"Tantrum"--movie popcorn prompt
Title: Tantrum
Author: spuffyduds
Pairing: just barely a first-time RayK/Fraser
Rating: R for language
Prompt: Movie popcorn
Length: 725 words
Ray’s window unit conked out last week and he’s got to wait for payday to replace it. And the station’s always hot, so the last few days of this neverending fucking heat wave he’s been not sleeping, and not able to think at work, and he knows he’s been getting pissier and pissier but he can’t seem to stop. So when they wrap up a day of liasing which has mostly been a day of him snapping at Fraser, Ray is all set to say, “Look, buddy, you don’t even want to be around me tonight,” when Fraser jumps in ahead of him and says, “Perhaps a movie, Ray?”
And that is an idea completely made of great, because theatres are always cold. “Absolutely,” he says. “But not another thinky one about French farmers digging potatoes in the rain, okay? Something with explosions.”
“You would think,” Fraser says, “that in our day-to-day existence you would have a sufficiency of--“
Ray holds a palm up at him and he shuts up. “And,” Ray says, “the theater’s got to be sixty degrees or under.”
“Ah, would that be Fahrenheit? Because if it’s Celsius, that’s not actually very-“
Palm up. Closed mouth. Good.
************************************************************************
They barely even squabble at the snack bar, because Ray just gets popcorn--he is not in the mood for the dental hygiene lecture that Milk Duds get him every time. Fraser has to get in a little snip about the soda, but Ray is not sharing a beer-keg-sized popcorn bucket without a drink.
They get their seats and the theater’s almost empty--Final Explosion, or Terminal Firestorm, or Big Fucking Kaboom, whatever this is called, apparently isn’t much of a draw. But Ray doesn’t care, Ray is happy, he leans back in his seat and soaks up the cold through his pores and picks up the bucket with both hands and just pours his mouth full of popcorn.
And Fraser makes a little hissing noise next to him.
Ray can actually feel his blood pressure go back up. He didn’t know that was even possible, but there’s a hot pounding across the bridge of his nose.
“What,” he says. Calmly.
“You’re getting your mouth all over the bucket,” Fraser whispers.
And Ray just fucking loses it. The whole goddamn shitty week was going away and he was just starting to relax and like humans again, and sonofabitch.
Ray sits up hard, glares at Fraser, and sticks his whole face in the bucket of popcorn and roots around and sort of burrows into it. And snorts.
And then picks his head up, and, like every time he has a temper tantrum, feels like a complete moron. Every fucking time, he’d punch a wall or smash a glass, and Stella would just look at him from the doorway, surprised and then later disappointed and even later, just tired. (Never scared, thank God, at least there’s that.) And he would immediately feel like an especially stupid kindergartner, but he could never remember that before doing whatever dumbass thing.
This is maybe worse, though. Because it’s Fraser, who never seems to get really mad himself so is gonna be even more weirded out than Stell, and because Ray’s pretty sure he has popcorn in his eyebrows.
So he just sits there and waits for the surprised/disappointed/tired look, or for Fraser to say, “Just go home, Ray.”
“I’ll buy you another one,” Ray says. But Fraser just keeps looking at him and Ray can’t quite figure the look, it’s--none of the above. Just very...intense.
“You’re,” Fraser says, and clears his throat. “You’re buttered, Ray.”
“Yeah,” Ray says. Something blows up on screen but he doesn’t bother checking what, because Fraser picks up the paper napkins and is wiping his face for him, carefully and slowly. And very thoroughly, eyebrows and all. Ray closes his eyes and just lets him, this is weird but nice, sort of--comforting, the paper’s cheap and scratchy but there’s a nice firm pressure behind it, massage-y. But then, whoa, the paper’s gone, and what touches Ray’s buttered lips is just a warm finger.
Ray’s eyes fly open, and Fraser’s still looking at him. At his lips. And stroking them.
They sit for a minute, both staring. And then Fraser says, “The consulate has an excellent air-conditioning system.”
“Okay,” Ray says.
Author: spuffyduds
Pairing: just barely a first-time RayK/Fraser
Rating: R for language
Prompt: Movie popcorn
Length: 725 words
Ray’s window unit conked out last week and he’s got to wait for payday to replace it. And the station’s always hot, so the last few days of this neverending fucking heat wave he’s been not sleeping, and not able to think at work, and he knows he’s been getting pissier and pissier but he can’t seem to stop. So when they wrap up a day of liasing which has mostly been a day of him snapping at Fraser, Ray is all set to say, “Look, buddy, you don’t even want to be around me tonight,” when Fraser jumps in ahead of him and says, “Perhaps a movie, Ray?”
And that is an idea completely made of great, because theatres are always cold. “Absolutely,” he says. “But not another thinky one about French farmers digging potatoes in the rain, okay? Something with explosions.”
“You would think,” Fraser says, “that in our day-to-day existence you would have a sufficiency of--“
Ray holds a palm up at him and he shuts up. “And,” Ray says, “the theater’s got to be sixty degrees or under.”
“Ah, would that be Fahrenheit? Because if it’s Celsius, that’s not actually very-“
Palm up. Closed mouth. Good.
************************************************************************
They barely even squabble at the snack bar, because Ray just gets popcorn--he is not in the mood for the dental hygiene lecture that Milk Duds get him every time. Fraser has to get in a little snip about the soda, but Ray is not sharing a beer-keg-sized popcorn bucket without a drink.
They get their seats and the theater’s almost empty--Final Explosion, or Terminal Firestorm, or Big Fucking Kaboom, whatever this is called, apparently isn’t much of a draw. But Ray doesn’t care, Ray is happy, he leans back in his seat and soaks up the cold through his pores and picks up the bucket with both hands and just pours his mouth full of popcorn.
And Fraser makes a little hissing noise next to him.
Ray can actually feel his blood pressure go back up. He didn’t know that was even possible, but there’s a hot pounding across the bridge of his nose.
“What,” he says. Calmly.
“You’re getting your mouth all over the bucket,” Fraser whispers.
And Ray just fucking loses it. The whole goddamn shitty week was going away and he was just starting to relax and like humans again, and sonofabitch.
Ray sits up hard, glares at Fraser, and sticks his whole face in the bucket of popcorn and roots around and sort of burrows into it. And snorts.
And then picks his head up, and, like every time he has a temper tantrum, feels like a complete moron. Every fucking time, he’d punch a wall or smash a glass, and Stella would just look at him from the doorway, surprised and then later disappointed and even later, just tired. (Never scared, thank God, at least there’s that.) And he would immediately feel like an especially stupid kindergartner, but he could never remember that before doing whatever dumbass thing.
This is maybe worse, though. Because it’s Fraser, who never seems to get really mad himself so is gonna be even more weirded out than Stell, and because Ray’s pretty sure he has popcorn in his eyebrows.
So he just sits there and waits for the surprised/disappointed/tired look, or for Fraser to say, “Just go home, Ray.”
“I’ll buy you another one,” Ray says. But Fraser just keeps looking at him and Ray can’t quite figure the look, it’s--none of the above. Just very...intense.
“You’re,” Fraser says, and clears his throat. “You’re buttered, Ray.”
“Yeah,” Ray says. Something blows up on screen but he doesn’t bother checking what, because Fraser picks up the paper napkins and is wiping his face for him, carefully and slowly. And very thoroughly, eyebrows and all. Ray closes his eyes and just lets him, this is weird but nice, sort of--comforting, the paper’s cheap and scratchy but there’s a nice firm pressure behind it, massage-y. But then, whoa, the paper’s gone, and what touches Ray’s buttered lips is just a warm finger.
Ray’s eyes fly open, and Fraser’s still looking at him. At his lips. And stroking them.
They sit for a minute, both staring. And then Fraser says, “The consulate has an excellent air-conditioning system.”
“Okay,” Ray says.