Interruption Challenge by Giulietta
Um, I am not sure if this makes ANY sense, as it's half past three in the morning and I haven't written in forever. But! Fic!
1,485 words. F/K, post-CotW.
Homecoming
"You know, you don't have to move back into your office, Fraser." Fraser freezes abruptly, an aluminum mug dropping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. "You know, when we get back to Chicago."
Ray is looking at Fraser expectantly, eyes glittering in the pale sunlight. His face is flushed from the wind against his cheeks, and he's smiling crookedly, a little bashful and a little hopeful. The tip of his tongue creeps out to lick at that spot, right in the center of his lower lip, which is perpetually chapped and in danger of splitting.
Looking at him, Fraser is suddenly overcome by a wave of tenderness so strong that it's all he can do to maintain the foot of distance between them. He wants to pull Ray to his chest, squeeze him hard, have something he can keep for once.
"Ray, I'm -- I'm not coming back to Chicago with you."
Ray's smile fades away, slowly, like he suspects there might be a trick to this. "Uh, Frase, what d'you mean? 'Course you're coming back. You've got a job, and -- you've gotta come back."
Fraser rubs at his eyebrow, avoiding Ray's eyes. "Ah, actually, Inspector Thatcher wrote me several letters of recommendation before she resigned her post. Given that, and the capture of Muldoon and the nuclear sub, I -- "
"You're prime Mountie material. I get it." Ray's voice is rough, and Fraser isn't going to be able to get through this if he sees the expression to go with that voice.
"It's not just that, Ray. Chicago simply isn't my element; surely you've noticed. After all, you'v frequently displayed irritation at my inability to learn the 'lingo', and develop 'style' -- " Fraser sighs, all trace of banter gone. He doesn't have the heart for it. "It's a big city, Ray. So many noises, so many people, so many distractions -- I hardly ever finish a sentence, let alone a train of thought."
"Yeah, so? You lived there for three whole years. Maybe you should've gotten used to it. Make your trains a little fucking shorter -- "
"I can't." And that's the raw truth of it. Maybe twenty years before, he could have managed, adapted, made his trains shorter. But that's not who he is, and he's not young enough to change. "I've tried. It's not where I belong, Ray."
Ray is silent for a moment. He must know the truth of that, at least. "Okay," he says finally. "Okay. But -- jeez, Fraser, you coulda said something before."
Fraser shakes his head. "I didn't see the point. It would have only made these last few days more...difficult."
Huffing out a breath, Ray takes a step towards him. "Yeah, great, so now it's gonna make the last couple hours about twenty times more difficult. Big help. I -- dammit, Fraser," and suddenly Ray's hands are gripping his shoulders, shaking him until he looks up. "I'm asking you to move in with me," Ray says hoarsely, and Fraser is acutely aware of the way that his fingertips are digging into his jacket. Trying to hold him still. Trying to hold on.
"I know, Ray," he says quietly. "I'm flattered. And I'm sorry."
"There'll be a storm tonight."
Fraser's own words hang in the cabin's silent, still air. Dief doesn't even raise his head from his paws; he's been sulking ever since they came back here.
"You ought to be grateful," Fraser tells him sternly, shuffling past him with a load of firewood, then dumping it unceremoniously into the fireplace. "Most wolves don't have a roof over their heads, or a soft bed, or a fireplace to warm themselves by. And you, mister, wouldn't have any of those things without me."
Dief rolls his eyes over to Fraser, pricking an ear up.
"Well, it means -- it means I don't appreciate your behavior for, oh, the past month. We're lucky to be stationed near home at all, and -- " Dief whines pitifully, and Fraser breaks off to glare at him. "No, Diefenbaker. Chicago is not your home."
Dief barks, indignant.
"You are an Arctic wolf. You have no business at all pining after cheesedogs."
Dief flattens his ears against his head, and gives Fraser a level look.
"I -- that's not pining," Fraser mutters, turning away and tugging at his ear. "I am missing a friend, which is perfectly reasonable under the circumstances. Whereas your obsession with food that you were never meant to digest is -- "
Dief groans, and flops over onto his side, away from Fraser. He's not even going to pretend to listen to Fraser's answer.
But Fraser answers anyway. "It's worth it," he murmurs quietly, staring at the flames licking the fresh wood. "Of course it is. This is where I belong, this is -- " He glances at Dief. "I never decided to stay there, you know. They just put me there, whether I liked it or not, without a care in the world for any of the people I might have had here, or the life I'd led before my father died. It was just pure chance that I didn't have anyone who -- "
Fraser breaks off suddenly, staring at the opposite wall. "Oh," he breathes softly, like a revelation, like speaking too loud will make everything shatter around him. "Oh, dear."
When Ray walks into the bullpen, the first thing he notices is a weird carved bone thing on one of the desks. Weird. Ray can't tell if it's a seal or a dolphin, but it's definitely weird enough to be Canadian. Just his luck that Canada's decided to go into the stress-ball business, just when he's trying not to think about Canada or Canadians or anything north of the border. Irony for you, right there.
But whatever, he ignores it, gets on with his job. He's paid to catch perps, not liase with Mounties. "Hey Welsh," he says, poking his head into the office, "I gotta get my files for the Winchester case, you seen 'em?"
Welsh gives him an irritable look. "Kowalski, do I look like an aide?"
"Uh, no sir." Funny, though, that weird helmet thing on the edge of Welsh's desk looks kind of like it was made with a bunch of feathers. An Inuit shaman's headdress, maybe, only Ray's pretty sure exporting those is illegal. "But, uh, the new chick's totally lost. The files could've ended up in the ladies' room, for all I know."
"And how, Detective, would I encounter them there?"
"Um." Ray blinks at the headdress, then at Welsh, and remembers Fraser saying something about shamans and curses. "Never mind, sir, I'll manage," he mutters, and beats it out of there before Welsh can start doing voodoo on him.
He takes a swing by the breakroom for a coffee, and sees a Stetson sitting on one of the tables. For a second, he considers snagging it, but ultimately ignores that too. It just wouldn't be the same.
All in all, he feels pretty much like the world's biggest idiot when he finally gets to his desk, and sees the person sitting in his chair. "You -- " he chokes out, sloshing lukewarm coffee over his hand and wrist, but he doesn't give a fuck. "You -- that was your hat in the breakroom!"
Fraser springs to his feet and smiles shyly at him, tucking his thumbs into his jeans pockets. "Ah, yes. I'm sorry, I must have left it there by accident -- "
"And the shaman whatchamacallit thingy on Welsh's desk!"
Fraser's eyebrows knit together, and Christ, but he's missed that are-you-completely-whacked? expression. "A gift from the Northwest Territories. Ray, are you quite -- "
"And the bone thingy!" Ray flings his hand out to point at the smooth round sculpture still sitting on Hutchins' desk.
"Ah, well, that was a bit of a complicated problem, as Detective Hutchins seemed to be having a neck spasm of some sort when I arrived. Though she insisted that she needed a neck rub, I fully encourage self-sufficient remedies wherever possible, and so I -- "
"Fraser." Ray slaps his hands against his face, trying to stop his brain from running off in a million directions at once. "Fraser, what the hell are you doing here? I thought -- "
And there's that smile again, that shy little grin, like he's not sure where the hell he is but he's happy to be there anyway. Ray's fingers are getting tingly just looking at that, and he's half-afraid that Fraser might say something that could get him fired -- except really, what the fuck does he care? Fraser's here. Fraser's actually fucking here, never mind what he said.
Fraser's eyes sparkle a little, and his smile spreads a little wider. "Ah, well," he says, slowly. "I guess I just concluded my train of thought."
--fin
1,485 words. F/K, post-CotW.
Homecoming
"You know, you don't have to move back into your office, Fraser." Fraser freezes abruptly, an aluminum mug dropping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. "You know, when we get back to Chicago."
Ray is looking at Fraser expectantly, eyes glittering in the pale sunlight. His face is flushed from the wind against his cheeks, and he's smiling crookedly, a little bashful and a little hopeful. The tip of his tongue creeps out to lick at that spot, right in the center of his lower lip, which is perpetually chapped and in danger of splitting.
Looking at him, Fraser is suddenly overcome by a wave of tenderness so strong that it's all he can do to maintain the foot of distance between them. He wants to pull Ray to his chest, squeeze him hard, have something he can keep for once.
"Ray, I'm -- I'm not coming back to Chicago with you."
Ray's smile fades away, slowly, like he suspects there might be a trick to this. "Uh, Frase, what d'you mean? 'Course you're coming back. You've got a job, and -- you've gotta come back."
Fraser rubs at his eyebrow, avoiding Ray's eyes. "Ah, actually, Inspector Thatcher wrote me several letters of recommendation before she resigned her post. Given that, and the capture of Muldoon and the nuclear sub, I -- "
"You're prime Mountie material. I get it." Ray's voice is rough, and Fraser isn't going to be able to get through this if he sees the expression to go with that voice.
"It's not just that, Ray. Chicago simply isn't my element; surely you've noticed. After all, you'v frequently displayed irritation at my inability to learn the 'lingo', and develop 'style' -- " Fraser sighs, all trace of banter gone. He doesn't have the heart for it. "It's a big city, Ray. So many noises, so many people, so many distractions -- I hardly ever finish a sentence, let alone a train of thought."
"Yeah, so? You lived there for three whole years. Maybe you should've gotten used to it. Make your trains a little fucking shorter -- "
"I can't." And that's the raw truth of it. Maybe twenty years before, he could have managed, adapted, made his trains shorter. But that's not who he is, and he's not young enough to change. "I've tried. It's not where I belong, Ray."
Ray is silent for a moment. He must know the truth of that, at least. "Okay," he says finally. "Okay. But -- jeez, Fraser, you coulda said something before."
Fraser shakes his head. "I didn't see the point. It would have only made these last few days more...difficult."
Huffing out a breath, Ray takes a step towards him. "Yeah, great, so now it's gonna make the last couple hours about twenty times more difficult. Big help. I -- dammit, Fraser," and suddenly Ray's hands are gripping his shoulders, shaking him until he looks up. "I'm asking you to move in with me," Ray says hoarsely, and Fraser is acutely aware of the way that his fingertips are digging into his jacket. Trying to hold him still. Trying to hold on.
"I know, Ray," he says quietly. "I'm flattered. And I'm sorry."
"There'll be a storm tonight."
Fraser's own words hang in the cabin's silent, still air. Dief doesn't even raise his head from his paws; he's been sulking ever since they came back here.
"You ought to be grateful," Fraser tells him sternly, shuffling past him with a load of firewood, then dumping it unceremoniously into the fireplace. "Most wolves don't have a roof over their heads, or a soft bed, or a fireplace to warm themselves by. And you, mister, wouldn't have any of those things without me."
Dief rolls his eyes over to Fraser, pricking an ear up.
"Well, it means -- it means I don't appreciate your behavior for, oh, the past month. We're lucky to be stationed near home at all, and -- " Dief whines pitifully, and Fraser breaks off to glare at him. "No, Diefenbaker. Chicago is not your home."
Dief barks, indignant.
"You are an Arctic wolf. You have no business at all pining after cheesedogs."
Dief flattens his ears against his head, and gives Fraser a level look.
"I -- that's not pining," Fraser mutters, turning away and tugging at his ear. "I am missing a friend, which is perfectly reasonable under the circumstances. Whereas your obsession with food that you were never meant to digest is -- "
Dief groans, and flops over onto his side, away from Fraser. He's not even going to pretend to listen to Fraser's answer.
But Fraser answers anyway. "It's worth it," he murmurs quietly, staring at the flames licking the fresh wood. "Of course it is. This is where I belong, this is -- " He glances at Dief. "I never decided to stay there, you know. They just put me there, whether I liked it or not, without a care in the world for any of the people I might have had here, or the life I'd led before my father died. It was just pure chance that I didn't have anyone who -- "
Fraser breaks off suddenly, staring at the opposite wall. "Oh," he breathes softly, like a revelation, like speaking too loud will make everything shatter around him. "Oh, dear."
When Ray walks into the bullpen, the first thing he notices is a weird carved bone thing on one of the desks. Weird. Ray can't tell if it's a seal or a dolphin, but it's definitely weird enough to be Canadian. Just his luck that Canada's decided to go into the stress-ball business, just when he's trying not to think about Canada or Canadians or anything north of the border. Irony for you, right there.
But whatever, he ignores it, gets on with his job. He's paid to catch perps, not liase with Mounties. "Hey Welsh," he says, poking his head into the office, "I gotta get my files for the Winchester case, you seen 'em?"
Welsh gives him an irritable look. "Kowalski, do I look like an aide?"
"Uh, no sir." Funny, though, that weird helmet thing on the edge of Welsh's desk looks kind of like it was made with a bunch of feathers. An Inuit shaman's headdress, maybe, only Ray's pretty sure exporting those is illegal. "But, uh, the new chick's totally lost. The files could've ended up in the ladies' room, for all I know."
"And how, Detective, would I encounter them there?"
"Um." Ray blinks at the headdress, then at Welsh, and remembers Fraser saying something about shamans and curses. "Never mind, sir, I'll manage," he mutters, and beats it out of there before Welsh can start doing voodoo on him.
He takes a swing by the breakroom for a coffee, and sees a Stetson sitting on one of the tables. For a second, he considers snagging it, but ultimately ignores that too. It just wouldn't be the same.
All in all, he feels pretty much like the world's biggest idiot when he finally gets to his desk, and sees the person sitting in his chair. "You -- " he chokes out, sloshing lukewarm coffee over his hand and wrist, but he doesn't give a fuck. "You -- that was your hat in the breakroom!"
Fraser springs to his feet and smiles shyly at him, tucking his thumbs into his jeans pockets. "Ah, yes. I'm sorry, I must have left it there by accident -- "
"And the shaman whatchamacallit thingy on Welsh's desk!"
Fraser's eyebrows knit together, and Christ, but he's missed that are-you-completely-whacked? expression. "A gift from the Northwest Territories. Ray, are you quite -- "
"And the bone thingy!" Ray flings his hand out to point at the smooth round sculpture still sitting on Hutchins' desk.
"Ah, well, that was a bit of a complicated problem, as Detective Hutchins seemed to be having a neck spasm of some sort when I arrived. Though she insisted that she needed a neck rub, I fully encourage self-sufficient remedies wherever possible, and so I -- "
"Fraser." Ray slaps his hands against his face, trying to stop his brain from running off in a million directions at once. "Fraser, what the hell are you doing here? I thought -- "
And there's that smile again, that shy little grin, like he's not sure where the hell he is but he's happy to be there anyway. Ray's fingers are getting tingly just looking at that, and he's half-afraid that Fraser might say something that could get him fired -- except really, what the fuck does he care? Fraser's here. Fraser's actually fucking here, never mind what he said.
Fraser's eyes sparkle a little, and his smile spreads a little wider. "Ah, well," he says, slowly. "I guess I just concluded my train of thought."
--fin