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ds_flashfictionUm, yes, okay, I have CHEESECLOTH. HA.
F/K, >2000 words.
[Disclaimer: I like cheese. Yum. Turnbull likes cheese too. This is the extent of my creativity, so obviously I can't have created the show.]
Cheesemaker
Ray knocks when he comes into the Consulate -- yeah, sure, he could just shove his way in, 'cause he don't got problems with manners. Thing is, whenever he does that he thinks that he's got somebody unfriendly behind him with a gun. It's not a good feeling, so Ray knocks. It only takes a minute to be courteous, after all.
Turnbull opens the door, of course, beaming at Ray in a way that, if he were anybody else, would get him locked up somewhere for the better good. Ray bets the Ice Queen only keeps him around so she doesn't have to hire somebody else to do the dusting. "Welcome to Canada, Detective Vecchio!"
"Yeah, yeah, thanks," Ray says, shoving past Turnbull. Usually, this'll get Turnbull a little pissy -- not pissed, because Turnbull doesn't seem to get pissed about anything that don't got to do with the corruption of the uniform, but kinda annoyed. Today, though, he just grins from ear to ear, looking about as happy as a clam. Way, way too happy, even for a Mountie who's got a bunch of holes in his bag of marbles, like Fraser says.
Ray squints at him suspiciously. "Okay, what did you do?"
Turnbull considers that. "Well, I've waxed the floors in the Queen's bedroom," he offers brightly. "It was very satisfying; I finished in record -- "
Ray waves a dismissive hand at Turnbull, pretty sure he's gonna strangle somebody if he has to hear any more about how not slobbish Turnbull is. "No no no, I mean -- look, you got guilty pleasure written all over your face, don't try to deny it."
Turnbull drops his chin to his chest immediately, going into what Ray's come to think of as the Mountie-shame-posture. "I'm sorry," he confides, his ears going red. "I realize that it is unforgivable to distract Constable Fraser from his Consular duties for such petty matters, but he did seem willing to offer his -- "
Ray frowns, annoyed, and he's just finishing the translation from Canadian to American when -- BAM! -- his brain explodes, and trickles down his spine slowly. "Jesus Christ!" he shouts -- without thinking, seeing as all his brains just fried themselves -- and then abruptly lowers his voice, just in case Fraser's here and listening, or something. "You guys didn't -- "
Turnbull nods, fast, which Ray knows means he is guilty, guilty, guilty as charged. Jesus. His whole head's gone red, now. It'd be funny if Ray wasn't busy getting his whole fucking world flipped upside down. "We did, yes," Turnbull whispers back.
Ray boggles, his eyebrows flying up. This is even worse than Lady Shoes -- for fuck's sake, how horny is Fraser, anyway? "Holy crap," he mutters, shoving his fingers back through his hair.
"Indeed," Turnbull agrees. "The price is really quite -- "
"Price?" Ray yelps. "You paid -- "
"Well, of course," Turnbull retorts, looking sort of superior in that annoying way Mounties have. "It would be reprehensible to do otherwise."
"Look," Ray growls, totally outraged, jabbing his finger at Turnbull's face, "you guys may do stuff different, but down here that's just -- "
Turnbull's worked himself into a proper little Mountie rage. "Detective Vecchio," he says, clenching his jaw and staring across the room pointedly, "I have often found American customs bizarre in the extreme -- "
"You think we -- ?" Ray sputters, completely speechless with rage.
" -- but I have never before thought your ways utterly inhumane."
"Inhumane?" Ray repeats. Turnbull's got to be kidding him. Or speaking a different language. Or maybe he forgot what they were talking about, that's possible.
"Yes!" Turnbull says, almost snapping, inflating himself indignantly. "How can you possibly justify robbing a caribou calf of his milk without exacting -- "
-- wait, wait wait, what? "Milk?"
Turnbull stops, takes a couple of seconds to backtrack, then launches off again. "Yes, milk,the nutrition of which is -- "
"Caribou milk?"
"Well -- yes," Turnbull says, looking very confused. "How else could we make caribou cheese?"
"Caribou cheese," Ray repeats dully.
"I was hesitant to pay for the milk to be shipped here, of course," Turnbull explains. apparently unaware that Ray isn't paying attention -- he's finding rubbery bits of his brain and trying to stick them back together again. "But pre-made cheese just isn't the same. And as Constable Fraser was willing to contribute his dexterity with a cheesecloth to the process, I felt it was within the bounds of propriety to -- "
"Yeah, yeah, okay, so wait," Ray interrupts, holding up a hand, and Turnbull goes quiet. "You're telling me you thought we were talking about cheese?"
Turnbull gives Ray this look, like he's the one who's nuts. Which he totally isn't. "Of course. What else could we have been talking about?"
Ray stares at Turnbull, grinning uncertainly. "So, uh, like word association -- I say 'guilty pleasure', you think 'cheese'?"
Turnbull considers this carefully. "Well, yes," he decides finally. "I'd have to say I would. Is there something wrong with that?"
"Huh? Oh, no, no, that's just -- great, that's -- " Ray's never been more embarrassed in his life. Ever. He shoulda known that Mounties don't think like that.
"Might I take that to mean that you concede the point?"
"The point? Oh, uh -- no, see, milk, that's -- different. You, uh, you better pay for that caribou milk -- "
"And the ice," Turnbull points out. "So it won't spoil on the way."
" -- and the ice, sure, yeah," Ray tells his shoes. "Better pay for it, or I'll, uh, hafta arrest you."
"Would you really," Turnbull asks, all curious.
"Uh-huh."
"Fascinating."
"Yeah." Ray jitters. "Look, Turnbull, d'you know where..."
Ray waits for Turnbull to figure it out and maybe make himself helpful. But no -- Turnbull just smiles at Ray dopily for a few seconds, then prompts, "'Where', Detective Vecchio?"
Ray winces. "Fraser."
"Ah. He's in the kitchen."
"Hey, thanks."
"With the cheese. I'm afraid I'll have to accompany you," Turnbull adds.
"No problem."
Ray clomps through the Consulate sulkily, feeling D-U-M dumb and not really sure he wants to ever mention this to anybody. He bets Turnbull'll say something weird and Turnbull-ish and get Fraser all curious, and then he'll ask questions, and wonder why Ray never said anything about that, and that is something Ray really doesn't want him to do. Really, really, really.
Turns out that yeah, Fraser's in the kitchen. Turnbull may be insane, but he tells no lies. Fraser's red wool thing is off, and the Henley is all rolled up at the cuffs. His watch -- which nobody really notices normally, 'cause there's all this other cool leather stuff to look at -- isn't telling the right time, because it hasn't worked since that pirate ship thing, and Ray hasn't convinced Fraser to buy a new one yet. Probably bugs the hell out of Fraser, though, even if he won't admit it.
In his hands is this kinda filmy white cloth thing. It sort of reminds Ray of that nightie Stella used to wear, back when she wasn't so worried about being dignified in bed. "Hey, Frase, whatcha doin'?"
"Oh, hello, Ray," Fraser replies absently. "I, ah -- we're making cheese." He lays the cloth out on the bottom of the bowl carefully. It's weird, watching him do that -- Ray's mom's the only person he's ever really watched working in the kitchen, and they've got really different hands. Really different hands. Ray's mom's hands used to go all fluttery, you know, real fast and light -- but Fraser's hands are more solid, heavy, making the cloth thing go where he wants it to by using his weight instead of by tugging it in all the right places.
Ray tears his eyes away from Fraser's fingers, trying to come up with something to say. "Caribou cheese," he says finally.
"Yes, it has a very distinctive scent -- though I suppose Turnbull's told you?"
"Yeah." Great. Now Turnbull's going to say something about Ray's "bizarre behavior," and they're gonna have to talk about why Ray flipped when Turnbull started telling him about cheesemaking.
Except Turnbull doesn't. He's looking in this big old mixing bowl with the -- face. You know, that face that kids make when they get something electronic and noisy for Christmas. "Oh, those are beautiful curds, sir. Just lovely. Couldn't have done it better myself."
Fraser looks like he's thinking about maybe smacking Turnbull upside the head -- but he looks kind of thrilled about the cheese too. 'Course, knowing Fraser, he's probably got a good reason for it -- homesickness, or something. "Indeed. If you'd just pour it into this bowl, I think we'll be -- "
"Pour?" Turnbull looks terrified. "Oh, I couldn't possibly. I'll ruin it."
Secretly, Ray thinks he's right -- but Fraser, he just stands there with his hands on the bowl, looking real tolerant. "It's not difficult, Turnbull. Just pick up the bowl, get a good grip, and pour."
Turnbull wipes his hands on his pants, takes the bowl and pours. Ray's all braced for the whole thing to smash on the floor, but it doesn't, and then Fraser says, "All right, that's enough," -- and that's when Ray starts getting interested.
Fraser's pulled the cloth in over the -- the lumpy stuff, the -- curds, and he's squeezing. Just, you know, squashing it down, picking it up and wringing all the juice out of it, using all those muscles in his forearms that he usually uses for hanging on to things in midair.
This definitely is not the way his mom worked.
"Oh!" Turnbull says, looking delighted. "It worked!" He stands there, looking astonished, and then turns to Ray and declares, "It worked, Detective Vecchio!"
Ray feels himself grinning. "Yeah. It worked."
Turnbull fidgets -- which he's probably not allowed to do -- and then strides out of the kitchen. "Diefenbaker!" he calls. "Diefenbaker! I've -- "
"He never seems to understand that Dief's deaf," Fraser mutters, pouring the cheese-juice out into a glass.
Ray snickers. "Yeah. His head's kinda, you know, someplace else."
"Indeed."
Ray bounces a heel up and down a few times. "So, uh, Fraser," he bursts out finally, "You'd never, uh, date Turnbull, would you?"
Fraser looks up at him fast, startled. "I -- I don't think that would be a very good idea, no," he says, and Ray swallows, because Fraser is asking him all sorts of questions with his eyes.
"I'm not crazy!" he protests, feeling stupider by the minute. "Just -- you know, I said 'guilty pleasure' and he said 'Fraser', and turns out he meant 'Fraser's making cheese' and the cheese's the important part -- "
Fraser snorts, and Ray grins helplessly. He worries about Fraser sometimes, hanging out with Turnbull and the Ice Queen -- how maybe mental fucked-upness catches. It's a good thing it doesn't, or Ray'd be pining away after Turnbull in Fraser's body, and that'd suck rocks.
Or the Ice Queen. Gah.
Six years later
Benton comes shuffling into the cabin, all crusty with refrozen snow and cold furs. Ray's dozing -- he's earned his beer today, yesiree. He fixed the roof in the middle of a snowstorm. Maybe not the best idea in the world, but hell, it was fun, so whatever. Benton'll notice it tomorrow, and they can argue about it then. Right now, Ray is sleepy and relaxed and warm, and soon Benton'll be sleepy and relaxed and warm, and that is about the best way for them to be.
Ray remembers how when he was a kid, it was easy to be happy. He didn't have to think about how maybe he wouldn't be happy later, didn't have to feel like being happy was so different from how he usually felt that figuring out what to do when he was happy felt like yanking rusty nails. He remembers how happiness was just -- sweet. Simple. Like milk chocolate, all smooth and plain good.
That is how he feels every time Ben comes back alive.
So he's already feeling pretty good inside, watching Fraser strip and being pretty sure that if he was hurt or something he would've said so by now. And then Fraser drops one last crispy layer, and gives Ray this big, toothy grin.
"What?" Ray asks. "What'd you do to your face?" He's pretty much lost the attitude there, 'cause he says it so often.
Benton doesn't say anything, just pulls this little bag out from under an inside pocket and holds it up for Ray to see. And inside -- inside is this white liquid, kinda thick and creamy, and Ray's pretty sure he knows what it is.
Just to make sure, he gets up and walks over to Benton and sniffs. Yup. Caribou milk. Ray smirks smugly. "Wondered how long it'd take you to figure that out."
--fin
F/K, >2000 words.
[Disclaimer: I like cheese. Yum. Turnbull likes cheese too. This is the extent of my creativity, so obviously I can't have created the show.]
Cheesemaker
Ray knocks when he comes into the Consulate -- yeah, sure, he could just shove his way in, 'cause he don't got problems with manners. Thing is, whenever he does that he thinks that he's got somebody unfriendly behind him with a gun. It's not a good feeling, so Ray knocks. It only takes a minute to be courteous, after all.
Turnbull opens the door, of course, beaming at Ray in a way that, if he were anybody else, would get him locked up somewhere for the better good. Ray bets the Ice Queen only keeps him around so she doesn't have to hire somebody else to do the dusting. "Welcome to Canada, Detective Vecchio!"
"Yeah, yeah, thanks," Ray says, shoving past Turnbull. Usually, this'll get Turnbull a little pissy -- not pissed, because Turnbull doesn't seem to get pissed about anything that don't got to do with the corruption of the uniform, but kinda annoyed. Today, though, he just grins from ear to ear, looking about as happy as a clam. Way, way too happy, even for a Mountie who's got a bunch of holes in his bag of marbles, like Fraser says.
Ray squints at him suspiciously. "Okay, what did you do?"
Turnbull considers that. "Well, I've waxed the floors in the Queen's bedroom," he offers brightly. "It was very satisfying; I finished in record -- "
Ray waves a dismissive hand at Turnbull, pretty sure he's gonna strangle somebody if he has to hear any more about how not slobbish Turnbull is. "No no no, I mean -- look, you got guilty pleasure written all over your face, don't try to deny it."
Turnbull drops his chin to his chest immediately, going into what Ray's come to think of as the Mountie-shame-posture. "I'm sorry," he confides, his ears going red. "I realize that it is unforgivable to distract Constable Fraser from his Consular duties for such petty matters, but he did seem willing to offer his -- "
Ray frowns, annoyed, and he's just finishing the translation from Canadian to American when -- BAM! -- his brain explodes, and trickles down his spine slowly. "Jesus Christ!" he shouts -- without thinking, seeing as all his brains just fried themselves -- and then abruptly lowers his voice, just in case Fraser's here and listening, or something. "You guys didn't -- "
Turnbull nods, fast, which Ray knows means he is guilty, guilty, guilty as charged. Jesus. His whole head's gone red, now. It'd be funny if Ray wasn't busy getting his whole fucking world flipped upside down. "We did, yes," Turnbull whispers back.
Ray boggles, his eyebrows flying up. This is even worse than Lady Shoes -- for fuck's sake, how horny is Fraser, anyway? "Holy crap," he mutters, shoving his fingers back through his hair.
"Indeed," Turnbull agrees. "The price is really quite -- "
"Price?" Ray yelps. "You paid -- "
"Well, of course," Turnbull retorts, looking sort of superior in that annoying way Mounties have. "It would be reprehensible to do otherwise."
"Look," Ray growls, totally outraged, jabbing his finger at Turnbull's face, "you guys may do stuff different, but down here that's just -- "
Turnbull's worked himself into a proper little Mountie rage. "Detective Vecchio," he says, clenching his jaw and staring across the room pointedly, "I have often found American customs bizarre in the extreme -- "
"You think we -- ?" Ray sputters, completely speechless with rage.
" -- but I have never before thought your ways utterly inhumane."
"Inhumane?" Ray repeats. Turnbull's got to be kidding him. Or speaking a different language. Or maybe he forgot what they were talking about, that's possible.
"Yes!" Turnbull says, almost snapping, inflating himself indignantly. "How can you possibly justify robbing a caribou calf of his milk without exacting -- "
-- wait, wait wait, what? "Milk?"
Turnbull stops, takes a couple of seconds to backtrack, then launches off again. "Yes, milk,the nutrition of which is -- "
"Caribou milk?"
"Well -- yes," Turnbull says, looking very confused. "How else could we make caribou cheese?"
"Caribou cheese," Ray repeats dully.
"I was hesitant to pay for the milk to be shipped here, of course," Turnbull explains. apparently unaware that Ray isn't paying attention -- he's finding rubbery bits of his brain and trying to stick them back together again. "But pre-made cheese just isn't the same. And as Constable Fraser was willing to contribute his dexterity with a cheesecloth to the process, I felt it was within the bounds of propriety to -- "
"Yeah, yeah, okay, so wait," Ray interrupts, holding up a hand, and Turnbull goes quiet. "You're telling me you thought we were talking about cheese?"
Turnbull gives Ray this look, like he's the one who's nuts. Which he totally isn't. "Of course. What else could we have been talking about?"
Ray stares at Turnbull, grinning uncertainly. "So, uh, like word association -- I say 'guilty pleasure', you think 'cheese'?"
Turnbull considers this carefully. "Well, yes," he decides finally. "I'd have to say I would. Is there something wrong with that?"
"Huh? Oh, no, no, that's just -- great, that's -- " Ray's never been more embarrassed in his life. Ever. He shoulda known that Mounties don't think like that.
"Might I take that to mean that you concede the point?"
"The point? Oh, uh -- no, see, milk, that's -- different. You, uh, you better pay for that caribou milk -- "
"And the ice," Turnbull points out. "So it won't spoil on the way."
" -- and the ice, sure, yeah," Ray tells his shoes. "Better pay for it, or I'll, uh, hafta arrest you."
"Would you really," Turnbull asks, all curious.
"Uh-huh."
"Fascinating."
"Yeah." Ray jitters. "Look, Turnbull, d'you know where..."
Ray waits for Turnbull to figure it out and maybe make himself helpful. But no -- Turnbull just smiles at Ray dopily for a few seconds, then prompts, "'Where', Detective Vecchio?"
Ray winces. "Fraser."
"Ah. He's in the kitchen."
"Hey, thanks."
"With the cheese. I'm afraid I'll have to accompany you," Turnbull adds.
"No problem."
Ray clomps through the Consulate sulkily, feeling D-U-M dumb and not really sure he wants to ever mention this to anybody. He bets Turnbull'll say something weird and Turnbull-ish and get Fraser all curious, and then he'll ask questions, and wonder why Ray never said anything about that, and that is something Ray really doesn't want him to do. Really, really, really.
Turns out that yeah, Fraser's in the kitchen. Turnbull may be insane, but he tells no lies. Fraser's red wool thing is off, and the Henley is all rolled up at the cuffs. His watch -- which nobody really notices normally, 'cause there's all this other cool leather stuff to look at -- isn't telling the right time, because it hasn't worked since that pirate ship thing, and Ray hasn't convinced Fraser to buy a new one yet. Probably bugs the hell out of Fraser, though, even if he won't admit it.
In his hands is this kinda filmy white cloth thing. It sort of reminds Ray of that nightie Stella used to wear, back when she wasn't so worried about being dignified in bed. "Hey, Frase, whatcha doin'?"
"Oh, hello, Ray," Fraser replies absently. "I, ah -- we're making cheese." He lays the cloth out on the bottom of the bowl carefully. It's weird, watching him do that -- Ray's mom's the only person he's ever really watched working in the kitchen, and they've got really different hands. Really different hands. Ray's mom's hands used to go all fluttery, you know, real fast and light -- but Fraser's hands are more solid, heavy, making the cloth thing go where he wants it to by using his weight instead of by tugging it in all the right places.
Ray tears his eyes away from Fraser's fingers, trying to come up with something to say. "Caribou cheese," he says finally.
"Yes, it has a very distinctive scent -- though I suppose Turnbull's told you?"
"Yeah." Great. Now Turnbull's going to say something about Ray's "bizarre behavior," and they're gonna have to talk about why Ray flipped when Turnbull started telling him about cheesemaking.
Except Turnbull doesn't. He's looking in this big old mixing bowl with the -- face. You know, that face that kids make when they get something electronic and noisy for Christmas. "Oh, those are beautiful curds, sir. Just lovely. Couldn't have done it better myself."
Fraser looks like he's thinking about maybe smacking Turnbull upside the head -- but he looks kind of thrilled about the cheese too. 'Course, knowing Fraser, he's probably got a good reason for it -- homesickness, or something. "Indeed. If you'd just pour it into this bowl, I think we'll be -- "
"Pour?" Turnbull looks terrified. "Oh, I couldn't possibly. I'll ruin it."
Secretly, Ray thinks he's right -- but Fraser, he just stands there with his hands on the bowl, looking real tolerant. "It's not difficult, Turnbull. Just pick up the bowl, get a good grip, and pour."
Turnbull wipes his hands on his pants, takes the bowl and pours. Ray's all braced for the whole thing to smash on the floor, but it doesn't, and then Fraser says, "All right, that's enough," -- and that's when Ray starts getting interested.
Fraser's pulled the cloth in over the -- the lumpy stuff, the -- curds, and he's squeezing. Just, you know, squashing it down, picking it up and wringing all the juice out of it, using all those muscles in his forearms that he usually uses for hanging on to things in midair.
This definitely is not the way his mom worked.
"Oh!" Turnbull says, looking delighted. "It worked!" He stands there, looking astonished, and then turns to Ray and declares, "It worked, Detective Vecchio!"
Ray feels himself grinning. "Yeah. It worked."
Turnbull fidgets -- which he's probably not allowed to do -- and then strides out of the kitchen. "Diefenbaker!" he calls. "Diefenbaker! I've -- "
"He never seems to understand that Dief's deaf," Fraser mutters, pouring the cheese-juice out into a glass.
Ray snickers. "Yeah. His head's kinda, you know, someplace else."
"Indeed."
Ray bounces a heel up and down a few times. "So, uh, Fraser," he bursts out finally, "You'd never, uh, date Turnbull, would you?"
Fraser looks up at him fast, startled. "I -- I don't think that would be a very good idea, no," he says, and Ray swallows, because Fraser is asking him all sorts of questions with his eyes.
"I'm not crazy!" he protests, feeling stupider by the minute. "Just -- you know, I said 'guilty pleasure' and he said 'Fraser', and turns out he meant 'Fraser's making cheese' and the cheese's the important part -- "
Fraser snorts, and Ray grins helplessly. He worries about Fraser sometimes, hanging out with Turnbull and the Ice Queen -- how maybe mental fucked-upness catches. It's a good thing it doesn't, or Ray'd be pining away after Turnbull in Fraser's body, and that'd suck rocks.
Or the Ice Queen. Gah.
Six years later
Benton comes shuffling into the cabin, all crusty with refrozen snow and cold furs. Ray's dozing -- he's earned his beer today, yesiree. He fixed the roof in the middle of a snowstorm. Maybe not the best idea in the world, but hell, it was fun, so whatever. Benton'll notice it tomorrow, and they can argue about it then. Right now, Ray is sleepy and relaxed and warm, and soon Benton'll be sleepy and relaxed and warm, and that is about the best way for them to be.
Ray remembers how when he was a kid, it was easy to be happy. He didn't have to think about how maybe he wouldn't be happy later, didn't have to feel like being happy was so different from how he usually felt that figuring out what to do when he was happy felt like yanking rusty nails. He remembers how happiness was just -- sweet. Simple. Like milk chocolate, all smooth and plain good.
That is how he feels every time Ben comes back alive.
So he's already feeling pretty good inside, watching Fraser strip and being pretty sure that if he was hurt or something he would've said so by now. And then Fraser drops one last crispy layer, and gives Ray this big, toothy grin.
"What?" Ray asks. "What'd you do to your face?" He's pretty much lost the attitude there, 'cause he says it so often.
Benton doesn't say anything, just pulls this little bag out from under an inside pocket and holds it up for Ray to see. And inside -- inside is this white liquid, kinda thick and creamy, and Ray's pretty sure he knows what it is.
Just to make sure, he gets up and walks over to Benton and sniffs. Yup. Caribou milk. Ray smirks smugly. "Wondered how long it'd take you to figure that out."
--fin
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-04 11:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 12:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-04 11:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 12:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-04 11:23 pm (UTC)*Tora: just giggles insanely*
You know, I love the way you write Fraser... you make him so completely Fraser-like yet so completely human at the same time. Not that Fraser isn't human, I just... yes... *goes away*
no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 12:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-04 11:33 pm (UTC)Wonderfully funny fic!
no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 12:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-05 01:52 am (UTC)I snorted, for real. And I giggled out loud, which I don't usually do. I'm still snickering. heh. This whole little section right here:
I just love so much. But the whole thing was really fabulous. *g*
no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 12:08 am (UTC)Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2005-11-05 02:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 12:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-05 07:05 am (UTC)I particularly liked the part where Ray is thinking about how different Fraser's hands are from Ray's Mom's hands, but there were lots of good bits.
I noticed one typo: "fund" instead of "found." I think the cheese-juice could also be called whey, if you want. Hope it's OK to mention that.
I'm kind of mystified by the ending. What was it Fraser took six years to figure out?
Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 12:11 am (UTC)And I do know that the cheese-juice is whey, but I do not expect Ray to know that -- or if he does, remember it at that particular juncture.
Um, it took him six years to figure out that Ray's weird behavior on the caribou cheese day was 'cause of his, er. Hidden feelings? I do not know a way to put that without sounding ridiculously sappy. So he brought back caribou milk so they could repeat the experience with, um, more mutual enthusiasm.
Glad you liked!
no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 06:08 pm (UTC)Thanks for the explanation. I would think that Fraser would figure it out sooner than that, except that I remember how long it took me to figure out certain things! LOL
no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 01:15 am (UTC)Bwahaha. And a cute story too, although the idea of caribou cheese, eek... Turnbull would have a weird cheese-related habit like that, though, I suppose.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 04:06 am (UTC)Feel the cheese love. Feel the caribou love. *g*
Glad you liked!
no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 05:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 08:25 pm (UTC)