Hourglass challenge
May. 5th, 2003 11:07 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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carlacoupe for her fine beta suggestions. As usual, any flaws herein are mine, not hers...
Speech
He thinks it never crosses my mind. Sex, I mean. He's never known me to date, he didn't witness my last (calamitous) romance, and he probably assumes my attempts to brush Francesca off are born of thickheadedness rather than courtesy.
On the rare occasions when I've accompanied Ray and his colleagues for a nightcap, I don't ogle the waitresses, nor elbow the man beside me when a particularly underdressed specimen of womanhood walks by. Neither do they elbow me. It seems universally accepted that I am exempt from this soi-disant ritual of American manhood. At first I thought they were intimidated by the uniform, but I've come to think that the men of the police department regard me as either asexual, clueless, or both.
Clueless I may be, or at least occasionally thrown for a loop by American urban culture, but asexual...not exactly. Nor heterosexual, in the default way I trust Ray and his brothers in blue would expect, were they to spare a thought to my proclivities.
Probably a blessing, honestly. It's strange enough that I'm a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police working unofficially in an American bullpen, or that my childhood involved caribou-hunting and cloudberries and bobbing for trout instead of Big Macs and Nintendo and MTV. They don't need to know the other ways I don't fit in, and I am fairly certain that none of these men would know what to do with a declaration of bisexuality.
Ray might, but I am loathe to push that line.
I don't think about it all the time. When I am on duty, I am alert to the needs of my profession; when we are puzzling through a case, my energies are focused there. But I notice Ray's proximity more often than perhaps I ought: the crisp gelled texture of his hair, the curl of his bicep when he's wearing short sleeves, the spice of his aftershave.
Now and then, in rash moments of relief when we have dodged death or injury, it crosses my mind to tell him that I am not the man he thinks I am, and, more, that I think our partnership could go...further.
But the adrenaline always wears off, and I am always glad to have maintained my circumspection.
Having lost access to Ray Vecchio unexpectedly, some cowardly part of me fears the potential loss of Ray Kowalski if the revelation were to go poorly. Some day Ray Vecchio will return and I will have to navigate the complicated tides of my attachment to both men. It will all be easier this way.
***
You wanna know the funny part? When he finally came out to me, he couldn't stop telling me about all the other times he'd almost said something. That time Jimmy Gaskell shot at us. The time in the water. The time in the warehouse. The time with the fire. The time in that crevasse. The time I fell through the ice, which I can't really figure how that gave him an adrenaline jolt since I was the one dealing with water so cold I couldn't even scream, but I guess it counts because he looked like he was going to have a heart attack when I dragged myself back to the tent.
I'm usually right about people being interested in me, and I'd been figuring Fraser was but couldn't bring himself to say it in Chicago. Okay, fine, whatever, my turf, my culture, I got that. I was interested enough in him it seemed worth spending some time on his soil. Tundra. Whatever.
But there we were, six months in a tent eating hoosh over a primus stove, which let me tell you is not fine cuisine but you get hungry enough for fat you'll eat lumps of butter plain, and he didn't make a move. I tried dropping hints, but he didn't pick them up. Got to where I was second-guessing my own hunches. All that time and not a word out of his mouth. Not about me, unless it was a compliment on my comfort level with the skis or the sled or the snow. Not about us.
We braved danger a million times, not a word. Slept together in that tent six months, not a word. Got back to what passes up there for civilization, bought my ticket home, was about to deep-freeze my heart so I could go back with some souvenirs and some pictures of nothing and tell everybody it was okay...and that night he finally said something.
"You were willing to put yourself out of your element for me." A hot shower and some quality time with a razor had done us both good, and he looked as sexy as I'd ever seen him, wind-tanned face and tincloth pants and lumberjack shirt. "I appreciate that, Ray, and it deserves to be repaid with honesty. There are things I haven't told you..." And then he stopped.
Might as well lay the cards down. "You and me both."
We stared each other down a while. My heart was hammering. "Surely you don't mean..."
"Didn't you know?" I wasn't sure whether I'd just made the best move of my life, or the worst one. Until he kissed me.
When we came up for air he just started talking. All the times he hadn't told me. All the things he hadn't said. He talked himself almost hoarse.
Well, either that, or it was the moaning.
Needless to say, we bought another ticket.
Now that I've spent some time in the Northwest Territories, Chicago winter doesn't seem so cold. And when I get home at the end of a day, I've got Fraser to keep me warm.
Plus -- maybe it's all that time he spent keeping himself quiet -- I never get tired of hearing "I want you, Ray." I warned him I might never get tired of it, but seems like that's okay with him.
There's not a whole lot anymore that we don't say.
(1000 words)
carlacoupe for her fine beta suggestions. As usual, any flaws herein are mine, not hers...Speech
He thinks it never crosses my mind. Sex, I mean. He's never known me to date, he didn't witness my last (calamitous) romance, and he probably assumes my attempts to brush Francesca off are born of thickheadedness rather than courtesy.
On the rare occasions when I've accompanied Ray and his colleagues for a nightcap, I don't ogle the waitresses, nor elbow the man beside me when a particularly underdressed specimen of womanhood walks by. Neither do they elbow me. It seems universally accepted that I am exempt from this soi-disant ritual of American manhood. At first I thought they were intimidated by the uniform, but I've come to think that the men of the police department regard me as either asexual, clueless, or both.
Clueless I may be, or at least occasionally thrown for a loop by American urban culture, but asexual...not exactly. Nor heterosexual, in the default way I trust Ray and his brothers in blue would expect, were they to spare a thought to my proclivities.
Probably a blessing, honestly. It's strange enough that I'm a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police working unofficially in an American bullpen, or that my childhood involved caribou-hunting and cloudberries and bobbing for trout instead of Big Macs and Nintendo and MTV. They don't need to know the other ways I don't fit in, and I am fairly certain that none of these men would know what to do with a declaration of bisexuality.
Ray might, but I am loathe to push that line.
I don't think about it all the time. When I am on duty, I am alert to the needs of my profession; when we are puzzling through a case, my energies are focused there. But I notice Ray's proximity more often than perhaps I ought: the crisp gelled texture of his hair, the curl of his bicep when he's wearing short sleeves, the spice of his aftershave.
Now and then, in rash moments of relief when we have dodged death or injury, it crosses my mind to tell him that I am not the man he thinks I am, and, more, that I think our partnership could go...further.
But the adrenaline always wears off, and I am always glad to have maintained my circumspection.
Having lost access to Ray Vecchio unexpectedly, some cowardly part of me fears the potential loss of Ray Kowalski if the revelation were to go poorly. Some day Ray Vecchio will return and I will have to navigate the complicated tides of my attachment to both men. It will all be easier this way.
***
You wanna know the funny part? When he finally came out to me, he couldn't stop telling me about all the other times he'd almost said something. That time Jimmy Gaskell shot at us. The time in the water. The time in the warehouse. The time with the fire. The time in that crevasse. The time I fell through the ice, which I can't really figure how that gave him an adrenaline jolt since I was the one dealing with water so cold I couldn't even scream, but I guess it counts because he looked like he was going to have a heart attack when I dragged myself back to the tent.
I'm usually right about people being interested in me, and I'd been figuring Fraser was but couldn't bring himself to say it in Chicago. Okay, fine, whatever, my turf, my culture, I got that. I was interested enough in him it seemed worth spending some time on his soil. Tundra. Whatever.
But there we were, six months in a tent eating hoosh over a primus stove, which let me tell you is not fine cuisine but you get hungry enough for fat you'll eat lumps of butter plain, and he didn't make a move. I tried dropping hints, but he didn't pick them up. Got to where I was second-guessing my own hunches. All that time and not a word out of his mouth. Not about me, unless it was a compliment on my comfort level with the skis or the sled or the snow. Not about us.
We braved danger a million times, not a word. Slept together in that tent six months, not a word. Got back to what passes up there for civilization, bought my ticket home, was about to deep-freeze my heart so I could go back with some souvenirs and some pictures of nothing and tell everybody it was okay...and that night he finally said something.
"You were willing to put yourself out of your element for me." A hot shower and some quality time with a razor had done us both good, and he looked as sexy as I'd ever seen him, wind-tanned face and tincloth pants and lumberjack shirt. "I appreciate that, Ray, and it deserves to be repaid with honesty. There are things I haven't told you..." And then he stopped.
Might as well lay the cards down. "You and me both."
We stared each other down a while. My heart was hammering. "Surely you don't mean..."
"Didn't you know?" I wasn't sure whether I'd just made the best move of my life, or the worst one. Until he kissed me.
When we came up for air he just started talking. All the times he hadn't told me. All the things he hadn't said. He talked himself almost hoarse.
Well, either that, or it was the moaning.
Needless to say, we bought another ticket.
Now that I've spent some time in the Northwest Territories, Chicago winter doesn't seem so cold. And when I get home at the end of a day, I've got Fraser to keep me warm.
Plus -- maybe it's all that time he spent keeping himself quiet -- I never get tired of hearing "I want you, Ray." I warned him I might never get tired of it, but seems like that's okay with him.
There's not a whole lot anymore that we don't say.
(1000 words)
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no subject
Date: 2003-05-05 09:05 am (UTC)Exactly what I needed before going to teach.
no subject
Date: 2003-05-05 09:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-05-05 10:22 am (UTC)*sigh* oh, thank Goddess Ray didn't let his heart ice over. Thank Goddess Fraser finally said something. And you know, hearing 'I want you' coming out of that mouth would keep me warm, too. :o)
I loved the opener, btw. He thinks it never crosses my mind. Sex, I mean. It was compelling and so obviously Fraser. Excellent!
no subject
Date: 2003-05-05 10:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-05-05 01:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-05-05 02:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-05-05 03:46 pm (UTC)*happysigh*
Date: 2003-05-05 10:18 pm (UTC)Well, either that, or it was the moaning.
Needless to say, we bought another ticket."
Loved it. Needless to say, but I say so anyhow.
Karen
no subject
Date: 2003-05-06 10:55 am (UTC)-R
no subject
Date: 2003-05-07 05:34 am (UTC)Well, either that, or it was the moaning.
made me chuckle. *g*
no subject
Date: 2003-05-07 09:54 am (UTC)I love both these POVs. Fraser for the "soi-disant ritual of American manhood" to the caribou and cloudberries -- details Fraser would notice, in a language he would use.
And I can hear Ray talking in his section, talking and making those manic little hand gestures -- "Okay, fine, whatever, my turf, my culture, I got that. I was interested enough in him it seemed worth spending some time on his soil. Tundra. Whatever."
Love it!