Owls and Closed RP: A Plea, a Command, and an Explanation

[themountie]

Benton Fraser was afraid of very little: he made a habit of jumping off of buildings and/or cliffs; he had faced the killers of his father and he had taken down some of the hardest men in Chicago without breaking a sweat; and he was the only cop in the city who didn't carry a gun. And yet nothing in the world terrified him more than the woman who

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Mr. Quackers returns, looking very srs and important, note heavily warded

[lilypotter60]

Ben ~

Well, I'm going to do us both the favour of pretending you've met me and assume that your owl is a very cleverly warded S.O.S.

And even if you have fallen, hit your head, and completely forgotten anything about me (again), do you really think that it would be responsible for the Defense professor to ignore any so-called 'threat'?

Now, are you going to tell me what's actually going on here?

~ Lily

Reply Quackers to Lily

[themountie]

Lily,

I cannot emphasize this enough: there is nothing you can do regarding this situation and the safest course, by far the safest course of action, is to leave her alone. The only way you'll be in danger is if you provoke her or if you mention me, and as I know that my first owl is probably inciting you to do those two very things, I'm asking you -- rather, begging you -- not to.

I know her.

-Ben

Steeler comes trotting back with the note in his mouth

[lilypotter60]

Ben ~

Got it. I'm on my way there now!

Oh, and watch Steeler for me? I was out walking him when I got your note and he tends to bark at new people. Or leaves. Or shadows.

Anyway, I'll take care of the Sorting Room situation. You just keep Steeler from eating anyone's sock!

~ Lily

Steeler runs back with another note, looking a little scared

[themountie]

No!

Lily, for God's sake, this isn't a joke.

[busty_robin]

..."Forbid"?

Steph stared at the note for a long minute, trying to confirm that this was, in fact, Benton Fraser's handwriting. All the penned idiosyncrasies matched, though she was definitely no expert.

But 'forbid'? That really didn't sound like Fraser. For him to even assume that he had the right to forbid her to do anything, with no explanation whatsoever, was incredibly out of character.

Which led the Stephanie to reach two possible conclusions. Either Fraser had written the letter under extreme duress, or he hadn't written it at all. In the first case, something very bad was happening in the sorting room. He wanted to keep her safe (which was in character), but didn't have time to go into details. But if Fraser didn't have time to give details -he loved details!- then he was in way, way over his head, and probably needed help

[beingironical]

The second he read the letter, Ray was runningwalking real briskly to Fraser's room. Because this? This did not sound good. There was no 'Dear Ray', 'Thank you kindly', 'If it's not too much trouble', 'If you don't mind', or any other of the weird polite things Canadians had to preface every friggin' request with.

Ray had left his room wearing sweatpants, a hooded Bears sweatshirt, and socks. He and Fraser weren't due to have dinner for two more hours, so he hadn't really seen a point in putting on pants, and now there was no time to waste on getting changed. Or on finding shoes to wear.

He pounded on Fraser's door, hopping back and forth a little, partly because he was nervous, but mostly because his feet were cold.

[themountie]

The run back to Gryffindor took Fraser only three minutes, which left him with seven minutes alone to decompress. In retrospect, he really should have told Ray five, because decompression was the last thing he needed right now.

As long as he kept moving -- running, writing -- he didn't have to think about what was actually happening to him. Now, alone in his cold, quiet room, it hit him all at once: Victoria.

When Ray knocked he was at the window, staring out into the snow, his forehead pressed to the chilled glass. He bit his lip at the sound, but didn't turn to look. "It's open, Ray," he called, his voice cracked and numb.

[beingironical]

Ray knew that voice. That dead, tired, done tone.

That was the voice you used when calling your mom, after being served a thick envelope by a man in nice, new shoes. That was the voice your father used, after you told him you were dropping out of school, and he told you to get the hell out of his house. That was the voice you used when you sat down, cold, and had the chance to think about how you'd ruined someone's life. How the needle had pricked her skin and-

Ray knew that voice.

That was the voice you used when things were falling apart all around you, and you were running, trying to catch them, but they were bigger than you, better than you, and you were left looking useless and feeling worthless

[themountie]

Fraser was known for his sharp hearing, but he didn't really hear the door opening or the sound of his partner's footsteps approaching. He was elsewhere, listening to gunshots and the sound of trains, a voice reciting a poem. His reflection in the window was blurred and fuzzed with the snow. Ray's, next to him, was like a spectre.

He lifted his head when Ray spoke, staring at the glass for a moment, his eyes unfocused. Then he sighed softly, a quiet, defeated sound, letting his shoulders slump. "Hi, Ray," he mumbled. "Take a seat." He turned away, wiping his eyes discreetly, clearing his throat to disguise the sniff. "I, uh... I have something I need to tell you."