schmerica. ds snippet: saponification

schmerica

The really eagle-eyed among you might notice that this is actually not porn. Not at all. If you are

brooklinegirl, I say: oops. Sorry about that! Um. Look, Tracey, turtles!

Thank you to

lyra_sena for quick beta. This is for

estrella30, because she is having a sucky, like, year.

due South, Fraser/Kowalski, post-CotW, PG-ish.

*****

If I were to be honest, I would have to admit that as many nights as we go to sleep content, there are just as many -- perhaps more -- when we both go to bed still annoyed or disgruntled with each other.

Tonight I have excused myself to our bed before Ray. I have opened the chest at the end of our bed and taken out some extra furs for warmth. Here, too, I must admit that we don't strictly need the furs tonight; it's not so cool as to make them necessary, and the blankets on our bed should function. My reasoning is not so much warmth as the point I want to make.

I strip down to my union suit and tuck myself in. I'm reading by the lamplight when Ray enters our bedroom; I don't look to him, but I can hear him undressing, feel him climbing into bed and waiting, staring at me for a long moment before he sighs.

"Christ, Fraser, are you really pissed at me about soap?"

It's an awful thing to think, and Lord knows I would never say it to Ray, but my stock of sympathy for Stella Kowalski has increased a thousand-fold since Ray and I began our cohabitation. The man could raise the hackles of a saint.

I set my book down on the nightstand, marking my place with a scrap envelope, last used as a shopping list for our recent trip into town. "That's one way of describing it, Ray." I roll onto my back and look up at him. "The most simplistic way," I add.

Ray's eyes narrow. He's shaved today, I notice; his skin looks smoother, softer than I normally see it. "Simplistic, huh?"

"Yes, overly so. I'm not mad at you about soap -- well, I am, but I'm not--"

Ray groans, falling onto his back and pulling a pillow over his head.

Diefenbaker, needless to say, believes I'm being too critical of Ray; he more or less spent the evening lecturing me on the subject. I must make allowances, Dief insists: surely I am aware of Ray's notions of delicacy and of his easy disgust. I need to allow him time to adjust to all these changes, of which this is one of the least. But I think what Dief is failing to take into account is the systematic pattern of Ray's behavior. Of course, Ray realizes he's no longer in Chicago (how could he not?) but I don't think he chooses to acknowledge the full implications of that fact. It's-- Ray lives as though there are no consequences, as though things here work the same way, as though there were a never-ending supply of everything and anything he might ever want or need, just down the street. He's egregiously wasteful, and I don't believe he's even aware of it. He's so American I could scream.

"Fraser," Ray says, still through the pillow, "tell me what the fucking big deal is already."

I press my lips tightly together and glare at the ceiling. "The big deal, as you call it, Ray--" I cut myself off before I can get any further; that's not the way to start, not if I expect us to do anything but yell tonight.

I take a deep breath, counting down backwards. I say, "We're not in Chicago, Ray."

"I know that."

"I don't enjoy killing things, Ray."

"I know that, too." He's impatient, of course. "What are you even talking about?"

"When I was twelve, I shot a caribou. I had no reason to shoot it; I didn't need it, I didn't use it. I have always regretted--"

Ray throws the pillow at me. I sit up and glare at him. "We need food," I say, "and we get meat from our hunting. We need warmth, and we get furs. We need soap and candles, and we have plenty of fat to render for it. Is that so difficult to understand? Our life -- my life -- isn't a game, Ray, and if you're not going to make an effort to realize that, I don't know what you're doing here."

I lay back down, turning onto my side, giving him my back as I pull the blankets back up around me. There's a short pause, and then a put-upon sigh from Ray's side of the bed.

"Fraser--" he starts.

I interrupt. "I'm not in the habit of wasting things, Ray. I don't throw out things with perfectly good use left in them."

Of all the reactions I am expecting, Ray's laugh -- his familiar surprised cackle -- is the least of them. He scoots in beside me, close enough so I can feel the warmth of his body behind my own, and wraps his arm around my waist. "Hey, you think I don't know that about you, Fraser?" he says quietly, not quite into my ear. "You think I don't know you? You got me here, don't you? That's proof of it."

I start to say something, and this time it's Ray who shushes me. "No, you listen -- look, okay, I think big tubs of dead animal fat is gross. It's a failing of mine, I admit it. You could have checked me out back in Chicago, they all would have told you -- Ray Kowalski, not big with the cooking up carcasses. But you know -- so the fuck what?" His voice is quiet, not harsh but utterly serious nonetheless. "I didn't come up here to be Frontier Barbie with you. I came up here to be with you, and it's fucking hard, so if you could maybe cut me some slack once in a while, I would really appreciate it. Okay?"

I wait a long moment. "Are you done?"

I feel Ray's nose against the back of my neck. "Yeah," he says softly.

I roll over blindly, until we are facing each other, pressed against each other. Ray blinks at me as if I were completely out of focus; I close my eyes and kiss his mouth, gently. Sometimes with Ray I feel as though I am missing a layer of skin -- as though he is missing one too -- as though we are missing that extra layer of safety, we do not have it there to protect us from each other, it's too much. I feel it when we fight; I feel it when we kiss.

"Ray," I say against his mouth, and Ray moans as if in agreement. I don't, I can't -- has this solved anything, I wonder? Does it matter? We're -- both of us are trying, and that is the only promise we can give each other, isn't it? My anger's gone, my annoyance faded with it, and I am only thinking that I want this man, I love this man, this irritating and irrational and prickly man right here with me.

Mood weird

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Posted by

mondschein1.livejournal.com

I have, I confess, a weak spot for imperfect post-CotW fic where Fraser and Ray hate each other a little tiny bit. *snuggles fic*

And as an added bonus -- hey, look! No smut for me to have to skip over in a bashful fashion! *g*

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ds snippet: saponification

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