Ehhh, what the hell...
Feb. 6th, 2004 11:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Everyone else is doing it. And I've got a lot of little bits of stuff. So here's a random assortment of scenes.
untitled Dark Angel fic
He had started out kneeling with his hands behind his head, fingers interlaced. But that had been... wrong.
"No, not like that. Hands on the floor."
Zack reluctantly leans forward, and touches his fingertips to the hardwood floor.
"Palms flat on the floor," comes the gentle rebuke. And he flushes with anger and with chagrin, and flattens his palms against the smooth surface.
"Good boy."
There is a long silence, a drawn-out space of waiting where there is nothing but the indrawn rush of each breath, echoing raggedly in his ears, the quickening thud of his heart, and the slow-growing tension tightening his recalcitrant body.
At any other time, in any other place, the varnished hardwood would register in his brain in terms of traction, speed, and tactics. Now, all he is aware of is the feel of the glossy varnish and the fine grain of the wood beneath his splayed fingers and sweaty palms, and the chill of the floorboards under his bare knees.
And all he can think is how very defenseless he is. How very exposed. It prickles up the back of his bare neck and makes him shake, a steady, subtle tremor that rocks him to the core. His shoulders are tight, and his neck is tight, and his hands are braced hard against the floor, and no matter how firm he holds his jaw, no matter how much it hurts, the tears still come, spilling hot and silent down his cheeks.
He does not make a sound when he cries. Manticore taught them so many things. Show no weakness. Show no mercy. Show no fear.
But he is afraid. His brothers and sisters depend on him. It's up to him to keep them all alive. If he were to break... if he were to crack...
"What would happen then?" Logan asks. He is standing (standing?) before Zack, regarding him with a look of mild interest.
"I... I don't know," Zack husks. There is something wrong with his voice. And his throat, which is unaccountably tight.
"I think you do know." Logan sits back on his heels in front of Zack. "Look at me," he says with an easy, innate confidence. Zack shakes his head, jaw tight. "Look at me," he repeats more firmly, and cups Zack's chin with one warm hand, forcing him to tip his head back.
Zack looks up.
Logan looks back at him, eyes steady and bright behind wire frames and clear glass. "There now. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"It... I..." Zack struggles.
"Shh." Logan places a warning finger to his lips. "Not now."
Zack bows his head once again, closes his eyes, and waits.
It's a feather-light touch at first, fingers brushed casually across the nape of his neck. Then a warm hand rests there instead, thumb running idly back and forth over the bar code that marks him. He holds himself very carefully, deliberately still.
The hand at his neck starts to tighten slowly. It doesn't hurt. At first. At first it's just a slowly-growing, steady pressure. And then long fingers begin to push at his windpipe, and bright spots flicker behind his closed eyelids, and it does hurt. Still, he does not move. He was made to withstand torture. This physical pain is just an inconvenience, despite the fight to keep instinct from taking over. The urge is rising to gag uncontrollably, to claw at the hand that chokes him-
And then the pressure is gone, and he can't help but slump forward. Hands on his shoulders now, holding him upright, holding him steady.
"Easy there. Too much?"
Zack, eyes still shut, shakes his head.
"Good," says Logan. The quietly pleased, matter-of-fact tone makes Zack's stomach clench and his knees weaken. It's not fear. It's anticipation. And he hates himself for it. He's not supposed to want this. He's not supposed to need this. Sex is a weapon. Sex is a tool. Lust is an inconvenience.
Which doesn't explain why his mouth is dry, and his palms are sweaty against the polished floor, and his face is hot and flushed.
His eyes are fixed on the grain of the floorboards. He holds himself shudderingly stiff, and he doesn't twitch when Logan-who is behind him now, he can tell from the heat of his body close against his back-when Logan leans in closer, and slides one hand from the small of his back across the plane of his [hip]. The other hand cups his chin, and a calloused thumb rests against his parted lips.
Zack's breathing quickens. He can feel lips now, too, and the wet warmth of a tongue at the nape of his neck.
[more]
[something] says Logan. Zack finally realizes what's different about him. He's borrowed Lydecker's voice. He wonders if Lydecker will come after Logan, mute and furious, demanding his voice back. Or if they'd made a fair trade, and Lydecker took Logan's voice in exchange. He wonders if someone has taken his own voice, because he, after all, is naked and kneeling and cannot make a sound.
"[something else Manticore-ish]."
Zack looks up. It's not Lydecker after all. Max is standing in front of him, frowning. She tilts her head to one side, and raises an eyebrow.
"I didn't mean it," he says rustily. So they've given him speech again. "A soldier.. a soldier..." But just having the words back aren't enough, and he can't remember what comes next. Max just looks as at him skeptically, sadly, if he's failed her somehow. She shakes her head, and walks away.
Zack wakes up, fighting his way out of a tangle of sheets and blankets and drug-addled delirium.
DS randomness
It all started with a cup of coffee. They would argue over it afterwards, and sometimes one or the other would claim that it started before that, with (what?) or even earlier with a dream catcher and an eclipse.
But for the most part, it started with a cup of coffee. And it would figure that Ray forgot all about it until they were halfway to the station.
"Shit!"
"What is it, Ray?" The words were perfectly civil, all nice and polite and Canadian, but Ray could just *hear* Fraser disapproving. God knew he wasn't usually above making snarky comments about Ray's language, but maybe it was too early in the morning even for Mounties to be snarky.
Or maybe he just knew it was too early for Ray.
"Oh, I owe Frannie one for running those plates yesterday. Dammit. I was going to, I dunno, get her chocolate or something, or she'll hold it over my head for months. Y'know how she gets."
"I do indeed." Fraser looked downright uncomfortable. Ray grinned to himself. Yeah, if anybody knew about Frannie's... persistence, it was Fraser.
"Oh, hey, coffee! One of those fancy ones... triple-mocha-cuppa-whatever." And wouldn't you know it, there was one of those trendy coffee places on the corner.
"I believe Francesca drinks low-fat decaffienated lattes," Fraser said absently. Ray was already pulling up to the curb.
"Yeesh, what's the point then, tell me that."
"Not being an avid specialty coffee drinker, I couldn't tell you."
***
Ray does not like paperwork. In fact, you might even go so far as to say he hates it. Hates it with a passion formerly reserved for algebra and his seventh grade math teacher. But when Welsh got that look in his eye and that tone in his voice, that or-else sort of tone, Ray sighed and resigned himself to a long, dull stint behind his desk until the damn thing was free of paper.
But if he was stuck with it, then so was Fraser, which was some small consolation. Misery loves company, that's what they say. Besides, he's much better at this sort of thing than Ray is, the forms in triplicate and the carbon copies.
It was shaping up to be a long, dull night.
Fraser didn't make a sound when it happens, but flinches none-the-less.
"What's wrong now? Files not in proper Canadian alphabetcha-whatisit order?" Ray, scowling, leaned back in his chair at an impossible angle.
"Canada and the United States, and a great deal of the rest of the world, all use the same Roman characters. And it's alphabetical order." Fraser said with a decidedly irritable edge in his voice. He held one finger out in front of him warily, eyeing the offending digit. A bright, thin line of blood welled up as he watched. "I'll just go rinse this off..."
"Oh, fer... it's just a papercut, Frase."
"Yes, seeing as it's my finger, I'm quite aware of that," Fraser snapped.
"Just stick it in your mouth," Ray said dismissively. "You lick weirder things than that all the time."
"It's not hygienic, Ray," he said firmly.
"Of all the times to start worrying... y'freak." There was a brief, considering pause. "Wimp," Ray said decisively.
"I don't see how-"
"Wimp," Ray repeated, more firmly this time. "Just do it."
"I will not-"
"Do it."
"No."
"Do it."
"No."
"Do it."
"No!"
"Do it!"
"I refuse to-oh, all right," Fraser said with the long-suffering air he usually reserves for Diefenbaker. He stuck his index finger in his mouth, looking absurdly childish, and then helds it up for inspection. "There. Are you happy now?"
"Yeah," Ray said smugly. Fraser eyed him balefully. "What, I'm not gonna kiss it better for you."
"I should think not," Fraser said stuffily, pulling his hand away.
"What, you don't want me to? You think I couldn't do it?" Ray challenged in a mercurial shift of mood.
"I never said-"
"Because lemme tell you, I've done my share of owie-fixing. Stella's got enough nieces and nephews for the both of us, and what with all the scraped knees and bit fingers-"
"I'm not questioning your ability to-"
"I think you are."
"I am not-"
"I'm not good enough to kiss it better for you? Is that it?"
"You're being ridiculous." The martyred tone was back in Fraser's voice. Ray grinned fiendishly.
"So you admit you're a wimp?" he says, completely ignoring the leap of logic.
"I'll do nothing of the sort," Fraser said decisively. And called Ray's bluff. And held out his finger challengingly.
Ray eyed him suspiciously, but didn't back down, just leaned forward and pressed his lips to Fraser's finger in a surprisingly solemn gesture.
For a long moment, they stood frozen.
Fraser moved first, cautiously withdrawing his hand as if to avoid spooking a wild animal.
Ray leaned back in his chair again and propped his feet up on the desk, eyes fixed on Fraser the whole time.
"I'll... I'll just go get a band-aid for this," said Fraser, cradling his hand to his chest like something precious.
"You do that," said Ray.
Fraser turned to go.
Ray surreptitiously licked his lips.
***
Deep, brackish water, rising fast. Ray struggling behind him. Falling behind. Forcing air between unnervingly slack lips. Ray surfacing beside him to… float limply face-down in the water. [more]
And then Fraser woke up.
It had begun after the Henry Allan. Though it had been nothing more than just one more obstacle, annoyance, frustration at the time, Ray's reluctant confession that he couldn't swim had come back to haunt Fraser.
[more]
And every night, Ray died again. Fraser had had nightmares before. [childhood]
After… after Victoria, Fraser had spent months stumbling desperately through weary, muddled dreams of ransacked rooms, falling snow, and a train pulling inexorably away from the station
[more]
His subconscious, Fraser reflected sourly, was far more imaginative-in a homicidal sort of way-than he'd suspected.
[cyanide in his coffee instead of smarties]
Or the time he'd stumbled over a limp body, and turned it over to find himself staring into Ray's lifeless face, slack and pale. His throat had been slit.
The night before that, Ray had turned to him, gun in hand, and aimed at Fraser's heart. Fraser had briefly, wildly wondered if Ray's eyesight was bad enough to miss a chest shot from a distance of less than two meters. Then Ray had smiled seraphically, pressed the muzzle to his temple, and pulled the trigger.
[wakes up next to warm body]
[wakes up again] The bed was cold, and he was alone. The pillow next to him was smooth and perfect, free of the imprint of a head next to his.
Fraser lay awake until it was time to get up. [change]
***
[bit that makes Thatcher jealous]
***
The game had gone into overtime when Ray heard the knock at the door. "Right, don't bother getting up or anything," he grumbled. His companion's only response was a deeply reproachful look. "Yeah, you're just lucky I got cable. 'Least it's not curling. Hockey, I can do," he tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the door. Dief tucked his nose under his paws, and turned resolutely back to the game.
It was, as Ray'd expected, Fraser on his doorstep. In jeans, leather jacket, and a thick sweater. That, he hadn't expected. He swung the door open.
"Hey, Frase. What happened to the dress-up Mountie get-up?"
"Ah. That." Fraser grimaced. "An unfortunate incident involving the Korean ambassador and a bottle of red wine. I fear he was rather... inebriated. I took the liberty of changing before I left."
"Looks good," Ray replied without thinking, and was immediately struck by the urge to apply head to doorjamb. What the hell was he thinking, actually saying it out loud?
"Thank you, Ray," Fraser said formally.
But it did look good, Ray admitted to himself.
There was an awkward moment of silence.
"Thank you for keeping Diefenbaker occupied. He would have been bored to tears at the reception tonight."
"Yeah, and you weren't?"
"Really, Ray. It's not a question of boredom but one of duty," Fraser said repressively, hat in one hand, the other buried in the thick ruff of fur around the wolf's neck as Dief whuffled inquisitively at his pockets. "Yes, yes, I'm glad to see you too. No, I did not bring you back any of the pastries. No. No, I will not. You are a carnivore, not a... a..."
"Cream-puff-ivore?" Ray suggested, straight-faced. "C'mon in, Frase. No way I'm letting you walk back. I'll get you something hot to drink, and then I'll drop both of you off."
"No really, Ray, I couldn't-"
"Don't be stupid," Ray said, more harshly than he'd intended. "You just walked I don't know how many blocks back, it's cold, it's windy, and I don't know how you do things in Canada, but here in the States, we've got this thing called hypothermia, Fraser."
"Don't be silly, Ray, in order for hypothermia to set in, my core body temperature would have to-"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Ray waved off Fraser's protests, and set him down on the couch. Dief curled up smugly at his feet with a lofty air of lupine tolerance for the failings of mere humans.
"Really, I'm fine."
He wasn't. Fraser looked tired, dragged-out, up past his bedtime tired. The Ice Queen had kept him late with paperwork the night before, then insisted stiffly that he stay for some fancy diplomatic reception deal again tonight, and now here it was past midnight, and Ray knew and she knew that Fraser was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type guy.
Fraser had stayed as long as she'd needed him with his usual infuriating politeness. Fraser had called it unfortunate but unavoidable scheduling. Ray, he didn't know what was up with Thatcher, but he knew petty when he saw it.
"Just lemme get you some coffee already," Ray said firmly.
"Tea would be preferable-"
"Okay, tea, got it." Ray ducked into the kitchen and started rummaging through the cupboards. "I don't have any bark tea, they don't got a rare Canadian foods section at the grocery store, but I think I got some maple stuff." He did. He'd picked it up on a whim-okay, admit it, because it reminded him of Fraser. Ray plugged in the kettle, tracked down the teapot, and rinsed out two of the more clean-ish coffee mugs.
"Should be done in a minute, Fraser."
No response.
"Fraser?"
Fraser had fallen asleep on the couch.
[more]
And as much as Ray hated to admit it, sleepy Fraser Did Things for him.
Ray eyed Fraser with a look that could only be called predatory. Dief whined. "Relax, buddy, I'm not going to eat him," Ray grumbled, and then flushed as that train of thought came to its logical conclusion.
***
"For God's sake, Dad, I am an adult! My love life-my sex life-is none of your concern!"
"I may be dead, but I'm still your father. I'm just saying that you might take the time to think of the rest of the family every once in a while. Some of us want to see the family name carried on, you know."
"Dad. You're dead."
"I don't see why you feel the need to keep repeating that. I was there. I know."
"You're dead-"
"See, there you go again."
"Would you stop that? You're dead. Mom's dead. I have no surviving grandparents."
"What, just because I've passed on I'm to give up any sort of interest in my own flesh and blood?"
Fraser's voice rose slowly but steadily. "-I have no surviving grandparents," he repeated loudly, "and Maggie could care less if I breed!"
"I don't see why you couldn't take up with that Thatcher woman. She's got good child-bearing hips."
"Dad! Really!"
"And she's been sniffing after you like a bitch in heat. Spring, son. It stirs the hearts and the loins."
"This is hardly a... a.... an appropriate conversation to be having about my superior officer! Besides, you know my... affections lie elsewhere."
"He's a man, son."
"Yes, yes Dad, I think I'd noticed that."
"And he's a Yank! And we both know how well that turned out the last time!"
Benton's jaw tightened. The sudden silence stretched between the two of them like a rope pulled tight.
"I'm sorry, son," Fraser Senior said finally, awkwardly.
"Yes." Fraser stared out the cabin window at the falling snow, arms pulled tight around himself as if to ward off the cold. "So am I."
***
"Really, Ray," Fraser had protested, "you don't have to come just because we're..."
"Do you want me to come?" Ray has asked reasonably, leaning across Fraser's lap and stealing the remote long enough to change the channel from a National Geographic special back to the hockey game.
Not that he'd admit it, but the National Geographic thing hadn't been half-bad, all arctic explorers and lost expeditions. It made Fraser's eyes go all cool and distant though, like they'd turned into some of that ice he wanted to go home to see. Beside, it was the principle of the thing.
"I would enjoy your company, yes-"
"Then pack enough of that pelican stuff for both of us, Frase."
"You mean pemmican."
"Whatever that weird Canadian dried meat gunk is." With that, Ray leaned over and silenced Fraser's lips with what was supposed to be a quick kiss, but turned into groping pretty damn fast, which turned into both of them losing clothes and Ray pulling Fraser towards the bedroom by those Mountie suspenders, which might look like one of the stupidest things ever invented, but could come in damn useful sometimes.
And after, Ray had tangled his fingers through Fraser's thick hair as he laid his head on Ray's chest, and asked him, "So we're what then?"
"Hmm?" Fraser had said sleepily.
"You said I didn't have to come just because we're something. And Fraser, buddy, you stopped before you got the something. So what are we?"
"What do you mean, Ray?" Fraser slowly trailed his fingertips up and down Ray's bare arm, tracing the structures of muscle and bone by touch.
"What am I, Fraser? I gotta know. Because this is not just friends any more. Fuck-buddy? Your boyfriend? Some sorta experimental fling?" he added unhappily.
Fraser's hand stilled. "This is not a fling, Ray," he said quietly.
"What is it, then?"
"What do you want it to be?"
Ray sat up and pulled away. "Do not do this, Fraser," he snapped, hand tightening over Fraser's. "I need to know. What. Are. We?"
Fraser chose his words very carefully. "I can't tell you what this is, Ray. All I can tell you is what I'd like it to be."
"What, then?"
"Partners. If you'll have me."
"You're a freak, you know that? A... a... Canadian freak!"
Fraser stiffened. "I see," he said guardedly.
"See what I mean?" Ray muttered. "Of course I'll have you!"
"Oh," Fraser said wonderingly.
"Yeah, oh." Ray tried to scowl, but couldn't help but grin.
"I'm glad," Fraser said softly, and leaned in for another kiss.
"So," said Ray, leaning back again against the pillows, "when do we leave for the great north white stuff?"
"Next week?"
"Sounds good," he said sleepily. "You can teach me to snowshoe or something."
random conversation aka what happens when
troutkitty and I go to a Headstones concert. From Oct '00.
Barb: Thank you kindly. Fraser and Joe in cahoots, can you see it? We still need to do the Ray takes Fraser to a concert and gets all but raped (in the nicest way possible) by the wildly moussed, dark haired, cuff and collar wearing rock band leader in a black leather jacket
Ophelia: Ooh, yes. I can just hear Fraser.
"An acquaintancce of yours, Ray?"
"Mmm. Yeah. Old friend."
"Friend indeed."
"What's that?"
"That's a pretty odd sort of friend."
"Whadda ya mean by that?"
(huffily) "He had his tongue down your throat, Ray!"
"Um, yeah. That's a... uh, an American thing. Yeah. For uh... uh... Arbor Day. Shove your tongue down a guy's throat and you'll have good luck all year.
"I thought Arbor Day was in August?"
"They changed that.
"They did?"
"Yeah, they did."
"I see. So, what was the grabbing of the buttocks about?"
"Uh... that's for luck too. It's a musician thing. Like that whole break a leg schtick."
"I believe that's actors, Ray."
"Actors, singers, same diff."
"And your... reciprocation? I believe that you're neither an actor nor a musician."
"Fraser, look! Wolves!"
"Don't be silly, Ray. Wolves are seldom, if ever found in an urban environment, and--"
"Wolf, then, wolf. Singular. As in deaf wolf with a thing for licking my ear? As in wolf scarfing down pizza...."
"Oh, dear."
Hard Core Logo randomness
*
Joe: William there, is a fuckin' black hole, y'see. A great big black sucking pit of need. He takes and takes and you can never give enough for Billy-boy. Even when we were kids it was fuckin' hey look at me Joe, look at me. So I take my eyes off him for two fucking seconds, and where's Billy? The fucker's taken off. To fucking L.A. What a prick, eh?
Billy: Joe... Joe is never happy unless he's the centre of attention. You've always gotta be... looking at him. Watching him. Twenty-four, seven. Otherwise he'll... he'll do anything to make sure he's the only thing you see. Even when we were kids. It's been, what, fucking twenty years. Sorry. Twenty years. You just get... tired, y'know? And it's easier to just not be there any more.
*
"What's this, William?" Joe stands there, contract in hand. "What does this mean?"
"You... you went through my stuff! You went through my fucking stuff!"
"It looks like a contract to me. With Ed fucking Festus. Is that what this is, Billy? What did I tell you about him? I told you to stay away from him, didn't I?"
"That... that is none of your goddamned business, Joe. Got it?"
"Does it mean more to you than the band, Billy? Does it?" Joe flicks the lighter casually.
"You bastard! You fucking bastard!" Billy is poised on the balls of his feet now, jaw tight and fists clenched.
Pipe edges towards the door, pulling John along with him.
"Does it mean more to you than I do?" Joe says pleasantly, lighter in one hand, paper held dangling above it with the other.
Billy stares at the contract fixedly.
"Does it?" Joe repeats, louder now, leaning in close.
Billy kicks the garbage can. It skids noisily across the room.
Billy punches the wall. It cracks and caves unevenly beneath his fist.
Billy turns his back on Joe and slams the door behind him.
*
It's after midnight.
It's dark backstage.
There's nobody else around.
"Goddammit, Joe..." Billy's voice is harsh with smoke and shouting, and catches roughly in his throat.
Joe smirks. "What is it now, William? Am I too close? Not close enough? Do you even know any more? Well, do you?" Joe is close, right there, right up against Billy. Joe's never been good with distances or spaces. Or silence.
There's nothing new about the warmth and weight of Joe's body pressed up against Billy.
"You know I always give you what you need, Billy."
"Since when have you ever given me what I wanted?"
"You're not listening," Joe chides mockingly. "I never give you what you want. I give you what you need."
There's nothing new, though neither of them would ever admit to it if pressed, about Joe's hand sliding slowly up Billy's thigh.
"And you need this."
The blood, though, that drips sluggishly down the side of Joe's face and neck to stain Billy's faded jeans, and the gaping hole in the side of Joe's head, that is new.
"I hate you," Billy says softly.
"I know." Joe grins savagely. "But we've still got hours still until morning, Billy-boy. Hours more until you're all alone again."
"Fuck..."
Joe can't tell if Billy's waiting for dawn or dreading it. And to tell the truth for once, neither is Billy.
*
Random Highlander scene
"You mean to tell me, that in however many hundred years-how many is it? Two? Three? Never mind, that's not important right now-that in several hundred years you've never done anything you regretted, never done anything you knew you shouldn't, never done anything that seemed like a really good idea at the time, but in the end, wasn't? Even you aren't always on the side of the angels, Macleod."
"And you just accidentally spent a thousand years raping and pillaging your way across a continent?"
"You still don't get it, do you? How can you be so bloody thick? This isn't about me," he said gently.
"It's not?"
"No. It's about you."
(No idea WHERE this was going, BTW...)
Incidentally, found this quote, too: "Paul Gross is a slut who gets Yahoo drunk and fucks it up the ass." Undoubtedly from Bindlechat. Heh.
untitled Dark Angel fic
He had started out kneeling with his hands behind his head, fingers interlaced. But that had been... wrong.
"No, not like that. Hands on the floor."
Zack reluctantly leans forward, and touches his fingertips to the hardwood floor.
"Palms flat on the floor," comes the gentle rebuke. And he flushes with anger and with chagrin, and flattens his palms against the smooth surface.
"Good boy."
There is a long silence, a drawn-out space of waiting where there is nothing but the indrawn rush of each breath, echoing raggedly in his ears, the quickening thud of his heart, and the slow-growing tension tightening his recalcitrant body.
At any other time, in any other place, the varnished hardwood would register in his brain in terms of traction, speed, and tactics. Now, all he is aware of is the feel of the glossy varnish and the fine grain of the wood beneath his splayed fingers and sweaty palms, and the chill of the floorboards under his bare knees.
And all he can think is how very defenseless he is. How very exposed. It prickles up the back of his bare neck and makes him shake, a steady, subtle tremor that rocks him to the core. His shoulders are tight, and his neck is tight, and his hands are braced hard against the floor, and no matter how firm he holds his jaw, no matter how much it hurts, the tears still come, spilling hot and silent down his cheeks.
He does not make a sound when he cries. Manticore taught them so many things. Show no weakness. Show no mercy. Show no fear.
But he is afraid. His brothers and sisters depend on him. It's up to him to keep them all alive. If he were to break... if he were to crack...
"What would happen then?" Logan asks. He is standing (standing?) before Zack, regarding him with a look of mild interest.
"I... I don't know," Zack husks. There is something wrong with his voice. And his throat, which is unaccountably tight.
"I think you do know." Logan sits back on his heels in front of Zack. "Look at me," he says with an easy, innate confidence. Zack shakes his head, jaw tight. "Look at me," he repeats more firmly, and cups Zack's chin with one warm hand, forcing him to tip his head back.
Zack looks up.
Logan looks back at him, eyes steady and bright behind wire frames and clear glass. "There now. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"It... I..." Zack struggles.
"Shh." Logan places a warning finger to his lips. "Not now."
Zack bows his head once again, closes his eyes, and waits.
It's a feather-light touch at first, fingers brushed casually across the nape of his neck. Then a warm hand rests there instead, thumb running idly back and forth over the bar code that marks him. He holds himself very carefully, deliberately still.
The hand at his neck starts to tighten slowly. It doesn't hurt. At first. At first it's just a slowly-growing, steady pressure. And then long fingers begin to push at his windpipe, and bright spots flicker behind his closed eyelids, and it does hurt. Still, he does not move. He was made to withstand torture. This physical pain is just an inconvenience, despite the fight to keep instinct from taking over. The urge is rising to gag uncontrollably, to claw at the hand that chokes him-
And then the pressure is gone, and he can't help but slump forward. Hands on his shoulders now, holding him upright, holding him steady.
"Easy there. Too much?"
Zack, eyes still shut, shakes his head.
"Good," says Logan. The quietly pleased, matter-of-fact tone makes Zack's stomach clench and his knees weaken. It's not fear. It's anticipation. And he hates himself for it. He's not supposed to want this. He's not supposed to need this. Sex is a weapon. Sex is a tool. Lust is an inconvenience.
Which doesn't explain why his mouth is dry, and his palms are sweaty against the polished floor, and his face is hot and flushed.
His eyes are fixed on the grain of the floorboards. He holds himself shudderingly stiff, and he doesn't twitch when Logan-who is behind him now, he can tell from the heat of his body close against his back-when Logan leans in closer, and slides one hand from the small of his back across the plane of his [hip]. The other hand cups his chin, and a calloused thumb rests against his parted lips.
Zack's breathing quickens. He can feel lips now, too, and the wet warmth of a tongue at the nape of his neck.
[more]
[something] says Logan. Zack finally realizes what's different about him. He's borrowed Lydecker's voice. He wonders if Lydecker will come after Logan, mute and furious, demanding his voice back. Or if they'd made a fair trade, and Lydecker took Logan's voice in exchange. He wonders if someone has taken his own voice, because he, after all, is naked and kneeling and cannot make a sound.
"[something else Manticore-ish]."
Zack looks up. It's not Lydecker after all. Max is standing in front of him, frowning. She tilts her head to one side, and raises an eyebrow.
"I didn't mean it," he says rustily. So they've given him speech again. "A soldier.. a soldier..." But just having the words back aren't enough, and he can't remember what comes next. Max just looks as at him skeptically, sadly, if he's failed her somehow. She shakes her head, and walks away.
Zack wakes up, fighting his way out of a tangle of sheets and blankets and drug-addled delirium.
DS randomness
It all started with a cup of coffee. They would argue over it afterwards, and sometimes one or the other would claim that it started before that, with (what?) or even earlier with a dream catcher and an eclipse.
But for the most part, it started with a cup of coffee. And it would figure that Ray forgot all about it until they were halfway to the station.
"Shit!"
"What is it, Ray?" The words were perfectly civil, all nice and polite and Canadian, but Ray could just *hear* Fraser disapproving. God knew he wasn't usually above making snarky comments about Ray's language, but maybe it was too early in the morning even for Mounties to be snarky.
Or maybe he just knew it was too early for Ray.
"Oh, I owe Frannie one for running those plates yesterday. Dammit. I was going to, I dunno, get her chocolate or something, or she'll hold it over my head for months. Y'know how she gets."
"I do indeed." Fraser looked downright uncomfortable. Ray grinned to himself. Yeah, if anybody knew about Frannie's... persistence, it was Fraser.
"Oh, hey, coffee! One of those fancy ones... triple-mocha-cuppa-whatever." And wouldn't you know it, there was one of those trendy coffee places on the corner.
"I believe Francesca drinks low-fat decaffienated lattes," Fraser said absently. Ray was already pulling up to the curb.
"Yeesh, what's the point then, tell me that."
"Not being an avid specialty coffee drinker, I couldn't tell you."
***
Ray does not like paperwork. In fact, you might even go so far as to say he hates it. Hates it with a passion formerly reserved for algebra and his seventh grade math teacher. But when Welsh got that look in his eye and that tone in his voice, that or-else sort of tone, Ray sighed and resigned himself to a long, dull stint behind his desk until the damn thing was free of paper.
But if he was stuck with it, then so was Fraser, which was some small consolation. Misery loves company, that's what they say. Besides, he's much better at this sort of thing than Ray is, the forms in triplicate and the carbon copies.
It was shaping up to be a long, dull night.
Fraser didn't make a sound when it happens, but flinches none-the-less.
"What's wrong now? Files not in proper Canadian alphabetcha-whatisit order?" Ray, scowling, leaned back in his chair at an impossible angle.
"Canada and the United States, and a great deal of the rest of the world, all use the same Roman characters. And it's alphabetical order." Fraser said with a decidedly irritable edge in his voice. He held one finger out in front of him warily, eyeing the offending digit. A bright, thin line of blood welled up as he watched. "I'll just go rinse this off..."
"Oh, fer... it's just a papercut, Frase."
"Yes, seeing as it's my finger, I'm quite aware of that," Fraser snapped.
"Just stick it in your mouth," Ray said dismissively. "You lick weirder things than that all the time."
"It's not hygienic, Ray," he said firmly.
"Of all the times to start worrying... y'freak." There was a brief, considering pause. "Wimp," Ray said decisively.
"I don't see how-"
"Wimp," Ray repeated, more firmly this time. "Just do it."
"I will not-"
"Do it."
"No."
"Do it."
"No."
"Do it."
"No!"
"Do it!"
"I refuse to-oh, all right," Fraser said with the long-suffering air he usually reserves for Diefenbaker. He stuck his index finger in his mouth, looking absurdly childish, and then helds it up for inspection. "There. Are you happy now?"
"Yeah," Ray said smugly. Fraser eyed him balefully. "What, I'm not gonna kiss it better for you."
"I should think not," Fraser said stuffily, pulling his hand away.
"What, you don't want me to? You think I couldn't do it?" Ray challenged in a mercurial shift of mood.
"I never said-"
"Because lemme tell you, I've done my share of owie-fixing. Stella's got enough nieces and nephews for the both of us, and what with all the scraped knees and bit fingers-"
"I'm not questioning your ability to-"
"I think you are."
"I am not-"
"I'm not good enough to kiss it better for you? Is that it?"
"You're being ridiculous." The martyred tone was back in Fraser's voice. Ray grinned fiendishly.
"So you admit you're a wimp?" he says, completely ignoring the leap of logic.
"I'll do nothing of the sort," Fraser said decisively. And called Ray's bluff. And held out his finger challengingly.
Ray eyed him suspiciously, but didn't back down, just leaned forward and pressed his lips to Fraser's finger in a surprisingly solemn gesture.
For a long moment, they stood frozen.
Fraser moved first, cautiously withdrawing his hand as if to avoid spooking a wild animal.
Ray leaned back in his chair again and propped his feet up on the desk, eyes fixed on Fraser the whole time.
"I'll... I'll just go get a band-aid for this," said Fraser, cradling his hand to his chest like something precious.
"You do that," said Ray.
Fraser turned to go.
Ray surreptitiously licked his lips.
***
Deep, brackish water, rising fast. Ray struggling behind him. Falling behind. Forcing air between unnervingly slack lips. Ray surfacing beside him to… float limply face-down in the water. [more]
And then Fraser woke up.
It had begun after the Henry Allan. Though it had been nothing more than just one more obstacle, annoyance, frustration at the time, Ray's reluctant confession that he couldn't swim had come back to haunt Fraser.
[more]
And every night, Ray died again. Fraser had had nightmares before. [childhood]
After… after Victoria, Fraser had spent months stumbling desperately through weary, muddled dreams of ransacked rooms, falling snow, and a train pulling inexorably away from the station
[more]
His subconscious, Fraser reflected sourly, was far more imaginative-in a homicidal sort of way-than he'd suspected.
[cyanide in his coffee instead of smarties]
Or the time he'd stumbled over a limp body, and turned it over to find himself staring into Ray's lifeless face, slack and pale. His throat had been slit.
The night before that, Ray had turned to him, gun in hand, and aimed at Fraser's heart. Fraser had briefly, wildly wondered if Ray's eyesight was bad enough to miss a chest shot from a distance of less than two meters. Then Ray had smiled seraphically, pressed the muzzle to his temple, and pulled the trigger.
[wakes up next to warm body]
[wakes up again] The bed was cold, and he was alone. The pillow next to him was smooth and perfect, free of the imprint of a head next to his.
Fraser lay awake until it was time to get up. [change]
***
[bit that makes Thatcher jealous]
***
The game had gone into overtime when Ray heard the knock at the door. "Right, don't bother getting up or anything," he grumbled. His companion's only response was a deeply reproachful look. "Yeah, you're just lucky I got cable. 'Least it's not curling. Hockey, I can do," he tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the door. Dief tucked his nose under his paws, and turned resolutely back to the game.
It was, as Ray'd expected, Fraser on his doorstep. In jeans, leather jacket, and a thick sweater. That, he hadn't expected. He swung the door open.
"Hey, Frase. What happened to the dress-up Mountie get-up?"
"Ah. That." Fraser grimaced. "An unfortunate incident involving the Korean ambassador and a bottle of red wine. I fear he was rather... inebriated. I took the liberty of changing before I left."
"Looks good," Ray replied without thinking, and was immediately struck by the urge to apply head to doorjamb. What the hell was he thinking, actually saying it out loud?
"Thank you, Ray," Fraser said formally.
But it did look good, Ray admitted to himself.
There was an awkward moment of silence.
"Thank you for keeping Diefenbaker occupied. He would have been bored to tears at the reception tonight."
"Yeah, and you weren't?"
"Really, Ray. It's not a question of boredom but one of duty," Fraser said repressively, hat in one hand, the other buried in the thick ruff of fur around the wolf's neck as Dief whuffled inquisitively at his pockets. "Yes, yes, I'm glad to see you too. No, I did not bring you back any of the pastries. No. No, I will not. You are a carnivore, not a... a..."
"Cream-puff-ivore?" Ray suggested, straight-faced. "C'mon in, Frase. No way I'm letting you walk back. I'll get you something hot to drink, and then I'll drop both of you off."
"No really, Ray, I couldn't-"
"Don't be stupid," Ray said, more harshly than he'd intended. "You just walked I don't know how many blocks back, it's cold, it's windy, and I don't know how you do things in Canada, but here in the States, we've got this thing called hypothermia, Fraser."
"Don't be silly, Ray, in order for hypothermia to set in, my core body temperature would have to-"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Ray waved off Fraser's protests, and set him down on the couch. Dief curled up smugly at his feet with a lofty air of lupine tolerance for the failings of mere humans.
"Really, I'm fine."
He wasn't. Fraser looked tired, dragged-out, up past his bedtime tired. The Ice Queen had kept him late with paperwork the night before, then insisted stiffly that he stay for some fancy diplomatic reception deal again tonight, and now here it was past midnight, and Ray knew and she knew that Fraser was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type guy.
Fraser had stayed as long as she'd needed him with his usual infuriating politeness. Fraser had called it unfortunate but unavoidable scheduling. Ray, he didn't know what was up with Thatcher, but he knew petty when he saw it.
"Just lemme get you some coffee already," Ray said firmly.
"Tea would be preferable-"
"Okay, tea, got it." Ray ducked into the kitchen and started rummaging through the cupboards. "I don't have any bark tea, they don't got a rare Canadian foods section at the grocery store, but I think I got some maple stuff." He did. He'd picked it up on a whim-okay, admit it, because it reminded him of Fraser. Ray plugged in the kettle, tracked down the teapot, and rinsed out two of the more clean-ish coffee mugs.
"Should be done in a minute, Fraser."
No response.
"Fraser?"
Fraser had fallen asleep on the couch.
[more]
And as much as Ray hated to admit it, sleepy Fraser Did Things for him.
Ray eyed Fraser with a look that could only be called predatory. Dief whined. "Relax, buddy, I'm not going to eat him," Ray grumbled, and then flushed as that train of thought came to its logical conclusion.
***
"For God's sake, Dad, I am an adult! My love life-my sex life-is none of your concern!"
"I may be dead, but I'm still your father. I'm just saying that you might take the time to think of the rest of the family every once in a while. Some of us want to see the family name carried on, you know."
"Dad. You're dead."
"I don't see why you feel the need to keep repeating that. I was there. I know."
"You're dead-"
"See, there you go again."
"Would you stop that? You're dead. Mom's dead. I have no surviving grandparents."
"What, just because I've passed on I'm to give up any sort of interest in my own flesh and blood?"
Fraser's voice rose slowly but steadily. "-I have no surviving grandparents," he repeated loudly, "and Maggie could care less if I breed!"
"I don't see why you couldn't take up with that Thatcher woman. She's got good child-bearing hips."
"Dad! Really!"
"And she's been sniffing after you like a bitch in heat. Spring, son. It stirs the hearts and the loins."
"This is hardly a... a.... an appropriate conversation to be having about my superior officer! Besides, you know my... affections lie elsewhere."
"He's a man, son."
"Yes, yes Dad, I think I'd noticed that."
"And he's a Yank! And we both know how well that turned out the last time!"
Benton's jaw tightened. The sudden silence stretched between the two of them like a rope pulled tight.
"I'm sorry, son," Fraser Senior said finally, awkwardly.
"Yes." Fraser stared out the cabin window at the falling snow, arms pulled tight around himself as if to ward off the cold. "So am I."
***
"Really, Ray," Fraser had protested, "you don't have to come just because we're..."
"Do you want me to come?" Ray has asked reasonably, leaning across Fraser's lap and stealing the remote long enough to change the channel from a National Geographic special back to the hockey game.
Not that he'd admit it, but the National Geographic thing hadn't been half-bad, all arctic explorers and lost expeditions. It made Fraser's eyes go all cool and distant though, like they'd turned into some of that ice he wanted to go home to see. Beside, it was the principle of the thing.
"I would enjoy your company, yes-"
"Then pack enough of that pelican stuff for both of us, Frase."
"You mean pemmican."
"Whatever that weird Canadian dried meat gunk is." With that, Ray leaned over and silenced Fraser's lips with what was supposed to be a quick kiss, but turned into groping pretty damn fast, which turned into both of them losing clothes and Ray pulling Fraser towards the bedroom by those Mountie suspenders, which might look like one of the stupidest things ever invented, but could come in damn useful sometimes.
And after, Ray had tangled his fingers through Fraser's thick hair as he laid his head on Ray's chest, and asked him, "So we're what then?"
"Hmm?" Fraser had said sleepily.
"You said I didn't have to come just because we're something. And Fraser, buddy, you stopped before you got the something. So what are we?"
"What do you mean, Ray?" Fraser slowly trailed his fingertips up and down Ray's bare arm, tracing the structures of muscle and bone by touch.
"What am I, Fraser? I gotta know. Because this is not just friends any more. Fuck-buddy? Your boyfriend? Some sorta experimental fling?" he added unhappily.
Fraser's hand stilled. "This is not a fling, Ray," he said quietly.
"What is it, then?"
"What do you want it to be?"
Ray sat up and pulled away. "Do not do this, Fraser," he snapped, hand tightening over Fraser's. "I need to know. What. Are. We?"
Fraser chose his words very carefully. "I can't tell you what this is, Ray. All I can tell you is what I'd like it to be."
"What, then?"
"Partners. If you'll have me."
"You're a freak, you know that? A... a... Canadian freak!"
Fraser stiffened. "I see," he said guardedly.
"See what I mean?" Ray muttered. "Of course I'll have you!"
"Oh," Fraser said wonderingly.
"Yeah, oh." Ray tried to scowl, but couldn't help but grin.
"I'm glad," Fraser said softly, and leaned in for another kiss.
"So," said Ray, leaning back again against the pillows, "when do we leave for the great north white stuff?"
"Next week?"
"Sounds good," he said sleepily. "You can teach me to snowshoe or something."
random conversation aka what happens when
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
Barb: Thank you kindly. Fraser and Joe in cahoots, can you see it? We still need to do the Ray takes Fraser to a concert and gets all but raped (in the nicest way possible) by the wildly moussed, dark haired, cuff and collar wearing rock band leader in a black leather jacket
Ophelia: Ooh, yes. I can just hear Fraser.
"An acquaintancce of yours, Ray?"
"Mmm. Yeah. Old friend."
"Friend indeed."
"What's that?"
"That's a pretty odd sort of friend."
"Whadda ya mean by that?"
(huffily) "He had his tongue down your throat, Ray!"
"Um, yeah. That's a... uh, an American thing. Yeah. For uh... uh... Arbor Day. Shove your tongue down a guy's throat and you'll have good luck all year.
"I thought Arbor Day was in August?"
"They changed that.
"They did?"
"Yeah, they did."
"I see. So, what was the grabbing of the buttocks about?"
"Uh... that's for luck too. It's a musician thing. Like that whole break a leg schtick."
"I believe that's actors, Ray."
"Actors, singers, same diff."
"And your... reciprocation? I believe that you're neither an actor nor a musician."
"Fraser, look! Wolves!"
"Don't be silly, Ray. Wolves are seldom, if ever found in an urban environment, and--"
"Wolf, then, wolf. Singular. As in deaf wolf with a thing for licking my ear? As in wolf scarfing down pizza...."
"Oh, dear."
Hard Core Logo randomness
*
Joe: William there, is a fuckin' black hole, y'see. A great big black sucking pit of need. He takes and takes and you can never give enough for Billy-boy. Even when we were kids it was fuckin' hey look at me Joe, look at me. So I take my eyes off him for two fucking seconds, and where's Billy? The fucker's taken off. To fucking L.A. What a prick, eh?
Billy: Joe... Joe is never happy unless he's the centre of attention. You've always gotta be... looking at him. Watching him. Twenty-four, seven. Otherwise he'll... he'll do anything to make sure he's the only thing you see. Even when we were kids. It's been, what, fucking twenty years. Sorry. Twenty years. You just get... tired, y'know? And it's easier to just not be there any more.
*
"What's this, William?" Joe stands there, contract in hand. "What does this mean?"
"You... you went through my stuff! You went through my fucking stuff!"
"It looks like a contract to me. With Ed fucking Festus. Is that what this is, Billy? What did I tell you about him? I told you to stay away from him, didn't I?"
"That... that is none of your goddamned business, Joe. Got it?"
"Does it mean more to you than the band, Billy? Does it?" Joe flicks the lighter casually.
"You bastard! You fucking bastard!" Billy is poised on the balls of his feet now, jaw tight and fists clenched.
Pipe edges towards the door, pulling John along with him.
"Does it mean more to you than I do?" Joe says pleasantly, lighter in one hand, paper held dangling above it with the other.
Billy stares at the contract fixedly.
"Does it?" Joe repeats, louder now, leaning in close.
Billy kicks the garbage can. It skids noisily across the room.
Billy punches the wall. It cracks and caves unevenly beneath his fist.
Billy turns his back on Joe and slams the door behind him.
*
It's after midnight.
It's dark backstage.
There's nobody else around.
"Goddammit, Joe..." Billy's voice is harsh with smoke and shouting, and catches roughly in his throat.
Joe smirks. "What is it now, William? Am I too close? Not close enough? Do you even know any more? Well, do you?" Joe is close, right there, right up against Billy. Joe's never been good with distances or spaces. Or silence.
There's nothing new about the warmth and weight of Joe's body pressed up against Billy.
"You know I always give you what you need, Billy."
"Since when have you ever given me what I wanted?"
"You're not listening," Joe chides mockingly. "I never give you what you want. I give you what you need."
There's nothing new, though neither of them would ever admit to it if pressed, about Joe's hand sliding slowly up Billy's thigh.
"And you need this."
The blood, though, that drips sluggishly down the side of Joe's face and neck to stain Billy's faded jeans, and the gaping hole in the side of Joe's head, that is new.
"I hate you," Billy says softly.
"I know." Joe grins savagely. "But we've still got hours still until morning, Billy-boy. Hours more until you're all alone again."
"Fuck..."
Joe can't tell if Billy's waiting for dawn or dreading it. And to tell the truth for once, neither is Billy.
*
Random Highlander scene
"You mean to tell me, that in however many hundred years-how many is it? Two? Three? Never mind, that's not important right now-that in several hundred years you've never done anything you regretted, never done anything you knew you shouldn't, never done anything that seemed like a really good idea at the time, but in the end, wasn't? Even you aren't always on the side of the angels, Macleod."
"And you just accidentally spent a thousand years raping and pillaging your way across a continent?"
"You still don't get it, do you? How can you be so bloody thick? This isn't about me," he said gently.
"It's not?"
"No. It's about you."
(No idea WHERE this was going, BTW...)
Incidentally, found this quote, too: "Paul Gross is a slut who gets Yahoo drunk and fucks it up the ass." Undoubtedly from Bindlechat. Heh.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-02-11 05:04 pm (UTC)"Paul Gross is a slut who gets Yahoo drunk and fucks it up the ass." Undoubtedly from Bindlechat. Heh.
I remember that! ::snerk::
Re:
Date: 2004-02-13 09:40 pm (UTC)Hmm. Maybe I should make myself a NCWPG icon...
Re:
Date: 2004-02-14 02:05 pm (UTC)I would get such an immense kick out of that.