Bass    Bass by Pares

 Author's webpage: http://www.virtue.nu/skalab

 Author's disclaimer: Not mine, and no money to be made here.

 Author's notes: This is for Te, who sent the inspiring lyrics.
Technically, I suppose that makes this a song fic. *gasp*! Many thanks to
Te and Bone for helpful hints, and torch, V5 and others (yes, that's you
again, Te) who drew edgy, endearing and enticing fic that helped me to
better appreciate the Brand Spankin' New Ray. (Not that there is anything
wrong with the old Ray, or any spanking in this story-- there isn't you
hooligans!)

  

 I got the music cranked up high as it'll go, and Mrs. Landlady in the
apartment below mine finally got tireda banging the ceiling with her
witchy little broomstick, so that weird echo to the bass is gone. 

 The water is *hot*, and I'm blotchy all the way up my neck-- but I have
to stop lookin', 'cause I'm makin' myself cross-eyed tryin' to see how
high the steamy water's making the color climb. 

 After a while, I take a deep breath, sucking the thick, fuzzy air into my
scrawny lungs and think about as little as possible. I eye my limp dick
floatin' in the bathtub current like sea grass. The water's too hot to
make beatin' off seem like a good idea, and anyway, it's as pink and
boiled lookin' as the rest of me. I feel like Bugs Bunny in the stew pot. 

 Guess she's gettin' her second wind; Mrs. Landlady starts pounding again.


 Pet is yowlin' on the stereo loud enough to make it easy to ignore her. 

 The hot water's makin' me lightheaded, and I'm hopin' that'll melt my
headache. Between Mrs. Landlady, and my shitty day at work, and the way
Fraser manages to catch the eye of everything in a skirt in a five mile
radius every time we walk down the street, I got a headache that's like
knives behind my eyes... the music helps, though. It's knockin' the edge
right off them shivs... 

 Wish it could do the same for the headache that is my life. My double
life. Two fer one, you could say. If you *could* say it, which you can't,
least not out loud, 'cause Vecchio, the *other* Vecchio, the real McCoy,
well, he could get good n' dead if I slipped up and got recognized as
bein' an imposter. 

 It's not all spun gold bein' Vecchio twenty-four hours a damned day, but
it's still better than bein' me. 

 And that is just... too pathetic. I mean, seriously. I'm doin' better as
the counterfeit guy than I was as Mr. Stanley "Stella Left Me" Kowalski. 

 Seein' her today, with her "He's Better Than You, Ray" boyfriend soup du
jour made me want to kick somebody in the head. Not Stella, but,
*somebody*. At least she don't got eyes for the Mountie. 

 Jeez, but he cramps my style. Elaine, she barely gives *me* the time of
day, but *Fraser*, she just moons at him discreet like, and Frannie, she's
prob'ly got a skywriter lined up. She'll need it. 

 I ain't never met a guy as completely oblivious to women as he is. 

 Even gay guys, I mean, my cousin Clive, right? Hell, *he* watches women
more than Fraser does, even if it's only to get fashion tips for his "Miss
Teena" female impersonator gig. 

 That doesn't mean women don't gawk at Frase like he's a human five car
pile-up. They're *mesmerized*, they can't look away. 

 The hell of it is, I'm rubbernecking as much as anybody. Those big blue
eyes, and that nice guy thing he has, and the way he licks his lower lip
sometimes, right before he hoofs down the street after some creep... I
half expect his tongue to hang out like Dief's... but they prob'ly got a
rule about excessive tongue hangin' in the Mountie Etiquette Handbook. 

 At least I don't have as much time to mope about Stella now that Fraser's
around, trouble on his heels as much as the wolf is. 

 'Course, I got my own knack fer attractin' trouble. Sometimes it feels
like trouble's Homer Simpson and I'm a doughnut. 

 My leg's gonna bruise up pretty bad, from where that kid kicked me. Just
a little higher and I'd probably be on disability for a while... It only
takes eight pounds of pressure to dislocate a kneecap-- 

 Man, I been hangin' out with the Mountie too long. 

 The Mountie. I wonder where he is. What does a Mountie do on his day off?


 Well, Fraser never takes a day off from bein' Fraser, but I am definitely
takin' the day off from bein' Vecchio. No Frannie turnin' her nose up at
me, no pretendin' to be some big nosed big attitude guy who spent way too
much time tryin' to get the Lieu to pay his drycleanin' bills. 

 I saw the receipts. Who the hell pays that much for drycleanin'? 

 The Mountie don't, that's fer sure. He irons his own stuff, that much I
know. Irons everything-- his shorts, jeez, doesn't the guy think about
*chafing*?? 

 Must get pretty tender down there on the heavy starch days. 

 If I wasn't already practically poached, I'd be blushin'. The water is
coolin' off, cool enough that my dick could stand a little action right
now, if I use my imagination. 

 If I think about Fraser, fer example. 

 Think about Fraser naked, those broad shoulders maybe hunched 'cause he's
prob'ly kinda shy about bein' outta uniform, and he's sweaty... the hair
is sticking to his forehead in little curls, and he's lookin' down at his
heavy, red dick, all sore and tender and hey Frase, you want I should kiss
it better? 

 *Jeeeezus*! 

 My door is swingin' on one hinge and I scramble outta the tub, sloshin'
water every-fuckin'-where, and I wish I hadn't left my gun on the end
table in the bedroom and-- 

 "Holy Christ, Fraser! What the hell are you *doin'*!?" 

 The Mountie, the same guy I was picturin' naked, he's in my bathroom,
havin' kicked my door down with those mountie boots he wears even when
he's havin' a day off, he's just standing there, looking shocked. He's
even breathin' hard, like it was difficult or something for him to kick my
flimsy bathroom door down! 

 I'm drippin' all over my yellow linoleum, and Fraser just stares at me a
little longer before his eyes drop down-- just a little-- and he gulps and
turns on his heel so I can't see nothin' but the back of his neck, which
is gettin' as pink as I already am. 

 "Jeez, Frase, I coulda drownded! I coulda hit my head! I coulda hit my
head and drownded! What are you doin' bustin' in here like that, huh?" 

 He answers so fast, it's like he had it memorized. 

 "I couldn't help but notice that you were somewhat upset with me for..." 

 "No! No way, don't you even *think* about apoligizin'. I won't listen to
that." 

 "But, Ray--" and he starts to look over his shoulder before he remembers
that I'm still in my friggin' altogether here, and he glances away again. 

 "Uh-uh. Nu uh are you gonna start apologizin' 'til I feel guilty about
bein' mad at you in the first place." 

 "Ray, please allow me to apolo--" 

 I slap my hands over my ears, and press my palms against my head until
the whole world sounds underwater. 

 "LA LA LA LA LA I'm not *listenin'* to ya LA LA LA" 

 He turns around, and he looks a little cranky: he's got that frown thing
between his eyebrows. 

 "Ray, it's very childish of you to refuse--" 

 I drop my hands and glare at him. 

 "What?" 

 "You're merely feeling sorry for yourself," Frase says, and then he looks
surprised, like he can't believe he said it out loud. 

 "So what if I am? What, can't a guy wallow in the privacy of his own
home?" 

 "Well..." He drops those baby blues to the puddles at my feet. "I suppose
he can. I'm sorry for intruding." 

 "Why'd ya kick my door in, anyways?" 

 Fraser meets my eyes again, ruffles his wavy hair while his cheeks pink
up. Whether it's because what he's about to say is embarrassin', or 'cause
I'm just as naked as I was two minutes ago, I can't tell yet. 

 "I... feared for your health. Your mind state was decidedly... depressed
last night, and when you failed to answer your phone, or even reply when I
called for you after finding your front door open..." He has to raise his
voice a little, because the music is loud, and he pauses again and tugs at
his collar. 

 "Would you like a towel, Ray?" He sounds a little strangled. 

 "Maybe I like pickin' fights with you in the nude. It's a, what would ya
say, a refreshin' change to have *you* bein' the one who's nervous all the
time." 

 I stopped worryin' about what I looked like naked when I was thirteen,
and the fuckheads in my gym class shoved me into the girl's showers. 

 And Stella didn't care. After, later on, she said I was really good
lookin', said she could see I was gonna be muscle-y like the trapeze guys
in the circus when I got bigger. She brought me a towel, came right up and
knelt down next to me, rested her hand on my knee for balance. She was
already in her jumper, but her hair was still wet and her face was glowin'
and she was so goddamned nice to me I almost cried. 

 Fraser drops his eyes again, and my mouth stops runnin', and I realize
what he's sayin'. 

 "You were worried about me? You thought I was gonna... kill myself!?" 

 "I... I wasn't sure what to think. It was unusual for you to leave your
front door ajar, and it had occurred to me that some malfeasant had...
perhaps done you some harm." 

 "Yeah, well, it's the thought that counts, I guess. But I'm fine. As you
can see." I wave one hand around, indicatin' my whole general well-being. 

 "Indeed, I can, Ray." In fact, it's almost like he's givin' me the once
over... he looks kinda... fascinated... like he can't help himself. 

 "Fraser? What are you doin'?" 

 "I'm... finding that you are disproportionate in an aesthetically
pleasing way." 

 That's a mixed message if ever I heard one. From anyone else it would be
a backhanded compliment... but Fraser, he's not that way. He means it
nice. Maybe he's a little like Stella that way. Sayin' the wrong thing but
meanin' the right one. 

 "And that way is...?" 

 He kinda blinks at me, stands himself up at attention, like I'm the
Dragon Lady or somethin', starin' off over my shoulder somewhere, probably
at some dot of mildew that's gonna compromise the integrity of my wall's
structurally soundedness. 

 I'm wonderin' if I really want him to tell me, because if he says I've
got cute little feet or somethin', I'll have to bust him one, just on
general principal. 

 I tip my head and squint like I'm gonna bust him one, anyway. 

 "Your... member," he confesses. "It's thicker and longer than someone who
is elsewhere so narrow and wiry would be expected to be." 

 Fraser, Benton Fraser of the RCMP, the Mountie, the polite guy from
Freezerland, this guy, in my sloppy bathroom, just complimented my dick.
Holy *shit!* 

 Why would he *do* that? Naturally, I'm suspicious. 

 "Are you tryin' to butter me up?" 

 "Butter you... up?" He echoes. 

 "Yeah, butter me up, as in flatter me, as in get me to stop bein' mad at
you so you can apologize, so I can be guilty fer bein' mad at you fer
snakin' me at the coffee shop last night." 

 "Snake you, Ray?" He looks vaguely alarmed. 

 "Don't play like you don' know what I'm sayin', here! You knew I had my
eye on that waitress, and before I can so much as ask her fer her number,
she's on you like white on rice!" 

 "Well, she did slip, Ray," he says in that
'let's-all-be-reasonable-shall-we' voice that especially makes me wanna
bitch-slap him. 

 "She didn't!" 

 "She most certainly did. She was looking our way, and then she stumbled,
causing the tray to slide out of her hands. In the ensuing jumble of
crockery, she slipped in a puddle of pancake syrup." 

 I cock my head, 'cause I got an idea. 

 "Pancake syrup?" I parrot at him. 

 "Pancake syrup," he says back. And he licks his lower lip. 

 I take a step closer. The music is heavy, throbbing in my head, and maybe
that's not the only thing that's throbbin', either, and to boot, my
headache is still goin' strong. I take a step closer to Fraser. 

 "You sure it wasn't maybe maple syrup? Or cherry syrup, somethin' like
that?" 

 He coughs softly. 

 "I noted the distinctive corn syrup base common to most brands of pancake
syrup, as opposed to the--" 

 "Didja have to scoop her up and carry her over all the broken dishes like
you were some kinda romantic superhero in a hat? 'Cause that pretty much
put the kibosh on my havin' any chance with her, you understand." 

 "Ah. I see. So you feel that I 'snaked' you in this way?" 

 "That's what I feel, Fraser." And I take another step, and I'm gettin'
his flannel plaid all damp, and he's prob'ly relieved that it's not his
dress duds he's got on. He takes a deep breath. And holds it. 

 "You piss me off more than any other guy I know, Fraser. But I like that
about ya, too." 

 "You do?" He's smart enough not to ask what the expression 'piss me off'
means. 

 "I do. I like a lotta stuff about ya. You like anythin' about me? Besides
my dick, I mean." 

 He blushes, and I kinda wish he *was* wearin' the jacket, so I could
compare it the color. 

 "I like everything about you, Ray," he admits. 

 "Well, maybe ya should find somethin' you don't, right, 'cause I said a
lotta stuff I shouldn'ta said last night, 'cause it's like you can't help
but be a hundred times better at everything than me, and sometimes it just
smarts, okay?" 

 "I'm--" 

 I head him off again, slap his chest with my palm, grab a handful of
flannel and line up my eye with his. 

 "Listen, I suck, okay? All that junk I said about you bein' a two-faced
backstabbin' Canuck and everythin', I swear I didn't mean it. So just save
the apology you got swimmin' around in your head for the next time you get
me into some weird shit where we nearly get dead, okay?" 

 "But Ray--" 

 "Jeez, Fraser, no buts all right? You've got some kinda knee jerk
reaction' thingy goin' on, you can't help yourself, I understand that, but
just *once*, lemme--" 

 "I'm not sure I understand just what it is that *you* understand, Ray,"
he says all careful. 

 I let him go and bang myself in the forehead with the heel of my hand a
couple times just so I don't do anything drastic to anybody else. Anybody
else bein' Fraser. 

 "Okay. Say... say, theoretically, mind you, we're in an elevator. It's
crashin' down, *whoosh!*, right? You with me?" 

 "Do you mean, am I in the theoretical elevator with you?" 

 "Yeah, yer in the elevator too, but I mean, you see what I'm gettin' at?"


 "Well..." And he nods, all thoughtful, but then his face clouds over.
"Ah, no. No, I don't, I'm afraid." 

 "Fine, just hear me out, okay? So, we're in the elevator and we're goin'
down, seconds away from bein' smashed flat--" 

 "Was there some malfunction, or was the elevator sabotaged?" 

 "What!? It's a freakin' theoretical crashin' elevator-- ground floor, we
check out, got it? Bad wiring, mad bomber, whatever, it doesn't matter,
okay? 

 The important thing is: we're gonna die. Our last moments on earth, do
not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, D.O.A., you dig?" 

 "I believe I do, yes." He's leaning down a little, so's he can listen
better. 

 "Good, all right, so, you're with me, and you bein' you, you know to the
second how much time we have 'til we hit bottom, you calculate the the
the, " and I snap my fingers until the right word comes, "rate of
ascent--" 

 "Descent," he says. 

 "Descent, right, that's what I said, anyway, what do you say to me?" 

 Blank look from the Mountie. So I help him out. 

 "Well, we're plungin' to our tragic demises, right, but I still got a
little juice left, and I say to you, 'Don't worry, Fraser, it'll be okay,
all we gotta do is time it right, and right before we kiss the pavement,
we jump up, right, so we're in the air when the elevator crashes and we
just land on our feet easy as you please.'" 

 "But Ray, I'm afraid the force exerted by a falling--" and he sounds all
earnest, and I *know* he's tryin', but he's just not gettin' it. 

 "Look, we're about to die, and I'm tryin' to be brave about it, tryin' to
offer you some comfort and stuff like that, are you sayin' you wouldn't
say anythin' back? That you'd spend your last moments on earth arguin'
about stuff in books you read as a kid when it was too blizzardy to go
curlin'?" 

 "Well... no. Well, actually, I might, but--" 

 "What would you say? We got ten seconds." 

 "What floor are we on?" 

 "Nine seconds, eight, seven--" 

 "I love you, Ray." 

 Both of us shut up after that, and then we both clear our throats a
little, to prime 'em fer more talkin'. 

 "Well, that is, I would say that I loved you if our situation was truly
dire. Not that I don't mean it in *this* instance, you understand--" 

 "What would you do, then? I tell you everythin's gonna be okay, you tell
me you love me, then what?" 

 I want to see his face, but I can't, 'cause Fraser's big hand is on the
back of my neck, where my hair is all plastered to the skin, and he's got
my cheek pressed to his chest. 

 My headache blows away like smoke, but I can still hear my blood poundin'
in my ears, still feel the music ring in my chest, wonder if you can
breathe music like air? And against my skin, *everywhere*, even the parts
that aren't actually touchin' him as he whispers my name into my wet hair,
I can feel the throb of the Mountie's heart, beatin' hard and fast. 

 Just like mine. 

 "Then I'd take your hand, Ray, and wait for your cue. And jump." 

 END 

 Lil' Boots 

 harlequin-ee 
 no need to explain yourself, 
 I was born to pay for my previous sins good girl goodness, 
 we'll see how she is 

 Why is the world falling in on me? 
 Why is the world cheating on me? 

 Yes, girl to girl sincerity remains, 
 though awkwardly unnamed 
 You never kissed 
 these girlfriend lips
 a simple choice to fall away fall away away away... 

 Why is the world falling in on me? 
 Why is the world cheating on me? 
 Why is the world cheating me? 

 you won't see that, 
 you won't see me 
 you won't see that, 
 le magique
 bad magic
 big magic 
 you won't see that
 you won't see you won't see won't see won't see... 

 Why is the world falling in on me? 
 Why is the world cheating on me? 
 Why is the world cheating me? 

 --Pet