try to catch the deluge in a paper cup (primroseburrows) wrote,
try to catch the deluge in a paper cup

F/K kisses are awesome

This is for sam80853, because I promised. *loves*

It's longer than I thought, because I can't just write kisses, I have to add actual plot. *rolls eyes*

Long Weekend
F/K, PG-13

It's been a rough, awful, hell of a weekend. For one thing, I have to work, which is totally messed up because I never work on weekends. No Saturdays, no Sundays. It's in the job description.

Proof positive that I suck when it comes to details: it never registers that hey, maybe Vecchio doesn't have the same contract as me. So I go in on Saturday morning ('just for a couple of hours', Welsh says. Welsh sucks, too.) and I end up staying until Sunday evening.

I'm working alone on top of everything else, because Fraser has his own weekend stupidity to deal with over in the Palace of the Ice Queen, AKA the Canadian Consulate. Fraser, being Fraser, doesn't complain about giving up his Saturday to wash her Highness' car or whatever she's got him doing. "It matters little in the grand scheme of things, Ray," he tells me on the phone. What kind of a sentence is that? Canadian is a weird language.

So anyway, I'm at the 27th all weekend, half the time doing paperwork nobody'll ever see but some spiders, and the other half being held hostage by a pregnant woman in a clown suit. No lie, you can even ask Huey. (Don't ask Dewey, though, because he wasn't there and all you'll get out of him is his 'what's the difference between a pregnant woman and a light bulb' joke, and believe me, you do not want to hear that). She never says what she wants. Police protection for her spawn, maybe, or tiny clown shoes. Who the hell knows?

It's Frannie who ends up talking the lady into giving herself up by swearing up and down that unless she goes voluntarily she'll end up having her baby in prison, and everyone knows that prison babies are always named Irving, especially the girls. Especially the ones with clowns for mothers. Frannie can make people believe anything, but don't ever tell her I said that.

By the time I get home on Sunday it's after seven, and I'm bushed. All I want to do is fall into bed and crash for about a year and a half.

No such luck. As usual, Fraser never got the memo.

The first clue comes when I push the door open and it doesn't hit the pile of empty boxes I've been meaning to recycle. The pile was pretty big, because I keep forgetting to take it out on trash day. Now it's gone. And that isn't the only thing different. The whole apartment is clean. A place for everything (and everything in its place, Ray!, says the cheery Fraservoice in my head). And it's not just tidy. There's not a speck of dust anywhere. This has never happened before. Take my word for it, there's been a constant layer of dust in this apartment since dinosaurs roamed Chicago.

On top of all that, I can smell pizza. Not Tony's pizza, either. More like the kind of pizza you get at the fanciest joints down on Taylor Street, the ones with white tablecloths and Chianti and guys in tuxes who get paid to do nothing but keep the water glasses full.

The last clue is Fraser, smiling hopefully, in jeans and flannels and the dorkiest apron I've ever seen.

"Hello, Ray," says dorky, hopeful Fraser.

"Fraser, what are you doing here?"

"Ah. Well. I stopped by last evening after I concluded my duties at the Consulate. I expected to find you at home, and when I didn't I became concerned and attempted to reach you at work."

"And you're here wearing that apron, why?"

And okay, maybe I'm out of line. I don't mean to make Fraser feel bad or uncomfortable, I just want to know why he's here. It isn't that I don't want him to be. To be honest, he's the best sight I've seen all weekend. Even in the dorky apron. I'm suddenly very glad I gave him my extra key.

"The apron is Constable Turnbull's."

He takes it off and lays it over a chair. I try very hard not to picture Turnbull in said apron.

"I'm here because I didn't know where you were. My concern rose considerably when I couldn't reach you at the 27th. The decision to wait for you here is based on the logical assumption that you'd return home first, if." He stops, swallows, and starts again. "When you were finished your duties at the station."

"Ah", I say. Hey, it's catchy.

"You're all right, then?"


"Good." He smiles, relief plastered all over his face. "I, well. I made pizza, in case you were hungry. I don't know if it's as good as Tony's, but I tried to make it as authentic as possible. I took the liberty of telephoning Mrs. Vecchio for advice and she--"

"Fraser, it smells like Little Italy. It'll be great." I guess I'm over my irritation at Fraser interrupting my sleeping plans. Or maybe I just hate the idea of hurting his feelings. Ever. And Jesus, the pizza smells fantastic and by the time Fraser takes it out of the oven I'm hungry enough to eat, I dunno, a musk ox. He's even put pineapple on it. Somehow I don't think that part was Ma Vecchio's idea.

So I have four slices and Fraser has two and there are two left over to take back to Dief at the Consulate. After that I make decaf and Fraser even has a cup. We sit there in my spotless apartment for another hour, just talking, and I guess I forget I'm tired. There's just so much to say about pregnant clowns and Frannie and Fraser's Dad and the mean temperature in Inuvik on any given Sunday in January.

Besides, I'm starting to notice things, like the way that Fraser's eyes flash when he talks about his mother, or how they hold mine when I tell him about fixing up the Goat with Dad. How he smiles, and how his tongue sweeps over his lower lip after he's been talking for a while. I notice that I don't want him to stop talking any time soon, either. All this noticing should freak me out, but it doesn't.

When he gets up to leave I get up, too, and I grab his hat from the countertop before he can.

"It's early, Fraser, you don't have to leave yet." I'm getting a little breathless, and I suddenly know where this is headed, and yeah, I want it to go there.

"It's ten o'clock, Ray. You've been up for over thirty-two hours." His voice is lower than usual. He's gotta know, too.

"Never said anything about staying up, Frase."


We stand there for a minute, staring at each other like a couple of idiots. I put a stop to it by setting Fraser's hat back on the counter. "Thirty-two hours is a long time to be out of bed, y'know?" I give him a smile that tries really hard to look confident. Probably fails miserably. The one he gives back to me is like a sunrise.

"Indeed. In point of fact, Ray, the very notion of keeping you up any longer would be the quintessence of rudeness," he says, in perfect Canadian, just before he kisses me.

The brush of Fraser's mouth on mine is soft and light and not even close to hesitant. My hands must have a mind of their own, because I don't even realise I've moved them until I feel my fingers threading in his hair, so fucking soft. His arms slide around my waist and bring me in closer. And yeah, I'm in all right, letting myself be drawn like a magnet, like a fish on a line, and I push as he pulls because it isn't fast enough. The wet slide of his mouth is intoxicating, addicting, I'm drowning in it. I open mine under his, and his tongue is slicksoft, and holy fuck, I love the drowning.

My fingers are tangled in his hair, tugging and pulling because dammit, he still isn't close enough. He nips at my lower lip, my chin, my neck. I should be embarrassed at the sounds I'm making but I don't care because Fraser's making sounds too, low, breathless ones, and I'm too busy getting lost inside of them.

I don't know how long he kisses me for, how long we kiss each other. After a while we pull apart some, and for a minute we just look at each other.

Husky, low voice. "I love you, Ray. You know that."

Yeah, Fraser, I know that. I guess I knew before, I just didn't know I knew it, or that I loved you back.

I love you back, Fraser.

I don't have enough higher brain function to say all that right now, so I give him the Readers' Digest Condensed Version.


That sunrise smile again, only this time it's magnified by about a thousand. He gets it. Smart, beautiful man.

He kisses me again, feathersoft. "Come to bed, Ray," he says. "It's been a long weekend."

Nobody ever accused me of being stupid, either.

"Yeah," I say again, and I let him take me.
Tags: f/k, f/k kisses, my fic
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