Prompt #26: (Author's Choice) Romantic
30 Days in Europe: Day 11
Prompt #26: (Author's Choice) Romantic
F/K, silliness, mildly implied smut in places.
Day 11
Ray has told me many times that he does not consider me to be a romantic. My head is too full of logic, too packed with rules and regulations, he says, for me even to understand the term.
It is not an unthinking jibe like Ray Vecchio’s ‘What would a Mountie know about love?’ thrown so carelessly my way all those years ago. From my Ray this kind of statement is more of an affectionate tease, perhaps a challenge. Yet I find, increasingly, that it is not a comment I can throw off lightly.
The word ‘romantic’ has, of course, a number of different interpretations. I doubt that Ray - or indeed anyone who knows me - would deny that I am an idealist with a tendency to cling to my optimistic view of the world in the face of a bleaker reality. Ray knows, too, that such optimism is readily applied to everything but my own inner life. Raised as a solitary child in a bookish home, I learned to immerse myself in fantasy at an early age, allowing myself to find in the pages of adventure novels and historical dramas the emotional fulfilment I lacked elsewhere. In these respects, surely, I could be held up as the very epitome of a hopeless romantic. It is in the external expression of my feelings that I fail to meet Ray’s definition of the term.
Today I have made it my business to prove him wrong.
Paris, rightly or wrongly, has a reputation as the city of lovers, the world’s foremost romantic destination. Fully aware of this, Ray has been making sly jokes on the subject since the moment it appeared on our travel itinerary. Once our arrangements began to take shape and I made note of the date of our arrival, I became quite determined that Ray’s first impression of the City of Light should not be a disappointment. I would make sure that it lived up to its promise and offered him romance of the kind that he both recognised and craved.
My plan went into action even before we left Bruges, with breakfast - including rich, strong coffee and a selection of chocolates along with the pastries - delivered to our room. I had already woken Ray with my lips on his skin and spent thirty delightful minutes bringing him slowly but inexorably to climax as he groaned and gasped beneath me. By the time the knock came at our door he was beginning to emerge from his post-coital stupor, and when greeted by the scent of fresh coffee he roused himself completely, telling me with the happiest of smiles that he would love me for ever.
I had arranged for a horse-drawn carriage to await us outside the hotel and take us to the train station. Luckily, Ray seemed to have exhausted his stock of caustic remarks about the carriages and their waste collection arrangements yesterday; this morning he only grinned at me and said, “Leaving the place in style, huh?” before hefting his pack up and onto the seat, then reaching for mine.
Upgrading our train ticket to first class for the Brussels to Paris stage of our journey was well worth the extra Euros. The seats were wide and comfortable, Ray was impressed by the service of coffee and snacks on demand, while I enjoyed browsing through the range of complimentary newspapers and magazines. In less than ninety minutes we were pulling into the Gare du Nord, ready to see what Paris had to offer.
Our first stop, naturally enough, was the hotel: a medium-sized establishment in the Opera district, moments from Trinité metro station and highly recommended for its carefully restored rooms and period furniture. Even walking through the front door we were struck by the tranquil atmosphere of the place. Then the old-fashioned lift with its wrought iron gates took us to the top floor and we stepped into our room, a sizeable double decorated in shades of cream and green with beautiful dark wood furnishings.
Ray’s cynicism seemed to have deserted him. “Wow, Frase. This is just… wow.” He ran his fingers over the reproduction classical bust on the mantelpiece, peered inside the large mahogany wardrobe, then disappeared into the bathroom. “Hey, come and look at this bath! It’s fantastic.”
I joined him in admiring the heavy, claw-footed tub and the tile work which could have been original, had it not been in such excellent condition.
“Do you like it?” I asked, although the question was hardly necessary.
“Like it? It’s perfect, like fantasy Paris come to life, or something.” Ray was bouncing on his heels with enthusiasm.
“Not too pretty for you?” I couldn’t resist it.
“Hey, give me a break, you know I was only yanking your chain yesterday. Paris is allowed to be as pretty as it likes. Besides, I can do pretty. Wouldn’t be here with you if I couldn’t, would I?”
Our afternoon’s itinerary could have been lifted from any tourist guide to Paris, but was no less enjoyable for that. After a light lunch in a pavement café we wandered down to the Seine through busy streets, admiring the grand architecture and broad, straight avenues. A brief stroll through the Jardins des Tuileries led us eventually to the Île de la Cité and Notre Dame. There we gazed in awe at the soaring stonework and the marvellous rose windows, then climbed to the highest tower, where Ray struck grotesque poses among the gargoyles and I tried to contain my laughter long enough to hold the camera steady.
From the tower we watched the cruise boats passing below, and decided that it seemed an enjoyable activity for such a gloriously sunny afternoon, so we made our way via the Metro to the Pont de l’Alma and the Bateaux-Mouches. Paris looked truly majestic from the river, and we finished the tour strangely eager for more. We climbed the steps up to Montmartre and stood before the basilica of Sacré Coeur to admire the city spread below us in the lengthening light. I was becoming convinced that its reputation was very well deserved.
Dinner was at Chartier, where I had been fortunate enough to secure a reservation. It too had been highly recommended, with good reason if our excellent beef bourguignon was anything to go by. At Ray’s insistence I tried a sip of his Bordeaux wine and found it surprisingly palatable, so much so that I accepted his suggestion of a bottle to share between us. It left me feeling relaxed almost to the point of sluggishness, and I was glad when Ray agreed to finish the night with another stroll along the river.
We were not the only tourists to find our way to the Pont Neuf by moonlight, of course. A group of British teenagers were clattering and shrieking their way across the east side as we found an unoccupied niche facing west, towards the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, both on our agenda for tomorrow.
“God, what an evening. What an afternoon. It’s all been amazing,” Ray said, leaning against the parapet next to me, close enough for every centimetre of my skin to be aware of him.
“It’s a special day,” I replied. “Seven years…”
“That’s the truth.” Ray turned, his smile a soft gleam in the fading light. “Not like I could forget the date; it’s burned into my mind for all time. The look on your face when you turned up at my door, all sexy and seriously intent. You had me butt-naked and on my back before I’d even figured out what was going on.”
“I’d been a fool,” I told him. It was surprisingly easy to admit to. “Thank god I did eventually come to my senses. That time, and the next.”
“With a bit of help,” Ray added pointedly.
“It won’t happen again,” I said, “I think - I hope - I’ve learned enough to avoid that kind of mistake in the future.”
“Well, all that money you pay out to your counsellor, you should have learned something by now.” He said it gently, covering my hand with his as he spoke. It was at Ray’s insistence that I had started seeing Leonora, after all.
The last of the teenagers had moved on, in search of livelier entertainment, no doubt; for the time being we had the bridge to ourselves. We stood silently for a while, watching the moonlight on the Seine, a scene from the archetypal romantic film. And just like the hero of such a film I was struck by a pure and unavoidable certainty. I had planned to save the words until the end of our vacation, to speak them perhaps on the Spanish Steps, or by the Trevi fountain; but the moment had arrived of its own accord. If I couldn’t ask the question now, I might never actually get it out.
I turned to him, drawing away a little so as to focus on him better. “Ray.”
“Yeah, Frase.”
“I wonder if we should… when we return to Prince George… that is to say, perhaps -”
“You’re blithering, Fraser.”
He was right. I swallowed hard, and looked him in the eye. “Will you marry me, Ray Kowalski?”
I watched his amazed expression melt into the smile spreading across his face. My own anxieties seemed to be evaporating in its warmth.
“Yes, I will marry you, Benton Fraser,” he said at last, then flung himself at me, gripping me in a fierce hug and laughing suddenly into my neck. When he pulled back, his eyes were glittering. “D’you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to say that?”
My elation was threatening to undo me, but I still managed to say, “You could have asked me.”
“Yeah, I could,” he said, in a voice that implied quite the opposite, “and I thought about it plenty; but the way I saw it, until you felt you could trust me enough to ask me, you weren’t really ready for the thing itself.”
I blinked at him, speechless. The truth of it was like a blow to the chest. Ray, who had pushed me for months to acknowledge the energy between us, when all I could see were my own fears; Ray, who had left his work, his community, his country without a moment’s pause when it became clear that my disastrous second posting to Chicago was not the solution for us; Ray, who had stayed with me, had fought to stay with me when I would have sent him away and ended it all rather than watch him struggle through another Inuvik winter; Ray deserved to step back and allow me to be the one to show some courage, for once.
“Hey, Earth to Fraser?”
“You’re right, quite right, it had to come from me,” I said, placing a hand on his arm and turning us back to the river as a group of elderly tourists approached.
“Yeah. I was wrong about one thing, though.”
“Which is?”
“You, Benton Fraser, are the world’s biggest romantic.”
I was in no position to argue with that, so I simply raised our clasped hands to my mouth and kissed his ring finger softly.
“Thank you kindly,” I said.
And my prompt table...
Prompt #26: (Author's Choice) Romantic
F/K, silliness, mildly implied smut in places.
Day 11
Ray has told me many times that he does not consider me to be a romantic. My head is too full of logic, too packed with rules and regulations, he says, for me even to understand the term.
It is not an unthinking jibe like Ray Vecchio’s ‘What would a Mountie know about love?’ thrown so carelessly my way all those years ago. From my Ray this kind of statement is more of an affectionate tease, perhaps a challenge. Yet I find, increasingly, that it is not a comment I can throw off lightly.
The word ‘romantic’ has, of course, a number of different interpretations. I doubt that Ray - or indeed anyone who knows me - would deny that I am an idealist with a tendency to cling to my optimistic view of the world in the face of a bleaker reality. Ray knows, too, that such optimism is readily applied to everything but my own inner life. Raised as a solitary child in a bookish home, I learned to immerse myself in fantasy at an early age, allowing myself to find in the pages of adventure novels and historical dramas the emotional fulfilment I lacked elsewhere. In these respects, surely, I could be held up as the very epitome of a hopeless romantic. It is in the external expression of my feelings that I fail to meet Ray’s definition of the term.
Today I have made it my business to prove him wrong.
Paris, rightly or wrongly, has a reputation as the city of lovers, the world’s foremost romantic destination. Fully aware of this, Ray has been making sly jokes on the subject since the moment it appeared on our travel itinerary. Once our arrangements began to take shape and I made note of the date of our arrival, I became quite determined that Ray’s first impression of the City of Light should not be a disappointment. I would make sure that it lived up to its promise and offered him romance of the kind that he both recognised and craved.
My plan went into action even before we left Bruges, with breakfast - including rich, strong coffee and a selection of chocolates along with the pastries - delivered to our room. I had already woken Ray with my lips on his skin and spent thirty delightful minutes bringing him slowly but inexorably to climax as he groaned and gasped beneath me. By the time the knock came at our door he was beginning to emerge from his post-coital stupor, and when greeted by the scent of fresh coffee he roused himself completely, telling me with the happiest of smiles that he would love me for ever.
I had arranged for a horse-drawn carriage to await us outside the hotel and take us to the train station. Luckily, Ray seemed to have exhausted his stock of caustic remarks about the carriages and their waste collection arrangements yesterday; this morning he only grinned at me and said, “Leaving the place in style, huh?” before hefting his pack up and onto the seat, then reaching for mine.
Upgrading our train ticket to first class for the Brussels to Paris stage of our journey was well worth the extra Euros. The seats were wide and comfortable, Ray was impressed by the service of coffee and snacks on demand, while I enjoyed browsing through the range of complimentary newspapers and magazines. In less than ninety minutes we were pulling into the Gare du Nord, ready to see what Paris had to offer.
Our first stop, naturally enough, was the hotel: a medium-sized establishment in the Opera district, moments from Trinité metro station and highly recommended for its carefully restored rooms and period furniture. Even walking through the front door we were struck by the tranquil atmosphere of the place. Then the old-fashioned lift with its wrought iron gates took us to the top floor and we stepped into our room, a sizeable double decorated in shades of cream and green with beautiful dark wood furnishings.
Ray’s cynicism seemed to have deserted him. “Wow, Frase. This is just… wow.” He ran his fingers over the reproduction classical bust on the mantelpiece, peered inside the large mahogany wardrobe, then disappeared into the bathroom. “Hey, come and look at this bath! It’s fantastic.”
I joined him in admiring the heavy, claw-footed tub and the tile work which could have been original, had it not been in such excellent condition.
“Do you like it?” I asked, although the question was hardly necessary.
“Like it? It’s perfect, like fantasy Paris come to life, or something.” Ray was bouncing on his heels with enthusiasm.
“Not too pretty for you?” I couldn’t resist it.
“Hey, give me a break, you know I was only yanking your chain yesterday. Paris is allowed to be as pretty as it likes. Besides, I can do pretty. Wouldn’t be here with you if I couldn’t, would I?”
Our afternoon’s itinerary could have been lifted from any tourist guide to Paris, but was no less enjoyable for that. After a light lunch in a pavement café we wandered down to the Seine through busy streets, admiring the grand architecture and broad, straight avenues. A brief stroll through the Jardins des Tuileries led us eventually to the Île de la Cité and Notre Dame. There we gazed in awe at the soaring stonework and the marvellous rose windows, then climbed to the highest tower, where Ray struck grotesque poses among the gargoyles and I tried to contain my laughter long enough to hold the camera steady.
From the tower we watched the cruise boats passing below, and decided that it seemed an enjoyable activity for such a gloriously sunny afternoon, so we made our way via the Metro to the Pont de l’Alma and the Bateaux-Mouches. Paris looked truly majestic from the river, and we finished the tour strangely eager for more. We climbed the steps up to Montmartre and stood before the basilica of Sacré Coeur to admire the city spread below us in the lengthening light. I was becoming convinced that its reputation was very well deserved.
Dinner was at Chartier, where I had been fortunate enough to secure a reservation. It too had been highly recommended, with good reason if our excellent beef bourguignon was anything to go by. At Ray’s insistence I tried a sip of his Bordeaux wine and found it surprisingly palatable, so much so that I accepted his suggestion of a bottle to share between us. It left me feeling relaxed almost to the point of sluggishness, and I was glad when Ray agreed to finish the night with another stroll along the river.
We were not the only tourists to find our way to the Pont Neuf by moonlight, of course. A group of British teenagers were clattering and shrieking their way across the east side as we found an unoccupied niche facing west, towards the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, both on our agenda for tomorrow.
“God, what an evening. What an afternoon. It’s all been amazing,” Ray said, leaning against the parapet next to me, close enough for every centimetre of my skin to be aware of him.
“It’s a special day,” I replied. “Seven years…”
“That’s the truth.” Ray turned, his smile a soft gleam in the fading light. “Not like I could forget the date; it’s burned into my mind for all time. The look on your face when you turned up at my door, all sexy and seriously intent. You had me butt-naked and on my back before I’d even figured out what was going on.”
“I’d been a fool,” I told him. It was surprisingly easy to admit to. “Thank god I did eventually come to my senses. That time, and the next.”
“With a bit of help,” Ray added pointedly.
“It won’t happen again,” I said, “I think - I hope - I’ve learned enough to avoid that kind of mistake in the future.”
“Well, all that money you pay out to your counsellor, you should have learned something by now.” He said it gently, covering my hand with his as he spoke. It was at Ray’s insistence that I had started seeing Leonora, after all.
The last of the teenagers had moved on, in search of livelier entertainment, no doubt; for the time being we had the bridge to ourselves. We stood silently for a while, watching the moonlight on the Seine, a scene from the archetypal romantic film. And just like the hero of such a film I was struck by a pure and unavoidable certainty. I had planned to save the words until the end of our vacation, to speak them perhaps on the Spanish Steps, or by the Trevi fountain; but the moment had arrived of its own accord. If I couldn’t ask the question now, I might never actually get it out.
I turned to him, drawing away a little so as to focus on him better. “Ray.”
“Yeah, Frase.”
“I wonder if we should… when we return to Prince George… that is to say, perhaps -”
“You’re blithering, Fraser.”
He was right. I swallowed hard, and looked him in the eye. “Will you marry me, Ray Kowalski?”
I watched his amazed expression melt into the smile spreading across his face. My own anxieties seemed to be evaporating in its warmth.
“Yes, I will marry you, Benton Fraser,” he said at last, then flung himself at me, gripping me in a fierce hug and laughing suddenly into my neck. When he pulled back, his eyes were glittering. “D’you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to say that?”
My elation was threatening to undo me, but I still managed to say, “You could have asked me.”
“Yeah, I could,” he said, in a voice that implied quite the opposite, “and I thought about it plenty; but the way I saw it, until you felt you could trust me enough to ask me, you weren’t really ready for the thing itself.”
I blinked at him, speechless. The truth of it was like a blow to the chest. Ray, who had pushed me for months to acknowledge the energy between us, when all I could see were my own fears; Ray, who had left his work, his community, his country without a moment’s pause when it became clear that my disastrous second posting to Chicago was not the solution for us; Ray, who had stayed with me, had fought to stay with me when I would have sent him away and ended it all rather than watch him struggle through another Inuvik winter; Ray deserved to step back and allow me to be the one to show some courage, for once.
“Hey, Earth to Fraser?”
“You’re right, quite right, it had to come from me,” I said, placing a hand on his arm and turning us back to the river as a group of elderly tourists approached.
“Yeah. I was wrong about one thing, though.”
“Which is?”
“You, Benton Fraser, are the world’s biggest romantic.”
I was in no position to argue with that, so I simply raised our clasped hands to my mouth and kissed his ring finger softly.
“Thank you kindly,” I said.
And my prompt table...