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ds_flashfictionTitle: A Reverse Country Song, in D Minor
Author: Lyra Sena
Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Summary: Ray's got the job, the truck, the dog, the house, and the man, but the livin' still ain't easy.
Thanks: to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nifra_idril, serialkarma, pearl_o, and estrella30 for various beta and cheerleading duties.
A Reverse Country Song, in D Minor
There were times when Ray wished everything between him and Fraser was the way it used to be. Back before the adventure, before they’d come back to Chicago together, before Ray’d discovered how soft Fraser’s lips were first thing in the morning, heavy with sleep.
He wished they still shared crappy sandwiches from the 2-7 vending machine while Fraser bent over case notes and made little grunts between bites, instead of Ray standing stupidly in front of Fraser’s big new desk, with Fraser smiling distractedly as he signed endless forms, pen scratching across the paper so much that it made Ray’s skin itch.
Ray missed Fraser’s big red back charging recklessly in front of him. He missed the way Fraser held up his hands and stood straight when he faced down the bad guys, and how his mouth set in a crooked line as he stared at the computer.
Now, Ray had a rookie partner who was a little too trigger-happy and typed worse than Ray did, which meant Ray was usually stuck at the station late filling out paperwork that Fraser would have finished in the time it took for Ray to go get coffee.
Used to be, he and Fraser would have come back to Ray’s apartment at the end of the day; they wouldn’t have talked about anything, because they wouldn’t have to. They’d sit on Ray’s sofa and Ray would drink a beer while Fraser sipped on some of his tea, and the final buzzer of the hockey game on TV would still be ringing when Fraser stood up, put on his hat, and told Ray goodnight.
Ray got tired of having to always tell Fraser every single damn detail of his day, even though he knew Fraser wanted to know. There was only so much talking about it that Ray could take before he just felt like he’d explode and more often than not, lately, he shrugged when Fraser asked, and went to take a shower so he didn’t have to look at Fraser’s pinched face. Talking about it wasn’t the same as sharing it, not really, and the fact that he had to tell Fraser meant that they hadn’t shared it together, and that out and out sucked.
Ray never realized that sharing his bed, home, life, whatever with Fraser would mean he’d lose so much else.
But then Ray’d start to feel bad about that, because hell, look at all he had – Fraser’s promotion at the Consulate meant they could actually afford a house with a little backyard for Dief to run around, his own garage where he worked on the GTO until she purred. Nobody lived underneath them, so he could play loud music and dance around at two in the morning and no one complained.
And he had Fraser.
He got to share his life with Fraser, and wasn’t that supposed to be better than sharing the day, where they got shot at and fell in trash and found dead bodies inside walls?
He got Fraser on the weekends, when Fraser would sit around in his jeans and t-shirt, reading books and doing crossword puzzles, rubbing his fingers over Ray’s ankle when Ray put his feet in Fraser’s lap while he watched TV. He got the sides of Fraser that no one else had: the smooth curve of his smile, the soft wrinkles around his eyes, the way Fraser kissed Ray’s forehead gently when he thought Ray was sleeping.
Plus, Fraser gave blowjobs that seemed to last all night, and sometimes in the mornings he’d roll over on his side and pull Ray tight against his back, push against Ray until Ray entered him, and they’d make drowsy love until both of them shuddered, dreamy and content.
So yeah, there were good things, Ray knew that. It was real, and Fraser loved him, and he loved Fraser, and so sometimes Ray could suck it up and tell Fraser the annoying details of his day when really he just wanted to leave his boring job and come home, have a beer, relax.
Today, though, Ray was tired and irritated that he’d gotten stuck late again, and he hoped to hell Fraser’d already made dinner so that he could just start eating, shovel the food in fast and not have to talk.
Dief jumped on Ray as he came through the door, and he staggered back, shoving Dief off, and yelled out, “I’m home!”
When he walked into the kitchen, food was already on the table, thank god. Lasagna, from the smell of it, which meant Fraser was trying to make up for using Ray’s favorite t-shirt – the one from the Clash concert Ray got when he was seventeen and saw them live – as a cleaning rag.
Fraser turned when Ray entered, smiling as he dumped some bread into a basket. “Hello, Ray, how – ”
“Fine,” Ray cut in, waving a hand in the air. “Same.”
Fraser pursed his lips together and his brow drew tight, like he was assessing Ray for damage.
“Fraser. Stop giving me that look,” Ray said, opening the refrigerator door to peer inside.
“You should eat,” Fraser replied, squeezing Ray’s shoulder as he passed.
“Where’s the beer?” Ray asked, shoving around bottles while he stuck his head farther inside the fridge. “I thought you went to the – Jesus, Fraser!” Ray stood up suddenly and slammed the door shut. “There’s five different kinds of organic fruit juice in there, but you can’t remember to pick up a six-pack of beer on the way home from your fancy job?”
Fraser looked up, startled. “Ray, I’m – I didn’t realize you were out.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Ray huffed, slumping in his chair. “Let’s just eat.”
Ray stabbed at his food while Fraser sat across from him, silent. Every once in a while Fraser would clear his throat, which made Ray scowl even deeper, head bent over his plate so he wouldn’t have to look at Fraser’s face. His lasagna stuck in his throat like dry ash, and when Fraser cleared his throat again, Ray stood up, fork clattering on the plate as his chair scraped against the floor.
“I’m going to shower,” he muttered, tossing his napkin on the table.
“Ray,” Fraser said, with an edge that made Ray’s muscles tighten. “What is wrong with you? Was it something at work? What happened?”
“Nothing!” Ray yelled, throwing up his hands. “I just don’t fucking feel like talking about it, okay Fraser? I don’t want to talk about it because it doesn’t matter.”
Fraser stared at Ray with what looked like a little bit of anger and a lot of exasperation. He was going to open his mouth again, Ray knew it – Fraser was going to start in with more questions and more nagging and Ray was just going to get madder and madder, and things were going to explode and Ray was probably going to be spending the night on the sofa.
“Ray,” Fraser said, again, for the hundred millionth time. If Ray had to hear Fraser say his name one more time he was going to punch something, and the wall was right there next to him. Fraser wasn’t going to stop, though, his mouth was tight, stretched –
“If you’d left a note, I would have bought your beer,” Fraser said, stiffly.
“I shouldn’t have to leave a – ”
“I’ll go out right now and get some, in fact,” Fraser snapped, with enough pissiness in his voice that Ray knew he’d gotten to him. He’d gotten to Fraser and now they were going to have a fight, a really big one, and damn, Ray knew the big one had to happen some day.
“Fuck the beer!” Ray yelled again, and then he really did punch the wall, and maybe Fraser wasn’t expecting that because his eyes got really wide, but maybe Ray wasn’t either, because his knuckles hurt like a son of a bitch. He sucked them into his mouth and glared at Fraser.
Ray half-expected Fraser to loosen up then, to calm down, go get some whale ointment and a rag, and clean up Ray’s scraped hand. Either that or keep harping until finally Ray yelled himself hoarse and Fraser yelled back.
But – he didn’t. Fraser just stood up, watching Ray suck his hand, and then he turned sharply, and walked out of the kitchen.
Ray stood there for a few minutes, hand throbbing, but Fraser didn’t come back so Ray threw the dishes in the sink, slammed the leftovers in the fridge, and stomped into the living room. Fraser was sitting in the chair under the window, reading a book, fingers clenched around the pages. Ray just stood there, shoulders tense, but Fraser didn’t look up.
“I don’t feel like talking,” Ray said, pointedly.
“Understood,” Fraser replied, eyes never leaving the page.
“There’s nothin’ to say,” Ray pressed, taking a step forward.
“It’s fine, Ray,” Fraser said more firmly, and turned one page. The rustle of paper was loud, cutting through the tense air.
Frustrated, Ray turned and stalked out, muttering, “You’re not there anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”
“What?” Fraser called after, but Ray ignored him. He stripped down and stood in the shower for a really long time, but his shoulders were still sore and he still felt really hollow when he crawled into bed.
He left the lamp on, just in case Fraser decided to join him.
***
Ray woke up slowly, blinking his eyes in the dim light. It was warm, and it took him a moment to realize that Fraser was draped halfway over him; arm across Ray’s chest, one leg folded over the top of Ray’s, feet tangled together. Fraser’s feet were always a little dry; Ray wiggled his own anyway, so he could feel the rough scratch against his toes.
Ray’s arm was numb from where Fraser was lying on it, but he didn’t care, because Fraser had come to bed, which meant if Fraser could forgive Ray for being such an asshole, maybe Ray could forgive him for destroying his Clash t-shirt, especially if Fraser would stay right where he was; body solid, real, warm against Ray’s, his face tucked gently against Ray’s neck.
Fraser was still asleep, humid breaths falling on Ray’s skin, lips crushed near the sensitive spot behind Ray’s ear. Ray put his free arm around Fraser, hand spread across Fraser’s back, and pulled him closer. Fraser took a sudden breath, his lashes fluttering against Ray’s jaw, and mumbled, “You’re awake.”
“I’m an asshole,” Ray whispered, running his fingers down Fraser’s back to the dip of his spine, resting lightly on Fraser’s scar.
“Sometimes,” Fraser murmured, and softly kissed Ray’s neck.
“I don’t care about the beer,” Ray told him, and then let out a sigh.
“I know,” Fraser said. He gently nipped Ray’s neck and nuzzled more. Ray didn’t want to know what time it was, and he didn’t want to think about how soon they were going to have to get up and go to separate jobs, Fraser behind his shiny desk and Ray stuck at the same old beat-up one, piled with papers and half-chewed pencils.
“Ray,” Fraser whispered, cheek resting on Ray’s shoulder. “I didn’t realize – I wasn’t aware this was so hard on you. I mean – the fact we are no longer partners. On the job.”
“It’s not hard, Frase, I just…I just miss – ”
“Me too.”
They were silent, Fraser’s hand skimming up Ray’s side until it reached the base of Ray’s neck, fingers curled lightly over Ray’s collarbone.
“You know I love you, right, Fraser?” Ray asked.
Fraser pressed a kiss to his jaw in response.
“And – it’s not like…” Ray continued, “it’s not like I have to be a cop forever, you know? I could do something else, maybe – I’m good at other – ”
“Ray,” Fraser interrupted. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say – ” Ray stopped, wound his fingers in Fraser’s hair, tilted Fraser’s face so that he could see his eyes. Fraser’s face was open, expectant. “Maybe we should move, away from here. Like, to Canada or something.”
“Ray,” Fraser breathed out, eyes closing, and dropped his head to Ray’s chest, where it shook back and forth. “I can’t ask that of you.”
“You’re not, Fraser, I’m telling you.” Ray said, tugging at Fraser’s hair until he looked up again. “I want to get away from here, from this job – it’s not the same anymore. It’s not the same without you, and there’s no way in hell I’m giving this up, and you can’t tell me you wouldn’t love to get back up there to all your snow and mountains and caribou.” Ray grinned and Fraser smiled back, slowly. “Say yes, Fraser.”
Fraser closed his eyes again, leaned up until his nose bumped along Ray’s chin, and kissed his jaw, the side of his mouth, finally his lips, gently, softly.
“Yes,” he whispered against Ray’s mouth. “Yes.”
Author: Lyra Sena
Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Summary: Ray's got the job, the truck, the dog, the house, and the man, but the livin' still ain't easy.
Thanks: to
nifra_idril, serialkarma, pearl_o, and estrella30 for various beta and cheerleading duties.A Reverse Country Song, in D Minor
There were times when Ray wished everything between him and Fraser was the way it used to be. Back before the adventure, before they’d come back to Chicago together, before Ray’d discovered how soft Fraser’s lips were first thing in the morning, heavy with sleep.
He wished they still shared crappy sandwiches from the 2-7 vending machine while Fraser bent over case notes and made little grunts between bites, instead of Ray standing stupidly in front of Fraser’s big new desk, with Fraser smiling distractedly as he signed endless forms, pen scratching across the paper so much that it made Ray’s skin itch.
Ray missed Fraser’s big red back charging recklessly in front of him. He missed the way Fraser held up his hands and stood straight when he faced down the bad guys, and how his mouth set in a crooked line as he stared at the computer.
Now, Ray had a rookie partner who was a little too trigger-happy and typed worse than Ray did, which meant Ray was usually stuck at the station late filling out paperwork that Fraser would have finished in the time it took for Ray to go get coffee.
Used to be, he and Fraser would have come back to Ray’s apartment at the end of the day; they wouldn’t have talked about anything, because they wouldn’t have to. They’d sit on Ray’s sofa and Ray would drink a beer while Fraser sipped on some of his tea, and the final buzzer of the hockey game on TV would still be ringing when Fraser stood up, put on his hat, and told Ray goodnight.
Ray got tired of having to always tell Fraser every single damn detail of his day, even though he knew Fraser wanted to know. There was only so much talking about it that Ray could take before he just felt like he’d explode and more often than not, lately, he shrugged when Fraser asked, and went to take a shower so he didn’t have to look at Fraser’s pinched face. Talking about it wasn’t the same as sharing it, not really, and the fact that he had to tell Fraser meant that they hadn’t shared it together, and that out and out sucked.
Ray never realized that sharing his bed, home, life, whatever with Fraser would mean he’d lose so much else.
But then Ray’d start to feel bad about that, because hell, look at all he had – Fraser’s promotion at the Consulate meant they could actually afford a house with a little backyard for Dief to run around, his own garage where he worked on the GTO until she purred. Nobody lived underneath them, so he could play loud music and dance around at two in the morning and no one complained.
And he had Fraser.
He got to share his life with Fraser, and wasn’t that supposed to be better than sharing the day, where they got shot at and fell in trash and found dead bodies inside walls?
He got Fraser on the weekends, when Fraser would sit around in his jeans and t-shirt, reading books and doing crossword puzzles, rubbing his fingers over Ray’s ankle when Ray put his feet in Fraser’s lap while he watched TV. He got the sides of Fraser that no one else had: the smooth curve of his smile, the soft wrinkles around his eyes, the way Fraser kissed Ray’s forehead gently when he thought Ray was sleeping.
Plus, Fraser gave blowjobs that seemed to last all night, and sometimes in the mornings he’d roll over on his side and pull Ray tight against his back, push against Ray until Ray entered him, and they’d make drowsy love until both of them shuddered, dreamy and content.
So yeah, there were good things, Ray knew that. It was real, and Fraser loved him, and he loved Fraser, and so sometimes Ray could suck it up and tell Fraser the annoying details of his day when really he just wanted to leave his boring job and come home, have a beer, relax.
Today, though, Ray was tired and irritated that he’d gotten stuck late again, and he hoped to hell Fraser’d already made dinner so that he could just start eating, shovel the food in fast and not have to talk.
Dief jumped on Ray as he came through the door, and he staggered back, shoving Dief off, and yelled out, “I’m home!”
When he walked into the kitchen, food was already on the table, thank god. Lasagna, from the smell of it, which meant Fraser was trying to make up for using Ray’s favorite t-shirt – the one from the Clash concert Ray got when he was seventeen and saw them live – as a cleaning rag.
Fraser turned when Ray entered, smiling as he dumped some bread into a basket. “Hello, Ray, how – ”
“Fine,” Ray cut in, waving a hand in the air. “Same.”
Fraser pursed his lips together and his brow drew tight, like he was assessing Ray for damage.
“Fraser. Stop giving me that look,” Ray said, opening the refrigerator door to peer inside.
“You should eat,” Fraser replied, squeezing Ray’s shoulder as he passed.
“Where’s the beer?” Ray asked, shoving around bottles while he stuck his head farther inside the fridge. “I thought you went to the – Jesus, Fraser!” Ray stood up suddenly and slammed the door shut. “There’s five different kinds of organic fruit juice in there, but you can’t remember to pick up a six-pack of beer on the way home from your fancy job?”
Fraser looked up, startled. “Ray, I’m – I didn’t realize you were out.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Ray huffed, slumping in his chair. “Let’s just eat.”
Ray stabbed at his food while Fraser sat across from him, silent. Every once in a while Fraser would clear his throat, which made Ray scowl even deeper, head bent over his plate so he wouldn’t have to look at Fraser’s face. His lasagna stuck in his throat like dry ash, and when Fraser cleared his throat again, Ray stood up, fork clattering on the plate as his chair scraped against the floor.
“I’m going to shower,” he muttered, tossing his napkin on the table.
“Ray,” Fraser said, with an edge that made Ray’s muscles tighten. “What is wrong with you? Was it something at work? What happened?”
“Nothing!” Ray yelled, throwing up his hands. “I just don’t fucking feel like talking about it, okay Fraser? I don’t want to talk about it because it doesn’t matter.”
Fraser stared at Ray with what looked like a little bit of anger and a lot of exasperation. He was going to open his mouth again, Ray knew it – Fraser was going to start in with more questions and more nagging and Ray was just going to get madder and madder, and things were going to explode and Ray was probably going to be spending the night on the sofa.
“Ray,” Fraser said, again, for the hundred millionth time. If Ray had to hear Fraser say his name one more time he was going to punch something, and the wall was right there next to him. Fraser wasn’t going to stop, though, his mouth was tight, stretched –
“If you’d left a note, I would have bought your beer,” Fraser said, stiffly.
“I shouldn’t have to leave a – ”
“I’ll go out right now and get some, in fact,” Fraser snapped, with enough pissiness in his voice that Ray knew he’d gotten to him. He’d gotten to Fraser and now they were going to have a fight, a really big one, and damn, Ray knew the big one had to happen some day.
“Fuck the beer!” Ray yelled again, and then he really did punch the wall, and maybe Fraser wasn’t expecting that because his eyes got really wide, but maybe Ray wasn’t either, because his knuckles hurt like a son of a bitch. He sucked them into his mouth and glared at Fraser.
Ray half-expected Fraser to loosen up then, to calm down, go get some whale ointment and a rag, and clean up Ray’s scraped hand. Either that or keep harping until finally Ray yelled himself hoarse and Fraser yelled back.
But – he didn’t. Fraser just stood up, watching Ray suck his hand, and then he turned sharply, and walked out of the kitchen.
Ray stood there for a few minutes, hand throbbing, but Fraser didn’t come back so Ray threw the dishes in the sink, slammed the leftovers in the fridge, and stomped into the living room. Fraser was sitting in the chair under the window, reading a book, fingers clenched around the pages. Ray just stood there, shoulders tense, but Fraser didn’t look up.
“I don’t feel like talking,” Ray said, pointedly.
“Understood,” Fraser replied, eyes never leaving the page.
“There’s nothin’ to say,” Ray pressed, taking a step forward.
“It’s fine, Ray,” Fraser said more firmly, and turned one page. The rustle of paper was loud, cutting through the tense air.
Frustrated, Ray turned and stalked out, muttering, “You’re not there anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”
“What?” Fraser called after, but Ray ignored him. He stripped down and stood in the shower for a really long time, but his shoulders were still sore and he still felt really hollow when he crawled into bed.
He left the lamp on, just in case Fraser decided to join him.
***
Ray woke up slowly, blinking his eyes in the dim light. It was warm, and it took him a moment to realize that Fraser was draped halfway over him; arm across Ray’s chest, one leg folded over the top of Ray’s, feet tangled together. Fraser’s feet were always a little dry; Ray wiggled his own anyway, so he could feel the rough scratch against his toes.
Ray’s arm was numb from where Fraser was lying on it, but he didn’t care, because Fraser had come to bed, which meant if Fraser could forgive Ray for being such an asshole, maybe Ray could forgive him for destroying his Clash t-shirt, especially if Fraser would stay right where he was; body solid, real, warm against Ray’s, his face tucked gently against Ray’s neck.
Fraser was still asleep, humid breaths falling on Ray’s skin, lips crushed near the sensitive spot behind Ray’s ear. Ray put his free arm around Fraser, hand spread across Fraser’s back, and pulled him closer. Fraser took a sudden breath, his lashes fluttering against Ray’s jaw, and mumbled, “You’re awake.”
“I’m an asshole,” Ray whispered, running his fingers down Fraser’s back to the dip of his spine, resting lightly on Fraser’s scar.
“Sometimes,” Fraser murmured, and softly kissed Ray’s neck.
“I don’t care about the beer,” Ray told him, and then let out a sigh.
“I know,” Fraser said. He gently nipped Ray’s neck and nuzzled more. Ray didn’t want to know what time it was, and he didn’t want to think about how soon they were going to have to get up and go to separate jobs, Fraser behind his shiny desk and Ray stuck at the same old beat-up one, piled with papers and half-chewed pencils.
“Ray,” Fraser whispered, cheek resting on Ray’s shoulder. “I didn’t realize – I wasn’t aware this was so hard on you. I mean – the fact we are no longer partners. On the job.”
“It’s not hard, Frase, I just…I just miss – ”
“Me too.”
They were silent, Fraser’s hand skimming up Ray’s side until it reached the base of Ray’s neck, fingers curled lightly over Ray’s collarbone.
“You know I love you, right, Fraser?” Ray asked.
Fraser pressed a kiss to his jaw in response.
“And – it’s not like…” Ray continued, “it’s not like I have to be a cop forever, you know? I could do something else, maybe – I’m good at other – ”
“Ray,” Fraser interrupted. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say – ” Ray stopped, wound his fingers in Fraser’s hair, tilted Fraser’s face so that he could see his eyes. Fraser’s face was open, expectant. “Maybe we should move, away from here. Like, to Canada or something.”
“Ray,” Fraser breathed out, eyes closing, and dropped his head to Ray’s chest, where it shook back and forth. “I can’t ask that of you.”
“You’re not, Fraser, I’m telling you.” Ray said, tugging at Fraser’s hair until he looked up again. “I want to get away from here, from this job – it’s not the same anymore. It’s not the same without you, and there’s no way in hell I’m giving this up, and you can’t tell me you wouldn’t love to get back up there to all your snow and mountains and caribou.” Ray grinned and Fraser smiled back, slowly. “Say yes, Fraser.”
Fraser closed his eyes again, leaned up until his nose bumped along Ray’s chin, and kissed his jaw, the side of his mouth, finally his lips, gently, softly.
“Yes,” he whispered against Ray’s mouth. “Yes.”
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Date: 2005-02-11 12:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 03:37 am (UTC)