(no subject)
Hm hm. Apparently, writing Fraser/Victoria makes my grammar eat itself in a cannibalistic manner. Also it makes my fingers type "the" instead of what I WANT to type, namely any word starting with "th".
Bleh. Whatever. I am sleepy and silly and determined to make Victoria look like a woobie. I think she's a woobie. Everybody else wants to kill her, of course, but I AM UNIQUE AND SPECIAL.
Yes, I am high on chamomile. Why'd you ask?
Fraser/Victoria, 9 K.
[Disclaimer: Fraser 'n' Victoria make kissy-face in Victoria's Secret, and WOW, I did not write that teleplay.]
Half-Full, Half-Empty
Ben leans up on one elbow, trying to keep his breathing quiet, though Victoria isn't showing any signs of waking. She's nearly motionless; her eyes are sliding rapidly back and forth beneath the lids, and her side is rhythmically rising and falling beneath the blankets. There is a slight wrinkle between her eyebrows, as though even in sleep, she can't bring herself to relax -- can't bring herself to trust that if something did happen, he'd ensure no harm came to her.
But she's been living without him -- or anyone else, for that matter -- for years, and he supposes that habits such as these are difficult to break. He, of all people, ought to understand that.
She tenses, suddenly, her face twisting into the pillow, a soft sound scraping in her throat and her left hand clenching, catching a few curls of her hair in the process. The wrinkle in her forehead deepens and lengthens. Ben takes a moment or two to figure out that he's supposed to wake her, that that's his reponsibility as a lover -- but by the time he brings a clumsy hand to her face, she's relaxed again.
She's brushed a stray curl of hair over her lips, and each breath is making it move: lift, oscillate slightly, fall again. Lift, oscillate, fall -- and this close, he can hear each moist breath whispering, is in fact nearly deafened by it. Some breaths are shallower than others, some more rough than others -- and he can hear them all, is content to merely lie beside her and listen. Listen; breathe in the warm sleep-scent that's ever so slightly different for lacking Dief and having her; watch her hair flutter, the way her lips go lax and thicken slightly, the slow, strong pulse in her throat.
Ray, Ben knows, thinks him quite naive on the subject of women. In some instances, that may be true; he will certainly never know how to cope with the particularly blatant breed that Chicago seems to bear. But Ray thinks -- he hasn't said it, of course, but he thinks it nonetheless -- that Ben's entirely out of his depth, and is bound for disaster. He's of the opinion that Ben's not aware of some women's desire for -- well, casual sexual intercourse, for lack of a better word. He thinks Ben can't see past his own trousers, and is trusting his heart to a random felon who appears willing to open them.
He's wrong. Ben knows about those women. He also knows -- beyond any shadow of a doubt, reasonable or otherwise -- that Victoria is not one of them.
If Victoria was merely interested in -- lust, she wouldn't have come to him, of all people. If it was simplicity she wanted, Ben is hardly the man she's looking for. They have mistrust in their past to overcome, broken promises to compensate for -- why would she even attempt to mend that with him, if she didn't want something deeper? And after all, the road to true love was never supposed to be easy; this is their own version of difficulty. By the time they've dealt with everything they have to deal with, they'll know how to deal with anything. Nothing can be worse than what they've already had.
There is no question whether they will succeed. Benton knows this. He knows this because Victoria's skin is close and warm and slightly scented. He knows this because she's sleeping in his bed, allowing him to watch her in the moments where she is most vulnerable -- and this is the most valuable gift she has to give: presence without control.
This is as close as people get; if Ray wants something more, well, it's he who is naive. Of course Victoria isn't perfect -- no one is -- but she's close, while the rest of the world maintains an almost indifferent distance. Hundreds upon hundreds of friendly smiles have been sent his way over the years, nearly as many invitations to dinner, thousands of lives owed to his efforts -- yet only one has ever come so close as to drag him from the edge of death. Victoria did that for him, and he for her; if that's not love, he doesn't know where to find it at all.
Victoria whimpers in her sleep, curling her knees into her chest protectively; this time, Ben doesn't hesitate. He takes her face in both hands, stroking his thumbs along the particularly sensitive skin of her jaw, speaking as well as he can with his hands alone: you're safe and shh, go back to sleep and it's over, it's all right.
Eventually, her muscles loosen, breathing even out again. He shuts his eyes, burying himself in the soft sussurations, feeling his own breathing slow to match hers -- and after a moment or so, he drifts into sleep himself.
Ben's asleep, his face completely smooth and relaxed, like it never seems to be when he's awake. Victoria stares at him for a little while, at the full cheeks and lips, his soft brown curls, trying to convince herself that she's actually here, after years of imagining it. He's different than she'd imagined, of course, and that's what finally brings the point home: yes, she's actually found the actual Benton Fraser, because the actual Benton Fraser never quite stopped having slightly chubby cheeks. The actual Benton Fraser doesn't envelope her completely when he sleeps; apparently this is an activity he reserves for very special circumstances. Benton Fraser sleeps on his back, one hand over his stomach, as though she's not even in the bed. He's an odd man; Canadian, some might say.
Victoria looks at that face, looks at the wrinkles from the sheets and the warm rosiness in the cheeks, and tries to remember why she hates it. It's not that difficult, all things considered. All she needs to do is remember Shoshana.
The woman was terrifying -- one of those enormous black women who have as much muscle as any man, impossibly loud voices, the kind who loom over you and scowl until you figure out what it is they want and give it to them. Victoria had never met women like that before prison -- but in prison, they were everywhere. They hated her, mainly, and that was never good.
Shoshana had boomed at her from across the mess, and Victoria had jumped and tried to look as tranquil as possible, even though her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest -- and then Shoshana had come very close, too close, and whispered, "We're gonna try a break today. You coming?"
Victoria had narrowly avoided spilling mashed potatoes in her lap; Shoshana had sniggered at her, and Victoria had said the first thing that'd come to mind: "Are you fucking insane?"
"Nah," Shoshana'd said, grinning easily and sitting down next to her. "Just want out. Figured you're with me on that."
"I -- " At the time, it'd seemed the stupidest thing in the world to do. Ben was coming for her; he was with the police, and he'd get her out of this somehow. If she did this, he'd never forgive her for it -- that was how it'd looked, back then. "No."
Shoshana'd gone suddenly sober, looking familiar without the grin. "Look, honey," she'd told Victoria roughly, not wasting any breath on tact, "nobody's coming for you. Trust me. Everybody thinks somebody's coming, and nobody ever does."
"He is," she'd protested stupidly. "He's different. He's a Mountie," and Shoshana had snorted in disgust.
"Yeah. Right. Good luck with that." She'd patted Victoria's back almost maternally, and left without another word. Victoria never heard what happened to her, or the attempt to escape.
But no one ever asked her if she wanted to escape, after that -- and that was Benton Fraser's fault. He'd let her down, thrown her in prison and forgotten about her entirely. If it hadn't been for him, she wouldn't have thought twice about getting out -- god, she'd needed out like -- like -- she'd needed to breathe, someplace where she was something other than a criminal, where she'd be respected at least a little. Even the criminals hadn't thought anything of her -- for Christ's sake, she was the wheelman. That's almost nothing.
It's different now, of course. And if that makes dearest Ben disappointed -- well, he should have been there. As much as she hates to admit it, she probably would have done anything for him at that point -- he'd saved her life, after all. There was something between them, once upon a time.
Ben still thinks there's something left of that to salvage. Pathetic, really -- but it suits her purposes well. She lost a whole decade of her life to him; she wants revenge. She wants to leave him with nothing, and that is fair. Never mind that it's not a fair fight; never mind that she'll go on the wrong side of the law to do it.
If their positions had been reversed, and he was the one Jolly was fucking, she'd even be able to get someone to agree with her.
--fin
Bleh. Whatever. I am sleepy and silly and determined to make Victoria look like a woobie. I think she's a woobie. Everybody else wants to kill her, of course, but I AM UNIQUE AND SPECIAL.
Yes, I am high on chamomile. Why'd you ask?
Fraser/Victoria, 9 K.
[Disclaimer: Fraser 'n' Victoria make kissy-face in Victoria's Secret, and WOW, I did not write that teleplay.]
Half-Full, Half-Empty
Ben leans up on one elbow, trying to keep his breathing quiet, though Victoria isn't showing any signs of waking. She's nearly motionless; her eyes are sliding rapidly back and forth beneath the lids, and her side is rhythmically rising and falling beneath the blankets. There is a slight wrinkle between her eyebrows, as though even in sleep, she can't bring herself to relax -- can't bring herself to trust that if something did happen, he'd ensure no harm came to her.
But she's been living without him -- or anyone else, for that matter -- for years, and he supposes that habits such as these are difficult to break. He, of all people, ought to understand that.
She tenses, suddenly, her face twisting into the pillow, a soft sound scraping in her throat and her left hand clenching, catching a few curls of her hair in the process. The wrinkle in her forehead deepens and lengthens. Ben takes a moment or two to figure out that he's supposed to wake her, that that's his reponsibility as a lover -- but by the time he brings a clumsy hand to her face, she's relaxed again.
She's brushed a stray curl of hair over her lips, and each breath is making it move: lift, oscillate slightly, fall again. Lift, oscillate, fall -- and this close, he can hear each moist breath whispering, is in fact nearly deafened by it. Some breaths are shallower than others, some more rough than others -- and he can hear them all, is content to merely lie beside her and listen. Listen; breathe in the warm sleep-scent that's ever so slightly different for lacking Dief and having her; watch her hair flutter, the way her lips go lax and thicken slightly, the slow, strong pulse in her throat.
Ray, Ben knows, thinks him quite naive on the subject of women. In some instances, that may be true; he will certainly never know how to cope with the particularly blatant breed that Chicago seems to bear. But Ray thinks -- he hasn't said it, of course, but he thinks it nonetheless -- that Ben's entirely out of his depth, and is bound for disaster. He's of the opinion that Ben's not aware of some women's desire for -- well, casual sexual intercourse, for lack of a better word. He thinks Ben can't see past his own trousers, and is trusting his heart to a random felon who appears willing to open them.
He's wrong. Ben knows about those women. He also knows -- beyond any shadow of a doubt, reasonable or otherwise -- that Victoria is not one of them.
If Victoria was merely interested in -- lust, she wouldn't have come to him, of all people. If it was simplicity she wanted, Ben is hardly the man she's looking for. They have mistrust in their past to overcome, broken promises to compensate for -- why would she even attempt to mend that with him, if she didn't want something deeper? And after all, the road to true love was never supposed to be easy; this is their own version of difficulty. By the time they've dealt with everything they have to deal with, they'll know how to deal with anything. Nothing can be worse than what they've already had.
There is no question whether they will succeed. Benton knows this. He knows this because Victoria's skin is close and warm and slightly scented. He knows this because she's sleeping in his bed, allowing him to watch her in the moments where she is most vulnerable -- and this is the most valuable gift she has to give: presence without control.
This is as close as people get; if Ray wants something more, well, it's he who is naive. Of course Victoria isn't perfect -- no one is -- but she's close, while the rest of the world maintains an almost indifferent distance. Hundreds upon hundreds of friendly smiles have been sent his way over the years, nearly as many invitations to dinner, thousands of lives owed to his efforts -- yet only one has ever come so close as to drag him from the edge of death. Victoria did that for him, and he for her; if that's not love, he doesn't know where to find it at all.
Victoria whimpers in her sleep, curling her knees into her chest protectively; this time, Ben doesn't hesitate. He takes her face in both hands, stroking his thumbs along the particularly sensitive skin of her jaw, speaking as well as he can with his hands alone: you're safe and shh, go back to sleep and it's over, it's all right.
Eventually, her muscles loosen, breathing even out again. He shuts his eyes, burying himself in the soft sussurations, feeling his own breathing slow to match hers -- and after a moment or so, he drifts into sleep himself.
Ben's asleep, his face completely smooth and relaxed, like it never seems to be when he's awake. Victoria stares at him for a little while, at the full cheeks and lips, his soft brown curls, trying to convince herself that she's actually here, after years of imagining it. He's different than she'd imagined, of course, and that's what finally brings the point home: yes, she's actually found the actual Benton Fraser, because the actual Benton Fraser never quite stopped having slightly chubby cheeks. The actual Benton Fraser doesn't envelope her completely when he sleeps; apparently this is an activity he reserves for very special circumstances. Benton Fraser sleeps on his back, one hand over his stomach, as though she's not even in the bed. He's an odd man; Canadian, some might say.
Victoria looks at that face, looks at the wrinkles from the sheets and the warm rosiness in the cheeks, and tries to remember why she hates it. It's not that difficult, all things considered. All she needs to do is remember Shoshana.
The woman was terrifying -- one of those enormous black women who have as much muscle as any man, impossibly loud voices, the kind who loom over you and scowl until you figure out what it is they want and give it to them. Victoria had never met women like that before prison -- but in prison, they were everywhere. They hated her, mainly, and that was never good.
Shoshana had boomed at her from across the mess, and Victoria had jumped and tried to look as tranquil as possible, even though her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest -- and then Shoshana had come very close, too close, and whispered, "We're gonna try a break today. You coming?"
Victoria had narrowly avoided spilling mashed potatoes in her lap; Shoshana had sniggered at her, and Victoria had said the first thing that'd come to mind: "Are you fucking insane?"
"Nah," Shoshana'd said, grinning easily and sitting down next to her. "Just want out. Figured you're with me on that."
"I -- " At the time, it'd seemed the stupidest thing in the world to do. Ben was coming for her; he was with the police, and he'd get her out of this somehow. If she did this, he'd never forgive her for it -- that was how it'd looked, back then. "No."
Shoshana'd gone suddenly sober, looking familiar without the grin. "Look, honey," she'd told Victoria roughly, not wasting any breath on tact, "nobody's coming for you. Trust me. Everybody thinks somebody's coming, and nobody ever does."
"He is," she'd protested stupidly. "He's different. He's a Mountie," and Shoshana had snorted in disgust.
"Yeah. Right. Good luck with that." She'd patted Victoria's back almost maternally, and left without another word. Victoria never heard what happened to her, or the attempt to escape.
But no one ever asked her if she wanted to escape, after that -- and that was Benton Fraser's fault. He'd let her down, thrown her in prison and forgotten about her entirely. If it hadn't been for him, she wouldn't have thought twice about getting out -- god, she'd needed out like -- like -- she'd needed to breathe, someplace where she was something other than a criminal, where she'd be respected at least a little. Even the criminals hadn't thought anything of her -- for Christ's sake, she was the wheelman. That's almost nothing.
It's different now, of course. And if that makes dearest Ben disappointed -- well, he should have been there. As much as she hates to admit it, she probably would have done anything for him at that point -- he'd saved her life, after all. There was something between them, once upon a time.
Ben still thinks there's something left of that to salvage. Pathetic, really -- but it suits her purposes well. She lost a whole decade of her life to him; she wants revenge. She wants to leave him with nothing, and that is fair. Never mind that it's not a fair fight; never mind that she'll go on the wrong side of the law to do it.
If their positions had been reversed, and he was the one Jolly was fucking, she'd even be able to get someone to agree with her.
--fin