fic
This is for
elementalv 's no good, very bad day. It's more stuff in the genderfuck verse, and it's RayK in Chicago, post switch. She asked for porn, and I provided. Sorry I'm sucking at lj currently, and you know, being contactable. I'm immersed in essay from now, so, uh, I won't be around until wednesday much. Have a good weekend! And now, to bed.
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
rating : NC-17
word count: 2174
Weird, even after ten weeks of no contact, Ray still expects Fraser to…track something, find her- her. She’s started thinking of herself as a girl now, in some ways. Not quite, but there are pronouns and hips and breasts and fucking bleeding, which scared the shit out of her at the start until she phoned up Frannie in a panic, who laughed and said ‘oh, honey’, then came over with the rugrats, sat them down in front of Ray’s tv and took Ray into the bathroom, showed her a packet and left her to sit on the toilet seat and wonder what the fuck she had done to deserve this. By the time she’d come out of the bathroom, Frannie had gone and she was left with cramps, daytime cartoons and a bottle of whiskey.
So she looks over her shoulder a lot, looks for the flash of red, the Stetson, someone running towards her and she half wants it, half…doesn’t. She’s Ray Kowalski, Ray Kowalski loves Benton Fraser, Ray Kowalski went on a huge fucking adventure because of it, into the asscrack of the frozen north. Ray Kowalski hotfooted it back to Chicago without even packing properly, because he’d woken up at five in a hotel room in Toronto on the morning of Fraser’s award ceremony thing, with breasts. And ok, thinking might have been a good idea, giving the guy a chance, but it was…
It was the only thing she could have done, frozen with fear, unthinking. Course, now she has all the time on the world to think, seems like thinking’s all she does. Ray loves Fraser, Ray’s a girl, Ray’s in Chicago and nothing makes sense any more. Nothing. If she waits long enough, things will start to make sense again.
Till then, she has to kick heads to get the part the goat needs without getting a pat on the head and an offer to help putting it in, and the guy in the overalls asking her if she’s sure that’s what’s wrong, and has she checked the gas recently. She goes into the ladies room and gets told that shade of red really suits her, has to stop herself giving the girl the standard Kowalski wink and saying ‘thanks’. Then telling the girl she has…real pretty hair, because where do girls learn compliments? How? Horniness is a heavy weight, a slow buildup until her hands in her panties, and ohh, that’s what she needed, and she smiles and relaxes afterwards, kinda floating, but can get up afterwards, go do stuff without feeling like someone’s taken away half her muscles.
Till then, Welsh gave her her job back. That… walking into the 27 at about ten in the evening, Welsh the only one there and just…sitting there, in front of the desk. Sitting there, looking at him while he looked her up and down, handed her a donut, then asked her what she thought of the ‘Hawks lineup this season. She coulda kissed him. She’s Ray Kowalski still, she has a job, and it’s like one of those kid’s shape matching games, putting the square in the square hole only the square’s a circle, and it fits in, but there are corners where stuff doesn’t happen, things that don’t match, angles and curves and stuff that just don’t fit.
She looks over her shoulder again, lets herself into her apartment, does a little dance balancing the grocery bag and the keys and-
Freezes.
Someone there, and the groceries are on the floor, her gun’s out of the holster, he’s up against the wall, and she’s too rattled to think straight, because how the fuck did he know? Why the-
“Christ, Kowalski, some welcome.”
There’s this undercurrent of amusement that pisses her off so bad until she realises he doesn’t know, hasn’t noticed the breasts, the, well, the girliness.
“Welcome to Chicago, you fuckwad,” she says almost pleasantly. “Now get your ass back to Florida before I jump Bogart, Tracey, and Olivier on it.”
“Fuck you, Ko-”
Realisation. It’s real pretty watching the side of his face that isn’t pressed up against the wall. Vecchio stiffens, slumps, wrenches himself out of her grip and looks at her. Really looks. Then sways. She snickers a bit, puts the gun and holster on the coffee table and just watches him have pretty much the reaction she had with it. It kinda feels like cosmic payback for part of the whole chromosome change thing, being able to shock the fuck out of Ray ‘too smooth for anything but designer, hi I used to have henchmen, don’t get your dirty hands all over the cashmere look at my stare’ Vecchio.
“Long story,” she says after looking at Vecchio gaping for a bit longer. He nods, gulps.
“Where’s Benny?” he asks, voice all shaky. She shrugs, picks up the grocery bag to avoid looking at him.
“That’s, uh, peripheral to the story. He’s up north making friendly with the musk oxes…musk oxen? Fuck it. But he’s not with me. Haven’t heard from him for months.”
“But I phoned him, said I’d meet him in Chicago and he sounded…he didn’t sound like…with the christening, and I looked up your address in the 27 records and figured I’d surprise you both and-”
She pours them both a whiskey, hands him his glass. “Fraser’s in Chicago. I’m in Chicago.”
“Yeah, Kowalski. Can’t work out why geography didn’t figure into your career plans.”
She flips him the birdy, clears a space on the couch then brings the bottle over to the table. “Least I’m talking in sentences.”
Weird thing is, it isn’t the paralysing shock thing she expected it to be, Fraser being in the same city. It feels inevitable, even if she’s been acting like they’re not a couple any more, like the adventure never happened, even if it’s a whole tangled ache inside of her and she knows she’ll want to run when she sees him, and keep running, it’s like…it’s happened. Done now, the letter’s been sent, the stable door’s been opened, and camels are running all over the fucking place. She doesn’t plan, she expects, and waits. Possibly for a letter from animal control about the camels.
And pours herself another whiskey, then hands the bottle over to Vecchio.
Takes three measures before Vecchio points to the tan line on his ring finger, asks if there’s a club he can join now then slumps back onto the couch with a sigh. Another two measures and Vecchio’s crashed out on the couch and she takes the glass out of his hand, throws a blanket over him then makes her way to her room. Sleep comes quicker than she expects.
It’s the weekend, then. She wakes up to Vecchio muttering to himself about what she has in the fridge. Things go downhill from there; she nearly decks him over who gets the last of the coffee grounds in the jar, realises he’s not fighting back, then realises his pupils are all wide, then she’s pulling on jeans, a bra and a vest top, slipping her feet into her too big headkickers and dragging Vecchio out to a coffee shop. Coffee and candy, and she still can’t stop looking at his hands.
“Where are you gonna meet him?” she asks, once the caffeine’s kicked in, and Vecchio’s looking less allergic to sunlight. Vecchio gives her the look Welsh does, sometimes, kinder and more knowing than she feels comfortable with.
“His flight lands at four.”
*
Tinny voices making announcements no one can hear properly, uncomfortable chairs, shitty coffee. She gets annoyed to distract herself. She’s actually looking directly at the gate when he walks through, and it’s this jolt to the heart, and all she can do is stand there and watch him walking up to her, stopping about three paces from where she is and reaching out, with one hand, like he doesn’t really expect her to be there. She forces herself to meet his eyes, doesn’t make it easier on herself by making small talk.
“I’m sorry,” is all she says.
“Yes, I expect you are,” he grinds out, looking like a travelworn angel carved out of stone.
She doesn’t break eye contact, expects him to turn around and walk away, like the lakeside all over again.
“You did me a disservice, thinking that I would have reacted in a negative manner,” he begins, and she can see him hiding behind big strong words, elegantly phrased. “Were our positions reversed, however, I can imagine that-”
She takes a step closer to him, puts her hand in his, pulls him to her and kisses him, hungry, aching for the familiarity of his body, his mouth. Words get them into trouble; kisses get them out of it, and there aren’t enough words to force this to make sense. He doesn’t seem to notice how much her hands are shaking.
*
Up against the door, pressing him against it, shoving his pack away with her foot. He can only react at first, kiss her back, pull her close, run his hands up under her vest, up to the clasp of her bra where he pauses for a few moments, like he’s suddenly remembered all over again. She feels liquid, heavy, but with this need that’s more than all the times she’s gotten off before like this, and it feels like she’s doing a balancing act between want and making it so he doesn’t freak out too much. So she doesn’t either. He’s whispering into her neck as he kisses the skin there, and she gives up on balance, takes a step back, still kissing him and they make it into the bedroom, walking in step when they don’t want to separate something they still manage. Just like before, they break away from each other when they get to the bed, concentrate on getting naked without interference.
Not like before with Fraser looking at her like that. “It’s…been quite a month,” he says, sounding almost awed. She wants to cover herself, but keeps her hands at her sides.
“Do you still…uh, you know,” she begins, fading away into shrugging.
He’s right up close again, then, putting his hands on her shoulders, looking fierce. “You’re Ray Kowalski.” He taps her forehead once, then kisses the tip of her nose. It still makes her smile, and he makes a satisfied ‘hmm’ noise at that. Then they’re tumbling onto the bed, and it’s all rushed, her relearning, him learning, improvising. He’s fascinated with her collarbone, and the underside of her breast, licking the skin between her breasts, blowing on it cold and working around her nipples so by the time he gets to them she’s this close to grabbing his hair and guiding his head. His hand goes between her legs, teasing, fingers brushing her clit, the shock of it still enough to make her whimper. She grabs a condom off the top of the nightstand, remembering just in time that she doesn’t need lube, and he grins, nods.
“One of these days, you’ll suddenly learn patience,” he says, his voice low, teasing. She grins at him, rips the packet open with her teeth and rolls the condom on, then keeps her hand loosely clasped around the base, not moving at all.
“I got patience,” she says sweetly. “Do you?”
He rolls over, pulls her on top of him and watches her expression as she lowers herself onto his cock, hands braced on his chest. Her hips remember the way to move that drives him mad, and she bends and kisses him, then presses down on his chest as he tries to sit up. She doesn’t know why she’s surprised that Fraser knows where her clit is- he probably read about it when he was ten or something. Sparks and the slower building pleasure of him inside her combine until she’s digging her nails into his chest, biting her lip, tilting her head back, and all the while she’s conscious of him watching her, his hands constantly on her like he’s afraid she isn’t really there. She moves faster, then slower, her thigh muscles starting to tire, blinking sweat out of her eyes, but it feels like the same music only a different dance. She comes with a bitten off cry, eyes closed, hands clenched, falling apart and clicking together at the same time. Fraser keeps moving, tugs her so she’s kissing him, his hands running over her back, fevered, murmuring into her mouth as he comes, his gasp and sigh like a prayer.
His cheeks are wet when she strokes the side of his face, but when she starts to apologise again, he shakes his head. “Sleep first.”
She notices he wraps himself around her when she’s turned the lights off and climbed back into bed. In the morning, he’s still sleeping like that. Guilt is easy to fall back into; she wards it off by whispering ‘I love you’ into the silence of the room. He pulls her in closer.
elementalv 's no good, very bad day. It's more stuff in the genderfuck verse, and it's RayK in Chicago, post switch. She asked for porn, and I provided. Sorry I'm sucking at lj currently, and you know, being contactable. I'm immersed in essay from now, so, uh, I won't be around until wednesday much. Have a good weekend! And now, to bed.
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
rating : NC-17
word count: 2174
Weird, even after ten weeks of no contact, Ray still expects Fraser to…track something, find her- her. She’s started thinking of herself as a girl now, in some ways. Not quite, but there are pronouns and hips and breasts and fucking bleeding, which scared the shit out of her at the start until she phoned up Frannie in a panic, who laughed and said ‘oh, honey’, then came over with the rugrats, sat them down in front of Ray’s tv and took Ray into the bathroom, showed her a packet and left her to sit on the toilet seat and wonder what the fuck she had done to deserve this. By the time she’d come out of the bathroom, Frannie had gone and she was left with cramps, daytime cartoons and a bottle of whiskey.
So she looks over her shoulder a lot, looks for the flash of red, the Stetson, someone running towards her and she half wants it, half…doesn’t. She’s Ray Kowalski, Ray Kowalski loves Benton Fraser, Ray Kowalski went on a huge fucking adventure because of it, into the asscrack of the frozen north. Ray Kowalski hotfooted it back to Chicago without even packing properly, because he’d woken up at five in a hotel room in Toronto on the morning of Fraser’s award ceremony thing, with breasts. And ok, thinking might have been a good idea, giving the guy a chance, but it was…
It was the only thing she could have done, frozen with fear, unthinking. Course, now she has all the time on the world to think, seems like thinking’s all she does. Ray loves Fraser, Ray’s a girl, Ray’s in Chicago and nothing makes sense any more. Nothing. If she waits long enough, things will start to make sense again.
Till then, she has to kick heads to get the part the goat needs without getting a pat on the head and an offer to help putting it in, and the guy in the overalls asking her if she’s sure that’s what’s wrong, and has she checked the gas recently. She goes into the ladies room and gets told that shade of red really suits her, has to stop herself giving the girl the standard Kowalski wink and saying ‘thanks’. Then telling the girl she has…real pretty hair, because where do girls learn compliments? How? Horniness is a heavy weight, a slow buildup until her hands in her panties, and ohh, that’s what she needed, and she smiles and relaxes afterwards, kinda floating, but can get up afterwards, go do stuff without feeling like someone’s taken away half her muscles.
Till then, Welsh gave her her job back. That… walking into the 27 at about ten in the evening, Welsh the only one there and just…sitting there, in front of the desk. Sitting there, looking at him while he looked her up and down, handed her a donut, then asked her what she thought of the ‘Hawks lineup this season. She coulda kissed him. She’s Ray Kowalski still, she has a job, and it’s like one of those kid’s shape matching games, putting the square in the square hole only the square’s a circle, and it fits in, but there are corners where stuff doesn’t happen, things that don’t match, angles and curves and stuff that just don’t fit.
She looks over her shoulder again, lets herself into her apartment, does a little dance balancing the grocery bag and the keys and-
Freezes.
Someone there, and the groceries are on the floor, her gun’s out of the holster, he’s up against the wall, and she’s too rattled to think straight, because how the fuck did he know? Why the-
“Christ, Kowalski, some welcome.”
There’s this undercurrent of amusement that pisses her off so bad until she realises he doesn’t know, hasn’t noticed the breasts, the, well, the girliness.
“Welcome to Chicago, you fuckwad,” she says almost pleasantly. “Now get your ass back to Florida before I jump Bogart, Tracey, and Olivier on it.”
“Fuck you, Ko-”
Realisation. It’s real pretty watching the side of his face that isn’t pressed up against the wall. Vecchio stiffens, slumps, wrenches himself out of her grip and looks at her. Really looks. Then sways. She snickers a bit, puts the gun and holster on the coffee table and just watches him have pretty much the reaction she had with it. It kinda feels like cosmic payback for part of the whole chromosome change thing, being able to shock the fuck out of Ray ‘too smooth for anything but designer, hi I used to have henchmen, don’t get your dirty hands all over the cashmere look at my stare’ Vecchio.
“Long story,” she says after looking at Vecchio gaping for a bit longer. He nods, gulps.
“Where’s Benny?” he asks, voice all shaky. She shrugs, picks up the grocery bag to avoid looking at him.
“That’s, uh, peripheral to the story. He’s up north making friendly with the musk oxes…musk oxen? Fuck it. But he’s not with me. Haven’t heard from him for months.”
“But I phoned him, said I’d meet him in Chicago and he sounded…he didn’t sound like…with the christening, and I looked up your address in the 27 records and figured I’d surprise you both and-”
She pours them both a whiskey, hands him his glass. “Fraser’s in Chicago. I’m in Chicago.”
“Yeah, Kowalski. Can’t work out why geography didn’t figure into your career plans.”
She flips him the birdy, clears a space on the couch then brings the bottle over to the table. “Least I’m talking in sentences.”
Weird thing is, it isn’t the paralysing shock thing she expected it to be, Fraser being in the same city. It feels inevitable, even if she’s been acting like they’re not a couple any more, like the adventure never happened, even if it’s a whole tangled ache inside of her and she knows she’ll want to run when she sees him, and keep running, it’s like…it’s happened. Done now, the letter’s been sent, the stable door’s been opened, and camels are running all over the fucking place. She doesn’t plan, she expects, and waits. Possibly for a letter from animal control about the camels.
And pours herself another whiskey, then hands the bottle over to Vecchio.
Takes three measures before Vecchio points to the tan line on his ring finger, asks if there’s a club he can join now then slumps back onto the couch with a sigh. Another two measures and Vecchio’s crashed out on the couch and she takes the glass out of his hand, throws a blanket over him then makes her way to her room. Sleep comes quicker than she expects.
It’s the weekend, then. She wakes up to Vecchio muttering to himself about what she has in the fridge. Things go downhill from there; she nearly decks him over who gets the last of the coffee grounds in the jar, realises he’s not fighting back, then realises his pupils are all wide, then she’s pulling on jeans, a bra and a vest top, slipping her feet into her too big headkickers and dragging Vecchio out to a coffee shop. Coffee and candy, and she still can’t stop looking at his hands.
“Where are you gonna meet him?” she asks, once the caffeine’s kicked in, and Vecchio’s looking less allergic to sunlight. Vecchio gives her the look Welsh does, sometimes, kinder and more knowing than she feels comfortable with.
“His flight lands at four.”
*
Tinny voices making announcements no one can hear properly, uncomfortable chairs, shitty coffee. She gets annoyed to distract herself. She’s actually looking directly at the gate when he walks through, and it’s this jolt to the heart, and all she can do is stand there and watch him walking up to her, stopping about three paces from where she is and reaching out, with one hand, like he doesn’t really expect her to be there. She forces herself to meet his eyes, doesn’t make it easier on herself by making small talk.
“I’m sorry,” is all she says.
“Yes, I expect you are,” he grinds out, looking like a travelworn angel carved out of stone.
She doesn’t break eye contact, expects him to turn around and walk away, like the lakeside all over again.
“You did me a disservice, thinking that I would have reacted in a negative manner,” he begins, and she can see him hiding behind big strong words, elegantly phrased. “Were our positions reversed, however, I can imagine that-”
She takes a step closer to him, puts her hand in his, pulls him to her and kisses him, hungry, aching for the familiarity of his body, his mouth. Words get them into trouble; kisses get them out of it, and there aren’t enough words to force this to make sense. He doesn’t seem to notice how much her hands are shaking.
*
Up against the door, pressing him against it, shoving his pack away with her foot. He can only react at first, kiss her back, pull her close, run his hands up under her vest, up to the clasp of her bra where he pauses for a few moments, like he’s suddenly remembered all over again. She feels liquid, heavy, but with this need that’s more than all the times she’s gotten off before like this, and it feels like she’s doing a balancing act between want and making it so he doesn’t freak out too much. So she doesn’t either. He’s whispering into her neck as he kisses the skin there, and she gives up on balance, takes a step back, still kissing him and they make it into the bedroom, walking in step when they don’t want to separate something they still manage. Just like before, they break away from each other when they get to the bed, concentrate on getting naked without interference.
Not like before with Fraser looking at her like that. “It’s…been quite a month,” he says, sounding almost awed. She wants to cover herself, but keeps her hands at her sides.
“Do you still…uh, you know,” she begins, fading away into shrugging.
He’s right up close again, then, putting his hands on her shoulders, looking fierce. “You’re Ray Kowalski.” He taps her forehead once, then kisses the tip of her nose. It still makes her smile, and he makes a satisfied ‘hmm’ noise at that. Then they’re tumbling onto the bed, and it’s all rushed, her relearning, him learning, improvising. He’s fascinated with her collarbone, and the underside of her breast, licking the skin between her breasts, blowing on it cold and working around her nipples so by the time he gets to them she’s this close to grabbing his hair and guiding his head. His hand goes between her legs, teasing, fingers brushing her clit, the shock of it still enough to make her whimper. She grabs a condom off the top of the nightstand, remembering just in time that she doesn’t need lube, and he grins, nods.
“One of these days, you’ll suddenly learn patience,” he says, his voice low, teasing. She grins at him, rips the packet open with her teeth and rolls the condom on, then keeps her hand loosely clasped around the base, not moving at all.
“I got patience,” she says sweetly. “Do you?”
He rolls over, pulls her on top of him and watches her expression as she lowers herself onto his cock, hands braced on his chest. Her hips remember the way to move that drives him mad, and she bends and kisses him, then presses down on his chest as he tries to sit up. She doesn’t know why she’s surprised that Fraser knows where her clit is- he probably read about it when he was ten or something. Sparks and the slower building pleasure of him inside her combine until she’s digging her nails into his chest, biting her lip, tilting her head back, and all the while she’s conscious of him watching her, his hands constantly on her like he’s afraid she isn’t really there. She moves faster, then slower, her thigh muscles starting to tire, blinking sweat out of her eyes, but it feels like the same music only a different dance. She comes with a bitten off cry, eyes closed, hands clenched, falling apart and clicking together at the same time. Fraser keeps moving, tugs her so she’s kissing him, his hands running over her back, fevered, murmuring into her mouth as he comes, his gasp and sigh like a prayer.
His cheeks are wet when she strokes the side of his face, but when she starts to apologise again, he shakes his head. “Sleep first.”
She notices he wraps himself around her when she’s turned the lights off and climbed back into bed. In the morning, he’s still sleeping like that. Guilt is easy to fall back into; she wards it off by whispering ‘I love you’ into the silence of the room. He pulls her in closer.