birthday fic for dira
18/10/04 21:34![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
schmericaUnless I have failed in my time zone converting, I believe it is now officially the 19th in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dsudis-land, and thus birthday time. I have no hockey, I'm afraid, so I offer kidfic instead. Happy, happy birthday, Dira!
This story is related to How Many Ways, but doesn't require having read that one, I don't think. Thank you tolynnmonster and brooklinegirl for beta.
*****
It's late when Fraser arrives home; errands, paperwork, and assorted duties have all conspired to make this one of his lengthier nights. It may be a sign that he is getting soft -- or perhaps just older -- but he has to admit to himself how very tired he is.
The house is silent, everyone else apparently asleep already, so he makes an effort to be quiet as he shuts the door behind him. His jacket goes on the coat rack, as does his hat; his shoes he slips into their place in the neat line of footwear by the door, between Ray's old leather boots and a pair of tiny and sturdy velcro sneakers. He doesn't remove his tie yet, but he loosens it as he walks over to the table in his stocking feet.
Ray has, thoughtfully, left a portion of dinner out for him. Tonight it is spaghetti, a dish they have quite often, given that it's one of the relatively few foods all three of them find appealing.
Fraser eats quickly in large, eager bites -- he's hungrier than he had realized. He looks through the papers on the table as he eats. Today was finger painting day, it seems; there is a series of bright and messy pictures in blue, red, and green.
He looks at them for a while, but he can't identify the subjects in any of them. Perhaps they aren't supposed to be anything -- the joy in this art is in the creation, after all, more than in the product. And Carrie is very young still. But it smarts a little that Ray always seems able to name the subjects of all of her artwork with no large amount of thought and perfect accuracy. As if it were *obvious*.
Or, at any rate, when Ray makes his pronouncements, Carrie always immediately agrees with him, which amounts to the same thing.
Fraser set the pictures back on the table and picks up his empty bowl to take to the sink. Ray has left the day's dirty dishes in to soak. Fraser washes them as well, wiping each dish carefully before setting it in the rack on the counter to dry.
He yawns when he finishes, stretching his arms out behind him. His back aches rather badly; it has all day, but he's done his best to ignore it. Now he reaches out one hand to rub at the nape of his neck, settling the other hand steadily against the frame of the doorway.
The wood is smooth and warm beneath his fingers, and Fraser holds it tightly, before giving it another pat and pushing himself away. He knows every board and beam of this place by heart. It is going on five years now since he and Ray began building it, slowly, piece by piece, but it is still incredible, the sensation of being truly at home, between the physical presence of the house, the country outside, and the contents inside.
It will be a shame to have to live anywhere else, but as Carrie gets closer to school age, for most of the year they'll want to live closer to town. (Ray is protesting this, but Fraser suspects he is just being contrary. "Other kids suck. She doesn't need them. She's smart, she'll do fine with just us. *You* did fine without that." Which is ridiculous for, really, any number of reasons, not least of which is the inconsistency with Ray's more frequent complaints, on the days when the isolation and constant care wear on him.)
Fraser continues undressing in the dark of their bedroom. He is moving slowly, and being quite quiet, but apparently not quiet enough. Ray's quilt-covered form shifts on the bed as Fraser pulls his suspenders off his shoulders.
"Fraser."
"Yes?"
Fraser braces himself slightly, not looking back over toward Ray as he unbuttons his shirt. He and Ray don't fight *often* -- well, not seriously -- but an overwhelming number of their quarrels seem to occur under these circumstances, late at night, when they are both tired or frustrated. There is no telling what kind of day Carrie and Ray have had. There have been days when Fraser has come home to find Ray angry, pacing and cursing, throwing around accusations and comments ("like I'm a goddamn housewife" and "how fucking distant a dad do you want to be here, Fraser?") that seem to be deliberately cruel, then pulling blankets off their bed and going to sleep alongside Dief on the floor of the other room, leaving Fraser in here alone. There have been days when Fraser has come home to find him cheerful and pleased, cracking jokes, challenging him to games and puzzles, leading Fraser in endless dances around and around the living room floor.
Tonight Ray mumbles, "Get into bed?"
Fraser smiles as he finishes pulling off his socks. He crawls under the quilt. Ray's hand gropes over the length of the bed between them, until Fraser catches it in his own hand and squeezes. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, preparing for sleep, but he opens them again as Ray's body rolls over toward him.
"Hey," Ray said. His breath is warm against the side of Fraser's face. He kisses Fraser gently, cuddling his body closer along Fraser's side and wrapping one arm around Fraser's mid-section. "Munchkin's asleep," he says against Fraser's ear. "You up for it?"
It's late; he's tired; he's sore; but -- it's been a while; and that's a challenge in Ray's voice; and, oh yes. Fraser's up for it, and he tells Ray so, catching his mouth again.
They kiss lazily, gently and easily. After a bit, Ray moves closer, lowering his weight onto Fraser, pressing their bodies together. They find a steady rhythm and, yes, it's going along swimmingly, just perfect; Fraser's hands are tight in Ray's hair and Ray is sucking a careful love bite near the hollow of Fraser's throat when they both hear the crying begin.
"Damn," Ray says, raising his head.
Fraser takes a deep breath and says, "Indeed." And then, "Here, let me -- I'll go check on her--"
But Ray is already climbing off of him, rolling to stand by the bed, shaking his head. "I got it, Fraser, I'm already up. You take the next one." He disappears from the room.
Fraser reaches to turn on the bedside lamp and then lies again on his back, lacing his hands across his chest. Beneath Carrie's shrieks he can hear the click of nails against wood (Dief can't hear her, of course, but he still worries a great deal), the patter of Ray's footsteps, and then his low steady murmur. The crying begins to calm down once the murmur starts, and as Ray continues, it eventually comes to a stop.
After another minute Ray appears again in their room. He is holding Carrie; her arms are wrapped around his neck, her face buried against his shoulder. From this angle and light, their similarities, noted by Fraser on previous occasions, seem especially strong. They have the same coloring, the same thin frame, the same sharp edges. One would be justified in mistaking them for blood relations, an assumption one would be fairly unlikely to reach watching Fraser and her together.
"Bad dream," Ray says, in brief explanation. "I said she could sleep in the big bed for tonight."
Fraser nods at this. As Ray arranges her between them, tucking her in, Fraser reaches for the light again -- not switching it off completely, but instead turning to its lowest setting. He settles back down, turning to rest on his side, facing inwards.
Ray has tucked Carrie in tightly, only her small face poking out from the blankets. Her eyes are closed, and her face is set in a serious expression; she's halfway back to sleep already. Fraser reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from her eyes, and a small sigh escapes her.
"Fraser," Ray whispers; Fraser looks up to meet his knowing smile. "Go to sleep."
Ray has adjusted his position in the bed as well, sprawled out widely, with one arm situated near the child, not touching her, but protective nonetheless. Fraser moves his hand, squeezes Ray's strong wrist for a moment. "All right."
He closes his eyes and listens to the even breaths of the two people beside him and falls asleep in the dim half-lit room.
dsudis-land, and thus birthday time. I have no hockey, I'm afraid, so I offer kidfic instead. Happy, happy birthday, Dira!This story is related to How Many Ways, but doesn't require having read that one, I don't think. Thank you to
lynnmonster and brooklinegirl for beta.*****
It's late when Fraser arrives home; errands, paperwork, and assorted duties have all conspired to make this one of his lengthier nights. It may be a sign that he is getting soft -- or perhaps just older -- but he has to admit to himself how very tired he is.
The house is silent, everyone else apparently asleep already, so he makes an effort to be quiet as he shuts the door behind him. His jacket goes on the coat rack, as does his hat; his shoes he slips into their place in the neat line of footwear by the door, between Ray's old leather boots and a pair of tiny and sturdy velcro sneakers. He doesn't remove his tie yet, but he loosens it as he walks over to the table in his stocking feet.
Ray has, thoughtfully, left a portion of dinner out for him. Tonight it is spaghetti, a dish they have quite often, given that it's one of the relatively few foods all three of them find appealing.
Fraser eats quickly in large, eager bites -- he's hungrier than he had realized. He looks through the papers on the table as he eats. Today was finger painting day, it seems; there is a series of bright and messy pictures in blue, red, and green.
He looks at them for a while, but he can't identify the subjects in any of them. Perhaps they aren't supposed to be anything -- the joy in this art is in the creation, after all, more than in the product. And Carrie is very young still. But it smarts a little that Ray always seems able to name the subjects of all of her artwork with no large amount of thought and perfect accuracy. As if it were *obvious*.
Or, at any rate, when Ray makes his pronouncements, Carrie always immediately agrees with him, which amounts to the same thing.
Fraser set the pictures back on the table and picks up his empty bowl to take to the sink. Ray has left the day's dirty dishes in to soak. Fraser washes them as well, wiping each dish carefully before setting it in the rack on the counter to dry.
He yawns when he finishes, stretching his arms out behind him. His back aches rather badly; it has all day, but he's done his best to ignore it. Now he reaches out one hand to rub at the nape of his neck, settling the other hand steadily against the frame of the doorway.
The wood is smooth and warm beneath his fingers, and Fraser holds it tightly, before giving it another pat and pushing himself away. He knows every board and beam of this place by heart. It is going on five years now since he and Ray began building it, slowly, piece by piece, but it is still incredible, the sensation of being truly at home, between the physical presence of the house, the country outside, and the contents inside.
It will be a shame to have to live anywhere else, but as Carrie gets closer to school age, for most of the year they'll want to live closer to town. (Ray is protesting this, but Fraser suspects he is just being contrary. "Other kids suck. She doesn't need them. She's smart, she'll do fine with just us. *You* did fine without that." Which is ridiculous for, really, any number of reasons, not least of which is the inconsistency with Ray's more frequent complaints, on the days when the isolation and constant care wear on him.)
Fraser continues undressing in the dark of their bedroom. He is moving slowly, and being quite quiet, but apparently not quiet enough. Ray's quilt-covered form shifts on the bed as Fraser pulls his suspenders off his shoulders.
"Fraser."
"Yes?"
Fraser braces himself slightly, not looking back over toward Ray as he unbuttons his shirt. He and Ray don't fight *often* -- well, not seriously -- but an overwhelming number of their quarrels seem to occur under these circumstances, late at night, when they are both tired or frustrated. There is no telling what kind of day Carrie and Ray have had. There have been days when Fraser has come home to find Ray angry, pacing and cursing, throwing around accusations and comments ("like I'm a goddamn housewife" and "how fucking distant a dad do you want to be here, Fraser?") that seem to be deliberately cruel, then pulling blankets off their bed and going to sleep alongside Dief on the floor of the other room, leaving Fraser in here alone. There have been days when Fraser has come home to find him cheerful and pleased, cracking jokes, challenging him to games and puzzles, leading Fraser in endless dances around and around the living room floor.
Tonight Ray mumbles, "Get into bed?"
Fraser smiles as he finishes pulling off his socks. He crawls under the quilt. Ray's hand gropes over the length of the bed between them, until Fraser catches it in his own hand and squeezes. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, preparing for sleep, but he opens them again as Ray's body rolls over toward him.
"Hey," Ray said. His breath is warm against the side of Fraser's face. He kisses Fraser gently, cuddling his body closer along Fraser's side and wrapping one arm around Fraser's mid-section. "Munchkin's asleep," he says against Fraser's ear. "You up for it?"
It's late; he's tired; he's sore; but -- it's been a while; and that's a challenge in Ray's voice; and, oh yes. Fraser's up for it, and he tells Ray so, catching his mouth again.
They kiss lazily, gently and easily. After a bit, Ray moves closer, lowering his weight onto Fraser, pressing their bodies together. They find a steady rhythm and, yes, it's going along swimmingly, just perfect; Fraser's hands are tight in Ray's hair and Ray is sucking a careful love bite near the hollow of Fraser's throat when they both hear the crying begin.
"Damn," Ray says, raising his head.
Fraser takes a deep breath and says, "Indeed." And then, "Here, let me -- I'll go check on her--"
But Ray is already climbing off of him, rolling to stand by the bed, shaking his head. "I got it, Fraser, I'm already up. You take the next one." He disappears from the room.
Fraser reaches to turn on the bedside lamp and then lies again on his back, lacing his hands across his chest. Beneath Carrie's shrieks he can hear the click of nails against wood (Dief can't hear her, of course, but he still worries a great deal), the patter of Ray's footsteps, and then his low steady murmur. The crying begins to calm down once the murmur starts, and as Ray continues, it eventually comes to a stop.
After another minute Ray appears again in their room. He is holding Carrie; her arms are wrapped around his neck, her face buried against his shoulder. From this angle and light, their similarities, noted by Fraser on previous occasions, seem especially strong. They have the same coloring, the same thin frame, the same sharp edges. One would be justified in mistaking them for blood relations, an assumption one would be fairly unlikely to reach watching Fraser and her together.
"Bad dream," Ray says, in brief explanation. "I said she could sleep in the big bed for tonight."
Fraser nods at this. As Ray arranges her between them, tucking her in, Fraser reaches for the light again -- not switching it off completely, but instead turning to its lowest setting. He settles back down, turning to rest on his side, facing inwards.
Ray has tucked Carrie in tightly, only her small face poking out from the blankets. Her eyes are closed, and her face is set in a serious expression; she's halfway back to sleep already. Fraser reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from her eyes, and a small sigh escapes her.
"Fraser," Ray whispers; Fraser looks up to meet his knowing smile. "Go to sleep."
Ray has adjusted his position in the bed as well, sprawled out widely, with one arm situated near the child, not touching her, but protective nonetheless. Fraser moves his hand, squeezes Ray's strong wrist for a moment. "All right."
He closes his eyes and listens to the even breaths of the two people beside him and falls asleep in the dim half-lit room.
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