exeterlinden (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
exeterlinden) wrote2005-04-15 06:33 pm
exeterlinden) wrote2005-04-15 06:33 pm
Entry tags:
Sexual Exploration Challenge by ExeterLinden
Pairing: Fraser/OC, Fraser/Kowalski
Rating: Erm... PG-13?
He hit me eventually, but not for the reasons I expected him to.
I think we are close to the end, and it’s for all the wrong reasons. Not that I wanted it to end to begin with – if that makes any sense – but if it has to end, I wish we could part on better terms.
He comes by the consulate in the evening, unannounced. He asks me if I’ll go for a drive with him. He says he wants to talk, but I don’t think he wants to. “Ray, where are we going?” I ask, and he looks away from the road to stare at me, acknowledging my presence for the first time since he made me get in the car.
He looks annoyed with me for speaking, or not getting it, - I don’t know which - he has been annoyed with me a lot lately, and most of the time I don’t know why. For a moment it seems like he’s debating whether or not he wants to answer me, but then he slams his palm against the steering wheel and says “To the harbour, Fraser. That’s where it started and that’s where we’ll end it.”
“I can’t do this, Ray.” I say without thinking, which is a rare thing for me.
He waits until the lights turn from yellow to green, changes gears and then shoots me a look that is no longer annoyed but downright angry. “Look, you have to. You put in your transfer, I’ll put in mine. It’s quits.”
I’ve noticed that his voice gets slightly more nasal when he is really angry. If I argue with him now, he won’t be able to control himself. I can see that little vein pounding between his brows, and he is speaking through a sarcastic smile that looks more like a sneer and used to intimidate me when I first met him, and now does again. He is wearing his glasses and I can’t see his eyes for the city lights flickering across the lenses.
I lean my hot forehead against the cool window. I can’t look at him, I’m too frustrated. And sad.
Although I try my utmost to be friendly and dependable, all my partners seem to leave in a hurry. Ray. Ray. William.
My first partner’s name was William Maher. I met him at the Academy, where we became friends. Where he was, to be honest, my only friend. At the Academy we were both different from the rest, or as Ray would have put it: Freaks.
William came from a big family: A mother and four older brothers, all by the different men who came and went through his childhood. I always wanted siblings when I was a child living with my grandmother and grandfather, but to William it wasn’t a blessing. His mother was for most part absent, if not physically then in spirit, and his brothers – instead of taking care of him – bullied William. He told me that he had never really felt related to his brothers, to whom he didn’t bear any resemblance in appearance (because he was the only one who had an Inuit father) or temperament. And I suspect that, in spite of mother and siblings, his childhood was almost as lonely as mine.
When we first arrived at the Academy, we were both unused to being so constantly surrounded by other people, people our own age. And our social skills were, I suspect, somewhat lacking. We expressed in different ways, I was too polite, always minding my manners, like my grandmother had taught me to. William was terribly clumsy in his social interactions - always on the defence, always a little wary of other people.
I must admit that in the beginning we teamed up mostly because we had to; we were always the last ones picked for sparring partners, or joint assignments. But soon we discovered a shared loved of curling and Chet Baker, and a shared unease at the other recruits’ casual manners and crude language. We grew fond of each other’s company, so much so that when the opportunity presented itself, we decided to team up after our graduation as well.
With Ray Kowalski, I never got to choose if I wanted to work with him or not. Which, in hindsight, I think is a good thing. Because I wouldn’t have chosen to work with him. I was offended by his casual manner and crude language. But now, looking back at our working relationship and our friendship, both of which I fear are about to end, I can’t say that I’ve had a better partner or friend. I care more for him than I know how to express.
We pull up beside a row of industrial containers and he breaks hard and turns off the engine. Out of the city lights it is dark and quiet. In the dark, the harbour isn’t as ugly as in the day. You can’t see the black smoke or the rusting metal and concrete. I wait for him to get out and when he doesn’t I turn my head towards him and see him straightening up from leaning his head against the wheel.
“Get out of the car” he says, so I do. He slams the door shut and locks it.
Out of the car he is jittery and still won’t look at me, and I suddenly understand that he is nervous and a second after it dawns on me why he is nervous: He intends for me to hit him. I am almost sure of it. I feel like laughing, except it’s really more tragic than funny. What are the odds? In one lifetime, what are the odds of something so bizarre happening twice?
He reached down and I flinched, but he only gripped my hand and pulled me up. I didn't want to look at him, so I looked down at the ground, spitting out a little horrible-tasting blood in the snow. “God, I’m sorry, Fraser” he said and I flinched again, because why was he calling me Fraser? “I didn’t mean to hit you, you just… You startled me.”
I couldn't stand looking at his face looking so sad and apologetic. I prodded that loose tooth with my tongue. “Will, it doesn’t matter.” I said, then rephrased it to: “It’s all right” because people mostly say it doesn’t matter when it does, and I didn't want it to. I leaned against the fence. I didn't want to look up.
“Here,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder, making me stand up straight “Hit me back. Please, that way we’ll be even.”
“I can’t do this, Will.” I didn't want to. I just wanted to go home and forget about it.
“No, you have to.” And he didn't stop. He wouldn't let me leave, so I finally punched him and a few weeks after I secured a transfer further up north.
Ray walks ahead of me. The gravel is crunching loudly beneath his boots as he walks quickly towards where we climbed out of the water earlier in the day. I’m guessing he wants this over and done with. The water is glistening darkly ahead of us, making almost no sound, and the more Ray hurries, the more I find myself slowing my steps, perversely wanting to stretch the moment, to make it last a little longer.
We pass a couple of rough-looking men, harbour workers probably, but Ray is glaring at them as if they are known convicted criminals. He turns to look after them when they’ve passed, as if willing them away.
We weren't in uniform because we weren’t officially on duty. I don’t know if it would have helped, in any case. Winston is a miner’s town, full of hard men and hard drinkers. There wasn’t a lot of respect for the uniform around there, especially not when worn by two newly trained men, younger than average and politer than average. We’d been working on it though, Will and I, and we’d been surprisingly successful.
But we were not working then. Winston is where we went after duty when Will wanted a beer and would ask me if I’d like to join him for a glass of stale tap water. We went there because nobody knew us there, and because there was never any trouble. Except that night there was, and William and I judged it necessary to intervene.
The young men were gone; they all but ran out as soon as we stepped in. Good on them, they were lucky to escape a beating. But now William and I were facing four muscular miners, quite drunk, and angry at us for having let their victims get away. They had been harassing the two young men, pushing them around, calling them names, before we stepped in. The two young men had acted irresponsibly. It really had been foolhardy of them to… Well, to kiss each other in a place like this. I don’t know what they were thinking. Trying to provoke, maybe; some youths have that rebellious streak in them.
“What do you care?” said one of the miners, a pale-skinned, nearly bald man with a tattoo on his neck. “What do you care if we beat up a pair of queers?”
I blinked hard, cringing a little, waiting for William’s reply, because I knew he would reply and I knew that a whole childhood of being by bullied by older brothers, and three years of losing fights at the Academy had not taught him not to come up with a snappy comeback. Which, although I’d never tell him, I admired him for and was envious of, that stubborn streak. Not getting cowed, not always being polite.
“I really don’t see why it upsets you so. Think about it: If more of us pursued this activity, I think Winston would be a friendlier town to live in. I think less people would go starting fights if they were able to find release through sexual intercourse on a regular basis,” he said pleasantly, smiling at them.
I don’t know which shocked me more, that William just suggested that the miners sleep with each other, or that he had the nerve to say that they only wanted to fight because they couldn’t, using a crude term, get laid. I was more than a little surprised and inexplicably embarrassed to hear him talk about homosexuality so casually and liberally when most places and certainly in a town like this it is the biggest taboo of them all.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” William tipped his hat at them and turned around towards the door. I overcame my shock and followed him. We walked slowly towards the exit. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the men breaking out of their stupor and starting to follow.
I opened the door and we stepped outside. It was a relief to breathe in clear winter air after the thick smoke and sweat scented air in the bar. We’d only reached a few steps down the street when I heard the creak of the door opening again.
We walked calmly down the road and turned a corner and out of sight. I could feel their eyes on us all the way, and the silence told me they’d probably follow.
As soon as wed turned the corner, William looked back and then at me. I nodded. In unison we started sprinting down the street, running as fast as we could. We didn't look back, but I was listening for the sound of someone following.
And all the time I was reasoning with myself: There’s no shame in avoiding a fight, there were four of them, we did our duty…
But I felt a little foolish anyhow. My lungs were starting to protest and my nostrils and throat were sore from gulping in freezing air. We must have run at least ten streets, but neither of us slowed down – the adrenaline was doing its job.
And underneath the reasoning voice and my groaning muscles and thumping heart there was another train of thoughts running in an altogether different direction. I remembered reading about Native American tribes that accepted homo- or bisexuals, called them two-spirits and believed they had certain powers. I remembered looking at pictures of Greek pottery which depicted scenes of homosexual love. I remembered when I realised that the Johnson brothers up at Cold Creek weren’t actually brothers and why people considered them weird.
I didn’t understand why people were so upset about it, after all, it’s just people falling in love. For my part, I found it oddly… intriguing. I asked my grandmother about it but quickly realised, although it was never said, the way children do, that it wasn’t something you talked about. My grandmother was in many ways a very modern women, but she could not at age seventy-six sit down and talk about erections or sexual dreams and certainly not homosexuality with a twelve-year-old boy.
I realised with wonder that in our nearly four year long friendship, Will and I had never really discussed women or love or sex, except in an off-hand manner, chuckling nervously in the shared knowledge that none of us had any experience. I didn’t know his reasons, but I knew my own, knew myself to not really understand my strange libido, which seemed to wake at the most inopportune times and on the weirdest occasions, until I finally decided that maybe my grandmother had been right in deeming it something best ignored.
I lived so much of my childhood through books that sometimes I expect my life to play out like fiction, with everything well timed and coordinated, all part of a larger scheme. So in a way it makes sense that events seem to double back on themselves. Even if the circumstances are slightly different, it still feels the same.
I can hear a ship’s bell from somewhere. At some point, Ray took off his glasses. He stops near the edge of the dock and I walk over to stand in front of him.
Ahead of me William stopped and leaned against a wooden fence, one hand on his side. I stopped running as well, and sat down with my back against the fence a little way from him. “I don’t think they actually followed us very far.” I said, gasping.
He slid down to sit on the ground. He was flushed red, sweat beading his forehead. Fascinated, I watched his breath come out in white almost solid looking puffs of vapour. “God, Benton, “he said, “what a bunch of inbred ignorants.” That made me laugh and the sound of my laughter startled him. I’d noticed that before: He was always surprised by it as if he didn't think himself a funny man, as if he’d been used to people ignoring his jokes. Which, knowing him, he probably had.
That thought stirred something in me.
Will was my best friend and a great man. And funny, wonderfully witty and bright, and I really liked him. I really liked him. I got up and brushed the snow off my trousers. I walked over to him, squatted next to him and pressed my mouth against his cheekbone. I closed my eyes, enjoyed the contrast of his hot, damp skin beneath my cold lips. And then I pulled back.
And then I fell back hard in the snow, tears welling in my eyes, my hands coming up to cup my jaw where he hit me, where I felt and heard a sickening, crunching sound of something coming loose. I put a finger in my mouth to feel and one of my teeth was a little loose but still there. I felt the inside of my cheek and the flesh was mashed, little threads of skin clinging to my finger. When I looked at my finger it was covered in blood mingled with spit and above me William was looking down at me with a frown on his face.
I braced myself for another blow, a kick, something. But he didn't look angry, he looked sad, hurt, betrayed somehow. “I didn’t know you were queer.”
“I didn’t mean to do it.”
“You could have told me,” he said, accusing. “All this time, I thought… I don’t know. You could have told me.”
He reached down and I flinched, but he only gripped my hand and pulled me up. I didn't want to look at him, so I stared down at the ground, spitting out a little horrible-tasting blood in the snow.
I look at Ray, but he doesn’t look at me. He’s nervous, pacing, gathering up courage. I wouldn’t have expected him to be this timid about physical pain. God knows we’ve endured plenty of it in our time as partners. I stay still. I watch him passively as he walks back and forth, runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath and then comes back over and stands in front of me.
I can’t read his expression at all.
He leans in, and I realise that I was wrong, he doesn’t want to hit me – he wants to fight, he’s still that angry. On pure instinct I raise my hands to shove him or hit him, but he pushes my hands away and leans in quickly and presses his mouth against mine, forcing my head back.
For a moment I feel his hand running through the hair at the nape of my neck, but then it’s gone and so is he.
He steps back and rolls his shoulders and bounces a little from foot to foot, like a boxer warming up for a match. I lick my lower lip and catch a faint bitter taste of tobacco.
“There. Done. You can hit me now.” he says, using sarcasm to cover up his nervousness, steeling himself. He juts his chin out defiantly.
But I am not going to hit him, and with the glasses off I can see something new in his eyes, something bright and hopeful.
“C’mon, what are you waiting for?”
I don’t know what he can see in my face. I don’t know what to do. I’m not used to going from regret to joy in the space of a few seconds, I feel like my emotions are struggling to keep up.
Ray, though, is having no such difficulties. I can see his body relaxing, his face softening. “What are you waiting for?” he says again. He sounds breathless and he doesn’t look scared anymore. “Hit me.” he mumbles, leaning in.
But I don’t.
no subject
no subject
I'm happy you liked it!
no subject
At first the rapid going back and forth knocked me off balance, but as the story unfolded, I started to actually like this style -- I felt it sort of put me right where Fraser was at, confused and confusing reality with memory. Whether it works in English I have no idea, but I love stories that play around with writing conventions.
One small tip, though: are you using Word (or some similar software) to edit your fic before posting? If you are, you have to turn off the auto-formatting function that changes the shape of quotation marks and ellipses, so that they don't turn into special characters in LJ's unicode. On my computer they show up fine, as I suspect they do on yours, but with browsers that are set to English only, this post might appear littered with weird letters where quotations or "..." should be.
no subject
Also thank you for the technical tip, I will definately sort this out when RL is done stressing me out :)
no subject
I really like this ... it's beautiful and perfect and made me feel all warm and glowy inside!
I really liked Will ... he was very well drawn and real feeling, I think he needs to pop up in another story :)
no subject
Thank you. I don't know, maybe Will will have a reprise sometime *g*.