(no subject)
Rahhh, new fic! I am a victorious beast! (Granted, a beast that apparently thinks it is okay to switch between past and present narrative tense at random, and only managed to catch it about twenty seconds before posting, but bah. Still a beast, I say.)
674 words. F/K, first time, PWP. Rated PG for implied nudity.
He is not sure what he has done. He has taken a familiar thing, a thing he cherished -- a partnership, a friendship -- and he has turned it into something else. Something explosive, something dangerous, something he hardly understands. Something essentially unpredictable. And how is he to trust a thing he cannot predict?
[Disclaimer: I write far too irregularly to be trusted with these boys. Lemme alone.]
No Worries
Ray is sleeping.
He is sprawled across the bed, arm tossed out across the other side of the bed, where Fraser had been lying just minutes before. A quarter of his torso is exposed by the sheets that Fraser had turned down in getting out of bed; the notch of his exposed clavicle catches a glimmer of streetlight that comes slanting in through the open window. His head is turned to one side, drawing up the long tendon in his neck, and a slight break of sweat makes his skin shine. A small white square of gauze stands out against the curve of his shoulder, masking the shallow knife-wound underneath.
Fraser is not sleeping.
At about half past three in the morning, Fraser jolted awake and darted out from under the covers, immediately grabbing for his boxers, his uniform pants. This he knew, and knew full well: he hadn't thought it through, hadn't considered all the ramifications, and therefore he must have made a terrible mistake. One leg into his pants, and his resolve had dimmed; the other leg, and he was reduced to standing indecisively in the midde of Ray's bedroom. Now he is looking out the window, barefoot and shirtless, too lost in thought to bother with clothing or an escape.
He is not sure what he has done. He has taken a familiar thing, a thing he cherished -- a partnership, a friendship -- and he has turned it into something else. Something explosive, something dangerous, something he hardly understands. Something essentially unpredictable. And how is he to trust a thing he cannot predict?
In not quite four hours, it will be Thursday morning. A work day. They will have to go to the station, and perhaps they will have to break up another fight, and perhaps again Ray will be injured. Perhaps he won't be. In either case, Fraser will be at a loss. Nothing will be the same, will it? Everything will be different.
Everything changes. Fraser has never quite grown used to that.
He will miss the teasing most of all, he thinks. If last night was anything to go by, love between them is a serious thing, dark and desperate and furious where their partnership had been light, flippant, prickly. And Lord knows that Fraser understands the need for seriousness, but that constant flux of banter between them had been as much a part of their work as coffee breaks and Miranda rights. What if Ray no longer thinks it appropriate to call Fraser a freak, or smack him upside the head? What if he instead chooses to sulk or, worse, simply avoid confrontation entirely as he'd done with Stella? What if -- ?
But these are petty worries, Fraser knows. In the end, he has a duty to Ray, and that means he cannot leave, no matter how anxious he is. Even if it had been a mistake, he has to see it through.
The first thing Ray registers is that his ribs are cold. Next thing is that Fraser must've gotten out of bed.
"Frase?" He forces his eyes open, and sees a silhouette standing at the window, familiar shoulders and torso outlined in the sickly yellow sodium lights. "Freak. Get back in bed, the sheets're getting cold."
Fraser turns to look at him, and suddenly Ray sees all the things he'd been too out of it to notice a second before: the tight set of Fraser's shoulders, the crossed arms, that he's got his fucking pants on. Shit -- he's having second thoughts, and what does Ray do? Wake up in the middle of the guy's panic attack, call him names and give him an order. That's gonna go over real well.
But then almost as soon as he sees it, it's gone. Fraser's arms are dropping, and his shoulders are curving, and then Fraser's stripping off the pants and kneeing his way back into the bed. "Well," he says, voice warm and throaty, "we can't have that, now can we?"
--fin
674 words. F/K, first time, PWP. Rated PG for implied nudity.
He is not sure what he has done. He has taken a familiar thing, a thing he cherished -- a partnership, a friendship -- and he has turned it into something else. Something explosive, something dangerous, something he hardly understands. Something essentially unpredictable. And how is he to trust a thing he cannot predict?
[Disclaimer: I write far too irregularly to be trusted with these boys. Lemme alone.]
No Worries
Ray is sleeping.
He is sprawled across the bed, arm tossed out across the other side of the bed, where Fraser had been lying just minutes before. A quarter of his torso is exposed by the sheets that Fraser had turned down in getting out of bed; the notch of his exposed clavicle catches a glimmer of streetlight that comes slanting in through the open window. His head is turned to one side, drawing up the long tendon in his neck, and a slight break of sweat makes his skin shine. A small white square of gauze stands out against the curve of his shoulder, masking the shallow knife-wound underneath.
Fraser is not sleeping.
At about half past three in the morning, Fraser jolted awake and darted out from under the covers, immediately grabbing for his boxers, his uniform pants. This he knew, and knew full well: he hadn't thought it through, hadn't considered all the ramifications, and therefore he must have made a terrible mistake. One leg into his pants, and his resolve had dimmed; the other leg, and he was reduced to standing indecisively in the midde of Ray's bedroom. Now he is looking out the window, barefoot and shirtless, too lost in thought to bother with clothing or an escape.
He is not sure what he has done. He has taken a familiar thing, a thing he cherished -- a partnership, a friendship -- and he has turned it into something else. Something explosive, something dangerous, something he hardly understands. Something essentially unpredictable. And how is he to trust a thing he cannot predict?
In not quite four hours, it will be Thursday morning. A work day. They will have to go to the station, and perhaps they will have to break up another fight, and perhaps again Ray will be injured. Perhaps he won't be. In either case, Fraser will be at a loss. Nothing will be the same, will it? Everything will be different.
Everything changes. Fraser has never quite grown used to that.
He will miss the teasing most of all, he thinks. If last night was anything to go by, love between them is a serious thing, dark and desperate and furious where their partnership had been light, flippant, prickly. And Lord knows that Fraser understands the need for seriousness, but that constant flux of banter between them had been as much a part of their work as coffee breaks and Miranda rights. What if Ray no longer thinks it appropriate to call Fraser a freak, or smack him upside the head? What if he instead chooses to sulk or, worse, simply avoid confrontation entirely as he'd done with Stella? What if -- ?
But these are petty worries, Fraser knows. In the end, he has a duty to Ray, and that means he cannot leave, no matter how anxious he is. Even if it had been a mistake, he has to see it through.
The first thing Ray registers is that his ribs are cold. Next thing is that Fraser must've gotten out of bed.
"Frase?" He forces his eyes open, and sees a silhouette standing at the window, familiar shoulders and torso outlined in the sickly yellow sodium lights. "Freak. Get back in bed, the sheets're getting cold."
Fraser turns to look at him, and suddenly Ray sees all the things he'd been too out of it to notice a second before: the tight set of Fraser's shoulders, the crossed arms, that he's got his fucking pants on. Shit -- he's having second thoughts, and what does Ray do? Wake up in the middle of the guy's panic attack, call him names and give him an order. That's gonna go over real well.
But then almost as soon as he sees it, it's gone. Fraser's arms are dropping, and his shoulders are curving, and then Fraser's stripping off the pants and kneeing his way back into the bed. "Well," he says, voice warm and throaty, "we can't have that, now can we?"
--fin