#28 - Somewhere Between Dream and Duty (F/K, PG) for mergatrude
Title: Somewhere Between Dream and Duty
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski (preslash)
Rating: PG
Length: ~1450 words (apparently Fraser is verbose)
Acknowledgments: If it weren't for the Tragically Hip, I don't know how I'd ever title another story. This one's from the lyrics to "Thompson Girl." Many thanks to agentotter for her constructive and reassuring beta.
~ * ~
"Fraser, make Turnbull leave the Minister alone."
From behind his shoulder, Inspector Thatcher's low sotto voce was all husk and sibilants and warm, moist air, and as always it made the hair stand up on the back of Fraser's neck when it breezed over his ear. He'd never been able to decide whether he was relieved or regretful that he would never experience it in more intimate circumstances than they had already shared, once upon a time on a hijacked train.
"Yes, sir," Fraser said without turning to look at her. "And which Minister would this be?"
"The Minister of Sports and Recreation. Turnbull is blithering about something called a Juggernaut."
"Ah." With a nod, Fraser broke parade rest and followed the ever-louder sound of Turnbull's voice toward the parlor, where he found the beleaguered Minister, his back to the wall, throwing back three robust fingers of Maison des Futailles Sortilège, the nearly empty bottle clutched tightly by the neck in his other hand.
"-garish and tasteless so-called uniforms, not to mention the presence of comely young non-participant females dressed unsuitably for the ice-"
"Constable Turnbull."
"-cheapen and besmirch the noble sport of curling-"
Fraser sighed and raised his voice. "Constable Turnbull. Constable."
Turnbull's impassioned tirade halted in mid-syllable. With his right hand still raised, index finger still stabbing heavenward, he craned his neck around. "Constable Fraser! A welcome ally!" He turned back to his quarry. "Constable Fraser, please explain to the Minister-"
"Turnbull," Fraser interrupted, shooting an apologetic glance at the Minister. "The Minister's limo is here. Please escort him to the door." When Turnbull drew a deep breath and opened his mouth, Fraser added, "Silently."
Never one to disobey a direct order, no matter how trying the circumstances or how great the temptation, Turnbull snapped his jaw smartly shut, sketched an equally smart if impertinently shallow bow to the Minister, then spun on his heel and led the way out of the parlor.
Fraser rescued the Minister from an apparently impossible choice between leaving and pouring himself another drink by plucking both bottle and glass from the man's hands and dispensing the last of the maple whisky as he walked, the Minister following gratefully if unsteadily at his heels.
The Minister and his minions were the last guests to depart, and it was with considerable relief that Fraser accepted his empty glass and watched Inspector Thatcher, graceful as ever despite absurdly high heels, escort the small party to their limousine, the liquid consonants of her flawless French farewells to the second undersecretary soothing any nerves still ruffled from Turnbull's diatribe.
As the last of the limo's doors closed, Fraser allowed himself the luxury of letting his shoulders slump a blessed half inch. He saw the lightning flick of the Inspector's glance taking in first the line of his shoulders and then his face as she passed him on her way back into the building, and was ridiculously grateful when she said nothing and simply continued down the hallway, the ever faithful Turnbull coming automatically to heel at her left side.
When the two of them vanished into her office, Fraser carefully tilted his head first to the left, then to the right, the cracking of his neck after six hours of rigidly formal posture an almost erotic pleasure that he allowed himself to savor briefly before following them down the hall.
He'd no sooner set foot into her office than the Inspector, purse and keys in hand, strode past him saying, "I'll expect to see this mess cleared when I arrive in the morning." The front door closed on the last syllable, silencing the click of her heels on the pavement.
Convincing Turnbull to leave the clean-up to him took a good deal longer and all of the patience that Fraser could muster at this late hour, and in the end Turnbull backed down the front steps, still protesting politely as Fraser closed the door between them. The quiet thunk of the deadbolt sliding home was sweet punctuation - full stop, and solitude at last.
Though Fraser had hoped to be not quite so alone at this moment.
Ray's offer to attend the soiree in the guise of additional security - "You're not the only one that can liaise, Fraser" - had been an unexpected pleasure, though one that paled in comparison to Ray's presence all evening, elegantly dressed in a charcoal gray suit over a pristine white shirt accented by the raw silk tie in a deep marine shade that brought out the blue in his eyes. His black shoes had been polished until they glowed, his lapis cufflinks complemented his tie, and even his hair was on its best behavior for the occasion. An occasional enticing glimpse of the beaded metal bracelet on his right wrist was all the evidence that remained of Ray's exuberant unorthodoxy.
Fraser's duties had kept him in motion for most of the evening, drifting on the eddying currents as Ottawa's emissaries flowed from drink to talk to food and back again, and Ray was out of his sight more often than not. But whenever they were in the same room, Fraser found his gaze drifting toward Ray again and again, caught by the warm glow of the highlights in Ray's hair, the quick flash of his smile, the drape of his suit coat down the long line of his back. More than once Ray had glanced his way and caught Fraser watching him, and more than once Ray's quicksilver grin had been for him.
As the evening wore on, a delicate hope had germinated in Fraser's heart, its fragile roots sinking deeper with each smile, each brush of Ray's sleeve as he'd passed Fraser in a doorway or in the hall, just a little closer than he'd needed to be. Fraser had let himself imagine that Ray would stay after everyone else had gone, that they would have time alone together in the peaceful quiet of the Consulate's paneled parlor where Fraser could look his fill as Ray sprawled on the couch and loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar and smiled into Fraser's eyes and this time didn't look away, not for a long time.
He didn't know exactly when Ray had left; he hadn't seen him leave. One minute Ray was in his self-appointed station by the door, watching the guests depart, and the next he was gone.
Ray was gone. Fraser knew that, but it wasn't enough to smother the little flicker of hope as he entered each room, hoping to find Ray waiting for him with a partner's knowing grin, the one that said, "You knew I'd be here. You knew I wouldn't leave." Each time he found only the detritus left behind by the departed bureaucrats, and each time he left the room alone, accompanied only by the tray that held an increasingly heavy accumulation of empty glasses and stained and crumpled cocktail serviettes.
Even Diefenbaker had abandoned him. Fraser had expected to find him in the kitchen, impatiently awaiting his customary haul of leftover hors d'oeuvres, but again he found only an empty room, the counters piled with empty bottles and crumb-strewn platters. Apparently Dief had already cadged the remnants from Turnbull before his departure; otherwise, he would have been lying with his back to a full dish of kibble, ready to greet Fraser with an accusatory glare of reproach for his negligence.
Fraser set the heavy tray on the kitchen counter, carefully pushing assorted party debris off to either side to make room. He straightened slowly, his back cracking once, twice in protest over the hours of rigid formality. He surveyed the room and, with a sigh, allowed himself the indulgence of leaving it all for morning. If he arose at five, he could have it all cleared and cleaned well before the Inspector arrived at eight-thirty. Just this once, it wouldn't hurt.
He made his way back through the Consulate, flipping switches and leaving darkened rooms behind him until there was nothing left to light his way back to his office except an unexpected glow painting a narrow stripe beneath his office door.
He stopped outside the door and put his hand on the knob, but it was several endless seconds before he turned it and gently pushed the door open.
Ray was sitting in Fraser's desk chair, his suit jacket discarded somewhere. Diefenbaker snored softly at his feet. Ray's legs were sprawled wide, his tie loosened and his shirt collar unbuttoned. "Hi, Fraser," he said. "I, uh... I thought I'd be the last to leave." And he smiled into Fraser's eyes and didn't look away, not for a long time.
~ fin ~
Prompt: "I thought I'd be the last to leave" Fraser/RayK (and hey, it doesn't have to be sad!)
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski (preslash)
Rating: PG
Length: ~1450 words (apparently Fraser is verbose)
Acknowledgments: If it weren't for the Tragically Hip, I don't know how I'd ever title another story. This one's from the lyrics to "Thompson Girl." Many thanks to agentotter for her constructive and reassuring beta.
~ * ~
"Fraser, make Turnbull leave the Minister alone."
From behind his shoulder, Inspector Thatcher's low sotto voce was all husk and sibilants and warm, moist air, and as always it made the hair stand up on the back of Fraser's neck when it breezed over his ear. He'd never been able to decide whether he was relieved or regretful that he would never experience it in more intimate circumstances than they had already shared, once upon a time on a hijacked train.
"Yes, sir," Fraser said without turning to look at her. "And which Minister would this be?"
"The Minister of Sports and Recreation. Turnbull is blithering about something called a Juggernaut."
"Ah." With a nod, Fraser broke parade rest and followed the ever-louder sound of Turnbull's voice toward the parlor, where he found the beleaguered Minister, his back to the wall, throwing back three robust fingers of Maison des Futailles Sortilège, the nearly empty bottle clutched tightly by the neck in his other hand.
"-garish and tasteless so-called uniforms, not to mention the presence of comely young non-participant females dressed unsuitably for the ice-"
"Constable Turnbull."
"-cheapen and besmirch the noble sport of curling-"
Fraser sighed and raised his voice. "Constable Turnbull. Constable."
Turnbull's impassioned tirade halted in mid-syllable. With his right hand still raised, index finger still stabbing heavenward, he craned his neck around. "Constable Fraser! A welcome ally!" He turned back to his quarry. "Constable Fraser, please explain to the Minister-"
"Turnbull," Fraser interrupted, shooting an apologetic glance at the Minister. "The Minister's limo is here. Please escort him to the door." When Turnbull drew a deep breath and opened his mouth, Fraser added, "Silently."
Never one to disobey a direct order, no matter how trying the circumstances or how great the temptation, Turnbull snapped his jaw smartly shut, sketched an equally smart if impertinently shallow bow to the Minister, then spun on his heel and led the way out of the parlor.
Fraser rescued the Minister from an apparently impossible choice between leaving and pouring himself another drink by plucking both bottle and glass from the man's hands and dispensing the last of the maple whisky as he walked, the Minister following gratefully if unsteadily at his heels.
The Minister and his minions were the last guests to depart, and it was with considerable relief that Fraser accepted his empty glass and watched Inspector Thatcher, graceful as ever despite absurdly high heels, escort the small party to their limousine, the liquid consonants of her flawless French farewells to the second undersecretary soothing any nerves still ruffled from Turnbull's diatribe.
As the last of the limo's doors closed, Fraser allowed himself the luxury of letting his shoulders slump a blessed half inch. He saw the lightning flick of the Inspector's glance taking in first the line of his shoulders and then his face as she passed him on her way back into the building, and was ridiculously grateful when she said nothing and simply continued down the hallway, the ever faithful Turnbull coming automatically to heel at her left side.
When the two of them vanished into her office, Fraser carefully tilted his head first to the left, then to the right, the cracking of his neck after six hours of rigidly formal posture an almost erotic pleasure that he allowed himself to savor briefly before following them down the hall.
He'd no sooner set foot into her office than the Inspector, purse and keys in hand, strode past him saying, "I'll expect to see this mess cleared when I arrive in the morning." The front door closed on the last syllable, silencing the click of her heels on the pavement.
Convincing Turnbull to leave the clean-up to him took a good deal longer and all of the patience that Fraser could muster at this late hour, and in the end Turnbull backed down the front steps, still protesting politely as Fraser closed the door between them. The quiet thunk of the deadbolt sliding home was sweet punctuation - full stop, and solitude at last.
Though Fraser had hoped to be not quite so alone at this moment.
Ray's offer to attend the soiree in the guise of additional security - "You're not the only one that can liaise, Fraser" - had been an unexpected pleasure, though one that paled in comparison to Ray's presence all evening, elegantly dressed in a charcoal gray suit over a pristine white shirt accented by the raw silk tie in a deep marine shade that brought out the blue in his eyes. His black shoes had been polished until they glowed, his lapis cufflinks complemented his tie, and even his hair was on its best behavior for the occasion. An occasional enticing glimpse of the beaded metal bracelet on his right wrist was all the evidence that remained of Ray's exuberant unorthodoxy.
Fraser's duties had kept him in motion for most of the evening, drifting on the eddying currents as Ottawa's emissaries flowed from drink to talk to food and back again, and Ray was out of his sight more often than not. But whenever they were in the same room, Fraser found his gaze drifting toward Ray again and again, caught by the warm glow of the highlights in Ray's hair, the quick flash of his smile, the drape of his suit coat down the long line of his back. More than once Ray had glanced his way and caught Fraser watching him, and more than once Ray's quicksilver grin had been for him.
As the evening wore on, a delicate hope had germinated in Fraser's heart, its fragile roots sinking deeper with each smile, each brush of Ray's sleeve as he'd passed Fraser in a doorway or in the hall, just a little closer than he'd needed to be. Fraser had let himself imagine that Ray would stay after everyone else had gone, that they would have time alone together in the peaceful quiet of the Consulate's paneled parlor where Fraser could look his fill as Ray sprawled on the couch and loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar and smiled into Fraser's eyes and this time didn't look away, not for a long time.
He didn't know exactly when Ray had left; he hadn't seen him leave. One minute Ray was in his self-appointed station by the door, watching the guests depart, and the next he was gone.
Ray was gone. Fraser knew that, but it wasn't enough to smother the little flicker of hope as he entered each room, hoping to find Ray waiting for him with a partner's knowing grin, the one that said, "You knew I'd be here. You knew I wouldn't leave." Each time he found only the detritus left behind by the departed bureaucrats, and each time he left the room alone, accompanied only by the tray that held an increasingly heavy accumulation of empty glasses and stained and crumpled cocktail serviettes.
Even Diefenbaker had abandoned him. Fraser had expected to find him in the kitchen, impatiently awaiting his customary haul of leftover hors d'oeuvres, but again he found only an empty room, the counters piled with empty bottles and crumb-strewn platters. Apparently Dief had already cadged the remnants from Turnbull before his departure; otherwise, he would have been lying with his back to a full dish of kibble, ready to greet Fraser with an accusatory glare of reproach for his negligence.
Fraser set the heavy tray on the kitchen counter, carefully pushing assorted party debris off to either side to make room. He straightened slowly, his back cracking once, twice in protest over the hours of rigid formality. He surveyed the room and, with a sigh, allowed himself the indulgence of leaving it all for morning. If he arose at five, he could have it all cleared and cleaned well before the Inspector arrived at eight-thirty. Just this once, it wouldn't hurt.
He made his way back through the Consulate, flipping switches and leaving darkened rooms behind him until there was nothing left to light his way back to his office except an unexpected glow painting a narrow stripe beneath his office door.
He stopped outside the door and put his hand on the knob, but it was several endless seconds before he turned it and gently pushed the door open.
Ray was sitting in Fraser's desk chair, his suit jacket discarded somewhere. Diefenbaker snored softly at his feet. Ray's legs were sprawled wide, his tie loosened and his shirt collar unbuttoned. "Hi, Fraser," he said. "I, uh... I thought I'd be the last to leave." And he smiled into Fraser's eyes and didn't look away, not for a long time.
~ fin ~
Prompt: "I thought I'd be the last to leave" Fraser/RayK (and hey, it doesn't have to be sad!)