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*scuttles in* Guess what! Today is the most noble occasion of the_antichris's birthday!
HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYYYYY!!!!!
So here! Have some fraserandray
Pairing:Fraser/Ray
Words: 1423
Rating: soft NC-17
Storytelling.
I blame Looooooou Skagnetti. He got me into this fix, with the princess and the giant, the darkness outside the glow of the campfire. Storytelling did, anyway. See, stories say stuff without saying them, and I'm getting clued into the Fraser code, where a story about a wolf who gives some berries to a Caribou means 'I would appreciate it if we had chinese not pizza tonight, Ray'. He sort of...tests you, cause if you don't understand what he means, you're not ready to. Like one of those old quests knights went on- if the knight was ready to kiss the ugly chick, he was ready to have a princess fall in love with him. He might have preferred the hag, who probably took far less time getting ready to go out, but he was ready to have a princess.
So I can decode, I'm ready to know, I understand him better, and what does he tell me? That tin soldier story. That tin soldier who keeps his faith with the paper ballerina, even if he can only hop on one leg and travels in a fish, and suddenly I don't understand him at all. Because it's like...now he's telling me a story to avoid saying stuff, like he knows that's what I expect and the rules have changed again without him telling me. Two in the morning on a stakeout isn't a good time to be having your mind shuffled. I look across at him. He's got his eye on the warehouse, bland expression, hand relaxed, resting on his thigh.
"What's that meant to mean, Frase?" I ask, keeping the tone light.
"Well, it's just a story, Ray. I suppose at its deepest level-"
"You are telling me about a tin man who got eaten by a fish. It means something, Fraser, but you ain't telling me what."
I look out at the warehouse as he clears his throat, huffs a little. He sounds like Dief. Dief, who is currently sitting on my couch watching my tv. I hope he doesn't put curling on.
"Or maybe," I start, feeling brave, feeling in my gut that this is something more than a tin painted soldier, "maybe you've run out of stories. Stuff to say with them."
He stares straight ahead. His jaw tightens, relaxes. I go for the kill.
"Maybe the stuff you have left to say with stories isn't the stuff you want to say. Or you want to say it, but don't want me to hear it. Or-"
He puts his hand over my mouth, leans over, looks into my eyes. his expression's tight, pinched. "We will continue this discussion when we aren't waiting for a shipment of stolen Jane Austen novels."
I nod, once, and the car goes silent again. Part of me wants to plough right in now, make a few leaps, talk around it, try anything until he snaps. But I use the time to plan, be circus- circum- careful.
The shipment comes, the underground organisation of librarians are rounded up, we drive home in silence, Dief gets off the couch with a whine and lets himself out of my apartment to hunt squirrels, and it's just me and Fraser, sitting on the couch staring at a television that's turned off.
I leap.
"Once upon a time, there was a man. He was a good man, did his duty, chopped logs when he was told to, and just jumped when he was asked to, because he already knew how high they wanted. A good, dutiful man who kept trying. He went through life trying, helping people when he could, comforting them when he couldn't help them, and crying for them when he couldn't comfort them. One day, he was walking out in the forest, when he realised something. He lived in a house on his own, and although he helped people, none of them wanted to live with him and laugh with him. He stood and looked up at those trees, around him at the branches with bird's nests on them, across at the river with the leaping fish and he realised he was alone. And for the first time, he cried for himself."
I sit back, take a sip of my water.
"So who was the man?" Fraser asks, his whole body hunched, as if he wants to curl in on himself.
I shrug. "Could be either of us, really. And this is where your stories hit a barrier, huh, Frase? You can't say 'Ray, my friend, I am lonely. The red wool itches, standing guard makes my back ache, and I want to come home and see someone already there, not an empty office and filing to be done.' That's not how your stories work."
He rubs his hand over his face. "I'm not lonely. I have Dief. I have you. I don't need-"
"You gonna make me quote Donne at you, Frase?"
He goes earnest, facing me, his eyes very bright. "Ray, I don't need anyone else. I have you, and I value that with all my h- I appreciate it."
"With all your heart?"
He nods, smile quirking the side of his mouth. "Every last atom of it."
"And that's what you wanted to say? 'Ray, it has been a pleasure to be your friend, I value it with every atom of my heart, even if I get lonely sometimes.'"
"You missed something."
His voice has gone low, almost a growl. I shift slightly, look at the carpet and count to three. I get to two when he touches my jaw with the tips of his fingers, tilts my head and kisses me, just for a few seconds. He retreats then, looks at me with this real hungry expression, his pupils huge. His hair somehow got mussed as we were talking. I guess I'm gonna be doing some more mussing before the night's done. I lean in, press him back and straddle him, my hands on his shoulders. I feel myself shifting, my back arching into him, trying to twist in a hundred different directions just to I can touch him with everything, drape myself over him like a coat. I whisper 'and they lived happily ever after' into his mouth and he laughs into mine like joy's crept up and surprised him. I kiss him until he gasps, laughing, head falling back on the couch and then kiss him some more, until his eyes are dark, huge, his lips swollen.
I tell him stories, too, stories in my hands, skimming over the skin on his belly, up to his ribs and then to his shoulders, the strength in them under my hands in warm soft skin and a sheen of sweat. I write him paragraphs with my hands fumbling on his fly, pulling down his jeans and boxers, tangling them in his boots and swallowing his giggles, eager, so eager. He's hot, warm, hard, squirming, still, cool, soft and his hands unzip my jeans, pulls them half down so I'm trapped around him in a net of denim, his mouth kisses mine eagerly, clumsily. We dance together too, I bury my face where neck meets shoulder and whisper the steps, lick the salt off his skin and gasp into him as his hand closes round our cocks, a loose fist that tightens as he reaches the top, the feeling of another hand half forgotten, traces of Stella and other faceless men with awkward morning attached to them being wiped off. I whisper 'stay', and 'I need you', 'more', 'please' coming easily to me, easier than it will for him.
All he says is 'yes', and that's enough for me, enough as I arch, twist, gasp and come, lips pressed into his neck, eyes squeezed tight shut. His 'yes' is answer and question, hissed out as he comes, breathed out as he rests his forehead on mine and strokes my back, lazy, smooth. We untangle ourselves, I nearly topple onto the floor as I wrestle with my jeans, and he toes off his boots and leaves them in the middle of the floor, too fucked-out to be tidy. I guess the clothes piled there kinda tell a story too. One of those real good stories that don’t mean anything other than ‘and then they fucked and went to bed, and Fraser wrapped his arms around Ray and held real tight, like he was afraid Ray would disappear in the night. But Ray never did.’ I like those stories.
And they lived happily ever after.