now let's talk about what's important: pretty boys.

( school stuff )

Hmmmm. Time for a new topic of discussion. How about the brown uniform? Fraser only wears it once in the RayK seasons, you know, but that just means we're free to imagine other times.

( pictures! )

It feels somehow even more intimate than his civilian clothes sometimes, I think. It's one of the magical things about Fraser, in general, though, how the smallest hints of unbuttoning or glimpses of skins make him seem almost *naked*. Those last two pictures! With his button undone and his tie missing? Oh my good GOD.

But, oh, the brown uniform. The suspenders. The way he rolls up his sleeves and shows you his forearms. His little *nametag*. The way it emphasizes the wideness of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist.

So, okay! Come on, people. I welcome both more pictures of Fraser looking hot in the brown uniform (I am missing all my old saved caps, sadly!), but also, even more importantly, speculation on RayK + the brown uniform. I've said to people before how one of the pleasures of Fraser pov is the fact that Fraser's eye for detail means he's quite likely to notice every single little detail of Ray's body, just the same way we fangirls do. He pays attention. Ray may not notice every little fetishizing detail the way we do, but he's not *blind*, either, right?

Right now the image in my mind is Ray and Fraser standing together, with Fraser absolutely still. They're close enough to kiss, but they're aren't doing so. The only place they;re touching is where Ray's fingers are brushing against Fraser's shirt front, watching himself unbutton each hole slowly slowly slowly. The only noise is their breathing and the rustle of fabric. Fraser's is watching Ray with wide eyes; Ray is staring down at his own fingers.

fry and laurie

A Bit of Fry & Laurie episode two, you are responsible for my favorite bit of linguistics humor ever.

Hugh: So to you language is more than just a means of communication?

Stehen: Of course it is, of course it is, of course it is, of course it is. Language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my checkout girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square, or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple. It's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from an old bookshelf a half-forgotten book of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on a stair. It's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane. It's a half-remembered childhood birthday party. It's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy. The hulk of a charred panzer. The underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl. It's cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.

P.S., here is a picture of Hugh Laurie in drag. Do with it as you will.