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ds_flashfictionTitle: “You Fraser, Me Ray”
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
laughingacademy
Rating: PG
Pairing: F/K
Length: 600 words
Notes: As I kid growing up in Miami, I used to watch the black and white Tarzan films starring Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O'Sullivan on TV every Sunday. I’m still very fond of them.
***
“PUT ME DOWN!”
Fraser leaned forward until Ray’s feet were on the fire escape landing. Ray slid the rest of the way off Fraser’s shoulder, jimmied the latch on his window, and climbed into his living room. He left the garbage bag that Fraser had handed him back on the warehouse roof outside the bathroom. “God damn it, my chest’s crooked and my lipstick’s ruined.”
If Fraser made any reply it was drowned out by the cacophony outside. Ray, scrubbing at the lipstick with a washcloth, joined Fraser at the window. “Wow,” he said after a moment, “look at him go! I thought the elephant stampedes in the Tarzan films were sped up.”
“They were. Also, the filmmakers used Indian rather than African elephants, which were allegedly harder to control. Mbutu would seem to prove their point.”
“Well, it’s not like he hasn’t got a reason. If someone scooped me off the streets of Chicago and dumped me in the savanna, I’d be pissed.”
“Indeed.”
Ray reached into his blouse, undid the clasp between the wired cups (thank god he’d refused to wear the traditional hook-and-eye-in-the-back model), pulled the straps down his arms and shrugged out of the blasted thing, ignoring the silicone “cutlets” as they bounced between his feet. “Ah,” he sighed happily, scratching. He kicked off the heels as well and rubbed his ankles. Still bent, he pointed and asked, “So what the hell is that?”
Fraser looked down and rubbed his eyebrow. “I believe the traditional appellation is ‘loincloth,’ although I have also heard people refer to such garments as, ah, ‘butt flaps.’”
“And you’re wearing one because…?”
Fraser waved toward the plastic bag. “I felt it best to remove my uniform lest I inadvertently expose anyone else to the spitting cobra venom. Fortunately, the adjoining warehouse was being used to store a variety of fancy dress costumes. Since your position was a precarious one, speed was of the essence, and this was by far the easiest garment to don.”
“Uh-huh.”
Fraser nudged a falsie with a toe. “Frankly, Ray, you’re hardly in a position to question my sartorial choices. I must say I was surprised to see you in a slit skirt and heels.”
“Um, yeah, about that — Inspector Greystoke called this morning and said the reason they couldn’t find John Porter, the guy I’m supposed to be, was because he became Jane Porter two weeks ago. Legally, anyway.”
“Indeed?”
“Yeah. In fact, that’s why he — she — got into this mess. Apparently gender reassignment isn’t covered by National Health. Even in Mexico the surgery isn’t cheap, and Porter had already gone into hock to pay for the electrolysis and the hormone shots.”
“Ah. Well, that explains why you were made up and sporting décolletage.”
“Right. So, I’m gonna go wash this stuff off and find you some pants.”
“However,” Fraser continued, tugging Ray back by the waistband of his skirt, “it does not explain how you obtained cosmetics, a full B-cup, and a pair of size twelve black leather heels without notice.”
“Hey!” Ray yelped. He put out one hand to keep from smacking into Fraser, and froze when it landed on the Mountie’s chest. After he second he realized that Fraser wasn’t moving either, and that his skin was warm under Ray’s palm.
Ray slid his hand along Fraser’s shoulder until it was curved around the back of his neck. “You Fraser, me Ray?” he purred.
Fraser growled, knelt, slung Ray across his shoulder, and headed for the bedroom.
Cool, Ray thought. I wonder if I can make him do the yell?
Author:
laughingacademyRating: PG
Pairing: F/K
Length: 600 words
Notes: As I kid growing up in Miami, I used to watch the black and white Tarzan films starring Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O'Sullivan on TV every Sunday. I’m still very fond of them.
***
“PUT ME DOWN!”
Fraser leaned forward until Ray’s feet were on the fire escape landing. Ray slid the rest of the way off Fraser’s shoulder, jimmied the latch on his window, and climbed into his living room. He left the garbage bag that Fraser had handed him back on the warehouse roof outside the bathroom. “God damn it, my chest’s crooked and my lipstick’s ruined.”
If Fraser made any reply it was drowned out by the cacophony outside. Ray, scrubbing at the lipstick with a washcloth, joined Fraser at the window. “Wow,” he said after a moment, “look at him go! I thought the elephant stampedes in the Tarzan films were sped up.”
“They were. Also, the filmmakers used Indian rather than African elephants, which were allegedly harder to control. Mbutu would seem to prove their point.”
“Well, it’s not like he hasn’t got a reason. If someone scooped me off the streets of Chicago and dumped me in the savanna, I’d be pissed.”
“Indeed.”
Ray reached into his blouse, undid the clasp between the wired cups (thank god he’d refused to wear the traditional hook-and-eye-in-the-back model), pulled the straps down his arms and shrugged out of the blasted thing, ignoring the silicone “cutlets” as they bounced between his feet. “Ah,” he sighed happily, scratching. He kicked off the heels as well and rubbed his ankles. Still bent, he pointed and asked, “So what the hell is that?”
Fraser looked down and rubbed his eyebrow. “I believe the traditional appellation is ‘loincloth,’ although I have also heard people refer to such garments as, ah, ‘butt flaps.’”
“And you’re wearing one because…?”
Fraser waved toward the plastic bag. “I felt it best to remove my uniform lest I inadvertently expose anyone else to the spitting cobra venom. Fortunately, the adjoining warehouse was being used to store a variety of fancy dress costumes. Since your position was a precarious one, speed was of the essence, and this was by far the easiest garment to don.”
“Uh-huh.”
Fraser nudged a falsie with a toe. “Frankly, Ray, you’re hardly in a position to question my sartorial choices. I must say I was surprised to see you in a slit skirt and heels.”
“Um, yeah, about that — Inspector Greystoke called this morning and said the reason they couldn’t find John Porter, the guy I’m supposed to be, was because he became Jane Porter two weeks ago. Legally, anyway.”
“Indeed?”
“Yeah. In fact, that’s why he — she — got into this mess. Apparently gender reassignment isn’t covered by National Health. Even in Mexico the surgery isn’t cheap, and Porter had already gone into hock to pay for the electrolysis and the hormone shots.”
“Ah. Well, that explains why you were made up and sporting décolletage.”
“Right. So, I’m gonna go wash this stuff off and find you some pants.”
“However,” Fraser continued, tugging Ray back by the waistband of his skirt, “it does not explain how you obtained cosmetics, a full B-cup, and a pair of size twelve black leather heels without notice.”
“Hey!” Ray yelped. He put out one hand to keep from smacking into Fraser, and froze when it landed on the Mountie’s chest. After he second he realized that Fraser wasn’t moving either, and that his skin was warm under Ray’s palm.
Ray slid his hand along Fraser’s shoulder until it was curved around the back of his neck. “You Fraser, me Ray?” he purred.
Fraser growled, knelt, slung Ray across his shoulder, and headed for the bedroom.
Cool, Ray thought. I wonder if I can make him do the yell?
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