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Fic! due South (SGA, I promise I haven't abandoned you! I still love you, baby!)
So, yes. Remember my list of things I was going to write?
...well, OK, so this was #10 on the list, but it's still totally the thought that counts. The thought, and the having actually written something. Plus I wrote 3 and a half pages of term paper today, so I've been a good girl and deserve to write fic. And get hugs.
Window
by etben
due South, RayK/Fraser
Rated N (for Nekkid!)
1783 words
beta thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kbk, who was a rockstar and got this back to me in no time flat (not to mention pointing out a very 'duh' mistake I made in the first draft...)
The weird thing about Fraser is—well, no. Not 'the weird thing', because that makes it sound like there's only one weird thing about the guy, which is just completely not true. Fraser's got lots of weird things about him—the licking, that's the big one, but also the deaf half-wolf, and the constant politeness, and the way he sometimes talks to empty air, and then cocks his head like he's expecting an answer. And did Ray mention the licking things?
And those are just the outside-things, the things that anyone can see (if, you know, they happen to spend their working hours and most of the rest of their life around the guy, which, he admits, not everyone gets to do. Ray's just special like that). Living with Fraser, he's gotten this whole new angle on weird, all the deep-down weird stuff that comes bubbling up as soon as Fraser lets it.
There's the boxers, for one—the guy irons his boxers, which Ray figures for two different kinds of weird, right there, on account of the voluntarily ironing shit, and then also the ironing something that no sane person would ever iron. He gets up at the crack of dawn, times when no sane person gets up, and he does it voluntarily, because he 'likes the way the city looks in the morning, Ray—it's quite refreshing, really.' Which, if ever Chicago has been refreshing, at any time of day, Ray will kick himself in the head. And then Fraser's got some weird thing about closets—pardon the pun, but every week or so, Ray'll find him in the closet, arguing with himself. Weird shit, seriously.
Although the licking stuff makes a lot more sense, now—Ray's in with that, yeah, he can dance to that.
Thing is, though, all of that's normal, for Fraser. Freak-as-fuck weird for the rest of the human race, sure, but pretty standard, when you remember that this is Benton Fraser, RCMP, who first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of his father. So the guy does stuff a little different from everyone else—so who cares?
The window thing, though—that's weird for Fraser, that doesn't fit in even with the rest of the weird shit he does. Because, OK, Fraser's nature-boy, right? with the caribou and the wolf and the miles of snow in every direction. Ray figured he'd want the windows open all the time, 'cause even if Chicago's not exactly pine-fresh, windows-open has got to at least beat windows-closed, right?
Only not.
All summer—even when the brownouts hit, in July, and then again, end of August, when Ray's AC finally craps out on them and they can't get it replaced for a week and a half—Fraser never opens a window. Never lets Ray do it, either, although of course he's not out-and-out about it. No, the Mountie can be sneaky, which was another weird thing for Ray to get used to. He never lies, but if Ray doesn't ask him, he won't ever say, "Ray, please leave the window shut"—he'll just distract Ray until opening the window is way down on his list of things to think about.
When Ray first says shit, gonna open a window, there'll be this little grunt, maybe a kiss, slow and wet and openmouthed, little scrape of teeth, against whatever part of Ray is nearest. Sometimes that's his hip, sometimes it's his neck, sometimes it's the middle of his back, his wrist, but wherever it is, Ray's not about to interrupt it, so most of the time he'll just shift over, try to find a cooler patch of sheets. And usually Fraser'll be good with that for a while, and he'll keep going, painting Ray's skin wet and slick with tongue and lips, rubbing his hand along Ray's ribcage. Should be gross, really, watching spit dry on his skin, but on the other hand he's got Fraser, Fraser with his big wet mouth and this crazy devotion to Ray's skin.
So, yeah. Most days, Ray forgets about it, lets it go, turns off the part of his mind that's thinking about the window and lets the part of him that chants Fraser, Fraser, Fraser have its fun.
Some days, though, it's really hot, or maybe Ray's just tired as fuck, too tired to get it up again any time soon, and damn it, he wants the window open. He'll make his own noises, maybe give Fraser a kiss or two, and then try to climb over him, reaching for the window and the stick to prop it open. Those times, Fraser just grabs him, latches on with arms and legs and drags Ray back until they're plastered together, sweaty skin to sweaty skin, breathing each other in.
And, you know, it should be kind of gross—because, you know, it's hot, and they're both more than a little stinky—but it's Fraser, who doesn't have any sense of what's gross and what's normal, and who's turning Ray into as much of a freak as he is. Not that Ray's going to start licking ABC gum any day soon, even in the name of duty—his licking's reserved for the Mountie, thanks—but he's maybe not so uptight about sweat and dirt as he used to be. In a good cause, at least, and Fraser's always been a good cause, so Ray just clings right back, pressed up against Fraser.
Today, though, today is hotter than before—too hot for hugging, his grandma used to say, and he knows what she meant. You try to hug someone, today, and your skin sticks to them, like a leather car seat, and when you pull apart you make that peeling noise, and it's just—just no. He is a tolerant and open-minded sort of guy, and he loves Fraser—god, but he loves Fraser—but this is just too much. This is his shitty apartment and his whackjob city and his crapped out AC and his fucking ability to breathe, here, and he has had it.
He is going to open the window, god damn it.
So he dodges the kisses and worms his way out of Fraser's full-body hug, rolls across the bed and thunks against the wall. He rubs his shoulder, glances up at Fraser as he reaches for the stick to prop the window up, and he just—he freezes, because Fraser looks all quiet and sad, all of a sudden. Like somebody kicked his puppy, except for the part where Fraser's puppy is Dief, and anybody who's stupid enough to kick him is going to wind up with puncture wounds in some new and exciting places. Still, though, that's the face that Fraser's got on.
And, yeah, sure, Ray wants the window open, but he wants that look off of Fraser's face even more, so he rolls back across the bed, right up against Fraser, and doesn't even cringe when they stick together.
"Fraser," he says, "Why don't you want me to open the window?" His mouth's right up against Fraser's ear, so he knows he's being heard, but Fraser still doesn't answer straight away. Finally, he moves his arm so that it's around Ray, not just squashed under his him, and sighs.
"I like for things to smell the way they are, Ray," he says, and if that's not a Fraser answer, Ray doesn't know what is. Still, most of the time if you just sit there and look confused, Fraser'll keep going, so Ray waits, and soon Fraser starts talking again.
"I don't care for the smell of Chicago, Ray," he says, and that's not just a Fraser answer, that's a bullshit answer. Because, yeah, sure, Chicago smells, and Ray knows it doesn't smell like North Nowhere, but Fraser's never complained about it before, ever. And, yeah, OK, Fraser's not a big whiner, but Ray's pretty sure he'd have noticed before now if the smell of city gave Fraser hives. So he stretches his arm out and pokes Fraser in the ribs, hard—once for being a liar, and then again because he wiggles, and it's funny. Fraser sighs, and scoots Ray a little closer.
"You see, Ray," and, yeah, that's an explanation, that's the thing, "in the Territories, when you open a window, it smells—well, it makes the house smell like outside. It makes things fresher. Whereas here, when you open a window, it just smells like more city. It's not the smell itself, really; it's more about the change in scent that comes from a particular—" but Ray's shushing him, because he gets it. It's crazy, of course, but that's not a problem, hasn't been since day one.
They stay there for a while, Ray with his head on Fraser's shoulder, Fraser's arm around him. Finally, though, Ray's got to move, because it's still fucking hot, and the way his cheek slides against Fraser's chest as they breathe is driving him crazy. He stands up, hauls Fraser up, and heads for the shower. No funny business, because they're both still pretty tired; just him and Fraser and cold, cold water. They'll feel like stewed shit again in an hour, he knows, but it still feels great to have Fraser's hands in his hair, to run his fingers across Fraser's back and feel the water ripple around them.
When they get out, he almost goes straight back over to the window, to open it, because, yeesh. It smells like a fucking cathouse in there—sweat and sex and him and Fraser, and he likes that smell, sure, likes it fine, but that doesn't mean he wants to live in it from now until whenever the fucking AC gets fixed. Fraser, though—Fraser puts a hand on his wrist and clean sheets in his hand, squeezes his hand, once, and goes to strip the bed.
"Fraser," he says, and then, "Fraser!" When he looks up, eyes warm and lazy, Ray says, "sheet's'll just get sweaty again, Fraser. Plus, this place smells —"
"Like you and me, Ray," Fraser says, bundling the dirty sheets in the corner and taking the fresh ones from Ray's hands. "As it should." He's got the bed made again in less than a minute, and neater than Ray ever would have managed.
'You're a freak, Fraser," he says, meaning the sheets and the smell and the window and the licking (he did mention the licking, right?), but he still goes, sprawling across the bed next to Fraser.
"Understood, Ray."
And Ray knows that it is.
*
*sigh* I clearly need a better title-inventor, since this? Is just sad. Any thoughts will be welcomed and cherished (as will constructive criticism and, actually, any comments at all).
...well, OK, so this was #10 on the list, but it's still totally the thought that counts. The thought, and the having actually written something. Plus I wrote 3 and a half pages of term paper today, so I've been a good girl and deserve to write fic. And get hugs.
Window
by etben
due South, RayK/Fraser
Rated N (for Nekkid!)
1783 words
beta thanks to
kbk, who was a rockstar and got this back to me in no time flat (not to mention pointing out a very 'duh' mistake I made in the first draft...)The weird thing about Fraser is—well, no. Not 'the weird thing', because that makes it sound like there's only one weird thing about the guy, which is just completely not true. Fraser's got lots of weird things about him—the licking, that's the big one, but also the deaf half-wolf, and the constant politeness, and the way he sometimes talks to empty air, and then cocks his head like he's expecting an answer. And did Ray mention the licking things?
And those are just the outside-things, the things that anyone can see (if, you know, they happen to spend their working hours and most of the rest of their life around the guy, which, he admits, not everyone gets to do. Ray's just special like that). Living with Fraser, he's gotten this whole new angle on weird, all the deep-down weird stuff that comes bubbling up as soon as Fraser lets it.
There's the boxers, for one—the guy irons his boxers, which Ray figures for two different kinds of weird, right there, on account of the voluntarily ironing shit, and then also the ironing something that no sane person would ever iron. He gets up at the crack of dawn, times when no sane person gets up, and he does it voluntarily, because he 'likes the way the city looks in the morning, Ray—it's quite refreshing, really.' Which, if ever Chicago has been refreshing, at any time of day, Ray will kick himself in the head. And then Fraser's got some weird thing about closets—pardon the pun, but every week or so, Ray'll find him in the closet, arguing with himself. Weird shit, seriously.
Although the licking stuff makes a lot more sense, now—Ray's in with that, yeah, he can dance to that.
Thing is, though, all of that's normal, for Fraser. Freak-as-fuck weird for the rest of the human race, sure, but pretty standard, when you remember that this is Benton Fraser, RCMP, who first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of his father. So the guy does stuff a little different from everyone else—so who cares?
The window thing, though—that's weird for Fraser, that doesn't fit in even with the rest of the weird shit he does. Because, OK, Fraser's nature-boy, right? with the caribou and the wolf and the miles of snow in every direction. Ray figured he'd want the windows open all the time, 'cause even if Chicago's not exactly pine-fresh, windows-open has got to at least beat windows-closed, right?
Only not.
All summer—even when the brownouts hit, in July, and then again, end of August, when Ray's AC finally craps out on them and they can't get it replaced for a week and a half—Fraser never opens a window. Never lets Ray do it, either, although of course he's not out-and-out about it. No, the Mountie can be sneaky, which was another weird thing for Ray to get used to. He never lies, but if Ray doesn't ask him, he won't ever say, "Ray, please leave the window shut"—he'll just distract Ray until opening the window is way down on his list of things to think about.
When Ray first says shit, gonna open a window, there'll be this little grunt, maybe a kiss, slow and wet and openmouthed, little scrape of teeth, against whatever part of Ray is nearest. Sometimes that's his hip, sometimes it's his neck, sometimes it's the middle of his back, his wrist, but wherever it is, Ray's not about to interrupt it, so most of the time he'll just shift over, try to find a cooler patch of sheets. And usually Fraser'll be good with that for a while, and he'll keep going, painting Ray's skin wet and slick with tongue and lips, rubbing his hand along Ray's ribcage. Should be gross, really, watching spit dry on his skin, but on the other hand he's got Fraser, Fraser with his big wet mouth and this crazy devotion to Ray's skin.
So, yeah. Most days, Ray forgets about it, lets it go, turns off the part of his mind that's thinking about the window and lets the part of him that chants Fraser, Fraser, Fraser have its fun.
Some days, though, it's really hot, or maybe Ray's just tired as fuck, too tired to get it up again any time soon, and damn it, he wants the window open. He'll make his own noises, maybe give Fraser a kiss or two, and then try to climb over him, reaching for the window and the stick to prop it open. Those times, Fraser just grabs him, latches on with arms and legs and drags Ray back until they're plastered together, sweaty skin to sweaty skin, breathing each other in.
And, you know, it should be kind of gross—because, you know, it's hot, and they're both more than a little stinky—but it's Fraser, who doesn't have any sense of what's gross and what's normal, and who's turning Ray into as much of a freak as he is. Not that Ray's going to start licking ABC gum any day soon, even in the name of duty—his licking's reserved for the Mountie, thanks—but he's maybe not so uptight about sweat and dirt as he used to be. In a good cause, at least, and Fraser's always been a good cause, so Ray just clings right back, pressed up against Fraser.
Today, though, today is hotter than before—too hot for hugging, his grandma used to say, and he knows what she meant. You try to hug someone, today, and your skin sticks to them, like a leather car seat, and when you pull apart you make that peeling noise, and it's just—just no. He is a tolerant and open-minded sort of guy, and he loves Fraser—god, but he loves Fraser—but this is just too much. This is his shitty apartment and his whackjob city and his crapped out AC and his fucking ability to breathe, here, and he has had it.
He is going to open the window, god damn it.
So he dodges the kisses and worms his way out of Fraser's full-body hug, rolls across the bed and thunks against the wall. He rubs his shoulder, glances up at Fraser as he reaches for the stick to prop the window up, and he just—he freezes, because Fraser looks all quiet and sad, all of a sudden. Like somebody kicked his puppy, except for the part where Fraser's puppy is Dief, and anybody who's stupid enough to kick him is going to wind up with puncture wounds in some new and exciting places. Still, though, that's the face that Fraser's got on.
And, yeah, sure, Ray wants the window open, but he wants that look off of Fraser's face even more, so he rolls back across the bed, right up against Fraser, and doesn't even cringe when they stick together.
"Fraser," he says, "Why don't you want me to open the window?" His mouth's right up against Fraser's ear, so he knows he's being heard, but Fraser still doesn't answer straight away. Finally, he moves his arm so that it's around Ray, not just squashed under his him, and sighs.
"I like for things to smell the way they are, Ray," he says, and if that's not a Fraser answer, Ray doesn't know what is. Still, most of the time if you just sit there and look confused, Fraser'll keep going, so Ray waits, and soon Fraser starts talking again.
"I don't care for the smell of Chicago, Ray," he says, and that's not just a Fraser answer, that's a bullshit answer. Because, yeah, sure, Chicago smells, and Ray knows it doesn't smell like North Nowhere, but Fraser's never complained about it before, ever. And, yeah, OK, Fraser's not a big whiner, but Ray's pretty sure he'd have noticed before now if the smell of city gave Fraser hives. So he stretches his arm out and pokes Fraser in the ribs, hard—once for being a liar, and then again because he wiggles, and it's funny. Fraser sighs, and scoots Ray a little closer.
"You see, Ray," and, yeah, that's an explanation, that's the thing, "in the Territories, when you open a window, it smells—well, it makes the house smell like outside. It makes things fresher. Whereas here, when you open a window, it just smells like more city. It's not the smell itself, really; it's more about the change in scent that comes from a particular—" but Ray's shushing him, because he gets it. It's crazy, of course, but that's not a problem, hasn't been since day one.
They stay there for a while, Ray with his head on Fraser's shoulder, Fraser's arm around him. Finally, though, Ray's got to move, because it's still fucking hot, and the way his cheek slides against Fraser's chest as they breathe is driving him crazy. He stands up, hauls Fraser up, and heads for the shower. No funny business, because they're both still pretty tired; just him and Fraser and cold, cold water. They'll feel like stewed shit again in an hour, he knows, but it still feels great to have Fraser's hands in his hair, to run his fingers across Fraser's back and feel the water ripple around them.
When they get out, he almost goes straight back over to the window, to open it, because, yeesh. It smells like a fucking cathouse in there—sweat and sex and him and Fraser, and he likes that smell, sure, likes it fine, but that doesn't mean he wants to live in it from now until whenever the fucking AC gets fixed. Fraser, though—Fraser puts a hand on his wrist and clean sheets in his hand, squeezes his hand, once, and goes to strip the bed.
"Fraser," he says, and then, "Fraser!" When he looks up, eyes warm and lazy, Ray says, "sheet's'll just get sweaty again, Fraser. Plus, this place smells —"
"Like you and me, Ray," Fraser says, bundling the dirty sheets in the corner and taking the fresh ones from Ray's hands. "As it should." He's got the bed made again in less than a minute, and neater than Ray ever would have managed.
'You're a freak, Fraser," he says, meaning the sheets and the smell and the window and the licking (he did mention the licking, right?), but he still goes, sprawling across the bed next to Fraser.
"Understood, Ray."
And Ray knows that it is.
*
*sigh* I clearly need a better title-inventor, since this? Is just sad. Any thoughts will be welcomed and cherished (as will constructive criticism and, actually, any comments at all).