Songfic challenge: Flight, by pocketmouse
Aug. 26th, 2005 03:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pocketmouse posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionWow, two! I, uh, borrowed some CDs from my Dad last week (he has incredible taste, surprisingly), and wow. So much stuff fit perfectly. So I wrote this, which didn't turn out quite the way I expected, but I think it fits the mood well enough.
Title: Flight
Song: Landed, by Ben Folds
Rating: cursing, mild mild slash (F/K)
----
When Ray fled, he fled south -- not that there was much north to go from Inuvik. But he still didn’t know how the hell that equated to him ending up staying with Ray and Stella Vecchio for almost two months.
He must have looked like ever-loving hell, because Stella had let him in without a word. Vecchio hadn’t said anything either, not even about -- about him. Stella told him later, when he had gotten his feet back under himself again, that he’d looked worse than the time he’d camped outside the apartment for three days straight, without sleeping or eating or even getting out of the rain. He’d been sick as a dog for the rest of the week after that, he recalled, but at least he could remember it. The first few weeks of being in Florida were nothing more than a muggy, pastel blur. A face here, a couple of words there, and heat rising off the pavement like waves.
The Vecchios had set him up in one of the guest bedrooms and pretty much left him alone. One or both of them would occasionally prod him to eat, if he’d been too quiet, and once or twice he thought he saw Vecchio hovering in the doorway, just looking at him. He was always gone when he looked, though.
-----
Somewhere in the third week, he woke up, kind of. He’d dreamed of snow -- flying through snow, heading towards something, anticipation singing in his veins -- the dream-cold hadn’t bothered him, and he’d felt light as a feather, in a way he hadn’t in what felt like absolute ages.
When he woke up, he’d gone down to the kitchen and started making breakfast as if it were any other day. But one look at the cooked oatmeal he’d made, sitting in the pot, and he’d barely had time to turn around and hurl in the sink, his knees going weak on him.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but at some point he was peripherally aware of being pulled away from the sink, cleaned up, and gently shoved into a chair, head between his knees. When he was able to gather himself together again, Vecchio was at the stove, and the pot of oatmeal was nowhere in sight.
“Eggs benedict?” He croaked, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice. “Not very Italian, Vecchio.”
Vecchio smirked. “Yeah, but I make a mean Hollandaise sauce.” Nothing else was said until Stella appeared from upstairs. When she put a hand casually on his shoulder for a moment, Ray was hollowly surprised to feel nothing but a low warmth. He ate his breakfast slowly, watching the pink patches of light from the faux stained glass windows move across the newspapers on the table.
-----
After that, he managed some semblance of normal functionality: get up, dress, eat something -- if he remembered, and then try to find something to do with himself. He did a lot of walking, by himself -- and he was damn glad the Vecchios didn’t live on the beach, because wouldn’t that have been sad -- and he’d found a gym for the times when he really needed to work some frustration off, but most of his time he spent at the library. It was a small library, and quiet, naturally, and Ray would browse the shelves until he found something on whaling or the courtship rituals of seals or the latest archaeological finds in Ozette. He’d sit on one of the stiff, awkward couches near the banks of computers and remember how they had internet access at the -- at the RCMP station in Inuvik. He didn’t get much reading done.
-----
They were eating dinner all together a couple weeks later -- something that didn’t occur too often -- when Ray Vecchio brought up his undercover gig in Vegas. It obviously wasn’t a common occurrence, because even Stella looked surprised. Besides, no one had brought up Chicago, or Canada, or ... or Fraser -- and it was easier to call him that than something else -- since Ray had showed up.
“...because even when I was doing something that wasn’t fake, the rest of it, the wrong stuff, made it feel wrong, you know?” Ray didn’t look at him, didn’t look up from his plate. “And I found I can’t do that at all any more. Lying like that isn’t something you should have to do, especially when you don’t really have to.” Ray could feel Vecchio’s eyes drilling into him. “Not even to help the people I love.” Ray gripped his fork tighter, and stabbed at the peas on his plate.
“What if you’re just lying to yourself?” He whispered hollowly, then stopped, shocked that he’d actually spoken the words out loud. He stood abruptly, knocking the plate away. The fork fell to the floor with a clatter, but he ignored it as he stalked out of the kitchen.
“Funny, I didn’t figure you for the commitment-shy type.” Ray whirled around, coming face to face with Vecchio.
“You don’t know,” he snarled, stabbing at Vecchio’s chest with a pointed fist. “I tried. I fucked tried so --“ He cut off in a choked sob. He felt his knees buckle again and was somehow surprised to find himself wrapped in a hug, getting the front of Vecchio’s expensive cotton-silk blend shirt all wet and snotty. He struggled briefly, trying to pull away, but Vecchio held onto him as easily as a wet rag, and hell, he felt like one.
“Hell, you can both be trying as hard as you can, but it doesn’t matter if you’re not pulling in the same direction,” the Italian spoke softly, and Ray wondered where the guy had been when Fraser had come up with that metaphor involving showshoe hares and fucking continental drift. He stopped sobbing, though, because just the thought of that fight and spending the night in the spare room off Beau Davies’ bar made him remember his promise to himself.
So he pushed away from Vecchio, giving a final sniff, and rubbing at his eyes quickly with the heel of his palms. Vecchio shoved him down onto the couch, and held a phone out to him.
“Call him.” The green eyes locked onto him, and yeah, he could see mob bosses backing off from that. He took the phone, and was surprised to find it already ringing.
“Hello?”
“Ben?” He blurted, then had to clamp down on his lower lip to keep from saying anything further. His pulse was racing, and his chest felt tight.
Silence on the other end of the line, then finally “Ray?” And damn if Fraser -- Ben -- didn’t sound just as scared as him.
Ray nodded, then corrected himself. “Yeah, it’s me.” He couldn’t help the smile from creeping onto his face, just hearing Ben again.
“Are you OK, Ray? You’re not still --“ Fraser cut off, and this time Ray didn’t know if it was good or bad. He’d had a hard time of it before he’d finally had no choice but to cut and run.
“I’m -- I’m better.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, lying flat and untreated against his skull.
“I’m glad.” Ben paused again, and Ray could hear the hiss and crackle of static over the line. If he was up a telephone pole somewhere, he’d kill him for risking his neck like that -- fucking Mountie... “I’m so sorry, Ray, I didn’t --“
“Frase -- Ben, no.” Ray interrupted him. “We need to do this face to face.” He swallowed, then spoke again. “I uh, I kinda --“
“I know where you are, Ray,” Ben cut him off, not unkindly. “Ray Vecchio called me shortly after your arrival. He was quite concerned for your welfare.”
For once in a long time, their silent communication worked, and Ray knew he meant Vecchio hadn’t allowed Ben to come down until he thought Ray was ready. “I’m ready now, Ben. I...” His throat was tight again. “I miss you.”
-----
He sat on the couch, holding the phone long after Fraser hung up. Numbness was trying to creep back up on him, fighting against panic, as all the reasons he’d given up on him and Fraser, on years of working together -- as partners -- came crashing down on him. Ray pushed down on both of them. No matter which way this turned out -- for better or for worse -- there’d be a solution, an answer, not this stupid running away that had solved nothing.
He wasn’t prepared for the bone-crushing hug Ben gave him the moment he saw him, though, babbling a combination of apology and explanation and relief, so that it all got mixed together so Ray didn’t really understand any of it except this was Ben, his Ben, who he’d missed so much, who he hadn’t seen in a fuck of a lot longer than two months. He buried his head in Ben’s neck and hung on, inhaling that warm Benton Fraser smell that the heat and mugginess of Florida in summer just seemed to amplify.
He pulled away when Ben finally seemed to run out of steam, though he didn’t let go completely. “Shh, we got plenty of time.” And maybe they did -- Ray felt a sudden, crazy swell of optimism just from the two of them standing there, together. He kissed Ben lightly, on the forehead, then the nose. Then he backed up some more, and gave Ben his best ‘kick ‘em in the head’ glare. “But don’t expect we’re gonna do this every five years or anything.”
Ben’s face was glowing, a warm, familiar smile nearly splitting his face in two. “Of course not, Ray.” And then he was surrounded by Ben again.
Lyrics
Title: Flight
Song: Landed, by Ben Folds
Rating: cursing, mild mild slash (F/K)
----
When Ray fled, he fled south -- not that there was much north to go from Inuvik. But he still didn’t know how the hell that equated to him ending up staying with Ray and Stella Vecchio for almost two months.
He must have looked like ever-loving hell, because Stella had let him in without a word. Vecchio hadn’t said anything either, not even about -- about him. Stella told him later, when he had gotten his feet back under himself again, that he’d looked worse than the time he’d camped outside the apartment for three days straight, without sleeping or eating or even getting out of the rain. He’d been sick as a dog for the rest of the week after that, he recalled, but at least he could remember it. The first few weeks of being in Florida were nothing more than a muggy, pastel blur. A face here, a couple of words there, and heat rising off the pavement like waves.
The Vecchios had set him up in one of the guest bedrooms and pretty much left him alone. One or both of them would occasionally prod him to eat, if he’d been too quiet, and once or twice he thought he saw Vecchio hovering in the doorway, just looking at him. He was always gone when he looked, though.
Somewhere in the third week, he woke up, kind of. He’d dreamed of snow -- flying through snow, heading towards something, anticipation singing in his veins -- the dream-cold hadn’t bothered him, and he’d felt light as a feather, in a way he hadn’t in what felt like absolute ages.
When he woke up, he’d gone down to the kitchen and started making breakfast as if it were any other day. But one look at the cooked oatmeal he’d made, sitting in the pot, and he’d barely had time to turn around and hurl in the sink, his knees going weak on him.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but at some point he was peripherally aware of being pulled away from the sink, cleaned up, and gently shoved into a chair, head between his knees. When he was able to gather himself together again, Vecchio was at the stove, and the pot of oatmeal was nowhere in sight.
“Eggs benedict?” He croaked, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice. “Not very Italian, Vecchio.”
Vecchio smirked. “Yeah, but I make a mean Hollandaise sauce.” Nothing else was said until Stella appeared from upstairs. When she put a hand casually on his shoulder for a moment, Ray was hollowly surprised to feel nothing but a low warmth. He ate his breakfast slowly, watching the pink patches of light from the faux stained glass windows move across the newspapers on the table.
After that, he managed some semblance of normal functionality: get up, dress, eat something -- if he remembered, and then try to find something to do with himself. He did a lot of walking, by himself -- and he was damn glad the Vecchios didn’t live on the beach, because wouldn’t that have been sad -- and he’d found a gym for the times when he really needed to work some frustration off, but most of his time he spent at the library. It was a small library, and quiet, naturally, and Ray would browse the shelves until he found something on whaling or the courtship rituals of seals or the latest archaeological finds in Ozette. He’d sit on one of the stiff, awkward couches near the banks of computers and remember how they had internet access at the -- at the RCMP station in Inuvik. He didn’t get much reading done.
They were eating dinner all together a couple weeks later -- something that didn’t occur too often -- when Ray Vecchio brought up his undercover gig in Vegas. It obviously wasn’t a common occurrence, because even Stella looked surprised. Besides, no one had brought up Chicago, or Canada, or ... or Fraser -- and it was easier to call him that than something else -- since Ray had showed up.
“...because even when I was doing something that wasn’t fake, the rest of it, the wrong stuff, made it feel wrong, you know?” Ray didn’t look at him, didn’t look up from his plate. “And I found I can’t do that at all any more. Lying like that isn’t something you should have to do, especially when you don’t really have to.” Ray could feel Vecchio’s eyes drilling into him. “Not even to help the people I love.” Ray gripped his fork tighter, and stabbed at the peas on his plate.
“What if you’re just lying to yourself?” He whispered hollowly, then stopped, shocked that he’d actually spoken the words out loud. He stood abruptly, knocking the plate away. The fork fell to the floor with a clatter, but he ignored it as he stalked out of the kitchen.
“Funny, I didn’t figure you for the commitment-shy type.” Ray whirled around, coming face to face with Vecchio.
“You don’t know,” he snarled, stabbing at Vecchio’s chest with a pointed fist. “I tried. I fucked tried so --“ He cut off in a choked sob. He felt his knees buckle again and was somehow surprised to find himself wrapped in a hug, getting the front of Vecchio’s expensive cotton-silk blend shirt all wet and snotty. He struggled briefly, trying to pull away, but Vecchio held onto him as easily as a wet rag, and hell, he felt like one.
“Hell, you can both be trying as hard as you can, but it doesn’t matter if you’re not pulling in the same direction,” the Italian spoke softly, and Ray wondered where the guy had been when Fraser had come up with that metaphor involving showshoe hares and fucking continental drift. He stopped sobbing, though, because just the thought of that fight and spending the night in the spare room off Beau Davies’ bar made him remember his promise to himself.
So he pushed away from Vecchio, giving a final sniff, and rubbing at his eyes quickly with the heel of his palms. Vecchio shoved him down onto the couch, and held a phone out to him.
“Call him.” The green eyes locked onto him, and yeah, he could see mob bosses backing off from that. He took the phone, and was surprised to find it already ringing.
“Hello?”
“Ben?” He blurted, then had to clamp down on his lower lip to keep from saying anything further. His pulse was racing, and his chest felt tight.
Silence on the other end of the line, then finally “Ray?” And damn if Fraser -- Ben -- didn’t sound just as scared as him.
Ray nodded, then corrected himself. “Yeah, it’s me.” He couldn’t help the smile from creeping onto his face, just hearing Ben again.
“Are you OK, Ray? You’re not still --“ Fraser cut off, and this time Ray didn’t know if it was good or bad. He’d had a hard time of it before he’d finally had no choice but to cut and run.
“I’m -- I’m better.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, lying flat and untreated against his skull.
“I’m glad.” Ben paused again, and Ray could hear the hiss and crackle of static over the line. If he was up a telephone pole somewhere, he’d kill him for risking his neck like that -- fucking Mountie... “I’m so sorry, Ray, I didn’t --“
“Frase -- Ben, no.” Ray interrupted him. “We need to do this face to face.” He swallowed, then spoke again. “I uh, I kinda --“
“I know where you are, Ray,” Ben cut him off, not unkindly. “Ray Vecchio called me shortly after your arrival. He was quite concerned for your welfare.”
For once in a long time, their silent communication worked, and Ray knew he meant Vecchio hadn’t allowed Ben to come down until he thought Ray was ready. “I’m ready now, Ben. I...” His throat was tight again. “I miss you.”
He sat on the couch, holding the phone long after Fraser hung up. Numbness was trying to creep back up on him, fighting against panic, as all the reasons he’d given up on him and Fraser, on years of working together -- as partners -- came crashing down on him. Ray pushed down on both of them. No matter which way this turned out -- for better or for worse -- there’d be a solution, an answer, not this stupid running away that had solved nothing.
He wasn’t prepared for the bone-crushing hug Ben gave him the moment he saw him, though, babbling a combination of apology and explanation and relief, so that it all got mixed together so Ray didn’t really understand any of it except this was Ben, his Ben, who he’d missed so much, who he hadn’t seen in a fuck of a lot longer than two months. He buried his head in Ben’s neck and hung on, inhaling that warm Benton Fraser smell that the heat and mugginess of Florida in summer just seemed to amplify.
He pulled away when Ben finally seemed to run out of steam, though he didn’t let go completely. “Shh, we got plenty of time.” And maybe they did -- Ray felt a sudden, crazy swell of optimism just from the two of them standing there, together. He kissed Ben lightly, on the forehead, then the nose. Then he backed up some more, and gave Ben his best ‘kick ‘em in the head’ glare. “But don’t expect we’re gonna do this every five years or anything.”
Ben’s face was glowing, a warm, familiar smile nearly splitting his face in two. “Of course not, Ray.” And then he was surrounded by Ben again.
Lyrics
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Date: 2005-08-26 09:02 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2005-08-26 03:28 pm (UTC)But happy sobbing! This is just lovely. Beautifully paced, wonderful descriptions. I adore Ben Folds and this whole story was perfect. So I have a thing for woobie!RayK, what can I say? And happy ending with neck-smelling! You totally hit all my buttons with this :)
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