TITLE: Moves
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
RATING: NC-17
POSTED: June 2, 2005
SUMMARY: It's easy for a hand to slip between two people so used to sharing the same space.
NOTES: Wrote this for the DS Flashfiction challenge on necking, I think. Can't remember why I didn't post it there.
DISCLAIMER: Read
When Ray first stops tapping the seat arm between them and taps Fraser's forearm, Fraser's breath catches. So unexpected, but he figures it's a mistake; it's easy for a hand to slip between two people so used to sharing the same space. All it is is one tap, then a pause while Fraser carefully doesn't look down, and then Ray's fingers are back on the plastic, drumming whatever beat he's called into his head to drown out the movie's insipid dialogue.
When it happens again, though -- a quick but sure trill of calloused fingers on the back of his hand -- Fraser goes still. Not a mistake, then, not even if Ray were distracted, which Fraser can't imagine he is given what's on the screen.
After a long moment filled with no answers, Fraser tilts his head toward Ray to quietly say, "We can leave."
Frankly, he's wanted to leave for the last half hour, and he's hoping Ray's response will be a vehement, "Hell, yes." He had made it abundantly clear that Fraser would owe him far more than the pizza they had earlier and the coffee that is supposed to come later. Not at all a steep price for serving as a shield for Francesca's unsubtle-as-ever longing to attend this film festival. Why he hasn't done more than joke that Fraser could always learn to say no to someone other than Ray is something Fraser wondered all afternoon without any desire to truly examine the variance. But the meat of this matter is that it's been a particularly difficult three days at the Consulate, as Turnbull has been so ill that even he agreed he would be more of a hindrance than an asset. With the inclusion of the FBI's sudden decision to "contribute" to their latest case -- excused by a flimsy drug charge that had Lt. Welsh snorting into his coffee -- up until a few minutes ago, Fraser had been most concerned about falling asleep where he sits.
So it's a relief when Ray tilts his head closer, as well. A quick nod and caustic comment, more than likely including an "I told you so," will provide all the excuse needed to leave without guilt and seek out his bed, Fraser thinks, holding his breath in anticipation of providing a quick agreement.
But, "Nah. I'm good," Ray says with a shake of his head, leaving Fraser to stare, dumbfounded, as this night takes another, even odder turn.
To all appearances, Ray is entirely focused on the screen in front of them where a poorly-realized adaptation of a standard princess and the pauper faerie tale plays out. That is, that's where he's focused according to anyone who isn't watching -- or feeling, Fraser thinks as he wets his bottom lip in defense against his suddenly parched mouth -- the supposedly neutral space between them when Ray's fingers start to dance from plastic to cotton to flesh and back.
It can't be deliberate; it's too casual, and Ray isn't even glancing this direction. He should move, Fraser thinks. He should move his arm so it's no longer in the way of Ray...well, being Ray. Put him in a seat for more than ten minutes without holding his attention and yes, all that energy has to go somewhere.
Fraser doesn't want to move, though. Ray touches him all the time: shoulders bumping, hands catching hold, any number of small, relatively insignificant actions bringing them close, except they're entirely different from the impersonal contact he himself regularly initiates in the course of his duty. And Fraser has noticed for some time that he now positions himself to enable and encourage those touches. It's a nearly forgetten sensation to have regular, anticipated contact with another, but he's once again grown used to all of those forms of closeness, intimacy, trust.
After five cycles through this particular, baffling pattern, though, Fraser gives up all pretense of concentrating on anything else. Holding his breath, he struggles to stay still under Ray's absently-arousing touch, waiting for more; a thumb sliding under the cuff of his sleeve, feeling the hard pulse in his wrist, perhaps, feeling how quickly it's going in order to keep up with his heart. Which is ridiculous. The waiting, that is. It's dark enough, and they're far enough toward the rear -- "Nuh-uh, by the exit," Ray had said with an impish grin when Fraser started down the aisle toward the middle of the nearly-empty theater. "Easy out before the rush." -- that the chance that anyone will notice if he turns his hand over to capture and entwine those long fingers with his is near zero. Of course, there's no guarantee of what Ray's response will be, the possibilities go both ways, and yet... Every time Ray's touch comes down, it seems like he presses harder, moving from tapping to something more deliberate, something that's more of a caress, shifting higher, and Fraser should just screw up his courage and--
"What about you, Frase? You okay?"
Fraser has to open his eyes, and he opens them wide, because he can't remember when the darkness became complete. But he's all too aware that his throat is dry and his breath coming faster, and neither is due to surprise.
Ray's voice might have been soft but his eyes are sharp in the flickering light. And his hand hovers over Fraser's arm; cupped, not touching, but close enough that he's not simply someone in the adjacent seat. A possibility almost turned into reality.
"I'm...okay," Fraser says slowly, feeling himself coil inside, preparing for one of them to move.
Ray winces. "Right."
Fraser blinks as Ray jerks his hand back into the protection of his body and tucks his head down.
"Sorry. Imagining things. Stupid flashback."
"Flashback?" Fraser asks, and then almost winces himself. Of all the questions that could have fallen out of the jumble in his mind...
"Habit," Ray mumbles, one shoulder twitching in a shrug. "Dark theater, chick flick. It's an automated response."
"Ingrained?"
Ray's head comes up just long enough to shoot him a sour look. He can't help it, Fraser almost says in apology, some things are indeed ingrained.
"Yeah, whatever." Ray frowns at the empty seat in front of him. "No talking during the movie, Fraser."
Confusion and curiosity both push at Fraser for an answer. Reading Ray can be as easy as looking at the sections of the paper spread across Huey's desk every lunch hour; it's almost painful how open he is, sometimes. But other times, now, what is going on in that head is as much of a mystery as any mood that Diefenbaker ever retreated into, and infinitely more frustrating to pull free.
Fraser shifts to a better angle to see Ray's face. More than that, more than anything right now, he needs to see Ray's eyes.
"What ingrained response?"
Staring straight ahead, Ray shakes his head once, a sharp denial. "Look, just drop it."
But Fraser can't do that now. He won't do that. "Do you mean--"
Ray twists toward him in a violent move, a hand sweeping up to stop the question. But Fraser doesn't pull back, not even when Ray scowls at him, heat in the darkness.
"Didn't you do anything normal when you were a kid?" Ray hisses. "The atmosphere, here, the-the ambiance. The lights go down and the music gets sappy and, okay, so I'm not going to pull the yawn-and-stretch, but Jesus. Whole lot of nothing between you and the North Pole and you still can't see a move coming from miles away."
He hadn't been wrong. That's all Fraser can think for as long as it takes for Ray to blow out a frustrated huff and scrub his hand in his hair. It hadn't been a mistake, or an accident, or a projection of a dream.
Ray is still glaring. "Well? You get it?"
Fraser takes a moment to suppress a correction about the Canadian landscape and a satisfied smile -- both of which he's almost positive would be taken entirely the wrong way -- before he agrees, "Yes, I think I do get it, Ray."
Ray's eyes narrow, but he nods. "Good." He shoves around to face forward once more. "And so I don't have to kill you, this never gets mentioned. Ever."
"Understood," Fraser says.
"Peachy." Ray crosses his arms and wriggles down into a slouch in the cushioned seat.
Fraser lets the silence stretch, but he isn't really watching the stilted confusion on the screen as the princess and pauper try to switch back to their original roles without angering the men they met in the interim. It's time to think. Time to plan. And finally, when Ray is back to tapping on the arm rest -- the far one, this time, harder -- and his right leg is bouncing in time with that rhythm, Fraser moves.
Preparation doesn't lead to the intended performance, however. Ray jerks upright when Fraser takes his hand, his head whipping around and his mouth falling open. Fraser had been planning a small move, an unmistakable one: his thumb stroking across Ray's open palm that couldn't be taken for anything other than acceptance of what Ray had been carefully offering. But never let it be said that he failed to jump when opportunity presented itself so clearly, he thinks as he leans forward and kisses Ray's open mouth.
It's awkward; the angle is off, given their current positions, and Fraser sees Ray's eyes pop open wide as Ray makes a high, startled noise. Fraser quickly closes his own eyes, praying that he hasn't completely miscalculated, and it's nearly awful for two heartbeats. But then Ray twists, and he's twisting closer, and Fraser breathes out a sigh that Ray breathes back into him along with a moan.
Almost giddy with relief and amazement at the reality, the sensations -- this is Ray, his mind crows -- Fraser seeps in it, in Ray, in the mouth that he could sketch in any state or expression, and the new sounds in a voice that he still surprises him with new moods. And then Ray's hand is in Fraser's hair, Ray's fingers, those strong fingers are rubbing against Fraser's skull, and it's fairly disturbing for the thought to occur that Dief could have told him that this would feel so deliriously good.
He brings both hands up to cup Ray's face and slowly pulls them apart, reluctant to lose what he's found, but needing to make this clear. The husky growl of, "No, no stopping," doesn't help; it's too easy to agree with that order-cum-plea.
"For once, Ray, you were being too subtle," he says, entirely serious. But when Ray's mouth drops open again, this time in an affronted glare, Fraser presses his lips behind Ray's ear, hiding his smile in the surprises there -- soft hair, soft skin, strong scents that are so familiar yet concentrated here into essence of Ray. Comfort and excitement, all in one, Fraser thinks on a chuckle.
Ray's breath catches. "You--" He swallows hard, his head tilting away, and Fraser takes immediate advantage, licking that same spot to truly take into himself that essence and the shudder that follows and passes to shimmer through him.
Ray lets out a shaky laugh. "You're not being real subtle, there, Fraser."
"No, I'm not," Fraser agrees.
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