Fic: Five Ways Ray Self-Destucts, F/K
Aug. 18th, 2008 02:17 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ds_slashJust a random 'Five Things' fic I put together after watching 'Mountie and Soul'.
Title: Fice Ways Ray Self-Destructs
Pairing: F/K
Warnings: A little angsty, but not really. Not so much suicidal tendencies as life-affecting carelessness. A few swearwords.
Rating: I don't know. Low-ish. Say PG-13 or R. Or whatever's between those. I'm bad at this.
A/N: Un-beta'd, only read through by me, not very well at that. Written on precariously balanced laptop, by a slight dyslexic, so expect a few uncaught typos. And let me know, so I can go in and fix them :D
Five Ways Ray Self-Destructs
1. Talking to Stella
He’s fifteen, and madly in love with Stella Hartman. That’s just what he is. Like when people say they‘re fifteen, tall, skinny and blond. Being in love with Stella was just there. If only he could talk to her.
So, every so often, when he was having a day that couldn’t possibly be any worse, he’d go over to Stella’s and try to talk to her, invite her out for a burger or something. And every time she’d look at him like he was the scum of the earth.
And that’d round off his bad day.
2. Alcohol
He’s got Stella. He’s got a job. So now, he doesn’t have looks of poison or job rejections to make a bad day even worse. Which screws him up a bit, at first. Sometimes, having a bad day was good for you, so tomorrow, you could look at yesterday and say, “Hey, today’s not so bad.”
So, he’s got no way to make a bad day a complete failure, a non-day, a wipe off the calendar, it never happened day.
And then he discovers what’s in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Figuratively, that is, because the glass isn’t so bad except when it means there’s no whiskey left.
What he needs is a good, moping, state of drunkenness to round of a bad day. Not the fun, few beers with the guys drunkenness, like he’s been doing for years. A sit-on-the-couch-and-cry type of drunkenness, that real feeling of absolute worthlessness.
And the best thing? Tomorrow’s just as bad as today, ‘cause then you get the hangover to deal with.
3. Boxing
When the whiskey won’t work, when his brain hurts, and no amount of mind wiping goodness is gonna solve it, he hits things. Walls, doors, people. It hurts. Like hell.
Sometimes, on a stretch of bad days, he thinks he should go around wearing boxing gloves, because he’s sick of broken knuckles. In the end, he goes boxing. Starts on the heavy bag, just bang, bang, bang, get it all out.
But it doesn’t hurt, so it’s not worth it. Then he gets told he could make a fighter, he’s quick, he’s got a good hit. So he does.
And he picks his opponents well. The fists, bang bang, bang, into his face, his eyes, his nose, cracking his collarbone. It hurts, and then everything’s out, it’s all gone, and nothing hurts. Except the broken collarbone. That hurts like fuck.
The best thing about boxing? The pain lasts longer than a hangover. Move wrong and, bang, you just got hit again. It stays, reminds you of how today wasn’t as bad as last week.
4. Thinking about Stella
Stella stops him from boxing, sick of him looking like he got in a fight with a truck. Sick of him too, eventually, because now she’s gone.
That’s his new bad day trick. He’ll have a few drinks, enough to get him a bit dark, and then he’ll put on his old records, the ones him and Stella used to dance to when they were kids.
The pain of that is like being stabbed in the gut, in the heart, kicked in the head and thrown out to the curb. Mix that with the drinks, and he’s got enough pain there to last him weeks.
But thinking about Stella? That’s even better than the broken collarbone, lasts longer, hurts more.
Because it always hurts, it’ll never go away, not as long as he loves her, and he’ll always love her.
Now, today’s just as bad as yesterday. Sometimes it’s worse, because he doesn’t have her. But thinking about her, he’s still got her, in his heart. So keeps on doing it, even if it does hurt.
5. Being a Dumb Fuck
Now, he still hasn’t got Stella. She’s like this sick ache in his chest, and she doesn’t hurt enough any more. She’s gone, she ain’t ever coming back. Now, he’s got nothing. He doesn’t even have his own life.
What has he got? A freaky partner, with his freaky dog, and his own freaky non-quite-him self. Does he want that, does he want any of that? Not really.
So maybe having the freaky Canadian partner with a bad habit of finding crimes is a good thing. Maybe, if he’s a bit quick pulling the gun, and a bit slow showing the badge, it’s just the way it happened.
Maybe if he follows Fraser off the top of a building, he thought he shouldn’t leave his partner alone.
And maybe, if he jumps in front of a bullet, he knows the vest is gonna stop it.
But maybe not.
All the rest of the numbers: How the Problem is Solved, (or, Ray doesn’t Need to Self-Destruct)
How was the problem solved? There were punches, and shouting, and sinking ships, and an underwater kiss. And more shouting, because it was a kiss, no matter what Fraser says.
Ray checked. You’re supposed to do that breathing thing up someone’s nose. And that wasn’t his nose. Unless Fraser is really confused.
So, there’s more shouting, but no more punching. And then there’s more kissing, not underwater, proper procedure kissing. Real kissing, followed by real making out on the couch and real sex.
Real, very, very good sex.
And Fraser. There’s Fraser.
So, maybe things don’t need to hurt anymore, and yesterday was good, and today is good. And tomorrow? It’ll be cold and icy and spent looking for a hand that they’re never gonna find.
But it’ll be good..
Title: Fice Ways Ray Self-Destructs
Pairing: F/K
Warnings: A little angsty, but not really. Not so much suicidal tendencies as life-affecting carelessness. A few swearwords.
Rating: I don't know. Low-ish. Say PG-13 or R. Or whatever's between those. I'm bad at this.
A/N: Un-beta'd, only read through by me, not very well at that. Written on precariously balanced laptop, by a slight dyslexic, so expect a few uncaught typos. And let me know, so I can go in and fix them :D
Five Ways Ray Self-Destructs
1. Talking to Stella
He’s fifteen, and madly in love with Stella Hartman. That’s just what he is. Like when people say they‘re fifteen, tall, skinny and blond. Being in love with Stella was just there. If only he could talk to her.
So, every so often, when he was having a day that couldn’t possibly be any worse, he’d go over to Stella’s and try to talk to her, invite her out for a burger or something. And every time she’d look at him like he was the scum of the earth.
And that’d round off his bad day.
2. Alcohol
He’s got Stella. He’s got a job. So now, he doesn’t have looks of poison or job rejections to make a bad day even worse. Which screws him up a bit, at first. Sometimes, having a bad day was good for you, so tomorrow, you could look at yesterday and say, “Hey, today’s not so bad.”
So, he’s got no way to make a bad day a complete failure, a non-day, a wipe off the calendar, it never happened day.
And then he discovers what’s in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Figuratively, that is, because the glass isn’t so bad except when it means there’s no whiskey left.
What he needs is a good, moping, state of drunkenness to round of a bad day. Not the fun, few beers with the guys drunkenness, like he’s been doing for years. A sit-on-the-couch-and-cry type of drunkenness, that real feeling of absolute worthlessness.
And the best thing? Tomorrow’s just as bad as today, ‘cause then you get the hangover to deal with.
3. Boxing
When the whiskey won’t work, when his brain hurts, and no amount of mind wiping goodness is gonna solve it, he hits things. Walls, doors, people. It hurts. Like hell.
Sometimes, on a stretch of bad days, he thinks he should go around wearing boxing gloves, because he’s sick of broken knuckles. In the end, he goes boxing. Starts on the heavy bag, just bang, bang, bang, get it all out.
But it doesn’t hurt, so it’s not worth it. Then he gets told he could make a fighter, he’s quick, he’s got a good hit. So he does.
And he picks his opponents well. The fists, bang bang, bang, into his face, his eyes, his nose, cracking his collarbone. It hurts, and then everything’s out, it’s all gone, and nothing hurts. Except the broken collarbone. That hurts like fuck.
The best thing about boxing? The pain lasts longer than a hangover. Move wrong and, bang, you just got hit again. It stays, reminds you of how today wasn’t as bad as last week.
4. Thinking about Stella
Stella stops him from boxing, sick of him looking like he got in a fight with a truck. Sick of him too, eventually, because now she’s gone.
That’s his new bad day trick. He’ll have a few drinks, enough to get him a bit dark, and then he’ll put on his old records, the ones him and Stella used to dance to when they were kids.
The pain of that is like being stabbed in the gut, in the heart, kicked in the head and thrown out to the curb. Mix that with the drinks, and he’s got enough pain there to last him weeks.
But thinking about Stella? That’s even better than the broken collarbone, lasts longer, hurts more.
Because it always hurts, it’ll never go away, not as long as he loves her, and he’ll always love her.
Now, today’s just as bad as yesterday. Sometimes it’s worse, because he doesn’t have her. But thinking about her, he’s still got her, in his heart. So keeps on doing it, even if it does hurt.
5. Being a Dumb Fuck
Now, he still hasn’t got Stella. She’s like this sick ache in his chest, and she doesn’t hurt enough any more. She’s gone, she ain’t ever coming back. Now, he’s got nothing. He doesn’t even have his own life.
What has he got? A freaky partner, with his freaky dog, and his own freaky non-quite-him self. Does he want that, does he want any of that? Not really.
So maybe having the freaky Canadian partner with a bad habit of finding crimes is a good thing. Maybe, if he’s a bit quick pulling the gun, and a bit slow showing the badge, it’s just the way it happened.
Maybe if he follows Fraser off the top of a building, he thought he shouldn’t leave his partner alone.
And maybe, if he jumps in front of a bullet, he knows the vest is gonna stop it.
But maybe not.
All the rest of the numbers: How the Problem is Solved, (or, Ray doesn’t Need to Self-Destruct)
How was the problem solved? There were punches, and shouting, and sinking ships, and an underwater kiss. And more shouting, because it was a kiss, no matter what Fraser says.
Ray checked. You’re supposed to do that breathing thing up someone’s nose. And that wasn’t his nose. Unless Fraser is really confused.
So, there’s more shouting, but no more punching. And then there’s more kissing, not underwater, proper procedure kissing. Real kissing, followed by real making out on the couch and real sex.
Real, very, very good sex.
And Fraser. There’s Fraser.
So, maybe things don’t need to hurt anymore, and yesterday was good, and today is good. And tomorrow? It’ll be cold and icy and spent looking for a hand that they’re never gonna find.
But it’ll be good..
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no subject
Date: 2008-08-18 07:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-18 05:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-18 06:36 pm (UTC)Lovely fic.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-18 11:27 pm (UTC)Thanks
no subject
Date: 2008-08-18 11:28 pm (UTC)Oh well.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-19 10:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-20 04:36 pm (UTC)That's not the RayK voice I usually use when I write, so I'm glad it worked out. Not that anyone'd know that, since I'm pretty sure this is the first ds fic I've posted.
Anyway, yeah. I'm rambling. I've been up for just over 32 hours now. I need sleep.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-08 04:32 am (UTC)Very good decription for his charakter.
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Date: 2008-09-29 02:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 06:09 am (UTC)