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ds_flashfiction2007-05-29 03:34 pm
chesamus.livejournal.com) wrote in ds_flashfiction2007-05-29 03:34 pm
Entry tags:
The Shed Challenge by chesamus
Title: Marking Territory
Author: chesamus
Pairing: F/K
Rating: G - maybe
Word Count: 1715 words.
Summary: Some behaviors are instinctive
Notes: See note at end
I believe Ray was more than a little surprised when I chose to return to Chicago after our adventure. Yes, I loved the North, and it had always been home to me, but I realized that it was only home from a distance. Looking at the life I would lead there, I came to know that Thomas Wolfe had a better understanding of human nature than anyone had envisioned.
We arrived in Chicago only to discover that neither of us had a place to lay our heads. The consulate was under new supervision, and Inspector Cockrell did not approve of my previous accommodations. Ray’s apartment had been sublet for the next eight months - a misunderstanding for which his parents apologized, but one which could not be rectified without a considerable investment of time and money.
Ray proposed a simple solution. Well, that isn’t quite correct. Ray disappeared for several hours while I introduced myself to my new coworkers. Upon his return, he presented me with a fait accompli in the form of a two bedroom flat equidistant from the precinct and the consulate, in a building owned by a nephew of a wife of a cousin of a friend, or something similar. The rent was manageable with my promotion, and they had a small courtyard which would make Diefenbaker happy.
I had my suspicions about how easily the arrangements came together, but I wasn’t in a position to quibble. Ray and I transported my trunk and two boxes out of the closet which used to house my father’s cabin and into our new apartment. I insisted on giving the place a thorough scrubbing before we moved anything else in, although Ray insisted that the place was already clean. It was a minor skirmish, but I worried about it being the start of an ongoing battle of wills between two men who had vastly differing concepts of cleanliness.
Still, Ray pitched in, and we were able to get his furniture and personal effects moved from the storage unit by the next morning. I don’t know how there happened to be an extra bed and dresser amongst his furniture. I believe the blame for them could be laid on Mrs. Vecchio, as well as the extra kitchen items I knew Ray had not owned previously. She refused my thanks, and sent over a tray of lasagna for our first meal.
The first three weeks passed, and I was lulled into a false sense of security. Every dish was immediately washed and put away after each meal. Towels were hung up to dry. Mail was neatly stacked in the basket I had purchased for it. Gradually though, things began to creep out of their assigned places.
I slept in unusually late one Saturday two months after our return and entered the living room to discover a used mug on the coffee table. It held down a note from Ray saying he and Dief had gone in search of donuts. I washed the mug, recycled the note and was showered and dressed before they returned. Later that evening, after Ray had gone to bed, I tidied up the CD cases tossed casually on top of the bookcase that housed his stereo, then returned to my book.
Magazines were next. I found them scattered about the apartment, as though Ray had read them while running a relay. National Geographic was on the kitchen counter, opened to an article on the netted cloud catchers of Chile. I used a scrap of paper to hold his place and slipped it into the magazine rack. The Sports Illustrated was on the end table - I had to admire Ray’s undying faith in the Cubs, so I finished the article on Kerry Wood and then placed it next to the National Geographic.
The current issue of Maclean’s was in the bathroom. Ray had given me a subscription for my birthday. I hadn’t realized he also read it, nor that he had an interest in the Canadian film industry. After much thought, and a stern lecture to myself on compromise, I left it there.
None of this is meant to imply that Ray was messy. Indeed, he was amazingly fastidious in his personal hygiene, and tidied the kitchen without complaint. Yes, his bed making skills were nonexistent, and after seeing his battle with the ironing board first hand, I understood why his mother insisted on ironing his shirts.
A pair of Ray’s boxer briefs accidentally made their way into my laundry basket instead of his. I didn’t give them a second thought, simply laundered them with mine and left them neatly folded on Ray’s dresser. Next it was a towel, then a t-shirt, a pillowcase. Ray apologized, expressed puzzlement over their apparent migration to my laundry, and offered to do mine next time.
“Makes more sense anyway, Frase. Stupid for both of us to be doing small loads when one of us could do a large load for the same time and money.”
I was gracious in my acceptance of his apologies, and happily accepted his idea as a way to save money and water. We moved past the incident. As I said, I was lulled...
The final fall could be better described as an avalanche - slow to build then suddenly thrust upon one. In my experience, one either rides out the devastation, or is swept away by the chaos. This particular avalanche was caused by a pair of wet boots - Ray’s head-kicking boots to be exact. After a late night at the consulate, I entered the darkened apartment and tripped over the boots which were most definitely not standing on the small area rug I had specifically purchased for them. The resultant noise brought Ray running from his bedroom.
Ray flipped a light switch, then crouched down by my side. “Ah, geeze, Fraser, you okay?”
I lay flat on my back, blinking at the small overhead light. “I tripped over your boots, Ray.”
“You hurt? I need to call 9-1-1?”
“I do not believe I sustained any injuries.” I blinked again. “I tripped over your boots, Ray.”
“Yeah, you said that. Sorry. You sure you’re okay?”
That was a good question, a valid question. “I don’t know how to answer that, Ray. I really don’t. I tripped over your boots.”
“You did hit your head, didn’t you? Listen, you just don’t move, and I’ll just -” Ray made a motion to stand, but I grabbed his arm.
“I don’t need an ambulance, Ray. I’m trying to make a point.”
Ray wore a puzzled expression on his face. I took note of that, and also that he was wearing one of my henleys. “I tripped over your boots, Ray -”
“I know - “
“And you’re wearing one of my shirts -”
“Uh, yeah. Musta gotten mixed up in the laundry...”
“And I found your socks in my dresser -”
“Frase, the laundry -”
“Which I did not put in there -”
“It’s an honest mistake -”
“And your magazines end up in the kitchen, and my magazines end up in the bathroom with your bookmarks -”
“What, I need permission to read your magazines?”
“It’s like having another wolf. Now I grant you, Diefenbaker is not much trouble in the general scheme of things. Yes, the late night walks can sometimes leave one a bit weary, but that is a responsibility I accepted as part of our relationship. And I put up with the wolf hairs on my uniform as another part of it, but proper application of a lint brush is a small price to pay. Still I have never tripped over his boots.”
“I’d be more worried if you had.” Ray smiled slightly. “Is there a point to this?”
“Yes, there’s a point! I’ve made my point!” I began to wonder if Ray had hit his head.
“And what would that point be? I must’ve missed that part of the conversation.”
“You’re shedding!”
“Ah.”
“Ah, what? What does that mean, precisely?”
Ray sat next to me, straightened his legs. “”I think it means, ‘I understand what your point is, even if I know you’re wrong.’ ”
“I am not wrong. You’re shedding all over the apartment with the rug, and the socks, and Kerry Wood...”
“Nah, you’re wrong. I mean yeah, I guess with the rug, and the socks, although I don’t think Kerry Wood has anything to do with this conversation, the poor bastard - but anyway, you mixed up your metaphor.”
He leaned back on his elbows and gazed up at the ceiling. “I’m not shedding, I’m marking my territory. And if you think about it, the only thing I haven’t marked yet is you.”
I turned my head and looked at Ray stretched out next to me. “I - I’m not territory...”
He laughed at me. “Of course you are - we all are. And some of us are overpopulated, and some of us are Death Valley, and some of us are just tiny little islands that no one will ever find.” Ray shifted onto one elbow, until he was facing me. “And I figure you’re the Northwest Passage, and the Hand of Franklin, and the Sea of Flowers that guy sang about.”
“Ray...”
He ran a lone finger down the side of my face, along my chin, down to the base of my neck. “I always wanted to leave my mark -” he tapped below my left ear, “- right there.”
I swallowed, or tried to (my throat was unaccountably dry), and lifted my head from the floor. “You want to mark me?”
“Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t believe the places I want to mark. Of course, I’d let you mark me, too. That’s my point.”
“You - I -” My head dropped back to the floor with a thunk. Ray followed it down, and the next thing I knew he was kissing me with considerable enthusiasm, and the next thing after that I was kissing him back.
When we finally broke apart, Ray was grinning maniacally, and I was gasping for breath. Was he correct? Was I really his territory? Was he really mine?
Silently, he stood up, held out his hand.
I grabbed it. I had finally found that hand - the reaching out one.
********
Note: Stumbled across this article when I was trying to track down the meaning behind Kelso’s Sea of Flowers. It has little to do with the story, but it was pretty interesting...
Canadian Journal for Traditional Music (1996). Traditions and Identity in Scotland and Canada: James Macpherson, Stan Rogers, Garnet Rogers by Zak Morgan.
http://cjtm.icaap.org/content/24/v24art5.html
Author: chesamus
Pairing: F/K
Rating: G - maybe
Word Count: 1715 words.
Summary: Some behaviors are instinctive
Notes: See note at end
I believe Ray was more than a little surprised when I chose to return to Chicago after our adventure. Yes, I loved the North, and it had always been home to me, but I realized that it was only home from a distance. Looking at the life I would lead there, I came to know that Thomas Wolfe had a better understanding of human nature than anyone had envisioned.
We arrived in Chicago only to discover that neither of us had a place to lay our heads. The consulate was under new supervision, and Inspector Cockrell did not approve of my previous accommodations. Ray’s apartment had been sublet for the next eight months - a misunderstanding for which his parents apologized, but one which could not be rectified without a considerable investment of time and money.
Ray proposed a simple solution. Well, that isn’t quite correct. Ray disappeared for several hours while I introduced myself to my new coworkers. Upon his return, he presented me with a fait accompli in the form of a two bedroom flat equidistant from the precinct and the consulate, in a building owned by a nephew of a wife of a cousin of a friend, or something similar. The rent was manageable with my promotion, and they had a small courtyard which would make Diefenbaker happy.
I had my suspicions about how easily the arrangements came together, but I wasn’t in a position to quibble. Ray and I transported my trunk and two boxes out of the closet which used to house my father’s cabin and into our new apartment. I insisted on giving the place a thorough scrubbing before we moved anything else in, although Ray insisted that the place was already clean. It was a minor skirmish, but I worried about it being the start of an ongoing battle of wills between two men who had vastly differing concepts of cleanliness.
Still, Ray pitched in, and we were able to get his furniture and personal effects moved from the storage unit by the next morning. I don’t know how there happened to be an extra bed and dresser amongst his furniture. I believe the blame for them could be laid on Mrs. Vecchio, as well as the extra kitchen items I knew Ray had not owned previously. She refused my thanks, and sent over a tray of lasagna for our first meal.
The first three weeks passed, and I was lulled into a false sense of security. Every dish was immediately washed and put away after each meal. Towels were hung up to dry. Mail was neatly stacked in the basket I had purchased for it. Gradually though, things began to creep out of their assigned places.
I slept in unusually late one Saturday two months after our return and entered the living room to discover a used mug on the coffee table. It held down a note from Ray saying he and Dief had gone in search of donuts. I washed the mug, recycled the note and was showered and dressed before they returned. Later that evening, after Ray had gone to bed, I tidied up the CD cases tossed casually on top of the bookcase that housed his stereo, then returned to my book.
Magazines were next. I found them scattered about the apartment, as though Ray had read them while running a relay. National Geographic was on the kitchen counter, opened to an article on the netted cloud catchers of Chile. I used a scrap of paper to hold his place and slipped it into the magazine rack. The Sports Illustrated was on the end table - I had to admire Ray’s undying faith in the Cubs, so I finished the article on Kerry Wood and then placed it next to the National Geographic.
The current issue of Maclean’s was in the bathroom. Ray had given me a subscription for my birthday. I hadn’t realized he also read it, nor that he had an interest in the Canadian film industry. After much thought, and a stern lecture to myself on compromise, I left it there.
None of this is meant to imply that Ray was messy. Indeed, he was amazingly fastidious in his personal hygiene, and tidied the kitchen without complaint. Yes, his bed making skills were nonexistent, and after seeing his battle with the ironing board first hand, I understood why his mother insisted on ironing his shirts.
A pair of Ray’s boxer briefs accidentally made their way into my laundry basket instead of his. I didn’t give them a second thought, simply laundered them with mine and left them neatly folded on Ray’s dresser. Next it was a towel, then a t-shirt, a pillowcase. Ray apologized, expressed puzzlement over their apparent migration to my laundry, and offered to do mine next time.
“Makes more sense anyway, Frase. Stupid for both of us to be doing small loads when one of us could do a large load for the same time and money.”
I was gracious in my acceptance of his apologies, and happily accepted his idea as a way to save money and water. We moved past the incident. As I said, I was lulled...
The final fall could be better described as an avalanche - slow to build then suddenly thrust upon one. In my experience, one either rides out the devastation, or is swept away by the chaos. This particular avalanche was caused by a pair of wet boots - Ray’s head-kicking boots to be exact. After a late night at the consulate, I entered the darkened apartment and tripped over the boots which were most definitely not standing on the small area rug I had specifically purchased for them. The resultant noise brought Ray running from his bedroom.
Ray flipped a light switch, then crouched down by my side. “Ah, geeze, Fraser, you okay?”
I lay flat on my back, blinking at the small overhead light. “I tripped over your boots, Ray.”
“You hurt? I need to call 9-1-1?”
“I do not believe I sustained any injuries.” I blinked again. “I tripped over your boots, Ray.”
“Yeah, you said that. Sorry. You sure you’re okay?”
That was a good question, a valid question. “I don’t know how to answer that, Ray. I really don’t. I tripped over your boots.”
“You did hit your head, didn’t you? Listen, you just don’t move, and I’ll just -” Ray made a motion to stand, but I grabbed his arm.
“I don’t need an ambulance, Ray. I’m trying to make a point.”
Ray wore a puzzled expression on his face. I took note of that, and also that he was wearing one of my henleys. “I tripped over your boots, Ray -”
“I know - “
“And you’re wearing one of my shirts -”
“Uh, yeah. Musta gotten mixed up in the laundry...”
“And I found your socks in my dresser -”
“Frase, the laundry -”
“Which I did not put in there -”
“It’s an honest mistake -”
“And your magazines end up in the kitchen, and my magazines end up in the bathroom with your bookmarks -”
“What, I need permission to read your magazines?”
“It’s like having another wolf. Now I grant you, Diefenbaker is not much trouble in the general scheme of things. Yes, the late night walks can sometimes leave one a bit weary, but that is a responsibility I accepted as part of our relationship. And I put up with the wolf hairs on my uniform as another part of it, but proper application of a lint brush is a small price to pay. Still I have never tripped over his boots.”
“I’d be more worried if you had.” Ray smiled slightly. “Is there a point to this?”
“Yes, there’s a point! I’ve made my point!” I began to wonder if Ray had hit his head.
“And what would that point be? I must’ve missed that part of the conversation.”
“You’re shedding!”
“Ah.”
“Ah, what? What does that mean, precisely?”
Ray sat next to me, straightened his legs. “”I think it means, ‘I understand what your point is, even if I know you’re wrong.’ ”
“I am not wrong. You’re shedding all over the apartment with the rug, and the socks, and Kerry Wood...”
“Nah, you’re wrong. I mean yeah, I guess with the rug, and the socks, although I don’t think Kerry Wood has anything to do with this conversation, the poor bastard - but anyway, you mixed up your metaphor.”
He leaned back on his elbows and gazed up at the ceiling. “I’m not shedding, I’m marking my territory. And if you think about it, the only thing I haven’t marked yet is you.”
I turned my head and looked at Ray stretched out next to me. “I - I’m not territory...”
He laughed at me. “Of course you are - we all are. And some of us are overpopulated, and some of us are Death Valley, and some of us are just tiny little islands that no one will ever find.” Ray shifted onto one elbow, until he was facing me. “And I figure you’re the Northwest Passage, and the Hand of Franklin, and the Sea of Flowers that guy sang about.”
“Ray...”
He ran a lone finger down the side of my face, along my chin, down to the base of my neck. “I always wanted to leave my mark -” he tapped below my left ear, “- right there.”
I swallowed, or tried to (my throat was unaccountably dry), and lifted my head from the floor. “You want to mark me?”
“Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t believe the places I want to mark. Of course, I’d let you mark me, too. That’s my point.”
“You - I -” My head dropped back to the floor with a thunk. Ray followed it down, and the next thing I knew he was kissing me with considerable enthusiasm, and the next thing after that I was kissing him back.
When we finally broke apart, Ray was grinning maniacally, and I was gasping for breath. Was he correct? Was I really his territory? Was he really mine?
Silently, he stood up, held out his hand.
I grabbed it. I had finally found that hand - the reaching out one.
********
Note: Stumbled across this article when I was trying to track down the meaning behind Kelso’s Sea of Flowers. It has little to do with the story, but it was pretty interesting...
Canadian Journal for Traditional Music (1996). Traditions and Identity in Scotland and Canada: James Macpherson, Stan Rogers, Garnet Rogers by Zak Morgan.
http://cjtm.icaap.org/content/24/v24art5.html