And then maybe it went like this...
Here's a follow up to the little ficlet-with-teeth I posted the other day.
Still nothing above a PG rating.
Fleeting - coda to 'Good for the Soul'
Ray’s offer was to drop me off at the Consulate, accompanied by strict instructions to rest and allow my injuries to heal before Christmas was over and I was back to being, uh, Super Mountie, as he calls it. Therefore, it makes no sense for him to be lingering on the step below me, not saying anything but not seeming at all ready to go back to his car.
Except, of course, it does make sense. Or, at least, it feels as if it should, as the same invisible thread that is keeping him from leaving the Consulate seems to be preventing me from escaping inside. I can’t be certain, cannot speak for Ray, but I believe that what we are both waiting for is that…click. That moment when everything shifts and feels right again.
There is no click. We both wait for a long couple of minutes which, when abstracted, doesn’t sound much but is rather excruciating when spent in the company of a man who seems incapable of looking you in the eye, whose whole body is clenched in a knot of tension, who…who has never looked as vulnerable as he does at this moment and yet for whom I have no comfort to offer.
Finally, my jaw clamping down on a yawn, I tell myself that I simply cannot stand out here all night waiting for one of us to venture forth any kind of communication. It is late and I am sore and tired and…cold, which is a rather rare experience for me since coming to Chicago. Perhaps it has something to do with the feeling that the chill is not seeping into my body from the outside but rather leaking from somewhere within.
“Well, Ray. Thank you for the ride home.” I turn and take the final step towards the doors. “And Merry Christmas.”
“Fraser.”
I pause but, going on a hunch (and wouldn’t Ray be ever so proud of me), I do not turn back around. This seems to help him, as only sixteen seconds later he speaks again. “I’m sorry. I know I seem to be saying that a lot lately, but it’s true.”
“It’s all right, Ray.” I breathe deeply. “I believe I owe you an apology, too.”
Realising that I just spoke those penitent words to the Consulate doors, I turn to repeat them to Ray’s face. The look of frustration that has screwed itself onto his features seems physically painful and, certainly not for the first time in our partnership, the shame begins to build within me.
“Fraser, I--” Ray starts, then stops. His eyes finally lock with mine and I find that I am the one who now needs to divert his gaze. His earnest distress is awful to behold. “Tell me what to do.”
I am not sure what to say.
“Tell me what I can do to make this better.”
I know that he doesn’t mean tonight, not purely. He means everything. Everything. The tension and the fights and the misguided sexual advances that he has taken upon his own shoulders and I, worm that I am, allowed him to take. The halt that our partnership has ground to since that night…
I still do not know what to say.
Suddenly that familiar layer of aggression slides down over Ray’s eyes and he barks out, “Don’t play dumb, Fraser! This thing between us! You know what I’m talking about. This thing I started, and you never wanted, and I can’t let go! Tell me what I should do about it.”
His lips pull back into a snarl and his teeth gleam in the moonlight, his eyes are burning. His body is coiled, spring-ready, he has never looked more fearsome and fragile and beautiful, and I have never felt weaker. Tired, hurting, broken by Ray’s anguish, I cannot stop myself from breathing out, “Kiss me.”
Ray is startled and, to my dismay, backs a step away. He stares at me, hard, and I make a conscious effort to not look away. The words came unbidden but now that they’re between us it is folly to think that I can pretend I didn’t mean them -- not when the very blood in my veins is surging at the idea.
After some time, a lifetime, Ray apparently reaches a conclusion. His shoulders loosen slightly; he appears to gain height, while his eyes harden as I watch them.
“Fraser,” he starts, little of the newfound confidence evident in his body language making it into his voice. “You know how I feel about…things.”
(You.)
“And you can’t deny how sometimes you…”
(Let it show, how you feel the same way.)
“But I can’t…deal with this round-the-houses bullshit.”
(I had enough of that with Stella.)
“So just tell me. Straight. What do you want me to do?”
“Kiss me.”
Ray continues as if he hasn’t heard, as if I haven’t spoken. “Bearing in mind that this is your final answer here.”
“Kiss me.” I have tainted everything but Ray still wants me to yield to him, to his life and warmth and love and, Lord, I want to try.
“There’s no take backs, no denials. Fraser, I swear to God, you can’t turn your back on this ‘cause I can’t-- I can’t--”
“Ray, kiss me.”
His mouth is hard and hot, connecting with my lips as if it belongs there. My hands weave themselves into his jacket, pulling his body to mine -- so close that I can feel the minute tremors running through it.
When he pulls back, he leaves his fingers locked in my hair and withdraws no further than a few inches. He is looking at me with wide and desperate eyes. “You can trust me,” he whispers raggedly.
There is a pricking behind my eyes, because of course Ray understands. I open my mouth, still warm from his own but, as always, my tongue cannot form the words I so urgently need. I do the only thing I can and take a step back. The eyes that follow me are anxious, face slack with naked fear.
I hold out my hand.
--End--
As is so very often the case, bipolypesca deserves eternal thanks and worship for beta-reading both this and the first part. *is not worthy*
If I don't reply to a comment, it's because I'm about five hours away from walking out the door to go hop on a plane to Ibiza. ...I should be more excited about that.
Still nothing above a PG rating.
Fleeting - coda to 'Good for the Soul'
Ray’s offer was to drop me off at the Consulate, accompanied by strict instructions to rest and allow my injuries to heal before Christmas was over and I was back to being, uh, Super Mountie, as he calls it. Therefore, it makes no sense for him to be lingering on the step below me, not saying anything but not seeming at all ready to go back to his car.
Except, of course, it does make sense. Or, at least, it feels as if it should, as the same invisible thread that is keeping him from leaving the Consulate seems to be preventing me from escaping inside. I can’t be certain, cannot speak for Ray, but I believe that what we are both waiting for is that…click. That moment when everything shifts and feels right again.
There is no click. We both wait for a long couple of minutes which, when abstracted, doesn’t sound much but is rather excruciating when spent in the company of a man who seems incapable of looking you in the eye, whose whole body is clenched in a knot of tension, who…who has never looked as vulnerable as he does at this moment and yet for whom I have no comfort to offer.
Finally, my jaw clamping down on a yawn, I tell myself that I simply cannot stand out here all night waiting for one of us to venture forth any kind of communication. It is late and I am sore and tired and…cold, which is a rather rare experience for me since coming to Chicago. Perhaps it has something to do with the feeling that the chill is not seeping into my body from the outside but rather leaking from somewhere within.
“Well, Ray. Thank you for the ride home.” I turn and take the final step towards the doors. “And Merry Christmas.”
“Fraser.”
I pause but, going on a hunch (and wouldn’t Ray be ever so proud of me), I do not turn back around. This seems to help him, as only sixteen seconds later he speaks again. “I’m sorry. I know I seem to be saying that a lot lately, but it’s true.”
“It’s all right, Ray.” I breathe deeply. “I believe I owe you an apology, too.”
Realising that I just spoke those penitent words to the Consulate doors, I turn to repeat them to Ray’s face. The look of frustration that has screwed itself onto his features seems physically painful and, certainly not for the first time in our partnership, the shame begins to build within me.
“Fraser, I--” Ray starts, then stops. His eyes finally lock with mine and I find that I am the one who now needs to divert his gaze. His earnest distress is awful to behold. “Tell me what to do.”
I am not sure what to say.
“Tell me what I can do to make this better.”
I know that he doesn’t mean tonight, not purely. He means everything. Everything. The tension and the fights and the misguided sexual advances that he has taken upon his own shoulders and I, worm that I am, allowed him to take. The halt that our partnership has ground to since that night…
I still do not know what to say.
Suddenly that familiar layer of aggression slides down over Ray’s eyes and he barks out, “Don’t play dumb, Fraser! This thing between us! You know what I’m talking about. This thing I started, and you never wanted, and I can’t let go! Tell me what I should do about it.”
His lips pull back into a snarl and his teeth gleam in the moonlight, his eyes are burning. His body is coiled, spring-ready, he has never looked more fearsome and fragile and beautiful, and I have never felt weaker. Tired, hurting, broken by Ray’s anguish, I cannot stop myself from breathing out, “Kiss me.”
Ray is startled and, to my dismay, backs a step away. He stares at me, hard, and I make a conscious effort to not look away. The words came unbidden but now that they’re between us it is folly to think that I can pretend I didn’t mean them -- not when the very blood in my veins is surging at the idea.
After some time, a lifetime, Ray apparently reaches a conclusion. His shoulders loosen slightly; he appears to gain height, while his eyes harden as I watch them.
“Fraser,” he starts, little of the newfound confidence evident in his body language making it into his voice. “You know how I feel about…things.”
(You.)
“And you can’t deny how sometimes you…”
(Let it show, how you feel the same way.)
“But I can’t…deal with this round-the-houses bullshit.”
(I had enough of that with Stella.)
“So just tell me. Straight. What do you want me to do?”
“Kiss me.”
Ray continues as if he hasn’t heard, as if I haven’t spoken. “Bearing in mind that this is your final answer here.”
“Kiss me.” I have tainted everything but Ray still wants me to yield to him, to his life and warmth and love and, Lord, I want to try.
“There’s no take backs, no denials. Fraser, I swear to God, you can’t turn your back on this ‘cause I can’t-- I can’t--”
“Ray, kiss me.”
His mouth is hard and hot, connecting with my lips as if it belongs there. My hands weave themselves into his jacket, pulling his body to mine -- so close that I can feel the minute tremors running through it.
When he pulls back, he leaves his fingers locked in my hair and withdraws no further than a few inches. He is looking at me with wide and desperate eyes. “You can trust me,” he whispers raggedly.
There is a pricking behind my eyes, because of course Ray understands. I open my mouth, still warm from his own but, as always, my tongue cannot form the words I so urgently need. I do the only thing I can and take a step back. The eyes that follow me are anxious, face slack with naked fear.
I hold out my hand.
--End--
As is so very often the case, bipolypesca deserves eternal thanks and worship for beta-reading both this and the first part. *is not worthy*
If I don't reply to a comment, it's because I'm about five hours away from walking out the door to go hop on a plane to Ibiza. ...I should be more excited about that.