Author's website: http://N/A

Disclaimer: They're not mine, I make neither claim nor profit.

Author's Notes: This is for everyone, really, but especially people like Beth and Livia and JiM and Dawn and Speranza and Mama Bird.

Story Notes: 1.) This deals with recent events,in the form of Ray and Fraser's reactions, though they are not referred to in great detail. It also touches on some of the sadder turns in our society in the aftermath. If you're not ready to read that, please, don't.
2.) I think it's more vignette than PWP, but that's not a category.
3.) The title and later quote is taken from "Dover Beach", a poem by Matthew Arnold. It's in my lj, somewhere, if you're interested.

Dover Beach

by Carmen Kildare

Fraser's fingers traced over the passage he had just read, and he realized that he had no memory at all of what it said. He sighed, reached for the bookmark on his bedside table, and carefully marked his place. The poems within required far greater attention than he was able to give them, his tired brain still whirling from the week. Diefenbaker made a soft, interrogative noise from the floor beside the bed, and he found himself moving over, making room. "Just this once, though. I'm not likely to make a habit of it," he said sternly, fooling neither of them.

So many ... frightened people. For once the consulate had been overflowing, primarily with stranded travellers, but also with Canadian citizens seeking some sort of leadership in the face of such an overwhelming crisis, a veritable sea of lost souls seeking comfort. As the one in charge, he'd been exactly what was required of him: he had been calm, levelheaded, courteous, and kind, all the while trembling on the inside. He buried his fingers in the ruff of Diefenbaker's neck, and tried to block out the images that would not go away, no matter how hard he tried.

A sudden, sharp knock woke him from a restless doze, and he blinked, checked his watch. Eleven p.m., well past the time for casual drop-ins. And since miscreants and malfeasants rarely bothered to knock, it meant that it was probably ...

"Ray," he said, sitting up as the door swung open to reveal his partner standing uncertainly in the hall, key in hand. "Is something the matter, Ray?"

Three strides and Ray was in the room, swinging the door shut behind him. "You still don't got a T.V.?" he asked instead of answering.

Fraser stood, dislodging a grumbling half-wolf from the bed, crossed the short distance between them. "No television," he confirmed and Ray nodded once, a trifle grimly.

"Good," he said, and on his breath Fraser caught a faint trace of the sharp, astringent scent of vodka.

"Ray," he said, cautiously, because Ray was hackled, Ray was fierce and prowling, "Ray, have you been drinking?"

Ray laughed once, shortly, a humourless sound. "One shot, about, uh, three hours ago, with a bunch of the guys from the two-seven," he replied. "Don't get your red woolies in a bunch, I haven't gotten stupid all of a sudden." He wandered into the kitchenette, started rifling cupboards. "I'm gonna make tea, you want tea?"

Fraser nodded, came into the kitchen. "And why were you out for a drink with your fellow officers?" he asked, knowing that sometimes, if you hit the right combination of questions, Ray would suddenly just let everything come tumbling out. He rather imagined it was like playing a slot machine.

Ray filled the kettle, set it on the burner, and continued rummaging. "For our fellow officers," he replied, and Fraser suddenly understood.

"Ah."

"Ah," Ray repeated. "And then we sat around and watched CNN on the television in the fucking bar and I listened to people talking outta their asses and then I went home and turned on my own T.V. and listened to people talking outta their asses and I figured I had two choices: pitch the goddamned thing out the window, or come over here."

"I see." He nodded, slipped past Ray and pulled out the tin where he kept his tea. "Might I suggest chamomile? I don't think you need caffeine just now."

Ray slouched back against the counter. "Sure, whatever. That's the stuff that looks like daisies and tastes like grass, right? Just put honey in it or something." He stood straight again, wandered out and flopped down on the couch he'd helped Fraser find at Goodwill. "So, I figured, maybe we could play cards or something."

Fraser finished packing the tea ball and hung it in the brown betty. "You already owe me over 5000 in air, Ray. Maybe we should try Scrabble instead." He was halfway to the coat closet to get the game board when Ray was suddenly there, right there, so close his breath stirred the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

"You saying I'm not good for what I owe you, Ben-ton?" and the way Ray said his name, the way his arm curled about his waist, pulling him up close, made him ache all over, made him go weak in the knees. Ray's teeth and tongue found the curl of his ear, the fragile hollow just behind it, and he groaned, turned, and Ray was on him, literally on him in a heartbeat, fingers scrabbling, mouth frantic and searching.

The sheer ... desperation of the embrace made him pull away, hold the other man at arm's length. "I thought we agreed that we couldn't be here, work together, and have this," he said, a little desperate himself. "I thought that was the rule, Ray," he said, pleading for clarification, for some hint as to what was going on.

"Fuck rules," Ray said, and it was a snarl and a sob and his face was flushed and hectic. "New world, new rules, I say," and Ray lunged, his teeth catching the soft, tender curve of Fraser's lower lip, his tongue forcing his jaw so wide it ached. It was as if Ray were trying to crawl inside him, right into him, so deep he might get lost.

With all the strength in his possession he wrenched away, grabbed Ray and whirled him around, marched him over to the bed, forced him down. "What the hell is this?" he demanded, breathless, tasting the tang of blood on his own lips.

Ray's face paled, grew tight, and he started to just shake, like he just might come apart. "Fuck, this was a stupid idea, I'm sorry, Fraser," he muttered, trying to rise, but damn it, that's not what he wanted at all, so he put his hands on the other man's shoulders and held him down.

"Tell me," he said. "Just ... tell me."

Ray nodded, dropping his eyes, rubbing his face tiredly. "Got this call to a school. Some kids, they got a baseball bat outta the equipment room. Couple of sixteen year olds. Went to town on some fifteen-year-old black kid, family converted in the sixties, you know, with Malcolm X and all that? Got there about the same time as the ambulance ... and Jesus, Fraser." Ray looked up, and his eyes, dear God his eyes just about tore Fraser right in two. "They were so fucking proud, you know? And this kid, this little kid, just a goddamned runt, had a dent in his skull and there was shit coming out his nose and his ears and there was ... there was ...." and he was shaking so hard he couldn't speak anymore, so Fraser just dropped to his knees and pulled him close and tried his damnedest to hold him together.

A long time passed, and the tremours stilled, but Ray did not pull away. "I just wanted to ... let it all go, for a little while. I wanted to feel ... good. Safe." His breath was warm and moist on the side of Fraser's neck, and he closed his eyes at the sensation, at the gut-curling yearning it evoked in him. "That's not so wrong, is it?"

Fraser pulled back, moved his hands up to cup the other man's face. "Not wrong at all," he said softly, gravely. "It's human. Very human. The need to just ... let go. To lose ourselves. To reconnect ourselves. We'd go mad, otherwise, I think ... oh, do shut up," he said as Diefenbaker made an uncomplimentary sound at the word "mad". "But what, exactly, are you asking for, Ray? Tonight? A few nights? I want to be ... very clear," he said carefully. "I need to be very clear about this."

Ray turned his head in his grasp, kissed his palm, a wet, open-mouthed kiss. "This is ... this is everything, Fraser. I think maybe I just got a wake-up call, and I'm listening to it." He turned his gaze back to Fraser, and he was completely, utterly naked in that moment. "I still want you. I've never stopped wanting you. I will always want you. Only thing left to know is, do you want me?"

"Ray. Ray. Ray. Oh, Ray," and he was falling headlong into a kiss, his fingers raking Ray's spikes into disarray, his mouth hard and bruising, his breath hissing in his ears ... and, oh, damn, that was the kettle. He pulled away gently. "I'm going to turn the oven off. One apartment building burned down is enough for me, thank-you kindly," he said. "Get undressed, get into bed."

He went into the kitchenette, turning off the stove, setting the kettle onto a cool burner, then moved around the small suite to turn off the lights, check the door. By the time he'd circled back to the bed -- a real bed, a double bed, the Murphy that had come with the place -- Ray was naked and curled up against the white cotton sheets. He dropped his own flannel shirt to the floor, skinned out of his jeans and shorts, and crawled in beside Ray. It had been ... God, years, but his body remembered the long, lean length of Ray Kowalski, the way his skin smelled in the hollow of his throat, the curve of his underarm, the crease of his groin. Everything, absolutely everything was revisited, and he found that he had forgotten nothing, not even the soft, keening noise Ray made when his tongue slipped down and back and in.

Eventually Ray grew sharp-edged, a little frantic with need, and he pushed Fraser up, over, onto his back, hovering over him. "God, I want, I want," and he was dazed, panting. Fraser let his knees fall apart, drew them up, and Ray almost sobbed with relief, scrabbling for the bedside table, for something, anything, and finding, against all odds, exactly what he needed. "This is more of that proper preparation shit," he grunted, slicking his fingers, working them into Fraser's waiting body.

Fraser gasped, slightly, his body slowly remembering the feeling, the need to relax, to give in. "I am, I'm afraid, something of an optimist," and he gasped again, because Ray had lifted him, angled him up, and just suddenly was there; it had been a long time, long enough for muscle memory to be slow to catch up with desire, and it hurt, a little, but that was, he reasoned, all right, because sometimes you needed to hurt a little, just to remember you were still alive.

He closed his eyes, allowed himself to get lost in sensation, and it was good, so very good, just feeling without thought or reason and he let his hand drop between their bodies, let it match the rhythm Ray was pounding into his flesh and quite suddenly he was there, on the knife's edge, and he surged up, found Ray's mouth, kissed him hard and fierce so that his lip started to bleed again and then he was over, tumbling, lost. When he opened his eyes at last, Ray's face over his was anguished, slit-eyed and desperate as he dove frantically deep, on the edge himself, his breath coming out in small, whining "huhns" until the final, sharp gasp and he was faltering, stuttering, falling, his body locked in the spasm of release.

He pitched forward, dead weight, the momentum and angle pulling him roughly free from Fraser's body and Fraser winced but then forgot it completely as he realized Ray was still shuddering against him, his body wracked with sobs. He wrapped his tired arms and legs around Ray, as tightly as he could, and kissed the other man's eyebrow, his neck, the side of his jaw, whatever he could reach.

He did not say, "Hush."

He did not say, "It will be all right."

He only said, "I love you," over and over again, and that seemed to be enough, for at last the sobs stilled and Ray turned his head and kissed him, his mouth salty with sweat and tears. He muttered a tired, sleepy "love you," back and then drifted away, his body finally easing into peace.

Fraser kissed his forehead, gently, and whispered "Ah, love, let us be true to one another!" remembering, after all, the poem he had been reading earlier. He watched Ray for the longest time, memorizing the line of his mouth, the curve of his shoulder, just as he had done years ago, until sleep finally claimed him, too. For the first time in five nights, he slept dreamlessly until morning.

)0(

An End

End Dover Beach by Carmen Kildare: carmen@kildare.com

Author and story notes above.