Hello

[dirty-diana.livejournal.com]

Hi, first time poster. This week is turning out to be all about the drabble communities and the brand-new fandoms. This isn't a whole story, just an intro, I'm working my way up. Two telephone references, do I get a prize?

"You okay, Ray?" the bartender asks me.

"I'm fine," I answer, but he's looking at me like he doesn't believe it.

"You want me to call someone to come pick you up? Maybe the Mountie?"

No. What I want is another beer, maybe two. Having Fraser come over and make his
disapproving Canadian face, that's not what I want at all. So how come I'm reciting Fraser's phone number, like a fucking robot on autopilot?

Cause I'm a moron?

Cause I'm a drunk moron?

Yeah, that's probably why. And I don't even remember seeing the barman put down the phone, before Fraser's standing over me. Probably stepped into the nearest phonebooth, put on his cape, and flew right over.

"I'm not drunk," I tell him.

"Of course not, Ray." He's not making his disapproving face, not yet, but he just got here.
Instead his blue eyes are set in a bit of a frown, like he can't quite figure out what's wrong with me. "Your friend thought I could perhaps be of assistance. In helping you get home."

"I don't need any assistance, Fraser. I can get home by myself." And I start to stand up, and that's when my legs give way, and I'm falling, crashing into Fraser. Graceful. Like a fucking ballerina.

But he catches me, cause that's what he does. Grabs hold of me with both arms, holds my weight without even stumbling. His grip is solid, and I'm right inside his space, I can smell him, all cleaness and leather, and he's looking down at me, still frowning.

There it is. The disapproving face. "Were you planning to drive there, Ray?"