Ways to Fall
by Livia
04/09/99
Website: http://internettrash.com/users/livia/duesouth.htm

There was this special kind of snow, when Ray was a kid. Or maybe not.
Maybe the snow then was just like snow now-- bitter stinging grains of
ice that infiltrate the spaces between coat and skin with a precision
that suggests an almost malevolent intelligence. Maybe.

But back when Ray was a kid, snow seemed to come in big blurry lacy flakes
that didn't fall so much as drift, swirl and tumble down out of the sky.
It was the kind of snow you could catch on your tongue, and as a child
Ray always thought it might taste sweet. Like sugar.

But you can't catch snowflakes, not really. And when you grow up nothing's
ever as sweet as you expect, and Fraser... Fraser is gone. 

Time passes. Ray lies defiantly in bed. He's just fucking going to stay
here. World's not gonna come to an end if Stanley Ray Kowalski takes
a pass on throwing himself on fists, on bullets, on broken glass today.

He lies in bed. He does the math. From the day he first kissed Stella,
to the day she put her ring on the kitchen table and walked out was twenty-two
years, eight months, and seventeen days. It's been just nineteen short
days since Ray kissed Fraser for the first time-- two weeks and change.
And now it's over. 

Four hundred fifty-something hours. He's worked cases that have lasted
longer than that. He's had colds that lasted longer than that.

Nineteen days. Oh, nineteen nights. And it's over.

He gets up eventually. Gets the coffeemaker going, turns the radio on
to kill the silence. Surfs the stations till he hears Tori Amos doing
her thing, crying out loud for everyone's sins. 

why do we
crucify ourselves

why do we
crucify ourselves

The song's almost over but Ray stands there and listens anyway. She sounds
like he feels. 

why-- 
do-- 
we--

Oh boy does she sound like he feels... Ray rubs a hand across his stubbled,
dry face and heads for the shower, 'cause unlike Fraser he fucking looks
it the next day when he gets no sleep, so there. 

You can't catch snowflakes, he reminds himself. You can't catch 
snowflakes, though as a child Ray tried till his hands stung and burned
cold. Snowflakes melt and disappear and all you ever get is ice water
on your face. 

Fraser was like that. He'd talk at night sometimes. His words would spill
slow across the white expanse of rumpled sheets like snowflakes over
a windswept field. Untouchable, untastable, all French or Inuit. Never
English, so Ray never got a word of it.

Sometimes he heard his name. It almost didn't sound like his, not with
the accent on it, the way Fraser's voice slides when he's speaking French.
Maybe it is the language of love like they say. Ray never really had
a thing for French girls, but if they all talk like that-- oh, yeah.
A guy could fall for that. Fall hard.

Even if he was never there for breakfast. 

Ray couldn't ask for that, either. 

---

The first night Ray woke up and Fraser was talking French he almost rolled
over and kissed that clever mouth. But something about Fraser's tone
made him lie low and listen. He doesn't parlay-vous Francais,
but he could still tell the Mountie wasn't reciting the Mountie 
handbook, or rehearsing a lecture on the proper way to gut a caribou.
There was emotion in his voice. Urgency. Not worry, but a sense of importance.
Like it was important for Ray to understand.

Which is kind of a dumb interpretation, Ray knows, considering Fraser
was yammering on in French which he knows Ray doesn't speak, not to mention
he was supposed to be asleep. But maybe there's some things, hard to
say maybe, that Fraser could only tell him in foreign lingo in the middle
of the night. Maybe. 

And hell, Ray could understand that. 'Cause there's stuff he wanted to
say but didn't, stuff he wanted to know but never asked. Like why Fraser
was always so quiet. Does he think making noise during is undignified
or some shit? Or is it Ray, is he not good? It could be. Not like he
had experience with guys.

He wishes Fraser would say something, because Ray can't ask. He knows
it's goddamn unfair to the Mountie-- case in point, he'd been fucking
him for three weeks before he finally had the balls to give Fraser head.
He made himself do it, driven half by curiosity and half by a nagging
sense of fair play; Fraser'd go down on him at the drop of a Stetson,
and it didn't feel kosher to always be taking. And it was... It wasn't
bad. Fraser fucking loved it, that was for sure. Or at least he seemed
to. He'd take it when Ray offered happily enough, but he never 
asked...

Still, a lot of the old lines are still there, dark and unerasable. And
even if he truly, cross-my-heart wants the answer-- there's no way in
hell the phrase 'Fraser, am I good at sucking cock' is gonna cross Ray
Kowalski's lips. Not any time soon. 

The actions came a hell of a lot easier than the words. In truth, they
always have. Ray knows himself. Knows if he had managed to say 
something, it'd probably have come out something like-- hey, why doncha
fucking moan once in a while, ferChrissake. Lemme know I'm not alone
in the goddamn bed fer fuck's sake. 

Even if he could say that, he wouldn't. Who is he to make the Mountie
self-conscious? Why make him think Ray's comparing him to other lovers?
'Cause he isn't. There's no one like Fraser, man or woman, in or out
of bed. 

Sometimes Ray wants to ask him about his other lovers-- who they were,
what they were like. If there were any guys. There probably were; Fraser
seemed to know what he was doing the first time they tumbled. But then
again, it's Fraser. Super Mountie. He always knows what he's doing. 

All this worrying about words is moot, anyway, Ray figures as he walks
out the door. He managed to fuck it all up without any at all.

---

He promises himself he'll get over it. He'll get over it because there's
no other fucking alternative-- Ray is not going to stalk Fraser. Frase
deserves better than that. Mountie wants it over, then it's over. Finito.
The fat lady has sung, so just deal with it. When he goes for lunch at
noon he even leaves the GTO's car radio off. Because he's not going to
go. He's just not going to go there. 

But he's not hungry so he just drives, he's not hungry but he's empty,
empty deep inside, and then he's parked at the edge of a lot full of
Christmas trees and he's getting out of the car. The sound of his boots
crunches through the grainy snow in the gutter like the rough broken
beats of his heart, and he is going. He's going to do it. He's going
to stand on the goddamn corner and stare at the Consulate, stare at Fraser's
window for who knows how long, until his ears freeze and his nose runs
and the cold is squeezing cruelly at his bladder but fuck it, he's going
to stand there till--

"Andy, out of the way!" There's a brunette in a camel coat blocking the
sidewalk, trying to single-handedly drag an eight-foot Christmas tree
over to a rusty station wagon without crushing any of what looks like
about nine kids, none as tall as a yardstick. "Cammie, watch out for
your brother, please!" 

The kids are bundled up in what looks like an entire Goodwill's worth
of riotously colored earmuffs and mittens and scarves and boots. The
mom is small like the kids, with a bright green scarf failing to restrain
all of her windblown hair. The Christmas tree is perfect, huge and round
and full, and entirely uncooperative. Momma looks like she's losing a
fight with a big green grizzly bear.

Ray steps in, grabs the trunk to steady it. "Hey there. You, uh, need
a hand?" 

She stops, clutching the tree, nostrils flared with effort. She has dark
brown eyes and a few wet pine needles stuck to her cheek. Apparently
Ray doesn't set off any of her Mom Alarms, 'cause she flashes him a warm
smile. "Sure."

"'Kay." Ray bends his knees, clutches at a few good-sized branches near
the base, and the woman readjusts her grip. They lift together, and she
leads him, walking backwards, to the station wagon, the kids jumping
up and down and chattering, each one running in its own elliptical orbit
around the tree like small, warmly dressed asteroids. 

Ray and the brown-eyed lady set the tree down next to the car, and breathe.
The lady digs the car keys out of her pocket, and a small voice announces,
"Momma I'm cold!" 

"Then get in the car, hon." Momma says tolerantly, opening the door.

"Momma can we have hot chocolate?" The group of what turns out to be
only three kids scrambles into the front seat with much pushing and scrambling
and excitement-- "I get to do the star!" and falling over each other
like puppies. "Momma, Harry's pushing me!" 

Ray laughs, and looks back at Momma, who's unlocking the back of the
station wagon. "Cute kids."

"They're a handful." she grins. "A couple handfuls."

As they drag the tree around to the back, Ray barely avoids stepping
on one more kid, smaller than the others. The littlest little one has
two brown ponytails, a purple raincoat and big eyes. She hangs onto Momma's
coat as Momma and Ray wrestle the tree into the back as far as it will
go, then tie it in securely with brown twine. 

"That should do it." Ray brushes a hand across his forehead, sweating
slightly even in the chill.

"Yeah." Momma offers Ray her hand. "Thanks. I really appreciate it, ya
know?"

"No problem." Ray smiles. If Momma wasn't wearing gloves, he'd be checking
for a ring. She knows he's looking, and she's not giving him the cold
shoulder, either. Sure, she's probably married-- but everybody likes
to know they've still got it. He holds onto her hand just a little longer,
then feels a tug on his jeans and looks down. 

The littlest one tilts up her cherub face and says something, but Ray
can't hear her little voice over the traffic and her siblings' muffled
shouts. He goes down on one knee, looking her in the eye. "What was that
there, honey?"

"I saw Santa's house." Littlest informs him in a delighted whisper. 

"Oh, wow." Ray raises his eyebrows and grins. Yeah, that sounds like
a day in the city. Sit on Santa's lap, then get a tree. "The real Mr.
Santa Claus, huh?" he continues, then hears a burst of stifled laughter.
He glances up at Momma, who's trying to hide her grin behind her mittens.
She beckons Ray, who stands again.

Momma puts a gloved hand on his shoulder and leans in close over Littlest's
head. She smells like woman-sweat, and wet, fresh pine tree. Nice. Festive.
Sexy. "Hey, I don't have the time or the inclination to shlep four kids
through Macy's toy department, y'know?" Ray nods, and Momma continues.
"But we came past-- I guess it's the Canadian Embassy, or somethin'?"
She gestures down the street with her chin. "And Sherri saw a Mountie."
A burst of giggles warm Ray's frozen ear, and then Momma continues, familiar
delight creeping into her voice. "In the red coat-- and now she thinks
she saw Santa's house." 

"Oh," says Ray, and manages to paste a smile on his face before Momma
pulls back, grinning. "That's... that's cute." And it is. It's cute.
He even laughs-- and almost, almost doesn't stumble when he steps back
up onto the curb. "Well-- Merry Christmas."

"Yeah! Thanks again!" She waves, tossing her head a little as he backs
away. "Merry Christmas to you too!"

Ray is walking blindly now. It's a sign, is what it is.

He's fucking doomed.

[end]