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ds_flashfictionTitle: Not Some Body-snatched, Mute and Mutant Telekinetic from Planet Doom, Here as an Advanced Scout for the Final Invasion
Word count: 998
Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Rating: pg-13ish
Apologies for the asinine name.
It had happened before. According to Welsh, Frase bonked his head real good a few weeks before I became Vecchio and forgot who he was for a while. You gotta wonder which way is worse, not knowing who he is, but being able to talk Vecchio's ear off anyways, or this aphasia thing. He can't talk, can't write, can't even give a thumbs up when I guess right what he wants to eat for lunch. But, he knows exactly who he is, Benton Fraser R.C.M.P. is in there all right (he kept showing up for statue duty all spit and polish until his new boss sent him home under threat of court marshal or impeachment or whatever they call it in the Mounties). So, that's where we are: Fraser, who dragged my sorry ass to Baffin Bay and back with little help from my city-fit self, staying at my place 'cause he can't function well enough to go to the corner grocery (he can't read, either).
At least the doc at the ER thinks it's temporary, maybe even all in his head which, I love the guy, but yeah, I can see that happening- I mean he talks to the wolf and sometimes to nothing at all. Scratch that, he used to talk to the wolf and his imaginary friends or ghosts (pixies?), now he just looks at things and tries to remember how to get his mouth to ask for them. Sometimes he looks so hard at things that I think I see them move, just a little, just real slow and not real far. Maybe not.
He's looking at me that way now, like he'd give anything to be able to say my name over and over again even if that meant that I'd stopped paying attention to him because he's been talking in Canadian for the last ten minutes. Yeah, I'm thinking that maybe those things are moving when he gives them a good looking at, 'cause I sure feel like I am. Moving that is, like the room is shrinking and the coffee table, the empty Chinese boxes, his cooling mug of tea, they're all starting to not be there, not be between us, like there ain't nothing between us, not even the space that I know has to be there because he's still on the couch and I'm still leaning against the side wall of the entrance from the kitchen.
He does that little lip lick thing that means he's nervous, which is kinda comforting, reminds me he's still him in there and not some body-snatched, mute and mutant telekinetic from planet doom, here as an advanced scout for the final invasion. (That's it; I gotta give up watching Sci-fi channel when I can't sleep.) He clears his throat and his intent gaze gets intent-er which really does make me move. I walk over and sit next to him thinking that maybe I can figure a way to reassure him that yes, he's gonna be fine and talking my ear off in no time, just the way his tics reassure me.
According to the doc, he might not even understand what people say to him. I can't count on just telling him stuff and having it sink in, I gotta show him. Plus talking around Fraser has started to feel rude, like people who speak a foreign language in front of people who don't speak it, too. I always think they're cracking jokes about my hair in that scenario and I really don't want to make my partner feel that way. So, I put an arm around his shoulder, nice and friendly like, look back at his blue, blue eyes and smile like things are just peachy.
He shifts his legs around some and we're really facing each other, our faces closer than they should be, but he put us in this position and the world is all weird for him, so I don't pull away. That wouldn't be buddies. His stare pulls me forward a little more and he's not looking me in the eyes anymore because our foreheads are touching and our eyes are closed, at least mine are. We sit like that a few minutes breathing and letting Frase feel something that is normal, not normal normal as in something we've ever done before, but normal, real, not the prison of his incommunicado brain.
Just when I think maybe we'll just stay like this forever, and you know that wouldn't be half bad, he brings a hand up to brush across my cheek in a way that shifts my focus from how our breathing has synched up to little Ray and how he's more interested in this than he should be. I jerk back a little with the surprise of that. Frase is looking at me again, still just as intense, and I can't help myself; I let his gravity tug me back to him until we're kissing, soft, warm, comforting kisses, like an extension of the hug and the breathing and that hand thing, which he repeats, this time less gently.
His hand slides around to the back of my neck, and I'm clutching at him with the friendly arm I'd slung around him and comfort ain't what this here's about anymore. He moans a little needy moan as I open my mouth and the Earth's gravity gets to be top banana again making me fall back on the arm of the couch, Fraser coming with. I find the pulse point on his neck and give it a soft nip.
"Ray," he whispers and we both freeze with the shock of it. He buries his head in the crook of my neck and I can't tell if he's sobbing or laughing and maybe I should care, but I don't. He's back and he's still lying on top of me, a woody with my name on it still poking reassuringly into my thigh, promising some very interesting conversations to come.
Fin
Aphasia
Aphasia (Greek a, "not"; phanai, "to speak"), term introduced by the French physician Armand Trousseau to denote inability to express thought by means of speech, as a consequence of certain brain disorders. The meaning has since been extended to cover loss of the faculty of interchanging thought, so that it may even denote a temporary but complete loss of memory.
Motor aphasia involves a loss of memory of the coordinated movements necessary for the formation of symbols. This usually includes gestures, speech, and writing. (The inability to write is commonly termed agraphia.) Victims of this disorder are unable to name any object shown to them, although they know what it is. Neither can they reply to any question although they may understand it. In sensory aphasia, a loss of memory of the meaning of symbols occurs. This may affect the recollection of spoken language. The victim can hear every sound but cannot understand a single spoken word.
Microsoft ® Encarta ® Encyclopedia 2004. © 1993-2003 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.
Word count: 998
Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Rating: pg-13ish
Apologies for the asinine name.
It had happened before. According to Welsh, Frase bonked his head real good a few weeks before I became Vecchio and forgot who he was for a while. You gotta wonder which way is worse, not knowing who he is, but being able to talk Vecchio's ear off anyways, or this aphasia thing. He can't talk, can't write, can't even give a thumbs up when I guess right what he wants to eat for lunch. But, he knows exactly who he is, Benton Fraser R.C.M.P. is in there all right (he kept showing up for statue duty all spit and polish until his new boss sent him home under threat of court marshal or impeachment or whatever they call it in the Mounties). So, that's where we are: Fraser, who dragged my sorry ass to Baffin Bay and back with little help from my city-fit self, staying at my place 'cause he can't function well enough to go to the corner grocery (he can't read, either).
At least the doc at the ER thinks it's temporary, maybe even all in his head which, I love the guy, but yeah, I can see that happening- I mean he talks to the wolf and sometimes to nothing at all. Scratch that, he used to talk to the wolf and his imaginary friends or ghosts (pixies?), now he just looks at things and tries to remember how to get his mouth to ask for them. Sometimes he looks so hard at things that I think I see them move, just a little, just real slow and not real far. Maybe not.
He's looking at me that way now, like he'd give anything to be able to say my name over and over again even if that meant that I'd stopped paying attention to him because he's been talking in Canadian for the last ten minutes. Yeah, I'm thinking that maybe those things are moving when he gives them a good looking at, 'cause I sure feel like I am. Moving that is, like the room is shrinking and the coffee table, the empty Chinese boxes, his cooling mug of tea, they're all starting to not be there, not be between us, like there ain't nothing between us, not even the space that I know has to be there because he's still on the couch and I'm still leaning against the side wall of the entrance from the kitchen.
He does that little lip lick thing that means he's nervous, which is kinda comforting, reminds me he's still him in there and not some body-snatched, mute and mutant telekinetic from planet doom, here as an advanced scout for the final invasion. (That's it; I gotta give up watching Sci-fi channel when I can't sleep.) He clears his throat and his intent gaze gets intent-er which really does make me move. I walk over and sit next to him thinking that maybe I can figure a way to reassure him that yes, he's gonna be fine and talking my ear off in no time, just the way his tics reassure me.
According to the doc, he might not even understand what people say to him. I can't count on just telling him stuff and having it sink in, I gotta show him. Plus talking around Fraser has started to feel rude, like people who speak a foreign language in front of people who don't speak it, too. I always think they're cracking jokes about my hair in that scenario and I really don't want to make my partner feel that way. So, I put an arm around his shoulder, nice and friendly like, look back at his blue, blue eyes and smile like things are just peachy.
He shifts his legs around some and we're really facing each other, our faces closer than they should be, but he put us in this position and the world is all weird for him, so I don't pull away. That wouldn't be buddies. His stare pulls me forward a little more and he's not looking me in the eyes anymore because our foreheads are touching and our eyes are closed, at least mine are. We sit like that a few minutes breathing and letting Frase feel something that is normal, not normal normal as in something we've ever done before, but normal, real, not the prison of his incommunicado brain.
Just when I think maybe we'll just stay like this forever, and you know that wouldn't be half bad, he brings a hand up to brush across my cheek in a way that shifts my focus from how our breathing has synched up to little Ray and how he's more interested in this than he should be. I jerk back a little with the surprise of that. Frase is looking at me again, still just as intense, and I can't help myself; I let his gravity tug me back to him until we're kissing, soft, warm, comforting kisses, like an extension of the hug and the breathing and that hand thing, which he repeats, this time less gently.
His hand slides around to the back of my neck, and I'm clutching at him with the friendly arm I'd slung around him and comfort ain't what this here's about anymore. He moans a little needy moan as I open my mouth and the Earth's gravity gets to be top banana again making me fall back on the arm of the couch, Fraser coming with. I find the pulse point on his neck and give it a soft nip.
"Ray," he whispers and we both freeze with the shock of it. He buries his head in the crook of my neck and I can't tell if he's sobbing or laughing and maybe I should care, but I don't. He's back and he's still lying on top of me, a woody with my name on it still poking reassuringly into my thigh, promising some very interesting conversations to come.
Fin
Aphasia
Aphasia (Greek a, "not"; phanai, "to speak"), term introduced by the French physician Armand Trousseau to denote inability to express thought by means of speech, as a consequence of certain brain disorders. The meaning has since been extended to cover loss of the faculty of interchanging thought, so that it may even denote a temporary but complete loss of memory.
Motor aphasia involves a loss of memory of the coordinated movements necessary for the formation of symbols. This usually includes gestures, speech, and writing. (The inability to write is commonly termed agraphia.) Victims of this disorder are unable to name any object shown to them, although they know what it is. Neither can they reply to any question although they may understand it. In sensory aphasia, a loss of memory of the meaning of symbols occurs. This may affect the recollection of spoken language. The victim can hear every sound but cannot understand a single spoken word.
Microsoft ® Encarta ® Encyclopedia 2004. © 1993-2003 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.
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