Fraser/RayK fic
This has been sitting in my WIPs folder for ages, but I've polished it up. The song Ray dances to is 'Sophisticated Lady' by Duke Ellington.
Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Length: just shy of 1000
Notes: Ray's looking for a way of saying it all without words.
He wants a grand gesture; words don’t cut it. He buys a pair of tap shoes, the expensive sort that look like real shoes, brushes down his old suit. Takes three lessons, rewatches some Fred Astaire, bit of Gene Kelly. It takes him back to when he was about twelve, when he’d copy the routines when the films were on tv, memorising the steps as much as he could- the dances where they really wanted to fight, or fuck, or collapse in the street and start crying, dances which were tense, or loose and lazy as a summer morning. Stella used to dance with him like that, too. Ballroom, jazz, tap--anything where it was them moving. It was when they were still that the arguments happened. Words fail him, slip from his grasp or knot up in his mouth until all he can say is ‘no, that ain’t what I meant’, every second statement a retraction.
He pushes back the furniture and dances until he’s dizzy. The tapes get worn out. Three lessons turn into ten. His tap shoes get scuffed, his feet blister. Three months pass, and he starts to scuff as he walks, tries out old moves he’s seen, leaps onto boxes and lands right. He walks with a beat again. Fraser notices, but doesn’t say. Sometimes with him it’s enough that Ray’s noticed him noticing, and sometimes it’s a cleared throat or a raised eyebrow, the calm assumption that he’ll do the right thing once he’s noticed what the right thing actually is. Ray thinks sometimes that Fraser thinks he’s more forgetful than amoral. Then he forgets which one he actually is.
The time comes in the winter, and Ray shivers as he walks, heels slippery on the ice, suit giving him no protection against the biting wind. He’s fucking cold, but he wants to do this thing right, so he’s in a suit and if he could’ve found a hat he would be wearing it. Fraser’s been to some weirdass diplomatic thing, which he’s been looking forward to for weeks, and keeps making dorky jokes about pickling herring and the occasional mild fish related pun. He should be back by now: he’s alone in the consulate, so when Ray jimmies the lock it’s with the knowledge that Fraser know he’s there, and is just waiting to see what will happen. He’s got a tape player in a briefcase, and he takes it out, sets it down on the consulate desk then sets the music playing- a slow piece, with brushed cymbals and piano sound as bright as day, with the sax smoky and horns mellow. As the intro kicks in he shakes his shoulders, legs, gets some warmth back into his limbs, turns on the hall lights then he’s off dancing.
Fraser hasn’t come out of his office yet, so Ray finds himself bowing to the potted plant, spinning neatly on the ball of one foot, and then he starts off a routine he’s only vaguely planned, the taps a counter rhythm to the brushstrokes on the drums. Fraser opens the office door, and watches him just as he’s taking one of the chairs for a bit of a dip, and Ray catches his expression, amused and gentle, a smile hovering about his lips. The song he’s dancing to has words which were written afterwards. He doesn’t buy them- they don’t fit. It’s a slow easy piece, more lazy than sad. He has a rose in his buttonhole, and his hands are fucking freezing, but he dances still anyway, because it’s important that he says it right.
The steps aren’t too fancy, but his spins have always been neat, and he puts more movement than sound into some bits, does some of the linked steps he’d been drilled in for months when he doesn’t want to go anywhere. When the horns next kick in, he dances up to Fraser and puts out a hand. Fraser must understand, because his hand’s big and warm, and he takes Ray’s without a hint of awkwardness. It’s a surprise how easily he can lead, how well Fraser follows his cues, even if he’s no Ginger Rogers- she never wore a Henley and Mountie pants when she danced- with a smile, humming along to the music. They end up side by side, doing the same basic step and brush in rhythm, a hop to the side, drawing the other foot across, and it’s probably not allowed in the consulate but he doesn’t care, they’re dancing, and Ray wants to keep dancing until he drops.
The music stops. They stand and face each other, and Fraser’s still got that big goofy smile on his face, and Ray knows he looks far too hopeful, that he wants this too much and that scares him shitless. He’ll stammer if he speaks, but he needs to say something that isn’t ‘please’, that will change him from a flatfoot in a too-big suit and his heart and dreams on his sleeve into a man who knows what to do in every situation. ‘I suppose you’ll be expecting a painting or a poem from me, then,’ Fraser says, voice husky, and a laugh’s startled out of Ray as he’s led down the corridor and into his office, the scuffs of his shoes echoing in the suddenly silent hall.
‘I ain’t putting out for anything less than a novel,’ Ray tells him as he closes the door to the rest of the world.
He does, though. Grand gestures become smaller ones that are no less precious. Sometimes, when the consulate’s empty, he puts on a tape and they dance in time and in step, unpractised but together all the same. They dance until they’ve said all they need to say, then they sleep and dance in dreams. Ray never does get that novel. It’s enough that Fraser will dance with him for a long time to come. Besides, sometimes words just don’t cut it.
Pairing: Fraser/RayK
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Length: just shy of 1000
Notes: Ray's looking for a way of saying it all without words.
He wants a grand gesture; words don’t cut it. He buys a pair of tap shoes, the expensive sort that look like real shoes, brushes down his old suit. Takes three lessons, rewatches some Fred Astaire, bit of Gene Kelly. It takes him back to when he was about twelve, when he’d copy the routines when the films were on tv, memorising the steps as much as he could- the dances where they really wanted to fight, or fuck, or collapse in the street and start crying, dances which were tense, or loose and lazy as a summer morning. Stella used to dance with him like that, too. Ballroom, jazz, tap--anything where it was them moving. It was when they were still that the arguments happened. Words fail him, slip from his grasp or knot up in his mouth until all he can say is ‘no, that ain’t what I meant’, every second statement a retraction.
He pushes back the furniture and dances until he’s dizzy. The tapes get worn out. Three lessons turn into ten. His tap shoes get scuffed, his feet blister. Three months pass, and he starts to scuff as he walks, tries out old moves he’s seen, leaps onto boxes and lands right. He walks with a beat again. Fraser notices, but doesn’t say. Sometimes with him it’s enough that Ray’s noticed him noticing, and sometimes it’s a cleared throat or a raised eyebrow, the calm assumption that he’ll do the right thing once he’s noticed what the right thing actually is. Ray thinks sometimes that Fraser thinks he’s more forgetful than amoral. Then he forgets which one he actually is.
The time comes in the winter, and Ray shivers as he walks, heels slippery on the ice, suit giving him no protection against the biting wind. He’s fucking cold, but he wants to do this thing right, so he’s in a suit and if he could’ve found a hat he would be wearing it. Fraser’s been to some weirdass diplomatic thing, which he’s been looking forward to for weeks, and keeps making dorky jokes about pickling herring and the occasional mild fish related pun. He should be back by now: he’s alone in the consulate, so when Ray jimmies the lock it’s with the knowledge that Fraser know he’s there, and is just waiting to see what will happen. He’s got a tape player in a briefcase, and he takes it out, sets it down on the consulate desk then sets the music playing- a slow piece, with brushed cymbals and piano sound as bright as day, with the sax smoky and horns mellow. As the intro kicks in he shakes his shoulders, legs, gets some warmth back into his limbs, turns on the hall lights then he’s off dancing.
Fraser hasn’t come out of his office yet, so Ray finds himself bowing to the potted plant, spinning neatly on the ball of one foot, and then he starts off a routine he’s only vaguely planned, the taps a counter rhythm to the brushstrokes on the drums. Fraser opens the office door, and watches him just as he’s taking one of the chairs for a bit of a dip, and Ray catches his expression, amused and gentle, a smile hovering about his lips. The song he’s dancing to has words which were written afterwards. He doesn’t buy them- they don’t fit. It’s a slow easy piece, more lazy than sad. He has a rose in his buttonhole, and his hands are fucking freezing, but he dances still anyway, because it’s important that he says it right.
The steps aren’t too fancy, but his spins have always been neat, and he puts more movement than sound into some bits, does some of the linked steps he’d been drilled in for months when he doesn’t want to go anywhere. When the horns next kick in, he dances up to Fraser and puts out a hand. Fraser must understand, because his hand’s big and warm, and he takes Ray’s without a hint of awkwardness. It’s a surprise how easily he can lead, how well Fraser follows his cues, even if he’s no Ginger Rogers- she never wore a Henley and Mountie pants when she danced- with a smile, humming along to the music. They end up side by side, doing the same basic step and brush in rhythm, a hop to the side, drawing the other foot across, and it’s probably not allowed in the consulate but he doesn’t care, they’re dancing, and Ray wants to keep dancing until he drops.
The music stops. They stand and face each other, and Fraser’s still got that big goofy smile on his face, and Ray knows he looks far too hopeful, that he wants this too much and that scares him shitless. He’ll stammer if he speaks, but he needs to say something that isn’t ‘please’, that will change him from a flatfoot in a too-big suit and his heart and dreams on his sleeve into a man who knows what to do in every situation. ‘I suppose you’ll be expecting a painting or a poem from me, then,’ Fraser says, voice husky, and a laugh’s startled out of Ray as he’s led down the corridor and into his office, the scuffs of his shoes echoing in the suddenly silent hall.
‘I ain’t putting out for anything less than a novel,’ Ray tells him as he closes the door to the rest of the world.
He does, though. Grand gestures become smaller ones that are no less precious. Sometimes, when the consulate’s empty, he puts on a tape and they dance in time and in step, unpractised but together all the same. They dance until they’ve said all they need to say, then they sleep and dance in dreams. Ray never does get that novel. It’s enough that Fraser will dance with him for a long time to come. Besides, sometimes words just don’t cut it.