Prim and Proper

Disclaimer: RayK, Fraser and Mort belong to someone who isn't me. If I owned them, Fraser and Ray would ride into the sunset . except, that's what they did, didn't they? Ah well, still not mine ;)

Author's Notes: Thanks to the guys at ds_flashfiction. A fountain of creative energy. They sell ideas by the dozen :)

Story Notes: That first scene begged to be written. Which I did. Then I had to do something about the angst and this fluffy mess is what came of it.

When he thinks about it now, all he can see are those fucking boots, always so prim an proper but torn and dirtied now. Caked with blood - and he just knows, without a doubt, whose blood it is. He doesn't need to see any more, the boots alone send him spinning and he has to run or else he'd be puking all over the place.

Mort wouldn't like that.

God damn Mountie, had to run into the lion's den without back up. Without him. Ray has no illusions that it would have made much of a difference, there would still be bloody boots hanging over one of Mort's tables, but at least a pair of sneakers would lie right next to them.

He'd been on edge that night, both of them, really. He had been angry and yelled after the red serge and those fucking boots that it wouldn't be his fault if he got himself killed. And it really wasn't. It wasn't his fucking fault and had he gone with Fr... with the stupid fucking Mountie then he'd be dead too and it wasn't his fucking fault.

He thinks about the kind of shoes he's going to wear to the funeral as he empties his stomach, faintly recognizing the pizza he had for breakfast. He wonders whether or not he got anything on his clothes, or on his boots and that makes him shiver.

What the fuck does it matter?

That's when he sees the boots, just like those in the morgue, the same hue of color, the same faint shine and nothing matters anymore because he knows who will look down on him when he lifts his head and that alone is enough to break his heart.

It won't be Fraser.

But then he looks up and what he sees is too cruel, too painful and he starts crying hard. It's Fraser, battered and bruised, his beautiful face marred with cuts so deep he can see bone. Ray closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotion and self-disgust.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I'm so fucking sorry." And it means a lot more than that, it means forgive me and I love you. It means stop hurting me. It means come back to me. But above all it means I'm sorry, so fucking sorry I'd sell my soul for another chance.

His insides freeze as the sharp pain registers in his brain and his guts literally spill on the cold floor of the nondescript hallway. He keeps his eyes shut, unable to face the righteous look on this Fraser's face.

Breathe. Dial. Breathe.

"Fraser?"

A soft groan. "It's three fifty in the morning Ray, whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait until tomorrow morning. Or rather today."

Anger rises up in him. Breathe, he tells himself, breathe. "I'm sorry, Frase. I just ... I needed you to know something."

"And this is so incredibly important that you have to call me in the middle of the night?"

Anger boiling now, so hot it could evaporate Lake Michigan. "No it can not fucking wait. I just had a freaking epiphany and you'll hear me out!" Click. "Fraser? Fraser!"

Breathe. One, two, three. Breathe.

Breathe some more. Dial.

"Okay, listen, I won't leave you alone until you hear me out."

A sigh of resignation and Ray knows he's about to do something really stupid. "I'm sorry."

Silence. Breathe. More silence. Breathe, breathe, fucking breathe.

"What for, Ray?"

It takes a moment to digest, then his eyes go wide. "I am sorry, okay. Sorry I made fun of the uniform, sorry I left like that, sorry I ... I'm sorry."

The silence becomes almost oppressive after that and still Fraser doesn't say a word.

"I mean ... way to spring that on me, you know? I wasn't ... just didn't expect that. I mean, you're a fucking Mountie. And what about Janet Morse and Victoria and ... shit, how was I supposed to react?"

"Well, Ray, I certainly never-"

"Oh no, don't even try to explain this away, not at four in the morning. I ran away. I'm stupid. I didn't expect this:" To have my fantasies delivered to me on a silver platter and ripped apart in the same second. But he doesn't say that, isn't that stupid or desperate.

"Ray, what are you-"

"What I'm trying to say, I fucking panicked, but I ... I don't think ... no one ever meant that much to me and I was afraid to fuck this up. Of course, then I run away and fuck it up big time and I can understand when you wouldn't want to have anything to do with me anymore-"

"Ray! What are you saying?"

Breathe. "I love you Fraser."

Hang up. Breathe. Way to spring that on him.

Breathe. Let the phone ring. Breathe. Just ignore it. Breathe.

"What?"

Silence, but he knows who it is. "What do you want, Fraser?" Breathe.

"Ray ... I... that is to say ... what you just said, did you ... was it your intention-"

"Yes, I meant it, and not symbolically or something. I love you, I can't fucking live without you and I can't stand the idea of you and this guy-"

"Ray. Ray, Ray... what guy?"

Breathe. Slight hitch, heart going a mile a minute. "Well, you said you were in love with this perfect guy and you looked so happy, and so terrified at the same time. Like I'd hate you... like I could hate you for anything."

Silence. Breathe. "Fraser?"

"You... Ray, I think you misunderstood."

Breathe. "I what?"

Silence. Breathe. "What, Fraser? Fraser?"

The next morning Ray falls over a pair of boots. Kind of shiny, very prim and proper but carelessly shucked away, unneeded, unwanted last night. He smiles, making his way to the kitchen, grabbing two cups for coffee.

End Prim and Proper by Suaine: saskia@dcse.de

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