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so hot i could die
I just realized that I am an idiot and forgot to save all the sexy, sexy Fraser/Victoria screencaps before pgsnapshots.com shut down this weekend. Those are, like, a necessity of life, dude! Damn my lack of s1 dvds.
To make up for it, I present a poll.
[Poll #485744]
Edited to add: How did I forget Fraser on his back on his bed with the suspenders and undershirt as one of the options in question 2? I fail.
To make up for it, I present a poll.
[Poll #485744]
Edited to add: How did I forget Fraser on his back on his bed with the suspenders and undershirt as one of the options in question 2? I fail.
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making dinner! stirring together!
watching tv with no sound!
feeding quarters to the peepshow!
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Also also, you win at life for your text in the poll.
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She wasn't sure what had happened. She didn't come here for this, for him, not like this. But when he opened the door, he looked so… so normal and so damn clean and everything that she had held inside since that day burst loose. Suddenly she was shoving at his shoulders, hard, wanting to hurt him, to tear him limb from limb.
To make him feel the way that she'd felt that day, in handcuffs, being lead away while he stood in the snow, back perfectly straight, eyes distant. It was as if those few days meant nothing to him. As if she meant nothing to him.
Victoria had sworn that she would never be nothing again.
She wouldn't be her mother, with her endless parade of loser boyfriends, none of them with jobs beyond drinking and smacking Victoria and her little sister around while their mother watched with gin-soaked eyes.
Just watched. That was all her mother had done. She'd never stepped between her daughters and her boyfriends, not one time. Victoria had protected her little sister as much as she could, but she couldn't always be there. To Victoria, it was enough that those men never visited Cathy's room late at night like they had hers.
Of course, mother never believed her. Margaret Metcalf was a drunk, and Victoria had gotten herself and her sister Catherine out as soon as she could. They'd both sworn in blood that they would never be like her.
And they never had been.
Cathy married young, was widowed too young, and almost fell apart without her husband. But Victoria, she refused to depend on a man for anything more than the obvious. One scheme to another, one bad job to another, and finally, she ended up in that bank. Not that it was the first illegal thing she'd ever done; it wasn't even the first bank.
But it was another kind of first. Because out there, on the tundra, in the frigid cold, Victoria began to hate herself. Because of Benton Fraser. Because he held her, and spoke to her in low, soft tones. Because he held her fingers in his mouth to keep her awake, to keep her alive.
Because he made her love him. Because over those few days, Victoria learned things about herself that she'd never known. She hadn't thought she was capable of love. But that was the joke of it- she was. As they lay, huddled together, within sight of that church, she'd done something she'd once thought impossible; she asked for help. She'd nearly begged Ben to let her go. Victoria Metcalf, begging. It hurt to think of it now.
(Cont in next comment.)
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For a moment, for an hour, for a night, she thought he would let her go. No one would ever know. But then, at daybreak, she'd seen his eyes. He would know. And he couldn't do it. She could have tried to run again, she didn't think he would have had it in him to stop her. But something held her to his side. And that same something made her hold out her wrists for the cold metal of the cuffs, not flinching even though the metal was almost cold enough to burn. She'd looked back at him, and his eyes… the days and nights between them fell away, and the two of them were nothing more than Mountie and criminal. And she went to jail.
Victoria had plenty of time to learn to hate in prison, and she'd learned that well. But when she got to Chicago, when she saw him standing in front of her in his proper red serge, that hate had fallen away. She'd read once that hate and love were sides of the same coin. Of course they were. Victoria had never felt so strongly about anyone besides Ben. The feelings that twisted through her chest when she saw his eyes and the line of his jaw were uncontrollable. They weren't understandable, or rational, like the slow revenge she had planned. No, this feeling just was.
She'd been calm at first. She remembered that, calm and rational, and in control of herself. But then, his head had bowed, his eyes had dropped, and the anger exploded, smashing through lifelong barricades. She was moving, shoving him, hoping to hurt him, to hurt him the way he'd hurt her. But he just took it, just took it like he deserved it. Because he had deserved it.
And then her fingers were between his lips and his hand was in her hair, her mouth was filled with the musky taste of his skin, and her thighs were pressed to his hips, and it was so familiar and so warm. It had been so long since she was warm, since that last night, the one they spent in sight of the church steeple. That was the last time she had been warm.
The rest of it was a blur and there was nothing but his pale skin, his thick hair, his huge hands moving softly over her skin as if she'd break, his husky voice whispering first her name. Then those familiar words, over and over again, 'I caught this morning morning's minion, kingdom of daylight's dauphin'.
When Victoria came, she'd cried.
After Ben fell into a fitful sleep, she'd laid beside him, listening to him breath. He was so beautiful, so clean, so good. He'd never choose her. He couldn't then, and she knew he couldn't now. But, god, she wanted to try.
If only she'd stayed in the warmth of the bed, then she wouldn't have gone to the window, seen Jolly watching. Maybe if she hadn't seen that she would have been able to fool herself into thinking that some fairy tale life was possible.
If there was one thing Victoria had always done, it was live in the real world. And in the real world women like her did not get happy endings, especially not with men like Benton Fraser.
With a sigh, Victoria clicked on the light and picked up the gloves lying beside the sink. She had to do this; she had to get through this. She had to survive, that was the one thing that mattered. She'd do what she had to do. She always had.
END
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Mmmmm. Pretty.