fic: That Train Has Sailed
Oct. 1st, 2007 10:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rubberbuttonTitle: That Train Has Sailed
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
Words: 2,500
Rating: R for language, some themes
Summary: In which Ray mixes some metaphors and realizes that it’s not too late. Extreme fluffiness.
I think I loved Benton Fraser from the moment I saw him. Or at least I wanted to bone him—the love might have come later, like, by a couple of hours. However, even though I loved him from the get-go, it took me awhile to figure it out. And by the time I realized the reason behind my wanting to be with him every damn minute of every damn day, it was too late to do anything about it.
That train has sailed.
There’s a statue of limitations on friendships, a moment where afterwards they can’t really be anything else. You’re locked into that pattern and most of the time that’s good. You can count on the friendship, not have to worry about it, because it’s always going to be like that. It’s a nice place to be.
But if you hit that point three months before you realize that you desperately want to stop being friends and start being lovers, it’s fucking tragic.
That moment for me and Fraser came right after a bust on an illegal parrot smuggling ring—which was actually a lot heavier than it sounds. A bunch of bozos were bringing in wild parrot chicks in from the rainforest and selling them to pet stores and such. Only they were tearing up the rainforests, which aren’t in such good shape in the first place, and more than half the chicks shipped ended up dead. It was pathetic seeing all the baby birds in such bad shape. It tore Fraser up something bad—hurting wildlife always does.
Anyways, the suspects had blown up the warehouse to destroy the evidence. We’d just gotten the last of the birds out—the live ones, at any rate—but we cut it so close we caught the tail end of the blast ourselves.
I’d hit the asphalt pretty hard, but mostly on purpose. Still, I was dazed, covered in dust and my ears ringing so loud I couldn’t even hear Fraser when he asked me if I was all right. He was up first, leaning over me, and I knew how Dief felt, because I could only see his lips form my name over and over.
“I’m good, I’m good,” I told him and pushed myself to my feet to prove it. Or at least, I tried, but things went badly and the horizon listed wildly to one side. I was about to reacquaint myself with the ground, but he grabbed me. His arm found its way around my waist, his hand in the small of my back. I got my feet after an anxious breath, but he still held onto me. There were flecks of concrete in his hair and a raw scrape below his left eye.
He was looking at me, his face nearly expressionless but I knew—I knew—that he was about to kiss me. The knowledge hung thick in the air between us, and I found it difficult to breathe, though I suppose that could have just been the dust.
It was going to happen, Benton Fraser was going to kiss me, but then because I’m a moron and I hadn’t figured it out, I pulled away. Shoved, more like, and we both staggered back. It took us a moment to recover and then I said, “So where the hell are we going to put all these stupid birds?” Like things were normal.
He took a breath and maybe he was going to call me on it, but instead he said, “There are a number of bird rehabilitation organizations in the area.”
And that was it. End of the line. And I didn’t even notice.
No, the moment I realized came months later and under less spectacular circumstances. This time we were eating at a Chinese restaurant. Us eating together happened four nights out of five and we even had a regular table in the corner.
We settled in and I let Fraser order for the both of us. We’ve been here enough that I knew the menu and could order for myself like a big kid, but I kind of liked watching Fraser do his thing. Plus, so did the waitstaff, so there was generally an extra spring roll in it for me.
So I left Fraser with instructions to get me a beer and I headed for the can. It was when I exited that I had my fucking moment of clarity. I was coming out of the bathroom, my hands still wet because they were out of paper towels, and I saw Fraser. More importantly, I saw the waitress, who’s working that China doll angle with the tight silk dress and up-swept hair. She was apparently taking our order, but to do so she had to sorta perch on the edge of the table and lean over him. And her dress happened to have a big cutout in the front for your booby-viewing pleasure. She laughed at something he’d said, first covering her mouth and then letting it drop to his shoulder.
I froze, which was good, if I’d been moving it would have been to grab her by her scrawny throat and tell her to back the fuck off.
Even then it took a moment for the full implication to finally sink in.
I wanted Fraser, wanted him. I didn’t even bother with the rationalization that I was just jealous because he’s got yet another girl throwing herself at him. It was the girl trying to get him that killed me. For once I saw through my own bullshit.
I was in love with Fraser.
They hadn’t noticed me, so I slipped back into the bathroom and hyperventilated. When I finally made a reappearance, the food had arrived. I felt sick, but kept my mouth full to avoid saying anything. A strategy that worked pretty well, until Fraser asked if I really should be eating that fast if I was suffering some kind of gastrointestinal distress. I blinked at him, before remembering that I’d just spent twenty minutes in the can.
And that was it. I sulked a couple of days, but things pretty much remained the same—which is rather my point, actually.
So now I’m standing in my own kitchen watching Fraser hunt through my cupboards in the vain hope he’ll find something worth cooking. All he’s got so far is a can of creamed corn, a bag of frozen vegetable and half a package of spaghetti, and I’m not sure I’m looking forward to dinner. He’s got his stupid red jacket off and he looks pretty silly in just an undershirt and those pants. And who thought those were going to strike fear into the hearts of hardened criminals, anyway? Still, they can’t totally hide the shape of his thighs while he squats down to dig around under the counters, and I’m rather enjoying watching his forearms flex as he pulls out a stack of pots and pans that just might have rusted together.
“You certainly have a fine assortment of cookware,” Fraser observes with a grunt.
“Yeah, Stella decided to buy all new when she left, I got to keep these.”
“Ah.” He makes a selection, returns the rest, and stands. “Would you wash this out, Ray? Mind the spider.”
I manage to not drop the pot and keep my shit together. I’m not too keen on spiders. Luckily I have dish soap on hand and I make like a fifties housewife while he looks for a can-opener. He finds one just as I finish evicting the spider.
“Thank you, Ray.” He moves to take it, stepping blithely into my personal space, pressing right up against me and trapping me between him and the sink. Which freaks me out worse than the spider.
I jump and pull away like he’s burned me, dropping the pot. It hits the floor with a loud thunk, missing his booted toes by about half-an-inch.
“Are you all right, Ray?” He frowns, looking from the pot to me. He bends to pick it up and I flinch.
Things are pretty much past patching up, but I try anyway.
“Sorry, sorry. We’re past that moment, I know,” I say, feeling helpless and like a bastard because I’m breaking the rules.
“What moment?” he asks, setting the pot on the counter and pushing it away from the edge to keep me from knocking it to the floor again.
And my heart sinks because it’s also part of the rules that once the moment has passed, you don’t talk about it. But I find myself answering him anyway.
“The moment, Fraser, the moment in which it’s all decided. It’s gone. That train has sailed and the fat lady is a dollar short.”
“I think you’ve got that turned around...”
“You know what I mean, don’t distract me,” I snap.
“Right you are.” But his look of confusion doesn’t improve, and I feel an uncomfortable twinge of doubt. Maybe he doesn’t know, and while the earth had moved under my feet, he’d been completely oblivious.
Get with the program, Fraser, hello.
“What program?” Fraser says, getting frustrated, and I realize that I sorta said that last bit out loud. Gotta work on that.
“Okay, okay—remember the bust with the parrots?” I work myself up to spell it all out.
Fraser sighs, but gamely follows the change in conversational direction. “Yes, of course.”
“Right after the bomb exploded?” I waggle my eyebrows significantly, hoping this is enough.
“Yes...?” He’s clearly not getting it.
“You wanted to kiss me.” My voice comes out way more accusey than I like so I tack on a “...Right?”
Fraser takes a deep, slow breath and carefully releases it—probably some ancient Tibetan meditation technique or something. I nearly piss myself I’m so terrified that he’s going to deny it. Tell me I’m fucking crazy, only in Fraser-speak, so it’ll come out like “mental instability” or “possible stress-related trauma.”
“Yes.”
I’m panicking so hard I miss it. “What?”
“Yes, I wanted to kiss you.”
“I knew it!” I yelp. The confession makes me a little giddy. “That was it. The moment.”
Fraser blinks. “I’m afraid I still don’t follow.”
“There’s a point, Fraser, in every friendship,” I explain patiently, as you would to someone who’s not quite right in the head. Like Fraser. “And once you pass it, you can’t be anything else but friends.”
“I see,” Fraser says, but I don’t think he does. “Why that particular moment, Ray?”
“Because you wanted to kiss me.” I feel this should be obvious—things coming to a head and getting all diverted. It’s significant.
He tugs on an earlobe. “But that’s, ah, not an uncommon occurrence.”
This takes me aback. “And when was the last time this happened?” I ask like I’m trying to diagnose the problem.
“Well,” he hesitates, and his eyes flicker to the water spots on the linoleum then back to me.
“See, you can’t even remember.” I’m a little bit hurt, honestly.
“Right now, actually.”
My stomach catches and sort of bottoms out like on a roller-coaster.
“I want to kiss you, Ray.” He sounds calm but certain.
It’s what I’ve been praying to God for, but what I feel now is fear. I’ve never been so scared in my whole life. People have put guns to my head and I’ve taken it better.
“Oh.” My mouth’s got that watery feeling like before you throw up. “Okay.” I shrug, trying to play it cool. My palms are sweaty and I’m not sure which is less cool—having sweaty palms or wiping them on the front of your pants.
I can tell Fraser’s not sure what to make of this.
“Are you giving me permission to kiss you?”
“I, ah, yeah. All right.” This isn’t the most romantic conversation I’ve ever had, but I’m sort of focusing on not passing out. I’m afraid that he’s going to question me further, make me sign a consent form, but he just takes a step forward slowly. When I don’t bolt, he takes another step and we’re toe to toe. I focus on some point over his left shoulder that I can’t actually see since I’m not wearing my glasses.
He’s leaning in, and I close my eyes and brace myself, like I’m expecting it to hurt.
Then Fraser kisses me.
His lips are on mine, gentle and warm. It’s probably the chastest kiss in the history of the world, but it’s definitely a kiss. His lips are soft and feel nice. He also smells good, too. Not fake good like aftershave or cologne, but good like him. Fraser-smell, mmmm.
His mouth is still on mine, still only holding there, like he’s perfectly content to stay like that. Knowing Fraser, this is probably the hottest action he’s gotten in years. Me, though, I’m getting impatient. I adjust the angle and pressure and then work a bit on his lower lip. His mouth opens slightly and I take it as an invitation. I run my tongue lightly over his lip before tentatively slipping into his mouth. He groans a little and opens wider for me, which makes me feel all hot.
It’s weird not to be touching at all except for the kiss, so I let a hand come up to curl around the back of his neck and step into him, my knee fitting naturally between his. He feels good pressed up against me and I just lean in. He meets me half-way, absorbing my weight as his tongue shyly flicks out along mine. He gets bolder, his arm circling my waist, like back that day with the parrots, and his hand cups the side of my face. His thumb strokes a line along my cheekbone and it’s a good thing he’s got that arm around me, because I just about buckle.
He pulls back and I protest, all right, whimper. He doesn’t say anything, just studies me real close. I feel naked, even though we haven’t gotten to the clothing-removal point of the festivities. God, let us get to that point. I feel myself blush, but I meet his eyes. Fraser’s pretty, this is a well-known and widely-accepted fact. You can see the pretty a mile away. But it’s only at this range you can see the imperfections. The scar along his jaw, the fine lines around his eyes, the slightly crooked tooth. I want to run my tongue over that tooth. They’re the flaws, the things that make him not-pretty. They’re the things that make him real and human and gorgeous.
With a start, I realize he’s making the same catalogue of my sorry mug—though no one’s ever called me pretty, at least not without it being an insult. He leans in and kisses the corner of my eye lightly. Then the side of my nose, my temple, the point of my jaw.
“Ray,” he breathes finally, “I...”
“Yeah,” I agree, feeling about ready to die with happiness. “Me too.”
There came a moment in my relationship with Fraser. And then came a thousand more.
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
Words: 2,500
Rating: R for language, some themes
Summary: In which Ray mixes some metaphors and realizes that it’s not too late. Extreme fluffiness.
I think I loved Benton Fraser from the moment I saw him. Or at least I wanted to bone him—the love might have come later, like, by a couple of hours. However, even though I loved him from the get-go, it took me awhile to figure it out. And by the time I realized the reason behind my wanting to be with him every damn minute of every damn day, it was too late to do anything about it.
That train has sailed.
There’s a statue of limitations on friendships, a moment where afterwards they can’t really be anything else. You’re locked into that pattern and most of the time that’s good. You can count on the friendship, not have to worry about it, because it’s always going to be like that. It’s a nice place to be.
But if you hit that point three months before you realize that you desperately want to stop being friends and start being lovers, it’s fucking tragic.
That moment for me and Fraser came right after a bust on an illegal parrot smuggling ring—which was actually a lot heavier than it sounds. A bunch of bozos were bringing in wild parrot chicks in from the rainforest and selling them to pet stores and such. Only they were tearing up the rainforests, which aren’t in such good shape in the first place, and more than half the chicks shipped ended up dead. It was pathetic seeing all the baby birds in such bad shape. It tore Fraser up something bad—hurting wildlife always does.
Anyways, the suspects had blown up the warehouse to destroy the evidence. We’d just gotten the last of the birds out—the live ones, at any rate—but we cut it so close we caught the tail end of the blast ourselves.
I’d hit the asphalt pretty hard, but mostly on purpose. Still, I was dazed, covered in dust and my ears ringing so loud I couldn’t even hear Fraser when he asked me if I was all right. He was up first, leaning over me, and I knew how Dief felt, because I could only see his lips form my name over and over.
“I’m good, I’m good,” I told him and pushed myself to my feet to prove it. Or at least, I tried, but things went badly and the horizon listed wildly to one side. I was about to reacquaint myself with the ground, but he grabbed me. His arm found its way around my waist, his hand in the small of my back. I got my feet after an anxious breath, but he still held onto me. There were flecks of concrete in his hair and a raw scrape below his left eye.
He was looking at me, his face nearly expressionless but I knew—I knew—that he was about to kiss me. The knowledge hung thick in the air between us, and I found it difficult to breathe, though I suppose that could have just been the dust.
It was going to happen, Benton Fraser was going to kiss me, but then because I’m a moron and I hadn’t figured it out, I pulled away. Shoved, more like, and we both staggered back. It took us a moment to recover and then I said, “So where the hell are we going to put all these stupid birds?” Like things were normal.
He took a breath and maybe he was going to call me on it, but instead he said, “There are a number of bird rehabilitation organizations in the area.”
And that was it. End of the line. And I didn’t even notice.
No, the moment I realized came months later and under less spectacular circumstances. This time we were eating at a Chinese restaurant. Us eating together happened four nights out of five and we even had a regular table in the corner.
We settled in and I let Fraser order for the both of us. We’ve been here enough that I knew the menu and could order for myself like a big kid, but I kind of liked watching Fraser do his thing. Plus, so did the waitstaff, so there was generally an extra spring roll in it for me.
So I left Fraser with instructions to get me a beer and I headed for the can. It was when I exited that I had my fucking moment of clarity. I was coming out of the bathroom, my hands still wet because they were out of paper towels, and I saw Fraser. More importantly, I saw the waitress, who’s working that China doll angle with the tight silk dress and up-swept hair. She was apparently taking our order, but to do so she had to sorta perch on the edge of the table and lean over him. And her dress happened to have a big cutout in the front for your booby-viewing pleasure. She laughed at something he’d said, first covering her mouth and then letting it drop to his shoulder.
I froze, which was good, if I’d been moving it would have been to grab her by her scrawny throat and tell her to back the fuck off.
Even then it took a moment for the full implication to finally sink in.
I wanted Fraser, wanted him. I didn’t even bother with the rationalization that I was just jealous because he’s got yet another girl throwing herself at him. It was the girl trying to get him that killed me. For once I saw through my own bullshit.
I was in love with Fraser.
They hadn’t noticed me, so I slipped back into the bathroom and hyperventilated. When I finally made a reappearance, the food had arrived. I felt sick, but kept my mouth full to avoid saying anything. A strategy that worked pretty well, until Fraser asked if I really should be eating that fast if I was suffering some kind of gastrointestinal distress. I blinked at him, before remembering that I’d just spent twenty minutes in the can.
And that was it. I sulked a couple of days, but things pretty much remained the same—which is rather my point, actually.
So now I’m standing in my own kitchen watching Fraser hunt through my cupboards in the vain hope he’ll find something worth cooking. All he’s got so far is a can of creamed corn, a bag of frozen vegetable and half a package of spaghetti, and I’m not sure I’m looking forward to dinner. He’s got his stupid red jacket off and he looks pretty silly in just an undershirt and those pants. And who thought those were going to strike fear into the hearts of hardened criminals, anyway? Still, they can’t totally hide the shape of his thighs while he squats down to dig around under the counters, and I’m rather enjoying watching his forearms flex as he pulls out a stack of pots and pans that just might have rusted together.
“You certainly have a fine assortment of cookware,” Fraser observes with a grunt.
“Yeah, Stella decided to buy all new when she left, I got to keep these.”
“Ah.” He makes a selection, returns the rest, and stands. “Would you wash this out, Ray? Mind the spider.”
I manage to not drop the pot and keep my shit together. I’m not too keen on spiders. Luckily I have dish soap on hand and I make like a fifties housewife while he looks for a can-opener. He finds one just as I finish evicting the spider.
“Thank you, Ray.” He moves to take it, stepping blithely into my personal space, pressing right up against me and trapping me between him and the sink. Which freaks me out worse than the spider.
I jump and pull away like he’s burned me, dropping the pot. It hits the floor with a loud thunk, missing his booted toes by about half-an-inch.
“Are you all right, Ray?” He frowns, looking from the pot to me. He bends to pick it up and I flinch.
Things are pretty much past patching up, but I try anyway.
“Sorry, sorry. We’re past that moment, I know,” I say, feeling helpless and like a bastard because I’m breaking the rules.
“What moment?” he asks, setting the pot on the counter and pushing it away from the edge to keep me from knocking it to the floor again.
And my heart sinks because it’s also part of the rules that once the moment has passed, you don’t talk about it. But I find myself answering him anyway.
“The moment, Fraser, the moment in which it’s all decided. It’s gone. That train has sailed and the fat lady is a dollar short.”
“I think you’ve got that turned around...”
“You know what I mean, don’t distract me,” I snap.
“Right you are.” But his look of confusion doesn’t improve, and I feel an uncomfortable twinge of doubt. Maybe he doesn’t know, and while the earth had moved under my feet, he’d been completely oblivious.
Get with the program, Fraser, hello.
“What program?” Fraser says, getting frustrated, and I realize that I sorta said that last bit out loud. Gotta work on that.
“Okay, okay—remember the bust with the parrots?” I work myself up to spell it all out.
Fraser sighs, but gamely follows the change in conversational direction. “Yes, of course.”
“Right after the bomb exploded?” I waggle my eyebrows significantly, hoping this is enough.
“Yes...?” He’s clearly not getting it.
“You wanted to kiss me.” My voice comes out way more accusey than I like so I tack on a “...Right?”
Fraser takes a deep, slow breath and carefully releases it—probably some ancient Tibetan meditation technique or something. I nearly piss myself I’m so terrified that he’s going to deny it. Tell me I’m fucking crazy, only in Fraser-speak, so it’ll come out like “mental instability” or “possible stress-related trauma.”
“Yes.”
I’m panicking so hard I miss it. “What?”
“Yes, I wanted to kiss you.”
“I knew it!” I yelp. The confession makes me a little giddy. “That was it. The moment.”
Fraser blinks. “I’m afraid I still don’t follow.”
“There’s a point, Fraser, in every friendship,” I explain patiently, as you would to someone who’s not quite right in the head. Like Fraser. “And once you pass it, you can’t be anything else but friends.”
“I see,” Fraser says, but I don’t think he does. “Why that particular moment, Ray?”
“Because you wanted to kiss me.” I feel this should be obvious—things coming to a head and getting all diverted. It’s significant.
He tugs on an earlobe. “But that’s, ah, not an uncommon occurrence.”
This takes me aback. “And when was the last time this happened?” I ask like I’m trying to diagnose the problem.
“Well,” he hesitates, and his eyes flicker to the water spots on the linoleum then back to me.
“See, you can’t even remember.” I’m a little bit hurt, honestly.
“Right now, actually.”
My stomach catches and sort of bottoms out like on a roller-coaster.
“I want to kiss you, Ray.” He sounds calm but certain.
It’s what I’ve been praying to God for, but what I feel now is fear. I’ve never been so scared in my whole life. People have put guns to my head and I’ve taken it better.
“Oh.” My mouth’s got that watery feeling like before you throw up. “Okay.” I shrug, trying to play it cool. My palms are sweaty and I’m not sure which is less cool—having sweaty palms or wiping them on the front of your pants.
I can tell Fraser’s not sure what to make of this.
“Are you giving me permission to kiss you?”
“I, ah, yeah. All right.” This isn’t the most romantic conversation I’ve ever had, but I’m sort of focusing on not passing out. I’m afraid that he’s going to question me further, make me sign a consent form, but he just takes a step forward slowly. When I don’t bolt, he takes another step and we’re toe to toe. I focus on some point over his left shoulder that I can’t actually see since I’m not wearing my glasses.
He’s leaning in, and I close my eyes and brace myself, like I’m expecting it to hurt.
Then Fraser kisses me.
His lips are on mine, gentle and warm. It’s probably the chastest kiss in the history of the world, but it’s definitely a kiss. His lips are soft and feel nice. He also smells good, too. Not fake good like aftershave or cologne, but good like him. Fraser-smell, mmmm.
His mouth is still on mine, still only holding there, like he’s perfectly content to stay like that. Knowing Fraser, this is probably the hottest action he’s gotten in years. Me, though, I’m getting impatient. I adjust the angle and pressure and then work a bit on his lower lip. His mouth opens slightly and I take it as an invitation. I run my tongue lightly over his lip before tentatively slipping into his mouth. He groans a little and opens wider for me, which makes me feel all hot.
It’s weird not to be touching at all except for the kiss, so I let a hand come up to curl around the back of his neck and step into him, my knee fitting naturally between his. He feels good pressed up against me and I just lean in. He meets me half-way, absorbing my weight as his tongue shyly flicks out along mine. He gets bolder, his arm circling my waist, like back that day with the parrots, and his hand cups the side of my face. His thumb strokes a line along my cheekbone and it’s a good thing he’s got that arm around me, because I just about buckle.
He pulls back and I protest, all right, whimper. He doesn’t say anything, just studies me real close. I feel naked, even though we haven’t gotten to the clothing-removal point of the festivities. God, let us get to that point. I feel myself blush, but I meet his eyes. Fraser’s pretty, this is a well-known and widely-accepted fact. You can see the pretty a mile away. But it’s only at this range you can see the imperfections. The scar along his jaw, the fine lines around his eyes, the slightly crooked tooth. I want to run my tongue over that tooth. They’re the flaws, the things that make him not-pretty. They’re the things that make him real and human and gorgeous.
With a start, I realize he’s making the same catalogue of my sorry mug—though no one’s ever called me pretty, at least not without it being an insult. He leans in and kisses the corner of my eye lightly. Then the side of my nose, my temple, the point of my jaw.
“Ray,” he breathes finally, “I...”
“Yeah,” I agree, feeling about ready to die with happiness. “Me too.”
There came a moment in my relationship with Fraser. And then came a thousand more.
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Date: 2007-11-10 12:01 am (UTC)