butter-slathered muffin. "Give it a rest already, will you?"
Fraser clutched at the wrought iron railing and tried to catch his breath. "Right...you...are...Ray."
But he couldn't give it a rest, because he had made the mistake of pulling his personnel file and checking the results of his most recent physical. He thought he'd done well, and he had, but not comparatively. Slowly, he flipped through the pages in reverse order-- he had been both faster and stronger in years past, with better lung capacity and more acute reflexes. He'd done markedly better two years ago, better still the year before that...and the results he'd achieved ten years ago now made him feel painfully inadequate. Taken together, these exams charted a slow but definite decline; it made for a dismal afternoon's reading.
The next day, he asked Ray if he could recommend a gym.
Ray's gym was old and fairly primitive, but it had a well-cared-for weight room, a pool, and a quarter-mile track. It also had a warm and masculine atmosphere, which Fraser appreciated. Ray came in twice a week to do laps and punch the bag ("because I can not exercise in the park or on a city street, Fraser, because I'm always on edge, waiting for someone to be robbed, attacked, or killed, maybe even me--") but Fraser tried to come oftener, replacing his evening constitutional with a more aggressive workout.
He much preferred the days when Ray came to the gym, though he reminded himself that true discipline transcended personal preferences. Still, it was comforting having Ray in the corner, boxing gloves on, beating a rhythmic thud-di-dah, thud-di-dah, thud-di-dah, out on the small punching bag while he himself worked with the weights. Then Ray would shower and work on his hair for twenty minutes while Fraser took a quick swim and his own (purely utilitarian) shower. After that, they'd generally go out for a meal--though Ray tended to be quiet during these dinners, oddly restrained in both word and gesture. But Fraser assumed that Ray's low energy was simply due to exhaustion, and indeed, Ray often did perk up again by the end of the meal, whereupon he would badger and tease Fraser about his new exercise regimen: "You've got to relax, Fraser," and "We're none of us as young as we used to be, all right?" and "Give yourself a break, will you? Join the fucking human race for a change." Sometimes Ray ribbed him using a German accent, which was apparently the trademark of some bodybuilder or other.
One evening, however, Fraser was just finishing up the last of his left bicep repetitions when he saw Ray watching him narrowly from the weight bench beside his. Ray wasn't actually using the weights; rather, he was hunched on the bench in his shorts and t-shirt, which was badly stained with sweat. Ray, Fraser surmised, had been running, and was working up the energy to have a go at the bag.
But Ray didn't go to the bag; instead, Ray just sat there and watched him switch arms and start again, one, two, three... And there was something about Ray's posture that bothered him, some quality of detachment in the tilt of his head, a closed-off look in his eyes, a protective hunch to his shoulders. Ray looked like a stranger--and that was such an unfamiliar and upsetting thought that Fraser slowly ground to a halt and let the barbell drop to the mat between his feet.
Ray didn't even blink; Ray was staring at him like he'd never seen him before.
"Ray?" Fraser asked; he was sweating hard and feeling slightly sick. His muscles hurt; possibly he'd overdone it today. "Is everything all right?"
For a moment, Fraser thought that Ray hadn't even heard him, but then Ray answered in a voice as distracted as the rest of him was focused. "Yeah."
"Because you're not..." Fraser trailed off and waved a hand toward the bag in the corner.
"No," Ray said vaguely. "No, I..." and then Ray's frown deepened and he said, in an edgy, unfamiliar voice, "So does it really bother you that much?"
Fraser found himself momentarily lost for words. "Does what bother...?"
"Being partnered with me," Ray said, and his face was like a stone wall. "Because Jesus, all this, it's...." and here Ray seemed to have to snap his mouth shut for a moment and regroup. "You're not exactly what I'd call a team player, Fraser," Ray said finally, and the words were brittle as they came out of his mouth.
"That's not true," Fraser protested, but Ray was tight-lipped and already shaking his head.
"It is true, it is true, it is totally fucking true. Because look at you, you can't even handle..." and now Ray trailed off and gestured at Fraser with both hands, taking in the bench and the weights and the entire gymnasium around them. "You can not even handle the idea that maybe someone else makes the play now and then, even if you're the one who set them up to do it. You have to slam the ball yourself--and if you don't it's apparently a national fucking emergency, hold everything, the world can not be functioning properly because Fraser's not a hero. Well, fine then. Fine." Ray abruptly stood up and wiped his forehead with the hem of his shirt, then let his arms drop. "You know, the whole point of having a partner is that maybe someone picks up the ball when you drop it. It's a nice thing, you know?--or at least I used to think it was a nice thing. You don't seem to think so. That's fine, though," Ray said, in a voice that made it clear that he thought it was anything but fine. "People are different, I guess." Ray shrugged and looked toward where two men were sparring, grunting as they landed and received individual blows. "Just--I always missed more shots than I made, plus I'm getting older, too. But I thought--you know. That you and me could... I don't know what I thought," Ray said, and seemed to be physically shaking off the thought. "But I guess that--I mean, with the standards you have? I guess I get it; probably everybody's a liability. I don't even want to know what you think of me. I just don't want to know."
Fraser's mind was both spinning and utterly blank. Thoughts were crashing into each other so fast that he couldn't isolate any one in particular, couldn't form a coherent idea, let alone a sentence. "Ray--"
But Ray cut him off. "I'm going to shower, Fraser," Ray said, and turned toward the gym's musty locker room, and somehow Fraser could only sit there in mute horror as the future fell out of his world.
END
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no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 05:04 pm (UTC)Uhm - ok. You said there was a happy ending in here somewhere. And I'm going to effing find it if I have to beat it out of you.
Err - or - you know. Something slightly less violent sounding.
*g*
This was wonderful. Gritty and tough and real, and I think that's what hurts most of all about it. I can see Fraser acting like this, and I can just as easily see Ray taking it this way.
Really excellent job, dear.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 04:43 pm (UTC)There is! Man, seriously, if you stop reading ALL my stories at--whatever, what is this? 2000 words? they're like this. I promise you, this universe is as Canadian-shack oriented as any other. I just stopped the story at the unresolved point. Geesh.
And I'm going to effing find it if I have to beat it out of you. Err - or - you know. Something slightly less violent sounding.
Uh--YEAH! Like, something that's less like likely to end us both in court! backs away slowly--hell, NOT so slowly!!
no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 05:09 pm (UTC)Oh, man, this was very good, and very real-seeming, but -- man. Happy endings, you say?
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 04:32 pm (UTC)::blink::
Date: 2004-08-03 05:29 pm (UTC)Re: ::blink::
Date: 2004-08-03 05:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 05:37 pm (UTC)Okay, so maybe Fraser finally gets it and rushes off and gets into the shower with Ray (with his clothes still on, probably, because he's not thinking clearly at all) and tries to tell him Ray's got it all wrong, and of course Ray's naked in the shower, and first he's arguing with Fraser, but then they both finally fucking *notice* that they're in a shower and Ray's naked, and good things happen?
That's what happens in *my* world, anyway.
Excellent job.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 05:37 pm (UTC)The thing is, I can see where a happy ending would work; but I'm not sure this story gets one, really. Not with that last line. That last line is gorgeous; it's definitive; it closes the book.
Ow. Good ow; but ow.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 05:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 05:49 pm (UTC)EE, now trying to think of a way out of this
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 04:47 pm (UTC)Yeah, and the problem is??? does best imitation of King Henry Oh who will rid me of the burden of writing wet Ray getting jerked off in the shower stall?
no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 05:56 pm (UTC)"But I guess that--I mean, with the standards you have? I guess I get it; probably everybody's a liability. I don't even want to know what you think of me. I just don't want to know."
Ray's total insecurity, he wasn't good enough for Stella, and the only area of his life he has some confidence in, from his perspective, and he is seen as not good enough.
It also plays so well to Fraser's solitary, used to doing it alone nature and his excessive drive for perfection.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 04:48 pm (UTC)Yes, exactly--Fraser draws exactly the wrong lesson from his experience. It never really occurs to him to be grateful that he now has a partner; instead, he just pushes himself harder. Ironically, it's Fraser who feels like the failure here, and man, but that feeling can be contageous...
Thanks so much for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 06:04 pm (UTC)I am applauding madly.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 04:50 pm (UTC)Why do I doubt that you're gonna be the one to write the happy shower-sex ending where they clear up this little miscommunication here? LOLOL....
{{hugs Kat!!}}
no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 06:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 04:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 06:29 pm (UTC)Fraser sat on the weight bench and let the impact of Ray's words sink in, and he realized that Ray was right. He wasn't a team player. He was half of a duet. It was inevitable that one grew older unless one died before his time. Fraser didn't want that. If he had to grow old, he wanted to do it as Ray's partner in all things. Fraser rose from the bench and trailed into the shower room after Ray to tell him just that.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 05:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 06:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 05:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 06:47 pm (UTC)Days go by and Fraser is MIA. And then Ray comes out of his apartment one morning to find Fraser standing on the sidewalk in full NBA regalia, bouncing a basketball, with two guys from the Bulls ready to take them on.
Fraser: "Be on my team, Ray?"
Ray: "This some kind of uh, gesture, Fraser?"
Fraser: (Nonplussed and nervous) "Well, I, yes, Ray. I thought...well, never mind--"
Ray: "Because as gestures go, Fraser, this one's a doozy. Come on. I say we spot these guys three points."
(Sappy fadeout)
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 05:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 07:25 pm (UTC)That needs a happy ending. Not that I can think of one -- or do the fic justice if I did.
But the whole Fraser-thinking-he's-inadequate, and misinterpreting!Ray, and the characterization --
Brilliant and lovely.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 06:44 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for commenting and good to see you around!
no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 07:40 pm (UTC)Nice job regardless - it's easy for me to imagine both of them acting, and reacting, this way.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-03 07:58 pm (UTC)The inappropriate elf ending
Date: 2004-08-04 02:06 am (UTC)tbc (the better-not continued)
Re: The inappropriate elf ending
Date: 2004-08-04 06:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 07:42 am (UTC)The paragraph with Fraser checking his personnel file is great.
I think it clearly does have a happy ending, too (so where is it?? Sorry, sorry, I have a policy never to tell authors they should write more than they want to. Breaking my own rules here.). The ending feels like a minor spike in a ongoing relationship to me, not the end of the world. They're going to sort things out quick-smart and be closer than ever.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 05:42 pm (UTC)Oh, dude, me too. I must admit to sometimes getting fed up with stories about people in a room, talking. And not just in fanfiction either. (Yes, American Theatre Tradition, I'm talking to you!)
I think it clearly does have a happy ending, too (so where is it??
I just can't do it, not this time around. Drowning in work as it is, and I can SO not afford to have this story turn into some "Fraser-confronts-his-limitations" epic. (Yes, Some Strange Prophesy, I'm Talking To You!) The only way I can allow myself to write with my workload is to vow to write short! just for now, anyway!
The ending feels like a minor spike in a ongoing relationship to me, not the end of the world. They're going to sort things out quick-smart and be closer than ever.
Abso-friggen-lutely. And I would have thought that SOMEBODY could whip me up a nice little shower stall sex scene and a Canadian Shack, but lord lord apparently not! glowers at commenters!
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 12:43 pm (UTC)Oh my god, you just broke my heart. *hugs Ray* This is so beautifully done and says *so* much about each of them and how they work together and how they each get caught up in their own little worlds.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 04:18 pm (UTC)Yes, that's it exactly--I actually didn't mean for this to indicate angst and trauma so much as a vast and painful miscommunication which I had *every* intention of resolving except I have so much fucking work to do before Vividcon next week (not to mention the flashfiction deadline, because, pshaw, deadlines.*g*) But these guys are really not communicating here, and the angsty thing is that neither of them is entirely wrong in their interpretation.
Anyway, thank you so much for commenting!
mouse
Date: 2004-08-04 07:06 pm (UTC)Here's an ending-- I hope it inspires someone to write a better one!
--Vaneye
***
"Eh, just ignore his little tantrum, son. When Buck was younger he used to chuck me into snowbanks every now and then, and sew beetles into my hat. He soon grew out of it, once he found a wife and settled down."
Fraser looked up at his father, blinked, and leapt off weight bench.
He tore after Ray, as Bob nodded and said, "Yeah, city food can have that effect--
I remember one time, after eating too many double-squid-lichen-burgers at Clem's Squid Hut..."
Fraser hesitated in the entrance to the shower room, seeing Ray standing slumped under the farthest nozzle. He took a couple of quick breaths, grabbed a bar of soap and walked nonchalantly into the room.
"Good gracious!" he said loudly, tossing the soap down next to his feet, " I seem to have lost my balance!" He stepped near the soap, slipped in an artistic fashion, arms flailing,
and said "Oh no! Any assistance rendered would be deeply appreciated!"
Ray turned, eyes wide, to see Fraser slide past him and fetch up lightly against the opposite wall.
"Ahem," said Fraser, reaching over to pluck another bar of soap from Ray's unresisting hands.
He gracefully fumbled the soap onto the floor, saying, "I seem to be having some difficulty. Really, I would be most grateful if some kind soul would come to my aid."
"You've lost your soap?" Ray asked, frowning.
"I've lost my friend," said Fraser, looking away and swallowing nervously.
Ray said nothing, and Fraser finally looked up.
"Nah," he said, "I dunno what friend you're talking about, 'cause you still got me."
"Really?" Fraser's eyes lit up, and he stepped towards Ray, directly onto the soap.
He slid into Ray's feet, knocking them both down into a tangle of limbs.
"Fraser," said Ray, "Stop already. I get it. We're good. And still alive, if you stop now."
"I really didn't mean to slip that last time, Ray, it truly was an accident, unlike the time Josef claimed to have inadvertently inserted a ptarmigan into..."
"Hey!"
"...his neighbor's horse's feed trough. What did you think I was going to say?"
"Fraser...nevermind. And it really isn't a good idea to drop soap in the shower room--
It gives people ideas."
"Really? What kind of ideas? Would they suspect that I had damaged our relationship and was attempting to make amends?"
Ray coughed and said, "Uh... yeah, about that-- What say we go get some pizza and not talk about it?"
"Sounds marvelous!" said Fraser, beaming.
***
Re: mouse
Date: 2004-08-05 01:59 pm (UTC)Re: mouse
From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2004-08-05 07:01 pm (UTC) - ExpandThank you, thank you!
From:Re: Thank you, thank you!
From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2004-08-05 07:26 pm (UTC) - ExpandRe: mouse
From:no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 11:00 pm (UTC)I love Ray's motorcycle heroics, and
Ray seemed to be physically shaking off the thought
I can totally see that.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-05 01:38 pm (UTC)Right! Yes! It's basic drama 101--or basic relationships 101. I can't count the number of times I've thought, suddenly, melodramatically, "That's it! We're incompatable! He'll never understand meeee!!" and then, you know, I turned the Depeche Mode off and got a grip. *g*
, and it really does seem hopeless, because they both have to change, which is always next to impossible.
Unless its to your advantage, and what Fraser can't see yet--but is on the verge of seeing--is that Ray, by being less naturally gifted in some ways, is wayyyy ahead of him on this one. *g*
Cheers and thanks for commenting!
An Ending, Part 1
Date: 2004-08-05 02:47 pm (UTC)-----
But Ray cut him off. "I'm going to shower, Fraser," Ray said, and turned toward the gym's musty locker room, and somehow Fraser could only sit there in mute horror as the future fell out of his world.
He could hear Ray call a subdued greeting to two or three of the regulars, the bang of locker doors. He sat there, unmoving, as one after another of the gym's other patrons entered and left the locker room, and once, through the swinging doors, he could see Ray sitting in front of his locker, also not moving, staring down at his hands. Ray looked up, almost as though he could feel Fraser's eyes on him, and looked right at him, his face still set in that calm, quiet mask. Fraser opened his mouth--but what could he say, and from here, halfway across the gym?--and Ray looked away again. Stood, and shucked off sweats and jockey strap in clean motion, and headed toward the shower, towel tossed over his shoulder.
And something in Fraser gave, something snapped, some vital connection broke with a sharp, searing pain, and he was on his feet, pushing through the doors to the deserted locker room, rounding the tile wall to the shower. Ray was there, standing under a showerhead, hot water cascading over the back of his neck and his shoulders, his arms braced on the wall, and Fraser stood there and looked. Really looked, for the first time, looked at Ray, all of Ray, and saw for the first time the imperfections, the flesh that wasn't as toned, the muscles that, despite Ray's regular and strenuous exercise, would never be as strong again. The scars--bullet wound and knife wound, and the sharp ridges on his knuckles from the boxing, the lines around his closed eyes, the slight thickening around his waist, and Fraser was drawn forward again, until he stood right behind Ray and put his own scarred and shaking hands on Ray's slumped shoulders.
Ray jumped a little, tensed and turned his head sharply, then whispered, "Fraser?" as Fraser slid his hands down Ray's shoulders, biceps, over his forearms, and Fraser felt his t-shirt fill with water as he pressed up against Ray's naked back, slid his fingers down over Ray's hands, and when Fraser closed his hands, held on, he could feel Ray's fingers tighten around his.
Fraser buried his face in the side of Ray's neck, tasting water and Ray's skin under his tongue. Ray shivered, and whispered "Fraser" again, and Fraser
slid his mouth up to Ray's ear, closing his eyes against the water running down both of them.
"I think," he began, and it was hard, even though he knew this was it, even though he knew it was say this or let go of Ray forever. He cleared his throat and started again. "I think...that you are strong, and courageous, and good."
Ray's shivering increased and Fraser could feel him holding his breath.
"I think that you are intelligent, quick-witted, and resourceful."
"Fraser..."
"I think that you are a generous man, compassionate and caring. I think that you have a kind heart and a resilient nature. I think that any man is lucky who calls you friend." The tremors were contagious. He drew a deep breath, pulled Ray's hands from the wall and wrapped both of their arms across Ray's slick chest. Ray was looking over his shoulder at him again, eyes penetrating, thick lashes wet. "I have always been proud to call you partner," he said shakily, breathing it into Ray's mouth before he kissed him, holding him tight and close. And thank god, Ray kissed him back, Ray crushed his fingers between his, holding on tight and opening his mouth to Fraser's tongue, moaning and breathing hard against Fraser's cheek.
Re: An Ending, Part 2
Date: 2004-08-05 02:48 pm (UTC)"Ah, Fraser..." and Ray was struggling now, trying to get loose, and no, Fraser couldn't allow that, couldn't let Ray go, except--all right, it was all right, Ray was just trying to turn them around and now Fraser's back was up against the shower wall and Ray's hand was scrabbling at the wall, finally finding the knob to cut off the water, which was starting to turn cold. And Ray was holding his head with both hands and Ray's tongue was in his mouth and perhaps Ray was going to forgive him, perhaps Ray was going to let him make it up, perhaps Ray was going to allow him a "do-over," because Ray understood making mistakes, Ray understood imperfection, Ray understood him. And Fraser sagged beneath the weight of it all, the weight of the knowledge and of his love and of the acceptance of his own imperfections, and when Ray wrapped strong arms around him, Fraser let Ray hold him up.
Re: An Ending, Part 2
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From:Re: An Ending, Part 2
From:no subject
Date: 2004-08-07 07:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-08 03:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-08 11:29 am (UTC)Ray's sadness rang through so clearly, which was all the more of a feat considering you had just put my mind in a place where I was short a few brain cells, drooling at the picture of Fraser! Lifting weight! In front of Ray! Who's gazing at his sweating body...! (ahem.) Oh, but he's not in the shape to fully appreciate it. Damn.
And yay. And I love you. Oh, I said that already.
Can I blaspheme? See, there are some things I've been secretly, perversely, wishing for you to write, at the tingling edge of my subconscious. Number one: Het. (Your fault. Passion.) And the second one, I just realized now, was *this.* This!
I'm not wishing for you to become Kat Allison. I'm not. But when someone like you does an unhappy thing, it's so, so good, too, and somehow it's good in a slightly different way... Hands (http://www.trickster.org/speranza/hands.html), anyone?
Much as I love the sequels, I refuse to believe this story has an unequivocal happy ending hovering after your perfect ending. I refuse. Authorial int-inte-what? What is that? La la la I cant hear you! :-)
no subject
Date: 2011-10-03 03:22 am (UTC)"So what is it, a '66?" Ray pushed his hands further down into his pockets and glared at the car hard enough to flake off pieces of paint.
"...Possibly?"
Ray snorted and began circling. "What's it got under the hood?"
"An engine, presumably."
"Yeah, but what size, what..." Ray stopped and looked back at Fraser. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"
Fraser looked away and his hand went up to his eyebrow. "Not in the slightest, Ray."
"Huh." That kind of made Ray feel better. It was nice to hear him admit he wasn't completely perfect. And hey, it's a gesture. And maybe restoring a car together wouldn't turn out to be one of Fraser's worst ideas. Or else he'd end up braining the guy with a socket wrench, but either way it might end up being pretty satisfying.
Fraser clutched the brim of his hat and hovered over Ray's shoulder. "It's a rather nice shade of red, isn't it?"
"That's rust, Fraser."
"Ah."
"But we could maybe paint it red. You know, later on."
"I...think I'd like that."
Ray reached for the door handle. It came off in his hand.
"Mr. Urquhart tells me that it's a 'G.T.' Rather like your 'GTO,' I would assume?"
Ray couldn't help smiling a little as he reached through the open window for the interior handle. Sure, Fraser was laying it on kind of thick, but it was still pure Fraser. Damn it, he'd missed that. Missed him. (Hey, not talking to his best friend for a month had kind of sucked. And if anyone wanted to say he was a pussy for that, he'd be happy to introduce Mr. Fist to Mr. Teeth and see how well they got along.) "Yeah, kind of. Gran Turismo. Without the Omolongato part. Yours is a Mustang, though."
"A Mustang." Fraser looked like he was mulling that over. "Like the wild horses. Interesting." If Ray didn't know any better, he'd almost say Fraser was beginning to bond with the car. Okay, that made him full-on grin.
"Yeah, Fraser. Just like the horses." He got the door open. Oh, hey, the seats were missing. At least that made it easier to--very carefully--pop the hood. He stood up and leaned his elbow on the hardtop roof. Fraser was already standing curiously at the nose, peeking at the inch-wide gap. "Hey. Look at me."
Fraser did. "Yes, Ray?"
"Just tell me one thing." He waved his hand toward the car. "This is a piece of shit, Fraser. It's a 2 1/2 ton doorstop. Even if by some crazy miracle the engine still turns over, you could still outrun the damn thing on foot. It'll slow you down, throw you. You'd be much better off without it. Why the hell would you want it?" He paused and repeated in a softer voice, "Why the hell would you want it?"
no subject
Date: 2011-10-03 03:23 am (UTC)"Okay." Ray moved to shut the door gently and lift up the hood. "Okay. We'll get this thing going. You just wait and ohhh wow that's bad." He reached in to touch the rotting metal. There was a tortured groan. Before Ray could do more than snatch his hand away, the engine supports gave way with a massive crash and the engine was on the ground. One large and several small faces popped up in front of the house windows, looking concerned. The owner poked his head out the door. Ray and Fraser assured him they were all right. Somewhat mollified, the man returned to his TV.
Ray braced his hands on the edge of the engine bay and shut his eyes. It started out as a quiet snicker and grew from there into hysterics. "You're sure about this," he forced out between gasps. "You absolutely, positively sure you want to do this?"
A hand came down on top of his and he stopped laughing. Same thing happened to the other hand and Ray was surrounded by warm, solid, miraculous Fraser.
"Yes," Fraser replied, sounding kind of shaky, kind of surprised. "Yes, I rather think I am."
Ray looked over his shoulder and Fraser's face was right there, and they were kissing. It was really, really sweet and really good, even if it was kind of awkward and Ray's neck was starting to cramp up from the weird position.
But hey, they'd have plenty of time to work on that together.
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From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2012-02-18 05:50 am (UTC) - Expand