Pairings: Fraser/Male, Fraser/Kowalski (kinda)
Rating: NC-17 for disturbing content. Read at your own risk.
Spoilers: The usual ones for "Victoria's Secret" and "Mountie
on the Bounty." Takes place the day after "Easy Money."
Disclaimers: Not mine, godammit. All recognizable characters belong to
Alliance.
Webpage: http://www.fortunecity.com/marina/victory/718/index.htm
Mood Music: If I listed all the songs that inspired/motivated me while
writing this, the list would end up being longer than the story itself.
Lots of Nick Cave, Switchblade Symphony, PJ Harvey, the Cure, Joy Division,
Pig, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
Very, very special thanks to Kim for helping me beat this into submission
on several occasions and for her encouragement. I could not have finished
this without her. This is for her, even though I'm sure she has it memorized
by now and is going to have to go through years of therapy that I'm very
glad I don't have to pay for. =)
Feedback will be very appreciated at Antigone921@aol.com
Caveat lector, reader beware. Expilict warnings can be found
at the end of the story.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Cold
by Giuliana
*~*~*~*~*~*
Everyone has his or her own dark secret. For some it concerns an incident
in their past, an event they hide for fear of being scorned or perceived
differently. For others it concerns present activities, their current
sins and transgressions; the things they do when they believe no one
is watching. Of course, some things are more serious than others. The
person whose vice involves the viewing of what some may call salacious
material is far less serious than that of the police officer who spends
his weekends in the red light district, or of the high school teacher
who glares lecherously at his teenaged students. Nevertheless, despite
the varying magnitudes of their sins, all human beings are flawed and
have their vices. And I -- although I am sure some of my acquaintances
would beg to differ -- am human, and as a result, I am one of those flawed
individuals. In fact, my vices are amongst the most depraved.
I know what I do is wrong; I know it is morally, ethically unacceptable.
Knowing this, however, does not stop me. Each time, like now, just before
I perform this vile act, my mind tells me to stop, to simply leave the
room, to push away my dark desires. Yet, each time those desires triumph
over reason. Even so, it remains a losing battle that I cannot help fighting.
And here I am once again, standing in the doorway of the 27th district's
morgue, mere meters from sin.
When I first began to engage in this licentious behavior, I felt as though
I knew my motivations and reasons. But as time has passed, those motivations
and reasons have become vague, muddy, and clumped together in a juxtaposition
of mangled whys and wherefores. The act itself has become a compulsion
I no longer feel I have the ability to control, and sometimes I am not
sure I want to.
I breathe in the cold air deeply, welcoming it, tasting it on my tongue,
taking comfort from it. The station above me is silent: everyone who
was there earlier went home hours ago. I step farther into the dark room,
closing the door quietly behind me. I do not know why I'm afraid of making
any noise; I am alone. Well, in a way.
I reach over and easily find the light switch. The bright whiteness of
the fluorescent lights fills the room, and I blink several times to adjust
my eyes. I see the object of my sin in the middle of the room and feel
arousal shoot through my body.
*****
It happened a little before five this evening. Ray and I had just left
the Consulate and were driving along the streets of Chicago in the Pontiac
GTO Ray acquired from his parents yesterday, when Diefenbaker emitted
a whine unquestionable in meaning. I can only assume Ray was concerned
about his black leather interior, as he pulled over immediately. He was
in the middle of a tirade concerning Diefenbaker's failure to urinate
before leaving the Consulate, when the sound of gunfire came from the
apartment structure across the street. Ray and I, with Diefenbaker on
our heels, quickly made our way to the building, taking the stairs on
the possibility a resident along the way might be of some assistance
to us. Fortunately, on the third floor we encountered a frightened, elderly
Hispanic woman. After we identified ourselves, she directed us to room
312. Ray knocked on the door, and when there was no answer to his call
to open it, he tried the doorknob.
The door opened, and inside we found a young woman no more than 18 years
old curled up around herself on the living room floor, clutching a gun.
Ray crouched down and gently and slowly talked her into surrendering
the weapon. After the girl shakily sat up and handed him the gun, she
began to cry. Diefenbaker went over to her and licked the tears running
down her cheeks, and because the girl's bedclothes-like attire left nothing
in the way of modesty, I covered her with a patchwork quilt I found on
a nearby chair. Leaving the girl with Diefenbaker and me, Ray inspected
the rest of the apartment. When he walked into what appeared to be the
bedroom, I heard a sharp curse and then the sound of him speaking on
his cellular phone. Afterwards, Ray returned to the living room and told
the girl to stand facing the wall with her hands behind her back.
While Ray handcuffed and read the girl her rights, I walked into the
bedroom. On the bed lay a nude man in his twenties, eyes closed as if
asleep. A deep crimson stain covered most of the white bed sheets, and
I saw that he had been shot once in the chest. It appeared to be the
only wound, but it had been more than enough to kill him; there's no
possibility someone could have survived after losing so much blood. But
what grasped my attention the fullest was the striking attractiveness
of the man. I walked closer to the bed and reached out, touching the
still warm forehead. My hand slid down his face, fingers tracing the
lax lips that had yet to undergo the hardening effects of rigor mortis.
I quickly withdrew my hand when Ray entered the room. I looked at him
closely, searching for any sign that he had witnessed what had just transpired,
but I found no evidence that he had. We stood there for a moment, Ray
looking everywhere but the body, me looking at the body by means of my
peripheral vision. Then Ray cleared his throat, cocked his head to the
side, and said we should return to the suspect. After a short pause that
I don't believe Ray noticed, I nodded in agreement and followed him,
glancing over my shoulder as we exited the bedroom.
Less than an hour later, we had a full confession from the girl, one
Julia Caldwell. With very little questioning, Ms. Caldwell admitted to
killing her boyfriend, Timothy Larson. The homicide occurred shortly
after the couple had made love: while Mr. Larson was sleeping, Ms. Caldwell
took the victim's own .45 caliber pistol and shot him at close range.
As for the motive, Ms. Caldwell said she had recently discovered that
Mr. Larson had been involved sexually with one of her good friends for
some time. In the end, the murder turned out to be a simple case of jealousy
gone deadly.
*****
Those are the events that have brought me to where I am now. At least
they are the events that have brought me to the station at this late
hour. The events that have brought me to the point of seeking comfort
in this manner are
complicated. I cannot pinpoint the exact moment
I first experienced the craving, and neither can I identify the origins
of my desire. I suppose it was always there, always a part of my being,
hidden deep within my psyche. And while I cannot recall the first time
I felt it, I can remember clearly the first time I gave into the temptation,
over fifteen years ago now.
*****
I was a new officer with the RCMP then and stationed in Norman Wells,
where I shared a two bedroom cabin with a friend. Steve Kakfwi. One night
upon returning from an excursion, I found him there, lying on the kitchen
floor, pupils dilated, mouth open. I immediately dropped to my knees
and checked for a pulse. Nothing. The dark olive skin under my fingertips
was already cool, almost cold. Then something inside me
snapped,
and I was running my hands over his face, under his shirt, inside his
pants, stripping off our clothing, lifting his legs, finding little resistance
when I entered him.
After I was finished, I barely made it to the kitchen sink before I vomited
the contents of my supper.
That night I cried harder than I have ever cried, before or since.
I cried for the loss of my friend.
I cried for the loss of myself.
As I cleaned and redressed him, I vowed that I would never do something
so indecent again.
In the years following Steve's death and my loss of control, I held my
desires in a tight grip, not allowing them to come to the surface. And
I was successful...
Until I met her -- the woman whose skin was as cold as the snow that
surrounded us on Fortitude Pass, the woman who inadvertently reawakened
my desires. Victoria was alive, but her body felt like ice to me. Her
frozen fingers were slender icicles that I was certain were going to
melt in the cavity of my mouth. She didn't protest as I moved against
her coldness, and it didn't bother me to be unsure if she could protest
if she so chose.
It was, in a word, perfect.
Then ten years later, I found her again, and her body was no longer like
ice.
But her heart still was.
I, however, was so focused on what had been that I did not completely
realize this until later, until it was too late and the damage was already
done -- to my friendship with Ray Vecchio, to my body, to my own heart.
The first two have healed. The third has not.
After my physical condition was restored, I found myself making regular
visits to the morgue, something I had never done before. It was then
when the cold became not only a means of sexual release but also a means
of protection. The cold shields me from the pain of warmth -- the rejection,
the betrayal, the burning.
It has become both my salvation and
my damnation.
*****
I walk over to the table and slowly pull back the green morgue sheet.
Once again, I am transfixed by how handsome Timothy Larson is. His hair
is dark, cut short. His black eyelashes stand out vividly against his
fair complexion. His skin as a whole is exquisite, beautifully pale and
nearly without blemish -- that is, if you ignore the almost expertly
placed bullet wound over his heart. Mort has yet to do the customary
autopsy due to both the late time Larson was brought in tonight and the
obviousness of the cause of death. His body is completely and wonderfully
intact, which will make this easier for me.
I run my hand over the smooth-sharp cheekbone, down to the full, now
blue-tinted mouth, which is no longer as soft as it was just a few hours
earlier; the beginning signs of rigor mortis have begun to materialize.
I lean down and kiss the cold lips. Surprisingly, they open easily under
my mouth. The sensation causes my mind to go back to several weeks previous
when my tongue slid between a pair of similarly cold lips, lips that
belonged to a person running out of air. Lips that belonged to a person
who might have ended up on a metal slab similar to this one had I not
opened that sweet, soft, cold mouth and breathed, filling those
hungry lungs with much needed oxygen.
I shake myself mentally. This is not Ray. This body, these lips are cold
not because of the frigid waters of Lake Superior, but because of death.
The lungs within this body gave up their need for air when a bullet punctured
the heart. I lightly finger the wound, and the temptation to duck my
head and taste the dried blood is nearly uncontrollable. I long to have
the sharp, iron flavor on my tongue, but I stop myself, my rational mind
momentarily taking control. Instead, I lick around the hole, noting that
the substance used to clean the body did little to mar the distinctive
saltiness of flesh and the slight residual taste of blood.
I quickly remove my shoes, my socks, my sweater, my jeans, and finally
my boxers, and gently lie down on top of the nude body, being mindful
not to put too much weight on it. I moan as the ice cold flesh comes
into direct contact with my own warm skin. Again, my mind flashes back
involuntarily, back to the memory of snow, Victoria losing consciousness,
and the euphoria and terror I felt as those desires I had struggled to
contain resurfaced while I held her cold, unresisting body against mine.
I rub my erect penis against the body's flaccid one, gripping the hips.
I move slowly at first, but my thrusts gradually become harder and faster.
Then, as I approach orgasm, something pushes away the memories of Victoria
and ice. It's not an image per se, but more a collection of phantom touches
and sensations I experience mentally, yet feel physically: the lacerated
heart within the still chest beating again, so fast, so strong; the muscular
arms coming around me, hands rubbing my back, short nails digging into
my skin; the penis firming against mine, hips beginning to thrust; the
skin warming, becoming hot -- so hot it feels like I'm going to melt
and meld with the flesh against mine.
I open my eyes, and I swear for a moment that I see a different body
under mine, a different, yet well-known face. Bright blue eyes look at
me with desire, and small beads of sweat trickle down lightly golden
skin. A long neck arches back, and then a soft-looking mouth opens, my
name silently spilling out.
I seize and then still, groaning softly as the warm wetness of semen
seeps between Ray's -- no, not Ray's, Larson's -- body and mine.
I lie motionless for a moment, and then, after a few deep breaths, I
lift myself up. I grab a small towel and a pair of latex gloves from
the supply rack, and I use the former to clean Larson and myself. I frown
when I notice the indentations my fingers have left on his hips; I wasn't
careful enough this time, and I hope Mort won't notice the marks when
he performs the autopsy. I sigh and put the gloves on, depositing the
towel in the medical trash bin, carefully placing it under several others.
The gloves follow shortly after.
I dress myself at a slightly slower rate than I disrobed and place a
soft kiss on Larson's lips before covering him up again with the sheet.
I exit the room, turning the lights off as I leave. I almost expect to
see Ray outside, but the corridor is empty, and I'm surprised to feel
somewhat disappointed to find he's not there.
I smile, but it's not from joy. Very far from it actually. Ray would
never understand this aspect of my life. I don't completely understand
it myself, so how could I expect him to understand?
For over a year, the cold and only the cold was enough for me. While
there were occasions where I almost sought out the company of warmth,
I never crossed the line. Fear was enough to hold me back. But lately
I've found myself wanting and desiring warmth more than I ever have before,
and while it's so close, so close all I have to do is reach out and touch
it, I cannot do it. I know I cannot have both, the cold and the warmth.
I am unable to obtain the strength to relinquish my addiction, and because
of this, I will remain with the cold, taking my comfort from cold flesh
in cold rooms, while Ray Kowalski glows brightly with life, promise,
and the warmth I cannot touch.
The hallway is hot compared to the morgue, but I still feel cold.
Finis.
********************
Warnings: Necrophilia. Heh.
Inspiration: The one and only Poppy Z. Brite's masterpiece _Exquisite
Corpse_. Although compared to that, this story looks like _Clifford,
the Big Red Dog_...okay, maybe not *that* vanilla, but you get the picture.