Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. They are property of Alliance/Atlantis, etc

Author's Notes: Any and all comments are greatly appreciated

THE SINKING SANDS

"If only you'd seen his face," one recalled, "you wouldn't believe it. No one could. I'd never seen him react like that about anything."

"I hate to say this but with a family history like his, it's a shock he hasn't cracked earlier. You never heard that from me, though, eh?"

The summer was the warmest he could recall and the northern lands burned like their prairie cousins far south. The herds lingered closer to the waters and people glanced at him with weary, pitying eyes.

"He's spent too much time alone. So many things have happened to him. He can't relate anymore."

It had been too long. Not just water over the bridge, water under the bridge and past it and through it and the fucking bridge was smashed by the force of the past.

The charade had begun again, the old games, the stilted promises and whispered hopes and the lust, so destructive and alluring and heady--yes, there it was, bright and sharp and wily, swirling about his head as it had so many summers before.

It was June or August or sometime post-thaw and the river was full and fish were leaping and there he was, suddenly, dressed to the nines and smiling and his teeth were white and bared and within minutes all transgressions were forgotten, marriages cast aside and children unnamed, orphaned. Within hours clothes were strewn to wood, tongues lashed against one another, sweat collecting in the eave of the brass and hope rekindled. Hairy and wet with haste and unknown answers.

"Where have you been, Ray?" (You left me. Alone. I cried)

A shake of the head, a pause and it doesn't matter because Fraser is glowing inside, again, at forty-four years old and sixteen days and his hand is shaking as he reaches over to stroke the slightly graying hair, still spiky. The tears fall before he can catch himself.

"No questions, Frase. There's no need. I'm here now."

More wetness on raggedly porcelain cheeks..."I never thought you would come back, Ray."

"Hey now, no crying, man. Shhh. Fuck, you are still so handsome."

Handsome? Thank you kindly. I barely wash, forget to cut my hair and children call me a Yeti. Why don't you see that, Ray? Later he will ask himself why he sank into this familiar sickness again. Later, in the darkness, voices will echo through his mind, they will rattle him and blood will seep from his lips when he bites them too hard. A mocking, scratchy, guttural voice. Female. Later. Later the body next to him will seem too quiet and everything may melt. Maybe.

"I love you." (I love you so much. I had nothing after you left)

He does love him and he has been ever so lonely. Duty and diligence do not warm the heart and the winters have been ever so harsh. He walks with a slight limp, the nerves showing their fragility from years of lead pressing ever so gently, caressing his spine. He complains to no one. He asked for each wince, every sharp, spreading bite of pain, the ever-tightening steps. They are his penance, his contrition, his sentence.

There is no response, only more raw sex blended amongst moans and primal pleasures. He needs this and cannot remember what it was like before.

He's been cataloguing losses. His mother, father sinking into the mists. Blood at their feet, staining his body. There is always thick, spurting fluid in every dream. She, the betrayer, of luscious body, the criminal, an oracle-- Victoria, laughing at him, pressing the bullet deeper and deeper, up and up, nearer to his heart. Standing over him, declaring him a weak, gutless fool. Vecchio, the real one, he's there, background, clad in the best Armani, selling everyone chili fries. Waving to his buddy Benny, gun cocked in his left hand. Multi-colored balloons and an organ. A child's laugh. Fraser can't help but smile back. It's his laugh, before his mother bled in the snow. Then popping everywhere. A sting, like a wasp to his side. Bowling pins exploding like gunshots and the world sinks again. Everything is bright-- the light cuts like shrapnel and--

"Frase? Frase? Where are ya, guy? I lost ya there a sec..."

He cannot fade now. Ray or Liar or Stanley or Lover or whoever is here; he must hold it together. It does not matter where he was or who he was or who she is or how they fucked or how often or hard or who calls him Daddy; none of that concerns Fraser whatsoever. He must hold onto him.

"I...I am fine, Ray. It is so nice to see you again. Better than nice. It is wonderful." (Stay and we can make things like they were. Better. I promise I will be what you need. I will be better.)

"I've never really been gone. You know that. I think about ya everyday. I couldn`t keep living a lie. I just...I just had to see you. Please don`t hate me. I do love ya. You do know that, right?"

Does he? Or is this all guilt? Does that matter? He cannot destroy this, he must not, this is the final chance. His past, his losses, this has to be better, he mustn't ruin this. Hold it, keep it from falling away. He wishes he could still hear his father's voice. How he needs him now. It's always the other voice now, guttural and needy. Female. Scratchy and grating. It calls to him, goads him to take action. Go to places his father would have steered him from...or would he? He was never around when alive. Abandoned. Neglected. Every single person he loved. And yet--

"I know. And you are so very dear to me." (You are all I have)

Ray ran his fingers over the bedside table. He frowned..."Dust? Whatever happened to Mr. Clean? By the way, where's the wolf? Brought him some pastries."

"I apologize about the dust. I let Dief go." (He ran away from me. He could not stand to watch this)

Lies. More lies. Ray deserves better, doesn't he? Does he? They think he's fucking crazy here. The service wants him to take some serious time off. Dusty shelves, broken heart, even Dief ran away. He told me in those truthful eyes of his...I can still smell him, feel his thick coat...

--I can walk with you no longer, brother. I must be happy. You must find peace as well. You must find your mate again. Bring him here. Care foe one another. I have done all I can do. The land calls me back--

I cannot blame him, how could I? He deserved bright, snowy fields of frolic, not a fetid, dark cabin full of ghosts. But how I missed him. He was such a marvelous listener. His head began to throb and the shaking got noticeable. Then, a chuckle, a hard kiss, and a voice--

"You look kind of wired, guy. Why don't I make us something to drink? Got any tea?"

Fraser nods-- "Earl Grey"-- and points to the kitchen. He walks out onto the porch, taking his seat. His back jumps and burns; he gasps but knows he cannot tell Ray. He hears whistling in the kitchen and remembers how good it feels to let Ray fuck him. This is too good a time. Finally. Happiness. Outside the sun is sinking further away and night approaches and Ray is here and his hands are barely shaking and perhaps, maybe, doubtfully, everything can work out. He can stay above, he can endure. He will not have to explain the incident in town, that never happened. They never understood him, no one has. Ever. Except a deaf wolf-dog and the gorgeous man inside boiling water. No, now everything is wonderful, the river is flowing, isn't it? The fish are there, the shifting sands are hidden under the clear blue hope, all is good. He feels a hand on his shoulder, tight and firm.

"I'm not gonna leave ya. I`m here to stay."

The cloying touch and smell of a man. The cologne of trust and passion. So comforting, so damning. He relaxes.

"I know."

Fraser smiles. A brilliant, fiery, bleak smile that matches the sun because it's not as if he would ever let Ray go anywhere again, ever.

END of `The Sinking Sands'