Hate Story	    Hate Story

 by Dira Sudis

  

 

 Disclaimer: 

 Author's Notes: This is a songfic, in spirit if not in format, for Three
Days Grace, "Everything About You."

 Story Notes: vaguely post-CoTW

 

 

 Days like today, I don't just hate Fraser, I hate everything about him.
For starters, I hate him being so far away. 

 Not physically far away, I don't hate him for being up in the Northwest
today; that would be pretty stupid - he would say passive-aggressive, and
I hate that he would, and I hate that I know that - to hate him for going
when I was the one who told him to quit worrying about me and just go,
already. 

 I hate him for being so far away the rest of the time, when he is here. I
hate all those moments when I look at him and he's just not there, and
none of this is touching him because he's back in some snow field, back
behind the dogs, back home, back where everything changed. I hate that. I
mean, I'm here, right here, in Chicago, in this gritty dirty hot smelly
city, and even when he's right next to me, he's not. I really, really hate
that. It's not that I hate him for actually being gone. I mean, it's not
like I miss him. It's only been two days. You don't miss somebody after
two days, that would be crazy. Fraser would say co-dependent. I hate that.
Definitely don't miss him. 

 I mean, why should I, right? He takes off to the Great White North to
attend his Grade Four teacher's funeral and booze with all his old pals
and whatever else they do up there, and I get to work with an actual cop
for a few days. Hartridge is a good guy, knows what he's doing and, go
figure, he carries a gun, like a real live cop, so I don't have to be
babysitting him every second. I hate that, y'know, I hate worrying about
Fraser every time he's out of my sight, wondering what stupid situation
he'll get himself into. Hartridge doesn't expect me to know what he's
going to do without him telling me, or vice versa, which means we talk
like normal human beings - and get this, he talks like a normal human
being. And he's not Canadian, so we take turns being the polite one.
Broadens my horizons, which is good; I hate how when I work with Fraser,
we each got our little role and that's that, nothing changes. I hate
Fraser for being this little voice in my head every time it's my turn to
be nice, telling me how to talk to people. So it's fine, him being gone.
Like I said, I don't miss him or anything. 

 I hate the way he looked from me to Dief before he left, and told us to
look after each other, like I'm going to fall down a well or something if
he goes away for three days, like he wouldn't leave at all if he couldn't
leave the wolf to babysit me. So I feed Dief takeout every night and
donuts every morning, and he tells me he hates Fraser for that too; he's a
wolf, for God's sake, why should Fraser think he can't take care of
himself? 

 Honestly, the Mountie's the one who needs looking after - knowing him, a
simple funeral will turn into an illegal casket-smuggling racket which is
incidentally looking to overthrow the Canadian government or something,
and he'll be right there in the middle of it, all alone because me and
Dief had to stay here and mind each other. God, I hate him. Trouble
magnet, and not just the normal kind; no, Fraser has to attract the
weirdest trouble in the Western Hemisphere. 

 I hate the way he calls at three in the morning, which even if he's
forgotten about the time difference, which he shouldn't, is still a dumb
time to be calling anybody, especially since it's Wednesday and I gotta be
at work in a few hours, to tell me he's at the airport and his plane comes
into Chicago at two tomorrow afternoon - meaning today. I hate how he
doesn't apologize for the hour, like he knows that I'm just dying to hear
from him, when he just called yesterday to check up on me and the wolf and
he just left two days ago - and I hate that he's rushing back, instead of
spending some quality time up north, like I'm going to go to pieces if
he's not here. I hate how he doesn't actually ask me to pick him up, just
tells me which gate, like it's beyond the realm of possibility that I
won't be standing there waiting for him. It's not like I miss him. 

 I hate how he talks, when he's tired or he's had just one more drink than
he meant to or maybe both, so very careful not to slur his words, so
precise that you can tell he's trying too hard. I hate how he says my name
when I take too long to answer a question, like he thinks I fell asleep on
him in midconversation, repeating it like he's suddenly speaking a
language where my name is the only word he knows. I hate that little
notquite -laugh that he doesn't try hard enough to stifle when I growl
that I'm going back to sleep. 

 I hate how after I hang up, I can't get back to sleep. 

 I lay awake and listen to the mingled sounds of the running air
conditioner and Dief's snoring, drifting in from almost exactly the same
spot in the living room. I think about everything I hate about Fraser,
like counting sheep. I hate him for endangering both our lives in wildly
bizarre ways every chance he gets, but that's an old thing, worn smooth
with repetition, not much of an edge left to grip on it. 

 I hate him for that night halfway into our adventure, when he zipped our
sleeping bags together. I hate the calm way he told me we had to conserve
body heat. I hate the way he was half a breath away from doing the math on
BTUs and surface area and insulation to prove to me that, yeah, we really
did have to share. I hate the way his eyes twinkled the whole time he said
it, and the way he left me without a word to argue. 

 I hate the way he rolled over to me that night, tucked his face against
my throat, and whispered a few words that changed everything. 

 I really, really hate him for that. Of all the crazy stupid things he's
done to us... that was the craziest stupidest. I hate the way everything
changed and nothing changed at the same time; we kept looking for Franklin
til we ran out of ice, we came back to Chicago and kept working together,
we still have the same stupid arguments and weird conversations. I hate
all of it, so much I can't think straight, can't hardly breathe. 

 I hate how I remember the feel of his breath, fast and nervous, on my
skin that night. I hate how I can almost feel it now, months later, alone
in my own bed. Funny how an eighty-degree night can feel like being
bundled into a sleeping bag, sharing body heat to stave off hypothermia.
Too close, the night air pressing down like a couple of layers of
space-age insulating fibers, and too hot is too hot. 

 I hate how I'm hard just remembering it, and I hate how when I touch
myself I can almost imagine that it's him touching me, his fingers that
know me as well as I do. I hate how I can remember two solid months of the
sound of him breathing in my ear, and I hate how my own breathing, ragged
and quick, sounds so lonely now. I hate how the little voice in my head is
back, after, Fraser mumbling to me about the brain chemistry that explains
why it's so much easier to get to sleep now. I definitely don't miss him
after that - why start now? - or even hate him much, because after that
I'm sound asleep. 

 Next day the hate is back, full force, spilling over from Fraser; I hate
the way Hartridge just nods when I say I'm gone after lunch because
Fraser's plane is coming in. I hate the way Welsh already knows that
before I tell him, just walks up to my desk halfway through the morning
and tells me to tell Fraser the station'll be glad to have him back, like
he's been gone for months or something. I hate the way everybody thinks I
miss him, just because apparently they do. I don't. 

 I hate traffic, and I hate the molded plastic airport chairs. 

 I hate how he's the last one off the plane, because of course you know he
had to stand there and let every single other person off first, and chat
politely with the stewardesses - except he calls them flight attendants,
because all women are our sisters and we have to show respect for their
really quite demanding job, Ray - and thank the pilot for a lovely flight
and so on and on and on, so I'm standing there watching everyone else go
by, watching all the hugs and reunions and everything. I hate that. 

 I hate him grinning so wide his eyes are almost squeezed shut when he
sees me, and I hate the way he's walking so fast he's almost running, and
I hate the way he practically cracks my ribs, hugging me. I hate the way
he turns his head and sniffs my hair, because that is just weird; it's a
hundred degrees outside already, and he can probably smell me just fine
from three feet away. I hate the way I hug him back as hard as I can. I
say "I hate you," in a choked voice, and I hate the way he smiles and
says, "Me too," like he knows what I really mean when I say that. I hate
the way he hangs on to me exactly thirty seconds longer than he should,
for a two-manly-guys-in-public hug. 

 I hate the way he lets go. 

 I hate his jeans, so tight I'm not sure he didn't pack mine by mistake,
and I hate his t-shirt, thin and faded and showing his arms and a little
glimpse of collarbone. I hate his garment bag, with the serge all
carefully packed inside, but I grab it off the luggage carousel and carry
it anyway. 

 I hate the way he's quiet all the way to the car and on the drive back to
the apartment, like he doesn't have a hundred new stories of Canadian
wackiness to tell me, like there's nothing at all that needs saying now
that we're actually in the same place again. 

 I hate that he's got two bags and probably forty-seven different pockets
on him and still gets his keys out first when we get to the front door,
and I hate the little smile he shoots me as he uses his key to unlock the
apartment, like those two inches of steel are the best gift anyone's ever
given him, and it's a present he gets to open all over again every time he
unlocks the door. 

 I hate how he sets his stuff down neatly on the couch and says hello to
Dief before he turns around and sees me watching him, and pushes me up
against the counter and kisses me, hungry and hard like he's been starving
for three days, until I'm gasping for air. I hate how he threads his
fingers into my hair and presses my face down against his shoulder, and I
hate his whole body hard against mine, keeping me pinned in place. I hate
how he holds me still like a wild animal that might bite or bolt, and
whispers in my ear, "Ray, I'm here, hey, hey, I'm back," until I come
back, too, from this stupid crazy headspace I've been in for three days
too long. 

 I hate - I mean, for real hate - the way it feels when I finally do, when
everything twists around and I'm seeing clear again, and I know that it
could have been like this for the last three days, too, if I wasn't so
stubborn, so scared of this thing we got. It feels like falling. It feels
like falling in love with him all over again. 

 I lift my head and meet his eyes, and he's smiling, because he loves me
even if I'm stupid and crazy. "Missed you," he says, quietly, and I know
what he really means when he says that. 

 I smile for the first time since I told him to go, and say, "Yeah, me
too." 

End Hate Story by Dira Sudis: dsudis@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.