Ficlet for Nos! And a very happy birthday!
G-rated, 300-ish words
Late
It is a measure of Fraser’s--patheticness, really, that he is here at all. That, after a long workday, collapsing on this lumpy couch (with Ray, near Ray) in front of ludicrous cop shows and incomprehensibly braying comedies sounded more appealing than going back to the Consulate, no matter how many excellent library books he has stacked next to his cot.
When he snaps suddenly awake he’s lost for a second, no idea where or when or why he is, and Ray is slumped against his shoulder, limp and blue. Fraser has a horrible moment of blue no air drowned dead Henry Allen oh god and then he’s all the way conscious and realizes that the evening programming has given way to late-night horror movies, that onscreen a woman in a nightgown is recoiling from some sort of mad-doctor archetype, that Ray is simply bathed in blue light.
In the aftermath of his panic Fraser allows himself an unusual moment to look his fill, to notice how lovely Ray is like this, otherworldly and--eldritch. And then Ray stirs slightly and his hand moves, lands on Fraser’s thigh, warm and squeezing just a little.
And Fraser doesn’t shift away, doesn’t move Ray’s hand, accepts this caress that is almost certainly dream-based, that belongs to Stella or to one of Ray’s recent dates. That is not Fraser’s but he takes it, steals it, he might as well be picking Ray’s pocket. And that thought gives rise to further unfortunate ones, and he cannot bite back the small noise that he makes, cannot stop his arm from sliding around Ray’s shoulders.
Ray wakes, of course, grumbles and stirs in Fraser’s encircling arm. The woman onscreen shrieks, “You madman, what have you done?” and Ray’s eyes open, meet Fraser’s. Fraser allows himself to hope for a second that they’re unseeing; that they’ll flutter back closed, that this never happened, but no, Ray is unmistakably all the way there.
Ray glances down at his hand curled on Fraser’s leg and flinches, moves it; begins to sit up straight, which presses him against Fraser’s arm around his shoulders. He stills, goes abruptly motionless, frozen; and then, after a few seconds that last eternities, puts his hand back, leans his head on Fraser’s shoulder again. Fraser breathes, wonders. And slowly, cautiously moves his fingertips into Ray’s hair.
Late
It is a measure of Fraser’s--patheticness, really, that he is here at all. That, after a long workday, collapsing on this lumpy couch (with Ray, near Ray) in front of ludicrous cop shows and incomprehensibly braying comedies sounded more appealing than going back to the Consulate, no matter how many excellent library books he has stacked next to his cot.
When he snaps suddenly awake he’s lost for a second, no idea where or when or why he is, and Ray is slumped against his shoulder, limp and blue. Fraser has a horrible moment of blue no air drowned dead Henry Allen oh god and then he’s all the way conscious and realizes that the evening programming has given way to late-night horror movies, that onscreen a woman in a nightgown is recoiling from some sort of mad-doctor archetype, that Ray is simply bathed in blue light.
In the aftermath of his panic Fraser allows himself an unusual moment to look his fill, to notice how lovely Ray is like this, otherworldly and--eldritch. And then Ray stirs slightly and his hand moves, lands on Fraser’s thigh, warm and squeezing just a little.
And Fraser doesn’t shift away, doesn’t move Ray’s hand, accepts this caress that is almost certainly dream-based, that belongs to Stella or to one of Ray’s recent dates. That is not Fraser’s but he takes it, steals it, he might as well be picking Ray’s pocket. And that thought gives rise to further unfortunate ones, and he cannot bite back the small noise that he makes, cannot stop his arm from sliding around Ray’s shoulders.
Ray wakes, of course, grumbles and stirs in Fraser’s encircling arm. The woman onscreen shrieks, “You madman, what have you done?” and Ray’s eyes open, meet Fraser’s. Fraser allows himself to hope for a second that they’re unseeing; that they’ll flutter back closed, that this never happened, but no, Ray is unmistakably all the way there.
Ray glances down at his hand curled on Fraser’s leg and flinches, moves it; begins to sit up straight, which presses him against Fraser’s arm around his shoulders. He stills, goes abruptly motionless, frozen; and then, after a few seconds that last eternities, puts his hand back, leans his head on Fraser’s shoulder again. Fraser breathes, wonders. And slowly, cautiously moves his fingertips into Ray’s hair.