TITLE: A Last Resort
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
ARCHIVE: Ask, please.
RATING: PG-13
POSTED: Jan. 13, 2005
AUTHOR NOTES: due South ambushed me, took me out, and was very nice about it, actually. This is part of my first attempt at the world, but since I'd already posted a response to the "ink" challenge at the LiveJournal DS Flashfiction community, this one went into my own journal. Thanks again to Minnow for the beta.
DISCLAIMER: Read
Ray chews on things. He's a very oral person; Fraser noticed that right at the start, and over the past few weeks he's become familiar with the wide range of emotions and novels worth of thoughts let loose or held close by Ray's mouth. But it took until now for Fraser to realize the extent of this particular manifestation, and just how many things Ray chews.
Ray turns to gum most often, Fraser has observed. A natural choice. He snaps it lightly, barely loud enough for most to hear but keeping his jaw in near-constant motion that's usually camouflaged by his bursts of words. Then there are the times Fraser has learned Ray intends to be heard, his teeth clacking shut so he can favor the person who is slowly being driven to distraction with a bright and not-innocent grin.
Toothpicks are another favorite, often at hand and quickly in his mouth, flipping between his incisors and tongue, or clamped lightly by his molars. Sometimes Fraser wonders whether it's magic that holds that splinter to the corner of Ray's lips. Other times he wonders how it is that Ray has never swallowed one.
Pencils are borrowed from nearly every other desk in the station and never returned; the original owners never want them back once the imprint of Ray's teeth transforms them into pockmarked and broken relics of various cases, scarred beyond touch. Only once did Fraser mention lead poisoning, and as far as he can remember, he's never actually seen Ray write with a pencil.
It's as if viewed through Ray's subconscious, that instinct of his, a world filled with ordinary items is one overrun by possibilities: fingers and nails; clothing, sometimes; food, of course; even, on one memorable occasion, paper...although Fraser is almost positive that Ray was making a point after Francesca handed him that phone message.
Pens appear to be a last resort, however, and that's odd, in Fraser's opinion. He has been told that he's the last one to say something or someone is odd, but since it's usually been a Ray saying that, Fraser has taken that advice in the spirit he believes it was intended. And from any objective angle, a pen would make far more sense than the frail organic items that this Ray always returns to as soon as they're available again.
Right now Fraser is attempting to ignore the pen twitching between Ray's fingers, even as it slaps over and over and over into the tall pile of closed-case folders by Ray's right hand. Lieutenant Welsh made it perfectly clear, with his usual brevity, that that pile is be shorter this evening than it was this morning. Fraser is here helping in this task because, as Ray pointed out with a smile that could have been genuine, at least half of these cases wouldn't be cases, much less closed, if Fraser were a normal human being. Or words to that effect. He's also helping because it keeps him here, away from the Consulate, which is something that he's not even sure if he wants to admit to Dief. Not that he would object, Fraser thinks as he watches Welsh casually drop half a doughnut into the trash but "miss" just enough for the sugar-covered treat to land directly between the wolf's front paws. Shaking his head, Fraser turns back to the Jasper file. No, Dief would have no objection to being here, whatever the reason.
His focus returning to their niche in the squad room, Fraser pauses before turning to the next page. Something is missing, and not from the file. He looks up, about to look around, and sees the pen caught between Ray's teeth, dangling like one of those toothpicks. It's longer, of course, and heavier, so it's not a surprise to notice the tension in Ray's jaw that exerts far greater pressure on the plastic than would normally be used for wood. Then Ray snarls. His eyes narrow, glaring at something on the paper in front of him, and his upper lip curls back. Before Fraser can ask or caution can rise, the chain of events comes to its natural conclusion and a snap cuts through the room's ambient clamor.
Ray curses, a harsh and garbled sound with a meaning that's likely better off lost, and spits the pen out. It lands on the desk and skitters across, coming to a neat and centered stop on Fraser's side but leaving a drunken trail of blue behind. Fraser picks it up carefully. The end is almost flattened, its blunt shape compressed into a partial mold of two teeth. But it's the long crack down the side that is the cause of the mess. Looking at that split in the plastic, at the leaking cartridge inside, at the ink seeping into the reports and forms, Fraser makes his way back to Ray, to Ray's lips, and his eyes widen at the midnight dark streak that Ray is furiously scrubbing with a used napkin. That only makes the stain worse, though, spreading it and turning it blue again on Ray's light skin while he lapses into muttering about hexes and evil eyes.
Fraser doesn't laugh; he doesn't dare. He does reach across and grab Ray's wrist to prevent further damage. When Ray blinks at him, his mouth stalled open and falsely bruised, Fraser holds on.
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